Authors note: This is a continuation of my story, "Connie Takes Charge". Most of the characters contained herein have appeared in my previous works as well.
*****
Connie came down the stairs, hoping to avoid Brad. She didn't want him to see her in her new mini, a sleek black number with a plunging neckline that showed off her cleavage. Brad liked cleavage, but the show wasn't for him. She was on her way to a Donkey Productions Board meeting, or so she told him.
"You going dressed like that?"
"I told you before, Japanese men have crazy fantasies about western women. The shorter the skirt the better the result."
"But you look so damn sexy." Brad approached his wife and wrapped his arms around her. "How about a quickie?"
"Stop pawing at me," Connie said, wearily. "I'm running late."
"Come on, babe." Brad, who was only wearing jockey shorts, reached inside the opening and pulled out his cock. "You once told me you were the best cocksucker in the world, remember?"
"Brad, stop it!" But he didn't, so...
WHAP!
Brad crumbled to the ground in a resounding thud, clutching his balls. He appeared to be in real agony. Connie had mastered the art of ballbusting, which she only ever used on her husband, partly as a way to control him and partly as a way to take out her frustration for having married him, which she now knew was a mistake. Sure, he gave her upward mobility, but she could have achieved that on her own, on her own terms, and besides, she loved another. 'I married the wrong man', she would wail to Jane and Arlene, after a few drinks and a few tokes on the hash pipe.
Brad gasped for breath. He was having second thoughts about their femdom role-playing, because look what it led to? Connie realized that she must have kicked him harder than she intended, or else scored a direct hit. Yeah, that's what it probably was; a direct hit. What were the odds? It made her feel guilty. She had been a bitch lately.
Connie helped him to his feet. She took his limp penis in her hand and licked the tip as suggestively as she could. "Oh yeah," he panted. "That's the girl I married." Brad's cock hardened. Connie knew she could get him off in a minute or two, but she chose not to. Instead she squeezed the top of his nut-sack, where it met the base of his shaft, which gave her easy access to his balls. Brad enjoyed the sensation, unaware that she now had him where she wanted him, and was caught off-guard when she balled up her fist and punched his testicles as hard as she could.
"I'm late," she said, by way of explanation. Checking her hair in the hall mirror, she said: "if you're awake when I get home I'll make it up to you, I promise. "I'll suck your cock and I'll let you cum in my face. How's that?" Brad was still crumpled on the ground. It was all part of her plan. By the time she was done training him he would be so pussy-whipped that she'd own him. Men are so stupid, she thought, as she left the house.
William took an Uber and met her at their Santa Monica rendezvous, after which they drove in her car to the Palisades, but they hadn't seen each other in two weeks. William couldn't stop staring at her cleavage, and Connie had trouble concentrating on her driving, so distracted was she by the expanding bulge in his crotch. They found a spot to pull off on the long, winding road that led to Jane's house. Within seconds he was devouring her breasts with his hands and face while she struggled to loosen his belt and unzip his fly.
"Here, let me help you." Connie smiled as William's big dong bounced off his thigh and momentarily hung suspended in the air until coming to rest. "You certainly look happy to see me," she grinned.
"I haven't cum in two days," he confessed, "waiting for today."
They kissed so passionately that they almost sucked the wind out of each other. Connie's hand on William's bone caused him to buck and kick. "You are really turned on," she said. What a stud, she thought, and he saved himself for me. It made her feel special. William was the one who unlocked the box from which flowed her liberated sexuality. But though he brought out the slut in her, their relationship wasn't just sexual; there was mutual love, friendship, and respect. "Just lean back and let me service you," she said. "You need an orgasm."
Connie preferred the semen stain in her car than on her dress, so she pulled back, kept her eyes riveted on the big guy's rod, and stroked it up and down, up and down, the foreskin at the top of his shaft burying his tiny cockhead on the upward motion. He may have had what he liked to call a 'hillbilly pecker', but it was all hers. To mix things up she loosened her grip on it and switched to short, rapid strokes, and twirled the penis around in all directions until wave after wave of white cream splashed onto the floor of her new Mercedes. She kept her hand on the prize as he slumped and moaned in satisfaction; she had felt the surge in his shaft as the juice moved up to the exit ramp and it felt good.
"I guess we should go, huh," Connie said, sliding her bra back in place. "Can you reach in the glove compartment and get me a tissue." William responded by licking his sperm off of her hand.
"You don't need a tissue."
"She looked at his cock and giggled. It was still itching for action. "That thing ain't going back in your pants," she observed. "Maybe you need a second helping."
****
Tony Grant was a body builder, and a damn good one at that. More to the point, in 2016 he had been named
Mr. Nude America
, winning the competition on his first try. All bodybuilders are narcissists, otherwise why put in the hard work? They do it for themselves, and in return they expect to be worshipped, because deep down inside everyone wished they had a sculptured body, it's just that most people weren't willing to put in the hard work. Of those who do, few have hang-ups about the human body. True bodybuilders exercise every muscle, and Tony was among those who placed weighted bands over their cocks and did penis curls. Of course one needed a boner to pull that trick off, but a serious weightlifter wouldn't have a shortage of willing helpers.
Tony defended his participation in the nude competition, even though it limited his opportunities in the mainstream world of professional bodybuilding, a world where a muscular man wearing a tiny thong was socially appropriate, but dick swinging wasn't. Tony liked dick swinging. "I guarantee you, its every bodybuilder's dream to compete in the nude," he told an interviewer in a frank exchange shortly after winning the title. "That's bodybuilding in its purest form. The only ones against it are the men with tiny dicks."
In response to a direct question he said: "One third of bodybuilders are gay, one third are straight, and one third go both ways. Think about it," he said. "That means two thirds of us have had a cock up our ass. As for me...lets just say that I'm cool with everything...Hell no, I'm not gay, but at this level the human body is a work of art, and I appreciate art...Have I had a cock in my mouth? You bet, and you know what, I enjoyed it. Does that make me gay? Man, did you see the women in the audience? Every one of them would suck my dick in a heartbeat." Tony didn't need to add that many of them had.
Tony never really capitalized on his crown, but he got work as a model. He had lots of offers to do porn, which he declined. However, before becoming
Mr. Nude America
he appeared a couple of videos; nothing he was proud of, but nothing he wouldn't own up to. He also did some softcore work, and in one scene, which happened to have a long shelf life on the Internet, a group of four people, two men and two women, caressed every sinew of his nude body in a classical, muscle-worship themed video. There was a little penis petting, and Tony got a boner, but there was no stroking and no orgasm.
There was always a need in the world of modeling for men made of granite, so Tony didn't need porn to earn a living. When bodybuilders were needed for a television or movie spot, or when muscles were required for a photo shoot, Tony got a call. His work invariably called for him to wear a tiny bikini thong, which would show maximum coverage of his buffed body without offending the prudish, and the pouch that held his junk held little back, the material so thin that the outline of his cock-head was clearly defined. Tony found it absurd that this was socially acceptable but nudity wasn't.
"...You don't know what it's like to compete in the nude. It's an incredible rush; nothing can compare to it, no drug can give you a better high...shit yeah, I train nude; all the time...anyone doesn't like it, they can kiss my ass, or change gyms...And let me tell you, you don't know what it's like to walk out on stage in front of two thousand people and have them gasp and awe, and you don't know if they're applauding your body or your dick. You try at first not to think about it, but eventually you come to embrace it...I think I was the only one who got an erection." Tony guffawed. "That's probably why I won."
Tony was a light-skinned, copper-colored, African-American man, six foot two, and two hundred and twenty pounds of solid mass. He had a fifty-four inch chest and a twenty-eight inch waist, and earned the right to speak out, and he perpetually railed against the hypocrisy. Tony would much rather model nude, because he believed in the concept. Of note, he had few equals in the male anatomy department and, as previously stated, all bodybuilders are narcissists. Competitions have winners and losers, and losers look for an excuse, and there were many who thought Tony won his title because of his cock and not his overall physique.
Tony never bothered to defend his title. "Why bother," he'd ask? "I've already beaten these guys; I got nothing left to prove." He did some nude modeling for adult-themed enterprises, but those ventures had no staying power, so if he wanted steady work he'd have to either put on a thong or a condom. It wasn't much of a choice.
One day he met Marlow. Feeling bored after her husband passed away, she had contacted her former agent to let him know that she was interested in working again, which is how she found herself in a photographer's studio with Tony Grant.
"Look at you," Tony had said to bikini-clad Marlow, when the shoot was over. "You workout. I can tell."
