Think Carefully 11

Let’s Measure

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

{ Note: This is the eleventh installment of this story. If you have not read the previous chapters, this one will make more sense to you if you do. The opener can be found here: Think Carefully. }

It was a relaxed evening. Gloria and I were watching a British mystery on the flatscreen in the family room. We get BritBox and Acorn TV through Amazon Prime, and they produce some great entertainment. The current program lasted ninety minutes, so we took our traditional break for the bathroom and dessert (in that order) at the midpoint. As Gloria scooped up the raspberry chocolate swirl ice cream, she asked, “How big would you say you are, John?”

I didn’t understand the context, and I had to think for a minute. “I’m six-foot-one and about a hundred-ninety last time I checked. So, I don’t know. A little bigger than average, I guess.”

“Not that,” Gloria laughed. “When a woman asks a man ‘how big’ he is—not how tall or how heavy—she’s not expecting an answer in terms of feet or pounds. She’s asking how big he is down there, where it counts?” Gloria indicated my crotch with a flip of her hand. She was blushing, and when I understood my error, I blushed as well.

“Ah,” I said, “my mistake. But in answer to your question, I don’t know. I’ve never actually measured myself. I’d guess I’m about average, though, so, that’s what, about six inches?”

“I would guess a little less than that,” Gloria said. “Let’s measure.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes, come on, it’ll be fun. Stand right there,” she said as she strode out of the kitchen. “Drop your pants,” I heard her call over her shoulder from down the hall. “I’ll get my measuring tape.”

I unfastened my belt and opened my jeans but held them up and glanced toward the kitchen windows. It was dark outside, so if someone was out there watching, it would be impossible for me to see them. But since the kitchen windows face our backyard, there was zero chance anyone was out there. Still, I stepped behind the kitchen counter before letting my pants fall. I left my boxers in place.

Gloria came back to the kitchen holding an eighteen-inch wooden ruler and a cloth measuring tape she uses for sewing. I was flattered that she thought she might need a ruler that long. “You’re going to have to lower those too,” she said with a smirk, gesturing toward my boxers.

“I know,” I said. “I didn’t want to get cold and screw up the measurement,” I lied. Mostly, I thought I’d feel like a complete fool standing in the kitchen with my pants and shorts at my ankles. I lowered my boxers.

“Oh, good,” Gloria said, “you’re still little.”

“Careful with that word, ‘little,’” I said. “You’ll give me a complex.”

“Yeah, right. Now, let’s see.” Gloria got a pad and pencil from a kitchen drawer and handed them to me. “Take notes,” she said. She pressed the end of the ruler against my pubic bone and said, “I make it a little over three-and-a-half inches.”

I didn’t respond to that measurement. Too busy wondering, Is that about average for an adult male? I had no fucking clue. It doesn’t sound very long, but a cock’s relaxed dimensions are rarely a matter of concern. It’s its fighting size that makes all the difference.

When I just stood there, bound up in my own thoughts, Gloria elbowed me in the gut and said, “Write that down.”

“Oh, yeah. Three-point-five inches. I’ll add a plus sign for the quote, little over, close quote. No, I should make that two plus signs,” I said, marking up the pad. “Now what?”

Gloria put down the ruler and wrapped the measuring tape around my dick. All her handling was making it a little plumper, but I did not wish to raise this point. I figured my ego could use every millimeter it could get.

“Let’s see,” Gloria said. “Your girth is, uhm, three-and-seven-eighths inches. This is not your normal small state, though, is it? I think somebody is having naughty thoughts.”

“It’s not that,” I objected. “You can’t expect a fellow to just ignore it when a pretty girl plays with his penis.”

Gloria dropped my dick and gave it a slap.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed. “If you keep doing that, it will get all bruised and swollen, and none of your measurements will be any good.” My clever remark was ignored.

“Now we need measurements for your stimulated state,” Gloria said. She boosted herself up to perch on the edge of the counter. “You always get hard when you go down on me,” she said, spreading her legs, hiking up her skirt, and leaning back to rest on her elbows. The minx had ditched her panties when she went to get her measuring tape. “Get busy,” she commanded.

I followed Gloria’s orders and got busy. She rested her heels on my back when I leaned in. Her pussy was at an awkward height for me—too low for me to stand upright, but too high for me to go to my knees. I had a painful crick in my neck before she finally came and squeezed my head between her thighs to get me to stop.

When my wife came back to earth, she opened her thighs, pushed me back, slid off the counter, and reached for my cock. I was hard, but not fully hard, probably because of the uncomfortable position I’d been in. So, she pulled me in for a french kiss—lots of tongue—while pumping my member with her fist.

When I was almost ready to shoot, Gloria backed off, suddenly all business, and pushed her ruler painfully against my pubic bone and announced, “Five-and-a-quarter inches.” Trading ruler for tape measure, she wrapped it around my erection and measured, “Four-and-five-eighths inches. Did you write those down?”

“No,” I said, still on the very verge of shooting my load against the side of her skirt.

“Well, write them down. Length is five-and-a-quarter. Girth, four-and-five-eighths.”

“Are you sure about that length?” I asked. “I expected it to be a little more.”

“The ruler doesn’t lie,” she said. “But now you’ve hurt its feelings.”

Gloria stepped in close, snaked her left arm around my back to grab my balls in front, bent me over her hip and smacked me with that damned wooden ruler in rapid fire.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed. “Okay, okay! I believe it! Please, accept my apologies on behalf of your ruler! Enough already!” That bloody ruler was imparting a surprising sting, but the pain was on the periphery because neither of us could stop laughing.

Finally, Gloria stopped paddling me with that thin strip of wood, pushed me back against the kitchen counter, dropped to her knees, and took me into her mouth. Blow jobs from my wife are rare—especially so since we married. I don’t know where she developed the talent, but they are a gift to be treasured. What very little size I’d lost while she spanked me was instantly back, and I exploded in less than a minute in her warm, wet mouth. One hand massaging my balls, the other stroking my cock, her mouth a suction pump in rhythm with her hands. Gloria milked me for every drop.

I had to struggle to disconnect when I was through cumming. Continued attention to my penis was shifting from glorious to torturous. I was back to laughing, and cried, “Enough!” as I twisted away.

Gloria sat back on her heels and grinned up at me. Semen decorated the corners of her mouth. When I grinned back, she came to her feet in a smooth sinuous motion, trapped me against the counter with her body, and kissed me hard. Her tongue thrust into my mouth, carrying with it the product of my orgasm.

I tried to say, “Yuck!” but only granted her tongue greater access.

So, that’s a snowball, I thought. Could be worse. I kissed Gloria back with matching enthusiasm.

When we came up for air, we elected to put the ice cream back in the freezer, turn off the TV, and head for the bedroom. Dessert and the solution of the mystery could wait for another time. I left the pad and pencil on the counter, vowing to get on WebMD or another reputable source tomorrow to compare my measurements.

END of Part 11

The story continues with: Think Carefully 12

Copyright © 2023 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

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