Revelation

The bathroom light was still on, casting that clinical glow over the counter where the evidence still sat: your phone screen frozen on the last AI report, the one that had you stroking yourself raw for weeks.

“This is the same penis: average in length, average glans width showing some mushroom effect, a slight upward curve, overall girth average. Overall this penis is a completely average penis.”

You read it again, cock in hand, and this time the words didn’t sting—they throbbed. Because tonight you’d finally run every variable through every AI platform you could find. Nick’s height, hand size, foot size—hell, you’d even asked about leverage principles like some **** physics major trying to prove his dick was secretly superior. Every single model came back the same: average. Just like yours. The toiletry bottles on the counter, the spatula in the kitchen shot—cross-referenced, scale-verified, undeniable.

Nick was taller. Nick was younger. Nick probably had that extra inch of leverage in doggy-style that let him hit deeper angles, that let him fold a woman in half and make her scream in ways physics favored the long-legged. But none of it changed the data. Your cock—thick enough to stretch, curved enough to drag perfectly along the front wall, mushroom head fat and plush—was exactly what Tawny craved. And that truth made you leak like a broken faucet.

You stepped out of the bathroom, phone still in one hand, the other lazily pumping your average, perfect shaft. Tawny was waiting on the bed exactly how you liked her: naked, legs spread, one finger lazily circling her clit while she watched you with that hungry, knowing smile. She was hot as fuck—curvy hips, heavy tits that bounced when she laughed, pussy already shiny and swollen because she’d been edging herself to the thought of you coming back to bed.

You crawled between her thighs, pressing your average cock against her soaked folds, letting the slight upward curve kiss her clit on every slow grind. “They confirmed it. Average. Mushroom head. Perfect curve. And you fucking love it.”

Tawny moaned, arching so the fat head of your dick popped inside her in one smooth thrust. “God yes… that mushroom flare catches right on my g-spot every single time. Nick might be taller, but he’s not here stretching me open like you do. Fuck me!”

You sank in to the hilt, balls-deep, and the wet squelch of her pussy swallowing you made your head spin. Her walls fluttered around your girth—average, yes, but hers. You set a rhythm that had her tits bouncing, that slight upward curve dragging relentlessly across her front wall until she was clawing at your back and chanting your name like a prayer.

But the fantasy was already creeping in—the one you kept locked in the cloud, labeled innocently as “work files.” Erin. God, Erin. The secret spank bank that had lived in your phone for months. You pictured her now while you fucked Tawny harder: Erin on her knees, lips stretched around a cock that looked suspiciously like yours—average length, average girth, that same plush mushroom head she’d swirl her tongue around like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

You flipped Tawny onto all fours, gripping her hips exactly the way the taller-man leverage studies said you shouldn’t be able to. But you could. Because your average cock hit her at the perfect angle, the curve driving upward into her cervix with every thrust. She pushed back, ass rippling, moaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Harder—fuck, just like that—your cock is so good.”

Your mind split. Half of you was buried in Tawny’s dripping cunt, balls slapping her clit, the wet sounds echoing like the best porn you’d ever heard. The other half was in the cloud, stroking to Erin’s pictures: Erin bent over the same bathroom counter, comparing her own fingers to your cock and laughing that filthy laugh when she realized it was the exact right size to wreck her. Erin riding you reverse cowgirl, that slight upward curve making her squirt all over your thighs while she called you her perfect average stud.

You reached down and rubbed Tawny’s clit in tight circles—scientific precision, the kind that always made her gush. “Tell me you love it,” you growled. “Tell me my average cock is better than any tall-boy advantage.”

Tawny’s voice broke into a scream as her orgasm hit. “It is—fuck—your mushroom head is popping in and out of me so deep—gonna—gonna squirt—!”

She did. Hot, clear fluid sprayed around your shaft, soaking your balls, dripping down her thighs while her pussy clamped and milked you in rhythmic pulses. The sight—plus the mental image of Erin doing the exact same thing—pushed you over. You buried yourself to the hilt and unloaded, thick ropes of cum painting her walls, overflowing until it leaked out around your still-hard cock in creamy white strands.

You didn’t pull out. You stayed buried, grinding slow and deep through the aftershocks, letting her feel every twitch of your average, perfect dick.

Later, when Tawny was curled against your chest, sleepy and satisfied, you opened the cloud on your phone. Erin’s folder glowed on the screen—hundreds of pictures, videos, voice notes you’d saved like a horny scientist cataloging the perfect jerk material. You didn’t feel guilty anymore. This was your secret. Your spank bank. The place where Nick’s height and younger stamina could exist as pure fantasy fuel without ever touching what you had with Tawny.

You stroked yourself again—slow, lazy, still slick from Tawny’s cum—while you aimed at her huge boobs.

She slid down your body, took your half-hard shaft between her lips, and sucked the mixed taste of both of you clean with long, filthy strokes. Her tongue traced the slight upward curve, swirled around the mushroom head until you were rock-hard again.

You did. You came with a groan, flooding her mouth, and Tawny swallowed every drop.