Short Tenant, Giant Cock

The late light came through the kitchen of the quiet suburban house and found Octavia where she liked to be found, hip against the counter, coffee cooling in her hand. At forty-eight she wore her curves without apology: full breasts shifting under a soft knit dress, a waist that still cinched, hips and ass that made the fabric earn its keep. She owned the place, rented the basement, and had decided weeks ago that teasing her new tenant was the best part of collecting rent.

Casimir came up the back steps with groceries, five foot two and trying not to look like he knew she was measuring him. Twenty-two, dark hair damp, polite down to the bone, sweatpants and a T-shirt that showed how compact and unexpectedly solid he was. Octavia let her eyes travel him the way she always did.

"There he is. My favorite pocket-sized tenant." Her voice was warm and wicked. "Did they put the good coffee on the top shelf again, or did you charm some stranger into reaching for you?"

Color climbed his throat. He set the bag down and met her eyes anyway. "I manage, Octavia. Some of us don't need a ladder to feel like we belong in a room."

"Brave," she said, stepping close enough that he had to tip his head back. Perfume and warm skin reached him. Forty-eight looking down at twenty-two, ease against careful manners, and the air between them went tight. She liked the way his breath changed. She was almost sure he liked the way she looked at him when she said it.

The side door opened. Magnus ducked in, twenty-nine, broad through the chest, a handyman still smelling of cut grass and sun from the gutter job. He had a head and a half on Casimir and never let it go to waste.

"Don't let her get in your head," Magnus said, rinsing his hands, grinning. "She spent an hour on me last week because I grabbed the wrong wrench. At least you've got a built-in excuse. You're practically a houseplant down there."

Casimir huffed a laugh, flustered, not angry. "Great backup."

"Magnus, leave my tenant alone. That's my job." Octavia's laugh went low. She looked at Casimir again, and the joke softened into something that lived under the words. His eyes held hers a second too long. Hers did not look away. The attraction was mutual and adult and chosen; she felt it settle low in her belly, and she saw the same heat answer in the set of his mouth. He shifted his weight. She let her gaze drop, just once, over the front of those sweatpants, then lifted it with a private smile.

"Rent's due tonight. I'll come down after dinner. Try not to vanish under the couch before I get there."

"I'll be there," he said, voice rougher. "Standing up. Even."

Magnus snorted and went back outside. Octavia watched Casimir take the basement stairs, short and sure-footed, and felt the evening already closing around both of them.

She knocked just after eight, cash envelope in her hand, dress traded for a softer one that clung when she moved. The basement apartment was small and neat, lamplight, a low couch, a bed against the far wall, shelves built too high for a man who topped out at five-two. Casimir opened the door in the same sweatpants, barefoot, and the sight of her in his doorway did something visible to his composure.

"On time," he said. "I was starting to think you'd send Magnus to collect, just so he could make another joke."

"Magnus doesn't get this view." She stepped in, closed the door, and held out the envelope only after she'd made him come take it. "Count it if you want. Or stand on a chair so you can look me in the eye while you do it."

He took the envelope. His ears went red, but he smiled. "You really don't get tired of that."

"Not even a little. You're adorable when you pretend it doesn't get to you." She drifted past him toward the little kitchenette, hips swaying because she knew he was watching. "Short men always swear they don't care. Then they spend the whole conversation trying not to stare at my chest from underneath it."

"I'm staring because you want me to," he said, quieter.

That landed. She turned, one brow up, pleasure sharpening in her. "Listen to you. Mouthy for somebody I could tuck under my arm."

"Octavia."

"What? It's sweet. All that politeness, all that fluster, and you're still only—" She gestured, fond and cruel. "Come here. Let me see if you've grown since Tuesday."

He didn't come closer. He turned instead, reaching for a folder on the highest shelf above the desk, the one with the lease copy he always meant to hand her and always forgot. He rose onto his toes. The sweatpants pulled tight across his ass, then across the front as he stretched, and the fabric did nothing to hide what was underneath.

Octavia's next tease died in her mouth.

It was obscene. A thick, heavy ridge ran down his thigh and kept going, the head of it clearly outlined near the hem, so long and so fat that the soft cotton strained pale over it. He was only half hard and already the size of something that didn't belong on a man that short. Her eyes widened. Heat slammed through her so fast her thighs pressed together.

Casimir got the folder and turned. He saw where she was looking. He went still.

"Oh," she said, and it came out hoarse. The playful edge burned off her voice and left hunger. "Oh, sweetheart. You've been letting me call you small."

He swallowed. The shape in his pants thickened, lifting, the waistband struggling. "You never asked about that part."

She crossed the little room before she decided to. Up close the difference in their heights was the same joke it had always been, except now her gaze was locked on the monstrous bulge and her mouth had gone wet. "I want to see it. I want to feel it. I've been teasing you for weeks like you were a cute little secret, and you've been walking around with that." Her hand hovered, not quite touching, trembling with how badly she wanted to. "Casimir. Please. Show me."

His breath shook. He was flushed, aroused, eyes dark and willing. He set the folder down and hooked his thumbs in the waistband. "You sure? Once you see it, the short jokes are going to sound different."

"I'm sure." She met his eyes so he would hear the yes in it. "I want every inch. I want you to show me exactly how much pleasure that giant cock can give me."

He pushed the sweatpants down.

It sprang free, heavy and flushed, thicker than her wrist, long enough that she stared and forgot how to blink. Veins stood along the shaft. The head was broad, already shining. Even soft he would have been huge; hard, it looked impossible on his compact frame, a ridiculous, gorgeous contradiction. Her knees went weak.

"Jesus," she whispered. "You're going to ruin me."

"Only if you want that," he said, voice low, cock twitching under her stare. "Come find out."

Octavia dropped.

The carpet was thin under her knees. She wrapped both hands around him and still had shaft left over, the heat of him shocking, the weight of him making her moan before her mouth ever got there. She licked the broad head, tasted salt and clean skin, and opened as wide as she could. The crown stretched her lips. She pushed, greedy, and took him until he hit the back of her throat and she gagged, eyes watering, a filthy delighted sound breaking out of her.

"Fuck," Casimir breathed. His hand settled in her hair, not forcing, just there. "You don't have to—"

She pulled off, strings of spit connecting her mouth to him, and went back down harder. She wanted the struggle. She bobbed, cheeks hollowing, jaw aching, gagging again when she tried to swallow more of that massive length and couldn't. Her moans vibrated around him. Drool slicked her chin and his cock. She stroked what she couldn't fit, both fists working the thick base while she sucked and choked and whimpered with pure filthy joy.

He was panting above her, short and solid, watching the forty-eight-year-old landlady who had mocked his height kneel and worship the part of him that made a joke of every inch she'd counted. She pulled off with a wet gasp, lips swollen, and looked up at him wrecked and shining.

"Fuck me," she begged. "Please. I need it. I need you to put this giant cock in me. I can't—please, Casimir, fuck me."

"Couch," he said, already hauling her up. She went willingly, eagerly, dress rucked to her waist as he bent her over the arm. Her panties were soaked through. He dragged them down her thighs and groaned at the sight of her, plump and glistening, forty-eight and desperate, ass tipped up for a man who had to stand close to line himself up.

The first push stole her breath. The broad head spread her, relentless, and she cried out as he sank in, inch after thick inch, stretching her open until she was shaking, stuffed, the burn blooming into a deep helpless pleasure. He didn't stop until his hips met her ass and she was full in a way she had never been full.

"Oh—oh God—"

He drew back and drove in. The thrust punched a scream out of her. He set a rhythm that was deep and powerful, short powerful strokes from those compact hips, each one bottoming out, each one making her soaked pussy clutch and gush around him. The couch creaked. Her breasts spilled from the neckline of her dress and swung with every pound. She braced on the cushions and wailed, voice already breaking.

"Yes—yes—harder—don't you dare go easy—"

He didn't. He gripped her hips and fucked her like he'd been waiting through every teasing remark, cock so thick she felt split and owned, so long he nudged places that made her vision spark. Wet sounds filled the small apartment. She came the first time with a shocked scream, clenching so hard he grunted, pulsing around that impossible girth while he kept pounding her through it.

He pulled out, flipped her, and she barely had her feet under her before he was walking her backward to the bed. She fell onto her back, dress hauled up, thighs spread wide. He climbed over her, all that unexpected strength, and pushed back in to the hilt. Missionary put his face near hers even with the height difference, his weight braced on his arms, and he fucked her harder than he had on the couch.

Octavia clawed at his shoulders. The angle let him grind deep, the fat head dragging over the spot that made her sob. She locked her legs around his waist as far as they would go and took every brutal thrust, breasts bouncing, mouth open. Words fell apart. What came out of her were screams, raw and shameless, echoing off the low ceiling—pleasure, overwhelm, another orgasm crashing through her so hard her back bowed off the mattress.

"Ah—ah—Casimir—!"

He didn't slow. Sweat shone on his chest. He watched her face while he ruined her, short body driving that giant cock into her soaked, stretched pussy again and again, the slap of skin loud, her juices slicking his balls. She came a third time screaming into his shoulder, nails digging, thighs shaking, completely lost. A fourth built before the third had finished, white-hot, and she wailed through it, voice cracking, nothing left in her mouth but the sound of being filled and pounded and stretched past anything she had known.

He fucked her through all of it. Deep. Relentless. The short tenant she had mocked, buried to the root in his landlady, making her scream until her throat burned and her pussy fluttered helplessly around him. She was sobbing with pleasure, clawing, begging without words, every thrust punching another broken cry out of her. The night narrowed to that: his cock, her body taking it, scream after scream.

When he finally pulled out she was wrecked and open, hole fluttering, glistening. He knelt over her chest, fist flying on that massive slick length, and came with a rough groan. Thick ropes of cum striped her heaving breasts, her throat, her flushed face, hot and heavy across her cheeks and open panting mouth. Her final scream of pleasure tore out of her and rang through the apartment, long and shattered, as the last pulse painted her skin.

She lay there after, unable to do more than whimper. Tremors ran through her thighs. Her voice was gone to hoarseness. Cum cooled on her breasts and her cheek. Casimir stayed close, breathing hard, a small stunned smile on his mouth that matched the dazed one trying to form on hers. He fetched a warm cloth from the bathroom and cleaned her gently, careful over her sensitive skin, over the mess he'd made of her face and chest, murmuring nothing that needed an answer while she trembled through the aftershocks. When he was done he stretched out beside her, short and solid and spent, and she turned her face toward him, smiling through the exhaustion, throat too raw for anything but a thin sound of satisfaction.

He brushed her hair back, eyes warm, and the question came soft in the quiet.

"Still think I'm too short to keep up with you?"