Clara

By my 18th year I knew, with cosmic certainty, that I had a tiny cock. I had become tall, with big hands, but chubby as well. Wielding those great mitts found me at 18 years old jerking myself off with a thumb and forefinger. For my efforts I would be rewarded with a derisory dribble of semen. I never looked at myself. It was too embarrassing. Too, uh, deflating.

I'm Oscar. Don't worry, I'm not about to foist a cuckold story on you (and sorry if that's what you were hoping for!). No arrogant jock is going to waltz in a humiliate my modest slightly-below-average cock with their arrogant swagger and hefty rod. My partner will not suddenly be cold and distant. Among other things that would've required me to already be in some kind of relationship. No, I didn't need anyone else's cock to feel humiliation. I already felt a twinge every time I saw my scrawny little appendage. I felt it every time I touched it to expel my pathetic, doomed lust.

The question is how best to explain what... well, maybe I can give some background first.

My father was a builder. He had grown up poor. He was smart, but as the eldest of three brothers and four sisters, he couldn't afford college. His parents needed him, so did his siblings. He had gone to work in construction because, as he like to say, "any idiot can do this, and any idiot often does". He was why I was tall, but I was not why he was proud. I was the youngest child, my sister was 5 years older and had left home, finished college and started her life far away. She was the son he'd wanted, handle with tool and paintbrush. But I didn't impress him that much. My hands were uncoordinated, I would fumble with screws and power tools would pop out of my grip as if greased by Satan. He would take me to worksites sometimes and I would be expected to sit away from the work. Well away.

Each year the seasons would come, as they always do, and then go, as they always do. At 18 I was a loser virgin weirdo in spring. Oh look, I spent summer without a girlfriend or any kind of romance. Here comes fall, same as spring and summer, but colder to make my cock even more pathetic, yippee. As the coldness became more acute, my mother trained her formidable willpower, wrapped in her immaculate velvet glove of charm and vivacity, upon my father. The house, she said, was dingy. Cold. Felt clammy in autumn. He was a builder, he should fix it. This was not a new argument but she was pursuing it now with evident frustration. As spring passed, as the end of my penultimate school year approached, he relented.

We would renovate the house. Those of you who have trades-capable family know what a curse this is, because it means you will be required to help.

Summer came. School ended. My few friends vanished. 2 days later my 19th birthday arrived and I spent it carrying wheelbarrows of bricks from the truck, loading up fill and bringing it back. Over and over. Over and over and over. Every day some new torture was conceived involving dumb bulk manual labor because, in fairness, I couldn't do anything else very well.

In those first few weeks I would work on the house all day. At the end of the day I showered, ate dinner like a sloth zombie and then go collapse in my bed. I didn't touch myself. I didn't even think about how to secretly steal the lingerie page of a retail flyer. I would just fall asleep.

In the second week, we had gotten through to work on the main bathroom, the one I used. My parents had their own little bathroom. As during the day my bathroom was rendered unavailable, I had to use theirs to shower. And theirs had a proper mirror. I stepped out of the shower, admiring how the physical labor had been sloughing so much of my flab in such a short time. Then I froze in shock.

Was I imagining things, or... did my balls seem... bigger? Previously they had been quail eggs, high and snug against the base of the shriveled monument to my worthlessness. But today they weren't. Somehow the quail eggs had been replaced with duck eggs.

But I had no time or energy to think about it. After two days my parents become annoyed by me wasting their hot water. A massive push of two 14 hour days got us to the point where I could shower by myself again. It was a very spartan experience; the walls were just tarpaulins. My bedroom had no door, so it wasn't as if I could stare at my junk in there like a weirdo. The days ground on and the question of mystery testicle inflation faded into the background.

About two months passed. I was not having fun. Time did not fly.

I woke up to pee, as I always had, by sitting down. A little zap flashed at the tip of my penis. I jumped and let out a yelp. My mother yelled to ask if I was OK and I yelled back that yes everything was OK. I stood up and looked down, I mean really looked, the way I never would, the way that it upset me to. My testicles were even larger, ovoid outlines straining against my ill-prepared scrotum. But by god, my penis had grown. It had grown! It had grown long enough to reach down and kiss the water in the bowl. I was equal parts elated and disgusted. I returned to the bowl and sort of... hovered awkwardly, so that I could pee in silence, as I always had. Then my dad yelled at me to stop playing with my junk, we had work to do.

Each day I would work like a whipped animal. Hoisting, heaving, hurling. Digging, sinking, hammering, cutting. My father was getting towards being too old for trades and he knew it. So he worked me into the dust. And every morning, feeling like I had been beaten all night with sackfuls of gravel, I would push through the aching to the incomplete bathroom. And every day, it seemed, I needed to hover a bit higher than the day before.

Towards the end of summer I got a few hours to myself while my parents went to visit mom's sister in hospital. Why yes, thank you for asking. I did indeed engage in some sex for one. I waited until I was sure they weren't going to reappear for something they'd forgotten. I retrieved my fiendishly well-hidden men's magazine, complete with cover of busty actress in scanty clothing looking seductively over her shoulder. She was promoting her new film ("A feminist rallying cry ★★★★" -- Variety) and her charity for teaching homeless people in LA how to shoot films. But that's not why they had interviewed her. And that's not what I bought it for.

I pulled down my boxers and opened the magazine to the same actress, this time leaning back, her breasts proud. My penis had grown chubby. It was not hard. I grasped it; it flopped around slightly comically. But by god, what an exciting change. It was much bigger. My original dick had been hard, yes, but easily mistaken for a little finger.

And so I masturbated in the usual rushed, frantic, awkward, idiot way I knew how. I was rewarded for the first actual cum spurts of my life. Three or four, I think. And they felt spectacular, let me tell you. That little bit of extra semen coming out, for the first time ever, felt amazing. I was ecstatic. I carefully cleaned up, the little puddles of cum that seemed enormous, carefully returned my treasured spank inspiration to its witness protection location, and fell asleep.

A few weeks later, summer was coming at last coming to end. It felt like I had been laboring endlessly for a thousand years under a hundred suns. On the final afternoon my father brought up some light beers and handed me one. "Dad, I'm not supposed to". He waved it at me again. "You're a man now. You can have a drink". Then without a word he cracked the lids on both bottles, handed me mine and threw his head back as if he was drinking for the first time.

I felt a thousand feet tall (though I was a mere 6'4" by this point). And realized he was right. The endless labor had evaporated my years of awkward blubber. I had been trying to grow muscles at the gym since I was 13. I'd gotten strong but no bigger. But now, with massive testicles pumping superhuman amounts of testosterone into my body, now, with the endless labor burning each muscle to charcoal daily, and now, with the way every scrap of food was commandeered for growth... I realized, I was, indeed, something like a man now. Something in me had changed. Superficially, yes: penis excitingly bigger, testicles looking ridiculous. But my shoulders and traps popped. My arms were thick without being chubby. My back had turned into a slab of granite.

And most of all, for the first time in my life, I knew my dad was proud of me.

I wanted to say so much more to him. To ask him so many questions. But the language he chose for that evening was relaxed, silent companionship. We listened to the noises of the neighborhood as it settled in the for the night, the car traffic becoming less frequent, dogs barking in the distance, kids next door holding what sounded like a muffled wrestling match, the sound of sizzling in the kitchen.

It was at last time to return to school. It will come as no surprise that I was not in a hurry to return.

Firstly, of course, it was boring. Everything was taught at the most tedious pace. I would do nothing for months and then ace exams with a night of cramming. And second, I just didn't fit into the crowd. I certainly wanted to, but it always seemed as if people were communicating telepathically and I wasn't tuned into the correct frequency. Slowly I was just sort of tolerated. Not hated. Teased enough to be miserable, not enough to become a maniac. It was just unpleasant and boring enough that I couldn't wait to graduate and leave. A loser, but not a card-carrying creep.

I had male friends with common nerd interests. We met through the local nerd store, a dingy little dungeon located beneath a adult bookstore in a decaying strip mall about But we loved it all of it -- roleplaying games, sci-fi and fantasy novels, collectible card games; all good wholesome stuff guaranteed in that distant era to insulate you from any possibility of losing your virginity before 30.

But none of these guys were at my school. One was at the college, one was a drop out and two were a grade behind me at the school district two townships over. I kinda envied them because it seemed like there were more smart kids there. But I was in a district that was like 1% civilization and 99% countryside where they grew cheerleaders and quarterbacks like they were watermelons or something. I was not understood. I could not be myself. I edited and masked and shrank into the corner while they all mangled Shakespeare and sniggered at sex education.

The exception was Clara. I had known Clara for a long time, since grade school. She was my only real friend at school itself. She was mostly in different classes from me so it was fleeting, but we still hung out at lunch and sometimes at the mall on a Saturday morning. Yes, I had on-again, off-again crushes on Clara. A man with guts would have said: hey. I like you, a lot. Will you go out with me? I tried to do that in 9th grade but ran away halfway through as my carefully composed words had turned to mush in my mouth.

Asking her to be hold hands with me? To have a pizza date? God, what if she said no? And oh god oh satan, what was the point of being boyfriend and girlfriend? All that would happen is that one day she would see me naked, laugh, then dump me. So the crushes had faded away. I just a had a friend who was nice and who laughed at my jokes. A friend I cared about and helped and wanted to succeed, and who cared about me and helped me and wanted me to succeed. But no more than that.

We crossed paths again on the second day of school. She'd turned 18 during summer -- I'd been invited but tied down by the renovation. That summer had been kind; by some miracle she had become more beautiful. She was small, only coming up to my shoulders. She had a kind of glowing marble skin, like a museum sculpture, lightly draped over delicate features. Her eyes were luminous and inscrutable; I could never guess what she was thinking unless she smiled. That smile was usually closed-lip, cute and friendly but not heart-melting. I had seen her full smile twice and both times my heart had thumped like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Her shoulders were thin, her hips I couldn't tell you. The school's uniform was not designed to flatter anyone's body. (We had uniforms. Weird for public school. Long story.)

I saw walking my way and caught her eye. Her eyebrows twitched and then, suddenly, her face lit up. She hadn't recognized me. "Hey!" she said on seeing me, with genuine delight. She came over and gave a warm but distinctly ass-out hug. Then she stood back and took stock. She quickly felt my shoulders and poked my chest. "Working out, I see! I'm impressed."

I felt a slight swirl of energy in my testicles, but I reminded myself that we were friends and that she would never want to be any more than that. That if our friendship meant anything, it was because she was first and only a friend, not a future sexual conquest.

The grumbling dragon fell asleep again.

We spoke several times a week. We would chat at lunch. Sometimes after school, on the phone. We participated in the school band, myself as singer and her as a flautist. But we had one class together in our final year: art studio, notorious for being a ghost town. It was the last period of the week, late Friday afternoon, the only class that ran at that time. By the time you came out of art class you might as well been on Mars for all the people you'd see. And it was here, a few weeks later, than she and I were the last students at the school.

The teacher was antsy. For a few weeks we had been regaled with the Icelandic epic of his rise to glory in the local theater. He had auditioned and secured the role of Hamlet's understudy. And the theater gods had surely blessed him because, on this night, on opening night of all nights, the lead had lost his voice. Not that our art teacher had much of a voice, it was a kind of extended nasal drone. Already I could tell that a lot of the audience would be rooting for "not to be" so that the play could end right there and let them go home.

Our cleaning was slow because we were being slow and lazy and silly and chatty. He bounced from foot to foot. He grabbed things as we cleaned them and speed walked them to the closets. "Here." he said abruptly, throwing keys to Clara. "You're the art captain. I trust you. Lock everything up properly. Bring me the keys first thing on Monday." She nodded; the art teacher vanished through the door so fast I felt a breeze.

We kept cleaning. As we finished an area, we turned off the lights and put up the chairs. We lowered the blinds and locked the doors. Finally we were at the oversize sink where paint brushes, paint boards, smocks and the like could be cleaned. We chatted as we cleaned, passing supplies back and forth as necessary. It was fun. Just nice. I liked Clara and, yes, I loved her as a friend, even knowing nothing more would ever come of it. I reached for the last palette and began to clean paint from it.

"Oscar", she said, in a pensive tone of voice I hadn't heard before. "I need to tell you something."

I looked up from my work. We had been sitting side by side on a bench working in the sink, but now she had turned to face me, straddling the bench. She was leaning forward on her hands, looking down in front of her with a slightly pensive expression.

Despite the best efforts of my thick skull to deflect social cues, I knew that something was up.

"Clara... is everything OK?"

She shook her head.

"Oscar, listen. I like you. You have always been nice to me. When you asked me out in 9th grade and I turned you down, you didn't turn into an angry prick about it. You make me laugh and you look at me like I'm a person. Do you know what I mean?"

She looked up at me. Her eyes glistened. With a jolt of realization I knew that tears were forming in her eyes.

"Clara, what's wrong?"

"Oscar... I'm going away".

"What?"

"I'm going away. Mom got promoted and we have to move to Chicago tomorrow."

"But that's... that's..."

"Yes," she said. "It's a long way."

These were the bad old days when the height of communication was a Nokia brick with snake installed; when talk minutes were charged in ounces of gold dust per second. She was right. I knew she was right, that I would never see her again, that this was it. I felt my eyes glisten too.

"Oh," I said, or tried to say, because the word tripped over a step on its way up my throat and emerged as a surprised gurgle. She laughed and flicked back her hair.

"Oscar, I'm going to miss you a lot. You're a great guy. Some day some lady is going to see what a great guy you are and snap you up". Oh yes, I thought, this one again. Then she added "In fact, with how much better you look lately, it might be soon."

Again the dragon in my scrotum grumbled in its sleep. Again I put it down firmly with the ironclad knowledge that she was just being nice. Just humoring me. Just trying to cheer me up.

She bounced once on the seat. Then she scooched closer to me. Once. Twice. Soon she was closer to me than we'd ever been. Closer than the ass-out hugs. Actually close.

"Oscar. I know you like me. I like you too. So I am going to give you a goodbye present."

She leaned forward slowly. My brain jammed up; cogs and gears and pulleys spilling out it everywhere as it tried to reconcile the impossible and the unbelievable. From what seemed to be a great distance, I saw her modest but elegant lips part slightly and then, softly, like a butterfly alighting on a flower, she kissed me. It was my first kiss.

Sparks jumped from that weightless brushing, sparks that became a hurricane thunderbolt, slamming my spine rod straight and grounding itself in my crotch. My penis rapidly became hot. I could feel the blood gushing into it, I could feel it racing to raise a mighty stone tower it had never raised. It began to surge smoothly up, confidently, as if it had done this a thousand times. It effortlessly brushed aside my underpants elastic. It continued to swell past my trouser waist, still loose from my old measurements and able to accommodate the passage of the freight train of swelling cock. Each heart beat became a throb that made the tightening skin hum like it was being hit with a tuning fork.

But what Clara saw was: I froze, eyes wide. She scooched back awkwardly. "I'm sorry, Oscar, I just want to give you a present before I left. I didn't know I would upset you. I'm so sorry". I snapped out of my altered consciousness and looked into her eyes in a way that I never had before. Those clear, pale blue, inscrutable eyes. I saw something in them for the first time. It was embarrassment but, as I continued look, it become hope.

"Clara. I am not upset. But you caught me by surprise."

I paused.

"I've never been kissed before."

She smiled her wide smile, vaporizing me, then raised an eyebrow. She reached out and gently traced my features. "Well you've never had a jawline before either". She stood up and took my hand, leading me away from the light of the washing tub. We retreated to a table high enough for her to sit on while I stood, putting us eye to eye. She kissed me again and now, I found, I was kissing her also. I so badly wanted to ground my mix of desire for her and fondness for her into her lips, to excite her and calm her, to arouse her and soothe her. Her and myself as well.

I gently gripped her hips. Her hands began to roam, feeling my body in the deep darkness. "You have a nice body now, you know", she whispered. "When I saw you back from summer I thought you were someone else and I was... you turned me on. You've never turned me on." Then one hand began to slide down my chest, past my modest but now distinguishable pectorals, over the bumpy line of finger-like serratus muscles that had been summoned by a million pushups. Then she brushed my shaft and I grunted. She wrapped her hand around it and pulled sideways. It leaned but did not pivot as she had expected. Involuntarily I groaned. She frowned. "Are you OK? I want to touch you. It's OK, really, I want to touch you. You can move your arm, Oscar."

I looked her in the eyes, a kind of calm and commanding look I had never given anyone. Then a voice came out of me, sonorous, a baritone that I had never heard before.

"That's not my wrist, Clara."

Her mouth opened slightly. Then she laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. Nobody has..." her voice trailed off uncertainly as she realized both my hands were on her hips.

She was silent and still while, it seemed to me, the stars wheeled overhead, centuries passed, empires rose and fall. It was an eternity of a frozen facial expression: delicate brows furrowed, lips slightly ajar. Suddenly time resumed its normal pace; her hands shot forward and began frantically undoing my shirt buttons. Her dexterous fingers did in seconds what would have taken me minutes.

"Oh my god", she said. Then I looked down and saw the top of the tree trunk that had sprung up proudly from my pants. "Oh my god", I said as well. Then I unzipped my pants and pushed down my underpants.

"Oh my fucking god."

It was hard, for the first time.

And it was enormous. I was absolutely in shock.

It hung like a giant cantilevered ingot of lead. Starting above the cannonball testicles, it rose like a pillar of stone in a desert, imperious and immovable. And it rose, and rose, and rose. Capping it was a long, wide, stylish cupola with crisp flanges. The shaft ran equally thick for the whole length, even after the inflection point where it began to curve up. In a dreamlike state I reached for it and began to try to grip the base. For a moment I was disturbed by its knurled, bumpy texture and then realized -- fuck, are those veins? I have veins now? My hand closed. My middle finger tip barely touched my thumb. And only if I squeezed. Hard.

I was speechless.

Then suddenly there was a second hand on this impossibility, far away. It was Clara's hand. She frowned and shifted her hand slightly, but it bulged arrogantly out of her grip regardless of how she held it. Then a second small hand appeared next to the first, also hers. And between her hands and my hand was acres of uncovered shaft.

She had hopped off the table. I loomed over her. She eyed the cock in awe.

"Well", she said, breathing heavily between every few words, "there's no way, absolutely no way, that I can fit this monster inside me". She breathed rapidly and shallowly, staring at this hitherto unimaginable reality, then looked up at my face and giggled. "Oh don't worry Oscar", she said, "I promised, remember?"

She took the shaft below the head in her hand, looking like a skinny fence pole trying to hold up an 18 lane highway, and began to push my penis up. Her second hand moved to stabilize. Then her lips, that I had looked at so often without any hope, lips I'd seen her share with her unworthy former boyfriends who had never cared for her like I did, lips sculpted by years of flute playing, gently wrapped around the tip. And she kissed it. She began to kiss the head all over softly, fingers sliding up down with the lightest touch on the shaft, causing me to shiver. She opened her mouth, eyes wide and focused on the head. She strained, trying to open her mouth as far as she could. Then she pulled the head towards her mouth.

It got less than halfway into her mouth. But that was it. The thick wedge-shaped slab of dick meat, bigger by itself than any average erect penis, had utterly defeated her. I glanced at the top of the shaft and figured it was for the best. There's no way she'd have taken any of the shaft, even if she could somehow get the head into her mouth. I laughed, a relaxed deep laugh I'd never felt before, because suddenly she looked like a mouse trying to swallow a chuck roast.

She frowned playfully, then went to work with her tongue, first massaging my cock's swollen head. Forcefully she used ran it flat over the curved surfaces, then ran the tip smoothly and slowly under the flanges. She continued kissing, lips a little firmer each time, her flautist precision and endurance providing the most perfect pleasure I had ever known. She locked eyes with me. Precum began to flow heavily, with a pulse every time she licked or squeezed and stroked the shaft. Then it just flowed continuously. Transparent, slippery. "This is quite tasty, you know," she said, after taking an agonizingly long lick up the length of the shaft to harvest it.

She continued to torture me like that for what seemed like eternity. She deeply massaged my entire cock with her tongue and lips, tip to base, a process that took a very long time, leaving me groaning incoherently. She kneeled and held my scrotum up to her face, each testicle able to completely obscure a cheek. She nuzzled the top half of the shaft; the head of my cock almost hiding her forehead. I was dripping precum endlessly.

Her bag was nearby; she reached into it and pulled out lotion. "I get bad skin on dry days", she said. She squirted a large dollop in her palm, looked up, then squirted more. She rubbed her hands together vigorously. "To warm it", she said, to my oblivious face. Then she placed one hand on the shaft. It was slightly cold and I jerked slightly. "Sorry", she said, but then put on the other hand. But my cock was like a steam radiator and the lotion was warm nearly instantly.

And she began to stroke. Both hands together. Back and forth. Slowly, with her firm albeit incomplete grip. "Does this feel good, Oscar?" Her answer was a guttural moan and that my knees buckled. Seeing my distress, she pressed her advantage and continued to pump mercilessly. Back and forth. Her hands together. Occasionally running a hand over the head. Back and forth. Precum now pouring out. Back and forth.

I felt the urge to come. But deep down, in my fractured, bruised heart, I didn't want to. I was afraid I would hurt her, or upset her, or embarrass myself. The stroking felt incredible, but I struggled to relax. Then, without breaking her paced pumping, she matter-of-factly said "I want you to come on me". I looked down, surprised, and she nodded. "You're ready to come. I think you've been ready for years."

"Lean back", I said, baritone but almost breathless.

She leaned back and propped herself up with her hands. I meanwhile took back possession of my cock, my newly-discovered gigantic monstrous cock, and I began to stroke it myself, for the first time in my life. God it felt so good. Not just the stroking itself, but also the feeling of that glorious erection in my hand. Heavy, rigid, blazing hot, impossibly thick for its entire length, the veins bumpy and knobbly as my hand slid over them.

I felt the orgasm forming. "Soon", I grunted. She responded with catlike licks of the head. I felt the tingle forming into a pleasure singularity. "Soon!" I said more urgently. "Come on me Oscar. I want you to be happy. I want your cum."

The twitching began. For the first two or three, more precum pushed out, clearly fleeing from the tidal wave to come. Then a spurt. Two, then three. They were the biggest shots I had seen come out of me in my entire life; I felt exhilaration. The spurts landed on her cheek. She smiled. I smiled. But suddenly the twitching, the spasms, went from being comprehensible to something I'd never felt before. Like it was trying to tear me apart from the inside. And suddenly a massive flood of cum burst out of me violently in a long, thick rope, thick as a sharpie. And even as that rope was still splashing off her face from sheer projectile force, the next rope was emerging.

"Oh wow," she said.

The feeling of those first truly hefty ropes, the first of any ropes of that magnitude I had ever felt, bigger than any I could have ever fantasized about, was incredible. I could feel the cum surging up my shaft, under enormous pressure, eager to flood and invade and drown all ahead of it. The feeling of the rushing fluid, on every surface of the inside of my cock was like distilled pleasure, unalloyed relief. Three or four of the fat ropes landed on her face. One had hit her forehead and thick cum had arced up and over to drench her hair.

"Holy fuck dude," she said.

But I couldn't say anything, my vocalization was purely groans that came from deep in my torso. I was just totally consumed by the cumming. Some part of me registered her shock and loved it; the cum become more forceful still. She grabbed the shaft below the head and began to direct the endless flood of cum onto her beautiful lips and elegant neck. With her other hand she reached down into her dress, into her panties, and began to rub herself. She moaned with every rope that slapped heavily against her. She began rocking, her hips making love to air, then reached down to satisfy herself. My cum slid off her face -- she was by now utterly slathered with thick layers of dense semen -- and dripped on the floor in chubby blobs. On her knees, on her dress, in her hair. I came and I came and I came and I came. It was endless. It seemed to go for hours.

Finally, as I thought I would be turned inside out, it subsided. I collapsed. She collapsed. We lay on the floor gasping, urgently trying to breathe. Easier for me as I hadn't just been drowned in semen. She began to wipe it off her face and shake it off her hands. Soon she was recognizably herself, but she glowed with a contentment and uncomplicated joy I'd never seen before.

We lay there breathing heavily for a few minutes, staring into each other's eyes.

"Well," she said. "If I had to leave twice I think I'd die from cum overload".

I began to laugh, and she did too, and we both laughed hysterically for a few minutes. She scooched over and lifted her leg over mine, holding me from the side, gently pushing away the housebrick sized semi-erection with her knee. She snuggled in to me and kissed my cheek.

"I'm proud of you, Oscar".

I don't know what I had expected, but that wasn't it.

"I'm really, really proud. You've grown so much as a man in the past year. I'm really happy for you and I'm really happy I could see this, uh..." she lifted the semi-erect penis and let it smack loudly against my stomach. "... this incredible thing you've been hiding from everyone". She closed her eyes and nuzzled.

"Thanks Clara. I'm going to miss you."

"Mm-hmm. Me too."

"Listen... that's the first sex I've ever had. At least, I think it counts as sex."

She shook her head gently on my shoulder. "I'm sorry Oscar. I love you as a friend. Your penis is magnificent." She breathed deeply and exhaled, warm air swirling around my neck. "But there is no way, absolutely no way in hell, that it would fit inside me."

She rolled onto her back and wriggled off her skirt. "Look. Get on top of me", she said. I did, straddling her thighs, the massive scrotum crushing her legs. My penis began to stir again. "Just look," she said. I looked down.

She was right. As I laid the incompletely engorged cock on petite frame, the tip already reached her belly button. It began to grow. We both watched the swelling, the lengthening, the emergence of veins that visibly moved on each heartbeat. After a few seconds, the head of my cock was sitting over her heart. The shaft was about half as wide as the narrowest part of her waist.

"Just look at where my pussy is, Oscar. Can you even see it?"

No. I couldn't see it. The shaft's base completely obscured it. I looked into her eyes and I knew then that I would never get to feel her from deep inside, that we would never achieve that final act of closeness and mutual affection. I exhaled heavily. The trunk began to soften, to recede.

Her eyes softened sympathetically. "Help me clean", she said. We got up and began sponging up the cum off the floor. Then she looked at herself. "God, what a mess".

She sighed and pulled off her top and kicked off her skirt. Underneath she was wearing an elegant set of delicate, black underwear. The bra softly held her small, elegant breasts. Her panties rode close and would open a slight gap when she breathed out. She looked down at her self, seeing cum that had reached the bra. "These are expensive, Oscar, I hope you realize". She reached around to unclasp it. We both froze awkwardly and then she laughed and said "I just jerked you off like a firehose. I guess you can see my nipples if you want".

She hula-hooped off her bra in the way that only women with modest busts can. This revealed a pair of exquisite nipples; nipples as beautiful as an ancient Bonsai tree, as a flawless lacquer, as an ancient master sculptor's magnum opus. They were pink, but so pale that they were almost white. I drank in the sight of how perfectly she fit together. She wasn't a set of carefully chosen poses and camera angles meant to deconstruct a woman into constituent tits, legs and ass. She was a woman, whole and entire, something that truthfully I had not seen before. I might not have been able to have sex with her, as I had thought of it, but I felt closeness and awe.

But the dragon, once roused, sleeps begrudgingly. Warmth stirred in my solar plexus as my eyes surveyed her body, then began moving down to my cock. At this point it was hanging down like a soft baloney log, but as the warmth drained into it, it began to rise ponderously like a river bridge. "Oscar," she said. "I told you, we can't have sex that way."

"I know," I said. "But...". She frowned at me. "... god you're just so... you're just so... so beautiful. I've always thought that of course."

"Of course, I know that."

"Right. But now I see you as you really are and just... you're a woman. You glow. I want to make you feel happy too."

She looked at me slightly suspiciously. But she looked down, trying to survey herself as minutely as I had. "You know, it's funny but... nobody's ever said that before". She looked at herself with beginner's eyes. With sympathetic love, without judgment. I walked up to her and hugged her, the usual ass-out hug.

"No" she said, pushing me back. "You say I'm beautiful. Prove it. Prove that you feel that way."

She pulled off her panties, revealing a soft, pale bush and distinct and delightful mons Venus. Her legs had a kind of slinky elegance, but her hips swelled enough to make her womanly. Her neck was the perfect length, terminating in birdlike clavicles, her shoulders sweeping away at a soft angle. She gathered smocks and the cushions that were used by nude models when the local community college rented the room. She arranged these carefully. Then she sank to her knees, spreading them slightly apart, and leaned back on her hands.

She looked at me expectantly. She was perhaps 3 steps away, or a thousand miles, it was impossible to tell. "Oscar," she said. Just my name. But just my name is all she needed to say. I began to move to her. My self-doubt was silent. She was a beautiful woman. She trusted me. I trusted her. We cared deeply for each other. We were safe.

And I knew, somehow, that there was still more cum backed up after a lifetime of longing.

As I began to patiently stroke at the base, I rested my cockshaft on her face, towering above her forehead. She closed her eyes and gently ran her face up and down on it. She paused and kissed it reverently. Then her eyes opened, locked with mine, and whispered huskily, "Prove it, Oscar. Show me how you worship me".

I began to stroke the whole length, my pace thrown off by the vastness of my newly discovered monster. She stared as if hypnotized. Then she hastily became upright, freeing her hands. One went to her kissable bush, stroking and grasping and shallowly fingering herself. The other hand began to play with her left nipple, her utterly delicious and perfectly layered pale white chocolate sculpture nipple. Her eyes closed. She leaned her head back and moaned. Her head lolled to the side and her eyelids parted slightly. From under these lowered lids, she said "Come on me Oscar. I want you to cover me with your cum."

As if she had said a cock spell, those long, heavy, sharpie-thick ropes began to pour relentlessly from my cock. I groaned at the sight of my gushing cum covering her perfect breasts, all knowledge of speech now discarded to make room for the feeling of coming on her. "Cover me, Oscar," she said more urgently. I threw rope after rope on her, concealing every surface of her neck and shoulders and breasts and stomach. She continued to manipulate her nipple, hand disguised now in a thick cum glove. An avalanche of cum flooded down her torso, cresting over her soft, tidy bush, burying her hand in my newly-discovered hyperpotency. She moaned "oooohhh goooodddddd ughhhhhhhhhhh".

"Is that enough cum, Clara?" I asked with a grin.

"NO!", she screamed. "DON'T YOU FUCKING STOP! I NEED YOUR CUM!".

Well cum she ordered, and cum she got. It seemed limitless. Her moaning grew louder and louder. More and more cum reached and flowed over the hand on her pussy and she more and more frantically began to shoving it insider her and fingering herself. She collapsed back, her back arching. She yelled "CUMCUMCUMCUMCUMCUMCUMMMMMM". Then she screamed and collapsed. Her legs began to shake uncontrollably and she gave a long, deep gut moan that I had never heard from a woman. My cum began to subside. She was breathing like she was dying, legs still quivering, then finally she slumped.

She smiled. "I wish I could fit you in me", she said quietly, eyes closed, "but being hosed more than any woman in history is probably enough to go on". Then she said "oh! I almost forgot, I won't be here on Monday". She handed me the keys, now glued together with thick lashings of drying cum. We looked at it, then each other, then laughed again and cuddled. We chatted slowly, like old times, until we grew cold and began to dress to leave. We knew this was special, but would never happen again.

I walked her home. The last I saw of Clara was her walking up the path to her door, not looking back, after an awkward ass-out hug.