Too much of a good thing is bad for you. We all know that.
You can overdose on anything. Literally anything. Chocolate, for example, is poisonous to every living animal on earth, even humans. If you managed to eat forty Dairy Milk bars (about 22 lbs of chocolate) you would suffer heart failure from theobromine poisoning.
It is famously stated that if you landed on a desert island, you could survive, even thrive, only on coconuts due to the amount of nutrients and minerals in them. However, even the healthy coconut will kill you if you over-indulge. True, you would need to eat somewhere between ten to fifteen of them, before which point you would have to imagine you would either be bored of the taste or have a very sore hand from opening them all.
As incredible as it sounds, you can even die from water intoxication. If you drank 1.6 gallons of water in an hour, you would overload your kidneys and die. That said, if you managed to drink 1.6 gallons of water in an hour, you deserved acclamation for both endeavour and insanity.
So, too much of a good thing is definitely not good for you.
But what about too much of a bad thing?
David Peterson was quite a normal man. He was about five-foot-ten-inches tall. He had short, black hair, usually a bit of stubble and brown eyes. He wasn’t especially skinny, but nor was he at all fat or even overweight. His distinguishing feature was a small birthmark on his right ear lobe.
He was born to Frank Peterson and Sarah Longbridge on the 17th March 1990. Frank and Sarah had been together for about two years. David wasn’t planned, but he also wasn’t a complete accident.
David had a very normal early childhood, growing up in a small town in southern New Hampshire.
Sarah died when David was ten. The last words she ever said to him were, “Make me happy.” They had been painting each other’s faces. David bore those words like a cross his whole life.
David struggled at school, but managed to scrape through to go to college, studying history.
He dropped out after one year.
He worked a series of dead-end jobs before finally finding a job he stuck to in 2014 when he became a clown. Unlike most clowns, he wasn’t in a traditional circus. His group would tour care homes for the elderly and schools. He felt like he was making people happy.
The part of clown work that David excelled at was slapstick. There was very little he would not let happen to him to make people laugh. Get pied in the face? Absolutely. Hit in the face with a ladder? Sure. Pineapple thrown at groin? Why not.
In one of the care homes, David struck up a friendship with the assistant manager, Angelica Potts. Angelica was the same age as David, but that is where their similarities ended. While David was very average in almost every way, Angelica was not at all.
Angelica was five-foot-eleven-inches tall, curvy, busty and charismatic. Her hair was shoulder-length, wavy and dyed light pink and powder blue. She had full lips, large captivating green eyes, cute dimples and she walked with a swagger stolen from the most prestigious of catwalks.
Angelica had taken a liking to David because he cared so much about people being happy. She liked that attribute. David liked Angelica because… well, she was Angelica.
Their sexual relationship was possibly the most interesting aspect. As Angelica had once told David, “We’re not lovers. You’re the cock I use to satisfy my pussy.”
So it was like that. David would be extremely submissive, allow Angelica to strip him, position him, penetrate herself, fuck herself on his member and then finish. It mattered not to Angelica if David climaxed but if he climaxed before her and began to wilt before she had finished herself, she would chastise him, berate him and exclaim that he was a disappointment.
It sounds like psychological torture. And yet David went back every time Angelica told him to. It was a compulsion. Every time he did not ejaculate and she climaxed, she showered him with adulation, adoration, praise and affection.
The sexual juxtaposition of being denied an orgasm you were on the precipice of and feeling that guttural want be denied, but being given the soul food you crave of affection and praise created a strange satisfaction in David.
There was no better example than on the 17th March 2019, David’s twenty-ninth birthday.
David was at home with his father.
“Happy birthday, son. Enjoy your last year of your twenties!”
“I’ll try to, Dad.”
At about half past four, David and his father were about to tuck into dinner together. David’s phone pinged.
Angelica.
‘My house now, I need a cock.’
David squirmed. He felt conflicted. Either way, he was going to disappoint one person.
‘Sorry,’ he typed, ‘having dinner with Dad.’
They had just begun to tuck into the lasagne Frank had made when David’s phone pinged again.
‘Fucking useless. Where are you when I need you.’
David’s stomach plunged. He felt awful.
“Dad, I’m sorry, I need to go. Someone has dropped out at work, they really need someone.”
“Now? On your birthday?”
“I’m the one on call,” said David thickly.
“You’re a clown,” Frank replied incredulously.
“Sorry, I can’t let them down.”
“What’s going on? Are you ok?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” said David as he went out the door, “just helping work.”