The Hype and the Letdown

I met him at a rooftop bar downtown one of those places with dim lighting and overpriced cocktails that promise more than just a buzz. Malik was all confidence, towering over me with a smirk that said he knew exactly what effect he had on women. His voice was deep, his hands were strong, and his gaze lingered just a second too long on my lips before flicking back up. I didn’t need to be a psychologist to read his body language: I’m the prize, and you’re lucky I’m talking to you.

And honestly? I was intrigued.

We flirted over whiskey, his fingers tracing idle circles on my wrist as he leaned in to hear me over the music. His stories were bold—travel, adventure, conquests—and I could tell he was used to women melting at his feet. But what really got me was the way he watched me, like he was peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had.

“You’re different,” he murmured, thumb brushing my knuckles. “Most women just wanna hear how fine I am.”

I laughed. “And you’re used to telling them?”

His grin was all teeth. “Only when it’s true.”

By the third drink, his hand was on my thigh, warm and possessive. By the fourth, we were in an Uber, his mouth hot on my neck as his fingers dug into my hip. I could already imagine what was coming next—the kind of sex that leaves you sore and smug, the kind where you wake up still feeling him.

Then came the reveal.

His place was sleek, all dark wood and low lighting, and he didn’t waste time. Clothes hit the floor, and there it was: thick, long, curving up toward his stomach like it was proud of itself. 22 centimeters of pure ego. My breath caught. I’d had big before, but this? This was next-level.

Malik knew it, too. He stroked himself slowly, watching me watch him. “You gonna handle it?”

I smirked. “You gonna make me?”

That was all the challenge he needed.

He pushed me onto the bed, his hands rough as they grabbed my thighs. I was wet already, anticipation coiling low in my stomach as he positioned himself between my legs. The first touch of his cock against me was electric hot, heavy, impossible to ignore.

And then he pushed in.

Just the tip.

Just. The. Tip.

I gasped, my back arching as my body stretched to accommodate him. It was a lot almost too much but the burn was delicious, the kind of pain that borders on pleasure. I braced myself for the full slide, for the moment he’d bury himself inside me and ruin me for anyone else.

Except… that moment never came.

Because three thrusts later, Malik groaned, his whole body tensing and then he came.

Hard.

Like, embarrassingly hard.

I felt it, hot and sudden, spilling into me as he shuddered. For a second, neither of us moved. Then he pulled out, collapsing onto the bed beside me with a breathless laugh. “Damn, girl. You’re too tight.”

I blinked. Wait. That’s it?

He didn’t even seem fazed, just wiped himself off and reached for his phone like he hadn’t just blue-balled me with the world’s most anticlimactic performance. I lay there, still throbbing, still aching, staring at the ceiling as reality set in.

All that hype. All that swagger. And he couldn’t even last long enough to get past the tip.

The worst part? His dick immediately went soft. No round two, no “let me take care of you,” just… nothing. He kissed my shoulder, muttered something about being tired, and rolled over like it was totally normal to leave a woman hanging after two minutes.

I should’ve been mad. Maybe I was, a little. But mostly? I was amused.

Because Malik wasn’t the god he thought he was. He was just a man—one who talked a big game but couldn’t back it up. And as I slipped out of bed and dressed in the dark, I couldn’t help but smile.

Some lessons are best learned the hard way.