Pencil Dick
A Gay SPH Experience by Emotional_Choice9620
—
I was nineteen. Second year of college, living in a cheap two-bedroom apartment off campus with a roommate named Brielle. She was cool—we got along fine, kept out of each other’s business, shared the kitchen and living room without much drama. She had her friends, I had mine, and the only real overlap was that a couple of her friends had become my friends too over time. We’d all hang out sometimes, drink together on weekends, that kind of thing.
Across the hall lived Gavin.
Gavin was twenty-one, tall and lean, worked construction part-time, and took classes at the community college. He had this messy dark hair that always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, a sharp jaw, and these green eyes that made me stupid every time he looked at me. We’d been flirting since the week I moved in—lingering looks in the hallway, comments that landed right on the edge of friendly and something else, a few drunk conversations that ended with one of us leaning against the other’s doorframe at two in the morning, not quite ready to say goodnight.
The first time we hooked up was a Friday night in October. He came over because Brielle was out and I was watching a movie alone, and one thing led to another, and by midnight I was on my hands and knees on my bed with his cock buried inside me.
And what a cock it was. Seven and a half inches hard, thick enough that I had to adjust to it every single time, with a slight upward curve that hit my prostate like it was designed for it. He was big enough that the first time I saw it—pulled down his basketball shorts in the dim light of my bedroom—I actually stopped and stared. He noticed. He grinned. He knew what he had.
I’m gay. I’ve known since I was fifteen. And I’ve always had a complicated relationship with dick size—meaning, I was always aware that mine wasn’t anything to write home about. But with Gavin, it didn’t matter in the way that mattered most. He was a top, I was a bottom, and the dynamic worked. He fucked, I got fucked. His size was an asset in that equation. Mine was irrelevant.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
After that first night, we fell into a routine. It was almost comically convenient—when one of us was horny, we’d text, and within five minutes one of us would be knocking on the other’s door. Sometimes it was twice a day. Sometimes we’d go three or four days without, and then one of us would cave, and it would be a marathon. We weren’t dating. We were just neighbors who fucked, and it was the easiest, most uncomplicated arrangement I’d ever had.
The sex was good. Really good. Gavin knew what he was doing—he was dominant without being pushy, verbal without being theatrical, and he had stamina that made me wonder if he was part machine. He’d fuck me on my back, on my knees, against the wall, on the floor. He’d pull my hair, grip my hips, slap my ass until it stung. And when he came—always inside me, always with this low, guttural groan that made my whole body tighten—it was like watching something primal.
The problem, if you could call it a problem, was that I didn’t always finish. Not because the sex didn’t feel good—it did, most of the time—but because I needed specific stimulation to get there, and Gavin was very much a “my turn” kind of top. He’d fuck me until he came, and then he’d pull out, and that was usually it. Sometimes he’d reach around and jerk me off, but his grip was always a little too loose or a little too fast, and more often than not, I’d end up finishing myself off in the bathroom afterward while his cum dripped down my thighs.
That’s what was happening the night everything changed.
—
It was a Saturday. Brielle had told me she was going to her parents’ house for the weekend, so I had the apartment to myself. I texted Gavin around eight at night, and he was at my door by eight-fifteen.
We didn’t waste time. I answered the door in sweatpants and nothing else, and he pushed me against the wall of the hallway the second the door closed, kissing me hard, one hand gripping the back of my neck. He smelled like soap and cigarette smoke, and his cock was already half-hard against my hip through his jeans.
“Bed,” I said.
We went to my room. I stripped while he watched—pulled off my sweatpants, kicked off my underwear, stood there naked while he sat on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his jeans. He pulled his cock out—already hard now, thick and heavy in his hand—and stroked it slowly while he looked at me.
“Get on,” he said.
I straddled him. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicked his fingers, and worked me open—two fingers, then three, then the blunt head of his cock pressing against my hole. I sank on it, inch by inch, and we both groaned when I bottomed out. He filled me completely, stretched me wide, and I could feel every vein, every ridge, the curve of him pressing against that spot inside me that made my vision blur.
We fucked like that for a while—me riding him, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck. Then he flipped me over, put me on my back, and fucked me hard and deep until he came, his face buried in my shoulder, his hips jerking erratically. I felt it—felt the warmth spreading inside me, the pulsing of his cock as he unloaded—and I clutched his back and bit my lip and tried to get there too, tried to chase my own orgasm, but he was already softening, already pulling out.
“Fuck,” he breathed, rolling off me. “That was good.”
It was good. It was always good. But my cock was still hard—four inches, stiff, flushed red, sticking straight up from my lap like a stubborn little flagpole. I’d been close, so close, right on the edge, and then he’d finished, and the momentum was gone.
“I need to clean up,” I said.
He nodded, already reaching for his phone. “Take your time.”
I swung my legs off the bed and stood up. My legs were a little shaky, and I could feel the slick of lube and cum between my cheeks. I grabbed a towel from the floor, wrapped it loosely around myself—not really thinking about it, just habit—and stepped out of my bedroom into the hallway.
The hallway in our apartment was short. My bedroom was at one end, the bathroom was at the other, and the living room was to the right, open to the hallway with no door. You could see straight into the living room from the bedroom hallway if the light was on.
The light was on.
And sitting in the living room—on the couch, on the armchair, on the floor with their legs crossed—were Brielle and three of her friends.
I stopped.
They stopped.
For exactly two seconds, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The only sounds were the TV, playing a reality show at low volume, and the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
I was standing in the hallway. The towel had slipped. Not completely—it was bunched around one hip, hanging low—but it had fallen open on the other side, and my cock was right there. Out. Hard. Four inches, thin, flushed, pointing slightly upward, still wet with lube. Completely, unmistakably visible.
Four girls. Staring at my erection.
The silence lasted maybe three seconds. It felt like three hours.
Then Brielle’s face split into a grin, and the room exploded.
—
The laughter was immediate and total. Not polite giggles, not stifled chuckles—full, open, throw-your-head-back laughter. The kind that makes your whole body flinch. The kind that fills a room and bounces off the walls and echoes in your skull.
I grabbed for the towel, fumbled with it, tried to wrap it around myself, but my hands were shaking, and the towel was too small, and I couldn’t get it to stay. My cock was still hard—of course it was still hard, because the adrenaline and the horror and the blood flow were all working together in the worst possible way—and every time I moved, the towel shifted, and they could see it again.
“Oh my God,” one of them said. That was Claire—short, blonde, one of Brielle’s closest friends. She had her hand over her mouth, but her eyes were wide, and her shoulders were shaking with laughter. “Oh, my God.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” another voice said. That was Nikki—tall, dark-skinned, sharp-featured, the kind of girl who always looked like she was judging you and finding you wanting. She was leaning forward on the couch, her eyes locked on my crotch with this expression of pure, delighted shock. “Hold on. Is that… is that hard?”
I felt the heat rush to my face. Not just my face—my neck, my chest, my ears. I could feel myself turning red from the collarbones up.
“Yes, it’s hard,” I said, and my voice came out thin and cracked. “I was—I was in my room—”
“He was with Gavin,” Brielle said. She was matter-of-fact about it, as if she were narrating a nature documentary. “They were fucking. I can hear it through the wall when I’m home.”
“Brielle—” I started.
“So that’s it?” Nikki said, still staring. “That’s his dick?”
“That’s his dick,” Brielle confirmed.
The laughter surged again. I stood there, clutching the towel, my face burning, my cock still rigid and peeking out through the gap in the terry cloth. I couldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t cooperate. I was frozen in the hallway, half-naked, still hard, while four girls dissected my body like I was a specimen under glass.
“I knew it,” Claire said. She said it with this tone of vindication, like she’d been waiting for confirmation of something she’d suspected for months. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” I managed.
She looked up at me—still grinning, still laughing—and said, “We’ve talked about this, babe. At Jessica’s party, like, three weeks ago? We were all drinking, and someone brought up guys we know and how big we thought they were, and your name came up.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“We tried to guess,” Nikki said. She had her phone out now, and I could see her typing. “I said you were probably packing, actually. You’ve got that whole lean thing going on, and you’re confident, and I don’t know—I figured you had something going on downstairs.”
“Same,” said the fourth girl. That was Dana—quiet, bookish, glasses, the one I knew least. She was sitting on the floor with her knees pulled up, and she was looking at my cock with this clinical, appraising expression that was somehow worse than the laughter. “I thought you were at least average. Maybe above.”
“Claire and I thought so too,” Nikki said. “Brielle was the only one who said you were small.”
All eyes turned to Brielle. She was sitting in the armchair, legs crossed, drink in hand, looking entirely too pleased with herself. She shrugged.
“I’ve heard him through the wall,” she said. “He’s loud, but Gavin’s clearly the one doing all the work. And I’ve seen Gavin in his underwear in the hallway—he’s got a bulge. Our boy here?” She gestured at me with her cup. “Not so much.”
The room cracked up again. I stood there, dying and absolutely dying. My cock was still out, still hard, and the conversation had shifted from shock to analysis, which was somehow worse. They weren’t just laughing—they were discussing like a focus group. Like a panel of judges at a competition I didn’t enter.
“Wait, so how big is it?” Claire asked. She leaned forward, squinting. “Like, actually?”
“Four inches,” Nikki said, before I could answer. She said it like she was reading a menu. “Maybe four. And it’s really thin.”
“You measured with your eyes?” Dana asked, amused.
“I’m good at estimating,” Nikki said. “I’ve seen a lot of dicks.”
“Clearly not this small,” Claire said, and the room erupted again.
I finally got the towel wrapped around myself properly. I pulled it tight, tucking the edge in, trying to cover up, but it was too late. Way too late. The image was burned into their brains, and the conversation kept going.
“Okay, but seriously,” Claire said, sitting back and looking at me with this half-smile, “how does Gavin deal with it? He’s kind of a size queen.”
“He is,” Nikki agreed. “I hooked up with him at a party last year, and he was very… particular. About size.”
“You hooked up with Gavin?” Brielle asked.
“Once. He’s bi. And he definitely likes big dicks. So how does that work with—” she gestured at my towel, “—that?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to answer. The truth was complicated—Gavin was a top, I was a bottom, my size didn’t matter in the bedroom because he never had to interact with my cock in a way where size was relevant. He’d jerk me off sometimes, half-heartedly, and I’d finish myself off most of the time, and it worked because the dynamic was about his cock, not mine. But I couldn’t say that. Not in front of four girls who were already dissecting my inadequacy like a biology class.
“He’s a bottom,” Brielle offered helpfully. “So it probably doesn’t matter.”
“Being a bottom doesn’t mean you don’t have a dick,” Nikki said. “It just means you’re not using it to fuck. But Gavin still has to look at it, right? He still has to touch it?”
“Me too,” Claire said suddenly.
Everyone looked at her.
“What?” she said, grinning. “I’m a size queen too. I like them big. If I hooked up with a guy and he pulled out that—” she pointed at my towel, “—I’d be so disappointed. I’d probably just leave.”
The room exploded again. Claire mimed walking out a door, and Nikki doubled over laughing, and even Dana—quiet, reserved Dana—snorted into her hand.
I should have walked away. I should have turned around, gone back to my room, closed the door, and waited for them to leave. That’s what a normal person would have done. A person with dignity. A person with self-respect.
But I didn’t. I stood there. I stood there and took it. And part of me—the part I’m still not ready to fully understand—wasn’t just enduring it. Part of me was lit up. My cock was throbbing under the towel, still rock-hard, straining against the fabric, and every laugh, every comment, every cruel observation sent a pulse of something through me that I couldn’t name and didn’t want to.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I said.
I walked past the living room to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, closed the door behind me, and locked it. I leaned against the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. My face was red. My hair was a mess. My cock was jutting out from my body, stiff and angry and small, and I could see it in the mirror—see what they saw. Four inches. Thin. The kind of dick that gets described as “cute” by generous people and “pathetic” by honest ones.
I wrapped my hand around it. My fingers overlapped. I could close my fist and the head barely poked out the top. I’d measured it a hundred times—4 inches exactly, 3.7 inches in girth—and the numbers never changed, no matter how many times I checked.
I was still hard. Still throbbing. The laughter was still echoing in the living room, muffled through the door. I could hear them talking—about me, about Gavin, about dicks they’d seen and dicks they’d wanted and dicks that measured up and dicks that didn’t.
I should have stayed in the bathroom. I should have waited them out.
Instead, I opened the door.
—
I walked back through the hallway—towel off.
Not wrapped around me. Not held in front of me. Off. Balled up in my hand, hanging at my side. My cock was out, hard, pointing straight ahead like a compass needle pointing toward my own destruction.
I walked slowly past the living room entrance. Not running and not rushing. Just… walking and letting them see.
The reaction was immediate.
“Oh my God, he’s doing it again!” Claire shrieked.
“He’s giving us another show!” Nikki said, and then—without missing a beat—”Boo! Boo!”
“BOO!” Claire joined in.
“BOOOOO!” Dana yelled, laughing so hard she could barely get the word out.
Brielle just shook her head, sipping her drink. “Pencil dick,” she said. Just like that. Calmly. Almost affectionately. Like she was giving me a nickname that would stick.
And it did stick. It stuck immediately.
“Pencil dick!” Claire repeated, delighted. “That’s perfect. Look at it—it’s like a little pencil.”
“It’s so thin,” Dana said, adjusting her glasses. “That’s the thing. It’s not just short. It’s thin. Like, I’ve seen small dicks before, but they’re usually at least kind of thick. This is just… narrow.”
“Like a pencil,” Nikki agreed. “A little number-two pencil.”
I stood in the hallway, cock out, face burning, while four girls booed my erection and gave it a name. The humiliation was so intense it was physical—a tightness in my chest, a ringing in my ears, a heat that started at my face and spread down to my toes. And my cock was still hard. Still. Hard. Throbbing with every heartbeat, bouncing slightly with each breath, completely and pathetically visible.
I went back to my room. I closed the door. I lay on the bed—on Gavin’s wet spot, still warm—and I wrapped my hand around my cock, and I came in about thirty seconds. Maybe less. The orgasm hit me like a truck—intense, full-body, almost painful—and I bit the pillow to keep from screaming. When it was over, I lay there in the dark, panting, cum on my stomach, face in the pillow, and I felt something I couldn’t categorize. Shame. Arousal. Horror. Excitement. All of it tangled together in a knot I couldn’t undo.
Gavin came back from wherever he’d gone—the bathroom, I think, or maybe he’d stepped out for a smoke—and found me like that. He didn’t ask questions. He just got dressed, kissed my forehead, and left.
—
The nickname didn’t fade. It became a thing.
Claire started it. The next time she came over—maybe two days later—she walked in, saw me in the kitchen, and said, “Hey, pencil dick,” like it was my actual name. Brielle laughed. Nikki laughed. I turned red, and they laughed harder.
It spread. Within a week, every girl in Brielle’s circle knew about it. They’d say it casually, in conversation, like it was just a fun fact about me. “Oh, you know [my name]—pencil dick.” And whoever was hearing it for the first time would look at me, then look at whoever said it, then look back at me, and I’d see the question in their eyes: Is it true? And I’d turn red, and that was confirmation enough.
The worst part—and I mean the absolute worst part—was Claire.
Claire had a crush on me. I didn’t know it at the time, but she did. She’d had it for months, apparently. She thought I was cute, she liked my sense of humor, she liked that I was gay because it made me “safe” to flirt with, and she’d been harboring this attraction that she never acted on because I was, you know, gay. But the crush was real. She told me about it later—months later, at a party, drunk on cheap vodka, sitting on the kitchen counter with her legs swinging.
“I used to like you,” she said. “Like, a lot. I thought you were so cute. I had this whole thing about you.”
“What happened?”
She looked at me. Took a sip from her cup. Swallowed.
“I saw your dick.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“And?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“And nothing. That was it. I saw it, and it was so small, and I just… lost interest. Like, completely. The whole fantasy just evaporated. I kept thinking about it—about what it would be like to have sex with you—and I just couldn’t make it work. I need to feel something, you know? I need it to fill me up. And that—” she gestured vaguely at my crotch, even though I was fully clothed, “—wasn’t going to do that.”
She said it without malice. Without cruelty. She said it like she was explaining a fact of physics—water flows downhill, fire is hot, Claire needs a big dick. It wasn’t an insult. It was just the truth, and the truth was that my cock had killed her attraction to me in about three seconds flat.
I laughed it off. I was drunk too, and I’d had months to process the hallway incident, and I’d developed a shell around the whole thing—a thick, calloused layer of fake nonchalance that I wore whenever the subject came up. “Pencil dick” didn’t hurt anymore. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
But later that night, alone in my room, I thought about it. I thought about Claire sitting on that counter, legs swinging, telling me that the sight of my cock had killed her crush. I thought about the way she’d said I need it to fill me up, like my body was a puzzle piece that didn’t fit anywhere. And I thought about the hallway—the laughter, the boos, the nickname, the way my cock had throbbed while they mocked it.
And I got hard.
I’m still not sure what to do with that.
The End.
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