Dick Jones
copyright © 2004 by Imagineer.
sharpening skills
Let me take you back to a troubling time in my life.
It’s last year.
I have a problem.
My problem is named Dick Jones.
No, I’m not jonesing for dick. Ha ha, very funny. Get your mind out of the gutter. Well, at least out of that particular gutter.
Dick Jones is the name I attached to that monster between my legs.
Lots of guys give their member a pet name. I’m not one of them. At least I didn’t used to be.
But shit, I figured if it’s gonna ruin my life the least I can do is give it a name.
I know what you’re thinking: how can the old one-eyed worm possibly get a man into trouble?
Okay, that’s not what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Well of course it’ll ruin your life—if you let it. So don’t let it. You just have to keep the big head in charge. It’s okay to let your downstairs neighbor have a party every once in a while, just make sure things don’t get so rowdy that somebody calls the police.
See, that’s where you don’t understand. This is not a normal boy-and-his-penis relationship.
Dick doesn’t get out of control.
Dick gets in control. Literally.
Yes, I know what ‘literally’ means. I’m not just saying ‘literally’ to mean ‘no, it’s really almost like.’ I mean Literally, Meaning 1.
I mean when something catches my eye and Dick wakes up, he takes control. He controls what I say, what I do, and he makes pretty damn convincing arguments when it comes to what I think. And he doesn’t let go until he’s been satisfied.
No bullshit. I’m serious.
Go ahead. Take a minute to wrap your head around it.
Your other head, you freak.
Ready?
At this point you probably think I’m writing this from jail. While somebody else’s Dick takes control of me. Whoops, sorry, some of you are squeamish about that. Believe me, I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But I’m not incarcerated. I’m actually typing this from the corner booth of a coffee shop. To my knowledge there are no warrants for my arrest, there are no teenage girls’ fathers waiting for me at my apartment with a shotgun, and I haven’t bankrupted myself with hookers and porn. (Well, there’s that $30 a month to suze.net, but I’ve had that account since Usenet dried up three years ago. And I’ve been meaning to cancel...)
So how does a man who’s a slave to his own Dick not wind up behind bars on some indecent exposure or public fornication or sexual harassment or rape charge?
Simple: Dick is very persuasive.
Yeah, you said that already—you can’t control yourself.
No, I said Dick controls me. But that’s not what I’m talking about.
It’s not just me. Dick controls whoever he wants to control.
This is the part where they dub in that needle-running-off-the-record sound.
Hey, nobody said this would be light reading. We’ll just dive in with an example. How about the first time? Everybody loves First Time stories.
Oh, but I haven’t even introduced myself. You need to know a little bit about me to really appreciate my tale. After all, if some 6′2″ blue-eyed star quarterback told you his wang was running amok and he was having his way with gorgeous women, you’d say, “so what else is new?”
Well, I don’t play football. My eyes aren’t blue. I’m not 6′2″. And until recently I was no stud.
I’m, um... average. Yeah. Average. We’ll go with that.
What? Shall I be clearer? Okay.
I work in I.T.
Doh!
(For those of you who’ve never worked in a... who’ve never worked, I.T. is not Spielberg’s latest effort to recapture the lost profits of youth. It’s Information Technology. The computer department. You know, the people who show up at your desk when you’ve installed one too many screensavers, and the faceless trolls in the basement who deleted your five gigabyte MP3 collection. I’m the one who enabled the porn filter on the proxy server. Hey, sport, get a DSL connection and whack off at home—that’s what we do. Your constant porn-hoarding was fucking up the NetDoom tournament. By the way, remember when the no-porn rule first kicked in and you got Access Denied four hundred eighty-seven times? We do. It was funny how you’d always enter a google search for something work-related right after your usual site came up Access Denied. Not fooling anyone down here. And the CD-ROM drive tray cupholder joke? It was hilarious... in 1995. If you stop one of us in the hallway to tell us that joke one more time, we’ll set fire to the building. And we’ll take your Swingline. Seriously. Stop it.)
So I’m... a computer geek. Dockers and polo shirt weekdays, dockers and t-shirt weekends. Body by Burger King. (Not fat, just cuddly.)
And I’m not young anymore. Twenty-seven. Shut up, old-timers, that’s not young. You remember when you were twenty-seven? You remember that moment?
That horrible moment?
The one where you’re sitting in a park, or at the mall, or in the cafeteria at work if they have one, or... well, wherever it is that you like to people-watch.
Where you’re looking around, like you do every day, doing what every guy does—subconsciously grading every female that walks by. Ladies, don’t get all huffy on me now, it’s not what you think. We’re not looking for flaws. We’re looking for assets. And we’re seeing them everywhere. Okay, almost everywhere. Still, a gal’s gotta be pretty far gone not to register something positive on the old boner meter. You think we don’t notice you because your husband or your boyfriend or that cute guy you keep “accidentally” bumping into at the corner Starbucks doesn’t notice you. (No, not that Starbucks. The one across the street.) But we notice.
And while the eyes are scanning each woman for that thing we can build a fantasy around, whether it’s ass or tits or legs or hips or lips or your walk or your outfit or your hair or your smile—well, YES, you’re an object until you say Hi, or make positive eye contact; we work with what we’re given—we’re starting to imagine what we’ll say to you, what we’ll have in common, how we’ll impress you, what your voice sounds like, what we’ll see in your eyes, what your skin feels like, what we’ll talk about when we wake up in each other’s arms the next morning—hey, some of us are romantics...
Did I have a point? Oh, right.
The moment.
So we’re running through these scenarios, a hundred times a minute if necessary, and one day we notice we’ve been hitting the same roadblocks over and over again. We don’t know you anymore. We can’t imagine how to hook up with you anymore, because we don’t belong in any of the places we imagine you going to. We’ve lost the familiar bait off the hook, and we’re wondering why if we haven’t changed since high school we’re suddenly not cool anymore.
Wham! In a moment, guy’s old.
See, we’re creatures of habit. We look at all females, but we do tend to hover around whatever we got used to seeing when we first woke up to the mystery of the opposite sex. So when we get to be 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, we’re still looking at eighteen-year-olds. We’re looking at 23-year-olds too, but that’s too, as in “I can have this, and I can have that too!” We only see the buffet table getting longer. We don’t know we’re getting older. There’s nothing in our psyche that says “she’s too young for you”—at least, nothing with any influence. About the best we can do is “she’s not legal yet”—and you underage girls need to cut that teasing shit out because it’s not easy to figure out. Now, those of us lucky enough to log actual flight time come to understand women better and actually form preferences, and for these lucky bastards the idea of an eighteen-year-old may be less appealing as the palate becomes more sophisticated. Not that any of them would turn down a no-strings-attached roll in the hay with a hot high school graduate, but they’re going to review their options first (including careful analysis of the various costs). The rest of us shlubs with the low batting averages never lose our taste for the just-legal because we’re desperate for any taste at all.
So it comes as quite a shock to think that all these beautiful experiences we could have been having for the last five to ten years if we’d just gotten around to it—around to building self-confidence, or building muscles, or building conversation skills, or building an appreciation for the girls about as good-looking as we are—suddenly those could-be’s are could-have-been’s. Suddenly the field is narrowed, we get fewer chances, and we’ve had no practice. Then some of us look in the mirror and see that those years of living like we’d be nineteen forever have added a few things. Like pounds. Or an unfashionable wardrobe. Or “relaxed” grooming habits.
Point? Let’s see. Getting old. Twenty-seven. “I.T. Average.” First time.
First time! I was sixteen, and my cousin’s family was visiting, and she...
Oh, right. First time with Dick.
I was sixteen, and my cousin’s family was visiting, and he...
Okay, seriously now.
Wendy from Accounts Receiveable.
Wendy A. Cummins. (Go ahead, snicker. I’ll wait.)
Big deal, so I shtupped a girl at work.
No, you don’t understand. This is Wendy.
And I’m... Average.
Wendy had no business being in our Accounts Receiveable department. Our Accounts Receiveable clerks are... well, they’re married, we’ll leave it at that.
Wendy was a misfit. Miss Fit. She belonged in Sales. Outside Sales. Of adult beverages. But she was shy, so she went into accounting.
A shy cute girl who was good with numbers? Every geek’s fantasy. They were all trying to get their hooks into her before her coworkers rubbed off on her and she started eating HoHos and wearing sweatpants to work. The field techs in our department fought over who got her trouble tickets. More than once they accused each other of hacking her system just to break something so they could go fix it, talk to her. Maybe show her how to fix it herself next time with a hand over hers on the mouse. Maybe have to dig around under her desk for a while looking for that loose cable. Here’s your loose cable, Miss Cummins.
Even the second-level guys got into the act. Suddenly somebody had to meter traffic in the closet nearby. Somebody else had to tone and tag old wiring. Somebody else changed the login scripts and wondered if she could test it “as a typical user in her department.”
But I wasn’t interested in Wendy. Sure, my cerebellum was interested, but Wendy worked where I worked, and I have a strict policy against dipping the pen in the company ink. And let me tell you, that policy had been sorely tested on numerous occasions. Well, one. And she might have really not meant to bump into me. But still, it’s the principle.
And the principle is this: She’s way too hot. You might as well be different species. Go home and imagine her face on those $30-a-month downloads and get it out of your system. Even if you were eighteen and world-traveled and loaded and cut like Atlas and you spoke French and had a ten-inch dick, she’s still way too hot.
Did someone say Dick?
“Hi, Wendy.”
“Oh, hi! What’s up? I didn’t call anybody...”
“Yeah, I know. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to see if there’s anything you need.”
She blushed. “You IT guys are always so thoughtful. I don’t know why everyone else in the department thinks you’re jerks.”
Because they’re all fat cows and you’re a walking wet dream.
She was looking at me like I’d just said it out loud.
I guess I had. Dick tends to do that. He makes me say whatever I’m thinking.
Which is almost as bad as making me say whatever he’s thinking. Which came next.
“You know, everybody in my department is placing bets on whether the carpet matches the curtains.”
She should have slapped me. She would have slapped me. Fuck, I would have slapped me.
But just as her hand started to twitch, I saw her face relax. And the light in her eyes changed. And I knew it was over. Dick had her, just like he had me. From here on out, the two of us were just a Dick Jones performance piece.
Wendy smiled. “And which way did you bet? Yes or no?”
“Neither. I said you’re always shaved bare so it doesn’t matter.”
“Congratulations, stud, you win.” And with that, she stood up and unzipped her slacks.
Yeah, go ahead, roll your eyes. I’d have been rolling mine too if I’d had any motor control. Sometimes I wish Dick would just get straight to the fucking, but he’s a fan of shot-on-film era porn, and somehow the corny dialog enhances the experience. I hate to say it, but I’m starting to agree.
But we’d said our lines, and now it was time to give Dick his due. Once she’d stepped out of her slacks and thong panties—keeping her high heels on in classic high-gloss porno tradition—she set to work on my belt while my fingers flew down the buttons of her blouse.
Damn, the bra was full coverage, with two hooks in back. Somebody fire the wardrobe girl. From now on, nothing but sheer or lace demi-cup front-clasp bras.
No matter, I was one of those guys who stole his mom’s over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders and spent hours practicing The Unhook on her sewing dummy, so Wendy’s relatively feminine brassiere was child’s play.
What? Don’t look at me like that. You mean you didn’t do that when you were ten? What are you, stupid? Or do you actually believe it’s a quaint and touching moment when the guy fumbles with the girl’s bra? Hey, if she has to show you how that works, do you think she’ll have any confidence in your ability to figure out how to get her to O-town?
It’s never too late to start practicing. Especially if you’re a breast man. Bigger tits equals more hooks under more strain. Do I really have to tell you this?
Oh, yeah. So there I am looking down at her, and she’s squatting down in front of me looking up with those “is this what you want?” looks as she grabs my shaft, and then she’s licking all around the tip.
“Come on, baby, don’t be shy.”
She took the whole thing in one gulp. Wow—beautiful and talented.
I could regale you with a detailed description of all the ways she worked Dick into a frenzy, but let’s face it, a guy going on and on about dick-sucking technique makes you wonder just a little bit...
Let’s just say Wendy knew how to play more than one tune on the meat whistle, and in about four minutes she was wiping her chin.
What? Four minutes? Shut up. This is Dick’s first time, remember? How long did you last your first time? That’s what I thought.
Besides, we’re just getting to the good part.
While Dick’s taking a breather, Wendy stands up and turns her back to me. Now I’m getting some really good reach-around tit play in while she’s—Oh, I’m sorry, were you looking for a sweet romantic story? The title’s just Dick Jones, not The Awakening of Richard Jones. Check back a little later, maybe I’ll have something for you.
So I’ve got two handfuls of perfect titflesh, and she’s making all these little sighs and mewling noises as my fingers alternately slide over and pinch her nipples, and she’s pressing those tight little half-moons back against me, shifting her hips back and forth, and Dick’s starting to rise again.
There’s something fantastic about the way you get to half-mast and find yourself trapped in that little open space where her thighs separate just before joining her torso, and the more you harden the more insistently your cock presses up against her slit, and you’re not sure what to do. On the one hand the stimulation feels fantastic. On the other hand you know the harder you get the more it’s gonna hurt bent down at a 90-degree angle like this. On the other hand you know if she springs you loose you’ll just be grinding up between her ass cheeks with your helmet peeking out the top, and that’s not a very useful arrangement for anybody. On the other hand you need her to be a few inches taller to get the right angle for penetration, and she’s already wearing, what, four-inch heels? And she knows this, because if you hunch down a little bit she hunches down to match—not difficult when her thighs are gripping your pole. She’s really enjoying the tease. And so are you, but at some point you’re gonna sprain it or break it off or whatever gruesome thing it is that happens. And it occurs to you that the screaming that follows will probably attract some unwanted attention.
Then she shifts forward and suddenly Pop! your purple helmet is bobbing up and down in the open air like a little headbanger at a Metallica show. And your disappointment at the loss of stimulation fades fast when you realize it’s time to take it to the next level.
All the tendons in the back of Wendy’s legs were stretched taut. She was on tip-toe, her pelvis cocked forward, ass pushed up, firm glistening lips right there for the taking. Now, if I were me in this situation I might squat down and lap up some of that nectar. But Dick doesn’t have any use for that Pleasing Her bullshit. I realized this when I was standing there like an idiot with this gorgeous babe bent over wet and willing in front of me and I’d done none of the things you’re supposed to have to do to get a woman’s motor running. At least, the things I always had to wear myself out doing in order to get to the point where a date would let me climb up for the grand finale.
And then without even touching her, without either of us even moving, she started to shudder. For a second I thought she was having some kind of seizure. Then I realized she was having a spontaneous orgasm.
That’s when I understood the Power of Dick.
Dick just seemed to wag back and forth, as if he was strutting and saying, “Look Ma, No Hands!”
Okay, before I tell you this next bit, promise you’re not gonna laugh.
Promise.
Okay, here goes.
Wendy A. Cummins, Accounting Hottie, has bent herself over her desk, her back arched to present herself to Dick, and Dick is instructing me to prepare for final approach, and I take a quick peek over the tops of the cubicles to see if anyone’s coming (!), and...
...I hear a whirring, grinding noise.
Well, whatever it is, Wendy’s Accounts Receiveable is waiting for my Accounts Payable, and I don’t want to be delinquent, so I lean forward, get myself situated, push forward slowly, and...
...she pushes her hips back to swallow me whole, before clenching tight and pulling me forward with her.
And there’s that noise again. As I’m—Ohhh, fffuuuckkh—trapped inside her, it feels like something’s vibrating.
Wendy brings a vibrator to work? Damn.
Then it stops, and as I’m pulling back to make my first thrust, she reaches down between her legs with something long and skinny. Looks like a pencil.
I Rrrrunnngh! forward, feeling her pussy release and reclench around Dick, and the noise and vibrations start up again. Staying pressed inside her to the hilt, I feel her sloowwwly shift forward, just a few inches, and then she stops and the noise stops with her. I pull back and drive in again, and she groans. Exploratory thrusts out of the way, it’s time to get down to some serious fucking.
And there goes her hand between her legs again, with another stick that looks like a pencil.
It is a pencil.
She’s sharpening pencils against the top of her pubic bone, using the electric sharpener (or more accurately, the eraser at the end of the pencil sticking out of it) as an ad-hoc vibrator.
Has she done this before? What kind of weird accounting fetish trip is this? Did a professor at junior college teach her this technikkkhrist that feels good, the way the thrumming grinding machine’s vibrations traveled through her and made her shiver and pulse around my prick. Ohhhyyeeaahhh.
I managed to get a rhythm going, and within three pencils I was up to eight or ten thrusts per pencil and five or six between. Wendy made this Ngh-ngh-ngh-ngh-ngh sound, in time with and a lot like the electric sharpener motor, alternating with a gasping “Oh-oh-oh!” as she struggled to get another little wooden wonder down there. I started to wonder if she had enough Ticonderogas to get to the end of the line. I shouldn’t have worried.
Dick tightened up, calling down to the engine for the high-pressure hose to be switched on. I grabbed her hips and pulled her back, our thrusts becoming spasmodic as she had a fierce cum to match mine. Er, Dick’s. I wasn’t really there at that point. I think my eyeballs were staring at my cowlick from the inside of my skull or something.
And then I heard a voice.
“What’s going on here?”
Fuck. Wendy’s boss. Queen Elizabeth II. So nicknamed for her resemblance to the ocean liner, not the British royalty.
“I think you know,” I/Dick said.
Somewhere in my head was the thought that it would be very convenient at this moment if Liz would find the sight of her bright young clerk being taken from behind by some geek to be arousing—like, so arousing she got the overwhelming urge to go frig her fat old twat in a bathroom stall until she passed out and forgot the whole thing.
And that’s what she did. Or so the rumor mill said the next day. Yet strangely the rumor mill had no reports of a network engineer boning up on the only cute girl in accounting. [Shrug]