SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

I made a stupid mistake at work one day that still haunts me to this day. It was a busy afternoon in the warehouse, and my coworker Sarah asked to borrow my phone to make a quick call. Her own battery was dead, and I didn’t think twice about handing it over. I was already running late for my break, so I mumbled something about being back in ten and headed to the break room for a smoke.

What I forgot in my rush was that I’d left the camera roll open from the night before. I’d been feeling bold after a few drinks and snapped some pics of myself in the bathroom mirror—shirt off, pants down, my pathetic little dick on full display. It’s always been small, barely four inches hard, and those photos captured every embarrassing detail: the way it barely poked out from my bush, soft and shriveled like a scared turtle. I meant to delete them later, but life got in the way. Then there were the pics of it hard.

I lit up outside, scrolling through memes on my smartwatch to kill time, oblivious to the disaster unfolding back at my station. Sarah must have swiped through the gallery while waiting for her call to connect. I can only imagine her eyes widening as she hit those pics—first one, then the next, zooming in on my tiny dick with a mix of shock and amusement. Instead of closing the app and pretending she saw nothing, she did the worst thing possible: she screenshotted them and fired off a group text to the whole shift.

By the time I stubbed out my cigarette and strolled back, the damage was done.

As I approached the packing line, I noticed the cluster of guys from shipping huddled around Sarah’s phone, their shoulders shaking with laughter. She was in the middle, her face flushed but grinning like she’d struck gold. “Hey, look who’s back!” one of them called out, Mike, the loudmouth supervisor.

Everyone turned to me, and the snickers started immediately.

I grabbed my phone from Sarah’s hand, feeling my stomach drop. “What?” I asked, but I already knew from the way they were staring.

She just shrugged with a smirk. “Oops. Your gallery was open. Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

My heart pounded as I unlocked the screen—yep, the camera roll still showed the thumbnails of my nudes right there. And worse, notifications were blowing up: texts from half the crew, emojis of eggplants crossed out with tiny rulers, laughing faces, and messages like: ‘Is that a clit or what?‘

The giggles turned into outright remarks as the shift dragged on. During the next lull, Jake from inventory sidled up to me while we were restocking boxes. “Dude, saw your pics. No wonder you’re single—girls must need a magnifying glass.” He slapped my back a little too hard, and I felt my face burn.

I tried to laugh it off, muttering something about it being a joke, but inside I was mortified. My small dick, which I’d always hidden under baggy work pants, was now office legend.

Lunch break was hell. The women in accounting joined in after Sarah spilled to them—whispers turning to outright teasing. Lisa, the cute brunette from HR, leaned over the table and said, “Heard you pack light down there. Cute, though. Like a little button.”

The table erupted, and I just stared at my sandwich, my cock twitching traitorously in my underwear from the humiliation. It was like a twisted rush, the shame making me half-hard despite myself, but only enough to make it even more pitiful.

By the end of the day, everyone knew. Even the boss cracked a joke during the team huddle: “Keep your personal items personal, folks—no more surprise inspections.”

The crew howled, and I slunk out early, vowing to change my lock screen and delete everything. But the texts kept coming that night: close-up memes of my dick photoshopped onto cartoon characters, group chats buzzing with ‘Micro Manager‘ nicknames for me. Sarah even sent a private one: ‘Sorry, not sorry. It’s hilarious. Own it.’

Now, weeks later, the teasing hasn’t stopped. Every time Sarah walks by, she winks and mouths “tiny.”

The guys measure their breaks in “your dick minutes.”

It’s embarrassing as fuck, but part of me gets off on it—the way they all know my secret, reducing me to jokes about my worthless little dick. I catch myself getting aroused at work, hiding in the bathroom to stroke my inadequate nub while replaying their laughs in my head. It’s become this fucked-up office fetish, and I don’t know if I hate it or crave more.

However, after a couple of months, I reached a point where I couldn’t take it anymore. The constant jabs were wearing me down, turning every shift into a gauntlet of whispers and smirks. I’d catch Mike drawing tiny dicks on the packing slips, or hear the women in the break room debating if my little prick could even get wet. It was relentless, and even though that twisted arousal hit me in the stalls sometimes—flicking my soft nub until a pathetic dribble leaked out—it wasn’t worth the daily degradation.

So, I put in my two weeks’ notice, telling HR it was for ‘personal reasons.’ Sarah hugged me goodbye on my last day, whispering, “Good luck hiding that shrimp elsewhere.”

The crew threw a mock party with cocktail weenies labeled ‘In Memory Of,’ and I bolted out the door, swearing I’d bury the whole mess.

I landed a gig at a distribution center across town, thinking the fresh start would wipe the slate clean. New faces, new routines—no one knew about my embarrassing exposure. For the first week, it was bliss: just boxing orders, chatting about sports, blending in with my loose uniform, hiding everything.

But then, on a Friday afternoon, my new coworker, Tom, asked if I’d worked at Kent Logistics, which was where all this began.

I shrugged it off at the time. However, he pulled out his phone during lunch. “Hey, I heard about this guy from the warehouse you used to work at. Supposedly, he let one of the girls there see his dick pics, and he had the tiniest dick anyone’s ever seen. Ring any bells? I’ve got a picture of it right here.”

There, on his screen, was one of my leaked dick pics, forwarded through some industry group chat. Sarah must have spread it further, or maybe one of the guys networked it out. My stomach twisted as Tom zoomed out, chuckling. As he zoomed out, my face came into view in the picture.

He gasped. “Fucking hell, this is you! Holy shit, man, your babydicks gone viral in the logistics circle.”

Word spread like wildfire in the new place, too.

By Monday, the teasing kicked off harder than before—now with the added layer of “the guy who tried to run.”

During inventory, a forklift driver yelled, “Watch your step, short stuff—don’t want to trip over your ego!”

The ladies in dispatch giggled over coffee, one saying, “Bet he measures in millimeters. Poor thing.”

I tried ignoring it, but hiding in the truck bay on breaks to avoid any teasing remarks is very lonely. Those pictures followed me like a curse, my tiny dick dictating my reputation across jobs. I’m now looking to do some studies so I can get out of this industry altogether and away from these pictures and the people who have seen them. One thing is for sure: I will never, ever lend my phone to anyone again.

 

The End.

 

 

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