SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

I never planned for that night to go the way it did. None of us did, probably. It started the way most university nights start—bad vodka, cheap mixers, someone’s flat that smelled like incense and dirty dishes, four people sitting on the floor because there weren’t enough chairs. That was it. That was the whole plan. Drink, talk, maybe go home, maybe not. The kind of night that’s supposed to be forgettable.

It wasn’t.

—

Her flat was on the second floor of a building that should have been condemned. The stairs creaked. The hallway smelled like curry and weed. The door had a sticker on it that read “Good Vibes Only” in peeling cursive. I’d met Priya—the curvy one, the loud one, the one whose laugh could fill a room and usually did—about three weeks earlier in a sociology lecture. We’d been seated next to each other, and she’d spent the entire class whispering commentary about the professor’s toupee until I couldn’t breathe from trying not to laugh. After that, we were friends. The kind of friends who drink together and flirt without meaning anything by it. Or maybe meaning something by it. I was never sure with Priya. She operated at a frequency I couldn’t always tune into.

Her flatmate was Niamh. Pronounced Neev. I learned that the hard way after calling her Ny-am for the first ten minutes and getting corrected with a look that could have frozen a lake. Niamh was petite—five-two, maybe, with short dark hair that she kept tucked behind her ears and a sharp, angular face that made every expression look like she was evaluating you and finding you slightly lacking. She was fiery in the way that small girls often are: compact and intense, every word chosen with precision, every laugh aimed like a weapon. She wore a cropped jumper that showed a sliver of her stomach and jeans tight enough to outline her thighs. She was the kind of girl who knew exactly how she looked and used it like a lever.

My friend was Calum. Tall, broad-shouldered, sandy hair, the kind of guy who looked like he’d been assembled from a catalog of Australian surf instructors. He was on the rugby team. He had an easy confidence that I’d envied since we’d met in halls our first week—the way he walked into a room and assumed it was glad to see him, the way he talked to women like it had never occurred to him that they might not be interested. He was straight. Resolutely, unshakably, almost aggressively straight. The kind of straight where he’d never had to think about it because the world had always confirmed it for him.

I was the bi one. The one who’d figured it out at sixteen and spent the next four years pretending it was more complicated than it was. It wasn’t complicated. I liked men. I liked women. I liked the space between. The only complicated thing about it was that I hadn’t told Calum, because Calum was the kind of friend who you weren’t sure would take it well, and the friendship mattered more than the honesty.

So there we were. The four of us. Priya’s flat. A bottle of vodka that was already half empty. A playlist that alternated between R&B and indie rock in a way that shouldn’t have worked but did. The windows opened because the heating was broken, and the flat was either freezing or sweltering, depending on whether the ancient radiator decided to engage.

—

The conversation turned the way conversations turn when alcohol is involved—slowly at first, then all at once. Someone made a joke about a Tinder profile. Someone else mentioned a bad hookup. Priya shared a story about a guy who’d taken his pants off and revealed a tattoo of his ex-girlfriend’s name on his inner thigh, which made Niamh say, “That’s not the worst thing a man can reveal when he takes his pants off,” which made Priya laugh in a way that suggested she had a story about exactly that, which she declined to share, which made the air in the room shift in that specific way that air shifts when everyone is suddenly aware that the conversation is about to go somewhere it can’t come back from.

I was sitting on the floor with my back against the sofa. Priya was on the sofa behind me, her legs crossed, her bare foot occasionally brushing my shoulder. Niamh was in an armchair with her legs tucked under her. Calum was on the floor across from me, leaning against the wall, holding his drink on his thigh.

Priya and Niamh were doing that thing that close female friends do—finishing each other’s sentences, referencing inside jokes, communicating through glances that excluded the rest of the room. They were flirty. With us, with each other, with the night itself. Priya kept touching my shoulder. Niamh kept looking at Calum from under her lashes. The energy was building the way it does when four people in a small room are all thinking about the same thing, and no one has said it yet.

I decided to say it.

“Why don’t you two kiss?” I said, grinning, gesturing between Priya and Niamh with my cup. “Seems you really like each other and know everything about one another.”

It was a joke. Mostly. The kind of thing you say when the room is thick with tension, and someone has to crack it open. I said it because I was curious. Because they were both attractive. Because the vodka had made me brave and the night had made me restless and because I’d been thinking about Priya’s mouth for three weeks and if I couldn’t kiss it myself, watching someone else kiss it was the next best thing.

Priya looked at Niamh. Niamh looked at Priya. The glance lasted about two seconds and contained an entire conversation that I wasn’t privy to. Then Priya turned back to me with a smirk that I recognized—the same smirk she’d given the professor’s toupee, the same smirk she gave anything she found amusing and slightly ridiculous, which included most of the world, including me.

“We will if you will,” she said.

The room went quiet. Not awkward-quiet. Charged-quiet. The kind of quiet where you can hear the music from the speaker and the traffic from the street and your own heartbeat in your ears.

She meant Calum and me.

I looked at Calum. Calum looked at me. His expression went through about four phases in half a second—confusion, realization, discomfort, and then the specific expression of a straight man who has just been propositioned with a scenario he doesn’t know how to navigate. His ears went pink. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m not… I don’t…” He trailed off. He looked at his cup. He looked at the ceiling. He looked anywhere except at me.

I’m bi. I was fine with it. More than fine with it. Calum was objectively attractive—tall, athletic, the kind of jawline that belonged in a cologne ad—and the idea of kissing him had crossed my mind more than once in the two years I’d known him. I’d never acted on it because I valued the friendship and because I was fairly sure he’d react the way he was reacting now, which was like a man who’d been asked to jump off a cliff and wasn’t sure if there was water at the bottom.

“I’m not sure,” he said finally. The words came out stiff, rehearsed, like he was reading from a script he’d written in the thirty seconds since the proposition had been made.

Niamh leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes were bright—sharp, focused, the eyes of someone who saw an opportunity and was deciding whether to take it. She uncrossed her legs and planted her feet on the floor and looked directly at Calum with an expression that was equal parts challenge and promise.

“We will do it topless,” she said, “if you two kiss.”

Calum’s eyes went big. Huge. The kind of wide that made the pink in his ears spread to his cheeks. He looked at me. He looked at Niamh. He looked at Priya, who was now leaning forward on the sofa, her elbows on her knees, her cleavage visible through the neckline of her top, clearly enjoying this. He looked at me again.

I could see the calculation happening in real time—the cost-benefit analysis of a straight man weighing his discomfort against the reward of seeing two topless women. I could see the moment the reward won.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m closing my eyes.”

“That’s fine,” I said, maybe too quickly. I was already reaching for my bag, digging through it for the lip gloss I kept there—the strawberry one, the one that tasted like candy and made my lips look wet and soft. I found it. I uncapped it. I applied it, feeling the slick sweetness coat my mouth, and I turned to Calum and said, “I’ll use strawberry lip gloss too, and you can close your eyes. My lips are extra soft.”

He gave me a look. The look of a man who was aware that his friend was being a little too enthusiastic about this and was choosing not to examine why. He closed his eyes. His jaw was tight. His hands were fists on his thighs.

I leaned in.

I put my hand on the side of his face—gently, the way you’d hold something fragile—and I pressed my lips to his. Soft. Warm. The lip gloss made the contact slippery and sweet, and I felt him tense, every muscle in his face and neck going rigid, and then I felt the tension ease—slightly, grudgingly—like his body was deciding to allow this even if his brain hadn’t fully signed off.

I kissed him. Not a peck. Not a quick press-and-pull. A real kiss. A long, slow, deliberate kiss that lasted long enough for me to feel the warmth of his mouth and the faint taste of vodka on his breath and the way his lips, despite his stiffness, were full and soft and fit against mine in a way that made my chest tighten. I used my tongue. Just a little. Just enough to part his lips and touch the tip of mine to his, a brief wet contact that sent a jolt through me—from my mouth to my stomach to my groin—and I felt him pull back. Not sharply. Not violently. Just a retreat. A withdrawal. The reaction of a man who’d allowed a certain amount and then reached his limit.

I pulled back too. I looked at him. His eyes were open now, wide, slightly dazed, his lips glossy from my lip gloss, a faint pink smear on his lower lip. He touched his mouth with his fingers. He stared at me.

“That was…” he started. He didn’t finish.

I turned to the girls. They were both leaning forward, both staring, both wearing expressions of genuine, unfiltered delight. Priya’s mouth was open. Niamh’s eyes were narrowed with a kind of sharp satisfaction, like a cat that had successfully manipulated someone into doing exactly what it wanted.

“Oh, that was hot,” Priya said. She said it with her whole body—leaning back, pressing her hands to her chest, her voice breathy and real. “But now,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting strawberry and vodka and the ghost of Calum’s lips, “for the main event.”

—

The girls exchanged another one of their glances. Then, without ceremony, without hesitation, without the self-consciousness that you’d expect from two people about to take their clothes off in front of two near-strangers, they both pulled their tops over their heads. Priya unclasped her bra from the back—reaching behind with both hands, the practiced motion of someone who’d done this a thousand times—and let it fall. Niamh pulled hers off over her head, sports-bra style, in one quick motion.

Priya was curvy everywhere. Her breasts were full, round, C cups that sat high and firm on her chest with the kind of perkiness that made you aware of how young she was. Her nipples were brown, medium-sized, already slightly hard from the air. Her stomach was soft and warm-looking, her hips wide, her body the kind of body that filled out a dress and made you understand why dresses were invented.

Niamh was the opposite. Small. Lean. Her breasts were A cups—barely there, the kind of small that some people would call flat, but they weren’t flat; they were just small, two slight mounds with puffy nipples that were pink and swollen and prominent in a way that made them more noticeable than larger breasts might have been. Her ribs were visible. Her collarbones were sharp. Her body was compact and tight, the body of a girl who ran, did yoga, or simply existed in a state of perpetual, restless energy.

They turned to each other and kissed.

It wasn’t performative. That was what struck me. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you see in films—choreographed, angled for the camera, designed to titillate an audience. It was real. Priya’s hand came up to Niamh’s face, cupping her jaw, tilting her head. Niamh’s hand went to Priya’s waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there. Their mouths met, and they kissed deeply, tongues visible between their lips, Priya’s full mouth covering Niamh’s thinner one, their bodies pressing together—Priya’s large breasts against Niamh’s small ones, the contrast stark and striking and so genuinely erotic that I felt my dick stir in my pants.

Calum was staring. I could see him in my peripheral vision, sitting rigid against the wall, his cup forgotten, his eyes fixed on the two women kissing in front of him. His mouth was slightly open. The pink on his ears had deepened to red.

The kiss lasted maybe ten seconds. It felt longer. When they pulled apart, there was a strand of saliva between their lips that broke and fell onto Niamh’s chest, and Priya wiped it away with her thumb, and Niamh laughed—a short, sharp, breathless laugh that was the most genuine sound I’d heard her make all night.

They turned back to us. Four bare breasts. Two different body types. Two expressions of mischief.

“Well, that was fun,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. My heart was hammering. My dick was half-hard. I could feel it pressing against my underwear, not yet at full size but getting there, and I was aware—with the low-level awareness that never fully goes away—of what full size meant for me, which was not much. “But what do we have to do to get you naked?”

Priya smiled. The smirk. The full smirk. She looked at Niamh, and Niamh looked back, and the glance between them lasted longer this time, and when they turned back to us, Priya spoke.

 

 

“Tell us your cock sizes,” she said. “Hard and soft.” She paused, letting the words settle. “We know every guy measures.”

The silence that followed was different from the earlier silence. This one was heavier. More loaded. The kind of silence where the room divides along a line that everyone can feel but no one can see.

I panicked. Not outwardly—I kept my face neutral, kept my grin in place, kept the performance of confidence going because I’d been performing confidence for so long that it was almost second nature. But inside, I felt the drop. The stomach-drop. The elevator-free-fall. The specific sensation of a man who knows he’s about to be measured and knows the measurement will not be impressive.

Because I knew my numbers, I’d known them since I was fifteen, since the first time I’d locked my bedroom door and pressed a ruler against my body and felt the world shift under me. Just under two inches soft. Four inches hard. Four. Not four and a half. Not four and three-quarters. Four. The number that sat below average like a stone at the bottom of a well, and I’d been carrying it for eleven years, and in eleven years I’d never found a way to make it feel like enough.

Calum spoke first. Of course he did. He had no reason to hesitate. He was the kind of man who’d never had to think about this, never had to brace himself before stating a number, never had to calculate whether the truth would be met with laughter or silence or pity.

“Soft varies,” he said, with the casual tone of a man discussing the weather, “but on a hot day, like four and a half inches. And hard, seven.”

Seven. The number hung in the air like a banner. Seven inches. The kind of number that women remember, men envy, and stories are built around. He said it without boasting, or rather, he said it with the kind of unconscious boasting that’s worse than deliberate boasting because it assumes the number is simply a fact rather than a flex. He might as well have announced his height or his shoe size. It was just information. It was just what he was.

Priya’s eyebrows went up. Niamh’s mouth curved. They were impressed, or performing impressed, or both. The reaction was visible and immediate—the slight widening of eyes, the subtle shift in posture, the way both girls straightened slightly, like plants turning toward the sun. Seven inches. The big one. The number that changed the energy in the room in Calum’s favor, that gave him gravity, that made him the center.

And then they looked at me.

My turn. My number. My four inches, which had been four inches since I was fifteen and would be four inches until I died, which was not growing, which was not changing, which was mine the way a birthmark is yours—permanent, unrequested, defining.

I could lie. The thought crossed my mind, fast and desperate. I could say five. Five and a half. I could round up, round generously, invent a number that would place me in the realm of normal, of adequate, of unremarkable, which was the best I could hope for. I could say five and a half and no one would check, no one would verify, no one would pull out a ruler and say prove it.

But they’d see. Eventually, if the night went where it was going, they’d see. And the gap between the lie and the reality would be worse than the reality itself. A man who says he’s five and a half and turns out to be four is a man who lied. A man who says he’s four and turns out to be four is just a man with a small dick. The first is a liar. The second is just small. I’d rather be small than a liar. I’d rather be honest and humiliated than dishonest and caught.

“Um,” I said. The um was a mistake. The um was the sound of a man buying time, and everyone in the room heard it and knew what it meant. “Just under two inches soft. And four hard.”

I hung my head. Not dramatically. Not like a man swooning with despair. I just let my chin drop, let my eyes fall to the floor, let the weight of the number pull my gaze down because I couldn’t look at them. I couldn’t look at their faces and see what I knew I’d see.

They laughed.

Not cruelly. Not the kind of laughter that’s designed to wound. But they laughed—the spontaneous, uncontrolled reaction of two women who’d just heard a number that was significantly smaller than the number that preceded it, and the contrast was funny. The contrast between seven and four. Between Calum’s casual confidence and my hesitant um. Between the big one and the little one. It was funny the way things were funny when you’re slightly drunk, the night is slightly surreal, and someone says something that punctures the tension with a fact smaller than expected.

Priya’s laugh was the loud one—the full-body laugh, the head-tipped-back laugh, the laugh that filled the room. Niamh’s was quieter—a controlled, sharp exhale through her nose, a smirk that bloomed into a smile that she tried to suppress and couldn’t. They looked at each other while they laughed, sharing the moment, confirming it, making it real by witnessing it together.

Four inches. They laughed at four inches. At my four inches. At the number I’d carried like a stone, the measurement I’d taken in private and never spoken aloud, the secret I’d kept by avoiding locker rooms and group showers and the kind of conversations where men compare themselves to each other. I’d said it out loud for the first time in my life, and the response was laughter, and the laughter was exactly what I’d always feared it would be.

My face burned. My neck burned. My ears burned. I felt the heat spread through me like a fever, and I kept my head down, and I felt my dick—my four-inch dick, my small dick, the dick they were laughing at—shrink in my pants, the way it always did when I was humiliated, the way it retreated and contracted and tried to disappear, as if it knew. As if it was trying to make itself smaller, which was the last thing it needed to do, which was the cruelest response my body could have had.

I looked up. I forced myself to. I made myself meet their eyes—Priya’s bright, amused eyes, Niamh’s sharp, evaluating ones—and I said, with a voice that was steadier than I felt, “Okay, now get naked.”

I said it to regain control. To reclaim something. To remind them that the deal was the deal—they’d said they’d get naked if we gave our sizes, and we’d given our sizes, and now it was their turn. I said it like a man who wasn’t bothered. Like a man who’d said four inches and heard laughter and was fine with it. I said it the way Calum would have, with confidence and ease, even though I didn’t have his confidence, his ease, or his seven inches.

—

They stood up. They undressed. Priya shimmied out of her jeans and underwear in one motion, kicking them aside, standing there naked with her curves and her full breasts and her smooth, hairless pussy that was slightly swollen—puffy and pink, the lips parted just enough to see the inner folds. She was comfortable. She stood with her weight on one hip, her hands on her thighs, letting us look.

Niamh was more deliberate. She unbuttoned her jeans slowly, pushed them down, stepped out of them. She wasn’t wearing underwear. She stood there—small, lean, her A cups with their puffy nipples, her flat stomach, her narrow hips, and between her legs, a hairless pussy that was compact and tight and visibly swollen, the lips flushed and slightly parted, the hint of moisture catching the light.

They were both wet. Or at least swollen. Aroused. The kissing and the stripping and the game had done what games like that are designed to do—built a charge that was now visible in their bodies, in the flush of their skin and the swell of their pussies and the way they stood with their legs slightly apart, not hiding, not closing themselves off.

Priya looked at Calum. Looked at me. Looked at our crotches, where the outlines of our erections were visible—his, a long, prominent ridge running down his thigh; mine, a small bump, barely there, the suggestion of hardness rather than the proof of it.

“I’ll suck the little guy,” she said, nodding toward me, “and she will suck the big one.” She nodded toward Calum.

The little guy. My dick. My four-inch dick, which she’d just named—classified, categorized, identified by its size. The little guy. Not your dick. Not him. The little guy. The phrase that a friend might use to refer to a small dog, a small child, a small anything. She said it casually, without malice, without emphasis, as if she were assigning tasks at a group project. I’ll take this one, you take that one. I’ll handle the smaller one; please handle the larger one. The small one. The little guy. Mine.

Niamh smiled. She looked at Calum’s crotch—at the long ridge, the seven-inch outline—and her smile widened. She looked at my crotch—at the small bump, the four-inch outline—and her expression didn’t change, because there was nothing to react to. Nothing notable. Nothing worth a smile or a smirk or any expression at all. It was just there. Small. Unremarkable. The little guy.

—

I don’t think I’d ever stripped faster in my life. The shame of the number, the laughter, the little guy—all of it pushed me toward a kind of desperate urgency. Get naked. Get hard. Get her mouth on me. Prove that four inches could do something, could feel something, could be enough for something, even if that something was just a blowjob in a university flat at two in the morning.

Calum was just as fast. His shirt came off, his pants came off, his underwear came off, and his cock was there—seven inches, hard, thick, standing straight out from his body with the kind of rigid, veined confidence that I’d never have. It was big. Objectively, undeniably big. The kind of big that made you understand why men bragged, why they measured, why the number existed as a cultural currency. His cock was a statement. Mine was a footnote.

I pulled my underwear down. My dick was hard. Four inches. Standing up, pointing slightly upward, thin, the head visible, the shaft straight and smooth and… small. There was no other word for it. It was small. Next to Calum’s seven inches, it was a snack next to a meal. A starter next to a main course. The little guy.

Priya knelt in front of me. She looked at my cock—looked at it directly, closely, the way you look at something you’re about to work with—and I watched her face for a reaction. For a flicker. For anything. She gave me nothing. Professional, almost. The same neutral-but-kind expression of someone who has assessed the situation and decided not to comment. She wrapped her hand around my cock—her fingers meeting her thumb easily, with room to spare, the way you’d hold a marker—and she leaned in and took me into her mouth.

The warmth. The wet. The softness of her lips closing around the head and sliding down the shaft, taking all four inches in one motion, her nose pressing against my pubic bone, her chin against my balls. All of it. She took all of it without trying. Without gagging. Without adjusting. One smooth motion, and my entire cock was in her mouth, and I felt the back of her throat against the tip, and I knew—knew with the certainty of physical sensation—that she’d never have to work to take me. Never have to relax her throat. Never have to practice, adjust, or take her time. My cock fit in her mouth the way it fit on the esthetician’s finger—easily, completely, without effort.

I came quick. I couldn’t help it. The warmth, the wet, the suction, the sight of her head bobbing on my small cock, the knowledge that she’d called it the little guy and was now sucking it, and the shame and the arousal and the exposure all tangled together in my gut like a knot being pulled tight—I came in maybe two minutes. I felt it build and I tried to hold it and I couldn’t, and I said “I’m going to—” and she pulled back just enough to keep the head in her mouth and she swallowed, and I watched her throat move, and I watched my small cock pulse in her lips, and I felt the orgasm hit me like a wave that was too big for the ocean it came from.

She pulled off. She wiped her mouth. She looked at my cock—softening now, shrinking, retreating from four inches to three to two to its resting inch and a half, the cum still glistening on the head—and she smiled. Not a smirk. Not a laugh. A smile. The kind of smile you give a puppy that’s done something cute. Good boy. Good little guy.

—

Across the room, Niamh was on her knees in front of Calum. She’d taken him into her mouth, and she was working—actually working, her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft where her mouth couldn’t reach, her lips stretched around the head, her jaw wide, the effort visible in the way her cheeks hollowed and her brow furrowed. She couldn’t take all of him. She took maybe four inches—my full length, I thought, with a twist in my gut—and stroked the rest with her hand. She was sweating. She was focused. She was engaged with his cock in a way she hadn’t needed to be engaged with mine, because mine required no effort. Mine was easy. Mine was the little guy.

Priya lay back on the floor and pulled me down beside her. “Lick me,” she said, and I did. I put my face between her legs and tasted her—warm, salty, the slick wetness of her pussy on my tongue—and I licked her slit while Niamh sucked Calum’s big cock three feet away, and I could hear the sounds—the wet, rhythmic sounds of her mouth on him, the occasional gag when she tried to take too much, the low groan he made when she succeeded.

I licked Priya’s pussy. I found her clit and circled it with my tongue. I slid a finger inside her—she was tight, wet, her walls gripping my finger—and I fucked her with my hand while I sucked on her clit, and she moaned and ground against my face and grabbed my hair, and I gave her something my cock couldn’t give her. I gave her my mouth. My tongue. My finger. The parts of me that weren’t small.

Calum ended up fucking Niamh. I heard it happening—the rustle of movement, the sound of a condom wrapper, Niamh’s sharp intake of breath as he pushed into her, the slow, deep rhythm of his hips against hers. I heard her gasping. I heard him grunting. I heard the bed—or the floor, or whatever surface they’d moved to—creaking under the weight and motion of a man with a big cock fucking a woman who could feel every inch of it.

I kept licking Priya. She came on my face—her thighs clamping around my head, her pussy pulsing against my mouth, her fingers pulling my hair hard enough to hurt. She moaned loud enough to fill the room, loud enough to compete with Niamh’s sounds, loud enough that for a moment the room was a chorus of women being fucked and licked and filled by men who were big and small and doing what they could with what they had.

—

Afterward, we lay there. The four of us, scattered across Priya’s flat like debris from an explosion. Calum on the floor with Niamh draped over his chest. Me on the sofa with Priya’s head on my thigh, her face inches from my soft dick, which was at its full resting size—an inch and a half, maybe, a small nub on a smooth sac, the little guy at rest.

She looked at it. I saw her look at it. That sideways glance—the quick, casual assessment of a woman who had just sucked a cock and was now looking at it in its soft state, comparing the soft to the hard, noting the difference. Which, for me, wasn’t much. Four to one and a half. Two and a half inches of difference. The kind of growth that’s noticeable but not dramatic. The kind that doesn’t transform.

Calum’s soft cock lay across his thigh, still substantial—four and a half inches, he’d said, on a hot day, and the flat was warm. Four and a half inches soft. Bigger than my hard. His soft was bigger than my hard, and everyone in the room knew it, and the knowledge sat in the air like smoke.

Niamh traced a finger along his shaft. Lazy. Possessive. The touch of a woman who had just been fucked by a big cock and was now idly playing with it, feeling its weight, its size, its presence. She looked at me—looked at my small, soft, inch-and-a-half dick resting near Priya’s face—and I saw the comparison in her eyes. The involuntary, automatic comparison that women make when they’ve seen two dicks in the same night. The big one and the little one. The one she fucked and the one Priya sucked. The main event and the opening act.

I closed my eyes. I felt Priya’s breath on my dick—warm, slow, the rhythm of a woman falling asleep—and I lay there with my small cock out in the open, soft and spent and seen, and I thought about the number. Four. The number I’d said out loud. The number that had made them laugh. The number that had earned me the title the little guy and a blowjob that was over in two minutes and a mouth on my face instead of my cock inside a body.

Four inches. The little guy. The main event that wasn’t.

 

The End.

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