The Complete Big Rock Collection

Prologue

My dick is fucking awesome.

But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all its accomplishments.

First, let’s start with the obvious one.

Size. You can saddle up on a rock-star cock at the rodeo of your pleasure.

You’re probably wondering—just how big is it? C’mon. A gentleman doesn’t tell. I may fuck like a god, but I’m still a gentleman. I’ll open your door before I open your legs. I’ll hold your coat for you, I’ll pay for dinner, and I’ll treat you like a queen in and out of bed.

But I get it. You want an image in your mind. A measurement in inches to make your mouth water. Fine. Imagine this. Picture your fantasy-sized cock; mine’s fucking bigger.

Moving on to looks. When it comes to my best asset, all I want you thinking about are these words: long, thick, smooth, hard. If the Renaissance masters were carving sculptures of cocks, mine would be the model for all of them.

But honestly, none of this would matter if my dick didn’t possess the most important attribute of all.

Performance.

Ultimately, a man’s dick should be measured by the number of orgasms it delivers. I’m not talking about the solo flights. That’s cheating. I’m talking about the Os that can make a woman’s back arch, her toes curl, her windows shatter… Her world rock.

How much pleasure has my dick wrought? I don’t kiss and tell, but I’ll leave you with this. My dick has a perfect track record.

That’s why it fucking sucks that he has to go on hiatus.