Derek was a typical overweight, middle aged married man; he mowed the lawn on Saturdays, washed the car on Sundays (actually took it to the car wash now, but the principle was the same) and went to the pub three times a week with his friends. It was the latter that had, in recent years, caused a certain amount of what is euphemistically called 'brewer's droop'.
More accurately, he was finding that sometimes he couldn't get it up, or at least, not fully up. His wife was a patient, kind woman who persisted in pretending that being fucked by a semi hard piece of jelly was as much fun as the old days when a rampant fucking stick had moved her world. Now she moaned 'delightedly' while he finally came, and then when he fell asleep after the effort of his once a week event she would finish herself (with increasing fantasies concerning the warehousemen at the supermarket where she worked; which was fair enough since the only way Derek now found he could cum was to imagine one of the checkout girls at the same supermarket – one Eloise by name – bending over and rolling down her pants for him. He'd caught a glimpse once as she bent down to get a new till roll and ever since he couldn't get her pants out of his mind).
The opportunity to play some golf in France was something that came out of the blue. One of his workmate cried off at the last minute and he was invited to make up the party. Derek didn't really like golf, but he did like the idea of a couple of days in France; his wife waved him off happily, she had secretly purchased a vibrator and now had two days to discover its delights in peace and quiet.
The golf was rapidly abandoned as Hurricane Bruce veered over Northern France and delivered rainstorms that the locals (repeatedly) said they had never seen the like of in their little southern town. Even after the rain stopped, the courses were flooded and unusable. Derek therefore found himself walking alone (the others discovering the nearest bar) through the little alleys of a delightful town.
He stopped at a 'magasin' selling African goods and of course that was the trigger for the proprietor to immediately way-lay him and draw him in. The young, attractive African was chatty and friendly rather than pushy, offering coffee and a seat to 'his new friend'.
As they sat (and Derek wondered how little he needed to buy to escape), an old man, the shop-keeper's grandfather, wandered out from the back and bade him 'bonjour'. Derek thought no more about it, but found himself being studied by this wizened geriatric, until the old man spoke – in a language that was more clicks and clacks than proper words to his ears.
"The old man say I much translate"
"He say you sick"
"Don't think so, fit as a fiddle"
"He say you ... love sick? No, sex sick"
"He say you..." here the young man broke off and a vigorous conversation proceeded between the two black men, culminating in a shrug " ... forgive, this what he say, I must translate. He is my elder. I must respect. He say you soft in the " he pointed to Derek's groin.
First thought was outrage of course, the cheek of these bloody people. The second thought was 'how this old man know?'
"He say, he can help" The old man wandered slowly out of the shop to the back of the building and Derek was left nonplussed.
"Perhaps I should go"
"Please, my grandfather a medicinal man, a clever man, he know things. He saved my mother when she have me wrong way. He cure snake bite, he cure you"
None of this convinced Derek, but his curiosity was peeked so he stayed. He'd never have to see these people again, it might make a good story (with some minor alterations as to the ailment).
When he looked up, the old man had quietly returned carrying a small jar.
"Rub small amount on tip and all will be well – no charge"
No charge? How did this scam work? He looked in the jar, a grey creamy goo.
"Remember, only a small amount on the tip, not too much"
Derek left with an ugly wooden goddess, and the jar.
Naturally he had no intention of using either. The wooden figure was hideous, and was given to his mother as a present. The jar was placed in his bedside cabinet and forgotten for weeks ... until that Friday several weeks later when his wife made a cutting comment about "Flaccid Friday coming round again". He was mortified and wondered again about Viagra. He'd never thought he needed help, he'd convinced himself that his semis enabled him to hold on longer and let his wife have more pleasure. Deep down he knew he was failing in his duty.
Then he remembered the cream. Why not? No chance of Viagra until next week (can you get it on the NHS?), what's the worst that can happen? His dick could drop off, but then it wasn't working that well anyway. Of course that wasn't true, he could piss all over the place to order; the joys of a penis are not confined to sex; but he was feeling sorry for himself so that explains his comment (to himself). Taking the jar out at 7pm (how long would it take to work? He had no idea), smeared a little of the odourless grey gunk on the tip as instructed. He felt nothing. Of course it didn't work. Why would he expect some... (and here we must leave his thoughts for they were both ageist and racist in an extreme form that people often use privately and stupidly occasionally put on Twitter in the mistaken belief that if you are drunk nobody reads your posts).
Half an hour later he realised that he had adjusted his trousers twice. Going to the bathroom he visually confirmed what he already knew. He had the biggest, hardest boner he'd had since his wedding night. He could break bricks with it! Quick, how long would it last? With an impetuosity and strength that surprised himself, and more to the point his wife, he grabbed her from behind (actually he grabbed her behind first), picked her up (and, like him, weight had accrued with age), and took her to the bedroom. Then, to her shock, he pulled her pants to one side and slid a massive piece of meat into her unexpectant vagina. It hurt, but also it was exciting. She hadn't played 'ravish me' with him for fully 20 years. Even then it had been planned and she was lubricated and ready. This time it was the real thing and there was no doubting that what was opening her up so roughly was all him. She had caught a glimpse of his erection as he unzipped, and her hand had briefly found it as it thrust in. Then she was pushed out of the way and he 'had his way with her'. It took five minutes and she was sore after, but if he could do this once, maybe he could do it again. Was it the comment she made? Surely not. Who cares? Todger (her name for his manhood) was back it seemed.
After such a rough wooing you might expect the man to roll off and sleep or walk away, it seemed the cream affected more than the erectile material. His brain told him he had to satisfy her and, true to this desire, he slid down the sheets and inexpertly (after removing her underwear) gave her cunt and its leaking spunk a good licking. Something else he hadn't done for 20 odd years. She came in even less than 5 minutes and then lay humming quietly and contentedly like a 50s starlet in a romantic film.
Derek never let on the reason for this sudden change of libido. Now Fridays became a regular fuck-fest again. So much so that some Saturdays, instead of mowing the lawn, Derek would lie on in bed recovering and his wife would move stiffly and ever so slightly sorely to the kitchen to make them both some toast and tea. The morning would drift away in a pink haze of catch-up sleep and dozing.
But man is a greedy animal, just as the average Neanderthal thinks that if breasts are good, then big breasts are better and therefore huge breasts are best of all; so Derek began to look for more. Applying the cream again in the morning he found he could go for another round; and though he rarely was able to achieve much in the way of orgasm, the ability to fuck his wife to oblivion again and again was a delight in itself. Her cunt became sorely overused to the point where she had to call time and actually found herself offering her arse to him to save more vaginal penetration. It wasn't that she didn't want it, she did; she was unwilling to turn away his rampant prick all the while it pointed the way. But she had limits of endurance (and was frankly surprised at the extent of his sudden growth). He penetrated her anus with the same enthusiasm as he penetrated her vagina; though not, with the required direct orgasm for either of them. He found a form of release in taking either hole again and again, a confirmation of his exalted manhood; she had to resort to using her hand again to fuck herself (avoiding the sore slit that could take no more excitement until next week). She found that with effort she was achieving upwards of 8 or 9 orgasms in one evening and morning, though she spent much of the rest of the weekend recovering. It couldn't go on of course.
.... There is more of this story ...