The Routine
By Haspotay.
It always starts the same way. Joanne will be scrolling through her phone on the couch, maybe after dinner, and she’ll sigh in that particular way. “I’m horny,” she’ll say, not looking up. Or she’ll put her phone down and give me that look—the one that says she’s been thinking about someone else, and now she needs to use me to get off. I’ve learned to recognize it.
We go to the bedroom. I get hard quickly, anxious, and eager. Four and a half inches, standing at attention, waiting for her approval. She undresses slowly—she knows I love watching her body, those thick curves, the heavy breasts, the wide hips that I can never quite spread enough to reach her deepest spots. She knows I’m a visual creature, and she uses it to her advantage.
I go down on her first. Every single time. It’s part of the deal, and honestly, I love it. I love the taste of her, the way she moans, the way she grabs my hair and grinds against my face. I make her cum at least twice before I even think about entering her. She tells me I’m good with my mouth—that’s always been my saving grace. “At least your tongue knows what to do,” she’ll say, and I’ll feel that mix of pride and shame.
When she’s wet and satisfied from the oral, she rolls onto her back and spreads her legs. Missionary. Always missionary. With her thick thighs and my small dick, it’s the only position that works reliably. Even then, I have to angle myself carefully, pushing in as deep as I can, feeling my pubic bone press against her. She lies there, legs apart, one hand reaching down to rub her clit while I thrust.
“Don’t stop,” she says, her fingers working in circles. “Just keep going. I’m almost there.”
I pump away, watching her face. She’s not looking at me—her eyes are closed, her lips parted. I know she’s thinking about someone else. Maybe the guy from college who used to fuck her from behind and make her scream. Maybe the ex who had nine inches and could hit her cervix. I’ve learned not to take it personally. This is our dynamic.
I feel her body tense, her hips bucking against me. She moans—a genuine sound of pleasure—and I feel her pussy clench around my small shaft. She’s cumming, thanks to her own fingers and my pathetic thrusting. I keep going, feeling myself getting close, but she pushes my chest.
“Wait,” she says. “Don’t cum yet.”
I stop, breathing hard, my cock throbbing inside her. She reaches for her phone on the nightstand.
“Let me show you something.”
She pulls up Instagram and scrolls to a profile. A man. Broad shoulders, handsome face, gym photos. “This is Mark,” she says. “Remember, I told you about him? We dated for about a year before I met you. God, he was good.”
She shows me a photo of him flexing at the beach. I feel my erection softening slightly, replaced by that familiar knot in my stomach.
“He used to fuck me in every position,” she continues, her voice dreamy. “Doggy was my favorite. He’d grab my hips and just hammer me. I’d cum in minutes, no hands needed. Just his big cock hitting my spot over and over.”
She puts the phone down and looks at me, a hint of a smile. “You know, I think about him sometimes when we do this.”
“I know,” I say.
“Does it make you hard?”
“Yes.”
She laughs softly. “Good. Now finish. I want to feel you cum inside me.”
I start thrusting again, my mind racing with images of her being fucked from behind, her ass bouncing, some big-dicked man pounding her into the mattress. It’s humiliating and hot, and I feel myself building. I cum quickly, a pathetic little spurt, and collapse on top of her.
She pats my back. “Good boy.” Then she shifts me off and rolls to her side, grabbing her phone again.
*****
The Positions She Misses…
A few days later, we’re in bed again—same routine. I’ve eaten her out twice, she’s wet, and I’m sliding into her in missionary. She’s rubbing herself, but she’s not as into it tonight.
“I miss doggy,” she says, her voice flat. “God, I miss it so much.”
I keep thrusting, my cock sliding in and out of her. “I know.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, though we both know it is. “But I used to love being on all fours, feeling a guy behind me, just pounding into me. Hitting that spot. I’d cum so hard my legs would shake.”
She closes her eyes. “Even the missionary was better with other guys. They’d fold my legs back, really get in there. I didn’t have to rub myself. They’d just hit everything perfectly.”
I stay quiet, keeping my rhythm. My dick is hard, but I feel small—smaller than usual. Her words are a knife, but a knife I’ve learned to enjoy.
“Remember when I told you about Derek?” she asks.
“From the bar?”
“Yeah. He had a really thick one. Not even that long, but thick. God, the way it stretched me. He’d just slide in, and I’d feel full. I never had to touch myself with him.”
She looks down at where our bodies meet. “You barely fill me, baby. You know that.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“But you try. That’s what matters.” Her tone is almost condescending. Almost pitying. And it drives me wild.
She finishes herself off, her fingers moving fast, her body shuddering. I cum a minute later, my tiny load spilling into her. She doesn’t seem to notice.
*****
The Social Media Checks…
It’s become a thing. Every few weeks, Joanne will mention an ex. “I wonder what Chris is up to,” she’ll say, or “Remember Brian? He was such a good fuck.” Then she’ll pull up Facebook or Instagram and scroll through their profiles.
Sometimes she shows me. “Look, he’s still single. And he’s gotten even bigger.” A photo of a man with a chiseled chest. “He used to fuck me so hard I’d see stars.”
Other times she won’t show me, but I’ll hear her typing, hear her laugh softly at something on the screen. Later that night, she’ll tell me she wants sex, and I know it’s because she’s been turned on by memories of other men.
I’ve also noticed the DMs. She doesn’t hide them. She’ll be on her phone, and I’ll see a notification pop up: Hey, was thinking about that night we… or You look amazing in that pic. She chats with them, flirts with them, and then comes to me when she’s wet.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks once, catching me looking.
“No,” I say. And I mean it. The jealousy and humiliation are part of the package.
“Good.” She smiles. “Because I like having options. Even if I’m just looking.”
*****
Her Sister Finds Out…
A few weeks ago, we were at her sister’s house for a barbecue. Joanne and her sister, Rachel, have always been close—the kind of close where they tell each other everything. I should have known it was only a matter of time.
We were in the kitchen, grabbing drinks, when Joanne said, “Hey, Rach, can I tell you something funny?”
I was at the sink, rinsing a plate. I felt a chill.
Rachel leaned in. “What?”
“Remember how I used to complain about Mike’s size? How was he too small?”
I froze. Mike was her ex before me.
“Yeah,” Rachel said, grinning. “You said he was like a thumb.”
“Well, Mike’s not the smallest I’ve been with.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Yep. Paul’s my little dick husband.”
I turned around, my face burning. Rachel was staring at me, a mix of shock and amusement.
“Wait, really?” she asked.
Joanne nodded. “Four and a half inches on a good day. I have to rub myself every single time we have missionary, which is the only position that works. He can’t even do doggy because it just slips out.”
I stood there, holding the wet plate, unable to speak.
Rachel laughed—a genuine, surprised laugh. “Oh my god, Jo. And you married him?”
“I love him,” Joanne said, shrugging. “You learn to work around things.”
Rachel looked me up and down, a new glint in her eye. “Well, Paul. That’s… something.”
Since then, Rachel has been different around me. She makes little comments. “How’s your husband’s tiny dick doing?” she’ll ask Joanne in front of me. Or she’ll send me a text out of the blue: Saw a guy at the gym with a big dick. Thought you’d want to know what you’re competing against.
Last week, she invited us over for dinner. When Joanne was in the bathroom, Rachel leaned close to me and whispered, “Jo told me you like the humiliation. Is that true?”
I nodded, my cheeks hot.
She smiled. “Good. Because I have a lot to share, she’s told me everything about her past lovers. Every detail, every inch. I bet you’d love to hear about the guy who made her cum six times in one night.”
I felt my cock twitch in my jeans.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I would.”
She laughed and patted my cheek. “I knew it. You’re a little pervert, aren’t you? A little pervert with a tiny dick, married to a woman who’s had so much better.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good boy.”
*****
The New Reality…
So now it’s not just Joanne humiliating me. It’s Rachel, too. They tag-team me sometimes. I’ll be sitting in their living room, and Joanne will say, “Rach, remember that guy I dated in college? What was his name? The one with the nine-inch cock?”
“Oh, Derek? Yeah, he was hung like a horse. You used to tell me he’d leave you sore for days.”
“God, I miss that,” Joanne says, sighing.
And I just sit there, my small dick shrinking in my pants, knowing they’re doing it on purpose. Knowing they love it.
At night, when Joanne and I are in bed, she’ll bring up her sister. “Rachel thinks it’s hilarious that you’re so small,” she’ll say. “She told me she can’t believe I’ve stayed faithful.”
“Do you want to stay faithful?” I ask, my heart pounding.
She’s quiet for a moment. “I haven’t decided yet. But for now, I like having you. You’re sweet. You eat me out really well. And you let me say whatever I want.”
She rolls on top of me, but only briefly. She hates riding—it’s too much work for too little reward. So she flips onto her back again, and I slide into her missionary.
“Tell me about Derek,” I say, needing to hear it.
She smiles. “He’d bend me over the bed and fuck me for hours. He’d grab my hips and just drill into me. I’d cum on his cock without even touching myself. He’d make me cum, then keep going, and I’d cum again, and again…”
Her hand moves between her legs as I thrust. “God, I miss that. I miss feeling full.”
I keep going, my small dick sliding in and out, my mind filled with images of her being ravaged by bigger men. I cum too fast, as always, and she sighs.
“That’s it?” she says. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
She pats my head. “It’s okay. I’ve got my toys. And my memories.”
She rolls over and reaches for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a large dildo—one I bought for her, because she asked. She looks at me with a sly grin. “You don’t mind if I finish properly, do you?”
“Go ahead,” I say, watching as she lubes it up and slides it inside herself. Her eyes roll back, and she moans—a sound I rarely hear from my own penetration.
I lie there, my small cock soft and useless, watching my wife get fucked by a toy that’s bigger than me. And I think about those texts she sent to Kelly and Marie thirteen years ago. I think about Rachel’s knowing smile. I think about the exes she chats with on social media.
This is my reality. I’m the small-dicked husband who eats her out, fucks her poorly, and then watches her finish with something better. And somehow, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The End.
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