My Addiction.................The End

I slurped down the soup with painful swallows as Femi talked. He told me all about his wife, whom he had married in 1962. She had been angelic, he said, a hometown beauty queen that many men coveted. Smart, funny, and charitable, she had taken to being a soldier's wife with some reluctance, but there was no doubt that Femi and Betty loved each other.


Femi was a Biafran War vet; he was sixty-seven years old, more than three times my age.

Throughout the early seventies, Femi and his wife had been swingers; Betty had bragged about the immense size of her husband's penis to friends and others, who challenged her to prove her words. They had shared themselves with other couples, and gone to numerous orgies. For a time, Femi had even appeared in some adult movies. But by the late seventies, Femi and Betty wanted to settle down.

They had two children, long since grown, with lives of their own, and six grandchildren. Betty passed away after a long fight with cancer, and Femi had not known another woman's touch since the death of his wife six years before. I cried softly at his story, then reached for him.

After he finished, Femi stood and stripped out of his clothes. I did not protest, did not speak – even if I could – as he pulled down the blanket covering me and spread my legs apart. He went down on me, commented favourably on my near-crimson pubes and the pinkness of my lips. I sighed with pleasure as he spread me open, expertly licking and sucking my pussy until I came. His tongue and fingers worked magic on my needy little pussy. I tried not to cry out as my orgasm washed over me.

Femi got between my legs, pulling me to the edge of the bed, and slowly, steadily, invaded my tight little cunt with his gigantic cock. He told me to relax and loosen up as my cunt slowly wrapped around his horse-like shaft. I whimpered, moaned, winced with discomfort at first, but nevertheless gripped Femi's hips and pulled him in as I got used to the massive intrusion. He held my legs wide apart, and I watched in amazement as my little pussy was stretched wide by his monstrous cock. I wondered how such a tight little hole could take such an enormous penis.

I felt split open, but deliciously so, and screamed hoarsely, aggravating my throat as I came again and again. My orgasms had never been so strong. Femi fucked me hard and deep, making me literally cry from the overwhelming sensations he gave me. Never had I felt so incredibly satisfied. Femi finally pulled his pulsing cock from my pussy and I jerked and tugged on his massive rod until he splashed my abdomen and breasts with his semen.

I rolled up, took the head of his oozing dick in my mouth, eagerly swallowing the last dribbles of sperm from his dick. The thick, warm fluid soothed my throat. I realized Femi's semen was the tastiest I'd ever had. I kept sucking, keeping him hard, telling him with my eyes how much I wanted him.

I stayed with Femi all night, and we fucked twice more. His virility astounded me. But, I suppose, not having sex in over six years makes you want to make up for lost time. I certainly appreciated his stamina and strength, and relished the feel of his burning cum gushing into my pussy. I begged him to shoot his last load of the night right into my mouth. I gazed up at his face adoringly while sucking the broad head of his cock, as he masturbated between my lips. His semen, I was convinced, healed the rawness of my throat, and I savoured it for a long time before finally gulping it down. It felt so warm and thick and satisfying sliding down my throat to my hungry little belly.

We fell asleep together on his little bed, with me spooned up against my Femi, his arms wrapped around me. I had the most wonderful dreams that night.

In the morning, Femi pampered me, soaping me up in the shower, then made me breakfast. It still hurt to talk so I did so rarely. But I felt, with Femi, that I did not need to speak much at all. I gave him one more blow job – without going deep, of course – and lovingly devoured his sticky spunk. He repaid the favour by sucking and finger-fucking my dewy little cunt until I came. Then he walked me down to my car, and gave me his phone number. He watched after me as I drove away.

I managed to convey to my managers at the restaurant where I worked that I had laryngitis (I couldn't tell them the truth, of course); they understood that I needed a few days off. It took a little over half a week before I could talk again without my throat feeling scratchy. I returned to work, but stayed away from my 'door-to-door' activities for another couple of weeks.

I found that, after the accomplishment of taking Femi's massive dick to the root (which, he had informed me, was fourteen and a half inches long and nine and a quarter inches around), that there literally was no dick I couldn't swallow with ease. I proved that over and over as I visited a couple of other estate with my 'CHG survey' routine and gobbled down cock after cock. Not even a thick, black, ten-incher posed any problem as I took it to the root.

But I could not forget my sweet Femi. No man matched his size, his presence, his sperm's wonderfully thick texture and rich flavour. Finally, one afternoon, I called him up. He sounded surprised to hear from me. I told him that I wanted to see him, that I needed to be with him again. He told me to come over right away.

I was literally desperate to make love to him again. I found it ironic that, with all the men I had been with, all those dozens of dozens of dicks I had sucked, only four men in my entire life – Femi included – had ever fucked me. But Femi didn't just fuck; he made love. He touched, caressed, and pampered me, made me feel protected and wanted. I loved the feeling of his massive dick inside me, his warm body against mine, and loved even more the way he held me, kissed me, whispered in my ear. We made love all night, then the night after that, and the night after that . . . .

He came in to see me at work now and then, giving me small smiles of anticipation as I waited on him and tried to be the professional waitress. But just looking upon him made me slippery between my legs, and I found myself licking my lips whenever I saw him. I was infatuated with Femi, I knew. I wondered, even, if I was falling for him. Some of my friends and coworkers teased me about my 'over-the-hill' boyfriend, but I just laughed them off. They could not understand how I felt about my sweet, sexy Femi.

Sometimes, when I stay with him, Femi would give me a tender, sensuous massage, culminating when he slowly and teasingly rubbed and fingered my pussy until I came with a long, satisfying orgasm. I'd repay him with a loving, protracted blow job, taking him into my throat once in a while as I stared up at his handsome face. The sensation of feeling his thick semen spurting directly in my throat was unlike any other.

We would go out to dinner, to local stage shows – Femi was a big fan of the theatre – to the movies and local bars. People stared at us, thinking I was Femi's granddaughter, then gave us wondering looks once we started making out. I loved those reactions, and was proud to be Femi's girlfriend. My passion for him was sometimes impossible to ignore, and I once crawled under the table at a casual restaurant and sucked him off right there. I'll never forget how our waitress approached once I was done, with a little glob of cum on my chin, saying that she guessed I didn't need any desert.

I loved the way women gawked at my Femi's wonderfully heavy penis as it swung back and forth. We received numerous offers of a threesome, and as one of my gifts, my lover asked me to pick a girl to spend an evening with us. Watching Femi fuck another girl was unbelievably arousing, and he was aroused by watching me go down on her.

But it wasn't just the sex that I adored about Femi; he was intelligent, witty, charming, and he treated me like a princess. He taught me more about sex and life than any man I had ever known, and shared some of his deepest secrets with me. He helped me with my class work and listened to anything I told him about my life, my hopes and dreams.

If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought I was in love with him.

Six months after we met Femi passed away in the night. I wasn't with him; I had wanted to stay the night and make love over and over as we often did, but Femi had given me a look and a smile and asked me to go home. He wasn't feeling well, he said, but dismissed it as heartburn. I did not realize it then, but with hindsight, I recognized that he had known his end had come.

I cried like a baby when I found out. I couldn't work for days. At the funeral, I stared down at the coffin which bore my lover into the ground. Some of Femi's friends, and his son Kola, who had apparently heard about me through him, offered their condolences. I just sniffed, shook their hands, accepted their hugs. Most were aged, like Femi, and even his son was twelve years older than I; I figure I was the youngest person, by far, at the funeral. But I did not feel out of place. I realized that I knew Femi – Femi Otedola – at least as well as any of them. And I was proud.

I kept to myself for a while after the funeral, until my depression ebbed away and I felt at peace with having given a wonderful man my love and companionship in the last days of his life. I felt more proud and fulfilled because of my time with Femi, and realized how lucky I had been to know him.

The End