joy- the blurb said.

Bi-curious Paul excited, oblivious, wanking himself faster and faster in the film’s limelight. John awe-struck, letting his perfectly proportioned penis dance on the trucker’s lips like a half hot-dog. Fast food.

John leaning forward, as close to the foreskin action as he can be, sensing a profound quivering, knowing the way of unleashed flesh, letting his gleeful face catch the first massive spurtings.

Big man. Big dick. Big climax.

Warm liquid male sliding down John’s cheek, insinuating its sweet and sourness into his grateful mouth. Cum dripping off his jaw line, dropping onto his stiff nipple, swiftly picked up by a grateful finger then slipped, juicy as a squeezed berry, in-between his so addicted lips.

The big man, lost in glorious after toss, glowing, groaning low and long. His package still fat, wearing ampoules of gissum, raw as quarried moonstones. The neck of his crossover manhood curled like a content creature in his ample lap.


The film ending over. Its climax gone unnoticed. It grinds on in credit sequence. The sexually charged silence thick with wonder, spunk wiping and utter breathlessness.

That was then.

That was before. A thing consigned to history.

Now John, the almost new John, entirely lost in recollection, presses his warm body against the cool glass of his mirror, his already busied cock oozing in self lubrication.

No other big dicked nigger fucker since.

No other trucker so amusingly endowed. None came close. The largesse of its remembered full length still a living proof in his grey matter, giving him needs, wet dreams and strange ambitions.

Fuck me, fuck me, he is mouthing to himself, his cute balls obliging with a few jerks worth. The measured bun clenching thrill. A meagre spoonful skating down the mirror’s kind face.

Spunk potent in its natural overkill.

John all but reiterating to himself- less is not always more, his trim nakedness reflecting in the full length piece- nineteenth century, original gilding, chosen for its innate flattery as much as the obvious antique value.

There was no escaping his given stature.

Thirty two and well provided for he is. He could well afford the ‘platinum class’ penis enhancement, as locally advertised. He would, because he could, buy the quintessential cutting edge surgery and the very best of private aftercare. Essential aftercare. His wounds may infect. He may suffer depression in the aftermath of the drugs. He will need niche physiotherapy.

None of the above.

Advertise. Yes. Place an Ad.

A short almost pornographic advertisement is all that was needed. How convenient to be so literary-

‘Highly Qualified Male Nurse required. Must be single and of African extraction. Six foot minimum. Some lifting. Applicants should be 40yrs plus, broad backed, broad minded and very well hung.’

© CHRIS MADOCH 2007