The Appetizer
An SPH Experience by wifesshrimpy.
—
I was rinsing off, the water running hot, steam filling the small bathroom and fogging up the glass. I heard the door open and close behind me, felt the slight shift in air pressure that meant someone else was in the room. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was her.
She came in already pulling her shirt over her head, moving with that casual efficiency she has when she’s between the end of her day and the start of her nighttime routine. Her pants came off next, then her bra, then her underwear, all tossed onto the counter in a pile. I watched her reflection in the foggy glass as she undressed, the blurred outline of her body becoming clearer as she stepped closer to the shower.
“Are you done?” she asked, standing there naked, one hand on her hip, waiting.
“No,” I said. Firmly. Not rudely, but definitively. I wasn’t ready to give up the hot water yet, and honestly, I didn’t want the moment to end. She looked good standing there. The bathroom light was warm, and she had that post-work looseness in her posture, relaxed and unselfconscious.
“Get in here,” I said, opening the shower door enough to gesture at her. “Let me kiss you.”
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled, and she stepped in. The shower isn’t big. It’s a standard stall, barely enough room for one person to move comfortably, so two people means you’re pressed together whether you want to be or not. She squeezed in beside me, the water hitting her shoulder, and I pulled her in by the waist and kissed her.
She kissed me back. Slow at first, then deeper, her mouth opening against mine, her hands coming up to my chest. I could feel her body against mine, the warmth of her skin, the soft press of her breasts against me. And she could feel me. I was hard. Completely, fully hard, pressed against her stomach, and there was no way she couldn’t feel it.
She broke the kiss and laughed. Not a polite laugh. A real one. The kind that comes from genuine amusement, the kind that scrunches her nose and makes her whole face change. She looked down between us, then back up at me, still grinning.
“Was it that hard?” I said. I meant it playfully. Cocky, even. Like I was proud of the reaction I’d gotten from a kiss.
She looked down again, then back up, and her expression was perfectly calibrated to land right in the sweet spot between affectionate and devastating.
“It wasn’t that great,” she said, and laughed again.
The word “that” hit different because of how she said it. The emphasis. The slight tilt of her head. The way her eyes went wide for a second in mock surprise, like she was genuinely evaluating the situation and finding it underwhelming. She wasn’t talking about the kiss anymore. She was talking about what she felt against her. The size of it. The fact that even fully hard, it wasn’t exactly pressing into her with any authority.
I felt the heat rise in my face, but I played it off. That’s what we do. That’s the game.
“Well, I am now full hard for you,” I said, straightening up a little, pushing my hips forward slightly. “He’ll be ready for the blowjob you promised me.”
She laughed hard at that. A real, full laugh that echoed off the tile. She turned her face into the water to compose herself, then looked back at me with that look she gets when she’s about to say something that’s going to stay with me for a week.
“That is not happening,” she said.
She started washing herself, letting the water run over her shoulders and down her body, completely unbothered. I stepped out of the direct spray and started drying off, but I stayed close to the shower door, watching her through the glass. She glanced at me, at my hands working the towel, at what was underneath them.
“I bet you want a BJ for being so kind,” she said, her voice carrying that teasing lilt that she uses when she knows she’s got the upper hand and intends to keep it.
“I think I deserve one for sure,” I said. I was playing along, but part of me wasn’t entirely playing. The conversation had me wired. The teasing, the laughter, the casual way she dismissed my hardness like it was cute rather than impressive. It was doing something to me. “It can be a quickie blowjob,” I added. “You don’t even have to choke.”
I said it as a joke—a self-deprecating offer. Like I was doing her a favor by not requiring any effort. But the second the words left my mouth, I realized what I’d set up.
She paused. Her hands stopped moving on her body. She turned her head and looked at me through the steam and the water with an expression that was half amusement and half something else. Something sharper.
“You’re right, baby,” she said. Her voice was slow, deliberate. “The real men I’ve given BJs to had to choke on them and could barely fit them in my mouth.”
The bathroom went quiet except for the water. I stood there with the towel in my hands, my hard-on sticking straight out in front of me, all of its modest length on display, and let the words sink in. Real men. Choke. Barely fit. She wasn’t being mean. She was being factual. That was worse.
“Maybe I should revisit that size,” she added, and the corner of her mouth twitched.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with it,” I said. It was the only comeback I had, and we both knew it was weak.
“Oh, I wouldn’t?” she said. She turned back to the water, letting it run down her back, and her voice got softer. More conversational. Like she was thinking out loud rather than performing. “I don’t like giving BJs. But big dicks are at least fun. For you, I just barely kiss it and nibble on him like a little appetizer.”
She paused, then added: “At least it doesn’t hurt blowing you.”
That last line landed in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It was framed as a positive. A silver lining. At least it doesn’t hurt. As if the reason it didn’t hurt was some kind of mercy, a built-in advantage of having nothing to work with. As if the best thing she could say about going down on me was that it was physically easy because there was nothing to challenge her.
I stood there for a second, processing. Then I did what I always do. I leaned into it.
“Exactly,” I said. “So my dick is better.” I was laughing when I said it, and I gave it a little tug. A small, almost reflexive gesture, pulling at it like I was presenting evidence in a courtroom. It looked ridiculous, and we both knew it. My hand dwarfed it. My fingers wrapped around it and there was barely anything visible past my fist. I was fully hard, and it looked like I was holding a thumb.
She saw me do it. She saw the tug. She saw how it looked in my hand. And her expression shifted into something I’ve seen before, but that still hits me every time. A pout. A soft, exaggerated, condescending pout. Lower lip out, eyes going big and round, head tilting slightly to one side—the face you’d make at a puppy doing something endearing.
“You’re right, baby,” she said, and her voice matched the face perfectly. Soft. Sweet. Patting-me-on-the-head sweet. “Your little dicklet is so much better than the massive cocks that I’ve had.”
Dicklet. Not dick. Not cock. Dicklet. The diminutive. The cutesy, minimizing, emasculating diminutive that sounds like something you’d call a toy or a pet. She said it with total warmth, like she was complimenting me, like she was agreeing with me, and that’s what made it land the way it did. She wasn’t insulting me. She was reassuring me. She was telling me that my little dicklet was better than the massive cocks she’d had, and she said it the way you’d tell a child that their drawing was the best one in the class.
I said thank you.
I actually said thank you.
I pulled on my bikini underwear, the kind that sit low on the hips and don’t leave much to the imagination, the kind that make it very obvious that there’s not much inside them. I pulled them up, adjusted myself, which took about half a second because there was nothing to adjust, and I went on with my night.
She finished her shower. I brushed my teeth. We got into bed. We watched something on her phone. We fell asleep.
Nothing else happened.
—
That’s the thing about these moments. They’re not scenes. They don’t build to anything. There’s no climax, no payoff, no resolution. It’s just a conversation in a bathroom that lasts maybe three minutes and contains more honest sexual assessment than most couples exchange in a year.
And it stays with you.
I lay in bed last night after she fell asleep, staring at the ceiling, replaying it. The laugh when she felt me hard against her. The way she said that with the emphasis on the wrong syllable. The word appetizer. The pout. The word dicklet. The way she said massive cocks like she was reminiscing, like she was pulling up specific files from specific experiences, and the way she said little dicklet like she was talking about something small and harmless and almost sweet.
I kept thinking about the choking line, how she said it so casually. The real men I’ve given BJs to had to choke on them. Not “other guys.” Not “some guys.” Real men. The implication being that the category of real men and the category of men she’d had to choke on were the same, and I wasn’t in it. I was in the other category. The appetizer category. The one that doesn’t hurt.
I thought about how she said at least it doesn’t hurt blowing you like she was doing me a favor by framing my size as a convenience. Like, well, it’s not much, but at least my jaw doesn’t get sore, as if the best-case scenario for going down on me was that it was physically undemanding. Not exciting. Not satisfying. Not fun in the way she’d just described big dicks as fun. Just… easy. Like a warm-up. Like something you do before the main event.
And I said thank you.
I keep coming back to that. I said thank you when she called my dick a dicklet and told me it was better than the massive cocks she’d had. I said thank you, and I meant it in the moment, because the game we play rewards that. The game says: take the hit, smile, agree, and keep going. The game says: turn it into a positive, even if the positive is that your wife finds your dick so small that it’s physically comfortable to have in her mouth.
The game is fun. The game gets me hard. The game is also the reason I was lying awake at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the word “appetizer” and what it means to be the thing someone has before the real meal.
Nothing else happened. She fell asleep. I stayed up. The underwear I was wearing didn’t hide much, and I was acutely aware of that as I lay there, aware of how flat the front of them was, aware that even hard I’d barely made a visible shape against her stomach in the shower, aware that she’d felt it and laughed.
I’m thinking about it again now, the morning after. I’ll think about it tomorrow too. And probably the day after that. Not because it was traumatic. Not because it hurt in any real way. But because it was honest, and honesty about this particular thing has a weight that doesn’t lift easily.
She’s still asleep. I’m up. The bikini underwear are in the hamper. I can see them from where I’m sitting, the thin fabric bunched up, the pouch in the front that’s supposed to hold something substantial looking deflated and empty.
I should throw them out. I won’t. I’ll wear them again. And next time, maybe she’ll say something else. Maybe she’ll find a new word. Maybe she’ll discover a new way to describe what I have that’s smaller than all the words she’s already used.
And I’ll probably say thank you for that too.
The End.
*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.