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Penis enlargement through fire ant stings

n-on-the-farm Georgia boys already have the reputation for sticking our cocks into various representatives of the Animal Kingdom, but this time I think I did something different—not that I would want to do it again, mind you, or have anyone else do what I did. Let's just say that I want to tell you what it was that I did so that no one else has to try the same dumb trick. Let me start by telling you that I was at the University of Georgia in Athens way back in 1983, when I had to get myself a job so that I could stay in school. Nothing much interesting is every available at times like these, and all I could find was part-time work as a lab assistant in the entomology department. Here, let me explain. It was nothing complicated, just bear with me while I elucidate for you. A lab assistant is kind of like an extra on a movie lot. You get to walk around in the background and carry stuff hither and yon, but the principal actors are the head researcher and his graduate students. A lowly undergrad in the lab, such as I, was about on par with the research animals it was my job to take care of. And what animals were these? Seeing that the job was in the entomology department, you got to expect that the beasties were insects. In this case the head honcho, a nervous fellow if I ever saw one, named Fletchman, was studying the humble fire ant of Georgia lawns, golf courses, and picnic spots. These ants were raised in large plastic trays with talcum powder on the steep sides so that they could not climb out of their containers. Food and water were provided to each colony on a daily basis, but even if I forgot about a colony for a day or three the ants did not die. Nobody even would feel sorry for these creatures if they went without eating. You see, they were real pests. They bit and they stung. They were nasty. >From time to time, I would get stung by an occasional fire ant that made its way out of the trays. There were always a few to be seen walking on the table tops, and the animal room with its hundreds of trays of fire ant colonies on shelf after shelf. (Actually we called this room the "ant room" and sometimes the "anty room" just as we talked of the "anty-bellum South.") Now the sting itself is a bit painful like a brief, hot prick with a pin, but not like a wasp sting or a honey bee sting. It just makes you want to crush the little ant between your fingers and to rub the site of the sting. The venom is unusual among stinging insects' venom because it does not contain proteins. Even without proteins, however, this venom does provoke a typical response of local swelling and reddening. I do not know if multiple stings would lead to a heightened allergic response, such as an anaphylactic shock, since nobody told me anything. I was treated like the brainless, beer-drinking undergraduate that I so successfully imitated. My goal was just to get stung as few times as possible, especially when I was taken out to the boon-docks and told to dig up fire ant colonies, and to beat it out of the ant room as soon as I was done with my chores in there. If you have spent any outdoor time in the Gulf states or the South generally, you know what I'm talking about. You might not know that our fire ants are qualified with the word "imported," and indeed they come from Brazil, where I guess the population is not much in the picnicking mood because of all those ants. Some years after this incident, I cam across a passage in the book "The Naturalist on the Rivers Amazon" by Henry Walter Bates where he tells the story of how a town on the Tapajós River had to be abandoned because of the fierce fire ants that attacked people, animals and crops. For us in Georgia, the fire ant is a nuisance when it comes to gardening and out-door activities. The lawns of many fine old houses are full of fire ants, and of course it was because of this species that DDT was so liberally applied throughout the South, as Rachael Carlson so rightly decried. But let me get back to telling about the night I was feeling lonely, horny, reckless, and more than just a bit tipsy all at the same time. About 11:00 p.m. on a clear, starry Friday night, just before the end of my junior year, I was coming back alone from trying unsuccessfully to score on my first date with this sorority girl. Now some of my frat brothers were into date-rape, but I was still at that early time a believer in true love on the first blind date. I was supposed to be in line to get plenty of Southern belle treats that night, having been fixed up with a two-time runner up for high school prom queen—who my frat brothers assured me was good for going the whole way on the first date. The problem, then, had to be in me. I just was not man enough, I thought, just not aggressive enough to score. Just then I remembered that I had not given any food or water to the new colonies we had taken in from the field that week. Since I was in no mood to work on the weekend, I just walked over to the lab and let myself in with the key cleverly hidden behind the fire extinguisher in the hall. I was just going to make quick work of the chores I had to do and go on home, but when I got to the ant room, I saw that two of the colonies were streaming out of the trays. Their trays were not well ringed with talcum powder, and the ants were mulling all over the place. Since I was alone and with no one to help, I just began to sweep up the escapees and put them back into the containers. The fights that broke out among the ants I was mixing up with others of a different colony told me that I was going a balls-up of a job. My quick visit took much longer than I ever expected and make me ever so much more resentful of those darn Brazilian ants—and those darned Southern women who won't tell you what's wrong. When the loose ants had been contained again, I took stock of the disorder. My hands were red and itchy from the several stings I suffered in the clean-up operation, and the campus chimes had sounded midnight right about then. I was thinking about doing something special with these fire ants. I was going to have my way with them, I though. I locked the lab door and listen to make sure I was all alone in the building. Then I had my chance to do something that I can not even imagine how I could have imagined. I took an empty plastic gallon milk bottle that I used for drinking water when we would go out digging ant colonies, and I cut a round hole about 2 inches in diameter in the bottom. I stripped off my clothes and inserted my penis into the plastic bottle. It was a good fit, and the space between the hole I had made and my cock was minimal. I placed a 12-inch diameter plastic funnel in the mouth of the milk bottle and applied a dusting of talcum powder to the rim and upper inner portion. With a garden trowel I scooped up a goodly part of a fire ant colony and quickly funneled the hundreds of ants and the soil into my milk bottle, right on to my waiting cock. Well, the stings were plenty, and I don't know how many of them I received in the minute or so that the ants were climbing all over my penis. I reckon that I got sung more than 200 times before I just could not stand it any more and threw the holed milk bottle and the ants into the tray. Needless to say, there were loose ants everywhere in the room now, and I had to scurry around to sweep and shovel them up. I felt quite guilty about what I had done, and I was anxious to get out of the building before the night watchman had any chance to catch me. I got dressed, put things back in order, and hurried to my apartment. When I got home, still high on the excitement of what I did with the fire ants, and undressed for bed, I got the surprise of my life. My dick was the size and shape of a huge Idaho potato. It must have been 9 inches long and about 3 inches across. It felt heavy with the weight of the fluids that were collecting in it, and the skin was so tight I though it might burst. I wanted to play with my cock, but any additional increase in size would probably have been too much for the poor organ. Remembering that fire ant stings can get infected, I sponged down my cock and applied some antiseptic cream. The size of my organ was fantastic, and the fact that it was decidedly dysfunctional for anything except maybe bed-wetting could hardly get in the way of my excitement. With some difficulty I got to sleep (on my back) in the wee hours of the morning. I was awakened the next morning by the phone ringing its head off. It was my Southern belle from the night before. She told me how sorry she was that we had not had the best of all times on our first date and entreated me to take her to her sorority picnic that same afternoon. Why, she had even made up our picnic basket. She thought of every treat I might like, including some that couldn't be mentioned over the phone. What could I tell her? I said that I had to work with my fire ants that Saturday, but for her to have fun on the picnic—and not to sit on any fire ant mounds. Pretty lame, wasn't it? But then I was pretty lame in my middle leg, too It took a full 48 hours for my cock to return to normal size and before I ventured out of my apartment. My two-time prom queen looser withered on the vine while I waited for the swelling in my penis to go down. While it was something to do, I would not care to repeat this little experiment. You don't have to do it either. This "research" was partly sponsored, I guess you could say, by the USDA, but I have not heretofore revealed these results. There is, of course, a moral in this experience: Don't go fucking around with Georgia fire ants.

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submitted by: Anonymous
on: 31 March 2000
in Genital Stretching

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Artist: Me
Studio: University+ofGeorgia
Location: Athens%2C+GA

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suckulent7
Saturday, August 18, 2012 @7:58 p.m.
Man I wished I had searched for this article before. I was horny and stuck my dick into a bottle filled with ants and coats it with pancake syrup. So they feasted on my meat and now I'm living with the swollen third leg hurting like wow...

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