The 52-Inch Setup
A Fictional Story by Cucked23.
“So, is Jack coming over or what?”
I glanced up. She was leaning against the counter, still in her oversized sleep shirt, her massive ass testing the limits of the fabric even though it hung loose everywhere else. Fifty-two inches. I’d measured it once, at her request—more like her command—with a tailor’s tape and everything. The number still didn’t seem real, but there it was, confirmed and documented, a circumference that defied physics as far as I was concerned.
“I was thinking we could meet him somewhere,” I said. “That new sports bar downtown, maybe. Grab some wings, watch a game.”
She wrinkled her nose, already shaking her head before I’d even finished. “No, let’s just have him here. It’ll be more comfortable, just the three of us. We can hang out, have some drinks, actually talk without some bartender breathing down our necks.”
There was something in her tone—a little too casual, a little too insistent—that made my stomach tighten. I knew what she knew. And she knew I knew.
She knew Jack’s dick size. Nine inches long. Seven inches thick. The numbers had come out months ago during some drunken party conversation, a game of “biggest secret” that had gone off the rails. I’d told her privately, after the fact, because the knowledge had been eating at me. And she’d latched onto it like a dog with a bone.
“Nine inches?” she’d repeated back then, eyes wide with a mockery that cut deeper than I wanted to admit. “And seven around? Jesus. That’s not a cock, that’s a forearm.”
Now, standing barefoot in our kitchen, she was angled toward me with her hip cocked, one hand idly tracing the curve of her own thigh. The sleep shirt rode up just enough to show the bottom swell of her cheeks, that impossible expanse of flesh that made my 4.5 inches feel even smaller than it was.
“Yeah, fine,” I said finally, because arguing with her was never a battle I won. “Home it is.”
She smiled—bright, genuine, and just a little too excited for a simple hangout with one of my friends.
—
Jack showed up around eight, a six-pack of some craft IPA tucked under one arm and an easy grin on his face. He was one of those guys who filled a doorway without trying, broad-shouldered and solid, with the kind of presence that made small talk happen around him rather than with him.
“Yo, what’s up!” He pulled me into one of those back-slapping bro hugs and handed the beer to my girlfriend, who took it with both hands and batted her eyelashes like she was receiving a bouquet.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” she said, her voice a little breathier than usual. “But I’m glad you did.”
I watched her turn toward the kitchen, and I watched Jack watch her turn. His eyes dropped immediately, tracking the sway of her ass like it was a hypnotist’s pendulum. The leggings she’d changed into were black and tight, the kind that disappeared into the crease and made it impossible to tell where fabric ended and skin began. Every step she took sent ripples through that fifty-two-inch masterpiece, and Jack’s jaw literally slackened for a second before he caught himself.
“Nice place,” he said, clearing his throat and dragging his gaze back to my face with visible effort.
I pretended not to notice. That was the role I played, wasn’t it? The oblivious boyfriend.
We settled into the living room, me in the armchair and Jack on one end of the couch. My girlfriend—ever the hostess—poured drinks, made sure everyone had what they needed, then positioned herself on the other end of the couch with her legs tucked under her and her body angled just so. The leggings stretched obscenely across her thighs, and every time she shifted, the fabric pulled tighter across her lap.
The conversation started safely enough. Work. Sports. Some movie Jack had seen. But she was different—animated, giggly, constantly reaching out to touch his arm when she laughed, leaning forward to grab his knee when she made a point. Her shirt was a V-neck that dipped low, and she’d stopped wearing a bra sometime before he arrived. Not that I’d said anything about it.
More than once, I caught her eyes flicking downward. Not at his face. Lower. At the lap of his jeans, where the denim bunched and folded in a way that suggested—hinted at—something substantial underneath.
Jack noticed too. Of course he did. Every time her gaze landed on his crotch, he shifted slightly, spread his legs a little wider, angled his hips like he was presenting himself for inspection. They had a whole silent conversation happening right in front of me, and I sat there sipping my beer like a chump.
“My ass is too big for this couch,” she announced at one point, laughing as she repositioned herself for the third time. “I swear, one of these days I’m gonna fall right off and take someone with me.”
“Nothing wrong with a big ass,” Jack said, and the way he said it was a compliment aimed directly at her.
“Fifty-two inches,” she said proudly, patting her own hip. “Can you believe it? Fifty-two.”
“Jesus.” Jack shook his head, eyes dropping again to her lower half. “That’s not a butt, that’s a national monument.”
She laughed, shoving his shoulder playfully, but then her eyes cut to me and something sharp entered her smile. “Well, you know what they say. Everything balances out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, even though I knew exactly where she was going.
“I mean,” she stretched the word out, savoring it, “some people get the big ass, some people get the big…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely, and then burst into laughter. “I’m just saying he got the personality, you know? The charm.”
Jack laughed too, but his eyes were on me, taking in my reaction.
“Okay, okay,” I said, forcing a chuckle. “Let’s not get carried away.”
She sat up straighter, clearly emboldened by the two beers she’d already put down. “I’m not saying anything bad. I’m just saying—well, you know. Not every guy can be huge down there. And that’s fine. Size isn’t everything.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Jack’s grin widened, that knowing male smirk that said he understood exactly what was being discussed. My face burned, but I couldn’t find the words to deflect.
“Besides,” she continued, reaching out to pat my knee with exaggerated sympathy, “you’ve got other qualities, baby. Like… hmm.” She pretended to think. “Give me a second.”
“Brutal,” Jack said, laughing.
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” She held up her hands in mock surrender, but the damage was already done. My 4.5 inches felt even smaller, tucked uselessly in my jeans while the two of them shared the joke at my expense.
—
The conversation drifted, but the energy in the room had shifted. She became bolder, more physical—leaning over the coffee table to grab the remote and offering Jack an extended view down her shirt, stretching her arms above her head to pop her back and making the fabric of her top ride up over the swell of her stomach, crossing and uncrossing her legs in slow, deliberate movements.
“I’ve been trying to get him to do that viral challenge,” she said at one point, tilting her head toward me. “You know the one?”
“What challenge?” Jack asked.
“The washing machine one.” She affected an innocent tone, but her eyes were dancing. “Where the girl climbs in to get something and then gets stuck, and the guy comes and, you know…” She waggled her eyebrows.
Jack barked out a laugh. “You want him to fish you out of the washing machine?”
“It’s not about the fishing,” she said, smirking. “It’s about what happens after.”
I shifted in my chair, suddenly very aware of how small the room felt. “Where’s this coming from?”
She ignored me, her attention fixed on Jack. “You know how it goes. Girl bends over, gets stuck in a compromising position, and the guy shows up ready to, uh… lend a hand.”
As she said it, she moved. Without any self-consciousness at all, she slid off the couch and settled onto the floor, facing the hallway. Then she bent forward, planting her palms on the carpet, arching her back until her ass was up in the air in perfect doggystyle position. The leggings pulled impossibly tight, outlining every curve, every slope, every inch of that fifty-two-inch circumference.
“Like this,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at Jack with a grin. “Stuck. So helpless. How would you rescue me?”
The room went very still. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears. Jack was frozen on the couch, staring at her presented ass like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—like he wanted to crawl across the floor and bury his face in it. His jaw worked, once, twice, but no sound came out.
“Jesus,” he finally managed, voice thick. “That’s a hell of a position.”
“Help,” she said in a mocking little voice, wiggling her hips side to side. “I’m stuck.”
I was hard. I hated that I was hard, but my cock had its own opinions about what was happening in front of me. My girlfriend, bent over in doggystyle, showing my best friend her impossible ass, while making jokes about getting stuck in the washing machine. And him, staring at her like a starving man staring at a steak.
She held the pose for a long moment, then pushed herself up with a laugh. “Anyway, that’s the challenge. Very popular on the internet.”
“You should definitely do it,” Jack said. “For the content.”
“For the content,” she repeated, settling back onto the couch, this time a little closer to him than before.
—
An hour later, Jack excused himself to use the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut, she was on me.
“I want you to do me a favor,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone.
“What?”
She was practically vibrating with excitement, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. “Go for a walk. Or something. Just… get out of here for a little while.”
I blinked at her. “What? Why?”
She rolled her eyes as if I were being deliberately dense. “Because I want some time alone with him. Are you serious? Can’t you see the way he’s been looking at me all night?”
“He’s my friend,” I said stupidly. “He’s just being nice.”
“Baby.” She leaned in close, her lips almost touching my ear. “He wants to fuck me. And I want to fuck him. And his cock is nine inches long and seven inches thick, so if you could just… give us the apartment for a little while…”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. She’d never been this direct before—never dropped the pretense entirely. The teasing, the jokes, the casual cruelty—I could handle those. They existed in that gray space between playful and humiliating. But this was different. This was her looking me in the eye and asking me to leave so she could get fucked by my friend in our home.
“I—” The words caught in my throat. “That’s not—you can’t just—”
She pulled back, her expression hardening. “Actually, you know what? Forget I asked. I’ll find another way to make it happen.”
“Another way?”
But she was already moving, already shifting back into hostess mode. Jack emerged from the bathroom a moment later, and she greeted him with a smile that could have melted steel.
“What’d I miss?” he asked, settling back onto the couch.
“Just talking about what we need from the store,” she said smoothly. “Actually, this is perfect timing. We’re out of almost everything.” She turned to me, all sweetness and efficiency. “We need eggs, milk, bread, toilet paper, paper towels, coffee, sugar—should I make a list?”
“I can go later,” I said. “Or tomorrow.”
“No, I need stuff for breakfast tomorrow.” Her jaw set in that way I recognized, the one that meant she’d already made her decision. “And you know how crowded the stores get on Sunday. Why don’t you run out now? Jack and I can keep each other company while you’re gone.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn’t object. He just settled deeper into the couch, spreading his legs a little wider.
“It’s late,” I tried. “The stores are probably closing.”
“The one on Fifth is open till midnight.” She was already pulling out her phone, tapping away. “I’ll text you the list. Take your time, no rush.”
I looked at her, then at Jack, then back at her. She met my gaze evenly, no hint of shame in her expression, just calm certainty. This was happening. She was going to make it happen whether I cooperated or not, and we both knew it.
“Fine,” I heard myself say. “I’ll go.”
Her face lit up. “You’re the best, baby.” She hopped off the couch and crossed to me, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. Then she leaned in and whispered, her breath hot against my ear, “I’ll tell you everything when you get back.”
I grabbed my keys and my jacket and moved toward the door on autopilot. My cock was still half-hard in my jeans, a fact that both confused and enraged me. This was humiliating. This was the most emasculating thing that had ever happened to me. And yet—
“Hey,” Jack called from behind me. I turned to look at him. He was sitting exactly as I’d left him, one arm draped over the back of the couch, a lazy smile on his face. “Grab me some more of that IPA, yeah? The one I brought?”
“Yeah,” I managed. “Sure.”
My girlfriend’s phone buzzed in my pocket—she’d texted me the list from hers. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. A full list, meticulously organized by store aisle, with a final item at the bottom that made my stomach drop.
Condoms. Magnum XL. In case of impromptu visitors. 😉
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and pulled the door shut behind me, hearing the click of the lock engage as I walked away.
The night air was cold and sharp, but it did nothing to cool the heat crawling across my skin. I could still see her in my mind’s eye—bent over in doggystyle position, wiggling that impossible ass at my friend, making jokes about getting stuck in the washing machine. I could still see the way he’d looked at her, like he was already picturing what that ass would feel like slamming against his hips.
I pulled out my phone again and stared at the list.
Condoms. Magnum XL.
Nine inches long. Seven inches thick.
I started walking toward the store, my tiny cock throbbing with a humiliation I couldn’t escape.
—
The walk to the store was a blur. My legs carried me down the sidewalk while my brain replayed every second of the past hour on a loop. My girlfriend, bent over in doggystyle, presenting that 52-inch ass to Jack. The way he’d looked at her—like he was already inside her. The whispered question in my ear: “Go for a walk. Or something.”
And the list. The fucking list, burning a hole in my pocket with its final item in bold: Condoms. Magnum XL.
The store was one of those fluorescent-lit convenience chains that never quite felt clean, no matter how hard the staff mopped. I grabbed a basket and moved through the aisles on autopilot—eggs, milk, bread, the usual bullshit. My hands shook slightly as I reached for the toilet paper. My cock was still half-hard, an aching, shameful reminder that some twisted part of me was aroused by all of this.
When I got to the pharmacy aisle, I stopped dead.
Rows of condoms stretched out before me. Regular. Thin. Ribbed. And there, at the end of the shelf, like it was waiting for me: Magnum XL. The gold-and-black box gleamed under the harsh lighting. For the larger man, the package declared in bold letters. Designed for maximum comfort and fit when size matters.
I stared at it for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest. Nine inches long. Seven inches thick. Would a Magnum XL even fit that? What if it was too small? The thought made my stomach lurch, and my traitorous cock twitched in my jeans.
I grabbed the box and threw it into the basket without looking at it. The cashier—an older woman with a bored expression—scanned everything without comment, but I swear her eyes lingered on the condoms for a beat too long.
“Forty-two sixty,” she said flatly.
I paid and left, the plastic bag swinging from my hand as I stepped back into the cold night air. The walk home was longer than the walk there. Every step was a countdown.
She’s probably already got her hands on him.
He’s probably already got his cock out.
She’s probably already bent over the couch, that perfect ass in the air, waiting for him to
I stopped mid-step, leaning against a streetlamp to catch my breath. My erection was fully hard now, straining against my zipper, leaking a wet spot into my boxers. I was a mess. A humiliated, cuckolded, pathetic mess. And the worst part was, I couldn’t stop imagining it.
What was she doing right now? Was she on her knees in front of him, taking those nine inches down her throat while I stood outside like an errand boy? Was she riding him on our couch, her massive ass bouncing while she screamed his name? Was he fucking her from behind, his huge cock splitting her open in ways I never could?
I pulled out my phone, half-hoping there’d be a text. There wasn’t. Just the list she’d sent me, glowing on the screen. I could picture her now, too busy to even check her phone. Too busy to wonder where I was.
I started walking again, faster now, the bag swinging at my side. The apartment building loomed ahead, and my heart pounded faster with every step. The parking lot was quiet—a few cars, a few shadows. I could see our bedroom window from here, the blinds mostly drawn but not fully. A sliver of warm light spilled out onto the pavement.
Our bedroom window.
The realization hit me like a punch to the chest. They were in the bedroom. Our bedroom. The bed where I’d slept next to her every night for the past three years. The bed where I’d made love to her with my pitiful 4.5 inches, never once suspecting that one day she’d be in there with a real man.
I climbed the stairs slowly, deliberately, my legs heavy with dread and anticipation. When I reached our floor, I stopped outside the door and listened.
At first, I heard nothing. Just the hum of the building’s heating system and the distant sound of a TV somewhere down the hall. But then, faintly, I caught something else. A sound. Low, rhythmic, muffled by the walls but unmistakable.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of a bed frame hitting the wall. The sound of flesh against flesh. The sound of sex.
My hand trembled as I fumbled for my keys. I don’t know why I bothered—I knew the door was locked. She’d locked it when I left, clicking the deadbolt shut with a finality that had felt like a dismissal. But I tried the handle anyway, knowing it wouldn’t turn.
It didn’t.
I pressed my ear to the door, my breath fogging against the wood. The sounds were clearer now. I could hear her—my girlfriend—moaning. High-pitched, desperate, the kind of sounds she made when she was close, when her body was reaching its limit. And underneath that, I could hear him. Jack. Grunting. The sound of his body slamming against her.
“That’s it,” she gasped, her voice muffled but clear. “Right there, oh my God, right fucking there—”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“You like that?” His voice was deeper than I’d ever heard it, rough with exertion. “You like this big cock?”
Yes, she moaned. Yes, yes, yes—
Tears pricked at my eyes. I don’t know if they were tears of humiliation, rage, or something else entirely. But they were there, hot and stinging, trailing down my cheeks as I stood in the hallway like a fool, listening to another man fuck my girlfriend in our bed.
I should have turned around. I should have left, gone to a bar, gotten drunk, done anything other than stand there. But I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The bag of groceries dangled from my hand, the condoms inside it weighing me down like a bag of stones.
“Fuck, your pussy’s so tight,” Jack groaned. “You like that big cock, don’t you? You like how I stretch you out?”
“Yes—yes—oh my God, yes!” Her voice broke on the last word, dissolving into a moan that seemed to go on forever.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I could picture it so clearly. Her on her back, legs wrapped around his waist. Or maybe on her stomach, that massive ass propped up on a pillow for better access. Or on her hands and knees, her face pressed into the sheets as he drove into her from behind. The images cycled through my mind, each more vivid than the last, each one making my cock throb with sick, shameful arousal.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Jack asked, his voice strained, as if he were close. “He’s at the store, right? Buying condoms for me to use on his own girlfriend?”
She laughed—a breathless, wicked sound. “He’s probably down in the parking lot right now, jerking his little cock while he thinks about us.”
“That’s pathetic,” Jack panted. “That’s so fucking pathetic.”
“I know,” she moaned. “I know, and I love it— harder—yes, harder, fuck me harder—”
The bed was really slamming now, the rhythmic thumping blending with her cries and his grunts into a symphony of betrayal. I pressed my forehead against the door, my eyes squeezed shut, and listened to it all. Every moan. Every grunt. Every dirty word they said about me while I stood there, useless and forgotten.
“I’m gonna cum,” Jack warned. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside,” she gasped. “Inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel your cum inside me—I want his leftovers to be your load—”
Thump. Thump. Thump. THUMP.
A low, guttural moan from him. A sharp intake of breath from her. And then—silence. Well, not silence exactly. Heavy breathing. The creak of the bed as bodies settled. Soft, satisfied murmurs that I couldn’t quite make out.
I waited. I don’t know how long. Long enough for my legs to start to cramp and my hand went numb from clutching the grocery bag so hard. Long enough for the tears to dry on my face and leave behind a tight, salty residue. Long enough for my erection to soften, then harden again, then soften once more in a bewildering cycle of shame and arousal.
Then, finally, footsteps. The sound of the bedroom door opening. Padding across the floor. A pause—a long, pregnant pause—and then the deadbolt clicked open.
The door swung inward, revealing my girlfriend standing there in the entryway. She was wearing one of my t-shirts—an old band tee that hung to mid-thigh—and nothing else, as far as I could tell. Her hair was tousled. Her lips were swollen. Her face was flushed with the unmistakable glow of a woman who’d just been thoroughly, spectacularly fucked.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening in mock surprise. “You’re back.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat had closed up completely. I just stood there, a bag full of groceries and Magnum XL condoms in my hand, staring at the evidence of what had happened while I was gone.
She reached out and took the bag from my numb fingers. “Thanks for picking everything up, baby.” She turned away, heading toward the kitchen, and I saw Jack emerge from the bedroom behind her.
He was shirtless, his chest still gleaming with sweat. His jeans were hastily pulled on but unbuttoned, and the outline of his cock—still semi-hard, still massive—pressed against the denim through his open fly. He gave me a lazy grin and a nod, as we’d just run into each other at the gym instead of in the middle of my own cuckolding.
“Sup,” he said, padding past me toward the couch. He dropped onto it with a satisfied sigh, spreading his legs wide. The smell of sex followed him—sweat and perfume and something raw and primal that made my head swim.
My girlfriend returned from the kitchen, two beers in hand. She handed one to Jack and kept the other for herself, perching on the arm of the couch next to him. The t-shirt rode up her thighs, revealing a thin trail of moisture glistening on her inner leg.
“Did you get everything on the list?” she asked, taking a sip of her beer.
I nodded dumbly, still standing in the doorway like an idiot.
“Good boy.” She smiled—warm and affectionate—and for a sickening second, everything felt almost normal. Then she reached over and placed her hand directly on Jack’s crotch, cupping the bulk of his cock through his jeans. “You were perfect tonight, by the way. Absolutely perfect.”
“Did you hear all that?” Jack asked, glancing at me with something between curiosity and pity. “Out in the hallway?”
My silence answered for me.
He laughed. Low, deep, genuinely amused. “Shit, man. Sorry. Well, not sorry. But you know.”
“Don’t apologize,” my girlfriend said, setting down her beer and sliding off the arm of the couch. She drifted toward me, her bare ass swinging with every step. When she reached me, she pressed her body against mine, and I could feel the heat radiating off her. Could smell him on her—his cologne, his cum, his sweat. It was intoxicating and nauseating in equal measure.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said softly, her lips brushing against my ear. “You’re going to go into the bedroom, and you’re going to clean up the beautiful mess we made in your bed. Then you’re going to change the sheets. We’ll order a pizza or something. And after that…” She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, her expression unreadable. “After that, we’ll see if we want to go for round two.”
I looked at her. Then at Jack, still lounging on the couch, watching me with that same lazy grin. His massive cock was pressed against the inside of his jeans, and I could see the exact shape of it—the length, the girth, the impossible size of it.
I remembered what she’d said about me, just minutes ago, in the heat of passion: He’s probably down in the parking lot right now, jerking his little cock while he thinks about us.
I remembered what Jack had called it: pathetic.
And I realized, standing there in the threshold of my own goddamn apartment, that I was still hard. Rock hard. Harder than I’d been in weeks.
“Okay,” I heard myself whisper. “Okay.”
My girlfriend smiled, and for a moment she looked genuinely pleased with me. Then she turned away, walked back to the couch, and settled into Jack’s lap as she belonged there.
“Don’t take too long,” she called over her shoulder. “Round two starts in an hour, whether you’re done or not.”
I walked into the bedroom, stepping over a discarded pair of her leggings on the floor. The room smelled like sex—like their sex—and the sheets were twisted into a sweaty tangle. In the middle of the bed, I saw it: a damp spot, still fresh, where she’d been lying when he came inside her.
My 4.5 inches throbbed with an arousal I could no longer deny.
I got to work.
—
Sometime later—I couldn’t say how long—the bedroom door opened. I’d finished cleaning and changing the sheets, and I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the Nashville skyline in the distance. My hands were clasped in my lap, hiding my still-hard cock. I must have looked like a man waiting for his own execution.
She slipped into the room and closed the door softly behind her. She had my t-shirt still—Moisture glistened between her thighs. She looked exhausted and satisfied, like a cat who’d just eaten an entire flock of canaries.
“Hey,” she said softly, crossing to sit beside me. The bed dipped under her weight. “You okay?”
I didn’t answer. We both knew the answer, and we both knew why she was asking.
She reached over and took my hand, threading her fingers through mine. Her touch was warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the filth that had poured from her mouth an hour ago.
“You were perfect tonight,” she said. “I mean that.”
“Perfect?” My voice came out hoarse. “I stood in the hallway and listened while another man—”
“And you stayed,” she interrupted. “You went to the store. You didn’t throw a fit. You didn’t call the cops. You handled it.”
I turned to look at her, searching her face for some sign of malice, some hint that this was all an elaborate joke at my expense. But her expression was soft, almost tender.
“Tell me the truth,” I said. “Did you plan this?”
She considered the question, tilting her head in that way she did when she was genuinely thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe. When I saw the way he looked at me, and when I thought about his size compared to yours… it just kind of happened.”
“Nine inches,” I muttered. “Seven inches thick.”
“Nine and a half, actually,” she corrected, and a note of wonder in her voice cut straight through me. “I measured while you were gone. He let me.”
Of course she’d measured. Of course she had.
“He’s still out there, you know,” she said. “Passed out on the couch. I think I wore him out.”
I swallowed hard. “What happens now?”
She squeezed my hand. “Now, we figure out what we want. Maybe this was a one-time thing.” Then she paused. “But his cock, babe. You don’t understand. It filled me. In ways you never have. Ways you never could.”
The words hung in the air, brutal in their honesty. But instead of collapsing under their weight, I felt something shift inside me. Something that had been waiting, hidden, for a long time. The arousal I’d been fighting all night surged to the surface, impossible to ignore.
“You’re hard,” she observed, glancing at my lap. “You’ve been hard for hours, haven’t you? Even while he was inside me?”
I couldn’t lie. I nodded.
She reached over and rested her hand on my thigh, her fingers trailing upward. “You liked it, didn’t you? The humiliation. The way we talked about your little cock while he fucked me with his big one. It turned you on.”
Another nod. My face burned, but I couldn’t look away from her.
“That’s so cute,” she murmured, her hand moving higher. “My poor little cuckold boyfriend. Hard as a rock because another man fucked his girlfriend better than he ever could.”
She unzipped my jeans slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving mine. When she pulled my cock out, it practically sprang into her waiting hand—all 4.5 inches of it, achingly hard and slick with pre-cum. She held it between her fingers as if it were delicate.
“So small,” she mused. “It’s almost funny. Jack’s cock is more than double this size. And so thick—I couldn’t even close my hand around it.” She wrapped her fingers around mine, and to my shame, her hand fit perfectly. “Like this. Just… completely full.”
I moaned, unable to help myself. The sound seemed to break the spell, because she smiled—that wicked, knowing smile—and began to stroke me.
“I’m going to make you cum,” she said. “Right here, right now. And while you’re cumming, I want you to think about him. About his huge cock splitting me open. About every time he made me scream in ways you never have. Can you do that for me?”
I nodded again, pathetic and eager in equal measure, my hips already thrusting weakly into her hand. “Yes. Yes.”
She leaned in close, her lips brushing against mine. “Good boy.”
Her hand moved faster. The sounds from the living room were quiet now—just the occasional creak of the couch as Jack shifted in his sleep. But in my mind, he was still awake, still in our bed. Still buried deep inside my girlfriend, stretching her in ways I could never dream of.
“You’ll never satisfy me as he did,” she whispered, her grip tightening. “You know that, don’t you? Even if you tried your hardest, even if you bought every pill on the market, you’d still be nowhere close. He made me cum three times. Three times. You haven’t made me cum in months.”
I was close. So close. The pressure built at the base of my spine, surging through me like a wave. Her words, her hand, the memory of everything that had happened tonight—it was all too much.
“Cum for me,” she commanded. “Cum thinking about his big cock inside me.”
My orgasm hit like a gut punch, violent and overwhelming. I cried out, my hips jerking as I spilled over her hand. She stroked me through it, milking every last drop, her eyes fixed on my face with an expression that was equal parts affection and amusement.
When it was over, I collapsed back onto the bed, panting. The ceiling swam above me. My little cock softened in her hand, shrinking back to its pitiful resting state.
She wiped her hand on the sheets—the fresh sheets I’d put on less than an hour ago—and lay down beside me. In the dark, I could hear her breathing. Could smell the lingering scent of sex and shame.
“So,” she said after a long moment. “Round two. You in?”
I stared at the ceiling, my heart still racing. In the next room, Jack slept peacefully, his massive cock spent and satisfied.
“I think,” I said slowly, “I think I need a minute.”
She laughed, soft and low, and rolled over to face me. Her hand found my chest, resting lightly on my skin. “Take all the time you need, baby. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
And the terrible truth was—she was right.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
The End.
