The Slide
A Fictional Story by newpatek09.
Everywhere I looked, bikini bottoms rode up between thick cheeks. Girls from my graduating class and strangers alike paraded around in suits that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. I’d been fighting a low-grade chub since we walked through the front gate.
I shifted my waistband for the hundredth time, tucking my half-stiff dick flat against my thigh. Three inches of semi-pressing against the thin nylon fabric. Not exactly easy to hide when you’re my size — six-three, two hundred and thirty pounds of lineman bulk stuffed into a water park on the busiest day of the summer.
My buddy Cole nudged me. “Bro, you good? You keep adjusting yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah. Trunks are riding up.”
He laughed. We shuffled forward in the line for the Tornado — one of those massive funnel slides. The queue was crammed into a narrow switchback railing system, barely wide enough for two people side by side, except next to me. Nobody was fitting beside this frame. My shoulders practically scraped both railings.
That’s when I saw her coming.
A lifeguard working her way down the line, squeezing past groups, checking wristbands and telling people to move forward. She was maybe five-six, a little above average in the face — cute freckles across her nose, dark hair pulled up under a visor. But her body was something else entirely. The red one-piece lifeguard suit was pulled tight over wide hips and an ass that was genuinely, impressively fat. It jutted out behind her as she turned sideways to slide between people, each cheek bouncing and compressing as she pressed through the crowd.
I looked away immediately—bad idea. The image was already burned in. I felt my dick twitch and start filling out further, pressing sideways against the inside of my trunks.
“Excuse me — coming through.”
She was getting closer. One group ahead of us, she pressed her chest past a couple of guys, her ass swinging toward me as she navigated the turn.
Then she reached me.
“I need to get by,” she said, glancing up at me. Her eyes widened slightly, taking in the sheer width of me blocking the path. “Can you, like… scoot up against the railing?”
I tried. I pressed my back and side against the metal rail, sucking in my gut, but there was maybe eight inches of clearance. She turned sideways and started sliding through.
Her tits brushed my arm first. Then her hip. Then — as she continued past — that huge ass filled the gap between us and pressed directly against my crotch.
I felt it instantly—the fat, warm pressure of her cheeks pushing against my shorts. My dick was already bent sideways inside my trunks, and as she slid by, the friction dragged the shaft directly along the curve of her ass. I could feel the fabric of her suit against the thin nylon of mine. I could feel the heat of her body.
She made a sound. A small, sharp whimper — almost like a gasp cut short. It happened when the bend of my dick caught right against the spot where her suit dug between her cheeks, pressing into her asshole through the fabric.
I froze. My brain short-circuited. And then the worst possible thing happened — I got fully hard. Right there, pressed against her ass, my four inches strained against the nylon, bent painfully sideways, throbbing against her cheek as she finished squeezing past.
She cleared me and kept walking for a few steps. Then she turned around and looked back at me.
She was grinning. Not a polite smile. A full, knowing grin, her eyes dropping to my crotch where the tent in my trunks was pathetic and obvious — a small, sharp point sticking sideways rather than any real bulge. She laughed. A short, bright laugh that cut through the noise of the water park.
Then she kept walking.
I wanted to die.
—
I spent the next hour avoiding that slide. Cole and the other guys wanted to do it again, but I begged off, saying I needed food. I sat on a bench near the wave pool, my stomach in knots, replaying the moment over and over. The feel of her ass. The whimper. The laugh.
I had to apologize. That’s what I told myself. I had to find her and say it was an accident, that I didn’t mean to — that I was sorry.
I spotted her near the restrooms by the food court. She was off to the side, scrolling on her phone, visor pushed up.
I walked over, heart hammering.
“Hey. Um. I’m really sorry about earlier. In the line. That was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”
She looked up. Recognition hit her face, and that grin came back. “Oh, you’re the guy from the slide line.”
“Yeah. I just wanted to apologize. I’m really sorry.”
She waved her hand. “It’s fine.”
Relief washed over me. Then she kept talking.
“Honestly, I barely felt anything.”
The relief evaporated. My face went hot. Red, splotchy, burning from my neck to my ears.
She tilted her head, studying me with amused curiosity. “For a big guy like you, I kinda expected… more? Like, you’re huge.” She gestured at my body. “I thought it was soft until it actually pressed into me. Then I was like, that’s it?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“Like, I genuinely wasn’t sure if you were hard or if that was just… normal.” She was smiling the whole time, not cruel exactly, but totally unbothered by how devastating each word was.
“It was… I was…” I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” She crossed her arms under her chest. “How big is it? Like, actually?”
I stared at her. “What?”
“How big. Hard.”
My throat was dry. “Like… one inch soft. Four hard.”
Her eyebrows went up. Then she laughed — a real one this time, head tipping back. “Four? That’s it?”
“It’s… yeah.”
She pulled out her phone. “What’s your Snapchat?”
I gave it to her. I don’t know why. I was operating on autopilot, my brain still trying to process the fact that this girl with the incredible ass was still standing here talking to me instead of walking away.
Her name on Snapchat was brooklyn.w. She added me right there, then looked up. “I’m off in thirty minutes. I want to see it in person.”
“What? No.”
“Come on.”
“No, that’s—”
“I’ll show you my pussy.”
I blinked.
“Deal?” She raised her eyebrows.
“I… I don’t know.”
“Thirty minutes. Bathrooms by the wave pool.” She walked away before I could argue.
—
I spent those thirty minutes pacing near the lockers, telling Cole I had an upset stomach. My dick was soft the entire time — nervous, humiliated, completely deflated. One inch of nothing in my trunks.
When I couldn’t stall any longer, I walked to the bathrooms.
The women’s restroom had a “Closed for Cleaning” sign. I went to the men’s. Pushed open the door. It was empty except for the last stall, which was closed.
“Hello?” I called.
“In here,” came her voice.
I walked to the stall. The door opened. She was inside, still in her lifeguard suit, phone in hand. She’d set something on the ledge by the soap dispenser — I didn’t look closely.
“Get in,” she said.
I stepped into the stall. She locked the door behind me. It was cramped — my shoulders nearly touched both walls.
“Take it out,” she said.
“I want to… can I get hard first?”
“No.” She reached for my waistband. “Let me.”
She grabbed my shorts and yanked them down to my thighs in one fast motion.
My dick sat there. One inch. Soft. Shriveled from nerves. A stub of flesh barely poking out from the pad of fat at my groin, the head barely visible.
She stared at it.
Then she laughed. Not a giggle. Not a chuckle. A full, bent-over, gasping-for-air laugh. She braced herself against the stall wall, her whole body shaking, her fat ass bouncing as she cackled.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed. “Oh, my God. I — I knew it was small, but I didn’t think it was that—”
I grabbed for my shorts, yanking them up, my face on fire. But as I pulled, something caught. Resistance. Someone was standing on the leg of my shorts from outside the stall.
I yanked again. The foot held firm.
“What the—”
I looked down. Under the stall divider, I could see a pair of sandals. Someone was standing right behind me, pinning my trunks to the floor.
“Brooklyn, what—”
“Pull,” Brooklyn said, still laughing. She wasn’t helping. She was reaching for the ledge — grabbing the thing she’d placed there earlier. A small digital camera. She flipped it open, hit record, and pointed it at my crotch.
“Show it. Pull your hands away.”
“No! What the fuck—”
“Pull your hands away, or I’ll tell everyone you followed me into the bathroom.”
I froze. My hands loosened. She grabbed my wrist and pulled my hands to my sides. My dick hung there — one inch, soft, completely exposed. She zoomed the camera in.
“Say your name.”
I didn’t.
She reached out with her free hand and grabbed it. Two fingers. That’s all it took. She pinched my dick between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed, wiggling it side to side. It started growing. Despite everything — the humiliation, the panic — her fingers on me made blood rush in. It stiffened. Three inches. Three and a half. Four. She held it between two fingers like it was a pencil, the camera catching everything.
“Four inches,” she said to the camera, narrating. “This big guy — six-three, two-thirty — and this is what he’s working with.”
She let go. My dick stood there, hard, pointing straight out from my body. Four thin inches, the head flushed and small.
The foot released my shorts.
I lunged for them, yanking them up, but the stall door opened. A girl walked in — short, blonde, thick in the hips, wearing a bikini top and shorts. Another lifeguard. A friend of Brooklyn’s.
“What the hell—”
“Look.” Brooklyn turned the camera screen toward her. “Look at this.”
The blonde looked at the screen. Then at me. Then back at the screen.
She erupted. Her hand flew over her mouth, and she doubled over laughing, her whole body shaking. “No way. That’s it? That’s his actual dick?”
“Four inches hard,” Brooklyn said, grinning. “I measured it with my fingers.”
“One soft,” the blonde added, wheezing. “Did you see it soft? It looked like a thumb.”
They were both crying. Actual tears streaming down their faces from laughing so hard. I stood there in the cramped stall, shorts half-up, boner tenting the fabric in a tiny, obvious point, face burning so hot I thought I might actually pass out.
I shoved past them both and ran.
—
I found Cole by the lockers. “I don’t feel good. We need to go. Now.”
He looked at me. “You look like you’re about to puke.”
“I am. Let’s go.”
We left. I sat in the backseat of my buddy’s car, head against the window, replaying every second. The whimper when my dick pressed her asshole. The laugh. Barely felt anything. For a big guy, I thought it would be bigger. One soft. Four hard. Two fingers. The camera. The blonde walking in. The tears of laughter.
My phone buzzed.
Brooklyn added you to a group chat.
The chat was called “Big Guy, Small Problem 😂”
Members: me, Brooklyn, and the blonde — her name was Tessa.
The first message was the video.
Brooklyn had edited it. She’d zoomed in on my dick, added a text overlay: “4 INCHES OF NOTHING” with a crying-laughing emoji. She’d slow-mo’d the part where she squeezed it between her fingers, looping it three times. She’d added a sound effect — a tiny squeaky toy noise — synced to each wiggle.
Tessa responded with seven crying-laughing emojis and a voice note. I played it. She was still laughing, barely able to speak: “Brooklyn, I can’t — I can’t — that is the smallest dick I have ever seen in my life — and he’s huge — how does that work—”
Brooklyn sent another edit. This one compared my dick to a scene from the slide line — a zoom on her ass where my crotch had pressed against it, with text reading “this whole ass vs. this whole dick 📏” and a split screen showing her enormous cheeks next to my four hard inches.
I sat in the backseat, reading every message, watching every video on loop, my face still burning. My dick was rock hard in my shorts, pressing a tiny tent into my waistband.
I was jerking off to it that night. And the next night. And every night that week.
—
The group chat never died.
Brooklyn would send the video randomly — months later — with new edits. She’d screenshot my tiny bulge in gym shorts and post it with a ruler graphic. Tessa would chime in with observations: “It’s honestly crazy how it just disappears when it’s soft. Like it goes inside you.”
I responded less and less, but I never left the chat. I never blocked them. I opened every message. I saved every video.
One night, about two months after the water park, Brooklyn FaceTimed me. I answered before thinking.
She and Tessa were on a couch together, wine glasses in hand, faces flushed from drinking.
“Hey, tiny,” Brooklyn said, grinning. “Show us.”
“What?”
“Show us your dick. Right now.”
“I’m not—”
“We’ll show you our tits,” Tessa offered, pulling her tank top down to reveal cleavage.
I pulled my shorts down. Soft. One inch. They both screamed with laughter.
“Make it hard,” Brooklyn said. “Jerk it for us.”
I wrapped two fingers around my four inches and started stroking. They watched, wine glasses paused mid-sip, faces split with grins.
“Look at that,” Tessa said. “Two fingers. He doesn’t even need a whole hand.”
“Use your thumb and pinky,” Brooklyn suggested. “I bet that works.”
I switched fingers. She was right. My thumb and pinky covered the whole shaft.
They lost it. Brooklyn was crying again. Tessa had her head on the arm of the couch, shaking.
“Does that feel good?” Brooklyn asked, still recording with her phone. “Jerking your little thing for two girls who will never, ever let you fuck them?”
I came. A small, weak spurt onto my thigh. They watched the whole thing.
“That was it?” Tessa said. “That tiny little drop?”
I cleaned up, still on camera, still hard, still humiliated. My dick twitched in the aftermath, four inches of shame glistening.
I hung up. Opened the group chat. Watched the videos again.
Jerked off to them again.
I still do—every single day.
The End.
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