Our Third Date
An SPH Experience by Interesting-Doubt929.
I picked her up in my Audi, the leather seat cool against my bare thighs through the open fly of my jeans. The feeling of denim directly against my sensitive skin was electric, making me hyper-aware of every shift and movement. She was wearing a low-cut top, and when she climbed in, she immediately flashed me her breasts—perfect, full, with nipples that hardened in the cool air as she guided my hand to touch them. I cupped them greedily, feeling their weight, the softness, the pebbled texture of her areolas.
“Where are we going?” I asked, still palming her left breast, my thumb tracing circles around her nipple.
“Just drive,” she said, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “We’re driving to Linz.”
I didn’t question it. I started the engine, pulled out of the parking spot, and merged onto the autobahn. The speedometer climbed to 130, then 150, the Austrian countryside blurring past us. About twenty minutes into the drive, she reached over without warning and slid her hand down the front of my unzipped jeans. Her fingers found my tiny, flaccid cock immediately, and she let out a soft gasp.
“Oh wow,” she breathed, her fingertips tracing the outline of my nub, barely an inch and a half of soft flesh nestled against my balls. “You really are naked underneath. And so small.”
Her touch was light, teasing, rolling my little button between her thumb and forefinger. I could feel my cock trying to respond, but there was nothing left in the tank—just that pathetic, helpless nub, completely at her mercy.
“There’s a parking space about 500 meters after the next exit,” she said, her voice casual, as if she were commenting on the weather. “Pull over there.”
My heart hammered as I took the exit, found the small gravel pull-off, and killed the engine. The parking area was empty, surrounded by trees, the late autumn air already carrying a chill.
“Get out,” she said.
I opened the door, the cold air hitting my bare thighs immediately. I stood beside the car, and she circled to join me. Without a word, she unbuttoned my jeans and yanked them down to my ankles, then pulled my shirt over my head. In seconds, I was completely naked, standing on the gravel in the middle of nowhere, my tiny cock and balls exposed to the elements.
The cold hit me like a physical shock. My nub seemed to shrink even further, retreating until it was barely a nub of flesh perched on my scrotum, which had tightened into a hard little knot. I looked down at myself—at that pathetic little bump, utterly useless, completely exposed.
She stood back, arms crossed, a look of pure possessive delight on her face. “Perfect,” she said softly. “Look at you. All that man, and this is what you have to offer.”
I shivered, partly from the cold, partly from the humiliation that was already coursing through my veins like a drug.
“Get back in,” she said finally, and I scrambled to pull my clothes on, my fingers numb and clumsy.
The drive into Linz was a blur of neon lights and cobblestone streets. She kept her hand on my thigh, occasionally dipping into my open fly to fondle my shrunken cock as she navigated. And whenever we pulled up next to a group of women—at a traffic light, in a pedestrian zone, near a late-night kebab shop—she’d roll down the window and shout, “Sein Schwanz ist so unglaublich winzig!”
His dick is so fucking tiny.
The words echoed off the buildings. Some women laughed. Some looked confused. One group of Turkish girls just stared, then burst into giggles. I wanted to sink into the leather seat and disappear.
We found a parking spot near the main square, and she told me to get out. I pulled my jeans back up, zipped them, but left the fly open as she’d instructed. My little nub poked out through the gap, a pale, pathetic little mushroom cap against the dark denim. She tucked my shirt behind the waistband so it wouldn’t hide anything.
“Perfect,” she said again, and took my hand.
We walked through Linz, past the closed shops and the few late-night stragglers. The streets were quieter than I’d hoped, which almost felt like a relief—until I saw them. A group of about eight women, all in their late twenties or early thirties, wearing elaborate costumes and carrying noisemakers. Poltern. The pre-wedding tradition where the bride-to-be’s friends drag her through the streets, making a racket.
My girlfriend’s eyes lit up. She dragged me toward them, her grip on my hand tightening.
“Entschuldigung!” she called out cheerfully. “Wollt ihr eine lustige Show für eure Party?”
Excuse me. Do you want a funny show for your party?
The women turned, curious, already tipsy from what smelled like prosecco. The bride-to-be was wearing a sash and a tiara, her face flushed with alcohol and excitement.
“Klar!” one of them shouted. “Was hast du?”
My girlfriend grinned and yanked me forward. Before I could even process what was happening, she had my jeans unbuttoned and shoved down to my knees. The cold air hit my exposed cock and balls, and I heard the collective gasp.
Then the laughter.
It wasn’t polite, stifled laughter. It was raucous, uncontrollable, knee-slapping howling. One woman doubled over, gripping her stomach. Another pointed, tears streaming down her face. The bride-to-be was clutching her friends, shrieking with mirth.
“Alter, ist das alles?” one of them managed to choke out.
Dude, is that all there is?
“Das ist ja wie bei einem Baby!”
It’s like a baby’s.
I stood there, frozen, my tiny nub exposed to the cold night air and the laughter of eight drunk Austrian women. It had shrunk to maybe 1.5cm now, a little pink button barely visible above my balls, which had drawn up tight against my body. I could feel my face burning, but beneath the humiliation, there was a current of something else—arousal, perhaps, or a strange, sick pride in being so completely owned.
My girlfriend reached down and took my nub between her thumb and forefinger. She began to stroke it, slow and deliberate, in full view of the group. The laughter died down to a fascinated silence as they watched her try to coax some reaction out of my pathetic little cock.
Nothing happened. I couldn’t even begin to get hard. I stayed at that pitiful 1.5cm, soft and useless, just a little knob of flesh sliding back and forth under her grip.
“Kann er überhaupt kommen?” one of the women asked skeptically.
Can he even cum?
My girlfriend didn’t answer. She just kept stroking, faster now, her thumb pressing against the tiny head. And then, after about thirty seconds, I felt the familiar tingle building deep in my pelvis. My body tensed, and a single drop of cum—thin, almost transparent, barely the size of a pea—beaded at the tip of my nub.
“That’s it?” one of the women said, incredulous. “That’s all he’s got?”
The laughter erupted again, even louder this time. I watched my pathetic little orgasm leak down my shaft, completely anticlimactic, completely humiliating.
“Bye-bye, Tiny,” one of them called out as they turned to leave, still giggling. “Viel Glück mit dem!”
Good luck with that.
They wandered off into the night, their noisemakers clattering, and I was left standing in the middle of the street with my pants around my ankles and my girlfriend’s hand still wrapped around my spent, shrinking nub.
She helped me pull my jeans back up. We found a late-night Döner place, ate in comfortable silence, and drove home.
Needless to say, we’re still together. And I can’t wait to see what she has planned for our next date.
The End.
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