SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

The morning light was just starting to filter through the curtains when I woke up. I was still half-asleep, my body warm under the covers, and I felt that familiar stirring between my legs—morning wood. Well, morning twig was more accurate. At full mast, I hovered right around 4.5 inches on a good day, but in the morning, with the blood flow and the warmth of the blankets, I was probably closer to my best.

I rolled over toward my wife. She was still asleep, her back to me, her body curled under the duvet. I pressed myself against her, letting her feel it. That little nub of hardness was nudging against her ass through her panties.

She stirred, a soft sound escaping her lips.

“Good morning,” I whispered, my hand sliding over her hip, dipping down to her thigh. “You feel that?”

She was still groggy, but she hummed a little, not pulling away. I took that as a good sign. I started feeling her up, my fingers tracing over her panties, feeling the warmth of her through the thin cotton. She had a nice ass, round and soft, and I pressed my little dick against it, grinding gently.

“Hey,” I said, my voice low, hopeful. “Can we have a good morning quickie before getting ready?”

She was quiet for a moment, and then she gave a lazy nod. “Sure.”

My heart jumped. This was a win. I didn’t always get a yes. I pulled her panties down from behind, working them past her hips, past her thighs. She lifted her ass slightly to help, and I slid them down to her knees. I reached down and pulled my cock out, already hard, already ready. That 4.5 inches of hopeful flesh, standing at attention.

I scooted closer, lining myself up. I was behind her, spooning position, the classic morning quickie setup. I rubbed the head against her, feeling the slick heat of her. She was wet enough. Good.

I started to push.

And she stopped me.

“Wait,” she said, her voice flat. “Stop.”

I froze. “What?”

“Stop,” she said again, and she shifted her hips away from me, breaking contact.

I stared at her back, confusion and frustration twisting in my chest. “Baby, please. Let’s try this one time. I can make it work.”

I started to scoot down, trying to get a better angle, to find that sweet spot where my length could reach. But she twisted around, looking at me over her shoulder with an expression I knew too well.

“No,” she said. There was no anger in her voice, just tired exasperation. “You do this every so often. Do I literally need to say that you’re too small to reach me? Because you most definitely are, and it doesn’t make me feel good at all.”

The words hit me like a slap. I swallowed, but I didn’t give up. “Baby, just let me try. I can make it work. I just need a better angle.”

She let out a sharp laugh. “Angles don’t matter when your dick is micro. So just stop.”

Micro. That word again. It always cut deeper than she probably realized. I hesitated, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. I was too hard, too desperate. I shifted again, pressing forward, and I managed to get the head of my cock to touch her. I felt the lips of her pussy against the tip, but I couldn’t get it in. Not from this angle. Not with the curve of her ass blocking me.

A few seconds of pathetic grinding, and I pulled back, defeated.

But I wasn’t done. I reached out, grabbed her hip, and gently rolled her over onto her back. She let me, a sigh of resignation escaping her. I climbed on top of her, positioned myself between her legs, and pushed inside.

Finally, full entry.

“There,” she said, her voice flat. “I can finally feel it.”

It. Not you. It.

I started moving, my hips rocking against her. “See? I told you. I’m basically average.”

She laughed. That particular laugh I knew. The one that said you’re delusional, but I’ll humor you.

“Yeah,” she said, “for Asian men, you’re average. But for white and black men, you’re well below average.”

I kept thrusting, my rhythm steady. “That’s not how that works.”

“I bet you Googled it, little dick.”

“Actually, I haven’t,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “But I think it’s a world average, not race-specific. You’re racist.” I laughed, trying to deflect.

“I’m not racist,” she said, her tone still teasing, still cutting. “But I know Asians are your average. The black men I’ve seen, and my exes, prove that you’re well below average. So just accept it.”

Black men. My exes. The words hung in the air, a comparison I couldn’t compete with. I kept thrusting, my body moving on autopilot, my mind churning.

“I’ll look into it,” I said, the words hollow.

“You would,” she said. “Now cum. I’m tired, and it doesn’t feel good, so just cum, you little babydick freak.”

“I’m not small!” I said, a little louder than I meant to.

“Sure.” She closed her eyes, her body limp beneath me. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I kept going, my hips slapping against hers, but the fire was gone. The heat was gone. It was just mechanics now, a race to the finish line. My orgasm built, a weak, pitiful thing, and I came with a groan that felt more like defeat than pleasure.

I pulled out, collapsing beside her, my chest heaving. My little dick, now spent, now looking like an acorn.

She rolled over, pulling the covers up. “Goodnight,” she said, her voice already sleepy.

“It’s morning,” I said.

“Goodnight anyway.”

I stared at the ceiling, the words still echoing in my head. Well below average. Little dick freak. Useless.

And somehow, despite everything, I was already thinking about the next time I’d try.

 

The End.

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