Nub Owners
A Gay Fictional Story by StubbyDick4.
Tim sat next to me, close enough that our thighs touched. His shirt read NUB OWNER – NO ENTRY WITHOUT MAGNIFYING GLASS in the same bold, stupid font. He’d ordered both of them online at three in the morning a week ago, high out of his mind, and when the package arrived, we’d put them on immediately, like uniforms, like we were pledging the worst fraternity on earth.
The couch was old — Salvation Army old. The cushions sagged in the middle, the armrests were cracked, and the whole thing smelled like dust and old sweat. Tim’s apartment was a studio with a mattress on the floor, a desk with the laptop on it, and nothing else worth mentioning. Blinds pulled. Door locked. The only light came from the screen.
Tim already had the foil ready. A little square of torn foil sitting on his knee, a small pile of clear crystals in the center. He held the glass pipe out to me, lighter in his other hand.
“Come on, Digger-style, let’s smoke this shit.”
I took the pipe. Held the lighter under the foil, watched the crystals melt into a clear liquid that crawled across the surface, and chased the smoke with the tube. Drew it deep. Held it.
That sharp chemical taste hit first — bitter, metallic, like licking a battery. Then the smoke expanded in my lungs, and I held it there, counting backward from five in my head, and let it out slow.
A few seconds later it slammed me.
Everything got sharper. The light from the laptop was brighter, more defined. The texture of the couch under my fingers was suddenly vivid — every thread, every crack in the faux leather. My heart rate spiked, not painfully, just fast, like someone had flipped a switch and turned my body up to eleven. My skin tingled everywhere, a low electric hum running from my scalp to my feet, and the horniness hit like a freight train.
Not normal horniness. Meth horniness. That deep, urgent, brain-melting need that bypassed everything rational and went straight to the core. Every nerve ending was awake and screaming. My tiny cut nub was already twitching under the shirt, pressing against the fabric like a small, desperate spike.
Tim hit it after me. He took a long drag, held it, coughed once — a sharp, dry sound — and grinned. That dirty, wide grin that meant the drug was doing exactly what it was supposed to do. His pupils were already blown, the dark circles under his eyes making them look huge.
“Fuck, that hits different,” he said, his voice already a little tighter, a little faster. He cracked his neck and reached for the laptop.
The SPH compilation started playing.
The first clip was a side-by-side: a guy with a thick, veiny eight-inch cock standing next to a guy with a stub that couldn’t have been more than two inches hard. The big guy was laughing, holding his own cock up like a baton, pointing at the other guy’s little nub. The small guy was stroking it — two fingers, rapid little pumps, the head red and shiny — and his face was flushed red with shame.
The next clip: a guy measuring himself with a ruler. The camera zoomed in. The ruler read just under three inches. His hand was shaking. Off-camera, someone laughed — a woman’s voice, high and cruel.
The next: a boy who barely had an inch, soft, standing in front of a mirror, pulling his foreskin back to reveal a tiny pink head no bigger than a marble. He was trying to get hard, stroking with one finger, and it was growing but not by much. The comments on the video scrolled across the screen: pathetic, is that it?, my clit is bigger, entry denied.
I reached under my shirt and grabbed my nub.
It was already hard — or what passed for hard. Barely longer than the first joint of my index finger, maybe two inches if I was generous with the measurement, and thin enough that my thumb and two fingers overlapped around it completely. The head was cut, bare, exposed, flushed pink and already leaking a tiny bead of precum. It stuck out from my body like a small, insistent spike — warm, hard in the minimal sense, twitching against my fingers with every heartbeat.
The meth made every sensation exaggerated. Every light stroke felt like it went straight to my brain, bypassing my spine entirely. I ran my thumb over the head, and my whole body shuddered. The precum smeared under my thumb, slick and warm, and the friction on the bare, cut skin was intense — no foreskin to buffer it, just raw nerve endings firing directly into the chemical storm in my head.
Tim did the same. He reached under his shirt, and I watched his hand move in small, tight circles. His nub was uncut — the foreskin still covering the head even when he was hard, a wrinkled sleeve of skin that slid back and forth over the tiny glans underneath. I could see the shape of it under the fabric, a small bump no bigger than a thumb, and his fingers were working it with short, practiced strokes.
“Show me that embarrassing stub,” he muttered, not looking at me, his eyes on the screen where a guy with a cock the size of an AA battery was being measured by a woman holding a tiny plastic ruler. He reached over with his free hand and grabbed mine.
His fingers completely covered my cut nub. All of it — the shaft, the head, everything — disappeared into his grip. His thumb sat on top, pressing the bare head against his palm, and he started stroking with short, fast motions. No long slides. No full-length pumps. Just rapid little jerks, his thumb grinding against the exposed head, the friction direct and unrelenting.
No foreskin to soften the contact. No extra skin to glide over the sensitive glans. Just his thumb and fingers on bare, cut flesh, and the meth making every nerve ending scream.
I moaned after a few seconds. Couldn’t help it. The sound came out of me like a reflex — a low, broken groan that matched the rhythm of his hand. My hips bucked slightly, pushing my nub deeper into his grip, but there was nowhere to go. His hand was already at the base. My cock was already fully inside his fist. There was no more of it to give.
“Fuck,” I breathed, my head dropping back against the couch. “Keep — yeah, like that.”
He grinned without looking at me. His hand kept moving — those short, tight pumps, his thumb circling the wet head, pressing the precum into the bare skin. “You’re already leaking, dude. Your little nub is just spitting.”
He was right. I could feel it — the steady bead of precum welling up from the tip, smearing across his thumb, making the head slick and shiny. My cock, for all its uselessness, was a leaker. The head flushed dark pink and stayed wet, and every time his thumb crossed the slit, a fresh wave of precum pushed out.
I grabbed his.
My fingers found his nub under his shirt — warm, soft-skinned, the foreskin bunched up over the head in a wrinkled collar. I wrapped my thumb and forefinger around it and started stroking, feeling the foreskin slide under my touch, the tiny head underneath shifting and twitching inside its hood.
“Your nub is even more mid than mine,” I grinned, squeezing his stub and pulling the foreskin back. The head emerged — small, shiny, dark pink, wet with his own precum. I pushed the skin forward again, then back, working it in slow, deliberate strokes.
Tim laughed — breathless, tight, the sound catching in his throat as I worked his foreskin over the head. “Shut the fuck up. At least mine has a turtleneck. Yours is just out there, raw-dogging the air.”
“That’s why yours hides,” I said, speeding up. “Your dick’s so small it’s playing hide and seek inside its own skin.”
He squeezed mine tighter in retaliation, and I gasped, my back arching off the couch. The meth turned the squeeze into something seismic — his fingers compressing my tiny shaft, the pressure on the bare head, the wet squelch of precum between his thumb and my skin.
We were stroking each other, sitting side by side on the sagging couch, our shirts still on, our hands buried under the fabric, working each other’s pathetic little nubs while the screen played clip after clip. Huge cocks next to embarrassing stubs. Guys measuring with rulers and laughing. Boys who barely had an inch still desperately stroking, their faces red, their fingers working furiously on almost nothing.
On screen, a woman held up her pinky finger next to a guy’s hard cock. The guy was maybe two and a half inches, fully hard, and her pinky was longer. She laughed — a bright, genuine laugh — and the guy’s cock twitched visibly. He was hard and leaking and humiliated, and his cock was still smaller than a pinky.
“Look at that poor fucker,” Tim said, nodding at the screen. His hand was still working my nub, those short rapid strokes never stopping. “At least we’re not alone.”
“We’re worse,” I said. “That guy’s at least got two and a half. I’m working with like two on a good day.”
“Two on a good day,” Tim repeated, laughing. “What about a bad day?”
“I don’t measure on bad days. I’d cry.”
He snorted and squeezed my nub again, rolling the bare head between his thumb and forefinger. The sensation made my vision blur for a second — the meth amplifying everything, the friction on the cut skin, the pressure on the head, the wet slide of precum.
The compilation kept going. A clip of a guy in a locker room, soft, his cock barely visible — a nub tucked into his pubic hair, the head hidden, the whole thing no bigger than a thumb. Other guys walked past, their cocks swinging, and someone pointed and laughed. The small guy covered himself with a towel, face burning.
Another clip: a guy on a bed, hard, stroking with two fingers. The camera zoomed in. His cock was maybe three inches, thin, the head disproportionately large for the shaft. A woman’s hand entered the frame and wrapped around it — her fingers overlapped, her palm was bigger than his entire cock, and she stroked it with an amused expression, clearly trying not to laugh.
“His is bigger than both of ours,” Tim said, watching the three-inch guy get stroked. “And she’s still laughing at him.”
“Imagine what she’d do with us,” I said.
“Retire.”
We both laughed — that fast, edgy meth laugh that came out too loud and lasted too long. His hand was still on my nub, mine still on his, and we were both twitching and leaking, and the videos kept playing, and the drug kept pushing, and the room felt small and hot and electric.
Eventually Tim slid down.
He slipped off the couch and knelt on the floor between my legs. His hands pushed my shirt up, exposing my nub — hard, cut, two inches of thin shaft topped with a flushed, wet head. It stood out from my body like a small, desperate spike, glistening with precum, the bare skin shiny under the laptop light.
He leaned in and took my entire cut nub in his mouth.
No challenge. No effort. The whole thing — shaft, head, everything — fit between his lips without him even opening wide. His mouth closed around it, and his tongue went to work immediately, circling the bare head, pressing flat against the slit, licking the precum off the surface in slow, deliberate sweeps.
I moaned loudly. My hand dropped to his head and grabbed a fistful of hair. The meth made it feel enormous — the wet heat of his mouth, the texture of his tongue on the bare, cut head, the suction as he pulled back. Every nerve ending in my cock was firing at once, and my cock was so small that his tongue could cover the entire thing in one stroke.
He sucked. His cheeks hollowed, his lips sealed around the base — which was barely an inch from the head — and he pulled. The suction was intense, focused, concentrated on the tiny surface area of my nub. His hand came up and cupped my balls, rolling them in his fingers, and the dual sensation made my hips jerk.
“Your nub tastes like nothing,” he muttered, pulling off for a second, a string of saliva connecting his lip to my wet head. “And still slaps to suck.”
He went back down. His tongue found the slit and pressed, licking the precum directly from the source, and I groaned so loud it echoed off the walls. My fingers tightened in his hair. My nub twitched in his mouth — that small, pathetic pulse, barely felt, but he caught it and hummed around it.
“Switch,” I said, my voice hoarse.
He pulled off and stood. I slid forward on the couch, leaned down, and pushed his foreskin back with my thumb. The tiny head emerged — small, shiny, dark pink, wet with precum and saliva. I leaned in and took his uncut stub completely between my lips.
It fit with room to spare.
His whole nub sat inside my mouth — the foreskin bunched behind the head, the tiny shaft resting on my tongue, the head pressed against the roof of my mouth. I sucked, pulling the foreskin forward with my lips, then pushing it back with my tongue, working it in slow, wet strokes. The head underneath was hypersensitive from the meth — I could feel it twitching every time my tongue crossed the slit.
Tim groaned above me, his hand on the back of my head. “Yeah, work that little skin back. Fuck.”
I licked the sensitive tip, circling it with my tongue, tasting the precum that leaked steadily from the slit. His nub was so small that I could fit the entire thing — head, shaft, and bunched foreskin — in my mouth without gagging. No depth. No stretch. Just a small, warm, twitching stub sitting on my tongue.
We kept switching. Back and forth — him on me, me on him, taking turns kneeling, sucking each other’s pathetic nubs while the SPH videos played on the laptop. On screen, a guy with a two-centimeter cock was getting roasted by a woman holding a pair of tweezers, pretending she needed them to stroke him. Another clip: a guy measuring his soft cock with a centimeter ruler, the reading barely hitting three. Another: a group of women laughing at a naked man whose hard cock was smaller than all of their thumbs.
We laughed at the other poor dudes while we sucked and stroked, the meth making everything loop — horny, stupid, insatiable, unable to stop, unable to get enough, unable to come but unable to quit trying.
At some point I was on my back on the couch. Tim climbed over me, his body pressing down, and our two nubs touched.
His foreskin rubbed over my bare head. The contrast was sharp — his skin sliding, gliding, wet and soft, while my cut head was raw and exposed, the friction direct and intense. He pressed his hips down and our nubs ground together, two tiny dicks humiliating each other, both of them barely there, both of them twitching and leaking and rubbing in a mess of precum and spit.
I wrapped my hand around both of them. My fingers closed easily — there was barely anything to hold. Two stubs, both under two inches, pressed together in my fist, the combined girth still less than a normal cock. I stroked them together, my fist pumping the tiny bundle, feeling his foreskin sliding against my bare head, the wet heat of both nubs mixing.
“Look at us,” Tim breathed, looking down at our hands. “Two little stubs rubbing like fucking crayons.”
“Saddest shit I’ve ever seen,” I said, stroking faster.
The SPH videos kept playing. Some guy on screen yelled “Look at that pathetic little dick!” and we both laughed, the sound tight and breathless, our hips pushing together, our nubs grinding in my fist.
The meth was peaking. Every stroke was amplified — the pressure of my fingers, the slide of his foreskin, the wet friction on my bare head, the heat of his cock against mine. My skin was electric, my heart was hammering, and my nub felt like it was the center of the universe even though it was barely the size of a thumb.
I came first.
My nub twitched hard in our shared fist — that small, sharp pulse, barely visible — and shot a few thin drops onto my stomach. The orgasm hit differently on meth — longer, sharper, more intense, spreading through my body in waves even though the physical output was pathetic. A few thin, watery strands of cum on my shirt, barely enough to make a mark.
Tim followed right after. His uncut nub twitched under the foreskin, the head pulsing inside its hood, and he let out a tight, strangled groan. A small, weak load — a few drops that leaked out from under the foreskin and mixed with mine on my stomach. The combined mess was barely a tablespoon, a small, sad puddle on my shirt.
We collapsed. Tim rolled off me and landed on the narrow couch space beside me, his back against the armrest, his legs tangled with mine. We lay there breathing hard, chests heaving, the shirts still on — MICROPENIS CLUB – ENTRY DENIED and NUB OWNER – NO ENTRY WITHOUT MAGNIFYING GLASS — both of us still wearing our stupid uniforms.
Our nubs were half-hard and shiny, still twitching faintly with the aftershocks. Mine was softening, the bare head retracting, the shaft shrinking back toward my body. His was still wrapped in foreskin, the head hidden, the whole thing pulling back into a wrinkled, tiny lump.
The laptop was still playing. A new clip — a guy with a micropenis being measured by a doctor, the ruler showing less than two inches erect. The doctor’s face was carefully neutral. The patient’s face was bright red.
We watched it in silence for a minute, breathing, coming down, the meth still humming in our veins.
Tim reached for the foil.
“One more round,” he said, grinning. He held up the pipe and the lighter, his other hand already reaching for the laptop. “This time with the ruler. Your nub needs a fresh humiliation, no cap.”
I looked at him. At the shirt. At the foil. On the screen, the doctor was writing something on a chart, and the patient was trying not to cry.
My nub, still half-hard, still tiny, still barely visible against my body, twitched once under the shirt.
“Get the camera too,” I said.
Tim’s grin widened.
The End.
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