SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

This reader goes nude in Europe…

Last summer, my wife Emily and I had been planning this big European vacation with her best friend from middle school, Lisa, and Lisa’s husband, Mark. We’d talked about it for months—hitting Paris, then the French Riviera, soaking up the sun and culture. Emily and Lisa have been tight since they were kids, sharing everything from secrets to shopping sprees, and Mark’s this chill guy, always up for adventure. I figured it’d be a fun group trip, no drama. But when we got to Nice, France, things took a turn I wasn’t expecting.

Lisa, ever the bold one, suggested we check out a nude beach one afternoon. “Come on, it’s Europe! Everyone does it. It’ll be liberating,” she said with that infectious grin, her bikini already hugging her curves as we walked along the promenade.

Emily lit up. “Yeah, babe, let’s do it. When in France, right?”

Mark nodded, shrugging like it was no big deal. I didn’t want to be the buzzkill, the only one sitting out while they stripped down and had a laugh. “Sure, why not?” I muttered, my stomach twisting a bit.

I’m not insecure about my body exactly, but my dick? It’s below-average at best—maybe 4.75 inches hard, nothing special. Soft, it’s even less impressive, shrinking to a little nub when I’m nervous. Still, I played it cool.

The beach was tucked away, a stretch of pebbly shore with azure water lapping at the edges. It was crowded but relaxed—couples lounging bare, families with kids in one section, but plenty of adults going full nude. We found a spot near the water, spread out towels, and cracked open some beers from the cooler. At first, we kept our swimsuits on, chatting and people-watching. Guys with impressive packages strutted by, cocks swinging heavy between their legs—some thick and long, even flaccid, others semi-hard from the sun or the vibe. Women with perfect tits and shaved pussies walked hand-in-hand, carefree. Emily, in her black one-piece, kept stealing glances, her cheeks flushing. ‘This place is wild,’ she whispered to me, squeezing my hand.

Then Lisa stood up, peeling off her bikini top without a second thought. Her full breasts bounced free, nipples perking in the breeze. “Fitting in time, guys!”

Mark followed, dropping his trunks—his cock flopped out, soft but already substantial, at least 5 inches dangling there, balls hanging low. Emily hesitated, looking at me, but the excitement won. She shimmied out of her suit, her toned body on display—pert tits, smooth pussy lips visible as she turned. I swallowed hard and stripped last, my shorts hitting the sand. My dick was soft from the nerves, barely 1.5 inches, tucked against my balls like it was hiding. We all sat back down, the sun warming our skin, but I felt exposed in more ways than one.

Emily’s confidence exploded. She was glowing, laughing louder, stretching out on her towel with her legs slightly apart, pussy on casual display. “God, this feels amazing,” she said, eyeing the crowd. “Look at some of these guys—hung like gods. That one over there? His cock’s gotta be 8 inches soft.” She nudged me playfully, but her words landed heavily.

Lisa joined in, pointing out a buff dude nearby whose thick shaft swayed as he walked. “Right? And Mark’s no slouch either.”

Mark chuckled, his soft cock twitching a bit from the attention. Emily turned to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babe, you’re brave for coming out here. Not everyone’s packing like these Europeans.”

It was light at first, but the teasing stung, my face heating as my little dick stayed stubbornly soft. Not long after, Lisa’s gaze drifted down to my lap during a lull in conversation. She tilted her head, squinting. “Wait, you’re not a grower, are you?”

The question hung there, blunt and curious. Everyone looked—Emily smirking, Mark raising an eyebrow. I shifted, trying to cover up, but it was pointless. “Uh, 4.75 inches hard,” I admitted, voice low, my cheeks burning.

Lisa burst out laughing, covering her mouth but not hiding the glee. “Oh, honey, if you need an orgasm, I have some good dildo recommendations. Or a cock sleeve might help stretch things out for Emily.”

The group erupted—Emily giggling uncontrollably, her tits jiggling; Mark chuckling deep in his chest, his cock starting to thicken from the vibe. “No way,” Emily managed through laughs, wiping a tear. “Have you ever used a sleeve?”

Lisa shook her head, glancing proudly at Mark. “Nah, don’t need to. He’s 5 inches soft, 8.5 hard—fills me up just right.”

Mark grinned, his dick now half-erect, veins showing along the length, easily dwarfing mine even in that state. I sat there, humiliated, my tiny soft dick shrinking further under their stares, but a twisted heat building in my groin.

The rest of the afternoon blurred—more beers, splashing in the waves where dicks bobbed freely, Emily and Lisa whispering and glancing my way with knowing smiles. By sunset, we packed up, suits back on, but the damage was done. Emily was buzzing, her hand on my thigh in the cab back to the hotel, squeezing like she couldn’t wait.

That night in our room, overlooking the Mediterranean, things ignited. We barely made it through the door before she pushed me onto the bed, stripping naked again. “Fuck, that beach got me so worked up,” she breathed, climbing on top, her wet pussy grinding against my hardening dick.

I was at my full 4.75 inches, throbbing, but she felt looser than usual, her arousal from the day making her slick. She rode me hard, tits bouncing, moaning about how free she felt, how hot the guys looked.

“God, Mark’s cock… so big, even soft,” she gasped, not holding back.

I thrust up, desperate to please, my small dick sliding in and out, but she clenched around me without much resistance. We went at it missionary next, her legs wrapped tight, but I could tell she was chasing something more. I flipped her over, pounding doggy-style, my balls slapping lightly against her, but it was over quick—me grunting as I came inside her, hot spurts filling her pussy.

She rolled off, breathing heavy, but didn’t cum. We caught our breath, then went again—her sucking my softening dick back to life, lips stretching around my modest girth, before I ate her out, tongue flicking her clit until she writhed. Round two: me on top, thrusting deep as I could, her nails digging into my back.

“Harder, babe,” she urged, but my size limited the stretch.

I came again, pumping cum into her, but she arched without release, frustrated yet playful. Third round, she jerked me off while I fingered her, my fingers curling inside her soaked hole, but still, no orgasm for her. We collapsed, sweaty and spent, the room smelling of sex. As we lay there, tangled in sheets, I couldn’t hold it in. “So… the beach today. You seemed really turned on by all that.”

She propped up on an elbow, her nipple brushing my arm, a sly smile playing on her face. “Yeah? What gave it away?”

I hesitated. “The comments, the laughing… did you cum out there or something?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “No, babe. Not even close. But fuck, it was hot—seeing those big cocks, Mark’s especially, and knowing yours is… well, you. Made me wet as hell, but I need more to get off.”

Her words hit like a gut punch, my spent dick twitching feebly. She kissed me, hand cupping my balls gently. “Don’t worry. We can try that sleeve Lisa mentioned.”

Humiliation mixed with arousal, I pulled her close, already half-hard again, craving the next tease.

Another reader gives his girlfriend a gift…

I remember the day I turned 18 like it was yesterday—fresh out of high school, feeling like a man, but deciding to get circumcised to ‘upgrade’ things before college. My girlfriend, Ava, was 18 too, this stunning brunette with curves that drove me wild. We’d been together for six months, fucking like rabbits whenever we could. My dick was solid 5 inches long when hard, 4.5 inches around the thickest part, enough to make her moan and claw my back. But after hearing some guys talk about circumcision making things more sensitive, I went for it.

The recovery sucked, two weeks of no sex, my dick tender and bandaged. To keep her satisfied, I surprised her with a massive dildo: 8.5 inches long, 5.5 inches circumference, veiny and realistic, black silicone that looked intimidating even to me.

“Use this while I’m healing,” I said, half-joking, handing it over in the privacy of her dorm room.

Her eyes widened. “Babe, that’s huge. I don’t want to. I’ll wait for you—your dick’s perfect.”

I was annoyed she wouldn’t touch it, but damn, it felt good knowing she craved me that much. No one else, just my dick.

A month later, stitches gone, sensitivity ramped up, I was rock hard and ready. We snuck into her room after classes, clothes flying off. She was wet already, pussy lips glistening as I pushed her onto the bed. I slid into her missionary, thrusting deep, my five-inch length bottoming out, girth stretching her just right. Usually, she’d cum fast—screaming my name after a few minutes, her cuntal walls clenching like a vice.

But this time?

Nothing.

I pounded harder, balls slapping her ass, sweat dripping, but her face was blank, moans forced and quiet.

“You okay?” I grunted, flipping her to doggy.

She arched her back, ass up, and I rammed in again, switching to her tight asshole for that extra grip. Her pussy gripped me like always, and I fucked her relentlessly, the post-circumcision sensitivity making me throb. I came hard, pumping ropes of cum deep into her ass, groaning as it leaked out around my shaft.

As I pulled out, panting, she collapsed forward, face buried in the pillow. Then… sobbing. Real tears, shoulders shaking. “Ava? What’s wrong?’ I stroked her back, heart pounding in confusion.

She turned, eyes red, wiping her face. “I’m sorry, babe. I’ve been using that dildo every night since you gave it to me. I couldn’t help it—it’s so big, it fills me. And tonight… I barely felt you. Your cock just… doesn’t hit the same anymore. I think I got used to the bigger size.”

Her words slammed into me like a truck. Humiliated. My dick, the one she’d worshipped, reduced to ‘barely felt’? I was five inches, thick enough to make most girls beg, but now it was inadequate next to a fucking toy. My face burned, stomach twisting, but—fuck—my dick twitched, hardening again against my thigh. The shame twisted into this sick arousal, blood rushing south.

“Show me,” I said, voice hoarse, not hesitating. “Give me the dildo.”

She bit her lip, resisting at first. “No, you’ll be mad.”

But I insisted, and she dug it out from under her bed, the monster flopping heavy in my hand, longer and girthier than me. I spat on the tip, slicking it up, and positioned it at her pussy. She was soaked, lips parting easily as I pushed. It sank in whole, no resistance, her cunt swallowing every centimeter like it was made for it.

“See?” she whispered, hips bucking slightly.

My heart raced, pulse thundering in my ears, humiliation flooding me as I watched her take what I couldn’t give. I gripped the base and started thrusting—fast, brutal, the silicone slamming into her depths. She gasped, eyes rolling back, and came almost instantly, pussy squirting around it, juices soaking the sheets.

“Oh god, yes!”

One orgasm down. I didn’t stop, pounding harder, the dildo stretching her wide, hitting spots my cock never reached. Two, three—her body convulsing, tits bouncing, screams echoing off the walls. By the fifth, she was babbling, “It’s so much bigger, fuck, I need it!”

Eight orgasms in under five minutes, her clit throbbing, walls milking the toy as she collapsed in a trembling heap, utterly spent. I was throbbing, pre-cum dripping from my tip, the sight too much. I tossed the dildo aside and jerked my dick furiously over her face—my five-inch shaft looking pathetic now, but the humiliation fueled me. Cum erupted, thick spurts painting her cheeks, lips, and tongue.

She licked it weakly, smiling through the mess. We hugged after, her head on my chest, bodies sticky and warm. She drifted off to sleep quick, exhausted, but I lay there wide awake, staring at the ceiling. My mind replayed it all—her tears, the easy way she took that beast, how my dick fell short. Humiliated, yeah, but hard again already, wondering if I’d grab the dildo for round two once she woke.

Meanwhile, this reader had a school reunion on a nude beach…

A nude beach encounter turned me into a total SPH junkie, no question. I’d dabbled in small penis humiliation before—girls giggling at my pathetic 3-inch hard-on during hookups, or online chats where they’d roast my size—but nothing hit like this. It was a scorching summer morning, and I dragged my fat ass out to the beach at 7 a.m. sharp, craving that early solitude for a swim. The place was empty, just waves crashing and seagulls screeching, the sun barely up. I stripped naked right away, my flabby gut hanging over my tiny soft nub, and waded into the cool water. Felt amazing, but I was horny as hell that day—morning wood trying to poke out, though it barely made a dent in my belly fat.

After swimming a bit, I hauled myself back to my towel on the sand, still rock hard at my full 2 inches, throbbing and leaking pre-cum. No one around, so why not? I wrapped my chubby hand around my little dicklette and started stroking fast, eyes closed, imagining some busty babe riding me. My breath came quick, balls tightening—I was right on the edge, about to blow—when I cracked my eyes open. Shit, a couple was strolling down the beach toward me, hand in hand. He was a massive black guy, built like a tank, muscles rippling under dark skin, and she was this curvy goddess: wide hips, thick thighs, and tits that jiggled with every step. I squinted… fuck, no way. It was Ms. Laurent, my old French teacher from high school.

She spotted me, too, her eyes narrowing in that familiar scowl. Back in class, I was the fat class clown, always cracking jokes to distract from my insecurities. She hated my guts, constantly snapping at me, calling me out on my weight. “Zach, sit down and stop wobbling the desk,” or mocking how I sweated through my shirts.

I hadn’t slimmed down much since; still pushing 250 pounds, pale and doughy. They walked right up, her in all her naked glory, him swinging a soft cock that dangled halfway to his knees—easily 8 inches flaccid, thick as my wrist. Four times my max size, no exaggeration. My hand froze on my tiny erection, but I couldn’t hide it; the beach was too open.

“Zach? Is that you?” she said, voice dripping with disdain, crossing her arms under those massive, perfect D-cup boobs.

They stuck out firm, nipples hard from the breeze, begging to be sucked. Her boyfriend just smirked, his huge black cock swaying as he stood there. “Yeah, Ms. Laurent. Hey,” I mumbled, trying to play it cool, but my face burned.

We chatted awkwardly about old times—her asking if I graduated, me bullshitting about a dead-end job—while I couldn’t stop staring. Her tits heaved with every laugh, so round and heavy, and his cock… god, it was mesmerizing. Soft, it hung heavy, veiny, the head thick and dark. I pictured him slamming into her from behind, those curves bouncing, her moaning as she deepthroated that monster, gagging on it while I jerked my invisible prick.

Then it happened. She fumbled her cigarette pack—probably lit one up during our talk—and it tumbled to the sand. “Oops,” she muttered, bending at the waist to grab it. Her long dark hair cascaded down, brushing right against my exposed little dick, and her head bumped my thigh close enough that I felt her warm breath. That accidental touch—her hair tickling my sensitive nub—sent me over.

I gasped. “I’m sorry…’ and erupted.

My pathetic spurts shot out, weak ropes of cum splattering across her feet and his, landing in sticky white globs on their toes and the sand.

They jerked back, her yelping, “Eww, what the fuck? You pervert! You’re so disgusting, Zach!”

Her boyfriend shoved me hard in the chest, nearly knocking my fat ass over. “Seriously, bro, wipe this shit up before I beat your ass. What the hell is wrong with you?”

I stammered apologies, heart pounding, face beet red, but my tiny cock twitched with aftershocks, still dribbling. She wiped her foot in the sand, glaring down at me. “I didn’t even know that babydick could cum. Hell, I didn’t see it there at all—your big fat belly was hiding the little thing the whole time. Wipe this cum off me right now, you weirdo! I always knew you were off, fat pig. Jerking off like a creep on a public beach? Pathetic.”

Her words sliced through me—humiliating, brutal, calling out my micro-dick and gut like I was nothing. I scrambled for tissues in my bag, knees shaking, and knelt there wiping their feet clean, my cum smearing on the paper as I dabbed at her painted toes and his massive ones. She watched with a sneer, her huge tits right in my face, while he loomed over me, cock still swinging huge and soft.

“Hurry up, tubby. Don’t want your nasty load on us longer than it has to be.”

I finished, mumbling sorry again, utterly degraded, my little dick shrinking back to nothing under my flab. They turned and walked off, her ass cheeks jiggling, his long cock flopping between his legs. I sat there alone, beach still mostly empty, replaying it all—the touch, the explosion, her mocking my ‘babydick’ and how it vanished behind my belly. The shame burned hot, but fuck, it made me hard again instantly. I love humiliation like that; it’s my drug. This? This was peak SPH—my old school teacher and her hung boyfriend treating me like the fat pig with a tiny dicklette I am. I came back to that beach hoping for more, addicted for life.

While this reader was outed at a party…

This all went down just a couple of weeks ago, and it’s still got me replaying every humiliating second in my head. My Goddess and I have this dynamic where she’s the one truly in charge—calling the shots, dishing out punishments when I fuck up—but in public, she insists I play the dominant role. It’s her rule, not mine; she likes the contrast, the secret thrill of flipping it when no one’s looking. I lost my last job because I was too chickenshit to tell her the truth right away, lied about the details to save face. She’d been holding that over me, promising a punishment, and on the drive to our friend’s house party that night, she leaned over with that wicked smile and whispered, “Tonight’s the night you pay for it, pet. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun—for me.”

My stomach twisted, half dread, half excitement, because I knew whatever she had planned would involve exposing my weaknesses, especially my pathetic 4-inch cock. The party was buzzing when we got there—music thumping, drinks flowing, about two dozen people milling around the living room and kitchen. I stuck close to her, arm around her waist like the ‘man’ of the relationship, while she played the quiet, demure girlfriend, batting her eyes and laughing softly at my lame jokes.

But the vibe shifted the second I spotted Frank, her ex-husband, across the room. He’s this burly, aggressive prick—tall, broad-shouldered, with a smug grin that screams entitlement. Their breakup was a total shitshow, from what mutual friends had spilled: screaming fights, thrown plates, and her finally kicking him out after years of his bullshit. It happened way before I entered the picture, but the bad blood lingered. They traded these icy glares all night, him nursing a beer and shooting her dirty looks, her ignoring him with that cool detachment until it boiled over.

A few hours in, after I’d had a couple drinks to steady my nerves, she sidled up to me and murmured, “I’m ready to go home. Time for your punishment.”

My heart raced—whatever she had in mind, it wouldn’t be gentle. “Just need to hit the bathroom first,” I said, excusing myself.

I ducked into the guest restroom down the hall, relieved myself quick, splashing water on my face to calm down. As I stepped out, Frank was right there, blocking the door, his face twisted in that familiar sneer. “We need to talk,” he growled, voice low and threatening.

I’d overheard their blowups before—always ending in her tearing him apart verbally—so I braced for it, but before I could respond, he shoved past me toward the living room. By the time I caught up, the argument was already raging. Goddess stood toe-to-toe with him, her cheeks flushed, eyes blazing, while a small crowd of friends pretended not to watch. Frank spotted me approaching and barked, “Oh look, your White Knight here is to save you from a verbal evisceration.”

She whipped back without missing a beat, “Oh please, you couldn’t eviscerate a paper bag.”

The tension crackled, everyone frozen, and then Frank crossed the line—he grabbed his crotch, squeezing the bulge in his jeans, and snarled, “You want to feel this 11-incher in you again?!!”

Goddess didn’t flinch; she got right in his face, her voice steady and cutting. “You never changed, Frank. Yes, you have a nice cock, but no skill. Just plowing into someone isn’t gonna satisfy them!”

Then, in front of everyone—our friends, strangers, the whole damn party—she pointed straight at me, her finger jabbing the air like an accusation. “He may only be 4 inches, but he knows how to leave me lying on the bed, sweaty, glowing, and satisfied. All you are is a big cock with a premature ejaculation issue!” She turned to me, her eyes locking on mine with that commanding spark, and said, “Take me home!”

The room went dead silent, jaws dropping, a few gasps and awkward chuckles breaking the hush. My face burned crimson; she might as well have yanked my pants down and measured my little dick right there. Everyone knew now—my size lay bare, compared to his monster, and not in my favor. But fuck, the humiliation hit me like a drug, my tiny dick twitching in my boxers despite the shame.

I nodded mutely, grabbing her hand and leading her out to the car, the stares burning into my back. The drive home was quiet at first, her smirking to herself, me gripping the wheel with white knuckles, replaying her words. “He may be 4 inches…” God, she’d said it so casually, exposing me like that.

When we got inside, I did exactly what she expected—ran a hot bubble bath for her, the steam filling the bathroom with lavender scent. She stripped down, her body flawless under the lights, and sank into the tub with a sigh. I knelt beside her, rolling up my sleeves to wash her back, my hands gentle on her skin, soaping up her shoulders while she relaxed. Then she started laughing—deep, throaty chuckles that echoed off the tiles.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, my voice small, still reeling from the party.

She twisted to look at me, eyes gleaming with mischief. “All our friends know exactly how big you and Frank both are now. I bet your little dick is the main topic tonight… everyone whispering about the 4-incher who satisfies me better than the 11-inch premie.”

Her words stung, but they also made my cock stir, hardening to its full, inadequate length under my jeans. I swallowed hard, asking, “What caused the argument, anyway? What did he say to you?”

She leaned back, letting the bubbles cling to her breasts, and her expression turned serious—or was it playful? Hard to tell with her. I was not sure if she was just messing with me or dead serious, but she said, “He told me you were such a pansy he could see himself making you ride his superior cock!”

The image flashed in my mind—Frank’s massive 11-inch cock, thick and veiny, forcing me down onto it while she watched, laughing. My face heated up again, a mix of revulsion and twisted arousal flooding me. She reached out, cupping my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. “And you know what? After tonight’s punishment, maybe I should make you think about that. Your tiny prick doesn’t compare, but it obeys. That’s why I keep you around.”

I finished washing her, my hands trembling, and helped her out of the tub, toweling her dry like the devoted sub I am. That night, as she edged me for hours without letting me cum—teasing my 4 inches with her fingers, mocking how it barely filled her palm—the party’s humiliation lingered, fueling every denied thrust of my hips. SPH like that? It’s my weakness, turning shame into this addictive high. Frank’s boast, her public roast—it’s all I can think about, wondering if the group chat is still buzzing about my little dicklette.

This reader learns a hard lesson…

It was about ten years ago, and I was on this family vacation in a beach town, feeling that restless horniness that hits you hard in your early twenties. Stuck with my parents and siblings, I needed an outlet, so I fired up Tinder one night and swiped through local girls’ profiles. That’s when I matched with Maria. Her pics showed off a curvy figure, long dark hair, and a playful smile that screamed fun. We chatted for a bit, and she was flirty right away—teasing about the beach vibes and what kind of trouble we could get into. It was obvious we both wanted the same thing: a no-strings hookup to scratch that itch.

We set up to meet that evening near my family’s rental spot. I snuck out, heart pounding with excitement, and we clicked instantly when we saw each other. She had this confident energy, wearing a short sundress that hugged her hips. We walked and talked, the tension building until I suggested heading back to a semi-private room at the rental—a little storage area off the side that wasn’t exactly locked but felt risky enough to amp up the thrill. The chance of getting caught by my family or someone else made my pulse race even faster.

The second the door clicked shut behind us, we were on each other. Our mouths crashed together in a hungry kiss, tongues sliding and exploring as hands roamed everywhere. I backed her against the wall, my fingers tugging at the straps of her dress while she yanked my shirt over my head. Clothes hit the floor in a frenzy—her bra, my shorts, her panties pooling at her ankles. She was completely naked now, her full breasts heaving with each breath, nipples already hard, and a neatly trimmed patch above her pussy that glistened under the dim light.

I guided her down onto a pile of old blankets I’d thrown together as a makeshift bed, my dick throbbing and fully erect—maybe 4.5 inches on a good day, but I didn’t think about that then. We kept kissing, deep and sloppy, as I grabbed a condom from my wallet and rolled it on with shaky hands. She spread her legs invitingly, and I slid a couple of fingers into her pussy to test the waters. She was soaking wet already, her walls clenching tight around my digits, hot and slick. It felt incredible, and I pumped them in and out a few times, feeling her hips buck slightly, but I was too eager to draw it out.

“Fuck me,” she whispered against my lips, and that was all I needed. I positioned myself between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging her entrance.

As I pushed in, her warmth enveloped me completely, gripping my small shaft like a vice. Even though I wasn’t packing much, she felt snug and perfect, her pussy stretching just enough to hug every inch. We locked eyes for a second, then dove back into making out, my tongue mimicking what I hoped my hips would do.

I started thrusting right away, slow at first but building to a steady rhythm in missionary. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper, and the sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat, the friction, the way her breasts pressed against my chest. I lasted maybe four or five minutes, grunting as the pressure built too fast. My balls tightened, and I buried myself as deep as I could before exploding into the condom, ropes of cum filling it up while I shuddered against her. It was over quick, but it felt amazing to me.

We lay there panting for a minute, then I pulled out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it aside. She smiled, but it seemed a bit forced as we dressed and slipped out. We grabbed drinks and wandered the beach a little, chatting casually, but I didn’t pick up on anything. That night, I crashed, satisfied, replaying the feel of her body in my head.

Two days later, I messaged her again, and she was game for round two. I picked her up in the family’s truck, and we drove out to a secluded spot near the dunes where we could park without much notice. The back seat was cramped, but that added to the urgency. As soon as the engine cut off, we were stripping—shirts off, pants kicked away, her climbing over the console naked and eager. This time, she took charge, straddling my lap with her knees on either side of my hips.

My dick was hard again, small but ready, and I sheathed it in a fresh condom. She lowered herself onto me slowly, her pussy swallowing my length inch by inch until she was seated fully, grinding down with a soft moan. The angle was intense; I could feel every ripple inside her as she started riding me, her hands on my shoulders for leverage. Her breasts bounced with each up-and-down motion, and I gripped her ass, helping guide her pace. We kissed sporadically, but mostly she focused on the rhythm, her wetness coating my balls as she worked herself on my shaft.

It didn’t take long—four or five minutes of that tight, sliding heat, and I was done. The buildup hit like a wave, and I thrust up hard, cumming inside the condom with a groan, my small cock pulsing weakly as I emptied. She slowed to a stop, still sitting on me, and we caught our breath. But as she lifted off and we started wiping up with tissues from the glove box, her expression shifted.

Out of nowhere, she burst out laughing, shaking her head as she pulled on her panties. “So, do you not like to get girls off, or what’s the deal?”

I froze, condom still dangling from my softening dick as I stared at her. “What? Did you not cum?” I asked, feeling stupid even as the words left my mouth.

She laughed harder, buckling her bra while glancing at me with a mix of amusement and pity. “Uhh, no, dude. Not even close.”

My face burned. I sat there in the back seat, half-dressed and confused, trying to process. “I… I thought it was good. You seemed into it.”

She sighed, softening a little as she slipped her dress back on. It was clear she’d clocked my inexperience. “Look, girls like foreplay. Especially if you’re gonna cum that fast. Like, spend time kissing, touching, using your mouth or fingers to build it up. Don’t just dive straight in.”

I nodded slowly, pulling up my shorts, my cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment. This was the first time anyone had called me out like this, and it stung.

She wasn’t done, though. As we climbed back to the front seat and I started the truck to drop her off, she turned to me with a straightforward look. “I’m saying this to help out the next girl, okay? You’re not very big down there, and you cum super fast. So you’re going to have to start using your mouth or your fingers more if you want to keep anyone happy. That little dick of yours isn’t doing the heavy lifting alone.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, staring straight ahead, my small dick shrinking even further in my mind from the humiliation. She was blunt, no sugarcoating, and I could tell she meant it as advice, but it left me feeling exposed and inadequate. We mostly drove in silence, the air thick with my awkwardness.

When we pulled up to her place, she grabbed her bag and paused at the door. “Remember, foreplay is your friend. Girls don’t like being left frustrated like this. Work on that, and you’ll do better.” Then she was gone, hopping out with a wave, and that was it. We never messaged again.

I drove back to the rental, replaying her words, a mix of shame and determination settling in. She was right—I’d been selfish, rushing through without thinking about her pleasure. My premature finishes and my below-average size meant I had to step up my game elsewhere. It was a harsh lesson, but one that stuck, pushing me to learn how to use my tongue and hands to make up for what my cock lacked.

Another reader gets a scan…

I had my last appointment for the sonography of my inguinal lymph nodes a couple of weeks ago, just to make sure there were no metastases from the melanoma they cut out last year. The results came back clean, which was a huge relief, but getting through that exam was another story—one that left me flushed with embarrassment, and I still think about it late at night.

The clinic was quiet that afternoon, and I’d arrived early, stripping down in the exam room as instructed. Pants off, shoes kicked aside, I sat there on the edge of the table in just my shirt and underwear—a silky black pair that was a size too snug, the kind that hugs everything tight and doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It was the only clean pair I’d managed to get through the dryer that morning, so I didn’t dwell on it. My mind was racing with worry about the scan, the what-ifs of cancer spreading, and that knot of anxiety made my stomach churn.

The door opened, and in walked the doctor, a woman in her mid-fifties with sharp features, graying hair pulled back in a neat bun, and glasses perched on her nose. She had that professional air, clipboard in hand, but something was knowing in her eyes as she glanced at me. “Hello, let’s get started,” she said matter-of-factly, setting her things down.

I nodded, trying to play it cool, but the nerves hit harder. As I lay back on the table, pulling my shirt up just enough, I felt it happen—that familiar shrinkage from the stress. My dick, already not impressive on its best day, retreated to its pathetic stress size, maybe an inch at the most, the soft nub pressing against the silky fabric. My balls were tucked up close, everything compacted into this tiny package that the tight underwear only accentuated. The tip poked straight up, forming a ridiculous little bump, as if it were trying to hide but failing miserably.

She approached with the ultrasound probe, squirting the cool gel onto it, and her gaze drifted down my body as I settled into position. It lingered right on my crotch, right where the lymph nodes were, but I swear it was more than clinical interest. Her lips twitched into a subtle but unmistakable smirk, her eyes fixed on that small, shrunken outline, without meeting mine. Heat rushed to my face; I could feel the exposure, the way the silk clung and outlined every inadequate detail. Instinct kicked in—I lifted my left hand, letting it hover near my groin, fingers itching to shield that embarrassing micro-bulge.

“Take your hand to the side, please,” she said calmly, her voice steady as she adjusted the machine.

I hesitated, my arm trembling a bit, but I forced it down to rest on my stomach, leaving myself fully on display. The vulnerability hit like a wave, my tiny cocklette twitching faintly under her scrutiny. She reached for the roll of exam paper on the counter, tearing off a small square—barely bigger than a napkin—and held it out to me.

“Here, you can cover this up,” she said, her tone almost casual, but with that edge. “This should be enough to reduce your shame.”

Her words landed like a slap, polite on the surface but dripping with implication. Reduce my shame? As if my predicament was that obvious, that laughable. My cheeks burned hotter, and I fumbled with the paper, sliding it awkwardly under the waistband of my underwear. My fingers brushed the soft, shrunken skin as I tried to drape it over the tip, then tugged the fabric aside just enough for the probe to access the area.

The smirk deepened around her eyes, crinkling at the corners as she watched me struggle, the paper barely concealing the pitiful tent it made. It was comically small, the outline screaming inadequacy, and she didn’t look away—her gaze held there a second too long before she finally pressed the probe to my skin.

The gel was cold against my inner thigh, and she worked methodically, sliding the device along the groin lines, pressing firmly to image the nodes. Every shift made the paper slip a little, exposing more of my balled-up package, the silky material shifting with each prod. I stared at the ceiling, willing myself not to react, but the humiliation throbbed in my chest—knowing she saw it all, that tiny, stressed retreat, and found it amusing enough to comment on my ‘shame.’ She murmured notes to herself, her free hand occasionally steadying my leg, fingers inches from where my dick hid in its sad little pouch.

It didn’t take long—ten minutes of probing and scanning—but it felt eternal. When she finally stepped back, wiping the probe clean, she peeled off her gloves. “Everything looks clear,” she said, finally meeting my eyes with a professional nod, though that faint smirk lingered.

I sat up quickly, adjusting the paper and fabric to cover myself properly, my small dick still shriveled from the ordeal. Thank god that was the last visit. I couldn’t face her gaze again, not after she’d sized up my inadequacy so bluntly. Driving home, the embarrassment mixed with a strange, twisted relief—no cancer, but a reminder of how exposed and small I could feel under the right—or wrong—circumstances.

Meanwhile, this reader’s wife is enjoying their special playtime…

I’ve been married to Linda for over twenty years now, and looking back, our life together has been steady, rooted in the faith we both grew up with. We met in high school, two kids from strict religious families, where even holding hands felt like pushing boundaries. We stayed friends through those awkward teen years, but it wasn’t until college that things shifted—we started dating, kept it chaste as our church demanded, and tied the knot after just a year. Both virgins on our wedding night, fumbling through it with excitement and nerves, but no regrets. Or so I thought. Sex was always part of our routine, missionary mostly, quick and loving, but never fireworks. I figured that’s just how it was in a good Christian marriage.

A few years back, we hit a rough patch—arguments over money, kids, the usual drift that creeps in after decades. We started therapy, digging into our pasts to rebuild. That’s when Linda opened up about something I never knew: back in the late ’90s, before we dated, she dove into those early internet chat rooms. It was a rebellious phase, she said, sneaking online when her parents weren’t looking. She’d talk to strangers about everything—school, dreams, life. But eventually, curiosity pulled her into the adult ones, the sexually charged corners where anonymity let people get bold.

I was curious, maybe a little jealous, so I peppered her with questions during one of our late-night talks on the couch, wine loosening our tongues. ‘Did you ever send pictures?’ I asked. She shook her head, laughing softly. “No, nothing like that. It was all words.”

I pressed on: “What was it like in those rooms?”

She paused, sipping her glass, then shrugged. “Kinda like today, honestly. Guys would pop in, bragging right away—’I’ve got an eight-inch cock,’ or ‘I’ll make you scream with my huge dick.’ It was all so over-the-top, like they were competing to shock.”

Her words hung there, and I chuckled, trying to keep it light. “Sounds like those chats set some wild expectations. Bet I was a letdown on our wedding night compared to that.”

I meant it as a joke, a throwaway line about my average build, my four-inch erection on a good day—nothing to write home about, but it worked for us. But Linda went quiet, her eyes dropping to her lap, the silence stretching thick and uncomfortable. My stomach twisted. “Wait, were you actually disappointed?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded slowly, not meeting my gaze. “Yeah, I was. Those stories painted this picture of every guy being hung like a porn star, massive and relentless. Then there you were, so sweet and eager, but… small. A lot smaller than I’d imagined.” Her cheeks flushed, but she kept going, honest in a way that stung deep. “It’s just four inches, honey, even when you’re hard. I remember sliding my hand down, feeling it—soft at first, then stiff but so compact, barely filling my palm. I loved you, loved being with you, but that first time, when you pushed in, it was… underwhelming. Like, is this it?”

The admission hit like cold water, my face burning as I pictured her on our honeymoon bed, legs spread, expecting some monster from the chats, only to get my modest prick slipping in with ease, no stretch, no challenge. She reached for my hand and squeezed. “Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy our sex. Always have. You’re attentive, you make me feel wanted. But yeah, that disappointment lingers sometimes, like a shadow. I have to push it down, remind myself it’s not about size.”

It hurt at first, replaying her words in my head during quiet moments—her soft grip on my little dick, the way it disappeared inside her without resistance, her hidden letdown masked by smiles and moans. But something twisted in me, a spark of arousal amid the shame. Small penis humiliation, I’d later learn it’s called, but back then, it just felt raw and real. I started fixating on it, stroking myself in the shower to the memory of her confession, my hand flying over my four-inch shaft, cum spurting quick as I imagined her pitying gaze.

Over time, I tested the waters. During a heated make-out on our anniversary, shirts off, her hand wandering down my boxers, I whispered, “Tell me again—how small am I compared to those chat guys?”

She hesitated, then smirked, her fingers wrapping around my hardening dick, thumbing the head. “God, so tiny. Those men talked about pounding with eight inches, thick, and veiny, but yours? It’s cute, barely poking out.” She squeezed gently, making me throb, then guided me between her thighs. As I thrust in—shallow, easy—she murmured, “See? Slides right in, no effort. They would’ve stretched me wide; you just… fit neatly.” Her words fueled me, my hips bucking faster, the humiliation pushing me over the edge in minutes, spilling inside her while she sighed, unfulfilled but playing along.

We’ve done it a few more times since—her teasing me mid-fuck, calling it my ‘little guy’ or joking how it tickles more than satisfies. Last week, on the couch after the kids were asleep, she straddled me, grinding against my bulge before pulling out my dick. “Look at this,” she said, eyes twinkling with that mix of love and mockery, “four inches of husband. Those chat rooms lied. Not every man’s packing. Yours is perfect for quickies.”

She sank, enveloping me completely, her walls loose around my slim length, and rode slow, whispering, “I bet those guys would’ve lasted longer too, but you? Always so eager to cum.”

I gripped her hips, humiliated and hard as steel, exploding up into her with a groan while she chuckled softly, kissing my forehead. It’s become this secret thrill, her blunt words echoing those old disappointments but turning them erotic. I jerk off to it constantly—alone in bed, fist pumping my pathetic erection, reliving her admission, the way her face fell that night, the truth of my inadequacy. Part of me hopes she’ll lean into it more, get comfortable humiliating me outright, maybe compare me to ex-chat fantasies during blowjobs, or deny me until I beg. For now, though, it’s enough—this sting of smallness weaving into our intimacy, making the ordinary feel charged.

While this reader discovers cocksleeves don’t always work…

Christmas Eve always feels like our private holiday, just my wife and me tucked away in our cozy living room, the tree lights twinkling softly while we light up a joint and let the world fade. We’ve been married nearly ten years, and this tradition—getting high, unwrapping gifts, then diving into whatever adult fun strikes us—keeps things fresh. She’s got this killer body, curves in all the right places, especially that big, round ass that I can’t get enough of.

Me? I’m no giant down there. Rock hard, my cock measures just under four inches long and about the same around—small, no denying it. We’ve turned that into our thing, casual SPH slipping into our talks, sometimes ramping up to focused play that leaves me throbbing with shame and excitement.

This past year, we’ve gone PIV-free for nine months, her limiting touches to what she teasingly calls my ‘di-clit’ to almost nothing. It’s mutual—we both dig it. Toys keep her satisfied: vibrators, dildos, plugs that stretch her just right while I watch or help. She rides them hard, moaning loudly, and I get off on the denial, the way she smirks at my little nub twitching uselessly. But after a decade together, she’s admitted what so many women have whispered over the years: she craves that full, deep fill sometimes.

So, for her gift, I went bold—an extender. seven and a half inches of insertable length, with a firm, two-inch, realistic head and shaft up front, and the rest in dual-density silicone for that lifelike feel. I figured it’d bridge the gap, let me pound her like she deserves, while my own size stayed hidden inside. She handed me her present first: a bundle of ABDL gear—soft diapers, a onesie, the works. Her eyes sparkled as I unwrapped it, knowing how it plays into our humiliation kink. ‘For my little boy,’ she purred, pulling me in for a kiss that tasted like weed and promise.

We sparked another joint, the high settling in warm and lazy, clothes shedding as we lounged on the couch. She modeled the onesie briefly, the snaps at the crotch teasing open, but soon we were tangled, her hands roaming my body while I sucked on her full tits, nipples hardening under my tongue. My cock stiffened quick—four inches of eager but inadequate meat, pointing up like it had something to prove. She glanced down, chuckling softly. “Look at that tiny thing, already desperate.” The SPH hit light, casual, but it made me leak pre-cum.

I grabbed the extender, heart pounding as I fumbled with the harness. Strapping it on took forever—adjusting the rings around my base, sliding my hard cock into the hollow tube. It gripped tight, the silicone sleeve encasing me completely, extending out to that thick, veiny length she deserved. When I finally stood, it jutted out ridiculously at first, wobbling until I got the angle right. She bit her lip, eyes hungry. “Fuck, babe, come fill me up. I’ve been aching for a real stretch.”

We moved to the bedroom, her on her back in missionary—our only reliable position since her tightness and my shortness mean I slip out constantly otherwise. She spread her legs wide, pussy glistening, that big ass lifting her hips invitingly. I climbed between, guiding the extender’s head to her slick folds. She was soaked, craving it badly after months of toys and denial. ‘Push in, husband. Fuck me like you mean it.’ I thrust forward, expecting smooth entry.

But nope. My four inches didn’t fill the damn tube’s full six-and-a-half space. The silicone bent outward on the first try, the head glancing off her lips like it was dodging her on purpose. I straightened it, aimed again—now it curved the opposite way, folding sideways against her thigh. “What the hell?” I muttered, heat rising in my face.

She propped up on her elbows, watching with a mix of lust and confusion. “Try again, baby. I need it inside.”

Frustration built fast. I poked and prodded, the extender flopping comically—vag-phobic as fuck, buckling every time her warmth tempted it. My real cock strained inside the sleeve, but the space made the whole thing collapse like a bad joke. We laughed at first, high-making it funnier, but after five minutes of awkward fumbling—me grunting, her shifting to help—the mood tanked. “This is killing me,” she groaned, her arousal fading as the silicone kept betraying us.

Finally, after one desperate angle, I rocked my hips just right, and it slid in—half-bent but holding. Her eyes rolled back, a deep, guttural moan escaping as her head stretched her walls. “Oh god, yes!”

The sound hit me like lightning; my erection surged back full force inside the tube, locking it rigid. I started pumping, slow at first, her pussy clenching around the length, that big ass jiggling with each thrust. She wrapped her legs around me, urging me deeper. But then she took control, flipping us so she was on top—her favorite, though risky with my size. She sank, bouncing hard, her tits swaying as she rode. The motion gripped the hollow end somehow.

She clenched down mid-bounce and felt the give, the unfilled space compressing under her pressure. Her face twisted—not in pleasure, but surprise—then burst into huge laughter. “Holy shit, it’s deflating! Like a whoopee cushion!”

She rocked again, squeezing deliberately, the extender squishing inward while my cock throbbed trapped below. I flushed red, humiliation spiking as she howled, tears in her eyes from giggling. “Babe, your little dick isn’t even holding it up! It’s like fucking a balloon animal.”

The laughing killed the rhythm. We collapsed in a heap, the extender slipping out with a wet pop. Mood shattered, but the high kept us loose. I slid down, burying my face between her thighs, tongue lapping at her swollen clit while two fingers plunged into her soaked heat. She moaned again, hands fisting my hair, that big ass grinding against the sheets. I worked her fast—sucking, flicking, curling inside until she tensed, then shattered, her juices flooding my mouth as she came hard on my face, thighs clamping my head.

Panting, she pulled me up, grabbing the magic wand from the nightstand. “Your turn, little man. Make a mess for me.”

She buzzed it against my four-inch cock, the vibrations ripping through me quick. I bucked, spurting ropes of cum across my stomach in seconds, the orgasm crashing with the lingering shame of our failed fuck. We snuggled after, bodies sticky and spent, passing the joint as the high mellowed. She traced lazy circles on my chest, then sighed about the extender.

“I was really excited for you to fuck me as a man would, but I guess if we’re ever going to do that again, we will need to get you an actual strap-on. More like a girl… you’re not even big enough to pretend to be a man.”

Her words landed genuinely, no malice—just honest after ten years of knowing every inch (or lack) of me. She paused, eyes widening as she realized the bite, then giggled, covering her mouth. I felt the familiar twitch starting again, my spent cock stirring at the burn of her truth. She noticed, rolling her eyes with a smirk. “Of course, that gets you hard, you perv.”

I pulled her closer, kissing her deeply. I love this woman so much—the way she owns our kinks, turns my inadequacies into our fire: Christmas magic, small dick, and all.

This reader just can’t seem to cum…

I’ve always known my dick was on the smaller side—3.5 inches hard, slim and unassuming—but it wasn’t until that night at the brothel that the humiliation really sank in. Add to that my delayed ejaculation issue, where I can stay rock-hard for ages without cumming, and you’ve got a recipe for embarrassment. My buddies and I, a group of guys in our late twenties, blowing off steam after a rough work week, decided to hit up this sketchy spot on the edge of town. We’d heard the stories: cheap rates, no questions asked. I was nervous as hell, but peer pressure won out.

We piled into the dimly lit entrance, the air thick with cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. The pimp, a burly guy with a gold chain and a smirk that said he owned the place, greeted us. “What’ll it be, fellas?”

My friends each picked a girl quick, tall blonde for Jake, a curvy brunette for Mike, haggling for thirty minutes each. I scanned the lineup, heart pounding, and pointed to a woman named Lena, mid-thirties with tired eyes and a tight dress. “One hour,” I told the pimp, handing over the cash.

He nodded, leading her over. “Have fun, kid.”

My friends disappeared into rooms first, their laughter echoing down the hall. Lena took my hand, her grip firm but uninterested, and pulled me into a cramped room with a sagging bed, peeling wallpaper, and a single bulb swinging overhead. She stripped down efficiently—bra off, panties sliding to the floor—revealing full breasts and a trimmed bush. “Lie back,” she said, no nonsense.

I fumbled with my jeans, kicking them off, my cock already twitching but not fully hard from the nerves. She glanced down as I lay there, naked and exposed, and her eyebrow arched slightly. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

She climbed on top, straddling me, her thighs warm against my hips. I reached up, groping her tits, thumbs circling her nipples, but she just sighed and positioned herself. Grabbing my shaft—her fingers easily encircling it—she guided the head to her entrance. Wet from whatever lube she used, she sank, and… nothing. No resistance, no gasp. My 3.5 inches slipped inside her pussy like it was barely there, her cuntal walls loose and indifferent around my slim length. She started rocking, grinding her clit against my base, but after a minute, she huffed. ‘Come on, thrust up.’

I bucked my hips, slamming as hard as I could, my balls slapping lightly against her ass. But she kept puffing, bored sighs escaping her lips. “Is that it? I can’t even feel you in there.” Her words stung, but my dick throbbed harder, staying stiff despite the pressure building nowhere.

Five minutes in, she checked her watch. “You don’t have to use the whole hour, you know. Just cum already.”

I tried—focused on her bouncing breasts, the way her pussy lips dragged over my shaft—but nothing. The delayed ejaculation kicked in full force; I was locked in, hard as a nail, but unable to release. She rolled her eyes, riding faster, her sighs turning to frustrated grunts. “Fuck, you’re tiny. Like a finger poking around. Hurry up before the pimp comes knocking.”

Ten minutes. Twenty. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I gripped her hips, pounding up into her slick heat, but she might as well have been humping a pillow. “Seriously, babydick, I can’t feel a damn thing. Just jerk it if you have to.”

Her taunts only made it worse, my mind spinning with shame, dick pulsing but refusing to erupt. Finally, after what felt like eternity—thirty-five minutes—she shoved my chest, lifting off me with a wet pop. My erection bobbed free, shiny from her juices, still raging hard.

“Enough. Get dressed. Pimp’s gonna be pissed if we go over.”

I stammered apologies, pulling on my pants over my tented crotch, the ache intense. She yanked her dress back on, muttering under her breath. We stepped out into the bar area, a smoky den packed with men nursing beers, prostitutes lounging, and my friends already there, shots in hand, grinning like idiots. Jake clapped me on the back as I approached, but before I could sit, the pimp bellowed from behind the counter.

“Lena! Why the delay? Hours up!”

She stormed over, arms crossed, voice carrying loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Short stature, small penis, but a very long erection. Luckily, the penis is too small to feel. So I counted the minutes, and we didn’t go over an hour.”

The bar erupted—chuckles from the patrons, a few outright laughs. Heads turned, eyes locking on me as I froze, face burning crimson. My friends’ jaws dropped, then Mike snorted, trying to stifle it. “Dude…” Jake whispered, but the damage was done.

A guy at a nearby table shouted, “Don’t be sad, little man!”

Another hollered, “Bet that tiny thing’s still hard!”

I slunk to our stool, head down, avoiding the grins and whispers rippling through the crowd. Every time I glanced up, someone smirked—a bartender wiping glasses with a knowing wink, a prostitute giggling into her drink. My dick, traitorously, stayed semi-hard in my jeans, the humiliation fueling the delay even now.

We left soon after, my buddies ribbing me the whole drive home: “Long erection? Small penis? Classic you, man.”

I laughed it off, but inside, the shame twisted into something dark and arousing. I jerked off that night, replaying her words, fist flying over my pathetic 3.5 inches until I finally came, ropes splattering my chest.

***

A few months later, curiosity—or masochism—drew me back alone. The same brothel, same haze of smoke. I paid up front, avoiding eye contact, but the pimp spotted me immediately. His face lit up with recognition. “You again? The marathon man.” He jerked his thumb toward the barman, a lanky guy with tattoos snaking up his arms. “Hey, Rico, check this out—this one’s erection time is inversely proportional to his penis size.”

Rico leaned over the counter, eyeing me up and down. “How small are we talking?”

The pimp chuckled, loud enough for a couple of nearby patrons to perk up. “Tiny. Like, 3.5 inches max. But fuck, he can stay erect for over an hour. Delayed as hell—girl last time had to kick him out.”

Rico winced, shaking his head. “Ouch. So small. No wonder it takes forever; nothing to work with.”

I stood there, cash in hand, dick twitching in my pants from the fresh wave of exposure. They both grinned, the pimp clapping my shoulder. “Pick a girl, short stuff. Try not to outlast her this time.”

I nodded, humiliated heat flooding me, and followed another woman to the room, her backward glance already pitying. That night, as she mounted me—barely registering my slim dick inside her—their words echoed, pushing me closer to the edge but not over, the cycle of small and stalled repeating in delicious agony.

*These SPH experiences have been edited to fix spelling, punctuation, & basic grammar, but the stories have remained the same. The opinions/views expressed in these SPH experiences (and in any comments) are those of the authors and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. Some of these stories been submitted directly to this website and some have come from Reddit.