I See Brucey Knickerbocker's Dick

He looks down at himself. He had not been aroused a few seconds ago, but hope springs eternal and so apparently does his pecker.

He shakes his head, grinning. "I was SO horny. I wanted you so much I was blubbering." I stand-kneel, actually-accused of distressing god.

"Now?" I murmur, my reverent gaze on IT

"Oh, Ellen..."

I take it, my hand trembling, but suddenly I say, "Oh, wait, you wanted to..." How could I be so callous?

I tear off my bra so it scratches my tender tits and toss it away. I leap up, whip off my panties. For a moment, I stand facing him. I must, though his presence now scareth the living shit out of me. He wants to see; such is his bidding.

"So gorgeous, oh Ellen, you are the most beautiful..."

Done. Clunk. Down on your knees, woman. I take the beautiful part, lifting it from its nest of golden hair, I have never done this... I guess you just...

He moans. This must be the way. I hold the sturdy base in my hand like the cone of an ice cream. I have maybe an inch or two in my mouth. I suck. Then, I remember the little tab of skin under the head and the tip of my tongue darts right there.

He gives a violent sob, his hand grabs my short hair much too hard, he thrusts his belly at my face. What more can I do? Oh...I push forward my chest and brush my tender mounds against his bare legs, I feel each nipple drawing a line across his skin as I move my chest.

It gets much bigger. My mouth is a wide, round O, my lips feeling the slick of him as I nod my head, sliding a few inches back and forth each time. I have not the faintest idea that anyone, ever, under any circumstances, would be deranged enough to swallow this sturgeon. I have a lot to learn.

"Ah, AH, AH..." I glance up. His head is thrown back, godlike, of course, his face a wild grimace. "I can't..."

Wait. What fresh hell is this...? Reflexively, I pull back my face, the prick popping from my lips. Soupy froth fills my mouth, coats my lips, drips...

"Don't stop," he cries madly, and in panic I drive my mouth straight down onto it. My tongue now feels as though I am stirring fudge. But the swollen head is easy to find. I scrub my tongue as hard as I can right under it, praying.

I look up to see if disaster is averted, and my god smiles down with infinite, radiant happiness. He smiles upon his kneeling, naked, female servant and my heart flutters with joy. I may be in atrial fibrillation. What a cool god. But my mouth works less well, when I try to speak. This stuff has become India rubber.

I try very discretely to spit, lower my head, hiding my face behind one arm, trying to expel this stuff onto the forest leaves.

"Are you all right?" Alarm in his voice.

From below, I nod my head. Keep nodding, my tongue struggling to expel these clinging fragments. Again, as discretely as possible, I bring up my hand to wipe my mouth. Best I can do without a bathroom. Sorry, god.

I look up at him and have no problem in the world smiling. Do not turn thy face from the living god.

"I can get your clothes," he begins.

I struggle to my feet. "No, no. I'll get yours." The very idea of his waiting on me.

In five minutes, we are normal. Anyway, dressed. It is less sunny in the sylvan glade.

I will never be the same. But after a year of treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder, I might try to function, again, in normal society.

Actually, I am recovering.

"Bruce," I say, respectfully requesting his attention.

He turns, wraps his arm around me. "What, my darling?"

How did you go from that invertebrate who could not talk to the woman you loved to godlike defender of justice and womanhood?

You don't talk that way to god. What I say is "How did you ever stand up to your mother, that way?"

He nods. His noble brow frowning in contemplation. He intones: "Once I knew you wanted to hold my pecker, I was sure I could do anything."

Oh, great Apollo. Never forget his words.