(Untitled) Size Fetish Prompt

Let’s start with the obvious: you have a big dick. Very big. And very white. With big, heavy balls that pump a hundred times the normal amount of male hormones into your very strong body.

This isn’t exactly about that.

You and I just met. At a club. I’m a student at the local college. You might be another student, or a teaching assistant or even the local high school hero (my favorite idea)—it’s up to you. But you’re young and horny and you’ve just met the hottest woman you’ve ever seen.

I have pretty big tits, sure. And a big, heart-shaped ass you could eat like a peach. But it’s my face that really gets to you. My eyes. They’re blue, and the striking of a lightning bolt. Hitting a gong.

You know when you’re driving past a mountain or a lake or some eighth-wonder shit and you just have to stop and take pictures? Get out and sit on your hood until the sun goes down?

My eyes are like that, except so is my body, so your eyes don’t know where to go. I’m wearing a shirt that’s not quite long enough to cover my stomach, so all you can see is a pale hourglass of middle connecting my wide as shit hips to my bowling ball tits, and a pair of chewy baby-bottle nipples that get hard when I’m excited.

I’m blonde. My legs are long enough to be distracting. And when men approach me, I laugh and buy them a drink. And walk away.

You watch me hang one exquisite bare leg over the other as I sit at the bar. I’m drinking water. I lick a lime. You feel an agonizing pain in your enormous, low-hanging nuts as you see that my tongue is longer than your current girlfriend’s finger. I suck the fruit right out of the lime as though I were some kind of fruit vampire. You realize you’re so hard that it hurts, that the sheer devastating force of your erection is making your balls ache.

You have to have me. You have to be balls deep inside me before the night is over, or you’re going to lose your fucking mind. But you can’t come up to me in desperation. You have to be cool.

You run to the bathroom. You’re not the only guy jerking off in there, or even the only guy jerking over me. Whatever. Fuck your small-dicked competition. After three minutes of concentrated jacking, you fire a cum arrow into the receptacle that splits a urinal cake right down the middle. People stare and dicks shrivel. Your cock lays in your hand like the business end of a firehose. You stuff it back in your jeans, take a deep breath, and zip up over it. It barely fits. Your balls start, very slowly, to ache again.

When you get back out, I’m still there in the corner. I look bored. The bartender is trying to cheer me up by spitting fire like a dragon.

The flame fades like a curtain rising. Behind it: you. Our eyes meet. You shove the bartender out of my face, and take the seat across from mine.

“Hi,” I say, beating you to it. “What’s up?”

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