SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

I did it twice today. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it’s the anniversary of that time in high school, or maybe I’m just spiraling deeper into this obsession. But I called the suicide hotline. Not because I wanted to die—I never really do—but because I wanted to talk about it. About my tiny dick. About the humiliation. And I wanted a woman to hear it.

The first call was around two in the afternoon. I had been browsing old photos on my phone, the ones from college that I keep in a hidden folder. Pictures of girls I knew, screenshots of messages where they called me “micro” or “tunnel snake” or “that guy with the clit.” I was already hard, which is a joke—less than two inches, standing at full attention, a pathetic little nub that barely pokes past my pubic bone. I call it a dick, but it’s more like a button—a failed erection.

*****

The First Call…

I dialed the number. The automated voice asked me to hold. I waited, my hand wrapped around my tiny shaft, stroking slowly. Then a woman’s voice came on.

“Suicide Prevention Lifeline. My name is Danielle. How can I help you?”

She sounded kind. Professional. Unaware of what was coming.

“Hi,” I said, my voice shaky. “I… I don’t know if I’m gonna kill myself. But I need to talk about something.”

“Of course. Take your time. I’m here to listen.”

I took a breath. My hand kept moving on my cock, slow and deliberate. “It’s about my penis. It’s really small. Like, less than two inches when I’m hard.”

Silence for a moment. Then: “I see. How does that make you feel?”

“Terrible. Humiliated. I’ve been bullied for it my whole life. Girls mocked me. Laughed at me. Called me names.” I paused, my strokes getting faster. “I’m actually masturbating right now. Is that okay?”

Another pause. “This is a confidential call. You can talk about whatever you need to. But I want to make sure you’re safe. Are you in immediate danger?”

“No. I’m just… I need to tell someone. A woman. I need you to hear how small I am and what it’s done to me.”

And I launched into the stories. I told her about high school, about the time a girl named Jessica saw my erection in the locker room and screamed, “Ew, it’s a baby dick!” I told her about college, about the girl who laughed and said, “Is that it?” when I pulled down my pants. I told her about the group of friends who called me “one-hander” because you can cover my entire cock with one palm. I told her about the time my girlfriend at the time sent a picture of my erection to her friends with the caption “Look at this pathetic thing.”

While I spoke, I was wanking. My little nub was slick with precum, barely visible between my fingers. I kept saying, “You probably think it’s tiny too, don’t you? I know you do. You’re hearing this and imagining a little button dick. That’s what I have.”

She tried to steer the conversation toward coping strategies. “Have you considered therapy? There are support groups for body image issues.”

“I don’t want support,” I said. “I want you to know. I want to cum while telling you how small I am.”

She was quiet. I heard her breathing. She didn’t hang up.

I kept going, describing the bullying, the rejections, the times I was laughed out of bedrooms. My hand moved frantically. I felt the orgasm building—a tiny release from a tiny organ. I moaned into the phone. “I’m cumming. I’m cumming while you listen to me talk about my micro dick.”

A spurt of white fluid hit my belly—barely anything. I sighed, my hand still.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice neutral.

“Yeah. I feel better. Thanks.”

“Please consider reaching out to a local counselor,” she said. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

I hung up. My heart was pounding. I was already thinking about calling again.

*****

The Second Call…

Two hours later, I did it again. Same number. This time, a different woman answered. Her name was Patricia.

“I called earlier today,” I said. “I told the other woman about my tiny dick. I came while talking to her.”

“I see,” Patricia said carefully. “And you’re calling again because…?”

“Because I need another woman to know. I need to tell you the stories again. I need you to hear how pathetic I am.”

I was already hard—or as hard as I get. That little nub, straining upward, is barely an inch and a half. I wrapped my fingers around it and started stroking.

Patricia asked if I was safe. I said yes. She asked what I was doing. I told her.

“I’m masturbating again. I know you probably think it’s disgusting. But I need you to hear this. I need you to know that my dick is so small that girls used to laugh when they saw it. They’d point. They’d say, ‘Is that all there is?’ They’d compare it to their thumbs.”

I told her about the time in seventh grade when a group of girls cornered me and demanded I show them. I did. They all stared. One of them said, “That’s so sad.” Another laughed. They called me “Nubby” for the rest of the year.

I told her about my twenties, about the one-night stands that turned into awkward silences. About the woman who said, “I thought you’d be bigger,” and then left. About the girlfriend who only let me fuck her in the dark, and even then, she’d complain that she couldn’t feel anything.

I told her about the hotline call earlier today, how I had cum while talking to Danielle. “You think I’m a pervert, don’t you? A little pervert with a micro dick, getting off on his own humiliation.”

“I think you’re in pain,” Patricia said softly.

“Maybe. But the pain feels good. It’s all I have.”

I kept stroking, my breath quickening. “I bet you’re imagining it now. A tiny little cock, barely two inches, slick with precum. A little button that can’t satisfy anyone. That’s me. That’s what women see when they look at me.”

“Have you ever had a healthy relationship?” she asked.

“Define healthy. My wife knows. She humiliates me for it, too. She tells me about her exes, the ones with big dicks. She shows me their photos. She tells me how much better they fucked her.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It’s what I deserve. It’s what a man with a tiny dick deserves.”

I felt the orgasm building again—same pitiful release. I grunted into the phone. “I’m cumming again. I’m cumming while you listen to me talk about being a micro-dicked loser.”

I came—a tiny spurt. I panted, my hand sticky.

“Thank you for listening,” I said.

“Please consider reaching out for ongoing support,” Patricia said. “There are resources.”

I hung up.

I’m lying here now, my cock soft and even smaller, a little nub nestled in my pubic hair. I just finished typing this story. I’ll probably read it later while I wank again. That’s my cycle. Relive the humiliation, masturbate to it, write it down, masturbate again. It never ends.

But at least today, two women heard me. Two women know what a pathetic, tiny-dicked loser I am. And that makes me feel… seen.

Even if it’s only for a few minutes on a hotline.

 

The End.

Webmaster’s Note: This is a fictional story, a fantasy. Please do not call any kind of helpline and bother the counselors with sex calls like this. Do call them if you’re feeling genuinely depressed and thinking of harming yourself. But calling them so you can masturbate while talking bout your sexual fetish is not on. In fact, if helplines determine that you’re just calling for a sexual thrill, they will hang up on you. People need these services for genuine reasons. Don’t tie up phones with stuff like this.

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