Tape Measure
A Fictional SPH Story by bienbyswitch9.
I never wanted to.
She stood at the foot of the bed, completely naked, holding something behind her back with a smile that made my stomach drop. Not a cruel smile—not exactly. It was the smile of someone who’d spent weeks planning a surprise and finally gets to reveal it. Anticipation mixed with barely contained excitement.
“I picked something up today,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “Something I think you’re going to have… complicated feelings about.”
I swallowed hard. “What is it?”
She brought her hand forward slowly, drawing out the moment, and I saw what she was holding. A tailor’s measuring tape. The soft, flexible kind, yellow with black markings that seemed to stretch on forever.
My cock—what little there was of it—twitched against my thigh.
“A tape measure?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Mmhmm.” She climbed onto the bed, straddling my legs, resting her weight just above my knees. From this angle, I could see the glint in her eyes, the slight flush creeping up her chest. “I got to thinking about something the other day. About comparison.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Comparison?”
“Comparison.” She let the tape dangle from her fingers, unfurling it slowly. Six inches. Eight. Ten. Twelve. I watched the numbers descend, each one feeling like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for.
“Do you remember last month,” she continued, “when you asked me how it felt? Your cock inside me?”
I nodded. I remembered every word of that conversation. It was burned into my memory—the hesitant question, the long pause before she answered, the careful way she’d chosen her phrasing. It feels good, baby. It’s just… different than what I’m used to.
Different. Such a gentle word for such a devastating truth.
“Well,” she said, letting the tape measure trail across my chest, “I’ve been thinking about that. About what ‘different’ really means. And I realized I’ve never actually seen the numbers. Never put it into perspective.”
Her hand slid down, the tape trailing behind it, across my stomach and lower. My breath caught as she wrapped the cool plastic around my semi-erect shaft.
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
I was fully hard now, or as hard as I ever got. The tape pressed against my skin, and I felt absurdly vulnerable—exposed in a way that went beyond mere nakedness. Every inch was being measured, cataloged, judged.
She positioned the tape carefully, pressing the end against my pubic bone and smoothing its length along my shaft with clinical precision. Her expression shifted from playful to focused, as if she were measuring a science project.
“Four inches,” she announced. “Almost exactly.”
Heat rushed to my face. Hearing the number spoken aloud felt different than seeing it, somehow. More real. More damning.
“Is that… is that normal?” I hated how small my voice sounded.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she withdrew the tape and slid off the bed, disappearing into the closet. I heard her rummaging around, opening boxes, moving things aside. When she emerged, she was holding something that made my blood run cold—and simultaneously made my pathetic cock throb.
It was her dildo.
Not just any dildo—the dildo. The one I’d found in her drawer early in our relationship, the one she’d sheepishly admitted was “on the larger side.” The one she used when I wasn’t home, when her own fingers weren’t enough, when she needed something I couldn’t provide.
She held it up next to the tape measure, and my mouth went dry.
“This,” she said, wrapping the tape around the base of the toy, “is nine inches.”
Nine. The word echoed in my skull.
She laid the toy against my thigh, pressing it flat so the tip extended far past my own erection. The contrast was obscene. My four inches looked like a child’s toy next to that massive slab of silicone. It wasn’t just longer—it was thicker by a ridiculous margin, thick enough that her fingers couldn’t fully encircle it.
“I want you to really look at this,” she said, her voice dropping to something lower, softer. More dangerous. “Really take it in.”
I looked. I couldn’t not look. The visual was brutal in its honesty—nine inches of thick, veined, realistic cock pressed against my leg, dwarfing my own attempt at manhood. I could see exactly where my tip ended and where the dildo continued, could see the five inches of difference that I would never, ever be able to make up.
“Five inches,” I whispered. “That’s… that’s how much longer it is.”
“Longer and thicker,” she corrected, not cruelly—just factually. “It’s not even close, is it?”
I shook my head. My cock was leaking now, betraying me, leaving a damp spot on my stomach. Humiliation and arousal churned together in a nauseating cocktail that only made me harder.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. Her smile widened as she reached down and picked up both items—the tape and the dildo—positioning them side by side.
“I measured it,” she said, pointing to the tape. “Four inches. That’s what I get when you’re inside me. Four inches of… hmm.” She seemed to search for the right word. “Of you.”
The way she said it—of you—made clear exactly how inadequate those four inches were.
Then she moved the tape up, starting at the base of the dildo and extending to its tip. “And this is what I get when I’m alone. Nine inches. Nine inches of something that actually reaches the places I need touched.”
She looked at me then, met my eyes with an expression of genuine sympathy that somehow hurt worse than mockery would have. “Do you see the problem, sweetheart?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” she continued, setting the dildo aside but keeping the tape measure in her hand. “I’m trying to be honest. You asked me to be honest, remember? That’s what we agreed on.”
I remembered. It had been my idea, this arrangement. I’d told her I wanted the truth about my size, about how I compared, about what she really thought. She’d been reluctant at first—worried about hurting my feelings, not understanding why I’d want to hear such things.
But she’d come around. Clearly, she’d come around.
“I’m not enough for you.” The words tasted bitter as I said them, but there was a sweetness underneath—the familiar rush of humiliation flooding my system like a drug.
“No, baby.” She shook her head slowly, but not to deny it. “This isn’t enough.” She gestured at my cock, small and leaking and pathetic against my stomach. “Four inches isn’t enough. Four inches has never been enough, not for what I really need.”
She repositioned herself between my legs, spreading them wider. The dildo sat on the bed beside me, its tip glistening under the bedroom light, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“I want you to say it,” she said. “I want you to acknowledge what you are.”
The familiar heat of shame-and-arousal pulsed through me. My wrists strained against the silk bonds, though I wasn’t really trying to escape. “I’m small,” I whispered. “Four inches. That’s… that’s small.”
“Smaller than most men,” she prompted.
“Smaller than most men.”
“Much smaller than what I prefer.”
“Much smaller than what you prefer.” My voice cracked on the words, but I forced them out.
She smiled, genuinely warm now, and leaned forward to kiss my stomach. Her lips traveled lower, ghosting across my hip, avoiding my desperate erection entirely. “Good boy,” she murmured against my skin. “Such a good boy for admitting it.”
The praise sent a shiver through me. I wanted to touch her, to grab her hair and guide her mouth where I needed it, but my hands were bound. All I could do was lie there and let her orchestrate whatever she had planned.
She pulled back and picked up the dildo again, holding it thoughtfully. “This,” she said, almost to herself, “this is the spot I need hit.” She ran her fingers along its length, from base to tip, and I saw her thighs press together involuntarily. “It used to feel so good when I felt him cum this deep inside me. Like I was completely owned.”
Him. The word landed like a punch to the gut. She meant an ex, of course—some man from her past who’d been blessed with the kind of equipment I could only dream about. I knew she’d been with men like that. She’d told me, during one of our late-night truth sessions, about the men who’d filled her in ways I never could.
“Would you like me to show you?” she asked suddenly, and the question startled me.
“Show me?”
“Show you what you’re missing.” She was already positioning herself over the toy, spreading her legs, guiding the bulbous head toward her entrance. “Show you what it looks like when I’m actually satisfied.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. All I could do was watch as she slowly lowered herself, inch by agonizing inch, onto the dildo.
Her face transformed. The playful teasing expression melted into something raw, vulnerable, and utterly transporting. Her jaw went slack, her eyes fluttered closed, and a low moan escaped her lips—a sound I’d never heard her make during sex. Never. Not once in all our time together.
“Oh fuck,” she breathed, her hips rocking forward. “Oh, that’s… that’s so much better.”
The words cut deep, but I was too mesmerized to look away. She looked gorgeous like this—back arched, breasts swaying, sweat already glistening on her skin. Her inner walls stretched visibly around the toy’s girth, and I could see her lips part around it, struggling to accommodate its sheer size.
“Do you see?” she gasped, moving more deliberately. “Do you see how much I have to stretch? How much space it takes up?”
I nodded dumbly. My own four inches were nothing compared to this. It was like watching a different species entirely.
“I need this,” she continued, and now she was riding in earnest, bouncing with increasing urgency. “I need to feel full. I need to feel like there’s something actually there, inside me, reaching places that…” She trailed off, lost in sensation.
I watched her lose herself, my bound hands twisting in the silk, my small cock aching with neglect and overstimulation all at once. She was right there in front of me, fully exposed, fully vulnerable, and I’d never felt more useless in my entire life.
“When you’re inside me,” she panted, “I can barely feel you. Do you know that? I mean, I feel something, but it’s like… it’s like a ghost of what I actually need.” She leaned forward, bracing one hand on my chest for leverage, her hips working the toy with practiced rhythm. “My pussy stretches for this. This is what my body was made for.”
A moan rose from somewhere deep in my chest—not of pleasure, exactly, but of something adjacent to it. The humiliation was overwhelming, almost unbearable, and yet I was so hard it physically hurt.
She noticed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she said, breathless, laughing. “Lying there with your little four-inch cock while I fuck myself on something that’s actually adequate. Watching me get what you can never give me.”
“Yes,” I admitted, the word barely audible.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I’m enjoying it.”
“Of course you are.” She sat up fully now, finding the angle she needed, and began to rock with a rhythm that spoke of experience. Her free hand found her clit, rubbing tight circles, and I knew she was close. “That’s the most pathetic part of all of this.”
I watched her climb toward orgasm, watched the flush spread across her chest, watched her face contort with pleasure she’d never shown me. The dildo disappeared inside her again and again, swallowed up to the base, and I imagined what it must feel like—to be that deep, to fill her that completely.
“You’re almost there, aren’t you?” I asked, and the question came out broken.
“Closer than I’ve ever gotten with you,” she confirmed, and then her body seized.
The orgasm looked devastating. Her back arched sharply, her thighs clamped around the base of the toy, and a guttural cry tore from her throat. I watched her ride it out, watched the waves of pleasure crash through her, watched her fingers work frantically at her clit until finally, mercifully, she collapsed forward, gasping.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Her gasps gradually slowed into deep breaths, and she raised her head to look at me with an expression equal parts satisfaction and tenderness.
“You see,” she said, her voice hoarse, “that is what I need. That is what four inches can never give me.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I know.”
She pulled herself off of the dildo—slowly, carefully, with an obvious reluctance that made my chest ache—and held it up to my face. “Now let’s see just how much you are lacking.”
She brought the tape measure back, positioning it against my still-erect cock, then moving up to the nine-inch mark on the tape. She held the toy next to it, so I could see exactly how much longer and thicker it was. The visual was almost comical in its disparity.
“All this space,” she said, running her finger from my tip up to the nine-inch mark, “how does it feel that you’ll never reach here? That there are places that other men have been that you simply cannot get to. No matter how hard you try?”
I stared at the gap. Five inches of empty space—five inches of her that I would never touch. So many nerve endings, so much pleasure, all of it beyond my reach.
“That there are feelings you can’t give me,” she continued, “that I long for. That I miss. That I need.”
The emphasis on that last word settled into my chest like a stone, heavy and permanent. It wasn’t just that she wanted more. It wasn’t just a preference. It was a fundamental need, something wired into her biology, and I simply could not provide it.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, not sure what else to say.
“Don’t be.” She leaned down and kissed me, soft and sweet, her lips warm from her exertion. “This is why I have the toy. This is why we have the arrangement we have. You give me other things, and I give you other things, and we make it work.”
The arrangement. Our careful system of compromises and substitutes. The toys, the games, the humiliations that I’d asked for and she’d reluctantly embraced.
“Now,” she said, and her voice shifted back to that commanding tone, “I believe there’s something you need to do.”
She pressed the dildo against my lips—the toy still slick with her cum—and I understood.
“Clean it,” she ordered. “Every inch.”
I opened my mouth and obeyed.
The taste was overwhelming—salty, musky, distinctly her. I ran my tongue along the length of the toy, savoring the residue of her pleasure, imagining what it would be like to actually beat the kind of cock that could make her feel this way. Nine inches of silicone stretched past my lips, and I worked it dutifully while she watched with a satisfied expression.
“Good boy,” she murmured, stroking my cheek as I cleaned every last trace of her from the toy. “You’re so good at using your mouth, even if you can’t use anything else properly.”
The mild praise mixed with the harsh reality—as it always did—created that familiar swirl of shame and arousal that was fast becoming my favorite drug. My cock throbbed relentlessly, still untouched, still leaking.
She seemed to realize this, because when she withdrew the now-clean dildo, she finally turned her attention downward. With one hand, she untied my right wrist, freeing it from the binding.
“Two fingers,” she breathed. “That’s all you get, and that’s all a dick like that deserves.”
I understood. She wanted me to finish myself off. Not with a full hand, not with any kind of actual stimulation—just two fingers, the barest minimum, just enough to get me over the edge. It was humiliating and liberating all at once, and I was so far gone that I didn’t care anymore.
She watched me bring my hand down, watched me wrap two fingers around my pitiful erection. The touch was light, almost nothing, but after everything I’d witnessed, it was enough—more than enough.
“Repeat after me,” she said, and her voice was soft but firm. “My dick is too small.”
“My dick is too small,” I echoed, my hand moving slowly.
“I can’t reach places my partner needs reaching.”
“I can’t reach places my partner needs reaching.” The words came out shaky, broken, achingly true.
She smiled down at me, that perfect blend of sadistic amusement and genuine affection. “My dick is closer to a clit than my partner’s ideal size.”
I felt myself flush even deeper. “My dick is closer to a clit than your ideal size.” I corrected instinctively, and she laughed.
“Oh shit, that’s actually true if you think about it,” she said, momentarily breaking character. And that was the part that hit hardest—the moments when her genuine reaction slipped through, when the truth peeked out from behind the role she was playing.
“Say it again,” she ordered, recovering her composure. “The whole thing.”
“My dick is too small,” I gasped, the pressure building. “I can’t reach the places you need reaching. My dick is closer to a clit than… than your ideal size.”
She leaned close, her lips brushing my ear. “And what are you?”
“I’m pathetic,” I groaned, stroking faster with just those two fingers. “I’m inadequate. I’m not what she needs, not what she wants, just close enough to pretend and not enough to…”
The orgasm hit before I could finish the sentence. It tore through me with an intensity that bordered on painful, my body arching off the bed, my free hand clawing at the sheets. I came across my own stomach in weak, watery spurts—nothing impressive, nothing that could compare to the kind of release she’d just given herself.
When it was over, I lay there panting, coated in my own thin spend, feeling simultaneously wrecked and completely at peace.
She gently untied my other wrist, then settled beside me, pulling the covers over us both. For a few minutes, neither of us spoke. I could feel her heartbeat against my side, slow and steady, while mine gradually returned to its normal rhythm.
“Thank you,” I finally managed, and the words felt inadequate but necessary.
She propped herself up on one elbow to look at me. “Was it too much?”
“No.” I shook my head. “It was… exactly what I needed.”
She studied my face for a long moment, searching for any sign of distress. Finding none, she settled back down against me with a contented sigh. “Good. Because I’ve been planning that for weeks. Building up the courage.”
“You were nervous?”
“Of course.” She laughed softly. “It’s not exactly natural for me, you know. Saying those things. But seeing how you respond…” She traced patterns on my chest, her touch light and soothing. “It does something to me too.”
I knew without asking what she meant. It wasn’t the same as my kink—she didn’t get off on my humiliation the way I did—but there was a freedom for her in the arrangement too. A permission to be honest about her needs, to stop pretending that everything was fine, to ask for what she actually wanted.
“I like that I don’t have to lie to you,” she said quietly. “About any of it. That I can tell you the truth about what I need and you won’t fall apart.”
“The truth is what I asked for.”
“The truth is brutal sometimes,” she warned. “You know that, right? This isn’t going to get easier. If we keep going down this path, if we keep being honest with each other…”
I turned to face her, seeing the concern in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
She hesitated. “I mean that the truth doesn’t change. Your dick is still going to be four inches next year, and the year after that. And my needs are still going to be what they are. This isn’t a game we’re going to outgrow or get bored with—it’s just… reality. And reality says I’m always going to need more than you can give me.”
The words should have stung. They probably would have, if we hadn’t just spent the last hour confronting exactly that reality in the most intimate way possible. As it was, they simply felt like the next step in a conversation we’d been having since the beginning of our relationship.
“I know,” I said. “And I’m okay with that. Because this, right here—the honesty, the vulnerability, the complete lack of pretense—this is worth more to me than pretending I’m something I’m not.”
She kissed me then, long and lingering, and I felt the connection between us pulse with something deeper than sex.
“Plus,” she added with a mischievous smile when she pulled back, “the toy needs to be cleaned after every use, and your mouth is good for something.”
I laughed despite myself. “Always happy to serve.”
She snuggled closer, nestling her head into the curve of my shoulder. “Good. Because I’m already thinking about what I’m going to measure next.”
My stomach flipped, a fresh ripple of anticipation running through me despite my exhaustion. “Next?”
“Well, we’ve established length,” she said innocently. “But we haven’t really talked about girth, have we?”
I felt my spent cock twitch against my leg. “Oh.”
“I was looking online the other day,” she continued, her voice light and conversational, “and I found some interesting statistics. Did you know that the average girth is almost five inches in circumference?”
I did know. I’d looked it up myself, late at night, measuring my own body against the numbers I found online. Four point two inches of girth. Below average, just like everything else.
“Not sure where I fall,” I lied, and she saw right through me.
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” she said with a yawn. “For now, go to sleep. You’re going to need your energy.”
I lay there in the darkness, her body warm against mine, the dildo still on the bed between us like a promise of things to come. In the morning, there would be more measurements, more comparisons, more brutal honesty delivered in her gentle voice.
I couldn’t wait.
The End.
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