Chasing the Dragon

No, I had developed a definite preference for 'reasonably big displacement dicks', the key word here being 'reasonably'. What I relished was a subtle combination of long stroke and large bore -- big, but not too, too very big. Indeed, I'd realized, or finally admitted to myself, that I had become somewhat of a size queen, but I rationalized: it's because, generally, within reason, the larger the prick, especially the longer the stroke, the longer and more intense my orgasm.

Long, skinny cocks gave mainly 'touch-down' orgasms. I coined that name to describe the ones triggered by the cockhead bumping or pushing against the back wall of my womb. There are also the 'long-stroke' orgasms. Those are the ones caused by the friction or pressure of a fat erection along and against my vaginal walls. They're great, too. But, of course, it was a hybrid that I was looking for: that perfect combination of 'touch-down' and 'long-stroke'!

Notwithstanding, I still relished any and all of the big dick climaxes I encountered in my search, and while they were all generally fabulous, occasionally outstanding, they all, every one of them, paled in comparison to my ideal, my ultimate, both in intensity and duration.

Thinking about it, I figured I needed to discover the Goldilocks dimensions -- the 'just the right size' erection dimensions -- if I were to find that giver of perfect orgasms. And it was in that burgeoning pursuit of the ideal tool, I discovered, for myself, that, generally, the races hardly differ. The proportion of bigger dicks among African-Americans is really only marginally higher than among whites, who are about the same as Asians. So goeth the myth.

During this time, I honed my oral abilities for foreplay and fluffing, developing pretty impressive deep-throat skills. I mean, really, I wasn't all that interested in giving head, but it was a fairly reliable way of forcing another erection, when required -- and guys generally really like blowjobs. I got good enough -- even if I do say so myself -- to fully swallow a ten-inch Steely Dan -- nose in the pubes!

I dated one young stud, Quinn, but I knew from the outset, he wouldn't be the one, what with his impressively long, but relatively thin prick. And I was right. His approach was nice, but once he got into it, pounding away, his cockhead began to pummel the end of my womb. I gritted my teeth and let him reach climax, before saying, "That's gonna bruise."

It was an observation, not a criticism, but he pulled back and looked at me apologetically. "Story of my life," he bemoaned. "On any of the regular hook-up sites, I could never get to a second active date, because I was too long."

I felt sorry for him. "It wasn't too bad," I offered.

"Well, I get a better average with big-dick sites, though still, as now, I have size problems."

"Oh," I teased, "poor dear." And, uncharacteristically, I went down on him -- taking several minutes to fully engulf him and bring him to rampant attention. Then it was long, slow felatio, until, finally, he could take not more. Pulling him deep, deep into my throat, I swallowed his offering completely.

He was sweet. I don't mean the flavor of his cum -- that was issued far too deep to taste. No, I mean he was a sweet guy. And it surprised me that, because of that, I had really enjoyed giving him head. It had been more than a simple task -- rather, an expedience.

That said, he was entirely unsuitable to my quest. Besides being too long, he was not thick enough for my liking; didn't have the girth needed for a long-stroke climax. But he was sweet, and he was fun, and he was fascinated by my quest; hence, he was the first stud, to that point, to get more than one date.

It was during a fairly active subsequent date -- lying panting together, with me having achieved two relatively wonderful orgasms before he came the first time; reclining on the rumpled bedding, me stroking his recovering, semi-turgid tool -- it was during one of those times that Quinn first suggested that his prick -- long and thin -- would be perfect for anal intercourse. Amazingly, throughout my extensive experience, I had never tried it up the old dirt-chute.

Feeling mellow and playful, I was easily convinced. "Have you ever done it before?" I gave him a quizzical look.

He nodded, at first, then hummed dreamily, "Oh yeah."

"Then you can tell me what to do," I said as I redoubled my manipulation of his firming tool. Flipping over quickly, I gobbled him quickly into my mouth, sliding down him all the way to his pubic beard. He responded well, twitching within my throat, with his sudden rigidity.

Reaching over to slap me affectionately on the behind, he said, "Stay like that," then pulled out of my mouth to grab a tube of lube from the night stand. I waited on all fours, feeling a tremble of anticipation run through me as he positioned himself behind me, between my calves. "It'll be a bit cold," he warned as he smeared lube over my rosebud, pushing the gel into the entrance with a twist of his index finger.

Then I felt him shuffling his knees and laying his cock against my up-turned rump. Still, for a moment, he scooped juices from my dribbling pussy to lather in my crack. Nestling his cockhead against my brown star, he paused, checking, it would seem, that we were all lined-up, before proceeding.

Inasmuch as I was an anal virgin, the initial resistance was surprisingly minimal. As he began to lean into me, I braced with my knees and arms to give him something to push against. There was no real pain, just a bit of an uncomfortable pressure before, with an odd pop he slipped through my sphincter. Pausing for just an instant, he then began a slow and smooth ingress.

Pulling against the firm grip of my rectal walls -- more grippy than my vagina -- his gradual insertion ignited amazing sensations. Who would have thought the ass would be so very erogenous? And I discovered, during the interminably long and lovely entrance, that I could flex my grip, caressing my intruder in his advance. I luxuriated in the long and inexorable arousal, whimpering and moaning, twisting and rocking -- and all of that in the very first, drawn-out, stroke!

There was, of course, no end wall touch-down, just an increasing resistance in straightening out my bowel, until I finally felt Quinn's pubic beard tickle my cheeks. Once he'd finally got balls-deep he began a slow withdrawal. Pulling out with a gentle friction, a build-up of frisson that set me a-simmer. Back and back and back -- out till his glans just pulled against the inside of my rose. He then set up a lazy rhythm -- in and out, over and over. It was really marvelous; almost enough to make me forget my anonymous concert ideal.

Our climax built spectacularly. Quinn's truncheon twitched and bucked against my throbbing grip, and in the final thrust, his upper thighs slapping noisily against my buttocks, we came, like a symphony of lights, together. The feeling of his pumping deep in my fundament was like no other. Gasping and trembling, slick with sweat, we wobbled precariously before collapsing, he onto my back, me onto my face, his slowly softening tube-steak still holding us together.

"Wow!" we breathed together in unison. We laid still for what seemed like a very long time, the silence only broken by our panting. Finally, dear Quinn leaned over and whispered in my ear, "It's never been like that before!" As our breath returned, we disengaged, he rolling to one side, me to the other; and, facing each other, we talked through our denouement.

Together we had discovered that anal sex gives really, really long insertions, and that an anal orgasm is different from all the others; but marvelous, nonetheless. It's based much deeper, centered at the very bottom of the spine, and igniting lower down than other climaxes. It is more of a slow-burn. It was most certainly worth doing again. But as we talked, and my head cleared, I realized, almost regretfully, that, as wonderful as it was, my anal orgasm still only distantly approached what had become my legendary ideal -- my yardstick, against which all other orgasms, indeed, all other pleasures are measured.

Quinn and I stayed friends with benefits -- and have continued to remain such -- but, sadly, inevitably, I suppose, our shared intimacy has become increasingly infrequent.

Not long after Quinn, I met Jordan, through Size Matters, and from the very first time we showed potential. We both knew what we were there for so we didn't waste time on foreplay. He stripped down quickly, and without fanfare. We watched one another as I undressed. His response was impressive, and his erection was soon rigid and rampant. Without wasting words, he lay back on the bed of the cheap rendezvous hotel and I lowered myself onto him.

He stretched me but not uncomfortably, as I settled myself slowly -- relishing the sensations of the long insertion, and the fullness caressing me from the inside out, and pulling gently against my clitoris -- until I could feel the girth of his root, testing out the elastic limits of my vagina, and his pubes tangling with mine. His woodie, pushing at the end of the tunnel, immediately engaged the ignition sequence -- the promise of a most wonderful orgasm.

After a pause -- me fully seated, and he fully engulfed -- he placed his hands on my hips, and, with an unhurried smoothness, lifted, raising me until I was just perched on the tip of his cock. Then he let go, dropping me onto my flexed quads, allowing me to sink, once again, fully onto his rod, firm against his pubis. Electric sparks arced through my genitals -- coursing up my spine and out to my extremities. It was deliriously exciting. And it continued, mercilessly -- lifted, dropped, raised and released, over and over; generating sensations that inflamed my libido unbearably.

Mewing incoherently, I struggle to maintain the maddeningly slow pace, until, at last, plunging one last time, the pressures of his deeply seated scepter detonated a wonderful, wonderful orgasm. I came and came, remaining upright and pegged only through the support of his hands at my waist. My body was wracked by spasms, the violent shocks and aftershocks of an amazing climax.

And that was the first of many. Jordan got me closer than anyone else. I can actually say we approached the ultimate! We agreed to meet again, and, by mutual tacit agreement, began 'dating'.

Our shared orgasms were always good -- maybe even great, but they never got better. They always fell short of my ideal -- of what I knew to be possible. So as wonderful as it was, it became frustrating -- frustratingly wonderful.

I got tired of saying -- or not saying, "Close but no cigar!"

We kept trying for a while, to no avail. It began to feel, to me anyway, increasingly hopeless. I was, after all, still pursuing the peerless climax. So, what the hell, I started looking around, again. Just a few quiet inquiries, private communications, until I just had to try some possibilities. Soon I was selectively stepping out, and while I didn't deliberately hide the trysts, I didn't say anything about them to Jordan, either.

The various studs I contacted all, surprisingly or not, jumped at the chance. I suppose I've established quite the size-queen reputation among the well-hung crowd. Let's be honest here: I had a reputation as a size-slut and an easy lay for a big dick. So it goes.

Well, inevitably, Jordan found out, and the shit hit the fan! "I thought we were going steady!" he railed. I explained to him: I had to investigate some rumours of exceptional cocks -- and try them out, compare them to the ideal.

Jordan complained, bitterly, talking about my lack of commitment. I told him, flat out, my only commitment was to the pursuit of the ultimate orgasm; hence, I was more concerned with the size of a cock, and what it could do, than with the owner. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed my time with Jordan, but, really, it was lust, not love, and I told him so. I came to realize there had never actually been any time for love.

I suppose, if I'm brutally honest with myself, I'm just 'chasing the dragon', like a common junkie; but my dragon is an apex orgasm. I've experienced it once. I know what it can be like; and I'll not be satisfied until I experience it again. I know what you're thinking, and I realize my situation is a lot like an addiction --most people would probably consider it -- my obsession -- as such. And maybe I am addicted; but I keep on telling myself I'm not. I'm not a slave to the demons of addiction; I'm just seeking out an intensity of orgasmic pleasure I know is possible.

At one point, not too long ago, I got in a bit of a funk -- went out, got a bit shit-faced. I was feeling a bit bummed out, and getting that drunk was rather out of character for me. I'm making excuses here. In any case, I was not exactly myself when I decided to get a tattoo to confirm my commitment to the quest. I sought out and challenged a local but renowned tattoo artist. While I sort of came to my senses part-way through, I was already well-inked, so I just went with it.

What I ended up with was a large, multi-colour, detailed dragon in full flight on my left just above my pussy, its tail just next to my clit, and stretching around my left hip to look out from my ass cheek, eyes a-twinkling, flashing a sly smile. And a small naked, obviously female figure on the right of my twat -- astride a horse, bareback, swinging a lariat -- that passes just above my clitoris, to lie poised just above the tip of the dragon's tail! 'Chasing the dragon', as it were.

Once I'd gotten over my shock at the size and complexity of it, I had to admit that it was very well done.

First thing I did was show off my new ink to Jordan. He scoffed and criticized the quality, but I knew his real problem was that he couldn't deal with the fact my number one focus was not him. Well, I couldn't live with his constant, if silent, whining, so I broke it off, right there and then. I said good-bye to the longest, most normal relationship I'd had since 'the incident'. While I was, perhaps, just a little nostalgic, I felt surprisingly little regret.

My search for the ultimate, monster cum is looking to be a long, long journey, and I realize that I could be at this for a while. For as much as I have enjoyed most -- well, to some degree, all -- of the climaxes so far -- and believe me, I've had a lot! -- I have, it seems, only distantly approached the fulfillment of that anonymous ideal orgasm.

Lately, though, it concerns me that my actual memories of the incident, of the deliriously fabulous, anonymous orgasm, are fading, or blurring -- becoming idealized. All I can really remember clearly is the feeling of being totally enraptured, the feeling of being completely consumed by pleasure. And that's what keeps me going. For what else have I got to hold onto? I need to keep telling myself that I know it's out there somewhere, I just need to keep searching. Not out of sight, but, maybe, just out of reach.

No! I refuse to accept that possibility!

Amazingly, through a conscientious and deliberate act of focus, I've been able to keep my job. After all, I've got to be able to support myself, as well as finance my ongoing quest. It would seem, however, that I've abandoned my erstwhile mundane life to pursue the perfect climax.

Perhaps I'm kidding myself, but the mantra I repeat, over and over, is "One of these days! One of these days I will have it again!" In spite of it all, I can feel the wry smile touch my lips. "Yes, one of these days!"