• J. P. Walters

Jennifer Billby & The Big ol Dick



A rush of air caressed Jennifer’s golden hair as she passed through the doorway to her workplace. It was a simple breeze, but such a wind can make or break a day like today.

Jennifer couldn’t help but worry about her mother. The woman had always warned her daughter of the backstabbers and brown-noses that dwell within such businesses. For Jennifer, however, that looming specter, that threat of career suicide had never arisen. For now, she felt safe, safe from the claws of losing her career, and with it, her life.

Working her way up to the top, that was Jennifer’s goal, and nobody was going to get in her way. Fuck it, she often thought. Her mother felt threatened, that’s all it was. Threatened by her daughter’s ambitions, but flipping burgers was Jennifer’s life, and she’d rather kill than give up her spatula.

As Jennifer drove to work each morning, she’d peer up from her phone. Then she’d put down the mascara brush, before looking to the road, Finally, the golden arches of certain diabetes would grace her vision. Those nondescript, copyrighted bows screamed out to her in the most seductive of manners. They spoke of promotions and dare she dream it, company cars.

“Seven quarter-pounders!” a voice yelled over the drive-through radio.

Jennifer’s apron felt damp today and possessed a musk only describable as the scent of a bingo hall. She’d forgotten it was in the washing machine last night, and, in Jennifer fashion, had deemed it unworthy of a timely removal. Nevertheless, it was her apron, and she wore it with pride because she represented the front line of staff. She knew this was the gospel truth as to think otherwise is to temp a developmental arc.

As Jennifer tightened the strings of the apron around her slender, kissable waste, she could feel something odd. It was a sensation she knew well, the feeling of eyes, watching, undressing. She pivoted, her straw-like hair tangling around her nose and in her mouth. It was Chris. Holy shit, it’s Chris! Man the battle stations, we’ve trained for this, Jennifer!

The air suddenly adopted a warmth, inviting butterflies that began to tickle her lower stomach. She’d wanted Chris from the moment they had first met. Wanted in the sense that she wished to shmeat his meat like a dick-starved Pitbull. It was, however, wrong for employees to date. Chris was also happily married, but Jennifer knew if the opportunity came around, she’d let him stretch her out like an old, forgotten sock.

Being a virgin, Jennifer possessed a tightness that’d pull even the sturdiest nuts from a Snickers bar. If only she could enable her silky little vagina. To allow herself to go the way of the Titanic and hit the iceberg so hard it’d split her like a bit of firewood.

As Jennifer’s mind drew back into her body, she noticed that Chris was still glaring at her. Oh, fuck me! Do something, woman! Jennifer rested against the deep-fat-fryer.

“What do you want, big guy?” she whispered.

Chris stepped closer, standing only meters before her. His breath awakened something primal within her guts as he exhaled. It was a scent so alluring that even the most well-trained service dogs would lick at a nut-sack if it contained such a perfumed treasure. Hotdogs and corned beef. The musk of a real man.

“You look like a tramp died, and somebody fashioned their skin into a wearable leotard,” Chris mumbled. “Now, get to work!”

“Will do, Mr. Boss, man!” Jennifer replied.

With a swivel, Chris strolled off into the staff toilets. At that very moment, Jennifer prayed to God, praying that Chris was about to wank himself to death over her courteous words. Resting on the edge of the bubbling fryer, she could almost picture him in there. She’d done the same dirty deed herself for the past few months. His pants would be dropped, sloshing around on the piss-soaked floor. His face, however, would be focused, right hand jerking up and down, mining away for that white, salty gold. Sure, he’d have to take breaks due to the dreaded wanker’s cramp. But Jennifer could feel it in her heart, he’d be thinking of her until he finally came. He’d spurt so hard it’d plaster his hands, like a college student, covered in crumbs as they dig for that last Pringle in the can.

Nicole, the shift supervisor, was tossing burgers by Jennifer’s left, blabbing away. She was a nice girl, and she’d never done anything to warrant Jennifer’s hatred, but there was something off about Nicole. What it was, who knows, but they’d worked together for almost a year now, and Jennifer still couldn’t make direct eye contact with the woman. Jennifer did wonder, however, if it had something to do with Nicole’s unblinking stare.

Jennifer knew very little about Nicole’s upbringing or personal life. She kept to herself, which in most cases would have been fine and dandy, but Jennifer had her own theory about the girl’s life. That theory went a little like this. WIND-CHIMEY MUSIC TIME! At age 9, Nicole’s father surprised her with a puppy, and she fell in love with it at first sight. After three weeks of caring for her new, canine best friend, the pooch decided to take a giant shit on the bedroom floor. Little Nicole, after discovering this betrayal of trust, threw the dog out of her bedroom window. Her parents then rushed into her room, hearing their daughter’s traumatized screams.

Nicole would be pointing to the open window, a terrified expression on her dainty face.

Mum and Dad look out into the front garden and see their new dog seems to have exploded like a meaty tomato. They turn back to face their daughter and ask her what happened. She stumbles to her feet.

“It just fell out of the window,” the child chirps, as orchestral monks begin to chant in the background, most likely in Greek. “The silly puppy.”

Dad turns to mum. He’s shitting his britches. No words are exchanged, but both parents know what must be done. Pretend nothing happened, because if they do punish Nicole, there’s a strong chance she’ll kill again and they’d rather not become homemade holiday jewelry.

When the authorities finally catch Nicole, it won’t be for another thirty years. They’d kick down the door, guns raised, Nicole standing there with a dismembered scrotum dangling from her mouth. Then when mum and dad get interviewed by the local news, they’d reply with the same old response.

“Oh, we just can’t believe it,” they’d say. “She’d never harm a fly!”



The winter air was sharp today, and Jennifer’s nipples were no different, continually pointing to the north, like a set of pink wind-socks. She’d made the annual pilgrimage to her mother’s house up in Scotland.

Her father wasn’t present, and he never would be, having passed away in September of last year. He’d worked as a coal miner for most of his adult life and was damned good at his job. His skin may have adopted the same palate as an unwashed Umpa-Lumpa, but the man had worked his fingers to the bone, just to provide for his family. Unfortunately, the dangers of mining only arose when it was too late. Her father had told her on many occasions of a small bird he kept in the mine. If there was gas, the bird would tweet like hell. Her father, then, being a loving man, named the bird Hidey due to its talent for staying perfectly still for long periods. It was a crying shame when it turned out Hidey was actually just really fucking good at being dead.

Jennifer’s mother, Grettel, was waiting in the doorway to her cottage, watching her daughter’s approach. A grin etched its way across Jennifer’s lips, widening her heavily shadowed eyes.

Grettel felt tempted to hobble down the path and help Jennifer with her luggage. Still, she batted the thought away like a loose piece of poo, clinging to her buttocks in the hope of one day returning to its cozy cave. She’d gone through seventeen hours of childbirth with Jennifer. SEVENTEEN! So, if the kid had to struggle on the path, so be it. Her daughter’s legs would recover, but Grettel’s vagina would forever be a mess of flaps that whistle as she walks simultaneously on both sides of the street. She had always found it surprising that a stray pirate hadn’t mistaken it for a treasure map or a fingerless artist’s best origami Swan.

The scent of fresh food teased Jennifer’s nostrils as she dropped onto her seat by the table. Nostrils, that’s a word you don’t hear often enough, isn’t it? Grettel limped over with a plate in her hands and dropped the gourmet meal down before her starving daughter. Jennifer couldn’t wait to tuck in and devour the fish dish.

Grettel slumped onto the chair at the opposite end of the table.

“So, is there a special someone in your life then?” she asked.

The abruptness of the question threw Jennifer off to such an extent that she began to choke on her food. She coughed and wheezed as a fish-finger tried it’s damned hardest to test her gag reflex. In this situation, most mothers would leap to their child’s aid, but this was Grettel. Instead, a look of joy crept across Grettel’s lips, watching Jennifer’s face become bluer than a Smurf’s prostate. When Grettel was younger, she’d received no such aid from her parents. Those were different, tougher, and better times. If a child was choking, they’d fix the issue themselves. That or they’d pass out from exhaustion. Either way, brain-damage is a small price to pay for a valuable life lesson.

By this point, Jennifer looked to be verging on exploding, her mouth puckering like a timid asshole, one whose owner wished to battle an inbound fart.

Bloosh! A projectile flew across the room, the fish-finger exiting Jennifer’s gaping mouth. It had failed its mission, but the war was not over. Thwap! It slapped Grettel across her leathery face.

"Thanks for the help, mum!” Jennifer snapped. “And no, I don’t have a partner.”

The sincerity in her voice sent a shiver of disappointment up her mother’s spine. 27 years old, and the girl hadn’t been on a single date.

“Isn’t there anyone at all?!” Grettel snapped.

“There is one guy at work,” Jennifer replied, sipping at her water. “My boss, Christopher Bland.”

Grettel released a sigh, relieved.

“Well, you should ask him if he’d like to go on a date!” she said, speaking exactly how real people speak. “There’s no point in being coy about these things when there’s North Korean’s less malnourished than your poor snatch!”

For once, Jennifer knew her mother was right. If Chris was to finally polish his cock to the point where wise men would rub it for good fortune, she’d have to take that leap. Her legs trembled at the thought of him filling her in like a winning bingo card.



The drive-through window was devoid of customers, a subtle change in Jennifer’s usually busy work-day. She didn’t dislike the folk who ate here, and she was far from judgmental. Instead, much like a skilled hooker, what she felt was the tremendous guilt that always came with her position. She knew it was organizations like hers that thrived on destroying the lives of innocent people. They were fast-food companies that she wished to name for the sake of grounding this train-wreck of a story, but she couldn’t. If she so much as utters those copyrighted words, this book will end rather anticlimactically at a mere 1984 words.

An ironically named Flurry of air tickled the back of her neck. The unexpected warmth caused her to jolt away from the window. In doing so, she caught Chris’ eye, adopting the same expression as a dog who’s just had its balls snipped. Undoubtedly confused, but mostly just waiting for the inevitable canine uprising. With the grace of a drunken yeti, Chris paced over and touched Jennifer’s face. Crew the fucking battle stations, Jenny! I repeat, this is the real thing, Moisten the hatches! The moment had arrived, she had to tell him now.

“Somebody’s puked in the toilets,” Chris whispered.” “Go and mop it up.”

It wasn’t quite the intimate proposal she’d expected, but just hearing his voice made her wetter than a slug’s belly.

The seat by the drive-through window slid backward as Jennifer leaped to her feet and headed for the lavatories. Passing by Chris, her right hand brushed against the sheathed, tippy-top of his penis. Though the interaction only lasted for a brief second, she felt as though she’d touched the cock of God.

Jennifer had been mopping away for over ten minutes, and the mess was going nowhere. Whoever had left this shit behind, their pooter must be whistling like a panpipe. Jennifer’s daydream about that person’s unhappy donut was brought to an end as the door to her back opened. She felt terrified. Too terrified to turn and investigate the interruption.

Before Jennifer could so much as release a nervous fart, fingers wrapped around her neck. They felt like those of a farmer, about to royally fuck up a chicken’s day. Whoever it was, they thrust her into the wall.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard that your grandmother will feel it!” a voice yelled into her ear.

Jennifer’s suspicions were answered. It was Chris. The logistics of his statement made no practical sense, but this was the moment Jennifer had been waiting for. Only now did she notice his cock was pressed up against her ass. The only thing separating the two was the black fabric of her tights, and it couldn’t hold on for much longer.

Jennifer could feel herself getting wetter with every passing second. Bam! Chris began to thrust his shaft between her cheeks. He wasn’t even inside yet, and she already felt on the verge of cumming.

Chris’ hand constricted around her neck. If Jennifer was a guitar, she’d sure as shit be over-tuned by now.

“Yeah, that’s the stuff,” Chris grunted into her ears, sounding like a caveman who’d just discovered a stone Fleshlight. His cock attempted to venture deeper into the fibers of her tights, finally reaching the entrance of her tight, virgin asshole. A battle was on between the thinnest of papers and a woodpecker with low blood sugar.

Jennifer had fantasized about having Chris break her in with a brisk anal pounding, but there was one problem. She’d been in such a rush this morning that she’d missed the chance to drop a brief, tactical poo. That nugget of excrement was now a nuclear-tipped torpedo. Forest Gump once said that life is like a box of chocolates, and that box was about to nuke Chris’s cock from orbit. The thing was virtually touching cloth, and if Chris propelled his one-eyed-wonder-worm any deeper, he’d be invited inside by a curious, brown turtle.

Anal was, then, off the menu, and in all honesty, it seemed unfair to Jennifer that Chris should have all the fun. Almost as though this fantasy was purely designed for frustrated individuals who don’t know what it is they actually want. She spun around, pulled his hand from around her neck, and shoved Chris to the ground. He flew backward, an excited smile taking pride and center on his face.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard that your grandkids are going to walk with a limp!” she yelled while lowering her tights and panties.

The drapery fell around her ankles, revealing an immensely snug vagina, surrounded by a dense shrubbery of pubic hair. She knelt before him, and within seconds, she was tearing the jeans from his legs.

Jennifer leaped onto Chris, grinding back and forth against his hardening shaft, akin to a lumberjack who’d never been introduced to axes. Chris’ face turned a shade of red, and Jennifer knew precisely why he was so happy. He wanted, no, he needed to shove his knob so far inside her that whoever could prize it out would be crowned the next King Arthur.

“Get ready, big guy,” Jennifer whispered.

Her left hand slipped down his abdomen, positioning his beanpole before her minuscule hole. This was going to be a tight fit, but she couldn’t wait any longer.

“Oh, fuck yes!” she screamed, thumping down onto his shaft with a loud plup!

With a deflowered smile on her face, their eyes met. It was at that point she realized she’d fucked up. If the look on a man’s face could be gauged in levels of discomfort, he’d currently be at having your nipples sandpapered by an arthritic badger with a hankering for detail. Blood began to pool around Chris’ twitching waist. Jennifer froze, utterly terrified.

“What the fuck have you done to my salmon sealer?!” he shrieked.

Jennifer didn’t respond, and no matter how hard she willed it to comply, she couldn’t beckon her body to move. What if she hoisted herself up only to find his cock had fallen off? What if the thing was still held in her flytrap like a treasured holiday keepsake?

Chris’ impatience reached critical mass. With a mighty thrust, he threw her aside, only to be met by the sight of his snapped pool-noodle, staring up at him like a disappointed orphan. Jennifer crashed into the sink, and it hurt like hell, but she couldn’t concentrate on the pain. Not with Chris’ headless meat-bandit glaring at her. Vivid flashbacks to her school days flooded her mind. Only this time, the pencil she’d borrowed and snapped was attached to her boss’ midriff.

“My God!” she cried.

It looked like somebody had checked to see if a sausage was cooked in the middle and just thought fuck it, I’ll eat it raw.



Saturday, a day to which most folks were happy to relieve themselves of the drudgery of work. Still, Jennifer’s weekends were duller than a black-hole’s anus.

The ding of the bell at the front door sent a jolt up her spine, causing foamy toothpaste to spill from her mouth. She ran from the bathroom and bolted down the stairs faster than a bullet, yanking the door open. At the other side stood Larry, the local postman. A grin crept across his chapped lips in reaction to the sight before his eyes. A gorgeous young woman, foaming at the mouth like a blonde rottweiler.

“Hi Larry!” she said. “Sorry, I was just brushing my teeth.”

Larry simply continued to stare. Jennifer knew he had a thing for her, and that thing was now poking through his trouser leg like a turtle in search of fresh lettuce. There was a time, many moons ago, where she’d had considered letting him fuck her.

“I’ve got a package for you, my love,” Larry mumbled, fiddling with the box in his hands. “Don’t worry, I haven’t peeked inside. Haha!”

Jennifer snatched the parcel from the sweaty little sausages he called fingers, smiled, and closed the door.

The parcel slammed onto the kitchen sideboard. She’d not ordered anything, and it wasn’t her birthday for another three months. So, what could it be? Within seconds, she tore at the cardboard. As she reached inside, something cold and slimy brushed her fingers. Without letting fear get the better of her, Jennifer pulled out a bizarre object.

“Holy sheet,” she whispered, eyes expanding like the vagina of a petite whale, about to get shafted for dear life.

Anal beads jiggled in her hands, seven rubbery jewels of ass-pokery. There was a small brown note attached.

“You broke me, so now it is my turn to break you. Regards. C.”

Two hours had passed, and after much deliberation, Jennifer dropped onto the bed with all the grace of an elderly orangutan. She slipped off her black panties, sliding down her legs with ease. Then she peered down to the carpet. There they were. The purple beads, leering at her like a caterpillar in desperate search of a spare cocoon. Chris, that sly bastard. She knew he was dirty, but expecting her to pop these cherries into her poop-shoot was a whole other can of worms. Nonetheless, her mind begged for her to do it, to give in to Chris’ advances and open her ass to a new world of sensations.

With the instruments of her possible destruction held in her left hand, she elevated her legs, wrapping her feet around her head. She assumed she looked flexible in this position, but she felt like a traumatized crab or a leftover pretzel.

Piff, piff. Her anus puckered and winked with trepidation, watching as the beads closed in. If she was going to do this, she had to jump straight into the water and ride the waves. With a quiet, yet satisfying plop, the first bead popped in. To Jennifer’s surprise, it felt great. It felt natural. After wiggling the blob of plastic around for a few seconds, she ventured deeper. It was easier than she’d expected to get another bead into her ham-flower. Another plop echoed throughout the room as the next guest entered the newly opened B&B in her rectal cavity.

Three beads had entered, and her legs were now starting to cramp, but the sexual euphoria was worth the pain. She grasped the end of the string connecting the beads and shoved them as far as they could go. WARNING. WARNING. MISSION FAILED. The rope snapped with a twang, ricocheting back into her clenched fist. She peered down to inspect the damage, legs still cramping, and when you look into the abyss, the abyss gazes back. It looked like somebody was giving birth to a jelly-baby, and the little bastard didn’t feel quite ready to face the outside world. She was Tom Hanks, her morale was running low, and her chances of saving Private Ryan were looking slim.

Ten minutes had gone by, and Jennifer was still paralyzed from shock. Half of the beads were still in her hand, and the others, like little Caroline, caught in a fleshy VCR between their world and ours. Those beads were Matthew McConaughey, this was Interstellar, and the black hole was browner than a mixed ball of Play Dough.

She nipped at the tuft of white string that was dangling from her balloon-knot, but the more she heaved, the more it held onto its prize, like a child who’d rather die than depart with their beloved Kinder-Egg. Then, like a ballsy scuba-diver, and to Jennifer’s utter dismay, they vanished. To make matters worse, her legs came smashing down from behind her head like anvils. This was a sticky situation, and unlike a cat with its head stuck between two fence posts, no amount of butter would dislodge Jennifer’s new friends.

Three days had passed, and the beads were still firmly lodged deep within Jennifer’s anus. She’d tried to force them out, but they liked their new home, so she respected their wishes and left them there. Frodo had given up and told Gollum he could just keep the ring. Was this entirely safe, and wouldn’t the cheap plastic eventually poison her from within? The answer is yes, but continuity went out the window around the same time she’d snapped Chris’ cock like a Stretch-Arm-Strong with nothing left to give. She did, however, know that his penis would somehow be perfect again the next time they met.

Before she broke more fourth walls than a claustrophobic bulldozer with anger issues, her phone began to buzz. With an enthusiastic swipe, she answered and pressed the device to her ear.

“So, did you get my kinky little present, you, dirty slut?” a deep, male voice murmured over the crackling line, like a pervert on a low budget.

She hadn’t read the caller’s name, so it was either Chris or telemarketers had drastically stepped up their game.

“Uh, this is Jennifer,” she replied, nervous. “Is that Chris?”

“I’m meant to be enigmatic, for fuck’s sake!” he replied. “Anyway, I want you to come over to my place tomorrow. My wife is away, and I’ve got a few lessons to teach you.”

Jennifer’s heart almost burst from her ribcage as though even it could no longer stand this dramatic bullshit. Before she could respond, Chris hung up.

Jennifer bit her lip and stared out the kitchen window. She knew what she wanted, but was that the same thing Chris wanted? To poke her vagina to such a depth, the bastard would strike oil?



The wind had an icy edge that nipped at Jennifer’s exposed legs. Chris had texted her his private address, and here she stood outside the front gate. Her master was only meters away, but she couldn’t bring herself to approach the house. What if he’d changed his mind and no longer wished to destroy her tender pussy? The indecision, coupled with the author’s poor planning choices, quickly ended as she slapped herself hard across the cheeks. It wasn’t like she had any reason not to go in.

Leaves crunched beneath her feet as she trotted up to the house and pounded on the door like a debt-collector whose only acceptable means of payment is a swift schlong to the caboose. Contrary to her expectations, the door flew open. Christopher was standing there, wearing nothing but a tie and a pair of white socks. He looked shifty enough to be capable of peeling an orange in his pocket, but Jennifer was excited nonetheless.

Chris didn’t speak, instead, gesturing for her to enter his erotic abode, out of the blistering cold. The last sentence rhymed, but this one does not.

Jennifer entered the living room, excited, nervous, horny. Her hypnotic state was quickly diminished when something hard smacked her across the ass from behind. She pivoted to see Chris, slapping a paddle into his palm with a crazed expression on his face, like a serial killer with limited weaponry.

Whoosh! His hand sliced through the air and clasped tightly around Jennifer’s throat. She’d always been terrified of E.T. as a child, and Chris’ long fingers only brought back the horror. But the thought of him choking her out like a prized turkey made her damper than ever. The moment had lastly arrived, and Jennifer’s eyes widened at the prospect of what was to come.

“Get ready,” he whispered, spinning her around and throwing her over the table.

Chris rubbed his mighty-morphing-pants-rudder up and down between Jennifer’s supple ass-cheeks. This brought forth a spell of Deja-Vu in Jennifer’s mind, but she had no time to obey the laws of storytelling permanence. He yanked her pants down, and with a powerful thrust, drove his beef-thermometer into her tight hole.

“Ouch,” she huffed, having expected at least a little foreplay. Still, he’d wedged his cock in there without so much as a clitoral tickle. Chris, however, was already pounding away, but his penis, it was tiny. She’d heard of barely touching the sides. Yet, she felt as though she was being plowed by an over-enthusiastic chihuahua. " Well, this is fun."

Five grueling minutes later, and Chris’s grunts of pleasure were now starting to grate on Jennifer’s ears. This was the first time she’d ever let a man inside her wundergarten, and she felt thoroughly disappointed with the results.

Bang! The door behind them flew open, and a furious, female cry entered the sweaty room.

“What the fuck are you doing with my husband!?” the woman yelled.

Much like in the events of Apollo 13, a small object ejected from Jennifer’s body, quickly followed by a blubbery fart and a further series of airborne projectiles. Tom Hanks may have fixed a spaceship, but anal beads, heated to internal-body temperature, were something else entirely. Chris’ miniature poodle-noodle must have dislodged the beads, and they were on a direct collision course with the face of the individual in the doorway.

Jennifer wanted to turn around and face the intruder, but this was Armageddon, and it’d take more than Ben Affleck’s boyish good looks to reroute those meteors. The woman bellowed once again, and Jennifer wished she hadn’t, but she recognized the voice. Could it be who she thought it was? There are too few good space movies to parody in one frigging paragraph, so we’ll leave that there.

Jennifer finally twirled around to witness her prosecutor. It was Nicole! Nicole is Chris’s wife? MY GOSH, THAT’S QUITE THE TWIST!

How will Jennifer get away with this disgusting act, and what of the inflight beads? Find out in the next installment of this sensual series.


© 2019 by J. P. Walters. 

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