The Phone
An SPH Experience by limpnubguy.
There’s a convenience store near my flat. Not a big chain—one of those independent places run by a family, the kind where the same people are behind the counter every single day. I’ve been going there for about two years. Mostly for the basics. Milk, bread, the occasional lottery ticket, whatever I’ve forgotten to pick up at the supermarket.
Two cashiers work the counter. Both women. Both young. As far as I can tell, they’re related—the same family that owns the place. I’d guess they’re cousins, maybe sisters, though they don’t look alike enough for that.
The first one—I’ll call her Dina—is the one I see most often. She works mornings and early afternoons. She’s Middle Eastern, maybe Iraqi or Lebanese, with olive skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and thick black hair she keeps in a loose ponytail that falls over one shoulder. She’s short—maybe five-two—and has a soft, rounded figure. Wide hips, full chest, the kind of body that’s hard not to notice when she’s leaning over the counter reaching for cigarettes on the back shelf. She’s probably twenty-three, twenty-four.
The second one—I’ll call her Maira—works the later shifts. She’s taller, maybe five-six, with a sharper face. High cheekbones, a pointed chin, dark eyebrows that always look slightly furrowed, like she’s concentrating on something. She’s thinner than Dina, more angular, but she carries herself with this quiet confidence that makes her hard to ignore. She’s probably twenty-five.
I’ve been attracted to both of them since the first time I walked into that store. That’s not unusual for me—I’m a man, they’re attractive women, the math isn’t complicated. But attraction is just background noise. It’s not what made me do what I did.
What made me do what I did is something more specific. Something I’ve been carrying around for a long time.
I have a small penis.
Not average. Not slightly below average. Small. Just over four inches hard, and when it’s soft—which is most of the time, especially in situations where someone might see it—it’s closer to two. Maybe two and a half on a good day. Circumcised. Thin. The kind of dick that, when you’re standing naked in front of someone, produces a very specific look on their face. Not disgust, exactly. Not surprise, exactly. Something in between. A flicker of recognition that says, oh. That’s what we’re working with.
I’ve had girlfriends who handled it gracefully. I’ve had one-night stands who didn’t. I’ve had the experience of a woman wrapping her hand around it and clearly having too much room left over. I’ve had the experience of a woman going down on me and barely needing to open her mouth. I’ve had the experience of being laughed at—not cruelly, not directly, but in that way that happens when someone doesn’t expect it and can’t quite contain their reaction.
And somewhere along the line—maybe five years ago, maybe longer—I stopped being purely embarrassed by it and started being something else. Something more complicated. Something that lives in the space between humiliation and arousal. The feeling of being seen. Of being known. Of someone looking at the most vulnerable part of you and having an opinion about it.
That’s what made me do what I did.
—
It started with selfies.
Not the kind you post on Instagram. The other kind. The kind you take when you’re alone in your flat, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, phone in one hand, dick in the other. Trying to get the angle right and trying to make it look bigger than it is. Then giving up and just letting it look like what it is.
I’d been taking them for a while. Not for anyone in particular—just for myself. A kind of documentation. A record of what I was working with. Sometimes I’d look at them and feel a twist of shame. Sometimes I’d look at them and feel something else. Something that made me hard, which, of course, made them look different. Better. More substantial. But I knew the truth. The soft ones were the honest ones. The soft ones were what someone would actually see if they saw me.
And then one day I was in the convenience store, paying for a bottle of water and a packet of crisps, and Dina was behind the counter, and she smiled at me the way she always smiled—polite, professional, a little distant—and I thought: what if she saw?
The thought hit me like a jolt. Not a passing thought. A real one. A what-if that sat in my chest and pulsed.
I pushed it away. Paid. Left. Went home.
But it came back. That night. The next day. Every time I went to the store and saw Dina or Maira behind the counter, the same thought would surface: what if they saw?
And then it evolved. It wasn’t just what if they saw. It was what if they saw and I knew they saw? What if I could watch them see it? What if I could be there, in the room, when they looked at my cock and reacted?
That’s when the plan started forming.
—
The plan was simple in concept, complicated in execution. I would leave my phone somewhere in the store where one of them would find it. On the phone, there would be photos. Not hidden in a folder, not buried in an app. Right there. In the gallery. The first thing you’d see if you opened the photo app.
The photos would be of me. My face—so they’d know it was me. And my cock—so they’d know what I had. Or what I didn’t have.
And I would record their reactions. Not from inside the store—I couldn’t be that obvious. From outside. Through the window. I’d set up a small camera, one of those cheap ones that look like a button or a pen, positioned on the ledge outside the store where it wouldn’t be noticed. Grainy footage. Not great quality. But enough to see their faces. Enough to see them look at the screen. Enough to see them react.
That was the plan.
It took me six attempts to get it right.
—
The first time, I left the phone on the counter next to the card reader. I paid with cash, grabbed my shopping, and walked out. I went around the side of the building, where I’d already positioned the small camera on a window ledge, angled toward the counter inside.
I waited. Watched the feed on my laptop from my car.
Dina picked up the phone almost immediately. She looked at it, turned it over, checked the lock screen. Then she put it behind the counter and went back to her work. She didn’t unlock it. She didn’t try to find the owner. She just set it aside.
I had to go back in and retrieve it. “I think I left my phone here,” I said, trying to sound casual. She handed it to me without a second glance.
Failed.
—
The second time, I left the phone unlocked. Screen on. Gallery open. I set it on the counter while I was paying, pretending to fumble with my wallet. Then I walked away, leaving it there.
This time, Maira was behind the counter. She picked it up, looked at the screen—and immediately locked it. The screen went black. She put it behind the counter.
I watched from outside. She didn’t scroll. She didn’t look again. She saw the lock screen, maybe a flash of whatever was open before it timed out, and that was it.
Failed.
—
The third time, I disabled the auto-lock. Set the screen timeout to ten minutes. Opened the gallery. Left it on the counter.
Dina found it. She looked at the screen. I could see, through the grainy feed, that she was looking at something. The first photo in my gallery—a selfie I’d taken in the mirror, shirtless, my cock visible at the bottom of the frame. Small. Soft. Unmistakable.
She stared for about three seconds. Then she looked up, scanned the store, and locked the phone manually. Put it behind the counter.
Failed. But closer.
The fourth time, I prepared better. I created a dedicated album on the phone. Just cock pics. About fifteen of them. Different angles, different states—some soft, some semi-hard, some fully hard. All of them clearly showing my face in a mirror so there was no ambiguity about who it was. I left the phone unlocked, gallery open, on the counter.
Maira found it. She looked at the screen. I could see her face through the grainy feed—she was frowning slightly, like she was trying to figure out what she was looking at. Then her eyes widened. She looked up, scanned the store again. Then she looked back at the phone.
She scrolled. Once. Twice. Then she locked it and put it away.
Failed. But she’d scrolled. She’d seen more than one.
—
The fifth time, I thought I had it figured out. I left the phone near the card payment machine, propped up slightly so the screen was visible. I’d paid with my card, so they’d know it was mine—the phone would be associated with the transaction, the name on the card. I left the gallery open, scrolled to a photo that showed my face clearly, then my cock below it.
Dina was working. She picked up the phone, looked at the screen. She saw the photo. I could see her expression change through the feed—not dramatically, but enough. Her lips parted slightly. She looked at the photo for a long time—maybe five seconds. Then she looked around the store, and I saw her mouth move. She was talking to herself, or maybe to Maira, who was in the back.
Then she locked the phone and put it under the counter.
Failed. But she’d seen it. She’d really seen it.
—
The sixth time, everything aligned.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The store was quiet—I’d timed it so there were no other customers. Dina was behind the counter. Maira was in the back, restocking shelves, but she came out when I walked in.
I bought my usual—milk, bread, a packet of crisps. I paid with my card. I left the phone on the counter, right next to the card machine. Screen unlocked. Gallery open. The first photo was a full-body mirror selfie—my face, my chest, my stomach, and my cock, soft, small, hanging between my legs like a thumb. The next photos were close-ups. My cock from above. My cock from the side. My cock held between two fingers, showing how little there was to hold. My cock hard—which, even fully erect, was just over four inches and thin enough to wrap one hand around completely.
I walked out. Didn’t look back. Went around the side of the building. The camera was already running.
I watched the feed on my phone.
Dina noticed the phone almost immediately. She picked it up, looked at the screen. Her eyes went wide. Not a dramatic reaction—she was too professional for that—but a clear, visible widening. She looked at the photo. Then she looked at the door where I’d just exited. Then she looked back at the photo.
She called Maira. I could see her mouth move, and she gestured toward the back of the store. Maira came out from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. Dina held up the phone and turned the screen toward her.
Maira looked at it.
Through the grainy feed, I could see Maira’s face. Her eyebrows went up. Her mouth opened slightly. Then she leaned in closer, looking at the screen. Dina said something—I couldn’t hear what—and Maira laughed. A short, sharp laugh. Then she covered her mouth with her hand.
Dina swiped. The next photo appeared. Maira leaned in closer. She said something. Dina replied. They were both looking at the screen now, standing close together behind the counter.
Dina swiped again. And again. They were scrolling through the photos. I could see them pointing at the screen—Maira pointing at something, then making a gesture with her fingers. She held up her thumb and index finger, close together, and wiggled them.
My stomach dropped. My cock. She was mimicking the size of my cock.
Dina laughed. Not a polite laugh. A real one. Her shoulders shook. She covered her mouth, but I could see her body shaking. Maira was laughing too—she’d gone slightly red in the face, her hand still over her mouth.
They kept scrolling. I could see them pausing on certain photos—the ones where I was hard, probably. The ones where the size difference between soft and hard was most obvious. Maira said something, and Dina nodded. Then Maira held up her pinky finger and wiggled it.
More laughter.
They went through the whole album. All fifteen photos. It took them maybe three minutes. When they got to the end, Dina went back to the beginning and scrolled through again. This time, they were calmer—not laughing as hard, but still smiling and still commenting and still pointing at the screen.
Then Dina looked at the door. She looked back at the phone. She said something to Maira, who shrugged. Dina put the phone behind the counter—not locked, not put away, just set down like she was keeping it there. Like she was expecting me to come back.
I waited five minutes. Then I went back in.
“I think I left my phone,” I said, trying to sound casual. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Dina reached behind the counter without hesitation. She pulled out the phone and handed it to me. Her face was composed—professional, polite—but there was something in her eyes. A brightness. A knowing.
“Here you go,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. I took the phone. Our fingers brushed. She didn’t pull away quickly.
Maira was standing behind her, arms crossed, leaning against the shelf. She was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Her lips were pressed together, like she was trying not to smile. Her eyes dropped—just for a second—to my crotch. Then back up.
“Have a good day,” Dina said.
“You too,” I said, and walked out.
—
I went back the next day. And the day after that. And every day that week.
The dynamic had shifted. It was subtle—I doubt anyone else would have noticed it. But I noticed it. I noticed everything.
Dina was different when she served me. Not unfriendly—she’d always been friendly. But now there was something else. A warmth that wasn’t there before. A way of holding eye contact a beat too long. A way of smiling that wasn’t just professional courtesy. She’d lean on the counter when I was paying, her body angled toward me, her posture open in a way that felt deliberate.
And she’d look at me differently. Not at my face—at my body. At my waist. At the place where my cock was hidden behind my jeans. She’d glance down, then back up, and there’d be that knowing look again.
Maira was more obvious. She’d stopped being subtle. When I came in, she’d watch me from wherever she was in the store. She’d come to the counter when I was paying, even if Dina was already there. She’d stand close—closer than necessary—and look at me with that same suppressed smile.
One day, I was buying milk. Just milk. Dina scanned it, I paid, and as I was leaving, Maira said, “See you tomorrow?” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A confirmation. She knew I’d be back. She wanted me to know she knew.
“Probably,” I said.
She smiled—that smile.
—
The second week, I noticed them sharing the phone.
Not my phone—I’d taken that back. But one of their phones. I was in the store, browsing the shelves, when I glanced toward the counter and saw Dina showing Maira something on her phone. They were both looking at the screen, both smiling, both leaning in close. Dina swiped, and Maira’s eyes widened slightly. She looked up, saw me standing in the aisle, and quickly put the phone away.
They’d taken photos of my phone. Of my photos. They had copies.
My cock went hard instantly. Not from arousal in the traditional sense—from something deeper. Something that lived in the pit of my stomach. The knowledge that these two women—these beautiful women I saw every day—had pictures of my cock on their phones. That they looked at them. That they talked about them. That they laughed about them.
That they knew.
—
The third week, I was in the store buying the usual. Dina was serving me. Maira was restocking shelves nearby.
As Dina handed me my change, she said, casually, like she was commenting on the weather: “You should ask for the small bags. They’re cheaper.”
She said it with a completely straight face. Professional. Helpful. But her eyes—that knowing brightness was there.
Maira, behind her, let out a small sound. Not quite a laugh. More like a cough that didn’t quite make it.
I looked at Dina. She looked at me. For a moment, neither of us said anything.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I took my change and left. Behind me, I heard it—the sound of two women trying not to laugh and failing.
—
It’s been months now. I still go to the store every day. The dynamic hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s intensified. They know me. They know my face, my name, my order, and my cock. They have photos of it on their phones. They show each other. They make comments—little coded references that sound innocent to anyone else but that I understand perfectly.
“Small bag for you today?” Dina will ask, holding up the smallest carrier bag with a straight face.
“Need anything… extra?” Maira will say, appearing beside me in an aisle, her voice low and suggestive.
I play along. I act like it’s normal. Like I don’t know what they’re referring to. Like I don’t know that every time I walk into that store, they’re thinking about my cock—about how small it is, about how they saw it, about how they laughed.
And every night, when I’m alone in my flat, I think about it too, about their faces. About the way Maira held up her pinky finger and wiggled it. About the way Dina’s shoulders shook when she laughed. About the way they looked at the screen, at my photos, at the most vulnerable part of me.
And I get hard—all four inches of it.
And I take another photo.
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.