Caught by the Cleaners

By BodBheag.

I’ll admit it, I was probably a little hungover.

When my friends invited me to the pub just ten minutes down the road, I told myself, ‘Just one drink.’ I had work in the morning, and my shift started *early*. It had been a little while since I’d been out with the lads, though, and I couldn’t bring myself to bring the catch-up to an early finish. One drink had become four. Or maybe six?

So when my alarm went off at 05:00, to get me out the door by 05:30, it was a challenge to face the day. My head wasn’t exactly pounding, but I was much more sluggish than usual; by the time my bag was packed, and my bike helmet was on, I was ten minutes late to leave.

I rushed out of my apartment, leaving my sleeping housemate behind me, and a quick trip to the bikeshed in the parking lot later, I was wheeling my bike outside. That was when the cold hit me; I felt goosebumps on my skin as I headed into the first frosty morning of an Irish winter. Part of me wanted to turn back, maybe put something on over my bike shorts, but I was late enough as it was. My cycle would be half an hour; I was already on track to be late if I didn’t hurry.

The roads to the microchip production line where I worked were never busy this time of morning, so usually I had a straightforward enough commute, but someone in heaven had it out for me this time. I wasn’t halfway there when the sky opened up and rained down, and each drop was ice cold. Any hope of arriving to work dry was ruined, which meant one thing was on my mind as I navigated the frigid cycle paths: I’d have to hit the showers on my way in.

A couple of hundred people worked at the factory where I did, so the bathroom facilities were large, if a bit basic. Inside the men’s locker room was a long row of urinals, then five or six stalls, and two shower units in the corner by the door. I had been told when I first got this job that the shower facilities used to be even worse than they were now: just two showerheads attached to the wall, with no curtains or privacy protectors of any kind. The older men who’d worked there for years would joke about how each and every one of your coworkers who needed to take a piss while you showered would walk right by and get an eyeful.

It sounded like a nightmare to me. When it came to public showers, I’d always felt nervous, even when I was as young as ten or twelve. I was naturally a shy person when it came to my body; even if I was desperate to release my bladder, I could never piss in a urinal. I always needed the privacy of a stall.

Growing up in rural Wexford, there had been nothing to do for fun but join the local sports club, whose showers were old, barely functioning, and horrifically open. I never understood how some lads could walk around with everything hanging out without a care in the world, while I would go bright red if anyone so much as talked to me while I was scrubbing the muck off my arms and legs.

Well, I did understand part of it; it was a matter of size. While my own…little fella was just passable size-wise when I was fully worked up, so to speak, when he was flaccid, he was truly tiny. Somedays, he’d hang down almost two inches, but if it was a cold morning, I’d often catch a glimpse of my naked form in the mirror on the way to the shower, and my dickie would be so small he’d jut out awkwardly, sitting on top of my balls like a grape lying on a pair of eggs.

At first, none of my friends or teammates back home really cared, but as they got older, they developed, and I didn’t. Nobody was that cruel to me, but everyone knew it was a sore spot for me. There were constant jokes made at my expense. Lads would draw tiny mickeys on my schoolbooks, and I got my fair share of nicknames.

But the worst was when I was sixteen. That was when it happened to me that my gear bag was stolen. I stumbled blindly out of the shower, looking for my towel, to find it missing and my gearbag not on the bench where I’d left it. I had felt sick to my stomach instantly.

One by one, my so-called friends had jeered at me while I stood in the center of the changing room, hands clamped over my twig and berries to preserve my dignity; a wasted effort, of course, because what looks more ridiculous than a man hunched over, trying to keep prying eyes away from his little willy? I still remember calling out for help.

“Lads, we’re friends. Can’t anyone lend me their shorts? A towel, even? I can’t go home like this!”

“Ah, where’s the fun in that now?” one had said.

One in particular I’d never forgiven. Greg. Half Polish, he’d only moved into our little village from Dublin a few years before, but he’d fit right in straight away. He was handsome, fit, confident, everything I wanted to be. I still remember his mocking smile.

“Your gear’s just hanging from the far goal, anyway,” Greg said and laughed.

I remember how shocked I felt. I could barely get the words out. “You stole my clothes? You hung my bag on the goal…outside?”

Greg laughed again. He clapped me on the shoulder, causing my vulnerable body to flinch involuntarily. “You’re too shy. It would be best if you loosened up. Be more confident. Aren’t you a man? Why hide like a little boy…”

At this point, he had reached for my wrists, no doubt to pull my hands away and expose my shortcomings. Everyone in this changing room had seen it all before and slagged me for it a dozen times or more, but something about this time felt different. I just couldn’t face it.

I turned and ran from the changing room, sprinting directly to the outside world, eager to get away from my humiliation. The lads cheered and ran out after me, eager to see me humiliate myself. My gear bag hung low from the goal at the far end of the pitch, a hundred yards away. As I ran for it, waddling because I was still desperately covering my small dick and balls, it started to rain that ice-cold Irish winter rain.

I shuddered at the memory, still vivid as ever. No doubt the similar weather was bringing it all back. But I wasn’t sixteen in Wexford anymore. I was twenty-eight, on the other side of the country. Not a schoolboy but a working man.

As I used my ID card to buzz in through the security gate and enter the factory grounds, I tried to shake it all from my head. That day, where I was stark naked in front of so many lads, was in my distant past now. It didn’t have to mean anything. Since then, I had never been seen naked by another man, aside from one embarrassing strip poker game I also didn’t care much to remember.

When I was naked in front of women, it was because we were about to do something that would get me excited, and then I had nothing to be ashamed of; but after that horrible day, I had never again been seen in the nip by so much as a doctor. I couldn’t even whip out my willy to piss in a urinal. Even if it was the case that the bathroom was empty, that was the extent of my humiliation, my fear of my tiny dick being spotted by another bloke.

As I locked my bike up, I checked my watch; while reminding myself of the most embarrassing day of my life wasn’t pleasant, it hadn’t hurt my cycle time. Right now, it was 06:07; I had eight minutes to shower and present myself on the factory line. We made microchips in what was technically a clean room environment, so hygiene was taken very seriously. I rushed through the sprawling complex to head towards the showers as quickly as I could.

On my way, I passed by the company gym, and a thought popped into my head, not for the first time; I could save time by using the gym showers. I wouldn’t have to make a detour for the men’s locker room; I could shower right here and head straight to my position on the floor. The only thing that stopped me was the gym shower style; they were all open, and anyone in the room could see anyone else. After being exposed to that cold rain, I knew my dick was as small as it could physically get; no way was I letting anyone see it now.

I rushed to my locker in the locker room, tossed my helmet inside, and checked my black backpack with my change of clothes. It was waterproof, so even though it had been drenched with me, I could see my clothes for today would be fine. I headed straight to the bathroom, reaching for one of the towels the cleaners put out on the bench nearest the bathroom door. I snarled with frustration when I realized the towels were still inside the plastic packaging they came in when they got laundered; the cleaners were *supposed* to open them and lay them out for us. Often, they didn’t bother.

I checked my watch; just five minutes left before I was technically late. Now, my boss wouldn’t be on the floor until 06:20, so I had five minutes leeway, but I hated to risk it. I made a beeline for the bathroom door in the corner of the locker room and found, to my horror, that a wet floor sign was set up to bar the entrance. I gingerly took a few steps inside, right opposite the showers, and looked into the room. My suspicions were proven correct; right there, mopping the stalls, were two cleaners I knew well: Ionis and Pater.

I had no opinion of Ionis, but I hated Pater. He was Lithuanian or Polish, and he was older than me by about ten years. His English was much worse than even the other cleaners, and he was chubby and bald. He was well-liked by everyone, cleaners and real staff alike, for his amiable personality, but he was always a little too friendly with me. As a cleaner, he was a different kind of employee than me, and he should act like it.

They were clearly behind their cleaning rota; this bathroom should have been ready for use half an hour ago! I was seething with rage. I couldn’t afford to use any other shower; I simply didn’t have time if I wanted to avoid being late. Without even talking to them (because their poor English would have meant it would have taken ages to explain), I slipped into the first shower cubical.

Now, ‘cubicle’ was a generous word for it because no major renovations had taken place in this bathroom since the days when it was just two showerheads on a wall in the corner of the jacks. But some accommodation for privacy had been made; a large fabric cubicle had been erected, like a square tent, with a shower curtain on a pole at the entrance. It was cramped and a bit flimsy, but in my six years of working there, I’d never come close to having my privacy violated, so I jumped into the one on the left and got to work.

Instantly, I slung my backpack to the ground and took out my toiletries. I turned the shower on and took a few steps back; it always took a minute or two to heat up. Making sure to close the curtain as well as I could, I stripped my clothes off unceremoniously and hung my towel on the small hook by the shower curtain. I could hear Ionis and Pater laughing to themselves as they worked and smiled smugly to myself; they wouldn’t be able to clean my cubicle until I was done. They had inconvenienced me through their slowness, and now I was in a position to make *them* late. It was very satisfying.

I couldn’t luxuriate too long, though; I had just a few minutes to shower and head to work.

I waited two minutes for the water to heat up, and it did, somewhat, but it didn’t even really reach lukewarm. Was it always this slow? I shuddered and decided to make do. I quickly took my shampoo and massaged it into my hair. When that was done, I took my shower gel and lathered my body head to toe, still standing beside the cold jet of water and not in it. As I did this, I was forced to confront the reality of my tiny dick again; the comparison of my twig and berries to a grape on top of a pair of eggs was somehow too generous. I tried to think of what my shrunken penis reminded me of, and the only thing that came to mind was a comparison between what lay between my legs and what lay between the legs of the women I’d been intimate with.

I burned with anger. Why should I care at all about the size of my soft cock? I had a good five inches when I was revved up and ready to go, so why should my lack of size *when it didn’t matter* bother me a jot? But it did. Even standing here alone, I felt somehow humiliated and emasculated by comparison, even when there was no one to compare with. Angry with myself for being so silly, I forced myself to walk into the jet of cold water.

I let out an involuntary squeal. The water was now ice-cold; something was seriously wrong with the showerhead. I had no time to fix it now, though. Feeling my dick and balls shrivel somehow even more. I fervently washed myself of the shampoo and shower gel. I couldn’t help but breathe heavily, panting almost like a dog, as an involuntary response to the sheer cold I was experiencing.

That was when I heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a shower curtain being pulled open.

What could be going on?

I looked over my shoulder to see the curtain at the end of the cubicle thrown open and two grinning men smiling widely, both fully dressed in their cleaners’ uniforms. Ionis and Pater.


“Paul!” the younger man called to me, his voice raised so it could be heard over the small din of the shower. You can’t be here! Didn’t you see the sign? The floors are wet. You could slip!” His voice was accented heavily. He was from some Eastern European country or other, but it was nothing in comparison to Pater’s.

“Paul, we are cleaning now, yes? It is not shower time. You…you are in the ways, yes?”

Their words were serious enough, but both men’s eyes were alight with laughter. I immediately turned back away from them. What the actual fuck! I breathed a sigh of relief; thank god I was facing the wall. All they had seen was my bare arse; a bit pale, perhaps, but my trips to the gym and my squats in particular meant I had nothing to be ashamed of there. Doubtless better than whatever flab they were hiding in their overalls.

I turned the shower off at the wall and, without turning around, tried to put a tough spin on my voice. “What are you doing? I’m naked, lads. I need to finish my shower!”

Pater’s voice answered, and I turned my head over my shoulder again to look at him while he spoke. “Paul, no, it is cleaning time. We need to mop, yes? You can finish while we clean.”

My expression went dark. Who the fuck were these fucking cleaners telling me what to do? They were here to make my life easier. I made the damn computer parts in this factory. I practically paid their salaries. And here they were, ordering me around?

I cupped my dick and balls in my hand and turned around.

“I said, I need to finish my shower. Get out!”

Or at least, that’s what I would have said. But as soon as I turned around, bent over slightly at the shoulders, hands clapped over my little fella, and my ghoulies, Pater and Ionis, burst into laughter. Proper, full-stomached, loud laughter. They even shared a little look, like “Can you believe this guy?”

I felt instantly transported back to that fateful day in the changing rooms in Wexford. I felt the embarrassment as a physical thing like someone had cracked an egg of pure mortification on my head, and I could feel it sliding down my neck and back. Or was that just the water dripping?

“I-I, I’ll j-just-” I was stumbling over my words now. The humiliation was so intense. This just had the cleaners laughing even more. I reached out with one hand for the towel, and they laughed even more; Pater began to cry literally, and Ionis bent double, a low, hallooing laugh. I started and looked down, afraid I had let my secret spill, but my dick and balls were easily contained by my left hand. Nothing had slipped out; what on earth were they laughing at?

I took a step closer to the towel, and Ionis picked it up for me and took a step towards me, about to hand me the key to my dignity. Just as I was about to grasp the garment and retain my modesty, he snatched it back. I was so surprised I almost slipped on the wet bathroom floor, and at first, I thought it was a nasty joke, but I saw only confusion in Ionis’s eyes.

“*This* is your towel?” he asked, puzzled, and I saw instantly why he was perplexed. In my haste to get to this shower, I had opened the wrong bag. These weren’t the shower towels at all. He was holding a one-foot by one-foot hand towel.

“I… I must have…”

But I couldn’t even finish. The laughter reached a level that I had never seen in a real person before. Real tears were in Pater’s eyes, and Ionis overbalanced backward, almost slipping himself, gripping the fabric cubicle for support. The whole thing shook dangerously, and I thought for a terrible moment it might come tumbling down, but it held.

After a few long moments of laughing, pointing, and slapping each other on the shoulder, they collected themselves. “You were in a hurry today, yes?” Pater smiled, panting heavily, and his eyes more alive with humor than I had ever seen them.

All I could do was nod meekly. The embarrassment, the sheer humiliation, hit me like a physical thing. What could I do to get out of this situation before it got any worse?

At this point, the two men looked at me a little more soberly and began to look a little concerned. “I’ll get you a real towel,” Ionis said, and off he went, walking across the room to the bathroom door headed for the locker room.

I breathed a sigh of relief that was short-lived. As he headed for the open door into the locker room, I could see past it into a row of lockers that lined the wall. If I could see the lockers, then anyone who came in and needed to use those lockers could look towards the bathroom and see me. With my hands still clasped firmly over my willy, I took a few awkward, waddling steps to the right, trying to get Pater’s massive body between me and the door.

He looked over his shoulder to see what I was looking at, then turned back to me. The older man then pointed directly at my crotch.

“You are shy, yes?”

There was no malice or venom in the words. Almost a gentle sadness. I shrugged as best I could while not revealing my little secret.

“Why? We are all men in this…man locker room. We should all be proud of what is given to us by god, no?”

I cringed internally. Both at the mention of god, which, as an atheist, I don’t believe in, and at the idea that I could ever be proud of anything that was hiding in my hands right now. Somehow, Pater seemed to pick up on that.

“Maybe some of us have more to be proud of than others, yes?” he said, and this time, there was a hint of something in his voice: schadenfreude. I raised my voice to protest when Pater pointed at my bag. “Strange. When we cleaned the bathroom in the men’s locker room, we found the bag unattended. It must be lost. Where should I take it? Maybe to lost and found?”

A certain mischievous delight came to his eyes. I knew what was going to happen if I let him pick my bag up. I could see it all clearly. He would leave me trapped here with no towel and no clothes, forced to…I could barely think of it. If anyone in this building saw my dick and balls in their current shrunken state, I could never look them in the eye again.

I leaped into action, lunging for my backpack. As soon as I went for it, he burst out into yet more laughter. Clearly, he had been joking; Pater had no intention of swiping my clothes. He took a step towards me and gave me a huge clap on the back. I had never felt more vulnerable, standing here, desperate to cover up, with this huge balding oaf of a man taking such painful joy at my expense.

“You worry too much,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody cares about your maža paslaptis, eh? You look like a frightened schoolboy. When I was young, we boys would swim in Nemunélis all year round, even in the wintertime. Think we had a big bybis to show off then? But we did not care. We were men!”

At this, Pater suddenly stood up straighter, beaming with a strange masculine pride I had scarcely seen before. I could imagine it so clearly…friends, brothers, classmates, teammates, all pulling themselves from the surface of a frigid February swim, all cocks rendered tiny by the overwhelming cold, each man comforted in knowing that the reduction of his manhood was common, everyday, expected; another thing that tied him to the young men around him.

Again, Pater gestured to my crotch, still tightly covered by my grasping hands, and he spoke. “What are you? A man? Or a boy?”

I couldn’t even meet his eye. I wasn’t a Lithuanian teen, naked with fellows in a river in February. I was in Ireland in November. I was alone with a man ten years older than me who could barely speak my language, and he was clothed while I was naked; he was protected by dignity while I was closer to true, pure humiliation than I had been in a decade.

“You Irish boys…” Pater lamented. “So modest. Is it the Catholic in you, yes?”

At this time, Ionis returned, giving me a small start. He held a proper, full-sized towel in his hands. He looked at me, in my ridiculous state, still stubbornly clinging to what little dignity I had left with my hands over my little willy and frozen nuts, and laughed quietly to himself again.

“You want this?” he asked, smiling wickedly.

“Please,” I said, surprised to hear how earnestly and pathetically I was begging.

Ionis shrugged. “Here you go!”

He tossed it to me, but it was a bad throw. He tossed it too high so that it would sail right over my head. As it traveled in its high arc, it began to unfold. I reached for it instinctively, desperately, eager for my embarrassment to be over and hungry for the protection the towel would give me. Without thinking, I stretched on my tippy-toes and caught it with both hands.

I knew instantly what I had done.

Pater and Ionis’ jaws dropped as they saw, for the first time, my cock and balls.

I looked down to see what they had seen.

My dick was the smallest I had ever seen before. My shaft, which I was proud to say reached a prodigious five inches when I was hard, was nowhere to be seen. My dick was almost entirely inside my body, not its usual inch, not the half-inch it could shrink to when I was cold but truly negligible. My circumcised head and piss slit emerged, barely, to sit upon the base of my scrotum, pulled so tight by the cold you could see the small eggs that were my nuts clearly.

I had never even seen a clitoris so internal. There was basically no penis there at all.

I stood, frozen in shock for a moment, expecting laughter to come, but it didn’t. Ionis and Pater looked at me like they might look at a leper or a war survivor. Ionis whispered something under his breath that I didn’t catch, and a wide smile crept across his face. “Poor fella…”

Pater clapped a hand on my shoulder again. “None of us can choose how much of a man we are, yes?”

I couldn’t argue with that.

He laughed, not the belly laugh he had been caught up in a few minutes ago, but a resigned, relieved laugh that seemed to say, ‘Thank god that isn’t me.’

“Thank you for the show,” he said, and Ionis chuckled at that. They turned to leave, walking out of the fabric cubicle without bothering to slide the shower curtain shut. Pater caught my eye just before he turned out. I was standing there frozen; I hadn’t even tried to cover up yet. I saw him take one last pitiful glance at my small, small cock, and he met my gaze with a shit-eating grin.

“See you around, little man.”

The words caused a shudder at the base of my spine. No one had ever called me ‘little man’ before. I stood there for a moment or two, naked in the cold shower room, clutching the towel to my chest. Pater and Ionis pulled the wet floor sign out with them, and for a second, I just stood there, shocked, dripping, not even knowing how I felt. Then I heard a “Finally!” and a march of footsteps as a gang of my coworkers who had been waiting for the bathroom to become available made their way in.

I barely managed to close the fabric curtain in time to avoid even more people seeing my secret shame. My hands struggled with the curtain. I was so confused and humiliated I felt almost drunk.

They knew. These cleaners, two masculine men, one younger than me, one older, they were more men than I would ever be; and now they knew it, and I knew they knew it. How would this change things between us? Would they tell their friends? My coworkers? Would they smile those knowing smiles when they saw me in the corridor? Would I walk by only to hear that belly-aching laughter behind my back?

Looking down, I was surprised to find that my lad was standing up to attention, all five thin inches pointing directly away from me. A thick bead of precum had descended halfway to the floor before I even noticed I was aroused.

I couldn’t begin to put a name to the feeling, couldn’t begin to explain the intensity of the humiliation I had just experienced, and couldn’t begin to fathom how I could have loved it so much.

A strange idea entered my mind.

Tomorrow, I will be coming in early.

I would go to the open showers of the workplace gym.

And I would turn the water cold as it would go, step under the icy jet, and show every other guy showering in the place exactly how much less of a man I was than them.

I wrapped my fingers around my dick and started tugging.

That day, I would be ten minutes late walking onto the production line.


The End.


*This story has been edited by AI to fix spelling, punctuation, formatting errors, & basic grammar, but the narrative and plot have remained the same. Even with the limited editing done here, it doesn’t mean any possible major flaws in this story were fixed (That’s the author’s job). The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been previously published on other free sites and is now public domain, which is why we can publish it here.

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