Last Dom on Earth
It happened on a Tuesday.
No warning. No fanfare. No cosmic announcement from glowing skies or alien motherships hovering overhead. One moment the world was its usual chaotic, horny, conflicted self—people arguing on social media, scrolling thirst traps, booking dates, cheating on partners, filming amateur content in badly lit bedrooms—and the next moment half of humanity simply… ceased to exist.
Every single person with XX chromosomes vanished.
Not died. Not disintegrated in spectacular explosions of light. Just gone. Clothes crumpled empty on sidewalks, driverless cars drifted into curbs, gynecologists' waiting rooms sat silent, tampons rolled untouched across pharmacy floors. Billions of women, girls, trans women, intersex people assigned female at birth—erased in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
And then the second shoe dropped.
Every remaining man, every person with a penis, felt it at the same instant: a deep, nauseating pull in the groin, like someone had reached inside with cold fingers and squeezed. Phones dropped. Showers turned icy as men stared downward in frozen horror. Porn sets went dead quiet mid-scene. Locker rooms filled with strangled curses and disbelieving laughter that quickly turned to sobs.
Seventy percent. That was the consensus number eventually settled on by the surviving scientists, urologists, and very confused endocrinologists who still had working labs. Seventy percent reduction. Not in volume—though that happened too—but in erect length and girth simultaneously. The math was cruelly consistent.
Pornstars whose brands had been built on eleven-, twelve-, thirteen-inch monsters woke up to soft, pitiful nubs that barely pushed past their own pubic hair when fully hard. Men who had proudly measured at six-and-a-half, seven inches—the statistical "above average" that let them swagger a little in group chats—now strained to reach two inches on their very best, Viagra-assisted, cock-ringed, edging-for-hours days. Guys who had always been perfectly average, five to five-and-a-half, considered themselves lottery winners if they could still crack one full inch without crying.
And the truly unfortunate—the growers who had relied on blood flow to double or triple their flaccid state—discovered they were now showers in the most tragic sense possible: what you saw hanging limp was pretty much what you got forever.
But nature, indifferent and perverse as always, did not stop at simple subtraction.
At the exact same instant the cocks shrank, every surviving male's glutes, hips, and thighs underwent the opposite transformation.
The Great Ass Expansion, they called it later—half in irony, half in desperate horniness.
What had once been flat, athletic, dad-bod, gym-rat, or skinny twink backsides ballooned outward in defiance of gravity, bone structure, and basic human proportions. Cheeks that used to sit modestly now projected shelf-like, each globe easily doubling—then tripling—its former mass. The average man's ass became a hypnotic, wobbling monument: thick, juicy, heart-shaped cushions so plump they forced a permanent arch into the lower back just to balance the weight. Hips flared dramatically, creating that impossible hourglass silhouette on bodies still coded masculine everywhere else—broad shoulders, Adam's apples, stubble, deep voices—all perched atop an ass that could eclipse a woman's legendary badonkadonk from the Before Times by a factor of two or three.
In gooner circles (which multiplied exponentially after The Vanishing), the new standard was described with religious fervor:
"Fucking planetary cheeks, bro… each one bigger than my head, soft as fresh dough but firm underneath like they're packed with warm silicone. Jiggle factor off the charts—every step sends ripples for days. When he bends over the cleft opens like a invitation to heaven, that deep juicy trench swallowing thongs, jockstraps, even gym shorts whole. And the way they clap when he walks fast? Wet, meaty thunderclaps that echo down hallways. You could lose your whole face in there and thank God for the privilege. Hyper-feminized bubble-butt perfection surgically grafted onto masc bodies. Goon fuel grade SSS-tier."
The first weeks were pandemonium.
Suicides spiked, then plateaued. Riots flared in cities where power vacuums formed, then fizzled when no one could sustain the rage long enough—because everyone was too busy staring at their own (or their roommate's) new ass in every reflective surface. Pornhub's servers crashed repeatedly as upload rates increased 800% overnight, almost all content now amateur "mirror selfies," "twerk checks," and "who wore it better: me or my sister's old yoga pants?" comparisons.
Social media pivoted overnight. Hashtags like #BigBootyBoySummer trended for eighteen months straight. TikTok (or whatever fragmented successor survived the server purges) filled with slow-motion twerk battles, oil-dripping booty bounces, and "rate my new cake" videos that routinely hit fifty million views in hours.
But biology waits for no one.
Libido did not shrink with the penises.
If anything, it metastasized.
Testosterone levels stayed roughly the same—or perhaps climbed slightly as stress and existential dread triggered adrenal overdrive—but with drastically reduced outlets. The old outlets (penetrative sex with women) were gone. Masturbation became an exercise in frustration: tiny nubs rubbing frantically produced weak, dribbling orgasms that left most men hornier than when they started. Edging sessions stretched into days. Chastity devices—once a niche kink—became mass-market essentials simply to stop the constant, painful arousal.
And then the hierarchy revealed itself.
A small percentage of men—perhaps one in every forty or fifty—had been spared the worst of the shrinkage. They retained three, four, sometimes a heroic five inches erect. In the new world, that made them gods.
The rest adapted. Quickly. Desperately. Eagerly.
It started in apartments, then spread to bars, gyms, dorms, office break rooms. Men with the biggest remaining cocks found themselves surrounded by willing mouths, hands, and—most enthusiastically—those monumental asses. The phrase "topping from the bottom" took on literal meaning as thick-thighed femboys (a label that lost all irony) begged to ride whatever pathetic inch their partner could offer, grinding down until their cheeks swallowed hips, clapping rhythmically while whimpering praise.
"Even if it's just the tip… please… just let me feel something inside me…"
Bottom culture exploded. Anal orgasms became the new gold standard because penile orgasms were either weak or nonexistent for most. Prostate milking turned into performance art. Rim jobs evolved into full-on worship sessions lasting hours. Plugs, beads, dildos (the few large ones left from Before stockpiles) became religious relics passed hand-to-hand like communion wafers.
Society reorganized itself around the new reality faster than anyone expected.
Wars? Obsolete.
Who was going to march across borders when every soldier was too busy clenching around a plug, daydreaming about the next available cock? Tanks sat rusting while their crews filmed content. Missile silos became unlikely orgy venues because the vibration from the ventilation systems felt incredible against freshly spanked cheeks.
The economy stabilized almost miraculously.
Luxury goods collapsed—nobody needed tailored suits when half the wardrobe was now booty shorts, jockstraps, fishnets, and crop tops stretched tight over pecs. But lube? Exponential growth. Sex toys? Black-market fortunes. OnlyFans equivalents became the primary currency in some regions. "Cock tax" jokes turned into actual policy proposals: men with over three inches erect paid slightly higher income tax, but received priority access to public play spaces and first dibs on any salvaged pre-Vanishing dildo inventory.
Fertilization machines—hulking, humming artificial wombs developed in frantic crash programs during Year One—kept the species limping forward. Sperm banks overflowed. Babies arrived in orderly batches, raised in sprawling creches by rotating teams of surprisingly gentle, doting men who had rediscovered nurturing instincts through endless aftercare cuddles.
And somewhere in Year Two, the phrase appeared on graffiti walls, bumper stickers, forum signatures, and whispered pillow talk:
**Femboys are the solution to world peace.**
It started as a shitpost.
Then it became a meme.
Then it became scripture.
Because the aggression had to go somewhere—and it went into fucking. Into breeding fantasies without breeding. Into worshipping the few remaining cocks like sacred totems. Into building a culture where jealousy was rerouted into compersion: watching your friend get railed by the neighborhood's last five-incher and feeling only vicarious bliss, followed by taking your turn at sloppy seconds with your tongue.
Violence evaporated because violence required tension—and tension was constantly drained away in sweaty, moaning piles of bodies. Nations stopped saber-rattling when every general was too blissed-out and plug-stuffed to care about geopolitics. Religions rebranded: new sects formed around "The Great Submission," preaching that true masculinity lay in surrender, in offering up a perfect, jiggling ass to a brother in need.
The few remaining tops—those rare men still capable of delivering a proper pounding—walked the earth like wandering deities. They were fed first, fucked last, pampered endlessly. Their schedules filled months in advance with "appointment" orgies where dozens of bubble-butted bottoms lined up, presenting, begging for the honor of being stretched by something that actually felt substantial.
And they were gentle.
Because they had to be.
Because the world had learned—through two years of aching, leaking, desperate need—that dominance without cruelty was the only sustainable power left.
So the last doms on earth did not conquer.
They claimed their tribute slowly, reverently, letting every needy hole clench and flutter around them while the rest of the planet clapped and moaned in rhythm.
And in that endless symphony of flesh against flesh, the bombs stayed cold.
The borders dissolved.
The hate dissolved.
Only lust remained—thick, warm, and strangely peaceful.
Femboys truly were the solution to world peace.