Shrimpy
An SPH Experience by ShrimpD22.
Chloe was three years older. She had long dark hair, a sharp laugh, and a body that made my fourteen-year-old boners feel ridiculous. By seventeen, they didn’t feel ridiculous anymore. They felt impossible. Because by then, Ryan knew my secret.
It happened a few weeks before. We were comparing ourselves, the way guys do when they think no one’s watching. Ryan pulled his out without hesitation. He was proud of it. Seven inches, thick, the kind of dick that made girls moan. I was hesitant, but he pressured me. “Come on, man. We’re brothers.”
I pulled down my shorts. Then my boxers.
He stared. He laughed. He didn’t stop laughing.
“Dude, that’s it? That’s… that’s a joke, right?”
I tried to cover up, but he grabbed my wrist. “No, no, let me see. Is it hard?”
It wasn’t. When it’s soft, it practically disappears. An innie. A little pink belly button of flesh that hides in my pubic hair. He made me get hard. I stood there, my face burning, while my pathetic 2.8 inches stood at attention.
“Oh my God,” he said, wiping his eyes. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like a fucking pinky finger.”
I told him to shut up. I pulled my pants up. He swore he wouldn’t tell anyone.
He lied.
—
The day it happened, Chloe was home from college. She came downstairs in cutoff shorts and a loose tank top, her hair tied back. I felt my heart pound. I tried to hide the front of my shorts, but there was barely a bulge to hide. I was wearing briefs, the tight kind my mom still bought me, the kind that pressed everything flat.
Ryan had this grin on his face. I knew that grin. It meant trouble.
“Hey, man,” he said, “you ever do that thing with the broomstick?”
“What thing?”
“You know. You put it behind your back, hook your elbows over it, and bring it up behind your head. It locks your arms. You can’t move.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Do it. Let’s see if you can get out.”
Chloe looked up from her phone. “What are you idiots doing?”
“Just a prank,” Ryan said. “Come on, dude. Prove you’re not a pussy.”
I was an idiot. I wanted to look tough in front of her. I grabbed the broom from the corner, put it behind my back, hooked my elbows, and brought it up behind my head. My arms locked instantly. I couldn’t move my hands. I was completely helpless.
That’s when Ryan grabbed my waistband.
“Ryan, no—”
He yanked my shorts down. Then my boxers. I was naked from the waist down, standing there like a trapped animal, my pathetic little dick exposed to the girl I worshipped.
Chloe looked at me. Her eyes traveled down to my crotch.
For a second, she was quiet.
Then she fell over laughing.
It wasn’t a polite laugh. It was a howl. She doubled over on the couch, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face. “Oh my God! What the hell is that?!”
“Told you,” Ryan said, grinning.
“Is it even real?” she gasped. “It looks like a belly button! Is it inside your body?”
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even move. The broom handle dug into my neck. My dick—that tiny, worthless little thing—just sat there, soft and shrunken, a joke of a manhood.
Chloe finally caught her breath. She looked at me, still giggling, and shook her head. “You’re gonna struggle to find a girl with a dick that small. Like, seriously. What are you gonna do with that? Pee?”
Ryan laughed harder. “It gets worse when it’s hard. It’s like two inches.”
“Two inches?” She looked at me with pity. “That’s not even a dick. That’s a clit.”
The word hit me like a slap. She called my cock a clit. From her mouth, it was the final verdict. I was not a man. I was a joke.
I finally freed my arms. I grabbed my shorts and pulled them up. I couldn’t look at either of them. I ran up the stairs and out of the house, my face burning, my dick shriveled inside my briefs like it was trying to hide from the shame.
—
I didn’t go back for six months.
I stayed in my room, measuring myself, hoping for a miracle. I watched porn and compared myself. I read forums about small dicks. I cried once, alone in the dark. Nothing changed. I was 2.8 inches hard. Soft, I was barely visible. The doctor had told my mom it wouldn’t grow much. He was right.
Ryan texted me a few times. Apologized. Said it was just a joke. I wanted to believe him. More than that, I wanted to see Chloe again. The humiliation had burrowed into me, twisted itself into something I couldn’t untangle. I hated it. I also couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Eventually, I went back.
I walked into Ryan’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. Chloe was there, leaning against the counter, drinking a soda. She saw me walk in, and her face split into a slow, cruel smile.
“Well, look who finally crawled back. Shrimpy.”
The name hit me like a punch to the gut. Shrimpy. She’d been calling me that behind my back. Of course she had.
“Hey, Chloe.”
She walked toward me. She didn’t stop until she was right in front of me. She looked down at my crotch, then back up at my face. Then she held up her hand, extended her pinky finger, and wiggled it in front of my nose.
“Is this still bigger than you?”
I couldn’t speak. My face was on fire. Her pinky was probably longer than my soft dick. Definitely as thick. I just stood there, frozen.
“Come on,” she said, her voice soft and mocking. “Is it?”
“…Probably,” I whispered.
She laughed, a short, sharp sound of pure victory. “I knew it. I told Ryan you’d never grow. Some guys just get dealt a bad hand. Or a bad dick, I guess.”
She turned and walked back to the counter, leaving me standing there, completely destroyed.
Ryan came in a minute later. He looked at me, then at Chloe, and shrugged. “Sorry, man. She’s just messing with you.”
But she wasn’t. She was telling the truth. And we all knew it.
—
From that day on, I was Shrimpy. That was my name in that house. Every time I came over, Chloe would find a reason to bring it up. A comment. A look down at my crotch. A comparison to something small. A pencil. A key. Her pinky.
I should have stopped going. I should have hated her. But I kept coming back. Because the shame had rewired something in me. Every time she humiliated me, I felt a jolt of something hot and electric. Arousal. I would go home and jerk off to the memory of her laughing at my tiny size, her pinky finger mocking everything I was supposed to be as a man.
I never told anyone that part. I barely admitted it to myself.
But it was true. She was right. I had a tiny dick. And a part of me needed her to keep reminding me.
So I kept going back. And she kept calling me Shrimpy. And I kept taking it.
Because she was right. And I couldn’t argue with the truth.
The End.
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