Jessica’s Torment by Cyronne

Jessica’s Torment

I really shouldn’t do this; I really must stop. It’s doing me no damn good at all – in fact it’s making things worse. I’m 47 and should have found a way of getting over this after all these years.

But my resolve vanished as I keyed in another screenful of naked men, each with a penis size that hit me in the pit of my stomach. Did some men – it seemed like every bloody one of them – really have 10 inches in their shorts? What had been an ache, and a longing for years before I’d connected up to the Internet was now an anguished hell this past month. I blamed Sandra for this. She told me that ‘with my problem’, as she put it, I would get some satisfaction from having my eyes opened with a few keystrokes. She tried to convince me that the websites she advised me to check on would go a long way towards giving me some peace of mind. A few Keystrokes? Sure. So how come I had spent the last few weeks doing some stroking of my own as I watched a parade of huge penises on gorgeous males remind me of how disadvantaged I had been for so many years. I’d married Frank 24 years ago, and at the time, I had loved him so much, I never gave too much thought to his small, five inch, endowment. It was, after all, five inches more than I’d had in my 23 years before I’d married. How many times in those lost years had I masturbated silently on the couch as Frank lay asleep in front of the television?

“Jess, telephone”. Frank’s call from the next room startled me, making my heart leap as I fought to find the right spot to place the cursor to close down my laptop in case Frank might wander through.

“Who is it”? I called back.
“Your friend, Sandra”.
“I’ll take it in the bedroom, honey”.
Sandra’s voice was calm, with no hint of urgency when she said, “Why don’t you come over. I’m sitting by the pool having some champagne. Oh, and find ourself a nice swimsuit, we’re going to have a swim later”.
“Who’s ‘we’”? I asked, but she had rung off before I could quiz her further.

The week before last I had indulged myself with an overseas purchase from a retro swimwear company, “Esther Williams Fashions” This would be as good time as any to give it an airing. The one-piece suit, in a green and orange floral pattern, had a micro skirt-like fabric finish over the crotch hiding the gusset, all the rage in the fifties, I was assured. It had a halter tie, and thankfully, light foam bra form cups to give my tiny A size boobs a bit of shape.

I drove over to Sandra’s place – a large spread on one level, parking behind a red sports car I didn’t recognise.
“Darling”, she always spoke in an over the top gushing style. Greeting me with champagne flute in hand, she waved it in the direction of a man, who was sitting with his back to the action, as he poured two fresh glasses, one presumably for me.
“This is Steven, but he prefers Steve. He’s the brother I never see. Works in Hong Kong like a dervish, so aren’t we lucky to see him in the flesh”!

From what I could see, the flesh was of exceptional quality, the lightly tanned body set off by his lemon coloured trunks cut Italian boy-leg style. His manner suggested money and authority. I took the glass handed to me noting his grey-blue yes which raked me from top to toe with an intensity I was not at all used to.

“You must be Jessica”. It was not a question. “Sandra’s been telling me all about you”.
“Not everything I hope”, I blushed remembering how Sandra had insisted on knowing all about my small penis hang-up with Frank.
We chatted amicably among ourselves about nothing of consequence other than Steven’s lifestyle in Hong Kong.
“Married”? I ventured. My words were out before I could stop them. What a fool he must think me to be so unguardedly open. Why is it, I thought, that at 47 I could still lose my confidence and feel like a schoolgirl at times like this?
My thoughts were broken by the ring of Sandra’s cell phone on the tray beside the champagne bucket. After a quick interchange with the caller, she collected her wrap, saying, “I gotta fly folks. Now you children enjoy yourselves. There’s more champers in the refrigerator. I’ll be back in an hour or so.

Steven stood up to kiss his sister on the cheek, and as he turned around to face me, my loins went as heavy as lead as I my eyes became riveted on the massive bulge in his swim trunks. This was no erection, this was a quietly coiled snake not yet erect concealed in yellow Lycra.

In real gentlemanly fashion, he covered my gasp of admiration – (there it was again, out before I could control myself) by taking my glass and suggesting we take a swim.
“That swimsuit you are wearing, it’s most unusual”, Steven said ambiguously as we entered the pool.
“Unusual good or unusual bad”? I had recovered a little of my maturity to ask a sensible, if searching question.
“Oh, definitely unusual good. The little bridge of material over the crotch is fascinating. Very stimulating”
In the presence of this astonishingly well-endowed god, I glanced nervously down at my totally inadequate bosom, helped a little, thank god, by the foam bra cups.
“You look quite stunning in I those colours”, he continued, “and your breasts are to die for”.
Suddenly I had a terrible urge to go to the bathroom. The champagne obviously not only had gone to me head but also to my waterworks.
“I don’t quite know why I’m saying this but I rather think you masturbate a lot. Am I right”? I shook when he said that, beginning to tremble uncontrollably.
“Yes. Yes I do. Lots”, I said almost inaudibly. I was shaking like a leaf. ”I do it every night”
The boldness of this question made my urgency to relieve myself intensify, until I could hardly bear it any longer.
“I have to go to the bathroom Steve. Give me a few minutes”.
He moved up close to me as we stood in the shallow part of the pool, taking me completely by surprise by placing his hand on my vagina beneath the water.
“Just do it here”. It was almost a command.
“I can’t Steven, not here in the pool”
“It’s Steve. Please call me Steve, and yes you can do it here.” With that he pressed his hand into the gusset of my suit, pushing slightly upwards on the material with his fingers, his thumb catching the underside of the little retro Lycra shelf there. Not moving his hand, he looked into my bewildered eyes and said,
“Do it, Jessica. Do it now. Now…please, just for us”. I was powerless to resist his demanding tone. Then taking my hand he placed it beside his own, entwining our fingers beneath he surface until I felt a divine rush of urine flow out of me, warming our hands as he gently squeezed my fingers in recognition of our mutual ecstasy. The sensation I felt was like no other. The release of my water was something I’d never forget. Ever. If I had died at that very moment I would have lived a wonderful life.
As Steve embraced me he reached behind my back to untie the halter strap. I was still trembling from all the sensuous moments earlier. As he did this he said, “Sandra told me all about your obsession with the need to hold a man’s really long shaft in your hand, and that you’d never done that even once in your whole life. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve never experienced that other than with your husband’s. What she also told me was that you had the smallest bosom she’d ever seen on an adult and this embarrassed you terribly. What she doesn’t know is that my obsession is with micro boobies like yours”.
As the swimsuit halter tie fell away, He eased the foam cups downwards so that my tiny titties were revealed as the only ammunition I had in exchange for his own massive manhood.

I felt the huge bulge in his swimmers against my abs. Then the impossible happened. Impossible after all those years of longing, aching, weeping and yearning.
Taking my free hand, he placed it on his beautifully hard erection, squeezing my hand around it on the outside of his swim trunks. Yet he hardly noticed my cry of raw pleasure at the sensations I was experiencing from feeling his enormous dick. He was going insane, I thought, as he buried his face in my two tiny mounds, devouring my nipples with his tongue. As I pulled his trunks down to his thighs, my fingers, at last – at bloody last – clutched the grand prize that was his naked shaft. I gripped it in triumph, moving both my hands along its length, but he paid no attentions as he filled his mouth with my little A breasts, my wonderful little A minuses – truly vindicated at last.
I continued to stroke him off furiously using each hand in turn until, with a guttural moan he spurted his semen into Sandra’s clear pool. I watched, mesmerised as a dozen strands of sperm floated beneath and around us. I had brought this giant cock to its “little death”. I had tamed it at last and exorcised my demons.

I was so startled by the whole episode I blurted out the only question that was in my mind and on my lips. “Is he 10 inches, Steve?”
“Eleven, actually “, he said with a laugh as we disappeared under the water in a splashing frenzy, my foam cups dancing free among the spermy water.
.

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