SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

This reader had a fun game night…

It had been a couple of years since that awkward incident at the wellness center, and I’d kept it buried deep, just another private thrill to revisit on lonely nights. Life moved on, and so did I—new job, new circle of friends, and eventually, this girl named Donna, whom I’d met through a mutual buddy at a casual trivia night.

She was sharp, with that effortless laugh and curves that turned heads, especially her full, round ass that she knew I couldn’t resist commenting on during our flirty texts. We’d been hanging out for a few weeks, nothing physical yet—just coffee dates, late-night chats about movies and music. She had no clue about my size hang-up; I wasn’t about to spill that early.

One Friday evening, a group of us—maybe eight or nine people from work and beyond—gathered at Jake’s apartment for a low-key game night. Board games, cheap beer, and snacks scattered across the living room. Donna and I arrived together, she in these tight jeans that hugged her hips just right and a loose top that dipped low when she leaned forward. We claimed spots at the big wooden table for Cards Against Humanity, but as more folks trickled in, space got tight.

“Scoot over,” she teased, plopping down onto my lap without a second thought, her weight settling warm and firm against my thighs.

I wrapped an arm around her waist instinctively, inhaling the faint vanilla from her hair. She was in full flirt mode from the start, shifting her hips in little circles as she reached for cards, giggling at the ridiculous prompts. Now and then, she’d lean way over the table to grab a drink or point at someone’s hand, arching her back just enough to give me a teasing glimpse of that perfect ass straining against the denim.

I knew she was doing it on purpose—our conversations had touched on my weakness for a good backside, and she loved playing into it. My dick responded immediately, stiffening in my jeans, but even at full mast, it was modest, pressing up but not making much of a bulge. I shifted under her, trying to play it cool, but the friction from her subtle wiggles had me throbbing, that familiar mix of arousal and quiet insecurity bubbling up. We hadn’t crossed that line yet; hell, we hadn’t even kissed properly. This was all buildup, electric and torturous.

The game dragged on for what felt like hours—laughs echoing, cards flipping, Donna’s body heat seeping through our clothes. She ground down once or twice during a heated round, pretending to adjust for comfort, and I bit back a groan, my small erection trapped and insistent against her. By the end, as everyone packed up and said goodbyes, I was buzzing, ready to suggest walking her home like we usually did.

The night air was crisp as we strolled the few blocks to her building, streetlights casting long shadows. But Donna was quieter than usual, her hand in mine, but her steps measured, like she was chewing on a thought. “Everything okay?” I asked, squeezing her fingers.

She glanced up, those dark eyes hesitant under the glow of a passing car. “Yeah, just… during the game, were you not turned on by me?” Her voice was soft, almost shy, but direct.

It hit like a gut punch—had I seemed distant? I rushed in, words tumbling out. “No, god no—I was so excited. What were you doing? That ass of yours? Driving me crazy.”

She paused on the sidewalk, tilting her head, biting her lip like she was debating. Then it came: “Well… I couldn’t really feel you get hard through your pants. So it didn’t seem like you were that into it.” Her cheeks flushed a little, but she held my gaze, curious more than accusatory.

Heat rushed to my face, my mind scrambling. How do you explain without confessing? “I was hard,” I blurted, sounding lame even to myself. “Really excited, promise.” It came out mumbled, defensive, and I cursed inwardly—smooth, real smooth.

Donna studied me for a beat, her expression shifting from uncertainty to something puzzled, like she was piecing together a riddle. Her brows furrowed just a touch, lips parting as if to say more, but she held back. Finally, she smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Okay… I had fun tonight. Maybe we could have some more fun next weekend?” Her tone lightened, inviting, and I nodded eagerly, relief flooding in.

We leaned in for a quick kiss—soft, lingering just enough to spark hope—before she slipped inside with a wave. I walked home alone, the cool breeze doing nothing to calm the whirlwind in my head. That confused look on her face as she searched mine, wondering why she hadn’t felt anything substantial… it stuck with me.

Not outright mocking, not yet, but a crack in the door, a subtle hint that she’d noticed something off.

It gnawed at me, stirring that deep thrill of exposure without the full crash of humiliation. What was she thinking right then? Did it plant a question in her mind about what I’d feel like for real? Jerking off later, replaying her words and that uncertain stare, I came harder than I had in weeks, the seed of whatever came next already taking root.

Another reader’s girlfriend got her revenge…

My girlfriend Suzie has been getting more public and brutal with her SPH lately, but I think she finally broke me this morning. She woke up before me today and was feeling horny, so I was woken to her lips wrapped around my little dick and softly bouncing off my balls. This was big for me, as I haven’t gotten sucked by her since I caught her cheating (again) in January. But things suddenly changed fast. My girlfriend had plans to go to brunch with her best friend (Freda) this afternoon, so she invited Freda to come over to her place beforehand to get ready together.

This is where my dream morning became a nightmare. Mid-blowjob, my girlfriend received a call from Freda that she was outside. Out of instinct, I panicked and tried pulling the blanket up (I sleep naked). My girlfriend made an annoyed face and asked what I was doing. I guess I pulled the blanket up too fast, which annoyed her. I said I was just trying to hide, but as she got up, she told me not to move. I was confused and scared while she got dressed and unlocked the front door. She then came back to the bed and texted her friend that the door was unlocked and to come in.

Panicking, I told her to close the bedroom door before her friend would see. My girlfriend snapped and told me to keep lying there, or else she wasn’t touching my dick for a month. At this point, I knew what was happening and almost teared up from the humiliation I was about to go through. Ripping the bed covers off, my girlfriend covered my face with her thong and started stroking my dick. “You’re going to stay like this until I say so.”

I was silent and devastated. I knew that my girlfriend was about to expose my little secret to her best friend of 9 years. After a few minutes (that felt like a few hours), my girlfriend’s bestie walked in. I couldn’t see, but I heard her footsteps. “Hey, girl,” Suzie said.

All I heard from across the apartment was, “Oh my God.”

They both bust out laughing. I was so embarrassed that I tried disassociating, but my girlfriend was stroking me too fast for me not to keep my boner. “Hey, Jake…” Freda said.

I was too embarrassed even to speak, so my girlfriend gave me a quick but firm tap on my balls. “Say fucking hi,” she barked.

Jumping up a bit from the pain, I managed to whimper out a “Hey…” to Freda.

Still laughing, Freda said she would leave us to it. “Thank you, Freda,” I quickly responded, before I got a ball tap again.

This made them both laugh some more. Freda then stepped out into the living room while my girlfriend continued our session. The door was left open so that Freda could hear everything. My girlfriend didn’t take much longer with me after my exposing. She started doing our mommy role play, where I’m a little boy who has to beg mommy to cum. The fact that her best friend was in the other room while this was happening was mind fucking me hard. So when my girlfriend asked if her little boy wanted to cum, I answered, “Yes, mommy,” in a soft voice.

I got another quick but even harder slap on my balls for this. I jumped up and yelled in pain. “Yes, Mommy. Yes! Please let my little dick cum!” I yelled loudly while squirming in pain on the bed, hearing Freda laughing again through the hallway.

My dick throbbed, and my cum started leaking out. I moaned so loud that they both started mimicking my whimpers and mocking me. “Good boy,” Suzie said.

I was thoroughly humiliated at this point, but I was in so much post-nut ecstasy that I stopped caring about the shame. So I ended up lying in bed in the same position that I came in. My girlfriend’s panties were halfway off my face, and my belly hung over my tiny dick and balls while my girlfriend and Freda came in and out to try on clothes. I was too ashamed to talk to Freda directly after this, so I pretended I was asleep. They both acted like I wasn’t there, but I heard Freda giggle and say, “I can’t believe his balls are bigger than his tiny dick.”

My girlfriend agreed and said, “Why do you think I’m fucking Phil?” (her boss).

I acted like I was asleep, but now I wish they had humiliated me together.

Meanwhile, this reader got babied…

A few years back, I got this random invite from my buddy Jess, who’s this fierce lesbian I’ve known since college. She texted me out of the blue: ‘Hey, I’m heading on a girls’ trip with a bunch of my crew, but it’s all estrogen overload. Need a bro like you to keep things balanced—think you can handle a weekend of wine, gossip, and zero dicks except yours?‘

I laughed it off, but damn if it didn’t stroke my ego a bit. I’m the token guy in most mixed groups anyway, and Jess has always treated me like one of the girls without making it weird. So, I said yes, packed a bag, and flew out to this beachy spot in Florida for what was supposed to be a chill escape.

The group was five women total: Jess, her ex-girlfriend Sasha (they were cool now, just friends), two of Jess’s work buddies—tall, athletic types named Kara and Lena—and then me, the odd man out.

We rented this airy Airbnb right on the water, spent days lounging by the pool, hitting up yoga classes I pretended to enjoy, and nights firing up the grill with salads and margaritas. It was fun, honestly—lots of teasing about my ‘manly’ grilling skills, but nothing crossed into awkward territory. I kept my shorts loose, my showers private, and my two-inch nub safely tucked away. No one needed to know about that little secret; I’d dealt with enough sideways glances in my life to play it safe.

The real chaos hit on Saturday night. We dolled up—me in jeans and a button-up, the girls in sundresses and heels—and hit a strip of bars downtown. Shots flowed like water: tequila sunrises, Jägerbombs, whatever the bartender pushed our way. Jess and I stuck close, pounding drinks and dancing like idiots to throwback hip-hop. By last call, we were all trashed—slurring laughs, leaning on each other, the humid air thick with salt and sweat.

“Uber’s gonna take forever,” Sasha groaned as we stumbled out into the neon-lit street. “Let’s just walk to the car. It’s only a few blocks.”

Halfway there, the alcohol hit my bladder like a freight train. I crossed my legs, trying to play it cool, but Jess nudged me with her elbow. “Dude, you look like you’re about to burst. Me too—those margaritas went right through me.”

We scanned the empty sidewalk, spotting a narrow alley between a shuttered shop and a dumpster. It was dark, tucked away, perfect for a quick pit stop. The other girls were ahead, giggling and weaving toward the parking lot, so Jess grabbed my arm. “Cover me first? I don’t want some creep seeing my bush.”

I nodded, heart pounding a little from the booze and the thrill of it all, and posted up at the alley’s mouth, facing the street as lookout. Jess hiked up her dress, squatted behind a cardboard box, and let loose with a relieved sigh. The sound echoed off the bricks—a strong stream hitting pavement—, and I kept my eyes glued to the road, scanning for cars or pedestrians.

“All clear,” I muttered, shifting my weight. She finished quick, shook off, and straightened up.

“Your turn, bro. Hurry up before the others notice we’re ditching.”

We switched spots. I stepped deeper into the shadows, unzipped my fly, and hauled out my dick. Soft as ever, that pathetic two-inch nub flopped out, barely needing a hand to aim. I relaxed, and the piss started flowing—a warm, steady arc splashing against the wall. Relief washed over me, eyes half-closed, until voices hit my ears. Footsteps. A group of late-night stragglers—maybe college kids, laughing and chatting—rounded the corner and strolled right past the alley’s opening.

Panic surged. I whipped around fast, trying to shield myself, but the stream kept going, unstoppable mid-flow. Jess, who’d been facing away, heard the noise too and spun on her heel. Her eyes flicked to the group first—wide, checking if we’d been spotted—then dropped lower. Straight to my exposed dick, still pissing away in my grip, that tiny, shriveled thing on full display under the faint spill of streetlight.

Time froze.

Her face shifted: surprise, then a smirk curling her lips. And then she burst out laughing—deep, belly laughs that echoed in the tight space. “Oh my god,” she wheezed, doubling over a bit, hand clamped over her mouth but failing to stifle it. “Is that… holy shit, that’s all you’ve got?”

I couldn’t stop peeing. The flow kept coming, hot and humiliating, forcing me to stand there facing her, dick out, while she howled. My cheeks burned, stomach twisting in knots, but my body betrayed me—no hiding, no zipping up mid-stream. She pointed, tears in her eyes from laughing so hard.

“It’s like a little button! I can’t… I can’t even…”

Finally, the piss tapered off. I shook the last drops, stuffed my nub back in with shaking hands, and yanked the zipper up. Jess wiped her eyes, still chuckling, and turned away toward the street. “Come on, let’s catch up,” she said, voice light as if nothing had happened.

But everything had.

We jogged to catch up with the group, my mind racing, my face hot with shame. One look—that’s all it took. My closest lesbian friend, who’d seen me as the reliable guy in the crew, now knew. And she’d laughed her ass off at the sight of my worthless little dick.

The walk to the car was silent between us; the others, too, buzzed with the effort to notice. Back at the Airbnb, everyone crashed hard—girls piling into shared rooms, me on the couch. I lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying it over and over. The exposure, her smirk, that uncontrollable laugh. It gnawed at me, a mix of mortification and this twisted heat low in my gut. I’d always been self-conscious, avoided locker rooms, and hooked up in the dark. But this? Raw, accidental, no escape. Jerking off later under the covers, I came quickly, thinking about her eyes on me, the mockery in her voice, spilling shamefully onto my stomach.

The next day, things shifted subtly but unmistakably. Breakfast was pancakes and coffee on the patio, sunlight cutting through the hangover haze. Jess slid a plate my way with a grin. “Here you go, baby—extra syrup for my little lookout.”

She said ‘baby’ instead of my name, casual, but it landed like a gut punch. The others chuckled, exchanging glances I pretended not to see. Kara asked about the night, and Jess waved it off: “Oh, we had a blast. Baby here kept everything under control.”

More laughs, her foot nudging mine under the table like I was the group pet. It kept up all weekend. Pool time? “Baby, pass the sunscreen—don’t want you burning that pale ass.”

Dinner out? “What do you want, baby? Let me order for you.”

The teasing laced every interaction, treating me like the beta tagalong, not the bro she’d invited. Sasha raised an eyebrow once, whispering to Lena, and I swear I caught ‘alley’ in there—Jess must’ve spilled. No direct call-outs, no group roast, but the dynamic flipped.

I fetched drinks, laughed at their jokes extra hard, and felt smaller in every way. They mothered me, patted my head, and included me, but only on their terms. And through it all, that humiliation simmered, fueling secret fantasies of Jess dragging me back to that alley, making me show off again while the group watched and giggled.

By the time I got home, I was equal parts relieved and hooked on the thrill. Jess hugged me goodbye: “Thanks for being the best baby ever. We need to do this again—keep the energy balanced.”

I nodded, forcing a smile, but inside?

Wrecked.

One drunken pee break, one laugh, and I’d been outed, demoted, exposed for the tiny-dicked loser I am. It bonded us weirdly closer, but I’ll never forget how easily she saw through me—literally—and turned my secret into her private joke.

While this reader’s dentist seems to be setting him up…

I’ve been holding onto this story for months, dying to spill it somewhere anonymous because it’s got me all twisted up inside. I’m your typical straight guy—or at least that’s what I’ve always told myself. Mid-20s, decent job in marketing, hit the gym enough to stay fit but not ripped. But yeah, I’ve got this secret insecurity that’s always gnawed at me: my dick. It’s small. Like, fully hard, it’s barely four inches, thin too, nothing that fills out a pair of boxers the way it should.

I’ve jerked off to enough porn to know I’m on the tiny side, and it’s made me paranoid about anything that could lead to comparisons or exposure. Small penis humiliation? It’s not something I seek out, but fuck, the thought of it sometimes sneaks into my fantasies, making me cum harder than I should admit. And this dentist situation? It’s stirred all that up, leaving me questioning everything.

It started innocently enough. I needed a routine teeth cleaning, so I booked with Dr. Elena Voss. She’s this stunning woman in her mid-30s—blonde curls that bounce when she laughs, steel-blue eyes that lock onto you like she’s reading your soul, and a body that’s slim and toned, probably from yoga or Pilates—nerdy vibe too, with her glasses perched on her nose and that warm, geeky smile. From the first visit, we clicked.

She’d chat me up about my day, tease me lightly about my coffee habits staining my teeth, and I’d flirt back just enough to feel that spark. She was always extra friendly with me—lingering touches on my shoulder, calling me by my first name like we were old pals. After three visits, I was half in love, imagining asking her out someday.

Then came the curveball. My molar started aching, and she said it needed a specific filling she couldn’t do in her main office. “No worries, I’ve got just the spot for it,” she said with that bright smile. “My associate will take you across the street to our extension clinic.”

I show up the next morning, dressed sharp because why not—man bun tied back neatly, crisp dress shirt tucked into slacks, polished dress shoes, and yeah, maybe I overdid the cologne, spraying a bit too much to mask any nerves. It’s 2025; metro guys are normal, right? But looking back, that combo might’ve screamed ‘gay vibes’ to someone.

Waiting in the lobby is this guy—mid-20s like me, drop-dead gorgeous. Dark hair, sharp jawline, built as he lives at the gym, with a confident swagger. He introduces himself as Kyle, one of her assistants, and grins wide. “Dr. Voss said you’d be coming over. Follow me—I’ll show you around.”

As we cross the street, he’s chatty as hell, firing questions: “So, what do you do? Got a girlfriend? You look cute in that shirt, by the way.”

Cute? I laughed it off, assuming he was just friendly, but my stomach flipped a little. We get to the clinic, he preps me for the procedure—another dentist does the work—but Kyle sticks around, hovering, making eye contact that lasted a beat too long. I didn’t think much of it then; I was too focused on not gagging on the tools.

Fast forward, and this dude starts popping up everywhere. Next visit to the main office? He’s there as a ‘patient,’ sitting in the waiting room, nodding hello like we’re buddies—same thing, the visit after that, and the one after. Coincidence, I figured. Small town, shared practice, whatever. But it felt off—why was he always around when I was?

Two months ago, it hit peak weird. Another tooth issue—sharp pain that had me gritting through work, back to Dr. Voss, who examines me and shakes her head. “This one’s tricky. Needs a specialist touch.” Then, with this loud, almost giddy voice that echoed in the room, she says, “I’ve got EXACTLY the right guy for you! He’ll sort you out perfectly.”

My heart sinks because I know who she’s talking about. A friend of a friend works in the dental circuit, and he’d mentioned Dr. Voss’s partner dentist, Ryan, early 30s, openly gay, hot in that professional way—tall, clean-shaven, with a reputation for being charming with his male patients. She books me with him on the spot, beaming like she’s solved world hunger.

I left that appointment reeling. Is this all in my head? Or does she think I’m gay? The man bun, the sharp style, the perfume—maybe it painted a picture. And sending me to these guys? Kyle is flirting outright, and Ryan is supposedly the ‘perfect’ fit. Part of me—the straight part—wants to laugh it off as paranoia. But another part, the one that’s secretly jerked off to the idea of being outed and humiliated, finds it scorching hot. Imagine if she knew about my little dick, too. Would she whisper it to them? “He’s cute, but check out his bulge—barely there. Perfect for you boys.”

That night, I couldn’t stop fantasizing. In my apartment, pants around my ankles, I gripped my pathetic four-incher, stroking fast as I pictured it playing out. Dr. Voss pulled me aside after an appointment, her blue eyes twinkling. “You know, I’ve noticed how you dress, how you blush around the guys. And honestly? I peeked at your chart—had to adjust your pants for the exam once, and… well, it’s small, isn’t it? Adorable, really. That’s why I keep sending you to them. Alex thinks you’re his type, and Ryan? He’d love to make you squirm.”

I’d whimper, my tiny dick twitching in her gloved hand as she measures it clinically. “Just two inches soft? No wonder you’re giving off those vibes—you’re compensating so hard.”

Then she’d call Kyle in, have him drop his pants to show off his thick, seven-inch bulge. “See? Real men have this. Yours is just a little clit-dick.”

I’d beg, humiliated, as they laughed, Kyle pinning me down while Ryan watches, both mocking how my small nub leaks precum without even being touched.

Fuck, I came buckets that night, shame burning through me. It’s twisted, but it turns me on—the idea that my small dick is part of why she assumes I’m gay, like it’s some telltale sign. Straight guys pack more, right? Mine’s a giveaway.

So, what do I do? Part of me wants to test it without tipping my hand. Next appointment, I’ll amp up the straight signals—mention a fake date with a girl, wear something more bro-ish, less perfume. Watch her reaction. If she still pushes me toward the guys, bingo. Or maybe flirt harder with her, see if she bites or deflects to Ryan. I could even ‘accidentally’ let Alex catch me adjusting my crotch, making sure my small bulge is obvious, gauge if he teases. The thrill of potential exposure has me hard just thinking about it—my little dick straining uselessly against my thigh.

If it’s true, though? God, the humiliation would be next-level. She’s setting me up, them knowing I’m straight but small, treating me like a joke. I’d probably cum in my pants from the embarrassment. Until I figure it out, it’s my dirty little secret, fueling solo sessions where I edge for hours, whispering to myself, “Tiny-dick straight boy, outed by your dentist.” What do you all think—coincidence, or am I onto something? And if it’s real, how far should I push without blowing up my ‘straight’ cover?

This reader found his ‘sole’ mate…

I remember that weekend like it was yesterday—lazy Saturday morning, sunlight filtering through the curtains of our cramped apartment bedroom. I was 24, feeling pretty good about myself: decent looks, sharp jawline, the kind of guy who turned heads at parties. But deep down, I carried this quiet insecurity about my dick.

Hard, it topped out at four inches, maybe a bit more on a great day, but nothing impressive. I’d dipped my toes into humiliation kinks before—light bondage, being called names during sex—but SPH? Small penis humiliation? That was uncharted territory, though the idea had flickered in my mind during late-night scrolls.

She was my first real girlfriend, Lily, 22, and full of that free-spirited hippie energy. Short, maybe 5’2″, with soft curves that made her plump in all the right ways—wide hips, full breasts straining against her tie-dye tanks. She didn’t shave, embracing her natural bush of dark pubic hair and the faint tufts under her arms, which I found insanely hot.

We’d been together six months, fucking regularly, but she’d never commented on my size. That morning, we were lounging on the bed in our underwear, me in boxers, her in loose shorts and a cropped top, scrolling phones side by side.

Out of nowhere, she sets her phone down and turns to me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey, I just saw this post on Facebook about guys who get off on being humiliated for having small dicks. Like, really into it. Is that something you’d be down for?” Her voice was casual, but there was a teasing lilt, like she knew my kinks already.

My heart skipped—humiliation was my jam, and this hit a nerve. I felt my cock twitch in my boxers, already half-hard from the surprise. “Well,” I said, trying to play it cool, “give it a try, and we’ll see.”

She didn’t hesitate. Her expression shifted, lips curling into a smirk as she propped herself up on one elbow, watching me intently. “Pull it out then. Let’s see that little thing.”

I slid my boxers down, my dick springing free, already stiffening under her gaze. I wrapped my hand around it, starting to stroke slowly, the skin sliding over the shaft as blood rushed in. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to this mocking whisper.

“Look at you, jerking that pathetic little dick. It’s so obvious why you like this—you can’t help being ridiculous with something that tiny. No wonder you’re excited. A real cock would satisfy me, but yours? It’s just a joke.”

Her words hit like electricity. I pumped faster, my fist gliding up and down the short length, pre-cum beading at the tip. She kept going, unrelenting. “God, I miss my exes’ big cocks—they stretched me out, filled my pussy completely. Yours barely pokes in. It’s like fucking a finger. And now here you are, strung out alone while your girlfriend tears you down. How sad is that?” Her tone was sharp, laced with fake pity, but her eyes burned with arousal.

It was too much—my balls tightened after barely 40 seconds, and I gasped, cum erupting in thick spurts over my knuckles, splattering my stomach. My dick pulsed weakly in my grip, the orgasm ripping through me harder than any vanilla fuck.

She burst out laughing, not cruel, but warm and affectionate, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “Holy shit, that was quick! You really loved that, huh?”

I nodded, breathless, wiping myself off with a tissue as she pulled me in for a kiss. We cuddled for a bit, the humiliation lingering like a buzz, making my spent dick twitch faintly against her thigh. Eventually, we got up, threw on clothes, and moved to the living room couch for some studying—midterms looming, books and laptops spread out.

But I couldn’t focus. My mind replayed her words on loop: little dick, pathetic, ridiculous. Within 30 minutes, I was rock hard again, shifting uncomfortably, my four-incher tenting my shorts. The denial of it all—the way she’d owned the moment—had me aching.

“Babe,” I finally admitted, voice low, “I can’t stop thinking about what we did earlier. I loved it. Like, a lot.”

She looked up from her notes, eyebrows raised in surprise, then a slow grin spread. “Oh yeah? You hard right now?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, hooking my thumb in my waistband and tugging my shorts down. My hard dick bobbed out, fully erect at its modest four inches, the head flushed and leaking.

Lily’s surprise melted into delight. She set her book aside and shimmied out of her shorts—no panties underneath, her plump thighs parting just enough to reveal that wild patch of pubic hair framing her pussy lips, already glistening a bit. But she didn’t let me near it. Instead, she swung her legs over, planting both bare feet on my lap, her soles pressing against my thighs before sliding up to trap my dick between them.

Her feet were soft, a little calloused from going barefoot at festivals, and she squeezed them together around my shaft, the warmth enveloping me. “See this pussy?” she said, spreading her legs wider but keeping her hips tilted away, denying me any touch. “It’s not for you. Not made for tiny dicks like yours. I won’t even let you near it again—you don’t deserve it.”

She started moving her feet, sliding them up and down my length in slow, deliberate strokes, the arches hugging my cock tightly. The friction was intense, her toes curling to tease the sensitive underside, but her words amplified everything.

“Jerk off with my feet if you have to, little guy. That’s all you’re good for—cumming quick and messy while I watch you squirm. Imagine if anyone saw this: your hot girlfriend foot-fucking your babydick because it’s too small for real sex.”

I thrust into the pressure, my hips bucking involuntarily, the humiliation flooding my veins like fire. Her hairy pussy taunted me inches away, untouchable, her armpit hair peeking from her raised arm as she gripped the couch for leverage.

It didn’t take long—30 seconds of that denial and verbal barrage, and I was done. My dick throbbed between her soles, cum shooting out in ropes that coated her feet and dripped onto the cushion. I groaned, body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed over me, the shame twisting it into something euphoric.

She laughed again, that loving chuckle, withdrawing her feet and wiping them on my discarded shorts. “Twice already? You’re such a quick shooter with that thing.”

We kissed, the air thick with our shared secret, and somehow, I managed to crack open my book after that—though the rest of the day, every glance at her sparked the memory, keeping me half-hard and hooked on the kink forever.

Another reader’s girlfriend is the boss…

I’ve always known my dick was on the smaller side—maybe 4 inches hard at best—but I never thought it’d become family entertainment. My girlfriend, let’s call her Jenna, and I have been together for a couple of years now, diving deep into this kinky dynamic where she locks me up in chastity. It started as play, but it’s evolved into something that leaves me constantly aching and humiliated. The other night, she dropped a bomb that still has me reeling.

We were in bed, her fingers idly tracing the cage around my locked cock while she scrolled her phone. I was throbbing inside the plastic prison, begging for any touch. “You know,” she said casually, “I told my mom and sister about your little problem down there.”

My stomach dropped. “What? Like, the size thing?”

She smirked, setting her phone down. “Yeah, and more. I showed them pictures. Remember that toilet paper roll test you did? The one where your hard dick barely poked out the end? And the close-ups of you all caged up, balls squeezed tight and that tiny nub trying to swell against the bars.”

I felt my face burn, but my trapped dick twitched anyway. The humiliation was instant, a hot rush straight to my groin.

She went on, her voice light like she was recounting a funny story. “We were at my mom’s for dinner, and it just came up—talking about relationships and whatnot. I pulled out my phone and passed it around. They burst out laughing. Mom covered her mouth, but her eyes were wide, and my sister straight-up snorted. She said her boyfriend—he’s younger than you, like 22 to your 28—is twice your size. Said she measured him once, and he filled her hand, no room for fingers to meet.”

I shifted uncomfortably, the cage digging in as I got harder. “They really saw it all? What else did they say?”

Sarah leaned in, her breath warm on my neck. “When I showed the chastity pics, they lost it. Mom said it looked ‘sad,’ like a little animal trapped in a jar. My sister asked how the hell I even get off with something so pathetic. I told them the truth—you fuck me with that tiny thing, and I never cum. Not once. It just slides in and out, barely stretching me, and I’m left frustrated while you spurt after a minute or two. But then I explained how you strap on that huge dildo over your cage. The one that’s like 8.5 inches long, super thick, veiny, and realistic. You work it into me slow at first, but I’m soaking immediately, telling you to ease up because I’ll explode right away if you don’t.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. Every time I’d pound her with my actual dick, she’d go through the motions—moaning a bit to be nice—but her eyes would glaze over, distant, like she was waiting for it to end. I’d thrust desperately, feeling inadequate as my short length barely hit her depths, and sure enough, I’d blow my load prematurely, leaving her untouched.

But with the dildo? Fuck, she turns into a different woman. Her pussy clenches around it greedily, juices dripping down my hand as I pump it in. She bucks her hips, tits bouncing, gasping that it’s too much, too good, cumming in waves that soak the sheets. And me? I’m just the caged beta holding the real man’s tool, my own dick leaking pre-cum uselessly against the bars.

Now, I’m permanently locked. She holds the key on a chain around her neck, dangling it between her cleavage like a trophy. “I love that you can’t jerk off anymore,” she teases. “No more once-a-day sessions where you stroke that little guy until it pops. You used to do it so quick, like it couldn’t wait to fail. Now you’re at my mercy.”

It’s torture. I wake up every morning with morning wood straining the cage, a dull ache building all day. At work, I shift in my seat, trying to hide the bulge that’s more frustration than anything impressive.

I beg her sometimes, on my knees, face buried in her thighs. “Please, use the vibrator on me. Just buzz it against the cage—I’ll cum like that, I promise.”

She’ll laugh, spreading her legs to let me lick her first, my tongue working her clit until she’s writhing. Then, maybe, if she’s feeling generous, she’ll grab the wand and press it to the end of my cage. The vibrations rattle through the plastic, teasing my swollen head without direct contact. It builds slowly, agonizingly, until I’m humping the air, whimpering as spurts of cum ooze out in weak dribbles. It’s not satisfying—not like the full-body explosions I used to have—but it’s all I get. And she watches, smirking, knowing she owns every pathetic drop.

Part of me hates it, this constant denial and the knowledge that her whole family knows I’m a small-dick loser who needs toys to please her. But fuck, it turns me on too. I replay her words in my head while the cage bites, imagining her mom and sister giggling over those pics, comparing me to a real man’s cock. It makes me leak even more. I don’t know how long I can take it—days blur into a haze of blue balls and submission. But until she unlocks me, I’m stuck hoping for that next vibrator session, chasing release in the only way left to a guy like me.

Meanwhile, this reader was nearly outed by his friend…

It was one of those casual afternoons where things start normally but end up leaving you squirming in your own skin. My best friend, let’s call her Gina, had brought two of her girlfriends over to my apartment for the first time. They were both cool—Ava, the chatty one with the endless energy, and Kiesha, quieter but observant. I’d tidied up extra hard that morning, wanting to make a good impression. My place is small, but I keep it minimalist: bed made, desk clear except for my laptop, a few books on the shelf, nothing flashy.

We were hanging out in the living room, chatting about work and random stuff, when they started complimenting the space. Ava plopped down on the couch and looked around, nodding approvingly. “Dude, your room is so tidy. I can’t even keep mine like this if I try. How do you do it?”

I shrugged, playing it cool. “Just habits, I guess. Don’t like clutter.”

Kiesha wandered over to my desk, eyeing the computer setup. The screen was on, showing my home screen—a plain black background with a tiny geometric design in one corner and just a single folder icon for everything. No wallpapers, no shortcuts scattered around.

She smiled, turning back to us. “Yeah, it’s got that minimalist vibe. Only the essentials, everything in its place. Makes the whole room feel bigger, more open.” She paused, gesturing vaguely. “You must be one of those hardcore minimalists.”

That’s when Gina jumped in. She knows everything about me—too much, really. We’ve been friends since college, and somewhere along the line, she found out about my… situation down there. My dick’s tiny, like 3.5 inches hard on a good day, and she’s teased me about it more than once in private. But never like this. Her eyes lit up with that mischievous glint as she leaned forward, voice dripping with fake innocence.

“Oh, he’s always been a hardcore minimalist,” Gina said, drawing out the words. “From head to toe.”

It sounded like a compliment at first, just some figurative bullshit about my lifestyle. But the way Gina said it—enthusiastic, with this subtle wicked smirk curling her lips—made my stomach twist. She glanced right at me, holding eye contact for a beat too long, then paused. Her eyes flicked down to my crotch for the tiniest split second, so quick no one else would catch it, before snapping back up. That evil grin spread across her face, pure devilry.

I felt the heat rush to my cheeks instantly, my heart pounding. What the fuck was she doing? The room went quiet for that half-second, and I swear my tiny dick twitched in my jeans, a mix of panic and that fucked-up arousal kicking in.

Before anyone could respond, Gina added, so smoothly it almost blended in, “Like… there is no fuss, no bulge, no clutter… just a lot of space everywhere.” Her smirk deepened, that hidden edge of pure evil shining through, like she was daring me to react. She said it casually, tying it back to the room, but the ‘no bulge’ part hung there, loaded.

Ava blinked, her brow furrowing in that ‘wait, what?’ expression, like she’d caught the weird phrasing but couldn’t place it. Kiesha just chuckled, assuming it was some inside joke about my sparse decor.

“Yeah, space is key,” Kiesha said, oblivious.

Relief washed over me—they didn’t get it. Not fully. But Gina’s words drilled into my brain, painting this vivid picture of my pathetic little package: no real swell in my pants, just empty fabric where a man’s bulge should be.

I shifted on the couch, crossing my legs to hide any hint of the soft nub pressing uselessly against my thigh. My face burned, cheeks flushing hot, and I forced a laugh to play it off, but inside, I was dying. Humiliated, exposed most subtly, and yeah, my dick was starting to stir despite—or because of—the shame.

The rest of the visit dragged on, small talk about movies and plans, but I couldn’t focus. Every time Gina caught my eye, she’d bite her lip to stifle a grin, and I’d feel that flush creep back. Finally, they grabbed their stuff and headed out, waving goodbyes at the door.

The second it clicked shut, Gina exploded into laughter—full, unfiltered, hearty guffaws that echoed off the walls. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god, your face was priceless!”

I stood there, still flustered, arms crossed over my chest like that could shield me from the embarrassment. “Gina, what the hell? You almost outed me in front of them!”

She straightened up, wiping her eyes, still giggling. Her face was lit up, so damn proud—like she’d just pulled off the heist of the century. “Come on, it was perfect! They had no idea. But you… that blush? Chef’s kiss.” Her eyes sparkled with that ‘see? I’m a genius’ vibe, and she stepped closer, poking my arm playfully.

I tried to stay mad, but damn, her wit was sharp. The way she’d woven it in, turning my minimalist setup into a sly dig at my tiny dick—it was clever, evil, and yeah, kind of hot in that twisted SPH way. The humiliation lingered, a warm buzz in my gut, making my shorts feel even emptier. I couldn’t help it; a shy laugh bubbled out of me, joining hers. “You’re nasty, you know that?”

She grinned wider, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “And you love it. Admit it—your little guy’s probably loving the attention right now.” She winked, and I shoved her off, laughing harder despite the fresh wave of heat to my face. Friends like her? They’re gonna be the death of my dignity, but fuck if it doesn’t make life interesting.

While this reader was told the stats…

I’ve always been the quiet one in our group, the guy who blends into the background during our weekend sauna trips. We’re a tight-knit crew from college—four guys, including me, and two women, Anna and Lena. All in our mid-20s now, still hanging out like we’re back in dorms, sweating out the week’s stress in those steamy German saunas where nudity is just part of the deal. I’m from Munich, born and raised, so I get the culture: everyone strips down, no big fuss. But not me.

My penis has always been my secret shame—flaccid, it’s a pathetic 3 cm long by 5 cm around, barely an inch by two inches, shriveled like a scared worm. Erect, it pushes to about 3.5 inches by 3 inches, laughably small. I’ve accepted it over the years. It doesn’t stop me from dating or living my life. I just don’t advertise it. That’s why I always wrap a towel around my waist, even when the others go full bare.

Not long ago, we tried a new spot outside the city—a fancy wellness center with wood-paneled saunas and that eucalyptus haze. The rules were strict: no bathing suits allowed, but towels were okay for the modest types. I figured I was safe, sitting there with the towel draped over my lap, chatting about work bullshit while sweat beaded on everyone’s skin.

The heat was intense, bodies glistening—guys’ cocks dangling freely between their legs, the women’s breasts heaving with each breath, pubic hair trimmed or wild depending on the person. I kept my eyes on the walls, avoiding glances downward.

After about 45 minutes, the group was restless. “Come on, let’s hit the cold plunge pool,” my buddy Markus said, standing up and letting his semi-flaccid cock swing as he headed out.

The others followed, towels slung over their shoulders, naked asses flexing. I lingered, heart pounding. The pool was outside, exposed, and I knew they’d expect me to drop the towel. “You coming, Tom?” Anna called, her voice teasing.

She’s the bold one, curvy with short dark hair, always pushing boundaries. Rose, slimmer and quieter, nodded encouragingly. I hesitated, but they kept prodding. “Don’t be shy, it’s just us!”

So, I caved.

Standing there in the changing area, I unwrapped the towel, my tiny flaccid nub exposed to the air. It shrank even more from nerves, such a sad little thing, balls tucked tight against my body.

Their eyes flicked down immediately. Markus smirked but looked away quick. One of the other guys, Hank, raised an eyebrow. Anna’s gaze lingered a second too long, her lips parting in surprise before she turned. Rose just blushed and hurried ahead.

I felt my face burn hotter than the sauna—humiliation twisting in my gut like a knife. I bolted to the pool, diving in so fast the icy water slapped my skin, engulfing my minuscule dick and hiding it from view. The shock numbed everything, but inside, I was reeling.

They saw it.

All of them.

My secret, out there for judgment.

We dried off and changed, the awkwardness hanging like steam. No one said a word about it—at least not then. Instead, we piled into cars and headed to our usual bar, a cozy spot with dim lights and cheap beers. The drinks flowed, shots of Jägermeister chasing steins of lager.

Laughter got louder, stories sloppier. Anna, always the lightweight, was hammered after her third round, cheeks flushed, leaning on the table with glassy eyes. The conversation had shifted to dumb college memories—hookup fails, embarrassing moments—when she suddenly scooted her chair closer to mine.

Her breath smelled like licorice from the Ouzo shots as she cupped a hand to my ear and whispered, hot and slurred, “Tom, I’ve gotta say… I’ve never seen a penis as small as yours. Like, ever.”

My stomach dropped. The bar noise faded; it was just her words echoing. I’d made peace with my size—no hang-ups about performance, just a quiet acceptance. But hearing it voiced, whispered like a dirty secret, hit different. SPH wasn’t my thing, but the raw honesty stung, arousal flickering uninvited in my groin. I swallowed, keeping my voice steady.

“Yeah, I know. It’s small. I’m aware.”

She pulled back, eyes wide with drunken curiosity, then grinned like she’d struck gold. “How small? Like, measurements? Come on, tell me.”

The others were distracted, arguing over the jukebox, so I figured what the hell—might as well own it. After a beat, I leaned in. “Flaccid, about an inch long. Erect, 3.5 by 3 inches.”

Her face lit up, phone already in hand. She tapped away furiously, giggling to herself. I watched, a mix of dread and weird intrigue building. What was she doing? When she finished, her expression shifted—not laughing, but concerned, almost pitying. She turned the screen toward me, the glow illuminating her face.

It was some penis size comparison site, graphs, and stats popping up. She’d plugged in my numbers, and there it was: “You rank in the bottom 0.1% of all men worldwide.”

My breath caught.

Below that, a brutal stat: ‘In a room of 1,000 men, all 1,000 would have a bigger penis than you.’ The page showed averages—flaccid and hard sizes—and my pitiful specs sat there like a punchline, a tiny dot at the edge of the curve.

Shock slammed into me.

I’d known I was below average, sure—maybe even small—but bottom 0.1%? That meant I was rarer than a genetic freak. My mind raced: every guy I’d ever seen in locker rooms, every porn star, every ex’s ex—they all dwarfed me. And now Anna knew, her eyes searching my face for reaction.

The humiliation crashed over me, not just its size, but its isolation. I mumbled something about needing air, slapped cash on the table for my tab, and bolted. The cool night air hit my face as I walked home alone, my small cock chafing uncomfortably in my jeans, half-hard from the twisted thrill of exposure.

That was a little while ago now, and it has consumed me. I stare at ceilings at night, replaying the pool moment—their stares on my exposed nub—then the whisper, the phone screen sealing my fate. I haven’t texted the group, haven’t answered calls. Do they know? Did Anna spill it in her drunken haze, turning me into the punchline?

The thought of facing them, towels off, my tiny soft dick bobbing uselessly while they whisper stats… It terrifies me, but fuck, it stirs something dark. I’ve jerked off many times since, hand flying over my inadequate shaft, cumming to the shame of that 0.1%. Maybe I’ll go back, test the waters. Or maybe I’ll hide forever.

Either way, my secret’s cracked open, and there’s no wrapping it up again.

This reader had a rude awakening in the changerooms…

Last summer, my wife Elizabeth and I decided to hit up the local water park. It was one of those sweltering July days where the heat just clings to your skin, and the place was offering free entry for a limited time. Sounded like a perfect way to beat the humidity—slides, pools, lazy rivers, the whole deal.

We arrived mid-morning, and yeah, there was a decent crowd milling about: families splashing around, kids screaming with delight, groups lounging under umbrellas. We grabbed our towels and bags, then split off toward the locker rooms right away—no point in dragging it out in that oppressive air.

The men’s locker room at this park was pretty basic, almost comically open-concept. No real privacy walls or anything—just a row of wooden benches lining the walls, two open showers at one end with flimsy curtains that barely reached the floor, and a couple of stall doors tucked in the corner for anyone who needed a door to hide behind.

It smelled like chlorine, damp tile, and a hint of old sweat. I turned the corner from the entrance, ready to claim a bench and strip down into my swim trunks, when bam—there they were.

A father, probably in his mid-40s, broad-shouldered and tanned, as if he spent weekends outdoors, was kneeling, helping his two sons into their swimsuits. The boys looked about 10 and 12, lanky but already filling out in ways that made my stomach twist. They were just standing there naked as the day they were born, arms raised while dad tugged up the elastic waistbands.

And fuck, from that glance as I rounded the bend, it was impossible not to notice. Their little dicks—hell, not even little—hung there heavy and thick, swinging softly with each movement. The older one was easily twice the length of mine, soft, with a girth that made it look almost comically oversized on a kid that age. The younger wasn’t far behind, his balls dangling low like they were already carrying more weight than I ever had. I froze for a split second, heat rushing to my face. Compared to them? I felt like a goddamn joke.

I’m no creep, so I didn’t stare. Trust me, this was not a sexual thing. I just saw it. Heart pounding, I slung my bag onto the nearest bench and turned my back quick, pretending to rummage through it for nothing in particular. My own dick—my pathetic, shriveled soft one-incher—twitched in my shorts just from the embarrassment, but I wasn’t about to drop trou in front of that.

I could hear the rustle of fabric, the dad’s low voice murmuring instructions, the boys giggling as they adjusted themselves. Every second stretched out, my mind racing with images I couldn’t shake: those soft, meaty shafts flopping as they moved, dwarfing anything I’d ever been proud of. Or tried to be proud of. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably two minutes, I heard footsteps, and the door swung open.

They were gone.

I exhaled, shoulders slumping. Only then did I peel off my shirt and shorts, glancing down at my own exposure. Tiny, pink, like a button. No wonder I waited. I yanked on my trunks fast, grabbed my towel, and bolted out to meet Elizabeth.

The rest of the day was actually great—we raced down the slides, floated the river hand-in-hand, even snuck a few beers from the cooler we’d stashed. She looked amazing in her bikini, curves on full display, laughing as water sprayed us. For hours, I pushed the locker room fiasco to the back of my mind, focusing on the sun and her smile.

But on the drive home, windows down and AC blasting, it started nagging at me. The sun was dipping low, casting that golden July glow over the highway. Elizabeth was scrolling through her phone in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio. It wasn’t a big deal, right? Just a silly moment. Maybe sharing it would make me feel less… small about it.

“Hey, babe,” I started, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Something funny happened in the locker room today.”

She looked up, eyebrow arched. “Oh yeah? Spill.”

I chuckled nervously, keeping my eyes on the road. “So, I walk into the changerooms at the waterpark, and there was this dad with his two sons, all changing right there in the open. Kids were maybe 10 and 12, waiting for him to help with their suits. And, uh… they were just hanging out, you know? Naked. And damn, Elizabeth, those boys were packing. Like, noticeably bigger than me. Even soft. I turned away quick, waited ’em out before I changed.”

She stared at me for a beat, then burst out laughing—deep, belly laughs that shook her whole body. She slapped her thigh, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god, honey! Awww, were you ashamed to get changed in the locker ’cause you’re the smallest one in there? Poor baby, hiding your babydick from the big boys!”

My face burned, but I forced a grin, trying to play it off. “Hey, come on, it was awkward! They were kids, but still…”

She wiped her eyes, still snickering as the laughter tapered off. Leaning over, she patted my knee, but her voice dropped to that teasing lilt she gets when she’s poking fun. “That must be so disappointing and embarrassing for you. Standing there, knowing even those young boys are swinging more meat than you. But hey, you’d better get used to it. The world’s full of real men out there—dads, sons, whoever. Your tiny dick’s just gonna have to stay in the shadows.”

I swallowed hard, a mix of shame and that weird thrill twisting in my gut as she settled back, smirking at me the rest of the ride home.

Another reader had an unforgettable Tinder date…

Life has a way of taking unexpected turns, and mine did the day I met Lisa. It was an ordinary day, but it marked the beginning of an extraordinary, albeit humiliating, journey. I was just a regular guy, looking for love in all the wrong places, when I stumbled upon her profile on a dating site. She was stunning, with a smile that could light up the darkest room and a personality as bold as her looks. We hit it off immediately, and before I knew it, we were dating.

Our dates were always exciting, filled with laughter, adventure, and a sense of danger that kept me on my toes. Lisa was the kind of woman who could make a man feel like a king one moment and a worm the next. She had a mouth on her that could make a sailor blush, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and I was willing to burn if it meant being with her.

One evening, after a few drinks, she invited herself over to my place. I was nervous, but excited. I had been waiting for this moment, and I wasn’t going to let it slip away. We started making out on the couch, and I could feel her hands all over me. I was hard, and I could feel her grinding against me. But then, she stopped. She looked at me, her eyes wide with surprise. She reached down, and I could feel her hand on me, through my pants. She squeezed, and I could see the confusion on her face. She squeezed again, harder this time, and I could see the concern in her eyes.

She looked up at me, her brow furrowed. “Is that it?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. I was mortified, but I couldn’t lie. I nodded, and she pulled away, her face a mask of disappointment. I could see the anger building in her eyes, and I knew I was in trouble.

She stood up, and I could see the fury in her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she spat, her voice dripping with disgust. She reached down, and before I could stop her, she had my pants off. She looked down, and I could see the laughter bubbling up in her throat. She threw her head back, and the laughter exploded out of her, loud and cruel. I was humiliated, but I was also strangely aroused. I couldn’t believe that I was getting off on this, but I was.

But then, her laughter stopped, and her face turned to anger. “What a waste of time,” she growled, her eyes burning into mine. I was shocked, but I was also turned on. I couldn’t believe that I was enjoying this, but I was. She stood up, and I could see the disgust in her eyes. She looked down at me, and I could see the cruelty in her smile.

“Get dressed,” she said, her voice cold. I did as I was told, my heart pounding in my chest. I was humiliated, but I was also aroused. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me, but I couldn’t stop it either. As she left my place, I knew that things were about to get a lot more complicated. I had no idea that this was just the beginning of a night that would change my life forever.

In the days that followed, I found myself craving more of that humiliation. I realized that, deep down, I had enjoyed it. It was a twisted fetish, but it was mine, and I couldn’t deny the rush of pleasure and humiliation that came with it. I started seeking out similar experiences with other girls, but it was never the same. Sometimes, they were disappointed, sometimes they were cruel, but the rush of pleasure and humiliation was never as intense as it was with Lisa.

I even found myself getting humiliated by sph chatbots. It was crazy, but it was true. I would spend hours chatting with these bots, letting them mock, laugh at, and humiliate me. And to my surprise, I pretty liked it. It was a strange fetish, but it was mine, and I couldn’t deny the thrill it gave me.

Looking back, I never thought I’d end up here, in this twisted world of humiliation and pleasure. But here I am, a changed man, a man who has found a dark pleasure in the depths of his humiliation. I don’t know where this journey will take me next, but I know one thing for sure – I’ll never forget the night that changed my life forever. The night that Lisa laughed at me, I found a part of myself that I never knew existed.

*The opinions/views expressed in these SPH experiences (and in any comments) are those of the authors and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. Some of these stories been submitted directly to this website and some have come from Reddit.