Whether any guy will admit it or not the actual act of cheating is only half the maddening despair. The other half and the worst part is the distressing cringe of unbidden wonder of the size of the violator’s violater.
And it doesn’t end there.
Not only is it that she’d had this gargantuan chunk of meat plunged hard and deep up between her overeagerly wide spread legs, stretching her velvety love-tunnel out into bounds never reached before, sending shrapnel’s of orgasmic eruptions pleasurably spiked with silky pain throughout every sweet inch of her quivering sweat glistened body that were never felt before, holding her in such utter euphoria that the only thing she can will herself to do is rake her nails down his back with ecstatic screams expelling incessantly from the pit of her lungs, but had she used this iron rod like a Jell-O pudding pop as well.
The thought of it will eat at you like a pack of demons dancing around in your head, poking at your brain with their pointed pitchforks, driving you with their blatant laughs, practically boiling your blood. And it’s not like you’re going to go asking her about the size of the perp’s perp not only to keep from looking like an insecure twerp but also for fear of hearing the exact measurement, primarily one with a number in the double digits.
Whether or not it’s discovered the thought is still there: your girlfriend got got by the BIG DICK MONSTER.
And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing peewee about me. I consider myself, as well as many with whom I have bedded, to pack a decent sized hunk of burning love but even the majority of guys out there, no matter how great they’re blessed, feel the same way if their girlfriend has been soiled by foreign ground. Most of us would rather hear that the assailant chowed down on her whisker biscuit than the alternative.