SPH Experiences: Sabotaged by Sister
By HolyHelp.
He tried to play it cool when I approached, but his smirk gave it away. “Dude, everyone knows. Jenna’s got stories.”
My stomach dropped. Stories? What the fuck did that mean?
I confronted my cousin later, away from the crowd. He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes. “Look, man, it’s not my business, but Jenna… she showed us pics. From when you were younger, I guess. Said you were hung like a kid. Sorry.”
Pics? My blood ran cold. I stormed home that night, mind racing. Jenna lived just a few blocks away, in our parents’ old house she’d inherited after they passed. I didn’t call. I needed to see her face when I exploded.
*****
The next morning, I showed up at her door, pounding until she answered. She was in her pajamas, hair messy, sipping coffee like it was any Saturday. “What the hell, bro? It’s early.”
I pushed past her into the living room, slamming the door. “What pics, Jenna? What the fuck have you been telling people about me?”
Her eyes widened for a split second, then she burst out laughing, doubling over like I’d told the world’s funniest joke. “Oh my God, you found out? Finally!” She wiped tears from her eyes, still chuckling as she flopped onto the couch.
I stood there, fists clenched, feeling my face burn. “This isn’t funny. Have you been spreading naked pictures of me? To who? Our family? My friends?”
She shrugged, casual as hell, crossing her legs. “Yeah, pretty much everyone. Remember that time in high school when Mom made us share a bathroom? I snuck a few shots while you were showering. Your little babydick just jiggling there, all pink and tiny. It was hilarious. I figured, why not share the laughs?”
I felt sick, my throat tightening. Those blurry memories flooded back—me at 16, oblivious, soaping up my pathetic excuse for a cock. It was barely an inch soft back then, shrinking even more in the water. Now, at 28, it hadn’t improved much. Hard, it topped out at four inches on a good day. Soft, it was barely an inch. I’d avoided mirrors in locker rooms, dodged hookups, all because I knew it was a joke. But this? Is my own sister turning it into public entertainment?
“Why?” I demanded, voice breaking. “I’ve been trying to date, Jenna. Women pull away right when it’s getting real. Is that you? Warning them? Sending them pictures of me?”
She nodded, grinning like a cat with cream. “Duh. Like that girl from your office last year? Sarah? She texted me after your second date, all excited. I sent her a pic—your sad little nub fully erect from one I took peeking through your bedroom door. Told her, ‘Don’t bother, Sarah. He’s got a man-clit, not a cock. You’ll laugh your ass off.’ She blocked you the next day, right?”
I remembered it vividly: Sarah’s sudden cold shoulder, the vague ‘it’s not you’ texts. It all made sense now—every failed flirt, every awkward fade-out. Jenna’s poison is spreading behind my back.
“You’re ruining my life!” I shouted, pacing the room.
Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. She just watched, amused, sipping her coffee. “Ruin? Please. I’m saving them the trouble. Imagine if you actually got laid—poor girl pretending to feel that shrimp dick inside her. ‘Oh yeah, Mike, fuck me harder with your pinky finger.’ I’d die laughing.” She set her mug down, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “Admit it, you’ve always been a virgin joke. No girl’s gonna spread her legs for that. I bet you jerk it every night to the thought of pussy you’ll never have, a little two-finger tug, dreaming of more.”
Her words sliced deep, humiliation twisting in my gut. I hated how right she was—nights alone, stroking my tiny shaft furiously with two fingers and my thumb, cum dribbling out in weak spurts onto my sheets. But hearing it from her, the sister who’d shared my childhood secrets, made it unbearable.
“Delete them,” I growled, stepping closer. “All of them. And stop talking shit.”
She stood up, hands on her hips, towering over me in her sarcasm. “Make me. But good luck dating now—everyone’s seen the evidence. Your babydick is family folklore. Maybe try a magnifying glass for your next hookup.”
I left without another word, slamming the door so hard the frame shook. Driving home, rage boiled into despair. No wonder I was alone. My own flesh and blood had turned me into the punchline. Part of me wanted to fight back, expose her cruelty, but who would believe it? They’d just laugh harder at the guy with the small dick.
That night, as I lay in bed, hand absently cupping my flaccid nub, I realized the damage was done. Jenna’s mockery echoed in my head, a cruel reminder that some secrets—and some sisters—destroy more than they build.
The End.
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