SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

Tyler Brooks sat on the exam table, paper crinkling under his thighs as he swung his legs idly. The air conditioning bit at his bare skin—he’d been told to strip down to his underwear for the team physical, and the thin gown did fuck-all to keep him warm.

He’d been with the Hillsboro Hops for two seasons now. AA ball. Close to the show, maybe. Or maybe not. Either way, the organization required a full physical before spring training, and here he was.

Dr. Vanessa Cross had been efficient. Professional. Cold hands, warm stethoscope, the usual routine. She’d checked everything—reflexes, breathing, hernia press, the works. He’d pulled his boxer briefs back up afterward, and she’d told him to wait while she reviewed his chart in the back office.

“Just sit tight, Mr. Brooks. I’ll be right back.”

That was ten minutes ago.

He needed to piss. The bathroom was down the hall, but to get there, he’d have to pass the back office. He figured he’d just slip out, use the restroom, and come back—no big deal.

The hallway was narrow. The back office door was slightly ajar—not wide open, but cracked enough that voices carried clearly into the corridor. Tyler heard Dr. Cross first, speaking in a low but distinct tone to someone else.

“Brooke, come look at this.”

A second voice—the nurse who’d checked him in, the redhead with the Hops cap pin on her lanyard. “What’s up?”

“Brooks. Outfielder. I just did his physical.”

“Tyler Brooks? Yeah, I know him. I go to like half the home games. He’s got a decent arm.” A pause. “Why?”

“Check my notes. Genital exam.”

Tyler stopped walking. He should’ve kept going. He should’ve gone to the bathroom and pretended he heard nothing. But his feet were glued to the linoleum, and his stomach was already sinking, because he knew exactly what was coming.

“Wait,” Brooke said. “This can’t be right. You wrote… flaccid length, two point one inches?”

“Correct.”

“Two point one?”

“Give or take. I measured twice.”

Brooke laughed. Not a polite laugh. A real one. The kind that came from the gut. “Holy shit. I’ve seen bigger clits.”

“I’m being serious,” Dr. Cross said. “Stretched flaccid was maybe three inches. Erect—well, he didn’t get erect, but based on the tissue, I’d estimate four inches on the high end. Probably closer to three and a half.”

“Three and a half inches hard?” Brooke’s voice was somewhere between delighted and horrified. “That’s… Dr. Cross, that’s like a thumb.”

“Girth was under four centimeters.”

“Under four—” Another laugh, sharper this time. “Are you serious right now? I’ve been watching this guy play baseball for two years. I had a whole crush on him. I literally told my friend Jessica I wanted to sit on his face.”

“Based on what I saw today, I don’t think that would be a particularly stimulating experience for you.”

“Oh, my God.” There was a wheezing sound. Brooke was losing it. “Oh, my God. Does he know? Like, does he know it’s that small?”

“I’m not in the habit of telling patients their penis is unusually small. I note it in the chart if there’s a clinical concern, which there isn’t. It functions normally. It’s just… diminutive.”

“‘Diminutive.’ You’re so clinical. You can just say it. The man has a baby dick.”

“Brooke.”

“He has a tiny, itty-bitty, little babydick. That’s what he has. I’ve seen cocktail weenies bigger than what this man is working with.”

“Are you done?”

“No! No, I’m not done. I need a minute. I’m processing this. I’ve literally been fantasizing about this guy. I had a whole thing about him pinning me against the outfield wall, and now all I can picture is him trying to fuck me with his little pinky finger.”

“Brooke, you need to keep your voice down.”

“Nobody’s here. The hallway’s empty.”

Tyler stood frozen. His face was on fire. His chest was tight, and his hands were shaking at his sides, and he could feel his pulse in his throat. His cock—his small, useless, three-and-a-half-inch cock—was shriveled so far into his underwear right now that it probably wasn’t even visible.

He should be furious. He should burst through that door and report them both. That was a violation. That was his medical information. That was private.

But he didn’t move.

Because something else was happening. Something worse than the humiliation, something that threaded through the shame and twisted it into a tight, hot knot low in his gut. His dick was trying to get hard. His tiny, pathetic dick was twitching in his boxer briefs, responding to the degradation like it was a hand wrapped around it.

He pressed his back against the hallway wall and closed his eyes.

“I wonder if he’s a grower,” Brooke mused. “Some guys are growers, not showers.”

“He’s not,” Dr. Cross said flatly. “I’ve done enough exams to know. That’s his size. He’s just small. Micropenis is technically under 2.5 inches erect, so he doesn’t quite meet that threshold, but he’s well below average. Significantly.”

“How significantly?”

“Average erect is about five and a half inches. He’s maybe sixty percent of that.”

“So if I held up my middle finger—”

“Roughly, yes.”

Brooke cackled. “I want to see it again. Can I see it again?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on. Just let me peek at the chart photo.”

“There’s no chart photo, Brooke. What is wrong with you?”

“I’m a fan! I’m a fan who invested emotional energy into this man’s body, and now I find out he’s packing a pencil stub. I need closure.”

Tyler’s hand had drifted to the front of his boxer briefs. He was fully hard now—or as hard as he got, which meant a modest tent that wouldn’t even be noticeable if his underwear weren’t pulled taut. Three and a half inches. Maybe. He’d measured himself a hundred times, always hoping for a different number. It never changed.

He was stroking himself through the fabric. In the hallway. Outside the room where two women were dissecting his inadequacy. He wanted to stop. He couldn’t stop.

“You know what the saddest part is?” Brooke said. “He’s cute. He’s really cute. Nice body. Great ass. I’ve watched him slide into second base and thought, ‘God, I want those thighs around me.’ And he’s got nothing in his pants. Nothing. It’s like finding out your favorite restaurant has a gorgeous dining room and the food is garbage.”

“That’s a cruel analogy.”

“It’s accurate. What’s he going to do with a woman? Seriously. What’s he going to do? She’s going to pull down his pants and see that little nub and try not to laugh. You know she’s going to laugh. Every woman laughs.”

“Not every woman—”

“Every woman. I’ve been with guys. Suppose a guy pulled out something that small, I’d laugh. I wouldn’t mean to, but I would. It’s a reflex. It’s like seeing a toy poodle after expecting a Great Dane. You just— you react.”

Tyler bit down on his knuckle to keep from making a sound. His hips were rocking slightly, his hand rubbing faster over the thin cotton. He was going to cum. He was going to cum in the hallway listening to two women talk about how small his dick was. The shame of it was a physical thing, a weight on his chest, and it was making him harder than any touch ever had.

“Does he have nice balls at least?” Brooke asked.

“Average.”

“So he’s got a little dick and average balls. That’s like a consolation prize nobody wants. ‘Sorry your car is tiny, but the hubcaps are normal-sized.’ Great. Wonderful.”

“Brooke, we need to wrap this up. I have another patient at three.”

“Fine. Fine. But I’m going to look at him differently at the next game. I’m going to be in the stands knowing what’s in those baseball pants, and it’s going to be so hard not to laugh. Every time he adjusts his cup, I’m going to think, ‘There’s nothing in there to adjust.'”

Tyler came. He came in his boxer briefs, biting down on his fist so hard he tasted blood, his cock spurting a pathetic few ropes into the cotton. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against the wall, breathing hard through his nose.

He stood there for a long moment, cum cooling against his skin, listening to the silence that had fallen in the back office. Papers shuffling. Dr. Cross’s pen scratching.

He wiped his hand on the gown. He straightened up. He walked back to the exam room on unsteady legs and sat down on the table, paper crinkling under him as nothing had happened.

Three minutes later, Dr. Cross came through the door. “Sorry about the wait, Mr. Brooks. Everything looks good. You’re cleared for spring training.”

“Great,” he said. His voice was steady. “Thanks, Doc.”

She didn’t look at him any differently. Or maybe she did. Maybe there was something in the corner of her mouth, a slight twitch, the ghost of a smirk she was suppressing. He couldn’t tell. He thought he was imagining it.

As he was leaving, he passed the check-in desk. Brooke was there, sorting files. She looked up and smiled.

“Hey. You’re Tyler Brooks, right? Number twenty-three?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a big fan. I come to a lot of games.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

She held his gaze a beat too long. Her eyes dropped—just for a fraction of a second—to his crotch, then back up. The smile widened.

“Good luck this season,” she said. “I’ll be watching.”

Tyler nodded and walked out into the parking lot, the Oregon sun warm on his face, his cum-stained underwear sticking to his skin, his face still burning, his cock already trying to get hard again.

He drove home and jerked off twice more, both times replaying Brooke’s voice in his head. Baby dick. Pencil stub—nothing to adjust.

He had a game in two weeks. He wondered if she’d be in the stands.

He hoped she would be.

—

The Stands

Two weeks passed. Tyler played baseball and tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the redhead in the stands who now knew exactly what he was packing—or wasn’t. Tried not to think about Dr. Cross’s clinical voice rattling off measurements like she was reading stats off the back of a baseball card.

He failed. He failed at all of it.

He jerked off every night. Sometimes twice. Always to the same memory. Brooke’s laugh. The wheeze. Baby dick. Pencil stub. His hand would wrap around his hard-on—all three and a half inches of it—and he’d cum in under a minute, groaning into his pillow, hating himself, then lying awake in the dark waiting to get hard enough to do it again.

The Hops had a home stand against the Everett AquaSox. Friday night game. Tyler was in the lineup, batting sixth, playing right field. The stadium was small—minor league ball meant minor league crowds, maybe three thousand people on a good night, and tonight was a decent one. Summer air, smell of hot dogs and cut grass, the works.

He was taking batting practice when he saw her.

Brooke. Third row behind the home dugout. Red hair pulled into a ponytail. Hops cap. Beer in one hand. She was with another woman—blonde, taller, someone Tyler didn’t recognize—and they were both watching BP with the easy attention of real fans, not the distracted scrolling of people there for the social media posts.

Brooke saw him. He knew the instant it happened, because her expression shifted. Not dramatically. Just a flicker—recognition, then something else. Something amused. She leaned over and whispered to her friend, and the blonde looked toward the field, found Tyler, and laughed.

Tyler’s bat connected with the next pitch and sent it sailing over the left field wall. He didn’t feel it. He was watching the blonde cover her mouth, still laughing, and Brooke was grinning now, not even trying to hide it.

She’d told her. Brooke had told her friend about his dick.

He stepped out of the cage and grabbed a Gatorade from the cooler, pressing the cold bottle against his neck. His face was flushed, and it wasn’t from the heat.

—

The game started at seven. Tyler took his position in right field and tried to focus on the pitcher, the batter, the situation. Everett’s leadoff guy was a lefty with a tendency to pull. Tyler shaded him toward the line.

It was fine. It was baseball. He knew baseball. He could do this.

But between pitches, his eyes drifted to the stands. Brooke was still there. Still watching. And every time there was a lull—a pitching change, a mound visit—she’d lean over to her friend and say something, and they’d both look out at right field, and the blonde would laugh again.

At one point, Brooke held up her pinky finger. Extended it, wiggled it at her friend, and they both lost it. The blonde nearly spilled her beer.

Tyler misread a fly ball. It bounced a foot in front of his glove, and the runner took second. The error was charged to him, and the crowd groaned, and his manager gave him that look from the dugout—the one that said get your head out of your ass.

He couldn’t. His head was in the stands, in the third row, with a redhead who was holding up her pinky like a telescope aimed directly at his dignity.

—

The Hops lost 5-3. Tyler went 1-for-4 with a weak groundout, a strikeout looking, and a bloop single that probably should’ve been caught. He showered in the clubhouse with his back to everyone, which he always did, but tonight he was hyper-aware of every towel wrapped around every waist, every guy walking to the showers swinging freely between his legs. He’d seen enough dicks in clubhouses to know the numbers. He was the smallest. He’d always been the smallest. He just hadn’t had it confirmed by a medical professional and announced to a fan base before.

He dressed and left through the player exit, the side door near the parking lot. The lot was mostly empty—fans had cleared out, players had gone home. His truck was in the far corner, and he was digging for his keys when he heard it.

“Hey. Number twenty-three.”

He turned. Brooke was leaning against the fence near the exit, her friend gone now, just her. Ponytail. Hops cap—that smile.

“Hey,” Tyler said.

“Good game.”

“We lost.”

“You hit a bomb in BP, though. I saw it.”

He shrugged. His keys were cold in his hand. He should get in the truck. He should drive away. He was not going to do that.

“You were watching me out there,” he said.

“I’m a fan. I watch the team.”

“You were watching me. You and your friend. Laughing.”

Brooke’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “Yeah. I was.”

“Because of what you heard. At the clinic.”

“Because of what I saw, Tyler. At the clinic. Dr. Cross didn’t just tell me. She let me look at the chart.” She pushed off the fence and took a few steps toward him. “You know I saw it, right? The measurement notes. The description. Everything.”

His mouth was dry. “That’s a HIPAA violation.”

“Probably. You going to report me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t have an answer. Or he did, but saying it out loud would make it real. Saying because hearing you talk about it made me cum in my underwear in the hallway would make it a thing that happened, a thing he couldn’t take back.

Brooke stopped about three feet from him. Close enough that he could smell her—sunscreen and beer and something floral; her eyes were green. He hadn’t noticed that at the clinic.

“You stood in that hallway,” she said. “Didn’t you?”

His stomach dropped. “What?”

“I saw you after the physical. I came out to get a chart from the front desk, and I saw you walking back to the exam room. Your face was red. You were walking funny. And later, when I went to clean the exam room, there was a gown on the table that smelled like cum.”

Tyler’s mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

“You heard us,” Brooke said. It wasn’t a question. “You stood in that hallway and listened to me talk about your little dick, and you came in your pants.”

“Stop.”

“Make me.”

They stared at each other. The parking lot lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed.

“You liked it,” Brooke said. “Didn’t you. You liked hearing me laugh about it. You liked hearing me compare it to my pinky. You went home and jerked off thinking about it, didn’t you? Every night since then.”

“Brooke—”

“How hard are you, Tyler? For real. I know what the chart says, but I want to hear you say it.”

He swallowed. His cock was already straining in his jeans, pressing against the denim, all three and a half inches of it trying to get free. “Three and a half.”

“Three and a half inches.” She said it like she was tasting it. “That’s so small, Tyler. That’s really, genuinely small. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Say it again.”

“Three and a half inches.”

“No. Say my dick is small. Say it to me.”

His hands were shaking. The parking lot was empty. Anyone could drive by. Anyone could walk out the player exit. “My dick is small.”

“How small?”

“Three and a half inches hard.”

“And flaccid?”

“Two inches. Maybe.”

Brooke exhaled slowly through her teeth. “Two inches soft. God. I’ve seen tampons bigger than that.” She reached out and pressed her palm flat against the front of his jeans.

Tyler’s hips jerked. Her hand was warm through the denim, and she could feel him—she had to feel him—this tiny ridge beneath the fabric, barely there, barely anything.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, wow. That’s… yeah. That’s really something.”

She rubbed her palm in a slow circle. Tyler bit his lip.

“I can barely feel it,” Brooke said. “I’m rubbing your crotch, and I can barely tell there’s anything there. Is this you hard right now?”

“Yes.”

“This is you fully hard?”

“Yes.”

“Three and a half inches.”

“Yes.”

She laughed. Not the wheeze from the clinic—something quieter, more intimate, more dangerous. “You’re pathetic. You know that, right? You’re a professional athlete with a body like that—” her free hand gestured at his chest, his arms, his thighs, “—and you’ve got a dick like a nine-year-old. It’s honestly incredible. It’s like God ran out of material on the last day and just… gave you a placeholder.”

Tyler’s hips were moving now, pushing against her hand, chasing the friction. He was going to cum again. In his jeans. In the parking lot. Like a teenager. Like a pathetic, small-dicked teenager.

“Tell me what you thought about,” Brooke said. “When you went home. When you jerked off. What did you think about?”

“You. Your voice. Saying… saying those things.”

“What things?”

“Baby dick. Pencil stub. That I had nothing to adjust.”

“Nothing to adjust.” She grinned. “That’s a good one. I should put that on a sign. Hold it up in the stands. ‘Number 23: Nothing to Adjust.'”

“Fuck.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I held up a sign. Suppose everyone in the stadium knew. If three thousand people looked at you and knew you had a little nub in your pants.”

“I’d—”

“You’d cum in your cup. That’s what you’d do. You’d be standing in right field with a wet spot in your baseball pants because a girl in the stands told everyone your secret.”

Tyler came. He came in his jeans, in the parking lot, his cock twitching and spurting against the denim while Brooke rubbed him through it, her palm pressing down on his tiny erection, her eyes on his face, watching every contortion of shame and pleasure that crossed it.

“Three and a half inches,” she whispered. “And you just came from me rubbing you through your pants. You’re not just small, Tyler. You’re easy. A girl touches your little dick for thirty seconds, and you’re done.”

He leaned against his truck, breathing hard, the mess spreading in his underwear, warm and wet and humiliating.

Brooke pulled her hand back. She looked at her palm, then wiped it on her jeans. “Same time Sunday. I’ll be in the same seats. You’re going to have a better game, and afterward, you’re going to meet me right here. And you’re going to show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The real thing. Not through your pants. I want to see it. I want to see just how small you actually are.”

She turned and walked away, ponytail swinging, Hops cap low over her eyes. She didn’t look back.

Tyler stood in the parking lot with cum in his jeans and his heart in his throat, watching her go.

He was going to show her. He already knew he was going to show her.

He couldn’t wait.

—

Sunday

The Hops won 7-2. Tyler went 2-for-3 with a double and a walk. He played right field clean—no errors, no misreads, his head actually in the game for once. His manager slapped him on the back in the dugout and told him good work. Tyler nodded and felt the wet spot in his cup where he’d leaked pre-cum the entire ninth inning because he kept looking at the third row.

Brooke was there. Same seat. Same cap. Alone this time.

She held up her pinky once, during a pitching change. Just held it there, this tiny finger pointed at the sky, and Tyler had to look away because his cock was trying to get hard inside his athletic supporter and there was nowhere for it to go. Three and a half inches with nowhere to go, trapped in a cup, and he was sweating through his uniform for reasons that had nothing to do with the July heat.

—

He showered fast. Dressed faster. Jeans and a plain white t-shirt, hat pulled low. He skipped the postgame spread—chicken and rice, the usual—and slipped out the side exit before any of the guys could ask him where he was going.

The parking lot was darker tonight. One of the overhead lights had burned out, leaving a long stretch of shadow between the player exit and the far corner where his truck sat. Brooke was already there, leaning against the fence in the same spot, as she’d never left.

“You had a good game,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Two hits. Nice.”

He stopped three feet from her. Same distance as Friday. Same buzzing silence. Same dry mouth.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“I didn’t bring her. This isn’t for her.” Brooke looked at him—really looked, her eyes moving from his face down his body, lingering on his waist, the flat front of his jeans. “This is for me.”

“What do you want?”

“I told you Friday. I want to see it.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

Tyler glanced around. The lot was empty. The lights that worked cast long orange pools across the asphalt. The stadium was dark behind them; just the maintenance crew was left inside. Someone could come out. Someone could drive by on the access road.

“Okay,” he said.

Brooke’s eyes lit up. Not surprise—she’d known he’d say yes. She’d known before he had. But there was something in her expression, a hunger that hadn’t been there Friday, or maybe it had and he just hadn’t noticed because he’d been too busy cumming in his pants.

“Take it out,” she said.

His hands went to his belt. The buckle was cold metal, his fingers clumsy, and he had to try twice to get it open. Button next. Zipper. He pushed his jeans down over his hips, then his boxers, and stood in the parking lot with his pants around his thighs and his cock exposed.

It was hard. Fully hard. Three and a half inches pointing straight out from his body, thin and pink, the head slightly flushed, a small bead of fluid at the tip. His balls were tight underneath, drawn up close. Everything compact, contained, like his body had decided to scale down his genitals to match some blueprint that didn’t include the word impressive.

Brooke stared.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stared. And in that silence, Tyler felt every inch of his three and a half, felt the smallness of it, the inadequacy, the way it jutted out from his athletic frame like a joke, like a punchline waiting for a laugh track.

“Jesus,” Brooke finally said. “It’s really… that’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“It’s so small, Tyler. I knew it was small. I saw the chart. I heard the numbers. But seeing it in person…” She exhaled. “It’s little. Like, actually little. That’s a little penis.”

He didn’t say anything. His cock twitched at the word little, a visible bob in the air, and Brooke saw it.

“It moves when I say it,” she said, fascinated. “Your little dick moves when I call it little.”

“It does.”

“Little. Little dick. Tiny. Small.” Each word made him twitch again. Brooke watched with her lips parted. “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen. You getting hard from being told you’re small. Your cock is literally responding to humiliation. It likes it.”

“Yeah.”

“Say it. Tell me what it is.”

“It’s a little dick.”

“Tell me how big it is.”

“Three and a half inches hard.”

“And you’re what, two soft?”

“Two and a half, maybe. Depends.”

“Two and a half.” She stepped closer. Close enough to reach out and touch it, but she didn’t. Not yet. “I’ve been thinking about this since Friday. About what it would look like. I kept imagining it and thinking no way it’s that small, I must be remembering wrong. But I wasn’t. You’re really that small. You’re smaller than my vibrator. You’re smaller than most guys I’ve been with, soft.”

Tyler’s breathing was ragged. His cock was straining, every millimeter of it engorged, the head shiny with pre-cum now. He could feel the night air on his exposed skin, cool against his thighs, his balls, the shaft of his penis, and it made him feel how naked he was, how vulnerable, standing in a parking lot with his pants down while a woman he barely knew cataloged his inadequacy.

“Can I—” Brooke reached out, then paused. “Can I touch it?”

“Yes.”

Her fingers wrapped around it. Her whole hand closed around his shaft, and there was still room—her fingers met her thumb easily, the girth barely filling her grip. She held it like she was holding a marker, a crayon, something meant for a child’s hand.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “I can barely feel it in my hand. It’s so thin. Tyler, you’re so thin. I can close my fingers all the way around, and there’s nothing. There’s no girth at all.”

She stroked once. A short, quick pull from base to tip, her fist traveling a distance that was over before it started. Tyler’s hips bucked.

“That’s all it takes?” Brooke said. “One stroke?”

“I’m close.”

“You’re always close. You came in your pants Friday from me rubbing you through denim. Now I touch you bare for three seconds, and you’re about to blow?”

“I’m—yeah. I’m close.”

She stroked again. Twice. Three times. Short little movements, her fist barely traveling, and Tyler was shaking, his hands gripping the fence behind him, his head thrown back, every muscle in his body tensed.

“Look at me,” Brooke said.

He did. Her green eyes were bright in the parking lot dark, her mouth slightly open, her expression caught between amusement and something deeper, something that looked almost like arousal but sharper, edged with cruelty.

“Three and a half inches,” she said. “That’s what this is. This little thing in my hand. Three and a half inches of nothing. You couldn’t fuck anyone with this, Tyler. You couldn’t make anyone feel it. You’d put this inside a girl, and she wouldn’t even know you were in.”

“Brooke—”

“Shh. I want you to cum for me. I want you to cum with your little dick in my hand, and I want you to say it. Say my little dick is three and a half inches.”

“My little dick is three and a half inches.”

“Again.”

“My little dick is three and a half inches.”

“Good boy. Now cum.”

He came. His cock pulsed in her fist, thin ropes spurting from the tip, landing on the asphalt between them, a few drops catching the hem of her jeans. His hips jerked three, four times, each thrust small and desperate, his body chasing a sensation that was over almost as soon as it started, and then he was done. Spent. Softening already, his cock shrinking back down to its resting two and a half inches, still in her hand.

Brooke looked down at it. At the cum on the ground. At his softening penis, which was now barely a nub, retracting toward his body like it was trying to hide.

“It got even smaller,” she said. “You came and it just… shrank. It’s like a little button now.”

She let go of it. Wiped her hand on her jeans again, the same gesture from Friday, already becoming a ritual. Tyler pulled up his boxers and jeans, then buckled his belt with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Same time Wednesday,” Brooke said. “Same seats. Same spot after.”

“Okay.”

“Tyler.”

He looked at her.

“I’m going to bring my friend next time. The blonde. Her name’s Ashley. I told her everything, and she doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m exaggerating.”

“You want me to show her?”

“I want you to show her. I want you to stand in this parking lot and show another woman your little dick. And I want you to say the words again. All of them. I want Ashley to hear you say my little dick is three and a half inches.”

Tyler’s cock, soft and spent and barely a nub in his underwear, twitched.

Brooke saw his expression change. Saw the flush creep up his neck. Saw the answer before he said it.

“Wednesday,” he said.

Brooke smiled. She turned and walked into the dark, her ponytail swinging, and Tyler watched her go with the taste of shame and want thick in his throat.

He drove home with his jeans still damp and his mind already racing ahead to Wednesday, to Ashley, to two women standing in a parking lot looking at his cock and laughing.

He was going to show them. He was going to say the words.

He couldn’t wait.

The End.

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