



                     ("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
                     `6_ 6  )   `-.  (     ).`-.__.`)
                     (_Y_.)'  ._   )  `._ `. ``-..-'
                    _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
                   ((('   (((-(((''  ((((
                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
		_________________________________________
		                WARNING!
		This text file contains sexually explicit
		material. If you do not wish to read this
		type of literature, or you are under age,
		PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
		_________________________________________




			Scroll down to view text













Archive name: grocers.txt (Fm, size, 1890's)
Authors name: Jenny Wanshel (respond to alt.assd)
Story title : Grocer's Boy, The

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2003.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  All rights reserved. Thank you for your 
consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------
 
The Grocer's Boy (Fm, size, 1890's)
by Jenny Wanshel (no address)

***

I haven't posted a story to assm for two years, but 
here's a new one I've been working on off and on for the 
past year. Could you please post it to assm and a.s.s.? I 
don't have a secure anonymous email contact address at 
the moment (my old one, chilly2@biosys.net, went bad ages 
ago and mail to it will just bounce), but if you need to 
contact me you can post a message to alt.sex.stories.d 
and I'll see it -- although it may be a week or so before 
I see it.

***

From "The San Francisco Chronicle", April 21, 1895: 

"The newly organized women's social gathering known as 
"The Club" met for the second time last Thursday at the 
home of Mrs. Warrington on Alameda Street. A light 
luncheon was served and Mrs. Amelia Stringer, of 1124 
Fillmore, gave a lively talk on the history of beekeeping 
in early California, followed by open discussion. The 
once a month sessions of "The Club" are closed to invited 
members only."

"Thank you, ladies. Have the servants all left? Mrs. 
Stratford, would you be so kind as to secure the doors? 
Thank you. I cannot even hope to improve on Miss Amy 
Phelps's talk at our last meeting, which, for the record, 
was titled "New Methods of Improved Horse Breeding, With 
Reference to Practical Experience in the Field." (General 
laughter).

But as it is my turn to get up and tell you the story of 
my own true experience in the area of...ahem, our common 
interest, I will do the meager best I am able, and I hope 
you will find it of some interest.

My first husband, Herbert, was a stockbroker. He was tall 
and moderately good looking, and endowed with...wait, 
ladies, you're anticipating me -- a warm sense of 
humor...a generous nature...and a big cock. (Laughter). 
Yes, my Herbert was quite well endowed. And -- Oh, is 
there a question? About this big (holding hands apart). I 
was a virgin when we were married, so I did not 
appreciate this fact of his anatomy, but took it quite 
for granted. I had no idea that he differed in any 
respect from the average man, as far as that was 
concerned.

It came as a great shock to me when Herbert died. I wore 
widow's black for a year and then a gentleman proposed to 
me, and I accepted. I naturally assumed that with my new 
husband my sex life would be much as it had been before 
so it came as quite a shock to me on my wedding night 
when I discovered Harry Stringer (my second husband) was 
scarcely half as big down there as my lamented Herbert 
had been.

Not that Harry Stringer is unusually small, I suppose. At 
first I thought he must be, but I made discreet inquiries 
and learned that it was not that Harry, my second 
husband, was small, but that my first husband must have 
been unusually big. I was at quite a loss for anyone to 
ask, whom I dared ask such a delicate question. We didn't 
have a group like "The Club" in those days where we could 
talk about such things. I didn't have the courage to even 
mention it to my dearest and closest friend. 

One day I read in the newspaper that a female physician 
had opened a practice here in San Francisco and with a 
great deal of trepidation I went to see her. It was not 
until my third visit that I got up the courage to tell 
her what the trouble was. I half expected to be blasted 
by lightning for asking such a thing but she took it in 
quite a matter of fact manner. After extracting the 
details from me, halting, blushing and stammering as I 
was (I know, you wouldn't think it to listen to me 
discuss it now), she told me that it appeared to her that 
my Harry was perfectly normal, or enough nearly so as 
shouldn't matter; and that my first husband had been 
remarkably endowed.

Well, that took a load off my mind, but it didn't solve 
my problem, since I could hardly feel Harry inside me, 
when we did it.

Being newly married it took some time to get adjusted to 
my new circumstances but once we were settled I found 
that I missed the way Herbert had filled me up down 
there. 

Harry was a good enough provider and we were compatible 
in other ways, but I found myself thinking that perhaps I 
had married the wrong man. Our lovemaking was a 
disappointment that never seemed to improve. I couldn't 
help thinking how much better it had felt with my first 
husband Herbert when he stuffed his big fat cock inside 
me. I made a silent decision that if I were ever to be 
married a third time (which God forbid) I would 
investigate the matter in advance rather than leaving it 
to chance.

Harry, my second husband, ran off with a secretary from 
his firm one day, after we had been married for six 
years. By then I didn't regret his absence and I found a 
judge who was willing to give me divorce papers. I have 
heard since that Harry is living with her in Sausalito, 
under a false name, and god speed to him, I wish him no 
harm. 

So I was newly divorced. I took my troubles to a gypsy 
fortune teller and she told me I would soon meet a tall, 
dark, and handsome man...with a huge prick! Never doubt 
the gypsies. Oscar was tall, dark, and handsome, and 
wonderfully endowed. I forbore from suggesting he marry 
me before we enjoyed each other, and I didn't regret it. 
It was just as well because Oscar already had a wife. 
When I found this out I was so furious that I threw Oscar 
out and ordered him never to darken my door again. 
Amazingly, he didn't come back. I suppose a man like 
Oscar can always find another woman easily enough. I did 
regret losing his fine prick though. That man was well 
hung.

I went back to Madame Zorah and told her my woes and she 
looked into her crystal ball and told me I was well off 
without Oscar because he had been betraying me with 
another woman and would soon be suffering from a social 
disease. Then she went into a trance for a time and I was 
quite nervous sitting there in the dark, with her frozen 
still and silent like that. Finally she said that she saw 
a wondrously large penis in my future but she could not 
see whose it was. We had tea, and chatting casually she 
mentioned that she had once heard that you can always 
tell a man with a big prick because he will have large 
hands and a long nose. So I made a mental note to look 
out for a man with those features.

Unfortunately the only man I could think of with 
unusually large hands and a long nose was Reverend 
Pilcher at my church, and he was married. 

One day a month later (during which time I had made 
several unsuccessful attempts to discover a bulge in 
Reverend Pilcher's trousers, to no avail) I met a 
handsome youth with simply enormous hands and a long 
nose. He was the boy who delivered my groceries from 
Samuelson's.

Only a six-dollar-a-week grocer's boy, not half my age, 
whom no one but myself would even bother to notice. But 
in appearance he was distinctly good to look at. I had 
been inspecting other men's hands, feet and noses, and 
his were unusually large. I can't imagine where he could 
have bought gloves or shoes to fit. This is silly, I told 
myself, but as I gazed on him admiringly I felt hot blood 
rushing to my head, blinding my sight and reddening it 
with desire. This was madness -- sheer madness, I told 
myself, but I realized that I simply had to have this 
beautiful youth, with as I hoped, his big prick.

I tipped him the usual amount and then thinking quickly I 
asked him nervously if he would like to earn a little 
extra money as an artist's model. I thought that if he 
accepted, by dressing him as I pleased and posing him I 
could easily discover whether he really did have a big 
one, without compromising myself. 

"I'm keen for any chance to earn an honest dollar, ma'am. 
What sort of work is it, bein' a model, then?"

I explained it to him and told him I had recently taken 
up -- I started to say, sculpture, but I thought of the 
difficulty of having a block of marble delivered to my 
house and amended it to -- painting, and needed a male 
figure model to carry forward my studies outside class. 

He worked long hours for Samuelson's store, six days a 
week, but he was free Sunday afternoons after church, and 
we agreed on an hourly fee. 

After he left I put on my bonnet and ran out to buy an 
easel, a canvas, brushes, and paints. It was difficult to 
buy art supplies in San Francisco in those days and I had 
to consult a friend of a friend of mine who was a 
painter; and he gave me a dilapidated easel from his 
storeroom which could be repaired, and a palette, and 
loaned me a couple of good brushes until I could get my 
own by mail order. He told me where to go to get paints. 
We got on so well he offered to give me lessons and I 
signed up for a course of ten on Saturday afternoons. 

So I repaired the old easel -- I liked the fact that it 
looked so unmistakably used, so I would not appear to be 
an utter novice -- and I set it up in my salon, with a 
big cloth under it to protect the floor (a futile 
endeavour -- paint will get on the floor, and the walls, 
and even the chandelier, no matter what you do).

I had my first lesson on Saturday and learned how to mix 
the paint and hold the brush. And on Sunday, promptly 
after church, my model arrived.

Well! I hope you can imagine how my heart felt pounding 
in my breast as I stood there in my brand new painter's 
smock and invited him in.

I had him sit down in a chair while I made a few 
preliminary sketches of his face. I do know how to sketch 
a little, with a pencil, and I made a very bad likeness 
of his head on a large pad of paper which I would not let 
him look at. 

As I drew his head I could not help admiring what a 
handsome boy he was. He had an abundance of wavy chestnut 
hair that fell around the nape of his neck in ringlets, 
and smooth clear skin. His eyes were deep-set and steely 
blue, and he had a rugged, manly jaw. His nose, as I have 
mentioned, was a large one, but by no means 
disproportionate to his face. There was no denying the 
genuine, bewitching actuality of his beauty. I struggled 
to maintain my poise and concentrate on my drawing. 

I felt giddy and faint. I told myself that what I felt 
was surely some sort of physical attraction, nothing 
more.

Finally I calmed down enough to suggest that he might now 
go behind the Japanese screen and take his shirt off, so 
I could draw his torso.

"Is that how it's done, mum?" he asked shyly.

"Yes," I replied. 

When he came back he had taken off his outer shirt...but 
he had thick woolen underwear on beneath.

"Your woolens too," I said. "Please."

He was very reluctant about complying, but I was paying 
him well and he didn't want to displease me, being in an 
accommodating habit of compliance with the whims of the 
middle-class married women who formed Samuelson's 
clientele.

Finally he came back naked above the waist and I was in a 
positive fever when I saw him. Undressed, he was a 
perfect specimen of masculinity. My eye traced the 
delicate lines of beauty made by the gently swelling 
curves of the muscles under his smooth pink skin, and I 
could barely restrain myself from gasping in delight. His 
torso was powerful and lovely.

I posed him and went back to work sketching. Watching 
him, I kept noticing the quite large hands and long nose 
Madame Zorah had spoken of. It had to be a sure thing, I 
thought. 

Having made some preliminary sketches I started 
transferring them onto the canvas with a stick of 
charcoal. I'm glad you can't see the outline I made of 
his body -- it was appallingly crude; but I stayed with 
my art lessons and I am much better now. But that first 
attempt was a fright. It looked more like a runaway hay-
rick than a comely bare-chested boy. With the charcoal 
stick in my trembling fingers I could no more do justice 
to the way his powerful musculature bulged under smooth 
skin than I could have swum the English Channel. 

It took me an hour and he was fidgeting. 

"Let's have a short break," I suggested.

"That's all right by me, mum," he said. 

He tried to sneak a peek at the canvas and I stopped him. 

"Positively no peeking. I'm only a novice; I'm not 
confident enough yet for any criticism."

"Why, mum, I would never think of it, even if I knew what 
it was."

"It means I don't want to hear any remarks on my skills 
as a painter."

"I think it's quite marvelous that you can paint 
pictures, mum. I wouldn't know good from bad. I just 
wondered what I might look like."

"You'll have to wait, or satisfy yourself by looking in 
the mirror. 

Make yourself at home and relax for a while, and don't 
get dressed. I'm going to make tea. Are you the sort of 
boy who would go for a growler of beer?"

He looked surprised. "I never touched a drop in my life, 
mum.

I took the pledge."

"Well," I said, "Perhaps you'd have a little cordial, 
then, instead?"

"I don't know ma'm, what is it?"

"Don't they sell cordials at Samuelson's?"

"Never tried one, myself. Expensive, they is."

"Well, try it. We'll have a little cup with our tea. It's 
really not alcoholic at all, you know. Just a sweet, 
syrupy drink."

When our tea was ready I served it and with trembling 
hands I poured out a stiff little drink of brandy cordial 
for each of us. He tasted it and made an awful face -- I 
had to laugh.

"What is it, mum? I think it's gone bad."

"Oh no," I laughed. "That's just the way it tastes. But 
it's sweet, too -- try another sip, you'll see."

He took another doubtful sip. 

"It's really quite delicious when you get used to it. 
Give it a chance."

He took a bigger sip, emptying the small glass, and I 
refilled it before he could protest.

"It's hard to get used to at first but it's lovely when 
you get accustomed to it."

I took a sip of mine. It was about 30 proof brandy 
cordial, I would say, much more effective than beer would 
have been. 

We had our tea and cookies and he drained three small 
glasses of the cordial.

"Time to resume painting," I said. He was unsteady when 
he got up.

"I feel a bit dizzy, mum."

"It's the heat -- this house is so dreadfully overheated. 
Good thing you have your shirt off already. I was going 
to ask you to take your trousers off next so I can paint 
your legs -- do you mind?"

"My trousers then? But -- I mean, really, mum -- ?"

"Oh. don't be shy. It's just like a visit to the doctor, 
isn't it? I suppose you've had your trousers off in front 
of your mother before now, when she was sewing them up 
for you, or on bath night?"

"Haven't got a mother, mum," he said in a calm, factual 
tone.

"Oh, you poor, motherless boy! How ever have you gotten 
by all these years without a mother. Oh, I am so sorry!"

I swept him up in my arms and hugged him. 

"It's all right, mum," he said.

"You poor boy," I said, squeezing him to my bosom. 

"It was many years ago. I hardly knew her, really. It was 
when my youngest sister came."

"And your poor father..."

"He isn't with us, now, mum."

"Oh, god have mercy! Your father passed on too?" 

"No, mum. He had to go away. He'll came back when he can, 
I expect."

I suspected that this meant that either the father had 
gone to prison or else he had run off to avoid going to 
prison. I couldn't think what else it might mean, but I 
couldn't ask, obviously.

"So you're all alone with your sisters? Who minds you?"

"Why, I do, mum. I'm the man of the house, now, until 
father gets back."

The man of the house! He was all of 17, at most, and 
maybe less. But doubtless there were (and are) households 
in San Francisco where even younger boys and girls were 
head of the house.

I finally got him to go behind the screen and take his 
trousers off. He had long woolens on underneath, just as 
with the shirt, and I had the devil of a time persuading 
him they had to come off. He went back behind the 
Japanese screen to disrobe, and he was too shy to come 
out for a while; but I finally persuaded him, with a 
soft, gentle voice.

My explanation that it was after all no different than a 
visit to the doctor fell flat because he never went to 
doctors. When he got sick he stayed in bed and his 
sisters nursed him; they couldn't afford a visit to a 
doctor's office -- that was for the rich folk like me, 
apparently, although I thought of myself as living on a 
shoestring in quite straitened circumstances because I 
could only afford one servant.

When I finally coaxed the blushing boy out from behind 
the screen (I had to threaten to come back there and 
fetch him out myself if he wouldn't come) I expected to 
find him naked but I discovered that under the woolens he 
had yet another layer of underwear. With the woolens 
removed he was now wearing a dingy pair of linen drawers 
which had once been white (in some antediluvian epoch) 
covering him down to mid-thigh. I looked closely but I 
couldn't be sure whether there was a bulge in his 
drawers, the way he was covering himself with his hands.

After staring shamelessly at his drawers for a prolonged 
moment I got up the nerve to order him to take them off.

"Off with those, now", I commanded.

"But mum!" He held his hands in front of his drawers like 
a blushing girl.

"Off, now! Haven't you ever seen the paintings in the 
museum? The models are always naked, you know."

He had never been to a museum. 

I made a mental note to dress him up and take him to the 
museum sometime and then I realized that if another woman 
saw me with him, and noted the long nose and the big 
hands, the game would be up, if she knew the secret the 
gypsy had told me. Everyone knew my husband was gone. And 
this boy was a good-looking fellow. You wouldn't have to 
be Sherlock Holmes to suspect that I had taken a mad 
fancy to him.

"They really are naked, you know," I said. "Haven't you 
ever seen paintings? Surely some of the houses you 
deliver to must have paintings on the wall?"

"Nothing like that, mum. Just religious pictures, and 
waterfalls, and dead relatives -- with all their clothes 
on. I never saw one like you say."

"You deliver to the Mortensons, don't you? Haven't you 
ever noticed that painting in their drawing room? With 
the pink naked nymphs?"

"I never went into the drawing room, mum. I take the 
groceries to the back entrance where the kitchen is. I've 
never been any farther inside than the kitchen."

A thought occurred to me.

"That cook of theirs never tried to kiss you, did she?"

"Why, no, mum, never." He was mildly scandalized.

"Well, she had better not," I said. I had heard stories 
about the Mortensons' Katie from my own cook. Katie was a 
young red-headed Irishwoman with a figure like Lillian 
Russell's, and she was said to be quite friendly with the 
iceman, and not with him only either.

"Here," I said. I strode to the bookcase and took down a 
large book of Renaissance and Baroque paintings, 
reproduced in photo-lithographic plates, and we sat down 
on the settee and I started showing him the reproductions 
of great European paintings of the last few hundred 
years.

"There," I said, pointing to the Naked Maja. He blushed. 
"And there -- " that was Rembrandt's Bathsheba. Next came 
Andromeda chained to the rocks, and a delightful "Susanna 
and the Elders". He was turning red, but his eyes were 
riveted to the page in fascination.

"And there -- " I turned the page to Michelangelo's 
David. His face turned scarlet at the sight of the lovely 
naked boy whom the divine Michelangelo had immortalized 
in stone. 

"But, mum!" He whispered, scandalized. "You can see his, 
his..."

"And why shouldn't you? It's just as nature made him, 
isn't it? What do you suppose we wore when we lived in 
caves, then?"

"I never lived in a cave, mum."

"No, silly, I mean what do you suppose men wore in the 
old days before clothes were invented?"

"I never thought on it."

"They went as God made them, of course. Have you never 
read in the book that God made man in his own image?"

"Can't read much more'n my own name, mum. But I heard the 
preacher say that on a Sunday meeting, yes."

"And if God made man in his own image nothing about man's 
form could be ugly or wicked, could it?"

"I don't know. I suppose it might seem that way. But why 
did Adam and Eve put on clothes then?"

"Because their bodies were so beautiful, they did not 
want the animals in the garden to see them and be jealous 
that they were the only creatures made in God's 
likeness".

"I imagine it must have been just as you say, mum."

His breathing was heavy and his eyes sparkled -- the 
brandy cordial had done its work and he was a little 
tipsy. His face was flushed.

I turned the pages in the book until I found a picture of 
the Venus de Milo. 

"There," I said. "Don't you think she's beautiful?"

He blushed and turned his head aside.

"Go ahead, look at her. She's only a statue -- only a 
photo-lithograph of a statue -- and she won't bite."

He looked. He seemed to be thinking about something, from 
the expression on his face. Finally he came out with it.

"Mum, if God made Adam in his own likeness...whose 
likeness did he make the woman in?" He pointed to the 
Venus de Milo.

I felt almost devilish enough to say "why, Satan's, of 
course", but I didn't.

I thought about this theological puzzler for a few 
moments.

"Why, God only made Adam for practice, you know," I said 
modestly. 

"Then he made woman."

"I think you must be right, mum." He was looking at the 
picture with undisguised fascination.

"So you can see that we poor artists would not be able to 
copy the beauty of nature if we did not have models to 
copy from. And you are assisting me by being my model 
today. I cannot create anything as beautiful as the works 
you see reproduced in this volume, myself; I am only a 
humble student. But I must study my craft and perhaps 
someday I will be able to paint something a little bit 
beautiful, in its own way. Until then I must practice 
diligently and do the best I can. What do you say then? 
Are you willing to assist me by being my model? I'm quite 
helpless without one."

"I want to help you, mum," he said, "but I never..."

"Oh, it will be alright. Just go behind that screen, 
right this moment, and close your eyes and peel those 
drawers down quick as a wink, and don't think on it. I'll 
count to ten. Go on with you now!"

I lifted him up by the arm and propelled him behind the 
screen.

At the count of ten he came out from behind the screen. 

He was buck naked. Naked as a jaybird, and blushing pink 
from his face down to his navel. 

He was covering his privates with his hands. I stepped up 
to him and tugged his arms away, then looked down at him.

Well. Goodness gracious. There it was. It was immense! 

I swear, I am telling the truth when I say that it was 
just exactly like the proverbial baby's arm holding an 
apple. 

It was as if he had a stunted third leg growing between 
the other two.

The gypsy had been right!

She had said that a man with a long nose and big hands 
would be guaranteed to have a great big one, and here was 
the proof. 

My breath caught in my throat and my nerves tingled with 
excitement. I felt my heart pounding. 

He was as big as...no, bigger than, my first husband. It 
was the biggest I had ever seen, excepting horses, and a 
small horse wouldn't have been much ashamed of it.

Out of all the boys in San Francisco, Samuelson's 
grocer's boy must have had the largest prick of any boy 
in town. 

"Look at yourself," I said.

"I can't, ma'am, I swear I can't". He had his eyes 
screwed tight shut.

"Open your eyes and look at yourself," I said. "That is 
an order!"

He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked. His blush 
turned an even darker red and his eyes darted about 
trying to escape the sight of his own naked flesh.

"You are naked," I said. "Utterly, stark naked, from head 
to foot."

"Yes, mum!" he gasped in an agonized groan.

"You are beautiful, every inch of you. You are very 
handsome. Your body is magnificent."

The wincing expression on his face softened.

"You don't think it's disgusting, mum?"

"No, I think it is the most beautiful thing -- a wonder 
of nature."

"It's just my nyoodity, mum."

"I know. You are just about the nudest young man I have 
ever seen, too. I can see that I will not be able to do 
you justice. I won't be able to paint you. I am only a 
student -- you should be painted by a real painter, not a 
clumsy dauber like me. Let me make some sketches of you, 
now, and I will show my painting instructor -- perhaps 
he'll paint you for me if I offer him the commission."

"Paint me naked, mum?"

"How else?"

"But I thought it was just going to be you, mum. I 
wouldn't go like this for a stranger I didn't know."

"Well, we'll consider that. Perhaps we can build up to it 
gradually.

I'll paint you today so you can get used to posing."

"Yes, mum."

"But first, come here -- I want to show you something."

Perhaps I shouldn't have pointed this out to him, but I 
couldn't resist.

I opened the art book to the reproduction of 
Michelangelo's "David" and pointed my finger to his naked 
torso. 

"Look at yourself in the mirror, over there. Get a good 
look! Now look at this statue of King David. Do you see 
the difference?"

"He's a deal more handsome 'n me."

"Bosh. I'd take you any day. Notice anything else?"

"Why is his thing so small?"

"It's not small, you see. It's you who are so big."

"But mum, his looks like a baby's thing, almost."

"And yours is almost five times that size -- easily! But 
King David is just as big as my former husband, and 
that's about the size of a normal, average man, I am 
told. Yours is immense compared to that one n the statue, 
isn't it? Immense! Positively huge! Do you know the 
expression they use? Here, I'll whisper it in your ear --
"

I whispered softly in his ear: "You're what they 
call...well-hung!"

"That's what they call it," I said, blushing and 
giggling.

"Well-hung?" he said in a soft voice. "Why do they call 
it that?"

"No one knows. Here," I said, "let me see something -- 
you don't mind this do you?"

I cradled his big balls and long penis in my hands and 
weighed them.

"It must be two pounds at least," I said, judging the 
weight and hefting his manhood in my soft little hands. 
"Half as big as a newborn baby!" (Which is what this lad 
will be giving me if I'm not careful, I told myself).

Not one man in a thousand was as big as my first husband 
had been, I learned when my doctor consulted a 
gynaecologist on the matter. At first I doubted this but 
discreet research into the question has satisfied me on 
this score -- my first husband had just been beginner's 
luck. And it is quite possible that if I had never 
married him I would never have been so stretched out by 
his big phallus that a normal-sized one would not satisfy 
me ever afterwards. It is quite possible that Harry would 
have satisfied me fully if his predecessor in my spousal 
bed hadn't gotten me all stretched out and accustomed to 
accommodating his greater size.

This lucky youth was even more well-favored by Mother 
Nature than my first husband had been. In fact, I had 
some fear that if it ever came to the ultimate test he 
might be too big for me. 

He stood naked and bashful before me, his long heavy yard 
fully exposed to my inspection. My mouth went dry.

"I feel a bit parched," I said. "Would you like something 
to drink?"

"I'm quite warm mum -- yes."

I think both of us were a little dizzy. I poured a stiff 
brandy cordial for each of us, gulped it down and poured 
another. I refilled his glass too. 

"Let's sit down on the settee for a moment," I said. "Has 
anyone ever remarked..I mean, do you know?"

"Remarked what, mum?"

"On your...oh, skip it. Have you ever had a sweetheart?"

"No, mum."

"No special female friend? Are you quite certain?"

"Yes, mum."

"Ever kiss a girl?"

"No, mum."

"Really? Never been kissed?"

"No, mum."

"Well, then, close your eyes. I have a surprise for you."

He shut his eyes tight and I leaned over and planted a 
quick soft kiss on his lips, for a thrilling moment. I 
was half-drunk with the brandy.

"There, now. Open your eyes. Can you guess?"

"That was you, mum."

"Yes. Did you like it?"

"Yes, mum."

"I mean...did you really?"

"Yes, mum."

"Now you surprise me." I shut my eyes.

"What should I do?" he asked.

"It's a game, silly. Now it's your turn."

I kept my eyes wide shut.

He hesitated and then leaned over and planted a quick 
peck on my lips.

"Again," I said.

When he leaned over to kiss me again I put my arms around 
his neck and pulled him to me to prolong his kiss, before 
he could pull away. I gave him a long, luxurious kiss. He 
didn't know how to kiss and wouldn't open his mouth. I 
planted my lips against his gently and held him there as 
I felt his soft quivering mouth against my eager lips.

He trembled in my arms. 

I pushed him over playfully and he tumbled onto the floor 
and I fell on top of him, laughing. We rolled on the 
floor and I landed on top of his naked body. I could tell 
he was even more tipsy than I was -- the drinks were 
affecting him.

"Now it's my turn," I said. "Close your eyes and open 
your mouth."

He closed his eyes and I kissed him. This time I put my 
tongue in his mouth. I taught him how to French kiss in a 
single lesson.

"Put your arms around me and squeeze me tight," I said.

He did it. 

"Now kiss me again."

We kissed and as my hungry mouth melted into his I felt 
his naked torso with my fingers. I traced the muscles in 
his chest, and then my soft, circling fingertips went 
lower and lower on his abdomen, and lower, until I 
brushed his big prick with my fingers. I stroked the long 
shaft softly and he gradually grew hard under my touch.

"What's this now," I said. "Your thing! It's getting 
bigger! Now why is it doing that, do you suppose."

"I don't know, mum, it just does, sometimes."

"How big does it get?" I asked, feigning mock 
astonishment.

"I don't know, mum."

"Bigger than this?" He was already the size of an 
Imperial Valley cucumber in August.

"Yes," he said.

"Does it get bigger when I touch it like this?" I stroked 
his penis and I could feel it stretching longer in my 
hands with every stroke.

"Yes," he said.

"My, look how big it is getting! What a whopper to be 
sure! Just look at it!"

He couldn't look. He had his eyes squeezed tight shut as 
though he was in pain. His prick kept getting bigger 
though.

"Oh, just look at it getting bigger," I cooed in a sing-
song voice.

"You're simply huge!"

It was growing by the inch right in my hand. Growing 
like...I don't know what. I can't think of a comparison. 
Nothing grows like a man's prick when it is going from 
flaccid softness to stiff erection like that in a matter 
of seconds. It uncoiled like a firehose, and erected 
itself like a fireman's ladder. And there was a fire 
burning, inside me, that needed to be put out right away.

"I know what will make it the biggest of all," I said. 
"But it's a very secret thing. Will you swear by all that 
is holy that you will never, ever tell anyone this 
secret?"

"Oh, mum," he groaned. "Oh, please, mum!" I decided to 
take that as a yes -- he sounded like he was asking to be 
released from the rack.

"Close your eyes very, very tight, and keep them closed 
no matter what.

I am going to give you another surprise."

And I did. I opened my mouth wide -- very wide -- so wide 
it hurt, as a matter of fact; and then I lowered my lips 
onto the shaft of his penis and sucked him.

He groaned.

My first husband taught me the art of fellatio. I did it 
a lot with my second husband -- he liked it more than he 
liked screwing my loose pussy, so sometimes he could only 
come in my mouth.

How I got the grocer's boy's huge dick into my mouth I'll 
never know. In my yoga class I have learned that with the 
proper training and preparation the human body is capable 
of amazing contortions. I have been told that I have a 
sweet little rosebud of a mouth so how I stretched it 
wide enough to encircle his massive engine with my lips I 
do not know.

My second husband was not too long down there so I had 
been able to take him all the way into my mouth -- which 
he enjoyed, by the way. I could not take more than the 
first couple inches of the grocer's boy's big phallus 
into my mouth. His massive head got wedged between my 
cheeks and would go no further. I suppose I looked like a 
chipmunk hoarding nuts for the winter -- paint that!

I smelled the manly, musky, erotic smell of his strong 
male flesh as I sucked on the head of his penis and 
licked my tongue down the powerful stiff shaft. It was 
like ambrosia -- I had not had a man with me in over a 
year! And this was more cock than either of my husbands 
had had, even the big one.

I felt his long staff go perfectly rigid in my mouth. It 
was like a rod of iron covered with a soft velvet skin. I 
sucked and licked his mighty engine, holding the thick 
club in my hands and cradling his massive testicles in my 
fingers as I fellated him. 

After a few minutes of sucking he started to come off in 
my mouth. I felt his ball-sack grow tight, and his staff 
throbbed and grew even thicker so that I nearly choked on 
it, and then it started to throb convulsively and a river 
of his thick semen burst into my mouth.

I swallowed and swallowed as he discharged into my mouth 
and so much came and kept on coming that I choked and 
spluttered. I pulled my mouth away so I could swallow and 
breathe as he kept gushing, into my hair and face and 
onto my carpet. 

There was semen on my hands, on my dress, in my hair, in 
my eyes, dripping down my cheeks, and a pool of it 
puddling on my best Persian rug.

He collapsed onto the settee in what looked almost like a 
faint. In fact I suspect he did faint.

I lay back on my carpet to catch my breath and wonder how 
the devil I was ever going to get the stains out. 

"Goodness gracious," I whispered.

He stirred on the settee.

"Oh ma'am," he said. "That was wonderful! I must have 
died and gone to heaven."

"Did you like it, then?"

"Like it? I'll say! I've never felt anything like it. You 
must be an angel, ma'am -- don't lie and say you aren't."

"I won't deny it then," I said, wiping a drop of sperm 
from the corner of my mouth in a ladylike manner.

"Can we do that again?"

"We certainly can. But not right away. First we must 
restore your strength."

His poor penis had wilted down to a mere six inches or 
so. He was bigger soft than my last husband had been 
hard.

I busied myself with the tea things and served him tea 
and biscuits, with a little cold sausage.

I teased him with promises that it was going to be even 
better when he got his strength back.

"Nothing could be better than that, ma'am."

"There's one thing that is. I'll prove it to you. Are you 
feeling stronger now? Good. Come with me to my bedroom."

He followed me as meekly as a lamb to my bedchamber. I 
turned down the gas mantle to a soft glow. 

He stood there naked as a jaybird, awkwardly shifting 
from one foot to the other, as I started to remove my 
things. He licked his dry lips nervously as my crinolines 
came off. 

"Could you unlace my corset strings for me, please? 
That's a good young man."

His fingers fumbled at the strings behind me. You'd have 
thought he'd never unlaced a lady's corset before. 
Perhaps he hadn't.

"Turn your back now," I said once the corset was lying at 
our feet. I had nothing left on but a thin chemise which 
clung to me so tightly he could almost see through it.

I slipped into bed and burrowed under the heavy covers. I 
wriggled out of my chemise and tossed it out of the bed. 
I was naked, now.

"Turn off the gas," I whispered. "Then get into bed with 
me."

He doused the light and the room was pitch black in an 
instant. He stumbled making his way across the room to my 
bed. Then the bedsprings creaked as he climbed onto the 
bed and got under the covers with me.

"Come here," I said.

He was clean but his naked body had a faint smell that 
was all male, sweaty and leathery.

I found his bare body on the other side of the bed and 
snuggled into it as he clasped me to him warmly. I 
pressed my bare breasts against his smooth chest, feeling 
his muscles ripple against the sensitive skin around my 
nipples as they pressed into him.

"Ummm," I sighed happily.

He was about a foot taller than I was and I felt like a 
child pressing against his big strong body as he cuddled 
me.

I heard him gasp softly as I pressed my soft nakedness 
into him. My thighs rubbed against his legs and he must 
have felt the heat of my pussy where it touched his 
thigh. 

I wrapped my arms around his head and pulled him into my 
lips for a kiss.

His kissing was awkward at first, but I gave him a 
lesson. I was so eager my lips trembled against his.

I reached down and found one of his hands and placed it 
on my breast. The nipple hardened against his palm as he 
cupped it.

"Oh, ma'am, you're so beautiful."

I pulled his head down into my bosom. "Suck them," I 
whispered. Soon his lips found my nipple and began to 
suck. Gently at first, then with a fierce urgency. The 
tip of my breast was as stiff as a tent peg inside his 
mouth.

I stretched one hand down and reached between his legs to 
feel his manhood. He was hard again, already, although it 
was not twenty minutes since he had shot an enormous load 
of semen into my mouth.

His penis throbbed under my touch and beat against my 
thigh urgently, like a metronome.

I felt between my thighs. My pussy was wet and sticky. I 
stuck a couple of fingers into my hole and it was wide 
open. I was ready.

"Are you ready too?" I whispered.

"Yes," he gasped. "What must I do?"

"Lie on top of me, and raise your body up on your arms so 
that your weight is not resting on me."

He did so, clumsily.

"You can rest your weight on your elbows if that is 
easier for you."

He did it.

"Now, kiss me while I arrange you."

He was able to kiss me, and while we we kissing I spread 
my legs wide under him. Then I reached for his penis and 
tried to maneuver it into position. 

"Scoot down a little."

His prick was so long it came up over my belly and I had 
to move him down about six inches on the bed to make room 
for it between my legs.

"There, that's good."

I was able now to make the tip of his penis meet the lips 
of my vagina. 

The head of his cock was the size of a small apple and I 
could barely grasp my little hand around the thick shaft 
just under it. His prick was as stiff as a steel spring 
and it was hard to get it into position. As I tried to 
pull it down into my pussy it kept trying to spring back 
up against his taut belly where he hovered above me.

At last I was able to stroke the hard chiseled tip of his 
penis up and down the length of my wet pussy lips, 
lubricating him.

I cocked my pussy up at him and pressed the tip of his 
cock down into my hole.

"Now, push it in! Inside me!"

With a grunt he thrust his powerful loins forward, 
impaling me with the stiff tip of his rod. I gasped. 

"More," I whispered. He was in about an inch, maybe.

He thrust, pulled back, thrust again.

And again. And again! I moaned in joy. He was big and he 
hurt, but it was a good hurt.

I felt the big head of his cock rubbing the sheath of my 
vagina as he pulled back and slid it in again. I stifled 
a moan. It was pain and ecstasy mingled as he opened me. 

His prick was as hard as a wooden stake. I was truly 
impaled on him; several inches of it were inside me and 
several more were still outside.

"More," I whispered.

"Am I hurting you?"

"The pleasure you are giving me is so sweet it hurts. Go 
on -- the pain of entering will subside, and the pleasure 
of having you inside me will increase."

"But why do you cry out so?"

"Those are cries of happiness. Before we are done you 
will be feeling even greater pleasure than you did 
before, and I swear to you, however great your pleasure 
is, mine shall be twice as great as yours."

"Surely that is not even possible."

"It is, though. Thrust in now, gently but firmly. Go in 
deeper."

He did. With a slow and steady rhythm he thrust in and 
out, deeper on each thrust, until I was going out of my 
mind.

"Oh, god!" I gasped. "Don't stop!"

I wondered if my vagina could possibly be big enough to 
accommodate him.

Deeper he went, on each successive push, until at last he 
thrust in to the hilt and was fully inside me! I found to 
my amazement that, long as he was, he had gotten the 
whole thing inside, and now his leathery balls were 
bouncing on my bottom as he thrust in and out.

"Hoooo!" I wheezed like the cry of a mourning dove as the 
breath was forced out of me by his powerful thrusting.

"That as far in as I can go," he apologized.

"That's quite all right!" I gasped. "Any more and you'd 
kill me for sure."

"Shall I just keep going in and out like this, then?"

"I suppose you should. What would you do if I told you to 
stop?"

"I think I'd rather regret doing that, this feels so 
nice. Unless there's something even better we can do."

"I guess I'll just have to let you continue doing this, 
then, seeing as I don't know of anything better. Do you 
think you might be able to continue going in and out like 
that for at least another five minutes?"

"Oh, I could do this all day."

"Hmmph! So you say. We'll see about that."

Then we grew very quiet as each of us withdrew to our own 
private reflections.

In and out his penis slid. I was completely filled, 
stuffed as if I had just consumed an enormous meal.

My body was electrified with each thrust. My toes started 
to curl back of their own accord. I noticed, as if from a 
great distance, that my hips were rising to meet each 
thrust, and little mewing sounds were issuing from my 
throat. I heard my own voice saying softly "oh..., 
oh...., oh...," as his powerful thrusts filled me again 
and again and my throbbing little vagina felt as if it 
would burst!

A wave of intensely pleasant heat passed through me, 
slowly flowing from my scalp to the tips of my toes. And 
then a second wave flowed through me, even stronger. My 
back arched. A cry began to issue from my throat and 
wailed on and on as pleasure mounted inside me and I felt 
a warm blinding heat explode in my vagina and fill me 
with white light. I felt as if I was floating on air, 
exploding, my body dissipating into nothingness...

"Why are you crying," I heard a nearby voice say.

"I'm so happy," I said.

Actually it was beyond mere happiness, it was nirvana.

Somewhere down on the earthly plateau something warm was 
gushing like a firehose inside me, throbbing with each 
spewing jet. I pondered this strange phenomenon for a 
while and decided that he must be having his orgasm, too. 

When I came back to the world he had gone limp and pulled 
out of me. Of course I hadn't taken any precautions, so I 
might have a baby, but I didn't care. Actually at that 
moment a baby seemed like the only thing I lacked in the 
world, so it wasn't an unpleasant thought. I decided to 
trust in providence.

"Was that all right?" He asked in a concerned voice. "Did 
I hurt you?"

"No, you silly boy. Remember what I told you? Whatever 
you felt right now, when you came inside me -- I felt it 
ten times as strong. It was almost more than I could 
bear!"

"It was like nothing I've ever felt. You were right, it 
felt even better than what we did before. I can't wait to 
do it again!"

"Neither can I," I said. I picked up his big soft penis 
and gave it a squeeze. "Silly boy. How soon can you be 
ready?"

He was ready again in ten minutes.

I think you can imagine the rest for yourselves. And 
that, ladies, seems as good a point as any to conclude my 
tale. 

Questions?

--

Jenny Wanshel
October 3, 2003

[The author regrets that she does not have an email 
contact address at the present time; but comments posted 
to alt.sex.stories.d will be seen.]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 25
