This is a chapter in a fifteen-chapter novella, and each chapter is dependent on the one that precedes it. It is best to read them in order. In any event, the story takes place in a Midwestern college town in the summer of 1979.
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I showered to remove the Vaseline from my skin, and I spread my cheeks and let the hot water soothe my sore bumhole. Afterwards, in my bed, Charlie fucked me with a fury. Unfortunately, I was tired and disinterested. I fell asleep as soon as it was polite to do so.
I had a dream that night that was new to me:
I am in a spacious gymnasium watching very young men play some sort of game. They are naked, and their bodies are lean and slender. I am standing to the side of the area where the game is being played, and I am naked. My body is my body, fleshy and soft and full. My breasts are plump and my tummy pouts slightly bellow my belly button. It is familiar in its femininity save for one feature. I have a penis. The thick, handsome shaft protrudes from my pubic mound. I am fully erect.
I watch the young men play. Some are black, some are brown, some are tan, and some are white, but all their bodies are similar. They have short, neatly trimmed heads of hair. The rest of their bodies are virtually hairless, with only tiny tufts for pubic hair. Their penises, though flaccid, are long smooth and swing about freely as they play. I can feel sensations from my penis, and it is hot and hard and the skin is taught.
I want to play with the boys, but I am worried that I am different, and I am worried that my erection is inappropriate. Their bodies glisten with sweat. Hoots of laughter and good-natured shouting fill the room. They do not notice me. I cannot help myself. I take my penis in my hand. To my hand it feels familiar, a typical cock. The sensation in my penis is new to me. I feel my hand take hold of me, and its touch is cool. My penis stiffens and strains against my hand. I feel faint and nervous. I stroke my penis, and the sensation causes me to shiver. I stroke it more heartily, and I sigh with pleasure.
The beautiful bodies cavorting about in front of me transfix me. I want to touch them, run my hands over their supple muscles and lustrous skin. I want to stroke their penises. I stroke my own. One young man notices me, and smiles. He walks towards me. I cannot stop myself from stroking. Other young men notice me. Seven or eight begin to approach me. They stop in front of me. Their faces are charming with pleasant, welcoming expressions. I am a head taller than they are, but they are not children. They are men, but they are small and their beauty makes them appear younger.
A fair skinned one with straw colored hair asks me a question; may he touch me? I nod yes, and he touches my breast. Now others are touching me, my thighs and buttocks and stomach. One with dark skin reaches between my legs. I have a vagina, too, and it is moist and receptive to his touch. They are petting me, and their penises are growing. I keep stoking my own penis, and it aches with fullness.
“It’s okay,” one says. “You are beautiful,” and a mammoth stream of jism shoots forth from the head of my penis. Cum spews forth from me in and the boys catch it and smear themselves and me with my spunk. Now they rub their bodies against me, stiff penises rubbing against my skin, hot and sticky. I am dizzy from the heat. The hand between my legs rubs me and the friction builds and I come again, this time in a familiar way.
When I woke up from the dream my hand was between my legs, and it was damp. My pussy was hot and sore. I was breathing heavily. Charlie was next to me, snoring lightly. I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want him to ask me what was wrong because I couldn’t explain.
Why did I orgasm? Why did I have a penis? I tried to laugh it off. Sigmund Freud would have had a field day with that one. I couldn’t get back to sleep, and when I finally did it was daylight and again my dreams were peopled with the lithe bodied man-boys, naked and radiant with sex.
It was almost noon when I got up that day (the day after what I have come to refer to as ‘Quarry Quarry Night’, with apologies to Picasso). It was Tuesday. Only three more days and I would be through with school. It was exciting.
Charlie was gone. I was slowed in my enthusiasm by a dull, throbbing tension between my legs. I would have taken a bath if there had been a bathtub in the house. I showered and went downstairs for some coffee, and Amy was in the kitchen. She asked me if I had fun. I rolled my eyes. She winked at me. I changed the subject. I wanted to be normal again.
I went to the library that afternoon, but I had difficulty studying. I couldn’t keep my mind off my dreams. I felt like there was something different about me. I worked on trying to figure out what it was.
All my life, up to that point, I had been embarrassed by my size. This was especially true when I was in new to high school, as I matured early and suffered a growth spurt that made me taller than all but one of the boys in my class. I hated the awkwardness of it. I not only felt I was unattractive, I felt like my size was intimidating to boys, and I felt they hated me for it. As my college years rolled along, I became much more comfortable with myself, and lately I had taken to the notion that I was an honest-to-God sexy woman, but I had still never dated anyone smaller than I was. As I am just over 5’10, so that made for a large segment of the male population that I considered un-dateable. It wasn’t just that it hadn’t happened. It was that I would have never, ever considered it. Now, all of a sudden, I was having wet dreams about slim, small men. Obviously, and quite ironically, I decided it must have had something to do with my encounter with the prosthetically enhanced Amy.
I kept flashing back to the time I was straddling her, girl on top, and the curious sense of delight that filled me. I wished now that Tom hadn’t so rudely interrupted us by sticking his dick in my face (and ass). A part of me wanted to ask Amy if we could do that again, but I couldn’t see myself asking her. Besides, I thought, it had been a boy I was fantasizing about. What had I called her – my little cabana boy? But it wasn’t the “boy” part that excited me; it was the smallness. I liked being larger-than-life. It didn’t excite me to think of it as having been Amy; it excited me to think that I was on top of a man, and that he was much smaller than me. I liked being a giantess.
My more profound realization was this: I loved being me. I had finally learned to love my body. I was proud to be big. I was sexy, and sensual, and desirable, and I liked men, all kinds of men, not just the ones that were bigger than me. All of this thinking wasn’t conducive to studying. I was feeling sexually charged once again. I was insatiable and irascible.
I would be glad, I also thought, to finally get whatever was in my system out of me; it was exhausting.
I spent the late afternoon wandering around campus ogling men I had never noticed existed before. So many pretty faces and so many body types: stout and muscular, slender and sinewy, athletic and rippling. It was like a whole new sexual world had opened up to me. (Just what I needed, huh?)
I studied at home that night. Business Psychology was the subject, one of those cross-curricular courses that’s a little too easy for either business or psychology majors but counted for both. The exam was at ten the next morning. I purposefully ignored my housemates and went to bed early. I dreamed of willowy young men with slender hips and chiseled features.
I felt refreshed in the morning. My mind was clear, my body energized. It was still hot out, and I put on my faux silk, powder blue sundress and pulled back my hair in a ponytail. I laughed with Tom over coffee and a bowl a cereal, and skipped off to my exam.
There was an African student in my business psychology class that I had spoken to on occasion. I had approached him at one time as a potential study partner; I was a psychology major and I was all but certain he was business major (very few foreign students were sent to the States to study psychology). He seemed shy, so I let it go, but after that we said hi to each other when our paths occasionally crossed. His name was Alshara.
It occurred to me, as he took a seat a few rows in front of me, that he was a small man, about 5’5, and that had been another reason why I had thought about approaching him – there wouldn’t have been any sexual tension. I looked at him with my new eyes.
His skin was so richly black that he appeared to have the luster of a polished, deep-blue stone. His cheekbones were set high, his forehead was broad, and his chin was sculpted and strong. He had long hands and oval fingernails that looked as if they were professionally manicured. He always dressed impeccably, and for the exam he had on a thin, white Egyptian cotton dress shirt and neatly pressed brown twill slacks with an alligator belt.
I watched him carefully from the time he entered the classroom until he sat down. His hips were narrow and his slacks were perfectly tailored. He smiled and waived at me, and I realized how engaging he was. As he sat down, the seat of his pants pulled taught over his rear, and at that precise moment I realized that I wanted to see him naked. I also wished I had taken more time with my makeup.
I had difficulty concentrating on my exam, but I managed. I finished ten minutes early only because I knew I had passed and I didn’t have the fortitude to do better than necessary. I also wanted to be sure I finished before Alshara did. He was seated at the end of his row, and as I walked past him I purposefully swung my hip out so that the hem of my dress would brush up and over the end of his desk. I desperately wanted to look back to see if he was watching me. I put a little extra bounce in my step.
I had no idea what I was up to, but once I was outside the classroom I rushed to the ladies room to check my hair and face. I looked okay, not as bad as I had worried. I came back out into the hallway and slowly got a drink of water. I heard the classroom door open. I carefully took an extra sip of water. I turned, and it was it was three frat boys in T-shirts and gym shorts. I started to leave when I heard the door again. It was Alshara. I waived nonchalantly.
“Hello Annie.”
“Hi Alshara, how did you do?”
