Page 8 of Volik

The gods damn pulse in my cock.

I palm my length through my pants as I turn and pace back.

Losing it.

Pulling my lips back, I hiss into the empty room.

I am certifiably losing it.

I reach the wall and turn around.

That thing in the air. The feeling that tells me there is something there…. It’s… Merde. It’s fracturing my sanity.

My nostrils flare as I inhale.

I could not place it outside. I cannot place it now. But when I was in the hall…

When I was in the hall, my body could not ignore it.

The wall stops me, and I spin back around.

I cannot explain the compulsion.

The scent was not there.

Was not there for me to taste. To catalog. To track.

There was nothing there.

But I could still feel it. Could sense it. Except I do not even know what it is.

It could be awful or extraordinary.

My end or my salvation.

I squeeze my cock harder.

Whatever it is, my dick is still fucking hard from it.

I reach the wall again, and frustration boils over.

I spin, facing the other way, and—still gripping my dick with one hand—and lift my free palm toward the far wall.

My gravito flares. And a fraction of a second later, I am across the room.

I press my forehead against the wall and lift my empty hand up to one of my horns. And I squeeze it in time with my cock.

“What. Is. Happening?” I growl through gritted teeth.

I am long past puberty. And I might stroke myself regularly. But I do not get hard for no reason.

I rock my forehead against the wall while I tug on the base of my horn.

It is that scent that is not a scent.

The invisible energy saturating the air.

I need to find the source of it. Before madness finds me first.