The Madness of Last Night

The madness of last night

He sends me pictures. Pictures of him in the street, looking dapper, in a suave suit or some creative outfit. He’s into fashion. We’re getting on well, it’s almost romantic. A developing friendship via the medium of dick pics and compliments, he sends me photos from Paris fashion week while he’s there. He has a broad, handsome face, wears stylish glasses. His name is Jason.

He sends quite spicy photos too. They’re beautifully framed, all of them, he clearly has a keen aesthetic sense. His sizeable cock, from many different angles, in different surroundings, different situations. It’s a beautiful penis, long and large and buoyant, one of those that doesn’t grow and shrink so much in a hardened and relaxed state, it always seems to be the same length. There are pictures of it poking obscenely from underwear, the waistband pulled down to reveal resplendent cock and balls.

I show the pictures to Alexander, my best friend and chief confidante in these matters. He concurs with my assessment. He makes the observation that you can tell it’s really big because it reaches past his bellybutton. In one shot, the thick meaty sausage obscures his belly button completely. In another, it rests just to the side of his navel, extending quite some distance past it. The elastic of the waistband stretches down under his balls, that sit, shining twin ovoids, under the extended cock. Between them, the penis rises like a tower, the grooves on either side are pronounced but the penis is smooth, without visible veins. At the very tip, the head peeks out from the foreskin, a shade lighter than the rest.

There is one taken from above, his fingers grip the base, the head is a gleaming mound, bulbous under a condom, which wrinkles slightly at its teat. It’s as if I’m there and he’s just rolled it on ready for me. I’m no size queen, actually, I generally find the larger penis a little uncomfortable. But something about this one, seeing it there, pointed directly at me in its latex garb and ready to split me in half, sends shivers down my spine.

I try to get a good angle of my privates, arm awkwardly extended trying to hold my phone between my legs and focus the camera while getting the light right. It’s tricky when you’re a woman, almost as bad as photographing your own breasts. Anyone who can take a decent tit selfie is a fucking artist. A pussy selfie of any merit is doubtless possible if you’ve recently waxed or you don’t depilate, but if you have a few stray hairs and wish to artfully place fingers over them, forget it. I tilt the phone again, shift around trying to get rid of the weird shadows around my labia. It’s not happening, I give up in frustration.

Jason sends clips of him fucking, a disembodied butt bouncing on his cock, the sounds of a woman’s pleasure. The base of the condom forms a ring around it, I can see it as the buttocks lift, I almost thought it was a cock ring. But no, just a condom. The woman’s moans are increasingly frantic as she holds still and he moves his hips so fast they almost vibrate. “Fuck yeah!” she shouts. This…

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