by Bill Noble
(10/27/99)

Marguerite Costa's glorious obsession began in an instant of dual awareness. She soared upward, naked, poised to spike a volleyball, forty-two years of guile, competitive drive, and strength focused on the ball's lazy trajectory. Another part of her saw the young male body on the other side of the net -- rising just a fraction of a second too soon, she noted. As he reached the top of his leap, his penis -- his extraordinarily large, beautiful and uncircumcised penis -- arced up and out from his muscled thighs and slapped full-length against his belly. Its collision made a brief, succulent sound that only her ears heard.

She smashed the ball violently down past his shoulder for the point and dropped back to the ground. The ball was passed for the serve and the game continued. The California sun drifted westward over the shimmering sand and heedless summer bodies. The course of Marguerite Costa's life had been altered.

Later, she saw the young man walk north along the beach, towel rolled under one arm. His penis swung a long, graceful shadow down the inside of his shoreward thigh.

Marguerite and Jim, her husband, packed lunch on the tailgate of their Explorer. She shouldered the picnic pack and steered Jim northward. She spread their blanket ten feet or so from the young man, who was blissfully asleep, face up, arms lax at his sides. She ate half-absently, sipping the fragrant Sonoma wine, letting the juice from a Chinese pear trickle down the back of her throat.

After lunch she rubbed sunscreen into Jim's back, and he slept. She sat cross-legged, the sun warming her breasts and belly, looking at the young man's undefended body. He was a rich, subtle coffee color, warm and modulated. His hair was short, his face open and innocent. A smile teased the corners of his lips even in sleep. His belly had the wonderful flatness of youth. She watched it rise and fall with his breathing, then let her eyes drift down to the penis. Ah, the penis! Except for pendulous prodigy of one angular, balding old man who was famous on the Red White and Blue Beach, it was the largest male organ she had ever seen. It emerged, sleepy and peaceful, from a scant nest of glossy hair, already as thick as any penis she had ever seen at full engorgement. It was the same delicious coffee-gold as the rest of him, unveined and smooth, with a satiny highlight down its length where it caught the sun. Toward its end the foreskin flared to embrace a generous but hidden head, then tapered to a graceful tassel. The tassel was a deep dusky color toward its end, hinting at secrets. The shaft of this lovely penis nearly concealed the young man's full, dark balls.

Marguerite couldn't recall ever looking at a penis with such attention. Penises had always been odd, incidental-but-useful appendages to the men she had known. She enjoyed them in lovemaking, but suspected that men saw these unreliable dangles as much grander elements of creation than she did. And now, here she was, lost in contemplation of this exquisitely tinted, sweetly proportioned organ, attached to a man fifteen or twenty years younger than herself, a man she had never spoken to, a man whose name she didn't know.

Lulled by the sun, she rolled onto her stomach, tucked her head into the crook of her arm, and slept.

When she woke, Jim was jogging far up the beach. The young man had vanished, towel and all. She wandered down to the parking lot and camping area. In several conversations with friends she discovered that the young man's name was Ken, that he worked for some computer company in the South Bay. And that he had loaded his gear into a white Honda and driven up the rutted dirt road to Highway One and away.

Monday night, Marguerite dreamed about Ken's penis. She sat next to him on a wide bed. He smiled up at her with the innocence she had seen at the beach. She rubbed her hands with warmed butter and began to stroke him. His eyes widened at her touch. She stroked long and languorously, swirling one hand and then the other over the tip, circling the shaft with fingers and thumb, sliding downward. One stroke, another, without hurry.

Then her dream became lucid, her conscious mind entering the reverie. She became impatient with dreaming. She could dream him any size she wanted, him entering, her taking him any way she wanted.

But she wanted to know Ken's penis, not fantasize about it. Did this penis, already so big, grow larger when it grew erect, or did it simply harden magnificently? And the head: was it as dark as his skin, or pink like the beds of his nails, the palms of his hands. Dreaming, she blushed at her ignorance.

She curled up with Ken and fell back toward sleep. She was vaguely conscious of Jim's arms around her.

On Friday night, hoping Jim would be able to take another weekend with her at the beach, she dreamed a name for Ken's penis. She remembered a story she'd read years before -- by HG Wells, she thought -- about the body of a hundred-foot, naked giant that had floated onto an English beach. Near the end of the story, the giant's "pizzle" was hauled away on a wagon to be displayed at the British Museum. The pizzle! Ken's pizzle! Ken's beautiful pizzle. When she woke, she felt the slipperiness of arousal between her legs.

She and Jim went back to the Red White and Blue Beach for the weekend. They played volleyball, took long hikes, avoided sunburn, and made delirious love in the dunes with the sea breeze playing over their bodies. Marguerite waited.

Ken never appeared. She found out nothing new about him, except that her friend Judy thought his job had something to do with voice-recognition. But his pizzle, his beautiful pizzle, remained a near-physical presence at the edge of her consciousness, just out of reach.

Monday at GenTech, Marguerite had an inspiration. By midafternoon, the net revealed twelve Bay Area firms involved with voice recognition. She found brief descriptions of specific VR groups within several. Several lists showed names, but no one listed was named Ken.

Thursday night, with Jim breathing softly beside her, she rode Ken in the darkness. She floated between dreaming and waking, glorying in the thrusting of her haunches. She took Ken in her hand and guided his length far into her wetness. He came violently under her, arching up off the bed, calling out; she kept him inside her, savoring his thickness, moving until he hardened again, then riding him long into the night, head back in the darkness, orgasm after orgasm seizing her.

In the morning she crawled under the covers and took Jim's cock into her mouth, sucking and pumping in the stuttered rhythm she knew drove him out of his mind. She drank him deep when he came, then lay, resting her head on his thigh and licking him, feeling his shudders, until the alarm chimed. He seemed dazzled all through breakfast, watching her wide-eyed and speechless.

Three weeks. She'd narrowed her search to four companies, then run out of leads. On Friday she called Hannah Friedman to find out what to bring to the Saturday block party. Hannah mentioned that Dan had some beta-test games from work Jim might have fun with.

"They've got this little module you actually talk to! You work the joystick and shout these commands, and the most amazing things happen onscreen."

"Who does Dan work for?" Marguerite was suddenly alert.

"Comtex -- I thought you knew."

"Does he do voice recognition?"

"Nah. Graphics. But you know Janet Donovan? She did a lot of the VR for this game. She and Shahriar are coming -- you know, the tall Indian guy with the amazing mountain bike and the Oxford accent. I'd leave Dan for him in a flash!"

"Thanks, Hannah. See you Saturday with enough chicken for at least ten people."

"Bye. Be good!"

You bet, thought Marguerite. You bet.

Saturday the fog stayed in till after noon. She and Jim cleaned house, but got distracted in the living room. They pulled off each other's clothes, laughing and teasing. Marguerite mounted the roaring vacuum cleaner and rode it with her clit while Jim took her from behind. In the shower, getting ready for the party, he licked her until her knees collapsed.

By three the air was still fresh and crisp, braced with the tang of the Pacific away over the coast range. The neighborhood was gathering on lawns and in the street.

It was nearly six before she spotted Janet Donovan. She offered her a Red Tail Ale.

"You're Janet, aren't you? Hannah says you've been doing some amazing things with VR! I'm Marguerite Costa, by the way. We've met before."

"Oh, Hi! Thanks! But I'm afraid the credit goes to the whole team, not just me."

"Really? You work in a big group?"

"Five of us: Julia Lados, over there in the halter, and John Sawtelle, Harshad Patel, and Ken Goodwin."

Marguerite took a deep breath. "Ken Goodwin. Is he that big red-haired guy?"

"Uh-uh. He's this amazing young guy from Barbados. A genius with code! I don't think you've met him."

Jim had had five or six beers and wanted to sleep. It took a long time for Marguerite to change his mind. Sweet Jim! She lay at the edge of the bed with her eyes closed and her legs wrapped around his waist while he stood and fucked her. But what she watched behind her half-closed lids was Ken. Ken Goodwin, his musical Caribbean voice, his beautiful pizzle inside her. Ken Goodwin. Ken's majestic dusky pizzle.

As she rose toward her climax, the images changed. Suddenly it was Jim's cock back inside, strong and familiar, while Ken knelt astride her. She raised her head and took him deep down her throat. Never before had she been able to take a penis all the way into her mouth -- and this was not just any penis!

Marguerite wasn't aware of ever having had a two-man fantasy before. The two male bodies astonished her. Ken and Jim drove in perfect unison into her, filling her over and over and over. Her throat pulsed in time with her innermost parts, her whole body folding and thrusting with the assault. She grabbed someone's shoulders -- Jim's, Ken's, she had no idea -- and pulled herself with all her strength over the edge.

A body fell on her, and she was instantly and deeply asleep.

By the next week she had enough information to build a plan. Every third Tuesday, Janet's team went bowling. Ken, the only unmarried man in the group, often went straight to the bowling alley after work and had supper in the Thai restaurant across the street.

Third Tuesday. Eleven days away.

Sunday night after a quiet weekend, she and Jim snuggled in bed reading. Jim had put on some peaceful New-Agey music. Marguerite read a few chapters and closed her book.

"Lover. Can I talk to you?"

Jim pushed his glasses onto his forehead and smiled. "Wanna talk about why you've been such a sex maniac the last month or so?"

The hair on the nape of Marguerite's neck stood up. "W-what?"

"C'mon, sweetness and light. You're either throwing me down on the kitchen floor and fucking my brains out, or crawling all over me in the middle of the night. Or I have to say something three or four times before you even realize there's somebody else in the house. What's cooking?"

Marguerite took his book from his hands, marked his place, and turned to him on the pillow. She bit her lip.

She told him everything. Everything, including her plan.

He held her for a long time without saying anything. She waited, knowing he always needed time to absorb big things.

He kissed her lingeringly, and then turned out the light.

"Can I think about it overnight?"

She kissed him back, then rolled over and made spoons. When he wrapped his arms around her, he squeezed her once, a loving squeeze, and they settled toward sleep.

When she woke in the morning he was gone. A special breakfast was laid out on the kitchen table along with a perfect, fragrant rose from the garden, but there was no note, no memo on the answering machine.

When she got in her car, the Peninsula Special catalog was lay on her passenger's seat, Jim's discount card protruding from the pages. She opened the catalog to the page it marked, and an ad caught her eye. It was for the Thai restaurant in Cupertino: two for one dinner with the discount card.

The next week passed with increasing intensity. She and Jim didn't speak about Ken again openly, but when they made love she whispered breathless fantasies in his ear. Their lovemaking was as intense as it had ever been in the first years of their marriage.

Saturday night Jim mounted her under the covers and whispered a long torrid story about two men fucking her. It was after three when sleep finally caught up with them.

Monday morning she was stalled in traffic on 280 with a Carly Simon CD cranked way up. She had her legs locked together, grinding, singing with Carly at the top of her lungs, riding Ken's dark-gold pizzle to the cheers of twenty lanes of bowlers. She heard a horn honk. She raised her head from the steering wheel to find the man in the Mercedes next to her staring.

Tuesday morning she stood under streaming water dreaming of Ken's beautiful pizzle slippery between her breasts. Jim opened the shower door and licked her for a second or two before she exploded. He hugged her a little longer than usual in the driveway. As he backed into the street and pulled away he gave her a luminous smile. She stood listening to his engine fade into the distance.

Marguerite tugged at an ear lobe, kicked a small piece of gravel out of the drive, and went back into the house for paper and pencil.

Sweet buns,

If you'd been any nicer to me this morning, I'd have cried.

I'm gonna go meet some nice young man tonight (at least I hope I'm gonna meet him!) cause I've been obsessing about his wiener. Go figure. You and I each had a fling four or five years ago, and muddled through. We go to nude beaches, we played strip poker once with Sally and Russell, and we're both pretty straight-up people.

But I guess we don't talk about stuff a whole bunch. So I'll write. Maybe that'll work.

Will I boink this guy tonight? I will if I can! If he's as nice as he seemed at first inspection, I'll boink him for months. I'd like to be friends. I'd like to bring him home so we could all boink together (I think that idea turns you on, too).

Even if the guy clutches his napkin and says, "You could be my Mom," I'll come home a faster, cheaper, better woman than I left this morning, because I think all this is about having the courage to do it, not doing it.

In the years I've got left to be a sex pistol, I wanna really stretch my loins. I wanna explore giant cocks, young men, weird combinations, and at least one pretty-titted woman (wanna join me?). A woman. I never told you that fantasy, did I? I will.

How come? Lotsa reasons. I'm 42. I was raised Catholic. I can have about 10 times more orgasms than when I was thirty (remember all those hours you spent going down on me?). I make eighty grand a year. And I'm as happy and fulfilled in love and in my life with you as it's possible for a human being to be. So does this make sense? Nope! But here I go!

Your exuberant, almost-middle-aged, ever-lovin'

Marguerite

"Excuse me," Marguerite said, with just a catch of laughter in her voice, "I think I've played volleyball with you!"

The young man looked up.

"I'm sorry, I'm Marguerite Costa. The Red White and Blue Beach?"

"Oh, yes. . .ah. . .I'm Ken, Ken Goodwin. Oh, I do remember you!" He tried to stand in the narrow booth.

Marguerite barely withheld a shiver at the sound of his voice. His hand was strong and warm and dry, just as she had imagined. She took it between both her hands.

"I was sure I recognized you. Could I join you for supper? This is one of my favorite places!" God, she was lying already.

She flashed him her most brilliant smile and slid into the seat beside him. She glanced down at his jeans and saw the unmistakable outline of his pizzle pressed along the inside of his thigh. She looked up and saw that he had followed her glance downward. Golden-brown skin or not, he blushed. Marguerite blushed even more furiously.

"Is this a seduction?" He pushed his plate away. Their knees were just touching.

"I. . .I think so," she said. She realized she was clutching her napkin, and put it down.

She took a deep breath. "I'm learning as I go."

"Then perhaps it would be gracious to try to learn with you." His voice held the same stately, playful music she had imagined in her dreams.

Their eyes met, and they smiled.