SPH Experiences: Speedos
By BeachGoer.
The sun beat down as I walked from the parking lot, towel over my shoulder, the fabric feeling snug but not uncomfortable. I didn’t think twice about how it fit—why would I? The beach was buzzing with people: families building sandcastles, couples lounging, and this group of college girls, about five or six of them, all in skimpy bikinis, giggling and tossing a frisbee near the water. They seemed in their early twenties, sun-kissed and carefree, the type who’d probably ignore a guy like me anyway.
I picked a spot close enough to the action but not too near, laid out my towel, and peeled off my shirt. I went for a quick dip to cool down, then returned to my towel. Everything felt normal as I stretched out on the sand, soaking in the warmth. I glanced their way now and then, admiring their energy, but nothing seemed off. A few minutes later, I decided to hit the waves, standing up and heading toward the surf. The water lapped at my legs, cool and refreshing, as I waded deeper.
That’s when it happened. The girls were floating nearby on inflatable rafts, chatting loudly. One of them spotted me and nudged her friend, her voice carrying over the splash: “Oh my god, check out that guy’s swimsuit!”
They all turned, eyes locking on my crotch, and then the laughter erupted—sharp, uncontrollable peals that cut through the beach noise. My stomach dropped. What the hell? I looked down instinctively, the water clinging to the Speedos, and for the first time, I really saw it: no bulge at all, just a sad, flat outline where there should have been something. The cold had shrunk me to nothing, my tiny dick invisible under the tight fabric, like it wasn’t even there.
Another girl chimed in, barely stifling her snickers: “Dude, is that a Ken doll down there or what?”
They pointed openly now, doubling over on their rafts, one covering her face while tears of mirth streamed down her cheeks. The realization hit me like a wave crashing over my head. I’d been strutting around oblivious, my pathetic package on full, embarrassing display without me knowing. Heat rushed to my face, shame twisting in my gut as I froze in the shallows. Everyone nearby was glancing over, some smirking, others pretending not to notice, but those girls’ howls made it impossible to ignore.
I bolted back to my towel, water sluicing off me, heart hammering. Sitting down, I pulled my knees up, trying to hide, but the damage was done. Their taunts replayed in my mind: the pointing, the wide-eyed shock turning to mockery. Yet, buried under the mortification, something stirred—a forbidden heat building in my groin. My little dick twitched, starting to swell against the damp Speedos, creating the tiniest ridge that only made it worse. I shifted uncomfortably, the mix of degradation and excitement making my skin prickle.
I couldn’t stay. I wrapped the towel around my waist, grabbed my stuff, and hurried to the car, head down, avoiding any more stares. The drive home was torture, their laughter echoing, but by the time I pulled into my driveway, I was achingly hard, or as hard as my four-inch dick could get. I locked the door, yanked off the Speedos, and collapsed onto the couch, hand flying to my shaft. I stroked furiously, the scene vivid: their fingers jabbing the air, one girl mimicking a limp noodle with her pinky.
“Tiny dick alert!” she might as well have yelled, and in my fantasy, she did, pulling her friends closer to inspect.
I exploded quickly, cum dribbling over my fingers in a weak spurt, breath ragged from the rush of humiliated bliss. But it wasn’t enough. That evening, I went at it again in the shower, soaping my small dick while imagining them surrounding me on the sand, demanding I adjust the suit to ‘prove’ what was hiding, or not hiding, there. The shame fueled every pump, turning my strokes into desperate tugs.
These days, it’s all I think about when I jerk off, which is constant—morning, noon, late at night. I edge for what feels like forever, pinching my little head until precum beads, murmuring their jeers to myself: “What a shrimp-dicked loser.”
It shatters me every time, sending ropes of semen across my chest in shuddering climaxes. I still haven’t mustered the nerve to return to the beach in those Speedos, but the craving gnaws at me, hand already wandering south at the mere thought.
The End.
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