Extra Innings
A Gay Fictional SPH Story by UrinalBoy19.
Some background, so you understand what I was walking into that night: I’m a small guy all over. Five-foot-six, a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet, and the family trait that haunts me most is between my legs. Soft, I’m about an inch and a half—barely a nub, a little acorn that shrinks up even smaller when it’s cold, or I’m nervous. Hard, I top out at just under four inches, and that’s on a good day, with a ruler, pressing into my pubic bone and praying. My balls are small and tight and ride up close to my body. There’s no hanging, no sway, no weight down there. Just a modest little package that looks like it belongs on someone three years younger.
I’d learned to live with it. Mostly. But I’d also learned—through late-night internet rabbit holes I won’t detail here—that other people noticing it did something to me that I couldn’t explain. Shame that turned into heat. Humiliation that went straight to my groin. I’d never acted on it and never dared. I was a virgin who’d never even been seen naked by anyone but my doctor.
Then came the game. My uncle had gotten us tickets—good ones, third base line—and he’d spent the whole first three innings buying us beer after beer from the vendor. By the top of the fourth, my bladder was a ticking bomb. I excused myself at the between-innings break and speed-walked down the concourse to the men’s room.
It was packed. Wall to wall. The line for the stalls went six deep, and I stood there doing the pee-pee dance for a solid five minutes before I accepted reality: the stalls weren’t freeing up, my bladder wasn’t negotiating, and the urinals had a moving line. No trough, thank God—these were the individual wall-mounted kind, no dividers between them, which the stadium had clearly installed in some cost-cutting decade before privacy became fashionable.
I took a breath and stepped up to the open gap between two men.
And here’s the thing about urinals with no dividers: you don’t mean to look, but you look. Peripheral vision is a curse.
The guy on my left was a big man in a team jersey, maybe forty, thick forearms, and he was holding the fattest, heaviest soft cock I had ever seen in my life. It hung down over a pair of enormous, low-hanging balls like a firehose draped over two plums. It had to be five inches soft. He was pissing a torrent with two fingers, barely gripping it, like it didn’t even need his attention.
The guy on my right was younger, mid-twenties maybe, tall, with a beard, and his was even longer, soft—a dark, thick, veiny thing swinging slightly with the shake of his stream. He had one hand on his hip, hip cocked, utterly casual, as if being hung like a horse in public were the most boring thing in the world.
I stood between them with my heart hammering, and I did what I always do in public restrooms: the two-finger pinch. Reach in, fish the little guy out with minimal exposure, hunch over the urinal, get it done.
Except my bladder had stage fright. And my hands were shaking. And I fumbled.
I fumbled, and my dick slipped from my fingers, and I had actually to reach in and rearrange myself, and in doing so I flashed the whole row. There was no hiding it. My pants were open, my shirt rode up, and there it was: my inch and a half of soft little-boy dick, perched above my tight little sack, completely exposed for a full three seconds while I got my grip again.
I heard the guy on my right stop mid-stream.
“Whoa,” he said. Then, to his neighbor, not even quietly: “Hey. Hey. Look at this kid.”
The big man on my left looked. His eyes dropped, and his face went through a journey—surprise, then disbelief, then a slow spreading grin. “No way,” he said. “That can’t be it, kid. Where’s the rest of you?”
My face went nuclear. I stared at the urinal, trying to piss, trying to disappear. “It’s—it gets bigger,” I heard myself say, which was the worst possible defense, and I knew it the second it left my mouth.
“It gets bigger?” The bearded guy was laughing now, openly, still holding his long soft cock in his hand like a prop. “Buddy, my soft one is bigger than your hard one’s ever gonna be. Look at this.” He turned, fully, and waved the thing at me like a pendulum. “Look. This is me not even trying.”
Men were turning around from up and down the row. The line was looking. Somebody down the way wolf-whistled. And that’s when my body committed the ultimate betrayal.
I felt it happening and I couldn’t stop it. The heat in my face drained downward, the shame and the eyes and the exposure all funneled straight into my groin, and my little dick started to stiffen. Right there, in my two fingers, in front of everyone. It twitched and grew and swelled up to its full, absolute, straining maximum—all three-point-something inches of it, jutting up at a steep angle because it didn’t have enough weight to hang even a little.
And then my piss finally broke loose.
It went everywhere. With a hard-on that steep, the stream shot up and out like a fountain, splashing against the top of the urinal, spraying back onto my pants, and I panicked and tried to push my dick down, and it bent, and the stream went sideways, and the whole row of men just lost it.
“He’s pissing up!” someone howled. “The little guy’s got a boner, and he’s pissing up!”
“Like a fountain! A little bitty fountain!”
“Kid, you gotta hold it down with your thumb, look—” The big man next to me actually reached over, and with one huge finger pressed my straining little erection downward like he was adjusting a garden hose. My stream straightened out and splashed into the urinal properly, and he kept his finger there, resting on my cock, casual as anything. “There you go,” he said. “Like watering a plant.”
I finished pissing with an audience of at least ten men, all of them grinning, several of them still holding their own impressive soft cocks, and my dick stayed rock hard the entire time. There was no hiding that. No explaining it away. I was nineteen, being hosed-down-assisted at a urinal by a stranger, with a stiffy the size of a thumb, and I was so aroused I was trembling.
The big man looked down at me. His finger was still on my dick. He didn’t move it.
“You’re shaking, kid,” he said, quieter now, and something in his voice shifted—less mocking, more curious. “And you’re not telling us to stop. You into this?”
Every cell in my body screamed at me to lie. Instead I swallowed and nodded, once, and my dick throbbed under his finger, which was its own confession.
“He’s into it,” the bearded guy announced to the row, delighted. “The little guy’s into it.”
“You want us to keep going?” the big man asked me directly. “Say it out loud, kid. I’m not doing anything you don’t ask for.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Please.”
And that was it. That was the moment the men’s room became something else.
The big man—his buddies called him Hank, I learned later—wrapped his thumb and forefinger around my cock. Two fingers. That’s all it took. That’s all there was. My whole hard-on vanished into his fist with the head peeking out the top, and he started jerking me with these tiny, efficient little strokes, flicking his wrist. The absurdity of it—the visual of this huge man jacking off a dick the size of his thumb with two fingers—set the whole row off laughing again.
“Look at that, he doesn’t even need a whole hand!”
“I’ve got thumbs bigger than that.”
“Two fingers! Hank’s jerking him with two fingers like he’s winding a watch!”
I came in under a minute. I couldn’t help it. No one had ever touched me, and here was a stranger’s rough hand around my little stiffy in a public restroom with a dozen men watching, and my orgasm hit me like a freight train. I bucked my hips and came in thin, quick spurts against the urinal, whimpering, and the row of men cheered—actually cheered, like I’d hit a home run.
“Fastest relief pitcher in the league,” someone shouted.
But I was nineteen. Nineteen-year-olds reload fast, and everyone in that room could see it, because my little dick never went down. It twitched and stayed hard, dripping, hungry, and the men saw it, and the room went up again.
“He’s still up! Look at that, the little guy’s still ready to go!”
The bearded guy took a turn. Then a heavyset man in a trucker hat. Then a tall Black guy with the biggest soft cock of the entire row, who made me hold both hands around his flaccid monster while he jerked me with two fingers, so I could feel the weight of what a real man carried. They passed me around like a novelty. They made comparisons—holding their soft cocks next to my hard one, which was the single most devastating measurement of my life, because every one of them was longer soft than I was at my absolute straining peak. They made me cup their balls, one after another—big, heavy, hairy, swinging sacks that filled my small hand the way mine never could fill anything—and every man said some version of the same thing: Feel that? That’s what a man’s got. That’s what you’re missing, kid.
And I came. Again. And again. The second time took longer, and they counted my contractions out loud. The third time I was dry, shooting blanks, my little cock sore and red and overworked, and they still kept me going because I kept saying please, and they kept asking if I was sure, and I kept nodding.
They mocked me the entire time, and it was the mocking that did it, every time. “Little guy.” “Peanut.” “Acorn.” “Buddy, my nephew’s is bigger, and he’s twelve.” One man just shook his head slowly and said, “God, I’m sorry, kid,” while jerking me off, and that one sent me over the edge harder than anything.
Eventually, mercifully, my dick finally went soft—shrinking back down to its inch and a half, spent and tiny and defeated, and the men patted me on the shoulder like I’d finished a marathon. Hank zipped me up himself, tucking the little guy back in with one finger, and said, “Good hustle out there, kid.”
The bearded guy checked his phone. “Holy hell. It’s been almost an hour.”
An hour. I’d been in that bathroom for almost an hour, getting my little dick played with and jerked off to three orgasms by a rotating cast of strangers, while a playoff game rolled on without me.
I washed my hands—my shaky, trembling hands—walked back up the concourse on wobbly legs, and slid into my seat next to my uncle with my face still glowing like a stadium light.
“Where the hell were you?” he demanded. “The line was that long?”
“Something like that,” I said.
On the field, they were putting up a new pitcher. My pants were still damp and smelled like piss. My soft little dick was tucked up against my body, sore and satisfied, and when I closed my eyes I could still feel that huge rough finger pressing me down like a garden hose, and a whole row of men laughing, and my own voice saying please.
We won the game in extra innings.
I didn’t see a single pitch of theirs. I’ve never regretted it once.
The End.
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