• Home
  • /
  • Stories Hub
  • /
  • Humor & Satire
  • /
  • Does Size Matter?

Does Size Matter?

12

Emily and Heather had just finished their sophomore year at Hallelujah Christian College near Philadelphia. Desperate for summer employment, they searched the want ads, and pounded the streets diligently but futilely.

This activity was not without its hazards. Although they didn't realize it, each had a tendency to stop traffic and turn heads. One "victim" had the gall to sue Heather for whiplash, but the judge ruled contributory negligence on his part. Of course, it wasn't a difficult ruling to make, especially after the plaintiff made the mistake of saying at the trial that his little head hurt too, from whipping it so much after seeing Heather (obliviously) sauntering on the sidewalk.

Both girls were unaware of their beauty, which was exceeded only by their naivete. Emily, about five-six, was fully of bubbly energy. When she wore her blond hair in her favored braids or pigtails, she had a fresh, wholesome appearance that still managed to look incredibly sexy. Of course, her generous bosom endowment didn't hurt in that respect. Heather's slender frame was taller and, while less amply endowed than Emily, her figure had more curves than most. This, coupled with sultry features framed by long, black, silky hair, suggested a sexual volcano on the verge of eruption.

After searching through page and page of ads requiring years of experience, technical certifications, or advanced degrees, Emily finally found one that she felt qualified for: "Dancer wanted. Looks matter. Dance moves don't." Unfortunately, the address listed was for a strip club and her father, the minister's, fifteen-minute sermon boiled down to "Hell no!" Heather, a certified lifeguard, found an opening at the YMCA, but her father absolutely forbade her from spending the summer there in a skimpy little swim suit.

But the next day Heather’s father noticed an interesting ad as he sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the paper. “Researchers needed to conduct statistical analysis on wieners. Contact Dr. June Sisters at the Big Fatty Institute. IN PERSON ONLY.”

“Hey, Heather!” her father called out. She and Emily were lounging in their pajamas in the living room watching cartoons.

“Yes, Daddy?” Emily tagged along right behind her. “Did you make us breakfast? You know not to bother me when I’m watching my favorite shows.”

“Look at this add, Heather. It looks perfect for you and Emily. Doing research on hot dogs. Yesterday, when you went grocery shopping for your mother and I, didn’t I tell you to get Ballpark beef franks and Smith’s natural casing wieners? You came back with ten packages of Gwaltney turkey frankfurters.”

“But Daddy, they only cost $1.29 a package. Those ones you said to buy were real expensive. Almost four dollars. I needed the extra money to buy…uh…feminine products.”

“You bought a bunch of magazines,” Emily whispered so only Heather could hear.

“Oh, well, that’s okay then, honey,” her father said. “I’ll go buy the Ballpark and Smith’s dogs. You know we’re having a picnic tonight. I don’t want our friends and neighbors to think we eat cheap. You should apply for this job. In addition to making some money, maybe you’ll learn to discern the difference in the quality of one hot dog compared to another.”

“Daddy! I don’t even like hot dogs!”

“You will, honey. It’s an acquired taste. Your mother didn’t like hot dogs either until I put mine in her bun. That special secret stuff I put in the middle just squirts into your mouth when you take a bite. Much tastier than those cheese dogs.”

“I don’t like it, Daddy. Too salty or something.”

Her father laughed. “Honey, remember that picture I took of you when you were little and you took a big bite of a hot dog and the creamy stuff oozed out of your mouth and dribbled down your chin? You spit it out instead of swallowing it.”

“Yuk, Daddy!”

“Heather, now you go and apply for that job. Emily, too. Perhaps you will learn to enjoy eating a good hot dog. And take those hot dogs you bought with you. In case you get hungry.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“And I like the idea of you working for a woman, this Dr. June Sisters. I don’t want you to be sexually harassed by some dirty old man.”

“I don’t want to be sexually harassed either, Daddy. I don’t want any man to touch me until my wedding night.”

“That’s the attitude, honey. Did you and Emily do your devotions and pray this morning?”

“Of course, Daddy. And Emily’s father called to make sure we did, just like he always does when she sleeps over.”

“Now you two girls just go over to that institute and apply.”

“But Daddy,” Heather fussed, “we don’t know anything about ‘statistical analysis’ like it said in the paper. We are liberal arts majors. We haven’t learned how to do anything.”

“Didn’t I tell you to major in accounting, honey? Now, just go. If part of the research involves tasting the hot dogs, just make sure you swallow instead of spit.”

“I will, Daddy!”

* * *

Emily and Heather applied for the position of researcher for Dr. June Sisters at the Big Fatty Institute. Dr. Sisters interviewed them together.

“Where is Dr. June Sisters?” Heather asked the elderly gentleman.

“That’s me.”

“Oh. My father thought you were a girl. You know, the name June.”

“Men are named June, also,” he responded irritably. “There is a football coach named June Jones. Does it really matter whether I am a man or a woman?”

“Oh no, not at all. My father was just worried my boss might sexually harass me. But you’re much too old for that.”

He frowned. “Let us continue. There is much work to be done.” First, he gave them a little test. “Write ‘I we tall did’ on the slip of paper I gave you.” They did. “Now read what you wrote.” They did. He began to giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Heather asked him.

“What you said. ‘I retarded.’ That’s not funny?” He doubled over in hysterical laughter. “Just a little ice-breaker. We have serious business to discuss.”

“What’s so serious?” Emily inquired.

“The penis of the male of the species.”

“That does sound serious!” Heather blurted. “But we thought we were going to do some sort of research on hot dogs.”

“Yes, well, I guess you misinterpreted the add in the paper. Aren’t you interested any longer?” he asked.

“Yes, we are!” they both chimed.

“Good. My institute has been awarded a significant government grant to answer once and for all the age-old question, ‘Does size matter?’ Do you girls think size matters?”

“Huh?” Heather reacted.

“Let me rephrase the question, my dear. Is it how deep you fish, or is it how you wiggle the worm?”

“I don’t understand, Dr. Sisters,” Emily responded. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Sex, Emily, sex. Does it matter to a woman how big her lover’s penis is?”

Both girls blushed.

“Uh…Dr. Sisters…uh…,” Emily stuttered, “Heather and I…uh…wouldn’t…uh…know the…uh…answer to that. We…are…uh…virgins.”

“Hmmm. I suspected as much. But that’s your problem. No worries, though. You can still perform the responsibilities of the job description of researcher for my institute. Do you think you can hold a penis and measure it?”

“Well…uh…we…uh,” Heather stuttered, “never…uh…have…uh…done that. But yeah, we…uh…could. I guess. Sure we can!”

“Good. You two are extraordinarily attractive. I think you will be able to get the men in the proper condition to be measured very quickly. I have this one researcher, a butch-looking lesbian, who can’t get them up for anything. You see, our researchers measure the penis first in the flaccid state, and then in the erect state. Since I’ll be paying you eight dollars an hour, I can’t wait all day for you to complete each survey.”

“But, Dr. Sisters, why don’t you just let the men measure themselves?” Heather asked.

“That’s been done before, Heather. All men lie about how big theirs is. Except me. No, my institute’s survey must be scientific, unbiased, and accurate. My professional reputation is at stake.”

“Dr. Sisters, we don’t know anything about a penis,” Emily commented, concerned.

“Your training begins now, girls.”

Dr. Sisters displayed a large chart. He used his pointer as he explained the corona, corpa cavernosa, Cowper’s glands, ejaculatory ducts, epididymis, prepuce, frenulum, glans, and prostate gland. Then he paused for a drink of water and continued with the scrotum, seminal vesicles, smegma, testicles, urethra, and vas deferens.

Emily and Heather focused silently but intently on Dr. Sister’s every word.

“Dr. Sisters, how big is the average man’s penis?”

“Exactly what I want you and Heather to find out.” He went on to talk about the Alfred C. Kinsey Institute report that measured ten thousand men and then compiled the results. The average penis is six inches, so the study said, with variations from three and three-quarters to eight and three-quarters inches. Dr. Sisters complained vehemently about the Kinsey techniques used for measurement.

“No one has done an accurate study on this extremely important question, ‘Does size matter?’ yet,” he claimed. “I will be the first. In addition to measuring the participant’s penis, you must ask a series of questions and record the answers. Don’t worry about that. It’s all on the form. In some cases where the credibility of the participant’s answers is suspect, we will make use of a plethysmograph.”

“What’s that?” Heather asked.

“A machine that measures sexual arousal to various stimuli. But don’t worry about that. You will receive instruction. The most important thing is that the physical measurement be consistent and accurate. I’m going to show you exactly how I want you to measure each man’s penis.”

Both girls nodded in agreement. He unzipped his pants and dropped them, and his boxer shorts.

“Oh my God!” Emily screamed. “You have to be ten inches and it’s not even hard!”

“Yes, Emily, you are close. Mine is so big because of penis enlargement techniques. These techniques I will make available, for a small fee, to all those men in the survey who are below average. Men who are above average can also purchase my products if they want to get even bigger.”

“I can’t even possibly imagine having something that big inside me,” Heather observed as she stared at the doctor’s massive member.

“Yeah,” Emily agreed. “No way. Size does matter. If you don’t want to get killed on your honeymoon.”

“Okay, Heather, now hold my penis up with your left hand while you cup my balls with your right hand. You, Emily, take the tape. Put the end right where my penis is attached to my scrotum. Yes, right there. Oh, yeah. Now run the tape to the very tip of my penis.”

“Ten inches!” Emily exclaimed. “And look, it’s getting bigger!” She applied the tape again. “It is! Another inch longer. And still growing!”

“That’s a normal reaction, Emily,” he explained, “when a girl is holding a man’s penis. And one we want to happen because the penis must be measured while erect. Emily, rub up and down on it.” She did tentatively. He put his hand over hers and guided it. “Like this.”

“Let me try,” Heather insisted.

“There is room for both your hands,” Dr. Sisters advised.

The two girls stroked his penis, alternating hands. Kind of like playing nibs on a baseball bat.

“It’s real hard, Dr. Sisters,” Heather concluded. “Now what?”

“Measure it, Heather. Like you did before.”

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “Fifteen inches!”

“Actually, fifteen and one-sixteenth inches,” he snapped. “Make sure you get an accurate measurement.”

“Yes, Dr. Sisters. What now?”

“Now you will have to excuse me for about five minutes.” The good and hard doctor struggled out of his office with his pants still down and headed to the bathroom. When he returned he had pulled his pants up. “I must caution you, girls, that after you take the erect measurement, some men will want you to do a little something else.”

“Like what?” Emily asked innocently.

“Perhaps to continue rubbing their penises until they ejaculate. You are under no obligation to do that. Some might even ask you for fellatio.”

“What’s that?” Heather queried.

Dr. Sisters explained patiently.

“Oh my God!” Emily cried. “Put that thing in my mouth? No way!”

“I’m not doing that, either!” Heather agreed.

“Like I said, girls, you are not required to do anything but measure, before and after. And get the survey questions answered.” He showed them the form. “The participants in the survey fill out the top prior to the ‘examination.’ You girls fill out the bottom afterwards. You will note that the participant is required to list his penis dimensions. Part of our research is to compare the self-proclaimed answers with actual measurements, so I can determine how much exaggeration occurs and refute those other penis studies.”

“Dr. Sisters, these questions on the form are strange,” Emily observed. “I mean, ‘Do guys or girls give better blowjobs?’ and ‘Did you tell your mother before or after you had sex with Mom that you fantasized about doing her?’ sound really weird.”

“Don’t worry about the questions, young lady,” he snarled. “Just ask them as they appear on the form. They have a scientific purpose. For example, the second question measures not only propensity for incest, but also intelligence.”

“Huh?” Emily whispered to Heather. “I have no clue what he’s talking about.”

“Me neither,” she whispered back. “But we need the money. I want to go to the tanning booth and buy some new shoes.”

“Really,” Emily agreed. “I want that new Barbie PS2 game.”

“Girls, girls!” Dr. Sisters shouted. “I can’t hear you! What did you say? Are you ready to get started? There is a penis just waiting for a tape job.”

They both nodded eagerly.

“Very good. Here is his address. You are going to conduct the survey at his home. I have found that to be preferable to my laboratory. A man who must quickly get an erection feels much less anxiety in a familiar environment. Oh, and here are some condoms.”

“What do we need those for?” Heather asked, puzzled.

“After you complete the survey blow them up and have a party. They are cheaper than balloons. Well, actually they are free. The condom companies all give me free samples. Here’s ten dollars. Buy some pizza with the money. With anchovies. Joseph, your first appointment, likes fish. So he told me.”

They both nodded eagerly again.

* * *

Joseph opened the door reluctantly at the girls’ knock.

“Hello, Joseph. I’m Emily and this is Heather. We are here to measure your penis.”

“Uh…uh…yeah…I…uh…know,” he stuttered.

This dude was young, about the girls’ age, and skinny. Three or four inches shorter than Emily, maybe 98 pounds soaking wet, and he talked with a lisp. Yet he listed his penis size as 12. How can such a scrawny, nerdy guy have a twelve-inch penis, both girls pondered to themselves. At least without Dr. Sisters’ enhancement products.

“Joseph, you look nervous,” Heather said softly. “We’re just as nervous as you are. We’ve never done it before. Measure a penis. Well, except for Dr. Sisters. He had to show us how to hold it to accurately measure it and stuff. It’s not like it’s something we do every day, like most men.”

“Take your pants off, Joseph,” Emily requested.

“I…uh…don’t…uh…want to.”

“You have to, Joseph. We certainly can’t measure you over your clothes.”

“Uh…I…uh…no…I…can’t…uh…”

“Joseph!” Heather cried. “Please cooperate! Why should you be shy about showing us your penis? You have a very big one according to what you put down on the form. You listed your penis size as 12.”

“I don’t really want to do this,” Joseph whimpered. “Dr. Sisters is a professor at my college, and my faculty advisor.” He explained that he is shy about his body, but Dr. Sisters absolutely insisted that he participate in the survey if he wanted any chance of getting a degree. “Do you girls…uh…think…you…could…uh…say you measured me? And take my word for it?”

“No way!” Heather screeched. “We’ll get fired if Dr. Sisters finds out we lied.”

“And we don’t lie!” Emily added vehemently.

“C’mon,” Heather purred, “I’ll help you get your pants off, Joseph.” She undid his belt, popped the button, and pulled his zipper down. Tug, tug, tug. Heather got his jeans down to his knees. She reached down the top of his boxer shorts. “Uh…where is it? I have to see what I’m doing here.” She pulled the shorts down. “Oh, here it is! Hidden in the bush.”

Joseph had become so nervous that it positively shriveled. Nothing like Dr. Sisters’ ten soft inches, just a little button mushroom, not much more than an inch in length. The girls did know that there could be a tremendous difference between the flaccid and erect state of the male organ. Dr. Sisters had mentioned it, noting that his own member grew thirty-three percent and that some double or even triple in size.

“I have difficulty believing that puny little thing is going to grow to be an entire foot in length,” Emily spoke softly so only Heather could hear.

“Me, too. There’s only one way to find out. But we better measure it before we try to make it hard.” They did. “One and one-fourth inch.”

“Okay, make it hard now,” Emily said, “and we’ll measure it again.”

Heather rubbed it between her thumb and fore-finger. “This thing could fit in a thimble.”

“Stroke it, Heather. I can’t really help you because there is not enough room on Joseph’s penis for my hands too, like there was for Dr. Sisters.”

“I am stroking it. I can’t get a good grip.” Heather started to cry. “Oh, Emily, Dr. Sisters will fire us if we can’t give Joseph a hard-on.”

“Uh…girls…I…uh…have a suggestion. It…uh…might help if I…uh…wasn’t the only one who…uh…has certain body parts exposed.”

“Take off your blouse, Emily,” Heather proposed. “And your bra. Yours are bigger than mine.”

Emily did. Joseph stared at her voluptuous melons. “Any progress, Heather?” she asked hopefully.

“Still fairly limp. But 2 ½ inches now. Stick your nipple in his ear. I saw that in a movie.”

“You watch smutty movies?”

“No, Emily, it was on the History Channel. In ancient Greece, famous philosophers like Socrates and Aristotle liked to get an ear job. And size did matter. How do you think Plato went deaf? Plato invented the hearing aid. That’s why they look like a nipple.”

“That wasn’t on the History Channel!”

“Well, some guy in history class told me it was when I got mad because he copped a feel. I felt sorry for him when he said he was deaf, so I didn’t turn him in for sexual harassment.”

Emily began to rub her breasts up against Joseph’s face and she played with his ears with her nipples. “How big is it now?”

Heather sobbed miserably. “3 ¼ inches. About the size of a Glue Stic. And not really hard. Oh, Emily we'll be fired for sure. Take your jeans off. And your panties. Maybe he'll like that.” She did. “Okay, okay, this is working better! Put it in his face. Perhaps the scent will appeal to him.”

“Put what in his face?” Emily asked innocently.

“Your pussy!” Joseph screamed. She did.

“Oh, he really likes that!” Heather exclaimed joyously. “It’s about 4 ¾ inches and hard, hot, and throbbing. Just not very big and I don’t think it’s going to get bigger. You lied, Joseph, you said it was 12!”

“Yeah, you lied!” Emily concurred.

“No, I didn’t! I’m a thientitht (scientist with a lisp). I answered scientifically, in centimeters.”

“Quick, Emily, do the math. How many inches is 12 centimeters?”

“Uh…4.7244 inches, I think.”

“Hey, that’s exactly the size of those hot dogs Daddy made me take. I measured them, just for practice. Then I simulated fellatio on them, just in case.”

“Where are those hot dogs?”

“I ate them. You know, I think I could get a penis the size of a hot dog in my mouth. But not a really big one like Dr. Sisters’ penis. How many centimeters do you think his penis is, about 60? You know math is not my strong suit.”

Emily began to giggle at Heather’s silliness, which made Heather follow suit.

12
  • Index
  • /
  • Home
  • /
  • Stories Hub
  • /
  • Humor & Satire
  • /
  • Does Size Matter?

All contents © Copyright 1996-2023. Literotica is a registered trademark.

Desktop versionT.O.S.PrivacyReport a ProblemSupport

Version ⁨1.0.2+795cd7d.adb84bd⁩

We are testing a new version of this page. It was made in 19 milliseconds