by Edward Lee
Thar en’t no pee-hole at the end’a his dick!
No. No evidence of any such seminal and urinary aperture.
Nevertheless, and her mystification notwithstanding, with one hand she proceeded to stroke the fleshy but strangely cool shaft, while her other hand delved lower, to cosset his testicles—
No testicles, nor any manner of what might be thought of as a scrotum, could be identified at the shaft’s basal root.
Wilbur, she grimly realized, en’t got no nuts...
Instinct impelled her to display no reaction, which came easier, at least, given the stark hardiness of her erotomancy. Unusual or not, Wilbur’s genital potential was about to be tested to every limit of thoroughness that Sary could muster. She meant to mount him now, by raising the apex of her thighs high enough to license coitus, and in preparing to do exactly that she opened her hands on his chest to push upward—
As if shocked, she flinched, then froze. Her eyes popped wide in the darkness.
When her opened palms had pressed against his shirt she felt anything but what she’d expected: the rapid squirming of a mass of...things...beneath the shirt fabric.
Things? What things?
What things could there be that squirmed beneath a man’s shirt? She’d only expected to feel the toned chest muscles of any hard-laboring man, and the indentations of ribs. Instead, Sary had felt something like an aggregation of thin snakes shifting under the fabric. And just as she had flinched, so had Wilbur, as if reacting to the fact of her discovery...
Her lips moved to voice query, but before she could utter as much—
Whoa!
—she flinched once more. One of her hands had lowered most errantly to the inside of his middle-thigh. Here again she felt something quite at odds with what she should’ve felt: something, too, like a snake, only in this case an individual snake much wider than the mass of far more slender things that seemed to wiggle en masse. Might it be a stout rope running down the inside of his pant leg? But that was nonsensical! Why would Wilbur place such a thing there? For a moment she entertained a notion equally ridiculous—that it was not a rope running down his leg at all, but a tail.
But only animals had tails, not men.
Even in the dark, she sensed his alarm. “Wilbur,” she began, “what’s that yew got under—”
“Shhh,” he whispered, and immediately engaged in a distraction potent enough even to quell her questions over such a seeming abnormality. The distraction was simply this:
His middle finger had gently slipped into her vagina, and its entrance brought with it the precursory penetration that she so craved. Gently, yes, but deeply as well, for Wilbur’s middle finger—she’d noticed shortly after meeting him—extended quite a bit longer than the middle fingers of most men. However, the extent of the penetration was not all that bid that initial overwhelming gust of ecstasy; it was also the tactic which was perpetrated. Wilbur deftly churned the finger amid the slippery channel in a configuration similar to a teepee, and this action only aggrandized her pleasures.
Gone, then, was all concern over any physiological incongruities that seemed to present themselves beneath his shirt and down his pant leg.
The most exotic sensations began to spiral upward from the seat of her womanhood, to her breasts and then to her brain. More, the thought beat like the very spasms of her groin. More, and with this, she raised her pelvis high, grabbed his erection, nudged its tip into her vulva, and—
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh...
—sat right down on it.
Where Wilbur’s finger had catalyzed her to near-frenzy, she now felt skewered and then summarily ushered into libidinal madness, for his genital shaft was double his finger’s length. She quivered in place, her nerves thrumming. She could not think in any level of cohesion but could only follow her craven instincts, instincts which demanded she be plungered by him. I need him ta work my pussy like a dang well-pump! the crude thought swept her.
The workings of the “well-pump,” however, would be short-lived.
Wilbur’s hips drew back once, then thrust forward, and just when she expected a session of hard, fast, and very deep penetration to commence—
“Aw, aw, Sary!” came the warbled gasp. Wilbur’s body went slack beneath her as though he’d collapsed to exhaustion. “I swar, I en’t never felt nuthin’ so sure-fire good in all my life...”
Sary’s mouth fell open, and she could’ve raged. Fer pity’s sake! I been with men who come fast, but never THAT fast! Indeed, the event she’d yearned so torridly for had ended in less time than it took to begin. A stroke and one-half, perhaps, of his penis in and out of her, and Wilbur had climaxed. She couldn’t very well berate him—it was his hospitality that had admitted her here—but still...
Of all the dag-blasted bum luck! What could be more mussed up! She’d been led up to a pinnacle and then thrown right off into a mire of crushing disappointment. With Wilbur’s failure to engage in coitus for more than a second or two, Sary felt positively stolen from.
Her shoulders slumped at once. Oh, well...
His big hands pressed against her bare hips, urging her off of his lap. “Dang, Sary,” he said almost breathless, “that thar be the dandiest.”
Sary stood up, tongue-tied for a response. All she could summon was, “Wal, that’s good,” after which followed the most awkward pause. She felt silly now, standing there naked, and not knowing what to do.
This awkwardness, though, ensued for a very short duration. Sary’s curiosity had no choice but to bolster, with the fact of a very very incontrovertible observation. She was now standing up; hence, her groin was no longer coupled to Wilbur’s.
She asked herself very slowly, If I’m over heer, and Wilbur’s over thar...haow come my pussy feels like it still got a great big dick in it?
This was quite a momentous question to say the least.
She could still hear his heavy breathing in the almost non-existent light, and she knew she was standing several feet away from him now. Could she be mistaken? It didn’t seem possible, yet her conception of logic left her at a loss to do anything but make certain. She stooped, navigated her hand to where her sense of proximity told Wilbur to be sitting and, moreover, to where she believed his crotch was—
There.
There was his thigh, the heavy denim that it was clothed in more than apparent. Her hand slid higher, then. Had he already refastened his trousers?
No! Her fingers felt the opened fly.
Then she reached in to feel the evidence of his penis, but—
All her hand came away with was a length of some wet and very sheer film-like substance which, after a lingering inspection with her fingers, she could liken only to a foot-long sausage skin.
An empty foot-long sausage skin.
She stood in more bewilderment, blinking in the dark. What in gad-zooks happened ta his DICK!? Indeed, her hand should now be holding a limp penis but what it held instead was something she could only ponder of as a limp sleeve—in other words, a sleeve with no arm in it.
And if the “arm” was not in the “sleeve,” she made the only deduction she could via the evidence of what she felt between her legs.
Yes, the “arm” was now in her vaginal barrel...
There was no denying the sensation: something long and over an inch thick continued to occupy her vaginal canal, as if she’d been masturbating with, say, a peeled banana yet had inadvertently left the banana in her when the task was done.
Wilbur turned the lamp up slightly, and then appeared as a looming shadow coming to her. His voice resonated in that strange way of his. “Dang, Sary. I know it’s more than a fair parcel’a questions ye got. I’ll try to my best ta answer ‘em,” but then, in an abruptness that was at the same time gentle, he picked her up, cradled her in his long arms, and began to step forward, the floorboards creaking.
“But-but whar it be yew’re takin’ me?”
“Jess the cot, so’s ye can have a lie daown. Yew be abaout ta lar
n one’a the ways I’se different from the other men ye’ve took up with.”
Different? she wanted to protest. Yew’re dang DICK disappeared!
Something in Wilbur’s deportment, however, suggested that he knew that she knew this, but that she was minding her tongue. The divergences she’d been made apprized of, indeed, obliterated all possibilities of fancy or suggestion.
Her colossal host set her down nude on the cot. “But fer naow, ye’re better to jess lay thar. Won’t take more’n a speck of time afore ye get yers.”
More, more confusion drew lines in Sary’s face. “Git my...what?”
“Wal, ‘twon’t be long ‘fore yew yerself’ll be comin’...”
Comin’? she wondered. The intercourse was over, that was certain. Did his odd words mean for her to masturbate? Or did—
All ponderment ceased. At once, Sary became intensely aware of sensations beginning to bloom deep in her sex. Although something else remained deep in her sex as well, didn’t it? The mysterious matter that continued to fill the moist passage as though it were a disconnected erection. And then—
Every nerve in Sary’s body began to hum, for lack of any other way in which to describe it; and soon she was writhing powerlessly atop the mattress. Aw, my—aw, my—aw my Gaaaaaaaaaaaaawd...
She didn’t notice that Wilbur had loped back to his desk, so entrenched she was with this saturation of lewd sensations tremoring out from her sex to her breasts, and then slowly and droolingly spreading about to encapsulate every square inch of her skin. Her sex thumped to the rhythm of her heart; and her breasts thumped similarly. No manner of will could be instigated; only the subconscious commands of her pining sexual instinct. Whatever Wilbur’s climax had left burrowed in her vagina, it was reacting in some earthy yet anagogic mystical fashion, piloting her without the benefit of copulation to heights of pleasure thus far unknown, and entreating of her intricacy of nerves every iota of ecstatic potentiality. In moments Sary’s quaking spasms girdled the entirety of her body, every muscle clenching in a most concentrated sexual reactivity; and that is when she transcended the primal threshold of orgasm.
But a characteristic orgasm this was not. Instead, the experience first seemed to unroll and then gushingly explode. She could’ve been an erection herself, spasming, spasming, spasming in plush, opiate bliss; she could’ve been a minuscule bundle of nerves being sucked akin to a gumdrop in a hot, voracious mouth. Indeed, her vagina itself felt as though it were being expertly sucked in order to exploit every carnal nerve, while something equally as immaterial seemed to suck out her nipples and lave her skin with the same expertise. Her naked form churned on the bed, helplessly, convulsantly, as she continued to come and come and come, her climax seeming first a distillation of all possible human pleasure, and then an inundation of her sexual being. These spasms of flesh-euphoria did not abate after a quibble of seconds as did most orgasms. They did so instead for half an hour.
Upon the experience’s fruition, Sary lay in near paralysis: drenched in sweat, eyes rolled back, tongue lolling from an agape mouth. When the most remote traces of cognizance leaked back into her consciousness, she detected very easily that the previous feeling of stuffed-to-fulness was no longer present in her vagina. She dopily slipped a hand there for verification, inserted a finger, and found the feminine cavity very wet, very tender, and very absent of obstruction. Her uneducated thoughts then detailed to herself: I en’t never come like that in my whole life! though what she’d actually undergone was an orgasm precipitated by a para-human constituent. All that her physical investigation divulged of the indicia was a vast region of wetness saturating the sheets between her thighs. She presumed at first that this must be the result of her own womanly fluids escaping during her bliss, but—
There seemed an awful lot of such fluids.
She lay like putty amid the sheets, and with some exertion turned her head toward Wilbur, who sat now at his writing desk, looking on with contentment in his dark eyes and strange visage.
Her lips worked to generate speech but the initial attempts failed, leaving her able to only mumble a slew of “blub-blub-blub” noises. The monumental orgasm’s remnants had her feeling as though she’d been dipped head to toe into warm vessels full of luscious, alien tinctures whose very contact with human flesh triggered pleasures as potent as they were unearthly. In time, though, she regained more semblance of composure, and was able to chunter: “Holy jiminee, Wilbur. Didn’t think it were even possible ta come like that.”
Wilbur’s large head nodded in the shadow-diced lamplight. “I knowed yew’d like it, and am glad ye did. Way it ‘twas ‘splained ta me by my grandsire’s that gulls come a mite fierce, and fer longer, on account’a me bein’ different from fellas hereabouts.”
Fellas hereabouts, the words repeated in her head like stones dropped into hot tar. He’d used that term a number of times, hadn’t he? Yew’re different, all right, and I dun’t keer none long as yew put a fuckin’ like that ta me more’n onct.
“And I can tell—like I told ye before—yew got yerself a right pile’a questions ‘baout haow I’m different, but all’s I can best suggest is ye jest leave it be. It en’t nuthin’ but a bunch’s stuff ye likely wouldn’t understant anyway.”
Sary smiled then, like a sated feline, when she recalled the extent of the pleasures he’d treated her to. “Wilbur, I wun’t ask yew nuthin’ ‘baout nuthin’ ‘cos yew gotta sumpin’ abaout yew that cud have every woman this side’a Miskatonic River chasin’ you like mutts chasin’ a meat wagon.”
The giant man seemed to fall into a muse just then, as if in some mode of personal rapture. Then he said, “It been a long day had by ye, so yew jess go on ta sleep naow. I’ll relax back in my writin’ char and ketch me some shut-eye here.”
Her response was immediate. “If’n yew sleep in that clunky ole cheer, Wilbur Whateley, I will likely shriek so’s ta wake up all the dead aout’a the old buryin’ graound, I will.”
Wilbur’s long, high brow went deep with furrows. “Why...what’cha mean, Sary?”
“Yes sir, I will haowl at the blammed moon...if’n yew dun’t come over heer right naow and sleep with me!” and then Sary slid back to afford more room on the cot, and reached her arms out toward Wilbur.
Wilbur rose forthwith, and appeased her supplication.
Ten
Without constraint, however, Sary felt inclined to question Wilbur’s obvious intention of coming to bed still donned in all of his clothing, yet an intuition—one formulated in previous observation—at once commanded her to make no such query. Wilbur had already demonstrated some preoccupation anent to his physical aspect, so Sary considered, Why ask him sumpthin’ that he dun’t wanna speak of? No, she mustn’t needle him, for fear of imparting a displeasure in his attitude as far as her presence was concerned. She conjectured, instead, that if it were Wilbur’s wish to sleep with his clothes on, it was his right as well. But when his awkward frame lowered beside her upon the great cot, he gave voice to several points almost as if he were possessed of a qualification to decrypt her own very concerns while they remained solely with the confines of her mind. Wilbur, sounding drowsy now, said, “Aw, I know theer be lots ‘baout me that’s got a buzz in ye’re bonnet—as my grandsire used to say—and I ‘spect that afore, when we was jess gettin’ started, ye might’a felt suthin’ beneath my shirt, and daown one’a my pant legs, that struck ye as mighty awry, but it be jess like I been sayin’...that not everyone be ‘zactly like all folk hereabaouts and what’cha be used to. I’se different, is all, so I don’t see that it matters more’n a tittle.”
“Oh, it dun’t, Wilbur,” she was quick in her assurance. “I guess I be a bit nosy sumptimes, ‘tis my nature, I guess, ‘least my ma used ta say so. So’s I’ll dew my best not ta rankle ya with silly questions that’d pester ya.”
“Aw, naow, dang, Sary,” his deep vibrating voice grew lower. “Thar en’t nuthin’ ye could do ta pester me...,” but soon it became apparent to her
that the day had stricken Wilbur with a formidable budget of fatigue. I best juss let him sleep, her better judgment suggested—though the deferment to her better judgment was quite often not her forte. In fact, even just moments after her monumental orgasm, Sary admitted that another such experience was most notably the object of her desires; and disappointment was not in wait of her.
Again, she was unable to repel this lusty perseverance, and no sooner than Wilbur had begun to snore, she slithered atop him, commenced to abrading her groin to his, and to titillate him with her hands in a most urgent manner. However far removed his penis might be from that of other men, Sary did not now care. She creviced one hand beneath her bare belly in order to re-arouse him, but even upon the instant, a foot-long cylinder of turgidity was effortlessly discerned at his crotch. Her breath felt hot as fish broth, and she whined, “Wilbur, I dun’t mean ta disturb yew but—”
The behemothic man did not need to be coaxed further; in fact he seemed just as fidgety for intercourse as she. His huge hands slipped downward, unfastened his trousers, and extracted the sought-after member...
Their previous coupling was reprised posthaste, and ensued correspondingly. Panting, short of breath, and nearly teary-eyed in anticipation, Sary straddled Wilbur and again impaled herself upon the bizarre, rootlike shaft; and after two or three pelvic strokes, her bedmate was seized by ecstatic convulsions. After several moments came a gasp on his part, as his climactic tensions all ran out of him. But now Sary’s curiosity thrummed as intently as her craving for more release. That deep fullness was indeed present again in the channel of her sex...
Even after she unstraddled him and left no doubt that genital congress had been cessated. Wilbur’s voice croaked, “Aw, honey, that thar was sooooo good...” A moment later, he was asleep.
Sary promptly lay back on her side of the cot. First she let her hand inspect the area just within Wilbur’s opened trousers and, unequivocally, her surprising observation of before was repeated. The erection, like a long, raw, and oddly cool pork loin could no longer be found anywhere amid the man’s groinal region; instead, only a sheer film-like length of...something...had seemed to replace it. Again, Sary’s “empty sausage skin” simile came to mind. Ludicrously, she wondered even if Wilbur’s erection had separated itself from his body upon climax, to remain sheathed in her sex, only to re-grow for a future copulative opportunity. But this supposition was too outre to take with any sober regard. Hence, a logical conclusion to the conundrum remained to be speculated, and the question had no choice but to coruscate: What, in the name of all notions analogous to Sary’s conception of normality, could explain the undeniable material breadth that now existed in her vagina?