A Huge One Could Be Yours

"A Huge One Could Be Yours," the email read. "A bigger penis in 60 days or your money back."

"Yeah, right," I thought. "Do they really get enough poor schmucks buying their line to make any money?" But I didn't hit the delete key. Something kept me sitting there. Just the other day I'd walked into our bedroom to find my wife Katie looking through her collection of John Holmes magazines and playing with herself. It made me feel a bit inadequate; I know I'm not the only guy that the late great J.H. has made insecure.

"Shit, it's only $19.95. Even if it doesn't work it's not going to break me," I decided. So I pulled out my credit card and ordered.

Later that evening I told Katie what I'd done. "Oh, Hon," she said, "I like your cock the way it is. Sure I like to fantasize sometimes about having a really big one inside me but I love you Jon for who you are."

"Oh, right," I thought as I smiled at her, my male ego bruised black and blue, "a really big one. Just you wait."

Four days later a priority mail package arrived. I opened it with mixed feelings; on one hand I felt like a complete fool for letting myself fall for such an age old scam while on the other there was the persistent gleam of hope that soon I'd be able to satisfy my wife in a way she'd never been satisfied before. That soon she would worship unquestioningly at the protruding alter of my manhood.

The instructions were absurd. The basis of the treatment was a tube of cream that was supposed to be applied on the penis once a day. The kit also contained several pairs of rubber gloves and a dire warning, printed in large red letters, that said that the cream must not make contact with any other part of the body before the ten minute drying period was up or that part too would become enlarged. "In your dreams," I scoffed. But I followed the instructions carefully.

A couple of days later, after no signs of enlargement had made themselves visible I reread the info sheet and found, hidden away on the back, the small print where it said, "May not work for everyone." "Should be 'may not work for anyone'" was my bitter comment. And yet I continued to apply the cream until it was gone, better to be a total fool than a dummy who gives up too easily.

It was after two more weeks had passed, as Katie and I were making the beast with two backs, when she said, "Jon, it feels bigger." Immediately I pulled out of her, turned on the light, and looked. She looked too. It was bigger. "Oh shit," she said, putting her hand around it. "How big is it going to get?"

"I don't know," I answered. But I resolved to go online the next morning and order five more tubes of cream.

Once they came I began doing the treatments three times a day until I'd used up all five tubes. Katie couldn't get enough of me. She'd pull me aside at odd moments just to open my pants and make me hard. Strangely enough my cock when flaccid was no bigger than it ever had been but when it became erect it was substantially larger, to say the least. Katie loved looking at how big and thick it was, holding it in her hands, and taking the head in her mouth. If I was too fatigued to fuck at night she'd tease and suck my cock until it rose to its full glory and then she'd ride me from orgasm to orgasm moaning about how full it made her feel. "Eat your late great heart out, John Holmes," I thought. Little did I know that I'd soon be nibbling on my own.

The night came, almost eight weeks after I'd begun using the cream, when my cock wouldn't fit inside her. It was a terrible night. She grunted and strained for hours to take me inside but it just wouldn't work. She was raging with frustration, drops of sweat from her forehead dropping onto my chest. I lay on my back with a cold clammy hand of fear making a tight fist around my heart. I knew then I'd made a horrible mistake. Now all I could do was ride the tiger of my folly to learn my final fate.

Our marriage fell apart less than two months after that awful night. And my cock continued to grow. I walked in mortal fear of becoming aroused. More times than I care to think about I had to run to the men's room or some other private place to let myself out before this demon I'd nurtured ripped my pants apart.

At work my vivacious young secretary, Heather Crawford, hearing through the grapevine that my wife had left me, conceived the idea that the quickest and easiest route to inordinate conspicuous consumption was to become my trophy wife. To that end she began to flaunt her considerable charms. She made my life a living hell. I spent more time in the men's room than at my desk. I'm sure she found this puzzling but I was hardly in a state of mind to confront anything with confidence and dispatch.

I will always remember with burning shame the day she turned in her chair with studied negligence and revealed to me that she wasn't wearing underwear. I can still hear, as if it were only a moment ago, the loud ripping sound of my trousers being torn away as my cock engorged at the sight of those delicate lips, bare shaven, parted slightly to reveal the glimmer of pink.

I stood there clutching at the flying shreds of my clothing as Heather screamed frantically, standing up and backing away from me until a wall blocked her escape. It was clear that the prospect of being my trophy wife had instantaneously lost its savor. The room filled with people, all of them staring goggle-eyed at my monstrous member. If I'd have had a gun then I would have shot myself.

An hour or so later, after I'd swathed myself in the red velvet curtain from the conference room, I was asked to clear out my desk and never come back. Roderick Laidlaw, the VP in charge of personnel, told me that the phrase "sexual harassment" didn't begin to describe the extent of my transgression. "It's more like all out war," he said. "The new expression 'shock and awe' might be most appropriate."

I won't go into all the hurtful and humiliating details of my personal decline, even as my cock reached the zenith of its expansion. I did manage to find a way to support myself using the Internet to work out of my small shabby apartment. And I took to wearing muu muus in public, the very few times I went out among my fellow human beings, because they tented instead of tearing which, while still embarrassing, wasn't quite as traumatic as being totally exposed.

As I neared the bottom of my sad trajectory I had one short period of hope. I stumbled across a site called Grownup Fun Finder in which I spotted a number of profiles submitted by women seeking men with large cocks. My heart leaped up as I busily sent out initial contact emails and wrote my own profile to put on the site. And I got many many emails in return as well as those from women responding to my profile. They all asked eagerly for a photo to substantiate my claims. Oh happy day! But apparently they thought that I, like other men they'd encountered, had grossly misrepresented my attributes because I never heard from most of them after the pic was sent. "Grotesque!" "I like 'em big... but not THAT big." "Never contact me ever again!" Was the upshot of those few replies I got. I'd now sunk to the lowest point.

I'd inserted a round in the chamber of the gun I'd bought at a local gun show. I was lifting it to my head when... I got an email. It was a woman responding to my profile on Grownup Fun Finder. She said she was only a moment away from swallowing twenty sleeping pills and washing them down with a quart of vodka. I was her very last hope, she said. Her husband, she informed me, had used the same cream I had and had kept wanting to fuck her five minutes after he'd put on the cream. Handling his cock made him randy, she explained. Now her cunt was a yawning chasm but his cock hadn't changed at all. He was one of the people on which the cream didn't work although, like me, he'd bought tube after tube of the stuff.

Through a fog of suicidal ennui I desultorily emailed her a copy of my photo and went back to gazing into the black hole at the end of my revolver. "Half an hour. I'll give her just half an hour," I thought to myself.

Only seven minutes later my computer told me I had mail. "Omigod!" the email read. "Don't shoot yourself, please! My prayers have been answered. Do you have instant messaging? Do you have a webcam?" I had both. We exchanged handles and linked up. I was beginning to feel a little excited. I put my pistol on the floor beside my chair. Then I saw her. She was fucking herself with three metal baseball bats bound together with duct tape. My cock rose, lifting up my desk and dumping my monitor on the floor. I leaned over the upturned desk to see that she'd seen my prodigious dong and had redoubled her efforts. I was stroking myself as best I could with both hands, one on each side of my cock. I was screaming and I could see her mouth too was wide open. It felt so wonderful to know that there was a place in the world where I'd find a perfect fit. A thick white stream shot out of me and slapped against the wall four feet away. It felt so good to finally be able to let go, knowing I wasn't alone. Two more spurts shot out.

"Where do you live?" I messaged her as soon as I stopped shaking long enough to type.

"Nevada," she replied, adding her complete address.

I grabbed my Rand McNally and made some quick calculations. "I'll be there in about 10 hours," I messaged.

"I'll be waiting Baby; bring that big boy to me," she responded.

I drove like a maniac leaving almost every trace of my old life behind me. Every time I thought of her, and of that sweet pink cavernous tunnel, I'd have to lean to the side to be able to see around the fabric draped pillar in front of me. I made the trip in eight hours and forty two minutes. As I screeched to a stop in her driveway I saw that her door was wide open. I jumped out of the car and rushed inside, pulling up my muu muu as I ran. There she lay, naked, legs akimbo. I buried myself in her with a keening wail. It was like being a virgin again.

We got married the next day. Nevada is the state that makes such a thing easy. We figure we'll make it work one way or another. We don't have much choice.