Too Much
An SPH Experience by AlternateSubmissive.
I’m going to break up with her because of it.
I need to write that down and sit with it before I try to explain it, because explaining it makes it sound like something it isn’t. It makes it sound shallow. It makes it sound like I’m leaving a woman I love because of aesthetics, because of preference, because I want a different body next to mine. That’s not it. Or maybe it is, but it’s also not that simple. The sexless relationship has done something to me—something quiet and structural, like water damage—and I can feel it spreading into parts of the relationship that have nothing to do with sex. Into how I look at her. Into how I touch her. Into whether I touch her at all.
I’ll start at the beginning.
—
Her name is Whitney. She’s twenty-eight. I’m thirty. We’ve been together for two years and four months, and for the first six months, the sex wasn’t great, but it was happening, and happening was enough. I’d get behind her, or she’d get on top, or we’d do missionary with her legs pulled back, and my cock would go in—some of it, most of it, enough of it—and we’d fuck, and it would be fine. Not earth-shattering. Not the kind of sex that leaves you trembling. But fine. Functional. The kind of sex that gets you off and gets her off, if she’s generous with her expectations, and Whitney was always generous.
Whitney is generous with everything. That’s part of what makes this hard. She’s kind. She’s patient. She’s the kind of woman who notices when you’re sad before you’ve noticed it yourself, who brings you soup without asking if you want soup, who rubs your back when you’ve had a bad day and doesn’t require anything in return. She’s beautiful—dark brown skin, full lips, eyes that crinkle when she laughs, which is often. She has the kind of face that makes you feel better just by looking at it.
And she has a big ass. A huge ass. The kind of ass that stops traffic, that fills a room, that makes jeans a structural engineering challenge. It’s the first thing people notice about her, and she knows it, has made her peace with it, and wears clothes that flatter it without apologizing for it. She shouldn’t apologize for it. It’s a great ass. It’s one of the things I love about her body, the way it moves when she walks, the way it fills my hands when I grab it, the way it looks in leggings or in nothing at all.
It’s also the reason I can’t fuck her properly.
—
My cock is four inches hard. Four. On a good day, fully aroused, no distractions, optimal conditions—four inches. Soft, it’s maybe an inch and a half, sometimes less, depending on the temperature, the stress level, the time of day. My balls are small too—proportionally small, tight against my body, the kind of balls that don’t hang so much as huddle. I’m not a big man in general—five-eight, one-sixty, average build, the kind of body that doesn’t draw attention in either direction. My cock fits my body, more or less. It’s small, but it’s coherent. It’s a small man’s cock on a small man’s frame.
Whitney’s body is not small. Whitney is five-six, but she carries weight in the places that count—her hips, her thighs, her ass—and when she’s on her hands and knees, or when she’s bent over, or when she’s on top and leaning back, the distance between her opening and the back of her pussy is longer than my cock can reach. Not by a little. By a lot. By inches. By the kind of margin that turns sex from a connection into a reminder.
I’ll describe it, because the specifics matter. When we do doggy—her favorite position, the position she naturally gravitates toward, the position that her body is built for—her ass is in the way. Not metaphorically. Physically. Her cheeks are thick and full, and they create a cushion, a barrier, a distance between my hips and her body that my cock can’t bridge. I push in, feel the head go in, then push more. I’m against her ass, my hips pressed into all that flesh, and my cock is inside her but only partially—maybe two and a half, three inches—and the rest of my cock, the part that isn’t inside her, is buried in the warmth and pressure of her cheeks, not inside her pussy but surrounded by ass, and I can feel the difference. I can feel where her pussy ends, and her ass begins, and I know she can feel it too, the difference between being filled and being kind of filled, between a cock that reaches deep and a cock that reaches partway and then stops.
I fuck her. I thrust. I do what I can with what I have. But the thrusting is shallow—shallow by necessity, because there’s no room to thrust. After all, my cock is already as far in as it’s going to go, and pulling out means pulling out of her. After all, I don’t have the length to pull back and stay inside. Every stroke is a short stroke. Every stroke is a reminder.
She moans. Sometimes. But the moans are polite. I know the difference now, after two years—I know the difference between a moan that means this is hitting the spot and a moan that means I appreciate the effort. Whitney’s moans are the second kind. They’re warm and encouraging, and they make me feel worse, because they’re the moans of a woman who is being fucked by a cock that can’t reach where she needs it to reach, and she’s performing enjoyment to spare my feelings, and we both know it, and neither of us says it.
—
Missionary is better. Marginally. When she’s on her back, and her legs are spread, and I’m on top of her, I can get in deeper—not deep, but deeper—and I can grind against her, and the angle is better, and my cock is at least mostly inside her. But even then, I can feel it. The space. The room inside her that I’m not filling. The way her pussy feels around my cock—not tight, not gripping, not the way a pussy grips a cock that fills it—but loose, accommodating, the way a glove feels on a hand that’s too small for it. She’s not loose because she’s loose. She’s loose because I’m small. Because my cock doesn’t stretch her, doesn’t press against her walls, doesn’t create the friction that comes from a tight fit. My cock moves inside her like a finger in a mitten—present, but not filling the space.
She wraps her legs around me. She pulls me in. She tries to create the pressure from outside that my cock can’t create from inside. It helps, a little. It’s a workaround, and we both know it’s a workaround, and workarounds can get exhausting.
When she’s on top, it’s the worst. When she’s on top, she controls the depth, and she can take me as deep as she wants. She does—she sinks onto my cock, and I feel her weight, her full weight, the weight of her body and her ass and her thighs pressing down on me, and my cock goes in as far as it can go, and then her ass hits my hips, and she’s sitting on me, and I’m inside her, but I can feel the same thing—the same partial entry, the same abbreviated penetration, the same sense that there’s more of her that I can’t reach. She rides me, and her ass is right there—huge, round, heavy—and I’m watching it move, and I’m feeling her pussy on my cock, and I’m feeling the gap, the distance, the thing that isn’t happening, and I lose my erection. Not always. But often enough. The softening. The shrinking. The cock that was already small getting smaller inside her, slipping out, and her having to reach back and guide it in again, and the guiding-in is the worst part, because it’s so gentle, so patient, so kind. I can feel how small my cock is in her hand as she puts it back in, and I know she’s thinking it even if she never says it.
She never says it. That’s the thing. In two years, Whitney has never once said anything about my cock being small. Not directly. Not in anger, not in frustration, not in bed, not out of bed. She has never said, “You’re small,” “I can’t feel you,” or “I wish you were bigger.” She’s never compared me to anyone. She’s never sighed, rolled her eyes, or made a face. She’s been—consistently, unfailingly, almost unbelievably—kind.
But I can hear it in what she doesn’t say.
She doesn’t say deeper. She doesn’t say harder in the way she means it—harder, deeper, more. She doesn’t grab my ass and pull me into her, because pulling me into her doesn’t change anything, because I’m already as in as I can go. She doesn’t ask for positions that require length. She doesn’t ask for things I can’t give.
And she uses her hand during sex. Her hand, on her clit, rubbing herself while I fuck her, because what I’m doing with my cock isn’t enough—not enough friction, not enough pressure, not enough depth—and she needs the extra stimulation to get there. I watch her hand moving in circles while I thrust, and I know what it means. It means my cock isn’t doing the job. It means she needs help. It means the sex she’s having with me is the sex of a woman who is making the best of a situation, not the sex of a woman who is being satisfied.
Sometimes she comes. Sometimes she doesn’t. When she doesn’t, she says “That’s okay,” and she kisses me, and she holds me, and she means it, and the meaning-it is worse than if she didn’t, because it means she’s accepted it. She’s accepted that sex with me is what it is—not great, not satisfying, a thing to be endured and occasionally enjoyed and mostly gotten through. She’s accepted my small cock the way you accept a bad knee or a leaky faucet. It’s a limitation. You work around it. You don’t love it, but you live with it.
I don’t want to be lived with. I don’t want to be a leaky faucet.
—
The caging made it worse. Or maybe the caging made it clearer. I started caging about a year ago—locking my cock in a small chastity device, a plastic cage that fit over the nub and kept it contained, compressed, invisible. I’d read about it online, in the forums and the communities where men with small cocks gather to talk about their small cocks, and the caging was a thing that came up a lot. Small men cage. It makes sense, in a way that’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have a small cock. When your cock is too small to function as a cock—to fuck, to satisfy, to be a sexual instrument—caging it is a way of acknowledging that. Of saying this thing isn’t a cock, it’s a nub, and a nub doesn’t need to be free. It’s a form of acceptance, or surrender, or both. It’s humiliating, and the humiliation is part of the point, and it’s part of what makes it arousing, and the arousal is part of what makes it confusing. The confusion is part of what makes it addictive.
I was caged at home. Not always, but often. I’d put the cage on in the morning, before work, and I’d wear it all day, and I’d feel it—the tightness, the compression, the constant reminder of what I was and what I wasn’t. At night, I’d take it off, or sometimes I’d sleep in it, and Whitney would see it, and she’d ask about it, and I’d explain, and she’d nod and say “Okay” in the same voice she used when I told her about my diet or my workout routine—interested, supportive, nonjudgmental.
She saw the cage. She saw my cock in the cage. She saw how small the cage was—how small it needed to be to fit my cock, how the device that was designed for small cocks was still almost too big, how my cock rattled around inside it like a peanut in a shell. She saw it, and she didn’t comment on it, and the not-commenting was its own comment.
Once, she held it. The cage, with my cock inside it. She held it in her hand, weighing it, and she said “It’s so small,” and then she caught herself and said “The cage, I mean. The cage is so small,” and I said “Yeah” and we both let it go, and the thing that had been said hung in the air between us like smoke.
It’s so small. The cage. The cock. Both.
—
The sex stopped not all at once. It tapered. It went from once a week to once every two weeks to once a month to less. I stopped initiating. Not because I didn’t want her—I wanted her, always, constantly, the way you want what you can’t have—but because the wanting was tangled up with the shame. The shame was tangled up with the failure, and the failure was tangled up with the memory of every time I’d pushed inside her and felt the gap, the space, the thing I couldn’t reach.
I stopped reaching for her in bed. I stopped touching her in ways that might lead to sex. I stopped looking at her body when she was undressed—not because I didn’t want to look, but because looking led to wanting, and wanting led to trying, and trying led to the thing I couldn’t do. I turned away when she changed. I kept my hands above her waist. I kissed her forehead instead of her mouth. I became a man who loved a woman and didn’t touch her, and that not-touching became a wall, and the wall grew, and now it’s between us in every room, not just the bedroom.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. Whitney notices everything. She asked me about it—gently, carefully, the way you ask someone about a wound you don’t want to reopen. “Is something wrong?” she said. “Are you okay?” she said. “Is it me?” she said, and the fact that she said is it me when it was so clearly me, so clearly my cock, so clearly my failure to be enough—that was the thing that broke me.
I said “No, it’s not you” and I meant it, and I didn’t say the rest, and the rest sat in my chest like a stone.
—
I think about the past. Before Whitney. Before the big ass and the small cock and the math that doesn’t work. I think about the women I was with who had smaller bodies—thinner, narrower, less ass, less thigh, less distance between my hips and theirs. Women I could fuck. Women I could get inside. Women whose pussies I could feel—tight, gripping, the walls pressing against my cock on all sides, the friction that comes from a fit, from a cock that fills a pussy even if the cock is small and the pussy is small too. I think about those women, and I remember what sex felt like when it worked. When my cock was enough. When the math added up.
I had a girlfriend before Whitney—Brenna. Thin. Narrow hips. Small ass. The kind of body that my cock could handle. We had good sex. Not because my cock was bigger than—it wasn’t, it’s the same cock, the same four inches—but because her body was smaller, and the distance was shorter, and I could get inside her and stay inside her and fuck her with full strokes, and she’d gasp and grip me and say “Yes” and mean it, and I’d feel like a man. Like a man with a cock. Like a man whose cock was doing what a cock is supposed to do.
I think about Brenna when I’m inside Whitney. I think about the difference—the difference in bodies, the difference in sensation, the difference in how it feels to fuck someone you fit versus someone you don’t. I think about it, and I feel guilty, because Whitney is better than Brenna in every way that isn’t physical—kinder, funnier, warmer, more generous—and I’m lying inside her thinking about another woman’s body, and the reason I’m thinking about it is that my cock is too small for the woman I love.
—
I’m going to break up with her. I’ve decided. I haven’t done it yet—I’m writing this instead, at two in the morning, sitting at the kitchen table while she sleeps in the bedroom—but I’ve decided. I’m going to end it. Not because I don’t love her. Not because she’s done anything wrong. Because my cock is too small and her ass is too big and the sex is dead and the death of the sex is killing the rest of it, slowly, the way rot kills a house from the inside out.
I’ll find someone smaller. That’s the plan, if you can call it a plan. Find a woman with a smaller body, a thinner body, less ass, less thigh, less distance. A woman my cock can reach. A woman I can fuck without feeling the gap. A woman who’ll feel me inside her—not partially, not kind of, but fully, all four inches, the whole cock, pressing against her walls, filling the space.
I know how this sounds. I know it sounds like I’m blaming her body for my inadequacy. Like I’m saying your ass is too big instead of my cock is too small. And maybe that’s what I’m doing. Maybe I’m doing both. Maybe they’re the same thing—two sides of a mismatch, two halves of an equation that doesn’t balance. She’s not wrong. I’m not wrong. We’re just wrong together.
—
I’m embarrassed. I want to say that clearly. I’m embarrassed that I can’t fuck my girlfriend. I’m embarrassed that my cock is four inches and that four inches isn’t enough. I’m embarrassed that I cage my cock and wear the cage and feel the humiliation of it and that the humiliation is the closest thing to sexual satisfaction I’ve felt in months. I’m embarrassed that I’m leaving a woman I love because of something as stupid as dick size and ass size and the physics of fucking.
But that’s what happens when you’re small. That’s what happens when your cock is a nub, and your girlfriend is built like a goddess and the two things don’t go together. You stop having sex. You stop touching. You stop being a couple in the way that couples are couples, and you start being roommates who love each other and don’t fuck, and the not-fucking becomes the defining fact of the relationship, the thing you orbit around, the thing you can’t think about.
And you cage your cock, because caging it is easier than using it. Because caging it is a way of saying this thing doesn’t work without having to say it out loud. Because the cage is small and your cock is small and the two smallnesses fit together, and fitting together is the thing you can’t do with the woman you love.
That’s what you get. That’s what you deserve. That’s what it means to be small, to want someone big, and to live in the gap between what you have and what you need.
I hope other small guys read this and feel less alone. I hope they recognize the math—the gap, the space, the thing that doesn’t reach—and I hope it helps, the way it helps to know that someone else is sitting in the dark, embarrassed, caged, small, trying to figure out how to leave someone they love because their cock won’t let them stay.
I’m going to break up with her tomorrow. I’m going to sit her down and say the words. I’m not going to tell her about my cock. I’m not going to say you’re too big for me or I’m too small for you. I’m going to say something vague and kind and untrue, and she’ll see through it, and she’ll know, and I’ll know she knows, and we’ll both pretend that the knowing isn’t there, the way we’ve pretended for two years.
And then I’ll be alone, and I’ll be small, and I’ll be caged, and I’ll start over.
The End.
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