So, where was I? Oh yes, I was going to finish what I started, and tell you about my recent exploit, blowing the world's biggest tuba.
I bet I know what you're thinking. "She blew Big Carl!" No, not Big Carl. But speaking of Big Carl, if you're not familiar with this eight-foot-tall tuba, google Big Carl Tuba. (There's a video of a certain famous female tubist giving it a blow, and it's breathtaking. Literally. She stumbles away after emptying her lungs into him.)
Yes, I knew about Big Carl. I wanted to blow him so bad. Still do. I actually traveled to New York City a few times, all the way from Los Angeles. First time I just wanted to walk by and look at him. The second time I was going to go in and ask to blow him, but I chickened out. As I did on my third visit. And then I learned that there was a bigger tuba, and that it was coming right to my front door.
I work at the prop house of a movie studio, and for one of our films, the director wanted a giant tuba. It wasn't going to be played, but he was famous for his love of authenticity. (The set designer and all of us in props were so fucking sick of this guy. Is that authentic? Is that authentic? I know it's period-correct, but is it authentic?" "No," I always wanted to say, "but my pussy is, so why don't you eat me out and shut the fuck up?" For once I understood how annoying my constant tuba-tooting and balloon-busting must have been to my parents.). He wanted an honest-to-goodness real instrument, and I was asked to commission it and get it built. I spent hours on the phone talking about tubas. I started bringing extra panties to work, stuffed away in a desk draw.
The tuba cost something like $50,000 to make. It was fifteen feet high. The valves were as big as my fist. We had it shipped in on a specialized truck. It was a fully working tuba. The shop that built it demonstrated it with a special pump they made because no one on their staff had the lung power to get a good note out of it.
I thought I knew someone who did. A woman I spotted in my mirror every morning. And every night when I practiced my tuba and blew my balloons.
The company that made the huge tuba finished ahead of schedule, and the big brass monstrosity sat in our warehouse for a long time. I'd work late, staying after everyone left, sitting on a chair and just looking up at it. Sometimes I'd set my chair up in a place where I knew the security cameras couldn't see (I had to blow a security guy to get that information; well worth it) and I'd masturbate, thinking what it would be like to blow what I, and few other people, knew was the world's biggest tuba.
I wanted to blow it. I had to blow it. I was afraid to blow it. I couldn't blow it. I needed to blow it.
Finally, today, I got up the nerve.
Where were we before I went off on this whole tangent about my tuba history? About my big breasts, about Billy stretching my cunt with his huge cock while I blew an oom-pah beat on my sousaphone... Oh yes, I remember. My lungs were inflated to their own bursting point, my cheeks puffed out to the size of grapefruits, the pressure building up behind my lips. That's where we were.
Shall we continue?
We don't have to. If you want to hear more about tuba-fucking, I could tell you about another time, kind of a dare from a friend. We were at a party, all a little drunk, and I said nothing could distract me when I was playing. He said prove it, so I did. Oh, I had a dress on, no one saw anything (well, not too much), I got out my sousa, straddled him, and...
Sorry... you do want me to continue. You don't have to shout.
I gradually relaxed my lip muscles and blew, a big lung-full of hot breath that would generate a nice low note from my tuba or my sousa...