My Girlfriend’s Breakfast Sausage
An SPH Experience by 4thevibesbro.
I was in my element, tongs in hand, flipping patties, listening to the laughter and splashing behind me. The music was loud enough to feel in your chest. Everything felt good—new house, new pool, new chapter.
Then the screaming started.
Not the scared kind—the excited, shrill, oh-my-god kind. I looked up from the grill and saw a cluster of girls by the pool, phones out, whistling. Marcus had just stepped out of the sliding glass door wearing the tiniest Speedo I’d ever seen. Electric blue, with a prominent pouch that looked less like a swimsuit and more like a slingshot holding a cantaloupe.
He strutted. I mean, strutted. His hips rolled, his shoulders back, his hands running through his hair like he was on a runway. The bulge was obscene. It swung slightly with each step, a heavy, meaty mass that had every woman in attendance gaping. My girlfriend, Sarah, was among them; her jaw dropped, her phone out, recording him as he did a little turn and flexed.
I felt a familiar twist in my gut. Not jealousy—I knew Marcus was gay, and Sarah had zero interest in him that way—but that old, creeping inadequacy. The one that lived in the back of my mind, the one that whispered look at that. Then look at you.
I turned back to the grill, flipping a burger harder than necessary.
By the time I finished cooking, Marcus had done a few laps around the pool, showing off, and was now lounging on a deck chair, still in that speedo, one leg up, the bulge on full display. The girls had settled down, but the energy was still buzzing.
I carried the platter of hot dogs and burgers to the picnic table, and Sarah and Marcus wandered over together, laughing.
“Smells amazing, babe,” Sarah said, kissing my cheek. She was in a bikini, tan and gorgeous, and her hand slid down to pat my ass.
Marcus grabbed a bun and a hot dog. He loaded it with chili, cheese, onions, mustard—the works. I watched him assemble it, then said, “You made it the right way. Good job.”
He looked up, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Oh yeah? You want my hot dog?” He glanced down at his Speedo, then back at me.
I laughed. It was playful, but I felt my stomach tighten. “Nah, I’m good. Got one of my own.”
He smiled broader, picking up his loaded hot dog and taking a deliberate bite. “Is it a jumbo dog like these?” He gestured with his chin toward his crotch.
There was no pretending anymore. The double entendre was dead. He was comparing cocks right there in front of everyone.
Before I could respond, Sarah stepped in front of me. She pressed her back against my chest, then deliberately rubbed her ass against my crotch. I was in shorts, no underwear—easy access. She could feel exactly what I was packing. And she knew.
She looked at Marcus, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and said, “It’s more like a breakfast sausage. But it gets the job done.”
She turned around and winked at me.
I should have felt embarrassed and humiliated, even. Here was my girlfriend, in front of her gay best friend, reducing my cock to a breakfast sausage. But I knew her. She was teasing, but she wasn’t cruel. She was claiming me, in her own way. And the way she’d pressed against me, feeling my half-hard little length through the shorts, had sent a jolt straight to my dick.
I played along. “As long as you’re happy with it, you can call it whatever you want.”
Marcus laughed, a genuine, warm laugh. “I love you two. You’re disgusting.” He bit into his hot dog again and wandered off to join the others.
Sarah stayed close, her hand finding mine, squeezing. “You okay?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah. You?”
“More than okay.” She kissed me, soft and quick. “I meant it, you know. It gets the job done just fine.”
I knew she’d always been honest about my size. Early in our relationship, she’d jokingly called it her “princess mushroom” because the head was noticeably bigger than the shaft—like Mario’s mushroom power-up. I’d laughed then, too. What else could I do? It was true. My cock, fully hard, barely reached three inches. The head was thick, almost proportional to a normal-sized dick, but the shaft was thin and short. It looked like a little lollipop.
That night, after the last guests left and the pool lights had been turned off, Sarah and I stumbled into the bedroom. We were both tipsy, but not wasted. The air was cool from the AC, and the house felt quiet.
She pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top of me, and kissed me deeply. Her tongue slid against mine, tasting of salt and tequila. She worked her way down my chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses, until she reached my shorts.
She pulled them down, and my cock sprang up—what there was of it. Hard, pink, the head already glistening at the tip.
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t make a joke. She just smiled, that soft, knowing smile.
Then she took it in her mouth.
Her lips wrapped around the head, and I felt the wet heat of her tongue swirling. She took it deeper, and I felt my entire shaft slide into her mouth, past her lips, and then she swallowed. All of it. Down her throat without a single gag.
She held it there for a moment, her throat muscles contracting around me, and I moaned. It was an incredible feeling—being deep-throated, completely enveloped. Most guys think you need length for that, but it’s more about the angle and the throat’s flexibility. With my tiny cock, she could take it all the way down without any effort. No choking, no struggle.
She came back up, her lips dragging along the shaft, and when she reached the tip, she sucked hard, her tongue flicking the frenulum. I arched my back.
She released me with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva connecting her lips to my cockhead.
“So,” I asked, breathless, “is it a mushroom or a breakfast sausage?”
She grinned, her eyes half-lidded. She leaned down and took me again—all the way down, throat closing around me, holding, then pulling back slowly. She released me again and said, her voice husky, “I think it’s more like a cake pop. And you know I love cake pops.”
She dove back down, and I let out a shaky laugh. Cake pop. The perfect name. Small, round head on a thin stick. But she loved them. She’d always pick a cake pop over a cupcake or a slice of cake.
Her mouth worked me over, slurping, sucking, her tongue tracing circles around the head, then licking down the shaft, then taking the whole thing in her throat again. Her hand cupped my balls, squeezing gently.
I was close. I grabbed her hair, not pulling, just holding. “I’m gonna cum, baby.”
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling through my entire body. She doubled her efforts, her head bobbing, her throat milking me.
I came with a jolt, my hips lifting off the bed as I spurted into her mouth. She kept sucking, swallowing every drop, then slowly released me, licking the tip clean.
She crawled up my body and kissed me, and I tasted myself on her tongue.
“You know I love your cake pop,” she whispered.
I flipped her over, pulled her bikini bottoms off—she hadn’t changed—and slid into her from behind. I was still half-hard, but the feeling of her wet, warm pussy gripping my little cock sent a shiver through me. I thrust, shallow and quick, because that’s all I could do. I couldn’t pound her, couldn’t stretch her wide. But I could hit that spot, that sweet spot just inside, over and over.
She moaned, pushing back against me. “Yes, baby, right there.”
I wrapped my arm around her waist, pulled her tight, and fucked her as hard as I could. It wasn’t a jackhammer. It was a steady, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat. My cock was buried completely inside her, and I could feel every ridge of her walls, every contraction.
She came with a gasp, her body shuddering, and that triggered my second orgasm. I spilled into her, my hips stuttering, my face buried in her shoulder.
We collapsed together, sweaty, breathing hard.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
“Even if you’re a cake pop.”
I laughed, holding her tighter. “Even if I’m a cake pop.”
She fell asleep first, her head on my chest. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the day: Marcus and his jumbo bulge. The girls are drooling. Sarah is calling me a breakfast sausage in front of everyone. And then, later, cake pop—her devotion.
I wasn’t ashamed. Not tonight. I had a small cock, and the world knew it. My girlfriend knew it. Her gay best friend knew it. But she loved it. She loved me.
And that was more than enough.
I drifted off, her body warm against mine, my tiny cock soft and spent, tucked between her thighs like a secret only she was allowed to know.
The End.
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