A Gushing Report
The following summer the spectacle began. My wife and I had rented a house at the naturist club we belonged to down the Shore. I didn't realize Doug had rented the place next to ours until a few weeks into our stay down there.
We were staying in a lovely three-floor Victorian with a view of the ocean from the front porch. We'd rented the house on and off for years, and the neighbor next to us had forever been a shrivelled up old gentleman who you rarely saw. His house seemed always dark and quiet.
I had set up my study on the second floor, which featured a clear view of the always-dark cupola of the old man's beautiful Queene Anne across the way. I was helping one of my grad students long distance with her treatise on
This Side of Paradise
, and I needed to get away from the sporadic rowdiness of the beach crowd and clubhouse.
I spent weeks up there without seeing or hearing anything, until one evening a light came on in the circular room across the way. In strode a strongly built, overly tanned man wearing only a pair of absurd wraparound sunglasses. I would've recognized him instantly anyway, but his massive dong left no doubt who he was: Doug Priaps, to whose otherwordly endowment I had been exposed some time back when the club chairwoman, Sharon Porter, had taken upon herself to play with Doug only to find herself drenched in a pool of his semen.
If Doug saw me, he gave no sign of recognition. He headed into the bathroom beyond the room and came out, his giant member on full display. It hung down so far that it dropped below the window sill, and when Doug sat down in a leather couch facing the window, I could see it spill across his right leg like a length of thick rope carelessy tossed in his lap.
After a few moments, a woman entered whom I recognized immediately. It was Susan, a nubile African-American woman and longtime club member who had never once been associated with any of the occasionally salacious dealings you heard about around the club. She took a seat facing away from me, twisting her braided hair in one hand and talking to Doug, who seemed to say very little.
I tried to focus on my reading, but it was useless. I put the book down and stared at the two of them in the room across the way. Although I was only maybe 30 feet from them in another house, they could theoretically see my just as easily as I could them, but Doug betrayed no indication that he noticed me. The afternoon sun shone down, and a patch of sunlight fell directly across Doug's crotch. I saw the sleeping behemoth stir and begin to rise; soon it looked as though Doug had a flesh-colored shotgun sprouting from between his legs that was pointed directly at Susan's face.
She wasted no time and was soon hard at work, bent over Doug's huge cock and bobbing fiercely, her glorious, dimpled ass cheeks pointed directly at the window and me; underneath I could see her exposed cleft, clearly open and sopping wet.
Suddenly Susan reeled back as if she'd been struck. Doug's penis bounced mercilessly as it shot off again and again, firing ropes of come all over the poor woman, who was laughing and holding up her hands in mock fright. A number of droplets splattered on the window, and indeed Doug never bothered to clean any of the semen that accumulated there over the course of the entire summer.
When the show was over and Doug's member had dwindled to its still-impressive pre-tumescent state, Susan got up and strode over to the bathroom beyond and began toweling off her face. Doug remained sitting, either musing or catatonic. Ultimately he shut the light off and they both went downstairs. I realized that my hardon was raging from witnessing the scene, and, after it subsided a little, I rushed downstairs.
Susan was saying farewell to Doug on the porch, wearing a massive smile, her breasts gleaming as if they'd been recently rubbed down with oil. She'd done a pretty decent job cleaning up Doug's mess, although there remained a few flecks of white residue in her dark, lovely hair. After she departed, Doug stood there on the porch, his face a mask, rubbing off his prick with a towel.
I stepped out and said hello, and gave him some friendly advice: his behavior on the porch could be misread by some stodgy folks as masturbation and thereby grounds for dismissal from the club--no public sexual activity was permitted, technically, although there was endless tales of hanky-panky going on on the sly. Doug stared at me for a moment, and I actually almost got afraid, but then he gave his slight smirk and thanked me. He remembered me as the spectator at his earlier encounter with Sharon Porter. I asked him if he wanted to accompany me on a walk around the club and, after tossing his towel aside, he agreed.
We toured the entire club that afternoon: the basketball, volleyball, and tennis courts; the pool; the bar and lounge in the club house. Wherever we went we were preceded by Doug's inhumanly large dick swinging away, and needless to say it got him a lot of attention. Even in an environment where people were conditioned to nudity on an everyday basis, Doug's grotesque cock was a source of amazement and wonder. Women craned their necks and nearly bent over backwards to get a look at the immense tool. Often, men who saw it turned their heads away in what seemed like disgust or surprise, pretending as if they hadn't noticed. One young blonde woman who was bussing table in the lounge did such a double take when she saw the monstrosity that she dropped an armful of plates and glasses. Ever the gentleman, Doug stopped to help her pick up, his huge cock drooping lazily on the ground as he kneeled. "Don't get cut on the glass," the girl said, pointing down at his dick and some shards, her face red.
From that point on, Doug and I were constant walking companions, taking afternoon strolls around the resort and beach and even exploring some of the small wildland areas around the club's perimeter. He seemed to forgive me my singular affectation, an ever present safari hat, so I in turn forgave him his ludicrous, ever-present sunglasses. He was always quiet and hard to read, but amiable enough. He rarely volunteered information about himself, and never once boasted of his sexual exploits. On more than one occasion he was stopped by female hikers or joggers from the club, who made it plain that they were more interested in staring in awe at his gargantuan prick than in actually talking to him. Usually these meetings would result in Doug giving me a curt nod and disappearing for a few minutes with his admirer (or admirers) behind a copse of trees or rocky outcropping. When they would emerge some time later, the woman--or on one occasion, women--would usually be grinning and lathered in come, trying desperately to wipe the stuff off. Doug would come back with that unchanging, enigmatic smirk on his face, his dong usually dripping semen along the ground with each step.
The rest of that summer there was an endless parade of female visitors to Doug's house. Sharon Porter was a regular, and on many occasions my wife and I could hear her cries emanating from Doug's cupola, a unnerving mixture of pain and joy. It was on one such occasion, one evening after seeing a bow-legged and clearly shaken and red-in-the-face Sharon waddle down the path from Doug's house, that I realized my wife had never even met Doug.
Rose, ten years my junior, was an easy laugh and would scold me if I told you she looked a bit like Marilyn Monroe, had the movie star lived into her 50s. She had an extraordinarily curvaceous figure and thin, blonde hair than almost look white and which she usually wore in a bob. Though she lacked the beauty mark, she shared the same cherubic features, the same pouty lips, the same exceptional curves. Despite her age she was still getting ogled by guys at the club, young and old.
I broached the subject of Doug with her and she seemed interested in meeting my walking companion. We decided that we'd drop by on him the next day after lunch. I called Doug and we agreed to meet at his place around one the following day.
At the appointed time, Rose and I wandered over, heading over to the side door and bearing a gift of wine. The door was slightly ajar. I knocked once, then again, then rang the bell. No answer. From inside I could make out faint noises. Although the club had always been a peaceful place and I never recalled a crime taking place there, I began to feel somewhat concerned. Most people locked their doors, and Doug knew we were coming.
