Caught By The Cleaners Pt 01

I'll admit it, I was probably a little hungover.

When my friends had invited me to the pub just ten minutes down the road, I had told myself 'just one drink'. I had work in the morning, and my shift started *early*. It had been a little while since I'd been out with the lads though, and I couldn't bring myself to bring the catch-up to an early finish. One drink had become four. Or maybe six?

So when my alarm went off at 05:00, to get me out the door by 05:30, it was a challenge to face the day. My head wasn't exactly pounding, but I was much more sluggish than usual; by the time my bag was packed and my bike helmet was on, I was ten minutes late to leave.

I rushed out of my apartment, leaving my sleeping housemate behind me, and a quick trip to the bikeshed in the carpark later, I was wheeling my bike outside. That was when the cold hit me; I felt goosebumps on my skin as I headed into the first frosty morning of an Irish winter. Part of me wanted to turn back, maybe put something on over my bike shorts, but I was late enough as it is. My cycle would be half an hour; I was already on track to be late if I didn't hurry.

The roads to the microchip production line where I worked were never busy this time of morning, so usually I had a straightforward enough commute, but someone in heaven had it out for me this time. I wasn't halfway there when the sky opened up and rained down, and each drop was ice cold. Any hope of arriving to work dry was ruined, which meant one thing was on my mind as I navigated the frigid cycle paths; I'd have to hit the showers on my way in.

A couple of hundred people worked at the factory where I did, so the bathroom facilities were large, if a bit basic. Inside the men's locker room was a long row of urinals, then five or six stalls, and two shower units in the corner by the door. I had been told when I first got this job that the shower facilities used to be even worse than they were now; just two showerheads attached to the wall, with no curtains or privacy protectors of any kind. The older men who'd worked there for years would joke about how each and every one of your coworkers who needed to take a piss while you showered would walk right by and get an eyeful.

It sounded like a nightmare to me. When it came to public showers, I'd always felt nervous even when I was as young as ten or twelve. I was naturally a shy person when it came to my body; even if I was desperate to release my bladder, I could never piss in a urinal. I always needed the privacy of a stall.

Growing up in rural Wexford, there had been nothing to do for fun but join the local sports club, whose showers were old, barely functioning, and horrifically open. I never understood how some lads could walk around with everything hanging out without a care in the world, while I would go bright red if anyone so much as talked to me while I was scrubbing the muck off my arms and legs.

Well, I did understand part of it; it was a matter of size. While my own...little fella was nothing to be ashamed of when I was fully worked up, so to speak, when he was flaccid, he was truly tiny. Somedays he'd hang down almost two inches, but if it was a cold morning, I'd often catch a glimpse of my naked form in the mirror on the way to the shower, and my mickey would be so small he'd jut out awkwardly, sitting on top of my balls like a grape lying on a pair of eggs.

At first, none of my friends or teammates back home had really cared; but as they got older, they developed and I didn't. Truth be told, nobody was that cruel to me, but everyone knew it was a sore spot for me. There were constant jokes made at my expense. Lads would draw tiny mickeys on my schoolbooks, and I got my fair share of nicknames.

But the worst was when I was sixteen. That was when it happened to me that my gearbag was stolen. I stumbled blindly out of the shower, looking for my towel, to find it missing and my gearbag not on the bench where I'd left it. I had felt sick to my stomach instantly.

One by one, my so-called friends had jeered at me while I stood in the centre of the changing room, hands clamped over my twig and berries to preserve my dignity; a wasted effort, of course, because what looks more ridiculous than a man hunched over, trying to keep prying eyes away from his little willy? I still remember calling out for help; "Lads, we're friends, can't anyone lend me their shorts? A towel, even? I can't go home like this!"

"Ah, where's the fun in that now?" one had said. One in particular I'd never forgiven. Greg. Half Polish, he'd only moved into our little village from Dublin a few years before, but he'd fit right in straight away. He was handsome, fit, confident; everything I wanted to be.

I still remembered his mocking smile. "Your gear's just hanging from the far goal, anyway."

I remember how shocked I felt. I could barely get the words out. "You stole my clothes? You hung my bag on the goal...outside!?"

Greg had just laughed. He clapped me on the shoulder, causing my vulnerable body to flinch involuntarily. "You're too shy. You need to loosen up. Be more confident. Aren't you a man? Why hide like a boy-"

At this point, he had reached for my wrists, no doubt to pull my hands away and expose my shortcomings. Truth be told, everyone in this changing room had seen it all before and slagged me for it a dozen times or more, but something about this time felt different. I just couldn't face it.

I had turned and ran from the changing room, sprinting directly the outside world, eager to get away from my humiliation. The lads cheered and ran out after me, eager to see me humiliate myself. My gearbag hung low from the goal at the far end of the pitch, a hundred yards away. As I ran for it, waddling because I was still desperately covering my dick and balls, it had started to rain that ice cold Irish winter rain.

I shuddered at the memory, still vivid as ever. No doubt the similar weather was bringing it all back. But I wasn't sixteen in Wexford anymore. I was twenty eight, on the other side of the country. Not a schoolboy, but a working man.

As I used my ID card to buzz in through the security gate and enter the factory grounds, I tried to shake it all from my head. That day, where I was stark naked in front of so many lads, was in my distant past now. It didn't have to mean anything. Since then, I had never been seen naked by another man, aside from one embarrassing strip poker game I also didn't care much to remember.

When I was naked in front of women, it was because we were about to do something that would get me excited, and then I had nothing to be ashamed of; but after that horrible day I had never again been seen in the nip by so much as a doctor. I couldn't even whip out my willy to piss in a urinal. Even if it was the case that the bathroom was totally empty; that was the extent of my humiliation, my fear of my tiny todger being spotted by another bloke.

As I locked my bike up, I checked my watch; while reminding myself of the most embarrassing day of my life wasn't pleasant, it hadn't hurt my cycle time. Right now it was 06:07; I had eight minutes to shower and present myself on the factory line. We made microchips in what was technically a clean room environment, so hygiene was taken very seriously. I rushed through the sprawling complex to head towards the showers as quickly as I could.

On my way, I passed by the company gym, and a thought popped into my head, not for the first time; I could save time by using the gym showers. I wouldn't have to make a detour for the men's locker room; I could shower right here and head straight to my position on the floor. The only thing that stopped me was the gym shower style; they were all open, where anyone in the room could see anyone else. After being exposed to that cold rain I knew my dick was as small as he could physically get; no way was I letting anyone see him now.

I rushed to my locker in the locker room, tossed my helmet inside, and checked my black backpack with my change of clothes. It was waterproof, so even though it had been drenched with me, I could see my clothes for today would be fine. I headed straight to the bathroom, reaching for one of the towels the cleaners put out on the bench nearest the bathroom door. I snarled with frustration when I realised the towels were still inside the plastic packaging they came in when they got laundered; the cleaners were *supposed* to open them and lay them out for us. Often they didn't bother.

I checked my watch; just five minutes left before I was technically late. Now, my boss wouldn't be on the floor until 06:20, so I had five minutes leeway, but I hated to risk it. I made a beeline for the bathroom door in the corner of the locker room, and found, to my horror, that a wet floor sign was set up to bar the entrance.

I gingerly took a few steps inside, right opposite the showers, and looked into the room. My suspicions were proven correct; right there, mopping the stalls, were two cleaners I knew well; Ionis and Pater.

I had no opinion on Ionis, but I hated Pater. He was Lithuanian, or Polish, and he was older than me by about ten years. His English was much worse than even the other cleaners, and he was chubby and bald. He was well-liked by everyone, cleaners and real staff alike, for his amiable personality, but he was always a little too friendly with me. As a cleaner, he was a different kind of employee than me, and he should act like it.

They were clearly behind their cleaning rota; this bathroom should have been ready for use half an hour ago! I was seething with rage. I couldn't afford to use any other shower; I simply didn't have time if I wanted to avoid being late. Without even talking to them (because their poor English would have meant it would have taken ages to explain) I slipped into the first shower cubical.

Now, 'cubicle' was a generous word for it, because no major renovations had taken place in this bathroom since the days where it was just two shower heads on a wall in the corner of the jacks. But some accommodation for privacy had been made; a large fabric cubicle had been erected, like a square tent, with a shower curtain on a poll at the entrance. It was cramped and a bit flimsy, but in my six years of working there I'd never come close to having my privacy violated, so I jumped into the one on the left and got to work.

Instantly, I slung my backpack to the ground and took out my toiletries. I turned the shower on and took a few steps back; it always took a minute or two to heat up. Making sure to close the curtain as well as I could, I stripped my clothes off unceremoniously, and hung my towel on the small hook by the shower curtain. I could hear Ionis and Pater laughing to themselves as they worked, and smiled smugly to myself; they wouldn't be able to clean my cubicle until I was done. They had inconvenienced me through their own slowness, and now I was in a position to make *them* late. It was very satisfying.

I couldn't luxuriate too long though; I had just a few minutes to shower and head to work.

I waited two minutes for the water to heat up, and it did, somewhat, but it didn't even really reach lukewarm. Was it always this slow? I shuddered, and decided to make do. I quickly took my shampoo and massaged it into my hair. When that was done, I took my shower gel and lathered my body head to toe, still standing beside the cold jet of water, and not in it. As I did this, I was forced to confront the reality of my tiny dick again; the comparison of my twig and berries to a grape on top of a pair of eggs was somehow too generous. I tried to think of what my shrunken penis reminded me of, and the only thing that came to mind was a comparison between what lay between my legs and what lay between the legs of the women I'd been intimate with.

I burned with indignation. Why should I care at all about the size of my soft cock? I had a good five inches when I was revved up and ready to go, so why should my lack of size *when it didn't matter* bother me a jot? But it did. Even standing here alone, I felt somehow humiliated, emasculated by comparison even when there was no one to compare with. Angry with myself for being so silly, I forced myself to walk into the jet of cold water.

I let out an involuntary squeal. The water was now ice-cold; something was seriously wrong with the showerhead. I had no time to fix it now, though. Feeling my dick and balls shrivel somehow even more, I fervently washed myself of the shampoo and shower gel. I couldn't help but breathe heavily, panting almost like a dog, as an involuntary response to the sheer cold I was experiencing.

That was when I heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a shower curtain being pulled open.

What could possibly be going on?

I looked over my shoulder to see the curtain at the end of the cubicle thrown open, and two grinning men smiling widely, both fully dressed in their cleaners' uniforms. Ionis and Pater.