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Big Penises


Extracted from Amanda Fox's hot new novel “The Albatross and the Mermaid"...for more, visit Amanda's home on the web at Foxtales.com!

The aphorism about the black man having an elephant-sized penis is true.  At least it’s true for Adrian, and I must say, I’m happy about that.   As for the rest of black mankind, I don’t know.  But for me, the others don’t matter anyway.  Now, I don’t want you to think that I’m basing my affinity for Adrian on the size of his penis because I’m not that shallow.  I’m an enlightened individual, and I try not to get caught up in the visceral criteria of a person, but I have given the subject some thought.   In fact, I thought hard about it after seeing Adrian’s python for the first time.  His snake shocked me, to be honest, and not because I’d never seen one that size before. Remember Matt?  He was no small change himself.  No, I was shocked because I didn’t expect it. 

    Between Matt and Adrian, there’d been a couple of other gentlemen with whom I’d shared more than a sandwich.  No serious contenders, but others nonetheless. What I learned from being with these other guys was that Matt was unusually large.  The rest of them had regular-sized penises in comparison – none too small mind you, but none too large either – and I thought that Adrian would be of similar proportion. 

    Call me sheltered, but I hadn’t even heard the stereotype about black men and their penises until after Adrian and I had hooked up.  None of those “other” intimate encounters had included men of the darker persuasion, and by that I do not mean to insinuate that all black men have by default, schlongs the size of tree trunks.  I feel I must qualify my statement however, as it is a typecast none-the-less. 

    Size had never been an issue until Adrian.  It’d never been something that I really thought about, let alone used as a basis for cementing a relationship.  Before him, size was simply an amount.  Matt was big, the others medium.  It was just another attribute like hair texture or eye color, and I took what I got.   It was certainly never something that I demanded.

    Now maybe it was my conversation with Lisa and the corresponding discovery of Adrian’s hammer that got me to thinking, who knows?  I will recount the details of the situation and let you be the judge…

    “So how’s it going with you and Adrian?  You guys seemed to really hit it off at the Halloween party.”  That was Lisa’s polite way of asking if we’d slept together yet.  God only knew the whole office was in on our exchange.

    “Yeah, I really think I could fall for this guy,” was my reply.

    “So, you mean you haven’t… you know,” she said, nudging me with her elbow as we did our occasional mid-day jaunt around the park. 

    “No, it’s only been a couple of weeks Lisa.  We did go swimming though.  That was fun.”

    “So you’ve seen him partially naked then?” Her eyes lit up.


    “Nice body?” She grabbed my arm and brought us to a halt.  “Wait, don’t tell me.   I’ll just bet he has a nice body.  A great chest.  A perfect ass.  Definitely a perfect ass!  And a you-know-what that could plug a drainpipe, I suppose.” She was chuckling as she said this, but I knew she was serious.

    “Now why would you say that?” I seriously wondered why she would make the comment about the drainpipe, though after seeing Adrian in his swim trunks, I knew she was probably right. 

    “You know what they say about black guys…”

    “No, actually I don’t know what they say,” I gulped.  “What do they say?” I hoped it wasn’t something horrible that could potentially ruin our budding rapport.

    “Come off it Isabelle, don’t tell me you’re that naïve?” Even with my face turning the color of ripe tomatoes, Lisa continued, “They say that black men have extra large penises, Isabelle.” She whispered the last part cupping her hand over her mouth like what she was saying was a secret.


    “So, do you think he does?”

    “Does what?” I was lost in speculation.

    “Does have one!?!”

    “Ummm, yeah. I think so,” I replied, my voice cracking slightly.

    “You are soooo lucky,” she sighed, pulling at my arm to continue our walk, both of us dreaming of Adrian’s formidable member.

    So was it the promise of an extra-large appendage that kept me going back for more?  Was it that important to me?  I will answer these questions with a modest negative, but I have to add that after being in its company, I was definitely set to thinking.  You see, by the time I’d met Adrian, I was older, more experienced.  I knew what I wanted and needed from a man, and when I saw Adrian’s penis – when I saw how very thick and dark it was – the question about the importance of its size came to mind. 
   Now, before I go any further with this discussion, I want to make one thing perfectly clear, and that is, I liked Adrian before I saw it. I liked him a lot.  After it came out of his pants however, when it flopped against his belly all erect and shiny the way it was – like a piece of sirloin steak whacking against a cutting board – I knew it was something that would add to the long list of positive criteria for having him as my boyfriend.  To be blunt, I knew it could possibly make him a keeper, all other things considered. 

    Even Adrian is happy with his meat – proud to be exact – but he doesn’t like me to tease him about it, and if he ever knew I regarded it as one of the main reasons I stay with him, he would flip.  But the truth isn’t always what you want to hear, is it?  I am joking here of course, but in the beginning it was certainly a “big” draw.  I wanted to take it and use it the way I’d wanted to use Matt’s – with the hand of an experienced woman – just to see if it could actually make a difference.  That was really all it came down to.

    But you doubt my sincerity, don’t you? OK. For argument’s sake then, let’s suppose I’d met Adrian and we became good friends.  And let’s suppose that after taking this friendship to the next level, I discovered that his “thing” was the size of an eraser.  What would I have done?  I don’t know.  I probably would’ve kept him as a friend but made up some excuse about why we couldn’t be lovers.

    As a lawyer, I am an expert in the field of communication, and a specialist in the art of persuasion.  We are the ultimate salespeople, but instead of selling objects, we sell ideas.  Thus, I can single-handedly transpose the significance of a concrete deposition in any circumstance if I am asked.  If the powers that be pay me enough.  Simply put, I can make bad things sound good, and good things sound bad. 

    Therefore, in the case of the small penis, I wouldn’t say, “I am sorry, I just can’t be with you because your penis is the size of a Gherkin’s baby dill, and that’s just not going to work for me.” I could never be so cruel.  I might pull the reverse psychology card though, and tell him that because my vagina was so incredibly large, I couldn’t live with the guilt of knowing that I could never completely satisfy him.  That probably wouldn’t work either, because it would still give him the impression that his penis was lacking in some way. 

    After all, size is a relative term.  And what might be a large penis for one woman’s vagina might be inadequate for another, or vice versa.  So when I make the comment about Adrian having a large penis, what I should state is that Adrian’s penis is large in relation to my “vaginal volumosity”, if that’s even a concept.  But there is big, and then there’s colossal. Likewise, there is small, and then there’s microscopic.  Anyone falling into the middle range, (which I am sure most men do), would be considered normal, right?  Normal doesn’t need special consideration.  Normal fits the general population of female subjects. 

    If Adrian happened to ebb on the side of minuscule however, I’d still be in trouble if my reason for our breakup had anything to do with the synergetic functioning of our anatomies.  I might have to think of an explanation even more astute like, “Oh, I’ve just recently contracted the herpes virus, and I wouldn’t want to risk our great friendship by subjecting you to something so terrible,” or “I’ve decided to become a nun, and while I am wildly attracted to you, I just couldn’t go against the vows to which I will soon be obliged.” That last apologia would take a lot of finagling to cover up.  Probably not so great either. 

    Lucky for me, it didn’t work out that way with Adrian.  I got my salami, even if I wasn’t expecting it, and I was more than pleased with my gift. 
                            * * * 
     So, in the beginning, I found myself lusting after the man of the magnificent member virtually from the moment he’d sauntered down the hall past my office at Braun and Bower, long before I’d gotten inside his pants.  Back then, we watched each other like hawks.  I would catch him staring my way, and I’m sure he saw me doing the same.  And while I had a sneaky suspicion that he felt a comparable affiliation, neither of us braved a confrontation.  It wasn’t until the night of the Halloween party that my hunch about his feelings was confirmed. 

     Three weeks, lots of phone conversations, and four official dates after the night our hands lingered palm to palm as Super Blackman and Angel, (and this includes lunch at the café across the street from our office, dinner and a movie, and one very sensual swimming lesson), the moment of truth was upon us.  We were ready to get naked.

    We decided on the Wednesday – the occasion of our swimming excursion – to make a date for the upcoming weekend, knowing full well that someone had turned up our somatic thermostats from thirty-seven to one thousand degrees Celsius.  We desperately needed to see each other within the confines of a closed setting, for both our sakes and for the sakes of all those who worked with us at Braun and Bower.

    We were ready to take our relationship further into the realm of sexual congress, and it was damn near impossible to play it cool any longer.  Our craving for each other’s bodies was growing more and more ravenous each time we came into contact, and I was afraid that if we didn’t do something soon, we would end up on top of the photocopy machine giving Al, Lisa, Beverley, and all the rest of our colleagues at the office a really good show.

    The proposed day for our release was a Saturday late in November. We’d picked that day because we knew we’d have an extended period of time to be alone, neither one of us scheduled to work, and no pressing obligations to oversee.  Adrian didn’t have his daughter that weekend, and I didn’t have any legal preparations waiting on my desk.  We were free to frolic and fornicate until the cows came home.

    The morning in question, I was awake by 6 a.m.  We were supposed to meet sometime in the afternoon, around three.  With a few errands to run and a short visit to his Auntie’s house, it was the earliest he could get there, Adrian had said.  Over the years, I’ve learned that even when he’s not busy, he’s still busy, and for me that meant nine hours of fretting and primping.

    After lying around until I couldn’t stand it any longer, I rolled out of bed about 7:30, grabbed my newest sci-fi pick off the dresser, and headed to the kitchen for a small bite to eat.   A piece of toast with peanut butter and some tea was all I could manage.

    At nine o’clock, I called my mother and we chatted about the week’s events.  She told me the same sort of stuff she always does – who died and who was going to die, who’d had a baby and whose marriage was on the rocks.  All the happy stuff! 

    Once updated, I headed to the bathroom where I proceeded to floss my teeth and brush them twice.   I plucked my eyebrows, applied a facial mask, brushed my teeth again, (just in case), and finally, turned on the shower. Under some close-to-scalding hot water, I shaved my legs meticulously, careful not to nick myself around the ankles and knees, and did my armpits and bikini area as well.  I finished with a hot-oil treatment on my hair, (something I hardly ever do), and even pumiced the bottom of my feet.  Clean at last, I lingered there until the hot water ran out.

    Don’t misunderstand; I am not usually so obsessive.  Typically, I shower in two minutes flat.  I scrub my body with the suds from the shampoo, condition my hair if I remember, give my face and private parts a wipe, and voila, I’m done.  Two minutes, not twenty.  But that morning it was twenty.

    Make-up and hair styling came next, after which it was time to find the perfect outfit.  I stood in front of my closet for what seemed like forever, wondering what to wear.  (You women, and a few of you metro-sexual men will understand this concept.)  I shouldn’t have worried so much though because Adrian was and isn’t the type of guy to judge a person by how they dress.  But like every other man in the known world, I knew he would appreciate a sexy ensemble with some racy lingerie hidden underneath. 

    Finally, I picked out a pair of jeans, a super soft sweater, some black panties and a matching bra and got dressed. Upon exiting my bedroom ready for my date, I saw that it was only eleven o’clock.  Not even noon.  I still had four hours to go, which meant more toe-tapping, and some serious nail biting. 

    I needed to do something with my time, so I decided to head to the gym to burn off my pent-up energy.  Surely, you can appreciate that this meant I would have to do most of the same stuff I’d just labored through, all over again.  I figured it would kill the hours that were left until Adrian’s materialization, and since I was too anxious to do anything else, that’s exactly where I went. 

    At the recreation centre, I ran and I ran and I ran and I ran. When the sweat had extinguished most of my nerves and I hit the stop button, you could almost see the smoke rising up off the deck of the treadmill.  Another shower, blow-dry and some make-up, and I was on my way.  One last stop at the market to pick up some treats for dinner, and I was back at the location of my concupiscent destiny.

    Funny, when the doorbell rang at 3:30, I nearly jumped out of my skin.  It’s not like I hadn’t been waiting all day for that familiar sound.  Humph!  Now, I don’t recall exactly what outfit Adrian had on, possibly because I was so focused on getting him out of his clothes that I paid no attention, but I can tell you that he was sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and that he smelled fantastic.

    “Well, don’t you look handsome,” I purred into the collar of his coat. “And you sure do smell good.  Is there some kind of special occasion going on this afternoon that no one told me about?” I kidded.

    “I hope so,” he laughed, pulling me in for a more sensual greeting.  He felt so warm that I wanted to climb inside his clothes right there at the door. 

    I must make mention of the fact that this man is the definition of warmth.  He is always warm, and I am usually, when my body temperature is at its normal level, just the opposite – a bit on the cool side.  He teases me with that old saying “cold hands, warm heart,” though it’s not just my hands that get cold.  My feet and my head do too.  In the winter, I wear wool socks to bed, and I almost always wear long johns under my pants – a practice I got from my dad.  Sounds sexy, doesn’t it?  It should comfort you to know that I kept my snow gear in the closet for our date. 

    Once we’d moved past the threshold of my front door, (and that took a while), we ended up in the kitchen.  Adrian had built up an appetite from running around all morning, and I too, was starving, having lasted the better part of the day on a belly full of butterflies.  So we feasted on toasted tomato sandwiches with sprinkles of vinegar and freshly ground pepper, after which we fed each other grapes and shared a giant oatmeal cookie. 

    With our appetites curbed at last, we made our way to the living room and plopped down on the sofa, both of us slightly hesitant about what was likely to come next.  When our thighs brushed, I tried to think of something to say, but all that came to mind were the words, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me.  I want you to fuck me.  Now!”  I thought it best however, to keep that idea to myself a little while longer.

    My carnal stupor kept me tongue-tied, and it was Adrian who broke the ice. “I like your sweater.  It’s really soft,” he said, stroking up and down my arm. 

    “I wore it specifically for that reason,” I answered feebly.  “I wanted to tempt you into touching me.”

    “You didn’t need to wear a soft sweater to do that.  You just needed to ask.”

    “What if I asked you to take off all my clothes and kiss me all over?  Would you do that?” Slightly subtler than “I want you to fuck me” but not much.

    “That goes way beyond stroking your fuzzy sweater, now doesn’t it?  Maybe I want to take my time.”

    His agitated look didn’t convey the message of wanting to take his time, so when he leaned over and pressed his palm into the crux of my thighs, I giggled, “That’s not really taking it slow.” I was liquid under the denim, and I was positive he could feel it seeping through my jeans, my body calling out for more. 

    “No it’s not,” was all he said. 

    “Do you always go for the biggest prize first?  Why not start with my earlobes or something?” I teased, really wanting him to keep his hand right where it was.

    He laughed loudly at me and took his hand away.  “You are the biggest flirt, aren’t you?  Do you mean what you say and say what you mean?  Or maybe you have your sights set on driving me completely mad.” He then pinched my big toe, hinting at more playful punishment to come and added, “Don’t worry, my dear.  If you think I’m about to give you everything at once, you’re sorely mistaken.  You’ll get what you get, when I give it to you.”

    “Oh, so you think you’re the boss, huh?” I asked, rising up onto my knees.  “I’m the boss, see.” I grabbed his wrists and playfully pushed him flat on his back, scrambling to straddle his waist.  “And don’t you forget it.”

    It didn’t matter what we said to each other, in jest or not.  It may have only been our fourth date, but we both understood how the relationship would proceed.  Ultimately, I wanted Adrian to be in charge, and I think that he could sense this predilection long before we’d even made verbal contact.  More specifically, I wanted Adrian to pull the strings, but only because I allowed it. 

    To have a partner, or a boyfriend, or a husband, or any significant other, is a choice that I make, and just so you know, if Adrian or anyone else were to intentionally hurt me, I would leave them in a second.  In our relationship though, I wanted the same thing then that I do now.  I wanted Adrian to be the dominant person.  That was and is, a big sexual turn on for me.  It’s my preference and fortunately, it’s his as well.   So while I may say words that reflect a more controlling position, what I really want is for him to call the shots.  Now, I realize that this sounds like a game – and it is – but it’s a game that we both enjoy playing.

    “My boss,” he paused, clenching my hands so hard that the pain was almost unbearable.  Sarcastic but sweet, he then pleaded, “Come.  Show me what to do bossy lady.” With that, he pulled me down, crushing my lips to his.  As our mouths and tongues made merry, the ice grip of his hands melted away and the heat that warmed our loins turned into a raging fire.  There we were, two grown adults, kissing shamelessly on my living room couch, the intensity of the experience causing me to tremble with excitement and perspire in all the susceptible areas.

    By the time Adrian had turned his attentions to my earlobe –licking and sucking that delicate flesh with his masterful mouth – I was undulating in his arms like a mermaid in a stormy sea.   We could easily have jumped to the next level right then, but he kept the focus of our cavorting above the shoulders, at least for a little while longer. 

    It was then that I discovered how much I enjoyed kissing Adrian.  If you ask me, he should be crowned the king of mouth music. His kisses leave my breathless to this day, and I think it’s the way he holds back ever so slightly that makes me weak. That day with Adrian, I wanted to kiss him forever; we didn’t need to do more.  Well, I wanted to do more.  He had me begging to do more and we did, but the sublimity of the kissing alone would’ve been enough to make it a worthwhile encounter all by itself. 

    Sometimes he holds me to just kissing, or to another single element of the lovemaking experience.  It could be kissing or touching or licking.  Sometimes he won’t let me cum, and sometimes he won’t let himself complete the journey either. 

    There’s a saying by Louis Aragon – “Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error.  It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent and intoxicating.  We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.” I wholeheartedly agree with his observation of the human condition.  For Adrian and I, it is how we interpret our surroundings, and how we select our actions on a moment-by-moment basis.  We use it to understand the universe, and in sex, we do the same. 

    For what is hardness, I ask you, if you don’t first feel soft?  What is pleasure, if you aren’t familiar with the sensations of discomfort and pain?  So sometimes Adrian back pedals in the heat of the moment, and sometimes I contribute by asking questions just to slow him down.  We are not trying to torture each other.  Never that.  We simply want to feel so utterly marvelous that we remain lovers until the time when the sun explodes, or the earth disappears, or until “never” ever comes. 

    Besides, it’s not like either of us holds off for very long.  That’s just how our tournament of titillation progresses.  Adrian is the boss, and sometimes I play hard-to-get.  Ultimately we both know, if he growls loud enough, (and here I will use his manner of speaking), I will do whatever he wants whenever he wants it. 

    What he wanted that Saturday afternoon was to give me a taste of his goodness and to leave me begging for more.  He’d handed me the keys to his car.  He’d even let me turn it on, but there were to be no rides that day – no cruises in the country, or devil-may-care races around the track.  Not even donuts in the parking lot.  It was simply meant to be a long, slow idle in the driveway, with a mini-lesson on how to use the clutch.   I found out then that “sometimes” he likes to make good things last the same way I do.  I did however, get a peek under the hood, and let me tell you, the engine was sweet!

    Our kissing marathon must’ve lasted a good half an hour, and finally, when I assume he couldn’t bear the pressure building up in his pants any longer, he allowed me to explore past the waistband of his jeans.  Besides that, I had suffered long enough at his mercy, and I’m sure he could sense my desperation.  I was in dire straits from him lifting my sweater and scrupulously traversing the landscape of my chest with both his hands and his lips.  My nipples were hard as rocks and my pussy was lamenting a sad, sad story all over my panties. 

    We both needed more, and I for one, was ready to take anything I could get.  So I shoved at the heavy fabric of his jeans, practically willing his penis to pop out on its own.  The task however was taking more patience than I possessed, and I scowled and thrashed at the material in frustration.  Just when I was about to rip the zipper apart to get inside, he grabbed my wrist and halted my madness.  He knew then what I didn’t – that it wasn’t going to be any more than a brief foray into the land of ecstasy.  Not if he could help it.  I later understood why he wasn’t freaking out the same way I was.  He wasn’t going to let himself go that far, so I’m sure he saw no point in getting all worked up.  

    “Slow down baby.  Move back a bit, and take your time.  I’m not going to run away,” he said, helping me loosen the provoking apparel.  

    “Ummmhmmm,” The sound came unbidden from the back of my throat. 

    “You’re not excited, are you?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear.  I was too far-gone to answer, too zeroed in on that place on his body that promised to lift me higher than the clouds.

    “Come now,” he whispered.  “Come get what you need.”  As he spoke, his hands settled to his sides and his head fell back against the cushions.  When he closed his eyes in readiness, I shimmied his pants down to his hips, not sure what to expect.  Wait, I shouldn’t say that.  I wasn’t completely unaware of the monstrosity that lay concealed in his jeans.  I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t seen him semi-naked in the pool.  I just hadn’t actually seen his penis in the flesh.  

    So when I displaced the fabric of his underpants that afternoon at my house, the drawers of an unpretentious man – navy blue jockeys with the white-striped waistband – I wasn’t completely surprised.  His “Chief of Staff”, his “Donald Pump”, his “Buster McThunderstick” was about as wide around as my forearm and about that long.  I tried not to appear shocked when it emerged, but I’m sure my eyes bugged out slightly and I may have gagged a little.

    I attempted to play it cool however, patting it and stroking it, looking away every once in a while, trying not to be the “eager beaver”, (pun definitely intended), that I was, trying damn hard not to froth at the mouth while I ogled his “Viscount of Veins”. 

    If you’d been there, you would’ve thought I’d never seen a penis before.  Well, I hadn’t.  Not one like this.  If Matt’s was large, Adrian’s was gigantic.  If Matt’s was white, Adrian’s was the darkest shade of brown I’d ever seen.  It was so dark that it was almost purple, like a mahogany stair rail.  It also appeared to have the vascularity of a marathon runner, with prominent veins and an enduring and healthy loftiness.  Furthermore, it was uncircumcised – a condition of the male organ that was new to me.  I was enthralled by the way the slackened skin slid up and down over the rigid shaft.  And I’m not sure why, but it reminded me of a turtleneck sweater covering the most imposing of all Greek columns. 

    It was definitely a slab of gold in my greedy little paws, and I fondled its head, rubbing gently on the underside of the bulb with my thumb.  I caressed it, and held it.  I tickled it at its base and squeezed it tight around the middle. I took my time getting to know it, and I could tell that Adrian reveled in the fact that I could’ve studied the intricacies of his penis forever. I had a feeling that his “Jack Kerouwacker” was going to be my friend for a long time coming and I needed the two of us to understand and know each other.  Thus, I was just trying to do my part in the process.

    Adrian moaned softly while I explored my new toy, and I was delighted when his penis bounced back and forth like a spring-mounted diving board, jumping from my hand to his abdomen every time I pinched it with my thumb and forefinger.  I discovered that if I held it away from his body and then let go, it thwacked against his stomach with a declaration of supreme density and size. 

    Besides the perplexing displacement ability of his penis, I also found it interesting to note how the rest of him reacted to my probing, and I thought it odd that he kept fairly quiet and otherwise semi-motionless throughout my attentions.  He did open his eyes once, fixing his gaze on what I was doing, his hips vibrating almost imperceptibly as his excitement mounted, but he only reached out to remove a strand of my hair that was blocking his view. I thought maybe I’d given him a stroke at that point because he was so still – almost too still.  His composure didn’t last forever though.  He rested like a statue only until I listed forward with my mouth. 

    “Oh, Jesus,” he cried.  I hadn’t killed him after all.

    “Are you alright?” I asked, hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for his reply. 

    “If you do that, you’re going to end up with my cum at the back of your throat within seconds.” He sounded sincerely concerned. 

    “Ah, I think I can handle it.  I might even fancy it,” I giggled, resuming my play.  He got harder, if that were possible, but he didn’t say another word.   “So, do you want me to put my mouth on you?” I asked, though I knew it was going to happen whether he liked it or not.  That much, I was determined to take.  I got my answer when he lifted his hips forward slightly and looked directly at my face, his eyelids drooping closed again as if the light from heaven’s door were too bright to manage. 

    I took that as a “yes” and moved to within inches of his penis, flattered to see that his pearly white cream was already oozing out, dribbling down over the back of my hand.  When I poked out my tongue for a taste, I found his ejaculate to be divine and I wanted to consume every last drop.  Around and around, up and down, I spread his slickness and my own saliva from the top to the bottom of his penis, everything gliding with ease.  I felt like Shawna in that Ludacris song, “I wanna, li-li-li-lick you from yo' head to yo' toes, an I wanna, move from the bed down to the, down to the, to the flo'…” And I imagined Adrian with his own entreaty, his voice a brutal staccato, “What’s my name?  What’s my name?  What’s my name?” His red carpet dick had me hooked.

    Come to think of it, I could’ve won an Oscar for my performance that day.  I probably would’ve gotten a standing ovation even.  With Adrian I could win lots of awards like that, and not because I’m particularly skilled at giving blowjobs.  It’s because he brings out the animal in me, and I could suck him off, fuck him senseless, and feed his every want and desire better than any woman he could ever meet. 

    My porn-star operatives were panning out with Adrian at that very moment, and he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.  He was even beginning to let some louder moans slip past his lips.  The ardor was building for us both, when suddenly I felt a distinct change in the air.  A seriousness of task and outcome had taken over, and the leather on my couch transuded with the zeal of a third person.  I knew I needed to arrange things to make myself a more serviceable, cock-sucking machine in preparation for the grand finale, so I removed my lips from around him and backed away slightly. 

    “What are you doing?” he roared.

    “Relax, I’m just adjusting you.”  I scooted right down to his feet, pulled his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off, and pushed his legs apart.  I then lodged myself in the space I’d created and went back to work.

    It only took a couple of minutes, and the prediction he’d made earlier was about to transpire.  He was right – he was going to cum quickly.  Not exactly in a few seconds, but still, I hadn’t even gotten the chance to do more than caress his balls.  I certainly didn’t get to lick that sweet spot between his anus and his testicles.  Nope, this blowjob was all cock.  He didn’t complain though, and neither did I.  And when he finally erupted, it was like a gun blast, and not only did it come out with clout, it also ran like a river, flowing for the better part of a minute.  Well, maybe it was more like thirty seconds, but however long it was, I can actually remember counting four full gulps to swallow it all.  

    Now Adrian’s next move, while not unappreciated, was totally unexpected.  After he recovered from his own trip to “la la land”, he vaulted forward, grabbed my shoulders, and hurled me onto my back. I wound up flat out and somewhat stunned.  Without so much as a second to ask what was going on, he’d yanked off my jeans and whipped them across the room.  

    “Good.  That’s perfect.  You’re perfect.  Now, flip back over,” he growled.  “Show me your ass.” When he growls, I listen, so I bounced onto my hands and knees and perched, ready and waiting.  “That’s nice,” he murmured, his hand smoothing circles over my cheeks.  “OK. Now, spread your legs a little wider for me baby, and put your head down.”

    With my butt up in the air, he peeled my underwear over to one side. Immediately, thoughts of my first time with Matt came streaming back, and it excited me all the more. Then, with the flip of his wrist, Adrian gave me something that Matt had never given to me – an unheralded, and sharp swat on the behind.

    I laugh here because Adrian has lectured me time and time again on how to lay down a proper spank, not that I would ever think of giving one to him.  That sort of behavior doesn’t fit into his code of sexual mores.  No, the directions are simply an explanation of what I will get sometime in the near future.  “It’s not really how hard you do it, that’s important,” he always says, “though that can’t be discounted altogether.  It is more about the way the hand connects, and the quickness with which you take that hand up again, that gives the best sting.” Every time he explains it, I get a demonstration. “Here, let’s see if you can notice a difference.”

    The first hit he gives is intended to be the bad one, the one against which I shall judge the others. Fingers splayed with ponderous gesticulation, it leaves much to be desired.  It is like playing patty cake in the playground – good for five year olds.  The second hit is supposed to be his trademark move.  For this one, his fingers are lined up in a tight row, (he shows me the proper positioning afterwards), and with dexterous reflexes, he tags me with a sharp strike like the crack of a whip.  This one invariably leaves me both singing his praises and yowling in pain. 

    “Now that’s how to do it, baby.  You’ll never meet a white man who could spank your ass the way I can.”  I chuckled the first time he said those words, but I don’t anymore.  I’ve since discovered that a black man’s penchant for asses is some menacing business. 

    No man had ever spanked me before that afternoon on the couch, but then I’d never been with a black man either.  I know white men do it too, but my previous paramours had never tried it with me.  Adrian didn’t seem to have any qualms about it laying his hands down however, and my first foray into the realm of injurious but enjoyable bestial pursuits left me slightly awestruck and all the more aroused.  I wiggled back at him, and he answered by gripping my buttocks and prying me apart, exposing my holes to his fiery gaze.

    “Jesus, girl.  You’re making me rise again. I wanna fuck you so hard.” I was no girl, but I loved it when he called me that, and I loved it more when he talked dirty to me.  The dirtier the better.  Thank goodness, he still does both.  

    “Adrian, please…” My body was shaking with anticipation. 

    “Please, what?” he asked.

    “Please put something inside.”  Without hesitation, he slid three fingers in deep. 

     I moaned, “Adriiiaaaan…” I supposed he was working me both vertically and horizontally, though I was so wet, it was hard to tell exactly what he was doing.  All I knew was just how rapturous it felt to have at least a part of him inside my body, and he continued twisting and turning until I could barely submit anymore. 

    “That’s my girl.  Take it.  I’ve got to make you ready for what you’ll get next time,” he commanded.  His ordinance – not the words themselves, but the way he said them – ushered me into the twilight zone.  I squirmed and bucked my hips, rotating with each respective push and pull of his fingers.  When I reached under and rubbed my clitoris, I was done.

    “Yes, baby.  Let go.  I want to feel that pussy of yours…” he said, his voice fading away to nothing. 

    When I finally floated down from that vast darkness of oblivion, I turned over and we both just stared at each other.  We didn’t need to state the obvious.  We just knew that chemistry like ours was hard to find, and that the “next time” needed to happen pretty soon. 

    Although we may have gotten naked that day, we didn’t go all the way.  When Adrian is set on something, there is nothing – and I do mean nothing – that can change his mind.  He’d decided not to have intercourse that afternoon, or that evening, though I’ve never asked him his reasons for it.  Even under the influence of our unbridled passion, his “beef train” didn’t to stop at my “tuna station”, nor did he play hide and seek with his “one-eyed trouser snake”.  Whatever you want to call it, we simply didn’t do it.  Fucking was still two weekends away.

    We did manage however, to exchange fluids and DNA, and we claimed eight more orgasms between us – five for me, and three for him – over the next twelve-hour period. 
                            *  * *
    Oh, but I still haven’t answered the question, have I?  Would I base an entire relationship on the size of a guy’s cock?  Let’s just say that if Adrian were to have his penis cut off in a freak accident tomorrow, we’d still be the best of friends, but I sure as hell would miss it, and I’d need a pretty big dildo to fill the void. 

    Now I don’t want you to think that I am devaluing all men who have smaller than normal-sized penises, or even normal-sized penises for that matter.   I wouldn’t want anyone to feel bad for something they weren’t born with, or for something that’s impossible to change.  It’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean, right?  Sure, and if Adrian didn’t have a clue how to use his tool, he wouldn’t be of much use to me, regardless of his girth. 

    Guys with less than optimal size can certainly make up for their lacking by learning advanced pleasuring techniques, but I like what I have.  I like it a whole lot.  When he’s inside of me, I feel very full, to the point of bursting.  It’s a very intense sensation and one that I’ve come to expect. Anything less, wouldn’t be enough, I fear.  Moreover, it’s a bonus that Adrian has read the Kama Sutra front to back, and on top of all that, he’s a caring and considerate lover.

    Perhaps, I should tell you the other reasons I enjoy making love to my husband.  Additionally, while I like being stuffed full by an extra large penis, I also revel in the contrasting image of Adrian’s parts next to mine.  Yes, the idea of fornicating with a black man excites this white woman, but I can honestly say that I don’t believe my initial attraction to Adrian had anything to do with the color of his skin.  There was just something about the man that drew me in.  Maybe then I should say instead that this white woman likes the idea of fornicating with Adrian, who just happens to be a black man.  I don’t want to fornicate with any other black men to be sure. 

    As for me liking the color of his skin after getting to know him, that’s true, but by then his color was unmistakably just another part of him for me to like.  So was his penis size.  I never started by saying I would only date guys with penises bigger than eight inches, or that I only wanted to date black men.  Now that we’ve been together however, I’ve discovered some things that appeal to me that I didn’t realize existed before, like the way Adrian’s dark brown hand appears as it lays across my milky white stomach, how his sable penis looks when it slides into my coral-colored vagina, or how it feels to be filled to capacity by his ten-inch “trunk-o-love”. 

    I think that penis size, skin color, hair length, eye shape, and all the rest of it, are qualities that you may come to appreciate in a person after you’re drawn to that person in the first place. Chemistry isn’t a straightforward concept.  You can declare your love for a certain type, (some men say they only like blondes and some women say they only like men taller than six feet), but don’t most of us, at one time or another, meet an exception to our preconceived notion of attractiveness?  Bottom line for me, big penis or not, I would’ve fallen in love with Adrian regardless, and as long as I found out that he wasn’t swimming with the minnows, we were good.

Extracted from Amanda Fox's hot new novel “The Albatross and the Mermaid"...for more, visit Amanda's home on the web at Foxtales.com!


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