A Golfing Humiliation
An SPH Experience by Classic-Listen537.
None of my friends know how small I really am. They’ve never seen me naked—we change in separate stalls, shower at home, never skinny-dip or piss in the open. I’ve crafted a careful life around hiding my pathetic little dick. It’s not that I think they’d mock me cruelly; they’re good blokes. But the shame would be unbearable. The jokes, the pity, the way they’d look at me differently. I’d rather die.
So when nature called on the second day, I knew I had to be careful.
We’d just finished the 8th hole—a short par 3, maybe 140 yards. I’d stuck my tee shot to ten feet, made par, felt good. We walked off the green toward the 9th tee, which was set back through a narrow path lined with thick shrubbery. The sun was high, the air humid, and I’d been nursing a full bladder since the 6th.
As we approached the tee box, we saw the foursome ahead of us already setting up. They were old guys, taking their time, adjusting grips, picking tees. We’d have to wait at least ten minutes.
I felt the pressure building. I needed to piss, badly.
My mate Dave turned to me. “You alright? You’re fidgeting.”
“Yeah, just need a leak. I’ll be quick.”
I couldn’t piss anywhere near them. If I walked to the edge of the tee and turned my back, my mates would see everything—the way my dick barely extends past my pubic bone, the way it points like a little button when soft, the way my balls are tiny and tight. No. Not happening.
I scanned the area. Behind the tee box, about twenty yards back, there was a dense patch of shrubbery, wild holly and brambles, with a small gap I could slip into. Perfect cover.
“Gonna pop behind those bushes,” I said, already walking.
“Don’t get bitten by a snake,” laughed Steve.
“Nothing’s gonna bite that little thing,” Dave joked, and they all chuckled. They had no idea how close to the truth he was.
My heart hammered as I pushed through the bushes. The leaves scratched my arms, but I found a spot where the undergrowth was sparse enough to stand. I unbuttoned my shorts, pulled down the front of my waistband, and fished out my cock.
It was tiny. Even in the warm weather, it was barely two inches soft, a thin little shrimp of flesh with my circumcision scar clearly visible. My balls were pulled up tight, almost invisible. I aimed at the ground and started to piss, sighing with relief.
That’s when I heard the whir of electric motors.
Two golf carts rounded the corner of the path, maybe thirty feet away. They must have come from the 8th green—I hadn’t heard them approach because of the wind and my own piss stream. The first cart had two men in their sixties, both wearing polo shirts and visors. The second cart had two women, presumably their wives, also well-dressed, with sunglasses and big smiles.
They all saw me.
The men glanced over, then quickly looked away, embarrassed. But the women—they didn’t look away. They stared right at me. At my exposed crotch. At my tiny, limp dick, still pissing a weak stream into the dirt.
I froze. I couldn’t turn away because that would mean turning my back to my buddies, who were only fifty feet away and might look over. I couldn’t cover myself because my hands were still holding my dick. I just stood there, pissing, my little shrimp on full display, while four strangers watched.
The stream finally stopped after what felt like an eternity—maybe thirty seconds, maybe a minute. I shook off, shoved my cock back into my shorts, and fumbled with my button. My face was burning. I glanced up and saw the men were now studying the sky, the trees, anything but me. But the women—both of them—were looking right at me, and they were smiling. Broad, knowing smiles. One of them even tilted her head, as if she was admiring a cute puppy.
I scrambled out of the bushes, practically running back to my group. My mates hadn’t noticed anything—they were watching the foursome ahead. Dave looked at me and said, “You alright? Look a bit flushed.”
“Fine. Just hot.”
We teed off soon after, and I tried to focus. But the rest of the round was a nightmare.
Those two couples were good golfers. They were playing fast, and they caught up to us by the 10th. We let them play through on a par 5, and they waved politely as they passed. The men nodded. The women smiled—the same smiles. One of them, a blonde with a bright pink visor, looked directly at me and winked.
My stomach dropped.
For the next nine holes, they were always just one or two holes behind us. Every time I looked back, I saw them. Every time I lined up a putt, I felt their eyes on me. I played like shit—shanked drives, three-putted, lost two balls. My mates thought I was just tired.
But I knew. Those two women had seen my little button dick, and they were enjoying my discomfort.
I made zero eye contact the rest of the day. I didn’t look back. I just kept my head down and tried to finish the round without collapsing from shame.
On the 18th green, as we walked off, I saw the couples sitting on a bench near the clubhouse, drinking iced teas. The blonde woman raised her glass to me. Her friend giggled.
I walked straight to the car and didn’t look back.
That night, in the pub, Dave said, “You know, those two old birds were checking you out. Kept looking at you all afternoon.”
“Bullshit,” I said.
“I’m serious. The blonde one, she had a thing for you.”
I forced a laugh. “Maybe she likes small dicks.”
Dave laughed too, thinking it was a joke.
I drank my beer and said nothing. Because the truth is, she probably did like small dicks. Or at least, she got a good laugh out of mine.
I’m going back to that course next month. I’ll probably piss in the woods again. But this time, I’ll make sure no one’s around. I don’t think I can handle another wink from a sixty-year-old woman who’s seen my shrimp.
The End.
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