Vintage whore

“The newly organized women’s social gathering known as
“The Club” met for the second time last Thursday at the
home of Mrs. Warrington on Alameda Street. A light
luncheon was served and Mrs. Amelia Stringer, of 1124
Fillmore, gave a lively talk on the history of beekeeping
in early California, followed by open discussion. The
once a month sessions of “The Club” are closed to invited
members only.”

“Thank you, ladies. Have the servants all left? Mrs.
Stratford, would you be so kind as to secure the doors?
Thank you. I cannot even hope to improve on Miss Amy
Phelps’s talk at our last meeting, which, for the record,
was titled “New Methods of Improved Horse Breeding, With
Reference to Practical Experience in the Field.” (General
laughter).

But as it is my turn to get up and tell you the story of
my own true experience in the area of…ahem, our common
interest, I will do the meager best I am able, and I hope
you will find it of some interest.

My first husband, Herbert, was a stockbroker. He was tall
and moderately good looking, and endowed with…wait,
ladies, you’re anticipating me — a warm sense of
humor…a generous nature…and a big cock. (Laughter).
Yes, my Herbert was quite well endowed. And — Oh, is
there a question? About this big (holding hands apart). I
was a virgin when we were married, so I did not
appreciate this fact of his anatomy, but took it quite
for granted. I had no idea that he differed in any
respect from the average man, as far as that was
concerned.

It came as a great shock to me when Herbert died. I wore
widow’s black for a year and then a gentleman proposed to
me, and I accepted. I naturally assumed that with my new
husband my sex life would be much as it had been before
so it came as quite a shock to me on my wedding night
when I discovered Harry Stringer (my second husband) was
scarcely half as big down there as my lamented Herbert
had been.

Not that Harry Stringer is unusually small, I suppose. At
first I thought he must be, but I made discreet inquiries
and learned that it was not that Harry, my second
husband, was small, but that my first husband must have
been unusually big. I was at quite a loss for anyone to
ask, whom I dared ask such a delicate question. We didn’t
have a group like “The Club” in those days where we could
talk about such things. I didn’t have the courage to even
mention it to my dearest and closest friend.

One day I read in the newspaper that a female physician
had opened a practice here in San Francisco and with a
great deal of trepidation I went to see her. It was not
until my third visit that I got up the courage to tell
her what the trouble was. I half expected to be blasted
by lightning for asking such a thing but she took it in
quite a matter of fact manner. After extracting the
details from me, halting, blushing and stammering as I
was (I know, you wouldn’t think it to listen to me
discuss it now), she told me that it appeared to her that
my Harry was perfectly normal, or enough nearly so as
shouldn’t matter; and that my first husband had been
remarkably endowed.

Well, that took a load off my mind, but it didn’t solve
my problem, since I could hardly feel Harry inside me,
when we did it.

Being newly married it took some time to get adjusted to
my new circumstances but once we were settled I found
that I missed the way Herbert had filled me up down
there.

Harry was a good enough provider and we were compatible
in other ways, but I found myself thinking that perhaps I
had married the wrong man. Our lovemaking was a
disappointment that never seemed to improve. I couldn’t
help thinking how much better it had felt with my first
husband Herbert when he stuffed his big fat cock inside
me. I made a silent decision that if I were ever to be
married a third time (which God forbid) I would
investigate the matter in advance rather than leaving it
to chance.

Harry, my second husband, ran off with a secretary from
his firm one day, after we had been married for six
years. By then I didn’t regret his absence and I found a
judge who was willing to give me divorce papers. I have
heard since that Harry is living with her in Sausalito,
under a false name, and god speed to him, I wish him no
harm.

So I was newly divorced. I took my troubles to a gypsy
fortune teller and she told me I would soon meet a tall,
dark, and handsome man…with a huge prick! Never doubt
the gypsies. Oscar was tall, dark, and handsome, and
wonderfully endowed. I forbore from suggesting he marry
me before we enjoyed each other, and I didn’t regret it.
It was just as well because Oscar already had a wife.
When I found this out I was so furious that I threw Oscar
out and ordered him never to darken my door again.
Amazingly, he didn’t come back. I suppose a man like
Oscar can always find another woman easily enough. I did
regret losing his fine prick though. That man was well
hung.

I went back to Madame Zorah and told her my woes and she
looked into her crystal ball and told me I was well off
without Oscar because he had been betraying me with
another woman and would soon be suffering from a social
disease. Then she went into a trance for a time and I was
quite nervous sitting there in the dark, with her frozen
still and silent like that. Finally she said that she saw
a wondrously large penis in my future but she could not
see whose it was. We had tea, and chatting casually she
mentioned that she had once heard that you can always
tell a man with a big prick because he will have large
hands and a long nose. So I made a mental note to look
out for a man with those features.

Unfortunately the only man I could think of with
unusually large hands and a long nose was Reverend
Pilcher at my church, and he was married.

One day a month later (during which time I had made
several unsuccessful attempts to discover a bulge in
Reverend Pilcher’s trousers, to no avail) I met a
handsome youth with simply enormous hands and a long
nose. He was the boy who delivered my groceries from
Samuelson’s.

Only a six-dollar-a-week grocer’s boy, not half my age,
whom no one but myself would even bother to notice. But
in appearance he was distinctly good to look at. I had
been inspecting other men’s hands, feet and noses, and
his were unusually large. I can’t imagine where he could
have bought gloves or shoes to fit. This is silly, I told
myself, but as I gazed on him admiringly I felt hot b***d
rushing to my head, blinding my sight and reddening it
with desire. This was madness — sheer madness, I told
myself, but I realized that I simply had to have this
beautiful youth, with as I hoped, his big prick.

I tipped him the usual amount and then thinking quickly I
asked him nervously if he would like to earn a little
extra money as an artist’s model. I thought that if he
accepted, by dressing him as I pleased and posing him I
could easily discover whether he really did have a big
one, without compromising myself.

“I’m keen for any chance to earn an honest dollar, ma’am.
What sort of work is it, bein’ a model, then?”

I explained it to him and told him I had recently taken
up — I started to say, sculpture, but I thought of the
difficulty of having a block of marble delivered to my
house and amended it to — painting, and needed a male
figure model to carry forward my studies outside class.

He worked long hours for Samuelson’s store, six days a
week, but he was free Sunday afternoons after church, and
we agreed on an hourly fee.

After he left I put on my bonnet and ran out to buy an
easel, a canvas, brushes, and paints. It was difficult to
buy art supplies in San Francisco in those days and I had
to consult a friend of a friend of mine who was a
painter; and he gave me a dilapidated easel from his
storeroom which could be repaired, and a palette, and
loaned me a couple of good brushes until I could get my
own by mail order. He told me where to go to get paints.
We got on so well he offered to give me lessons and I
signed up for a course of ten on Saturday afternoons.

So I repaired the old easel — I liked the fact that it
looked so unmistakably used, so I would not appear to be
an utter novice — and I set it up in my salon, with a
big cloth under it to protect the floor (a futile
endeavour — paint will get on the floor, and the walls,
and even the chandelier, no matter what you do).

I had my first lesson on Saturday and learned how to mix
the paint and hold the brush. And on Sunday, promptly
after church, my model arrived.

Well! I hope you can imagine how my heart felt pounding
in my breast as I stood there in my brand new painter’s
smock and invited him in.

I had him sit down in a chair while I made a few
preliminary sketches of his face. I do know how to sketch
a little, with a pencil, and I made a very bad likeness
of his head on a large pad of paper which I would not let
him look at.

As I drew his head I could not help admiring what a
handsome boy he was. He had an abundance of wavy chestnut
hair that fell around the nape of his neck in ringlets,
and smooth clear skin. His eyes were deep-set and steely
blue, and he had a rugged, manly jaw. His nose, as I have
mentioned, was a large one, but by no means
disproportionate to his face. There was no denying the
genuine, bewitching actuality of his beauty. I struggled
to maintain my poise and concentrate on my drawing.

I felt giddy and faint. I told myself that what I felt
was surely some sort of physical attraction, nothing
more.

Finally I calmed down enough to suggest that he might now
go behind the Japanese screen and take his shirt off, so
I could draw his torso.

“Is that how it’s done, mum?” he asked shyly.

“Yes,” I replied.

When he came back he had taken off his outer shirt…but
he had thick woolen underwear on beneath.

“Your woolens too,” I said. “Please.”

He was very reluctant about complying, but I was paying
him well and he didn’t want to displease me, being in an
accommodating habit of compliance with the whims of the
middle-class married women who formed Samuelson’s
clientele.

Finally he came back naked above the waist and I was in a
positive fever when I saw him. Undressed, he was a
perfect specimen of masculinity. My eye traced the
delicate lines of beauty made by the gently swelling
curves of the muscles under his smooth pink skin, and I
could barely restrain myself from gasping in delight. His
torso was powerful and lovely.

I posed him and went back to work sketching. Watching
him, I kept noticing the quite large hands and long nose
Madame Zorah had spoken of. It had to be a sure thing, I
thought.

Having made some preliminary sketches I started
transferring them onto the canvas with a stick of
charcoal. I’m glad you can’t see the outline I made of
his body — it was appallingly crude; but I stayed with
my art lessons and I am much better now. But that first
attempt was a fright. It looked more like a runaway hay-
rick than a comely bare-chested boy. With the charcoal
stick in my trembling fingers I could no more do justice
to the way his powerful musculature bulged under smooth
skin than I could have swum the English Channel.

It took me an hour and he was fidgeting.

“Let’s have a short break,” I suggested.

“That’s all right by me, mum,” he said.

He tried to sneak a peek at the canvas and I stopped him.

“Positively no peeking. I’m only a novice; I’m not
confident enough yet for any criticism.”

“Why, mum, I would never think of it, even if I knew what
it was.”

“It means I don’t want to hear any remarks on my skills
as a painter.”

“I think it’s quite marvelous that you can paint
pictures, mum. I wouldn’t know good from bad. I just
wondered what I might look like.”

“You’ll have to wait, or satisfy yourself by looking in
the mirror.

Make yourself at home and relax for a while, and don’t
get dressed. I’m going to make tea. Are you the sort of
boy who would go for a growler of beer?”

He looked surprised. “I never touched a drop in my life,
mum.

I took the pledge.”

“Well,” I said, “Perhaps you’d have a little cordial,
then, instead?”

“I don’t know ma’m, what is it?”

“Don’t they sell cordials at Samuelson’s?”

“Never tried one, myself. Expensive, they is.”

“Well, try it. We’ll have a little cup with our tea. It’s
really not alcoholic at all, you know. Just a sweet,
syrupy drink.”

When our tea was ready I served it and with trembling
hands I poured out a stiff little drink of brandy cordial
for each of us. He tasted it and made an awful face — I
had to laugh.

“What is it, mum? I think it’s gone bad.”

“Oh no,” I laughed. “That’s just the way it tastes. But
it’s sweet, too — try another sip, you’ll see.”

He took another doubtful sip.

“It’s really quite delicious when you get used to it.
Give it a chance.”

He took a bigger sip, emptying the small glass, and I
refilled it before he could protest.

“It’s hard to get used to at first but it’s lovely when
you get accustomed to it.”

I took a sip of mine. It was about 30 proof brandy
cordial, I would say, much more effective than beer would
have been.

We had our tea and cookies and he drained three small
glasses of the cordial.

“Time to resume painting,” I said. He was unsteady when
he got up.

“I feel a bit dizzy, mum.”

“It’s the heat — this house is so dreadfully overheated.
Good thing you have your shirt off already. I was going
to ask you to take your trousers off next so I can paint
your legs — do you mind?”

“My trousers then? But — I mean, really, mum — ?”

“Oh. don’t be shy. It’s just like a visit to the doctor,
isn’t it? I suppose you’ve had your trousers off in front
of your mother before now, when she was sewing them up
for you, or on bath night?”

“Haven’t got a mother, mum,” he said in a calm, factual
tone.

“Oh, you poor, motherless boy! How ever have you gotten
by all these years without a mother. Oh, I am so sorry!”

I swept him up in my arms and hugged him.

“It’s all right, mum,” he said.

“You poor boy,” I said, squeezing him to my bosom.

“It was many years ago. I hardly knew her, really. It was
when my youngest sister came.”

“And your poor father…”

“He isn’t with us, now, mum.”

“Oh, god have mercy! Your father passed on too?”

“No, mum. He had to go away. He’ll came back when he can,
I expect.”

I suspected that this meant that either the father had
gone to prison or else he had run off to avoid going to
prison. I couldn’t think what else it might mean, but I
couldn’t ask, obviously.

“So you’re all alone with your sisters? Who minds you?”

“Why, I do, mum. I’m the man of the house, now, until
father gets back.”

The man of the house! He was all of 17, at most, and
maybe less. But doubtless there were (and are) households
in San Francisco where even younger boys and girls were
head of the house.

I finally got him to go behind the screen and take his
trousers off. He had long woolens on underneath, just as
with the shirt, and I had the devil of a time persuading
him they had to come off. He went back behind the
Japanese screen to disrobe, and he was too shy to come
out for a while; but I finally persuaded him, with a
soft, gentle voice.

My explanation that it was after all no different than a
visit to the doctor fell flat because he never went to
doctors. When he got sick he stayed in bed and his
sisters nursed him; they couldn’t afford a visit to a
doctor’s office — that was for the rich folk like me,
apparently, although I thought of myself as living on a
shoestring in quite straitened circumstances because I
could only afford one servant.

When I finally coaxed the blushing boy out from behind
the screen (I had to threaten to come back there and
fetch him out myself if he wouldn’t come) I expected to
find him naked but I discovered that under the woolens he
had yet another layer of underwear. With the woolens
removed he was now wearing a dingy pair of linen drawers
which had once been white (in some antediluvian epoch)
covering him down to mid-thigh. I looked closely but I
couldn’t be sure whether there was a bulge in his
drawers, the way he was covering himself with his hands.

After staring shamelessly at his drawers for a prolonged
moment I got up the nerve to order him to take them off.

“Off with those, now”, I commanded.

“But mum!” He held his hands in front of his drawers like
a blushing girl.

“Off, now! Haven’t you ever seen the paintings in the
museum? The models are always naked, you know.”

He had never been to a museum.

I made a mental note to dress him up and take him to the
museum sometime and then I realized that if another woman
saw me with him, and noted the long nose and the big
hands, the game would be up, if she knew the secret the
gypsy had told me. Everyone knew my husband was gone. And
this boy was a good-looking fellow. You wouldn’t have to
be Sherlock Holmes to suspect that I had taken a mad
fancy to him.

“They really are naked, you know,” I said. “Haven’t you
ever seen paintings? Surely some of the houses you
deliver to must have paintings on the wall?”

“Nothing like that, mum. Just religious pictures, and
waterfalls, and dead relatives — with all their clothes
on. I never saw one like you say.”

“You deliver to the Mortensons, don’t you? Haven’t you
ever noticed that painting in their drawing room? With
the pink naked nymphs?”

“I never went into the drawing room, mum. I take the
groceries to the back entrance where the kitchen is. I’ve
never been any farther inside than the kitchen.”

A thought occurred to me.

“That cook of theirs never tried to kiss you, did she?”

“Why, no, mum, never.” He was mildly scandalized.

“Well, she had better not,” I said. I had heard stories
about the Mortensons’ Katie from my own cook. Katie was a
young red-headed Irishwoman with a figure like Lillian
Russell’s, and she was said to be quite friendly with the
iceman, and not with him only either.

“Here,” I said. I strode to the bookcase and took down a
large book of Renaissance and Baroque paintings,
reproduced in photo-lithographic plates, and we sat down
on the settee and I started showing him the reproductions
of great European paintings of the last few hundred
years.

“There,” I said, pointing to the Naked Maja. He blushed.
“And there — ” that was Rembrandt’s Bathsheba. Next came
Andromeda chained to the rocks, and a delightful “Susanna
and the Elders”. He was turning red, but his eyes were
riveted to the page in fascination.

“And there — ” I turned the page to Michelangelo’s
David. His face turned scarlet at the sight of the lovely
naked boy whom the divine Michelangelo had immortalized
in stone.

“But, mum!” He whispered, scandalized. “You can see his,
his…”

“And why shouldn’t you? It’s just as nature made him,
isn’t it? What do you suppose we wore when we lived in
caves, then?”

“I never lived in a cave, mum.”

“No, silly, I mean what do you suppose men wore in the
old days before clothes were invented?”

“I never thought on it.”

“They went as God made them, of course. Have you never
read in the book that God made man in his own image?”

“Can’t read much more’n my own name, mum. But I heard the
preacher say that on a Sunday meeting, yes.”

“And if God made man in his own image nothing about man’s
form could be ugly or wicked, could it?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it might seem that way. But why
did Adam and Eve put on clothes then?”

“Because their bodies were so beautiful, they did not
want the animals in the garden to see them and be jealous
that they were the only creatures made in God’s
likeness”.

“I imagine it must have been just as you say, mum.”

His breathing was heavy and his eyes sparkled — the
brandy cordial had done its work and he was a little
tipsy. His face was flushed.

I turned the pages in the book until I found a picture of
the Venus de Milo.

“There,” I said. “Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

He blushed and turned his head aside.

“Go ahead, look at her. She’s only a statue — only a
photo-lithograph of a statue — and she won’t bite.”

He looked. He seemed to be thinking about something, from
the expression on his face. Finally he came out with it.

“Mum, if God made Adam in his own likeness…whose
likeness did he make the woman in?” He pointed to the
Venus de Milo.

I felt almost devilish enough to say “why, Satan’s, of
course”, but I didn’t.

I thought about this theological puzzler for a few
moments.

“Why, God only made Adam for practice, you know,” I said
modestly.

“Then he made woman.”

“I think you must be right, mum.” He was looking at the
picture with undisguised fascination.

“So you can see that we poor artists would not be able to
copy the beauty of nature if we did not have models to
copy from. And you are assisting me by being my model
today. I cannot create anything as beautiful as the works
you see reproduced in this volume, myself; I am only a
humble student. But I must study my craft and perhaps
someday I will be able to paint something a little bit
beautiful, in its own way. Until then I must practice
diligently and do the best I can. What do you say then?
Are you willing to assist me by being my model? I’m quite
helpless without one.”

“I want to help you, mum,” he said, “but I never…”

“Oh, it will be alright. Just go behind that screen,
right this moment, and close your eyes and peel those
drawers down quick as a wink, and don’t think on it. I’ll
count to ten. Go on with you now!”

I lifted him up by the arm and propelled him behind the
screen.

At the count of ten he came out from behind the screen.

He was buck naked. Naked as a jaybird, and blushing pink
from his face down to his navel.

He was covering his privates with his hands. I stepped up
to him and tugged his arms away, then looked down at him.

Well. Goodness gracious. There it was. It was immense!

I swear, I am telling the truth when I say that it was
just exactly like the proverbial baby’s arm holding an
apple.

It was as if he had a stunted third leg growing between
the other two.

The gypsy had been right!

She had said that a man with a long nose and big hands
would be guaranteed to have a great big one, and here was
the proof.

My breath caught in my throat and my nerves tingled with
excitement. I felt my heart pounding.

He was as big as…no, bigger than, my first husband. It
was the biggest I had ever seen, excepting horses, and a
small horse wouldn’t have been much ashamed of it.

Out of all the boys in San Francisco, Samuelson’s
grocer’s boy must have had the largest prick of any boy
in town.

“Look at yourself,” I said.

“I can’t, ma’am, I swear I can’t”. He had his eyes
screwed tight shut.

“Open your eyes and look at yourself,” I said. “That is
an order!”

He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked. His blush
turned an even darker red and his eyes darted about
trying to escape the sight of his own naked flesh.

“You are naked,” I said. “Utterly, stark naked, from head
to foot.”

“Yes, mum!” he gasped in an agonized groan.

“You are beautiful, every inch of you. You are very
handsome. Your body is magnificent.”

The wincing expression on his face softened.

“You don’t think it’s disgusting, mum?”

“No, I think it is the most beautiful thing — a wonder
of nature.”

“It’s just my nyoodity, mum.”

“I know. You are just about the nudest young man I have
ever seen, too. I can see that I will not be able to do
you justice. I won’t be able to paint you. I am only a
student — you should be painted by a real painter, not a
clumsy dauber like me. Let me make some sketches of you,
now, and I will show my painting instructor — perhaps
he’ll paint you for me if I offer him the commission.”

“Paint me naked, mum?”

“How else?”

“But I thought it was just going to be you, mum. I
wouldn’t go like this for a stranger I didn’t know.”

“Well, we’ll consider that. Perhaps we can build up to it
gradually.

I’ll paint you today so you can get used to posing.”

“Yes, mum.”

“But first, come here — I want to show you something.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t have pointed this out to him, but I
couldn’t resist.

I opened the art book to the reproduction of
Michelangelo’s “David” and pointed my finger to his naked
torso.

“Look at yourself in the mirror, over there. Get a good
look! Now look at this statue of King David. Do you see
the difference?”

“He’s a deal more handsome ‘n me.”

“Bosh. I’d take you any day. Notice anything else?”

“Why is his thing so small?”

“It’s not small, you see. It’s you who are so big.”

“But mum, his looks like a baby’s thing, almost.”

“And yours is almost five times that size — easily! But
King David is just as big as my former husband, and
that’s about the size of a normal, average man, I am
told. Yours is immense compared to that one n the statue,
isn’t it? Immense! Positively huge! Do you know the
expression they use? Here, I’ll whisper it in your ear —

I whispered softly in his ear: “You’re what they
call…well-hung!”

“That’s what they call it,” I said, blushing and
giggling.

“Well-hung?” he said in a soft voice. “Why do they call
it that?”

“No one knows. Here,” I said, “let me see something —
you don’t mind this do you?”

I cradled his big balls and long penis in my hands and
weighed them.

“It must be two pounds at least,” I said, judging the
weight and hefting his manhood in my soft little hands.
“Half as big as a newborn baby!” (Which is what this lad
will be giving me if I’m not careful, I told myself).

Not one man in a thousand was as big as my first husband
had been, I learned when my doctor consulted a
gynaecologist on the matter. At first I doubted this but
discreet research into the question has satisfied me on
this score — my first husband had just been beginner’s
luck. And it is quite possible that if I had never
married him I would never have been so stretched out by
his big phallus that a normal-sized one would not satisfy
me ever afterwards. It is quite possible that Harry would
have satisfied me fully if his predecessor in my spousal
bed hadn’t gotten me all stretched out and accustomed to
accommodating his greater size.

This lucky youth was even more well-favored by Mother
Nature than my first husband had been. In fact, I had
some fear that if it ever came to the ultimate test he
might be too big for me.

He stood naked and bashful before me, his long heavy yard
fully exposed to my inspection. My mouth went dry.

“I feel a bit parched,” I said. “Would you like something
to drink?”

“I’m quite warm mum — yes.”

I think both of us were a little dizzy. I poured a stiff
brandy cordial for each of us, gulped it down and poured
another. I refilled his glass too.

“Let’s sit down on the settee for a moment,” I said. “Has
anyone ever remarked..I mean, do you know?”

“Remarked what, mum?”

“On your…oh, skip it. Have you ever had a sweetheart?”

“No, mum.”

“No special female friend? Are you quite certain?”

“Yes, mum.”

“Ever kiss a girl?”

“No, mum.”

“Really? Never been kissed?”

“No, mum.”

“Well, then, close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.”

He shut his eyes tight and I leaned over and planted a
quick soft kiss on his lips, for a thrilling moment. I
was half-drunk with the brandy.

“There, now. Open your eyes. Can you guess?”

“That was you, mum.”

“Yes. Did you like it?”

“Yes, mum.”

“I mean…did you really?”

“Yes, mum.”

“Now you surprise me.” I shut my eyes.

“What should I do?” he asked.

“It’s a game, silly. Now it’s your turn.”

I kept my eyes wide shut.

He hesitated and then leaned over and planted a quick
peck on my lips.

“Again,” I said.

When he leaned over to kiss me again I put my arms around
his neck and pulled him to me to prolong his kiss, before
he could pull away. I gave him a long, luxurious kiss. He
didn’t know how to kiss and wouldn’t open his mouth. I
planted my lips against his gently and held him there as
I felt his soft quivering mouth against my eager lips.

He trembled in my arms.

I pushed him over playfully and he tumbled onto the floor
and I fell on top of him, laughing. We rolled on the
floor and I landed on top of his naked body. I could tell
he was even more tipsy than I was — the drinks were
affecting him.

“Now it’s my turn,” I said. “Close your eyes and open
your mouth.”

He closed his eyes and I kissed him. This time I put my
tongue in his mouth. I taught him how to French kiss in a
single lesson.

“Put your arms around me and squeeze me tight,” I said.

He did it.

“Now kiss me again.”

We kissed and as my hungry mouth melted into his I felt
his naked torso with my fingers. I traced the muscles in
his chest, and then my soft, circling fingertips went
lower and lower on his abdomen, and lower, until I
brushed his big prick with my fingers. I stroked the long
shaft softly and he gradually grew hard under my touch.

“What’s this now,” I said. “Your thing! It’s getting
bigger! Now why is it doing that, do you suppose.”

“I don’t know, mum, it just does, sometimes.”

“How big does it get?” I asked, feigning mock
astonishment.

“I don’t know, mum.”

“Bigger than this?” He was already the size of an
Imperial Valley cucumber in August.

“Yes,” he said.

“Does it get bigger when I touch it like this?” I stroked
his penis and I could feel it stretching longer in my
hands with every stroke.

“Yes,” he said.

“My, look how big it is getting! What a whopper to be
sure! Just look at it!”

He couldn’t look. He had his eyes squeezed tight shut as
though he was in pain. His prick kept getting bigger
though.

“Oh, just look at it getting bigger,” I cooed in a sing-
song voice.

“You’re simply huge!”

It was growing by the inch right in my hand. Growing
like…I don’t know what. I can’t think of a comparison.
Nothing grows like a man’s prick when it is going from
flaccid softness to stiff erection like that in a matter
of seconds. It uncoiled like a firehose, and erected
itself like a fireman’s ladder. And there was a fire
burning, inside me, that needed to be put out right away.

“I know what will make it the biggest of all,” I said.
“But it’s a very secret thing. Will you swear by all that
is holy that you will never, ever tell anyone this
secret?”

“Oh, mum,” he groaned. “Oh, please, mum!” I decided to
take that as a yes — he sounded like he was asking to be
released from the rack.

“Close your eyes very, very tight, and keep them closed
no matter what.

I am going to give you another surprise.”

And I did. I opened my mouth wide — very wide — so wide
it hurt, as a matter of fact; and then I lowered my lips
onto the shaft of his penis and sucked him.

He groaned.

My first husband taught me the art of fellatio. I did it
a lot with my second husband — he liked it more than he
liked screwing my loose pussy, so sometimes he could only
come in my mouth.

How I got the grocer’s boy’s huge dick into my mouth I’ll
never know. In my yoga class I have learned that with the
proper training and preparation the human body is capable
of amazing contortions. I have been told that I have a
sweet little rosebud of a mouth so how I stretched it
wide enough to encircle his massive engine with my lips I
do not know.

My second husband was not too long down there so I had
been able to take him all the way into my mouth — which
he enjoyed, by the way. I could not take more than the
first couple inches of the grocer’s boy’s big phallus
into my mouth. His massive head got wedged between my
cheeks and would go no further. I suppose I looked like a
chipmunk hoarding nuts for the winter — paint that!

I smelled the manly, musky, erotic smell of his strong
male flesh as I sucked on the head of his penis and
licked my tongue down the powerful stiff shaft. It was
like ambrosia — I had not had a man with me in over a
year! And this was more cock than either of my husbands
had had, even the big one.

I felt his long staff go perfectly rigid in my mouth. It
was like a rod of iron covered with a soft velvet skin. I
sucked and licked his mighty engine, holding the thick
club in my hands and cradling his massive testicles in my
fingers as I fellated him.

After a few minutes of sucking he started to come off in
my mouth. I felt his ball-sack grow tight, and his staff
throbbed and grew even thicker so that I nearly choked on
it, and then it started to throb convulsively and a river
of his thick semen burst into my mouth.

I swallowed and swallowed as he discharged into my mouth
and so much came and kept on coming that I choked and
spluttered. I pulled my mouth away so I could swallow and
breathe as he kept gushing, into my hair and face and
onto my carpet.

There was semen on my hands, on my dress, in my hair, in
my eyes, dripping down my cheeks, and a pool of it
puddling on my best Persian rug.

He collapsed onto the settee in what looked almost like a
faint. In fact I suspect he did faint.

I lay back on my carpet to catch my breath and wonder how
the devil I was ever going to get the stains out.

“Goodness gracious,” I whispered.

He stirred on the settee.

“Oh ma’am,” he said. “That was wonderful! I must have
died and gone to heaven.”

“Did you like it, then?”

“Like it? I’ll say! I’ve never felt anything like it. You
must be an angel, ma’am — don’t lie and say you aren’t.”

“I won’t deny it then,” I said, wiping a drop of sperm
from the corner of my mouth in a ladylike manner.

“Can we do that again?”

“We certainly can. But not right away. First we must
restore your strength.”

His poor penis had wilted down to a mere six inches or
so. He was bigger soft than my last husband had been
hard.

I busied myself with the tea things and served him tea
and biscuits, with a little cold sausage.

I teased him with promises that it was going to be even
better when he got his strength back.

“Nothing could be better than that, ma’am.”

“There’s one thing that is. I’ll prove it to you. Are you
feeling stronger now? Good. Come with me to my bedroom.”

He followed me as meekly as a lamb to my bedchamber. I
turned down the gas mantle to a soft glow.

He stood there naked as a jaybird, awkwardly shifting
from one foot to the other, as I started to remove my
things. He licked his dry lips nervously as my crinolines
came off.

“Could you unlace my corset strings for me, please?
That’s a good young man.”

His fingers fumbled at the strings behind me. You’d have
thought he’d never unlaced a lady’s corset before.
Perhaps he hadn’t.

“Turn your back now,” I said once the corset was lying at
our feet. I had nothing left on but a thin chemise which
clung to me so tightly he could almost see through it.

I slipped into bed and burrowed under the heavy covers. I
wriggled out of my chemise and tossed it out of the bed.
I was naked, now.

“Turn off the gas,” I whispered. “Then get into bed with
me.”

He doused the light and the room was pitch black in an
instant. He stumbled making his way across the room to my
bed. Then the bedsprings creaked as he climbed onto the
bed and got under the covers with me.

“Come here,” I said.

He was clean but his naked body had a faint smell that
was all male, sweaty and leathery.

I found his bare body on the other side of the bed and
snuggled into it as he clasped me to him warmly. I
pressed my bare breasts against his smooth chest, feeling
his muscles ripple against the sensitive skin around my
nipples as they pressed into him.

“Ummm,” I sighed happily.

He was about a foot taller than I was and I felt like a
c***d pressing against his big strong body as he cuddled
me.

I heard him gasp softly as I pressed my soft nakedness
into him. My thighs rubbed against his legs and he must
have felt the heat of my pussy where it touched his
thigh.

I wrapped my arms around his head and pulled him into my
lips for a kiss.

His kissing was awkward at first, but I gave him a
lesson. I was so eager my lips trembled against his.

I reached down and found one of his hands and placed it
on my breast. The nipple hardened against his palm as he
cupped it.

“Oh, ma’am, you’re so beautiful.”

I pulled his head down into my bosom. “Suck them,” I
whispered. Soon his lips found my nipple and began to
suck. Gently at first, then with a fierce urgency. The
tip of my breast was as stiff as a tent peg inside his
mouth.

I stretched one hand down and reached between his legs to
feel his manhood. He was hard again, already, although it
was not twenty minutes since he had shot an enormous load
of semen into my mouth.

His penis throbbed under my touch and beat against my
thigh urgently, like a metronome.

I felt between my thighs. My pussy was wet and sticky. I
stuck a couple of fingers into my hole and it was wide
open. I was ready.

“Are you ready too?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he gasped. “What must I do?”

“Lie on top of me, and raise your body up on your arms so
that your weight is not resting on me.”

He did so, clumsily.

“You can rest your weight on your elbows if that is
easier for you.”

He did it.

“Now, kiss me while I arrange you.”

He was able to kiss me, and while we we kissing I spread
my legs wide under him. Then I reached for his penis and
tried to maneuver it into position.

“Scoot down a little.”

His prick was so long it came up over my belly and I had
to move him down about six inches on the bed to make room
for it between my legs.

“There, that’s good.”

I was able now to make the tip of his penis meet the lips
of my vagina.

The head of his cock was the size of a small apple and I
could barely grasp my little hand around the thick shaft
just under it. His prick was as stiff as a steel spring
and it was hard to get it into position. As I tried to
pull it down into my pussy it kept trying to spring back
up against his taut belly where he hovered above me.

At last I was able to stroke the hard chiseled tip of his
penis up and down the length of my wet pussy lips,
lubricating him.

I cocked my pussy up at him and pressed the tip of his
cock down into my hole.

“Now, push it in! Inside me!”

With a grunt he thrust his powerful loins forward,
impaling me with the stiff tip of his rod. I gasped.

“More,” I whispered. He was in about an inch, maybe.

He thrust, pulled back, thrust again.

And again. And again! I moaned in joy. He was big and he
hurt, but it was a good hurt.

I felt the big head of his cock rubbing the sheath of my
vagina as he pulled back and slid it in again. I stifled
a moan. It was pain and ecstasy mingled as he opened me.

His prick was as hard as a wooden stake. I was truly
impaled on him; several inches of it were inside me and
several more were still outside.

“More,” I whispered.

“Am I hurting you?”

“The pleasure you are giving me is so sweet it hurts. Go
on — the pain of entering will subside, and the pleasure
of having you inside me will increase.”

“But why do you cry out so?”

“Those are cries of happiness. Before we are done you
will be feeling even greater pleasure than you did
before, and I swear to you, however great your pleasure
is, mine shall be twice as great as yours.”

“Surely that is not even possible.”

“It is, though. Thrust in now, gently but firmly. Go in
deeper.”

He did. With a slow and steady rhythm he thrust in and
out, deeper on each thrust, until I was going out of my
mind.

“Oh, god!” I gasped. “Don’t stop!”

I wondered if my vagina could possibly be big enough to
accommodate him.

Deeper he went, on each successive push, until at last he
thrust in to the hilt and was fully inside me! I found to
my amazement that, long as he was, he had gotten the
whole thing inside, and now his leathery balls were
bouncing on my bottom as he thrust in and out.

“Hoooo!” I wheezed like the cry of a mourning dove as the
breath was f****d out of me by his powerful thrusting.

“That as far in as I can go,” he apologized.

“That’s quite all right!” I gasped. “Any more and you’d
k**l me for sure.”

“Shall I just keep going in and out like this, then?”

“I suppose you should. What would you do if I told you to
stop?”

“I think I’d rather regret doing that, this feels so
nice. Unless there’s something even better we can do.”

“I guess I’ll just have to let you continue doing this,
then, seeing as I don’t know of anything better. Do you
think you might be able to continue going in and out like
that for at least another five minutes?”

“Oh, I could do this all day.”

“Hmmph! So you say. We’ll see about that.”

Then we grew very quiet as each of us withdrew to our own
private reflections.

In and out his penis slid. I was completely filled,
stuffed as if I had just consumed an enormous meal.

My body was electrified with each thrust. My toes started
to curl back of their own accord. I noticed, as if from a
great distance, that my hips were rising to meet each
thrust, and little mewing sounds were issuing from my
throat. I heard my own voice saying softly “oh…,
oh…., oh…,” as his powerful thrusts filled me again
and again and my throbbing little vagina felt as if it
would burst!

A wave of intensely pleasant heat passed through me,
slowly flowing from my scalp to the tips of my toes. And
then a second wave flowed through me, even stronger. My
back arched. A cry began to issue from my throat and
wailed on and on as pleasure mounted inside me and I felt
a warm blinding heat explode in my vagina and fill me
with white light. I felt as if I was floating on air,
exploding, my body dissipating into nothingness…

“Why are you crying,” I heard a nearby voice say.

“I’m so happy,” I said.

Actually it was beyond mere happiness, it was nirvana.

Somewhere down on the earthly plateau something warm was
gushing like a firehose inside me, throbbing with each
spewing jet. I pondered this strange phenomenon for a
while and decided that he must be having his orgasm, too.

When I came back to the world he had gone limp and pulled
out of me. Of course I hadn’t taken any precautions, so I
might have a baby, but I didn’t care. Actually at that
moment a baby seemed like the only thing I lacked in the
world, so it wasn’t an unpleasant thought. I decided to
trust in providence.

“Was that all right?” He asked in a concerned voice. “Did
I hurt you?”

“No, you silly boy. Remember what I told you? Whatever
you felt right now, when you came inside me — I felt it
ten times as strong. It was almost more than I could
bear!”

“It was like nothing I’ve ever felt. You were right, it
felt even better than what we did before. I can’t wait to
do it again!”

“Neither can I,” I said. I picked up his big soft penis
and gave it a squeeze. “Silly boy. How soon can you be
ready?”

He was ready again in ten minutes.

I think you can imagine the rest for yourselves. And
that, ladies, seems as good a point as any to conclude my
tale.

Questions?