SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

The split with my ex wasn’t about my size. Not directly, anyway. We’d lived together for three years, and yeah, she’d made comments—offhand jokes about how she wished I was bigger, how her previous boyfriend had been “substantial,” how sometimes she just wished she could feel me. But we broke up because she wanted kids and I didn’t, because we fought about money, because the day-to-day ground us down. The dick thing was just background noise.

Still, when I moved out into that tiny rented house in the quiet residential neighborhood, I felt a strange relief. No more walking on eggshells. No more pretending that my four-inch erection was enough to satisfy her. I had my own space, my own routine, and a tennis club a five-minute walk away.

I joined the club mostly to fill the evenings. I’d always been decent at tennis—nothing special, but I could hold my own in doubles. The clubhouse had a bar, a few tables, and a rotating cast of middle-aged men and women who drank cheap beer after matches and talked about their summer vacations. I was the youngest regular by at least a decade, which made me stand out.

Clara didn’t stand out in the crowd. She was small, maybe five-two, with dark hair cut just above her shoulders, a round face, and breasts that strained against her tennis skirt. She was twenty-seven, divorced, and had a laugh that sounded like a bark. I noticed her the first week I joined, but it took three months and a team tournament before we actually spoke.

We won our doubles match. The clubhouse was loud with victory shots. Someone handed me a whisky, and I downed it too fast. Clara was standing next to me, sipping a gin and tonic, and she laughed when I coughed.

“First time?” she asked.

“First time drinking like this in years,” I said.

We talked for an hour. She was easy to talk to—direct, unpretentious, with a sense of humor that leaned dark. She told me she’d been single for two years and wasn’t looking for anything serious. I told her I’d just gotten out of a long relationship and felt the same. By the end of the night, she’d written her number on a napkin and told me to text her.

I did—the next day.

—

The first time she came over, I was nervous. I’d cleaned the house, bought a bottle of decent red wine, and put together a cheese plate that looked like something from a magazine. She arrived at seven, wearing jeans and a loose sweater, and she smelled like lavender. We sat on my couch, sipped wine, talked about tennis, work, our exes. She laughed at my jokes, touched my arm, leaned into my space.

By the time we finished the bottle, we were kissing. Her mouth tasted like wine, and her tongue was warm. I slid my hand under her sweater, found her breasts—full and heavy—and she moaned softly. She pulled my shirt off, ran her fingers down my chest, and then she knelt in front of me.

“There’s something I should tell you,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Tell me later,” she said, and unzipped my jeans.

My cock was soft. It always was before things got started—a pathetic little nub barely an inch and a half, hiding in my pubic hair. She pulled it out, and I watched her face. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t laugh. She just turned it over in her fingers, studying it like a curiosity.

“Oh,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “It looks very cute.”

Cute. That word. I’d heard it before, always from women who were trying to be kind. But Clara said it as she meant it, like she genuinely found my limp little dick adorable.

I let her do whatever she wanted. She held it, stroked it, watched it grow to its full four inches. Then she put her mouth on it. Her tongue was soft, her lips wet. She sucked me for maybe two minutes, and I came embarrassingly fast—a weak, thin spurt that barely made it to her tongue. She swallowed, licked her lips, and said, “Well, you’re going to lick my pussy now, huh?”

It wasn’t a question.

I spent ten minutes with my face between her thighs. She was wet, open, and she came with a shudder that made her grab my hair. When she was done, I stood up, my cock still hard, and asked, “Can I?”

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

I pushed into her. She was tight enough that I felt something, but her expression was calm, almost amused. She lay there, legs spread, smiling, letting me pump in and out without making a sound.

I asked, “Do you feel anything?”

She laughed. “No. Not really. But go ahead. Enjoy. Do you like it at least?”

I said yes, because I did. The feeling of being inside her, the view of her breasts bouncing, the way her pussy gripped me just enough to keep me hard—it was good. I came again, this time with more force, and collapsed on top of her.

She stroked my back. “That was fun.”

Afterward, she asked for a massage. I gave her one—shoulders, lower back, her thighs—while we talked about stupid things. I made dinner, pasta with a cream sauce, and we watched a movie on my old TV. She fell asleep halfway through, her head on my lap.

The next morning, she left. At the door, she kissed me and said, “Same time next week?”

I couldn’t help it. “Why? You didn’t feel anything. Why would you want to come back?”

She looked at me, eyebrows raised. Then she laughed again—that bark-like laugh—and said, “You’re nice. You’re cute. You lick me well. You have good taste. We do massages, we eat well. And that’s it. I don’t see any reason not to let you enjoy yourself with your little cock.”

She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. No malice, no pity. Just honesty.

I said it suited me fine.

—

That was two months ago. Clara comes over twice a week now, sometimes three times. She lets me fuck her, and she teases me about my size the whole time. “Is it in yet?” she’ll ask, grinning. Or, “You’re so cute when you’re trying to be rough.” She’ll touch my dick, hold it between two fingers, and say, “Look at this little guy. He’s trying so hard.”

And she’s right. I am trying. I’m trying to make her feel something, but I know I can’t. Not with this. So I focus on what I can do—my tongue, my fingers, the way I cook, the massages. And she keeps coming back.

Meanwhile, my ex started texting me a month ago. She wanted to “catch up,” and one thing led to another. She came over, and when I tried to fuck her, she pulled out a sleeve from her purse. A thick, veined, eight-inch silicone cock that she slid over mine.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.

I didn’t. Not really. With the sleeve on, she moaned. She came. She thanked me. And now she comes over once a week, always with the sleeve, always getting hers while I get nothing but the visual.

So there it is. Two women. Two women who fuck me regularly, even though they both know my dick is small. Clara uses me for the other stuff, and my ex uses me as a fleshlight for her sleeve. Neither of them wants my cock, not really. But they let me fuck them anyway.

And honestly? It’s great. It’s better than being alone. Better than pretending my size doesn’t matter. I know where I stand. I’m the guy with the cute little cock, the guy who licks pussy well, the guy who makes dinner. And that’s enough.

I’ll take it.

 

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.