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OPH-194 Twelve Inches Plus
Twelve Inches Plus
(Book Three)
Ophelia Press
OPH-194
Karl Flinders
$1.95
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Excerpt
His slimness made him look taller than his nearly five-foot ten. He was both lithe and compact. The shoulders were straight-he consciously straightened them to prove his point-and his chest could only be called manly. His nipples had been dispassionately erected by the needle spray of the shower, accenting the good development of his pectorals. No one, of course, would compare his physique with a Greek god’s, the way they invariably compared Bill Powers’…
Jud felt that curious, ulcer-like ache in the pit of his stomach he always experienced when he thought of Bill Powers. His former buddy Bill Powers, the one friendship, the one association uncontaminated by sex, now completely denied him thanks to that vindictive letter from Anna Farrell, Girl Castrator-oops, Mrs. Bill Powers.
Him turn Bill Powers into a queer? Bill Powers?
He only hoped Bill was getting enough fucks out of dirty old Anna up there at Cornell to make it worth while.
Jud Elkov, the queer’s delight. Anna had as much as said that in her letter. And wasn’t it true? But that didn’t make him queer, did it? After all, there had been a Mrs. Jud Elkov…
Jud folded his arms against his chest. This way his biceps stood out. They’d been nearly invisible before Bill persuaded him to take up the body-building exercises. Now these exercises were his only communion with Bill Powers, the one thing he never neglected. Have to protect the goods…
His stomach was flat and hard, hardly a triumph at nineteen. But a twenty-seven-inch waist was a little unusual in one so muscular, and it kept him from looking hipless. His thighs were lean but hard, his calves had been well-developed even before the exercises. For his body alone, they ought to treasure him.
The ice-blue eyes from his Swedish mother were something of a surprise under the thick thatch of black hair. The hair, the high cheekbones, the full lips were his Slavic heritage from his Lithuanian father. The last of the Romanovs…
It was not a face that struck strangers as out-of-the-ordinary.
So… was that everything? Not quite. Jud swiveled sideways and glimpsed in the mirror the contours of his rear end. His derriere, the Brooks Brothers tailor had said discreetly, was a tailor’s delight. And a queer’s delight. If he had a dollar for every pat, for every fondle…
He pursed his lips. “I love your lips!” He’d heard that more than once. His lips didn’t care much any more whom they kissed. But they still cared what they kissed. So maybe Anna wasn’t that right about him after all… yet.
He stepped back from the mirror. Once more he could see the full naked length of him. A good physique. Didn’t he owe it to his customers? Was there something he’d left out? He couldn’t think of anything. Certainly no one, no queer, would ever take notice of the cock that arched out from his groin, that sprung like an ungrounded flying buttress from the trim nest of black curly pubic hair to hang a third of the way to his knees. Surely no queer would be interested in the pair of billiard balls that were too big to hang between his legs and kept his cock pushed out. It was his personality they went for, his wit, his charm…
Jud turned sideways and straightened up. “No wonder you have a strong back,” one queer had said, “carrying all that. What does it feel like?” What does anything feel like you’ve had all your life?
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