Gender: Male Age: 34 Location: Indiana
|Introduction: Too Much of a Good Thing|
One of the cruelest genetic jokes known to man is being born with a small penis. Anyone who is cursed with a diminutive-sized pecker has a seventy-five percent chance of being a pedophile. Why? Because little kids don’t know the difference between a ridiculous pee pee and a manly-sized dong that any true Viking would be proud of. Men with tiny penises recognize children’s incapacity to aptly identify an ineffective tool. Thus, guys with puny peters prey upon kids to avoid getting laughed at by women once they drop their drawers to expose their thumb-sized prick. Those who do not turn to molesting children start batting for the other team and typically become pole-smokers. After all, small-dicked men get horny too. So they often hook up with other inadequate fellows to share in their misery
Quite frankly, I can understand how some guys become child molesters or start sucking schlong. Having a little wee-wee leaves them with few other alternatives. But if it were me, I would shamefully hide inside my house, never to go outside, if I had anything less than nine inches swinging between my legs. And although I wouldn’t be biting pillows or feeling on little kids, I sure as hell wouldn’t feel confident enough to get naked in front of any fine female if I knew that I couldn’t properly stuff her snatch when the moment arose. But, as my fortune would have it, I was favored by the dick gods and blessed with a dinosauric cock with wonderfully thick proportions.
The exact form and function of my love equipment is best compared to a Pringles chip can. My male manifestation is a long, thick tube and, like a Pringles can, once I pop you can’t stop. Pedophiles envy me. Flaming twinks crave me. Even bugs think I’m sexy. But, with all of the fan fare of having a huge reproduction organ aside, it is not always a good thing to be so well endowed. Firstly, it’s rather cumbersome to heft my meat monstrosity around with me all day long. I can’t wear tight jeans and I gave up trying to cross my legs over two decades ago. Secondly, although most women like to have their gates of heaven opened wide by a thick man tube, not all girls can take it. Such was the case with Amaya.
Shortly after I graduated from the rink dink community college in southern Utah, I moved to upstate New York where I attended Cornell University. Like most other Ivy League preppy bastards, I resided in a Tudor mansion fraternity house while I finished out a bachelor’s degree. It was at this fraternity house where I met many interesting people, most of whom were Jewish or New England natives. Given my high fluting frat boy status, I was afforded plentiful opportunities to interact with some of the finest sluts that an Ivy League educational experience can provide.
The night that I met Amaya began like most other weekends at the fraternity. There was a party at my house, as was commonplace throughout the strenuous semester, and I was enjoying the music of several live bands with my fraternity brother, Camel. Camel was a baby-faced, non-traditional student, who had been an undergraduate at Cornell for over six years before I came to New York. He was chronically intoxicated and when he was not at the local bars, Camel could usually be found mooching free beer at one of the surrounding fraternity houses after he depleted the liquid stock within our own.
After I mingled for a few hours with some sorority hotties while Camel negotiated various deals at the fraternity party, we retreated to the third floor of our house for a reprieve. I followed Camel into his upstairs bedroom where he could organize his purchases from the local drug dealers who regularly attended the house parties. As he began rolling a fatty with some purple haze that he had scored from the street pharmacists, I curiously investigated the contents of his room.
“When you gonna get a new mirror?” I asked Camel, pointing out the shattered, halved piece of a wall mirror that he had nailed to his bedroom wall.
“I don’t give a shit,” Camel replied, as he was fidgeting with some rolling papers and wadded up dollar bills by his bedside. “I got that thing out of a dumpster.”
“It looks like you got most of this stuff out of a dumpster,” I said, looking around at his dilapidated furniture.
Camel straightened out a short stack of small denominational bills over his knee. “I got that nigger bitch porn over in the T.V. if you want to check it out. It ain’t bad. There’s some real darkies on there but it’s all pink on the inside!”
“I’m alright, man,” I replied while taking special notice of Camel’s pellet rifle that he had leaning against the far wall. “I’m trying to cut down on my black porn intake.” Acquiring Camel’s pellet shooter, I began pumping air into the chamber, snapping the pump lever back and forth along its stock.
While Camel was concentrating on rolling a blunt, I opened his bedroom window and peered down at the drunken college students who littered the front lawn of the frat house below me. I then braced myself against the window frame, hunched down over the sights of the pellet rifle, and took aim at one of the persons down below. Breathing in slowly, I fired off a pellet at an intoxicated partygoer, striking him in his buttocks. The targeted guy instantly jumped forward, issuing a stream of profanity.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Camel called out, standing up from his bed and tossing his spliff aside.
“Hunting,” I calmly replied, pumping the pellet rifle full of air once more.
“Dude, are you nuts?”
“Nope, just bored,” I said, taking aim at another person down below.
“You’re gonna hurt somebody, man!”
I defiantly launched another round, shooting a second drunkard who was sprawled out across the lawn square in the back. “No, I’m not!” I responded. Camel reached for his rifle and I yanked it back from him. “Look, they’re drunk,” I said. “They don’t know what day it is, let alone what’s going on around them. And I’m concealed by all these trees. We’re safe.”
“Dude, I’m not worried about you getting caught,” Camel explained. “I’m worried about you fuckin shooting someone, them getting hurt, and then calling the cops. If this place gets raided, we’re all going to jail.”
“No one is going to get hurt,” I said. “They’re wearing jeans. It’s not even going in their skin. Here, watch!” I fired off another round at a student who was staggering down the sidewalk near the house. The unsuspecting young man winced back as the pellet struck him in the leg like a large bee sting. After he gathered his composure, the college kid looked around himself in painful confusion, too drunk to comprehend what had just taken place.
“That’s funny as hell,” Camel finally conceded as he watched the wounded partiers dance around in agony. “Here, let me try that shit!” Camel snatched the pellet rifle from me and pumped the chamber full of air. He posted up on the windowsill and snipered another partygoer near the front stoop. A loud, feminine wail followed.
“Dude, don’t be shooting girls!” I chastised.
“That’s not cool, man.” I said, forcibly taking back the rifle from Camel. “Didn’t your momma ever teach you right—you can only shoot guys, god dammit!”
“What difference does it make?”
I contemplated for a moment and then answered. “Well, I guess if they’re fat it don’t make any difference. But you shouldn’t be shooting yummy-looking hos. That just ain’t right!” I leaned out the window again and pointed the muzzle of the pellet rifle toward several potential targets beneath my lofty position. As I shifted from one target to the next, trying to find an easy mark, I rested the rifle sights upon a fine specimen of an Asian girl. She was short, as all hot girls are, with shiny, black hair and a nicely sculptured body. My index finger rested firmly upon the trigger. I could not bring myself to shoot her. Then, out of my periphery, I noticed a rival fraternity member come trotting over to the fine piece of slant ass in a sorry attempt to spit game at her. I steadily refocused the pellet rifle sights upon his crotch and smoothly squeezed off another round. The frat boy fell to his knees a second later, his swagger completely destroyed.
Camel peered through his window, trying to locate the source of the painful screams out on the front lawn. “What the fuck did you do?” he demanded from me.
“I just shot a guy in the sack,” I calmly replied, while returning the pellet rifle to its leaning post. “No big deal.”
“Oh, dude! I see him now. God damn, he can’t even walk! He’s down there stumbling around and shit.”
I interrupted Camel’s laughter by walking toward his bedroom door and announcing, “I must attend to my duty.”
“Where the fuck you going?” Camel asked after me. “I thought we’re gonna spark this spliff together.”
“Ass is more important than grass,” I explained, opening Camel’s bedroom door. “I’ll catch you later. I have some yellow fever to attend to.”
“...Alright, fuck it. More for me.”
Making my way downstairs, I filtered through the crowd and loud music to find the busty Asian girl whom I had spotted from my elevated sniper position. Moments later, I located her outside, talking to friends. The wounded competitor had since hobbled off.
I strolled up to the sexy slant and looked deep into her almond-shaped, dark brown eyes. Without hesitation, I asked, “Do you know where I can find any cute Asian girls around here?”
She scoffed and cracked a smile. “Well, what do you think I am?”
“I would say that you’re very hot and sensuous but I’m looking for someone a little more, shall I say, wholesome.”
“You’re at the wrong place for that!”
“That’s not to say that we can’t be friends, though,” I stated with a kind chuckle. “Hi, my name is Keaton.”
“Nice to meet you, Amaya. Can I show you around the house?”
“Oh, you live here?”
I smiled. “For the time being, yes. I sleep here too but that’s only when I’m alone.”
Over the next hour or so I accompanied Amaya by showing her the house bar along with the rest of the Tudor mansion. I poured mama san a few mixed drinks and entertained her with stories about my adventures in Utah and my acculturation difficulties with adjusting to the lifestyle of the Northeast. Several drinks later, Amaya was ready to go home and I offered to walk her back to her place, which was several blocks off fraternity row.
Arriving at Amaya’s home, a spacious, rented duplex that was built around the Great Depression era, I was greeted by her hyperactive Papillon. The dog was one of the most annoying animals that I have ever encountered. It yapped. It twitched. It ran in circles so fast around the couch that I got dizzy trying to follow the damn thing with my eyes. I immediately wanted it dead. As I was regretting that I had left the pellet rifle back in Camel’s room, Amaya wasted a good fifteen minutes of macking time to corral the worthless mutt into its tiny kennel. By the time that she had the rampant animal under control, the mood had totally been ruined. But my steadfast boner stood firm. As soon as the rice-eater returned to the living room, I moved her over to the couch and making out proceeded without another hitch.
As was routine with my prior sexual kissing marathons, I stealthily and slowly began to disrobe Amaya while swapping saliva with her. My nimble fingers unfastened each button down the front of her green blouse, followed by my dexterous hands unsnapping her bra strap from behind. Her massive mammary glands burst forth from the constraints of her breast harness, revealing her darkened areola and swollen nipples that were the size of thimbles. Once her blouse had been tossed aside, I kissed down Amaya’s soft neck and buried myself into her buxom cleavage. Reaching my hands for her waistline, I attempted to strip the yellow sister naked but surprisingly encountered resistance from her. She abruptly stopped kissing, moved away, and stood up from the couch.
“I think I ruined my jeans,” Amaya declared, adjusting her pants.
Perplexed, I looked up at her and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Keaton, I’m very wet.”
“Well, that’s an easy fix. Just take them off!”
Amaya shook her head. “No, not tonight. I don’t want our first time to be like this.”
“To be like what?” I inquired.
“I don’t want to make love with you after I’ve been drinking.”
My mind momentarily raced. Making love? I had no recourse to such an argument. Nevertheless, Amaya was the finest girl that I had yet to meet at Cornell. And if the rest of her body even remotely resembled the top shelf quality of her tits, I figured that she was well worth the wait. At least until tomorrow night.
“No problem,” I said, sitting up on the couch. “Maybe we can go out tomorrow night or something...” I spent the next few minutes engaging in small talk with the Oriental, waiting for my wood to die down. After the three pints of blood that it took to fill my erection to full capacity began to recirculate into the rest of my body, I left Amaya’s residence and trudged back home.
The following evening, Amaya and I met up again as planned. We had a romantic dinner at a local spaghetti shop and went bowling thereafter. The entire time during our after hours engagement I was scoping out her ass and anticipating my bedroom date that was to take place after our night out on the town. When we returned to Amaya’s house, the romance continued. The chink stowed away her worthless Papillon and we resumed making out, this time on her bed. Just moments into the tongue tangling session though, she again ceased the operation, complaining about her doused pants.
“There goes another pair of jeans!” Amaya stated, pulling away from me.
“I have the perfect solution to that,” I advised. “Here, let me help you.” I latched onto Amaya’s pants and gave them a good yank. As I was fiddling with removing the wet jeans from off her hips, Amaya kept right on talking.
“It’s really weird, Keaton. When we kiss, it’s like whoosh! All this moisture just goes down there. It’s like the flood gates open or something. I’ve never had that happen before. Most guys never get me this wet...”
As soon as I had Amaya’s jeans on the floor, she stood up from the bed and made her way over to the nearby dresser. She began rifling through her underwear drawer, further delaying the inevitable.
“What are you doing now?” I asked her, becoming somewhat annoyed with the strange interruptions.
“I got something to show you,” Amaya replied.
A large grin stretched across my face as I watched her nearly nude body bend over the open drawers, her mammoth breasts surging from off her chest. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes, but you can’t touch. You have just stay right where you are.”
“Okay,” I curiously replied. “I’m ready when you are.”
Amaya withdrew several lingerie outfits from her dresser drawers, each crafted of different designs, colors, and fabrics. She stripped naked and then slowly dressed herself in front of me with the individual outfits, most of which consisted of just garter belts and thongs. After donning the various slinky ware, the gorgeous gook posed in front of me in diverse positions. She fondled her breasts, probed her silky pubes with her fingers, and massaged her inner thighs while I watched with an open mouth just a few feet away from her. The underwear show was quite tantalizing and caused my flesh log to grow to proportions never before witnessed. I began experiencing a headache amid my voyeuristic pleasure as the blood content seeped from my brain in order to fill the cavernous sponge tissue of my erection. I could take no more and prematurely concluded the lingerie exhibition.
I whipped off my pants and arose from the bed. Viewing my exposed erection for the first time, Amaya’s eyes widened and then fixated into a stare upon my heavy manhood. I held Amaya by her yellow waist and then stripped off the final thong that she had been demonstrating for me. After a brief transition back to the bed, I laid nad ninja down upon her comforter and spread her legs out before me. My face then went straight for her enchanting love box.
Amaya had the most scrumptious pussy that I have ever had the pleasure of feasting upon. Her shaved lips were perfectly plum-colored, quite sizeable in dimension, and accentuated by an enormous clitoris that sat just below a small, triangular patch of black silk. Her delightful flavor was quite savory and her feminine fragrance was like none other. I sloshed out Amaya’s love canal for a good twenty minutes, causing her legs to shake and her calves to wrap around my back in orgasmic ecstasy. She made oriental swooning sounds that were loud enough to wake the neighbors yet pleasant enough to listen to ad infinitum. The moment was perfect and for a few seconds I almost forgot about sliding my meat inside her. Then I was quickly reminded that we were not alone.
As Amaya cried out in pleasure as I ate out her honey pot with gusto, her fucking Papillon joined in the chorus with a series of whimpers and whelps. And every time that she would climax, the annoying animal would increase its volume and begin barking. As much as I wanted to continue with the cleaning operation of Amaya’s tampon socket, the incessant chants of her dog became intolerable. I sought to abruptly end the sex session by busting a nut as quickly as possible to avoid further anguish from the torturous sounds of the yelping Papillon.
Rising up on my knees, I pulled Amaya’s pelvis into me and prepared to stuff her turkey. Meanwhile, her dog kept barking through its tiny cage set beside the bed.
“...Wait... hold on a second...” Amaya stated, in between pants. She sat up and wrapped her arms around my neck. I grabbed her ass and pulled her close to me. “I don’t know if this is going to work...” she voiced.
I raised an eyebrow in response to Amaya’s comments. “Why, because of your dog? It’s okay. I mean, I can just move him outside the room for a few minutes and we can—”
“—No, it’s not that. It’s your, um, your size.”
Amaya leaned back somewhat and became suddenly serious. “Yes, Keaton,” she stated. “I’m this big and you’re this big,” Amaya explained, using the space between her hands as arbitrary measuring instruments. “That thing of yours is not going to fit inside me.”
I released a dismissing laugh while thinking of all the women that I had nailed prior to Amaya whom had considerably smaller vaginal receptacles than her. By what I could decipher from lapping out her slot, I figured that she could easily accommodate me.
“Well, if a guy knows what he’s doing, the size shouldn’t matter,” I consoled my wary partner.
“I don’t know,” Amaya said, handling my Utah white snake between her legs as if she was assessing the internal parameters of her genitalia in comparison to my hard on. Without saying another word about the matter, Amaya gripped my tool with both of her hands and stuffed my mushroom head inside her dripping gash. She immediately let out an intensified sigh and fell to her back. I hoisted up her legs around my waist and slid my remaining eight inches inside her. With each pump of my loins, Amaya clutched the bed sheets with her fists and moaned as if I was stabbing her to death. I bottomed out with my first long stroke, pummeling Amaya’s slanted cervix with the helmet of my warrior. In response, her vaginal walls clenched up and enveloped my around my private, personal parts inside her tight clam. I instantly filled her rice bowl full of viscid whitish fluid.
Following our brief intercourse session, Amaya and I went to Steak ‘n Shake for a bite to eat. Neither of us took the time to shower or recover from the evening romp. With our hair and clothing a complete mess, Amaya and I received smirks and stares from the other Steak ‘n Shake patrons while we found our table. Once seated, an awkward silence developed between us at our table as we looked over the provided menus. After placing our food orders, Amaya finally breached the uncomfortable tension.
“I’m in complete shock,” Amaya finally proclaimed.
I grinned to myself, thinking that I had acquired another satisfied customer of my sexual skill set. “Oh yeah?” I prompted, readying myself for the obsequious feedback. “What exactly was so shocking?”
“I just can’t believe how wet you got me. I have never been that wet before. And I stayed that way the whole time. That’s totally new for me.”
“That’s actually something that I hear a lot,” I commented, beaming with pride. “Some guys just don’t care. But I do. I care a lot about how a woman feels—both inside and out, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, you definitely know what you’re doing,” Amaya concurred.
Looking into her pretty face, I said, “We should hook up again. As soon as possible. When are you next available?”
Amaya looked away from the table with an uncomfortable glance. “I don’t think that there’s going to be a next time, Keaton,” she uttered.
Cognitive dissonance suddenly struck my head like a fifteen pound sledgehammer. “Say what? Why not?”
Amaya pivoted to face me. She reached across the table to cusp my hands in her own. “It’s nothing you did, Keaton. Really. You were perfect and I think that you’re a really great guy. But I just don’t think this is going to work out.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know how to say this but... you’re just too big.”
I shirked off Amaya’s hands and leaned all the way back in my seat. “Are you serious?”
Amaya nodded. “Yes. And I feel really bad about it too. I mean, a relationship shouldn’t be all about sex. But it’s a big part of it. And if I can’t make love to you whenever I want to without being afraid of you hurting me with that giant thing of yours, then there’s just no point in even trying to make something work between us.”
“Did I hurt you or something?”
“Not by anything you did, no. You’re a great lover. You’re very gentle and God knows you know what you’re doing. But it’s not any of that. Some things just don’t fit no matter how gentle and knowledgeable you are. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I didn’t know whether to burst forth in boisterous bouts of laughter or to fall apart in pitiful sobs. I stared blankly back at Amaya for a few seconds and then said, “So you’re dumping me because I have a big cock?”
Amaya bit her bottom lip and nodded her head in the affirmative.
“Well ain’t that some shit,” I finally stated as I was getting up from the table. “You’re so used to little yellow dicks that you can’t handle a home-grown white man inside you.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Amaya said. “We can still be friends.”
“I don’t make friends with girls,” I advised. “Either we’re fucking or we’re not. Friends don’t come into the equation.” As my final words were left lingering the air, I set to march out of the Steak ‘n Shake restaurant but was quickly confronted by our waitress.
“Excuse me, sir, you’re order is ready.”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I replied. “I just got dumped for having a big cock!”
Read 4401 times | Rated 46.9 (32 votes)
Please rate this text:
:: Comments have been disabled on this story ::