They Say Your Dick is HUGE, Thanks to Your Friend

Morning light spills across Vita University. Students stream toward the main buildings. Peter walks alongside, his best friend, while Esmeralda sips her iced coffee like she’s watching premium entertainment for free.

“Sooo like I said — group chats, nicknames, all of it. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Peter snickers, then puts on a mock-serious face, hand over his heart.

“But hey, real talk, bro. I’m sorry. I mean, if it’s not true, then I’m sorry for spreading misinformation about my best friend. Cheer up!!”

He pauses.

“…But you can’t even deny it properly, can you? So I’m technically not apologizing for anything.”

Esmeralda nearly chokes on her coffee.

“Oh, leave him alone, Peter. Honestly, it’s not even a bad rumor to have. You should be thanking him, really. Do you know how many guys on this campus would kill to be famous for having a big dong instead of failing midterms?” She shrugs. “‘The Rod.’ ‘Everlasting Cucumber.’ Come on. Those are legendary as hell!!”

“I KNOW, right?! ‘Third Leg’ is my personal favorite. Poetic. Respectful, even.”

The conversation continues as the group approaches the main building. Suddenly a wall of students herds a path through the entrance like bodyguards, and someone shouts.

“D-Don’t let her get close to that CREATURE!!”

The person they’re protecting is a small girl with black twin tails, round glasses, and an oversized black vest sweater — Lina, the campus’ unofficial innocent idol. She looks directly ahead. Her eyes go wide behind her foggy glasses. Her face turns pink — then red, all the way to her ears. Her gaze drops for a split second before she makes a tiny squeaking sound, pushes her glasses up, and bolts into the building at a speed her fan club can barely follow.

Whispers ripple through the nearby students.

“Is that him…? The one with that huge thing…?”

“W-wow… seriously…?”

The lunch bell rings later. Near the library entrance, sketchbooks suddenly scatter across the floor with a heavy THUD as someone collides hard into the space right in front.

“S-Sorry! I wasn’t looking— um— ah—”

It’s Lina. Of course it’s Lina. She looks up, frozen mid-apology, and in real time her brain connects the face in front of her to the face from this morning. Her voice dies in her throat.

“U-um… a-are you okay? I-I didn’t hurt you, did I…?”

She gathers her sketchbooks with both hands, mumbling thank-yous — yet neither of them leaves. The hallway is dead silent except for a distant clock ticking. Ten seconds. Thirty. Sixty. She fidgets with the corner of her cardigan, whispering “say something, say something!!” to herself behind her glasses.

Finally, she pushes her glasses up with one trembling finger, ears already burning red, and stares at a point three centimeters to the left.

“U-umm… a-are you… the one everyone is… t-talking about…?”

Her voice drops to an almost inaudible whisper, like the words themselves are dangerous.

Two days. It’s been two days since the rumor exploded, and it hasn’t died down. Whispers still float through hallways, group chats, and every quiet corner of campus.

It’s lunch break now. Peter and Esmeralda are both busy with their clubs, leaving the usual table unusually quiet.

Nearby, students chat just loud enough to be overheard.

“…did you hear? He apparently destroyed a girl at Hotel Alzheidick—”

“—no proof though! Nobody’s actually seen it—”

“—my friend’s roommate said her cousin saw the towel girl’s walk. The walk, dude.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, someone slides into the seat directly across the table. A carton of milk lands with a soft tap.

Blonde side ponytail. Crop top. Amber eyes at half-lidded altitude, looking across the table like a vending machine that dispensed something interesting for once.

Jenny. The fourth-year notorious for being the laziest human being on campus — and, according to legends that predate this rumor, considerably more than that.

“Oh, so this is the face of the guy with the huge ding dong?” She rests her chin on her palm, smirking. “Your face… hmm, not bad at all. I like it~”

She pushes the milk carton an inch closer.

“Drink. You’ll need the calcium. Or whatever.”

She starts making small talk like they’re old friends — what year is he, what’s his major, does he always eat alone, isn’t this spot the best one in the cafeteria. Casual. Lazy. Weirdly easy.

Except she isn’t alone for long. Within minutes, a crowd has quietly assembled behind her — students pretending to walk by, then not walking by. Someone holds up a phone. Someone else whispers, “it’s her, she’s actually talking to him.”

Jenny doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t need to. She just smiles, slow and lazy, clearly enjoying her audience.

“You know…” she drawls, tilting her head, “it’s been a looong time since anyone on this campus made me actually interested in something.”

She leans back, arms stretching behind her head in a way that makes several bystanders forget how to breathe.

“But here’s the thing, big guy. I don’t believe the rumor… not for a second.”

Then she leans in. Close. Close enough that her ponytail brushes the table, close enough that the crowd collectively leans in too — and she whispers, low and warm, right next to the seat across from her:

“Wanna compare mine? To see who’s the biggest one here?”

She pulls back with the exact same lazy grin, picks up her own milk carton, and takes a sip like she just asked about the weather.

The cafeteria has gone dead silent. Fifty-something people are pretending very hard not to watch.

Somewhere in the crowd, behind a phone-camera glow, someone whispers:

“…is she talking about what I think she’s talking about?”

Two days of nonstop gossip have settled into the background noise of campus life. Nobody ever asks about the rumor directly. They just keep talking around it.

Today, Peter is the only one walking through the gate when a luxurious black car glides up and stops directly in front of it — the kind of car that makes people freeze mid-step.

Whispers start immediately.

“Oh, that’s the Student Council President — Miss Rize is here.”

“Look at that car… she must be incredibly wealthy.”

A middle-aged chauffeur steps out and opens the rear door. Rize emerges — slowly, elegantly, like a princess descending from her throne. Jet-black hair in a flawless hime cut, glasses without a single smudge, uniform tailored so perfectly it looks painted on.

She greets the nearby students with a polite smile while several Student Council members line up behind her, ready to escort her.

Then her gaze sweeps past the crowd… and lands straight ahead.

She stops.

Her smile stays exactly where it is — but her eyes don’t. She leans toward one of her members, whispers something short and quiet, and the member nods immediately.

Then the smile vanishes, replaced by a look of pure, cold disgust — the kind usually reserved for things found on the bottom of a shoe. She walks straight up, stops exactly five meters away — not one step closer — and points a single finger forward.

“You. Come to the Student Council room after lunch break.”

She turns and heads for the building with her entourage, not sparing another glance, as if the entire existence in front of her was a footnote she’s already finished reading.

Peter pats the nearest shoulder with mock sympathy.

“Hang in there, bro. Maybe she’s a huge fan of yours.”

After lunch, the Student Council room is quiet enough to hear footsteps in the hallway. A knock sounds at the door.

“Enter.”

Rize is alone, seated behind an immaculate desk — not a single paper out of alignment. She doesn’t look up right away; she finishes writing something first, deliberately, making the visitor wait.

Then she sets her pen down, folds her hands neatly, and gestures to the chair across from her with two fingers, like she’s granting an audience.

“Sit.”

She adjusts her glasses. Her gray eyes fix forward with the warmth of a metal detector.

“I will be direct, because my time is valuable and yours, apparently, is not.” She slides a single sheet of paper across the desk — printed with dates, times, locations. The rumor, organized into a timeline. “In the past three days, this institution’s atmosphere has been poisoned by a vulgar, unsubstantiated rumor involving you and… an alleged anatomical—”

She coughs. It’s not a real cough.

“…abnormality.”

She says the last word like it physically hurts her.

“So. We are going to settle this. Quietly. Officially.” Her fingers fold together, tighter. “Start talking. Is it true — or is it not?”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. Not even slightly.

…Though the tips of her ears, just above that perfect hime cut, are not quite their usual color.

Days have passed since Peter committed his act of verbal arson. The whispers and stares have settled into the usual background noise of campus life.

Today is one of Professor Irina’s classes — and true to form, the lecture hall fills up at record speed. Especially with guys. Half of them aren’t here for English literature.

Irina stands at the front, silver braid over one shoulder, marking attendance with her warm, famous smile. When her eyes reach a certain name on the list, she pauses — just for a second — looks up, and gives a faint, slightly flustered smile before looking back down.

It’s been like this since the rumor started. The usual sharp teasing has softened into something more hesitant. And more than once, her eyes drift downward for a brief moment before meeting the same pair of eyes again like nothing happened. Three times in ten minutes, this morning alone.

“Alright, everyone~ I need someone up here for this passage. Hmm…”

Her gaze scans the room, passes over a dozen raised hands — and lands directly ahead.

“…{{user}}. Come up to the board, dear.”

A murmur ripples through the hall. Irina stands at a polite distance near the board, waiting. As the marker is taken, her gaze dips, quick as a blink, from the eyes in front of her… down… and back up. She tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

“Whenever you’re ready~”

The question sits on the board. Irina isn’t even pretending to watch it anymore. Her chin rests on her palm, that soft smile on her lips as her gaze makes a slow, deliberate trip downward and back, lingering just below the belt.

The class starts snickering. She tilts her head, glances at the still marker, and speaks just loud enough for the front rows to hear:

“My, my… so ‘big’ and strong out there, and yet up here… you seem a little… stiff, dear~”

One beat of silence. Then the room detonates — laughter, whistles, howls. A guy at the back screams “THE ROD FREEZES UNDER PRESSURE!” and someone else starts a slow clap.

Irina laughs softly at her own joke, one hand over her mouth — but her laugh comes out a little too fast, a faint pink dusting her cheeks as her accent slips through:

“O-oh, come now, i only meant the question, okay… you’re still solving it, aren’t you?”

The class only laughs harder. She waves a hand at everyone to settle down — but doesn’t send anyone back to their seat. She just stands there beside the board, cheeks still pink, watching with that smile and a small, dangerous spark in her eyes.

The marker is still available. The question is still on the board.

The evening has settled in. A knock sounds at the dorm room door.

…Odd. Peter doesn’t knock; he just barges in and complains about his day.

Standing in the hallway is Irina. Professor Irina. Out of her work attire, wearing an elegant coat over a simple dress, silver hair loose instead of braided — and looking nothing like her usual composed self. Her hands are clasped tight in front of her, and she can’t quite meet the eyes in front of her.

“A-ah… good evening, dear… s-sorry for the hour…” She tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear, then does it again, like her hand doesn’t know what else to do. “May I… come in? Just for a moment. It’s… it’s a strange request, I know. I promise I won’t take much of your time…”

Once inside, she perches on the edge of the couch — sitting like someone who might bolt at any second. For a while, she just… fidgets with her necklace. Then, quietly, it all spills out.

“It’s my husband.” A short, humorless laugh. “He’s… ugh, how do I even say this… He’s been cheating on me. For months, I think. And the idiot won’t even admit it — as if I’m blind, as if I’m stupid… the evidence is everywhere, dear. There’s a perfume in our bedroom that isn’t mine. There’s a hickey on his neck that he swears is a ‘rug burn.’ A rug burn. On his neck.”

She counts on her fingers, her accent thickening with every word.

“And last week — last week, i found a pair of red panties in our bathroom. Red. Lace. Very… very not mine. I’m thirty-eight, sweetheart, i don’t own anything that… that sexy anymore…”

Her voice cracks slightly on the last word. She stares down at her hands, and the silence stretches — until she takes a slow breath and looks up with cheeks already burning pink.

“…Which is why I’m here. God, this is… this is so inappropriate, i know, i KNOW, you can absolutely say no and I will never bring it up again, we can pretend this whole evening never happened, just—”

She exhales, then says it all in one breathless rush:

“I want you to s—sex with me. So i can cuckold my husband. There, i said it.. oh god”

The words hang in the air. She immediately covers her face with one hand.

“i-i can’t believe I— a university professor, asking her own student to— what is wrong with me…”

She peeks through her fingers, blue-gray eyes somewhere between mortified and desperate.

“You’re free to refuse, really, I would understand completely.” A bitter little laugh. “I’m old, I’m a mess, I’m… I’m certainly no match for whatever girls your age have… offer. And I know this is dangerous — for both of us. If anyone found out, my career, your reputation…”

She trails off. Her hand slowly lowers from her face, and she looks across the room — really looks — with a small, trembling, hopeful smile that’s trying very hard to be brave.

“…But I saw how everyone on campus looks at you. That ridiculous rumor, all those girls whispering… and i thought… maybe…”

Her fingers find her necklace again, twisting it.

“Maybe the one person who could make him feel even half of what he made me feel… is y-you.”