TWITTER DICK (OCTOBER 2011)
If I were a character in Home Alone, I would be referred to as “les incompetents.” There’s no way my tiny body can handle his huge cock. Organ-crushing cannot even begin to describe it. We started out slow and steady, and it hurt sooo good; then we got into it, and it hurt sooo bad. He was a super nice guy. Stopped immediately every time I gutturally exclaimed “ouch,” which he easily distinguished from “uhnn” and “oohhh.” I mean, this guy has crushed more than a few organs before mine. He seemed genuinely distressed by injuring me. Offered, “Too deep? I’ll be gentle.” (Yes, too deep: your cock is half the length of my entire torso!) We adjusted and as he eased back in, for a few pumps he repeated to himself, “gentle, gentle.” Inevitably, pleasure escalated, body parts grew grabby, we shoved him farther and harder into me, and disaster struck once more; its target was my cervix. Part of the problem was the force behind his thrust (we all know F=ma). Not to make him sound like a total beast: he isn’t exactly delicately built. We tried everything short of encircling the base of his penis with a donut: positions in which I was more in control of how far he entered. Got on top of him and it was THE WORST. Like I was free falling, impaling myself on him repeatedly.
As I bounced around on his cock, tits flapping around, my stomach churned. Thought I might hurl—again. That scene from Wayne’s World, where Garth extends a miniature cup as an empty gesture, flashed before my eyes. After the care I had taken to ensure my stomach was empty of all foreign contents, Clyde unwittingly performed mechanical digestion on me. Prob chemical digestion too: I salivated while sucking his cock.
Garth Algar: Wayne, um… What do you do if every time you see this one incredible woman, you think you’re gonna hurl?
Wayne Campbell: I say hurl. If you blow chunks and she comes back, she’s yours. But if you spew and she bolts, then it was never meant to be.
Unsure whether Clyde got farther into my digestive system when I sucked him or when I fucked him, I alternated back and forth. It was hopeless. I was fucked out. He was exhausted. Seemed as if we had toiled for naught. Thought we might give up and cut our losses. He jerked off a little and I helped him out: rubbing his balls, pressing against his asshole. So close to slipping a finger inside him. I peered up from between his legs as he came—a little on my face. Not sure if was worth the whole ordeal. Being so close to it as it came out, but not close enough that I couldn’t see it happen—in slow mo. Those long, hazy moments when the world pauses and glistens. When it parts pained and deliberate motion from regrettable days of soreness to come.
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EBF: How was TwitterDick?
Me: Ugh, I really have to stop sleeping with him. My internal organs cannot handle his monster cock.
You know how I puked on his dick last time? It wasn’t because I was drunk; it was because his dick was in my stomach.
EBF: I didn’t think you could top your first text, but you did
Me: Well, good: i aim to impress
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Me: I really have to stop sleeping with Clyde McManus. My delicate internal organs cannot handle his monster cock. I admit it: I am an incompetent slut.
Paul: Wait a minute… I saw Clyde last night. When did you collapse under him?
Me: Ha, he came to my place after he left the food and movie festie.
I’ve never seen someone take off all his clothes so quickly before.
He barely got his tongue in my mouth before he was naked
He noticed my new curtains; i admire his attention to detail
Paul: Impressive!
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Clyde certainly left an impression. The next day, I felt overextended and bruised inside. That description probably applies metaphorically, too. But I’m a trooper. Or incorrigible. Your pick! Determined to reach some elusive goal of maximum fuckage before being shipped back to the desolate wilderness, I rested up my sore vag for fewer than 48 hours before taking it out for one last spin.
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