Hercules, Omphale and the Redoubtable Wives of Bath
(Part 3 — Priapic Clarification)
Peter looked beguilingly at the female assemblage before him.
“Yes, Peter, if you would care to get undressed,” I suggested as a matter of fact.
Without fuss, Peter responded with a performance that was, thankfully, devoid of bombast. Gratified by the modesty with which he removed his clothing and the bashfulness of his emerging, mighty, naked demeanor, my hopes dared to become expectations that, at long last, a suitable candidate had been sourced.
Given the dearth of men capable of measuring up to the divine benchmark we had set, it was hardly surprising that a year had passed before the presentation of a potential contender for our ‘stud harem’. This, at least, was what I told myself. Claire’s aptitude, whether for headhunting or cock-hunting, was to be commended but it was undoubtedly her generous, community spirit that made her the first to offer a donation to this bold project and worthwhile cause. Claire’s munificence, whilst delightful, left me with a lingering sense of guilt. To my shame, the secret of John’s Priapic enormity had remained mine for a whole year; a secret shared only with my husband, whose perspective, I had decided, would benefit immeasurably from some unadorned, comparative analysis.
An audible gasp from Jane pierced the silence of the room as the descent of Calvin Klein began. Across the waistband of his hip briefs, Peter’s grip around the distorted font of the designer’s name stretched Calvin to his limits to make room for the appearance of what everyone had been waiting for. Nobody thought to cast a glance at Jane’s voluble response to the revelation taking place. All eyes remained fixated on the rising emergence of what was surely the biggest erection to ever fill the congregation of retinas gathered that day. In the collective experience of all, this was a first encounter with anything quite so impressive, so grand, so alive, and so utterly breathtaking or, for that matter, so beautiful. For a penis, such scale and proportion was an eye-opener to all. All, that is, but one.
“As I’m sure you can all appreciate,” Claire thought to explain, “I procrastinated a great deal over whether to offer Peter as a candidate for Hercules or if his attributes might be more suited to Priapus.”
It was, indeed, a dilemma. His enormous endowment matched perfectly the muscular immensity of his beautiful body.
“The problem is,” Claire posed, “he would make a wonderful Hercules but we might never find a better Priapus.”
“Where, on God’s earth…? Kate began to ask out loud.
“..will we find a man with a cock bigger than Peter’s?” Jane said, completing the question, her voice finally conquering her breathlessness.
“I doubt we ever will,” Claire surmised with a firm eye on the object of everyone’s desire.
“I’m sure it’s possible,” I remarked, daring to let down my guard.
A prolonged silence fell as all four women, agog with wonder, considered the rigid strength and upward trajectory of Peter’s mighty penis. In light of the naked spectacle of his colossal member, Jane, Kate and Claire were at a loss to understand the source of my singular optimism.
“I’d be interested to know, Amanda,” Claire began, getting up from her seat, “at which point in your life you ever encountered anything as big as that.”
She pressed her forefinger down, on top of the throbbing, bulbous tip that formed the furthest reaches of Peter’s endless glory, plunging it downwards. A collective murmur of satisfaction could be heard as, with her release, it sprang back to attention.
“Did you ever see such unbending vigor?” Claire asked.
“As for reach,” she addressed with a pointed finger placed either end of Peter’s mammoth, animated hard-on, “in terms of inches, it will come as no surprise to know, we are talking mind-boggling, orgasm-inducing, double digits.”
“You will find all the vital statistics on the back of Peter’s resume,” Claire made known as her delicate fingers sought to clasp the immense proportions of her chosen implement. “I’m sure I don’t need to point out the fulfilling prospects of his girth.”
It was not without note that, regardless of her tightening grip, Claire’s fingers failed to meet her thumb.
“Circumference readings are insane,” she trilled before clearing her throat, “more than a handful, mouthful or any other kind of full you care to imagine.”
In the face of Claire’s proud boasting of his commoditized assets, Peter retained a demure demeanor, the downward tilt of his head, perhaps an attempt to conceal his blushes.
“I’m inclined to agree with Claire,” Kate stated, finding her voice. “I, for one, have never seen anything like it in my life. I’m curious, Amanda, is there something you know that we don’t?”
“Oh, it’s nothing really,” I said breezily, hoping vagueness would suffice in an atmosphere of aroused curiosity. “High hopes, I guess.”
“What about Adonis?” I suggested, in an effort to change the subject. “Perhaps we are getting too focused on our search for Priapus when we are no further forward with finding our Adonis. As fond as I am of the fetching men in my life, I fear few of them score highly enough in their possession of Adonisian qualities.”
Kate did not persist with her questioning. As it was to transpire later, my mention of Adonis was a provocation of her own guilty secret. At that time, with the exception of Jane, we were unaware of Alasdair’s staggering good looks. If Claire and I had met him, we would know of his obvious candidacy for the position of Adonis in our proposed ‘stud harem’.
It had taken Kate a whole two years of working at Empress Publishing, flirting outrageously with Adam, before initiating her first, adulterous affair. Unbeknownst to either Claire or me, no sooner had she begun to enjoy the extramarital thrill of being with Adam, when her first sighting of Alasdair’s extraordinary beauty stopped her in her tracks. It had taken her two years of procrastination before taking Adam as a lover to supersede her husband, Vincent. At a mere glance, her interest in Adam was superseded by a singular, obsessive infatuation with Alasdair.
As we were to learn in time, meeting Alasdair was a road paved with good intentions for Kate. Since first casting a lingering eye over his stunning beauty, her responsibility to the collective knew she had found our Adonis. Having personally inspected, exhaustively investigated and endlessly tried out his suitability, Kate had fallen foul of a number of deadly sins. Her rapacious lust had unleashed an insatiable appetite for Alasdair’s body, the marauding frequency of their lovemaking, a shameless celebration of her gluttony. Every step of their public outings together was to render her bra superfluous, her swelling pride, all the support required by her puffed-up bosoms. In time, we were to learn that, in Alasdair’s naked presence, lazy afternoons in her negligee were becoming a regular, slothful habit for Kate. The utter bliss Alasdair had brought to her life was something she was coming to covet. Her desire that she alone must be the one to possess him was impeding a caring, sharing nature that, until now, had been one of Kate’s innate characteristics in a life lived free of greed or envy. The wrath she feared she might feel at the prospect of sharing the source of her ecstasy had subverted her good intentions to trial Alasdair as a contender for the ‘stud harem’ into the selfish indulgence of her own rampant gratification.
In the dark about each other’s deceitful peccadilloes, both Kate and I were affected by the discomfiture of that evening’s agenda, our guilty secrets looming large in our private thoughts. I had the advantage that John was known to the others. His deep, bass voice may have aroused Claire’s curiosity but my knowledge of John’s Priapic endowment remained, in public at least, concealed mostly beneath his trousers. Kate knew, however, that, dressed or undressed, there was no way of concealing Alasdair’s Adonisian beauty. His very existence in her life had remained more or less a mystery to everyone else, the prospect of an introduction, something to which she was meaning to get round. Only Jane was aware of Alasdair’s undoubted suitability to be everyone’s Adonis. To date, their friendship had assured her silence on the matter but Kate knew that the passage of time was putting an unfair strain on Jane. Complicating matters further, the mounting sexual interest Kate and Jane were awakening in one another was unlikely to ameliorate tensions. Despite this, Kate could not bring herself to take this opportunity to nominate Alasdair for the ‘stud harem’. Neither, for that matter, was I ready to nominate John and his resplendently generous cock.
So, I was relieved as, no doubt, was Kate, when it was agreed to redouble our efforts to fill the vacant positions of Priapus and Adonis whilst, by unanimous consent, Peter was appointed and sworn in as Hercules, the first member of our ‘stud harem’. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding between us that, with a little soul searching, our Priapus and Adonis would not be long in coming. With the formalities of the evening’s agenda at an end, discussions relaxed into the conversation of friends. But for the remarkable vigor of his rigid glory, Peter remained motionless and naked as, around him, Claire completed her concubinary pageant with the entrance of her impeccably dressed, live-in partners, Richard and George, serving canopies. Impeccable attire had long been the mark of the men in Claire’s life. Aside from naked, I’d never seen George anything other than beautifully turned out and, as he stood before me, presenting me with a glass of Cava, his smile belied nothing of the intimacy I had enjoyed with him. Before long, I was to discover that, in that regard, I was not alone.
“How is Adam?” Claire inquired of Kate.
“He’s been a darling of late,” Kate replied, in praise of his virtues. “With the final demise of Vincent’s certitude in his male identity, we needed someone to take over the cooking and cleaning while Vincent was emerging into Alice. Adam has filled the breech with humility and grace.”
“It seems a menial vocation for your principal lover,” Claire pointed out. “You’ll be putting him in a dress next.”
Kate, perplexed by her secret knowledge that Adam was no longer her principal lover, could say nothing.
“We already have,” Jane announced innocently, trying to fill the pause.
“For heaven’s sake!” Claire exclaimed. “Is every man in our lives destined to wear women’s clothes?”
“You exaggerate, Claire,” Kate challenged.
“This is all very well for the likes of Chris and Vincent, or should that be Alice?” Claire conceded. “But surely Adam is alpha-male stock. He is, after all, CEO of your publishing company.”
“Not any more, he isn’t,” Kate revealed. “We had an Extraordinary General Meeting last week. We voted him off the board.”
“How did he take it?” Claire asked with concern.
“He was more than prepared,” Kate informed. “Before the meeting, I found him in his office, kneeling in prayer, assuring the Almighty he was ready.”
“This is news to me,” Claire protested. “Have you forgotten? ‘Empress’ are my publishers.”
“We didn’t think you would have any objection,” Kate said by way of apology for her presumption.
“In truth, I don’t,” Claire announced, “but it seems a cruel fate for the man who single-handedly built one of our most esteemed, feminist publishers.”
“Well, that’s just it,” Kate interceded. “The foremost label in feminist publishing being headed up by a man just will not do.”
“Twenty years ago, it was more of a man’s world,” Claire argued. “Only a man, a feminist man, with Adam’s Oxbridge connections, could get anything like Empress Publishing off the ground.”
“We all appreciate that,” Kate said assuredly. “But Adam’s days of being the Dionysian center of an ego-pampering, all-woman workforce had to come to an end. He understands that.”
“Understanding is not the same as acceptance,” Claire said pointedly. “Has Adam come to terms with the subservience of his new life?”
“He likes his new dress,” Jane informed. “It’s impossible to ignore how aroused it makes him.”
“Corrective therapy is ongoing,” Kate added, “but Adam has an undoubted flare for obedient servitude.”
“Well, that is good news,” Claire asserted, her satisfaction met. “Need I ask who the new CEO of Empress Publishing might be?”
Kate needn’t have said anything.
“Well, this is cause for celebration,” I announced, raising my glass. “A toast! To Kate and the future of Empress Publishing.”
Richard and George moved with urgency, replenishing chinking glasses from which copious volumes of Cava were being quaffed.
“How is Project Alice going?” Claire asked, looking at Jane and Kate.
“Alice is doing fine,” Jane said.
“Her every waking moment, filled with awe and fright,” Kate remarked, “but I’m pleased to say, her wonder is starting to dissipate any fears she held onto as Vincent.”
“Excellent,” Claire responded.
“I can’t thank you enough for George’s remarkable contribution,” Kate was reminded to remark as the handsome subject of her appreciation filled her glass with chilled Cava. “It’s been the making of Alice.”
“I’m especially grateful,” Jane chimed, “George has been the antidote to my protracted divorce blues.”
“It has been my pleasure,” Claire countered, watching George continue to top up glasses, as if unaware he was the subject of conversation.
“How is the frightful business?” Claire inquired after Jane.
“The truth is, I’ve never been happier.” Jane cooed. “It’s so lovely to be home with my friends.”
”The only thing I seek in settlement is my name,” she said in earnest, “but Donald and that floozy are tearing my reputation to pieces, trading under Jane Cunningham Holdings, with mass-market fashion design that is nothing short of tat.”
“We really ought to gather our collective powers to address your problem,” Claire put to Jane, “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I could use the help,” Jane admitted.
“I’ll enjoy procuring and dispensing suitable justice for Donald,” I made known.
“Then it’s settled,” Claire announced, looking at me and Kate. “The man is a cad. Two weeks from now, we will come together with our best ideas and plan.”
Sealing our pledge with another toast, a pause for breath was taken by all. I watched George refill my glass, the corner of my eye, unable to avert the perfect stillness of Peter’s naked body, at odds with the rampant movements of his rigid desire. The joy of female friendship, it struck me, could be as absurd as it was beautiful. I caught a glimpse of how surreal my life had become. In the miasma of what had filled my vision in recent times, to say nothing of my other senses, it was surprising how quickly I had come to accept as completely normal, what might formally have been bizarre. Empowerment, I was learning, came with the responsibility of nature’s burdens, one of which was my propensity for impostor syndrome. Thinking for a moment that perhaps, after all, the Empress wears no clothes, I focused my attention on the exquisite colors of my floral, chiffon and silk dress.
“I wasn’t sure if George could rise to the occasion of Alice’s deflowering ceremony,” Claire put to Kate, reminding me of the remarkable, out-of-the-ordinary reality of the evening’s events.
“That’s why I included the ‘Iron Man’ in the package,” she said, pointedly, “with full operating instructions.”
“I’m delighted to say we had no need of it in the end,” Kate informed. “Alice is a very lucky girl.”
“As am I,” Jane confessed. “I couldn’t resist trying out the ‘Iron Man’ for myself. I think Alice missed a trick there.”
“Was it to your liking, Jane?” inquired Claire, eager for feedback.
“Intensely so,” Jane exclaimed with a roll of her eyes.
“Ahh!” Claire exuded, throwing up her hands in a gesture of delight. “You remember the ‘Iron Man’, Amanda!”
“How could I forget,” I said with pursed lips and crossed eyes.
“How was it for you?” Jane pleaded to know.
“Remarkable,” I concurred, “if a little overwhelming for my sensibilities.”
“What a woose!” Claire teased.
“You forget, Claire,” I protested, “my fill of ‘Iron Man’, courtesy of the orgasm-denying ‘Prostate Pulsatron’ you inserted into George, was in conjunction with ‘My Little Pony’. I defy any of you to retain your composure with all that going on.”
To the sound of laughter, I recalled with vivid clarity the night my sensibilities had been overwhelmed by Claire’s ‘Iron Man’. My late arrival at Claire’s book launch that evening remained a surreal memory. The post-orgasmic state of my quivering body lasted all night long. It seemed a miracle to me that my trembling knees were capable of supporting my weight yet, somehow, I was able to move effortlessly, with poise and grace, as if the breeze beneath my dress was all that carried me.
The ‘Iron Man’ was Claire’s response to the market launch of the ‘Rampant Rabbit’. All of us were early exponents of the ‘Rabbit’s’ joyous vibrations. It sparked within Claire a desire for further technological improvements to the female, sexual experience.
“I am partial to a real, flesh-and-blood cock,” she would often remark. “If only there were a way to make it quiver, pulsate and throb, like my vibrator.”
This repeated refrain had seemed just a whimsical notion to all who heard it but Claire’s thoughts were becoming a hinterland obsession; the kind of obsession that gives birth to inspired genius. She even employed the services of a small engineering company to build her prototypes. Her endeavors to give true meaning to the term, ‘marital aid’, had resulted in the ‘Iron Man’, an extraordinary device that made inventive use of high-powered electromagnetism to manipulate the blood of an adherent to high-dosage, iron supplementation. The consequences for a man’s external organs were utterly remarkable. Uniquely, it could make a man the sex toy of a woman’s dreams.
The effects on the physical extremities of a male subject were beyond belief. Claire’s demonstration to me of the mesmerizing, joy-stick control she had over the astonishing movements of George’s erect penis was jaw-dropping. The ingenuity of her design failed, however, to anticipate the design flaws inherent in a man, especially one subjected to the ‘Iron Man’. To ameliorate an annoying propensity for premature ejaculation, Claire went on to develop the ‘Prostate Pulsatron’ which, when inserted into George, gave Claire the power to deliver explosive palpitations, capable of stemming the onset of any unwanted, male orgasm, however urgent.
To complete the introduction of technology into her sex life, Claire went on to develop ‘My Little Pony’, upon which, one’s iron infused, sex-toy of a man could be laid for easy mounting. In concert with the jack-hammer magnetic field in charge of Georges throbbing penis, the additional thrust to be derived from ‘My Little Pony’s’ buckaroo movements was, on occasion, more than this girl could take. Aside from Claire, I had been the only woman to have trialed the entire suite of technologies. In the absence of any other iron-supplemented man, George’s well endowed body, for that evening at least, formed a vital part of the technology. The dizzying heights I reached that night were almost alarming. My unforgettable encounter with the ‘Iron Man’ had left me unsure whether to beg for more or leave well alone.
As I reflected on my feelings for the ‘Iron Man’, my gaze fell upon the central attraction in the room. Peter’s naked silence, amidst our chatter, towered above us, somehow affording him a dignity we may have lacked. Throughout it all, he had remained standing motionless. The perfection of his colossal form was, it had to be said, a joy to behold. The one moving part of him, beyond muscular control, paraded its rampant life force with breathtaking vigor. Its impressive proportions gave me cause to think he might even be a match for John. I had an overwhelming urge to seek confirmation by touch. It might have been forward of me but he was now our sworn-in Hercules, accessible and available, now. With wine glass in hand, I got to my feet and approached him. An eternity might have passed as my free hand explored his naked body in depth. He felt exquisite.
“Is Chris looking forward to his stay with us?” Jane inquired.
“He’s so excitable lately,” I revealed of my husband, pleased with the intense heat of my hand on Peter’s mesmerizing cock. “You know how much he admires both you and Kate. He’s actually here, in Edinburgh, tonight.”
“Is that so?” Kate asked.
“Yes,” I replied, conscious of the remarkable power of Peter’s hot-blooded tumescence pulsating in my hand. “It’s as much an Edinburgh night out for Chris as it is for me. I’ve been suggesting to him for months to go out to a group of like-minded people and it just so happens that the Edinburgh Trans-Group meets tonight.”
“And you persuaded him to go?” Kate questioned.
“Adorned in blue taffeta and silk dress, matching court shoes, sequin stole, pearls and yard upon yard of crinoline petticoats, he is the singular revival of Dior’s New Look,” I explained. “Well, he was somewhat neurotic about what he perceived to be the finer dress sensibilities of an Edinburgh Trans Group but, with John’s arm upon which to hold, I’m sure he will be fine.”
“John is with Chris, now?” Kate asked.
“Why, yes,” I said.
“My goodness!” Claire proclaimed. “The jaws of Edinburgh trans-sisters will be dropping as we speak.”
“It’s proving to be an excitable week for Chris,” I added, to the satisfying feel of my clasped hand traversing the entire length of Peter’s living glory. “His trepidation at coming to stay with Kate and Jane is palpable.”
“It’s only natural to feel excited,” Jane advocated with some sympathy.
“His excitability is born as much from nerves as delight,” I suggested, careful to weigh up the magnitude and vitality of Peter’s magnificent offering.
“An unknown fate can be a thrilling, if daunting prospect,” Jane reflected.
With one hand on Peter’s proudest asset, I quenched my thirst. The contrast of my hot hand and chilled mouth felt divine.
“Your body takes my breath away,” I whispered on tiptoe.
Peter stooped to lend me his ear. My grip tightened.
“My good friends may also have given you the impression that you possess the world’s biggest cock,” I put to him in hushed tones. “You see, Peter, to a man, his penis is merely a matter of attachment. Its possession is in the hands of women. As you will soon learn, you are not alone in being blessed with magnificent endowment. I’m so going to enjoy comparing yours with John’s but that, for now, Peter, darling, must remain our secret.”
“Have you given Chris any comfort in these last moments with his wife?” Claire asked me.
“I was struck by my compassion only last Sunday,” I mused, letting go of Peter to take my seat.
“From the vantage point of his head in my lap, I permitted him a generous helping of my breasts,” I said in my defense, “whilst, beneath his dress, I fondled endlessly with his panty gusset.”
“It sounds like an endearing gesture,” Claire said encouragingly, “but, perhaps, this is a time to be downright merciful. He is, after all, saying goodbye to his wife for what all he knows could be an eternity.”
“Did you have anything specific in mind?” I inquired.
“I have a radio interview in Glasgow this coming Saturday,” Claire pointed out. “That’s the day before Chris’s departure. Why don’t I come round and spend the afternoon with you? I’m sure, between us, we can give Chris the send off his chastity, loyalty, dedication and service deserves.
“I was planning on a night with John,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.”
“Did we tell you?” Kate added. “Chris is required be drained, before we take delivery of him.”
“Really?” I questioned, skeptical of the need to lavish my husband with so much attention. “Is all this fuss actually necessary?”
“Kate and Jane have remarkable insights into sperm modification,” Claire intervened. “You know that better than any of us, Amanda. Look at the results they have produced from Vincent. I’m sure Mark has kept you abreast with developments.”
I was only too aware and well rewarded by the extent of Mark’s excitement. As a brilliant and ridiculously attractive, young microbiologist, his Eureka moments were more than an assurance of my satisfaction with his cunnilingus. As for his boundless vigor, well, Hark! The herald angels sing! The source of all this exhilaration was founded in the extraordinary phenomenon of Vincent’s mushrooming production of semen with such a high count of sperm carrying the xx chromosome. His remarkable output was a virtual guarantee, to any woman, that copulation would give birth to a girl. Without the intervention of IVF, this was a groundbreaking discovery. Testament to the work of Kate and Jane, Vincent was living proof that behavior, on its own, all be it, extreme, could radically alter a man’s sperm composition. The extremities to which Vincent, aka, Alice, had been subjected, may have almost extinguished every last vestige of his very existence as a man but I was assured that what remained of him, that vital factory of feminized sperm, was alive and well between waxed legs in nylon stockings, tucked within silk panties, someway below those perfectly pert, DD, silicon, breast implants.
“Drained, you say?” I asked of Kate.
“Completely, drawn off,” Kate confirmed with clarity.
“That shouldn’t take too long,” I speculated.
“Time enough to spend with John later,” Claire suggested reassuringly.
“By the way, Amanda, how is Mark?” she solicited with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Mark is buoyant,” I said, knowing I would have to impart more information, “if a little distracted by his work.”
“Too distracted to attend to your requirements?” Claire posed.
“Not at all!” I retorted. “Besides, I’m somewhat preoccupied with John.”
“Mmm! Not so little, John. But, I thought, in your bed at least, you were combining their talents.” Claire protested.
“For the time being,” I began, “I am content to see them separately. Like the ‘Iron Man’, the coalescent endeavors of both John and Mark in my boudoir can be a little overwhelming for my sensibilities.”
“You and your sensibilities,” Claire joshed, “As I recall, you waxed lyrically about one particular day in their arms. Didn’t you call it your Rainbow Deliverance Day?”
“Rainbow Liberation Day,” I corrected.
“So what stopped you from taking pleasure in day after day of endless Rainbow Liberation Days?” Claire asked, baffled by my reticence.
“You had to be there,” I said, my total recall of the supernatural, time-traveling ecstasy of that day, like a lucid dream, still clear in my mind.
“I rather wish I had,” Claire confessed. “The thought of being sandwiched between John and Mark is not without its appeal but, seriously, Amanda, your insights from that day sounded mind-blowing. You spoke of it as an epiphany.”
“Epiphanies can be unsettling,” I made known. “Not since the heady days of my youth have I experienced anything like it. As a matter of fact, my wildest acid trip could never compare with what happened to me that day.”
“What did happen to you that day?” Kate asked with the pressing urgency of aroused curiosity.
“It’s a long story,” I said eventually, after a slow, soothing drink of Cava and a wave of my hand.
“Oh, Amanda! Do tell!” Claire insisted. “Kate and Jane haven’t heard your story.”
And so the evening unraveled into rather drunken revelations and confessions of our promiscuous sins.
“This is awfully good Cava,” I recall remarking, taking another mouthful.
“I’m glad you like it,” Claire said approvingly. “It’s a vintage I keep for special occasions.”
George topped up my glass.
“Gosh,” I gasped, quenching my thirst yet again. “I feel frightfully privileged.”
“You were saying,” Jane intervened, in an effort to get me to focus on my story.
“Oh yes,” I responded, realizing just how much the flow of Cava was already impeding my concentration.
In truth, my recollection of conversation beyond that point became a little vague, although I retained a recurring memory of saying something, “What? With Mark’s exquisite cunnilingus, in concert with John fucking me senseless, I’m afraid, I rather forgot myself..”
However little I recall of conversation that night, it has since been impossible to forget the perpetual distraction of Peter’s unavoidable, naked presence. His attendance, to say nothing of the copious volumes of Cava quaffed, colored the mood of that evening. As women who prided our selves on our composure, our lives had, all of a sudden, taken on an emboldened sense of entitlement. As the night progressed, our quiet chatter and gentle peels of laughter became increasingly shameless in substance. Poor Hercules became the objective prop of party games, increasingly bawdy in nature.
Peter’s encore was to induce a collective outpouring of excitement, moistening the collective silk of everyone’s panties. In preparation for the journey home, one by one, the departing women paid a final visit to Claire’s bathroom. The humidity of rising passions meant freshening up was to necessitate an obligatory change of panties for one and all. For all, that is, but one. Upon the removal of my dampened lingerie, for reasons best known to myself, the business of going home was perceived to be better served without the encumbrance of clean knickers.
With drawn out hugs and goodbyes, the glamorous gathering outside Claire’s apartment was, even for Stockbridge, an exceptional sight. The necks of passers-by strained with turning heads at the command of eyes longing for a glimpse of beauty.
The two cars awaiting their passengers purred, engines running to ensure a warm welcome from the mild chill of a late summer’s night. The driver’s door of the car in front opened, revealing Adam, in readiness to open doors for Kate and Jane. My darling, John stood on the pavement, ready to escort me whilst, basking in feminine frippery, remaining seated in the back of the car behind, was my husband, Chris.
As I approached my car, John responded swiftly with a swing of the backdoor, exposing Chris, in all his finery.
“Can you drive in those high heels?” I inquired of my husband, taking my place in the backseat.
“I’ve never done it,” Chris replied with such surprise, he almost forgot himself.
“My Lady,” he added promptly.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I asserted. “Out you get, darling. You’re driving tonight.”
“I want you, here, with me,” I said pointedly to John, patting the vacated seat beside me whilst Chris, with skirt billowing in the breeze, stepped self-consciously out of the car to take his place in front.
A finale of waving women ensued as both cars began to move. The first was bound for Kate’s New Town home, only a short drive away, where secret, Adonisian delights awaited her and Jane. The second car had a longer journey west, beyond Glasgow, to my seashore cottage on the Firth of Clyde. My somewhat inebriated anticipation of my homecoming was bulging with bloated expectations. The erotic charge of the evening’s events and the orgasmic delights awaiting my arrival left me in no mood to endure the ninety minutes of delayed gratification the journey home would otherwise demand. Ever since I removed my panties in Claire’s bathroom, I knew what I was about to do next would not wait for home. My election to abandon my panties was a portent of what was to come. The outstanding magnitude of Peter’s presence hung like a specter, haunting me with uncertainty. Without hands-on, side-by-side, comparative analysis, the occasional doubt lingered. The vital statistics Claire had proudly proclaimed on Peter’s behalf were foremost in my mind. It was with serendipitous delight that I found what I was looking for in my handbag. Without ceremony, I unbuttoned and unzipped John’s trousers. Together, with his cotton briefs and compliant elevation of his hips, I pulled, whereupon the object of my desire sprang out with the force of a jack-in-the-box.
“You have competition, John, darling,” I warned, snapping taut a length of dressmaker’s measuring tape. “It’s a close call but, after what I have just witnessed, I need to take some precise measurements.”
Eager for clarification, I went about putting numbers to the extremely hard fact now held within my hands. Like a naked patient submitting himself to a doctor’s scrupulous examination, John had no idea where to look, electing finally to gaze out of the car window whilst I placed the cold tip of the measuring tape atop the base of his massive erection. Sliding my other hand up passing inches of tape, I began to count.
“Five, six, seven, eight…” I called out loud, extending the tape’s length to the furthest reaches of John’s rigid penis, “.. nine, ten, eleven, twel… Oh my!”
Corstorphine’s passing nightlife filled our arc of vision as I pressed on with my examination. Walking home, in the arms of no fewer than two chaperones, a girl in a yellow dress caught my eye as the squeeze of my circumference readings took hold.
“You win, sweetheart, by a country mile!” I exclaimed victoriously, casting aside the measuring tape to fill my cupped hands with John’s explosive testicles. “You are Priapus and nobody knows but me.”
“My Priapus. What am I to do?” I pondered aloud, my fingers tracing the entire length and girth of my prize. “What special place in hell exists for women who seek to monopolize the gift of Priapus?”
My clasping hands clutched ever tighter.
“One cock to rule them all, one cock to find them,” I uttered, in some kind of rambling, Tolkienesque ritual.
“One cock to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.”
The pleasure I took in my hold of John’s boundless tumescence felt all-consuming.
“Do tell, Chris,” I implored my chauffeuring husband. “Whatever am I to do?”
“Forgive me, my Lady,” Chris pleaded with an eye in the rear-view mirror, “It is not for me to say. With time, I’m certain you will know what to do. Meanwhile..”
“Meanwhile, it’s my precious!” I interrupted, leaning back against the car door.
Raising my legs onto the car seat, my stocking-soled feet played with John’s rampant cock as I reached once more for my handbag. As ever, my husband’s diligence had foreseen my mood. Placed in my gold, cigarette case was a batch of small, hand-rolled, marijuana joints. I lit one and inhaled deeply.
“My precious,” I repeated through my smoky exhalation.
Raising the hemline of my dress, my parting thighs revealed to John the absence of my panties.
“My precious,” I panted once more, to the mesmerizing sight, sound and feel of John’s hands gliding up the entire length of my nylon stockings before being lifted in the air.
“Give it to me!” I pleaded, wide-eyed and open to everything John could offer my gaping wantonness. “Now!”
Driving in high heels may not have been without its challenges but, beneath my husband’s dress, held within moistening, silk panties, the belligerent containment of his arousal must have been an extreme trial of distraction. Whilst, in the backseat, John was doing everything in his remarkable powers to comply with my voluble demands, Chris’s attentive navigation of the multiple lanes of Glasgow’s M8 and beyond was a credit to his composure.
