My fetish

By Richard Jasper 
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• Latest update: 19 September. Next update: 3 October. (Submissions welcome.)

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Okay, I admit it.

I get off on them.


The tall, skinny ones. The smoother the better, all knees and elbows. And big horse cocks.

Take Phil, for example. Grad student, nerdy (and beautiful) as hell, makes his computer get down on its knees and beg for mercy. Twenty-eight years old, 6’1” tall, maybe 140 pounds sopping wet and about 40 pounds of that is between is knees. Big, thick 10 inch weenie. Woof!

I saw him in the shower at the gym the other day.

Of course that means he saw me, too.

I never know whether I’m gonna get a, uh, well, *rise* out of someone. Or whether they’re gonna run screaming.

Like Phil, I’m 6’1” tall, 28 years old, and hung like a horse (only mine is 12 inches, thanks.)

Unlike Phil I have a pelt of thick, curly black hair that goes from neck to ankles, the kind that would put most grizzly bears to shame. The kind Colt Studios uses to sell a million dollars worth of magazine covers every year.

And then there’s the muscle.

A whole lot of it.

380 pounds, to be exact, at 6% bodyfat. The kind of body most Mr. Olympia contenders would kill for.

I got a rise out of Phil that day. He stood there with a stunned expression on his face. His dick, on the other hand, was rarin’ to go.

“That’s pretty,” I said, looking down at it.

“Fuck!” Phil said.

“Right here?” I laughed.

“You’re fucking gigantic,” he blurted, then licked his lips.

I shrugged my shoulders, an event that’s been compared to earthquakes and tsunamis.

“And all that fucking fur.”

By that time I was standing right next to him, staring at that beautiful face, those chiseled cheekbones, the aquamarine eyes, the narrow shoulders, the pale blue veins in the small, hard muscles of his arms, the nearly translucent pinkness of his tiny nipples, the impossibly small waist.

Instinctively he reached out to rub my pelt, then drew his hand back as if it were on fire.

“No,” I said, “please, go ahead.”

He shivered.

“Jeezus,” he croaked. “You could squash me like a bug.”

I flexed my right bicep.

“Thirty inches cold,” I pointed out.

“My waist is 27,” he answered.

I put my huge, callused hands around it (his waist, that is), completely encircling him, my thumbs touching his navel.

“The thing you’ve gotta remember…” I said, reaching down to lick the hollow at the base of his neck.

“…Is that you’re a lovah, not a fightah?”

I purred.

It was a good shower.

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