Size Matters

I’d always been the guy who got the polite smiles and the “you’re sweet” comments at bars. At six-foot-two with broad shoulders from years of lifting, I looked the part, but when clothes came off, the truth came out too. Average. Maybe a little below if we’re being honest. It never stopped me from trying, but it kept me from closing the deal with women who chased the myth of “size matters.”

Then I met Vanessa at the gym.

She was impossible to miss: long brunette waves that hit mid-back, olive skin, curves that made yoga pants look illegal. Late twenties, maybe, with dark eyes that locked on you like they were measuring your soul, and everything else. She trained heavy, deadlifts, squats, bench, and she did it in tiny sports bras and shorts that left nothing to imagination. Her ass was round and firm, her thighs thick with muscle, her breasts full and high even when she was flat on her back pressing plates.

We started spotting each other. Small talk turned into longer conversations in the stretching area. One Thursday she caught me staring at her reflection in the mirror while she did hip thrusts.

“Like what you see?” she asked, voice low, amused.

I flushed. “Hard not to.”

She stood, wiped sweat from her neck with the hem of her bra, flashing a sliver of underboob that made my shorts tighten. “You’re not bad yourself. Strong. Consistent. I like that.”

We exchanged numbers that night. Texts started innocent, workout tips, memes, then got bolder. Late-night voice notes where her tone dropped an octave. Photos of her post-shower, towel barely covering anything. “Thinking about you spotting me tomorrow,” one read. 

“Maybe more than spotting.”

Friday evening she invited me over. “Bring your appetite,” the last text said. “I’m cooking.”

Her apartment was sleek, high ceilings, dark wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. She answered the door in a silk robe the color of midnight, loosely tied so it gaped at the chest and thigh. No bra, no panties. Just skin.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said, kissing my cheek. “But first… I want to see if the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?”

She smiled, slow and wicked. “That big guys are big everywhere.”

My stomach flipped. “I’m… average.”

Her eyes flicked down. “Let’s find out.”

She led me to the living room, pushed me onto the wide leather couch, then straddled my lap without preamble. The robe fell open completely. Her breasts were heavy, dark nipples already hard. She ground against me once, feeling me through my jeans.

“Getting there,” she murmured. “But I need the full picture.”

She slid to her knees between my legs, unbuckled my belt with practiced ease, tugged jeans and boxers down together. My cock sprang free, thick at the base, decent length, but nothing porn-star. She wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly, thumb circling the head.

“Not bad,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Thicker than most. I like thick.”

She leaned in, licked a long stripe from base to tip, then took me into her mouth. Warm, wet, no gag. She worked me deep, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling. I groaned, fingers threading into her dark hair.

“Fuck…”

She popped off, stroking me slick with spit. “You’re gonna stretch me so good. But first, I want you to eat me until I’m dripping.”

She stood, shrugged the robe off, turned, and bent over the arm of the couch. Ass presented, legs spread. Her pussy was shaved smooth, lips swollen and glistening already.

I dropped behind her, hands gripping her hips. I kissed the small of her back, then lower, spreading her with my thumbs. She was pink and perfect, clit peeking out. I licked slow, flat tongue from clit to entrance, tasting her sweetness.

“Mmm,” she moaned. 

I pushed my tongue inside, fucking her with it while my nose nudged her clit. She rocked back, grinding against my face.

“Yes—fuck—use that mouth. Get me ready for your fat cock.”

I added fingers—two, then three—curling to hit her spot. She clenched, thighs trembling.

“God, you’re good,” she panted. “But I need more. I need you inside me.”

She straightened, turned, pushed me flat on the couch. Straddled me reverse, ass facing me. She reached back, guided my cock to her entrance, then sank down slow.

We both groaned.

“Fuck—you’re thick,” she hissed. “Fills me so full.”

She started riding, slow circles at first, then bouncing. Her ass jiggled with each drop, cheeks clapping against my hips. I watched myself disappear inside her, slick and shiny.

“Tell me how it feels,” I growled, slapping her ass lightly.

“Stretching me,” she gasped. “So deep. Hitting places no one else reaches.”

She leaned forward, hands on my thighs, riding harder. I thrust up to meet her, the wet slap filling the room.

I gripped her hips, slammed up faster. Her moans turned to cries.

“Yes—yes—pound me. Use that thick dick.”

I sat up, pulled her back against my chest, one arm around her waist, the other hand between her legs rubbing her clit in tight circles.

“Cum,” I whispered in her ear. “Squeeze me. Milk me.”

She shattered, back arching, pussy pulsing, a gush of wetness coating us both. “Oh fuck—coming—coming so hard—”

I didn’t stop, kept thrusting through her spasms until she was whimpering, oversensitive.

“Turn around,” I said. “I want to see your face.”

She spun, straddling me again, facing me this time. Her breasts bounced as she sank back down. I sucked one nipple, then the other, biting gently.

“Look at me,” she ordered. “Watch me ride you.”

Our eyes locked. She rolled her hips in slow, filthy figure-eights.

“You like how tight I am?” she teased.

“Love it,” I groaned. “Love how you take every inch.”

She leaned in, kissing me deep, tongue tangling, teeth nipping. “Then give it to me. Fill me up. I want to feel you throb inside.”

I flipped us suddenly, her on her back, legs over my shoulders. I drove in deep, long strokes that made her gasp each time I bottomed out.

“Fuck—right there,” she cried. “Don’t stop. Breed me with that thick cock.”

The dirty talk snapped my control. I pounded harder, balls slapping her ass, sweat dripping between us.

“I’m close,” I warned.

“Inside,” she begged. 

I buried deep and erupted, pulse after pulse flooding her. She clenched, coming again with a broken moan, nails raking my back.

We collapsed, breathing ragged. She kissed my jaw, then my lips.

“Size does matter,” she whispered, smirking. “And yours matters a lot.”

I laughed, still inside her. “Glad I passed the test.”

She squeezed around me playfully. “Oh, we’re not done. Round two. I want to see how much more you can give me.”

She rolled us so she was on top again, already rocking slowly.

“Get hard for me again,” she purred. “I’m not finished with this dick.”

And just like that, the night stretched on—slow grinds turning frantic, positions shifting, her riding me reverse again so I could watch her ass bounce, then missionary with her legs wrapped tight, whispering how full she felt, how she loved being stretched.

By the time we finally passed out tangled in sheets, the city lights fading to dawn, I knew one thing for sure.

Size might matter.

But enthusiasm, and a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, mattered more.