It only took about twenty years.
See, I was a late bloomer. I sang soprano until I was nearly fifteen, and didn’t reach my adult height (all of five foot eight) until I was seventeen and entering college. Even then, I was every ounce of 125 pounds. So even though all that weight training made me unexpectedly strong for my size (I was a surprisingly good arm wrestler, known for taking down boys outweighing me by twenty or thirty pounds), I just couldn’t seem to get big. All my efforts to the contrary, I remained so slender that by my freshman year in college, I found I was often mistaken for a woman. Daily, even. In a T-shirt, Levi’s and sneakers, I was addressed, “Excuse me, Miss,” by strangers and was constantly hit on by lesbians. I’d come home, seething, to my then-boyfriend (now my husband), Greg, who quipped, “Whip out your dick. That’ll show ’em.” (By the way: while I can truthfully say I married for love, it does not hurt matters that my husband has a dynamite set of pecs.) There were no public whippings-out of my dick. Instead, I worked out all the harder. And in time, I finally began to see results—in my arms. And while my chest development continued to disappoint, my new biceps/triceps combo (and the tight T-shirts I wore to display them) succeeded in rendering me considerably less equivocal, genderwise.
I was in my midthirties—countless bench presses, dumbbell flies, cable crossovers and protein shakes later—when a cute young gay dude (recently hired in the word processing department where I also toiled), sidled up to me, a flirtatious twinkle in his eye, and said, “Dude, you lift trucks or something?” By that point, I had grown used to a certain number of compliments on the size of my arms. “Small Japanese trucks, mostly,” I replied. “Why do you ask?” The cutie responded, “Big chest.”
Yes! To paraphrase Jean Hagen in Singin’ in the Rain, all my hard work had not been in vain for nothin’. I wasn’t sure when exactly it had happened, but I had apparently, finally, achieved my goal: bigchest was mine. That little exchange with the word processing muffin was sufficiently significant for me that I fictionalized it in my third novel.
So in case you’re ever in the mood to flatter me regarding my physique, keep in mind that my father has great arms, and his father had great arms, so if any body part was going to develop, it was going to be my arms. And since I’m still a big fan of snug-fitting T-shirts, arms are what most people tend to notice first. But relatively speaking, arms were easy. Chest was tough. Compliment my pecs, and you’re sure to get a smile out of me. Hey, I might even bounce ’em for ya.
FATHER AND SON TAG TEAM (THAT SUMMER! THAT CAMP! THAT COUSIN!)
Jack Fritscher
I woke up in this story suckling his big dick. When you’re eighteen and still in your wonder years, like I was that summer of 2001, you do strange things in your sleep, like kick off all the sheets and dream buck naked with your prick up hard as the flashlight you hide to read porn at night under the blankets.
Older counselors like Taggart, who was nineteen-plus (as in plus ten inches), love to pull tricks on younger guys. You know, when you’re out playing counselor at some Camp Gitchygoomee and it’s the last week of the season, after all the campers have packed up their sweaty jockstraps and nylon Speedos and headed back home. I missed some of them: the best of the cool young dudes all tanned and buffed and trained for their football, wrestling and swimming teams back home. The camp was deserted. Quiet. More beautiful than ever. We had maybe a week’s more work to do. Almost alone. Me and Tag.
I kept sucking, my eyes tightly closed, pretending I was asleep. I felt Tag’s big blond thighs straddling my chest. Maybe I was dreaming. All summer long, I’d lusted after him. He was a diver, six-two,185, lean-muscled and handsome. A dreamboat. When he practiced his approaches on the diving board, his long defined toes striding the length to the tip where he bounced up and down on the edge, my eyes never left his crotch, the tight wet, big bulge of his red trunks, the famous nylon Speedos I once stole and sniffed and shoved into my mouth to suck out the taste of his big cock.
Tag hung ten easy. Eyes closed I knew that. I felt his soft dick hardening in my mouth. I worked my lips around the velvet head, almost afraid to open my eyes, for fear I’d wake up and he’d be no more than an early morning piss-hard dream vanishing in the late-summer dawn. But his dick gelling from soft to hard in my mouth, the taste and smell of him—hey, I knew the real thing.
So I opened my eyes, and, shit! It wasn’t Taggart at all!
Well, it was, but it wasn’t the Taggart I thought. It was, I swear to god, the other Taggart! It was his dad, who had been a big stud at sixteen, had fathered Young Tag at seventeen and was still married to his wife, Verna Taggart. They all ran Camp Gitchygoomee with Verna knowing everything, especially bookwork and her place.
The night before, we had celebrated Big Tag’s thirty-sixth birthday, telling him the truth that he didn’t look a day over twenty-six. You get the picture. He was the coach, the daddy, the husband, the stud. The Taggarts, father and son, were a special breed of the biggest cocks I ever saw. So I looked real surprised, and twice as pleased, when I opened my eyes and found Big Tag threading my throat. I’d worshipped Big Tag from afar all summer: him swimming naked in the pool, endless laps of backstroke with his long cock cutting the water, sluicing its own wake; him, in Fort Cobb, which is what we called the main toilet, flipping his big dick over the gray sheet-metal piss trough; him groping himself in his nylon shorts around the evening campfire. I saw where Young Tag, who no one ever dared call Little Tag, got his size and I knew why Verna hung around her men smiling no matter what went on.
Between his thighs, Big Tag sported a real handsome piece of blue-veined meat. I’m talking twelve inches of blond cock, maybe nine inches circumference, which I think is about the exact circumference of my mouth stretched open to its widest cocksucking ring, just wide enough, I could tell, for the mushroom head, when he pulled it out of my mouth and with both fists waved it back and forth across my face, flushed that juicy hot purple peculiar to blond cocks.
He smiled and said, “This is your wake-up call, Sonny.”
I remember everything exactly.
“Are you surprised?”
I grinned like the cocksucker I’ve always been and shook my head no and stretched my tongue for his lubing piss slit.
“Are you disappointed?”
I snorted one of those you-gotta-be-kidding laughs and he drove the head of his cock right straight through my smile and laid pipe down my throat.
When a good-looking summer-camp director who stands six-four and weighs in at a solid 225 spreads his jock-thighs across my chest while the morning sun spotlights the blond hair on his pecs and forearms, I know, like the joke about where the two-thousand-pound canary can sit, that any man that much larger than life can, if he wants, sit on my face and pedal my ears till the cows come home. I worship big dick and Big Tag loved adoration. His cock played my vocal chords like the devil plays fiddle.
“You want it, huh? You little cocksucker.”
Beat me, daddy. Eight to the bar. Obviously, father and son, probably playing “tag” together, had pillow-talked about me behind my back, and that’s always the best kind of talk. Besides, I’d read some of the graffiti written on the walls of Fort Cobb.
Big Tag spread my jaws and drill-pumped me inch by inch, working deeper, bringing tears to my eyes and choking sounds to my throat.
“Your throat’s too tight too soon,” he said.
He worked me loose so he could go deeper. Six inches was easy to handle. I slurped him like a pro. Inches seven and eight came harder, but not that hard.
Early that summer his son had broken the deep-cherry back in my throat where a hard cock exits down and out the back of your mouth and passes through the first gate leading to your guts.
I worried about inches nine through twelve. Like, could I swallow that much cock? I’d never quite got fully impaled on his son’s ten-incher; but then Young Tag was rougher getting his nut. Big Tag was smoother, more experienced. He talked dirty to me—I
’m a sucker for verbal sex—almost hypnotizing me, fuck-talking, building my passion for the triumph of swallowing his total manhood down to the root. He was so intense a talker he convinced me to go for it, to dare to take it. He slipped me inch nine, then pulled out, real slow and gentle, and immediately drove back in, knocking off inch ten, surprising me, smiling a small sneer that curled up under his bushy blond moustache. The sweet blond hairs of his crotch were still two inches from my face, and I knew he wouldn’t shoot till my nose was buried in his groin, and he was in me a foot deep, his full twelve inches.
My own cock was bouncing fast in my hand. Big Tag, who always kept a neat pinch of Copenhagen under his lower lip, turned and spit slow sweet tobacco drool down on my dick.
“Beat your meat,” he said. “You’ll find room for my last two inches in your own cock. When your own cock gets cock-crazy, you’ll let me in.”
He wasn’t forcing anything. I mean this wasn’t a rape fantasy. It was real. It was the greatest thing two men can do. It was six-thirty in the morning. He had his horsecock planted ten inches down my throat, and he was coaching me, like the summer coach he was, to take more of what he had to offer.
My daddy never raised me to be nobody’s fool.
I know now what I learned that morning. There is one sin in life: when a man offers you a hard twelve-inch cock and you do not take it all. I didn’t need much coaching. I was such a cock pig, I wished that Young Tag was there, son and father, twenty-two inches of cock between them. But it wasn’t that fantasy either. It was reality. Sweaty sheets. Dripping armpits. Nasty talk. Bouncing bull balls. Hairy chest. Dropdead looks, blond hair, three-days’ unshaved bristle. His big cock pumping my face, slowly, his lean hips and waist rocking over me, my hand working my cock, knowing I could cum for the first time in my life with twelve inches of big blond cock pistoning my tonsils, if only I could split two more inches of ch-ch-cherry throat.
Life, my daddy told me, is mind over matter. Thanks, Dad. My cock beat on the cusp of cumming. I looked up at Big Tag. The brilliant morning sun hit him, lit him, over me like a golden stud. I realized the most private part of that man was deep in me, and I wanted him deeper. I groaned guttural sounds and looked up at him and wrinkled my forehead and nodded. That was all he needed. I beat my dick. He drove half-inch by half-inch into my mouth.
At eleven inches he paused, then began not to penetrate, but to fuck my face. From slow to hard, he toppled from friendly persuasion to bucking passion. He fell over my face like a jock doing push-ups and pinioned my arms on the pillow above my head. I thought I’d choke or die, but I didn’t. I did what he wanted. What I wanted. I opened and swallowed. He face-fucked me past eleven inches to the full twelve.
I felt his blond crotch slam solid against my lips. He was home. He fully holstered his rod in my throat. He worked me wild. I felt his cock throb and expand in the sheath of my throat and feared I’d drown if he shot his load into my lungs, but I didn’t care, ’cuz he’d give me mouth-to-mouth and hold me in his arms, and at the precise moment when he blew, my own cock, untouched, shot across my belly, sort of like his huge cock was inside my cock, and his white cum came boiling up out of my nose, my mouth, and, yeah, out of my cock. His cum shooting out of my cock. His cum that turned into Young Tags with ten-inch dicks. His twelve-inch cock, seeming inside my dick, stretched my own rod out a full foot so my dick skin strained like a rubber stuffed to bursting with a studbull cock. I could feel what it felt like to pack a twelve-inch rod!
Oh, god. You get the picture. I did. I do.
That summer I had more “Tags” on me than a Blue Light Special at the WalMart. Young Tag had a cousin, Big Tag’s brother’s son, Lawayne MacRory Taggart, who everybody called “MacTag,” because he said so. He was tough and streetwise and he liked to wrestle, freestyle, slam-banging and clowning like the pro wrestlers on TV. He’d gone beyond his once-beloved Hulk Hogan and was idolizing the muscular Sonny Butts, the buffed and black Jamal “Reggie Reggae” Deshaw, and the outrageous tag team, the Slap Warriors.
He fed the campers a liar-liar-pants-on-fire line about how he wrestled on TV, billing himself the “Masked Counselor.” The campers loved it. Especially when he pulled a black wrestling mask over his blond head and climbed into the ring with one of the tougher, huskier, older ones, both of them stripped down to nylon briefs and wrestling boots, bouncing off the ropes, MacTag picking the kid up, throwing him across his shoulders and spinning him around, slamming him to the padded canvas, flopping across the kid, full body, pinning his shoulders, while the crowd went wild screaming, “Next! Next! Me next!”
MacTag was their chance to act out a fantasy. Now I know.
One night that last week after camp, I stood in my Speedos in the door of MacTag’s cabin. I could feel the full moon falling warm on my shoulders and back. MacTag looked up from the table where by the light of a Coleman lantern he was reading Leaves of Grass, buck naked, playing with himself.
“Next!” I whispered.
He smiled, closed the book and stood up. He was a Taggart all right. He had the dick. He slow-walked toward me in that hip-ball-and-joint walk that athletes with powerful thighs and bubblebutts take as their trademark stroll. His dick swung easy between his legs, halfway to his knees, soft yet, but with the swelling blue veins that are surefire prediction of the cockquake to come. He walked straight up to me. He stood so close I smelled the sweet summer sweat glistening on his chest, running down his armpits, beading on the hair of his muscular arms. “You sure you wanna be next?” His smile had that kind of killer sneer that Brad Pitt smiled in Thelma and Louise.
“Anything you can dish out, I can eat.”
He snorted a laugh, but I could tell he appreciated my bluff of trying to talk tough like wrestlers do between matches on TV when they scream at the camera about what slime their next opponents are and how they’re going to kill them with a metal folding chair.
“Can you eat this, Sonny?” MacTag wrapped both hands around his rising cock. “You want it here in the cabin,” he said, “or do you want to go out to the ring and get beat up a little? You know, just a little punishment. Nothing serious that a ten-inch hot-beef injection can’t cure. Just maybe a little fantasy in the squared circle to make things hotter. A knee to the groin. A half nelson…”
“A full nelson.” What was I saying? Half nelson. Full nelson. Ricky Nelson. I wanted him. I wanted every inch he had. I wanted his fantasy inside my fantasy.
“Yeah. Good. A full nelson too. Maybe even a little choking. I mean I can tell by the look in your eye you want me to be the Bad Guy. You think I can be the Bad Guy?”
MacTag raised up his arms and flexed. His biceps popped like Teenage Mr. America. Blue veins ran down to the blond forest in his juicy armpits. He crunched out a Most Muscular pose, like a wrestling warrior taking center mat. His chest and shoulders pumped big, his abs rippled, and his dick, excited by the full flush of his body, cantilevered another inch up toward total erection: straight up his belly past his navel.
“You are definitely bad.” My cock tented my Speedos. Faced with his ten inches, maybe more, I reached for my cock knowing my secret I never told anybody, that every inch of big cock I sucked made my cock grow that much bigger, slowly but surely. At sixteen, I measured six inches all by my bonesome lonesome. At eighteen, I was eight-plus. These encounters were working. Some cocks make you larger. By the time I was thirty, I projected I’d be hung at least…
“You fuckin’ little Size Freak.” MacTag said it in the appreciative way a big-hung guy says a line like that when he knows he’s on to a cocksucker who won’t waste his time sucking down anything less than eight inches. Believe it or not, some cocksuckers won’t do big dicks. Or can’t. Or worse, tongue-and-lip only the tips like most of those lipstick dollies do in straight suck films.
Go figure.
MacTag, faster than I could think, picked me up, throwing my legs over his shoulders, just like that statue of ancient wrestlers, hanging my head upside
down facing his big juicy dick. “Suck it, fuck-face!” he said. He knew from the walls of Fort Cobb I liked to hear bullies talk nasty. “Suck it! Or I’ll body-slam you to the fucking floor.”
Upside down, I took the flared head of his cock into my mouth, figuring its circumference more than seven inches. He bounced me on his shoulder with one hand, banging the back of my head with the other, kind of dribbling my noggin like a basketball down on his rod. He was teaching me a whole new sixty-nine. Then he flipped me up over his shoulders and swung me in full-circle airplane spins.
God! He was strong. His dick stuck out, proud of his performance. Sex-wrestling turned him on. Suddenly he raised me, pressed me, by the sheer strength of his upper body to arms’ length, high in the air, above his head.
I whipped my dick. This was new! This was sexplay! This was what the big boys do!
Then like the surprise thrill on an E-Ticket ride in an X-rated park, he slam-dropped me like a feather to the floor. As crazy as it was, everything seemed in slow motion. He threw his big thighs across my chest, took one of my wrists in each hand, stretched my arms out and slid his drooling cock across my pecs and toward my face, where he buried it headfirst in my mouth before starting the snake’s slow slithering down my throat.
Everything felt awful comfortable. I realized I wasn’t on the hardwood floor. I was pinioned on a mattress on the floor. MacTag was a class act, but how did he do that?
I heard a loud slap. The kind of slap one strong flat palm makes striking another when two men slap five.
“Tag team!” MacTag said.
“Tag team!” Young Tag said.
I tried to say, “Oh, shit,” around MacTag’s pumping cock.
Young Tag had been napping in one of the upper bunks while MacTag read. He’d tossed the four single mattresses to the floor.
“Tie this on,” he said to MacTag. He handed him a camouflage-green bandana folded to a headband. “We’re the Blond Mercenaries,” Young Tag said. “We got plenty between us because we got twenty inches between us! Whoa!”
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