A lot of girls are obsessed with big cocks. I’m not one of them (19F)

(19 at the time of story)

A lot of girls really like big cocks. Including most of my friends. They’re always talking about how they need to be stretched, how nothing under seven inches is worth their time, how they can “feel the difference.” I used to nod along like I agreed. Truth is, I don’t. I never really have. I don’t think you need a big one to have good sex. I think most guys who are packing just rely on the size and forget how to actually fuck.

I met Cameron and stopped pretending I didn’t like it average.

We matched on an app. He was cute in a normal way, nice smile, good arms, the kind of guy who looked like he’d actually listen when you talked. We hung out a couple times, made out on his couch, and the third time his hand finally slid down the front of my shorts. I wasn’t wearing panties. I never do. The second his fingers dragged through how wet I already was, he made this low, surprised sound against my neck.

“Jesus, you’re soaked.”

I just pushed his hand deeper and kissed him harder.

When he finally pulled his jeans down I looked. It was average. Maybe a little over five and a half inches, not thick, not long, just… normal. For half a second that old reflex flickered through me, the one that said this probably wouldn’t be anything special. Then he started touching me like he actually gave a shit about how it felt for me, and that thought died fast.

He didn’t rush. He rubbed the head of his cock up and down my slit until I was dripping onto his sheets, catching my clit on every slow pass. I was already breathing harder than I usually do this early. When he finally pushed inside it was gradual, and the way he filled me was exact. Not that intense stretch I get from the bigger ones. Just this perfect, complete pressure that pressed against every sensitive spot at once.

Then he started moving.

God.

He kept this steady, rolling rhythm that made the head of his cock drag right across the front wall of my pussy on every single thrust. Not hard. Not fast. Just precise. I felt myself clench around him involuntarily, and the look on his face when he felt it made my stomach flip. My legs were already shaking. We’d barely started and I was making these soft, embarrassing sounds I usually only make when I’m already close.

“You feel so fucking good,” he muttered against my neck, still keeping that same deep, measured pace. “You’re gripping me so tight.”

I was. My pussy was fluttering around him like it didn’t want to let go. Because he wasn’t huge, I could feel \*everything\* every small ridge, every time the head flared when he bottomed out, every subtle roll of his hips that made the base of his cock rub against my clit. The wet sounds were so loud it should have been humiliating. Instead it just made me wetter.

The first orgasm hit me almost out of nowhere. One second I was rocking up to meet him, the next my whole body locked up and I was moaning into his shoulder while my pussy clenched and released around that completely average cock in helpless little pulses. He didn’t stop. He just kept thrusting through it, same rhythm, until I was oversensitive and twitching and still somehow soaking the sheets under us.

I should have needed a minute. I didn’t.

“Again?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded, a little disoriented.

He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and slid back into me from behind in one smooth stroke. Still not rough. Just deep and steady and perfect. One of his hands reached around and started rubbing my clit in slow, tight circles while he fucked me. I could feel how wet I was, pussy juice running down the insides of my thighs, the filthy sound of his cock moving in and out of me filling the room. My face was pressed into the pillow and I was moaning like a slut, telling him how good it felt, how full I felt, how I didn’t want him to stop.

The second orgasm was deeper. It rolled up from somewhere low in my stomach and wrecked me. My arms gave out. I dropped to my elbows, ass still up, and just let him keep using that perfect average cock while I shook and dripped and clenched around him. I felt owned in a way that had nothing to do with size. It was the way he paid attention. The way he adjusted when my breathing changed. The way he made every inch count.

When he got close he asked if he could cum inside me. My voice came out soft.

“Yes. Please. I need it.”

He buried himself as deep as he could and started pulsing. Because there was no extra space I felt every single spurt; hot, thick, filling me up until it started leaking out around his cock in warm trickles. I kept clenching around him just to feel it more, milking every drop while he groaned against the back of my neck.

We stayed like that for a while. Him still inside me, soft but not fully soft, his cum slowly seeping out of me onto the sheets. I reached down and touched where we were joined, feeling how messy he’d made me, and something warm and possessive curled in my chest.

I’ve been replaying the way that average cock felt for days. How perfectly it fit. How he used every bit of it. How my pussy was still fluttering around the memory of him the next morning when I woke up with dried cum on my thighs and a dull, satisfied ache between my legs.

I already told him to come over again this weekend.

And this time I’m not going to pretend I’m settling for anything.