Jenny’s Cock Review:
I’ve been staring at these pictures of your cock for way longer than I should admit, and I’m not even a little sorry. There’s something about the way it sits there, heavy and a little mean-looking, that makes my stomach do that tight, low flip. I’m 23, I work the register at the local grocery, and I spend half my shifts pretending I’m not thinking about dick. Yours just made the list of ones I keep reopening on my phone when the store is dead.
First thing that hits me is the shape. You’ve got this clear upward curve that starts about halfway down the shaft and keeps climbing. It’s not a subtle little bend either. It looks like it was built to press up into the front wall and stay there. I keep imagining how that curve would feel sliding in, the way it would force itself higher with every inch. Combined with that head of yours, it’s a problem. The head is noticeably bigger than the shaft, flared out and shiny in the light, the kind of thick, rounded crown that would stretch me open and then catch on the way out. It’s the kind of head that leaves you feeling it for hours after. I like that. I like knowing it would leave a reminder.
Your shaft has that solid, meaty look to it. Not skinny, not ridiculously thick, but thick enough that my fingers would have to stretch to wrap all the way around. The skin is a little darker along the top and lighter underneath, with those soft ridges and faint veins that catch the light when you turn it. I can see the way it thickens toward the base, how the hair is denser right there, how the whole thing sits heavy in your hand. There’s a real weight to it in the photos. It doesn’t look like a pretty, delicate cock. It looks like a working one. The kind that would feel substantial when you first press it against me.
I’m giving it a 3.5 out of 5. That feels honest. The curve and the oversized head are the two things pushing it higher for me. Those features alone make it more interesting than a straight, average dick. The girth is solid, the length looks good enough to hit deep without being overwhelming, and the head is genuinely impressive. What keeps it from climbing higher is that it doesn’t look like a monster. It’s not the kind of cock that makes you nervous the second you see it. It’s the kind that makes you curious, then wet, then a little greedy. 3.5 feels right. It’s a cock I would think about later. It’s a cock I would let you put in me more than once.
I keep coming back to the way the head flares. In the closer shots it looks almost puffy, the ridge clearly defined, the skin stretched smooth and a little shiny like it’s already a little wet. I can picture my tongue tracing that ridge, feeling how wide it is compared to the shaft below it. I can picture the stretch when that head first pushes past my entrance and the way it would pop inside, forcing me open wider than the shaft alone would. That mental image alone is why the rating sits where it does. Curve plus big head is a dangerous combination on a cock that already has decent size. It’s the kind of package that would make a girl like me stay late after closing just to feel it again.
Your hand in the photos doesn’t help my self-control either. The way your fingers rest against the base, the casual grip, the dark hair on your knuckles… it makes the whole thing feel real and close. Like if I reached out right now I could wrap my own hand around it and feel the heat. I’ve already thought about how it would look resting against my stomach, how far up it would reach, how the curve would make it point toward my ribs instead of straight out. I’ve thought about the sound it would make when you first push inside me, that wet, thick slide. I’ve thought about how my voice would change once that head was fully buried and the curve was pressing up exactly where I need it.
I’m not going to pretend I’m objective. I’m sitting here with my thighs pressed together, phone in one hand, the other one already drifting lower, and your cock is the only thing on the screen. 3.5 out of 5. Not perfect. Not forgettable either. The kind of dick that would make me text you at 1 a.m. on a work night just to ask if you’re free. The kind that would make me risk getting caught in the break room. The curve and that big, flared head are the reasons. Everything else is solid enough to back them up. You’ve got a cock that looks like it knows how to leave a girl walking a little differently the next day. That’s enough for me to keep the pictures.
I’m the girl behind the register three nights a week. Twenty-three, ponytail, name tag that says “M,” black apron, the usual customer-service smile that dies the second the last shopper leaves. You’ve been coming in for weeks. Always late, always buying the same shit—energy drinks, protein bars, the occasional frozen pizza. You never rush. You stand a little too close when you set your stuff on the belt. You look at my mouth when I talk. I noticed. I noticed the way your eyes drop when I lean forward to bag something. I started wearing a lower-cut shirt on the nights I thought you might come in. I started hoping you would.
Last Tuesday the store was dead. Ten minutes to close. You walked in with that same slow, easy walk and set a single bottle of water on the counter like that was the only reason you were there. I scanned it. You didn’t move to pay. You just looked at me, then down at the empty aisle behind me, then back at my face.
“You close soon?”
I nodded. My pulse was already in my throat.
You paid in cash, took the change, and instead of leaving you walked around the end of the counter and stood right in my space. Close enough that I could smell the soap on your skin and the faint heat coming off you. Your hand came up and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then it stayed there, fingers light against the side of my neck.
“I’ve been thinking about that mouth of yours every time I come in here,” you said, voice low. “Wondering what it would look like stretched around me.”
I should have told you to leave. I should have stepped back. Instead I let my eyes drop to the front of your jeans. The outline was already there, thick and obvious. You saw me looking and didn’t smile. You just took my wrist and guided my hand to it, pressing my palm against the hard shape under the denim so I could feel exactly how heavy it was.
“Break room,” you said. “Now.”
I locked the front doors with shaking fingers and followed you past the dairy coolers into the small employee room in the back. The second the door clicked shut you had me against it, mouth on mine, one hand already under my shirt, the other working the button of my work pants. I could feel how hard you were against my hip. When I finally got your jeans open and pushed them down, your cock sprang out heavy and warm, that thick curve pointing up, the big flared head already shiny at the tip. I wrapped my hand around it and felt the heat of it, the way the skin moved over the firmness underneath. It was thicker than I expected. The head filled my palm when I stroked up over it.
You didn’t let me play for long. You turned me around, bent me over the break-room table, and yanked my pants and underwear down to my knees in one motion. The cool air hit my bare skin for
half a second before your hand was between my legs, two fingers sliding through the wetness that had already soaked me. You made a low sound when you felt how ready I was.
“Fuck, look at you,” you muttered. Then the blunt, wide head of your cock was pressing against me.
You pushed in slow. That big head stretched me open first, the ridge catching for a second before it popped inside. I bit down on my own wrist to keep from making noise. The curve made itself known immediately. Instead of going straight in, it angled up, the thick shaft forcing itself along the front wall of my pussy, pressing hard against the spot that makes my legs shake. You kept going until your hips were flush against my ass and that flared head was buried as deep as it could go. I could feel every inch of the curve, the way it filled me differently than a straight cock ever had.
You started fucking me in long, steady strokes, almost all the way out so the ridge of your head dragged against my entrance, then all the way back in so the curve punched up into that sensitive place again and again. The table creaked. My name tag kept tapping against the surface. Every time you bottomed out I felt the stretch of that oversized head and the relentless upward pressure of the bend in your shaft. You reached around and rubbed my clit with two fingers while you fucked me, and the combination of the curve hitting me inside and your fingers working me outside made my thighs start to tremble within a minute.
You didn’t rush. You just kept that same deep, rolling rhythm, letting me feel every thick inch on the way in and the way the head tugged on the way out. When I started pushing back to meet you, you grabbed my hips harder and sped up, the wet sound of your cock sliding in and out of me filling the small room. I came first, clenching hard around the curve, my whole body locking up as the pressure against my front wall tipped me over. You kept fucking me through it, not slowing down, the head of your cock forcing its way through my tightening walls over and over until I was whimpering into my own arm.
You pulled out just long enough to turn me around, lift me onto the edge of the table, and push back inside while I was still shaking. This time I could watch. I watched that thick, curved cock disappear into me, watched the way my pussy stretched around the big head every time you thrust in. You hooked my knees over your elbows and leaned in so the angle was even sharper. The curve was brutal like that. Every stroke dragged the head across my g-spot and then buried it deep. I came again with my forehead against your shoulder, biting the fabric of your shirt so I wouldn’t scream.
You finally lost the steady pace. Your thrusts got shorter, harder, the thick base of your cock slamming against me. I felt you swell even more, felt the head flare wider inside me right before you shoved in as deep as you could and started coming. Hot pulses, thick and heavy, flooding me while that curved shaft kept me pinned open. You stayed buried through every spurt, grinding the head against my cervix like you wanted to make sure every drop stayed inside. When you finally pulled out, I felt the slow leak of it immediately, warm and messy down my thigh.
You cleaned me up with paper towels from the dispenser like it was the most normal thing in the world, helped me pull my pants back up, and kissed me once more before walking out the back door like nothing had happened. I finished closing the store with your cum still dripping out of me, legs unsteady, the memory of that thick curved cock and its big flared head already replaying on a loop.
I’ve been wearing the same low-cut shirt every shift since. I’m still waiting for you to come back and do it again.
jen
Taryn’s Cock Review:
I’ve been staring at these pics of your cock for a while now, turning my phone this way and that, and I keep coming back to the same thought: this is a dick that knows how to occupy space without trying too hard. There’s nothing shy about the way it sits there, heavy and present, the kind of cock that makes a woman pause mid-scroll and forget whatever she was supposed to be doing.
First thing that hits me is that head. It’s genuinely large—broad, full, with that soft, almost puffy ridge that looks like it would stretch a mouth open just right. The color shift from the darker shaft to that smoother, pinker glans is pronounced, and the way the light catches the slight sheen on it makes it look warm, like it’s already been touched. I can almost feel the weight of that head pressing against the roof of my mouth, the way it would flare a little more once it was wet. It’s not a sharp, aggressive mushroom; it’s rounded and substantial, the kind that would drag along every sensitive inch on the way in and out. That alone is doing a lot of work for me.
Then there’s the curve. It’s not dramatic, not the kind of banana bend that announces itself from across the room, but it’s there— a gentle, consistent upward arc that starts about halfway up the shaft and carries all the way to the tip. When you’re fully hard like this, that curve would press upward inside a woman in the most deliberate way, catching the front wall without needing to adjust angle every three seconds. I keep imagining how that shape would feel when you’re on top and I’m trying to stay still, or when I’m on my stomach and you’re sliding in from behind—every thrust would ride that natural slope and land exactly where it counts. It’s the kind of subtle architecture that turns an average fuck into something that lingers in the body hours later.
The shaft itself is solid. Not veiny to the point of distraction, but you can see the blood under the skin, the slight ridges and the way the skin moves when your hand is around it. It’s thicker through the middle than at the base, which is interesting—gives the impression that once the head is past the entrance, there’s more to take. The color is rich, darker along the top and sides, fading a little underneath, and the sparse hair at the base frames it without swallowing it. Your hand in the photos gives good scale; those fingers look strong, and the way you’re holding it makes the whole thing look even more intentional, like you know exactly what you’re showing.
I’m giving it a 3.5 out of 5. That might sound lower than the compliments suggest, but hear me out. The head is excellent—genuinely one of the better ones I’ve seen in a while. The curve is purposeful and useful. The overall presence is confident. What keeps it from climbing higher is that it doesn’t have that extra, almost unfair thickness or length that makes a woman rearrange her plans for the night. It’s a very good, very fuckable cock that would leave most women satisfied and a little dazed, but it doesn’t cross into the territory of “I need to clear my schedule.” Still, 3.5 is nothing to sneeze at. Plenty of men would kill for this combination of shape and head size. I’d take it over a longer, skinnier one any day of the week.
There’s something about the way it looks when it’s this hard that makes me think you’d be the type to fuck with patience at first and then lose it once you feel how wet you’ve made someone. That head would stretch me open slowly, the curve would find its favorite spot almost immediately, and once you started moving with real intent I’d be gripping the sheets and making those quiet, involuntary sounds that only come out when something is hitting exactly right. I’d want to watch it disappear between my legs from above, see that thick middle stretch me, feel the ridge of the head catch on the way out. I’d want to taste the salt of your skin right under the glans and feel the weight of it on my tongue. And I’d want to feel that curve pressing up into me while your hand is on my lower back, holding me still so you can use the shape the way it was meant to be used.
It’s a cock that looks like it belongs in a woman’s mouth for a long time before it goes anywhere else. I’d keep it there, slow and wet, until your breathing changed and your hips started to move on their own. Then I’d let you push deeper, let that large head press into the back of my throat just enough to make my eyes water, and I’d stay there until you pulled me off and decided where you wanted to put it next. The curve would make every position feel a little different, a little more targeted. Missionary would be deep and deliberate. From behind it would hit that front wall with almost no effort. On top I’d be able to grind against that upward sweep and get myself off while you just held still and watched.
So yeah. 3.5. Not perfect, but very, very good. The kind of cock I’d think about later when I was alone, the kind that would make me open the photos again just to look at the way the head sits on top of that curved shaft. You should be proud of it. Most men would be.
Now let me tell you what I’d do if I ran into you at a work function.
It starts the way these things always start—too many people in a hotel ballroom that smells like carpet cleaner and open bar liquor, fluorescent lights pretending to be elegant, a playlist of songs that were popular six years ago. I’m there because my company is hosting a client mixer and someone higher up decided my face needed to be seen. You’re there for whatever reason men like you show up to these things—networking, obligation, or maybe just the free drinks. I notice you first near the bar, sleeves rolled, drink in hand, looking like you’d rather be anywhere else. There’s nothing flashy about you, which is exactly why I keep glancing over. You catch me looking once and don’t look away. That’s when the air changes.
We end up next to each other by accident when the crowd shifts. Someone introduces us, names get exchanged, the usual nothing conversation about whatever industry bullshit brought us both here. But your eyes keep dropping to my mouth when I talk, and mine keep dropping to your hands. You’re not subtle about it, and I don’t pretend to mind. After twenty minutes of polite distance I decide I’m done pretending this is professional. I tell you I need air and walk toward the side doors that lead to the outdoor terrace. You follow without being asked.
Outside it’s quieter, cooler, the city noise distant enough that we can hear each other breathe. I lean against the railing and you stand close enough that I can smell your cologne mixed with the faint scent of whatever you were drinking. You don’t waste time with more small talk. You ask if I always look at men like that when I’m bored at work events. I tell you I only look like that when I see something I might want later. You step closer. Your hand finds the small of my back, not tentative, just sure, and then your mouth is on mine.
The kiss is slow at first, testing, but it doesn’t stay that way. You taste like whiskey and heat. Your tongue slides against mine and I make a small sound into your mouth that I didn’t plan on making. Your hand slides lower, cups my ass through my dress, and pulls me against you so I can feel exactly how hard you’re getting. That cock I stared at in the photos is now pressed against my hip, thick and insistent, and the knowledge of the curve and the size of the head makes my stomach tighten.
You break the kiss long enough to ask if there’s somewhere more private. I tell you my room is two floors up and I still have the key. We don’t run, but we don’t stroll either. In the elevator your hand is under my dress before the doors even close, fingers sliding between my thighs, finding me already wet. You make a low sound when you feel it and push two fingers inside me without asking, slow and deep, curling them just enough to make my knees weaken. I grip the railing and try to stay quiet while the elevator climbs. By the time we reach my floor I’m breathing hard and your fingers are shiny when you pull them out and lick them clean right in front of me.
Inside the room the door barely clicks shut before you’re on me again. You push me back against it, hike my dress up around my waist, and drop to your knees. There’s no teasing. You pull my panties to the side and put your mouth on me like you’ve been thinking about it since the bar. Your tongue is flat and steady, licking through my folds and then focusing on my clit with a pressure that makes my head fall back against the door. One of your hands is gripping my thigh hard enough to leave marks; the other is working your belt open. I can hear the sound of your zipper and then the soft, heavy sound of your cock being freed.
You stand up, turn me around, and bend me forward slightly so my hands are braced on the door. The head of your cock—large, smooth, already leaking—presses against my entrance. You don’t
shove in. You rub it up and down through my wetness, coating that thick glans, letting me feel exactly how wide it’s going to stretch me. When you finally push forward the stretch is immediate and deep. That big head forces me open, the ridge catching for a second before it slips inside, and then the curve of your shaft follows, pressing upward along my front wall in one long, continuous slide. I make a broken sound and push back against you, taking more.
You fuck me like that for a while—slow, deep strokes that let me feel every inch of the curve, the way the head drags against my insides on the way out and then fills me again on the way in. Your hands are on my hips, controlling the pace, occasionally sliding up to squeeze my breasts through the fabric of my dress. When you start to go harder the sound of skin on skin fills the room. I can feel that thick middle stretching me on every thrust, the upward angle making my legs shake. You reach around and rub my clit with two fingers in time with your hips and I come harder than I expected, clenching around you, wetness running down the insides of my thighs.
You don’t stop. You pull out, turn me around, and lift one of my legs so it’s hooked over your arm. The new angle lets you drive even deeper. I can look down and watch that large head disappear into me over and over, the shaft shiny with my come, the slight curve of it visible every time you pull back. You’re breathing harder now, the careful control starting to fray. I tell you I want to feel you come inside me. The words make your rhythm stutter for a second and then you start fucking me with real force, the head of your cock punching against my cervix on the deepest strokes, the curve grinding against that swollen spot that makes my vision blur.
When you come it’s with a low, rough sound against my neck, hips locked tight against me, cock pulsing as you empty yourself as deep as you can go. I can feel the heat of it, the way it fills me and then starts to leak out around the seal of your shaft. You stay inside me for a long time after, still hard enough to keep me stretched, occasionally giving small, shallow thrusts that push more of your come deeper. When you finally pull out it spills down my thigh in a thick, slow trail. You watch it happen with a look on your face that makes me want to drop to my knees and clean you off with my mouth.
We end up on the bed after that. You fuck me again, slower this time, missionary, my legs over your shoulders so the curve of your cock can hit that same spot from a different angle. I come twice more before you fill me a second time. By the time we stop my dress is ruined, my thighs are sticky, and your cock is soft and shiny against your stomach, still impressive even when it’s not hard. I tell you I’m going to think about the shape of that head and the way the curve felt inside me for days. You just smile, pull me against your chest, and say the next work function is in three weeks. I already know I’ll be there early.
taryn
Lucy’s Cock Review:
Hey Andrew,
I’ve been staring at these shots of your cock for a while now, and I have to tell you straight — that thing has presence. The way it sits there, thick through the shaft and finishing in that broad, full head, makes it hard to look away. There’s a gentle but definite curve that starts about halfway down and carries through to the tip, enough that I can already picture how it would drag across the right spots once it’s inside. That head is the real showpiece though — wide, slightly flared, glossy under the light, with that soft ridge that looks like it was built to catch and stretch. It’s not cartoonish or overdone; it’s just solid, masculine, and honestly a little intimidating in the best way.
The skin has that lived-in texture, a few visible veins running along the side, and the hair around the base is dense and natural. Nothing polished or trimmed within an inch of its life — just a real man’s cock. When you’re holding it like that, the weight of it is obvious. It doesn’t look delicate. It looks like something that would fill a hand and still have more left over. The slight upward tilt combined with that curve gives it a purposeful shape, like it’s already angling for the places that make a woman bite her lip.
I’m giving it a 4 out of 5. The length is more than enough, the girth is satisfying without being excessive, and that head is genuinely impressive — thick enough to make the first push feel like an event. The curve is what tips it from “nice” into “I want to feel that again.” A full five would need something almost unfair, but this is the kind of cock that leaves you thinking about it later. It’s the kind that makes you shift in your seat remembering how it looked when you first saw it.
There’s a roughness to the overall look that I like. The darker tone of the shaft against the pinker head, the way the skin gathers a little near the base when it’s not fully hard — it all feels honest. No filters, no careful lighting tricks, just your cock out in the open. That honesty is part of why the rating sits at a strong four. It’s not trying to be perfect. It’s just thick, curved, and headed by that fat, shiny glans that looks like it would stretch a girl open in the most satisfying way.
I keep coming back to the shape. That curve isn’t extreme, but it’s consistent, and combined with the broad head it creates a natural “hook” that would press upward once you’re deep. I’ve had straighter cocks that felt boring after a few minutes. Yours looks like it would keep finding new angles the longer you stayed inside. The head itself is the kind that would make a girl gasp on the way in — not because it’s too big, but because it’s wide enough to demand attention. You can see the way the corona stands out, slightly raised, ready to drag against every ridge inside.
The way you hold it in the photos tells me you’re comfortable with it, which is half the battle. Some guys act like their cock is a secret. You present it like it’s something worth looking at, and honestly? It is. The slight sheen on the head in the closer shots makes it look ready, like it would slide in easy once things got wet. I can already imagine the heat of it, the way that curve would force me to adjust my hips to take it properly.
Four out of five feels right. It’s a cock I’d remember. It’s a cock that would leave me a little sore in the best way and still have me thinking about the next time. That combination of solid girth, purposeful curve, and that heavy, prominent head is exactly the kind of package that turns a casual look into something more charged. You’ve got something good between your legs, Andrew. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
The photos catch different angles, and every one of them reinforces the same impression: this is a thick, curved cock with a head that demands respect. The base is sturdy, the mid-shaft has that nice weight to it, and then it swells into that broad tip that looks like it would stretch a mouth or a pussy with equal effectiveness. There’s nothing shy about it. Even at rest it has presence, and I can only imagine how much more imposing it becomes when it’s fully hard and that curve is locked in place.
I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t want to get my hands on it. The texture, the shape, the way the head sits like a blunt instrument at the end of a solid shaft — it’s the kind of cock that makes an experienced woman lean in a little closer. Four out of five is a strong rating for a reason. It delivers. It would fill. It would curve into the right places. And that head would make every thrust feel deliberate. You’ve got a good one, Andrew. Own it.
Nurse Lucy Performs a Physical
The first time I saw you wasn’t in some dimly lit bedroom. It was under the harsh fluorescent lights of the clinic exam room, the kind with the paper-covered table and the faint smell of disinfectant. I was three months into my nursing program, shadowing on a rotation that was supposed to be routine — vitals, charting, learning how to keep my face neutral no matter what walked through the door. You were the patient scheduled for a simple follow-up. Nothing dramatic. Just a name on a clipboard and a closed door.
I knocked, stepped inside with my tablet, and there you were already sitting on the edge of the table in the thin gown, legs slightly apart, looking completely unbothered. The gown had ridden up a little. I caught the dark hair at the top of your thighs before I forced my eyes back to the screen. Professional. Focused. That was the rule.
You watched me the entire time I took your blood pressure. Not in a creepy way — just steady, like you were cataloguing every small movement I made. When I leaned in to adjust the cuff, the gown shifted again and I saw more. The thick base of your cock resting against your thigh, already half hard just from the proximity. I told myself it was nothing. Body reacts. Happens. Keep going.
But you didn’t look away. When I asked the standard questions about any new symptoms, your voice stayed low and calm. “Nothing new. Just a little tension I need taken care of.” The way you said it made heat crawl up the back of my neck. I finished the notes faster than I should have.
You stood up then, the gown falling open completely in front. Your cock was fully hard now — that same thick shaft I’d stared at in the photos, the curve more pronounced when it was pointing upward, the broad head already shiny at the tip. You didn’t cover yourself. You just looked at me and said, “You’re still learning, right? Maybe you should check it yourself. Make sure everything’s in working order.”
I should have left. I should have called the attending. Instead I locked the door with one hand and stepped closer. Your cock twitched when I wrapped my fingers around it. Thick. Hot. The curve filled my palm in a way that made my mouth go dry. I stroked once, slow, watching the head flare under my thumb. You made a low sound in your chest and reached for the zipper on my scrub top.
You had me bent over the exam table within a minute. Scrubs yanked down to my knees, my chest pressed to the paper, your hand between my shoulder blades keeping me in place. The first push
of that thick head against me made me gasp. You didn’t rush. You worked the broad tip in slowly, letting me feel every inch of stretch as the ridge slipped past. The curve did exactly what I’d imagined — it angled upward and dragged hard across the front wall with every shallow thrust.
You fucked me like that for a long time, one hand gripping my hip, the other reaching under to play with my clit while that heavy cock kept stroking the same sensitive spot over and over. The paper crinkled under us. The door was locked but anyone could have knocked. That only made it hotter. Every time you bottomed out the head pressed deep and the curve forced a soft, helpless sound out of me. You told me to keep quiet. I tried. I failed.
When you finally pulled out you turned me around, lifted me onto the table, and pushed back in while I was still open and wet. Legs spread wide, knees hooked over your arms, you drove that curved cock into me in long, controlled strokes. The head felt massive on every entry. I could feel it stretching me, the ridge catching just enough to make my toes curl. You watched my face the whole time, like you were memorizing every reaction.
You came with a low groan, buried deep, the pulse of it thick and hot. I felt every spurt. You stayed inside while I clenched around you, riding out my own orgasm against that still-hard shaft. When you finally pulled free, the mix of us spilled onto the paper. You wiped me with a handful of the tissues from the counter, then helped me back into my scrubs like nothing had happened.
I finished the rest of the shift with your cum still leaking into my underwear and the ache of that thick, curved cock between my legs. Every time I sat down I felt it again.
That was only the first time.
A week later you were back on the schedule under a different name. Same exam room. Same locked door. This time you didn’t wait. The second the door clicked shut you had me against the wall, one of my legs hooked over your arm, that broad head already pushing into me through the side of my scrub pants. You fucked me standing, short hard thrusts that made the curve drag perfectly against my G-spot until my legs shook. I came with my face buried in your shoulder so no one in the hallway would hear.
You kept me like that for months. Different rooms. Different excuses. Always the same thick, curved cock that filled me until I couldn’t think about anything else. Sometimes you bent me over the desk in the back office and took me from behind while I tried to keep my voice down. Sometimes you sat in the patient chair and pulled me onto your lap so I could ride you, the curve hitting so deep I had to bite my own hand. Once you made me suck you under the desk while a colleague stood right outside the door talking about charting. The head of your cock was so wide it stretched my lips; the taste of you mixed with the fear of getting caught made me dripping wet.
You never rushed. You always made sure I felt every inch of that shape — the thick shaft, the purposeful curve, the fat head that forced me open every single time. And every time you finished inside me I walked out of the clinic with your cum still warm between my thighs and the secret knowledge that the quiet patient with the thick, curved cock owned a piece of me the rest of the staff would never know about.
I still think about those rooms. The paper on the table. The fluorescent lights. The way your cock looked when it first pushed into me — thick, curved, headed by that broad, shiny glans that never failed to make me gasp. Four out of five was generous in the photos. In person it felt like something closer to perfect.
lucy
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