Awww, He Feels Left Out
An SPH Experience by 5thevibes.
Let me back up.
—
Freshman year housing stuck me with Devin. Six-foot-four, shoulders like a doorframe, the kind of guy who made the whole dorm hallway feel smaller when he walked through it. And within the first month, I’d seen him naked more times than I’d seen my own father that year.
He was one of those guys who was just completely unbothered about it. Towel over his shoulder instead of around his waist, strolling from the communal bathroom to his closet, swinging. And I mean swinging—soft, his cock hung heavy and thick, bouncing off his thigh with every step, the head hanging down at a length I couldn’t believe was a resting state.
I did the math the first time I saw it and felt my stomach drop through the floor: his soft dick was noticeably bigger than mine was hard. Not by a little.
Me, I was the guy who changed underwear inside his pants. I’d time my showers for when he was in class. He caught me naked a handful of times anyway—3 a.m. bathroom trips, one towel malfunction—and he never said a word. Not once. Not a joke, not a lingering glance, nothing. At the time I thought he was being polite.
Later I understood he was being kind the way you’re kind about something that goes without saying, because mentioning it wouldn’t change it.
Then there were the gray pajama pants. No boxers underneath, and that fat, obvious pendulum swing when he padded to the fridge or to class. Girls on our floor would stop mid-sentence when he walked by. I owned the same pants. On me, the front hung flat and smooth as a Ken doll.
—
Sophomore year, he started dating Kayla, a girl from his bio class. Petite, dark-haired, with a raspy laugh and an ass that made strangers walk into doors. She was at our place constantly, and I was the permanent third wheel—every movie night, every takeout order, every hangout.
And then the disappearances started. Mid-conversation, they’d just be gone, and through the wall I’d hear her—actually hear her, moaning like something was being done to her that she couldn’t believe was happening—and then, four or five minutes later, they’d stroll back out. Her hair wrecked. Him with this lazy, smug calm. And we’d resume the movie.
The first time, I said, “Damn, that was fast.” I meant it as a dig at him. They both laughed, and I felt like I’d landed a point.
By the fourth or fifth time, I’d stopped commenting, because I’d slowly figured out the joke was on me. The moaning I heard wasn’t a whole session. The moaning was her finishing. He was getting her off in the time it took me to microwave a burrito, and then they’d come back out and hang with me because the work was done. It wasn’t that he was fast. It was that she was finished—thoroughly, repeatedly finished—and they had the rest of the evening to kill.
I’d lie in the dark after lights-out, listening to the longer sessions, jerking my little dick with two fingers, hard and ashamed in equal measure, trying to imagine what it would even feel like to make a woman sound like that.
—
Junior year, spring semester, a Friday with no plans. The three of us were playing would-you-rather and passing a joint back and forth, and somewhere around the fourth round the questions stopped being funny-ha-ha and started being filthy. Kayla kept answering while looking straight at me. Would you rather watch or be watched? She’d bite her lip when she said it. And Devin was handsy with me in a way he’d never been—rubbing my back, squeezing my shoulder, dropping a hand onto my thigh when he laughed. I told myself it was the weed.
By the time we got back to our place, the game was basically foreplay. They started going at it on the couch right next to me—kissing hard, her hand down his pants, his up her shirt—and I should have gone to my room. I didn’t. I sat there with my hand pressed flat over my crotch, half to hide how turned on I was, half because pressing down was all I had.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. She pulled her mouth off Devin’s, looked right at the lump of my hand in my jeans, and gave me a smile I have never forgotten. Not hungry. Sweet. Pity, wearing lipstick.
“Awww,” she said. “He feels left out, baby. Shall we include him and finish the game of would you rather?”
Devin didn’t even look surprised. “Go sit on his lap and make him feel included.”
I laughed—uncomfortable, high, telling myself it was a bit; they were messing with me—while she stood up, peeled her shirt off on the way over, and lowered herself onto my lap, facing me, her weight settling right down onto my crotch.
And I watched her face change.
The grin flickered. Her eyebrows did this tiny, confused thing. She shifted her hips—grinding, searching—and I felt her do it: she was hunting for my dick. Trying to find the bulge that should have been pressing up against her hot little pussy through her shorts. And there was nothing. Just my pubic bone and my hand and my shame, and she knew it, and I knew she knew it.
“Um,” she said. Then, over her shoulder: “Babe. Come here.”
Devin walked over, cock already out of his pants, sticking straight out from his body—nine inches if it was one, thick as my wrist, a fat vein running up the top. He stood next to us, casual, like he was showing her a new grill.
She looked at his. She looked down at my lap, where my hand was still clamped over my fly like a lid.
“Show her,” Devin said. Not mean. Matter-of-fact. The tone of a man who’d seen me naked for three years and had finally been given permission to stop pretending.
My hands shook unzipping. I pushed my pants down and my dick—painfully, achingly hard, the hardest I had ever been in my life—sprang up. Barely four inches of it, curving up off my body, so skinny the head poked out past a two-finger grip.
Kayla’s mouth fell open. Then the laugh escaped before she could catch it—a startled little bark.
“Oh, my god. I thought—I thought you were hard and it was just, like, hiding.” She stared. “That’s it? That’s you hard?”
“That’s him hard,” Devin said. “It’s okay, man. It’s not your fault.”
It’s not your fault. Like I’d been in a car accident.
She reached down and took it between her thumb and two fingers—the way you’d hold a crayon—and stroked twice, studying it with genuine fascination, like something behind zoo glass.
“It’s so cute,” she decided.
That word did something to my brain that never un-did. My dick twitched hard in her fingers, and she giggled. “Oh my god, it kissed me.”
—
What happened next, people assume, was a threesome. It was more like a show I was permitted to be part of.
She pushed Devin down onto the couch and climbed on, and I was invited to stay. That was the entire invitation: stay. I sat right beside them, three feet away, my little dick sticking up like a thumb, and watched nine inches open her up—watched her lips spread and stretch and cling to his shaft on every stroke, watched her take inch after inch that I didn’t have to give.
“Babe,” she panted at me over her shoulder, bouncing, “put your hand here.” She grabbed my wrist and pressed it low on her belly, just above her pubic bone, and I felt him through her—a ridge of pressure sliding up under her skin, deeper than anything of mine had ever reached in my life. “Feel how deep? That’s what I’ve been doing behind your wall for two years.”
I was leaking. Untouched, leaking, a bead of precum sliding down my shaft, because by then humiliation and arousal were the same organ in me.
And then Devin—still fucking her, still making her shake—leaned over sideways without a word and took my whole dick in his mouth.
All of it. That’s the part nobody believes until they’ve been the small one in the room. Four inches fits entirely in a mouth. He swallowed my cock and both my balls in one motion, nose pressed flat against my pubic bone like there was nothing in the way—because there wasn’t. His tongue worked the entire shaft at once, because the entire shaft was right there.
Kayla looked down at it—my whole package vanishing between his lips, him barely moving—and she lost her mind. The sight of it, the shock of it, the sheer shame of it detonated something in me at the same moment, and I came first—about ninety seconds in, total. My little dick pulsed, and I shot into my roommate’s mouth with a sound I didn’t recognize as my own voice.
He didn’t pause. He swallowed, kept me in, kept his tongue going—and watching him take my load without breaking rhythm while she rode him pushed her over the edge. She came grinding down on him, screaming the wall-moan, the real one, and her clamping down on him dragged Devin right after her. He pulled out, ripped the condom off, and shot thick ropes across her stomach while she cooed and milked him.
I sat there spent, softening, shrinking back down to my resting two inches, in a room that smelled like all three of us.
She caught her breath, looked at my limp, twitching, useless little dick, and delivered the sentence that has lived in my head rent-free ever since:
“Don’t worry. You lasted longer than I thought you would.”
—
They kept me around after that. That’s the part that messes with me most. It wasn’t a one-time mercy inclusion—it became a standing arrangement, and my role in it was never once in question.
Sometimes she’d jerk me while she rode him—two fingers and a thumb, flicking her wrist like she was winding a watch, chatting with Devin about his cock the whole time, barely acknowledging mine except as a chore to finish. Sometimes they’d park me on the floor next to the bed and make me watch from a foot away while she narrated exactly what his did that mine couldn’t. Once she laid us side by side, both hard, her hand flat across both like a measuring stick, and announced to the room that he was “at least two and a half of him.” Once—only once—she let me put it in. I lasted eleven strokes. She counted them out loud, and when I came, mortified, she patted my head and said, “Good job.”
At some point in every session, one of them would let me know exactly what I was. Cute. A snack. A warm-up. Her favorite little toy. I once overheard her telling her roommate, not knowing I was in earshot: “Honestly, it’s like a clit with balls. I’ve gotten weirdly attached to it.”
That’s the thing I couldn’t have explained to anyone at twenty: being the smallest guy in the room didn’t shrink me. It freed me. Every woman I ever got naked for afterward met a version of me that already knew the score—because Kayla had read it to me out loud, with my roommate’s cock inside her.
—
I’m older now—a lot of water, a lot of women, a lot of quiet comparisons under the belt. But college was where I got my diagnosis, and Devin and Kayla were the doctors.
He was tall and hung and kind about it. She was gorgeous and honest about it. And the hottest experience of my entire life—the one that will live in my mind rent-free forever, the one I still think about with my hand down my pants—was the night I found out, in front of the two most attractive people I knew, exactly what I am.
Barely four inches. Cute. It kissed her.
I never stood a chance. And God help me, I’m glad I didn’t.
The End.
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