SPH Experiences: Outside Piss
By SmallHubby-40.
It was a warm Saturday afternoon, the kind where the sun beats down, and you avoid the house’s stuffy bathroom. I was out in the yard, trimming hedges in shorts and a t-shirt, when nature called urgently. The fence was high enough for privacy, or so I thought—no neighbors on this side except the new girl next door, a 19-year-old college freshman named Mia. Cute as hell, with long blonde hair, freckles, and those tight yoga pants she wore while jogging. I’d caught myself glancing, but at my age, it was harmless fantasy.
I stepped behind a bush near the property line, unzipped, and pulled out my soft little dick to piss. The stream started weak at first, arcing out in a pathetic dribble before picking up. Relief washed over me as I aimed at the dirt, eyes half-closed against the sun. That’s when I heard the gate creak—Mia, cutting through our yard as a shortcut to her place, her sneakers crunching on the grass.
“Oh my God!” she yelped, stopping dead ten feet away.
Her eyes locked right on my exposed dick, still in mid-stream, the piss splattering the ground. I yanked my hand back, but it was too late; the warm liquid kept flowing, soaking my fingers as I fumbled to tuck it away. My face burned crimson, heart pounding like a drum.
Mia burst out laughing, doubling over with her hands on her knees, that bubbly, infectious giggle turning cruel in seconds. “Holy shit, Mr. Thompson! Is that your dick? It’s so… tiny! Like, I thought I saw small before, but that’s just a little acorn. No wonder you’re out here hiding it.”
I zipped up frantically, piss dripping down my leg, stammering, “M-Mia, what the—get out of here! This is private!”
But she didn’t budge, wiping tears from her eyes, her gaze flicking back to my crotch like she couldn’t believe it.
“Seriously, it’s adorable. Or tragic. Does it even get bigger? Wait, don’t answer that—poor Mrs. Thompson. I feel so bad for her. Does she have to fake it every time? Like, how do you even fuck with that baby carrot? I’d die of boredom. No thrust, no stretch, just poking around like a lost finger.” She straightened up, crossing her arms under her perky tits, smirking as if this was the funniest thing she’d seen all week.
Humiliation flooded me, hot and suffocating. I wanted the earth to swallow me, my tiny dick shriveling even smaller in my shorts from the shame. “Shut up, Mia. You don’t know anything.” But my voice cracked, weak as the rest of me.
She stepped closer, peering at me like I was a science exhibit. “Oh, come on, it’s not your fault you’re built like a Ken doll down there. But yeah, I do feel sorry for your wife. She’s gorgeous—I’ve seen her in her bikini by the pool. Bet she hasn’t had a real orgasm in years. You probably finish in ten seconds flat, huh? Spritzing out a sad little squirt while she stares at the ceiling.” Her laughter rang out again, sharp and mocking, echoing in my skull.
The stream had finally stopped, but the damage was done. I turned away, muttering excuses about getting back to work, my cheeks on fire. Mia called after me as I retreated to the house, “Tell Sarah I said hi—and good luck with that micropenis!”
The door slammed behind me, and I leaned against it, breath ragged.
Inside, Sarah was napping on the couch, oblivious. I stripped off my piss-soaked shorts in the laundry room, staring at my reflection in the mirror—40 years old, balding slightly, and cursed with this inadequate dick that a teenager had just ridiculed. Mia’s words looped in my head: pity for my wife, boredom in bed, a worthless nub. Was that how Sarah really felt? Our nights together flashed by—her distant eyes, the way she’d roll away after my futile humping. Heartbroken didn’t cover it. I felt exposed, emasculated, like the joke of the neighborhood.
That evening, as we ate dinner, Mia’s laughter haunted me. I pushed food around my plate, wondering if I’d ever confront this, or just keep hiding my shame in the yard, one pathetic piss at a time.
The End.
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