A Shower I Won’t Forget
An SPH Experience by laprats.
It was new. Too new. A sleek rectangle of treated pine and frosted glass, but the glass only went up about four feet. Above that, open air. And inside, through the wide doorway, I could see the poles.
Not separate stalls. Not curtains. Just a concrete floor, four central metal poles supporting the roof, and shower heads mounted on pipes that spiraled out from those poles like some kind of industrial sculpture. The whole room was maybe thirty feet across, open on all sides to the night sky above the glass panels. Anyone walking in could see everyone else from any angle.
My stomach dropped. I’m not a small guy—six foot one, broad shoulders, lanky frame. But my cock? That’s where nature decided to play a joke. Soft, I barely clear two inches. Hard, maybe four and a half on a good day, and skinny enough that I’ve always been self-conscious about it. The kind of dick that makes you avoid locker rooms, skip public pools, time your showers like a covert operation.
I figured I’d just go late. After dark, when most families and couples were tucked into their sleeping bags. Saturday night, I waited until nearly eleven PM, the campsite quiet except for the occasional crackle of dying embers. I grabbed my towel, my soap, and walked over to the shower building with my heart hammering.
Empty. Perfect. The concrete floor was still wet from earlier users, the air humid and warm. I picked the middle pole—closest to the center of the room, with a shower head that angled down from about seven feet up. I stripped off my clothes, draped my towel over the hook on the pole, and stepped under the spray.
Hot water. Fuck, it felt good. The tension in my shoulders melted as the steam curled around me. I stood there, eyes closed, letting the water run down my chest and legs. The open roof above showed a sliver of moon, and for a few minutes, I actually felt free. No one around. No one to judge.
But the water was warm, and my hand wandered. I don’t know why I started jerking off. Habit, maybe. The privacy of it. I was already half-hard from the heat, and I wrapped my fingers around my shaft, pumping slowly, the water slicking the way. My cock swelled to its full size—pitiful, really, compared to what I’d seen in porn or even in high school locker rooms. But it was mine, and it was hard, and I let myself enjoy the feeling for a moment.
That’s when I heard the footsteps.
My eyes snapped open. The shower door—the main entrance—had a squeaky hinge, and I’d definitely heard it. I froze, my hand still wrapped around my cock, water streaming down my face. I turned my head slowly, hoping it was just someone grabbing something from the bench.
No. A guy walked in. He was young, maybe my age or a year younger, but shorter—five eight at best, stocky build, with dark hair plastered to his forehead from the humidity. He was already naked. He must have stripped outside or just walked in from his tent that way. And he was carrying a small bottle of shampoo.
But I didn’t notice the shampoo. I noticed his cock.
Soft. Hanging. And it was easily bigger than mine, hard. I mean, thick as two of my fingers pressed together, at least five inches flaccid, with a heavy, swollen-looking head that peeked out from his foreskin. His balls hung low, full, hair trimmed short. It was the kind of cock that made you forget what you were doing.
He stopped walking about ten feet from me. His eyes locked onto my hand. Onto my tiny, pathetic hard-on.
I didn’t even realize I was still gripping it until he smirked. That slow, knowing curl of his lips. He let his gaze travel from my face to my chest, down to my waist, and then stay there. He wasn’t looking away. He was staring.
Panic hit me like a cold wave. I let go of my cock like it was on fire, cupping my hands over it, trying to hide. My face burned. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, reddening my ears.
“I—shit—I’m sorry,” I stammered, turning half away, but there was nowhere to go. The pole was behind me. The shower head was still running. I could feel his eyes on my back, on my ass, on the way I was hunched over like a scared kid. “I didn’t think anyone was—I mean, I thought I was alone.”
He didn’t say anything at first. He just walked to the pole directly across from mine, maybe twelve feet away, and set his shampoo bottle on the little ledge built into the concrete. Then he turned to face me fully.
“Jeez,” he said, and his voice was calm, almost bored. “I’d think a tall guy like you would have a big cock. But clearly that’s not true.”
He laughed. A short, sharp laugh that echoed off the wet floor. And then he reached up and turned on his own shower head.
The water hit him, and he didn’t hide a thing. He stood there, hands on his hips, letting the spray cascade down his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. His soft cock hung there, thick and dark, already half-swelling from the warmth. He made a show of it—arching his back slightly, tilting his hips forward so that I could see every inch. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle. He was displaying himself.
And I couldn’t look away.
My hands were still cupped over my own dick, but that only made it worse. I could feel how small it was against my palm. How thin. How utterly inadequate compared to the meat hanging between his legs. He was shorter than me by half a foot, and he had a cock that made mine look like a child’s.
“Don’t cover up,” he said, soaping his chest. “It’s just a shower. We’re both guys.”
I heard the mockery in his voice—the condescension. But I also heard something else—an invitation, maybe, or a challenge. I slowly lowered my hands.
My hard-on had softened from the shock, but it was still there, a shriveled pink thing barely poking through my pubes. I watched him watch it. His eyes narrowed, and that smirk came back.
“Yeah,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That’s about what I figured.”
He lathered up his cock, working the soap between his palms before wrapping his hand around the shaft. It grew. Fast. In seconds it was fully hard, jutting out from his body at a slight upward angle, at least seven inches of thick, veiny flesh. The head was a deep purple, slick with soap, and the whole thing looked like it belonged on a different species.
I felt my own dick twitch. Not with arousal—with shame. It was so small in comparison that I couldn’t even call it a competition.
He stroked himself slowly, deliberately, keeping eye contact with me the whole time. Water ran down his body, pooling at his feet. The steam wrapped around us both, and the only sounds were the spray and his soft breathing.
“You know,” he said, his voice low, almost conversational, “I’ve never seen someone so tall with such a tiny dick. It’s almost funny. Like, you must know, right? You must have seen it in the mirror and thought, ‘Well, at least I’m tall.’ But it doesn’t help, does it?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know why I answered maybe because it was true.
“No,” I whispered. “It doesn’t.”
He laughed again, but it was softer this time. Almost friendly. “Don’t worry, man. Some guys just drew the short straw. You’re not the only one.”
He turned his back to me then, facing the pole, and let the water rinse the soap off his body. His ass was round and tight, muscles flexing as he moved. I stood there, my own pathetic erection wilting, watching him wash himself without a care in the world.
I didn’t finish my shower. I turned off the water, grabbed my towel, and wrapped it around my waist. He glanced over his shoulder as I walked past.
“See you around, tall guy,” he said. And he winked.
I didn’t sleep well that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his cock. I saw his smirk. I heard his voice telling me exactly what I already knew—that I was a punchline, a joke, a tall man with a small dick.
But somewhere in that humiliation, there was a strange thrill. A kind of twisted relief that someone had finally said it out loud. That I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
And I knew, deep down, that I’d never forget that shower. Or him. Or the way he made me feel so small in a building with no walls.
The End.
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