Carlos Gooning (Patreon)

More Carlos from Resident Evil ;DUPDATE: more~

Carlos Oliveira wiped the sweat from his brow, the dim overhead lights of the BSAA Training Facility’s locker room buzzing faintly above him. He’d just finished a brutal solo sim run—clearing mock infected in record time—and was looking forward to a quick shower before debrief. His body felt... off, though. Hotter than usual. A strange itch under his skin that had been building since that last op in the ruins.

He didn’t know about the mutated T-strain yet. Just a scratch from a shattered vial he’d brushed off as nothing. Now, alone in the empty facility wing, it was waking up.

At first it was just pressure. A heavy, throbbing ache in his groin as he peeled off his tactical vest and pants. Carlos glanced down, frowning. His cock was already half-hard, thicker than he remembered, the veins standing out prominently along the shaft. His balls felt swollen, heavier, hanging lower between his powerful thighs. “What the fuck...?” he muttered, voice low and rough. The heightened libido hit like a freight train seconds later—a sudden, overwhelming wave of raw need that made his pulse hammer in his ears and his mouth go dry.

He sat down hard on the wooden bench, then slid to the floor when his legs wouldn’t cooperate, back against the cool planks. The virus surged. His cock swelled visibly, growing longer and girthier with each heartbeat, the head flaring wide and leaking a steady stream of clear precum that quickly turned thick and pearly. His balls churned, inflating noticeably, skin stretched tight over the massive, productive orbs. The sensation was unbearable—pleasure bordering on pain, every nerve ending screaming for release.

Carlos’s hand wrapped around the monstrous shaft instinctively. It was too thick for one hand now. He groaned, deep and guttural, head falling back against the floor as he started stroking. Long, firm pumps. The head was slick, hypersensitive. Every stroke sent thick ropes of precum splattering across his abs and chest. His free hand moved lower, cupping and squeezing those heavy balls, feeling them throb and produce even more.

“Shit... can’t stop...” he growled, eyes half-lidded, dark curls matted with sweat. The virus pushed him harder. His hips bucked upward into his fist, muscles flexing across his broad chest and thick arms. The production ramped up—his balls tightening, then pulsing as the first massive orgasm tore through him without warning.

Thick, white jets erupted violently from the swollen tip, arcing high before splattering loudly across the wooden floor, his chest, even hitting his own chin and lips. It didn’t stop. Wave after wave, far more than humanly possible, coating his abs in a glossy, sticky mess that kept pumping out in heavy spurts. Carlos kept stroking through it, desperate, the virus making him stay rock-hard even after the first climax.

He rolled onto his side, then onto his stomach, grinding his huge cock against the floorboards, smearing the endless flood of semen beneath his powerful body. Another orgasm hit him just as hard—louder moans echoing in the empty room as fresh torrents shot out, pooling around him, dripping down his heavy balls and muscular thighs. The smell of it filled the air, musky and potent.

For nearly twenty minutes he stayed there, lost in it. Stroking, squeezing, humping his own fist and the cum-slick floor in a haze of viral lust. Each climax was longer and more voluminous than the last, until he was lying in a warm, slippery puddle of his own making, chest heaving, cock still rigid and twitching, balls still churning for more.

Carlos stared at the ceiling, dazed, cum dripping from his lips as he panted. He knew this wasn’t normal. But the need was already building again.

The T-strain wasn’t done with him yet.