Heather looked good and I still worshipped the ground she walked on despite 6 years of marriage. At 26, I still looked good too and even though I say it myself, we were a handsome couple. There was still certain a girlish quality to Heather. Her slight frame coupled with a generous bust and long, lovely legs made guys turn around when she walked past. She would smile when they whistled, throw her long, blonde hair back and look over her shoulder as if to say, "Come and get me!"
I just loved it when she flirted and, though we still fucked regularly, my desire to see her having some of these guys had been fulfilled a couple of times during our six years; actually three times, and all in the last three years. I had played little part in each of the sessions though I had fucked her brains out when the guys had gone. All had been met on the internet and all had bigger cocks than me. It was only by promising her big cocks that I managed to get her to go along with the idea in the first place. Heather didn't care what the guys looked like or how old they were, just that the bigger the cock, the better for her. In fact none of the guys were dogs. Two were in their twenties and one was late thirties. One of the twenty-somethings was a little stocky but he hadn't lied when he said his cock was at least nine inches long. I watched and took come pictures for wanking fodder over the following months.
We hadn't done much since the big-cock guy, though Heather had said she was ready to be filled again. Despite much searching, there were a lot of time-wasters out there and quite a lot of liars too. I always asked for a cock picture and some guys' ideas of big were not ours. I mean I had over seven inches so there was little point in offering up my delicious wife for less than that! It might sound mercenary but that was our deal. She would let guys come and fuck her for me to watch as long as they were well blessed.
We had had a quiet week socially and all both of us had done was work, go home, watch telly and sleep. We had fucked on Wednesday night and talked about the big hunk I was going to find soon. That brought her to a howling orgasm! When Saturday came, I suggested we go for some pasta and then head for the local pub karaoke night afterwards. Not the height of social intercourse but it would get us out of the house. The pasta was great, as was the Pinot Grigio and it was a merry couple who walked arm in arm to the Whitehouse Inn, our local hostelry. The dulcet tones of white skinned, patchy red-haired (badly dyed), pimply, Diana Ross wannabe wafted, off key, out of the entrance singing "Do You Know Where You're Going To," which sadly, she didn't!
Heather, as always, had heads turning when she entered. Unlike many of the wives and girlfriends, she looked really good without tarting herself up in makeup. We grabbed a table and were joined by Sheila and Matt from near where we stayed. With the noise of the music, conversation wasn't going to be a major part of the evening anyway. Heather and I did our Sonny and Cher ("I Got You Babe") sometime after the fifth drink and Matt tried his hand at "Moon River," shortly after. We were in fine spirits and started shouting back and forth above the din.
A voice wafted from the stage singing "Streets of London" in perfect pitch.
"Bloody Hell he's good," said Sheila looking up.
On stage was Davie, Daft Davie to all who knew him. Davie was well known in the area. He was around 27 and should have been a fine looking man. Actually he was a fine looking man, but something had left him thinking like an 11 year old. That's when he stopped developing mentally. He stood around 6 feet tall, was a quite thin, had yellow, blonde hair which was wild and receding slightly at the front and wire glasses which added to his geeky status. Everyone liked Davie as he was completely harmless and he frequently made himself useful doing errands and sometimes even a bit of gardening within the attention limits expected of an "11 year old."
I had never heard him sing but he was bloody good. There was no sign of his clumsy, embarrassed way, no sign of his limited vocabulary, and no lack of confidence. However, when the song finished and we all applauded, he almost shrivelled back into the Davie we all knew. He went back up to the bar to sit and sipped on his pint. People spoke to Davie but no one really held a conversation with him beyond, "How are you," or "How's your Mum," with whom he lived?
Around thirty minutes later, I went to the toilet and when I entered, Davie was standing at the urinal. He looked up with a slightly embarrassed look and smiled when he recognised me.
"Hi Davie, how's things," I chided?
"Fine Mr Steve," he said his habit of calling everyone by their Christian name.
We drifted into silence as men do when standing alongside each other with their dicks out. I don't know what made me look along at him but when I did and did a double take. Daft Davie was standing with a soft cock in his hand which had to be over six inches long. There was more though, its thickness was like a large cucumber. He caught me looking and smiled, looking down at my cock as he did so. That didn't bother me until I saw him really stare. I looked down and realised I had started to grow for some reason and my cock was almost up to its full seven and a half inches. I was about to put it away when I looked back at Davie again and though I couldn't fully make it out, his growing cock was already close to ten, thick inches.
"You look horny Davie," I said.
He flushed and quickly struggled to push the monster back into his jogging bottoms. When he walked out the protrusion was enormous and he had to keep pulling it upwards to stop it looking too obvious as he headed to the bar.
"You're joking," said Heather when I quietly told her back in the bar?
"The size and thickness of my arm from wrist to elbow," I said.
"Fucking Hell, that must be one of the biggest on the planet," she said.
"Maybe not the planet but possibly the biggest I'll ever see," I replied.
There was silence from Heather for almost fifteen minutes as we continued to watch the singers. She leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, "I wonder what it would feel like inside me?"
"It's Daft Davie, Heather, nobody wants it," I said. "It would be like having a kid."
"A kid with a foot long cock," she replied before turning back to chat to our friends.
Davie was standing over at the bar as we spoke, and our friends turned away, preoccupied with the latest rendering of "Mac the Knife" from a Co-op van driver so they were well out of earshot.
"He's not ugly," continued Heather.
"It's nothing to do with being ugly it's just his complete manner let alone what his personal hygiene might be like." I continued on a roll now. "Just imagine taking his big cock in your hand and he pulls back the foreskin to reveal enough cream cheese to cover a cracker."
"Don't be disgusting," she replied, "I'll shower him before we start.
"Heather, stop this now. I'll find you another real man," I said firmly!
"With a foot long cock the size of your forearm," she asked?
I smiled and changed the subject.
That night in bed, Heather went over the scenario in the toilet again and again.
"Would you have touched it," she asked?
"No I wouldn't," I said.
"Imagine handling that enormous brute and holding it as you guide him into me. With his mental age, it will be having a massively endowed virgin. Don't you think at his age the poor lad needs some fun?"
She wasn't giving up.
"Remember, he got hard looking at my cock," I said to her, "maybe he's gay."
"Oh goody," she said, "you can take his cock up your arse."
"You're fucking joking," I said.
"I figure that poor lad just wants sex, any sex. His brain might be underage but his body isn't," she said.
Two days onwards and when I got home from work Heather announced that we were getting help to mow the lawn.
"I'll do it," I said, "There's no need to get some local lad to do it. We can save the ten pounds."
"Actually Dave's mother said she would be happy to send him round as it keeps him occupied. He's good at grass cutting apparently."
"Oh no Heather, you're not going to seduce him?"
"I won't force anything; let's just see how it rolls."
Saturday afternoon was warm and sunny. Our lawn did NOT need cut. Davie arrived in his jogging bottoms and Manchester United football top and looked quite cheery. Heather was in control as I was quite concerned about where this would go.
"His Davie, come in. Steve went and cut the grass, not knowing you were coming round so it doesn't need done now."
"Why don't you just do some weeding and then stay for some drinks and a snack and we'll pay you anyway."
He smiled and nodded.
"Are you allowed beer," she asked.
"Yes, I like beer," he said.
"Well you do a little work and we'll give you a beer as long as you don't tell your mum I got you drunk."
He smiled and headed off to weed. He was quite good in the garden within limitations so she let him work away in the sun to "work up a sweat," as she said!
"You must be hot Davie, do you want to stop now," Heather shouted?
"O.K. Mrs Steve," he replied, downing the hoe and walking towards us.
"Look at that cock sway back and forth in his track suit bottoms," said Heather.
I was no expert in men's crotches but there was definite meat swinging in there. I was terrified we were going to scare the living daylights out of this poor lad.
She poured him a glass of lager and we each had some wine.
.... There is more of this story ...