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Physical Exaggerations in Erotic Fiction

Twelve inch penises! Half a quart of “cum”! 48DD breasts! 200 orgasms!

A huge turnoff. Get out a ruler and see just how long even nine inches is. Testicles, prostate and all related glands together can’t contain more than a couple of ounces of semen+sperm. A woman with a 48 inch bust is grotesquely obese. (A reasonably in-shape woman with a very big bust would be more like a 34G.) If anyone had 200 orgasms in a single session (“real” orgasms, not hiccups), they’d die of a heart attack.

I can see the purpose of the exaggerations. When you’re fully erect, it’s an exhilarating feeling, and you feel huge. A big ejaculation feels like half a quart. Maybe a guy (and fiction like this is clearly written by men) boasts that he can induce 200 orgasms (i.e., playing the woman like a pinball machine). But it seems juvenile. Fiction written by 13-year-old virgins with no real-world experience.

1. “Wait!” you might say. “Tami Smithers had 136 orgasms in one session!” (“Coming to the End”, Part 30.)

I wrote that twenty years ago and my view now is that I got carried away. So did Katie Lynch when (and she admits this) she copied those scenes for the end of her classic “Surprise Assembly”.

I had read somewhere that the record for most orgasms in one hour by a woman is 134, which is how I got 134 as the record which McMasters was trying to break. But Tami’s were not in one hour; she experienced them during a session lasting over four hours. And that “134” woman wanted all those climaxes. Tami’s were involuntary, caused by the apparatus in Lab 6 which forced her body to respond, and that was just the last of a series of sessions during which her body’s capacity was gradually built up. (As we learn in “Interview with the Professor”, left to herself Tami is a once-and-it’s-over kind of girl.)

I’m not even sure that “134 orgasms in hour” is a real finding or just a myth. I’ve known women who could come over and over again, but as I got older I realized they didn’t really want all those orgasms. A couple of good ones was enough; after that they just wanted to sleep. They let me go further just to placate my ego.

2. “And what about Kai-Kai? Seven impregnations a day??”

The idea of seven “impregs” a day was an attempt to one-up SpacerX’s marathon web novel “Six Times a Day”, a story with an interesting premise (though not well written, especially the dialogue). As for what goes on in The Sire Project, an 18- or 19-year old male like Kai-Kai can, I think, manage seven ejaculations every day, if they are spread out, and if he mentally gets used to that daily rhythm. Further, for Kai-Kai orgasm is not a quenching of desire (which would surely be exhausted by mid-day), but something he has to do, to save millions of lives. Angela wonders what is going on in his mind as he obediently pumps it out on a daily schedule:

As Ms. Canworthy put it to her once, “For Kai-Kai, ejaculation is almost as casual as urination.” Which raised another question — to what extent did Kai-Kai feel pleasure? He experienced at least seven orgasms a day, each one powerful, at least they seemed so, and longer than average. The endorphins constantly in his blood no doubt contributed to his serene demeanor. One might think that he enjoyed immense sexual pleasure. But for him, orgasms were not something he sought, an option. Having orgasms was his duty. He had no choice. That had to change the nature of his “pleasure”, at least a little bit, and maybe a great deal. (“Draining the Sire”, Part 13.)

Later in the story Kai-Kai explains to Angela that creating thousands of children, whose blood plasma will be used to make the autoimmune vaccine, is a moral obligation:

The Sire said, “Think of it this way. What if I just refused? Said to the Project folks, no, I don’t want to ejaculate for you, I just want to be a regular guy, have a girlfriend, get married, maybe have like two children? That would be a crime, a terrible crime against the human race . . . These testicles exist to make the world better, to make people healthy, not be so sick any more. And the Project people, people like you, are all so dedicated. They’ve got their parts of the job to do. So how can I not do my part of the job? (“The Sire Reaches a Milestone”, Part 11.)

As for the ejaculations all being fertile, in a typical male sperm count falls precipitously after the first orgasm, which is why couples trying to conceive are advised to have sex no more than about three times a week. But there is such a thing as “hyperspermia” and AFAIK it’s not a dysfunction. As for the volume of his ejaculations (sometimes 10cc or more, as measured in the lab during “drainings”), it’s not unheard of. The only thing I wrote that was flatly untrue was about his testicles. Being called on to produce a lot of sperm doesn’t make them grow.

3. And about Kai-Kai . . . and that penis . . .

I decided that the “Sire” would have stereotypical “studly” equipment so as to contrast with his gentle personality and the dignified atmosphere of the impregs. After some research it seemed that 23 cm was about the maximum realistic length. No matter what they claim in porn, very, very few men are that long. But they do exist. And naturally, girth would be proportionate.

Also I wanted to introduce some reality into the genre. Have you noticed that in porn the guys with the “14-inch schlongs” can never go in all the way? (Even though the women they are poking into are not lacking in experience.) Having a very large penis is a curse, not a blessing. This is a recurring theme in The Sire Project:

“What is that?” Angela asked.

Mrs. Hatwood was suddenly out of breath after having pulled the huge object out of her, so Kai-Kai answered. “That is what’s called a retainer,” Kai-Kai said. “The lady is encouraged to put it in a couple of hours before the impreg, or maybe the night before if she can.”


“Um . . . so they can get used to . . . me . . .” Kai-Kai’s voice trailed off and he blushed deeply. Of course the dildo’s purpose was obvious and Angela kicked herself for asking the question and making Kai-Kai answer it. Kai-Kai was embarrassed by the size of his penis, or at least by its unavoidably intimidating effect on the women about to be pierced by it. He had a great fear that it would cause pain. Maybe that explained his shy and gentle personality. He didn’t want to stick out, since that other part of him stuck out way too much. He was even sensitive about the force of his ejaculations. During a series of experiments in Lab 6 they found he could launch semen almost three meters. When they congratulated him on his excellent muscle tone, his response was, “Won’t my spurts hurt when they hit the lady’s cervix?” (“Angela’s Day with the Sire”, Ch. 2.)


“He’s such a sweet kid. And I think he has it rough. He’s got a huge dick that’s more a curse than a blessing, he’s always naked while everyone else is fully dressed, and he has to squirt into seven women a day, every day, whether he’s turned on to them or not, women who must seem like wrinkly old bags to a boy his age. He deserves some pleasure for its own sake.”

(“Angela’s Day with the Sire”, Ch. 5.)

And later:

It must have been just an extra millimeter — Angela couldn’t tell if he was in any further — but Mrs. Penka suddenly cried out again. Kai-Kai froze. Without his moving, she gasped again, obviously in pain.

The naked young Sire, the first two inches of his penis squeezed into this older woman’s vagina, looked up at everyone. “I — can’t do this. She’s hurting.”

“No, no, it’s ok,” Mrs. Penka said, tears coming from her eyes, sweating in her traditional Bulgarian costume, on all fours with her skirt flung up.

“This might be too much,” Angela whispered to the professor. Phil and Duvon seemed to agree. Mrs. LePen, Mrs. Viedert and Mrs. Barbosa, who had come into the room, looked at each other, wondering what would happen.

Kai-Kai looked up at the professor uncertainly. “Young man,” he said, his pipe in his hand as if to make a considered statement, “I think you ought to ejaculate.”

The boy looked down at the junction of penis and vagina, a vagina far too small to accept such girth.

“You don’t have to go in any further, Kai-Kai,” Angela pointed out. “You can just come.”

She was right, of course. An orgasm from Mrs. Penka seemed out of the question, but it wasn’t necessary. Kai-Kai could come in her and the force of his spurts could easily make it to her cervix, which was what counted.

“It’s not — that — uhhh,” the troubled boy said. He squeezed his eyes shut as if he was the one in agony. “I - I can’t come. Not when she’s hurting.” Angela knew what he was talking about. Hurting a woman with his hugeness was Kai-Kai’s biggest fear, and it was happening now. (“The Sire Reaches a Milestone”, Ch. 9.)

Going in “all the way” with a woman is very satisfying, but it is a pleasure that Kai-Kai can experience only rarely. It is easy to agree with Angela’s eventual conclusion that, far from living a male fantasy, Kai-Kai is an unfortunate young man.

4. “Nobody can go naked through the snow!”

Well yes they can, if they keep their metabolism up by running, and it’s not too great a distance. I subjected poor Tami to the cold often, to intensify her longing for clothes. In other stories I use cold and snow to make the nudity more striking, and also, because the cold is endured, to show that these are “strong naked characters”. That’s my niche.

Humans can evolve resistance. Indigenous people in Tierra del Fuego and Australia could live in below freezing environments with minimal clothing. Short of that, people get toughened through exposure. Tami got to the point where she could walk naked and barefoot across a snowy college campus (though she didn’t exactly enjoy it) (“Tami the Strong”, Part 26). Brigid the majorette has gotten used to marching in freezing weather wearing practically nothing, which more or less is the experience of real-life majorettes. (She was buried in snow once, unrealistic, but it turned out to be a dream Rod was having.) In “The End of Blanke Schande”, we see naked females lounging around on the snow, though that was in the sun and it was above freezing. All this is perfectly possible. At Blanke Schande’s Alturas campus in the mountains, the girls are acclimated via the “five minute chill” -- they stand outside on a cold night until they start shivering, then five minutes more. Doing this every night for two months increases their endurance.

On the internet it’s easy to find naked models (who I hope are being very well paid) rolling around in the snow for ten, fifteen minutes. There’s the well-known video in which 36-year-old Natalia Avseenko swims in the White Sea in salt water which is actually below the freezing point. She’s underwater (with periodic help from an oxygen tank) for eleven minutes. Apparently she could survive this only after a long period of conditioning and training. But, like penis size, orgasms, ejaculations . . . there are limits. Nudity in the cold is not a common feature of erotic fiction, but even for those with that kink (which is called “psychrocism”), a story where a girl lives naked in the High Arctic, where people freeze to death unless they wear heavy furs, would be just too preposterous to engage one’s attention. This only works if she is a superhero like Dareen (see “NakedGirl”, Chapters 37 - 38), or perhaps an extraterrestrial being from a cold planet.

5. “What about Marisol?”

At one of my favorite bars, some years ago, the bartender and I were talking about another server who had moved away. “She was quite . . . noticeable,” the bartender said, rolling her eyes. “Those boobs were obviously fake.” “If they were real,” I said, “she would hate them by now.”

Having been involved with a couple of women with very large breasts, one of whom finally got reduction surgery, I can say: really big breasts are no fun for the woman who owns them. This was true of Tami’s friend Marisol. This is the first time we meet her, in “The Adventures of a Naked Girl in Love”, Part 6:

“This was my old boyfriend and his dog,” Marisol said in her thick Hispanic accent, pushing back her black hair and adjusting her bra in front with a hefty yank. She was standing next to her desk, trying to decide whether to put the picture in the unzipped backpack in front of her or in the trash can next to the desk. She decided to keep it.

Sitting on Marisol’s bed, Tami looked up at her. Marisol was a tough chick. Maybe she had to be because of the way she was. Marisol had the biggest breasts on campus. When guys whistled at her, which was often, she would promptly give them the finger. Maybe Tami should start doing that.

Much later, near the very end of “The Unintentional Nudist”, Tami sees Marisol in a private moment:

Rebecca, an early riser, had left. Marisol was in her bathrobe and combing her hair, sitting at the kitchen table. “We’ve got to wait until Muffy gets here,” she said, which only increased the mystery. As Marisol’s hands went up to comb out a kink, her bathrobe separated, giving Tami a view of her cleavage, her breasts hanging down without the support of a bra.

Marisol smiled shyly, then while still combing out the kink, scrunched her shoulders together in a vain attempt to bring her bathrobe back together. “Sorry, amiga,” she said.

“That’s O.K.,” her naked friend said, sipping the hot tea, one knee up on the chair supporting her face, the other bare foot swinging gently as it glanced against the floor. “I like it when someone else is naked, it gives me some company, so I’m not so, um, alone.”

Marisol, still combing, gave her a little look and then said, “O.K.,” and shrugged totally out of her bathrobe. It fell down around her hips as she kept combing. Tami tried not to stare but it was hard not to. The girl’s breasts were even bigger than she thought. Without a bra, they hung down almost to her waist, wobbling with the motions of Marisol’s combing, the areolas oval and four inches across, the huge dark brown nipples pointing cockeyed to each side.

Tami realized she was staring and felt like she should explain her attention. “Those look heavy.”

“Sí, muy heavy, muy pesado,” Marisol said. She put down her comb and reached over to where the salt and pepper were and for the first time Tami noticed a bottle of acetaminophen there. Marisol popped out three tablets and slurped them down with a gulp of tea.

Seeing Tami’s puzzled look, Marisol said, “They hurt all the time, and my back too. I have to take three in the morning, three at night. The only thing that really takes the pain away is codeine, and I got a prescription, but I don’t want to be drugged all the time. I’d rather hurt, but be awake.”

Tami really had no idea. “Why don’t you get them -- you know, have -- surgery?”

“I want to have kids, and breast feed them,” Marisol said. “I can’t do that after the operation. And it would be risky for me, because I bleed, my whole family does.”

Tami watched with hurt, knitted eyebrows as Marisol took something else that Tami hadn’t noticed next to the salt and pepper, namely a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She got a cotton swab out of one of the bathrobe pockets and wetted it. “Now my other routine. If I don’t do this I get a rash, or fungus.”

She hefted one breast up and rubbed underneath. She had to grunt to do it. Tami felt so sorry for her good friend who had to go through so much. It was weird, part of her couldn’t believe she was saying it, but it seemed so right. “Let me help you,” she said, and Marisol, just as unbelievably, said, “O.K.”

Tami found herself standing over her friend, lifting up one breast with both hands so that her friend could thoroughly rub underneath. The breast felt like a warm water balloon and must have weighed five pounds or more. Not being pressed in by a bra, it stood so far out that the nipple seemed a foot away from her chest. To carry these things around every day! And to have all the guys staring at them! Tami had always felt a kinship with Marisol, they were both always being stared at, but whereas being naked had its good moments, moments when she was alone and could enjoy feelings on her skin, for Marisol having big breasts was not any fun at all. “Ahh, that feels good,” Marisol said, leaning back for a moment. Then Tami carefully laid the breast down again.

“Well -- ” Marisol gathered her bathrobe around herself and excused herself. In a minute she was back, in her jeans and one of her specially fitted bras. Clearly she felt better with a bra on. Or maybe it was just her “game face”. She was hunting around for a shirt. (“Butterfly”, Part 14.)

Busty characters are fine, but there’s a limit. Like a huge penis, truly huge breasts are a curse, not a blessing.

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