Babar slumped into the worn leather couch, the kind that had molded to their bodies over thirteen years of marriage, kicking off his shoes with a sigh. The apartment was a cozy mess—takeout containers from last night's curry still lingered on the coffee table, and the faint hum of the air conditioner battled the summer stickiness seeping through the windows. Uzma curled up beside him, her legs tucked under a throw blanket, remote in hand as she scrolled through Netflix. They'd picked the Kardashians again, that guilty pleasure show that always sparked lazy debates and laughter. Babar loved how Uzma got into it, mimicking the sisters' dramatic eye rolls, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders.
The episode droned on about family drama and business ventures, the screen flickering with opulent LA lifestyles that felt worlds away from their quiet evenings. Uzma popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth, leaning her head on Babar's shoulder. "God, these women are something else," she said, chuckling. "Kim's always at the center of it all. How did she even blow up like that?"
Babar grinned, his hand absently stroking her thigh under the blanket. Work had been a grind that day—endless meetings and deadlines that left him tense—but this, just the two of them, was his reset. "You know exactly how," he replied, voice low and teasing. "That sex tape with her boyfriend. Ray J, right? Leaked back in the day and bam—fame city."
Uzma's eyes lit up with curiosity, the kind that always led them down playful rabbit holes. She paused the show, turning to face him fully, her tank top riding up just enough to show a sliver of midriff. "Wait, seriously? A sex tape? That's wild. I've heard rumors, but... do you think it's any good?" She bit her lip, that mischievous spark in her gaze. They'd always had a fire in their sex life, the kind built on trust and years of knowing exactly what buttons to push. Uzma loved drawing out his vulnerabilities, turning them into fuel, and Babar? He thrived on it, the way she took charge made him feel seen, desired in ways no one else could.
Babar shrugged, but his pulse quickened at the shift in her tone. "Probably overhyped. But hey, if you're curious..." He trailed off, watching her reaction. She was already pulling out her phone, typing away with a sly smile.
Her search pulled up clips easily enough—grainy previews that promised more. Uzma glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "Should we? For science?" Before he could answer, she synced it to the TV, the screen filling with the infamous footage. There was Kim, all curves and confidence, with Ray J, his body moving with that raw energy. Uzma's breath hitched slightly as the scene heated up, the sounds of moans cutting through the room. Babar shifted beside her, feeling the familiar stir in his pants. They watched in silence for a minute, the tape explicit and unfiltered—close-ups of thrusting hips, her gasps syncing with his grunts.
Uzma's hand found his knee, squeezing. "Damn," she murmured, eyes glued to the screen. "He's... packing, huh? Black guys and all that stereotype—do you think it's true? Like, bigger than average?"
Babar laughed, but there was an edge to it, the kind laced with that mix of bravado and secret thrill they both knew well. He'd joked about this before, after long days when she'd tease him out of his stress. "Nah, I don't buy it. I mean, look at me—I'm bigger than that guy any day." He puffed out his chest playfully, but Uzma's gaze turned predatory, like she could read his bluff from a mile away.
She paused the video right at a particularly revealing angle, Ray J's cock on full display, thick and veined. "Oh really? Prove it." Her voice dropped, sultry and challenging. She knew his buttons—this game of comparison that always left him rock hard and begging. Uzma had been with others before him, exes she'd whisper about during their nights together, and Babar ate it up, the humiliation twisting into something electric. His was the smallest she'd had, a fact she wielded like a weapon, but it always ended with him feeling closer to her, more alive.
Babar's heart pounded as he stood, unzipping his jeans without breaking eye contact. "Fine, let's settle this." He shoved them down, along with his boxers, his cock springing free—half-hard already from the tape and her stare. It bobbed in the open air of their living room, modest in length but thickening under her scrutiny. Uzma's eyes roamed over him, appraising, a smirk playing on her lips. She stayed clothed, legs crossed casually on the couch, embracing that CFNM vibe they both loved—her in control, him exposed and vulnerable.
"Let's see," she said, leaning forward. On screen, the paused image loomed like a challenge. Uzma reached out, her fingers wrapping around his shaft in a loose grip, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. Babar groaned, hips bucking slightly. "Mmm, it's cute. But compared to that?" She nodded at the TV, her thumb circling his tip, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had formed. "Ray J's got you beat, hands down. Look at the girth—yours is like a little pinky finger next to that monster."
The words hit him like a spark, humiliation flooding his cheeks with heat, but his cock twitched in her hand, growing fully erect. Uzma knew exactly what she was doing; she'd done this before, comparing him to her ex-husband during one of their marathon sessions, her voice dripping with dirty details that had him spilling over her fingers. "Fuck, Uzma," he muttered, voice strained. "You're such a tease."
She laughed softly, pumping him now with firmer strokes, her other hand cupping his balls gently. "Tease? I'm just stating facts. Remember that ex of mine, the one from college? His dick was twice this size—stretched me out every time. You'd look even smaller next to him." Her words were filthy, precise, painting pictures that made Babar's mind reel. He stood there, naked from the waist down, jeans pooled at his ankles, while she worked him like an expert, twisting her wrist at the base to make him hiss.
The tape played on in the background—Uzma had hit play again, the sounds of Kim's moans filling the room, syncing with Babar's ragged breaths. Uzma's hand moved faster, slick with his arousal, her eyes flicking between his cock and the screen. "See that thrust? Imagine if you were that big, Babar. You'd actually fill me up instead of just poking around." She squeezed, drawing a whimper from him, his knees weakening. The humiliation burned, but so did the desire; he loved how she owned him like this, her playful cruelty a balm after his shitty day.
Uzma tugged him closer by his cock, guiding him to stand between her legs as she sat on the couch. "Sit," she commanded, but he didn't— she wanted him exposed, towering over her while she stayed dressed. Her free hand slipped under her tank top, pinching her own nipple through the fabric, but she denied him the view, keeping it teasing. "Now, let's measure properly." She grabbed her phone again, pulling up a side-by-side image from the tape, then held it next to his dick, her fingers framing him like a joke. "Nope. Not even close. You're my little guy, aren't you? The smallest I've ever fucked, but damn if it doesn't make me wet thinking about how desperate you get."
Babar's face flushed deeper, but he nodded, thrusting into her fist. "Yeah... fuck, keep talking." His voice was hoarse, the dirty talk unraveling him. Uzma obliged, her strokes turning rhythmic, up and down, her palm gliding over the sensitive underside. She leaned in closer, her breath hot against his skin, but didn't touch with her mouth yet—drawing it out, making him ache.
They'd done this dance before, after watching the Kardashians one lazy afternoon, her handjob lingering until he was a mess of relief. But tonight felt charged, the tape's energy amplifying everything. Uzma's curiosity from the show had ignited something raw; she released his cock for a moment, standing to shimmy out of her shorts, revealing her bare pussy—already glistening. She didn't touch herself, though, just spread her legs slightly on the couch, letting him see. "Look at me. I'm soaked from watching that real dick in action. Yours is twitching like it knows it's outclassed."
He groaned, hand itching to touch her, but she swatted it away. "No. You watch." She resumed the handjob, faster now, her grip tight and unrelenting. The humiliation poured from her lips in a steady stream: "My ex used to make me scream with just his fingers because his cock was so much thicker. You? I have to work for it every time. Pathetic, but hot in its own way." Babar's hips jerked, pre-cum dripping steadily onto her knuckles. The room smelled of their arousal, mixed with the faint popcorn butter, the TV moans a filthy soundtrack.
Finally, she couldn't resist—Uzma sank to her knees on the carpet, still in her tank top and panties, positioning him like a king she was about to dethrone. "Time to worship what you've got, even if it's tiny," she said, voice mocking. Her tongue flicked out, tracing the vein along his length, tasting the salt of his skin. Babar threaded his fingers through her hair, not pushing, just holding on as she took him into her mouth. Warm, wet suction enveloped him, her lips stretching around his modest size with ease—too much ease, she implied with a hum that vibrated through him.
She bobbed slowly at first, eyes locked on his, pulling back to murmur against his tip. "See? I can deepthroat you without gagging. Ray J? Kim probably choked on that thing."The comparison stung sweetly, her words muffled as she sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks. Her hand joined in, stroking what her mouth couldn't reach—which was most of him—twisting in tandem. Babar watched, mesmerized, as saliva trailed down her chin, her free hand finally dipping between her own thighs to rub her clit.
Uzma's blowjob was relentless, sloppy and teasing. She popped off to slap his cock against her tongue, then dove back in, humming tunes from the Kardashians theme just to make him laugh through the moans. "You're leaking so much, little dick," she gasped between sucks. "Bet you've never made a woman squirt like my ex did—fucked me until I gushed all over the sheets." The dirty talk escalated, her voice breathy and commanding, humiliation laced with affection. Babar loved it, the way she read him, turning his insecurities into their private kink. His balls tightened, pleasure coiling low in his gut.
She edged him expertly, slowing when he got close, her mouth a teasing glide. "Not yet. I want to feel you throb while I tell you how my ex's cock ruined me for guys like you." Details spilled—how he'd pound her from behind, the stretch, the fullness Babar could only approximate. It drove him wild, his cock pulsing in her mouth as she sucked with renewed vigor, tongue swirling the head. Uzma's fingers worked her pussy faster now, her moans vibrating around him, the wet sounds mingling with the forgotten TV.
Babar's legs trembled, the buildup intense. Uzma sensed it, pulling back to finish with her hand, pumping furiously while her mouth latched onto his balls, sucking one then the other. "Cum for me," she urged, dirty and direct. "Show me how much you love being my humiliated little toy." That did it—Babar shattered, ropes of cum shooting across her waiting tongue, her hand milking every drop as she swallowed with a satisfied hum. She didn't pull away, licking him clean while her own orgasm hit, fingers buried deep, body shuddering on the floor.
They collapsed together on the couch, the tape long ended, credits rolling silently. Uzma wiped her mouth, crawling into his lap, her body warm and spent against his. Babar kissed her deeply, tasting himself on her lips, the afterglow wrapping them like the throw blanket. "You're incredible," he whispered, hands roaming her curves.
She grinned, nuzzling his neck. "And you're mine, size and all. Best part of our thirteen years? Knowing exactly how to make you beg." They laughed, restarting the Kardashians, bodies tangled in easy intimacy. In that moment, the comparisons faded— what mattered was this, their unfiltered connection, leaving them both sated and closer than ever.