“What can I make for you,” the bored subway worker asked us. “Meatball sub, six inch,” Mary ordered, placing a hand on CeeCee's hip. “Teriy...ki chicken,” I ordered. “A footlong. And ignore what's going on over here.” “Yes, sir,” the worker said. “I love this fabric,” CeeCee murmured, rubbing Mary's breast though her top. Mary's nipple pressed hard against the fabric, and CeeCee began tracing the hard nub with a finger. CeeCee's husband, who was paying for their sandwiches, glanced over and. I mean, I was tiny. Not even five feet and not even one hundred pounds. I had no business wanting something so big, especially without any experience at all. But I always had. There had always been something subconsciously, instinctively satisfying and ecstatic about the fantasy. As if the part of my brain that recognized an erection had a short circuit that turned "aroused cocks get bigger" into "bigger cocks are more aroused"; so the the bigger it was, the more it wanted me. Intellectually, I. More

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