The Snow Blower (Or, More Things to do in Philly When It's Freezing)
written by:
Naughty Miranda

Well, as conversation starters go, it was certainly an intriguing one. Four of us sitting around after work last night, a quick drink or three to mark Judy's birthday, when suddenly Gareth piped up, "so who saw that study that was published today?"

Three pairs of eyes... one male, two female... turned to look at him. "Which one?" There seems to have been a bunch just lately - everything from how three to five cups of coffee a day will clear your arteries of all known clogs (this is true, look it up!) to... well, whatever. None of which caused as much smirking, chuckling, and then outright laughter as Gareth's next remark.

I'll give you the details, so you can check it if you wish. According to the BJU International Journal of Urology, the average erect male penis measures 13.12 centimeters (5.16 inches) in length, and 11.66cm (4.6 inches) around; and 9.16cm (3.6 inches) by 9.31cm (3.7 inches) when soft. This according to an analysis of more than 15,000 penises around the world.

"Which explains why Walmart was out of tape measures when I went in this morning," said Terry, while I raised my glass to Lisa. "I told you you had a big mouth." She kicked me under the table and we waited for what we assumed was the inevitable grandstanding from our companions. The "I'm glad I'm not average" sort of reassurance with which probably every guy who read that survey responded... before they rushed out to Walmart to check for themselves.

Oddly, they didn't come. Well, I say "oddly," but it was a relief, in a way. I remember... okay, this is weird, and if you're reading this, Gerry, it's okay, I'm not talking about you. But e-mailing with an ES reader a while back, I overcame a lifetime of stranger danger caution and agreed to meet him for a drink. He lives on the other side of the country, but he was flying into my home town for a conference. So, I asked him where and it turned out to be in the same office building that I work in. And he was fun to joke with in emails and messages, so I said maybe we could meet in the bar downstairs.

Which was great until I realized, as I rode the elevator down to our rendezvous, that the only picture I had ever seen of him was a close-up of his cock. (Which, yes, I'd asked for... one night when the IMs reached what we might call "a certain level.") And I'm sorry, but I don't care how distinctively huge you meat might be, I am not going to walk around a crowded after-work bar with a picture of a dick, asking guys if they recognize this?

Thankfully, Gerry recognized me... my author photo might be old, and I know I look different without a cock in my mouth, but somehow he was able to do it. And I say "thankfully" because, as the evening wore on, he confessed that it wasn't really his picture. He, it turned out, was closer to average. Or so I'd guesstimate from memory....

Sorry, where was I? Right, the survey.

Five-point one-six inches. Bigger than a compact disc, smaller than a paperback. Fatter than most bananas, thinner than a baguette. Smaller, all round, than the most popular size of dildo. Meaning, ladies, if you practice hard on your inflexible friend, you have nothing to fear from the Average Guy.

"So, how about you two?" Lisa finally piped up, as I'd more or less known that she would, and cue a few moments on demurring throat clearing, before both of them murmured, "yeah, that's about right." Which means they were either hoping, or worrying, that we might want to check ("okay you, into the ladies room now"); or, science has finally found a way to make guys stop worrying "does my dick look small in this?" Usually as they're sticking it up your ass. Haha.

But let me tell you a secret - although first, I have to ask, do you watch Doctor Who? Whenever someone enters the TARDIS for the first time, the first words out of their mouth are usually, "wow, it's bigger on the inside." Except once, when Clara caught her first glimpse of its marvels, when she said "wow, it's smaller on the outside."

That's how I think of penises. Smaller on the outside. Because it doesn't matter what size it actually is. When he finally puts it where it belongs, it feels like the biggest thing in the world.

Back to Gerry. (Come on, keep up!) We had a few drinks, swapped a few stories, and no, we didn't go home with one another. I jerked him off under the table, instead, because I guess I owed him something for all those months of promises and prick-teasing. But, to be honest, the picture thing put me off. If a guy's going to send me a photo of his dick, I want to see the real thing, not some random shaft he pulled off Google. I know he was only trying to impress me, but ultimately, honesty is far more impressive - which is why, on the rare occasions that I've flashed my boobs for the camera, I show make certain that they're mine, and not Miss Monster Chest 1967's.

Which reminds me... a bad joke. Woman takes her daughter to the doctor's, to have him check out her cold. He places his stethoscope on her chest and say "big breaths." And she replies, "yeth, and I'm only thix-teen."

Gareth and Terry went home alone, too, and Lisa and I did as well. Which doesn't mean this story is going to peter out pathetically. Just that it set the stage for what happened once I got home; when I switched on the late night news and - well, big surprise. It's the beginning of March on the edge of Philadelphia, and tomorrow, it's going to snow. Right now, they're predicting ten inches... yep, two average cocks' worth of the white stuff, and yes, you can read a lot of things into that, if you want to. But one would do me very nicely. In both meanings of the phrase.

My phone bleeped. "Hey!"

Mark's great. His wife, Marcie, has been my best friend since college which means I do regret the fact that, this time last year... oh, you can read the story elsewhere on this site. "Things To Do In Philly When It's Freezing." Should I have marked this as the second part? Maybe. Too late now. Anyway, Mark. I've seen a lot of him in the year since then, but not as much as I saw that first time... Marcie's presence makes certain of that and besides, I'm not sure that either of us really wants to go there again.

But he was calling to ask if I wanted to borrow a snow blower, and oh my god, I came so close to saying "well that's what I did last time." It snowed, and I blew him. But that was because he'd just shoveled my driveway. There was no danger of a repeat performance if all he did was drop off a snow blower, and I wasn't going to ask why they suddenly had two of the things. This is Philadelphia. People do things differently out here.

Half an hour later... that's ten minutes for him to get here; five minutes for me to offer him a drink; ten minutes to talk about whatever we could think of which didn't involve his last visit to my place... and five minutes during which the subject got round to the fact that Marcie still wouldn't....

Have you read the other story yet? Didn't think so. So I'll fill you in. The pair of them have been together since college, and they're happy as a loft-full of lovebirds. Except for one thing. She has never gone down on him. Not once. Which isn't the precise reason why I felt it was my duty to, after he half broke his back with the snow shovel for me, but it did lend my doing so some extra enthusiasm.

As did the fact that Mark is the proud owner of the biggest cock it's ever been my good fortune to suck. There's the average penis size... there's the predicted snowfall... and a little over halfway between the two, there's Mark. Which means Marcie might not be being prudish when she won't allow him to fuck her face. She's a tiny woman. It might be self-preservation.

I, on the other hand, like to live dangerously.

"Have you..." I started to ask, then paused. Not quite certain what the right way of phrasing my question might be. I wanted to ask if he'd even asked her to do it; that maybe, her reluctance was less down to dislike, and more that inexplicable fear that some women have, even after years of marriage, that their husband will think something less of them if they were to do that. You know the term "blow job" has nothing to do with any physical action, and everything to do with the fact that "blow" is an old name for hookers? A guy goes for a blow job, it means he's going to see a whore, because they were the only women who would do that sort of thing. "Officially," anyway. You know a lot of perfectly respectable girls did it too. But others didn't. Some still don't. Marcie doesn't.

He looked ... bashful's the word. "I did sort of suggest it one night."

"Sort of?"

"We were lying in bed, and her head was on my chest... I started getting a boner, and I knew she watching it. She even started playing with it, helping it along... and a couple of times, she even blew on it. Not breaths, I mean actual, targeted blowing. And she was laughing..."

"And you said something to spoil it."

Now he really did look embarrassed. "I asked her to put it in her mouth."

"And she said no, and rolled back onto her side of the bed."

"Pretty much."

Idiot. Why are guys always so fucking impatient?

I got out of my chair and joined him on the sofa. "Scooch over." He moved further down, away from me, and I stretched myself out, my head on his lap. Beneath me, I could already feel the making of an erection - although, believe me; with a cock that size, that's a difficult thing to hide. I switched on the TV, picked up a magazine, and for the next five minutes, I ignored him completely.

Beneath me, he continued hardening.

I shifted a little, as though getting more comfortable, and the movement sent a pulse of impatience through the firmness that now throbbed against the back of my neck. Then, shifting again, I moved onto my side, so my cheek was pressed against him.

He murmured my name, and I hissed at him. "Not another sound. You wrecked it once, do you want to wreck it again?"

He was silent, and I was still for a moment, my eyes fixed on ... who's that guy in the old Letterman slot? I don't like him. I reached for the channel changer, surfed for a few moments, then settled on the weather channel. "For fuck's sake, it's a snowstorm," I growled after a couple of minutes of relentless End Of Days prophesy. "They're treating it like the apocalypse."

"Winter Storm Thor," Mark answered. "I wonder if Marvel Comics are sponsoring it?"

"We'll know if the next one's called Uncanny X-Men."

"Venom," he countered.

"Wolverine," I shot back.

"Professor Xavier!" And then, "how do you know so much about comics?"

"We're publishing a book. I spent the last week working on the index."

"So come on, then... Winter Storm beginning with Y?"

Shit. My mind had gone blank. "Er... Winter Storm Y can't I get comfortable?" I sat up and patted his lap. Patted his dick. I answered my own question. "Because you have a concrete pole in your pocket, that's why." Then I lay down again, but this time, my parted lips were pressed against the bulge, while my tongue flickered out to moisten the fabric of his thankfully lightweight cargoes.

Above me, he was still and silent. I wasn't certain that he was even breathing any more. My tongue continued its gentle probing, and now I flexed my lips a little too, mouthing him through his pants, and detecting the first trace of taste as well. That was where Marcie went wrong, you know. Instead of blowing, she should have been inhaling. Nothing makes you want to open your mouth wide than the scent of a good stiff prick.

"So there was this survey," I said, knowing that he could feel every one of my words against his erection. "One of the guys at work was talking about it...."

"If it's the one I'm thinking of, the guys at my work were, as well."

"Well, I was wondering...." I traced a finger tip the length of his shaft, so visible now as it strained against his pants. "if five is the average, does that mean you have twice as much as you should? Or do you just have a very under-endowed brother?"

"No brothers," he replied, and I knew he was having problems even getting the words out now.

"So, you were just greedy?" I teased, as my finger pressed more firmly, and I felt him twitch against it.

I visualized the Penis Fairy handing out dicks to deserving little boys, and Mark rejoining the line once he'd been presented with his, then sneaking off with a second one that he promptly attached to the first.

"Or maybe I was just lucky," I continued, and I raised my head and firmly clamped my mouth around his shaft.

Now he moaned, and I knew he couldn't help himself. "So let's see how lucky I was," I said, and sitting up, I unbuttoned his pants. He raised his ass off the sofa as I tugged them down to his knees, then he leaned forward to continue pulling them off. I pushed him back. "No, I like you like this." And then I leaned forward... staring at the cock that stood proud and pulsing in front of my face... and I blew.

He moaned again; I blew once more, aiming my breath at the helmet that was already slicked wet with pre-cum. I reached out a hand and held him steady, angling him towards me so my breath could hit home harder. I leaned in and kissed him, sticky and hot, and my tongue darted out to encircle his helmet.

"Oh, what to do," I giggled, as though musing to myself, and I heard a sharp intake of breath as he fought against the words that had sent his wife scurrying back when he murmured them to her. So I repeated the question, but accompanied it this time by opening my mouth as wide as I could, and engulfing that delicious monster tip.

"God, yes!" he finally gasped. "Do that."

And I stopped. "Nah." I hung for a moment, my body as desperate to taste him as he was to feel me do it. "I think I'll just do this, instead."

Now I sank down, taking as much in my mouth as I could, and letting my hands... both hands, gripping tightly... devour the rest of that beautiful shaft, jerking him off as I strained to keep hold of him, knowing my jaw would be screaming in the morning, but not giving a damn about that. I wouldn't have to hold this position for long, after all... by his breathing, his movements, the lift of his hips, I knew he was already cumming... and cumming hard too, white stuff that flooded my mouth at the precise same moment as the weather girl blathered something about how much white stuff was on its way. Internally, I laughed. Was she watching?

I don't know, but she was right. What's gray and comes in buckets? An elephant. What's white and comes in bigger buckets? Mark. He just kept going, so much that I wasn't even able to hold it; felt it running from my mouth as I came up for air, pouring back down his cock where I licked, lapped and swallowed, and he was crying out still, even as the flood subsided....

And outside the first drops of snow started falling, as though the heavens too were cumming, and he quietly swore. "I need to go. I told Marcie I'd be home before the streets got slick."

I wiped my mouth and kissed his dick. "Then you'd better go. Thank you for the snow blower... and thank you for the snow blow"; at last, the chance to deploy my bad joke.

He kissed the mouth that so recently had been wrapped happily, hungrily, around his cock. "Thank you." A pause. "For everything."

"There's a time to be impatient, and a time to be quiet," I told him. "And maybe next time Marcie feels curious about what it is like...."

"I'm not sure she ever will," he said sadly.

"In which case, you know where I am," I laughed. "Same time, same place, next year." But then an idea, and an evil giggle. "Although I really need to call her, to say thanks for letting me borrow you. And... I dunno, we used to have some pretty raunchy conversations back when we were at college. She'd stay out of them, of course, but I bet she was listening, really. Maybe it's time we had another one."

Mark looked at me uncertainly. "Just don't..."

"Don't tell her I got there before her?" I squeezed his crotch through his pants as he maneuvered himself into his coat. "I won't. But maybe if I can make her see that it would be your first time as well... even nice girls love a virgin, you know."

"Jesus. Forty years old and I'm still a virgin," he winced. "I hated that movie, as well."

"Well, just don't let yourself get to forty-one."

He left, and I started thinking about how the conversation with his wife might begin.

"Hey Marcie! So did you see that survey that was published the other day? I was wondering, how do you fit Mark in to your mouth?"

No. Maybe I should take a more subtle approach....