The following fictional story deals with sex among males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or reside in an area where it is not allowed, stop reading now! Care enough about yourself and humankind to practice safe and consensual sex, as observed in this story.
Comments are always welcome.
With that order, I let go of your arm and move slowly back to the driver's side of your car, watching you continue to hold the elastic waistband of your "classic" white briefs down at the base of your fat dick, keeping it fully exposed. Our brief and one-sided wrestling match has caused you to slide down the seat so that you're half reclining, and you don't push back up, either because you're afraid of somebody seeing your flopped-out dick in this public parking lot, or because I haven't given you permission to sit up. My releasing you makes you realize that I think maybe you've decided to cooperate now in your own humiliation. The burning sun is streaming directly through the car's open window, pouring a flood of light and heat onto the dark fabric of your hot-shot salesman's pulled-down pants and on the sharply contrasting pale skin of the dick laid out above. As you straighten out your arm from behind your back, the dick rocks slowly from side to side in its small pool of warm sweat on your lower belly.
You glance at me for a second to make sure I mean what I say. Of course I do. So you use the newly-freed hand to help your other hand start to slide those briefs even lower. It doesn't take long to expose those two big old balls of yours, drawn up tight against the base of your dick. Now this is something I don't like.
"Why those balls so uptight, boy?" I demand, peering at them closely. You don't seem to know what to answer. "Maybe you're that scared, huh?" I consider a moment more. "Or maybe you're trying to pull them up to hide 'em from me?" Still no answer. You're staring at those uptight balls just as hard as I am.
"I'll tell you what it is, boy: you been spendin' too much time in that air-conditioned bar, those fat balls pulled up just to escape that shit, that's what. You out now, give em some air and sunshine, that's what they need."
But even in the burning sun, your balls don't seem to be relaxing any at all, and you don't have an answer.
"I-I don't know. Sir. They're sorta always uptight like this." We hear a car door slam, not too far away.
"Well, when you're showin' your balls to me, boy, I want 'em relaxed and hangin' low, like you TRUST your good buddy, not like you're trying to hide. Go ahead and hook those briefs under those balls, let 'em soak up some of that sunshine."
"Yes, Sir."
You do as ordered, pulling your balls up as far as possible with your left hand and drawing your briefs' elastic all the way underneath the sac so that the waistband is pressed tight against the internal part of your dick, holding the balls up, fully exposed. Again, the movement makes your dick slosh heavily against your stomach. We can both see it's still growing. You put your hands back on the seat beside you, palms down, and do a quick, nervous glance out the car window, as if you're afraid somebody besides me is watching.
"Let's just take a minute and look at your dick, boy."
We look. It's everything I knew it would be. I don't quite know how I do it, but I spot a stud who's packing a whopper right off, every time. Something about the heaviness of your jaw, or the thickness of your half-day's growth of beard. Or maybe just the air of smug superiority that envelopes a big-dicked guy, like a dark storm cloud hugging Mt. Everest. Right now, I'm damned delighted as I eye my prize.
Since it's laid out flat against your stomach, we're looking at the bottom of it, its virgin whiteness showing like the smooth fat underside of a beached whale. Still not fully erect, your dick is already a good inch and a half across and seven inches from base to tip. It's "cut," just like I like them, the perfectly rounded tip made permanently naked. That tip's circumference is just slightly less than the thickest part of your shaft, and it's symmetrically rounded, more like a perfect hemisphere than like a "mushroom" or a "point." The little valley separating the two halves of your glans is deep and well-defined, making bulges just like a little bubble-butt, perched there on its backside. The ring around the base of the tip is thick and dark purple, so skillfully drawn as if by the hand of a master painter. The complexion of your dick's tip is so uniform in its pinkness that it seems as if it's never been touched.
Your dick is continuing to grow as we examine it, and now I can see that it's starting to throb with every beat of your rather rapid pulse. My eyes have moved down to the valley encircling your dick, just below that perfect purple ring, where the Y-shaped flat area leading from the glans continues into an usually thick and long "ripcord" on the middle third, the thickest part of your dick, trailing off into the lower shaft. I'm looking at that ripcord so intensely that you imagine you can actually feel my gaze caressing this exquisitely sensitive area. Now that your dick is more fully erect, I can see concentric ridges starting to become defined beneath the stretched skin at the sides of the middle third of your shaft. From these rings down to the balls, the dick shaft is uniformly thick and powerful, the heavy tube of your urethra bulging out markedly, indicating a prodigious capacity for delivering you of big, impressive loads of semen.
Your dick disappears into the medium-thick forest of shiny black pubic hair at the top of your balls-those balls that I'm still displeased with, because of their uptight position, not because of their size and form. Your balls are so huge that anything just slightly larger would read as a deformity. If there's such a thing as egg-sized balls, your balls are the eggs of a rare, wonderful, and oversized bird. My mental measuring tape pegs them at two and a half inches from front to back, and two and a quarter inches across, or about six inches in circumference. Now that they've been baking in the sunlight for a few minutes, I can see that they're starting to relax, finally, their own heaviness pulling them lower, over the cushion of your lowered briefs, as your dick continues to expand in the opposite direction.
The fact that your shaft is now raised off your stomach indicates that you've produced your full erection. The tip is now elevated an inch away from the skin of your body, and shaking stiffly with each beat of your heart. It's now a full eight inches long, and a good seven inches in circumference. That perfect tip is now so hard that it's shiny, glistening blindingly in the scorching sun. Your dick and balls, without exaggeration, comprise the most nearly perfect set of male equipment I've ever seen. They are a truly magnificent prize for me-and all mine.
I'm really happy with my catch, not just because of the fine quality of your dick and balls, but because of what they tell me about you. I know that any man with a package like that is a proud man, and so a challenge to me as an expert in using that pride as a tool of debasement and humiliation.
A man hung like that is a slave to his dick and balls, and consequently, when I get control of that dick and those balls, he's a slave to me. Big dick means big horny, and now that I've got you in my power, and now that your dick is rock hard, I can see you're starting to hurt. I watch you as you watch that painful, huge erection. You glance up at me for a second and see me watching it too. Then I hear you catch your breath and wince in discomfort as your eyes return to your heavy balls. I just chuckle and think about how we've only just begun.
"That hard-on's hurtin' you, huh boy? You best just try and not think about it, tend to my business instead. I guess you forgot you're gonna jump-start my truck."