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John with the Big Dick

How Another Man's Cock and a Candy Bar Led to Three Years Worth of Lays

By Jamie WarrenPublished 5 years ago 6 min read
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I went art school as I turned 27, having rediscovered my love of sketching and painting a couple of years earlier and fully enjoyed the opportunities it invariably created. I was ready to get my head down, determined to earn the degree I'd missed out on 10 years before.

I had a mandatory life drawing class every Tuesday evening. Our large group of 20 women and a few guys would set up our boards then the sitter would enter the room, take a pose in the centre, and change position every half hour or so.

This is where John comes in. He was a life model. A northerner who spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent. He was in respectable shape for a man in his late 50s—and, yes, John had a rather magnificently proportioned cock.

He strolled into the large studio, dropped his gown to one side, and stood confidently as he spoke to the tutor. We would often speak, as two men tend to gravitate toward each other in a crowd of women. Although it did take a little getting used to, his manhood swaying in my peripheral vision.

"Easy money!" he once confided. "Easy money, Jamie. Stand about and let my mind wander, then they hand me 40 quid!"

After the first few weeks, we tended to stick to the same position in the studio space. It became apparent that directly beyond the point where the nude model would be, an attractive young lady stood in my eye line. Her name was Emmie. She was 23 at that stage, and from Canterbury, having moved into the halls of residence that September.

Each week she'd be on one side, myself opposite. In between the two of us, invariably, was John. It became a running joke whether his dick would hang to the left or right that night? She'd say:

"See you at John o'cock, don't be late!"

It didn't take long for our banter to veer toward speculating over what the possible dimensions of John's member may extend to when in top gear?

"Easily over 12 inches!" she said.

"10!" I replied.

"What no way! 15, maybe even 20 inches!" she stated with some conviction.

Speaking to her as we passed in the uni coffee shop, its various sweets on display I said:

"I bet it's no bigger than a Curly Wurly." (Curly Wurly being an English candy bar, about 12 inches in length.) Emmie picked up one of the unusually long confectionery. Stroked it from end to end. Looked at me and replied:

"Umm, you're on, a bet's a bet. I'm saying it's bigger!"

The dilemma was how to settle our wager one way or the other?

The next week I turned up for life class at the end of a long day. The teacher—a Scottish lady called Alison—announced John's arrival. I looked across to Emmie, and after removing her jacket, I saw she was very much dressed to impressed. She wore a partially see-through shirt, a sexy bra was visible beneath, and the buttons of the shirt were unfastened to a third of the way down.

As the class began, she turned her board so that the tutor couldn't see her actions. When John was facing in the correct direction, she started to play act, using a subtle a wink and suggestive gesture. She dropped different pencils and charcoal. Leaning over slowly and overtly sexually as he gazed on immobile and transfixed. He had an unhindered view at her cute arse and up her skirt as she lowered to rummage in her bag or pick up whatever she'd 'accidentally' dropped.

Emmie continued her artful onslaught for ten minutes, taking advantage of the tutor's propensity to leave to fetch a coffee. Then finally I saw the first twinge in the man's defences. I was already at a three-quarter deck beneath my jeans, so he put up a sterling effort to last as long as he did! Things were happening and the whole class could see as John started becoming aroused.

The final straw came as she began to mouth I want to fuck you. That was enough, and his dam burst, the blood poured into his outer extremities, standing his cock to attention. He broke stance, grabbed his gown, and hurried out the room to gasps and giggles.

I lost the bet. It was a Curly Whirly and a half at least when proud.

Afterwards, the tutor pulled Emmie aside. Others had witnessed what she'd done, though I don't think John had complained, seeing how he tried to slip Emmie his number. In fairness, he had received rather mixed signals.

She got away with it by claiming the gesturing was to me. It was plausible enough to get her off the hook.

"You owe me a chocolate bar!" she said triumphantly. We brought a pizza to celebrate her win that same night. She and I shared it back at my apartment.

"The Curly Wurly is all mine though," she said smiling as we entered my front room.

We didn't arrive at college the next day. We slept very little through the hours of darkness. My cock ached after the first time together. I fucked her until her arse was red and her hair tangled. From then on, we had our private life drawing classes whenever the stars aligned in my favour. Taking the occasional quicky in the spacious and rarely used accessible toilet on the third floor. She also liked to sit in my car after the end of the day and give me head. She was always seeking thrills. Somedays she'd text I'm not going to wear panties and back up the claim up with a picture. When my old Nokia phone passed away, it took with it some incredible mementoes of her creativity.

Poor John, being taunted to breaking point but if he hadn't, who knows perhaps I may have never broken the ice and become fuck buddies with Emmie? She didn't ask to become serious. It was a mutual need, pure gratification and titillation, lasting on and off for three years.

I never found out what John thought of it all. Perhaps he came in the next week with a spring in his step and still retells the tale over a pint in the local pub? Maybe such things are ordinary fare, to someone in his courageous profession?

––––

If you like my writing, then please consider helping me write more by sharing this post. Check out my other articles below. (More coming soon.) Contact me on [email protected]. Feedback from readers is always welcome.

"Her stomach and body were twitching which excited me. She clawed my neck and lifted her head up, biting my ear. Every time she hurt me I took the hit. It was like she was testing—how much pain can he take? While I only gave her pleasure in return."

"You can build up toward coming when you're on your own. Drawing close and then pulling back, taking it to the edge, then stepping away. It is a kind of art that takes practice—keeping speed without crashing—and like all heartfelt expressions, it can be the more pleasurable when performed with someone else."

"With that she stretched out her arm, interlocking her fingers with mine and bringing it to rest on my lap. She leant forward. I could see down into her cleavage, where a gold crucifix hung. Her white low cut top clung tight to her skin. I began to feel a pulse of energy, in hope and preparation for what I wanted to happen next."

A Curly Wurly for those that don't know—Cadbury's Chocolate around a caramel lattice.

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About the Creator

Jamie Warren

I'm an Englishman who has enjoyed the company of some incredible women. I don't go searching for trouble but somehow it always finds me. I don't write fiction, everything I publish is real lived experience. Be warned, I tell all.

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