Michael
It’s funny, the things that my failed hookups just don’t seem to understand.
You’d think they’d figure it out eventually. Especially by the time I’m putting them in a fucking cab outside of my mansion and paying the driver to take them home.
I guess there are just some truths women don’t want to accept.
“Please, babe!” she begs. “Just give me one more chance! I can take it this time—I totally promise. I swear!”
“Look, sweetheart…”I gently disentangle her fingers from the collar of my button down and push her hands away. “It’s cute that you think you can handle it, but—”
“I can,” she insists. “I really, really can. It’s just…it’s so big, babe. Maybe if we tried with more lube or something…”
The driver gives me one of those looks in the rear view mirror. All I can do is shrug and slip him a couple of hundreds for the inevitable sob story he’s going to be hearing from this girl the whole way back to Long Island.
“You’re really not going to let me try to take it again?” she whimpers as I help her into the cab’s back seat.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” I tell her. Which is true.
I push the door shut. I don’t even bother watching the cab drive off.
What can I say? Some women just can’t handle big packages.
Unfortunately, this happens more often than I’d like to admit. They try to suck me off. They try all the angles, hoping that maybe, somehow, they’ll get my massive, fat cock inside them.
More often than not, the effort doesn’t amount to much. I usually settle for giving them a dozen orgasms or so before sending them on their way.
The one thing that really smarts is these failed experiences usually lead to a raging fucking boner. Like right now. If it presses up against my slacks any harder, I won’t only be in the market for a new woman; I’ll need a new pair of pants, too.
Porn it is, I guess. Better than giving myself the worst case of blue balls ever.
Walking back into my living room, I slump into the plush leather sofa and boot up my laptop. Propping it up on the ottoman, I reach down to finally free this bulge with one hand while navigating to a site with the other.
Let’s see…what am I in the mood for today?
Porn stars don’t usually hold much attraction for me—or else I’d be dating one. Call me old fashioned, but when a woman is mine, any other man who so much as looks at her is going to be picking his teeth up off the floor.
You have to hand it to them, though—these women can really take dick.
I hover over various video clips to see the preview, slowly stroking my cock as I go. Finding one of a beautiful blonde giving a blowjob, I press play and lean back.
It’s exactly what the doctor ordered. I’m instantly impressed with the way her head bobs on the screen. She’s taking this giant dick in as though it’s nothing more than a gherkin. Where do I find me one of these?
I’m rock hard now, totally in the moment, and I’m pacing myself with her movements. When she slows down, so do I. When she speeds up, my movements intensify. It’s the ultimate cock-tease, and before long, I’m tensing up and twitching uncontrollably.
As this bodacious babe gets covered, I reach my limit. I groan loudly and throw my head back as cum spills out all over my hand, happy to have my release.
Fuck, that feels good.
I sit there panting for a moment before wiping up my hot, sticky mess, using up damn near an entire box of Kleenex.
Relieved at no longer being pent-up, I’m about to close the browser when I notice a flashing ad on the sidebar.
I never pay attention to these because, let’s face it, first, I have no problem getting women, so I don’t need to sign up to fuck granny down the street. Second, I have the cock that every man dreams of, and I don’t need any special pills or toys.
This one, though, has my full attention.
GET THE WIFE OF YOUR DREAMS! CUSTOMIZE YOUR MAIL-ORDER BRIDE TODAY!
Mail-order bride? Hmm, I’ve never thought about going that route before.
Maybe I’m still in that post-orgasmic state or maybe I just want to believe that this shit isn’t a huge fucking scam.
Maybe I’m just a fucking romantic—or maybe I’m the exact opposite of one.
But a man can dream, can’t he?
This could work.
Sure, I’m widely known for my one-night stands, but it’s not like I do that on purpose.
My drive is the real thing. When a woman can take my cock, I’m insatiable. I can fuck for hours. Dusk to dawn is what I’m all about.
The problem is most women can’t handle what I have to offer. In turn, I can’t handle the fact that I tire them out after one fucking round.
They fall asleep, and I’m left to my own devices because it’s simply not enough. Being a doctor means I’m always under pressure, and I need that release. It’s not their fault, but I’m over these one-night stands and short-lived flings.
I have no aversions to marriage. On the contrary, I want a wife to come home to that I can bang after a grueling day. I want a family that I can play with outside and go on vacations with.
Time, however, presents the biggest burden. When you’re performing surgery after surgery, and you’re on call all the time, it leaves little room for finding Ms. Right.
A struggle I know all too fucking well. Hell, I can’t even find Ms. Right Now—I just sent the latest off in a cab for Christ’s sake. Add to that my ridiculously high standards.
It’s no wonder I’m still single.
Back to this mail-order bride ad. I click on it, and the ad brings me to a flashy website that looks like it should’ve went out with the Y2K era. I half expect the page to stop loading midway through like the porn of yesteryear.
Thank God for fiber optics.
Now I’m looking at a pretty lengthy survey attached to the order form. I start going through the questions one by one.
Hair color?
She’s gotta be a blonde, no doubt about it. Nothing gets my motor revving more. The longer, the better.
Eyes?
Blue, but not because I’m looking for a blonde-hair, blue-eyed bimbo. This woman’s gotta be intelligent.
Yeah, I want hot, passionate sex all over the place, but any woman worthy of being my wife has to be able to carry a conversation. That shit would get old, otherwise. An Ivy League education is preferred.
Figure?
Voluptuous, for sure. I want a large rack and a nice, round ass that I can grab and spank.
Sexual preference?
I check off virginal and adventurous, chuckling at the irony of those two options. I want someone who isn’t afraid to take it in all three holes, but I want to be the first to pop that sweet cherry.
I’m dreaming here, and I know it.
But what the hell, right?
Aim high, miss high. I’m hardly taking this shit seriously.
After going through the rest of the questions, which stop short of asking my blood type and burial plans, I have created the perfect wife.
I take a quick look at the price tag—one million dollars.
Well, Christ. It’s definitely a scam. But at the same time, a million bucks is barely a drop in the bucket when I’m looking at my bank account.
It’ll annoy my accountant, but next month, I’ll barely even notice.
And what can I say? I admire their fucking moxy.
Sold.
The phone rings as I click submit, placing my order for the woman of my dreams. Glancing at my caller ID, I see it’s the hospital.
“Kirkwood here,” I answer immediately.
“Michael, we need you to come in right away, it’s an emergency. Dr. Scola nicked a good portion of Ms. Medina’s intestines, and only you can fix it.”
“I’m on my way.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to cover for that prick.
Fuck.
I grab my lab coat, swinging it on over my blue dress shirt as the front door closes behind me. Hopping in my Lambo, I’m off to save yet another life.Stella
A Russian mobster unceremoniously dumps another shovelful of Styrofoam packing peanuts into the Stella-sized box I’m currently standing in.
“Excuse you!”
I put on my best I want to speak to your manager pout and glare up at him.
“Can’t you read? The box says handle with care, dickwad!”
“I can’t wait to get rid of this blyad,” the mobster tells his cohort.
He dumps another shovelful down on me. The Styrofoam feels weird against my bare nipples—because yeah, I’m totally naked right now.
“Can you believe some poor ublyuok paid a cool million for her?”
“Not so poor, then,” a voice I know all too well says back.
I thought I was going to lose my virginity to that voice.
Or, at least, to the dick that’s attached to it.
I had my whole awesome fucking life laid out ahead of me on a silver platter before Moscow fashion week.
Harvard degree. International modeling contract. The whole Hensley family fortune coming to me as soon as my parents have the decency to kick the bucket.
But fucking Moscow. Moscow is where it all went wrong.
The night before the Moscow fashion show, I had found myself in the hotel bar. I was dressed to the nines in a black dress and stilettos that could kill a man. My blonde hair was looking thick and shiny and especially stunning.
So when he walked in, it felt pretty natural that his eyes went straight to me.
He was gorgeous. Tall, buff, blonde. Pretty much checking all of my boxes.
I moved my purse from the stool beside me, a silent invitation that he accepted without hesitation.
“How does it feel?” he asked in a thick Russian accent as he sat down beside me.
“How does what feel?”
“Being the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I laughed. Not because I hadn’t heard the same line countless times before, but because I’d never heard it from a mouth as captivating as his.
“At the moment,” I said, “it feels pretty fucking great.”
That was it. No games, no pretense of being coy. We flirted openly for all of five minutes before he asked me to come home with him.
In retrospect, I most definitely should’ve thought twice before accepting. I should’ve pondered those helpful PSAs about being a woman alone and abroad.
If I’m being honest, though, I didn’t hesitate even a little.
See, my virginity had become sort of a pest as of late. I had no attachment to it personally, but it seemed damn hard to find a man that was truly worth fucking.
In that bar, in that moment, I was pretty sure I’d finally found a means of ridding myself of my damn v-card. Forever. So, when he suggested we continue our little chat back at his apartment, I jumped at the chance.
Twenty minutes later, we were in his apartment, a swanky-set up which made me feel right at home. I sat on the leather sofa, heart beating even faster when he joined me on it.
In my imagination, I expected we’d get straight to business. But boy could this guy talk.
At first, it seemed routine enough. He asked where I went to school, and I told him Harvard. He asked what kind of functions I usually attended; I told him about galas and fundraisers, normal stuff.
Then, he got a little more personal.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but are you, in fact, a virgin?”
How some men have the uncanny ability to detect these things, I’ll never know. I saw no point in lying to the guy though. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?
“Sure am.”
“And would you say you’re…adventurous?” he asked in a strangely clinical tone.
“I—well yeah, I suppose I would.”
He smiled widely at that.
“Perfect.”
Normally, I’m a big fan of talking about me. But by this time, I was starting to get more than a little impatient.
I decided to take the initiative. I scooted closer, arching my back so that my tits, big already, appeared to double in size.
“Any more questions?” I asked, trying for a good mix of seductive and impatient.
“No, no more questions,” he said as he leaned in closer.
I closed my eyes and leaned towards him, happy to get on with it.
“Actually…” he said, stopping me moments from the kiss that was going to end my innocence for good. “One more thing.”
If it hadn’t been for that sexy accent of his, I would’ve stormed right out.
“Okay. What?”
“How do you feel about big, thick cocks?”
My eyes lit up like the sky on the Fourth of July.
“I love big cocks,” I told him, closing my eyes and leaning in again.
Suddenly, there was something pressing firmly against my face, and not in a good way. My eyes flew open to see my date had produced some kind of awful-smelling rag, which he held hard against my nose and mouth.
Fuck. Have I had something on my face this whole time? I wondered.
Then, there was darkness.
Until, of course, this moment right now.
The box. The box and the damn packing peanuts.
I’m nearly covered in the peanuts when I snap out of my memory-induced stupor. Around me, the Russian bastards continue to chat away.
“Comfortable, my sweet?” he asks from somewhere outside of my well-cushioned prison.
“Go fuck yourself!” I offer in return.
His only response is laughter.
I’m preparing something equally scathing to shout at him when I’m suddenly thrown back into darkness.
We’re apparently past the packing peanut stage then.
All sealed up and nowhere to go.
Suddenly, I feel the world shift as the box is elevated. Maybe there’s somewhere to go after all. I can’t say exactly how long I lay in the damn box.
Things get weird with no light.
It’s a long fucking time to wait for a girl like me.
Like, two or three hours tops.
I scream myself hoarse, demanding to be set free, threatening their lives and their dicks.
Finally, I ask in my very best impression of my mother, if they know who the hell I am. It’s really a great impression, but usually much more effective.
At some point, I begin to plot.
I’m forming some wonderful plans about exactly what I’m going to do when I get out of the Stella-box. There’s a recurring testicle theme in my schemes for vengeance. Ripping them from the bodies of stupid, sexy Russians, tea-bagging them with their own nuts—that kind of thing.
I’m busy thinking up newer, crueler things I’m about to do to these assholes when I suddenly feel the box deposited roughly back to the ground.
I hear muffled voices, the scrape of shoes on concrete, then a doorbell being rung. It’s not your usual doorbell. It’s a rich person doorbell.
I’ve lived in mansions all my life, so trust me—I can totally hear the difference.
The booming chimes even shudder through the place where I’m tucked neatly into my box. They remind me of home.
I hear the creak of an opening door and feel myself being lifted once again. When I’m settled back on the ground, it’s far gentler.
Deep within the mound of packing peanuts that has been my temporary home, I begin to smile. Visions of rendered parts and screaming Russians flit through my head.
It’s painfully obvious that these asshats really don’t have any idea who I am. I can catfight with the best of them—and I’m fucking dirty about it, too. They’ve definitely messed with the wrong blyad.
Whatever the hell that means.
I feel the box being opened before I hear it. I’m now lying on my side, which factors heavily into my little revenge plot.
I picture the moment the box opens. I roll free from my tiny prison, lunging faster than the clearly ‘roided-out mobsters can counter, French tips bared. It’s a perfect plan, and woe to the testicles that find themselves in my path.
My moment comes. The box fully opens.
I roll, lips pulled back in a vicious smile, and I lunge. Nothing can stop me now!
That is…until I see the man I’m currently attacking.
I think I must’ve died in that box because I’m currently kneeling before a god.
He’s huge. Six four at least, with a body so well defined that not even his clothes can hide it. He’s not the Russian—he’s actually even more gorgeous—but he’s got that same coloring I like.
His sandy blond hair near glows in the light from the chandelier, and his blue eyes seem to pierce me, seeing into my very soul.
He stares down at me, beatific, shining, and I—well, I’m naked on my knees in front of him.
I feel too many things at once. I feel the packing peanuts that cling to my body from head to toe, my hair that feels probably only half as crazy as it looks.
I feel that somehow, in my shock, my maniacal grin has frozen in place.
Worst of all—or best, I haven’t decided yet—I feel the huge, hot weight of his balls, which are still clutched firmly in my hand.