When I was in high school I wasn't exactly a chick magnet. It wasn't all my fault, mind you. I went through puberty much later than the other boys, but when I did, my body went overboard. In an 18-month period I grew a full foot, and I was tormented by horrible growing pains that woke me up screaming every other week.
The physical pain was bad enough, but the emotional pain was worse. I outgrew my clothes so fast that my parents put off the inevitable shopping trips as long as they could, meaning I went to school in jeans three inches too short. I had funny, dorky clothes, and a funny, dorky body inside them. I grew so fast that I couldn't control my own body, I was always tripping over my feet and hitting my head on low-hanging lights. I shot up to six-foot-five and I weighed like 150 pounds. My nickname, of course, was "Stork". I hated, hated, hated that name.
My parents told me not to worry. My mom and dad are both tall, and not bird-skinny like I was. "You'll fill out, don't worry," Dad told me. "I was the same way you were, and I gained 40 pounds in a year. Eat your Wheaties and you'll be fine."
Sure. While everyone else was making out in the back seats of cars, I had trouble even getting into the back seat of a car. My Friday and Saturday nights were consistently dateless. What girl, I thought, would ever find a big skinny gork like me attractive?
My sudden growth spurt did have one positive result. My penis, which before had been a normal little wiggler, grew to a truly remarkable size. When I stood naked in front of the mirror all you saw was dick. My arms and legs just looked like scaffolding around my enormous wang. I might have been proud at being the most well-endowed boy in school, but no way. I'd walk down the hall and some of the boys would call after me, "Hee-HAW! Hee-HAW!" The girls would ask why they made donkey noises at me and I was too shy to tell them.
Masturbation was, of course, a big part of my life. Discovering that I could, with only my hand and some privacy, make myself feel THAT GOOD was like learning I had some kind of super power, like X-ray vision. I spent a lot of time holed up in my bedroom, a copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue opened in front of my, grabbing my shlong in two lubricated hands and pumping away like a madman. I waited for the day when I could have a girl touch me, and have a girl let me touch her. But when I was 18 those days seemed far in the future.
One day in gym class we started a module where we did gymnastics. I dreaded it. I could barely walk, let alone vault over a horse or swing myself on the horizontal bar. Before class we had to stretch out for ten minutes, touching our toes, flexing our quadriceps. One odd result of my agonizing growth spurt was the remarkable flexibility in my limbs. We had to do this one stretch, you lie on your back, throw your legs over your head in a pike position, and try to touch your toes behind your head.
No one could do it except me. I'm sure I looked ridiculous, my spindly legs like folded pipe cleaners pointed back over my head. Two beefy boys next to me couldn't even get their feet over their heads.
I overheard the one guy say, "Dude, I saw this porno movie, this chick would do this and eat her own pussy. She'd grab her ankles and go to fuckin' town, man."
The other boy said, "I heard this one guy, he has like a foot-long dick, and he could do this and suck his own cock."
"Shit, I could do that I'd..."
"Never leave the house!" They both started laughing.
I didn't laugh. I was frozen in place. Was it possible? Could I do that? Should I even be thinking about it? The mere idea of sucking my own penis should have filled me with disgust.
But it didn't. I got the biggest, hardest erection of my life. I had a hell of a time disguising it from the class, and showering afterwards took some guile and lots of cold water to keep the other boys from thinking I'd switched over to the other side. I counted the minutes until the final bell, and then after the bus dropped me off at my stop I ran home. I had to find out-was it possible?
I locked my bedroom door. I stripped and lay on my bed, my throbbing cock wobbling before me like a hockey stick. I lay on my back, threw my legs back, and...
And my mouth was still two or three inches away. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get my penis any closer to my mouth. The problem was that, as my head strained forward to suck my cock into my mouth, my hips slipped from underneath me. Every inch I moved forward, I slid an inch back.
I tried for almost an hour until, exhausted, I fell back on the bed. I smacked my head off my bed's wooden headboard, and I sat up swearing. It hurt like hell, I'd hit the long beam running across the top of the frame. There was a gap between that beam and the rest of the headboard of about six inches.
An idea came to me. I lay down again, swung my legs back, and tucked my feet into that gap. I moved my head forward, and used the purchase my feet found against the headboard to pull my hips up to my lips. I flexed my calves and hamstrings. My huge cock came closer, closer, closer...
My cockhead brushed my cheek. I'd done it! My penis was in my face, I could suck it with ease. And now I faced the next question. Should I be doing this? Would sucking my own cock make me a homosexual? Was this just, well, something I shouldn't do even if I could?
I gripped my cock in my hand and lifted it up to my lips. Well, maybe I would give it a try, just to see if it sickened me or not.
I opened my lips. I felt the hard, spongy helmet slip into my mouth. My tongue was in the way, and I moved it to the side. Moving it made it slide over my hot pink cone, and it felt so good I moaned. Oh, boy. It felt good. I moved my head back, keeping a tight seal around my penis, and my slippery lips grazed the sensitive ridge under my tip.
I couldn't believe how good it felt. I moved my head up and down my shaft, taking about four inches of my cock into my mouth, sucking frantically all the while. "Mmm! Mmmmmm!" I moaned as I fellated myself. I swirled my tongue over my glans and I started to shiver from the absolute ecstasy I gave myself. I learned what felt good and what felt great, and in no time I was on the brink of coming.
Normally when I masturbated I took my time, drawing out the pleasure as long as possible. Not now. Now I wanted to come, right away. My saliva ran down my cock, and I could tell from the syrupy liquid leaking from my tip that pre-come was oozing out, making me wonder about whether or not I should come in my mouth. I always heard that girls hated guys coming in their mouths, that it was gross, and I didn't know what I should do.
In the end it wasn't a question. There was no way I could bear to pull my wet, sucking mouth away from my cock. I was jerking myself off and fingering my ass as I slobbered all over my dick, and when I started to come it was so intense that I clamped my lips tight around my cockhead and sucked for all I was worth.
"Umph, uhh, uhhh!" I groaned around my huge tool as I came. I exploded, the salty, bleachy semen filling my mouth. The taste was unpleasant but the sensation so exquisite that it was a small price to pay. I swallowed my hot gluey semen in hungry mouthfuls, and when I stopped coming I was disappointed. I wanted more.
I disengaged, letting my slick, sticky cock fall from my lips, pulling my feet free from the headboard. "Oh, wow." I said. A whole new world opened before me. Hell, even the most popular jocks in school probably didn't get regular blowjobs. But, thanks to my limber limbs and horse cock, I could get all the oral loving I wanted.
I'm a bit ashamed to say that, over the next few months, I spent quite a bit of time with my feet jammed in my headboard. I started to develop a kind of routine. I would wake up around 6, put my feet in the wooden stirrups, and suck myself off. Then, after coming home after a long, horny day at school, I'd suck myself off again. After dinner I would suck myself off, and then, after I turned off the lights for bed, I'd suck myself off. I learned how to tie myself into knows with my lips and tongue, learned to love the taste and thick consistency of my semen.
I just couldn't wait to get home so I could feel my wet tongue glide over the silky smooth head of my penis. No Bangkok prostitute was more skilled or knowledgeable about giving head than yours truly. I, of course, received instant feedback with every lick, nipple and slurp. Jerking off the old way, with my hands, seemed like kiddie stuff. Oh sure, it was nice and all, but the feeling of my hot, thick come boiling into my mouth as I sucked myself off was infinitely sweeter.
Every so often I worried about what this was doing to me. I didn't think I was gay. I didn't have a sudden hankering to, say, suck off the basketball team, and I still got a woodie when Bridget Landau wore a miniskirt in Math class. So I decided that the ability to suck my own cock was a blessing, not a curse. And I was gonna keep doing it.
I kept looking for ways to refine and deepen the enjoyment of my oral activities. I'd always enjoyed fingering my ass (another pleasure that had me questioning my sexuality), but it was hard sometimes to reach down far enough to wedge a finger inside. So I went to Home Depot, bought a 24-inch dowel rod, sawed it in half, and went to work on it with a file and sandpaper of various coarseness. I turned that wooden rod into a thin, rounded dildo as smooth as glass. It was a labor of love, and it repaid my hard work the first time I greased it with Vaseline and inserted it in my rectum. I fucked myself and sucked myself and I had an orgasm that probably registered on the Richter scale. My excited prostate pumped out so much semen that I couldn't swallow it fast enough, and I had to let my spurting cock splatter all over my face. I got some in my eye, and it stung like hell.
So life was good. I had excellent grades, I was going to college in the fall, and,I gained nearly 20 pounds during my senior year. I wasn't so clumsy, and it actually looked like I might be able to get a date to the prom with this girl I met in my physics class. All the pain of my adolescence was finally mitigated with some happiness.
One Saturday morning I woke to hear the garage door clattering shut. It was 9AM, and I guessed my parents were going to breakfast before doing some shopping, as they often did on the weekends. I was alone, and the heavy weight I felt between my legs had me reaching under the bed for the Vaseline and my dildo. I got my legs into position, lubed up my ass, and went to work. Since I was alone, there was no need to lock my bedroom door.
I drove my cock deep into my mouth, sucking and licking the fat mushroom that capped my cock, while I slowly slid the dildo in and out of my dilated anus. I hadn't had the chance to suck myself off the day before and I knew this first orgasm of the day would be a big one. I pulled my cock out of my mouth and teased the tip with my now-expert tongue, driving myself crazy as only I knew how. I paused to smear more lube on the wooden probe, and then I set about finishing the job. I greedily sucked my cock, making loud slurping noises that turned me on even more, pumping my shaft with one hand, pranging my ass with the other.
"Oh, uh, oh!" I moaned with my mouth full of my meat. I came and it was one of those huge orgasms, there was no way I could swallow it all. I pulled my mouth away and I shot hot sticky ropes of come all over my face and hair. My orgasm went on and on, and when it finally finished I needed a second to catch my breath. I left the dildo in my ass and let my still-erect cock rest against my cheek.
And it was at that awkward moment that my mother opened my bedroom door.
* * * * *
At the hospital I had to do some explaining.
"What happened?" my panicked father asked when he got to the emergency room.
"Uh, um, she, well, she just collapsed." I said. "I didn't even know she was home, I thought you and her went out this morning."
He shook his head. "I went out to get my car inspected. But that doesn't matter. Was she conscious? Did she have a stroke or a heart attack?"
"No, I mean, I don't know. I don't think so. She just fainted, and I called the ambulance."
That wasn't quite true. She hadn't "just" fainted. She'd also screamed, a scream I knew I would hear in a thousand future nightmares. THEN she'd fainted, fainted dead away, and after five fruitless minutes trying to bring her around I called the ambulance. After I hung up the phone I realized the dildo was sticking out of my ass like a wooden tail. I yanked it out and tossed it in the trash.
It was like the world was coming to an end. I watched the paramedics load my insensate mother onto a stretcher, and I didn't know if she would live or die. I'd just killed my own mother, all for the need to satisfy my perverse sexual needs.
My father and I sat there, waiting for the doctor to give us a report. I was conflicted. On one hand, I loved my kind, doting mother, and if she died I would be devastated. On the other, we all have to go SOMETIME, and if I had to endure the pain of losing my mother sooner or later, now might be an opportune time. Because, if she did recover, I was in shit so deep it would bury even my six-five frame.
A nurse appeared. "Mr. Newton?" She escorted us to a small, curtained off room. "The doctor will be here in a second."
And a second later the curtain was pulled away and an Indian man with a confident smile appeared. "Mr. Newton? I'm Dr. Prakash." He shook my father's hand. "You're wife is fine. We found no evidence of a stroke, and her EKG was perfectly normal. We did a CAT scan and found no signs of a brain tumor. She's conscious and responsive."
"What happened?" Dad asked.
The doctor shrugged. "We don't know. She may have stood up to quickly, or her blood sugar may have been low. She didn't hit her head on anything, she has no bumps or bruises, and she doesn't show signs of concussion. We'll want her to come back every week for a month so we can run some tests. But when we asked her what happened, she says she doesn't know. She remembers walking to your son's room, and that's when she passed out. She doesn't remember anything after that."
"Wait," I interjected, "She doesn't remember coming into my room?"
Dr. Prakash shook his head. "No. You said that she did open the door and stood there before she collapsed, yes?"
"Uh, yeah. She opened the door, it woke me up, and then she just, fell."
He shook his head. "She doesn't remember opening the door."
I tried not to jump for joy. She didn't remember! Thank you, post-traumatic syndrome! It looked like I would get out of this with my mother alive and me out of the soup. Thank you, God!
"Can we see her?" my dad asked.
"In a minute. We're drawing some blood. We'll get you when she's ready."
A few minutes later we were ushered into a small room, and my mom was lying on a bed, looking wan but not too bad. "You scared the hell out of me," my dad said as they hugged.
"How are you?" I squeaked.
"Fine, fine," she said in a soft voice. "A bit tired, but fine."
The nurse said, "We're going to keep you here another hour or so, and then we'll let you go."
"Can I have something to drink?" Mom asked.
The nurse said, "Sure, water, tea, juice?"
"Can I have ginger ale?"
"I don't think we have any here..."
My dad said, "There's a vending machine in the lobby. I'll get you some."
"Thanks, honey," Mom said. Dad left, and the nurse left, and I was alone with my mother.
I smiled down at her. "I'm glad you're OK."
I did not anticipate the speed, or the strength, of the hand that shot out and grabbed me by the throat. "You're GLAD! You actually have the capacity to feel GLAD about anything after what you made me go through this morning!"
"I thought you didn't remember!" I croaked.
"Didn't remember! Didn't remember seeing you lying on your bed like that, twisted into that horrible position, doing what you did to yourself, and with that...thing sticking out of you! Oh, I remember! But how exactly do I explain that to the doctor? Would you prefer I tell everyone WHY I collapsed in a dead faint?"
"No!" I struggled for breath.
"What, exactly, gave you the idea to DO that? Did you want to drive me over the edge? Can you IMAGINE what it's like to see...to see...what I saw?!"
"No!" The room was starting to spin.
"I mean, that CONTRAPTION you were using on yourself, did you make that in shop class? Is that what they're teaching you, how to build things you might find in some bondage dungeon?"
"Mom!" Everything was going black.
"Are your PROUD that you can do that to yourself, are you so starved for affection that you have to lock yourself in you room and debase yourself in that way?! Is this my fault? Am I a bad parent. Is this a cry for help?" She somehow managed to increase the pressure on my throat. "Well, let me tell you something. This is NOT my fault, I am NOT a bad parent, and believe you me, when we get home and I arrange your punishment, you're gonna be crying for help!"
She released me, and five seconds later Dad appeared with a can of Canada Dry. He was so attentive to Mom that he didn't notice me gasping in the corner. Mom drank her ginger ale, she and my father held hands and talked, and an hour later the doctor told us we could all go home. The three of us, one big happy family, piled in the car and went home.
Well, my dad was happy, anyway.
* * * * *
Mom didn't mention the "incident" for a whole week. It was torture. I knew I would eventually face the terrible music, and the waiting was killing me. As you might expect, during this time I didn't give myself head. I didn't jack off at all. I don't think I even had an erection the whole week, not even when Bridget Landau wore her plaid miniskirt with her knee-high boots. My libido was gone, gone, gone.
The next Saturday morning I was again awakened by the sound of the garage door closing. I heard footsteps, and I sat up in bed. The door opened and Mom loomed in the doorway like a drill sergeant.
"Thank heaven for small miracles," she growled. "You aren't abusing yourself. I should feel flattered."
"Mom..."
She waved a hand. "Take a shower and get dressed."
"We're going somewhere?"
She turned her back on me and marched away. I didn't question her. I got my ass in the shower and got dressed. I found her downstairs waiting for me.
"Let's go," she said. I wanted to ask where we were going, but I didn't want to ask her anything. I didn't want to even look at Mom. I was terrified.
Mom drove in silence, and I didn't recognize where we were going. It was fifteen minutes before Mom said, "Do you remember Mrs. Johnson?"
Mrs. Johnson... "Um, yeah, didn't we see her at the funeral home last year?"
Mom nodded. "Her husband passed away."
A few quiet minutes passed before Mom said, "I used to work with her. We were good friends." Another silent minute. "I still see her, every so often."
I didn't follow. Was that where we were going? Mrs. Johnson's husband had been about 20 years her senior, he'd died of a heart attack. I remembered Mrs. Johnson as a very nice woman, able to laugh when telling stories about her husband but still obviously broken-hearted at his passing. An attractive woman in her early fifties, she reminded me of Marion Ross, the woman who played Richie's mom on "Happy Days". The same dark red hair, the same pretty, wholesome, kind face.
Mom steered the car into the driveway of a well-tended split-level house. "Come along," Mom said.
I obeyed, but I said, "Um, why are we here?"
"For your punishment."
I didn't get it then, and I didn't get it when the door opened and there was Mrs. Johnson smiling pleasantly. She hugged my mother and said, "Laura! You don't look any worse for wear after your little episode!" Then she looked up at me. "My goodness, this can't be little Danny! It can't be!"