Exposed
By WantonHubby12.
I pulled in, killed the engine, and glanced around. Nothing but woods and the distant hum of an occasional car. Good enough.
I stepped out, walked a few paces toward the treeline, and unzipped my jeans. The cool evening air hit my skin as I pulled myself out, already starting to piss against a birch tree. The relief was immediate, a long stream splattering against the white bark.
I was mid-flow, eyes half-closed, when I heard it.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
My head snapped around. A familiar silver sedan was pulling into the lot.
Fuck.
I recognized it instantly—my mother-in-law’s car.
I scrambled to tuck myself back in, but I was still going, and my hands fumbled with the zipper—too slow, too clumsy. The car door opened, and there she was. Diane. Sixty-two, sharp-eyed, always dressed like she was heading to a business lunch even on a Saturday.
She froze.
I froze.
Her eyes dropped to my hands, to the piss still dribbling down my thigh, to the soft, shrinking thing I was desperately trying to hide.
“Oh my,” she said. Not scandalized. Not embarrassed. Something else entirely.
I finally managed to shove myself back into my jeans, my face burning so hot I could feel the blood pooling in my cheeks. “Sorry—I didn’t—I thought I was alone—”
She didn’t look away. She didn’t give me that polite, awkward dismissal people usually offer in moments like this. Instead, she stepped closer, heels clicking on the gravel, and crossed her arms.
“Is that all there is?”
The words hit me like a slap. “What?”
“That little thing.” She tilted her head, studying me the way you’d examine a disappointing purchase. “I always wondered, you know. When you and my daughter got married, she never said anything, but… well, now I see why.”
I wanted to disappear. To sink into the gravel and never be seen again. “Diane, please—”
“Don’t ‘Diane, please’ me.” She took another step closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral, expensive. “You’re standing there with a piss stain on your pants, hiding a penis that looks like it belongs on a ten-year-old boy. And you want me to pretend I didn’t see it?”
My throat was dry. My hands were shaking. “It’s… I mean, it’s not always…”
“Not always what?” She laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. “Small? Because trust me, sweetheart, in that state, it was barely visible. I’ve seen bigger clits.”
My cock, still half-hidden in my jeans, twitched traitorously at her words. And she noticed.
“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched. “You like that, do you? Being reminded of what a tiny little disgrace you’re packing?”
“No,” I said, but my voice cracked, and we both heard the lie.
She smiled. Slow. Predatory.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting?”
Her hand reached out, and before I could move, before I could protest, she had my zipper down again, her fingers sliding inside my jeans, finding me—soft, small, already trying to curl inward.
“There it is,” she murmured, pulling me out into the open air. I was flaccid, barely two inches, a pathetic nub nestled in a patch of dark hair. She held me between her thumb and forefinger, examining me like a curiosity. “Jesus. I’ve seen Vienna sausages more impressive.”
I should have pushed her away. Should have zipped up, driven off, and never spoken of this again.
But I didn’t.
“You’re hard,” she said, and there was genuine surprise in her voice. “You’re actually getting hard from this. From your mother-in-law holding your pathetic little cock and telling you how small it is.”
I could feel it growing—a little. Maybe three inches now. Maybe. But under her critical gaze, it felt like nothing.
“You know,” she said, releasing me and stepping back, “my daughter deserves a real man. Someone who can actually satisfy her. And here you are, with this…” She gestured vaguely at my exposed crotch. “This little… what would you even call it? A clitty? A nub?”
I opened my mouth, closed it.
“Get in the car,” she said.
“What?”
“You heard me. Get in the car. We’re going home. Your wife is at her sister’s for the night, and I think you and I have some things to discuss.” She smiled again, that same predatory curl of her lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell her about this.”
She turned and walked to her car, leaving me standing there, exposed, half-hard, my jeans still unzipped, the cooling piss stain spreading on my thigh.
I should have gotten in my own car and driven away.
But I didn’t.
I zipped up, walked to her passenger door, and got in.
The drive was silent. She didn’t look at me. I stared out the window, my mind a hurricane of shame and something else—something hot and twisted that made my stomach clench.
When we pulled into her driveway, she killed the engine and turned to me.
“Take off your pants.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Take off your pants. I want to see it again. Properly, this time. No rush.”
I hesitated for a long moment. Then, slowly, I unbuckled my belt, pushed down my jeans and boxers.
She leaned over, looking down at my lap. I was soft again, shrinking back to that tiny, pitiful size.
“Stroke it,” she said.
“What?”
“You heard me. Stroke it. Get it hard. I want to see what you’re working with at full mast.”
My hand trembled as I wrapped my fingers around myself. I was barely two knuckles worth of cock, and even as I stroked, even as I grew a little, it felt like a joke.
“Faster,” she commanded.
I obeyed.
After a minute, I was as hard as I got. Four inches, maybe. On a good day. I’d always thought of myself as average—below average, sure, but not this. Not… whatever she was seeing.
She laughed—a low, throaty sound.
“Four inches?” She reached out and wrapped her fingers around my shaft. Her hand completely engulfed me. “Four inches, and thinner than my thumb. My husband—God rest his soul—was nine inches. Thick as a beer can.” She squeezed, and I gasped. “This is nothing. This is a little button. A clit with delusions of grandeur.”
My hips bucked involuntarily.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you? You like hearing how pathetic you are.” She released me and sat back, a satisfied smirk on her face. “Alright. Here’s the deal. Please come over every Tuesday and Thursday when my daughter’s at her yoga class. And you’re going to let me… inspect you. Remind you of your place.”
“My place?”
“Under my thumb. A little boy with a little cock, pretending to be a husband.” She reached over and patted my cheek, almost condescendingly. “And maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you watch me with someone who actually knows how to use what they’ve got.”
I should have said no.
But I thought of her hand around me, of the way she’d laughed, of the shame that burned so hot it felt like pleasure.
“Okay,” I whispered.
She smiled.
“Good boy. Now put that little thing away. We’ve got a busy schedule to plan.”
The End.
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