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| A new study came out identifying where watermelons get their color from...Watermelanin |
This story may not be appropriate or suitable for all readers.
A 18-year-old Zoomer, born into a world of unlimited technological progress and unfulfilled desires, overheard a conversation about an age-old practice: fucking watermelons. Intrigued, he decided to investigate further. After some research, he discovered that one could indeed find satisfaction in the peculiar act of inserting one's member into a hole cut into a ripe, juicy watermelon. Intrigued, he journeyed to his local supermarket, where he found a personal-sized watermelon, ripe and ready for the taking.
With his purchase in hand, he hurried home, eager to begin this new adventure. He carefully washed the watermelon and, using a sharp knife, cut a circular hole in its center. The sweet, earthy scent of the melon filled the air as he stared down at his handiwork, a small orifice in the middle of the fruit, waiting patiently for its intended use. Taking a deep breath, he positioned himself above the melon and, with a swift thrust, penetrated the fruit.
The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced. The cool, yielding flesh of the melon encased his member, providing a unique blend of pleasure and discomfort. He began to move, slowly at first, but soon found himself lost in the rhythm, his body thrusting uncontrollably into the melon. As he continued, the juices from the melon dripped down onto his thighs and stomach, adding an unexpected layer of wetness to the encounter. He could hear his own labored breathing, mixed with the squishy sounds of his movements, filling the air around him.
His climax approached, and with it, a sense of shame and self-loathing. He had never experienced pleasure like this from something so innocent and pure as a watermelon. He realized that what he was doing was wrong, perverse, and twisted. He pulled himself free from the melon, his member still throbbing with need, and buried the mangled fruit in a shallow grave in the backyard.
Time passed, and the memory of that night faded, replaced by the humdrum of everyday life. But then, summer came, and with it, an abundance of ripe, sweet watermelons. His family gathered around the picnic table, slicing into the juicy fruits and reveling in their sweet, refreshing flesh. As his mother offered him a slice, he hesitated, the shame of his past actions still weighing heavily on him. "No," he said, his voice barely audible, "I'm not hungry." And he never touched another watermelon again.
Story and art by ร Firestone
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