Bobby’s Little Cock
An SPH Experience by athletiphile.
His roommates were out for the night. He’d ordered a pizza, we’d settled on the couch, and he put on The Mummy—the original with Brendan Fraser. Classic. Comfortable. We sat about a foot apart, both pretending to be interested in the movie, but the tension was thick. He kept fidgeting, adjusting his glasses, taking sips of his soda. I could tell he was nervous.
I let him stew for a while. Let him wonder if I was actually going to make a move.
About ten minutes in, I stretched my arms above my head, let out a lazy yawn, and then—casually—laid my head down on his lap.
He went rigid. Completely stiff. I felt his thighs lock up under my head. I didn’t look up, just kept my eyes on the screen, pretending to be absorbed in the movie. I could feel his breathing change—shallow, uneven. He was holding his breath. I smiled to myself.
It took a few minutes for him to relax. I let him get used to the weight of my head, the warmth of my body against his legs. When I felt his breathing even out, I placed my hand on his thigh. Just a light touch, fingers spread, resting there.
He tensed up again. Instantly. Like I’d shocked him.
I waited.
Eventually, he loosened up. I moved my hand higher, letting my fingers creep up his inner thigh. He tensed again, and I finally looked up at him.
He was wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, looking down at me like I was something dangerous. Adorable.
“You okay?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
“Fine,” he said, strangled.
I laughed. “You sure? You seem kinda tense.”
He smiled weakly, and I turned my head back to the movie, but kept my hand stroking his thigh. Slow. Reassuring. I let him settle again, inch by inch. When he finally relaxed, I moved my hand higher again—up to the very top of his thigh, right where his sweatpants bunched.
He tensed, but this time I asked, “Is this okay?”
He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
So I kept going. I slid my hand over his crotch.
He was hard. I could feel it through the fabric—a solid ridge, but small. Compact. I pressed my palm against it, and he let out a low, breathy moan. His hips bucked involuntarily.
I turned onto my back, still resting my head on his lap, and looked up at him with a grin. “Aww, is your cock hard already?”
He groaned, his eyes locked on mine. He nodded.
I stroked him through his pants, enjoying the way his breath hitched. “Want me to make you feel good?”
He nodded again, more eagerly this time.
I sat up, shifted to face him, and reached for his belt. Undid it. Unbuttoned his jeans. Pulled the zipper down slow, letting the sound hang in the air. I gestured for him to lift his hips, and I pulled his pants down to his knees.
Sitting there in his boxers, I could see the outline clearly. He was hard, but it was small—probably four inches, if that. The fabric tented modestly, a little bulge that would have been easy to miss. I grinned.
I slid off the couch and knelt on the floor in front of him. I placed my hand over his erection through the thin cotton, feeling the heat, the stiffness. I looked up at him, batted my eyelashes, and said sweetly, “Want me to suck your little cock?”
He bucked into my palm and moaned loud enough that I glanced at the wall, half-expecting a neighbor to bang back. “Yes,” he gasped. “Please.”
I pulled his boxers down.
His cock sprang up—short, maybe four inches exactly, with a slight upward curve. It was hard as a rock, the head a deep pink, a thin vein running along the shaft. It was perfect. Not too thick, not too long. The kind of cock that fits entirely in your mouth without gagging. The kind you can really work.
I didn’t wait. I leaned in and took him in one go, lips wrapping around the head, tongue pressing against the underside. He groaned—a deep, desperate sound—and his hands immediately found my hair, fingers threading through, gripping like I was his anchor.
I bobbed my head slowly at first, letting him feel every inch of my mouth. I could taste the salt of his skin, the faint musk of his arousal. He was moaning nonstop, little sounds that grew louder as I picked up pace.
“Oh fuck,” he breathed. “That feels so good.”
I hummed in response, and he shivered.
He started talking—spilling out words between gasps. “You’re so good at this. Yes, just like that. Do you like my dick? Do you like sucking my little cock?”
I nodded as best I could with my mouth full, and he moaned again. “Good girl. You’re such a good girl.”
Something about that—good girl—hit me right in the gut. I moaned around his cock, hollowing my cheeks, taking him deeper.
He didn’t last long. Three minutes, maybe four. His breathing hitched, his hips started to buck, and he warned me, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum—”
I pulled back slightly, letting the tip rest on my tongue as he came. Hot, salty spurts hit my tongue, and I tried—I really tried—to swallow, but my throat clenched. I pulled off, coughing a little, cum dribbling down my chin.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I can’t—I tried.”
He was still catching his breath, chest heaving, eyes glassy. He stared at me like I’d given him a religious experience. “That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said.
I laughed, crawling back up onto the couch beside him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Seriously.”
I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Then I’d say we did good.”
We sat there for a while, the movie still playing, his softening cock still exposed, his pants around his knees. Neither of us moved. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around me.
“Same time next week?” I asked.
He laughed, shy again. “Yeah. Definitely.”
The End.
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