Trouble With Big Dick

INTRODUCTION- The story starts out in Los Angeles, moves to Las Vegas. No minors are involved or even described.

TROUBLE WITH BIG DICK

My name is Richard Striels, pronounced like "trials" with an S, but my friends call me "Big Dick." Sure, there's a reason for that. My cock on a good day will just about measure out to nine inches, well over eight and a half, and it's thick. I'm kind of happy to be well hung, some women go for big dicks, and some shy away. It's satisfying, three days after sex, to hear a lover say,

"I can still feel your cock inside me."

Whatever, life is as it is.

I work as a Mortgage Salesman for the outfit you see on TV all the time. I think we are number #1 in the industry. The reason for our success is, the boss man pays us a good commission on every house or apartment mortgage we close. Most people don't know all the ins and outs of financing. It's kind of like sex. Once you've experienced it, you've got a pretty good idea of what's going to happen.

Of course, that goddamn law they passed under Obama, The Dodd-Frank (2010) shit, is fucking many home buyers and makes a sack of work for us. Because of the recession, these two ass-hole senators decided that you don't get a mortgage if you don't have income. The reason was the slew of fraudulent appraisals and sales to people who were dirt poor. After the first year, their agents told them the homes would appreciate and they could refinance, instead the banks foreclosed on them.

The result of that situation is we must have proof you have the monthly income to afford to buy a home. It's a lot of extra work. Of course, there is no guarantee you won't lose your job; the reality is, this qualifier means shit. Here is the rub, if you do not show a lot of income like most self-employed, and don't pay a lot of taxes like a famous president, you can't get a low-interest mortgage. If you had a 20% down payment in the old days (pre 2010) you could buy a mortgage on anything, but since then, without showing a very healthy income to cover your monthly mortgage and all your expenses, you couldn't buy a coconut hut with a low interest bank mortgage. That's what I do; I get qualified people low-interest mortgages. Those who don't qualify have to go to special brokers and pay two to three times as much interest. And often as much as 30-50% downpayment.

I earn well. I'm good for $150-250,000 a year in commissions. I don't mind making a buck, but I want to make the client happy. As I said, you can call me Big Dick like everyone else and hit me up if you need to buy a new home.

One of the perks is I'm able to lease a two-seater convertible Jag, XKR-S in metallic emerald green. It's a beauty—caramel interior. My mechanic says lease, don't buy. If the motor explodes, it's not your problem.. Parts are crazy priced.

I was on my way back from the Karate Gym. I earned a Black Belt while training in college where I placed 6th in the nationals. I can take care of myself, believe me. But these days we use guns, not swords. I prefer a .44 caliber revolver. Simple and efficient. It will lift a guy up off the ground and drop him with heavy damage, especially with drilled nose slugs.

I pulled into the Crown Auto Square, and was putting high test gasoline into the car, thinking maybe my next car will be electric. Even Ferrari has come out with an electric model. I could not afford that, but one can dream. Just as the gas stopped pumping, she pulled in behind me. She was about to fill up her Kia, it was Orange, the one that looks like a box.

"Is this car any good?" I said. I didn't give a shit about the car, but I needed some segue to talk to what was a very fuckable young woman. She had tight black slacks glued to her ass, a quasi see-through blouse under a tough motorcycle jacket.

"Yes, it runs really well," she said.

"I guess you left the bike at home?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you drive a motorcycle, a big Harley?"

"Hardly."

"Here, use my credit card." I knew that the gas tank had to be small, and it's easy to get friendly with some ladies when they see you are generous.

"Thanks."

"You live around here?"

"Yes, up on Jasper Drive, near the Vet's Cemetery.

"And that doesn't scare you?"

"Dead don't bother me. It's the living who scare."

"You got that right."

"Could I offer you a coffee or whatever?"

"Sure, I was headed from here to the Starwinkle across the street."

When the Kia tank was full, I removed the gas dispenser nozzle from her car and stuck it back in the pump. Ideally, I'd like to slip my nine-inch nozzle into this gal's filler tube.

"I'll follow you over," I said, and then the tall girl turned sideways, wow, great bod. She got into the orange box Kia. I took out my phone and sent a quick text to my fuck buddy. I was supposed to visit her this morning for my weekly fuck session. I told her I'd be a half-hour late.I followed after and parked next to the Kia at the Starwinkle.

The dark-haired girl looked a little like a young Cher. She had her hair divided into two cute ponytails that made her look like a 1970's Playboy Bunny. In a way they looked like devil's horns. I should have picked up on that. She was already seated at a Formica table in a plastic bucket seat, cross-legged wearing short black boots with shiny metal studs. She had taken off her motorcycle jacket. It was hanging on the chair back. I took one look at her braless tits in that quasi see-through blouse; Mr. Happy snapped to attention. I hadn't paid much attention to her chest when she'd had her jacket on, but I assumed her boobs were just the way I like them.

"What can I get you, hon?"

Oh, that pumpkin drink they are advertising on the wall sounds good. Tell them to add extra cinnamon."

I got on the end of a short line. After a few minutes, I ordered an Americano for me, and the silly pumpkin thing.

"What name do you want on the cup?"

That was when I realized I didn't know her name.

"Put an X on the fancy one and a Y on the other."

Cool," said the very gay barista.

I waited on the side. When served, I picked up the two coffees and brought them back to where she was seated. X had shifted and was now sitting in the soft booth behind the table. I put the two cups down and pulled up the thin-legged plastic chair and sat down.

"Which is mine?"

"You're X, for fem. I'm Y for guy. You never told me your name."

"X is fine. Let's stick with that."

"OK, that's fine. Can I ask you a question, Ms. X?

"Just one."

"Yeah."

"Well, you just did."

"What do you mean?"

"Can I ask a question?" That's a question."

"I shouldn't have asked."

"Yep, shouldn't have."

"So I don't get to ask."

"Nope, you lost the high road. I'll guess what your questions are."

"OK, shoot."

"Well, you can see I'm in my early twenties, and it's impolite to ask a lady her age. We can scrap that."

"Onward McDuff."

"You're throwing in your Shakespeare now to impress me?"

"No, I don't think there is a chance in hell I can impress you unless I unzip my pants."

Her eyes opened up to that.

"Wow, I didn't expect that kind of comment. Rather bold, aren't you?"

"Honey, you are, I can see, one hell of a confrontational bitch. I'm just going to finish my coffee and be on my way."

"Don't be a quitter."

"What do you mean?"

"You know that old saw that a woman decides in the first three minutes she meets a guy if she is going to sleep with him?"

"Oh Miss X, is that so?"

At that, her long arm passed under the table and grabbed my dick right through the trousers.

"You weren't kidding, were you? How long is that thing?"

"So now you're asking the questions."

"Looks that way."

"Before I answer I'd like to know how deep I could fit into you? If by chance, my dick and your pussy were to intersect some day? I wouldn't want it to be a shallow undertaking."

"I'm not worried about fitting you in. If that's what you mean? I'm no virgin; there won't be any blood lost between us."

"Are you sure of that?"

"One can never be sure of anything. In life, we should always take advantage of new opportunities that may open us to wider horizons. But before we go further, I'd like you to put your jacket over your lap, for reasons of privacy, and I'll just unzip your fly."

She was still holding tightly to her prize and started to squeeze quite tightly with her right hand.

I did as she suggested, never argue with a gal who's got your pecker in her claws, and she did have those scary long fingernails.

It took her about a blink of the eye to get me unzipped and her cold fist around my naked cock. With her squeezing and the sexiness of the situation, I was pretty much erect.

"Mr. Y, the evidence at hand proves you are a boaster, but not a liar. I'd say eight or nine inches, Senor."

"More like nine, Senorita."

At that comment, she moved her left hand from the top of the Formica tabletop. That was when I saw a glint of light as she quickly put her left hand under the table.

She must have seen my face go white and a worried look across my face.

"Did you see what I held in my left hand?"

'Yes, it looked like a razor blade."

"Did it really?"

"It's actually a razor ring. They use them in factories to cut bails of string."

"OK, so what's it doing next to my dick?"

"She had tightened her grip. My dick was deflating because of the present danger."

Would you mind if I cut off a little piece of your prize penis as a souvenir for my collection?

What are you saying, you have a collection?

"Yes, don't you want a piece of your dickey bird represented?"

I slumped forward in the chair, but she just pulled harder on my cock.

"I really would implore you not to cut me."

"If you're worried the blood would stain your trousers, I could apply a tourniquet."

"Miss X, I don't even know your name, and you're going to emasculate me?"

"Maybe, in light of the situation, you should call me Miss Y, seeing as it looks like I have the upper hand and have you under my control like a little girl."

"Sure, I'll call you whatever you like. In the meantime, could you let go of my dick?"

"No, not before I cut a little piece off, or maybe a bigger piece?"

"Look, here's my wallet." I took it out of my jacket pocket and tossed it on the table,

"There are several hundred dollar bills in there. Take whatever you want, but please let me go."

That gesture got me nowhere. Miss X had tightened her grip. I could feel a cold point touching my cock right on the head."

"You are not the big man you were when you walked in the door." Then she gave my dick a hard twist. I had all I could do, to not cry out in pain.

"Please, Miss Y, I'm sorry if I offended you. If that's not enough, my bank card is in there, I'll give you the code, and you can withdraw the max.

"How much is that?"

"I think twelve hundred a day. I'm not sure, maybe eight."

"So having your manhood shortened by several inches is only worth eight hundred dollars?"

I didn't respond.

"OK big boy, or is it big dick, what's the code."

Its b-i-g-d-i-c-k,

"Really?" She was pressing something sharp into the underside of my cock's head.

"Yes, I'm not lying, the code is 'bigdick,' all lower case letters. It's even written on the back of the bank card without the first and last letters in case I forget."

"What is it, i-g-d-i-c."

"Yeah, just add the b and the k."

"You're really impressed with your big penis, aren't you?"

"No, not at..."

"I could feel her knife stabbing me."

"OK, OK, yes, I think it's nice. Girls like it..."

Again the pinch

"And the boys, you ever get a guy to give you a blow job."

"Never..."

Again the pinch

"OK, yeah, a few times."

"Any other gay stuff."

"OK, yeah, I've been in a bathhouse a few times, got blown, and butt fucked a few guys."

"Good thing I left my phone on record."

"You what?"

"All your confessions will soon be on the internet, maybe on your Facebook page."

"Please, you're killing me. What did I ever do to offend you."

"You see the pendant hanging between my two tits."

"Yes."

"What does it say?

"WWCM."

"You know what that stands for?"

"No, should I?"

"It means, 'Women Who Castrate Men!'

"Oh, Honey, give me a break. I'm all for women's lib."

"Well, Honey, this goes a bit beyond. Now I think it would be a better bargain if you put your car keys to your Jaguar on the table."

"Sure." I fumbled to find which pocket I'd put them in.

"They are in your right chest pocket," she said.

"You don't miss a trick, do you?"

"Nope, not one."

"Now, I want you to hold your breath and not scream out. If you do, I might cut you deeper than you want to be cut."

I could feel her hand move forward. She'd grabbed my balls now.

"Why do you have to do this?" my eyes were tearing up.

"Because in a moment, there is going to be some blood under the table for the cleanup guy. Meanwhile, you are going to have to make a decision."

"What decision?"

"Whether to try to stop me from leaving or to try to stop the blood flow when I cut you."

And that moment, I felt a terrible pain as something pierced my balls.

"Oh, God, you didn't do that."

I jumped up the second she released me.

So did she, grabbing my car keys and wallet as she ran out the door.

I ran to the coffee counter, "Give me the Bathroom key," I shouted.

"I'm sorry, sir, someone is using it."

"Give me the employee's bathroom key; you jerk, that bitch tried to cut off my balls."

He handed me the key, and I ran to the door, marked only employees.

I looked down. My jeans were wet with blood. I got the key in the lock, dropped my pants in front of the sink, and prepared for the worst.

But my pants were filled with those sharply pointed ketchup packets,

I fell to the floor, crying. I knew I should promise myself stuff, I wasn't going to do anything like this in the future, but I couldn't get my thoughts together. I kept feeling for where she cut me. I'd felt the deep wound, but then I realized she had scrapped me with the jagged edge of the ketchup wrapper. I'd been had! But I was OK. My dick was still whole. Sure there was a tiny cut in my ball sack that bleed like hell but with some cold toweling it coagulated two hours later.

I washed off, and even though my pants were all wet and red, I went out to the parking lot. Of course, my Jaguar was gone, as was her Orange Kia, but what the fuck, my dick wasn't. I knew I'd have to tell the bank that my card was taken. Then I'd have to deal with the credit cards. Oh shit, I had my work cut out for me. Mr. Big Dick. No more showing off, ever again. Was I going to be able to tell the cops what had happened?

------------

What to do, what to do, My God, what am I going to do?

Of course, I canceled the credit cards and froze the bank account. Still, that weasel had gotten $1200 out of the bank only minutes after the slit-dick fiasco. There must have been other cohorts as they hit many upscale internet sites minutes before the cards were made useless.

The Jag that I loved was long gone. A few days later I learned they used the pink slip in the glove department to sell it to a Newport Beach dealer. Don't leave the pink in the car! I'm not sure how that will finalize because the monthly lease payments are still coming out of my account. I guess theft insurance will cover it, but there is some question about payment since I gave her the keys. But she coerced me, right?

I spent a few hours going over the details with a cop at the Hollywood Station house. He referred me to an FBI guy named Herbie Walcott. Walcott called her a "bunco artist." An old term, he said.

"They've got fancier names today, mostly under identity thefts."

"So you've got a big dick? Richie."

"Just big trouble officer, I don't know if I'll ever fuck again."

"Oh, you will, just give it time."

"I can't even get a hard-on."

"Well, talk to a doctor. I had the same problem tied to old age and diabetes, but they helped me. The doc gave me some pills and told me to visit a sexy whore. She got the job done."

"Will you guys ever find this bitch?" I asked Herbie, who reminded me of Morgan Freeman.

"Naw, it's not the kind of stuff we are going to spend time on. These days it's terrorists or crazy shooters we try to slow down. Dick cutters, nope."

"But, Herbie continued, "We got the video from the coffee joint. If her picture matches the suspected ID photos on file, her real name is Sarah Beckons, but she has a slew of aliases. We can't send the tape out as your big dick is visible under the table. Our sources say this is not her first rodeo. She's known to hole up in Vegas. You might find her at the MGM or who knows where. Just be warned, she carries a blade."

"Yes, I know."

"I don't know what I can do. This bitch caused me a lot of problems. Would I get back anything she stole from me? No, and certainly not my swagger or my self-esteem."

"You know what Sun Tzu said in "The Art of war?"

"No, Herbie."

"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."

"Then there was the barebacker, Teddy Roosevelt, who said, "Tiptoe and carry a big dick."

"Well, not exactly. I think it was a big stick."

"Yeah, whatever, just making a little joke. Sorry, sonny."

"Thanks for the tits, I mean tips, Herbie, stay well."

A few days later, I wound up my Los Angeles affairs and took an Uber out to the LAX airport. I got on the next flight to Vegas. I was going to find that cunt and maybe bury her in the desert. But not before I'd rung some satisfaction out of her pussy and those two big tits.

When I arrived at McCarran Airport outside Vegas, I rented a small inconspicuous car from the Hertz agent. I ended up spending the first 12 days of what should have been my vacation time, running from one gambling hall to the next. I had some suspicion I'd find my quarry there or at one of the all-night bars. I wasn't wrong. Herbie's tip paid off. It took almost two weeks, but there she was at the Roulette table in Ceasar's Palace. She had a crowd around her as she was winning playing Roulette. Some idiot turned me and said,

"That's Cher."

"Don't be ridiculous, Cher is 75 years old."

Once I'd found her, we reached an quick understanding. She was scared and offered to returned part of the money, $14,000. I accepted. We shook hands, above the table, and I went on with my life. But I had serious doubts if I was done with her. I think the only reason she was cooperative was that she feared if she had denied me, it might have gone worse for her. She was right about that.

She offered to let me fuck her if that would make me feel better, but I didn't trust her enough to be intimate. Who knows where that might have led. Oh yeah, that pendant she wore turned out to be the call letters of an FM radio station from what probably was her home town in Standish, Minnesota,

Once Cher was out of my hair, I'd sent my savings of $376,000 via several offshore banks by untraceable transfers to a reputable, highly confidential Indonesian bank. My plan was to eventually park it in a reliable Manila bank's dollar account. The money that X returned to me I figured I'd use as traveling money. My savings would be enough for me to live forever on some remote, but safe, Philippine Island Paradise, with house staff, a few girls, and guards to keep me safe. I'd give photos I'd taken of Cher so the guards would know who to expect. The Asians are cool at plastic surgery, so I'd shave my head and might even adopt an Asian face. I have grown very fond of my fuck tool, and I don't want Cher to cut it off. Goodbye, all.