SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

I’ve been wearing my girlfriend’s underwear for a few weeks now. It started as a joke—she left a pair at my place, and I tried them on after a shower out of curiosity. They were a size medium, stretchy cotton, with a little lace trim. They fit perfectly. Hugged my hips, didn’t gape at the front. Men’s boxer briefs always have that extra fabric pouch meant for a bulge I don’t have. Her panties just… sit flat. Comfortable. She found out when she saw them in my laundry and laughed, but not meanly. She said it made sense. She knows I’m small. She’s seen me hard, soft, everything. She knows my cock barely pokes out from my body, like a little nub that disappears into my pubes. So yeah, her underwear fits better.

Today, she asked me to come with her to the mall. Her dad needed new boxers, and her brother needed some too. She said she could maybe look for something for me while we were there. I said sure, not thinking much of it. I’d never been underwear shopping with a girl before. I figured it’d be boring, maybe a little awkward, but nothing major.

The store was one of those big department stores with rows of packaged underwear. My girlfriend went straight to the men’s section, holding her phone with the list of sizes on it. Her dad wears a large, her brother a medium. She grabbed a pack of Hanes boxer briefs for her dad, then one for her brother. Then she turned to me.

“Let’s see if they have anything for you,” she said, scanning the shelves.

I followed her down the aisle. The walls were covered with male models in tight briefs and boxers, all of them with obvious bulges, perfectly shaped. I felt my face heat up. My cock twitched in her panties, like it knew real men surrounded us. I tried to focus on the packaging.

She picked up a three-pack of Calvin Klein trunks. The model on the front had a thick, visible outline straining against the fabric. She turned the package over, looked at the pouch size, then looked at me. Her eyes dropped to my crotch for a split second. She shook her head, just barely, and put the pack back on the shelf.

“Too much fabric,” she said quietly. “You’d swim in those.”

I knew she was right. If I wore those, the pouch would be empty, sagging. Anyone looking would see that there was nothing inside. But hearing her say it out loud, in a store full of people, made my stomach clench.

She picked up another pack—briefs this time, tighter cut. She held them up, examined the front panel, then glanced at me again. This time, she tilted her head as if she were calculating. Then she shook her head again, a little more emphatic.

“No,” she said, almost to herself. “Still too big. You’d have a gap.”

She put them back. I stood there, hands in my pockets, trying to look casual. My girlfriend kept browsing, pulling packs off the shelf, checking them, rejecting them. At one point, a store attendant came over, a young guy probably our age, and asked if we needed help.

“We’re looking for something for my boyfriend,” she said, smiling.

The attendant looked at me, then at the packs in her hand. “What size are you?”

I opened my mouth, but my girlfriend answered first. “Something small. He doesn’t need much room, if you know what I mean.”

She said it playfully, like it was a joke between us. The attendant laughed, not getting it. I forced a smile. My face was burning.

The attendant showed us a few more options—different cuts, different brands. My girlfriend kept shaking her head. After a few minutes, the attendant moved on. She finally put down the last pack and sighed.

“None of these will work,” she said. “Let’s just look online later. Or maybe…”

She paused. I knew what was coming.

“Maybe we should check the boys’ section,” she said, keeping her voice low. “A large in boys might fit you. They’re cut smaller.”

Boys large.

I felt the humiliation settle deep in my gut, heavy and cold. She was going to take me to the kids’ aisle, for children. My girlfriend would buy me underwear from the boys’ section because a grown man’s small doesn’t even qualify for men’s sizes.

“No,” I said, my voice tight. “I’m fine. I can just keep wearing yours.”

She laughed softly and squeezed my arm. “It’s okay, babe. I don’t mind. They look cute on you.”

We left the store. She carried the bags for her dad and brother—men’s underwear, proper sizes, full pouches. I walked beside her, empty-handed, feeling the waistband of her panties against my skin. They were white with a little bow on the front, and they fit me perfectly. Flat. Smooth. No bulge to betray.

She looked over at me and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll find something online that works. Maybe a brand that runs small. Or I’ll just buy you more of mine.”

She meant it kindly. She’s always kind about it. But it still stung. I’m a grown man who can’t fill out a pair of boxers, whose girlfriend has to shop for him in the kids’ department. I’m the guy who wears his girlfriend’s panties because they actually fit.

And she knows. She knows exactly how small I am. She’s seen it, touched it, tried to fuck it. And she still chose me. But that doesn’t stop the shame. It doesn’t stop the image of her shaking her head at a pair of men’s trunks, silently confirming that I don’t have enough cock to fill them.

I guess this is my life now—a man in his girlfriend’s underwear, shopping for boys’ large. And I’ll probably say yes when she offers to buy me a pack because they’ll fit. And I’m too small for anything else.

 

The End.

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