Outside the Bell Curve

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For one searching woman, average just won't do.
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steffen
steffen
35 Followers

Why isn't it okay for me to say what I really think? I guess it's okay to mention it in passing as long as I give it neither inflection nor importance. I can make silly jokes, as long as they're immediately qualified by a statement of other, more important attributes. And why, when I live in a society that celebrates breasts, especially large ones, why can't I say what I'm really thinking?

Instead, I keep it wrapped and carefully hidden inside of me. Afraid to admit that within this thoughtful and fair woman, this woman who never judges people by the way they look or dress, there lies an urge that I'm just not supposed to ever, ever give voice to. Because that urge is everything I'm not -- neither thoughtful nor fair. And where it comes from and why it's lingered so persistently for so many years, I'll never know. All I do know is that I've got to act on it. For years I've tried to convince myself that it doesn't matter -- that moment when I first take it in my soft hand and feel it grow to it's full, manly potential.

"Stop it," I tell myself. "You're being shallow. You're breasts aren't that big. Your ass isn't perfect.I force myself to swallow that little drop of disappointment when my hand isn't filled with a sense of amazement and awe. "It's meaningless,I tell myself.Focus on what's really important here. He's an attractive, successful, wealthy, intelligent man. That's what got him here in the first place."

But then, in an act of inner defiance, I ask, "why is it okay to come out of the closet?" Why is okay to admit a preference for blondes? Or shiny black leather outfits." And no one really questions why so many young nurses clamor for jobs in teaching hospitals, brimming full of interns and residents embarking on long and lucrative careers.

Why does it make me shallow to admit that I ache for that moment when I can kneel in front of new lover? Undo all of the hooks and buttons of his pants and then, with painful but deliberate slowness, unzip his fly. If my fantasy were perfect, they'd fall into a casual, rumpled heap on top of a pair of wonderful Italian loafers. Which from my low vantage point I'd admire only briefly because, there, just inches from my face, but now obscured by only a thin wrapping of cotton would be the thing that I can't admit that I've wanted all along. The thing thatdoesn't fit neatly inside the anthropomorphic bell curve.

No, what lies under a thin layer of cotton is the thing that I'm going to circle with one hand, and then above it, another. And if I had a third, that wouldn't be enough either. But since I don't have a third, I open my mouth instead. When I have to stretch my jaw a little further than I had expected, I notice that my hands really haven't completely encircled it. And so like a baseball player at the plate, I adjust my grip and still my fingers don't meet.

Only I'm not supposed to say it, let alone feel it or think it. Every time I'm with a new man -- gotten through the obligatory, let's see, two or three dates. After we've gone through the checklist of likes and dislikes, interests, plans and accomplishments, I'm not allowed to ask the one question that I've been wondering since our first introduction. No, on this subject I must remain mute, knowing that I won't get my answer until long past the moment where I can tactfully bow out.Sorry, you're just not...

So once, just this once I've decided, I'll do something totally out of character. I sit at my keyboard and compose an urgent request.Woman seeks man. How can I phrase this delicately? My hands tremble and hesitate. I can't believe I'm going to actually commit to this. Loosing my nerve, I retreat to my bedroom and, armed with a tape measure from my sewing kit, neatly lay out the collection of molded plastics and rubber that I've secretly assembled over the years. Soft ones, hard ones, colored ones, double headed. I'm stocking a phallic superstore.

With the precision of a surveyor, I carefully measure and note their dimensions, and, as if to be reassured that what I want is within the realm of reality, I watch a video for the millionth time with a certain Italian porn star who I have long admired.

Then back to my keyboard. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it without coyness or metaphor. I resist the urge to type in all capitals -- to shout my request:I don't want a husband. I don't want a winning personality. I don't want someone who will provide for me.What I want is... if I say it, if I actually hit the Enter key then I'm admitting I'm a person that I....

Stop it! I tell myself, take a deep breath. I can see my reflection in the computer monitor. I fight back the urge to avert my eyes as I type it out:


I want a man with a huge cock.

And no sooner do those words leave my fingertips, I've hit the Enter key and let the entire world know what a shallow, superficial woman I really am. But in doing so, I've crossed a threshold and don't want to turn back. For sure, I'm under no obligation. My request is cloaked in all the anonymity that the Internet provides. And when, over the next week my e-mail box is flooded with pictures and poems and promises, I'm absolutely flabbergasted.

I've provided only the sketchiest description of myself. Slender, attractive. Late 20's. What I'm seeking offers no hope of a future. Even two weeks later, I'm still inundated. Offers to fly in from out of state, even from Europe. Descriptions of prowess and virility. And the pictures -- some headless, some touching in their full bodied honesty. More than a few missing what I thought was the most relevant criteria. What more should I have said? Wasn't "huge" descriptive enough?

Despite this, there are many, many to choose from. I delight in whittling down my choices. Until finally, after endless hours of thoughtful evaluation, after careful review using every toy from my collection, I reach a decision.

Dear Sir, I write in an e-mail. I am delighted to inform you that you have been selected to, on a date, time, and location to be mutually agreed upon. You and you alone, have been selected, above all other applicants, to appear, and once suitable social formalities have been dispensed with, you are cordially invited to, without any degree of tenderness or gentleness, use your enormous cock to fuck me harder and thicker and deeper than I've ever been fucked in my life.

To please lie on your back while I squat over you and slowly lower myself down on that thick companion that you've had your entire life and I'm going to know for this one evening only.

And I hope you won't mind if, after I've ridden up and down for much longer than any polite woman should, I take you into my mouth and delight as I can accommodate barely more than your head and maybe just a small fraction of your veined shaft. But I do hope you appreciate that I am truly trying my best. And what I can't do with my mouth, I try to make up for with my two small hands. Like a farm girl churning cream into butter.

Please don't think poorly of me as I turn my back on you. It's only so that I can better admire the sight in the mirror. I stretch up, up, up, until only your tip remains inside and then, use gravity and my own unending supply of moisture to make you disappear like some party magician's best and only trick. And since it is my only trick and I've got an anxious audience to entertain, I figure,what the heck, let's repeat it over and over again.

When my audience does grow a little weary, I pull you out completely and nestle down in just the right position so that I can pretend that your cock is mine. Not that I don't love being a woman. But every once in a while, it is fun to contemplate life with a penis. Wasn't there a book on the subject, "Dick for Day?" Essays by women on what they'd do with one. I know what I'd like to do with mine. I'd love to experience the convenience of simply opening my fly, pulling it out and jerking off. But finally, in a concession to my innate femininity, I wonder how it would look under that short, sexy pleated skirt I bought last week at the mall.

As I've been stroking you in that idle way that all men play with themselves no matter their locale you've once again become stiff and demanding. I snap out of wondering what I'd do if I were you and return to what brought me here in the first place.

Up until now, I've managed to control the rhythm and pace of our unique encounter. But as I lay on my back and pull my knees up to my chest, I do so knowing that I'm about to give myself over to a total stranger.

You fumble a little but I resist reaching down and guiding you inside of me. All I want now is to be an open, willing vessel for you. There is something so deliciously frustrating about being tormented by desire and forcing yourself to be passive, to wait to be taken.

So I wait as you find your way inside, tentative only for a moment, then tunneling inside me. A rush of anatomy and muscle and strength. The totality of the experience consumes me. I'm utterly overwhelmed as much by what I'm seeing on the outside as what I'm feeling on the inside. On one hand, I've got a strong desire to just close my eyes and drench myself in every single nuance of this experience.

Another part of me wishes I could watch one of those mind numbing, endless penetration shots so popular in porno movies. Except this time, it's the cock I've always fantasized about. And it's plunging recklessly into me.

As you find your own rhythm, I feel you thicken and swell. While I want to encourage you, the selfish part of me wills you to slow yourself. To breathe. I know that if I ever experience this again, it will only be by chance not design. And there's something else that I want to do. I squirm out from underneath you and roll over onto my belly. All along, I've known I was going to do this. In a wicked way, I knew the experience would have been lacking if it didn't happen.

I gasp as you enter me, my ass feeling stretched and probed. And this time, it does hurt. But only for a moment. You, sensing my discomfort, stop. But only for a moment. In this position, I do have to admit feeling just the slightest bit deprived. You're behind me and I'm on my hands and knees. I know that you're enjoying the sight of your thick meaty cock plunging between my round cheeks. I know that if I were a man, I'd enjoy the sight of that normally tiny opening stretched to accommodate... me.

I content myself with the sensation of it all. Pure and simple. I'm feeling utterly taken by you. And when you grab my hips and slide your full length inside me, I grip you as tightly as I can. And when I ask you to not move, I slowly ease myself away from you. Feel you sliding out, out, out. Further than I could have imagined. And still you're inside of me. So I throw myself back into your hips and try it again. And again. Over and over again. The whole experience has become so intense that I've lost the ability to distinguish between my ass and my cunt and my clit. I've become one big trembling mass of hot, wet sensation and this is feeling better than anything I've ever... "oh god, I didn't think I could come this way." And as the most intense orgasm I've ever experienced in my life rips through my body, consumes me like a brush fire traveling up a steep slope... I've collapsed with you on top of me, still fucking me. "Oh god, please not yet. And, oh my god."

And finally, when the last of it subsides, when the tingling has been replaced with an almost opiate numbness. When you've slowly pulled that long, thick thing out of me. And lay next to me for a while. After you've gathered up your clothes and gotten dressed and closed the door, gently behind you. When the last of you has oozed out and left me feeling sore and tired and used. It's only then I can look in the mirror, past my smeared makeup and wet matted hair. It's then that I realize that, filling me even more than the memory of your beautiful, huge cock is a delicious, precious moment of understanding and insight.

What I see in the mirror is that I'm not shallow or superficial. Not feminine or masculine. Not even weak or strong. Just, human.

steffen
steffen
35 Followers
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31 Comments
IwannadoitnowIwannadoitnowalmost 11 years ago
I give you all five

So interesting that this story is beautifully written from the viewpoint of a woman, yet it is written by a man. Her desire for a large cock is presented so nicely, and she seems, in the story, so thoughtful about her need. The fucking scenes are well done too. But I would have enjoyed more description of her payoff, the man cumming, and how that was for her.

I don't understand why after such a long time there are no comments until this one.

Firmhands5Firmhands5almost 13 years ago
I know that what is good for the guys should be good for the women - just Ask! LOL

I enjoyed this story - write more! Then let me know when you dol! Great style and enjoyment for us.

mavengermavengerabout 14 years ago
Well done

I found this story to be stimulating both erotically and intellectually. Fantastic work, keep it up!

kaaskaasalmost 15 years ago
Amazing Diction (no pun intended)

Your vocabulary was astounding and the imagery you created was simply wonderful! Please, keep up the great work and never worry about what anyone else thinks! If you're not happy, then you can never make anyone else happy, so never settle for less. Simply amazing writing! Thank you.

YeatsYeatsover 16 years ago
What is the problem people have with...

What is the problem people have with a woman admitting that she just wants to fulfill, what is likely a very, very common fantasy among women, that is, to just get laid by a guy with a big cock even if just nonce in her life? That it would almost be a partial or important validation of her being born with a human and sexual nature, endowed with all the parts! This lady now can feel like she is worth a good fuck. That would be a wonderful feeling for a woman to have in my male opinion. I think it is healthier than going around all your life thinking that you aren't worthy one of the great joys of life: a good fuck! This may sound silly to some of you but I think the story points to a primal need women have, i. e., to be sexually validated. Nothing strange about that!!

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