Authors Notes. #1 This story is a figment of my imagination. All characters in it are over 18.
#2 I have long read comments by those who prefer BTB stories and wondered just how they would like a story written. Judging by their own words about what they would do if they were in the place of the male character, I tried to create a story along those lines. However, even in fiction we should try to stay within the bounds of reality, even though the size of the cocks usually described most times violate that standard. I will insist my ending is much more likely than most fans of BTB will want to admit, but hey, it is what it is.
Enjoy and if you haven't joined and gotten an ID name please do so and give me your comments, if you like. I promise no comment from user will be completely ignored—notice I'm not saying I'll do as suggested, just that I will give you all the consideration your comment deserves.
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I read a lot of Loving Wives stories on Literotica. I never thought my life would become one of them, but it has. Let me give you enough background for you to understand how this mess all came about.
First, my name in John—no shit, it really is—and to make it worse, I'm six feet five and weigh two-hundred-seventy -five, so everybody calls me Big John—you know, like the Jimmy Dean country song from the early sixties.
No, I don't work the mines, but I do spend my days framing up houses, so lifting lumber and nailing it together has developed my muscles to the point I probably could have handled the fictional John but it would have been a close call.
No we don't use air hammers because my boss takes pride in our work, assuring each customer that every joint is made like we were going to live in it ourselves. He likes to brag that our fingers have handled each and every nail in the house. Does it make the house better? Crap! I don't know—I do know people line up to have their houses built by us, and that keeps money in my pocket for the high priced crap Julie, that's my wife, loves to show off to her friends. One final point about me that may help you understand later events—I've never been beat at arm wrestling and I've won a lot of money from fools who thought their grip was stronger than mine.
Now let me tell you about Julie, the love of my life since I met her twenty years ago. The first time I laid eyes on that little blonde girl, I was lost. I knew I had to have her, and began a campaign to convince her to say "I do."
Trouble was, she hung around with the 'in crowd', you know—the football jocks whose parents kept them in a new car every couple years, and supplied cash for them to take their dates expensive places, like clubbing over in Savannah. (Now before you pipe up about them not being able to get into a club younger than eighteen, grow up—get a life. When Senator ***** or Legislator *****'s boys show up, the guy checking IDs don't see so good. From the best they can tell, every boy and girl in that party is well over eighteen.
Anyway, Julie's main squeeze was one Stan Grubs, better known around campus as "Meat." If I have to explain why he was called "Meat", you're too young to be reading this account of my life anyway, so close up and go back to playing ball. Like I said, Julie seemed completely awed by Stan and I wouldn't have bet a plugged nickel I'd ever have a chance with her. I didn't either, until she had finished college and returned home to find only us working class nerds still around.
I still remember that first time I ran into her in Tony's drug store. She had just graduated and taken the job of assistant manager of our local bank. It was her half day off and she'd stopped by Tony's, he still had a soda fountain back then, for a milkshake.
"Let me get that, Julie." I handed the clerk enough to cover both our shakes.
She clearly had trouble remembering me. "Who—no don't tell me, I never forget a face..." She followed me back to a booth, apparently still trying to place me. "I know you were in my class, and judging from your size, you must have played football, but I just can't..."
"Don't worry about it, we never traveled in the same circles, and no I didn't play football; too busy studying at night and working after school to help Mom with the bills."
"John! John Turner! Is it really you?" Her face lit up like she was really glad to see me. "You won't believe this, but up until our junior year, I had the biggest crush on you—of course at that age I didn't dare let on, and besides, you hardly paid any attention to little ole me."
I didn't know what to say. I just stared at this Nichole Kidman lookalike confessing she was once interested in me. I couldn't believe it, but seeing her ring finger bare, I wasn't dumb enough to miss this chance now. "Maybe I could take you to the dance at the American Legion Hut next Friday night?"
I thought I'd fall off the bench when she accepted. From that first dance we were inseparable and nine months later I married the most beautiful girl in the state—no make that the nation—at least in my eyes.
We bought a house just outside town limits; it sat smack in the middle of ten acres of wooded land and you had to drive over what looked like a wagon trail to get from SC61 to the house. If you didn't know it was there, you wouldn't dream a house was back there. We were never bothered by salesmen, and our two kids and their dogs could run wild without a worry in the world.
The only danger would be snakes and as long as the German Pointer was with them, no snake had better show his hide. Any other varmint, either two or four legged, would find himself on the business end of a pair of pearly sharp teeth belonging to Bruno, our Black Lab-Rottweiler cross that would protect the kids with his life.
Yes Sir! I had it all—a wife I dearly loved and who was crazy about me, a couple kids anyone could be proud of, between the two of us money was no problem, and the one thing I had worried about when we first married, I'd finally been able to forget about. Yeah, I know I got you wondering—so I won't try to hide it any longer.
You see, that old saw about telling how much a man's packing by looking at the size of his hands and feet is a bunch of shit. As I told you, I'm a big man—bigger than the usual guy—but my package is just normal; a shade over six inches with a glans of about one and a half inches across. I haven't seen many other cocks, since I wasn't a jock or in service, but from what I could read, I was just about average, maybe a little over, but not much.
Since I knew Julie had dated a guy known as 'Meat', for the first few years of our marriage I'd worried about how I measured up, so to speak. Of course she tried her best to assure me I really knew how to use what God had given me, and I did read a lot on how to satisfy a woman. It's true, almost every time we made loved, I'm not going to call it fucking, for it had a much deeper meaning to me and I thought it did to her also, she sure seemed to have multiple orgasms. If not, she was a better actress than Ms. Kidman, whom she looked so much like.
