He Wanted Me To Laugh!
An SPH Experience by lois-green-x.
We danced, downed vodka sodas, and flirted with randoms, but by midnight, my eyes locked on this cute guy at the bar. Tallish, messy dark hair, easy smile—nothing stood out, but the chemistry sparked when he bought me a drink, and we started grinding on the floor. His hands on my hips felt confident, and before I knew it, we were making out in the corner, tongues tangling, his stubble scraping my skin just right.
“Wanna get out of here?” he murmured against my ear, breath hot.
I nodded, grabbed my purse, and we bolted, leaving my friends with knowing winks. His hotel was a short cab ride away—some conference spot, room on the fifth floor with a king bed and city views I barely noticed. The door clicked shut, and I was on him, yanking his shirt over his head to reveal a lean chest, not ripped but solid enough. I pushed him toward the bed, shedding my dress in a heap, left in lacy black underwear that barely contained my tits. He stripped down to his trousers, eyes hungry as he pulled me onto the mattress.
We tumbled together, his mouth on my neck, sucking and nipping while his fingers slipped under my bra, thumbs circling my nipples until they hardened into peaks. I arched into him, moaning softly, my hand drifting down to his belt. But every time I tugged at his waistband, he’d gently bat my hand away, distracting me with more kisses, his other hand diving between my thighs.
He rubbed my clit through the fabric, slow circles that made me wet and squirmy, then pushed the panties aside to slide two fingers inside me, curling them just right. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispered, pumping steadily while his lips trailed fire down my collarbone.
I was lost in it, grinding against his hand, but I wanted more—wanted to feel him. Eventually, I won the battle, reaching down to pop his button and drag the zipper. He hesitated, shifting away, sitting up on the edge of the bed with this nervous swallow. I propped on my elbows, curious, as he psyched himself up like he was about to jump off a cliff.
Then, with a deep breath, he shoved his trousers and boxers down in one go. His cock sprang free—or tried to. Holy shit, it was tiny. Like, smaller than my little finger, this soft little nub barely an inch long, thin as a pencil eraser. I stared for a beat, and a laugh bubbled out before I could stop it—sharp, involuntary.
“Shit, sorry,” I said quickly, covering my mouth, but my eyes were glued.
I’d hooked up with guys on the smaller side before, sure, but this? It was comically minuscule, shrinking back like it knew it was outmatched. He flushed red, avoiding my gaze, but then muttered, all jittery, “It’s okay… I kinda like when girls laugh at it.”
That caught me off guard. I paused, tilting my head, letting the words sink in. A smirk tugged at my lips. “Well, then,” I said, voice teasing, “you better be good with your tongue, ’cause that little thing… That babydick isn’t gonna do shit for me.”
His face lit up with this mix of relief and excitement, like I’d handed him a lifeline. He grinned, leaned in to hook his fingers in my panties, and peeled them off slow, exposing my slick pussy to the cool air. I spread my legs as he settled between them, his breath warm on my inner thighs before his tongue flicked out, tracing my folds.
God, he was eager—lapping at my clit with flat, broad strokes, then sucking gently while his hands gripped my ass, pulling me closer. I threaded my fingers through his hair, guiding him, and he dove in deeper, tongue thrusting inside me before circling back to that sensitive nub. Waves built fast. I bucked against his face, tits bouncing as I gasped, and when I came, it hit hard—shuddering, clenching around nothing but his mouth, juices smearing his chin.
He pulled back, wiping his lips with a proud, breathless smile. “Can I… try with my dick now?” he asked, voice hopeful but edged with that same nerves.
I shrugged, still buzzing from the orgasm. “Go for it, shrimpy.”
He fumbled in the nightstand, pulling out a condom from a pack that screamed ‘novelty’—one of those ultra-small ones, the kind you’d prank a buddy with at a bachelor party. It looked ridiculous stretched over his tiny prick, barely containing it as he rolled it on. We started with doggy. I got on all fours, ass up, and he knelt behind me. First, legs together—he poked around, but his tip didn’t even graze my entrance, just nudged my cheeks uselessly. I bit my lip to stifle a giggle.
“Legs apart,” I suggested, spreading wide. He tried again, and this time the head slipped in—just the tip, barely parting my lips—before popping right out, slick and futile. “Damn,” he muttered, thrusting harder, but it kept sliding away.
I couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped, light and bubbly. His cheeks burned, but his little nub twitched, hardening as much as it could, and he redoubled his efforts, hands on my hips, grunting with frustration. The more I snickered—soft, teasing bursts—the more turned on he got, hips jerking wildly like he could will it deeper.
We flipped to cowgirl. I straddled him, guiding that sad condom-covered speck toward my hole. It dipped in for a second, but as I rocked forward, it slipped free, rubbing harmlessly against my clit. “Oops,” I giggled, trying again, but same deal—gone in a blink.
Reverse cowgirl was worse. From that angle, he couldn’t even line it up, his tip bouncing off my ass like a misaimed dart. All the while, my laughs bubbled up, not mean but infectious, and he was panting now, face twisted in horny desperation, that tiny dick straining pathetically.
Finally, missionary. I lay back, legs hooked over his shoulders to give him every advantage. He pushed in—miracle of miracles, it stayed for a few shallow pumps, his hips snapping as he chased friction. But then, slick with my arousal, it slipped out mid-thrust, slapping against my thigh. He froze, looking down, and instead of retrying, he just… ground against me. Pressing that little nub firm against my skin, he humped my leg like a desperate puppy, fast and frantic. I watched, amused, my hand idly stroking my clit as his breaths turned ragged. It took maybe a minute—his body tensed, a low groan escaping—before he shuddered, spilling into the condom with a pathetic spurt.
He collapsed beside me, spent and sheepish, peeling off the condom to toss it away. I pulled the sheet over us, still chuckling softly. “That was… something,” I said, not unkindly.
He’d made me cum hard with his mouth, and the whole fumbling, laugh-filled attempt had this weird, playful energy I’d never had before. I’d been with smaller guys—four inches, three and a half on a bad night—but this was next level tiny, like two inches hard, and somehow, the SPH twist made it hilarious instead of disappointing.
We talked a bit after, him admitting the humiliation kink, me confessing it turned the night into one of the most fun hookups in ages. No penetration, sure, but the tongue work and that absurd grinding? Way better than half the ‘big’ cocks that bored me to tears. I left with his number, already plotting a rematch—tongues only, maybe with extra teasing.
The End.
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