The Shower Incident
An SPH Experience by wifesshrimpy.
No big deal. I’d just walk out, grab my bikini briefs from the drawer, and come back. The apartment was empty except for my wife, who was already in our bedroom, scrolling through her phone in her pajamas.
I padded out of the bathroom, completely naked, the cold air hitting my skin. My cock had shriveled up like a frightened turtle—barely a nub sitting above my balls, which themselves had tightened into a tight little knot. I knew I looked pathetic down there. I always did when it was cold.
I walked past her to the dresser, bending over to open the bottom drawer where I kept my underwear. I felt her eyes on me. When I turned back, she was staring at my crotch, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.
I grabbed my bikini briefs—black, low-rise, the kind that barely cover anything—and walked back toward the bathroom. As I passed her, I saw her glance down again. I paused at the bathroom door, one hand on the frame, and turned on the shower. The water hissed against the tile.
“What are you looking at?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
She shrugged, still grinning. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
“Come on, hun. Just say it. You were looking at my dick. What?”
She laughed—a light, teasing sound. “It’s tough to call that a dick. You’re so small, honey.”
I felt the familiar heat rise to my cheeks. The defense mechanism kicked in. “Well, it’s very cold since the AC is on. Usually I’m not this small.” I gestured down at myself. At that moment, I was about half an inch, maybe less, just a little pink nub perched above my shriveled balls. “I’m bigger soft usually.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Baby, you are this big soft.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, pinching them together to show about an inch and three-quarters. “This is what you look like.”
“You think I’m that big?” I asked, a mix of embarrassment and curiosity. “How big is that, do you think?”
“Probably two inches. Is that how small you are soft?” She was enjoying this. I could see the spark in her eyes.
I swallowed. “I think I’m smaller than two inches soft.”
“Really?” She laughed again, louder this time. “That’s so sad. What size are real men usually?”
I fumbled for an answer. “Soft, it varies. I think average is considered two and a half inches soft. But most men I’ve seen are more like three to six inches soft.”
“Oh my God, baby.” She was giggling now, covering her mouth. “That is so sad and pathetic. You are smaller than the average when soft—and one and a half inches smaller than average when hard. You have a micropenis, honey.”
She said it like it was a fact, delivered with a grin. “Micropenis.” The word hung in the air, clinical and cruel. But it also sent a familiar tingle through my groin. I felt myself starting to stir.
I turned and got into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me. My cock swelled as I warmed up, growing to its full two inches—maybe two and a quarter if I was lucky. I soaped up, my mind replaying her words.
Micropenis.
So sad.
Tiny.
I couldn’t help it.
I was hard.
After the shower, I dried off, pulled on my bikini briefs, and crawled into bed beside her. She was already under the covers, reading something on her phone. I scooted close, pressing my body against hers.
“Can I get a handjob?” I asked, my voice low.
She put her phone down and looked at me. “Fine,” she said, “but you only have sixty seconds, and I am counting. Roll over so I have a better angle.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
She gave me a flat look, that playful smirk returning. “It means you have a tiny dick that I need a better angle to find and use my two fingers on.”
I rolled onto my back, my heart pounding. She shifted beside me, propping herself on one elbow. Her hand slid down, slipping past the waistband of my briefs. Her fingers found my little shaft—already hard, but barely bigger than her thumb. She wrapped two fingers around it, her index and middle, and started to stroke.
“One,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Two. Three.”
The rhythm was slow, deliberate. Her fingers barely covered the length. I could feel her thumb brushing against the head, her palm resting on my pubic bone. I was already close—the humiliation had primed me.
“Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.”
I couldn’t hold it. I moaned, my hips bucking, and came in a weak spurt—barely a dime-sized glob of cum on my stomach. She kept stroking until I was empty.
“Thirty seconds,” she said, pulling her hand away. “You came in thirty seconds.” She looked at the small puddle on my belly and laughed. “And look at that cum load. That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? A little drizzle?”
I lay there, panting, my face flushed. She reached for the tissue box and handed me a few sheets.
“Clean yourself up, tiny man,” she said, her tone soft yet mocking. “And go to sleep.”
I wiped my stomach, tossed the tissues, and curled up beside her. She turned off the light, and in the darkness, I felt her hand find mine. She squeezed it gently.
“I love you,” she whispered. “Even if you have the smallest dick I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled into the dark, shame and love intertwining like old friends.
The End.
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