Daily Dose of Humiliation
An SPH Experience by DiWHYMe2.
She knows I enjoy being teased. Humiliated and reminded of my place. What started as bedroom dirty talk has leaked into our everyday life like a slow drip—comments about my size dropped casually into conversation, little reminders that she notices, that she remembers, that my inadequacy amuses her.
I’m around four inches when fully hard. Soft? Maybe an inch. A little nub that barely makes a bulge in my boxer briefs.
She keeps me denied. It’s been months since I’ve been inside her. But I can always count on the daily tease.
—
It started about two years ago.
We were in bed, post-foreplay, and she’d been working me over with her hand. I was hard—fully hard, all four pathetic inches on display. She looked down at my cock, then up at me, and said:
“This is it, isn’t it? This is as big as it gets.”
My face burned. My cock twitched.
She noticed both.
“Oh,” she breathed, smiling. “You like that.”
She gave me a few more strokes, watching my reaction carefully.
“You like being reminded that you’re small.”
I came harder than I had in years.
—
After that night, the comments came more frequently.
At first, just in the bedroom. She’d whisper things while jerking me off—calling me her “little guy,” asking if I could even feel her hand, joking that she needed a microscope to find my cock when it was soft.
Then it bled into the rest of our life.
We’d be watching a movie, some actor would strip down, and she’d casually mention: “Now that’s a real cock. Not like yours.”
We’d be at the grocery store, passing the produce section, and she’d pick up a cucumber, examine it, and say: “This is what, six inches? Almost double what you’re working with.”
We’d be getting dressed in the morning, I’d drop my towel, and she’d glance at my soft nub and snort: “Adorable. Like a little button.”
Every day. Some comment. Some reminder. Some little needle of humiliation that kept me hard and horny and desperate.
—
Last Tuesday, I came home from work to find her in the kitchen, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties.
She smiled when she saw me. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey.”
“Long day?”
“Long enough.”
She set down the dish she was washing and dried her hands. Then she walked over to me, dropped to her knees, and looked up with big, innocent eyes.
My heart raced. My brain short-circuited.
Holy shit, I thought. I might actually get some head.
It had been so long. Months since her mouth had been anywhere near my cock. I was already getting hard just from the visual—her on her knees, looking up at me, her hands resting on my thighs.
She reached up and undid my belt. Slow. Deliberate. The zipper came down. She tugged my pants and boxer briefs down in one motion.
My cock sprang free—well, “sprang” is generous. It kind of flopped. Half-hard, maybe two inches, twitching with anticipation.
She stared at it.
Then she reached out with two fingers and wiggled it.
Back and forth. Like a toy. Like something amusing and small and not at all sexually threatening.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
—
The question hung in the air.
She wasn’t being mean. She wasn’t even being particularly mocking. She sounded genuinely curious—like she was asking a real question about a real problem.
I stammered something. I don’t even remember what.
She stood up, patted my cheek, and walked back to the sink.
“Maybe tomorrow, little guy. Keep dreaming.”
I stood there with my pants around my ankles and my half-hard cock bobbing in the air, more turned on than I’d been all month.
—
The object comparisons are her favorite.
It started with the usual suspects—cucumbers, bananas, the occasional eggplant. She’d hold them up, measure them against her hand, and announce how much bigger they were than me.
But over time, the objects got smaller.
A travel-sized toothpaste tube. “Still bigger than you.”
Her pinky finger. “About the same length, honestly.”
A AAA battery. “Soft, you’re probably smaller.”
A tube of lip balm. “This is thicker, too.”
Last week, we were at dinner with friends, and she pulled a travel-sized hand sanitizer out of her purse. She held it under the table, showed it to me with a wink, and whispered: “If you were soft right now, this would win.”
I spent the rest of the meal adjusting myself under the table.
—
Yesterday, she took it to a new level.
We were cleaning up after dinner, and she pulled a ruler out of the junk drawer.
“Let’s settle this once and for all.”
My stomach dropped. My cock stirred.
“Right here? Now?”
“Right here. Now. Drop ’em.”
I hesitated. She raised an eyebrow.
“Unless you’re scared.”
I dropped my pants.
She got on her knees—again, my heart leaped—and positioned the ruler against my soft cock. She had to press it against my pelvis to get any kind of measurement.
“One inch,” she announced. “Maybe one and a quarter if we’re generous.”
She stood up and wrote “1.25” on a sticky note, then stuck it to the fridge.
“For reference,” she said, grinning.
—
This morning, I woke up to her scrolling through her phone in bed.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” She turned the screen toward me. It was an Amazon listing for a “mini vibrator”—three inches, marketed as “discreet and compact.”
“Look,” she said, pointing. “This is smaller than you hard. But bigger than you soft.”
She added it to her cart.
“I’m going to buy it and compare. I’ll let you know who wins.”
—
I haven’t been inside her in four months.
But every day, I get my tease. My reminder. My little dose of humiliation that keeps me hard and horny and desperate.
Sometimes it’s a comment. Sometimes it’s a comparison. Sometimes it’s her dropping to her knees and wiggling my soft cock like a curiosity.
Today, she sent me a text while I was at work.
Found a new comparison—a glue stick. Guess who’s smaller?
I didn’t have to guess.
I was hard for the rest of the afternoon.
—
She’s home now. I can hear her in the bedroom.
I’m sitting in the living room, typing this, my cock already stiff in my pants.
She just texted me from the other room.
Come here. I want to show you something.
I have a feeling I’m about to get today’s tease.
I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.
The End.
