SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

A couple of years ago, I got invited to a pool party at a friend’s apartment complex. He lived in one of those modern high-rises downtown, the kind with a rooftop pool overlooking the entire city skyline. It was supposed to be a chill afternoon—a bunch of people floating around, drinking, soaking up the sun. I was recently single at the time, fresh off a breakup that had left me feeling like shit about myself, but my friend and his girlfriend had been trying to set me up with this girl. I’ll call her K. She was cute and smart, with a good laugh. I was nervous but hopeful.

The day started great. I got there around noon, found a spot on one of the lounge chairs, and just kind of took in the scene. The pool was crowded—maybe twenty people, half guys, half girls, all in their late twenties or early thirties. Music was playing from a Bluetooth speaker, someone was grilling burgers on the community grill, and the sun was beating down so hard it made the concrete burn your feet.

K showed up about an hour later. She was wearing a dark blue bikini that showed off her curves, and when she smiled at me, I felt this stupid flutter in my chest. We started talking almost immediately. She was easy to talk to—asked about my job, my hobbies, made jokes about the guy who kept cannonballing into the pool and splashing everyone. We sat at the edge of the pool, our legs dangling in the water, and I started to think maybe this was actually going somewhere.

Hours passed. We swam, we drank, we laughed. I was feeling good. Better than I’d felt in months. For a little while, I forgot about the small dick I’d been hiding my whole life, the way women had reacted when they saw it, the way I’d been laughed at and rejected. For a little while, I was just a normal guy at a pool party, hitting it off with a pretty girl.

But then I had to piss.

—

The pool was on the rooftop, but the bathroom was inside the building, one floor down. A single bathroom, small, with a toilet and a sink and a mirror that ran the length of the wall opposite the door. The door had a lock, but I didn’t check it. I just assumed it worked. I was in a hurry, my bladder full from all the beer I’d been drinking.

I walked in, closed the door behind me, and turned to the mirror.

And there I was. Naked from the waist down, my swim trunks bunched at my ankles, my dick and balls exposed in the harsh fluorescent light.

I froze.

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the lingering high from flirting with K all afternoon. Maybe it was the fact that I’d been feeling good about myself for the first time in months, and I wanted to see if that good feeling extended to the part of my body I hated most.

I looked down. My dick was a tiny, shriveled thing, barely poking out from my pubic hair. The cold air and the walk from the pool had shrunk it down to almost nothing—maybe an inch, maybe less. My balls were pulled up tight against my body, small and hard. I grimaced.

“Why are you like this?” I whispered to my reflection.

I don’t know why I did what I did next. I was supposed to be pissing and getting back to the party. But instead, I reached down and started stroking. I wanted to see it hard. I wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, it would look better than I remembered.

I got hard fast. Too fast. My erection came up in about ten seconds, a tiny little spike of flesh that jutted out from my body. I looked at it in the mirror. It was pathetic. Probably not even four inches—maybe three and a half, maybe three and three-quarters. Thin. Barely any girth. The head was small and pink, like a little button on top of a pencil.

I was amused and horrified at the same time. “This is what you’re working with,” I muttered. “This is what you wanted to show K.”

I don’t know why I kept going. I just stood there, stroking my tiny dick, watching it in the mirror, watching how small and useless it looked compared to the rest of my body. I was so focused on the reflection that I didn’t hear the door handle jiggle.

I didn’t hear the lock click open.

The door swung open behind me, and I saw her in the mirror.

K.

She was standing there, towel wrapped around her waist, her eyes wide. She’d been looking for the bathroom. She’d tried the door. The lock had malfunctioned, and it had swung open, and there I was, standing in front of the sink, my trunks around my ankles, my tiny hard cock in my hand.

I froze. I didn’t cover up. I didn’t turn around. I just stood there, my hand still wrapped around my little dick, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She stared back. Her eyes dropped from my face to my hand to the tiny, erect cock in my grip.

She saw everything.

She saw how small it was. She saw how thin it was. She saw the little pink head, the sparse pubic hair, the way my balls were pulled up tight. She saw it all.

And then she said, “Sorry,” and closed the door.

I was alone again.

I stood there for a full minute, my dick still hard, my hand still wrapped around it, my heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. Then I let go. My erection softened almost immediately, shrinking back to its tiny, flaccid state. I pulled my trunks up, flushed the toilet even though I hadn’t pissed, and walked out of the bathroom.

I didn’t go back to the pool.

I found my towel, grabbed my bag, and left. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I didn’t text my friend. I just walked out of the building and drove home, my hands shaking on the wheel, my face burning with shame.

—

I didn’t hear from anyone for a few days. I assumed K had kept it to herself. Maybe she was embarrassed too. Maybe she’d pretend it never happened. I held onto that hope like a lifeline.

But then I ran into my friend at a coffee shop.

“Hey, man,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me. “What happened at the party? You just disappeared.”

I shrugged. “Wasn’t feeling well.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice.

“So,” he said, “is it true?”

My blood ran cold.

“Is what true?”

He didn’t look at me. He looked at his phone, scrolling through something, then looked back up with a smirk on his face.

“Is it true that K saw you jerking off in the bathroom? And that your dick was, like, two inches?”

The words hit me like a freight train. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I just sat there, staring at him, my mouth open, my face burning.

“I—what—she told you?”

“Not just me, man. She told my girlfriend. My girlfriend told me. I think it’s been going around. You know how girls talk.”

I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I wanted to be anywhere but in that coffee shop, sitting across from a guy who was looking at me like I was a punchline.

“It’s not two inches,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Okay, so how big is it?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What was I supposed to say? “It’s three and a half when I’m hard, but it’s tiny when I’m soft, and she saw it hard, and it was probably closer to three inches because of the shrinkage from the pool, and I was jerking off in a bathroom like a fucking degenerate, and now everyone knows?”

I just shook my head.

He laughed. Not a mean laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Damn, man. That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

But he wasn’t sorry. He was amused. I could see it in his eyes. He was a guy with a normal dick, a guy who’d never had to worry about this kind of thing, and he was looking at me like I was a freak show.

I didn’t see K again. I didn’t want to. I deleted her number, unfollowed her on social media, and did my best to pretend the whole thing never happened. But it did happen. And every time I think about it, I feel that same wave of shame wash over me.

The lock that didn’t catch. The door that swung open. The girl who saw my tiny, pathetic dick in my hand. And the question that still haunts me: if she hadn’t seen it, would things have been different? Would she have liked me? Would we have dated?

Or was it always going to end like this?

I’ll never know. And that’s the worst part.

 

The End.

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