Okay, folks, here's my contribution to the ever-growing world of big dick lit. It's a bit of a slow burner, so bear with me, and inspired by...well, a whole bunch of stories across a bunch of different sites. I'm a stickler for details, but I figure I might as well post what I've got, even if it isn't perfect, otherwise I'll never get around to it. Thoughts and comments welcomed!
Chapter 1
“Fuck me.”
Sighing mightily, my shoulders sinking in defeat, I searched and struggled to find a silver lining to my current situation. As if the mere fact that it was a Monday wasn’t grueling enough, I now found myself standing before the closed door of an apartment unit. The wrong side of a locked apartment door, the key for which lay conveniently on the other side. Dropping my forehead against the wood with a heavy thump, I cursed beneath my breath again. Almost as if in response, my stomach rumbled with a hungry growl.
This particular Monday had been one for the record books. Beginning with disconcerting comfort of waking at my own pace and not to the typical jarring jangle of my cell phone alarm, I lay in my bed, momentarily enjoying the rare night of a full eight hours of sleep, before suddenly realizing with a lightning flash of dread that I’d overslept. Snatching my phone from my nightstand, I traced the power cord back to its source and found it lying limply on the floor, having come loose from the electrical outlet sometime in the night. Disheveled and panting, I sprinted into work twenty minutes later—and an hour late. Under my manager’s stern gaze, I sank into my desk chair and quickly took refuge within my inbox full of emails. By noon I’d managed to compliment this feat of incompetence by spilling coffee on my shirt, discovered I’d left my wallet at home come lunchtime, and been reminded by same said manager that my project deadline had come and gone and that I’d need work late to make up for it.
By the time 9:00pm rolled around, hungry, tired, and ready to throw in the towel. I stumbled up the steps of my apartment building, trudged inside, and collapsed on my couch. I was in the middle of debating between ordering a pepperoni pizza or meatball sub when I recalled that Tuesday was trash day. Groaning, I hefted my slouching form off the couch and headed for the dumpsters behind my building. The first cold rain of the ensuing autumn began to fall on my walk back and, hurrying back inside, I took the steps two at a time, reached for the doorknob of apartment 2A—and found the door resolutely locked.
Way to go, Mark, you really know how to put icing on a shit cake of a day, I thought grimly. Back against the door, I sank to my haunches and buried my head in my hands. What else could this day possibly throw at me? Suddenly, from the lobby below, I heard the front door open and one of my neighbors enter and begin to climb the stairs. I quickly stood, trying to at least appear to have some shred of dignity left, and pretended to be fishing my keys from the depths of my pockets as a familiar face appeared on the stairs, rounding the landing below.
“Evening,” the man said, nodding. I nodded back, offering a weak smile. I recognized him vaguely as the guy who lived somewhere on the floors above. In the two and half years since I’d moved into my apartment, I’d seen him a sum total of maybe three times and always in passing. He’d told me his name once (Roger?) when I’d first moved in, but evidently our schedules had differed wildly ever since, as I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen him.
“Evening,” I echoed back, praying he’d move on quickly. It turns out that you can only fish around in your pockets for an imaginary set of keys for maybe five seconds before it starts to look odd. With my back to him, I listened as he rounded the landing and was halfway up the next flight of steps.
“Everything okay?” he said, footsteps drawing short.
“What? Oh, yeah I just, uh…” I searched for a believable excuse, came up short. “I sort of locked myself out of my apartment.”
“Oh that sucks. Is someone on the way with a spare?” I did my best to not look completely helpless as I sheepishly admitted I’d also locked my phone inside. “No worries, man. You can use mine. Come on up.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s fine. I’ll just—”
“Wait until the door magically unlocks itself? Don’t be ridiculous,” he chuckled. He raised a plastic bag overladen with takeout containers that I had noticed before. “You can help me eat all this Chinese while we wait. They always give me way more lo mein than I can handle.”
I considered him and his offer again. He vaguely resembled an actor I’d seen on TV once, though I couldn’t quite place who, and was distinctly handsome in a bookish way. With his clean-pressed khakis, starched button up, and brightly patterned tie, I pegged him as an accountant or academic or some sort. His dark hair was smartly coiffed and even at my distance I could smell the menthol aroma of his clean-shaven face. And despite being deep wells of dark blue, his eyes radiated an inviting warmth not dissimilar to his bright, captivating smile. The sort of grin, it turns out, I’d fall for instantly.
“I do have a soft spot for lo mein,” I admitted.
“I’m Owen,” he said, extending his free hand. I closed the distance between us, returning the gesture. “It’s Mark, right? I think we met a couple years back when you moved in.”
I caught the slightest trace of a lilt in his voice, suggesting an accent from a place I couldn’t quite pinpoint but which was decidedly not Midwestern. Without waiting for my reply, he jerked his head as if to say “Follow me!” and continued up the stairs. I followed in step behind him, both impressed and a surprised that he’d remembered who I was—and slightly guilty that I’d forgotten his name. As it turned out, he lived in the apartment directly above mine. It was very nearly a mirror image of my own apartment, albeit more expensively decorated. The couch was even positioned the same as mine. Owen led me into the kitchen, deposited the takeout on the counter, and handed me his phone.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, peeling off his jacket. As I waited for the building super to answer my call, he pulled a couple of plates from the cabinet and and began dishing out Kung Pow chicken, egg rolls, and heaping piles of lo mein. My stomach growled again at the sight of it. “So what’s the verdict?” he asked as I handed his phone back to him.
“He’s out of town until tomorrow. He’ll be by first thing in the morning.”
“Oh no. Do you have some place to stay tonight? You can totally crash on my sofa.”
I shrugged. “I’ll probably just sleep in my car.”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “That won’t do.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Ain’t happening,” he said simply, a shadow of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “You’re stomach has been growling loud enough for me to hear ever since you walked in and you look like you’ve been through the ringer today. So you’re going to grab us a couple of beers from the fridge, help me eat all this Chinese food before it goes cold, and then I’m going to make up the sofa and you’re going to stay here tonight.”
Without another word, Owen picked up both plates of food and disappeared into the living room, his words hanging in the air with a ringing finality. Still relatively speechless, I nevertheless grabbed two bottles of Budweiser from his refrigerator and stalked into the living room, finding him settled on the sofa and kicking off his shoes. He gestured to the empty spot beside him and I settled onto it somewhat apprehensively. He was the most confident, the most gregarious, or the most presumptuous person I’d met in a long time, or perhaps all of the above in equal measure. And yet I found something intrinsically trustworthy about him. The phrase “the kindness of strangers” surfaced somewhere in the back of my mind, but I pushed it away. As we ate, Owen peppered me with questions and offered up answers of his own whenever I directed them back to him. In just twenty minutes, I’d learned he was thirty-nine to my twenty-nine, worked in insurance, had never been married, and was the only son of a Welsh father and Canadian mother. He preferred running to weightlifting, was allergic to cats, and had broken his arm in three places when he was in the fourth grade.
“So why’d you move to Cincinnati if all of your family lives in Cleveland?” he asked as we approached midnight. Between the two of us, there were already several empty beer bottles on the coffee table and as I took the last swig of my second beer, considering my answer, he yawned and readjusted himself, absentmindedly reaching for his crotch. Instinctively, my gaze followed his hand…
I nearly choked at what I saw.
What greeted me was a bulge the likes of which I’d never seen. As Owen turned to face me more directly, the material of his pants was pulled tightly across his package, instantly accentuating its size and heft. The first thing I noticed was the sheer length of it. His dick easily stretched to the halfway point of his thigh and looked to be as long, if not longer, than my own cock was hard. Hell, longer than any hard cock at least in regards to every dick I had ever seen in person. Owen’s hand rested idly on the inside of his thigh beside it and in a flash I realized that his dick was in fact longer than his own hand even. And the thickness! Had there ever been so heavy and meaty a bulge witnessed before? Not by me, that was for sure. As if the fact that his slab of man-meat was longer than his hand wasn’t breathtaking enough, it was readily evident that the donkey dick between his legs was as thick as his wrist too. Genuinely beer bottle thick, I thought, as he rested the amber bottle between his thighs, drawing my eyes in further. It was the kind of bulge that would stop you dread in your tracks had you seen it as a passerby, protruding so discernibly it advertised only one unmistakable truth: Owen was hung like a goddamn stallion. And maybe it was just a trick of the light in the dimness of apartment, but I swear I could almost see the whole thing twitch and swell some.
“S-School,” I stammered, dragging myself back to the present. What had been his question? Did it even matter? The answer, any answer, all answers could be summed up by that huge bulge mere feet from me. That thick slab of dick was the answer, was the only thing that mattered. The sight of it had obliterated all other thoughts from my mind. For the first time in my life, I was literally dumbstruck by the sight of a penis—and I hadn’t even technically seen it. Only the suggestion of it.
Owen shifted again, propping one elbow up on the back of the couch, and resting his head in his hand. It was an infinitely endearing look, suggesting I had his full attention. As he did, he folded one leg into the couch, his crotch opening wider still and drawing the material of his khakis across that incredible bulge tighter still. If my own cock hadn’t already been rock solid, it would have been then. As it was, my dick was straining painfully within my underwear, having rocketed to a full-blown erection in under ten seconds. Another influx of blood pushed into my prick, making it harder still, as a new protrusion joined his bulge: the rounded edge of one very large testicle, rolling forward and pressing against his khakis.
“What was your major?” Owen asked.
“English,” I said breathlessly.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Is everything okay?”
In the last minute, my world had been turned topsy-turvy by the sight of Owen’s engorged endowment. So no, nothing would ever have a chance of even half resembling okay again unless that huge, meaty prick was in my life. These are the things I wanted to say, that I was screaming internally. But instead, when I finally opened my mouth to speak, all that tumbled out was: “I’m sorry, you’ve been really cool and all sharing your dinner with me and letting me crash here, and I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, but what the fuck is that?”
For a moment Owen looked genuinely perplexed. Then he followed my gaze, looking down at his own crotch, his mouth dropping open and uttering a simple, surprised, and innocent, “Oh”. The color rose in his cheeks as it drained from the rest of his face. “I’m so sorry,” he said. He began fumbling with his khakis, trying in vain to readjust his pants leg to conceal the heaving bulge that would not, could not, be concealed. “This happens sometimes when I—if I’m not paying attention.”
He looked like someone who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, or more aptly, someone with their hand down their pants. Guilt suddenly washed over me as I watched the kindness of my benefactor for the evening melt away and sheepishly do his best to hide his prodigious bulge.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I said quickly. “It just caught me off guard is all. I’ve just never seen one so big before. But you don’t have anything to be sorry about. Hell, if anything you should be proud of that thing! Most guys would kill to sport even something half that size. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. That was rude of me.”
He was staring straight ahead now, avoiding my gaze. We lapsed into silence. Great job, you dumb fuck, now you’ve really done it, the voice in the back of my head said. Leave it to you to stumble across the biggest dick in the tri-state and fuck it up. He’s probably not even gay. Just some nice, straight loner who was trying to do his good deed for the day. I had just begun hatching a plan of collecting my shoes from beneath the coffee table and starting for the door to let myself out, when I heard the soft timbre of his voice beside me.
“Do you want to see it?”
