SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

Part 4: The Notice Board…

I’m twenty-nine now. I work in an office, sit in a cubicle, eat lunch at my desk, and pretend to be a normal person who had a normal college experience. Nobody here knows what happened to me. Nobody knows about the hostel, the seniors, the notice board, or the run. I keep it buried deep, locked in a box I don’t open. But it’s there. It’s always there. And some nights, when I can’t sleep, I hear the footsteps in the corridor, the laughter, the whistles, and I feel the cold air on my bare skin all over again.

This is the story of how I was broken.

—

It started with something stupid. Something so small and ridiculous that looking back, I can’t believe it led to what it did. But that’s how these things work, isn’t it? A spark in a dry forest.

I was in my second year at a residential engineering college in North India. The hostel was your typical setup—a four-story concrete building, long corridors, shared bathrooms, rooms with two beds and a ceiling fan that barely moved the air. The seniors ruled the place. That was just how it worked. Ragging was technically banned, but everyone knew the rules didn’t apply after lights out. The wardens looked the other way. The administration didn’t care unless someone ended up in the hospital.

There were four seniors on the third floor—third-year guys who had appointed themselves the kings of the hostel. Rohan was the ringleader. Tall, broad-shouldered, played cricket for the college team. He had the kind of confidence that came from never having been challenged. Then there was Karan, his right-hand man, stocky and loud, always grinning like he was in on a joke nobody else understood. The other two were Amit and Deepak—followers, mostly, but dangerous in the way followers are, because they’d do anything to prove their loyalty to the leader.

I’d managed to avoid them for the most part during my first year. I kept my head down, studied, made a few friends, and stayed out of the corridors after ten. But in the second year, I got assigned a room on the third floor. Their floor. Their territory.

The first few weeks were fine. They ignored me. I was invisible, which was exactly how I wanted it. But then one morning, I woke up and walked to the bathroom, and on the way back, I noticed a crowd gathered around the notice board at the end of the corridor.

I didn’t think anything of it at first. Notice boards were for mess menus and holiday schedules. But the crowd was laughing—not polite laughter, but the kind that makes your stomach drop. The kind that means someone is the punchline.

I walked closer. Someone stepped aside, and I saw it.

Pinned to the notice board with thumbtacks was a pair of white briefs. My white briefs. I recognized them immediately—the small tear near the waistband, the faded elastic. They’d been on the clothesline outside the bathroom window the night before. I’d washed them and hung them up, and now they were here, displayed for the entire floor to see.

But it wasn’t just the briefs. Above them, written in black marker on a piece of cardboard, were the words:

“FIRST-YEAR’S CHADDI. SIZE: EXTRA SMALL. FOR EXTRA SMALL CONTENTS.”

Below that, someone had drawn an arrow pointing down to the briefs with the word “BABY DICK” written next to it.

The laughter around me was deafening. Guys were clapping each other on the back, taking photos on their phones. Someone had already sent it to the hostel WhatsApp group. I could see the notifications pinging on screens all around me.

I stood there for what felt like an hour but was probably ten seconds. My face burned. My hands shook. I could feel the blood rushing to my head, and for a moment, I thought I was going to pass out. Then the rage hit—sudden, blinding, hot.

I ripped the briefs off the board, crumpled them in my fist, and stormed back to my room. I slammed the door and sat on my bed, shaking. Not from fear—from anger. Pure, white-hot anger.

I didn’t know it was the seniors. I suspected, but I didn’t know. What I did know was that this had gone too far. This wasn’t ragging. This was public humiliation. This was sexual harassment. And I wasn’t going to take it.

That morning, I went to the Dean’s office. I told him everything: the briefs, the sign, the WhatsApp messages. I showed him the photos that had already been forwarded to me by a dozen different people. He listened, his face getting more serious with each detail, and by the end, he was nodding.

“This is unacceptable,” he said. “I’ll look into it immediately.”

I felt vindicated. I felt powerful. For the first time since I’d moved to the third floor, I felt like I had some control.

The Dean suspended four seniors—Rohan, Karan, Amit, and Deepak—for four days. Four days. That was it. Four days of not being allowed in the hostel, of having to stay in a temporary accommodation off-campus. A slap on the wrist. A vacation.

But in those four days, the hostel turned against me.

—

It started with the WhatsApp groups. I wasn’t in them—nobody added me—but screenshots found their way to my phone through people who thought I should know. The seniors’ friends, the guys who worshipped Rohan and his crew, were furious, not at the seniors for what they’d done, but at me for reporting it.

Messages flooded the group chats. Dozens of them, from different numbers, all saying variations of the same thing:

“Snitch.”
“First-year loser cried to the Dean.”
“Can’t handle a joke, small dick energy.”
“Wait till bhaiya comes back.”

Someone had taken a photo of me from the college Facebook page and edited it. They’d pasted my face onto a body wearing tighty-whities with a magnifying glass over the crotch area, with the caption “WHERE’S THE DICK? CAN ANYONE FIND IT?” That image spread like wildfire. It was in every group chat, on every status, forwarded and re-forwarded until I couldn’t open my phone without seeing it.

And then the girls found out.

I don’t know who sent it to them. Maybe one of the guys in the group thought it would be funny to share. Maybe someone showed it to a girl they were trying to impress with their cruelty. But within a day, the image had crossed from the boys’ hostel to the girls’ hostel, and from there, it was everywhere. Girls I’d never spoken to were seeing my face Photoshopped onto a body in underwear with a joke about my dick size.

I knew because of the looks. I’d walk through campus and catch girls glancing at me, then looking away, whispering to each other. Some would giggle. Others would just stare with this expression that was half-pity, half-amusement. One girl in my electrical engineering class—a girl named Tanvi who I’d had a crush on since first year—looked at me during a lecture, and I saw it on her face. She’d seen it. She knew. Or at least, she’d heard the joke, and that was enough.

I stopped going to classes for two days. I stayed in my room, skipped meals, and stared at the wall. My roommate—a guy named Suresh—was sympathetic but useless. He patted my shoulder and told me it would blow over, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye, and I could tell he’d seen the image too. Everyone had.

The atmosphere in the hostel shifted. When I walked through the corridors, conversations would stop. Guys who used to nod at me would suddenly find something interesting on their phones. The guys who were friends with the seniors—the ones who’d been posting in the WhatsApp groups—would watch me openly, with this hard, hostile stare that said, You did this. You brought this on yourself.

I was a pariah. I was the guy who snitched, the guy with the small dick, the guy who couldn’t take a joke. My status, already low as a second-year in a senior-dominated hostel, was now below zero.

—

They came back on a Friday.

I heard them before I saw them. The sound of their voices echoing up the stairwell, loud and cocky, like they were returning from a victory parade, not a suspension. I was in my room, and I heard the door to their room—three doors down—open and slam shut. Then laughter. Lots of laughter.

Suresh looked at me. “Don’t go out tonight,” he said.

I nodded. I wasn’t planning to.

For the first few hours, nothing happened. They stayed in their room, and I stayed in mine. I heard music, talking, the occasional shout. I thought maybe they’d decided to let it go. Maybe the suspension had cooled them off. Maybe they realized that going after me again would mean a bigger punishment.

I was a fool.

It was around eleven at night when the knock came. Not a knock, really—more like a pounding. Fists on wood, hard and fast, the kind that makes your heart stop.

“Open up,” a voice said. Rohan’s voice. Calm. Almost friendly.

I didn’t move. I looked at Suresh, who was lying on his bed, and he looked back at me with wide eyes. He shook his head slowly. Don’t open it.

The pounding continued. Then Karan’s voice joined in: “Open the door, or we’ll break it down. Your choice.”

I could hear other voices in the corridor now. Not just the four seniors—others. Maybe ten, maybe fifteen. The whole floor had come out to watch.

I opened the door.

Rohan was standing in front, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing a sleeveless vest and basketball shorts, and he looked bigger than I remembered. Behind him, Karan, Amit, and Deepak were spread across the corridor, and behind them, a crowd of guys I recognized from the floor—first-years, second-years, even a couple of third-years who weren’t part of Rohan’s group but had come for the show.

Rohan smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who had spent four days planning exactly what he was going to do.

“Hey,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t think—”

“We need to talk,” he repeated, and this time, his voice was harder. “Come with us.”

“Where?”

“Room 312. Empty room. End of the corridor. You know the one.”

I did. Room 312 was a storage room that had been cleared out years ago. It was where they did ragging—away from the warden’s quarters, away from anyone who might hear.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Rohan leaned in close enough that I could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. “You went to the Dean,” he said quietly. “You got us suspended. You humiliated us in front of the whole college. And now you think you can just hide in your room?”

“You humiliated me first.”

“Yeah, we did. And you know what? That was a joke. A joke. What you did was real. You tried to ruin our college careers over a pair of underwear. So now we’re going to have a real conversation, and we’d like you to come with us; otherwise, things will get much worse for you. And trust me—much worse is a lot worse than what you’ve seen so far.”

I looked past him at the crowd in the corridor. Nobody was going to help me. Nobody was going to intervene. They were all watching with the same expression—curiosity, excitement, a hunger for spectacle. I was the entertainment.

I walked with them.

Room 312 was dark when we entered. Someone turned on a single bulb—a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting a harsh, yellow light that made everything look sick. The room was empty except for a few stacked chairs in the corner and dust on the floor.

Rohan closed the door behind us. The crowd filed in after—maybe fifteen guys now, filling the room, standing against the walls, sitting on the stacked chairs. I was in the center. Alone.

“Strip,” Rohan said.

My heart stopped. “What?”

“You heard me. Strip. Down to your underwear.”

“I’m not doing that.”

Karan stepped forward. He was shorter than Rohan but wider, thicker, and he had the look of someone who enjoyed hurting people. “You don’t have a choice,” he said. “You can either strip yourself, or we’ll strip you. And if we do it, we’re not going to stop at your underwear.”

I looked around the room. Every face was turned toward me. Some guys were grinning. Some were neutral. A few looked uncomfortable—they were here because of peer pressure, because you didn’t say no to Rohan—but none of them were going to help me. None of them were going to speak up.

My hands were shaking. I could feel the tears building behind my eyes, but I fought them back. Crying would make it worse. Crying would give them exactly what they wanted.

I pulled off my t-shirt. The air was cold on my skin, and I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. I unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down, stepping out of them. I was standing in the center of the room in my underwear—plain black boxer briefs—and fifteen guys were staring at me.

“Those too,” Rohan said.

“You said down to my underwear.”

“I changed my mind down to nothing. Or—” he paused, and a slow grin spread across his face, “—down to the white ones. The ones from the notice board. You still have those, right?”

I did. They were in my drawer, folded in a ball, shoved to the back where nobody would see them. I’d been too ashamed to throw them away, and too humiliated to wear them.

“Go get them,” Rohan said. “Karan, go with him.”

Karan walked me back to my room. Suresh was gone—the bed was empty, the sheets thrown back. He’d left. I didn’t blame him. I would have left too if I could.

I opened the drawer and pulled out the white briefs. They were still slightly wrinkled from being on the notice board. Karan took them from my hand, held them up, and laughed.

“God, these are pathetic,” he said. “Put them on.”

I put them on in front of him. He watched the whole time, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. When I was dressed—just the white briefs, nothing else—he looked me up and down and shook his head.

“Let’s go.”

—

Back in Room 312, the crowd had grown. Word had spread. There were maybe twenty-five guys now, crammed into the room and spilling out into the corridor. When I walked in wearing the white briefs, the room erupted.

Laughter. Whistles. Clapping. Comments.

“Look at that!”
“Bro, is that the same pair?”
“White chaddi boy is back!”
“Someone take a photo—oh wait, they already did!”

I stood in the center of the room, and I felt every eye on me. Every pair of eyes looking at my body, at the white briefs, at the bulge—or lack of bulge—in the front. The briefs were tight, and they showed everything. Or rather, they showed the absence of everything. My dick, even soft, was barely a bump in the fabric. The white cotton clung to my body and left nothing to the imagination, and what it revealed was… small. I knew it. They knew it. And now, everyone in the room knew it.

Rohan held up his hand, and the room quieted. He was enjoying this. He was savoring it.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “You’re going to run.”

“Run where?”

“The corridor. From this room to the end of the hall and back. Three laps. And everyone here is going to watch.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. Because if you don’t, we’ll take those briefs off you and make you run naked. And then we’ll take photos. And then we’ll send them to every group chat in this college, including the girls’ groups. You got us suspended. We can make your life a living hell for the next three years. Don’t test us.”

I looked at him. I looked at the room. I looked at the faces—some laughing, some staring, some avoiding my eyes. And I knew I was going to do it. Because the alternative was worse. The alternative was always worse.

I ran.

—

The corridor was maybe fifty meters long. It felt like fifty miles.

I pushed through the crowd and started jogging. The cold air hit my bare skin—my chest, my legs, my arms—and the white briefs were the only thing covering me. I could hear them behind me. The crowd was following. They poured out of Room 312 and into the corridor, a mob of guys in t-shirts and shorts, laughing, shouting, recording on their phones.

The comments came from everywhere. From behind me, from the sides, from guys leaning out of their room doors to see what the commotion was about.

“Run, baby dick, run!”
“Look at that ass—too bad the front’s empty!”
“White chaddi boy! White chaddi boy!”
“Is that a penis or a belly button?”
“Bro, I’ve seen bigger clits!”
“Where is it? I can’t see it! Someone get a magnifying glass!”

I ran. My feet slapped against the cold concrete floor, and my body bounced with each step, and the white briefs shifted and rode up, and I could feel how little they covered, how much they exposed. My dick was shriveled from the cold and the fear, and the fabric was barely containing it. I knew what I looked like. I knew what they were seeing. A small, scared boy in tighty-whities, running through a corridor while a mob laughed at his body.

Someone reached out and slapped my ass as I ran past. Hard. The crack echoed through the corridor, and the crowd roared with laughter. I stumbled but kept going. Another hand grabbed the waistband of my briefs and yanked, pulling them halfway down my ass before I jerked away and pulled them back up. More laughter. More comments.

“Nice panties!”
“Does your mommy know you wear those?”
“Small package, small man!”

I reached the end of the corridor and turned around. The crowd was still behind me, still following, still recording. I could see the phone screens glowing in the dim light, cameras pointed at me, capturing every step, every stumble, every inch of my humiliated body.

I ran back—one lap.

“Keep going!” Rohan shouted from somewhere in the crowd. “Two more!”

I turned and ran again. My legs were burning, my lungs were on fire, and my eyes were stinging. I was crying now. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. The tears came, hot and fast, blurring my vision as I ran. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, but it didn’t help. Everyone could see. Everyone could see the small-dicked boy in his white underwear, running and crying while they laughed.

The second lap was worse. The crowd had spread out, lining the corridor on both sides, forming a gauntlet. I had to run between them, and as I passed, they reached out—slapping my ass, grabbing at my briefs, pinching my sides. One guy flicked the front of my briefs with his finger, and I felt the snap against my dick, and I doubled over for a second before forcing myself to keep going.

“Look at him cry!”
“Pussy!”
“Real men don’t cry, and real men have dicks!”
“Bro, is he actually crying? This is too good.”

The third lap. I was barely jogging now. My body was exhausted, my spirit was broken, and I just wanted it to end. I shuffled forward, head down, arms crossed over my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. The crowd had lost some of its energy by now—the novelty was wearing off—but there were still phones recording, still comments being shouted, still laughter.

As I passed a group of guys near the end of the corridor, one of them—a guy I didn’t recognize, probably a first-year—stepped into my path. I stopped, and he looked down at my crotch, then back up at my face, and grinned.

“Bro, I thought they were joking,” he said. “It’s actually tiny.”

The crowd around him cracked up. He stepped aside, and I kept moving.

When I finished the third lap, I stood in front of Room 312, bent over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air. The crowd gathered around me in a loose semicircle. Rohan stepped forward.

“Good,” he said. “Now listen to me very carefully.”

I looked up. He was close—too close—his face inches from mine. His expression was no longer amused. It was hard. Cold.

“If you go to the Dean again—if you go to anyone again—we will do this again. And next time, it won’t be just us. Next time, we’ll bring the girls. We’ll drag you out in front of the whole college. We’ll make a video and put it on the internet. You’ll be famous—not for your engineering degree, but for your tiny dick. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I couldn’t speak. My throat was closed up, choked with tears and shame.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now get out of my sight.”

He turned and walked away. The crowd dispersed slowly, some of them still chuckling, some of them already looking at their phones, probably editing the footage they’d just captured. Within minutes, the corridor was empty.

I stood there for a long time. Just standing in the corridor in my white briefs, barefoot on the cold floor, alone. Then I walked back to my room.

The door was open. Suresh still hadn’t come back. My clothes were on the floor—someone had thrown them there, or maybe I’d left them there when Karan took me to get the briefs. I picked them up, put them on, and sat on my bed.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the dark, staring at the wall, replaying every moment. The laughter. The comments. The hands on my body. The phones. The tears. The cold. The run. The look on that first-year’s face when he said, It’s actually tiny.

I thought about the Dean. I thought about going to him again, telling him everything, showing him the videos that were surely already online. But then I heard Rohan’s voice in my head: We’ll bring the girls. We’ll make a video and put it on the internet.

I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t let that happen. So I did nothing. I stayed in my room. I went to classes the next day, sat in the back row, and didn’t look at anyone. I ate meals at odd hours when the mess was empty. I stopped using the common bathroom and started going to the one on the ground floor, which was farther away but less crowded.

The videos did circulate. I knew they would. I saw them on the group chats—short clips of me running, crying, in my white briefs, with captions like “SMALL DICK DASH” and “CHADDI BOY 400M.” People I’d never met would recognize me in the corridor and smirk. A few guys would make the running motion with their arms when I walked past, miming a jog, and then crack up.

The girls’ hostel had the videos too. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. The way girls looked at me on campus changed. There was something new in their eyes—not just curiosity, but a kind of knowing. Like they’d seen something about me that I was trying to hide, and they’d already decided what it meant.

Tanvi never spoke to me again. She’d sit three rows ahead of me in lectures, and I’d stare at the back of her head and think about the fact that she’d seen me in my underwear, running and crying, and she knew. She knew my secret.

—

I lasted three more months in that hostel before I requested a transfer. The administration approved it—probably because they’d heard rumors about what happened and wanted the problem to go away without having to address it directly. I moved to a different hostel on the other side of campus, and I never went back to the third floor of the old building.

But the damage was done.

I graduated. I got a job. I moved to a city where nobody knows me. I have a life now—a normal, functional, outwardly successful life. But I haven’t been in a relationship since college. I haven’t been intimate with anyone. I haven’t let anyone see me undressed.

Every time I’m in a locker room, I change in a bathroom stall. Every time I buy underwear, I buy it online so I don’t have to look a cashier in the eye. Every time I see a group of people laughing, my first instinct is to think they’re laughing at me.

The seniors moved on with their lives too. Rohan works at an IT company in Bangalore. Karan is in real estate. Amit went abroad. Deepak, I don’t know. They probably don’t think about what they did. They probably think of it as a funny story from college, something to laugh about over drinks with old friends. They probably don’t remember the sound of my footsteps on the concrete floor, or the way I cried, or the look on my face when that first-year said, It’s actually tiny.

But I remember. I remember all of it. Every night, when I close my eyes, I’m back in that corridor, in those white briefs, running while the world laughs at me.

And the worst part—the thing that really destroyed me, the thing that no amount of therapy or distance or time has been able to fix—is that they were right.

I am small. I’ve known it since I was fourteen, when I first compared myself to the boys in the locker room and realized I wasn’t growing the way they were. I’ve measured myself a hundred times—3.4 inches hard, barely 2 inches soft—and the number never changes. The truth never changes. They took the thing I was most ashamed of, the secret I’d been carrying since puberty, and they put it on display. They made the whole world see what I’d been hiding.

And now, at twenty-nine, sitting in my cubicle in my office, wearing my normal clothes, living my normal life, I’m still that boy in the white briefs, running through a corridor, crying, while everyone watches and laughs.

I’m still running.

The End.

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