The Small Dick Club: SPH-THEMED STORIES

I’ve always known my dick was small. As a Black guy in my mid-20s, growing up in a city where stereotypes about Black men and their sizes get thrown around like gospel, it hit me hard early on. Mine’s three and a half inches hard, soft it’s this pathetic little nub that hides in my pubes. Showers after basketball games in high school were torture—guys glancing over, smirking, whispering. But I thought college would be different. Fresh start, new crew. Until Jamal, my roommate, and the rest of the squad found out, and everything went to shit.

We were tight at first. Jamal, big dude with a booming laugh; Mike, the quiet one who was always scheming parties; and Trey, the athlete who dragged us to the gym. We’d hang out in our off-campus apartment, playing video games, smoking weed, talking shit about girls we’d hooked up with. I kept my mouth shut about my size, exaggerating stories to fit in. “Yeah, she couldn’t handle all this,” I’d say, thrusting my hips like an idiot, praying no one ever saw the truth.

It happened one humid summer night after a barbecue at Trey’s place. We’d been grilling ribs, with beers flowing and music blasting. Everyone was buzzed, stripping down to swim trunks for the backyard pool. I hesitated, but Jamal slapped my back. “C’mon, bro, jump in. Ain’t nobody judging.”

Famous last words.

We splashed around, horsing around, until Mike cannonballed and yanked my trunks down in the chaos. I felt the water rush cold against my bare skin, my tiny cock shriveling instantly from the shock.

They all froze, staring as I scrambled to pull them up. But it was too late. Jamal’s eyes bugged out, then he cracked up, pointing right at my crotch even after I covered it. “What the fuck is that? Yo, is your dick playing hide and seek?”

Mike swam closer, peering as if I were some science exhibit. “Nah, for real? That’s it? Thought Black guys were supposed to be packing. You got shortchanged, man.”

Trey just shook his head, chuckling low. “Damn, that’s why you always dip out of locker room talks. Hiding the babydick.”

I laughed it off at first, face burning under the pool lights, water lapping at my waist. “Shut up, it was cold,” I muttered, but they weren’t letting it go.

Jamal splashed me. “Cold? That shit’s microscopic even in the tropics!”

The teasing ramped up all night—every joke circled back to my ‘little secret.’ By the time we dried off, the vibe had shifted. They huddled on the patio, whispering, glancing my way with these pitying smirks. I felt exposed, small in every way, my balls tightening as shame knotted my stomach.

The ostracizing started subtly. The next day, group chat was blowing up with memes: tiny violins, fun-size candy bars, all captioned with my name. I tried responding with emojis, but it stung. Then the invitations dried up. ‘Yo, party at mine Friday,’ Jamal texted the group, but mine was a separate ‘Sorry, bro, it’s couples only or some shit.’

Bullshit.

Mike stopped crashing at our place, claiming he was ‘busy.’

Trey? He straight-up pulled me aside after gym one day. “Look, man, it’s not personal, but the fellas are weirded out. Like, we can’t unsee that shrimp dick. Kinda kills the bro energy, you know?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, just clapped my shoulder and walked off.

Weeks blurred into isolation. I’d see them on campus, laughing in clusters, but they’d nod awkwardly and keep moving. No more late-night sessions, no wingman at bars. I was the punchline they avoided. Alone in my room, the humiliation festered, twisting into something dark and hot. I’d strip naked, stand in front of the mirror, staring at my flaccid inch-and-a-half worm.

“Pathetic,” I’d whisper, echoing their voices, and my hand would drop to it, stroking slowly.

It hardened to its sad maximum, veins pulsing as I replayed the pool scene: Jamal’s pointing finger, Mike’s dissecting stare, Trey’s disappointed shake.

I’d jerk faster, imagining them cornering me again, forcing my trunks down in the locker room. “Show us that little Black dick,” Jamal would bark, and they’d circle, laughing as I stood there, exposed and twitching.

Mike is poking it with a towel. “Can’t even call it a cock? It’s more like a clit.”

They’re grabbing my shoulders. “No wonder girls ghost you.”

The shame burned, cheeks flushing like that night, but my fist pumped harder, pre-cum slicking my palm. I’d cum quick, ropes splattering my abs, body shuddering with release that left me emptier.

It became a ritual. Every exclusion, every missed text, every cold shoulder fueled another session. I’d edge for hours, building the fantasy: them making me measure it in front of the group, rulers out, howling as it barely hit three. “Ostracized for this tiny thing,” I’d groan, hips bucking, until orgasm hit like punishment.

They never confronted me outright after that talk with Trey, just faded away, leaving me to my shame-fueled strokes. Part of me hates them for it, but deep down, the rejection keeps me hard, obsessed with the sting of being the small dick outcast.

 

The End.

 

 

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