SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

It started like any other evening. My wife Diane and her best friend Hilda were sprawled across our living room couch, both of them a couple of glasses of wine deep. Hilda had been single for about two years now, and she was relentless in her search. She’d swipe through dating apps like it was a part-time job, always showing Diane the train wrecks she found.

I was in the armchair, pretending to read a book, but really I was just watching them. Hilda was loud and crass, with absolutely no filter. She’d say things that made even my wife blush. And I loved it. There was something about the way she talked about sex, about men’s bodies, that got under my skin in a way I couldn’t explain.

“Okay, okay, look at this one,” Hilda said, holding up her phone. “He says he’s six feet tall, but look at his arm next to that doorframe. No way. Five-nine, tops.”

Diane leaned in, squinting. “Yeah, you’re right. Next.”

Hilda swiped. “This one’s actually cute. But he’s a librarian. I don’t know if I can handle a guy who shushes me.”

They laughed. I turned a page I wasn’t reading.

“Ooh, here’s a firefighter,” Hilda said. “Now we’re talking.”

She showed Diane a photo of a buff guy in front of a fire truck. Diane nodded appreciatively. “He’s got potential. What’s his bio say?”

Hilda read it out loud. Something about loving the outdoors and looking for a partner in crime. Cheesy, but not terrible.

“Right swipe,” Diane said.

Hilda swiped. “Match! Hell yeah.”

They high-fived. I shifted in my chair, my book forgotten.

“Alright, let me see the next one,” Diane said, reaching for the phone.

Hilda handed it over. Diane started scrolling. “Oh god, this guy’s profile picture is him holding a fish. Why do they always do that?”

“I know, right? It’s like, congrats, you caught a fish, what do you want, a medal?”

They laughed again. Diane kept scrolling. Then she stopped.

“Wait,” she said. “Is that…?”

She squinted at the screen. Hilda leaned over.

“No way,” Hilda breathed.

“What?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

Diane looked up at me, her eyes wide. “It’s Coach Miller.”

I sat up straight. Coach Miller. Our kids’ baseball coach. A nice guy, early forties, divorced, and always had a smile on his face, always encouraging the kids. I’d never thought of him as anything other than a decent man and a decent coach.

Hilda grabbed the phone back. “No fucking way. Let me see.”

She stared at the screen, then burst out laughing. “Oh my god, it IS him. What the hell is he doing on a dating site?”

“Same thing you are, I guess,” Diane said.

Hilda kept scrolling through his profile. “Let me see if he has any… interesting photos.”

She tapped. Swiped. Then she let out a gasp that turned into a cackle.

“Holy shit. Holy shit, Diane, look at this!”

She shoved the phone in Diane’s face. My wife’s eyes went wide. Her mouth dropped open.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Is that…?”

“That’s his dick!” Hilda yelled, laughing so hard she nearly dropped the phone. “He sent me a dick pic! I didn’t even notice the message!”

My heart started pounding. I wanted to see. I needed to see.

“Let me see,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

Hilda looked at me, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “You want to see Coach Miller’s little dick?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

She handed me the phone. And there it was.

The photo was clearly taken in a bathroom mirror. Coach Miller, naked from the waist up, his pants unzipped. And there, in his hand, was his cock. Or what was supposed to be his cock.

It was tiny. I mean, genuinely, laughably tiny. A little pink nub, barely protruding from a patch of neatly trimmed pubic hair. It looked like a pink thumb. A little toddler thumb, sticking out of his groin. He was holding it between his thumb and forefinger, presumably to show it off, but it just made it look even smaller, like he was presenting a delicate little flower.

I stared at it. I couldn’t look away. My own cock was soft in my pants, probably about the same size, maybe a little bigger. But seeing Coach Miller’s pathetic little dick, exposed like that, sent a jolt of something through me. Shame? Arousal? Both?

“Oh my god,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Right?” Hilda said, practically vibrating with glee. “It’s like a little button. A little pink button. How does he even piss with that thing?”

Diane was covering her mouth, trying not to laugh. “I can’t believe he sent that. What was he thinking?”

“I don’t know, but I’m so glad he did,” Hilda said. She took the phone back and zoomed in on the photo. “Look at it. It’s so small. It’s pathetic. I’ve seen bigger clits.”

They both burst out laughing. I sat there, my cock starting to harden in my jeans. I pressed my thighs together, trying to hide it.

“Do you think he actually thinks that’s impressive?” Diane asked, wiping tears from her eyes.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to message him back,” Hilda said, her fingers flying across the screen.

“What are you going to say?” Diane asked.

“I’m going to ask him what that little thing is supposed to do.”

I felt a rush of heat. “You can’t say that,” I said, but my voice was weak.

Hilda ignored me. She typed something, then hit send. “Done.”

“What did you say?” Diane asked, leaning in.

“I said, ‘Cute, but what am I supposed to do with that? Put a leash on it and take it for a walk?”

They both howled with laughter. I felt my cock twitch. It was fully hard now, straining against my jeans. I shifted, trying to hide it.

Hilda’s phone buzzed. “Oh, he responded already.”

She read it out loud. “‘It’s not about the size, it’s about how you use it.'”

“Classic,” Diane said, rolling her eyes.

“Classic loser talk,” Hilda agreed. She typed back. “I’m sure it is. But I’d need a magnifying glass to find it.”

More laughter. I was squirming now, my cock painfully hard. I wanted to touch myself. I wanted to leave the room and jerk off. But I couldn’t move. I was transfixed.

“He’s typing again,” Hilda said. She waited. Then she read: “‘You’re missing out. I can make a woman cum with just my tongue.'”

“Sure, you can,” Hilda said. “But what about your little worm? Can it do anything?”

She sent it. Diane was wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh my god, Hilda, you’re so mean.”

“He sent a dick pic unprovoked,” Hilda said. “He deserves it.”

They spent the next hour going through his profile, finding every photo, reading every message. They mocked his hobbies, his job, and his car. But mostly, they mocked his tiny dick.

“Look at this one,” Diane said, pointing at a photo of Coach Miller at the beach. “It’s like his dick is hiding. It’s so small you can’t even see a bulge.”

“I bet he has to tuck it between his legs to make it look like he has anything,” Hilda said.

They laughed. I laughed too, but it was hollow. My cock was still hard, pressing against my jeans. I could feel the damp spot where precum was leaking through.

“I’m going to have to see him at practice tomorrow,” I said, my voice strange.

Hilda looked at me, her eyes glinting. “You are, aren’t you? Are you going to be able to look him in the eye?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

“I bet you can’t stop thinking about his little dick now,” Hilda said. “I bet it’s all you’re going to think about every time you see him.”

She was right. I knew she was right. Every time I saw Coach Miller, I was going to see that little pink thumb. And I was going to remember the way my wife and her friend laughed at it.

Diane looked at me, a knowing smile on her face. “Are you okay, babe? You look a little… flustered.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. It’s just… weird.”

“Weird that our kids’ baseball coach has a tiny dick?” Hilda said. “I think it’s hilarious.”

She turned back to her phone. “I’m going to keep talking to him. See how far I can take this.”

“Hilda, don’t be cruel,” Diane said, but she was still smiling.

“Too late. I’m already being cruel. Might as well go all the way.”

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I locked the door and leaned against the sink, my cock still hard. I pulled down my jeans and looked at myself in the mirror. My little dick, about three inches hard, is pointing up at me. Pathetic. Just like Coach Miller’s.

I thought about Hilda and Diane laughing at his tiny cock. I thought about the way they would probably laugh at mine if they ever saw it. And I started jerking off, fast and rough, imagining them pointing and laughing at me.

I came in less than a minute, a thin stream of cum hitting the mirror. I stood there, breathing hard, staring at my reflection.

The next morning at baseball practice, I couldn’t look Coach Miller in the eye. Every time he smiled, every time he clapped one of the kids on the back, I saw that little pink thumb. I saw my wife and Hilda laughing at it.

And I felt that familiar thrill of shame and arousal, knowing that I was just like him. Just as small. Just as pathetic.

A fond memory, indeed.

 

The End.

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