When the dick pic hits your phone, you know your wife has given in to temptation yet again. You’d figured as much the later it got. She’s up with the sun for her job at the Quick Lube place, and only the most unavoidable reason will keep her out late with her girlfriends.

Like an unusually large penis.

This dick pic—like all the others she’s sent you—is more of a selfie.

Always making the same face—her eyes wide, her jaw dropped in shock, her face an explosion of astonishment at the painfully erect penis she’s encountered. She’ll have it draped over her head or clutched in her hand like a venomous snake, or pressed against the side of her face, a beast reaching from her chin to the top of her head. It’s her cutsie way of giving you a visual reference point to appreciate the phenomenal size of this cock she’s encountered.

This particular fleshy tuber she’s unearthed tonight she holds like a knife to her throat, a great, curved scimitar of skin.

It doesn’t look real, it’s so big, florid, and gleaming. But of course it is.

The pictures are her way of proving to you she doesn’t do this for just any regular dick. It truly as to be a thumping great log.

She’ll follow up with a quick call, apologizing—abjectly and in advance—admitting how temptation has swamped her good sense yet again.

How’s a guy get that big, she’ll ask, like you have some inside knowledge about it, like there’s a trick you know, being a guy yourself.

If she’s had too much to drink it almost sounds like an accusation, like, why didn’t you take advantage of the nutrition or exercise or manipulation of masculine genetics—whatever it is that produces such substantial wangs on guys. Like there’s a method for reaching that size and you let that golden opportunity pass you right by.

So, in a way, it’s your fault. She doesn’t say it, but it’s there.

You’re a regular sized guy, no complaints, but there’s no way you can compete with the guys she seems to run into.

She has standards, she’ll tell you. She’s not a pushover. It takes something truly massive to poke a sizable hole in her moral rectitude.

She swears she doesn’t go looking for them, either, but you wonder how she manages to find them. What sort of bait she’s using. She doesn’t dress the part of a woman on the hunt. Maybe it’s the sober clothing and sensible shoes, the demeanor of a woman settled in her ways that makes her seem a challenge to overcome. A double black diamond among the bunny slopes of easy fucks. But all a guy needs to do is unzip, release the meat, and she’s bagged game. Nothing left but to strip her, impale her, and leave her gutted.

She says she never asks guys how big they are. At least not outright. But get a bunch of girls together over drinks, with guys floating around looking to score and the subject’s going to come up. Then, one thing leads to another, she’ll say, and one of the guys will brag on some other guy, and pretty soon they’ve all joined in to badger this modest champion to give his crank an airing and let the ladies have a look.

A guy looking at your wife could easily convince himself he’s got a King Kong dick, because she’s just under five feet and maybe - maybe - ninety pounds soaking wet—which she will be when he dangles that thing for all that drunken crowd to admire. How thrilling it must seem, thinking how that tiny female would look, struggling, as he impales her with it. He’ll rest it on her lap, let her pet it, reassure her it’s house broken.

You got her a super-sized dildo once, a gag gift for her birthday. She tried it out, letting you use it on her. It just wasn’t the same, she said, but it was sweet of you to think of it.

For her it’s the discovery of so rare and amazingly large, actual penis in the wild that thrilled her. Like when you’re hiking in the country somewhere, she said, and you find a blackberry bush. It’d be just as easy to buy all the berries you want at the farmer’s fruit stand. But there was something hot about finding them in the wild, there for the taking.

Wheedling for your sympathy and understanding, she’ll assure you it won’t mean anything. It’s just some guy—not just any guy, of course, but a guy with an enormous pecker. Often, she doesn’t even know him. Might not even bother getting his name. It’s not necessary. She’ll give each of the conquering cocks a name of its own, a memento of this unexpected bounty.

Maybe she sees them again, maybe not. She doesn’t send you pictures if she does. At least you don’t think so. Who knows.

She’ll insist it shouldn’t change anything between the two of you. It’s her weakness, she’ll say, not yours.

It made you mad the first time or two it happened, but you couldn’t get over how it aroused you, too, the idea of your wife getting her insides pulverized, helpless at the onslaught. Bent over a bar stool, her panties yanked down to her knees, skirt flipped up over her back, the lucky guy fitting himself into her as she arches her back taking him in. Everyone’s watching, drinking, cheering, guys jealous and the girls wincing in sympathy.

You don’t exactly let her off the hook. You might make a noise, a grunt, something to indicate you’re listening, taking it in. Then you’ll tell her what you always tell her.

“You know I can’t wait until you get home.”

You really couldn’t wait. Those first couple of times you had to jack off to that image of your wife—somewhere out there, fucking in haste—her straining face twisted in discomfort, trying to take the whole thing in. She was a cavity, an empty vessel filled by the enormous pecker she’d invited in. You didn’t want to waste the intense hard-on it gave you.

“If there’s anything left of me,” she’ll reply, like she always does, and laughs at that, in her tittering, uneasy chuckle. It’s her way of saying thanks for being so understanding without actually having to say it, and warning you not to get your hopes up.

She’ll remind you not to bother waiting for her, and you’ll assure her you never do.

Then she’ll go radio silent for the next eighteen to twenty-four hours.

Sure enough, she calls a bare moment after this latest dick pic lands, asking, did you see, did you see?

Of course, you tell her. It’s a monster all right, and you ask if she landed it all by herself, like she’s netted a twenty-pound jack crevalle with her fishing buddies. Like she’ll take pictures of her trophy catch—the guy dangling naked by his ankles, his crank swollen and reaching to his chest—passing the snaps around for the other women at work to admire, begging them all to have a look at this record breaker she landed.