Competitive Juices

Last night’s bathroom session had left you strangely competitive instead of just horny. That crude, piston-like doggy fuck, Nick’s erratic, lightning-fast thrusts, his heavy balls slapping her clit, his growled “yeah bitch take that cock you horny slut” had planted a seed. He was only twenty-five.

When you were twenty-five you already had a toddler daughter, who was now a junior in college. And here was this 6’6” red-headed Italian-American giant, significantly taller than you, with a fiancée whose body looked designed for pure sin, while your wife still babied him with new phones and upgrades.

It gnawed at you.

Was the kid actually better, or just taller and younger?

Tawny was asleep again, the house silent. You slipped out of bed, moved to the guest bathroom between your daughters’ rooms, and locked the door. Your cloud was already loaded with everything. This time you didn’t go for the sex videos first.

You went straight for Nick.

You pulled up the clearest full-body nudes and the multiple close-up dick pics he’d taken—soft, half-hard, fully erect from every angle, sometimes with his hand for crude scale. His cock looked thick, veiny, the flushed red head matching his hair. You saved the best shots, then opened your laptop in the dim bathroom light and launched the AI measurement tool you sometimes used at work.

One by one you uploaded the images: standing nudes for height and proportions, side profiles, close-ups of his shaft and balls. The program began processing: length, girth at different points, estimated volume, even angle of erection. Cold, objective data. You stared at the progress bar, cock half-hard in your shorts from the sheer masculine urge to measure and compare.

Nick had the clear physical advantage—taller, broader, younger by more than a decade. But the numbers would tell the real story. Was he actually packing something special, or was it all hype and enthusiasm? You imagined the results coming in, feeding that competitive fire, maybe even fueling darker thoughts about showing Erin what a more experienced man could do with the same equipment…

or better technique.

Your pulse raced as the AI continued calculating. The bathroom fan hummed softly. You deleted nothing; this data was staying. Tonight you’d get the cold facts on exactly what kind of competition your stepson really was.

And once you had the measurements, you’d decide what to do with them.

The progress bar crept higher. You waited in the dark, breathing steady, already tasting the edge of whatever truth those numbers would bring.