The Scroll Error
A Fictional Story by Grouchy-Falcon-345.
Her name is Nisha, and I’ve been in love with her since the second year of college. That’s four years now. Four years of sitting next to her in lectures, four years of group dinners and movie nights and study sessions where I’d pretend to focus on the textbook while actually memorizing the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. Four years of watching her date guys who were nothing like me—taller, more confident, better-looking, and, as I’d eventually learn, significantly better endowed.
We’d started working out together about six months ago. It was her idea. She wanted a gym buddy, and I was the only person she knew who actually went to a proper gym instead of doing yoga in their living room. I said yes immediately, obviously, because the alternative was saying no to spending an hour with Nisha three times a week, and that wasn’t something I was capable of.
So every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we’d meet at the gym. We’d spot each other, share equipment, chat between sets. It was the highlight of my week, every week. I’d plan my entire schedule around it. I’d wear my best gym clothes. I’d make sure I smelled good. I’d rehearse conversation topics in my head on the drive over, like a loser.
Today was a Friday. Leg day. We were in the stretching area after a brutal session of squats and lunges, sitting on foam rollers to cool down. Nisha was on her phone, which was normal. She was always on her phone between sets—scrolling Instagram, checking messages, whatever. I was used to it. I’d long ago accepted that I was the person she talked to while she was waiting for her next set, not the person she chose to talk to over everything else.
I was sitting across from her on a mat, stretching my hamstrings, watching her without making it obvious that I was watching her. She was in black leggings and a sports bra, her hair in a messy bun, her face still flushed from the workout. She looked incredible. She always looked incredible. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her collarbones, and I could see the outline of her abs when she stretched her arms overhead, and I was thinking about how much I wanted to press my face against her stomach when it happened.
She was scrolling through her camera roll. I could see the motion of her thumb on the screen, the rapid swipe-swipe-swipe of someone looking for a specific photo. She was showing me something—a screenshot of a meme, I think, or maybe a recipe she’d saved—but she scrolled past it and kept going, and her thumb moved too fast, and suddenly the photos on her screen weren’t memes or recipes anymore.
It was a dick pic.
Not a subtle one. Not an artsy one. Not a “here’s a bulge in underwear” teaser. It was a full, explicit, close-up photograph of a hard cock, held in a hand, with a ruler next to it. A fucking ruler. Like he was documenting it. Like he was proud of it. And he had every reason to be, because his cock was—
I saw it for maybe two seconds before Nisha yanked the phone away, but those two seconds were enough—more than enough. The image burned itself into my brain with the precision of a brand.
His cock was thick. That was the first thing. Not just long, but thick. The kind of thick where you can see the veins running along the shaft, where the head looks fat and heavy even compared to the shaft behind it. He was holding it in one hand, and his fingers didn’t wrap all the way around. The shaft was straight, smooth, and dark, and it jutted from a trimmed bush of black hair. The ruler next to it—I could see the numbers, I could fucking see the numbers—showed somewhere past seven inches. Seven and a quarter, maybe. Seven and a half. I couldn’t be sure because Nisha moved the phone so fast, but it was well past seven.
Seven inches. Hard. Thick. Measured. Documented. And that was her boyfriend’s cock.
My dick is three and a half inches hard. Three and a half inches, and thin. So thin that I can wrap my fingers around it, with my thumb overlapping them. So short that when I’m hard, the whole thing fits in one hand with the head poking out the top. I’ve measured it, too. Not with a ruler next to it for a photo, but alone, in my bathroom, with a sinking feeling in my chest. Three and a half inches long, four inches in girth. That’s what I’m working with. That’s what I bring to the table.
Nisha’s face went red. Not a subtle blush—a full, deep, spreading red that started at her cheeks and went down her neck to her chest. She pulled the phone against her stomach, screen facing her, and let out a laugh that was more air than sound.
“Oh, my God. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Oh no.”
She was apologizing. Profusely. Her words were tumbling out, fast and breathless, her eyes wide.
“I was trying to find that meme—the one with the cat—I swear I didn’t mean to—oh God, that’s so embarrassing. I’m so sorry. Please forget you saw that.”
I laughed. I actually laughed. A real, genuine laugh, because what else do you do when your crush accidentally shows you her boyfriend’s cock? You laugh. You act normal. You pretend it’s fine.
“It’s totally okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve all got stuff on our phones.”
“I know, but—God, that’s Arjun’s—I can’t believe—why is it even in my camera roll? He sent it like a week ago and I just—”
She stopped herself. She’d been about to say more, and she caught herself, and the red on her face got redder.
“I’m just going to—yeah. Sorry. God. Okay. Let’s move on.”
She put the phone down, screen-down, and picked up her water bottle and drank from it like she was trying to drown the moment. I laughed again and told her it was fine, really, it was fine, don’t worry about it, and she nodded and laughed nervously and said “okay, okay,” and we sat there for a moment in the kind of silence that only happens when someone has accidentally shown you their boyfriend’s erect penis.
But inside, I wasn’t laughing.
I was hard.
My little dick was throbbing in my shorts, and I had to turn away from her before she noticed. I shifted on the foam roller, angled my body, and pulled one knee up to create a barrier between my crotch and her line of sight. I could feel my cock, all three and a half inches of it, straining against the fabric of my gym shorts, twitching with each heartbeat. It was pathetic. It was embarrassing. It was the most aroused I’d been in months, and it was because I’d seen a photo of another man’s cock.
Not just another man’s cock. Her boyfriend’s cock. The cock that she’d received in a message and saved to her camera roll. The cock that she kept on her phone, presumably to look at, presumably to enjoy. The cock that she’d been about to say something about before she caught herself—”He sent it like a week ago and I just—” and then stopped. And I just what? Kept it? Looked at it? Showed it to her friends? What was she going to say?
I tried to stop thinking about it. I stretched my other hamstring, facing away from her, counting the ceiling tiles. But my brain wouldn’t cooperate. The image was still there, burned in, vivid and inescapable. That thick, dark shaft. The fat head. The veins. The ruler. Seven and a half inches of hard cock, photographed and sent to the woman I’d been in love with for four years.
And then my brain, which has always been my worst enemy, started doing what it does. It started filling in the gaps. It started creating the scenes I didn’t want to see but couldn’t stop seeing.
Nisha on her knees. That cock in front of her face. Her hand wrapped around it—or trying to wrap around it, her fingers not quite meeting, the way his fingers hadn’t quite met in the photo. Her mouth opening. The head of his cock on her tongue. Her lips stretching around the shaft. The thickness of it filling her mouth, her jaw aching from the width of it, her throat—
I shifted on the roller again. My dick was leaking. I could feel a wet spot forming in my shorts, and I prayed to every god I could think of that it wouldn’t show through the fabric. I grabbed my water bottle and held it in front of my crotch as casually as I could.
“You okay?” Nisha asked. “You look a little flushed.”
“Leg day,” I said. “Gets the blood going.”
She laughed. “Tell me about it. My quads are destroyed.”
She picked up her phone again—carefully, screen-down this time—and checked something. I watched her face, the way her eyes moved, the way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating. I’d watched that lip bite a thousand times. I’d imagined kissing that lip a thousand times. And now I was imagining something else. I was imagining her on her back, legs spread, and that thick cock pushing into her. Slowly. Inch by inch. Her face doing that thing it does when she’s focused, but for a different reason. Her mouth opening. Her back arching. The stretch of him inside her, filling her in a way I could never fill anyone.
Because I couldn’t, I knew that. I’d always known that. Three and a half inches. Thin. Not enough. Not for a woman like Nisha. Not for any woman, really, but especially not for her.
I’d known she was a size queen for about a year now. It wasn’t something she announced, but it wasn’t something she hid, either. Little comments. Little reactions. The way she’d talked about a guy she’d dated in college—”He was sweet, but there just wasn’t enough there, you know?” The way she’d scrolled past a shirtless photo of some actor and said, “God, imagine,” with a specific tone I recognized. The way she’d once, after two glasses of wine at a dinner party, launched into a story about a one-night stand with a guy who was “huge, like, scary huge” and how she “couldn’t walk right for two days” but said it with a smile that told me she’d do it again in a heartbeat.
She liked big cocks. She sought them out. She kept photos of them on her phone. And her current boyfriend—Arjun, his name was Arjun—clearly had one. A big one. A thick one. A seven-and-a-half-inch one that he photographed with a ruler and sent to her, and that she saved, and that she looked at, and that she probably thought about when she was alone at night.
I thought about my own dick. Three and a half inches. Thin. The kind of cock that, if I sent a photo of it to a woman, she’d either laugh or feel pity. The kind that gets the word “cute” and not the word “huge.” The kind that Nisha would look at and say “there just wasn’t enough there, you know?”
I knew. I’d always known.
And the thing is—the thing that made it worse, the thing that made my little dick throb even harder in my shorts, the thing that made the wet spot spread—was that knowing didn’t make me want her less. It made me want her more. The knowledge that I could never satisfy her, that she needed a cock twice the size of mine, that she was with a man who could fill her in ways I couldn’t even imagine, didn’t push me away. It pulled me in. It made the crush deeper, more desperate, more pathetic.
I was a man with a small dick in love with a woman who liked big dicks, and instead of moving on, I was sitting on a foam roller in a gym with a tiny erection leaking into my shorts, thinking about her boyfriend’s cock.
“Hey,” Nisha said, pulling me out of my spiral. “You want to grab a smoothie after this? There’s that new place down the street.”
“Sure,” I said. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
I stood up carefully, holding my water bottle in front of my crotch, and grabbed my towel. I draped the towel over my shoulder so it hung down in front of my shorts. A shield. A pathetic, transparent shield.
We walked to the locker room. I went into a stall—something I always did, because the communal showers were a nightmare I wasn’t willing to face—and I pulled down my shorts and looked at my hard cock.
Three and a half inches. Standing straight up, thin and twitching, the head red and slick with pre-cum. It looked like a teenager’s cock on a grown man’s body. It looked like a joke. It looked like exactly what it was—not enough.
I thought about Arjun’s cock. Seven and a half inches. Thick. Veined. Heavy. The kind of cock that hangs low even when it’s hard because the weight of it pulls it down. The kind that makes a sound when it slaps against someone’s skin. The kind that Nisha saved to her camera roll.
I wrapped my hand around my cock—all of it, the whole thing, in one hand—and squeezed. My thumb overlapped my fingers. I could feel my own pulse in the shaft, which wasn’t hard because the shaft was so short that my hand was basically covering the entire thing. I stroked once, twice, and then stopped because this was a gym locker room and I was not going to jerk off to my crush’s boyfriend’s dick pic in a public bathroom.
I splashed cold water on my face. I waited for the erection to subside, which took longer than it should have because my brain kept circling back. The photo. The ruler. The thickness. Nisha’s face going red. Nisha on her knees. Nisha on her back. Nisha saying “God, imagine.”
I changed into fresh shorts, adjusted myself so the wet spot wasn’t visible, and went out to meet her.
She was at the smoothie bar, two drinks already ordered, sitting on a stool with her legs crossed. She looked up at me and smiled, and the redness in her face was gone, and she was Nisha again—my crush, my friend, my gym buddy, the woman I’d never have.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Much,” I said. I sat down next to her and took the smoothie she’d ordered for me.
We drank our smoothies and talked about the workout and laughed about something her coworker had done, and it was normal and comfortable and fine. She didn’t mention the photo again. She didn’t mention Arjun. She was perfectly casual, perfectly Nisha, perfectly unattainable.
But I was thinking about it. Underneath the conversation, underneath the laughter, underneath the normalcy, I was thinking about that photo. That cock. That ruler. Seven and a half inches. Thick. Her boyfriend’s. Hers. The one she saved. The one she looked at.
And my little dick, tucked into my fresh shorts, three and a half inches and soft again, barely making a bulge in the fabric, was starting to stir again. Just a twitch. Just a pulse. Just the beginning of what would be a long night of me, alone in my apartment, thinking about what I’d seen and what I’d never have and what Nisha wanted and what I could never give her.
“Good workout today,” she said, standing up to leave. She touched my arm—brief, casual, nothing—and smiled. “Same time Monday?”
“Same time Monday,” I said.
She walked away, and I watched her go, and I thought about Arjun’s cock, and I thought about her camera roll. I thought about the word “cute” and the word “huge” and the distance between them, and I sat there with my small, hardening dick in my shorts and my stupid, hopeless crush in my chest, and I finished my smoothie.
The End.
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