The Itch I Couldn’t Scratch
A Fictional Story by NYdommymommylover.
I’m pretty small—just over four inches hard, and barely anything soft. I’ve known this my whole life. Measured it a hundred times hoping for a different result, tried every angle, every ruler position, pressed into the bone like I could will an extra inch into existence. Four inches. Maybe four and a quarter on a good day, if I was really worked up and measuring generously. I’d made peace with it the way you make peace with being short or having a crooked nose—by pretending it didn’t matter as much as it did.
And with Colleen, it hadn’t seemed to matter. She wasn’t what you’d call adventurous. We had sex in the missionary position mostly, sometimes with her on top, and she seemed to enjoy it or at least tolerate it well enough. She never complained. Never made comments. Never looked at my cock with disappointment or surprise. She’d touch it, stroke it, put it in her mouth for a minute or two before sex—nothing fancy, nothing that suggested she was thinking about it one way or the other. It was just there, part of the routine, and the routine was fine.
That’s what I told myself. The routine was fine.
—
The night everything changed started at a party in someone’s off-campus apartment. I don’t remember whose. One of those college parties where everyone crams into a too-small space and drinks cheap vodka out of red Solo cups and pretends the music isn’t too loud. Colleen and I had been there about an hour when she started acting different.
Colleen was usually reserved. Quiet at parties, the type to sit on the couch with one drink and observe. She wasn’t prudish—she just wasn’t the kind of girl who drew attention to herself. But that night, after what must have been four or five drinks in quick succession, she turned into someone I barely recognized. Loud. Grabby. Pressing herself against me in front of everyone, her hand on my crotch over my jeans, squeezing and rubbing while people sat three feet away pretending not to notice.
I should have thought it was weird. Any normal person would have thought it was weird. But I was twenty, I was drunk, and my girlfriend was rubbing my dick through my pants in a room full of people, and instead of asking questions, I just felt lucky. That’s how desperate I was to believe everything was fine—that a girl I’d been dating for three months was suddenly pawing at me in public like she couldn’t help herself, and my first thought wasn’t “what’s going on with her” but “finally.”
We stumbled back to my dorm. My roommate was gone for the weekend, which felt like further proof that the universe was finally cutting me some slack. She pushed me onto the bed and pulled my pants down and started stroking me, and I was hard in about thirty seconds—four inches, straining, the hardest I’d been in weeks. She climbed on top of me and slid me inside her, and she was wet—really wet—wetter than I’d ever felt her. Sloppy wet. The kind of wet that made almost no friction, where I could barely feel the walls of her pussy because she was so lubricated that my cock just slid around inside her.
I didn’t think about why she was that wet. I was twenty and drunk and inside a girl, and my brain had shut down every non-essential function.
I finished fast—two minutes, maybe less. I’d always been quick—another thing I’d tried to make peace with—but that night was particularly bad. The alcohol and the excitement and the wetness and the novelty of her being so aggressive all combined into a perfect storm, and I was cumming before I even realized I was close. I pushed up into her and groaned and shot what felt like a huge load, and then it was over.
She sat on top of me for a moment, my cock already softening inside her, shrinking back down to its resting state, and I watched her face change. The drunk, aggressive, horny version of Colleen evaporated, and what replaced it was something cold and sharp and disappointed.
“Already?” she said.
“I was really worked up. You were—”
“God.” She climbed off me. I watched my cock slide out of her—small, soft, wet with my own cum and whatever else—and disappear against my thigh. She stood up, pulled her thong back on, grabbed her jeans.
“Colleen, come on, I can go again in a—”
“I just need space.” Her voice was flat. Not angry exactly. More like disgusted. Like she’d eaten something that had tasted good for two minutes and then turned rotten in her mouth.
“Space? What do you mean space? We just—”
“I said I need space. Don’t follow me.”
She yanked her jeans on, grabbed her purse, and walked out of my dorm room without looking back. The door slammed. I lay on the bed with my pants around my ankles and my soft, four-inch cock resting against my leg, covered in cum, and stared at the ceiling.
That was unusual. Colleen had always been gentle about me finishing fast. She’d say “it’s okay” or “we can try again later” or just hold me and not make a big deal of it. She’d never snapped at me. She’d never stormed out. She’d never looked at me like that—like I’d failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
—
Two hours passed. I showered. I brushed my teeth. I sat at my desk and tried to study, but I couldn’t read a single word. I kept replaying the look on her face—the disgust, the disappointment—and trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. I’d finished too fast, yeah, but that had happened before and she’d never reacted like that. Something else was going on—something I couldn’t name.
At around midnight, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and there she was. Colleen, still in the same jeans, her hair slightly messed up, her eyes red like she’d been crying or rubbing them. She looked at me with an expression I’d never seen from her before—desperate, almost pleading.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry I snapped at you. I was drunk, and I was being stupid, and I shouldn’t have left like that.”
“It’s okay. Are you—”
“Can I come in? Please?”
She walked past me into the room and sat on the bed—the same bed where we’d had sex two hours ago, where the sheets still smelled like sex and sweat. She looked up at me from the bed, and her eyes were big and wet, and she said something that, at the time, I thought was the sweetest thing a girl had ever said to me.
“Fuck me again. Please. I want to make it up to you. I was such a bitch, and I don’t want you to think I’m mad. Please.”
I should have asked why. I should have asked where she’d been for two hours. I should have asked why she’d gone from disgusted to desperate in the space of a hundred and twenty minutes. But I was twenty, I was still a little drunk, and a girl I’d been dating for three months was begging me to fuck her, and I wasn’t going to say no to that.
She pulled her jeans off. No thong this time—she’d taken it off somewhere, or she hadn’t put it back on, I didn’t know. She lay back on the bed and spread her legs, and I could see her pussy in the dim light of my desk lamp. She was wet again. Really wet. Wetter than before, even. The inside of her thighs had a shine to them, and when I touched her, my fingers slid through something slick and warm that felt different from the last time. Thicker. More of it.
I didn’t think about it. I was hard again—four inches, sticking straight out from my body like a stubby finger—and I climbed between her legs and pushed inside her.
She was so wet that I barely felt anything. My cock slid in with no resistance, and the slickness was so intense that it was like fucking a glass of warm water. I could feel her, but barely—just the vague warmth and pressure of her pussy walls around my cock, and even that was muted by how much fluid there was. I thrusted, and each thrust made a wet, sloppy sound that I’d never heard during sex with her before. Like I was churning something inside her.
She moaned. Loudly. More loudly than she’d ever moaned with me. Her hands gripped my back, her nails digging in, and she wrapped her legs around me and pulled me deeper—but there wasn’t much deeper to go. Four inches. I bottomed out almost immediately, and she pulled at me like she was trying to get more, like she was searching for something my body couldn’t provide.
I fucked her for maybe five minutes, trying to last, trying to ignore the wetness and the sloppiness and the way my cock kept nearly slipping out because there was so much fluid that the friction was almost zero. Every few thrusts, I’d slide out entirely, my cock popping free from her pussy and sliding up against her ass or her thigh before I could reach down and guide it back in. Each time, she made a sound—not of pleasure, but of frustration. Like my cock falling out was proof of something.
I came again. Harder this time, or at least it felt harder, and I pushed deep into her and groaned and shot my load into the same wet, sloppy space that I’d cum in two hours before. When I pulled out, my cock was covered—my cum, her wetness, and something else. Something thicker, slightly opaque, that I’d never seen before during sex with Colleen.
I didn’t know what it was. I told myself it was just her, just her being really wet, just a product of the alcohol and the excitement. I told myself that because the alternative—that I was fucking another man’s cum out of my girlfriend’s pussy—didn’t occur to me. Why would it? I was twenty years old. I had four inches and a girlfriend who’d never cheated on anyone as far as I knew. I thought I was the only person who’d been inside her in months.
I was wrong.
I found out four months later.
Her name was Tanya—one of Colleen’s friends, a girl I’d met at a few parties, always thought she was nice enough. Colleen and Tanya had a falling out over something unrelated—rent, I think, or a borrowed jacket that got ruined, the kind of petty drama that destroys female friendships in college—and Tanya, in the process of cutting ties with Colleen, decided to tell me everything.
She cornered me in the campus coffee shop on a Tuesday afternoon. I was studying. She sat down across from me uninvited, ordered a latte, and said, “You should know what Colleen did to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“That night. The party at Kellan’s apartment. You know the one—where she was all over you.”
“Yeah.”
“She fucked someone else that night. After she left your dorm.”
My stomach dropped. Not the slow, sinking feeling of bad news, but the instant, violent lurch of a trapdoor opening beneath me.
“What?”
“She left your dorm, went to the football house, and fucked Wyatt. You know Wyatt? Defensive line, six-four, huge guy. She was there for like two hours, and then she came back to your dorm and fucked you.”
I stared at her. The coffee shop noise continued around me—espresso machines, conversations, the scrape of chairs—but I was somewhere else. I was back in my dorm room, midnight, Colleen begging me to fuck her, the wetness, the slickness, the way my cock kept sliding out, the thick fluid I didn’t recognize.
“That’s not—” I started. “She wouldn’t—”
“She did. And she told us about it. All of us. Me, Jordan, Kaitlyn, Becca. She told us the whole story. She said she was drunk and Wyatt was there and he was huge—like, actually huge, not just tall—and she said she couldn’t help herself.”
“Huge.”
“His dick. She said his dick was huge. Like, way bigger than yours. She said—” Tanya paused, not out of mercy but out of the careful calculation of someone deciding how much damage to inflict. “She said you’re like four inches and Wyatt was like eight or nine. She said she didn’t even know it could feel that different.”
The coffee shop was still functioning around me. People were still drinking lattes and typing papers. The world was still turning. But I was somewhere else. I was in my dorm room, midnight, my cock sliding in and out of a pussy full of another man’s cum, and I hadn’t known.
“She came back to my room,” I said, and my voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. “After. She came back, and we had sex again.”
“I know,” Tanya said. “She told us. She said she felt guilty, so she went back and let you fuck her. She said—” Another pause. “She said it was like putting a finger in after Wyatt. She said she could barely feel you.”
—
I confronted Colleen the next day. I called her and asked her to meet me at the bench outside the science building, the one where we used to study together when we first started dating. She showed up looking nervous, like she already knew what this was about.
“Did you fuck Wyatt?” I asked. No preamble. No buildup. Just the question, like ripping off a bandage.
Her face did a thing. The same sequence of expressions I’d see later in life on other faces—confusion, recognition, guilt, defensiveness. She looked at the ground, then at the building behind me, then at me.
“Yes,” she said.
“When?”
“That night. The party night. After I left your dorm.”
“And then you came back and had sex with me.”
“Yes.”
“You had sex with me after you’d just had sex with another man.”
“Yes.”
“Did you—was I—” I couldn’t form the question properly. My brain was trying to process too many things at once. The cheating. The timeline. The wetness. The fluid. The fact that I’d put my cock inside her minutes after another man had been there, had cum inside her, had stretched her in ways I couldn’t.
“Did you use a condom with him?” I asked.
“No,” she said quietly.
“So when I had sex with you after—”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry. You’re sorry.” I laughed. Not a real laugh. The kind of laugh that comes out when your brain can’t process pain so it routes it through the wrong emotion. “You let me fuck you after he came inside you. You let me put my dick in his cum.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I was drunk. I felt guilty, and I wanted to—”
“Wanted to what? Make it up to me? By letting me fuck a pussy full of another guy’s load?”
She flinched. “I didn’t plan it. I just came back, and you were there, and I wanted to feel close to you again.”
“Could you even feel me?”
She looked at me. And I saw it—the thing she’d been hiding for four months, the thing she’d told her friends but never told me. The truth, raw and unfiltered, delivered on a bench outside the science building on a Wednesday afternoon.
“It was like I had an itch,” she said. “An itch that you couldn’t reach to scratch. And Wyatt—”
“Don’t.”
“He could reach it. He could reach it and you can’t. That’s just—it’s just how it is. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. But that’s what it was.”
An itch that you couldn’t reach to scratch. She said it like she was explaining a medical condition. Like my penis was a treatment that was insufficient for her symptoms. Like she’d cheated on me not because she was drunk or impulsive or cruel, but because my four inches literally couldn’t do what needed to be done, and Wyatt’s eight or nine could.
I stood up from the bench. I didn’t say anything else. I walked away, and she didn’t follow, and that was the end of Colleen and me.
—
But it wasn’t the end of the story because Colleen had told her friends. All of them. Not just that she’d cheated on me, but why. Not just that she’d fucked Wyatt, but the difference between Wyatt and me. Not just that I had a small dick, but that she’d said so, out loud, to a group of women who then told other people, who told other people, until the information had spread through the campus like a virus.
I found this out gradually. A guy in my economics class commented—”Hey, you’re the dude Colleen dated, right?”—and then laughed in a way that told me everything. A girl at a party looked at me with a particular expression—pity mixed with curiosity, the look you give someone when you know something intimate about them that they didn’t choose to share. My roommate, who’d been gone that weekend, came back and asked me if I was okay, and when I asked why, he said, “People are talking.”
“What are they saying?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“They’re saying Colleen cheated on you with Wyatt from the football team. And they’re saying she told everyone it’s because you’re… small.”
He said it carefully, the way you’d tell someone they had a terminal illness. Gently. Like the words themselves might break me.
“How small?”
“Dude, I don’t want to—”
“How small did she say?”
“She said four inches. She said Wyatt was like eight or nine. She said she couldn’t feel you after him.”
I sat on my bed—the same bed where I’d fucked Colleen that night, where I’d pushed my cock into another man’s cum and didn’t know it—and I felt something I’d never felt before. Not just humiliation. Not just betrayal. But a specific, targeted shame that attached itself to my body like a second skin. My four inches. My barely-there cock. The thing I’d tried to make peace with, the thing I’d told myself didn’t matter as long as I was a decent guy and a good boyfriend—it mattered. It had mattered enough that my girlfriend had fucked someone else to get what I couldn’t give her, and then told everyone about it.
—
The rest of college was a particular kind of hell. I became known—not universally, not to everyone, but to enough people that I could feel it. The tiny dick guy who got his girl fucked by a football player. That was my identity on campus for the next two years. Not my major, not my personality, not my sense of humor or my grades or my friendships. Four inches. Cheated on. Couldn’t reach the itch.
I’d be at a party and catch someone looking at me, and I’d know they knew. I’d walk past a group of girls and hear laughter that might or might not have been about me, but I’d assume it was. I’d see Wyatt on campus—six-four, built like a truck, the man whose cum I’d unknowingly fucked out of my girlfriend—and I’d feel my whole body go cold with a shame so deep it was almost physical.
Wyatt knew. He had to know. Everyone knew. He’d fucked my girlfriend, and she’d told everyone that the reason was size, and now I was the cautionary tale—the guy whose dick was so small that his girlfriend went looking for a real one and found it in the football house.
I stopped dating for a while. A long while. I couldn’t face the possibility of being with a woman who might already know about me, who might have heard the story, who might be comparing me to Wyatt before I even took my pants off. I focused on school, on work, on getting through. I told myself it would get better after college, when I was somewhere new, where nobody knew me or my four inches or the story of Colleen and Wyatt and the itch I couldn’t scratch.
—
And it did get better. Not right away, and not without more humiliation along the way, but it got better. I met my wife at that same college, about two years after the Colleen thing. She was a transfer student, new to campus, and she didn’t know the story. I told her about it eventually—after we’d been together for a while, after I trusted her enough to show her the thing I was most ashamed of.
She looked at my cock—four inches, hard, the same cock that Colleen had compared unfavorably to Wyatt’s eight or nine—and she didn’t flinch. She didn’t make a face. She didn’t say anything about itches or scratching or reaching. She just touched it, and then she touched me, and then we had sex, and it was fine. Not earth-shattering. Not pornographic. Just fine. Two people who cared about each other, making something work.
We’ve been together for years now. We swing. My wife has been with other men—bigger men, men who can reach the itch I can’t scratch—and she comes home to me afterward and tells me about it, and I love it. Not despite my size, but because of it. Because my small cock is part of who I am, and my wife has made it part of our sex life in a way that doesn’t feel like humiliation. Or maybe it does feel like humiliation, but it’s the kind I chose, the kind I control, the kind that happens on my terms instead of Colleen’s.
She tells me about the other men. Their sizes. What they did to her, how they felt inside her, how they filled her in ways I can’t. And then she comes back to me, and my four inches goes inside her, and she moans, and she means it, and I cum, and she holds me, and it’s enough.
It’s enough because she says it is. And I believe her—most of the time.
Sometimes, late at night, when I’m lying in bed, and my brain won’t shut off, I think about Colleen. Not with anger anymore—that faded years ago. But with a specific, lingering ache. The image of her walking out of my dorm room, walking to the football house, letting Wyatt inside her, and then walking back to me. The wetness. The slickness. The fluid I didn’t recognize. The itch I couldn’t scratch.
I was fucking his cum out of her. That’s what I was doing. My four inches, sliding through another man’s load, and I didn’t know. I thought she was wet because she wanted me. I thought she came back because she loved me. I thought the sex was about us.
It was about Wyatt. It was always about Wyatt. I was just the cleanup.
The End.
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