Isn’t It Too Big

by Naomi Penn

  “Take this cum!” King Darius shouted. “Take this cum!”

  She couldn't believe it! Was he actually about to cum in his little newly acquired princess!? Oh god—and there it was! The hot, burning heat of his seed spraying deep into her pussy. He held the horny girl down, collapsing on top of her body as she felt the spasms of joy resonate all through his cock. The spurts of semen flowing out and into that enticing pussy... it was better than she ever imagined! Brianne could really feel the big shots of goo coming out of him!

  A moment of silence followed, allowing the violated girl to feel each and every pulsation of his raging rod. Letting the final bits of cum drip out into her aching pussy.

  “Did I do good, daddy?” She asked through several heavy breaths, her perspiring tits raising and lowering each time.

  “Yes, princess...” He whispered. “You were perfect. And now... with my seed in you, you'll be with child in your belly soon, just as you always should have. A king's cum is very potent... especially in my lineage.”

  “You wish me pregnant, mi-lord?” Brianne asked, still reeling with happiness, having his cum swishing about in her cunt.

  “Of course,” he smiled. “I knew I just had to have you from the moment you came sauntering, brooding into my life after the battle. Look how you made me change... That's never happened before... Making me crave your body instantly... against my will, even! It is a most rare occurrence... You're obviously the one I needed.”

  She loved hearing his words... knowing he had felt the same about her all those years.

  “Umm,” Brianne giggled, rubbing the back of her neck as she fell back onto the desk in a satisfied heap of orgasm. “Does this mean I'm truly yours?”

  Story 16

  The place I lived growing up can be most easily described as ‘the projects.’ The actual building had once been a grand hotel, but as the area had deteriorated, the hotel closed down. Somewhere along the line a developer invested in the building, intending to raisee it and build condominiums, hoping that the area would rebound. After several delays in the construction, it became clear that the area didn’t have much hope of regaining its former pizzazz. Instead of building nice new condos, the old hotel rooms were turned to apartments, with one apartment for every two hotel rooms.

  That had happened decades before I was even born. The building as I knew it was old, crumbling, and barely legal to hold residents. My mother always told me that I should be thankful to have any roof at all, but I couldn’t help being at least a little jealous of the friends I had at school who lived in actual houses. The shitty houses most people look at and think should be torn down were palaces in my young brain.

  My siblings and I knew not to complain though. One mention of wishing we had it better would send my mom on a tantrum, and she never once considered her terrible money management or drug addiction as a source for her problems. The scapegoats were always one of two options. Sometimes it was men, other times it was white people.

  She had a deep despise for men because of my father. As we found out later in life, she had married him because she knew he came from a rich family. The problem was he was completely estranged from his mother and father. He had been around when I was younger, but frequently beat her and ended up skipping town in the middle of the night when I was five. Her life improved dramatically afterwards, and his father even gave us over $100,000 to account for his son’s transgressions. We had only met him once, but he still felt responsible for his deadbeat son.

  When the money came in, our lives improved dramatically for a period of about three months. Every toy we wanted was ours, we stayed in hotels when my mom got sick of our apartment, and even got a brand new car until it got repossessed. It wasn’t long until my mother managed to blow through every last penny, leaving us arguably worse than before.

  The reason she blamed white people had even less justification. To be honest, there really isn’t even a coherent way to describe what she would yell in her tirades. They were generic insults that failed to account for the fact that all of the problems she faced were self-inflicted.

  To make matters worse, almost all of our neighbors were drug addicts or alcoholics. Thievery was rampant, and in general it was a terrible place for a little girl to grow up. I frequently found myself in danger, and narrowly avoided close calls on several occasions.

  ***

  Unfortunately it wasn’t just the neighbors that turned to drugs and alcohol. My family did as well. My mother paved the way, with my brother and sisters following close behind. I was the youngest of four. My oldest sister Aliyah got involved with drugs at a young age and disappeared before I ever got to know her well.

  My brother was a few years younger than she was, and while he was technically around, he dropped out of school when he was only 16 and started dealing cocaine for one of the neighbors. My mother knew about this, but her only response was that if he wanted to go down that path he would have to give up some of the money he earned as rent.

  Kiara was my other sister. She was only two years older than me, but was forced to take care of me from a very young age. She wasn’t even old enough to be taking care of herself when she started taking on responsibilities relating to raising me. It was weird for both of us, but I owe her everything. We were very close for a very long time, but when she was 15 she started drinking heavily. There was always some type of alcohol in the house, even when we didn’t have any food.

  I watched as all of them ruined their lives through various addictions, and when I was 13 I made a promise to myself that I would never allow that to happen to me. I was no saint, and I certainly experimented with friends, but I was always very careful not to let anything get out of hand and doubly careful to avoid anything that was addictive.

  Don’t get me wrong, I still had plenty of demons to work out, and in the absence of drugs and alcohol to numb the pain, I used sex as my outlet.

  I had been exposed to sex from a very young age. My mother had never been very shy about the men she brought home, and with so many of us living in such a small apartment, there wasn’t much sense of privacy. While some guys were turned off by the idea that an entire family of children were just a thin, see-through beaded doorway away from them having sex, others seemed to borderline enjoy it.

  Because of this, I did not grow up like most children wondering how sex worked or what a penis looked like. The drunker the man she brought home, the more likely we all ended up either actually seeing them fuck or at least seeing the men take naked walks to the bathroom.

  I’m not sure exactly how this affected me. I know that I was never scared of sex. It always seemed like something natural. I’m not saying that I enjoyed the fact that I saw so many nude men as a child, but I also am not saying that it bothered me. I just grew up feeling that nudity and sex were a part of life.

  If there was any negative effect on me, it was that I had a fascination with penises. I watched in awe at the different shapes and sizes that came through. There were some that were huge and thick. Some were long but extremely thin. Some were short and stubby, and still others were barely visible. The thing that confused me the most when I was little was that some would be hard and pointed straight to the sky, while others sagged and dropped to the floor. I obviously now understand what my younger self did not, but at the time it only served to further my fascination.

  My mother also kept a box of condoms in the drawer of the table inside the door to our apartment. She had a rule that she would tell all of us when we were together that went something like:

  I don’t care which one of you takes these, I don’t care why you need them. They’ll always be here, and you’ll never be in trouble for using them.

  This may seem like a very positive way to raise children, but it becomes less appealing when you learn that after that part of the speech she would start rambling on about how she refused to raise any more children and that if any of her daughters got pregnant we either had to move out, get rid of the child, or pu
t it up for adoption.

  It should come as no surprise that I had sex at a younger age than anyone else at my school. I became known as the girl who knew all the secrets, so when other girls wanted to lose their own virginity, they would come to me for advice. I saw an opportunity, and started taking extra condoms from our drawer, selling them for inflated prices to anyone who needed one.

  I had watched as my brother sold drugs, and learned a lot about staying under the radar in the process. My condom empire thrived for over a year before I was finally caught by a teacher who called my mom in to discuss the problems. My mom’s only problem with the situation was that I hadn’t been helping to pay for all the extra condoms I was selling. She thought that my older sister had just been having a lot of sex, so begrudgingly put up with the drain. When she found out they were making me money, she was pissed.

  ***

  I never actually took to school much, so when I was legally allowed to do so, I dropped out. I didn’t see any college in my future, and even if I had wanted to go, there was no way I could afford it.

  The only jobs I was able to get with no high school diploma were minimum wage line cooks jobs. I took one at a local restaurant, hoping that I would eventually be promoted to a busser or waitress, but was told that despite the fact that I had the appearance to get good tips, I lacked the education that the establishment wanted its public facing employees to have. As I realized later, the owner was a racist and didn’t allow any black men or women to work outside the kitchen. He was sued later, but the class action lawsuit didn’t cover the time I had worked there unfortunately.

  Without much money, I relied on boyfriends to help cover my living expenses. While I’m not proud of it, I actually began scouting out people that looked like they had money, pursuing relationships with them so that I could jump up several levels of lifestyle without actually working for it.

  Most of men that I dated during this time were at least somewhat my age and type, but things got very bad when I met a man nearly 30 years older than me. His name was Melvin, and his bank account was seemingly endless.

  I wasn’t really attracted to him that much, but I will admit that he was funny. I would have never considered talking to him, but when he approached me at a club one night and I rejected him, his response left me laughing so hard that I let my guard down. Through some mix of bad judgment and too much to drink, I went home with him that night. I had no intention of actually milking him for money and presents, I actually was planning on a one night stand with him. I didn’t even know he was loaded at the time that I made that first decision to sleep with him.

  I’ll never forget the surprise I felt when I saw the car he was leading me to. He pretended like it wasn’t his at first. We walked by it, and he drew his fingers along its red paint. “Aren’t Maseratis beautiful?”

  I had no idea what a Maserati was at the time, but he was certainly right about it being a gorgeous car. He continued, “Look, the keys are in it. Let's take it for a spin.” He ran and jumped in the car, then reached over and popped the door open as I stood behind it trying to comprehend what he was suggesting in my drunken stupor. “Hurry, we gotta get out of here before they call the cops!”

  I ran and jumped in the car with him, heart pounding as I realized how crazy what we were doing was, still not knowing it was actually his car. He continued the charade the whole way to his house on the other side of town, leading me to believe the cops would be chasing us down at any minute.

  Once I figured everything out, gears started turning in my head. I had never even met someone with as much money as he had, and even a microscopic piece of his pie could lead to big changes in my own. It didn’t hurt that he also happened to be amazing at sex.

  An entire room in his rather large house was dedicated exclusively to sex. The room was bigger than the entire apartment I had spent my whole life living in, and the value of all of the toys also likely far outpaced the value of the meager amounts of objects my family owned.

  He was a generous lover, and ensured I had orgasmed multiple times before even finishing once himself. In the morning after our first night together, he took me out for breakfast at one of the most well-known breakfast joints in our city, then took me shopping for a new pair of clothes since I had none.

  I had stumbled into the most classic example of a sugar daddy that may have ever walked this earth. I stayed with him the next night as well, before finally going home the next day with a new outfit, new purse, and some extra cash to make sure I had a safe trip home since he wasn’t able to take me.

  At the beginning I only saw him once every couple of weeks, but things progressed quickly. Before long, there were no pretenses left, and he would actually leave me wads of cash in the mornings after we slept together. The weird part was that I had grown extremely fond of the sexual adventures we took together, and would have likely continued them even without the cash. The cash certainly didn’t hurt though.

  It may seem hard to believe, but it took me a long time to realize that I was essentially his prostitute. This was never something I wanted for my life, so when that fact dawned on me, I distanced myself from him quickly. I thought about sending some of the money I had saved back to him, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  When things returned to normal, I found myself missing the lifestyle he had been providing me, and any guilt I had felt about selling my body for money disappeared. I missed the sex and I missed the extra cash, so I went back to apologize to him and to start our fling back up.

  In the short time I had been away, he apparently left town, leaving nothing but a for sale sign outside his previous home. I was disappointed, but not so much that I was discouraged. I still wanted more money, and I didn’t want to go back to flipping burgers to earn it.

  With a body as good as mine, I found it extremely easy to find men willing to pay to sleep with me. I tried to stay discreet about it, but then realized that the more public I became, the more money I could bring in. Business was great until one summer day when my life changed forever.

  Things had gotten out of control. While I had successfully avoided addictions, my life was no better than my brother and sisters. I was giving blowjobs behind our building for $40 a piece, and moving quite a bit of inventory. It was mostly other kids my age who would come around for them, but the occasional older man would approach me as well. The more I did, the more I grew to hate myself. I didn’t enjoy giving them, I hadn’t had a real boyfriend in years, and no one had actually fucked me in ages. The only remotely positive thing is that somehow I managed to stay disease free.

  The turning point came when a man I didn’t know started trying to force more out of me. He paid for a blowjob, and while I was giving it he began getting extremely aggressive. I told him that if he continued I would stop, but he grabbed my head and started to forcefully face-fuck me. I pulled away, but he grabbed me and began clawing at my skirt. I knew what he was going to do, and tried as best as I could to fight him. I even screamed once, before finally giving in and accepting the fate my decisions had led me to.

  Almost simultaneously with me giving up, I felt the man being pulled away from me. A rather large man stood behind him and had one of his burly hands around his neck. It was an impressive sight to watch as he lifted him off the ground and threw him into the side of a dumpster.

  The man had pale skin but was covered with tattoos. A long beard fell from his face, matching his long hair that was held back in a ponytail. An American flag bandana was wrapped around his head, and he had blue mirrored sunglasses that kept me from seeing his eyes.

  His arms were massive, bigger than any man’s I had ever seen before that point. They were on full display as he was wearing a vest with no shirt underneath. Both arms were covered with tattoos, which also poked up along the side of his neck.

  He wasn’t the classic knight in shining armor, but I couldn’t help but feel some weird attraction to him. He could have just wanted me for himself, but there was somethi
ng about him that made me doubt he would hurt me.

  I watched the man beat my attempted rapist to a bloody pulp. I had slunk to the ground as I watched, petrified with fear and unable to move. I realized that I had seen the man before, but only in passing. He lived somewhere in my building, and was almost certainly the owner of the large bike that was always parked at the far end of the parking lot.

  He picked the man up with one arm, lifted the lid to the dumpster and then dropped the man inside. He slammed the lid shut saying, “Don’t come out to you’re sure I’m gone.”

  He turned to me. He was so large that I couldn’t help trembling a bit. I was relieved when he reached out a hand to help me to my feet.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jazmin.”

  “What are you doing?”