Size competition

The silence in the plush living room of the family home was thick, a peculiar blend of mourning and anticipation. Steve, normally jovial and focused, was still nursing a bruised ego from his beloved hockey team’s devastating playoff defeat. He sat slumped on the leather sofa, dark hair slightly disheveled, when his world—or at least, his immediate emotional state—was invaded by two women who clearly meant to make him forget his woes entirely.

Emily, his sexy, golden-haired wife, stood before him, her curvy body showcased perfectly in a crisply tailored white and blue sailor uniform. The short, pleated skirt barely cleared her rounded bum, and the top, trimmed with nautical blue ribbon, struggled valiantly to contain the magnificent expanse of her breasts. Beside her, matching her uniform exactly, stood Britney. The red-headed futa was shorter than Steve but radiated an intimidating, toned power. Her uniform top was equally strained, though her cleavage was slightly more modest than Emily’s mountainous assets.

“Alright, Steve-o,” Emily purred, leaning down to plant a kiss on the still-frowning man’s forehead. “No more moping about the Misfits losing. We have a special event planned, designed just to yank you out of this funk.”

Steve managed a weak, sarcastic smile. “Oh, great. Another intervention where I’m **** to watch you two break the laws of physics?”

Britney chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated with suppressed excitement. “Something like that, Stevie. But this time, you get to participate. Or, you get to watch me win. Either way, you’ll be very entertained.”

Emily clapped her hands together, the sound sharp and theatrical. “Welcome, darling, to the inaugural ‘Cuck Olympics’!”

Steve raised an eyebrow, his masochistic core already beginning to hum at the promising title. “Cuck Olympics?”

“It’s a series of contests and events,” Emily explained, pacing playfully in front of him, the skirt swishing with every step. “Contests between you and Britney. Physical, mental, and… well, extremely anatomical. The winner of the Cuck Olympics gets the ultimate prize.”

Steve, intrigued despite himself, sat up straighter. He loved watching the two of them, but the idea of being directly involved, especially in a contest he knew he was destined to lose to the formidable Britney, sent a thrilling shiver down his spine. “And what, pray tell, is this ultimate prize?”

Emily stopped directly in front of him, her blue eyes glinting with fierce mischief. She slid her hands suggestively over her prominent hips.

“The winner,” she announced slowly, allowing the tension to build, “will get a full night of raw, unprotected sex with me! Meaning, the triumphant champion can creampie me until dawn, again and again, without consequence.” She finished the declaration with a brazen wink, securing the deal.

A genuine smile, slow and predatory, finally broke across Steve’s face. It wasn't the smile of a competitive man; it was the gleeful grin of a masochist anticipating glorious, inevitable defeat. The thought of seeing Britney, the incredibly hung futa who had utterly dominated his wife multiple times already, filling Emily up all night—a prize Steve himself was not anatomically designed to win—was intoxicating.

“Game on,” Steve whispered. The sting of the hockey loss was already fading, replaced by a much more visceral, sexual anticipation.

Emily beamed. “Excellent! Let’s commence with Event Number One!”

She gestured dramatically toward a small, portable whiteboard set up on an easel near the mantle. The board was clean and professional, the headings already meticulously drawn out:

Contestants. Steve - Britney

Length (Soft)

Girth (Soft)

Length (Hard)

Girth (Hard)

“Event One,” Emily announced, picking up a dry-erase marker, “is a good old-fashioned penis size contest!” She gave a theatrical drumroll with her marker on the board. “The contestants will measure each other, and I, the impartial judge, will handle the math.” She gave a playful peace sign pose, looking stunningly official yet utterly debauched in her sailor uniform.

The atmosphere shifted from general excitement to pure, focused heat. Britney stepped forward, confidently positioning herself directly in front of Steve. He rose slowly, stripping off his shirt almost unconsciously.

It was only now, as they faced each other for the specific purpose of direct comparison, that Steve realized something unusual.

“Hey,” he chuckled, a nervous, fleeting moment of pride flashing through him. “I’m actually taller than you.”

Britney, though powerfully built and muscularly toned, stood perhaps an inch and a half shorter than his slender 5’10” frame.

Britney just smirked, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Height is irrelevant when we’re dealing with cock size, Steve. But thank you for noticing. Ready to be measured?”

“Game on,” Steve repeated, a slight tremor in his voice.

“You go first,” Britney commanded, her voice softening slightly into the dominant tone Steve found so overwhelming. She reached out and, with an almost tender motion, yanked down his sweatpants and boxers in a single, efficient pull.

Steve was naked from the waist down, **** and exposed in the warm lamplight of his own living room. It was the moment Britney had been waiting for.

The usually dominant Futa, the one who effortlessly commanded the room and Emily’s body, now sank gracefully to her knees. She knelt right at his feet, looking up at him with a mischievous, appraising gaze.

From this angle, he had a spectacular view. He noticed the tight, toned musculature of her midriff, the perfection of her long, taut legs, and, most engagingly, the slight rucking of her blue short skirt. Beneath the skirt, her girly pink panties were clearly visible, stretched and strained by the unmistakable, gargantuan outline of her massive, flaccid cock pressing against the fabric.

Steve swallowed hard, his masochistic side roaring to life. This was it. The public, direct comparison.

Britney reached into her uniform pocket and pulled out a soft, yellow seamstress measuring tape. Her demeanor was clinical, but the smirk never left her face.

She reached out and closed her right hand around Steve’s soft penis.

His entire organ, thin and unassuming in its flaccid state, was completely encompassed by her grip. It wasn't just covered; it disappeared completely.

Britney looked down at what she held, a genuine look of surprised curiosity flashing across her face.

“Wow,” she murmured, lifting his tiny, soft package slightly. “It’s so… light. It’s amazing how different it is from mine.”

She used her thumb and index finger at the base, holding his soft cock up and then turning it gently to the side, inspecting it like an unusual specimen. The sensation of her large, warm hand around him was immediate and embarrassing.

“Honestly, Steve,” she said, looking back up at him, her eyes wide with mock wonder, “it feels like I’m holding onto a finger, not a cock.” She paused for dramatic effect. “I was twice this size even before puberty hit.”

The humiliation was instant and delightfully excruciating. Steve shifted his weight, fighting the instinctive urge to cover himself.

Emily, ever the moderator, cut in playfully, marker poised over the whiteboard. “Britney, darling, we need the soft measurement. You know our Stevie—he’s easily excitable and extremely sensitive. We need to catch it before it tries to prove itself.”

“Right, right, metrics first,” Britney conceded, though her eyes remained locked on Steve's. She positioned the flexible measuring tape at the very base of his shaft, pulling gently but firmly to negate any premature retraction.

She followed the length of the shaft to the tip.

“Hmm,” she said, squinting slightly to read the small numbers. “Reporting to the judge: 3.6 inches, soft length.”

Emily scribbled the number neatly onto the whiteboard under the ‘Steve’ column.

Next, Britney wrapped the tape precisely around the center of his shaft for the girth measurement. She squeezed ever so slightly, making sure the tape was flush.

“And soft girth,” she called out, looking up at Emily with a triumphant flourish. “3.2 inches, Judge.”

Emily dutifully recorded the number, but the smile she gave Steve carried a faint edge of pity, quickly replaced by lustful anticipation for the comparisons to come.

Britney released Steve’s soft penis, letting it dangle loosely. She then reached down to the hem of her skirt and lifted the fabric just enough to access her belt pocket, where she kept essential tools. She pulled out the measuring tape again, this time focusing it on her own hand.

She measured her pinky finger with precision, stretching the tape from the knuckle joint to the tip.

“Hold on a second, Stevie,” Britney said, peering at the result, then she burst into theatrical, booming laughter. “Oh, that’s rich! My pinky finger—my pinky finger—is exactly 3 inches long. I guess you’re bigger than that, Steve. Congratulations! You successfully beat my smallest digit!”

Steve couldn't help but grin back, his embarrassment fueling his internal thrill. This was precisely the humiliation he craved, perfectly executed by the two women he adored.

“Thank you, Britney. I’d kiss your dominant finger if I could,” he replied, embracing the role of the willing victim.

Emily, having enjoyed the opener, clapped her hands again. “Excellent start! Now the real challenge. We need the ‘Hard’ statistics, and we know how long it takes Steve to get there under normal circumstances. Britney,” Emily announced, her voice loaded with thick, sensual intent. “Get him hard.”

Steve’s eyes widened, a shock of heat washing over him despite his thin erection already trying to form. He looked down at Britney, who was still kneeling at his feet, her gaze fixed on his groin.

Of all the things he anticipated, he hadn't fully processed the implication: Britney, the ultimate dominant he watched fill his wife, was going to service him... even if it was just preparatory to his own complete humiliation. The thought was overwhelming.

Britney leaned forward, her red hair falling slightly over her face, and her voice dropped to a sultry, focused whisper. “You heard the judge, Steve. Time to prove you’re a contestant worth measuring. Let’s see what you’re capable of.”

She reached out with both hands, placing her large, warm palms firmly around the top of his thighs, her thumbs resting just at the base of his small, soft cock. The measuring tape lay discarded on the floor, its purpose temporarily suspended, replaced by the immediate, demanding heat of the Futa’s attention.