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This story contains adult sexual content and should not be read by those under 18, or considered minors in their country or locale. If you are under 18: CLICK HERE

This fictional story is the artistic expression of the author who wrote it. The Small Dick Club strongly believes in freedom of speech, and the right of artists to be heard, especially if what they say pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable in society. If you think you won’t like the content of this story, then don’t read it. It’s that simple. The Small Dick Club wishes to advise readers that any similarities in these stories to actual or real people or events is purely coincidental and unintended. That any story marked as a ‘true story’ shouldn’t be taken literally, as we have no way to verify if stories submitted to us are true. The Small Dick Club takes no responsibility for the imaginations and literary creations of authors who post their stories here.
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by twiddershins

A pain in my wrist got really bad one day and I went to the hospital, complaining of what I thought was carpal tunnel. The nurses at the hospital were all wearing a white nurse’s uniform (the kind I didn’t think existed anymore) with a starched, rounded collar, with the sign of Aesclepius above a pocket at her left breast, a cute, little hat and six inch, white heels. As an ass man, watching the nurses come and go from my spot in the waiting room was a little bit of heaven– they just all had their butts sticking out in a sassy way, swaying under their tight skirts when they walked.

My nurse, Jana, was a slim, tall (6’9″ in her heels, if I read right when she stood near the measurement on the wall of the evaluation room), stacked woman with skin the color of hot cocoa, dyed white hair, and thick glasses.

“Are you T****?”

“Yup, that’s me.”

“Hi. I’m Jana.”

We smiled at each other, a brief, professional thing showing no teeth, but just a polite curling of the lips. She picked up a clipboard to review my case. She read it for a minute and I sat there basically staring at her, then at my feet while I dangled them from the little medical bench (my feet almost never touch the floor when I sit in a normal chair), then at her boobs pressed together in her uniform again. From my periphery, I saw her eyes reach the bottom of the clipboard and go a little wide.

I instantly stopped staring at her tits. “What’s wrong?”

“Carpal tunnel pains?” She raised an eyebrow. “At your age?”

“I’m at my computer a lot.”

“Your computer.” She gave me a skeptical look. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I work at… the post office.”

“Are you always on a computer at the post office?”

“Well, no, but…”

Jana set aside her clipboard. “Hold out your hands. I’ll need to perform a little manual stress test.”

I did. She took my hands by the wrist firmly, but not roughly. She held them with palms facing down, which I thought was odd for a medical procedure, but figured must have been specific to whatever test she was doing. Slowly, Jana began palpating from my wrist out to my fingertips. Whenever she reached a finger, she massaged it back and forth, for a little bit, as if feeling for something in the fingerbones or the joints.

First she reached my thumb. She looked down to grab it, put it between her thumb and forefinger, and began to pull and push searchingly along the length of my finger. While she looked down at my hand (I was still seated on a little medical bench and she was still standing) I had a perfect vantage point into the bountiful valley of her bosom in her uniform. It was beautiful, and the way she was touching me, like a handjob allegory… I was getting totally turned on. My eyes were glued to her jugs, lost in her cleavage…

By the time she had moved onto my index finger I realized she was looking me right in the eye and could see where I was looking. When our eyes met, she looked down out of embarrassment… right at my growing erection. Jana instantly, instinctively rolled her eyes away from it, turning her head away. With one hand she moved onto my middle finger, the other she brought up to her mouth.

“That’s embarrassing,” she said. “Sorry. Can you make it stop? Do you need a cup of cold water… or…? Do you want me to continue?”

“C-Continue,” I stuttered. I was actually trembling with embarrassment. I was rock hard and she called it… embarrassing? She gave me another look and so I blurted, “Uh, it’ll go away.”

She moved onto my ring finger. I knew what was coming. I couldn’t stop my stammering. “W-why should it be embarrassing? Just a bodily reaction, right? Y-you must see m– I mean, it all the…”

Her probing medical interest unsatiable, Jana locked eyes with me, searching for any reaction that might indicate a cause of discomfort. Only my… rather small ‘discomfort’ was coming from in my pants, where my erection had started pushing against the front seam of my pants. It jutted out like a… like a…

Her fingers clamped my pinky between her two fingers. Not caring my reaction was obvious, I closed my eyes, gave a wince and grunt with effort as I barely prevented myself from jizzing my jeans.

“Oo?” she asked. The cute noise sounded appropriate for a humoring a baby or playing with a puppy. “Did some pain build up in your pinky?”

I know she meant my finger and not my erection, but it didn’t matter so much at that point– she had me so irreversibly turned on, there was nothing I could do. My cock twitched and my innards churned painfully as I barely held back another wave. If I had breath to say words, I said, “I… no… it’s not there…”

“Can you… control yourself.” Jana asked it, but it came out like a command. She might have been getting kind of flustered. “Sorry, it’s embarrassing. It’s just a little. But there is the matter of a short questionnaire, if you feel you’re okay to continue. Do you need a minute?”

I shook my head, forced out a lying syllable. “No.”

She let go of my hand and I felt my balls give a sigh of relief. The tension in my rigid member relaxed without spilling my non-stick glue everywhere. She turned from me and opened a drawer to search for the right paperwork. While she wasn’t looking I squirmed in my seat and readjusted myself to make things more bearable. I breathed in a controlled manner at least twice. I felt calmer, less ready to explode, but no less erect.

She fitted the new sheet to the clipboard. “I’m going to administer our W.I.M.P. test.”

I immediately shrank a bit.

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Jana waved a hand dismissively, clinical as ever, though I could see that beneath that surface, she was growing more embarrassed for me, too. “Sorry. It’s survey for the Wrist Impairment in Male Patients. Sorry, it’s a little embarrassing to have to give this test. I’m sure it must be embarrassing to take it, too.”

I exhaled, trying to forget about my worries. This was about my health, after all. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Jana pulled over a soft-cushioned stool on rollers and sat down. “Name… age… height… ” she muttered to herself and crossed her legs in front of her as she filled out what she knew. “And how many hours a day would you use your computer?”

“Oh, pretty often,” I responded. “Do you need just an average, or…?”

“Yes, an average.”

“Maybe 10-12 hours. It’s part of a lot of my work and my downtime, so…”

“And how often do you stress your wrist?”

“Um… all of that time? I mean, any time I use a keyboard, I gue–”

“10-12,” she muttered, making a note. She pushed up her glasses and gave me a direct look. “And how many times a week do you masturbate?”

“A week?” I choked a bit. “Um… four to five times per–”

“Aw, that’s not so–”

“N-No,” I protested. “I mean, four to five times per day is… uh…”

“Twenty-eight to thirty-five times?” Jana’s eyes went a little wide. This was important data to her, a clear outlier.

Jana pushed up her glasses and gave me a direct look. “How many hours do you masturbate in a day?”

“That’s…” I must have been beet red. “That’s a very personal question, Jana.”

“Please,” she implored, her clinical facade again reasserting itself. “These questions are an important part of your W.I.M.P. test.”

“… maybe an hour each time.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

She circled something on the clip board and made a little note. I heard her mutter the word “significant” under her breath while she wrote.

“And do you know your BPEL?”

“Four and a half inches.” I couldn’t believe I didn’t stop to act dumb and ask, but I knew BPEL was bone-pressed erect length. I had measured my penis a lot… of course, I gave her my biggest all-time measurement.

“Your hand again, please?”

I… handed it over. Jana held my hand gingerly, this time feeling the length of my palm. She laid her index finger across it.

“Aw,” she said. “You’ve got little hands, too.”

Too? It was almost too much, but I just nodded, hoping my embarrassment would be over soon. “Yeah.”

She jotted something else down and appeared to make a quick calculation. “Hmm… well, I think I’ve located the problem, but we can’t be sure of the cause just yet.”

“W-what is it?”

Jana cleared her throat. “You have, um, a small… size… and it looks like barely an inch to spare.” She pushed at her glasses again and smiled sweetly, trying to look professional not to break into giggles. “That troublesome microspace makes you borderline for a couple possible problems.”

“M-microspace?”

“That’s the… medical term… for the part of your penis that exceeds your grasp when there’s less than an inch.”

“What has this got to do with my carpal tunnel?”

“I don’t think you have CT,” Jana responded. “It seems more likely you’re suffering from S.M.U.T.”

“Sm-smut…?”

“Yes,” Jana nodded, matter-of-factly, as if I should already know. “Stunted Male Underdevelopment Tension. S.M.U.T.”

“W-well, what is that supposed to mean?”

Again my nurse hid another ashamed laugh behind her hand. “It’s not a definitive diagnosis,” she assured me. “But sometimes… if a man… pff–” And she couldn’t hide it anymore and just busted out laughing. She waved a hand dismissively and made another apology.

I just sat there and took it, feeling two inches tall. There was nothing else I could do.

“Sorry,” she said again.

She turned the clipboard toward me so I could see a diagram she was describing comparing penises marked normal or undersized. “You see at 0 palm-to-penis distance there is no tension, but it’s that dangerous realm within the first inch after– I mean, not that it can’t be the only inch, or not even– where you have not enough room for your, um technique (she made a gesture like she was pinching a bit of the air between two fingers and jerking it up and down) to evenly distribute the wear on your wrist. The targeted acceleration in deterioration can sometimes mimic carpal tunnel. You’re far too young for C.T., but with the percent of your time you put in… releasing your tensions you probably have a S.M.U.T. problem.

“Now there are all kinds of complications you could be at risk for, given how you’re on the border of some things with your inadeq– ahem, modest size,” she continued, probably blushing herself. Her lips curled.

“Chronic Underdevelopment from Masturbation, um Smallman’s Syndrome, Small Penis Early Ejaculation Disorder, Shortman’s Height Ratio Impairment in Male Progress, Wankee’s… sorry, I’ve never had to list these out to a patient before. It’s just so rare! Dr. Hunglovin will know better.”

Here was this hot nurse, sticking her hip out with her clipboard and glasses, in her tight uniform and heels, listing off all the ways my penile inadequacies (and she *had* called them that) could be the direct result of the pain in my wrist– it sent me over an edge. My cock stirred restlessly, irresistibly inside my underwear, straining as it could against my leg. Only, where a minute ago I was about to paint the inside of my jeans white, now my balls felt impossibly blocked up.

“Sorry, I know it’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for you– I mean.” Jana put her hand to her mouth again. Despite her chocolate skin, I could tell from her expression that she was definitely blushing deeply. When she recovered herself, she set her arms akimbo and asked in a return to her more serious, professional tone, almost patronising. “Do you need a minute?”

Feebly, I nodded. To my surprise she took her clipboard and headed for the door. “Okay, the doctor will be with you.”

She paused at the door and gave me a pointed look. “One minute,” she told me, and closed the door behind her.

I was flabbergasted for about 5 seconds until I decided from her tone that Jana had just given me 55 more seconds to take care of myself while she talked Doctor… what was her name again? With so little time, eager for release, I fumbled at the button for 5 seconds, unzipped my jeans whipped my pants down, struggled for a second or two with my underwear until my erection popped free of its confines and I grabbed it in my hand, barely any room to stroke as usual and thinking “Oh, God, half a minute to finish AND get my pants back up,” I went to town on myself, whacking off furiously.

While my mind was little elsewhere, with little time left, the door opened. Only it wasn’t Jana standing on the other side, it was Dr. Hunglovin: a skinny, nerdy-looking redhead in a lab coat. She gasped and stood there with a hand at her pert booby while the other shot up to her mouth in shock.

I looked down in that instant and saw what couldn’t have been even close to a full inch of cock barely peeking out from the top of my fist. Before I could so much as shout in surprise, a thick gob of semen shot up at my eye. A second launched across the room in a spasmic flick.

“Oh m–!” Dr. H shouted, but she was so surprised that she didn’t get to a second complete syllable before she burst into reactionary laughter. “I’m *SO* sorry.”

She retreated into the hall, shutting the door behind her as quickly as possible. I could hear her giggling on the other side. Then there was the click of another pair of heels approaching and I heard Jana talking.

“Did you see the patient, doctor?”

“Yes. I’d definitely put him on the shortlist for S.H.R.I.M.P or Smallman’s.”

“Do you think he has C.U.M.?”

“It’s rare for patients his size to have C.U.M. But S.P.E.E.D., almost certainly! Just a minute…” I heard some flipping through charts or something. I’m not totally sure–

I’m better at picking up on voices than anything else. Anyway, they conferred for a bit in quieter tones and then Dr. H advised, “Focusing the diagnosis around SH.R.I.M.P., Smallman’s, or Shorties” and recommending “further tests in a future diagnostic cycle after use of… the device.”

Jana made a noise of agreement and the doctor in her heels went clampering off. And Jana knocked at the door. “Everything okay in there?”

“Yes,” I said. I had my pants back up by this point, and I’d wiped up my jism with that super-thin paper they use to cover the patients’ bench and rolled that bit out of sight. I was getting all hot at the possibility of being a medically certified SHRIMP dick. “Come on in.”

Jana entered slowly, holding something behind her back. Her eye-catching jugs bounced with her every deliberate, sexy step. “After conferring with the doctor, we decided we need you to do some more tests yourself before we continue your diagnosis.”

“Wha? So I’ll have to come back?”

“Yes,” my nurse said, smiling eagerly. “Without these tests, it would be impossible to tell if you’re a S.H.R.I.M.P. or a Shorty, or even if you have C.U.M. It won’t cost you, you’ll be contributing to research.”

“Oh, um, okay,” I mumbled. I kicked my dangling legs around non-committal. I hoped it wouldn’t take too much time.

“We’ll need you to use this.” Jana produced an object from behind her. It was a plush-looking pair of tongs or forceps about the size of two rubber fingers with moist-looking, smooth beads at the tips.

“What is it?” I asked, but I think I already suspected.

“Medical tweezers,” she explained. She pinched them together and gyrated them up-and-down and mouthed, “For your little dick.”

If I hadn’t just cum, I would’ve been rock hard. As it was, my weiner laid limp, useless and feeling all the tinier for being openly humiliated by my hot nurse. “H-how… what–”

“Take this home with you and, um, use it when you can.” Jana was trying hard not to laugh again, so hard it forced her lips into a pout. She pressed the tweezers into my hand and patted my closed hand as if it were a cute, baby animal. “We don’t want you to hurt that poor, little wrist anymore. You wouldn’t want to break it, would you?”

“O-of course not. What should I do?”

“When you use these, immobilise your wrist.” Jana put the tweezers in my grip between my thumb and index finger, guided them down towards my groin in my pants, and coached my hand through the motion. She whispered, “Move it from your elbow, like this. That’s right. And make sure you keep to your schedule. 35 times a week. We can’t allow any variation for the tests.”

I gasped.My ears were burning. Her words, her breath, were fire.

“We need the most you can do to guarantee a good sample. And come back next week, we’ll run some more W.I.M.P. tests on your little guy– I mean, wrist.” She didn’t. She let go of me and went to retrieve another piece of paperwork from a low drawer. Her big, shapely butt strained against the bottom of her uniform like two moons stuffed in a pillowcase.

When she found it, Jana asked me to fill out a final form signing my consent to the W.I.M.P. test, verifying my embarrassing stats were correct, and avowing my safe use of the specialised forceps for medical purposes only. With that, she said I could go.

I said my thanks, got up, and went for the door. I opened it to leave when Jana called out to me:

“I hope you love your new tweezers!”

“I… thanks.” I knew that I would, and I’d think about her and the doctor while I tweezed off my medically problematic, little dick.