I suppose it started with how she was interacting with the guy who was with her.
She was French, I could hear since I was standing right behind her in the ski-lift queue. She looked somewhere around my own age of twenty-two, and a similar average height too, while the guy looked in his late thirties and was only a little taller. She held a LOT of eye contact with him, really listening and responding to him, and he was clearly very fond of her. They didn’t feel like lovers or family though; it was more that she seriously knew how to have a relationship.
A very mutual, respectful relationship it felt like, with no feeling of her being subordinate to the guy in spite of their age difference, and no tension to it. I noticed that particularly because she was very lovely, and he was pretty handsome and confident: normally a guy like that would have been coming on to her, to one degree or another.
If I’d had to guess it would have been that he’d tried in the past and been politely, cordially, but definitely rebuffed; but who knew really. It was a very mutual relationship anyway, and I found myself admiring it and them.
The girl moved beautifully, even as we merely shuffled forwards on our skis. Fluidly, effortlessly; it looked as though she just loved moving.
I saw her jacket said she was she was in the ski club of this French resort of Val D’Isere, while her companion could be a coach perhaps. Was she a ski racer? She looked strong and confident, with a lot of energy. A bit more slender in her frame than me; she had thick, glossy brown hair, slightly wavy, emerging gorgeous from her woolly hat and flowing down a foot below her shoulders.
Anyway so, a bit intrigued, when we arrived at the front of the queue I lined up with them to take the next three-seat chair instead of waiting and going up with some of my friends. The girl was in the middle so I was sitting next to her.
Sometimes you exchange a word or a smile with somebody on a ride up the mountain, and sometimes you don’t. I am quite sociable so it came naturally to me to glance sideways and half smile at her, and she caught my glance and smiled back. She was gorgeous in that special French way, as though brought up from the cradle with sensuality and style: a few hints of makeup; glowing tanned skin; and a delectable mouth revealing perfect teeth as she smiled. Her sunglasses were stylish, but I wished she’d take them off.
Then she did. Her eyes sparkled at me, dark green and very direct, set wide either side of a small straight nose and below long lashes. I whisked my shades off too as I smiled back, grateful that I happen to be quite pretty. Even with girls it makes a difference and I wanted to talk to her.
“You are English?” she asked, speaking English in a fabulous French accent, her voice low and irresistibly full of throaty timbre.
“Yes,” I replied in my French, “I’m on holiday for a couple of weeks, until after Christmas.” I’d done a student exchange with a French girl when I was seventeen and my French was still pretty good. Clearly I still had ‘Brit’ written all over me though! Well, I suppose blonde is more Brit than Gallic, as a generalisation, and I hadn’t much of a tan yet.
“Oh your French is perfect!” she said in French, exaggerating good-naturedly, “have you spent a lot of time here?”
I told her about my exchange, including her companion in the conversation now since he was looking across, and we chatted on about the great snow for the time of year and other trivialities.
I was really drawn to her. I found I was gazing into her dark green eyes with their big pupils, and she in her direct, communicative way was looking steadily back at me. She smiled all the time and even giggled, her face alive, mobile and so…really, really interacting with me. It made me tingle all over, which was both wonderful and scary.
In most ways I’d been pretty lucky with the genes I’d inherited, and in fact lucky with my parents altogether. I was reasonably clever, quite pretty as I said with a good face, cheekbones, teeth, eyes that were grey with a bit of light brown in them, and a body that carried quite a bit of muscle but was a feminine shape. A distinctly feminine shape in fact with quite big calves, thighs and hips, then a small waist, broadish shoulders and narrow neck. My high, firm D-cup tits finished this off so that I was almost what would be called voluptuous, though so far I’d been able to keep myself too lean for ‘voluptuous’ to quite apply to me I hoped.
There was just one reason why at twenty-two years of age I was still a virgin:
I had a giant, ridiculous clit.
It was almost the size of my little finger, dangling down with not the slightest chance of my hood covering it. It had plagued my schooldays, making shared showers a nightmare and needing all kinds of taping and padding to wear shorts or go swimming.
I didn’t actually get bullied about it, because apart from being quite strong I always had plenty of friends who’d jump on anyone who took the piss; but still, I was always feeling it was being noticed, and talked about when I wasn’t there.
And that little-finger size was when it was dormant. When it was aroused it grew to two inches long and as thick as my thumb, which meant that I simply couldn’t let myself get turned on with anybody. I’d learned to switch my mind away from anything sexy when I was with people, and I was infamous for walking off any dance floor when a slow song came on unexpectedly.
I knew, rationally, that it wasn’t SO bad really. I’d seen various professionals, I knew it had a name – clitoromegaly – and I’d been on forums and discovered it wasn’t only me. I’d been told over and over that the right person wouldn’t mind and might even like it. But still I couldn’t bring myself to believe that. Not deep down, where it mattered.
As a result sex for me was strictly a private thing, and full of tension because although I hated my clit it was VERY sensitive; in fact when it was stirred up it was hard even to touch it without lubrication – I could squeeze it, carefully, but any dry rubbing was painful. Then when it was juiced or Vaselined it could get me off in a minute, or even several times in several minutes.
So when the chair reached the top station I was both sad and relieved to say goodbye to the French girl and her coach. I’d never thought of myself as lesbian but the girl – we hadn’t swapped names – was having an effect on me and my clit was in danger of acting up. Luckily I was wearing a fairly loose ski suit so it wouldn’t really show as long as I adjusted the stupid thing not to tent my panties (which was its natural vindictive tendency) but it would rub and get sore I knew. And there was a distinct tingle growing.
Anyway they skied off and I turned to wait for my friends - I’d come to Val d’Isere in a group of people with whom I’d been friends all through the University that I’d graduated from the previous summer.
They didn’t appear though. One chair arrived with other people on it, and then another and a few more. I hadn’t noticed anything at the bottom, probably with being absorbed in the thing with the French girl, but I realised that one of my guys had probably fallen trying to get on: not all of them had skied much before.
Without thinking too much about it I skied off, reckoning I could catch them at the bottom or during the following run down, if I went for it: I’d done quite a bit of skiing and I really was not bad for a Brit.
I took the steep Black run that the French girl had taken and went hard, passing pretty much everyone else as I zipped down, grinning at being able to just go for it instead of waiting for my group. It was a bit of an excuse, I had to admit. Then I found I was looking ahead for the girl: it was a bit of an excuse to follow her…
I was almost down to the lift when I saw them, stopped at the side of the piste with the coach talking and gesturing to convey some advice. I thought about pulling up, but it was too awkward, with their being busy and my hardly knowing them at all, so I skied down to the lift and joined the back of the queue again.
Then a few seconds later someone skied up next to me, and it was her!
“Hello,” she was smiling at me again, “your skiing is really good as well as your French!” She gave a little laugh and nudged into me as she shuffled forwards with me in the queue. I smiled at the coach guy on the other side of her, trying to shift my awareness and protect myself from my clit.
I had to look at her though; had to smile back and ask her if she was a racer, and then listen, a bit rapt, gazing into her gorgeous face while she told me she was trying to get into the giant slalom team but wasn’t quite good enough…
I could see the coach really wanted her to be in the team as well! Well I’d always though it was no coincidence so many girls in sports are good-looking…
And never mind randy coaches, my clit was misbehaving. Christ, I’d never reacted to a girl like this; up to now my reaction to girls had just been, at the most, passive appreciation.
With my left hand in my pocket I faked bending down to adjust a ski boot, and managed to rearrange my clit to at least go down one leg of my boy-style panties as it grew. God how I hated it. I tried to ignore it after that, but I could feel it starting to tingle and rub as her presence threatened to take control.
At least my carefully chosen panties were tight enough to hold the sodding thing pressed up against my leg and stop it waving around, so I was able to keep chatting, which we did for several minutes in the queue and then another ten or so on the chair. I found out that her name was Chantelle, and his was Henri; and I gave them my name: Jamie.
“Oh that’s a very beautiful name Jamie!” Chantelle said immediately, touching her hand on my arm. Our hips were already touching, with being on the chair, and the extra contact finished my clit off. It was huge. Huge and going to go mad, I knew, as soon as I stood up and started moving. Christ.
The conversation with Chantelle and Henri was effortless and lovely however. I found I couldn’t even remember what we’d said for a minute, because it was just them being nice to me and me being nice to them, the interaction being on another level from the conversation, if you see what I mean. People generally are pleasant with me, but there was an extra plane to it this time; even, to a slight extent, with Henri. He was a very good-natured guy, with a hint of naughtiness to him.
We arrived at the top and prepared to ski off. Normally that would have been on our separate ways of course, but Chantelle reached out and touched my arm.
“Are you doing the Black again?”
I could only nod and grin.
“See you at the bottom!” she called, pushing off with a challenging grin of her own.
So, friends forgotten, I chased her and Henri down the run. In skiing it really helps to have someone good in front of you that you can copy, so I pretty much kept up, though after a while I started to suspect they were doing a few more turns than they’d have done on their own. Still, I wasn’t far behind when they joined the back of the lift queue again and Chantelle was waving me forwards to join them. I was puffing and grinning like an idiot with the thrill of having skied so fast; and the thrill of this girl.
“You are really good Jamie!” she said, smiling at me and nudging into me with her arm as we shuffled forwards, “Henri thinks so even and he is a team coach!”
“You are very good indeed, “ Henri agreed, “when did you start?”
So we chatted again all through the queuing and the ride up, and I just put up with my clit’s itching and burning, and tried to concentrate on the conversation.
When we arrived at the top this time it was clear Chantelle and Henri meant me to ski with them, so I just naturally set off following them, trying to keep in Chantelle’s tracks, enjoying the rush of speed and balance and the view of Chantelle. Then when we all stopped part way down I even found Henri was giving me some coaching! I could see it was a complete habit with him.
“Jamie, you are very good,” he sugar-coated it effortlessly, “strong legs and very courageous, that is good. But sometimes your left arm is a bit behind, see…like this…so try to bring it forwards.”
They were both smiling at me, making me feel like a million dollars. I’ve always been competitive-sporty and being good at things was important to me, and how here I was with these ski racers!
It occurred to me I’d better touch base with my friends so I called them and said I’d see them for lunch in the mountain restaurant we’d used the day before. At that point I’d tell them I’d been skiing with a local racer and her coach!!
We skied on down, then took a different chair up this time and ended up on a different run. Chantelle was full of fun, always smiling and laughing, and I forgot my clit even though it wouldn’t go right down. We skied down again, super-fast by my standards, and went straight back up.
I thought their skiing was amazing and they were flattering me about my French and my skiing and the whole thing became a complete mutual admiration society. I was, frankly, hooked. Especially on Chantelle who, I couldn’t help realising, had set her sights on me. I’d had a lot of pickup attempts over the years and this was one; by a very confident girl who was being more and more open about it.
But even while being hooked I was also becoming more and more anxious about it. I wasn’t too bothered about the prospect of discovering that I was lesbian or bi – I didn’t even have the experience to know which – but sex, with The ClitStick lurking in my panties, was not on. The prospect of the beautiful, stylish, perfect Chantelle coming face to face with my thing didn’t bear thinking about.
So when lunchtime came I suddenly ran out of courage and copped out; made my excuse about joining my friends, didn’t invite Chantelle and Henri to join us, and left them, with a few vague words about seeing them later or tomorrow hopefully. Chantelle’s face fell and I could see Henri looking disappointed for her too. It dawned on me that Chantelle was probably exclusively lesbian, and Henri understood that and was a real friend to her, while nevertheless enjoying her looks and charisma.
I rejoined my friends, who were all couples these days with their intimate relationships, and realised I was a bit lonely underneath my cheerful exterior. I was the one singleton in our group; a friend among lovers. There was a contrast with how I was with my friends and how things had been with Chantelle, even though I’d only just met her.
Now I’d just dropped her.
I spent the afternoon and night in a state of rage at my clit. For the hundredth time I thought about surgery, but I couldn’t get away from seeing that as mutilation, and it had been explained to me it would be basically the end of sexual arousal or nearly so. I wasn’t ready to give that up, and in fact that very evening I got myself off with the stupid thing half a dozen times after making an early night of it. Fantasising about Chantelle, of course! About Chantelle, and me with a normal clitoris.
The next day I woke up thinking I’d been incredibly stupid. I could be friends with her, that would still be great wouldn’t it? Tell her I was straight or something. Or just be brave and tell her about IT. Better than tossing away something that…well it was hard to deal with how strong was the urge to be with her. And now suppose I couldn’t find her again, in this huge resort? What I’d done was risk giving it up in case she might want to give it up. It was just…well stupid didn’t cover it.
So I explained to my guys I was going to get some serious skiing in early and I’d catch them a bit later, and was on the first chair up. I hovered round the lift where I’d met her, hoping she might at least check it out or just come that way. I went up and skied down, waited a bit, getting cold, then did the run again. No Chantelle. I couldn’t believe how idiotic I’d been.
After an hour of waiting and circulating and looking for her I realised I had to join my friends again, so I called them and met up and skied the rest of the morning with them. Then at lunchtime we went to the same mountain restaurant as the day before, and when we walked in there she was! Sitting at a table with three other girls, Henri and another guy. She saw me straight away and looked at me, ready to smile…
I went over, a huge silly grin on my face. “Hello,” I said, automatically in French, “I was hoping to find you.” I knew my face and tone of voice was telling her I regretted going off the day before.
Chantelle was smiling back at me, looking as gorgeous as I’d remembered. “I was hoping to find you too.”
God! There was no space at the table though and she was in the far corner. I looked across at my friends, who were queuing for food already. Henri came to our rescue:
“Jamie would you like to try a bit of slalom this afternoon? We’re going to set up some poles for some training, would you like to try it?”
The other girls were looking friendly and the other guy, a coach too I realised, was giving me the usual ski instructor once-over with a smile on his face.
“I’d love to, thank you!” I said. So they said where they’d be and I went and ate with my friends. I told them what I’d been offered and, as ever, they were brilliant.
“Wow fantastic,” was the gist of their reaction. They saw me keep looking at Chantelle, and Chantelle sometimes looking back.
“Have you met someone?” my best friend, Marie, asked. There was a twinkle in her eye and I realised it must be a bit obvious that there was a twinkle in mine! I was feeling more alive than, possibly, ever. I was pretty sure Marie and the others wouldn’t be prejudiced against my going with another girl, at least. But I wasn’t actually going with Chantelle, was I?
“Oh, well, she is nice,” I grinned lamely, “and an amazing skier.”
“She is stunning babe.”
Marie was telling me to go for it, and the others were too, all smiling and nodding. True friends. I resolved to try.
But then, when it came to it, at the end of the fabulous afternoon of learning to ski round poles, with Chantelle, I didn’t have the control I thought I was going to have. We arrived back in the resort all together and Chantelle manoeuvred me slightly away from the others:
“What are you doing now?” she asked, “after your shower or this evening?”
It was intimate. Heading for more intimacy. Her face close to mine. She was magnetic, gorgeous, charismatic, fun… Christ. If we weren’t in public we’d be touching; kissing even; then in an instant our clothes would be coming off and she’d see IT.
“Oh, I…I don’t know, Chantelle, I’m so sorry, I’ll see you…tomorrow…” and I fled; ignominiously, stupidly and rejectively.
I rushed into my room on the verge of tears. Why couldn’t I just SAY: “Chantelle, look I have a giant clit, I’m embarrassed about it but what do you think?”
It would be so simple, wouldn’t it? Then it’d be settled, one way or the other.
But I couldn’t.
In the shower I had to have a look at the wretched thing, to see if there was any way it might be acceptable. It wasn’t. I was a girl with a ridiculous little sausage between her legs. A sausage that so deserved to have a little pointed wooden stick shoved through it!
But even without a stick it was quite sore, after the time spent around Chantelle with it big and rubbing on my panties, so I put some body lotion on it. Suddenly - obviously - it was enormous and tingling and I had to stroke and squeeze it and lean against the tiles and cum like crazy. Chantelle, Christ! I could still smell her fragrance, it seemed like. Imagine it was her fingertips…
I did my hair and dried, then looked at the bed. In a minute I was on the bed with face cream on my clit and was bucking around with another orgasm. God. Jesus Christ. My fingers were still on it and Chantelle was still in my head. A bit more cream, some pussy juice, and I was off again…
In my imagination I did everything with Chantelle that I didn’t dare to do in real life: kissing, stripping, meshing, licking, finger-fucking, tribbing, 69 …night-long orgies of never-ending intimate, gorgeous sex with someone really special.
I worked my pussy and tits with my left hand and my clit with my right, and came I don’t know how many times. Half a dozen at least. I only stopped when my phone went with Marie asking if I was going out with them for something to eat, and I realised I was starving.
The next day I was remorseful again, angry with myself again, thinking I could have just had a meal with her or something instead of losing my head and running away. Now I had to try and find her, again; hope that she’d still want to know me, again.
But it was Henri that I found, in the same mountain restaurant at lunchtime, without Chantelle or any of the others I’d met but with some other people. He waved hello and asked if I’d like to do a run with him after the meal. I said yes obviously, wondering where Chantelle was and if I’d ruined everything. She’d exposed herself to invite me to do something special together, and confident though she was my rejection must have hurt. Why was Henri inviting me to ski with him? It didn’t feel as though he was trying to pick me up…
He started on the lift up, having taken care to wait to have no singles near us so that we were alone on the chair. He took his shades off and looked seriously at me.
“I am very fond of Chantelle,” he said, “so I hope you might permit me to ask something, that would be, perhaps, quite personal?”
“I’ve been a complete idiot,” I said, “I am fond of her too. More than fond.”
“But there is a difficulty?” he asked. He was a very kind person. I found it hard not to cry.
“There is something,” I said. “It’s very stupid. I know logically it wouldn’t matter, probably, but I couldn’t bear it…” I petered out.
“Something about yourself? That she would know perhaps?”
“Something sexual? I promise I will not tell her or anyone, unless you say I can.”
I shook my head; I couldn’t tell him. These days, over three years since school, hardly anybody knew about it.
He dropped it and started talking about skiing, and incredibly I found myself skiing the rest of the afternoon with him, a ski-race coach; whizzing all over the mountain, copying his technique and being given the occasional bit of ultra-expert advice.
We talked trivia in the queues and on the lifts and I gradually relaxed, my problems shifting to the back of my mind as I enjoyed the experience and his company. He was very likeable, very respectful, and I could tell, very loyal. As well as determined. He’d been a racer in his day, which also meant I skied faster than I could have imagined, and it needed so much concentration I only had a certain amount of attention left for worrying about Chantelle and my megaclit. It was exhausting, but I managed to keep skiing to the end of the day, so glad that I’d done a load of extra fitness training for the holiday.
Then when we got back down to the resort it was no surprise to me that he invited me to have a coffee with him in a café. Or that he chose a quiet corner to sit in. And somehow I felt I had a duty, in some strange way, to go along with it: I knew it would be for Chantelle.
“So Jamie,” he started, smiling at me, “I should explain that Chantelle is a special person to me. I have known her since she was a baby, because our families are connected, and now of course she is a special person as a person - as you feel I think…”
“Yes I do,” I said. I was waiting for him to ask.
“So, clearly Jamie, I am looking for a solution, for the two of you. You understand I’ve seen Chantelle with a lot of people…”
He left a silence for the meaning of that to sink in.
“It’s silly,” I started. He waited, benignly on my side, and Chantelle’s.
“It’s just my clitoris,” I blurted, finally. “It’s big. I mean, abnormally big. Huge. Like, I feel like a freak. I was going to tell her, and then I couldn’t…”
“OK,” he was relaxed about it, “how big?” He showed a range of sizes with his fingers.
I showed him with my fingers, trembling. “Normal…aroused. It’s like a penis.”
“Do you have a vagina?”
“Oh yes,” I hadn’t even thought about that, “I’m not a tranny. It is a clit, just a ridiculous size.”
“OK Jamie, if it’s alright with you I will ask my wife: she is a doctor. The ski team doctor in fact. She will treat it as confidential, just as if you had told her as a patient, OK?”
I nodded. We exchanged phone numbers and he said he’d call me in the morning. Then he changed the subject to skiing and that was it. I felt a huge relief in some ways, and terror in others because I could see that somehow, one way or another, it was going to end in Chantelle finding out about IT.
But after not seeing her all day it was coming home to me that I couldn’t bear to give her up, whatever it took. I was CLOSE to her, in a way I’d never felt with anyone. And since she was the only one like that in twenty-two years, it really looked possible I’d never meet another person like her.
So the next morning was spent skiing with my friends waiting for the phone call. They knew something had happened, but nothing more. I suppose they all thought I’d been a closet lesbian all along, in denial, and now I was fighting it or something. Anyway at eleven my phone went: Henri was in the mountain restaurant.
I got there at top speed and sat down opposite him, seeing that he’d chosen an unpopular table to give us privacy in the mid-morning quiet. He smiled at me, a naughty glint in his eye.
“OK my wife has a crazy idea. But she is a woman so maybe she understands the two of you better than me. Are you ready?” He grinned even more broadly at me as I nodded.
“The idea is that, being two girls, you can make use of your special advantage and make it big enough to be useful. My wife thinks you can make it bigger, with testosterone - some that you take orally and some other type that you apply to it - and also some exercises and techniques.”
I goggled at him, speechless.
“The testosterone will have some other effects, but after I described you to her she thinks you will be satisfied with the result. You might grow some more hair, on your arms and so on, but you have so little now you can afford that I’d say; your breasts would become smaller, but you can afford that too; you might become a little more feisty, but Chantelle is not timid, I think that would be OK; your voice might drop in tone, but Chantelle’s lower tone is sexy is it not?”
By this time my mouth had dropped open.
“My wife would have to monitor you, to find the best dose, but she thinks that if you also work to increase the blood flow you could maybe double the length and make it thicker. Many men are that size…
“So you can see that Chantelle would definitely accept that, can you not? Irregular as it might be. She is a free-thinking person…the opportunity to get fucked, by a beautiful girl, by you…you can see that? Rather than just being something on you, the two of you would share it.
“Oh also it would increase your sex drive, but that would not be a problem I think. Chantelle could take just a little testosterone perhaps, so she could keep up with you…and it would be good for her skiing. Though I suspect her sex drive is quite high already.”
I shuffled in my seat, because my clit had suddenly gone ‘Boingggg’ at the insane idea.
Insane BUT. Jesus Christ. My hypersensitive clit in Chantelle’s pussy???
I knew the glans on a clit and the glans on a cock were basically the same thing, but this was ridiculous. Still…
Chantelle’s pelvis was gorgeous. A gorgeous shape, and it had to be super strong. Her pussy would be incredible. Chantelle was incredible. To have my clit IN her would be incredible. And to feel and see and hear her sexed-up and orgasming with it in her would be…well the scale did not extend that far.
That prospect drove out all my fears.
“Yes,” I said. “Please. Thank you.”
So I went to see his wife Martine, who was lovely, and she gave me a programme to follow, and the testosterone. It seemed to me it was a bit dodgy what she and Henri were doing with testosterone in a ski team, but I kept those thoughts to myself; I supposed inter-resort competition could get quite intense but they weren’t tested. Anyway for me and my clit it all sounded quite doable. Or at least, worth a try.
But I had to grow my girlie penis first I decided, before I showed it to Chantelle. It had to be useful and connect us, not just be a freakish thing on me – then I was ready to believe she might accept it.
Martine’s programme had a certain cohesiveness to it. The hormone would increase my sex drive and part of the plan was to keep my clit aroused and engorged as much as possible – for hours every day – to increase its blood capacity. A lot of exercise was part of it too: that would add more testosterone to my system she said. And it was true that apart from carrying a fair amount of muscle I was girlie enough to stand some increase in my masculine side.
There were eight days to go before Christmas, and I resolved to make it Chantelle’s surprise present.
Henri hooked me and Chantelle back up again, and she seemed to have stepped back from trying for intimacy and settled for being friends, so we skied together the whole time, meeting up with my friends here and there and for lunch. My friends, predictably, welcomed Chantelle with open arms.
There was a lot of tension to my spending time with her, but it was OK. I had an idea she’d sensed something was in the offing, perhaps some optimism in me, that kept her going, or perhaps she was just playing out a tactic, but anyway she settled for chatting and smiling at me a lot. We had a couple of evening meals, but neither of us invited the other back afterwards.
For me it worked perfectly to be around her, given that I was supposed to be aroused a lot. I found I could bear the just-good-friends distance knowing that it was temporary and, hopefully, going to be followed by something fabulous.
Every evening and quite a bit of every night was spent on my bed with my swollen clit between my fingertips. I experimented with all kinds of lubricants, adding to the DHT hormone cream that Martine gave me, making up cocktails of creams and oils to produce just the right sensations for keeping it going hour after hour.
And I found it was working. I started measuring it, for the first time, and watched it grow from 2.1 inches to 2.3, then 2.6, with the girth increasing in proportion.
As my sex drive rose I found the daytime was too long to go without and bought some larger panties, lined the front with a bit of plastic bag, and smothered my clit in cream and Vaseline cocktail, to keep it comfortable and so I could give it a quick fondle from time to time. I bought a thin kagool-length jacket to wear over the top.
The days went by and my clit grew more and more mega: 2.8 inches, 3.0, and then 3.1. It was amazing, and my head was full of sex the whole time.
Then suddenly it was Christmas Eve, and three inches didn’t seem enough. I was going home the day after Boxing Day and there was no time left. It would go in a pussy alright, it seemed to me as I experimented with various cylindrical objects to mimic it, but the stroke would be awfully short as we tried to fuck.
In the evening I had a crisis: I wasn’t convinced and wasn’t going to reveal it to Chantelle! It hadn’t worked enough. I lurched back into hating it.
I called Henri and he put me onto Martine, who told me to come round.
So I went round and they sat me at their kitchen table and gave me a coaches’ pep talk.
“You have to believe!” they said, one after the other and together, “BELIEVE it’s going to happen. Self-belief. Faith. You are so nearly there!”
And they gave me a Christmas stocking, with a little vibrator in it. I laughed, suddenly letting some tension out, while they told me the vibrator was four inches long by one across and I had to hang the stocking up in the old time-honoured way and believe that my clit would be that size in the morning, after Father Christmas had come.
Then Martine went off and found a roll of red fabric and some white ribbon, took me into their spare bedroom and had me strip down to my bra and panties. What with her doctorly manner, and everything she knew and had done for me, I didn’t even think about it.
She quickly made me a very approximate but very sexy Christmas outfit: I ended up in a red skirt, short and tied with white ribbon on one side, a short red cloak over my shoulders that draped just over my tits, and a red cone hat that flopped down onto one shoulder.
As I looked down over the front of the little cloak I could see it was a pretty seductive ensemble. Also that my forearms had some tiny blonde hairs now, and already my tits seemed a bit smaller than they had been. Well I knew they didn’t really fill my bra any more; I took an irrelevant moment to register that I was glad about that, because the weight of a D-cup pair is quite noticeable, and not what you want when you’re doing sports.
Martine had me stand while she looked at me, then came right up to me. I was suddenly aware how glamorous she was, in that French way I was so attracted to; late thirties but still slender, elegant, and sensuous. I felt her fingers touch my right knee, and had to gasp. But it was a gasp that told her I didn’t mind.
She looked directly into my eyes as she stroked her fingertips slowly up the inside of my thigh, and I held my breath while she continued stroking up and over my bulging, throbbing clit, through my panties. Then she took hold of my panties and pulled them down my legs. As she stood up again I felt her fingers curl gently round my clit.
“It’s fantastic,” she said, giving it a squeeze and making me jump onto tiptoe with a huge intake of breath. She let go, pulled my little skirt open and looked at it. “Beautiful.”
I cringed, trying desperately to believe her.
“Stay here tonight,” she told me. “Believe. In the morning Chantelle will come, and you can give her your present.”
She hung the Christmas stocking up on the edge of a shelf. “There can be magic,” she said, “you just have to believe in it. Believe it’s going to happen. Believe in yourself, in your goal.”
So I did. I called my friends to tell them I’d be away, used a borrowed toothbrush, undressed completely as usual, and got into bed. I looked at the stocking as I put the light out; thought about the vibrator in it and the size it was. Then I spread some of my ever-available pussy juice over my clit and started.
I wished and wished, and believed.
The hours passed. Hour after hour. Christmas Eve became Christmas Day and I played and stroked and squeezed and came, on and on, over and over, until the window shutters started to develop a lighter outline. Then, believing in Father Christmas, Martine and Henri and their magic, and me, I fell asleep.
I woke with my clit still between my fingertips, huge and tingling. Had it even been down? I didn’t know. It felt big though. Enormous in fact.
“Jamie.” It was Martine’s voice. My head was under the quilt but I could hear she was opening the shutters.
“Change of plan, “she said, “Happy Christmas!”
I eased the cover down and looked out. There was Martine, a big smile all over her face, and next to her, wearing my Christmas outfit, was Chantelle. Wearing the little Christmas skirt and tiny cloak and hat.
“Happy Christmas.” I replied automatically. My voice was a bit deeper than normal, I noticed.
Chantelle was looking the sexiest thing I had EVER seen. Her legs were gorgeous, beautifully shaped, disappearing tantalisingly under the little skirt to merge into her delicious pelvis; which above the skirt flowed into her waist that was so small, her tummy not just flat but with a hint of muscle shaped on it; and as her chest flared out towards her lovely straight shoulders her tits jutted out tenting the cloak. Her stunning face smiled down at me, her gaze direct as always.
“So what’s this I hear about your special equipment?” she grinned.
Shit! I clutched the quilt in both fists. I looked accusingly at Martine.
“The doctor knows best,” she said unrepentantly, and took a step to the end of the bed. Before I could do anything she’d lifted the bottom of the quilt and danced up to the head end with it, dragging it with her. I, and my megaclit, were totally exposed.
I hastily let go of the quilt, which was now only covering my head, and covered my clit with both hands. Martine dumped the quilt on the floor, grinned at me, and went out.
Chantelle sat down on the bed and reached for IT. I felt her fingers on mine.
“I asked how come you were here,” she said, “and they had to tell me. So now, this amazing thing you did for me, let me see…”
“I’m turning into a man,” I warned her as I let her pull my hands away, not daring to look at IT but just staying focused on her face. I had to know whether she’d be disgusted and repelled, or if she might actually be okay about it.
Her face lit up.
“My God,” she breathed. I felt her fingers close gently round it. It was still slippery and her delicate grip slid electrifyingly up to the top, then down again. My whole body arched as its nerve-endings fired right through me, lifting my pelvis a foot at least off the bed. She stilled her hand and I subsided, not breathing.
“Jamie,” she said, sounding not repelled but thrilled, “this is amazing. It’s true, what Martine and Henri said: you can fuck me with this…”
It happened unbelievably fast.
She pulled her panties off, climbed fluidly onto the bed without even removing her makeshift little skirt, straddled me, held my clit and lowered herself, sliding it into her pussy; her wet and ready pussy; her creamy, strong and pulsating, totally special pussy.
The unbelievable sensation, coupled with the meaning of it – this stunning, fabulous, fun-packed girl actually connected to me – saturated my brain.
I felt her pussy tighten round IT and instantly I started to orgasm. I pressed it up into her and came, shuddering, grabbing for her, pulling her to me as though spurting sperm into her. It lasted for ten or fifteen seconds, then died away leaving us both grinning.
I undid her cloak and pulled her face to mine. Her gorgeous, amazing face, with its dark green irises only just visible now because her pupils were so enormous. We kissed.
Her lips touched on mine, feeling warm and soft like nothing I’d ever felt before; moving on mine, so meaningfully it was almost weird. Her tongue followed, giving me a taste of her. I sniffed in her fragrance, ran my hands over her firm, feminine, strong body. I caressed her gorgeous warm, fine skin. I felt her pert, conical tits press on my still slightly fuller ones.
I undid her skirt and felt, for the first time, a naked body on mine; skin on skin everywhere.
Everything was communication, something I hadn’t quite anticipated. Her hands roamed over me, telling me things I just can’t put into words but were about her and me. I copied her, trying to give the feeling back.
We spent a long time like this, exploring each other’s bodies and making ourselves closer and closer. We kissed and stroked and fondled; breathed and sighed and groaned quietly to each other. I didn’t even have to say I wouldn’t be catching the flight home: I just stroked that message to her, it seemed. She’d know, and agree, that there was nothing more important than this; everything else would have to give way.
Eventually we ended up with Chantelle underneath, her gorgeous legs wide open, her fingers guiding me; I slid my megaclit in, my head swimming with sensation overload, and fucked her missionary, like a man, until she came - taken to ecstasy by MY CLIT, which was incredible and made me cum again with her of course.
We went on with our sex for an age, that turned out to be over two hours. I played with her gorgeous hair, ran my fingers though it; kissed her neck, her ears, her eyes, and the bridge of her nose. Kissed her tits, shoulders, back, ass, and pussy. Her clit, naturally! Stroked and licked her labia, her rosebud, and her toes. And fucked her with my cock, several times and for a long time. Every touch brought a response; she was so reactive, sensual, and - as Henri had predicted - highly sexed.
I was getting the touches and feeling all back as I gave them, and reacting for her too. It was total immersion in rapture. It’s a cliché but it really did feel like two people becoming one.
Then finally it occurred to me to measure my clit, which was obviously bigger than three inches now and perfectly effective as a cock. Chantelle, laughing, wanted to help of course.
I lay back while she stroked it and sucked it to its absolute full size in her gorgeous mouth, making me utterly love it now, and measured it with Martine’s sewing tape-measure. “One hundred and fifteen long,” she pronounced, “and ninety-four around.”
I did the conversion. “Oh My God, that’s four and a half inches!” I gasped, “and almost an inch and a quarter thick! It’s magic!”
“I think so James,” Chantelle giggled, as she lowered her pussy onto it once again.
This is part of the Calling All Writers (CAW) competition that's on in the Sex Stories Forum until 13th January 2013. If you're a member and feel like voting it please pop over to the Forum, and check out the other entries there too - you have to vote 3 stories (see the top sticky thread) and should look at them all ideally. There are some great ones.