by Tinder James
People make jokes about how men are unnecessarily obsessed with penis size. But few men, if any, have had a chance to compare what it is like to go through life with a small dick and then experience having an enormous one. I can tell you, everything is better when you have a big dick.
Monday morning, after having spent a glorious weekend yanking my new appendage, I went to the office. Jen stopped by my cube.
“What is it with you today?”
“What?” I said.
“You just look different. You’re walking different too. You’ve got a bounce.”
“A bounce?” Either my newfound confidence was showing or I’d unknowingly changed my gait in order to accommodate my enlarged penis.
“Jen,” I said, “will you have dinner with me Saturday?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
I saw Jenkins walk by. I followed him into his office. “Mr. Jenkins,” I said, “I’d like a promotion.”
“Jesus, Sammy. You’ve got a pair on you to come in here talking like that,” he said.
I agreed. He grudgingly gave me a new title and salary.
My relationship with Jen progressed quickly. In previous relationships, it’d taken me weeks to move from first date to first fuck. But with Jen, I was so eager to show her my huge penis that I was much bolder than usual. When she unzipped my pants for the first time, she looked at my cock, traced the length of it with her finger and said, “Oh, wow, Sammy.” I gave what I thought looked like a modest smile, but really, I thought she was right to be impressed.
When I entered her she gave a gasp, a short inhalation. “Easy, easy, easy,” she said as I pushed in slowly. She moaned, gaining volume slowly with each thrust. She closed her eyes and for her, I wasn’t even there anymore. She only felt that big cock sliding in and out of her. She made love to that, squeezing it inside her until bringing herself to orgasm. She tilted her head back and screamed, “Oh god!” I was reminded of how I’d originally thought God had made me reach for the BENGAY. Maybe I had been right. Maybe God was responsible, though it hadn’t been a divine act of malice, but rather a glorious, godly intervention that had served to change my life completely.
“Holy smokes, Sammy. I could get used to that,” she said.
“So could I,” I said.
Thirty minutes later, she reached into my pants and said, “Where’s Sammy’s snake?” We were at it again.
At the office she started dropping notes on my desk talking about, “…never done this before, but I was thinking we could…,” and “can’t stop thinking about how….” I’m pretty sure that because of my enormous cock, within three weeks of our first date, we were doing all sorts of ridiculously kinky things in the sack. Both of us admitted to never having had such vivid imaginations with previous partners.
A year later, I’m still with Jen. Our sex life is unbelievable. She recently asked if it would be okay to bring her girlfriends into the bedroom “because they just don’t believe what I’ve been telling them.” I’ve assured her that sharing my penis amongst her friends would be fine.
I’ve found that Jenkins thinks highly of me and I’ve progressed to senior associate. I go to the gym four times a week, mostly so I can walk around the locker room naked. Consequently, I’ve lost ten pounds.
A high school buddy of mine came through town. We had dinner. He’d only known me as a small-dicked man. He kept going on and on about how great I looked, how happy. “Sammy, what’s your secret?” he asked.
“Easy,” I said. “Go home and slather your penis in BENGAY.”
He gave an uneasy laugh, looked down, and sipped his beer. I shrugged and adjusted my crotch. My phone rang. Jen. She and her friend were watching lesbian porn and wanted me to come over.
“Sorry, Leo,” I said to my friend. “Something’s come up,” I said, which was true.
“It’s okay,” he said, smiling at me softly in the way small-dicked men smile at men like me.
In the Night
Penelope Friday
You touch me in the night. I roll over, half-asleep, to kiss you. You have no time for such preliminaries, pushing up my nightdress and thrusting inside me so hard that I cry out in protest. But discomfort is followed immediately by a heated ecstasy which burns me from the inside out. You put a hand across my mouth, reminding me to stay quiet. I arch my hips up, pull you deeper inside me. We fuck, hard, fast and silent until we both reach completion. I hold you close, open my eyes, and see—a man I do not know.
flash fiction
The Senator’s Perfect Wife
S.T. Clemmons
Welcome to the life and times of my favorite enemy. Jaclin Wells.
The woman almost single-handedly responsible for the term obnoxiously perky being added to the American language. Shouldn’t it be completely illegal for any gal to smile and wave and look so gosh darn happy when she’s in her eleventh hour of standing and walking in five-inch stiletto heels—and having her waist made virtually nonexistent by a mercilessly tight corset that’s reinforced by steel boning?
GIVE IT A REST BABE!
The world won’t come to an end just because you’re seen frowning on the odd occasion.
I hate J.W. with a passion…despise the little piece of eye candy with every fiber of my being. She’s so fake…so plastic…so carefully hidden under an oil slick of industrial grade eyeliner and forty-one other types of makeup. The girl is just so artificially happy with a smile that could rival the northern lights. I’m almost astounded that the little bitch hasn’t already been offered her own sixty-minute show on the Saturday afternoon slate of the House & Kitchen Network.
Not that our little Ms. Jaclin really needs the money or the publicity. The vacuous little bimbo is already married to Senator J. Thompson Wells. Yes, that Tom Wells, the charming con artist who could probably sell suntan lotion to polar bears. The man slated to become our next vice president, unless the American Nationalist Party somehow manages to stupidly blow a seventeen point lead between now and the first of the year.
She is, of course, the senator’s second wife. Twenty-seven to his forty-five. The perfect sex partner. Eye-popping shoulder adornment. Properly adoring stepmother to his three sickeningly over-groomed, correctly educated and indoctrinated kids. A reformed showgirl who supposedly found religion three years ago and then was almost immediately introduced to “Senator Money Bags” by the Chancellor of the United National Church of Salvation. Jaclin is exactly what Tommy Boy has always had a hankering for—such a perfect lady and eloquent dinner companion while in public, and such an obedient little sex doll when no one else is around. All you have to do is give the two of them fifteen minutes alone and Tom’s cock will immediately be shoved so far down J’s throat that it’s a wonder he’s not already a widower for the second time. I can just see the headlines now:
Vice President Suffocates Wife
With His Penis
While Elevator Stuck Between Floors!
Wouldn’t the voting public just love to know what goes on behind closed doors? I bet they’d shit their pants if a video of what occurs between Senator Tom and his little Jaclin ever got posted on one of the info pages, but then the impossible task would be selecting only one video to leak to the media. The senator’s perversions could be called legion, for they are assuredly many.
Do we show Joe and Jane Voter a picture of Tom sitting in his easy chair, sipping his evening coffee, as the naked and blindfolded Jaclin kneels before him and serves as his foot stool? Or maybe post a video on the Omega-Net of Jaclin obediently kneeling on the floor and licking her husband’s feet clean while Amanda, the senator’s administrative assistant, is using a riding crop to play tic-tac-toe on Jaclin’s adorably round ass? And let’s not overlook the times when J’s body is writhing in agony, frantically struggling against her restraints, as her supposedly loving husband presses an electrical cattle prod into her flesh and squeezes the activation trigger. So much to observe…so many things to learn…such a massive degree of sick
and twisted behavior in a single relationship.
If you can even call it a relationship. I think the Romans used to refer to it as keeping an official consort. But even the emperor’s concubine, with the privileges she was allowed to enjoy, was still a mere slave who could be booted out the door at any point for any reason he chose. Well, she’d be lucky to be booted out the door. A lot of concubines tended to become headless corpses very quickly.
The unbearably painful thing for me is that I have to spend every single moment of my day with this woman. I’m there as soon as she wakes up in the morning and I don’t get a moment of peace till she falls asleep at night. Why the hell did I have to be the one at her beck and call…shadowing her every move as she obediently does her part to advance the political profile, and completely stroke the ego, of Senator J. Thompson Wells?
Future Vice President of the North American Commonwealth
Sounds pretty damned impressive. Until you factor in that Canada, Mexico and the United States had only been merged for a total of about fifteen years before almost every facet of the national government got handed over to the computers. Humans might be making the final decisions, but it’s the machines that are providing something like 97% of the options that our elected leaders select from.
Our mechanical saviors are constantly doing what’s best for all of us and for the planet. Advising on climate change, helping replenish the world’s forests, finding ways to distribute resources more effectively, making sure that even the poorest of the poor have access to basic minimum health care. And year after year, North American society seems to become a little more bland…a few degrees less human. It’s positively sickening. Not quite as sickening as the much too adorable Mrs. Wells, but give the crafty little diode-flashing tyrants another five or six decades and I’m sure they’ll get it right.
And of course, the machines helped the Parliament do away with the death penalty. Or more properly, they morphed it into a much more socially benevolent form of punishment. Attribute Re-Matrixing is what they call our new and improved form of capital punishment. And everyone is so gosh darn happy that medical science has discovered a way to remove the dangerous criminal from society without actually ending a life.
Keep the body alive and just fill the brain with thousands of little nano-drones that spend a good thirty days carefully interrupting and re-sequencing all the intricate electrical signals that motor function the body and provide it with a personality. Just completely wipe the slate clean and then say hello to the new boy or girl that steps out from behind Door Number 3: An Emotionally Healthy Individual Who has Absolutely No Recollection of His or Her Past Life.
All the new personality cares about is being a happy little worker bee who cheerfully contributes to the hive and never ever gets into any sort of trouble. At least that’s how things work in theory. Every now and then, someone gets diverted for a more specialized purpose. It takes a good-sized chunk of change and a handful of the right connections, but I know for a fact that some very wealthy individuals are ordering custom-made relationship partners. Think I’m wrong? Just take a little bit of time to carefully study our dear Mrs. Wells.
Come on! How many articles have you read that rant about exactly how fake that little bimbo’s body really is? She’s five-foot-three and one-hundred-fifteen pounds. And almost seven percent of that is breast implant weight. That’s eight pounds of extra weight shoved into her chest—four pounds per side. A full two liters of silatex compound injected into each boob.
It took five sets of injections to get the girl’s boobs that big. Inflate the breasts a bit…give the surrounding skin three or four months to expand and become comfortable with the additional mass…repeat procedure as necessary. They make it almost as easy as washing your hair these days. And each new dose of this stuff is preprogrammed to seek out the original mass and perfectly bond with it, in order to help the area achieve its ideal shape. Well, maybe it’s just me, but I can’t buy into the concept of being top heavy and off balance as ideal.
Why would any woman, even a former exotic performer, want to keep her breasts that insanely large her entire life? Of course, she might want them like that during the years when she was taking care of her business on stage and in front of the camera. It is absolutely necessary to be as eye-catching as possible for the significant minority of the public who immerse themselves in twisted sexual fantasy. But why maintain that much extra baggage after committing her life to a supposedly modest religion and then marrying a public figure? Wouldn’t you want the peace and quiet? Wouldn’t you want to be able to go to sleep at night and not have to worry about two massive globes threatening to crush your rib cage? Wouldn’t you want to be able to be in public life without having to worry about all of the extra trashy gossip in all the society tattles and the politico-blogs?
J.W. flashes that obnoxiously perky smile, with her synthetically enhanced lips, and says that she wouldn’t dream of altering the form that she had when Tom first met her. She’s always telling that syrupy sweet story of how the multiple breast augmentations and other body enhancements, performed when she was between eighteen and twenty, are a part of what shaped and strengthened her personality. She tells how she’s been lucky enough to find just the right exercise regimen that keeps her breasts from causing her any back pain.
BULL SHIT!
Every centimeter of the woman’s back and neck is constantly screaming, sending intense pain signals straight up to her head. Only the brain can’t lock onto any of those messages because the nanoids are still inside her body and they block it all out. Just like they force her to have that super perky “I’ll do anything for my loving husband” persona. Just like they suppress her gag reflex when she falls to her knees and starts working her oral magic in his pants.
That’s the marvelously delightful part of it for J. Thompson Wells. A sadistic bastard like him gets to select exactly what Jaclin does and does not feel. He just sits back, flips a switch, and controls someone else’s life as casually as the average person changes the channel on the vid screen.
The nanoids block every bit of the back pain that tries to make contact with Jaclin’s mind. The excruciating discomfort is there every moment of the day, but her consciousness isn’t permitted to acknowledge it. And what’s even more twisted, the girl hasn’t been allowed to experience a single orgasm since the day the damn nano-drones were injected into her body. Sexual pleasure is reserved only for the senator. She does all the work and he gets all the fun.
But Tom does allow Jaclin to experience a few sensations here and there. He makes sure that every bit of agony from the floggings, and the needle play, and the electrical torture flows right to her brain and then resonates through her entire body like a fire alarm sounding at full blast. Tom Wells finds intense delight in observing the tormented look on Jaclin’s face as this happens. And as he’s watching one of his girlfriends abuse his lovely wife, the senator sits there and sips his cognac and simply smiles as the helpless Jaclin screams and moans.
And then this arrogant bastard has the nerve to step out into the public eye and pretend that nothing in the universe could ever be more important to him than his wife and his family. He smiles for the news cameras and he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close to him and whispers something in her ear. Usually telling her what’s going to be done to her once he gets her alone again. Knowing that she can only stand there and behave like he’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to her.
JACKASS!!!
The truth of the matter is that Tom Wells went bimbo shopping. He paid off half a dozen people and he had them divert a girl in his direction. He had her programmed. He had her nose and chin reshaped and her lips sculpted and her breasts made the size of overgrown cantaloupes. And while all that was happening, he had a small team of media experts create an intricately woven trail of information that was designed to give the public a reason to believe that Jaclin had always existed, and that the two of them just happened
to be lucky enough to find each other.
And I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to say that the girl who was morphed into what is now Jaclin didn’t deserve the personality restructuring. That little shit did some serious law breaking between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two. What got Brianna arrested was knocking off a market and shooting up the place. The girl could have gotten away with just the money, but she was feeling really bitchy that evening so she offed the clerk and the cashier…just for the hell of it.
Brianna deserved to be punished to the fullest extent of the law, but that means allowing the nanoids to complete the job and then pulling them right back out of the body. It’s absolutely wrong to leave them in there so the girl can be regularly reprogrammed with any new instructions a black market customer like Tom Wells wants carried out.
When the nanoids don’t get pulled out…when a nine stage reprogramming process is deliberately interrupted at step seven…when the social ideal of Attribute Re-Matrixing is completely bypassed…it’s a fate worse than death. It’s day after day of existing in complete and total slavery.
When you see Jaclin Wells smiling for the camera, you’re not looking at a properly rewritten personality. No dismantling of the original persona. No creation of a new one. Every single action, movement and mannerism is simply a case of all the little nano-drones working together to keep the host body in line with their programmed instructions. Each and every day, these little mechanical tyrants completely bypass an already existing personality as they make the physical form do as it’s told and dress as it’s told.