Chasing the Dragon

It began innocently enough -- on my part, at least. Really sort of accidentally -- this quest of mine. What has become my search, my life!

Dave had taken me to an afternoon, outdoor concert, and we were really rocking to the tunes, standing among the crowd, just back of what they used to call the mosh-pit. At the end of one particularly long song, Dave turned and said he was going for beer. "I'll be back in a bit. Don't worry. I'll find you!" Moving off, he added, unnecessarily, over his shoulder, "Don't go anywhere." I watched him disappear into the sea of people, and smiled. It was our fourth, or really our fifth date, and, thinking about that -- that we'd actually 'slept' together last time -- sent a shiver of mild excitement down my back. Anticipating our sex, after the concert, widened the smile on my face.

At twenty-three years old, having had six former partners -- actually seven or eight if you counted the one one-night stand, and one sadly unsuccessful tryst -- I considered myself reasonably experienced. Dave was, in fact, looking to be my third relatively long-term relationship, and sex with him was pretty good, or so I'd thought at the time; much better, in any case, than any of my former lovers.

As I stood there, beginning to glow, looking forward to our sex, later -- after the show, I felt some bumping -- or rubbing up behind me. Initially it was just a bump against my rear, innocent enough; but then it felt more deliberate -- a push against my buttocks, a circular grid, anonymous caresses of my butt. I was just about to react -- look over my shoulder, glare -- when it occurred to me that it must be Dave, sneaking up behind me -- getting frisky early. "Kinda cute," I thought. "Getting a bit fresh. Trying to get my attention." I felt a flush rise to my face. The sparkle between my legs surprised me. I was actually getting turned on. So I joined in the game, bending slightly to meet his pushes; waggling my arse!

Then, as the hips pushed against my ass, I felt a stiffening woodie start rubbing up and down my butt-crack, through the material of my skirt -- and, I assumed, the fly front of his pants. The ever-hardening shaft continued to saw up and down my crack, like a cello bow. But, Sweet Jesus, it felt big and hard. My nerve-ends began to jangle with my growing arousal, and, by the rigidity of his tool, he was really getting turned on, too. I was rocking my ass back against him when the pressure against me eased for a moment. Then something pushed under my skirt between my legs -- a solid rod, sliding inexorably between my upper thighs. Still bent over, I opened my eyes wide, in surprise, and watched as, pushing at, then momentarily tenting, the front of my skirt, a giant erection emerged between my legs.

Now, I had, of course, seen Dave's cock. And I certainly didn't remember it as being quite so big. The purple cock-head was as big as an apple; the bit of shaft I could see looked like a baseball bat! But I only got a glimpse before it began to withdraw. Fascinated, I bent a little further to observe its retreat. My mind was in turmoil as I watched it disappear from sight -- and felt it glide free of my now squeezing thighs. I felt light finger pressure on back, directing me to dip. All the while the music thundered around me, and the crowd chanted and cheered, oblivious to my situation. My dipping back caused my bum to rise, in, I suppose, invitation; albeit unintentional. I felt my skirt flipped up, then, an unseen hand deftly pulled the gusset of my thong aside.

"Hold on!" I thought, "This is not right! I don't think that is Dave." A protest began to form in my head just as the glowing cockhead fitted itself between my labia, against my vagina. Time stood still. And after a moment's pause, it began its entrance -- the flared glans, figurehead of the massive member, pushing, slowly, authoritatively, inexorably. And the moment the plum pushed through, a fuse ignited deep within me. It was suddenly obvious that a massive orgasm was brewing, ready to explode! Hands held my hips firmly as I fell forward onto my arms -- hands braced on my thighs. The rigid shaft pushed in and in and in, for what seemed like forever, suddenly generating an ongoing orgasm of epic intensity. My body shook, a pathetic keening squealed from my throat. The music of the concert was drowned out by the tsunami of sensation, crashing over me. Rational thought fled, as my nervous system was overcome by the barrage of charged light. Until I hung limply, supported only by the hands at my hips -- still gently pulling and pushing me on and off the invading erection -- and by the powerful rod itself. I was vanquished! It was, literally, mind-blowing! More intense than anything I'd ever experienced -- by orders of ten!

I had never, ever, even imagined such an intensity of pleasure. My body trembled -- quaked, jelly-like. I felt like I'd vibrated right off the ground and that I was floating, suspended on the rod that sawed effortlessly, in and out of my body, setting my psyche alight with every stroke -- tingling and sparkling until I was enveloped with colour and sensation, insulated from the music and the crowd by a sort of force field. Through the barrage of music, and the cacophony of the crowd, a plaintive wail, punctuated by whimpering gasps, and grunts and groans were all drowned out by the volume of the music emanating from the speakers.

How many long insertions and reluctant retreats I experienced I couldn't tell you, I only know that my orgasm started almost immediately and continued for what seemed like hours. Floating on waves of supreme pleasure, I felt myself leaving my body at one point. For a moment I was looking down on the crowd I could see myself rocking back and forth against a hooded figure, glowing and humming at a frequency separate from the roar of the band and the clamour of the crowd. Then I fell back into my body, and was inundated by such a rush of sensual stimulus, I felt my very consciousness waver before engaging. After God-only-knows how many strokes I could feel my invader stiffen up -- if that were even possible -- get imperceptibly thicker, harder and longer -- and begin to vibrate, almost indiscernibly.

Accelerating ever so slightly, suddenly all movement, momentarily, stopped -- holding at its deepest, and beneath the ocean of sensation that was my own orgasm, I felt the rush and splash of his -- whoever he was -- ejaculation, as he jetted volley after volley of cum deep into my womb. Bucking and twitching violently, he pumped what seemed like litres of semen into my depths, to splash against my cervix. The liquid heat flooded and scalded, the intensity of sensation overwhelming my senses!

Gradually the anonymous cock withdrew, paused at my inflamed opening, then pulled out, leaving me in a state of rapture. Enervated and limp, I hadn't the energy to complain that I suddenly felt abandoned, my whole sex felt bereft -- bereft, but at the same time ecstatic. Buzzing with the languid echoes of a larger-than-life experience.

Someone flipped my short skirt back down to cover my bare ass. My ripped thong encircled my waist uselessly. Juices dribbled down my thighs. The hands at my hips gently released their hold and, as my knees gave way, slowly lowered me to the ground as I collapsed onto all-fours. The band wound up the set with a majestic conclusion, and, in the sudden quiet, neighbouring spectators touched my shoulders, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Just got a little faint." I turned and gave everyone a weak, goofy smile, as I managed, with a little help, to raise myself off the ground and into a squat. "I'll be all right. Thanks." But I was actually still orbiting. I stayed crouched for a few minutes, trying to gather my far-flung senses -- my gasping recovery coming far too slowly. Finally, rising to my feet, I turned, still vibrating, and looked; but directly behind me were two young girls, bobbing and weaving, looking around me, trying to get a better view of the stage, and not paying me any attention at all. So, in the end, I never actually saw the perpetrator -- my conqueror -- whatever.

For the longest time I just stood, staring into the sea of people behind me, stunned, trying to gather my wits and make sense of what had just occurred. At some point the music started up again -- I hadn't been aware that it had stopped -- and I turned back toward the stage, my mind a-whirl.

Standing there, still panting, still trembling, I wasn't sure if it had been an endless series of individual orgasms, one right after the other or one long, undulating climax -- with peak after peak -- wave after wave of unrelenting sensation. I was still trying to decide when Dave showed up, beer in hand. (I later decided it had been a single gi-normous orgasm -- the ultimate orgasm!) I stared at him, stunned, still having difficulty comprehending as he handed me a plastic glass of brew. He gave me a puzzled look and asked, "Geez, Naomi, what's wrong? You look really zoned-out. Have you taken something?" Not yet fully understanding, I guess I gave him a rather blank stare. "Are you stoned?" I vaguely shook my head, and smiled.

Totally dazed, still luxuriating in the reverberations of my immense climax, I engaged my mouth before I'd put my brain in gear -- hell, I couldn't even find the shifter! Anyway, without thinking, I blurted out "I've just had the ultimate orgasm!"

"What?"

"Someone fucked me from behind, and..."

"You're kidding!" He waited -- waited for me to give the punchline or something, but when I just smiled, his look changed. Incredulous, flabbergasted, suddenly steamed, he whispered ominously, "I leave you for a bit and you fuck a stranger?"

"Well... Yeah..." I suddenly realized that this wasn't going to go well. I tried to explain, but without success. I mean, hell, I could hardly comprehend it myself.

A character in the movie Trainspotting once described a hit of heroin as, "take your best orgasm and multiply it by a thousand!" But I certainly didn't need drugs, didn't need junk. The orgasm I'd just experienced was more intense than anything I had ever known -- more intense by powers of ten. Light years beyond anything I had ever imagined.

Of course, Dave was not convinced. "Who? Where?"

"I don't know who," I sheepishly admitted. "He's gone." To me it sounded much worse than it was. Dave just stood there shaking his head as I stuttered and stumbled on my words, a mask of disgust suffusing across his face.

"What bullshit!" he hissed, getting louder by degrees. "You just let a stranger fuck you in public?" At that moment there was a break in the music and, curious, people began looking at us.

"No, no!" I protested, oblivious, I'm ashamed to admit, now, to the audience. "It was more than just a fuck! It was one in a million, a once in a lifetime, an epiphany!" I stared at him, unable to say any more, unsure of what I expected from him. At that instant, the music started up once again.

"Shit!" he shook his head. "Too fucking slutty for me!" and with a disgusted shrug he turned and left, muttering loudly, over the music, "Filthy whore!" Leaving me standing alone in the crowd

I began to wander away from the stage, preoccupied, as I was, with the whole experience -- the din of the rocking band completely unnoticed. "It was perfection -- truly!" I muttered under my breath. "Oh, my God! I need to feel that again!" I found myself looking about, plaintively. "Oh, why did Mr. Happy disappear? Who was he. Where'd he go?" But as the wonderful penis was gone with its owner, and I would never find him -- I had no idea where to even start, and no inkling of what he looked like -- except for the end of his prick -- I began to consider the details of the monstrous orgasm itself. But how do you describe the incomprehensible?

No -- if I was ever going to repeat the ecstasy, relive the experience, I was going to have to find and identify the tool -- or, more accurately, the weapon responsible for the devastating climax. As I walked, I considered criteria: big cock -- but not, I would later come to realize, too big; long enough to feel deep within, to stimulate the end-wall of my box; also, substantial girth -- enough to fill my cunt, enough to caress the inside walls of my vagina -- with a firm pressure all around, but without undue stretching.

Of course, it wasn't just the tool, but the skill of the operator -- journeyman, craftsman, if you will. Certainly, a major part of the opus magnum was the virtuosity of the performance -- the long, drawn-out strokes -- the long, slow insertions; measured, arduous withdrawals; the way it was all so deliberate, all so unhurried.

So, the ideal cock had to be long enough for the essential long strokes -- long enough to touch or push or bump end of my womb without pressing or pounding. I already had a picture forming in my head -- a diagram, a technical drawing, if you will, of the weapon -- of the tool used to produce the definitive orgasm.

Nonetheless, I somehow found my way home, through the haze and the daze of overstimulation and intense preoccupation -- and slept restlessly for the rest of the weekend.

Over the next few days, a sense of normality gradually returned. Life went on. I went to work. I interacted with colleagues and friends. But the echoes of my experience still niggled and tickled, at the back of my mind -- never quite out of my awareness. There were whispers of rumours of 'Dave's disastrous date'; questions of blatant promiscuity; but I paid them no mind. And, eventually, they, too, faded.

Normality seemed to have returned, until, one day, walking past a construction zone, I heard -- actually heard and understood, some lewd comments, made in a stage-whispered voice, "Wouldn't I like to throw some pipe into her, eh?" They all chuckled suggestively.

For some reason, I stopped, and turned to face them. I had meant to say, dismissively, "Humph! All talk and no action," but what came out, inadvertently, was, "All talk and no size?"

"Twelve solid inches!" the brief look of concern giving way quickly to a macho bravado.

I raised a dubious eyebrow.

"D'ja wanna see?" he challenged.

Recollections of the giant member showing between my legs came flooding back to me. I felt my knees go weak, and my genitals sparkle -- a flush rising to my cheeks. "Show me then!" I demanded, surprised at my own temerity; coming across 'way more confident than I really felt.

The young fellow, who seemed to be the defacto leader of the bunch, recovered his bravado quickly, and, without taking his eyes off me, backed into the nearby Porta-Pottie, and lowered his fly. My eyes dropped to watch the reveal. He seemed to make a big deal of reaching in and pulling it out, but, impressively, when he had it fully exposed it was really huge -- even semi-turgid, as it was. "Give him a feel," he said with a chuckle, "and he'll stand up for you."

Feeling like someone possessed, I stepped forward, and, raising my hand as if offering a handshake, I took hold of the impressive shaft. The memory of my ultra-thrill surged back into the forefront of my awareness. The workmates had gathered 'round behind me, shielding any view of what was transpiring in the privy. They shuffled silently to accommodate me, as. trance-like I turned, pulled down my panties, and bent over. Astounded, for an instant, my exhibitionist quickly flipped up my skirt and swiftly took me doggie-style.

Lining up, he held his cockhead lightly against my swelling labia, prompting me to rock back onto his scepter, opening myself. Grabbing onto my hips, he plunged in fully and forcefully, knocking the wind from me, forcing me to brace my hands on my thighs. I could feel his cock smack against my cervix, spreading sensation into the depths of my body. His strokes were rough and relentless, and I could feel an orgasm freight-training up my spine!

The other workers all stood, blocking the doorway, watching silently, in awe, as I came with a startling intensity -- all stifled moans and full-body jolts -- quaking and shaking. It was good, man oh man was it good! Hanging, breathless and trembling, from my anonymous fucker's woodie, I lifted my glazed eyes and watched as, slowly rousing out of their trance, my audience started commenting, and complaining, "What about us?" As I gathered my composure, I was surprised to hear myself promising to take on the others -- another day, because, while this had been wonderful, much better than I'd ever had with former boyfriends, it didn't hold a candle to my concert ideal. It just didn't have the right girth -- not quite fat enough; didn't push all the right buttons. It was great, but I needed to sample some of the others.

So, over the next week, I made several 'visits' to the site, to try the other cocks on offer. I pretty much had to try them all, although some were definitely not big. We took the action to site office right away, contending the can was far too crude. I allowed myself to be cajoled into fellatio -- fluffing for the big boys, and blow-jobs for those lesser-equipped of the group. On my hands and knees, taking a rigid pounding from behind, while sucking a more normal sized erection, I couldn't believe the slut I had become within a matter of five or six weeks. And I loved it. Despite the variety of cock sizes and skill levels, I experienced a parade of fabulously satisfying multiple orgasms. I especially delighted in the long, looooong insertions, of the couple of truly big members in the crew.

That being said, I realized that only the initial stud in the group was actually long enough, and he didn't quite have the girth. Consequently, for as much as I enjoyed cumming and cumming with the boys, over and over, none of the climaxes even approached the out-of-my-mind intensity of my mystery concert fuck. None were even remotely equivalent to my anonymous pinnacle climax -- not even close!

Once I had tried them all, at least once each, including the little guys -- all in the interest of fairness -- I began to actively look for more possibilities. But how could a girl meet guys with big cocks -- just guys with big cocks -- and strictly for sex, no relationships wanted, other than physical? I had several -- many on-line "hook-ups" of limited success. It wasn't easy separating the wheat from the chaff -- especially as there are so many types of chaff. Dick size, it turns out, is very much a matter of opinion -- opinion and ego. Eventually, however, I, almost serendipitously, stumbled upon a website called "Well-Hung", that seemed to be exactly what I was looking for. A website inviting women to "experience the world of big dicks." Promising "sexual experiences you'll not forget!"

It sounded ideal, and I suppose it was, for what it was. I signed up and, having narrowed the field down to the truly large penises, I got a bit frenetic, a little crazy-wild, frantically hooking-up with whomever was available. Initially it was some new conquistador every night. While I collected those many and varied experiences, I'll admit I lived, for a bit, in a dense fog of gratuitous sex, consummating 'way too many trysts in cheap hotel rooms and dingy motel units, even in a few strangers' apartments -- in retrospect, not one of my smartest moves. Thinking back, it's amazing I survived.

But, eventually I realized that that lifestyle was unsustainable, and I was still no closer to my goal. I became much more selective, subscribing to a few other big-dick sites I'd discovered along the way -- such as Size Matters, and the most aptly named Big Dicks.

After several months and innumerable experiences, some disappointing, some wonderful, I realized some hard, no pun intended, truths. The biggest, longest specimens won't fully fit. They push hard on the cervix, and thump against the vagina's end wall. Simply put, they're just uncomfortable -- and that directly detracts from the pleasure. The fattest tools, the ultra-thick, are just too big to accommodate, too hard to engulf. They stretch enough to cause serious discomfort.