SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

I’d never been to this bar before. Some new place that opened up near the university, all exposed brick, Edison bulbs, and overpriced IPAs. I was there with a few buddies, watching the game, minding my own business. After a few beers, nature called, so I excused myself and headed toward the bathroom.

The door swung open, and I froze.

Instead of the usual row of ceramic urinals, there was a long stainless steel trough running along the wall. Shiny. Unforgiving. The kind of setup you see in stadiums or old-school dive bars, where there’s no divider, no privacy, just a wall of men standing shoulder to shoulder, doing their business.

The stall door was shut. Occupied. So I had no choice.

I walked up to the trough, trying to look casual. There was one other guy at the far end, staring straight ahead, not paying me any attention. I unzipped, pulled myself out, and tried to pee as fast as I could. My dick was soft—it’s always soft when I pee—and just barely over an inch, buried in the patch of dark hair above it. Nothing impressive. But functional. I just needed to get out.

Then I heard the door swing open again, hard enough to bang against the wall.

“DUDE, I’M GONNA PISS MY PANTS!”

Two of them. Frat bros, obviously. Loud, stumbling, so drunk they were practically holding each other up. They staggered toward the trough, laughing about something, and before I could react, they took the spots on either side of me.

No big deal, right? Guys piss next to each other all the time. Just look straight ahead. Don’t make eye contact. Get the fuck out.

But then the one on my right—blond, beefy, wearing a baseball cap backward—glanced down. Just a quick, drunken look, the way guys do when they’re standing at a urinal.

He stopped laughing.

“Oh shit, man!” His voice cut through the bathroom like a foghorn. “What the fuck is that?”

The guy on my left—same build, different hat—leaned over and looked. And then he started howling. I mean howling with laughter, his whole body shaking, his piss stream going wild as he doubled over.

I felt my face go red. Hot. Like someone had cranked a furnace inside my skull. My dick, barely poking out from my body, looked like a child’s thumb. A tiny, pathetic nub compared to what those guys were packing—I could see theirs from the corner of my eye, thick and meaty, dwarfing mine by inches.

And my pee slowed down. Of course it did. The embarrassment tightened everything up, turned my stream into a pathetic dribble. I stood there, frozen, willing myself to finish, but my body wasn’t cooperating.

“What’s wrong, little guy?” The one on my left sneered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You shy?”

Before I could answer, I felt hands on my waist. Rough. Grabbing. The one on my right had moved behind me, and in one swift motion, he yanked my jeans and my briefs down to my ankles.

There I was. Standing at a public trough, pants around my shoes, my tiny soft dick completely exposed. My pale ass. My balls. Everything. On display.

The two of them fucking lost it.

“HOLY SHIT!”

“DUDE, THAT’S NOT EVEN AN INCH!”

“I’VE SEEN BIGGER CLITS!”

They were howling, slapping each other’s shoulders, tears streaming down their faces. I just stood there, my face burning, my dick shrinking even more if that was possible. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even reach down to pull my pants up because my hands were shaking too much.

They walked out still laughing, still shouting. The door swung shut behind them, and I was alone again—except I still couldn’t pee. Or move. I just stood there, pants around my ankles, staring at the stained steel in front of me.

Finally, my stream came back. Slow. Pathetic. I finished, tucked myself away, and pulled up my jeans with trembling fingers. My face was still hot, my heart hammering in my chest.

And then the door opened again.

Two more guys walked in. They saw me adjusting my pants, saw my red face, and one of them—a tall guy in a polo—started smirking.

“Dude, were you just the guy getting roasted in here?”

The other one laughed. “No way. We heard those guys screaming about some tiny dick.”

I didn’t answer. I just pushed past them and walked out.

Back in the main bar, the two frat bros were leaning against a high-top table, beers in hand. The moment they saw me, they started up again.

“HEY! THERE HE IS!”

“AYYY, LITTLE DICK!”

One of them held up his thumb and forefinger, pinched together, making the universal sign for small. The other one cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled across the room: “YO, WATCH OUT, HE’S GOT A HIDDEN WEAPON!”

People turned. Laughed. Stared.

I walked straight to my buddies’ table, grabbed my coat, and left without saying a word.

The whole drive home, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way they looked at me. The way my pants hit the floor. The way those two guys in the bathroom saw me too. The way everyone in that bar probably knew by now.

I’m still thinking about it. Three days later. And I know, the next time I go to a bar, I’m going to check if they have stalls before I walk in.

And even then, I’ll probably hold it until I get home.

 

The End.

*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.