Something Else
A Fictional Story by softiemikayla.
We met at a friend’s birthday party — he was friends with the birthday girl’s boyfriend, I was friends with the birthday girl. We’d ended up next to each other at the cramped dining room table, our knees bumping under the cheap IKEA furniture, and he’d made me laugh so hard I snorted wine through my nose.
He was cute. Not in a conventional way — he had a soft face, gentle eyes, the kind of guy who looked like he’d been a shy kid and grown into his features without ever quite losing that awkwardness. He was tall, lanky, with dark hair he kept pushing off his forehead. He worked in IT, made stupid puns, remembered my coffee order after I told him once.
For three weeks, we texted every day. We grabbed lunch twice. He walked me to my car after work one evening, and I thought this is it, this is when he kisses me, but he just smiled and said “see you later,” and I drove home frustrated.
I wanted him. That was the problem. I wanted him enough that when he finally asked me out properly — real drinks, not just “hanging out” — I said yes before he finished the sentence.
—
The bar was crowded, the kind of place with Edison bulbs and artisanal cocktails that cost too much. We sat in a corner booth, our thighs pressed together, and I drank two old fashioneds while he had three beers. The conversation flowed easily. He made me laugh. He touched my arm when he talked, little brushes that sent electricity up my spine.
By the time we left, I was warm and fuzzy and very, very ready.
“Want to come back to my place?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes.”
His apartment was a ten-minute walk. A studio in a converted house near downtown, cluttered but clean. He had posters of bands I didn’t recognize and a kitchen that looked barely used. He fumbled with his keys at the door, his hands shaking slightly.
“Nervous?” I teased.
“A little.” He laughed, but it came out strained.
“Don’t be.”
We stepped inside. He closed the door behind us, and suddenly the air felt thick.
—
I kicked off my heels by the door, but I didn’t undress. I don’t know why — maybe instinct, maybe something about the way he was looking at me, like he was trying to gauge my reaction to everything. I stayed in my outfit: a black skirt that hit mid-thigh, a silky cream-colored top with buttons down the front, sheer tights. Professional. Put-together.
He stood in the middle of the room, watching me.
“So,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.
“So.” He swallowed hard.
I smiled, slow and deliberate. “You gonna show me the bedroom, or what?”
He moved fast after that — maybe too fast, as if he was afraid that if he slowed down, he’d lose his nerve. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, revealing a pale, thin chest with a faint trail of dark hair running down his stomach. He wasn’t built, but he wasn’t soft either. Just slender. Almost delicate.
Then his hands went to his belt.
I watched him fumble with the buckle, his fingers clumsy. He glanced up at me once, quickly, as if to make sure I was still there. I raised an eyebrow.
“Need help?”
“No, I — no.” He got the belt undone, then the button, then the zipper. He pushed his jeans down, stepping out of them awkwardly, and then it was just his boxers.
Dark blue plaid. Tenting slightly.
I felt a flicker of anticipation. Three weeks of buildup. Three weeks of wanting.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband.
And pulled down.
—
I froze.
It took me a second to process what I was seeing. His cock — if you could call it that — was soft, nestled in a patch of dark pubic hair. It was small. Really small. Maybe an inch at the most, probably smaller. Just a little nub, the head barely distinguishable from the shaft.
His balls were tight against his body, small too, almost hidden in the hair.
He stood there, exposed, his hands hovering like he didn’t know what to do with them. Then, slowly, he moved one hand to cover himself — and his cock disappeared. Completely swallowed by his palm. Just a smooth, flat surface where his manhood should’ve been.
My brain short-circuited.
I’d seen dicks before. I’d seen average ones, slightly above average, slightly below. I’d never seen anything like this. It looked like something from a medical textbook, or a statue from ancient Greece where the artists deliberately made everything tiny. It was almost cute, in a pathetic kind of way, like a little button mushroom.
“Is something… wrong?” he asked, his voice thin.
I blinked. “No. No, nothing’s wrong.”
He didn’t look convinced. His hand was still pressed flat over his crotch, hiding nothing, making it look even smaller somehow.
“Can I see?” I asked.
His face flushed red. “You’re… you’re still dressed.”
“I know.”
We stared at each other. The silence stretched.
Then, slowly, I said: “Take your hand away.”
He hesitated. His fingers trembled. But he did it — he moved his hand to his side, letting me see everything.
His cock was still soft, still tiny, just a little nub of flesh pointing downward. I could see the slit, barely visible. The whole thing might’ve been the size of my thumb from the second knuckle up.
“Touch yourself,” I said.
His eyes widened. “What?”
“Touch yourself. Show me what you’ve got.”
—
He wrapped his fingers around his cock — his whole hand, because that’s all it took. His pinky and ring finger covered the base, his middle and index finger the shaft, and his thumb rested over the head. It was completely encased. Invisible.
He started stroking.
I stayed where I was, fully dressed, my arms crossed over my chest. I didn’t move toward him. I didn’t take off my top or unbutton my skirt. I just watched.
His cock started to grow.
But it didn’t grow much.
Hard, it barely poked out past his fingers. Thin, short, pale, with a reddish head that looked almost too big for the shaft. It curved slightly upward, straining against his grip. I tried to estimate — three inches? Three and a half? Definitely not four. Definitely, definitely not enough.
He kept glancing at me, his expression tight with anxiety. Waiting for me to laugh. Waiting for me to leave. His strokes were quick, almost frantic, like he was trying to get this over with before I could react.
“Slower,” I said.
He slowed down.
“Show me the head.”
He pulled his fingers back, exposing the tip. It was small, wet with precum, twitching slightly.
I smirked.
“Keep going.”
—
He stroked himself for maybe a minute, maybe two. I watched his face — the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing quickened, the way his eyes kept darting to my body, my legs, my chest, as if he were trying to memorize everything before this moment ended.
I didn’t touch him. I didn’t take off my clothes. I just stood there, fully clothed, watching this grown man stroke his babydick in front of me.
And then he came.
It was fast — so fast. One second he was stroking, the next his whole body tensed, his hips jerking forward, and a thin, weak stream of cum dribbled out of his cock. It barely made a mess. Just a few drops on his fingers, a small smear on his thigh. His balls — those tiny, tight balls — barely moved.
Ten seconds. That’s all it took.
He stood there, panting, his face and chest flushed pink, his softening cock shrinking back down to that tiny nub. Cum glistened on his fingers. He looked at me, eyes wide, waiting.
I smiled.
“That was fast.”
His face went even redder. “I — sorry, I —”
“It’s okay.” I pushed off the doorframe, smoothing my skirt. “Thanks for showing me.”
“Wait —” He stepped forward, then stopped, suddenly aware that he was naked and small and covered in his own mess. “You’re not staying?”
“No.” I grabbed my heels from by the door. “I should go.”
“Did I — did I do something wrong?”
I looked at him one more time. His pathetic little cock, already soft again, barely visible. His cum-slicked fingers. His desperate, hopeful expression.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
—
I left.
The walk to my car was cold, my tights not doing much against the night air. I sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the steering wheel, processing what I’d just seen.
I’d been so attracted to him. Three weeks of buildup, three weeks of wanting, three weeks of imagining what he’d look like under those clothes.
And then… that.
I felt weird. Not angry, not disgusted exactly. Just… underwhelmed. Confused. Like I’d ordered a meal at a restaurant and been served a single cracker.
—
A few days later, I texted him.
ME: Hey. Thanks for the other night.
He responded almost immediately.
CALEB: Hey. I had a good time. Can I see you again?
I stared at the message. I thought about his tiny cock, his quick orgasm, his flushed face, his nervous energy. I thought about how he’d looked at me like I held his entire self-worth in my hands.
ME: I don’t think it’s gonna work out between us.
CALEB: Oh. Okay. Was it something I did?
ME: I’m just looking for something else.
CALEB: Can I ask what?
I typed, deleted, typed again. Finally, I sent:
ME: I’m looking for a guy with a normal-sized cock. Not a babydick freak who’s also a prejac. Sorry.
Then I blocked his number.
—
I still think about that night sometimes.
Not because I miss him. Not because I regret leaving. But because it was such a strange, surreal experience — standing there, fully clothed, watching a man I’d wanted for weeks reveal that he had the smallest cock I’d ever seen.
It was almost fascinating. In a clinical way. Like watching a car crash in slow motion.
I wonder if he thinks about it too. If he lies awake at night, replaying the moment when I told him to keep going while I stayed dressed and stared. The moment when I smirked at his failure. The moment when I walked out.
I wonder if he knows, deep down, that size matters. That some women — maybe most women — want something to feel. Something that reaches beyond the entrance, something that fills you up, something that makes you gasp.
Something that isn’t a babydick.
I don’t regret the text I sent him. He needed to know. He needed to hear it from someone, even if it hurt.
Because the truth is, I am looking for something else.
Something bigger.
The End.
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