Chapter 14: Morning Measurements
The harsh light of the bathroom made everything look too real. The black glass bottle sat on the edge of the sink like an idol. Mark had swallowed the second pill with his morning coffee, a secret sacrament. Now, twelve hours later, the fire was a constant presence in his veins, a low-grade furnace hum that centered in his groin.
Sarah had been watching him all day. Feeling him through his pants in the kitchen. Pressing against him in the hallway. The promise of measurement had become a ritual.
“Now,” she said, her voice tight with anticipation. “Let’s see.”
She guided him into the empty, cold claw-foot tub. The porcelain was unforgiving under his knees. She knelt before him, a devotee at an altar, a frayed yellow measuring tape in her hands.
“Just relax,” she murmured, but her eyes were electric.
He was already hard, had been semi-hard for hours. The mere sight of her kneeling, the focus in her gaze, made the blood rush with a painful throb. His erection stood thick and upright, flushed a deep, angry red, the skin stretched taut and shiny. A steady drip of pre-cum beaded at the slit and fell onto the white porcelain with a soft, audible tap.
Sarah’s breath caught. She didn’t touch him yet. She just stared, her lips parted. “Jesus, Mark.”
She looped the tape around the middle. Her fingers, cool and precise, brushed against his heated skin. She pulled it snug, her eyes fixed on the numbers. A pause. A blink. She adjusted her grip, pulled it tighter.
“Eight,” she whispered. Then she looked up at him, her face pale. “That’s eight inches around.”
He swallowed. The number meant nothing and everything. It was just a circumference. But it was two inches more than his last measurement, taken in a moment of drunken vanity years ago. Two inches of solid, vascular flesh gained in less than a week.
“Length,” she demanded, her voice shaking.
She fumbled with the tape, placing the metal end at his root, pushing firmly into the coarse hair. She drew it along the veined top side to the glistening tip. Her hand trembled.
“Nine and a quarter.” She let the tape fall. It coiled on the tub floor like a dead snake. “Oh my god.”
She finally touched him then, not with lust, but with a kind of clinical awe. She wrapped both hands around his shaft, her fingers stretching, trying to meet. Her thumbs and foretips just barely brushed. She couldn’t close her grip.
“Fuck,” she whimpered, a shudder running through her. “You’re getting so thick.”
She began to stroke him, a slow, two-handed pump, her palms struggling to contain his girth. The sensation was monstrous, overwhelming. The heat in him spiked, a flare of pure need. Pre-cum leaked in a constant, slick stream now, coating her frantically working fingers, making obscene, wet sounds in the quiet bathroom.
“Look at it,” she breathed, her eyes glazed. “Look what it’s doing. Look what you’re becoming.”
He looked down. Seeing her delicate hands utterly dominated by his own flesh was a narcotic. His ego, long bruised and neglected, swelled in time with his cock. This was power. Raw, physical, undeniable power.
“Sarah,” he grunted.
“I need to feel it,” she interrupted, her politeness incinerated by need. “I need to feel how much it’s changed. Right now.”
She scrambled out of the tub, grabbing his hand, pulling him up. She bent over the wide, cold rim of the basin, her back arched, presenting herself. Her pajama bottoms were already pushed down to her ankles. In the mirror, he saw her desperate face, his own looming behind her, eyes dark with a strange, chemical hunger.
He didn’t need guidance. The fire directed him. He pressed the broad, weeping head against her entrance. Even wet from her arousal, it was a fight. He pushed. Her body resisted, then yielded with a sharp, gasping cry from Sarah. He sank an inch, monstrously thick, stretching her obscenely.
“Fuck! Fuck, yes! More!” she screamed into the porcelain.
He drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, claiming thrust. The feeling was inhuman. She was impossibly, devastatingly tight, a velvet vise gripping him with a pressure that bordered on pain. He saw her hands slap against the sides of the tub, knuckles white.
He set a pace that was pure punishment. No romance, no technique. Just deep, grinding strokes that shoved her whole body forward with each impact. The tub rattled. Her cries were choked, guttural things, punctuated by the savage slap of his flesh against hers.
“Is it too much?” he heard himself growl, a voice rough with a dominance he’d never known he possessed.
“Don’t you fucking stop!” she shrieked. “It’s perfect! It’s what I needed! God, it’s so deep!”
He fucked her with a single-minded ferocity, watching in the misting mirror as her face contorted in a agony of pleasure. His hands gripped her hips, sure to leave bruises. This wasn’t making love to his wife. This was claiming territory with a new, vicious tool she had demanded he forge.
His orgasm built, a tsunami gathering force. When it broke, it was seismic. He slammed into her and held, his cock jerking, pulsing, swelling that crucial, terrifying fraction more as it unloaded jet after jet inside her. She came with a silent, open-mouthed scream, her body clamping down in rhythmic spasms that milked him dry.
He stayed there, buried, panting, watching the sweat drip down his reflection’s nose. The furnace hum subsided to a low purr. Sated. For now.
Slowly, he pulled out. The sight was lewd: her, reddened and gaping, a trickle of their combined fluids already dripping down her thigh.
Sarah slumped against the tub, then slowly turned, sliding down to sit on the bathmat. She didn’t look at him. She stared at his softening cock, still glistening and huge, a beast returning to its cage. Her expression was one of pure, satiated avarice.
She reached out one trembling, sticky finger and traced a bulging vein.
“Tomorrow,” she said, her voice hoarse and utterly certain. “You take another one tomorrow.”