Surprise (18 page)

After work I went to the gym. I thought this type of disciplined activity would help me maintain my wholesome, whack-free lifestyle. The problem was, as I ran on the treadmill, my still-swollen penis bobbed up and down. I tried the elliptical machine. My penis rubbed against my thigh. So, I returned home more aware than ever of my masturbation injury.

I got into the shower. Like every other time I'd gotten in contact with my penis that day, I looked it over to see how it was doing. The redness was almost gone. What wasn't gone was the swelling. In fact, my penis was bigger than it had been that morning. Unnerving, but not unpleasant. The next day it was bigger still. In fact, my penis grew steadily over several days in both length and girth until it rose from the status of a regular penis to that of a great big, manly cock. No pain, just enormity.

I did some internet research on penis size and found I was far above average. Even the porn stars, those beefy men who had previously made me question my manhood, paled in comparison to what I now housed in my pants. Slowly, over the next couple of weeks, my concern faded while my cock continued to grow. I switched from briefs to roomy boxers. As I walked, I felt my mammoth rod bounce gently against my thigh, a subtle reminder of my masculinity.

Now, things began to change. For the first time in my life I used the communal showers at the gym. Whereas I once always used a stall, I now unzipped proudly at the urinal. And you can bet I lifted my self-imposed masturbation moratorium. I had to check out my huge cock in action, and once I did, it seemed a waste to keep the magnificent beast chained up. I wouldn't have admitted it then, but now I'm secure enough to say that the sight of it erect turned me on.

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 B
ENGAY
.”

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.

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

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.