mean, duh-duh-duh... daown thar... ” and then he tremulously gestured his groin.
Utter bafflement contorted Sary’s face in the barely visible lamp-light. “Ya mean...yew’re dick? ”
Wilbur froze with the question. “Wal...ee-yuh—”
Sary’s tautened wits and sexual delirium had no time for this; her hands shot back to his trouser rivet. Yet his hesitance made fuel for thought: the presumption that he was merely bashful was the first possibility to come to mind (though why should a man as large, physically intimidating, and fearless be bashful?); she also considered that perhaps his genital endowment was less than substantial, an instance which was known to infuse in men no small quantum of insecurity. Either way, though, Sary cared not in the least. She was insatiable—she would have her way, and she would see to it that he did not bemoan the result. “Dun’t yew worry abaout nuthin’,” shot her scorched-whisper response. “Jess yew relax naow an’ let me do this!”
At long last, Wilbur resigned to her insistences, but not before turning the lamp all the way down. This Sary took to indicate an embarrassment on his part—again, the Small-Genitals Possibility seemed most probable. Or did he possess some genital deformity that he expressly wished her not to see? The potential amused her. In the time of her professional calling—and the benefit of knowledge a posteriori, one could say—she’d witnessed bifurcated coronae, dual urethras, a trine of testicles, penile shafts bent akin to horseshoes, endomorphic foreskins, and even less cogitable aspects of malconformation. As far as penises were concerned: I’ve seen ‘em all...
No, she cared not of Wilbur’s unaccountable reservations— I’m a whore, she didn’t have to remind herself, and it’s a whore’s job to make fellas feel good... Sary determined to do exactly that, but not before making herself feel good as well.
In plenary darkness, she re-opened Wilbur’s pants. She was vaguely aware of herself actually panting in anticipation of intercourse. Was she drooling as well? Wilbur, however, sat trembling to the bone, as of a puppy ashiver in bitter cold.
His pants were now opened and lowered just enough to grant Sary sufficient access. She could investigate nothing with her eyes but, indeed, her hands could investigate, couldn’t they?
And investigate they did.
What her fingers reached down and encompassed seemed, forthwith, unrepresentative of the penises she’d experienced, and as for her previous surmise—that Wilbur might be poorly bestowed—this idea held no longer held water. It was a bowed, ax-haft-wide appendage that her grasp had found, which felt tacky and queerly cool. At once, she thought of a fresh plucked goose neck. She ringed her thumb and forefinger, then felt upward to the appendage’s terminus. No aggregation of foreskin was discovered, nor was there anything semblant of a glans. It was turgid, yes, as of an erection, yet...did erections lack any manner of a fleshy domed crown? A licked pinky tip, next, examined the more or less stumplike conclusion of the organ, seeking to identify the urethral exit, but...
Thar en’t no pee-hole at the end’a his dick!
No. No evidence of any such seminal and urinary aperture.
Nevertheless, and her mystification notwithstanding, with one hand she proceeded to stroke the fleshy but strangely cool shaft, while her other hand delved lower, to cosset his testicles—
No testicles, nor any manner of what might be thought of as a scrotum, could be identified at the shaft’s basal root.
Wilbur, she grimly realized, en’t got no nuts...
Instinct impelled her to display no reaction, which came easier, at least, given the stark hardiness of her erotomancy. Unusual or not, Wilbur’s genital potential was about to be tested to every limit of thoroughness that Sary could muster. She meant to mount him now, by raising the apex of her thighs high enough to license coitus, and in
Utter bafflement contorted Sary’s face in the barely visible lamp-light. “Ya mean...yew’re dick? ”
Wilbur froze with the question. “Wal...ee-yuh—”
Sary’s tautened wits and sexual delirium had no time for this; her hands shot back to his trouser rivet. Yet his hesitance made fuel for thought: the presumption that he was merely bashful was the first possibility to come to mind (though why should a man as large, physically intimidating, and fearless be bashful?); she also considered that perhaps his genital endowment was less than substantial, an instance which was known to infuse in men no small quantum of insecurity. Either way, though, Sary cared not in the least. She was insatiable—she would have her way, and she would see to it that he did not bemoan the result. “Dun’t yew worry abaout nuthin’,” shot her scorched-whisper response. “Jess yew relax naow an’ let me do this!”
At long last, Wilbur resigned to her insistences, but not before turning the lamp all the way down. This Sary took to indicate an embarrassment on his part—again, the Small-Genitals Possibility seemed most probable. Or did he possess some genital deformity that he expressly wished her not to see? The potential amused her. In the time of her professional calling—and the benefit of knowledge a posteriori, one could say—she’d witnessed bifurcated coronae, dual urethras, a trine of testicles, penile shafts bent akin to horseshoes, endomorphic foreskins, and even less cogitable aspects of malconformation. As far as penises were concerned: I’ve seen ‘em all...
No, she cared not of Wilbur’s unaccountable reservations— I’m a whore, she didn’t have to remind herself, and it’s a whore’s job to make fellas feel good... Sary determined to do exactly that, but not before making herself feel good as well.
In plenary darkness, she re-opened Wilbur’s pants. She was vaguely aware of herself actually panting in anticipation of intercourse. Was she drooling as well? Wilbur, however, sat trembling to the bone, as of a puppy ashiver in bitter cold.
His pants were now opened and lowered just enough to grant Sary sufficient access. She could investigate nothing with her eyes but, indeed, her hands could investigate, couldn’t they?
And investigate they did.
What her fingers reached down and encompassed seemed, forthwith, unrepresentative of the penises she’d experienced, and as for her previous surmise—that Wilbur might be poorly bestowed—this idea held no longer held water. It was a bowed, ax-haft-wide appendage that her grasp had found, which felt tacky and queerly cool. At once, she thought of a fresh plucked goose neck. She ringed her thumb and forefinger, then felt upward to the appendage’s terminus. No aggregation of foreskin was discovered, nor was there anything semblant of a glans. It was turgid, yes, as of an erection, yet...did erections lack any manner of a fleshy domed crown? A licked pinky tip, next, examined the more or less stumplike conclusion of the organ, seeking to identify the urethral exit, but...
Thar en’t no pee-hole at the end’a his dick!
No. No evidence of any such seminal and urinary aperture.
Nevertheless, and her mystification notwithstanding, with one hand she proceeded to stroke the fleshy but strangely cool shaft, while her other hand delved lower, to cosset his testicles—
No testicles, nor any manner of what might be thought of as a scrotum, could be identified at the shaft’s basal root.
Wilbur, she grimly realized, en’t got no nuts...
Instinct impelled her to display no reaction, which came easier, at least, given the stark hardiness of her erotomancy. Unusual or not, Wilbur’s genital potential was about to be tested to every limit of thoroughness that Sary could muster. She meant to mount him now, by raising the apex of her thighs high enough to license coitus, and in
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