The Cashew
An SPH Experience by Sph_Hub.
That should have been my first warning.
We started talking more after that. Nothing serious at first—just coffee runs and complaining about deadlines. But there was something about her that made me want to keep coming back. She was funny in a sharp, teasing way, and she never let me get away with being boring.
“You’re such a mystery,” she told me one afternoon, stirring her latte. “You’re what, six-three? Six-four? Tall, decent-looking, single. What’s the deal?”
“I’m six-four,” I said, feeling my face warm. “And I’m not that mysterious.”
“Everyone’s mysterious until they’re not.” She smiled. “So what do you do for fun? Besides work and whatever mysterious tall guys do.”
“I, uh… I swim sometimes.”
“Swimming. Okay. Mr. Athletic.” She tilted her head. “You seeing anyone?”
“No.” The word came out too fast. “You?”
“Kind of. Boyfriend. We’re on a break.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “His idea, not mine. But whatever.”
I should have taken that as a second warning.
—
The pegging conversation happened about three weeks in. We’d grabbed drinks after work—her idea—and she’d had enough cocktails to make her filter disappear entirely.
“So,” she said, swirling the ice in her glass, “have you ever been pegged?”
I choked on my beer. “What? No. God, no.”
“Really?” She looked genuinely surprised. “Never even thought about it?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Huh.” She studied me with those sharp eyes. “You get really defensive about that. Interesting.”
“I’m not defensive. I just—”
“Mr. Vanilla over here.” She laughed. “I’m going to call you that at work now.”
And she did. Every time I passed her desk, every time we ended up in the same elevator—”Hey, Mr. Vanilla.” It became our thing: a running joke that made my stomach tight and my face hot every single time.
I hated how much I liked it.
—
The pool invitation came on a Thursday evening. We’d just finished a project together, and she was stretching at her desk when she mentioned it.
“I’m going for a swim tomorrow morning. Early. Six a.m. at the community center.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what made me say it. “I swim too. Sometimes.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Really? You want to come?”
“If that’s… yeah. If that’s okay.”
“Sure, Mr. Vanilla.” She smiled. “I’ll pick you up. Six sharp.”
I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, thinking about her in a swimsuit, me in swim trunks, and all the ways this could go wrong. I’m six-foot-four and skinny—lanky limbs, visible ribs, the kind of body that people assume comes with certain… proportions.
The internet had taught me early that this assumption was cruel.
I’m about an inch soft. Maybe three and a half hard on a good day. I’ve never measured properly because what’s the point? I’ve seen enough porn, enough locker rooms, enough accidental glimpses in bathroom lines to know where I stand. Nowhere good.
By the time Amanda’s car pulled up outside my apartment at six, I’d already jerked off twice trying to calm my nerves. It didn’t help.
—
The pool was mostly empty that early. A few elderly people doing water aerobics in the shallow end, a serious swimmer in the fast lane, and us. Amanda wore a black one-piece that hugged her curves, and I tried not to stare as she adjusted her goggles.
“Ready, Mr. Vanilla?”
“Ready.”
We swam laps for an hour. The water was freezing—this was January, and the pool’s heating system was clearly struggling—but Amanda didn’t seem to mind. She was a strong swimmer, cutting through the water with clean strokes, while I flailed beside her trying to keep up.
About forty-five minutes in, she swam past me, and her hand brushed against my thigh. I thought it was accidental. Then she did it again, this time her fingers trailing across the front of my trunks, pressing against my crotch for just a second.
I froze.
She kept swimming, but I caught the look she gave me over her shoulder—curious, assessing, as if she were trying to figure something out.
My heart pounded. She hadn’t grabbed anything. She hadn’t lingered. Maybe she hadn’t felt anything at all through the wet fabric. Maybe—
I swam after her, my mind racing. For the first time in my life, I felt something like confidence. She was interested. She’d touched me on purpose. Maybe my size wouldn’t matter. Maybe she’d already felt something and didn’t care.
It was the most dangerous hope I’d ever let myself feel.
—
We showered and changed in separate locker rooms. I took my time, letting the hot water run over my freezing skin, trying to calm my racing heart. When I met her in the lobby, she was holding two coffees from the vending machine.
“Figured you needed this.” She handed me one. “You were shivering.”
“Thanks.”
We walked to her car in silence. The morning air bit at my wet hair, and I felt hyper-aware of everything—the way she walked, the way she glanced at me, the way she didn’t mention what had happened in the pool.
“Want to grab breakfast or something?” she asked as we got in.
“It’s seven-thirty.”
“I know. I’m hungry.”
We ended up at a diner near my place. She talked about her boyfriend—the break, the fights, the way he didn’t understand her—and I listened, nodding in the right places, thinking about her hand against my trunks.
When she drove me home, I don’t know what made me ask.
“Want to come in? Just for a bit.”
She hesitated. I saw the calculation in her eyes—the boyfriend, the break, the line she might or might not want to cross.
“Sure,” she said finally. “Just for coffee.”
—
My place was small and messy, but she didn’t seem to mind. We sat on my couch, drinking the coffee she’d bought, watching some morning show neither of us cared about.
Then she kissed me.
It happened so fast I didn’t have time to process it. One minute she was laughing at something I said, and the next she was straddling my lap, her lips against mine, her hands in my hair.
I got hard immediately. Painfully hard. Or as hard as I ever got, which was still pathetic by most standards, but it felt like everything. My whole body thrummed with want.
“Upstairs,” I breathed against her mouth.
She pulled back, studying me. “You sure, Mr. Vanilla?”
“Yes.”
We stood up. I took her hand. And in the thirty seconds it took to walk up the stairs to my bedroom, my erection vanished completely.
It was the nerves. The anxiety that had lived in my chest my entire adult life, the voice that whispered she’s going to see, she’s going to know, she’s going to laugh. By the time we reached my room, I was soft again. Tiny. Shrunk against my thigh like it wanted to hide.
I left the lights off.
—
“Let me…” I knelt between her legs, pulling down her leggings and underwear in one motion. She lifted her hips to help, and I tried not to think about my own clothes, my own body, the thing between my legs that wasn’t cooperating.
I went down on her because it was the only thing I could do. My mouth, my fingers—those I could control. My cock had its own agenda, and that agenda involved cowering in fear.
She tasted like chlorine and sweat and something underneath that was purely her. I licked and sucked and tried to remember everything I’d learned from porn, from internet forums, from the few fumbling attempts I’d made in college that never went anywhere.
She made soft sounds. Her fingers tangled in my hair.
But I was shivering. The room was cold, and I was still damp from the pool, and my nerves were making me shake. I kept my clothes on because I couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing me—seeing it—while I was soft.
After maybe five minutes, she tugged my hair.
“My turn now.”
I looked up. Her face was flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded. She was enjoying this. And she wanted to reciprocate.
Panic clawed at my throat.
“I don’t—”
“Stand up.” Her voice was firm. Playful. “Let me see what I’m working with.”
“I’d rather keep going down on you.”
“Nice try, Mr. Vanilla.” She sat up, reaching for my shirt. “Off.”
I let her pull it over my head. My skinny chest, my visible ribs—she didn’t seem to mind those. Her hands slid down my sides, finding my waistband.
“Nikki—”
“Shh.” She hooked her fingers under my waistband and pulled down.
The cold air hit me first. Then her eyes.
She stopped. Her gaze fixed on my crotch, on the tiny, shriveled thing that sat there—barely an inch, the head barely visible, my balls tight and small from the cold and the fear.
Silence.
Then: “Oh my god.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“It looks like…” She tilted her head, a smile spreading across her face. “Like a little cashew.”
My face burned. My whole body burned.
“A cashew,” she repeated, laughing now. “That’s so cute.”
“Please don’t—”
“That little thing is not coming anywhere near me.” She giggled, and the sound cut through me like a blade. “No wonder you’re Mr. Vanilla. You’re barely even vanilla. You’re like… vanilla bean. Tiny little speck.”
I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
But I was also hard again. Pathetically, painfully hard, my three-and-a-half inches straining toward her despite everything.
She noticed. Of course she noticed.
“Get back on your knees,” she said, her voice shifting. “You can eat me out. Fingers only for you, hun.”
—
I did what she asked. What else could I do?
I knelt between her legs again, my pants still around my ankles, my tiny cock pointing uselessly at the air. I licked and sucked and slid my fingers inside her, and she moaned and writhed and didn’t say another word about my size.
For ten minutes, I pleasured her with everything I had: my mouth, my hands, my desperation to make up for what I lacked.
When she finally came, it was with a gasp and a shudder, her thighs squeezing my head. I felt a twisted sense of accomplishment.
Then she sat up, pulled on her underwear, and reached for her leggings.
“I’m going to go home now.” She smiled, but it was different now. Distant. “See you at work tomorrow.”
—
I didn’t sleep that night either.
I kept replaying it in my head—the way she’d laughed, the word cashew, the giggle that followed me into my dreams. I kept thinking about her face when she saw me, the surprise and amusement and something else I couldn’t name.
I thought about the boyfriend. The break. The line she’d crossed and then immediately uncrossed.
I thought about work tomorrow.
—
I saw her first thing Monday morning. She was at her desk, typing something, looking the same as she always did.
I froze in the hallway.
She looked up. Our eyes met.
“Hey, Mr. Vanilla.” She smiled. “How was your weekend?”
My face burned. “Fine.”
“Cool.” She turned back to her screen.
That was it: no whispers, no gossip, no dramatic reveal. Just Amanda, being Amanda, acting as nothing had happened.
But something had happened. Something had changed.
I spent the whole day jumping at every sound, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I caught her looking at me once across the office, and she winked.
My cock twitched.
—
It’s been three days now. We haven’t talked about it. We haven’t hung out. I’ve been too scared to ask if she wants to do anything again, and she hasn’t offered.
But I can’t stop thinking about her. About the pool. About the bedroom. About the way she laughed, the word “cashew,” and the way my whole body responded to her mockery.
I’ve never been into SPH. I’ve spent my whole life trying to hide, to compensate, to pretend my size didn’t matter. But lying awake at night, replaying that moment over and over, I feel something I’ve never let myself feel before.
Acceptance.
Maybe this is my shot. Maybe this is the only way I’ll ever have any kind of sex life—leaning into the thing I’ve always feared. Letting a woman laugh at me, mock me, use me for her pleasure while denying me mine.
Maybe being Mr. Vanilla isn’t the worst thing in the world.
I’m going to ask her out again this weekend. And this time, I won’t leave the lights off.
The End.
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