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[Tilda Blixen]

Size Queen Wife
By Tilda Blixen

Chapter 1: Head Turners

Stiletto heels clacking, hugging a tablet computer to conceal the jiggle of her D-cup breasts, Brandee Coleman hurried down the hallway toward her office. She could feel the pale skin of her face and neck flushing with arousal. She was agitated and craved privacy.

Once safely behind her office door, she stripped off her lab coat, tossed the iPad on her desk and sighed with relief. She had made it from the locker room without seeing anyone important, anyone who might take note of her excitement, or worse, its embarrassing and inappropriate cause.

The 41-year-old registered nurse looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. The physical signs were as bad as she had feared. Her blue eyes were glassy, the pupils widely dilated. In contrast to the porcelain whiteness of the rest of her body, her upper chest and throat glowed a delicate shade of pink, a sign of sexual stimulation in Caucasian women. Oversized, blood-engorged areolas and nipples poked through her white blouse, another brazen signifier of lust. No bra material was thick enough to conceal those nipples when she was turned on.

Closing her eyes, Brandee gave them both a long hard pinch, causing such an intense jolt of pleasure to run through her body that she almost lost her balance.

Trembling, she slumped into her desk chair, propped up her legs and hiked her skirt. Her fingers pressed against her clit, swollen and firm behind her panties, which were sopping up moisture from her overwrought pussy.

Once comfortable, she permitted herself to concentrate fully on the events of the morning that had put her in such a state:

When she had walked into the locker room at 10 am, arrayed before her was the entire university football team, stripped down to their jock straps, milling around waiting there to be medically examined by her. Although she had been looking forward to this task for weeks, the actual reality of it was overwhelming, the dizzying buffet of masculinity caused the blonde nurse to catch her breath. Just being in the presence of so many physically superior young men was enough to cause arousal in a woman like Brandee. As the faculty nurse, it was her job to touch and feel and fondle every one of the them while assessing their blood pressure, heart rate and lung function. And on top of that—and this really pushed her libido over the edge—each boy had to undergo a check for hernia.

"Turn your head and cough, please."

One after another, a parade of college-aged athletes lowered their jock straps, revealing to Brandee's lascivious gaze each fresh young set of genitalia.

She could appraise variations in size, shape and skin tone, and ogle each physique up close, even appreciate distinctions in masculine pheromones. Reflecting the demographics of the student body, almost all the players were African American, with a smattering of whites and Hispanics. In terms of penis size, only a handful of the cocks fell below average, and several students were off-the-charts well endowed.

As she recalled the exams, Brandee rubbed her clit furiously, replaying her favorite ones in her fevered memory.

The first really well-hung boy, Byron Morris, was on the short side, at 5'7", only about an inch taller than Brandee. His skin was dark ebony and his body tight and compact. He had a pock-marked, sulky face and a thin goatee. When he lowered his jock strap, Brandee couldn’t restrain an audible gasp. At least seven inches long, the obscenely thick cock that flopped out hung so far leftward that the prominent ridge of its head could be seen in profile. Even soft, the dark flesh tube looked absurdly oversized in proportion to the boy's lithe body. She wondered how much bigger it would get when aroused. During the hernia check, Bryon showed no response to her gently probing fingers and seemed slightly annoyed at having to be there at all. The young man's remoteness bruised Brandee's ego, while somehow at the same time provoking her interest.

Her self-esteem recovered somewhat under the wolfish gaze of the next endowed player, Fletcher Cox, who blatantly appraised her from head to toe before hopping on the foldable exam table she had set up in the coaches’ office. Well over six feet tall, Fletcher was broad and muscular with mocha colored skin and a tightly trimmed beard. He looked somewhat like a young Lenny Kravitz, she thought. He seemed downright eager to reveal his cock, his hips thrust arrogantly forward, a knowing smile on his handsome face. The source of his pride had a wide head and tapered to a thinner base. The ball sack, darker colored than the rest of his body, sat up high and was packed with two very large balls, the size of hen's eggs. To grant access to his oversize testicles, Fletcher dutifully lifted his shaft. Normally Brandee just used her finger tips, but for this exceptional boy she hefted and rolled the whole scrotum in her dainty white hand, as if trying to guess the weight of the masculine orbs inside. As always, she found the black-to-white skin contrast spellbinding, but she was also equally drawn to the boy's appealing scent. The nurse had to fight the urge to bury her face in those balls and inhale deeply. Perhaps sensing her attraction, Fletcher tightened his fist around his cock, causing the head to swell, and the pee-slit to wink open slightly. Aware the audacious stud was about to start jerking off for her viewing pleasure, Brandee snapped out of her erotic trance, and quickly finished the exam.

Then came Bokhari something or other—an African last name she couldn't remember—who seemed built more for basketball than football. He had obsidian black skin and his polite, well spoken answers to the medical history questions were conveyed in heavily accented English. His long thin cock, with its slight inward curve, struck Brandee as elegant. Totally hairless, the skin of his cock and balls had a glossy shine. The ball sack felt silky smooth to the touch.

The biggest package of all belonged to Cedric Evans, a huge mountain of a man. The only penis she'd ever seen to rival Cedric's belonged to the porn star Shane Diesel (Brandee was a fan). Thick as a beer can, heavily veined, with a large prominently ridged head, the mammoth, milk-chocolate appendage hung straight down over testicles more fit for a rhinoceros than a 20-year-old college student. They must be the size of tennis balls! How much cum would balls like that manufacture? Enough to impregnate a dozen women, for sure. She pictured thick, ropey ribbons of hot white cum shooting from that colossal cock, enough to drench a woman's face, breasts and hair. She visualized herself kneeling reverently before this boy and worshiping his colossal penis with her mouth and hands until he erupted all over her face—an image, as she sat in her office recalling it, that nearly triggered her orgasm.

But then she stopped herself. There was one more player to add to her alpha-male fantasy roster.

E.J. Barbadora—scary looking but oddly sexy. Tall and lanky and covered in tattoos, his face projected a boyish innocence: large brown eyes and prominent front teeth with a slight overbite. But this innocence contrasted with his spiky hairdo, two earrings, and a piercing through the septum of his broad nose. His cock was incredibly wide at the base, tapering along the eight-inch stalk and then flaring out again at the bulbous head. E.J. had one of those two-tone cocks: a pink head but a nut-brown shaft. The base was so thick, Brandee had trouble getting around it to examine his testicles.

As she savored these lewd memories, Brandee took notice, not for the first time, of how the nature of her fantasies had changed as she grew older. Her younger self would have selected one of these players to be the focal point of her lust and then achieved orgasm thinking of him and only him. But lately it seemed only thoughts of group encounters could stimulate her erotic imagination: Groups of men with her—and just her, no other female rivals—at the center of attention.

In the current fantasy she pictured herself on her knees before these five players, who would form a circle around her. All would be naked from the waist down, except for shoulder pads and team jerseys. Unlike the medical exams, where she was in charge, in this scenario the boys would control her. Completely at their mercy, they would force her to take turns sucking each mouth-watering cock, all the while coaxing her on with lewd comments that became increasingly more and more degrading.

Leaning back in her office chair, she danced on the end of her finger, imagining their hands stoking those magnificent cocks, their bodies stiffening, and then, oh God, here it comes, great spurts of cum arching through the air, splattering on her face, her hair, her breasts, drenching her with all that hot young sperm.

On the verge of climax, she needed just one more element to push her over the edge. She knew what would work. It was a fantasy she often used to trigger an orgasm.

As the young athlete's sperm cascaded all over her, she imagined looking across the room at a naked figure, gagged and bound to a chair. This was her ex-husband, tied up and forced to watch his former wife gang banged by squadron of black college students. She could see his watchful gaze, the muscles under his pale white skin straining against the bonds. She could see his average-sized white phallus, fully erect, poking up from between his thighs, helpless...

That did it. She was cumming…

[Tilda Blixen]

Just then there was a knock on her door, jolting her out of the fantasy.

"Brandee, are you in there?"

It was the voice of her boss, Karen Naylor. Brandee nearly tumbled backwards out of her chair.

"Ah. Oh. Yes, I'm…I'm here," she stammered, sitting upright. "The door is locked. I'm just finishing something..." She adjusted her skirt, rustled papers on her desk, gasped for air.

"Sorry to bother you, Brandee," she said through the door. "But could you come to my office when you get a minute? There's something we need to discuss in person."

"Yes, Karen. Be right there. Just give me a minute."
While she caught her breath, Brandee rested her head on the desk. She had been so close to cumming, but now her concentration was ruined. She promised herself a good masturbatory session with her collection of large black dildos later that night. Or better yet, maybe her current boyfriend would be available for a last-minute booty call.

When her heart stopped pounding, she stood up, stripped off the soaking wet panties and tossed them in the trash. Unlocking a desk draw, she selected a fresh pair and stepped into them. She always kept clean panties handy, for just these occasions.

[Tilda Blixen]

Chapter 2: Awesome Endowment

"So, how did the baseline exams go?"

Karen Naylor, MD, Associate Dean of Clinical Research and Director of the university's Clinical Research Department, looked at the woman sitting across from her desk. She had known Brandee since just after college. Karen scrutinized with disapproval the changes in her friend/employee's appearance since the divorce. The transformation to single life showed in the heavy makeup, the sinful shade of lipstick and nail polish, and the gym-toned body. Speaking of that body, Karen wondered if Brandee was now having her lab coats custom tailored to show off those ludicrously oversized boobs of hers. And stilettos, every day? Really?

"They went pretty well," Brandee replied. "We've got a healthy team of guys there. No anomalies or outliers." She smiled faintly, as if recalling a private joke. "Lots of, shall we say, overachievers."

"Good. Wonderful news. So we can move forward into the next phase. Although I'll be listed as the study coordinator, I'm counting on you to run the day-to-day. You've got way more experience with these things, and with my heavy workload I just simply do not have the time."

There was an awkward silence. Karen was stalling. A worried look passed over the nurse's face, as her boss fiddled nervously with the diamond wedding bands on her ring finger, apparently uncertain of how to continue.

"Brandee, you know I'm very happy with your work here. All of us are. You're a terrific manager of your staff, and of course everyone agrees you're a top-notch nurse. You're very good at what you do."

"Um. Thanks." Now Brandee crossed her legs and swallowed hard.

"Brandee, Let me start by saying this. All schedule 2 drugs are registered in an electronic data base every time they are dispensed. Every time."
Brandee's eyes began welling up with tears.

Karen sighed. "You're lucky the pharmacy called me first. If Cameron had gotten wind of this he would have fired you right on the spot."

Full-on crying now, the nurse sobbed, "Oh God, Karen. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You're a healthcare professional. You know how addictive opioids are, how much damage they can do. Why would you want to fool around with that stuff?" She came around the desk and offered the distraught woman a Kleenex. Like Brandee, she was blonde and blue-eyed, and in her early 40s, but she was several inches taller, with longer legs, a less majestic bust line, and a curvier hip-to-waist ratio. The other major difference was Karen's style of dress and overall manner, which leaned toward "soccer mom," while Brandee's could best be described as "cougar on the prowl."

"But that's the thing," sobbed the buxom blonde, accepting the tissue. "They weren't for me at all. They were for Tayshaun."

"Tayshaun? You mean that guy from the party?"

Karen remembered Brandee's date at the last office Christmas party, a good-looking hustler type of the kind that seemed to obsess her divorcee friend these days. Black, of course. Or rather, she corrected herself, African American. He had been well dressed and projected the confident aura of a successful salesmen. Watching the way he moved through the party, so assertive and self-assured, Karen wondered whether that swagger might result from being well endowed. She had spent the rest of the evening stealing covert glances at his crotch to see what he was "packing" down below, while simultaneously trying to concentrate on the holiday small talk going on around her. Try as she might, she could come to no firm conclusion about his size. Of course, she could have simply asked Brandee if her new boyfriend had "big one," but she was not that kind of woman. Not to mention that penis size would be a totally inappropriate topic for a supervisor to discuss with an employee. Karen flushed with embarrassment at the memory of her behavior. What if someone had noticed her gazing intently at this strange man's crotch? What if her husband had caught her?

"No, actually that was Trayvon at the party," said Brandee. "I'm not seeing him anymore." She fiddled with her smart phone and handed it to Karen. "This is Tayshaun."

The screen displayed a photo of a dark-skinned, muscular African American man no older than his late-20s wearing a tight fitting light blue T-shirt. Jesus, thought Karen, this one is even better looking than the guy at the party! Where does she find them? Was there some special app? "Black Stud Finder?" Maybe a website…actually, there probably was a website.

Sniffling but regaining composure, Brandee added, "There's more pics there if you want to look."

Despite herself, Karen could not resist scrolling forward. Next was a full body shot of Tayshaun at the gym in a sleeveless fitness shirt, curling two large barbells, his massive shoulders and biceps flexing seductively. Concealed in his spandex shorts was the unmistakable outline of a meaty penis and large testicles, clearly defined through the fabric, the shaft so long part of it snaked down his left thigh.

The next photo showed Tayshaun stretched out on a chaise lounge at what appeared to be a tropical resort, wearing nothing but a skimpy light blue Speedo and wraparound sunglasses. The Speedo was so inadequate to the task of concealing his massive genitals that the elastic around his inner thighs gaped. This shot also displayed Tayshaun's well defined pectoral and abdominal muscles, gleaming like polished mahogany under the warm sun. He looked so confident lying there, hands clasped behind his head, like an idol waiting to be worshiped, certain he deserved it.

[Tilda Blixen]

With difficulty, Karen tore her attention away from the photos, and thrust the phone back to her employee. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Brandee, but that does not look like somebody with a substance abuse problem."

"Tayshaun? Oh, God, no. He's a health nut. The pills weren't for him. No, it was someone at his gym. Tayshaun owed him money, and the guy said he would take Oxycontin instead."

"Good Lord, Brandee," Karen moaned, rubbing her eyes with her thumb and index finger. "How do you get yourself into these situations? Well, in any case, I am glad to hear that at least the drugs weren't for you."

She returned to her desk chair, her demeanor shifting into medical professional mode. "Did you know I did my fellowship in psychiatry? It's very common for women in controlling relationships to minimize the problem. Abuse doesn't have to be physical. It can be emotional or psychological too."

Brandee straightened up in the chair, responded in an even tone: "This is not an abusive relationship, Karen. My marriage to Dennis, that was an abusive relationship. He was a racist asshole. I was just doing Tayshaun a favor."

Karen tapped a pencil on the desk. "Would you say you had a childhood that led you to doubt your self-worth? A common characteristic among victims in unhealthy relationships is a lack of self esteem and self-worth. And when we stay in these relationships we become increasingly depressed. And then of course our self-worth plummets further. It's easy to feel trapped and hopeless. I could recommend some people you could talk to…"

Brandee let out a burst of laugher. "Karen, I appreciate your concern, but really it's not like that. We're hardly even dating seriously, really. It's just a casual thing. He's like a friend with benefits, or whatever. That's all. I made a mistake. I'm sorry."

Karen shifted back to friend mode. "It's just that I worry about you. I know the divorce was hard, and I don’t want to see you get hurt."

"Ha! Are you kidding? My divorce was the best thing that ever happened to me. Not all of us are made for marriage. We can't all have what you and Craig have, you know."

Karen paused, parsing those last words for hints of sarcasm.

"Okay. If you say everything's all right, I believe you. I'm more concerned about your wellbeing than the drug thing. We can let it go with warning this time, if I have your word it will never happen again. Just know that you can come to me if you ever need help."

After Brandee left, Karen tried to get back to her daily routine. As she methodically dealt with each item in her crowded email inbox, she could not keep her mind off those incredibly erotic images of Tayshaun. The smooth onyx skin, the muscular body, and the awe inspiring endowment kept displacing mundane work matters. She wondered how a woman could accommodate a such enormous cock. Was it painful? Or did it feel better? And if it did feel better, did it wreck the tensile strength of a vagina for normal ones like her husband's?

She doubted it. After all, the female vagina expanded significantly during childbirth and then returned to its normal size afterward. Or did it? Had her own vagina retained its full elasticity after giving birth to two daughters? It was difficult to judge. And that wasn't the kind of topic addressed in medical training.

There was a knock at her door. Her boss, Cameron Neville, Dean of the Medical School, entered, looking worried.

"Well? Progress?"

"Baselines were done this morning. We should do the first round of ingestibles next week. Everything's on track."

"And the players have all signed their consent forms. They understand they're being studied, correct? And they agree to it?"

"Yes. All right here." She patted a stack of papers on her desk.

"Good. Please just keep an eye on Brandee, Karen. We need to present data at the symposium next November. If we knock the trial out of the park, we'll be in line for the Braun grant. The board sees the two as connected. Even though I'm well aware they shouldn't be. But don’t get me started on that..."

"Got it. Will do."

Cameron sat down. "And what about her…personal behavior?"

"Are you asking me if she can keep her hands off the football players, Cameron?"

"Well, you know her better than I do."

"She's fine. Don't worry. She's the best nurse we have. And anyway, I'll be at her side the whole time."