The Hung Hitchhiker
An SPH Experience by blkshrimpyy.
I was sitting in my beat-up Honda Civic, scrolling through my phone, trying to figure out how I was gonna afford gas for the week. I’d just picked up a shift at the dining hall, but the money was already spent on books. I needed something cheap, maybe a ride to split costs. That’s when I saw him walking out of the dorms, a backpack slung over one shoulder, a blunt tucked behind his ear.
He spotted my car. Walked over. Knocked on the window.
I rolled it down. “What’s up?”
“You need a passenger? I got gas money and a blunt. You drive, I’ll cover the ride.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know him. But the words “gas money” and “blunt” were music to my broke ears. “Where you headed?”
“Just around. I got shit to do. Easy thirty bucks.”
Thirty bucks. That was a full tank. I unlocked the door.
He slid in, smelling like weed and expensive cologne. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt that showed off his chest, jeans that hugged his thighs. I tried not to stare. He pulled out the blunt, lit it, took a long drag, and passed it to me. I took it, let the smoke fill my lungs, and felt the tension start to melt.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. He directed me toward the outskirts of town, past the campus, down a dark road lined with trees. I didn’t question it. I was high, relaxed, stupid.
“Pull over here,” he said, pointing to a gravel turnout.
I did. Killed the engine. The night was quiet, just the hum of cicadas and the faint glow of the dashboard.
He turned to me, that smirk widening. “So… you want a little reward for the ride?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
He reached over and put his hand on my thigh. Squeezed. “I’ll jerk you off. For the ride. And the weed. Fair trade, right?”
My heart hammered. I’d never done anything with a guy before. But the weed had me loose, and the thought—the sudden, electric thrill—made my dick twitch in my jeans. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good,” he said. “Unzip.”
I fumbled with my button, my zipper. He watched, impatient, then shoved my hands aside and yanked my jeans down to my knees. My boxers followed. I was already half-hard, the cool air hitting my skin.
He looked down at my crotch. His expression shifted.
“That’s it?” he said.
I felt my face burn. “I’m not fully hard yet—”
“Yeah, okay.” His voice was flat. He wrapped his fingers around my shaft—except he didn’t really wrap. He pinched it between two fingers, like he was holding a cigarette. My dick, soft and barely two inches, stuck out from the pinch like a pinky finger. He moved his hand up and down, barely making contact.
“This is pathetic,” he said, not looking at me, just staring at my dick like it was a curious insect. “Come on. Hurry up and cum, faggot.”
I gasped. The word hit me like a slap, but my dick twitched. Harder. I couldn’t help it. The humiliation mixed with the weed and the sudden attention, and I swelled to my full four and a half inches. Still, his fingers couldn’t grip me properly. He had to hold me between thumb and forefinger, like he was rolling a joint.
“Seriously?” he muttered. “I can’t even get a grip on this thing. Make that little dick cum. Come on, make that tiny ass dick cum.”
He let go of me entirely. Sat back. Crossed his arms.
“What?” I said, my voice cracking.
“I’m not touching that anymore. You do it. Jerk yourself off. And make it fast. I want to see you shoot your load, then we’re done.”
I stared at him. He stared back, cold, bored. I looked down at my own hand. My dick was standing upright, thin, pale, hopeless. I wrapped my fingers around it—I could actually grip it, of course, because it was mine. But compared to his hand, my hand felt tiny too.
I started stroking. Slow at first, then faster. He watched, his expression unreadable. I couldn’t look at him. I stared at the steering wheel, at the dashboard, at the condensation on the windshield. My breath came in short gasps. I was close. Too close. The humiliation, the adrenaline, the blunt—it was all hitting at once.
“That’s it,” he said, flat. “Cum for me, faggot. Show me what that little dick does.”
I whimpered. My hand was a blur. I felt the pressure building, the hot rush, and then I came—a thin, weak spurt of white that landed on my own stomach. A few more drops followed, and then it was over. My dick shriveled instantly, retreating back into my pubic hair like a turtle into its shell.
I sat there, panting, covered in my own cum, my jeans around my knees, my boxers twisted. I felt tiny. Shriveled, he’d said. That was the word.
He leaned over. Reached into my lap—where my hand had been holding the thirty dollars I’d planned to use for gas. He plucked the bills from my fingers.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, opening the door.
“Wait—that was my gas money—”
He stepped out, looked back at me through the open door, and laughed. “You just came all over yourself for nothing. That’s your real payment. Use it to buy a bigger dick.”
He slammed the door. I watched him walk away into the darkness, tall, relaxed, the blunt still burning in his hand. I sat there for a long time, naked from the waist down, cum drying on my skin, my tiny dick soft and useless between my legs.
I started the car. Drove home with my jeans still unbuttoned. I didn’t have the money to refill the tank anyway.
That night, I lay in bed, tracing the outline of my dick with my finger. I thought about his two-finger pinch, his bored voice, the way he said tiny ass dick like it was a joke. And I thought about how, even then, I’d gotten hard. How I’d come faster than I ever had before.
I still think about it. I hate that I liked it. But I know one thing for sure: I never picked up a stranger again.
The End.
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