Brett had been described at various times as impatient, impulsive, and unconcerned with what anyone else would consider important details. All of these things were true, and Brett knew it, but he very rarely had cause to question his own behaviour, let alone change it. When one is doubled over in pain, alone in the middle of one’s own kitchen, though, it is hard not to reflect on the course of events.

Brett was well practised in the use of his genitals to mix drinks, and had made a name for himself in the punnily named Cocktail community as a purveyor of high quality, creamy concoctions. Always interested in new takes on classic concepts, today he was looking for something tropical, which eventually led him to the piña colada.

If he'd cared to do any research, Brett would find that this was well trodden ground, the Internet had several articles, many from authentic Puerto Rican sources, laying out various tips and variations for the would-be ball batter mixologist. All, either from experience or from not being stupid enough to make the mistake in the first place, informed their readers that it was absolutely imperative that the pineapple be chopped or sliced before use. We find Brett, doubled over in pain, alone in the middle of his kitchen, with a whole pineapple jammed halfway down his dick.

The thinking behind it wasn’t terrible, a strong cock will make light work of most things, and Brett’s cock certainly wasn’t weak, but most things aren’t covered in hard spines that will happily dig into softer surfaces, like the inside of a stretched urethra. That same stretched urethra had induced an intense erection, which was now gripping the fruit tightly from all directions.

This all added up to leave Brett in a difficult position: on one hand, fucking hell would he really like to not be feeling this much pain right now; on the other hand, what if he messes up trying to solve the problem and does more lasting damage? He'd never live it down if he had to call an ambulance, but something needed to be done.

Brett turned to the liquid components of the mix. The rum rolled down the tube, flowing directly around the pineapple and into his balls, which dutifully got to work on the distilled molasses, signalling to the brain to pump yet more blood into the area, worsening the erection, which didn’t help when Brett followed with the cream of coconut because now there was nowhere for it to go, and it just sat sadly on the obstruction.

By the nature of the mixological methodology in use, some of the high proof alcohol had made its way into the rest of the body, taking some of the edge off when the brain decided to reward the heightened state of arousal with an orgasm. Now with cream sitting on top and more cream assaulting it from underneath, the offending ananas still refused to budge, until, first with a gentle crack, then a loud snap, it crumbled into individual pieces just after the last contraction, with the result that not a drop had actually escaped.

Despite the sudden loss of structural integrity, the pineapple hadn’t made meaningful downwards progress. In addition to a few spikes still facing wallward, several pineapple chunks were rubbing acids and bromelain all up and down the red, raw internals of Brett’s member. But the pain had… lessened, and he began the work to get it down where it belonged.

An hour later, when everything had finished processing (or reprocessing) and Brett had gently emptied his tank into several large bottles, again passing pineapple juice through the distressed organ, he didn’t get to celebrate with the result; a proper piña colada is frozen or chilled, and this whole experience had been anything but cool. Instead, his prize went in the esky, and he gingerly made the short walk from his house to the drug store, then to the bottleshop and back, returning with a pair of medical gloves, a dispenser of soothing gel, and another bottle of alcohol, this time not as a mixer but as an anaphrodisiac.

As Brett rubbed the gel into the internal walls of his penis, he riffled through the existing literature, sufficiently chastened by the warnings he'd so brazenly ignored. Oh well, Brett mused, glancing over at the heavy-laden cooler sitting on the kitchen floor, at least this’ll make for a great story at next week’s meetup… Ow.