One My Size
An SPH Experience by liddelpegger.
I was in my early thirties then. My wife and I had been married a few years—long enough that the shine had worn off, but not so long that we’d stopped trying to keep things interesting. We still went on dates. We still fucked regularly. We still visited that adult store off the highway every couple of months, just to walk around and look at things we’d never buy.
She was more sexually experienced than me when we met. She’d had a handful of boyfriends before me, a couple of one-night stands in college she’d told me about after too many glasses of wine. I’d only been with two women. She knew her way around a bedroom in ways I was still learning.
She also knew, from that very first night together, that my dick was small.
Four inches. Short and skinny. I’d measured it enough times in my twenties to know the number by heart, checking it against some internal ruler I’d built from porn and locker room glances. I knew where I stood. So did she.
—
What she didn’t know was that I’d recently discovered something about myself.
It started late at night, when she was asleep, and I was hunched over our shared computer in the spare room, the monitor brightness turned down low. I’d stumbled onto a forum—some forgotten corner of the internet where men talked about being small. Not just talked about it, but shared it. Described the humiliation of being seen naked, the shame of comparisons, the complicated arousal that came from having your worst insecurity spoken aloud.
I read story after story. Real experiences, fictional ones, blurry lines between the two. Men who got hard when their wives made jokes. Men who came while thinking they might be laughed at. Men who’d spent decades hiding their size, only to find release in finally having it known.
It was like someone had cracked open my chest and pointed at something I’d never had words for.
I’d always been ashamed of my size. But reading those posts, I realized the shame wasn’t just shame. There was something else underneath. Something that made my pulse race and my little dick stiffen against my thigh.
I started masturbating to those stories. Carefully, quietly, with my wife asleep down the hall. I’d picture myself in the scenarios—exposed in a locker room, compared to a larger friend, teased by a woman who saw right through me. The fantasies were always humiliating. They always made me come harder than anything else.
But I couldn’t tell my wife. I didn’t know how. I still don’t.
—
Back then, I tried to coax it out of her in other ways.
I’d make comments during sex. Little things. “It’s so small, isn’t it?” or “Can you even feel me?” I said them casually, like I was just talking dirty, but I was watching her face for a reaction. Hoping she’d take the bait. Hoping she’d say something mean.
She never did. She’d ignore me, or laugh it off, or change the subject entirely. Once, when I pushed too hard, she just said, “You’re fine, babe. Stop worrying about it.”
Fine. The worst word she could have chosen.
I wanted her to tell me the truth that I was small. That she’d had bigger. That size mattered, even if she’d never admit it. I wanted her to tease me, to laugh at me, to make me feel that specific shame I’d learned to crave. But I was too scared to ask for it directly. So I kept dancing around it, dropping hints, being annoying.
I’m still doing that, honestly. Just more quietly now.
—
That day, we drove to the adult store on a Saturday afternoon.
It was one of those big warehouse places off the interstate, the kind with blacked-out windows and a sign that just said “NOVELTIES” in faded letters. We’d been there a few times before. It was clean enough, well-lit, staffed by bored employees who’d seen everything.
The video section was near the front. We always walked through it slowly, scanning the covers. Big-dicked studs on every box, their cocks thick and long and nothing like mine. I’d stand next to my wife and look at them, acutely aware of the difference.
“Look at that one,” I’d say, pointing to some guy who had to be eight inches soft. “That’s ridiculous.”
She’d nod, uninterested. “Mmhmm.”
“I mean, who even has a dick that big?”
“I don’t know, babe.”
She wasn’t taking the bait. She never did.
—
We made our way to the back wall, where the realistic dildos hung in rows.
This was my favorite part. I loved watching her look at them—the big ones, the really big ones, the absurdly huge ones that no human could actually use. I knew she was comparing them to me in her head. She had to be. She’d felt me inside her, knew exactly what four inches felt like, and now she was staring at silicone cocks twice that size.
“God, that one’s massive,” I said, pointing to a thick purple one that had to be nine inches. “Who even uses something that big?”
She shrugged. “Some people like the stretch.”
“What about this one?” I pointed to a more reasonable one, maybe six inches. “That’s more normal, right?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve had ones that big, right? Before me?”
She gave me a look. That look she always gave me when I fished too hard. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I’m just saying. Most guys are bigger than me. You know that.”
“Babe—”
“I’m just being honest. I’m small. You know it. I know it.”
She turned away from the wall and started walking toward the lingerie section. “Can we look at something else?”
—
I was being annoying. I knew it even then. Pushing too hard, talking too much, trying to force a conversation she clearly didn’t want to have. But I couldn’t stop. I wanted her to say something. Anything. Even if it hurt.
We wandered through the store for another twenty minutes. I kept making comments, kept pointing things out, kept trying to get a rise out of her. She kept deflecting.
By the time we headed toward the register, I’d mostly given up. Another failed attempt. Another afternoon of me being weird about my dick while she pretended not to notice.
Then we passed the small display near the checkout counter.
—
It was a wire rack, maybe a foot tall, filled with tiny novelty items. Miniature handcuffs. Shot glasses with naked ladies. And right at eye level, a small collection of tiny dildos.
They were joke gifts, clearly. Bachelorette party favors. Little three- and four-inch silicone cocks, thin and pink and cartoonishly small compared to the monsters on the back wall. I’d walked past that display a dozen times on previous visits and never given it a second glance.
This time, my wife stopped.
She looked at the tiny dildo. Then she looked at me.
“Look,” she said, her voice flat. “There’s one your size.”
Then she kept walking toward the register.
—
I stood there for maybe three seconds. Frozen. My brain was trying to catch up with what had just happened.
There’s one your size.
She’d said it casually. No malice, no teasing, no awareness of what those words would do to me. Just a throwaway comment, delivered in the same tone she’d use to point out a shirt she liked or a dessert she wanted to try.
But I heard it differently.
I heard the truth underneath. The acknowledgment she’d been avoiding every time I’d brought up my size. She knew I was small. She’d always known. And in that moment, annoyed by my constant fishing, she’d let it slip.
My face went hot. Not just warm—hot. Burning. I could feel the flush spreading down my neck, into my chest. My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.
I followed her to the register in silence. I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at the cashier. I stood there staring at the floor while she paid for whatever we’d bought—I don’t even remember what—and then I followed her out to the car.
—
The drive home was quiet.
I wanted to ask her what she’d meant. I wanted to know if she’d said it on purpose, if she’d been waiting for the right moment to say something honest finally. I wanted to know if she’d noticed my reaction, if she understood what she’d done to me.
But I couldn’t make my mouth work. I just sat there, staring out the window, feeling the heat slowly fade from my face while my mind replayed those four words on a loop.
There’s one your size.
She never brought it up. Not on the drive home. Not that evening. Not ever.
As far as she knew, it was just a comment. A moment of annoyance, quickly forgotten. She had no idea that those words had branded themselves into my brain.
—
That night, we had sex.
I don’t remember how it started. Probably the same way it always did—her hand drifting over to my side of the bed, my body responding automatically. But I remember exactly what I was thinking while I fucked her.
I was thinking about that tiny dildo.
Four inches. Thin. Pink. A joke gift, sitting in that wire rack next to the register. Something women bought as a gag for their friends, laughing at how small and useless it was.
One your size.
My wife had looked at that ridiculous little thing and thought of me.
I pushed into her, feeling how wet she was, how easily she took my small cock. She wasn’t tight around me. She never had been. I’d always told myself that was just how she was built, but I knew the truth. She’d had bigger. She’d been stretched by men who filled her in ways I never could.
And she knew it. She’d always known it.
I came harder than I had in months.
—
Fifteen years. Maybe twenty.
I’ve thought about that afternoon hundreds of times. I’ve jerked off to it in hotel rooms while traveling for work. I’ve replayed it in my head during sex with my wife, using the memory to push myself over the edge. I’ve wondered if she ever thinks about it, if she even remembers saying it.
She doesn’t know what she did to me that day. She doesn’t know that her casual, annoyed comment gave me exactly what I’d been fishing for. She doesn’t know that I’m still getting off to it two decades later.
I’ve never told her.
I’ve never told her about the forums, about the stories, about the specific thing I want from her. I’ve never explained that when I bring up my size, I’m not looking for reassurance. I’ve never asked her to tease me, to laugh at me, to make me feel small in the way I crave.
I’m still a chicken.
I still drop hints sometimes. Little comments, careful observations, fishing expeditions that go nowhere. She still ignores them, changes the subject, or gives me that patient look that says, “Not this again.”
And I still think about that tiny pink dildo on that wire rack, and the way she looked at me, and the four words that gave me a fantasy I’ve been chasing ever since.
There’s one your size.
Maybe one day I’ll tell her. Maybe one day I’ll sit her down and explain everything—the forums, the stories, the thing I’ve been hiding for twenty years.
But probably not.
Probably I’ll just keep thinking about that afternoon, and that tiny dildo, and the truth she didn’t even know she was telling.
And I’ll keep getting off to it, alone, in the dark, still too scared to ask for what I really want.
The End.
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