Babydick by Association
A Fictional Story by InternationalDig4268.
My girlfriend, Renee, is forty-three. She’s been with enough men to know the difference, and she’s never once lied to me about where I rank. I’m at the bottom of her list. She told me that on our third date, after we’d fucked for the first time and she’d felt me inside her and clearly been processing the experience. She didn’t say it cruelly. She said it the way you’d tell someone their cooking needed salt — factual, slightly apologetic, but honest. “You’re the smallest I’ve been with,” she said, lying next to me in her apartment, tracing a pattern on the ceiling with her finger. “By quite a bit.”
I should’ve been humiliated. I was, a little. But mostly I was hard again. That was the thing I’d learned about myself over the years — the shame and the arousal were tangled up together in a way I couldn’t separate and had stopped trying to. When a woman acknowledged my size, or lack of it, something in my chest tightened, and my dick twitched at the same time. It was a Pavlovian response. Humiliation was the bell.
Renee figured that out fast. She’s perceptive. She noticed that every time she commented — even an offhand one, like “it’s cute” or “it fits nicely in my hand” — I’d get hard again. She started testing the boundaries. A whisper in bed. A text during the day. A joke in front of her friends. Each time, I’d respond the same way: flushed face, racing pulse, erection straining at my four inches like it was trying to be five and failing.
It didn’t take me long to admit it to her. I was sitting on her couch one night, a few beers in, and I just said it: “I like it when you tell people.”
She looked at me for a long moment, wineglass halfway to her lips. “Tell people what?”
“That I’m small. That I have a small cock.”
She set the wineglass down. “I know.”
“You know?”
“Baby, I’ve known since the second time I told you that you were the smallest I’d had and you got hard again immediately. You’re not subtle.” She smiled. Not a cruel smile. A conspiratorial one. “You want me to tell people?”
“I want you to tell whoever you want. Whenever you want.”
“Even when I’m out with my friends?”
“Especially then.”
She picked up her wine again and took a long sip. “You’re a very interesting man,” she said.
And that was the arrangement. Not a formal one — we didn’t shake on it or draw up a contract — but an understanding. Renee would tell people. I would hear about it later. Sometimes she’d text me mid-conversation, a play-by-play from a bar or a dinner party. Just told Nicole you’re tiny. She laughed. Or: Jessica says she’s sorry for me. I told her not to be. Each text would hit my phone like a little electric shock, and I’d sit wherever I was — at my desk, in my car, on my couch — and feel that familiar cocktail of shame and arousal, my face burning, my dick pressing against the inside of my jeans.
She was particularly good at it when she’d been drinking. Renee was a happy drunk, talkative and loose-lipped, and alcohol stripped away whatever modesty she had about discussing my anatomy. After two glasses of wine, she’d mention it casually. After three, she’d go into detail. After four, she’d show people with her fingers — holding her index and thumb about two inches apart and saying, “No, really. This is it. Hard.”
I loved her for it. I loved her for it in a way I couldn’t explain to anyone who didn’t share whatever was wrong with my wiring. She was giving me exactly what I wanted, and she was doing it with a kind of glee that made it clear she was enjoying herself too. Not because she was cruel — she wasn’t — but because there was a power in it. A control. She held this thing about me, this secret that most men would guard with their lives, and she wielded it like a toy. She could tell or not tell. She could be kind or be brutal. She could describe me as “on the smaller side” or as “a babydick,” depending on her mood and her audience. And I had willingly given her that power.
—
Last night was a Friday. Renee had been planning her coworker outing for weeks — a group of them from the marketing firm where she works were getting together at a wine bar downtown. I’d met most of them before. There was a core group of five women who did these nights out every month or so, and Renee had told me bits and pieces about each of them. I knew that one of them, a woman named Collette, had recently started dating a guy she described as “absolutely massive.”
“Like, porn massive,” Renee had told me a few weeks prior, lying in bed scrolling through her phone. “She showed me a picture. It looked fake. Like a prosthetic.”
“That’s… impressive,” I said, feeling the familiar tightness in my chest.
“Relax. You’re not competing.” She looked at me over her phone. “You’d lose.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She kissed my forehead and went back to scrolling, and I lay there thinking about Collette’s boyfriend and his massive cock and my own four inches and how the gap between those two numbers was the distance between a man and a punchline.
—
Renee left the house around seven. She wore a black top that showed her cleavage and jeans that hugged her hips. She looked good. She always looked good. I watched her walk to her car and then went back inside and poured myself a bourbon.
I knew what was coming. Not the details, but the shape of it. She’d drink. She’d talk. At some point, the conversation would turn personal — it always did with this group — and she’d mention me. She’d mention my size. She’d come home and tell me about it, and I’d get hard listening, and we’d end up in bed with her telling me what people had said while I jerked off or fucked her with my four inches while she barely felt it.
That was the routine. I settled in.
Around eleven, my phone buzzed.
Renee: Collette is complaining about her boyfriend’s dick being too big. She can’t do anal. Says it’s 9 inches.
I stared at the text. My mouth went dry. I typed back:
Me: And?
Renee: And I told her about yours lol
Me: What did you say?
Renee: Told her you’re 4 inches hard. That I can do anal no problem; she didn’t believe me at first.
My hands were shaking. I put the bourbon down.
Me: What did she say?
Renee: She said that’s too small for her. Called it a babydick. Said she wouldn’t even feel it.
I read the text three times. My face was hot. My dick was hard — all four inches of it, straining against my sweatpants.
Me: And you said?
Renee: I told her that’s what happens when you only fuck huge cocks. They stretch you out. I was defending you, babe, in my way.
Me: In your way.
Renee: My way 😘
I didn’t respond for a few minutes. I just sat there, staring at my phone, feeling the heat spread through my body. Collette — a woman I’d met twice, a woman who worked with my girlfriend, a woman I’d have to see again at office parties, birthdays, and whatever else — now knew my exact measurement. She knew I was four inches hard. She’d called my cock a babydick. She’d said she wouldn’t even feel it. And my girlfriend had told me all of this in real time, via text, from a wine bar, while I sat at home in my sweatpants with a bourbon and a hard-on.
I typed: Come home soon.
Renee: Soon. Still drinking. Collette wants to know if you’d be interested in a threesome with her and her boyfriend. Kidding. Sort of. She’s drunk.
Me: Very funny.
Renee: I told her you have a great tongue. Gave you that at least.
Me: Thanks for the consolation prize.
Renee: ❤️
—
She got home around midnight. I heard her key in the door and stood up from the couch like I’d been waiting — which I had, for the last hour, in a state of low-grade arousal that had oscillated between a dull ache and a sharp throb depending on how much I thought about Collette’s words.
Renee came in smelling like wine and perfume. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. She dropped her purse on the counter and kicked off her heels and walked straight to me with the kind of purposeful, slightly unsteady stride that told me she was drunk but not sloppy.
“Hi,” she said, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Hi.”
“Guess what I did tonight.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
She pulled back and looked at me, grinning. “I told Collette you have a babydick.”
“I know. You texted me.”
“I texted you the highlights. You didn’t get the full experience.” She walked past me to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. “The full experience was so much better.”
“Tell me.”
She leaned against the counter, sipping her water, and told me.
It had happened about an hour into the evening. They’d gotten past the first round of work talk — who was annoyed with whom, what the new account manager was like, whether the holiday party budget was getting cut — and moved onto personal territory. Collette, who’d had two glasses of wine by then, started talking about her boyfriend. His name was Warren. He was thirty-eight, tall, worked in construction, and had a cock that Collette described, loudly and without shame, as “a problem.”
“He’s too big,” she said, leaning forward across the table. “Like, it’s a real issue. I love it, don’t get me wrong. But it’s a lot.”
One of the other women asked how big. Collette held her hands apart — probably a slight exaggeration, but not by much, based on the photo Renee had seen — and said, “Nine inches. Maybe a little more. I measured.”
The table erupted in the usual chorus of reactions — gasps, laughter, one woman fanning herself dramatically. Renee sat quietly, sipping her wine, waiting.
“Do you know what a nine-inch cock means?” Collette continued, and her tone shifted from bragging to genuine frustration. “It means anal is off the table. We’ve tried. It doesn’t fit. It hurts. I’m going to have to practice somehow — start with something smaller, work my way up. It’s like training for a marathon.”
More laughter from the table. One woman said, “First-world problems.” Another said, “I’d take that problem over my husband’s three minutes.”
And that’s when Renee spoke up.
“I can manage anal,” she said. Casual. Matter-of-fact. Like she was contributing to a discussion about commute times.
Collette looked at her. “Really? Without, like, a ton of prep?”
“No prep. We just do it.”
“How?”
Renee took a sip of wine. “My man has a really small one.”
The table went quiet. Not stunned-silent — curious-silent. The way a room does when someone says something unexpected but not unwelcome.
“How small?” one of the women asked.
“Four inches hard,” Renee said. “Maybe four and a half if he’s really turned on. But basically four.”
“Wait — four inches?” Collette leaned in. “Like, actual four inches? Not four and then it grows?”
“No. Four hard. That’s it. That’s the full size.”
Collette sat back. Her expression was a mixture of amusement and genuine disbelief — the look of someone who’d just been told something that didn’t compute with their understanding of the world. “Oh,” she said. Then, after a beat: “I’m sorry. That really is too small for me. I wouldn’t even feel a babydick like that.”
Renee told me she’d smiled at that. Not because she was offended, but because she was enjoying the conversation. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you fuck only huge cocks,” she said to Collette. “They stretch you out so smaller guys are no good anymore.”
Collette considered this. “That’s… actually kind of true,” she admitted.
“It is true,” Renee said. “I can feel everything. He fits. Anal is easy. There are advantages.”
“Name one,” Collette challenged.
“No pain. No tearing. No having to ‘practice.’ I just bend over, and he’s in.”
The table laughed. Collette laughed too, eventually. But Renee told me there was a moment — just a flicker — where Collette looked at her with something that wasn’t quite pity but was close. A look that said, “You’re settling for that?”
Renee told me she’d held the look right back. Yes. And I like it.
—
She finished telling me this standing in the kitchen, and I was hard the entire time. Not just hard — aching. The kind of hard where your dick strains against its own skin, where every nerve is firing, where the four inches you have feels like it’s trying to prove itself through sheer rigidity even though there’s nothing to prove.
Renee noticed. She always noticed. She glanced down at my sweatpants and raised an eyebrow.
“Someone enjoyed that story,” she said.
“You know I did.”
“I do.” She set her water glass down and stepped closer. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“When you meet Collette — and you will, at the holiday party — remember that she now thinks you have a babydick. She knows your exact size. She said the word ‘babydick’ out loud at a table full of my coworkers. She knows.”
My throat tightened. “Gee, thanks,” I said, shaking my head slowly.
“You’re welcome.” She put her hand on my chest and slid it down toward my waistband. “I told her you have a great tongue, too. So at least you have that going for you.”
“Consolation prize.”
“The best consolation prize.” Her fingers slipped under my waistband and found me — all four inches, rigid and hot and straining. She wrapped her hand around it, and her fingers overlapped easily. She could close her fist, and I’d disappear inside it. She knew that. She did it on purpose sometimes, just to remind me.
“Babydick,” she whispered, and I groaned.
She led me to the bedroom by my waistband, her fingers hooked over the elastic, tugging me like a leash. I followed. I always followed.
In the bedroom, she pushed me onto the bed and pulled my sweatpants off. My cock stood up — four inches, thin, pale, the head flushed dark with blood. She looked at it the way she always did: with a kind of affectionate amusement, like looking at a small animal doing its best.
“Collette would laugh at this,” she said.
“I know.”
“She’d call it a babydick to your face.”
“Probably.”
“She’d hold up her hand and make the measurement gesture.” Renee held her fingers up — thumb and index, about two inches apart — and looked at me. “Like this.”
“That’s not even four inches.”
“I know. But this is what I showed her. I rounded down.”
I groaned again. My dick twitched. Renee smiled.
She took me in her mouth — easy, all of it, no effort, the whole thing fitting between her lips without her having to open wide or suppress a gag reflex. She could take the entire length and still have room to work her tongue. She sucked me for about thirty seconds, then pulled off and looked at me.
“You know what I was thinking about while Collette was describing Warren’s nine inches?”
“What?”
“I was thinking about how she can’t do anal and I can. How she has to ‘practice’ and I just bend over. How she thinks four inches is too small, but four inches is all I need.” She stroked me with two fingers — just two, because that’s all it took. “And I was thinking about how when I told her your size, she said ‘babydick,’ and I didn’t correct her.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. Because she’s right.” She squeezed. “You have a babydick. And I love it. And I love telling people about it. And you love that I tell people about it. And now Collette knows, and her friends know, and next month at the holiday party, every woman at that table is going to look at you and think ‘four inches,’ and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
I came. Hard. Four inches of cock pulsing in her two-finger grip, shooting onto my stomach, my chest, my own chin. The orgasm hit me like a fist — the shame and the arousal and the image of Collette saying babydick and Renee not correcting her, all of it crashing together in a wave that left me gasping.
Renee wiped her hand on the sheet and lay down next to me.
“You’re welcome,” she said again.
I stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, cum cooling on my skin. “You rounded down,” I said.
“Two inches instead of four. Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s funnier. And because by the time I corrected it — which I did, later — the image was already in her head. Two inches. That’s what she pictured first. Four inches was the correction. The afterthought.”
I closed my eyes. She was right. The first number was the one that stuck. Collette would always think of me as two inches, corrected to four. Which meant she’d always think of me as small, with a footnote noting that I was slightly less small than initially reported.
I pulled Renee against me. She rested her head on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.
“Next time you see her,” I said, “tell her I’m three inches.”
She laughed. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“I’m pushing something.”
She reached down and patted my soft cock — all two inches of it, flaccid and spent and curled against my thigh. “Not this,” she said.
I shook my head. She was right. She was always right.
—
This morning, I woke up to Renee getting dressed. She had brunch on Saturday with the same group. Different venue. Some of the same women. Collette would be there.
“Tell them,” I said from the bed, still half-asleep.
She looked at me over her shoulder as she fastened her bra. “Tell them what?”
“Whatever you want. Everything.”
She smiled. “I always do.”
She left. I lay in bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about Collette, about the word babydick, about nine inches versus four, about a table full of women who now knew my measurement the way they knew my name.
I reached down and touched myself. Four inches. Hard again, because of course it was. Always hard when I thought about it. Always hard when the shame came back around.
My phone buzzed.
Renee: Collette says hi. She says “tell babydick I said hi.”
I read it twice. My dick throbbed in my hand.
Me: What did you say back?
Renee: I said he says hi back. And that he’s looking forward to the holiday party.
I put the phone down, closed my eyes, stroked my four inches, and thought about a room full of women who knew exactly what I was packing — or rather, what I wasn’t — and how the only thing worse than the shame was how much I loved it.
The End.
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