Stewart Little
An SPH Experience by Deftron1.
I got to the point where I didn’t even like looking at myself soft. I’d only feel somewhat okay about it when I was semi-hard, which at least gave it some presence. But fully soft? It was basically just the head poking out from my pubes, maybe an inch if I was being generous. The shaft barely existed. It looked like a thumb sticking out of a nest of hair.
I lost my virginity to a girl I dated in high school. She never said anything about my size — not a word. Not during, not after. We’d have sex, and she’d just… do it: no comments, no reactions, nothing. I told myself that meant it was fine. That maybe I wasn’t as small as I thought. Her dad was military, so eventually she moved away when he got reassigned, and that was the end of that relationship. I held onto the memory of her silence like it was some kind of proof that I was okay. That maybe the porn had warped my perception, and I was actually normal.
I wasn’t.
After high school, two buddies and I rented a house together. It was your typical post-graduation setup — cheap rent, messy kitchen, constant flow of people coming and going. We partied a lot. Had a small social circle that mostly consisted of guys from school and a few girls who’d orbit the group. It was a good time—low pressure. Nobody was really dating anyone seriously. It was just hanging out, smoking, drinking, being young and dumb.
That’s when Jennifer started coming around.
Jennifer went to a different school than us, but she’d somehow ended up in our orbit through mutual friends. She was —, and I’m not exaggerating here — one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen in person. Brunette, long hair, these big brown eyes, a body that made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. She was the kind of girl who walked into a room, and everyone noticed. Not just the guys — the girls too. She had this energy about her that made you want to be near her even if you knew you had no chance.
She was also spoiled. Like, genuinely spoiled. Her family had money — real money — and she talked about it openly. New car for her sixteenth birthday. Vacations to places I couldn’t pronounce. Designer clothes she’d wear once and forget about. She had this way of mentioning it that wasn’t exactly bragging but also wasn’t not bragging. It was just part of who she was. She’d been raised getting everything she wanted, and she carried that confidence that comes with never having to worry about anything.
But she was fun. That was the thing. She’d smoke pot with us, hang out on the couch, crack jokes. She flirted with me constantly — nothing serious, just that playful energy she seemed to have with everyone. She’d lean against me when she laughed, touch my arm when she was making a point, sit a little too close on the couch. I never read too much into it because that’s just how Jennifer was. She treated everyone like they were her favorite person.
She also talked about sex. Openly. Frequently. Without any filter whatsoever. She’d casually mention things she’d done with guys, things she wanted to do, things she’d heard about. It was never directed at me specifically — she was just talking — but I always felt this knot in my stomach when the subject came up. Because I knew that if anything ever happened between us, she’d see. She’d know. And girls like Jennifer who talked about sex that openly definitely had opinions about size.
One night, we had people over at the house. The usual crowd. Some drinking, some smoking, the typical Friday night. One by one, people filtered out until it was just Jennifer and me. She was visibly drunk — not sloppy, but loose. Her eyes were glassy, and her laugh was louder than usual. She was sitting on the couch with her legs tucked under her, leaning against the armrest, looking at me with that playful expression she always had.
“You know what I was thinking about today?” she said, not waiting for an answer. “Dicks.”
I almost choked on my drink. “What?”
“Dicks. I was thinking about all the dicks I’ve seen. Like, every single one. Because I’ve seen a lot, you know?”
“I believe you,” I said, not sure where this was going.
She laughed. “Okay, so like, you know Noah? From my school?”
I nodded. I’d met him a few times at parties.
“He’s not long. Like, at all. I hooked up with him at Tyler’s party last year, and I was like… okay. That’s it? But he’s cute so whatever.”
She said this with zero malice. Just observation. Like she was reviewing restaurants on Yelp.
“Then there’s James. James is decent. Not impressive, but decent. Like, I wouldn’t complain. He knows what to do with it at least.”
I shifted in my seat. I didn’t know James well, but I knew of him.
“Brady though,” she said, and her eyes lit up. “Brady has a horse cock. Like, literally. I couldn’t even — I mean, I tried, but it was too much. He’s huge. Like scary huge. I told him he should do porn.”
She laughed at the memory, clearly amused.
“Chris is average. Totally average. Like, textbook average. I looked it up once — the average is like five and a half inches — and Chris is exactly that. It’s almost weird how average he is.”
She was counting on her fingers now, clearly enjoying herself. I was sitting there with my stomach getting tighter and tighter, partly because the conversation was surreal, partly because I knew where this could end up. And partly because I was doing the math in my head. If James was “decent” and Chris was “average” at five and a half, and I was smaller than both of them…
“OH. And then there’s Stewart.”
She said his name like she’d been saving the best for last. Then she burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh. Not a chuckle. A full, hysterical, tears-forming-in-her-eyes laugh that made her curl forward on the couch.
“What?” I asked. “What about Stewart?”
Jennifer held up her hand, trying to compose herself, but every time she looked at me she started cracking up again. Finally she wiped her eyes and took a breath.
“Stewart has the smallest penis I have ever seen in my life.”
She said it with such conviction, such absolute certainty, that it was almost admirable. Then she started laughing again.
“Like, I’m not even being mean. I’m just stating a fact. It is the smallest penis I have ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of penises.”
“How small?” I asked, partly out of morbid curiosity and partly because I needed to know where the bar was.
“Like…” She held up her pinky finger and wiggled it. Then she laughed so hard she snorted. “I’m serious. Like, I didn’t even know it was hard at first. I thought he was soft. He was hard. It was hard, and it was that small.”
She was practically wheezing now.
“I called him Stewart Little for like a week—and teeny weenie. Oh my god, he got so mad. But what was I supposed to do? It was right there. It was tiny.”
She kept going, describing it in detail — how thin it was, how she could barely tell he was inside her, how she’d seen tampons wider than his dick. Each detail was delivered with that same breathless, delighted laughter. She wasn’t being cruel on purpose. She genuinely found it funny—the idea of a penis that small was comedy to her.
I sat there laughing along, because what else was I going to do? But inside, I was doing something else entirely. I was measuring. Comparing. Calculating. Because everything she was describing about Stewart — the length, the thinness, the way it barely registered — sounded a lot like me. Not the same, but close enough that the comparison made my skin prickle with cold sweat.
If Jennifer ever saw me hard, would she laugh like that? Would she hold up her pinky and tell everyone she knew? Would she give me a nickname that stuck for the rest of my life?
Eventually she ran out of steam. She yawned, stretched, and her eyes started to droop. Within minutes she was asleep on my couch, still in her clothes, her hair spread across the cushion. I watched her for a moment, then grabbed a blanket and draped it over her. I kissed her forehead — a weird impulse, but it felt right in the moment — and went to bed.
I lay there in the dark for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Stewart Little. Teeny weenie. The pinky finger. The laughter. I thought about all of it. I thought about how casually she’d dismantled this guy’s entire sexual identity over the course of a five-minute conversation. I thought about how she’d probably told other people. How she was probably telling someone right now, or would tomorrow. How Stewart’s small dick was just… a story to her. An anecdote. Entertainment.
And I thought about how close I was to being that story.
The following Saturday, Jennifer showed up again. This time she was sober — or at least mostly sober — and she’d brought her friend Kristen. Kristen was quieter than Jennifer, a little more reserved, but still pretty in a girl-next-door way. She was apparently Jennifer’s designated driver for the evening, though Jennifer wasn’t drinking this time. They were just hanging out.
We all sat around for a while, talking, watching TV. Normal stuff. At some point, Kristen and Jennifer stepped outside to talk. I didn’t think much of it. Girls did that — went off in pairs, had their own conversations, came back as if nothing happened. I stayed on the couch, flipping channels.
When they came back inside, Jennifer walked straight up to me with a look on her face that I’d never seen before. It wasn’t her usual playful expression. It was something more direct. More intentional.
“Come here,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up from the couch.
“Where are we —”
She didn’t answer. She led me down the hall to my bedroom, opened the door, pulled me inside, and locked it behind us. My heart was hammering. This was happening. Jennifer — beautiful, untouchable Jennifer — was pulling me into my bedroom.
She pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top of me. We started kissing. Her lips were soft, and she tasted like lip gloss. Her hands were in my hair, on my chest, pulling at my shirt. I was hard already — well, as hard as I got — just from the kissing and the surprise of it all.
Then I heard the lock click again.
The door opened. Kristen walked in.
I froze. Jennifer didn’t. She barely reacted at all, like this was part of the plan. Kristen closed the door behind her and walked over to the bed.
“Kristen, what —”
Jennifer kissed me again to shut me up. Then she pulled back and looked at Kristen with a smile. Kristen smiled back. Some kind of silent communication passed between them.
Kristen reached down and unbuckled my belt. My pants were open before I could even process what was happening. She pulled my jeans down, then my underwear, and my cock was just… there. Exposed. In front of two girls.
I was already hard — or as hard as I was going to get. Maybe three and a half inches. Thin. Standing straight up off my balls like a little spike.
Kristen didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her hand around it — her fingers barely needed to close — and leaned down. She took it in her mouth. All of it. In one motion. The whole thing just disappeared. There was nothing to work up to, no gradual taking it deeper. It was just — gone. Her lips pressed against my pubes, and her tongue was working the underside, and my entire cock was in her mouth like it was nothing.
I’d had blowjobs before from my ex-girlfriend. She’d always kind of worked up to it, used her hand, taken her time. This was different. Kristen was aggressive. Fast. Her head was bobbing up and down at an almost frantic pace, her hand gripping the base — which wasn’t much to grip — and her mouth working overtime. It was intense. Too intense. It actually hurt.
“Whoa, wait — hold on,” I said. “Can you — can you let it get hard first?”
Kristen pulled off and looked at me. Then she looked at Jennifer. Then she giggled.
It wasn’t a big laugh. Not like Jennifer’s Stewart story. Just a little giggle. But it hit me like a truck.
She looked back down at my cock. It was the same size it had been — it hadn’t gotten any harder. She rubbed her face against it, nuzzling my balls, pressing my cock against her cheek. It looked absurd. My thin little erection pressed against her face like a warm pinky finger. She played with it, flicking it with her finger, watching it bounce. She cupped my balls and rolled them around, examining everything with this amused curiosity.
I kept waiting to get harder. I kept waiting for the sensation to build, for the blood to rush in, for my cock to fill out and reach whatever its full potential was. But it wasn’t happening. The nerves, the embarrassment, the two girls watching me — it was all working against me. My cock just sat there, barely twitching, stubbornly refusing to grow.
Ten minutes passed—maybe more. Kristen kept trying — licking, stroking, rubbing, kissing. Jennifer sat on the edge of the bed watching, occasionally making comments I can’t fully remember because my brain was short-circuiting. But I remember the tone. Amused. Light. Like this was a fun little experiment.
It wasn’t working. I wasn’t getting harder. If anything, I was getting softer. The window had passed.
I reached down and pulled my underwear up. Fast. Didn’t even bother with the jeans. Just yanked the waistband over my cock and balls and tried to pretend the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.
Kristen sat back on her heels and looked at me. She was smiling. Not cruel, not mocking — just smiling. That same gentle, amused smile she’d had when she first walked in. She gathered her hair behind her ear, picked up her phone from the nightstand, and stood up.
“Okay,” she said, as we’d just finished watching a movie.
Jennifer stood up too. She smoothed her shirt, grabbed her bag, and they both headed for the door. Jennifer turned back to me with that same playful look she always had.
“See you next weekend,” she said.
Then they were gone.
I sat on my bed in my underwear with my pants around my ankles and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. Two girls had walked into my room, one had sucked my dick while the other watched, and I hadn’t been able to get hard enough to do anything about it. My cock — my small, thin, stubborn cock — had been on full display, and the only reaction it had produced was a giggle.
I told myself Kristen wouldn’t say anything. She seemed chill. She wasn’t the gossipy type. She’d smiled, she’d left, it was over—no big deal. Move on.
I was wrong.
But that’s a story for another time.
The End.
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