A Gift for Joan

My less than substantial penis had always been an embarrassment to me. I often fantasized as a teenager that when I grew older, more mature, that the confidence and trappings which come with success would belay these fears. As is often the case however, life is seldom what we envision it to be through naďve eyes.

The success of which I dreamed was far harder won than I could ever have imagined. At this late date I found I had amassed less than half of what my father had managed to horde away with far less advantage than had been afforded me, or so it seemed at any rate. Perhaps I was too hard on myself, perhaps not. Regardless of where the fault lay, I was nonetheless trapped in a job better suited to a young man full of the optimism one often has during the freshman year of college.

Despite the diminutive size of my tackle, I possessed a formidable sex drive, often finding it necessary to masturbate three times a day in order to quell the fire within my loins. Fortunately such abuses weren’t always necessary as I was lucky enough to have established a relationship with a young woman who was every bit as insatiable and bohemian as I.

Ah, Joan, the only credit to my miserable existence. We met nearly five years ago as she waited tables at the small Chinese restaurant near my alma matter. Creature of habit that I am, I couldn’t shake the memories of gorging myself on their takeout as I crammed for finals, and found myself returning there again and again long after graduation.

I first laid eyes upon her when she came to fill the small glass of water at my table not long after I’d entered the place. I’d chosen to have an early lunch, and there was only one other customer to distract her. She was barely five feet tall with long raven hair that looked as if it would descend to her chubby little ass had it been let down fully. I learned later that she was in fact Japanese, although I’d assumed otherwise given that it was a Mandarin establishment.

She smiled widely when our eyes met, and I knew she was interested. Over the 40 minutes that followed Joan made every excuse to return to my table, pretending to attend her various duties, going to great lengths to brush against me, her hair often falling across my face and neck. By the time I’d tipped her, I had her number and a nearly painful erection.

Things progressed quickly between Joan and me, no need for secrets between us. We were far too much alike, far too compatible, or should I say incorrigible, to take things at a gentler pace. I learned that she was originally from South Carolina of all places, explaining the accent which was so at odds with her appearance. Her soul was undoubtedly Japanese however, possessed as she was of a fiery passion, matched only by her intelligence and persistence. How lucky for me; a real Carolinian, a nice girl, a member in good standing of the Church of Christ wouldn’t have been of much benefit to me, nor I to her. The critique of a boy from Idaho mind you; San Francisco suited both of us far better than our native environs ever could.

The first time Joan saw my erect penis she expressed her profound disappointment, and it was a crushing blow to my ego. I’d at last found the perfect girl, and the most intimate part of my physical being was unacceptable to her. The wounds did heal though, albeit slowly, when I realized that however dissatisfied with the size of thing, she seemed to need it inside her small vagina or mouth several times a day. In fact I can say with confidence that she was and is literally obsessed with my genitals, regardless of inadequacy.

Joan held me in her grasp whenever she could get by with it, in public or private. Within the confines of my apartment she would actually follow me about, grasping the root of my small organ. She seemed to become anxious whenever my cock wasn’t in direct contact with her flesh. Odd? Very. But, it also engendered the most profound satisfaction I’d ever known. The sensation was every bit as comforting as being my mother’s very own possession as a small boy.

“How can a grown man’s penis be only four inches long?” she nearly whispered one day as we lay basking in the weekend afterglow of intercourse. Joan toyed with my limp organ as she spoke. I merely turned up my palms and raised my hands a bit as if to ask what she wanted from me, it was after all a congenital defect. “Make it up to me,” she demanded, grinning a little while she applied an uncomfortable amount of pressure to the base of my cock.

“How the hell would I do that, lady?” I answered, my voice ripe with disrespect, a condition which she quickly corrected by applying considerably more pressure until I yelped and submitted. “Give up ejaculating,” she demanded, staring deep into my eyes, her own full of oriental fury. “What?!” I shot back, not sure I’d understood her correctly. “Swear you won’t ever cum again!” she yelled, her expression an unsettling mix of anger and pleasure. I paused, mouth agape, unsure how to respond. “This is how you show your love??” she nearly screamed. I feared she was becoming hysterical. As disturbing as the scene might have been, I felt an intense arousal welling from deep within some uncharted grotto of my soul, and then earnest, heartfelt affection and sympathy for her. “I’ll never squirt again, Joan, I swear,” I whispered. At that she sobbed a little, but her grip remained on my manhood. “I love you, Joan,” I continued, gently stroking her cheek. “Nothing will ever come between us, not even my….needs,” I concluded. Joan began weeping bitterly now and we kissed passionately, a heady mix of sorrow and ecstasy washing over us.

I was almost ashamed when my penis sprang rudely to life, but I couldn’t help myself. The feelings were too intense to control, and Joan seemed overjoyed at the prospect of fucking again to consummate our covenant. For the next hour we rutted like animals whilst she wept a little until the very end. When she was at long last exhausted, and lay breathing heavily, coated in sweet perspiration, my penis raged maddeningly, inflamed by her scent, her infinite contractions. “Don’t even think about it,” she hissed below me, eyes shut tight. The girl did know me so well.

The next few weeks were excruciating. Joan bought a urethral plug and a variety of genital restraints with which to torture me. We continued having sex at our usual pace, but I was forbidden to cum, and it was surely killing me. Joan sucked me for hours with my cock and balls bound with the finest leather, a stainless steel plug blocking the flow of semen from my dickhead. As she sat in my lap, fucking me with her tiny, impossibly tight pussy, the pain grew more than I could bare, and I begged her to stop.

After some heated discussion, yet another bombshell issued from her lips. “What about a radical penectomy?” she suggested almost casually, as though it involved a trip to the dentist. Once again my jaw dropped. “Oh, shit, don’t give me that!” Joan scolded, her perfect little face drawn into a scowl. “I’ll arrange it, I know someone,” she declared. “How in the hell is that going to help me!?” I cried incredulously. “Would you break your oath? You would break your oath that you SWORE to me, on our hearts!?” she accused, voice trembling, eyes wide as saucers. I felt helpless again, a slave to my love for her. I couldn’t stand the pain in her voice, so deep, welling up from her very soul. I was hers, she was mine, and there was no doubt about the order of things.

“You are right,” I announced calmly. “You always are,” I continued. “I am,” she declared flatly. “This will cure your pain, sure you’ve been frustrated, but this suffering can end!” she almost sang the words. “The frustration, the deprivation,” I answered solemnly. “Those are my possessions,” she shot back sharply. “I own them,” “Yes,” I replied.

The following week my entire penis was removed at Joan’s behest. We now lay together as man and wife. My face, my mouth, my tongue are hers, and she makes good use of them every day. My reward is the taste of her pussy, her contractions, her screams of pleasure, the touch and scent of her skin, the caresses of her silken mane as it dances across my desperate flesh. My frustration, my deprivation, my regret are hers, wrapped in velvet ebony, bound with a resigned sigh, they are ever hers.  

End