SPH Story
By ZTomInAustin.
[google-translator]
*****
The lounge at the Embassy Suites was nearly empty on this Wednesday night in early spring—soft amber lights, smooth jazz, only three occupied tables. My wife and I had chosen it deliberately: upscale but quiet, perfect for the debut of her new shirt.
We sat at the bar. Emily, the bartender—mid-20s, brunette, quick smile—was already our friend after twenty minutes of easy chat. My wife wore a tailored navy blazer over a crisp white polo. Under the blazer, in small, elegant script across her chest: Ask my husband about his micropenis.
My wife waited until Emily was wiping the spot in front of us, leaned forward with a grin, and said, “It’s getting warm in here.”Blazer off. Reveal.
Emily’s eyes dropped, read the line once, then again. A slow smile spread.“Okay… I’m asking. Tell me about it?”
My internal voice: Oh God, here we go. Heart’s pounding already. Just say it and get it over with.
I tried to keep some dignity: “Yeah… I have a small penis.”
My wife tilted her head, voice playful but firm: “A what?”
My internal voice: She’s not letting me off easy. Everyone’s watching. I’m trapped.
I swallowed.“…a small pp.”
She wasn’t done.“A what?”
My internal voice: Kill me now. I have to repeat it—worse this time. My face is on fire.
My voice barely carried:“…a tiny pp.”
Emily burst out laughing—head back, genuine, delighted. My wife did the pinch gesture for emphasis.“That’s the official term at home. A tiny pp. ‘Penis’ feels a little generous.”
Emily wiped a tear. “A tiny pp? Oh my God, that’s actually adorable.”
My internal voice: She said it back. She actually repeated “tiny pp.” I’m never going to un-hear that.
The laughter was still echoing when the side door behind the bar opened. Sarah—early 30s, blonde, hotel polo, clearly off-duty staff—strolled in carrying a clipboard.
“What’s so funny?” she asked Emily, leaning on the service bar.
Emily, still giggling, pointed at my wife’s shirt.“Read it.”
Sarah leaned closer, read the line, eyes widening. She looked at me, then back at my wife, then at Emily—who was already nodding enthusiastically.
Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “No way. Seriously?”
My wife smiled sweetly. “Dead serious. Go on, honey—what do we say?”
My internal voice: Not the trigger line. Not here. Not in front of two strangers. I can’t… but I have to.
I forced it out: “I have a tiny pp, and I am not ashamed.”
Both women lost it. Sarah slapped the bar. “A tiny pp? That’s the cutest thing I’ve heard all week.”
Emily filled her in quickly—the double correction, the baby-talk rule. Sarah repeated “tiny pp” in disbelief, shaking her head, laughing.
My internal voice: Two of them now. Both are saying it. Both looking at me like I’m some harmless, amusing pet. I’m completely desexualized. And it feels electric.
****
At that moment, the front door opened again. Lauren—late 30s, sharp business suit, rolling carry-on—walked in. She looked tired but happy, like her meetings had gone well. She pulled up two stools down from us.
“Evening,” she said to Emily. “I’ll have a glass of the Cab and whatever’s making you two laugh so hard.”
Emily pointed again. “You have to read her shirt.”
Lauren leaned over, read the line, blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “Oh wow. Okay. I need context.”
My wife turned toward her with that welcoming smile.“Long story short—my husband here is tall, handsome, big hands, big feet… you’d think he’s packing, right?”She did the tiny pinch.“Nope. It’s like this. We call it his tiny pp.”
Lauren’s eyebrows shot up. She looked at me—curious, amused.“Seriously?”
My wife nudged me gently. “Tell her what we say, honey.”
My internal voice: Three now. A stranger who just walked in. I’m on display. No escape. Just say it.
“I have a tiny pp, and I am not ashamed.”
The bar erupted again—Emily and Sarah already in on it, Lauren joining with a delighted “That is fantastic.”
Lauren raised her glass toward me. “To tiny pps and the confidence to own them.”
My wife lifted hers in salute. “And to wives who help them own it.”
Emily comped Lauren’s wine. Sarah stayed leaning on the service bar, occasionally whispering “tiny pp” and cracking up.
My internal voice: I’m surrounded. Everyone knows. Everyone has said it. I’m non-threatening to all three now—forever. And I’ve never felt more.
As the doors closed and we rode up to our room, I leaned against him, still buzzing.
Watching him forced to say it—not once, but twice—to downgrade himself from “small penis” to “tiny pp” in front of Emily… then repeat the whole line for Sarah… and again for Lauren?
Pure power.
I orchestrated the entire cascade: the reveal, the corrections, the trigger phrase. Three beautiful strangers went from seeing him as an attractive man to seeing him as the owner of a “tiny pp” in under thirty minutes—all because I made him confess it with his own mouth.
He was shaking with embarrassment the whole time, and I felt like a goddess—calm, in control, turning his most profound vulnerability into entertainment for a room full of women who now adore the joke.
The best part? They all thanked me for the story. I was the storyteller, the director, the one who permitted them to laugh.
He’s mine to expose, mine to diminish, mine to protect—and tonight I did all three at once.
I can’t wait for the next bar.
The End.
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