- paul,
A couple of years ago, I had a student named Alex. VERY handsome, slender, dark (italian), early dark beard for a kid, black eyes, some shiney chest hair coming over the top of his t -shirt. Incredibly beautiful sleek hairy arms. Brilliantly smart, hyperactive, fasttalking. Eyes constantly darting.
We were friends - a drink once in a while. We talked about girls and boys he was into, little affairs he had with both, a little about sex, some sweet questions. He dresses well, always tight clothes, never a hint of a bulge in the tight white jeans he likes to wear. I like him. I like looking at him. He's always avoiding something.
Then he was acting in a show at school - and he's good. Beautiful. In the last scene the lights come up and he is standing center stage in the light, posed like Jesus, arms out, and completely naked. And his dick was enormous. I mean, this unbearably fat dark thing hanging straight down, just thick and weighty and huge. Black hair above it, thin muscled body, huge dark nipples, hairy chest. He's 19. And I couldn't breathe.
I congratulate him on his performance, tell him laughingly what a nice penis it is. And he knows.
Soon after, he was suspended from school for maybe selling drugs. A slippery character. And I'm obsessed by him, his shiney eyes, his fast lying mind, his huge cock, as thick as his forearm.
We write back and forth, as he goes home to Boston for this year. He's working in a restaurant, but writing late at night, he tells me. I look on the internet for his blog, and find it, under another name I knew he'd used. And it's all about masturbation. He fully describes his fantasies - and they are twisted and fantastic - fantasies of showing off that huge thing, of being looked at, of fucking high school girls, of fucking their brothers, hurting them, loving them. He fully describes his big dark dick, it's size and shape. He describes his wiry muscley hairy body. He talks about the hair, when it happened, when it grew. He talks about watching his dick get bigger and bigger as he grew up, how he measured it, pulled on it, looked at it, showed it. When he began to realize how big it was, how valuable. How he photographs it. About where he goes to show it off. About the older woman he wants to put it into, who wants it from him so bad. About the boy he works with who is big, but not nearly as big as he is.
I write to him, trying to get him to talk to me more, not letting him know I've read his stuff. I tell him not to hold back his sexual thoughts, if he wants to share them. That I know what it is to have a big big dick, what the sensation is, the obligation, the need. That he can trust me.
And then last month he came up to visit. He got here late at night. He was handsomer, and broader. His chest has begun to fill out, it has shape. I see his thick niples through the white tee shirt. It's v neck and I see the black hair filling the open space. His arms are thick and hairy and tanned. He's wearing the same white jeans he likes, but this time, amazingly, there is a massive bulge down one leg, the jeans stretching and hugging it. We hug and I feel the cock against mine, these two fleshy masses pushing against each other down our legs. We push against each other and hold each other. And then he shifts a little to push against my cock from the side. We feel each other beginning to getting hard.
He came in, we had a drink, looking each other in the eye, knowing why we were here, but not looking down. We talk about school, about people. He pulls out some weed, we get high. I ask about his writing. I tell him I've found it, read it. He smiles. He slowly gets up and wanders over to my mirror and stands, he looks himself over, and he knows I see his reflection. He puts his hand, finally, on that cock, just rests it there. We're high and it is an amazing moment. I watch, I don't move. He telling me with that hand that he knows I'm obsessed with it, that it's why he's here. But he's not talking yet. His hand moves down his leg, feeling all of its length, touching the tip. He has to bend his back, it's so far down his leg. He knows that move will mean a lot to me. I do that move.
I don't touch myself. He starts to talk. He starts to talk to me about his cock, the one we're both worshipping. He's still facing himself in the mirror, but his eyes dart to my reflection, knowing I'm staring at his. He begins to softly rub it, to squeeze it. It moves, it grows. He tells me he loves it. He tells me all he's wanted since our first class together was to show his cock to me. That he'd always seen mine, from the first day, in my pants, moving during class. That he knew I was big. That he had to show me his more than anything. That he knew what he had, had known since he was fourteen, knew what I had, knew how much we needed to talk about it, to show them, to lay them out, to compare them. And that he had to be bigger than me. That it's all he thought of, was my cock next to his, in our hands, in the mirror. Laying side to side. And that he had to be bigger.
I start to feel mine for him, stand up, walked to the mirror, show it in my gray sweats. It hangs way down my leg. He is riveted. But I'm terrified that he's gonna be bigger. And also thrilled. It's really what I want - a kid to be bigger and fatter than me, to know it. To show me, so I can worship that huge huge thing. Finally, I get on my knees. I look still into the mirror and it is massive, throbbing in his jeans, so tight now I can see the thing clearly. He turns. I put my face on it, softly, my cheek. It's heat is incredible. He starts again to talk to me. He tells me the things people have said about it, where and when he's shown it. He tells me it is huge. And that he loves it. I unzip his jeans. Of course there is no underwear, I see the mass of black hair beneath the zipper. Then I see the top of his cock, thick and buried in hair. I so slowly pull the pants down, seeing a flash of hairy leg, but glued on that hose, that flesh that hangs down, going on and on. He is talking, telling me to love it, wanting me to love it, needing my approval. I am awed beyond belief, this thing I've waited to see, been obsessed by. The thing he's wanted to show me. I pull so slowly, it throbs and pulls, wanting to be free. It keeps going, as fat as his wrist, veiny, fleshy. I pull so far, and there is more of it. A trail of wet streaks on the jeans as I pull past the dripping head. Finally I pull and it bobs free. It is unbelievably big - bigger than any cock I have ever seen. Much much bigger than mine.
I sit back and look at it, for the longest time. He doesn't touch it, doesn't move, doesn't speak. It swings a bit, bobs a bit as it gets even harder. It cannot possibly rise up, it is too heavy. It hangs like his arms at his sides do, dead weight about to move and be alive. And then slowly I look up his sleek and tan body and into his huge eyes. He knows. He's won. I say it. "I worship you". And then he starts to cry. He has won. And he is so proud, so grateful that I understand it all, the huge cock, the feeling of being worshipped, the love. The envy. The pride. I reach out to hold the thing, to lift its incredible weight, to raise it. I hold it in my two hands, I look at it, then look into the mirror. He is watching my face, tears running down his dark cheeks, and I pull gently on the flesh, I squeeze it, just for a moment, and then he suddenly sobs and he moans and he comes. He comes instantly and massively all over my face, crying, moaning. Loving. The first time someone has understood. My face is covered in cum as he falls to his knees, cock dripping and trailing on the floor, and I hold him, and I kiss him. And he collapses into my arms, the cock before us as I rock him to sleep.
We were friends - a drink once in a while. We talked about girls and boys he was into, little affairs he had with both, a little about sex, some sweet questions. He dresses well, always tight clothes, never a hint of a bulge in the tight white jeans he likes to wear. I like him. I like looking at him. He's always avoiding something.
Then he was acting in a show at school - and he's good. Beautiful. In the last scene the lights come up and he is standing center stage in the light, posed like Jesus, arms out, and completely naked. And his dick was enormous. I mean, this unbearably fat dark thing hanging straight down, just thick and weighty and huge. Black hair above it, thin muscled body, huge dark nipples, hairy chest. He's 19. And I couldn't breathe.
I congratulate him on his performance, tell him laughingly what a nice penis it is. And he knows.
Soon after, he was suspended from school for maybe selling drugs. A slippery character. And I'm obsessed by him, his shiney eyes, his fast lying mind, his huge cock, as thick as his forearm.
We write back and forth, as he goes home to Boston for this year. He's working in a restaurant, but writing late at night, he tells me. I look on the internet for his blog, and find it, under another name I knew he'd used. And it's all about masturbation. He fully describes his fantasies - and they are twisted and fantastic - fantasies of showing off that huge thing, of being looked at, of fucking high school girls, of fucking their brothers, hurting them, loving them. He fully describes his big dark dick, it's size and shape. He describes his wiry muscley hairy body. He talks about the hair, when it happened, when it grew. He talks about watching his dick get bigger and bigger as he grew up, how he measured it, pulled on it, looked at it, showed it. When he began to realize how big it was, how valuable. How he photographs it. About where he goes to show it off. About the older woman he wants to put it into, who wants it from him so bad. About the boy he works with who is big, but not nearly as big as he is.
I write to him, trying to get him to talk to me more, not letting him know I've read his stuff. I tell him not to hold back his sexual thoughts, if he wants to share them. That I know what it is to have a big big dick, what the sensation is, the obligation, the need. That he can trust me.
And then last month he came up to visit. He got here late at night. He was handsomer, and broader. His chest has begun to fill out, it has shape. I see his thick niples through the white tee shirt. It's v neck and I see the black hair filling the open space. His arms are thick and hairy and tanned. He's wearing the same white jeans he likes, but this time, amazingly, there is a massive bulge down one leg, the jeans stretching and hugging it. We hug and I feel the cock against mine, these two fleshy masses pushing against each other down our legs. We push against each other and hold each other. And then he shifts a little to push against my cock from the side. We feel each other beginning to getting hard.
He came in, we had a drink, looking each other in the eye, knowing why we were here, but not looking down. We talk about school, about people. He pulls out some weed, we get high. I ask about his writing. I tell him I've found it, read it. He smiles. He slowly gets up and wanders over to my mirror and stands, he looks himself over, and he knows I see his reflection. He puts his hand, finally, on that cock, just rests it there. We're high and it is an amazing moment. I watch, I don't move. He telling me with that hand that he knows I'm obsessed with it, that it's why he's here. But he's not talking yet. His hand moves down his leg, feeling all of its length, touching the tip. He has to bend his back, it's so far down his leg. He knows that move will mean a lot to me. I do that move.
I don't touch myself. He starts to talk. He starts to talk to me about his cock, the one we're both worshipping. He's still facing himself in the mirror, but his eyes dart to my reflection, knowing I'm staring at his. He begins to softly rub it, to squeeze it. It moves, it grows. He tells me he loves it. He tells me all he's wanted since our first class together was to show his cock to me. That he'd always seen mine, from the first day, in my pants, moving during class. That he knew I was big. That he had to show me his more than anything. That he knew what he had, had known since he was fourteen, knew what I had, knew how much we needed to talk about it, to show them, to lay them out, to compare them. And that he had to be bigger than me. That it's all he thought of, was my cock next to his, in our hands, in the mirror. Laying side to side. And that he had to be bigger.
I start to feel mine for him, stand up, walked to the mirror, show it in my gray sweats. It hangs way down my leg. He is riveted. But I'm terrified that he's gonna be bigger. And also thrilled. It's really what I want - a kid to be bigger and fatter than me, to know it. To show me, so I can worship that huge huge thing. Finally, I get on my knees. I look still into the mirror and it is massive, throbbing in his jeans, so tight now I can see the thing clearly. He turns. I put my face on it, softly, my cheek. It's heat is incredible. He starts again to talk to me. He tells me the things people have said about it, where and when he's shown it. He tells me it is huge. And that he loves it. I unzip his jeans. Of course there is no underwear, I see the mass of black hair beneath the zipper. Then I see the top of his cock, thick and buried in hair. I so slowly pull the pants down, seeing a flash of hairy leg, but glued on that hose, that flesh that hangs down, going on and on. He is talking, telling me to love it, wanting me to love it, needing my approval. I am awed beyond belief, this thing I've waited to see, been obsessed by. The thing he's wanted to show me. I pull so slowly, it throbs and pulls, wanting to be free. It keeps going, as fat as his wrist, veiny, fleshy. I pull so far, and there is more of it. A trail of wet streaks on the jeans as I pull past the dripping head. Finally I pull and it bobs free. It is unbelievably big - bigger than any cock I have ever seen. Much much bigger than mine.
I sit back and look at it, for the longest time. He doesn't touch it, doesn't move, doesn't speak. It swings a bit, bobs a bit as it gets even harder. It cannot possibly rise up, it is too heavy. It hangs like his arms at his sides do, dead weight about to move and be alive. And then slowly I look up his sleek and tan body and into his huge eyes. He knows. He's won. I say it. "I worship you". And then he starts to cry. He has won. And he is so proud, so grateful that I understand it all, the huge cock, the feeling of being worshipped, the love. The envy. The pride. I reach out to hold the thing, to lift its incredible weight, to raise it. I hold it in my two hands, I look at it, then look into the mirror. He is watching my face, tears running down his dark cheeks, and I pull gently on the flesh, I squeeze it, just for a moment, and then he suddenly sobs and he moans and he comes. He comes instantly and massively all over my face, crying, moaning. Loving. The first time someone has understood. My face is covered in cum as he falls to his knees, cock dripping and trailing on the floor, and I hold him, and I kiss him. And he collapses into my arms, the cock before us as I rock him to sleep.
