I Dated A Size Queen
An SPH Experience by Fitcoffeedude.
Then I saw her picture on a dating site. Kristine. Absolutely stunning. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a smile that cut right through the screen. I messaged her, and somehow she messaged back. We clicked immediately. Hours on the phone. Laughing, flirting, talking about everything and nothing. She was confident. Vocal. Nothing like the quiet girls I’d been with before.
We set a date. A casual coffee place downtown. Nothing fancy. I showed up a few minutes early, walking up to the entrance, scanning the crowd for her face.
She was already there. Watched me the whole time. She didn’t wave or call out. Just waited until I was close enough to hear her say it.
“Wow, big hands.”
I stopped. Looked down at my hands. They’re not particularly big, but okay.
She stood up, scanning me from head to toe, and then her eyes dropped to my feet. “Mmm, big feet! I bet your cock is huge!”
I nearly choked. She was beautiful. Standing there, radiating this bright, playful energy. Her eyes were dancing. She extended her hand.
“Hi, I’m Kristine!”
I shook her hand, still reeling. “Umm… I’ve had zero complaints!”
Zero complaints. What a stupid thing to say. Looking back, that was probably the first clue I was setting myself up for something. Like I was already apologizing, already bracing for disappointment. But in the moment, all I could think about was how badly I wanted her.
—
The first date was electric. We talked for hours. She was smart and funny, and she had this way of looking at me that made me feel both seen and exposed. Like she was already peeling back layers I didn’t know I had.
The second date came fast—drinks, dinner, and then back to her place. Things got heated. She gave me a blowjob that was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Aggressive. Vocal. She took me deep, gagged, kept going. I came harder than I ever had. I thought everything was perfect.
The next day, she suggested we go to a metaphysical bookstore: crystals, incense, tarot cards. Not my scene, but I didn’t care. I’d have followed her anywhere.
We were wandering through the aisles when she picked up a bookmark. Green lettering on white cardstock. One word: GROWTH.
She held it up, looked at me with that mischievous grin, and said, “You should put that in your pocket and see if it works!”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt my face go hot. My mouth opened and closed like a fish.
“Ummm… what did you say?”
She laughed. Loud. Full. The kind of laugh that drew glances from the older woman behind the counter.
“I’m just kidding, little guy!”
Little guy.
That phrase rattled around in my skull. She’d seen my cock the night before. She’d sucked it. Deep-throated it. Made me cum. And now she was calling me a little guy.
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know how to respond. I just followed her out of the store, pretending the bookmark comment was just a joke about personal growth. But some part of me knew. She was testing the water and dipping her toe into something I didn’t yet understand.
—
She picked the next date and location. Didn’t tell me where we were going until we pulled up.
A sex shop.
I blinked at the neon sign. “Uh… okay.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside like we were going to a candy store. Straight to the dildo aisle. Big ones. Thick ones. She picked up a mold of some pornstar’s nine-inch cock and held it up, frowning.
“My ex was this big, and boy, it was just too much!”
She shook her head, sighing dramatically. I stared at that massive silicone shaft. Too much? Was she complaining about too much? My stomach dropped.
“Oh damn. That’s like three of me,” I muttered under my breath.
She either didn’t hear me or pretended not to. She put the dildo down and wandered over to the gag gift section. I followed, dreading what she’d find next.
She found the tiny condoms. The joke ones. Brightly colored, packaged as “micro” or “extra snug fit.” She grabbed a box, held it up, and in a voice that carried across the entire store, called out:
“Hey, honey! Finally, someone has your size!”
She laughed, shaking the box, waving it around like a trophy.
I froze. The cashier—a hot, pierced blonde—looked up from behind the counter and started laughing. Customers turned. A couple browsing nearby snickered. I felt the heat rush to my face, spreading down my neck, burning across my chest.
She’s joking, right? I told myself. This is a joke. A couple thing. Flirting.
But the embarrassment hit hard. Deep. Primal. My dick was somewhere between confused arousal and terrified retreat. I wanted to melt into the floor. I also wanted to grab her and fuck her right there. That contradiction would define me for years to come.
—
We stayed together for a few months after that. She kept making comments—little digs. I’d brush them off, laugh along, pretend they didn’t cut. But they did. They were planting seeds. Seeds that didn’t sprout immediately.
We broke up for reasons unrelated to any of that. Life moved on. I dated other women. Had other experiences. But that feeling—being called out, humiliated, seen as small—it sat in my brain like a slow-growing fungus. Festering. Expanding.
Months later, I’d be jerking off, and my mind would wander back to that sex shop. The bookmark. Little guy. Her laugh. The way the cashier’s eyes had met mine, amused, knowing.
It wasn’t until years after Kristine that I finally understood. That embarrassment had burrowed into something deeper. Something I couldn’t ignore. And the more I tried to push it away, the more it came back until I stopped fighting it.
And I realized: I wanted it.
That first experience with Kristine didn’t create my kink overnight. But it planted the seed. The rest just took time to grow.
Maybe I should have held onto that bookmark after all.
The End.
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