Babar slumped onto the worn leather couch, the kind that creaked under his weight after years of holding their lazy evenings. The TV flickered with the Kardashians marathon they'd started half an hour ago, but his mind was elsewhere, tangled in the knots of a shitty workday. Uzma, perched on the armrest beside him, fully dressed in her fitted tank top and yoga pants that hugged her curves, noticed the tension in his shoulders right away. They'd been married thirteen years, and she could read him like a worn-out paperback.
"You look like you need to unwind," she said, her voice low and teasing, fingers already trailing along his arm. Babar nodded, his eyes flicking to her, appreciating how she stayed clothed while he felt the pull to strip down. It was their thing—him exposed, her in control. CFNM had been a spark in their sex life from early on, turning ordinary nights into something charged.
Uzma slid down to sit beside him, her hand resting on his thigh. "Remember that time we were watching this same show, and I had you right here on this couch?" She smirked, referencing one of those Netflix-fueled hookups where the drama on screen faded behind their own. Babar chuckled, the memory loosening him up. "Yeah, and you wouldn't let me touch you until I begged."
Tonight, though, Uzma had something specific in mind. She'd been thinking about it all week, ever since Babar mentioned in passing how he loved when she talked about other guys during their play. He got off on the comparisons, the way she'd describe how his six-inch dick stacked up against the ones she'd known before him. And Babar? He thrived on it, his cock twitching harder every time she laid into the details. "Let's make it real tonight," she'd whispered to him that morning over coffee. "Compare you to my ex-husband. All of it. No holding back."
Babar's pulse quickened at the thought. Uzma's ex, that smug bastard from her college days, had always loomed in their dirty talk like a shadow. Eight inches, thick as her wrist, the kind of tool that stretched her out and left her sore. Babar knew he couldn't compete on size, but fuck, the humiliation of it all made him rock hard. "Do it," he said now, shifting to face her. "Tell me everything."
Uzma's eyes lit up, that nurturing side of her—the one that sensed his stress and knew exactly how to melt it away—mixing with the tease. She stood up, pulling him to his feet. "Strip. Everything off. I want you naked while I stay like this." Babar complied without hesitation, kicking off his shoes, peeling away his shirt to reveal his average build, a bit soft around the middle from desk job life but toned enough from their weekend hikes. His pants dropped next, boxers following, until he stood there bare, his semi-hard cock hanging at six inches, balls heavy beneath a trim patch of dark hair.
She circled him slowly, her gaze appraising, like she was inspecting a piece of art—or a flaw in it. "Look at you, Babar, all exposed for me. Your body's not bad, you know. Solid chest, those arms I like grabbing during sex. But let's get to the good stuff." Her hand reached out, fingers wrapping around his shaft, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. He groaned, already thickening in her grip.
"Compared to my ex? His body was different. Taller, broader shoulders, like he spent every day in the gym. Made me feel small next to him." She pumped him again, firmer this time, her thumb circling the head where a bead of pre-cum glistened. Babar thrust into her hand, loving the casual dominance, the way she kept her clothes on while he was vulnerable. "Fuck, Uzma, keep going."
She laughed softly, squeezing his base. "Oh, I will. But first, length. Yours is six inches, right on the button when you're hard. Cute, really. Easy to handle." She stroked faster, watching it swell to full mast, the skin stretching taut over the modest girth. "His was eight, Babar. Eight fucking inches that hit spots you can't reach. I'd ride him and feel it deep, like it was owning my pussy."
Babar's breath hitched, the words hitting him like a drug. He loved this—her voice dripping with dirty truth, humiliating him while she jerked him off. "Yeah? Tell me about the girth," he rasped, his hips bucking lightly.
Uzma obliged, her hand twisting on the upstroke, making his balls tighten. "His was thick, thicker than you by a lot. My fingers barely met around it. Stretched my pussy wide every time he slid in. Yours? It's nice, don't get me wrong—fits just right for quick fucks like we do on this couch. But his made me gasp, made me wet just thinking about it." She slowed her pace, teasing the underside with her nails, drawing out the comparison. Babar was fully hard now, veins pulsing under her touch, the humiliation fueling his arousal.
She dropped to her knees then, still dressed, her face inches from his cock. But she didn't suck him—instead, she leaned in close, inspecting. "Balls next. Yours are decent, full and hanging low, that bit of hair making them look rugged. I love sucking on them after a long day, feeling you relax." Her free hand cupped them, rolling gently, while the other kept the steady handjob rhythm. Babar moaned, leaning back against the couch arm for support.
"My ex's balls were bigger, heavier, like ripe fucking fruit. Covered in this thick bush he never trimmed—wild, manly. I'd bury my face in it, smell him all over me. Yours are neater, Babar, more civilized. But his weight slapped against me when he fucked me from behind, reminding me how full he was." She tugged lightly on his sack, syncing with her strokes, and Babar felt the heat building, his cock leaking steadily now.
Uzma stood up, pushing him back onto the couch. He sat there, legs spread, dick standing straight up, while she loomed over him in her clothes, the power imbalance making his heart race. "Hair on the cock, too. Yours is trimmed short, just above the base—makes it look longer, I guess. Easy to deepthroat without gagging on pubes." She straddled his thigh, grinding her clothed pussy against his leg for friction, her hand never stopping the pump. "His was a jungle, dark and curly right up to the shaft. I'd pull on it while I rode him, and he'd groan like an animal."
Babar was panting now, the dirty talk weaving through his mind, each comparison a twist of the knife that only made him harder. "You're killing me, Uzma. Compare the bodies more—tell me how he felt against you."
She grinned, wicked and affectionate, her strokes turning slick with his pre-cum. "His body was all muscle, hard abs pressing into my back when he'd pin me down. Sweaty, powerful fucks where he'd lift me like I weighed nothing. You, Babar? You're softer, more real— I like wrapping my legs around your waist, feeling your belly against mine. It's intimate, not some porn star bullshit. But fuck, his thickness inside me while his chest crushed mine? It made me cum without even trying."
The handjob intensified, her grip tight and unrelenting, twisting at the head each time. Babar gripped the couch cushions, fighting the urge to grab her. This was her show—him naked, her teasing, the cuckold edge sharpening every word. He imagined her with that ex, the eight-incher pounding her, and it drove him wild. "Did he make you squirt?" Babar asked, voice rough.
Uzma's eyes sparkled. "Once or twice, yeah. That girth hit my g-spot just right. Yours gets me close, but it's more about the connection with you." She shifted, turning around on the couch to face away from him, her ass in those yoga pants brushing his cock. "Time for something different. Lie back."
Babar obeyed, stretching out on the leather that stuck slightly to his skin. Uzma positioned herself between his legs, still on her knees, but now she reached back with one hand, grabbing his dick from behind her body. It was awkward, reverse, her arm twisted so she could stroke him while watching the TV, like she was multitasking their fuck with the Kardashians' drama. The position exposed her ass to him, the fabric stretched tight over her cheeks, but he couldn't touch—part of the CFNM rules.
"Look at this," she said, her hand working him from this new angle, pulling his foreskin back fully to expose the sensitive head. "Even reverse, I can feel how eager you are. My ex? We'd do shit like this, but his cock was so long it poked out no matter the angle. Thick veins I'd trace with my tongue later." She pumped harder, the reverse grip making her fingers dig in deeper, hitting spots that made his toes curl.
Babar thrust up into her hand, the humiliation peaking as she casually flipped channels, settling back on the show. "Keep talking," he begged, his balls aching.
Uzma glanced over her shoulder, her strokes sloppy now with lube from his own drip. "He'd fuck my mouth like it was a pussy, Babar. Eight inches down my throat, gagging me while his big balls smacked my chin. Yours fits nice— I can swirl my tongue around without issue. But remembering his? Fuck, it makes me wet thinking how he owned me." She ground back against his knee, her yoga pants dampening, the scent of her arousal mixing with his.
The dirty talk flowed, Uzma weaving in more details—the way her ex's body hair tickled her thighs when he'd eat her out, how his thicker shaft made her clit throb just from entry. Babar ate it up, his cock throbbing in her reverse hold, the cuckold fantasy blurring with their reality. Thirteen years in, and this still ignited them—her in charge, him laid bare, comparisons turning jealousy into fuel.
She turned back around suddenly, kneeling between his legs again, her hand flying over his slick length. "Imagine him here now, Babar. Watching me jerk your smaller dick, laughing at how it doesn't fill my hand like his did." The humiliation hit hard, her words a whip, but it was all consensual heat, the kind that left him relaxed and spent after.
Uzma leaned in, her breath hot on his tip, but still no mouth—just her hand, relentless. "His cumshots were huge, ropes that painted my tits white. Yours? I bet it'll be just as hot, but quicker." She edged him, slowing when he got close, drawing out the torture.
Babar was a mess, hips jerking, moans filling the room over the TV chatter. "Uzma, fuck—I'm close."
"Not yet," she commanded, switching back to the reverse grip for a final twist, her arm straining but determined. The angle made every stroke feel invasive, intimate, like she was milking him from afar. "Think about how he'd last longer, pounding me while you watch. Your six inches twitching, jealous and hard."
That did it. The build-up crested, Babar's body tensing as she aimed him toward her chest. She yanked up her tank top just in time, exposing her full tits, nipples hard peaks. "Cum for me, Babar. Show me what you've got."
He exploded, thick spurts landing across her skin, warm and sticky, coating her from collarbone to navel. Uzma milked every drop, her hand slowing to a gentle squeeze, watching with a satisfied smile as he shuddered through the aftershocks.
Panting, Babar pulled her close, her clothed body pressing against his naked one, the mess between them a badge of their play. "That was incredible," he murmured, kissing her neck.
Uzma wiped a finger through the cum, tasting it playfully. "Told you yours hits different. Bigger isn't always better—yours makes me feel wanted, every time." She snuggled into him on the couch, the Kardashians droning on, their bond tighter than ever. In the quiet afterglow, Babar felt the day's stress vanish, replaced by the witty certainty that no ex could touch what they had: a love that got dirtier with every year.