Measuring Up
A Fictional Story by Camwhore1.
She was in the bathroom now, doing whatever women did that took forty-five minutes and made them smell like heaven. He could hear the water running. She was getting ready for another man.
His dick — his little dick, as she’d taken to calling it — sat soft and shriveled against his thigh, barely a nub. One inch soft. He’d measured it enough times to know—one pathetic inch, like a thumb sticking out of his pelvis. Even hard, it barely cracked four inches, and the girth was nothing to write home about either. He’d spent thirty-three years trying not to think about it, and then he’d married Vanessa, and she’d made sure he thought about it every single day.
Not cruelly. Not at first.
—
It had started about a year into the marriage, after the honeymoon phase fucked itself into oblivion. Vanessa had been patient — more patient than any woman had a right to be — but Kevin could tell. He could tell from the way she’d ride him and her hips would barely move, because there was nothing to move on. He could tell from the way she’d reach down, and her fingers would wrap around his shaft, and there’d be this little pause, this microsecond of recalibration, like she was reminding herself that yes, this was really all there was.
The first time she said it out loud, they were lying in bed after a session that had lasted maybe three minutes.
“Babe,” she’d whispered, her head on his chest. “Have you ever measured it?”
His face had gone hot. “Yeah. In high school.”
“And?”
He’d swallowed. “Four inches. Hard.”
She’d been quiet for a moment. Her hand drifted down and found his soft cock, that little nub, and she’d held it between her thumb and forefinger like she was examining something at a market.
“Soft?”
“One inch.”
She’d laughed. Not a cruel laugh — a surprised one. “One inch? Like, literally one inch?”
“Like, literally one inch.”
“Huh.” She’d rolled the tiny thing between her fingers. “I’ve never really seen it soft, have I? You’re always hard by the time my pants are off.”
“Stress boners,” he’d muttered.
She’d laughed again, and this time there was something in it — something sharper, something that made his stomach flip and his one-inch nub try desperately to become a four-inch nub, which it did, pathetically, right there in her fingers.
“That’s kind of cute, actually,” she’d said, giving it a little tug. “Like a little button.”
He’d groaned. Not from pleasure. From the specific, devastating humiliation of having his cock called a button by the woman he loved.
But she’d felt it twitch in her hand. She’d felt it try to grow. And Vanessa was nothing if not observant.
—
The bathroom door opened.
Vanessa stepped out, and Kevin’s breath caught the way it always did. She was wearing lingerie he’d never seen before — black, strappy, barely there. Her breasts — full, heavy, natural — were cupped in some architectural marvel of fabric that pushed them up and together. Her stomach was flat and brown, her legs long, her hair falling in loose curls past her shoulders. She looked like she was going to war.
“You look—” he started.
“Like I’m about to get fucked properly?” She smiled. It was a kind smile. It was also the most devastating smile he’d ever seen. “That’s the idea.”
He swallowed. “What time is he—”
The doorbell rang.
Vanessa’s eyes lit up. “Right on time.” She looked at Kevin, still sitting on the bed in his boxers, his little nub already hard and tenting the fabric in a way that would be comical if it weren’t so pathetic. “You ready, baby?”
No. “Yes.”
She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then whispered in his ear: “Why don’t you go let him in? And take off your boxers first. I want him to see what I’ve been working with.”
His cock twitched. Four inches of twitching, but it twitched.
—
Kevin opened the front door naked, his four-inch erection leading the way like a sad compass needle.
The man on the porch was named Andre. He was six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and a shaved head and a smile that was easy and confident and made Kevin want to crawl into a hole. He was wearing a fitted black t-shirt and jeans, and when his eyes dropped to Kevin’s crotch, that smile widened.
“Hey, little man,” Andre said, stepping inside. He didn’t look away from Kevin’s dick. He studied it the way a doctor might study a rash — clinical, amused, cataloging. “Vanessa wasn’t exaggerating.”
Kevin’s face burned. “She told you?”
“Told me? Baby, she sent me pictures.” Andre closed the door behind him, already pulling his shirt over his head. His torso was a wall of muscle, dark and smooth, with the kind of definition that looked photoshopped but wasn’t. “She sent me a whole photoshoot. Little guy soft, little guy hard, little guy next to a ruler. Four inches on the dot. She measured that thing like she was doing a science project.”
Kevin’s cock was so hard it hurt. Four inches of steel, pointing straight up, the head flushed and angry.
Andre noticed. He laughed — a deep, warm sound that filled the entryway. “Look at that. You like this, don’t you? You like me talking about your little dick?”
Kevin said nothing. His silence was its own answer.
“Where’s your wife, little man?”
“Bedroom.”
Andre walked past him toward the bedroom, and Kevin followed, naked, his small erection bobbing with each step. He watched Andre’s back, the way the muscles moved, the confidence in his stride. The man moved like he owned every room he entered. Kevin moved as if he were trying not to take up space.
—
Vanessa was on the bed when they walked in, posed like a centerfold, one arm behind her head, legs crossed at the ankle. She looked at Andre and her whole face changed — it lit up with something Kevin had never seen directed at him. Hunger. Pure, unfiltered hunger.
“Hey, baby,” Andre said, and his voice was a different thing now — deeper, slower, a rumble.
“Hey, yourself.” Vanessa uncrossed her ankles and spread her legs, the black lingerie framing her pussy like a gift wrapping. She looked at Kevin, standing in the doorway with his little hard-on. “Baby, why don’t you sit in the chair? The one we put there for you.”
The chair was in the corner of the bedroom, angled toward the bed. Kevin had put it there himself that morning. He’d moved it three times to get the angle right. He sat down, his bare ass on the cool leather, and his cock stood up from his lap like a tiny flagpole.
Andre unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, and Kevin finally and completely understood why Vanessa had sent the pictures, why she’d measured him, why she’d needed this.
Andre’s cock was soft and already bigger than Kevin’s hard one. It hung heavy between his thighs, thick and dark, the head covered in foreskin, swinging with weight. It looked like it belonged on a different species.
“Show him,” Vanessa said from the bed, her fingers already tracing circles over the thin fabric covering her pussy. “Show him what hard looks like.”
Andre wrapped his hand around his cock — and Kevin noticed that his fist didn’t fit all the way around it — and started stroking. Slowly. The thing grew. And grew. And grew. The foreskin pulled back, the head emerged fat and dark and shining, the shaft thickening and lengthening until it stood out from his body like a pipe. Nine inches. Vanessa had told Kevin the number, but seeing it in person was different. It was different the way seeing the Grand Canyon in person was different from seeing a photo. The scale didn’t translate.
“Nine inches,” Vanessa said, reading his mind. She was staring at it, her mouth slightly open, her fingers now inside her panties, moving in slow circles. “That’s more than double what you’re working with, baby. More than double.”
Kevin’s cock twitched. A small, pathetic twitch. A four-inch twitch.
Andre looked at Kevin, then at Vanessa, and laughed. “He’s leaking already. Look at that little thing — it’s got a little tear coming out of its eye.”
Kevin looked down. He was leaking. Precum was beading at the tip of his cock and running down the shaft — all four inches of it — in a thin, glistening line. He hadn’t even touched himself.
“Come here,” Vanessa said to Andre, and Andre went to her, climbing onto the bed with the kind of easy grace that made Kevin aware of his own soft stomach, his own thin arms, his own everything. Andre knelt between Vanessa’s spread legs, his massive cock resting on her thigh, and leaned down to kiss her.
Kevin watched. He watched Andre’s mouth cover Vanessa’s, watched their tongues move together, watched Vanessa’s hand come up and wrap around Andre’s cock — her fingers not meeting, not even close — and start to stroke. He watched his wife moan into another man’s mouth while she jacked the biggest cock she’d ever seen, and his own little dick sat in his lap, ignored, irrelevant, a joke.
When Andre pulled back from the kiss, a string of saliva connected their lips. Vanessa was panting. Her eyes were glazed. Kevin had never seen her like this — not from a kiss, not from his kiss, not from anything he’d ever done to her.
“Tell him,” Vanessa said, looking at Kevin but talking to Andre. “Tell him what you’re going to do to me.”
Andre looked at Kevin. His expression wasn’t cruel — it was matter-of-fact. The way you’d explain something obvious to someone slow.
“I’m going to fuck your wife,” he said. “I’m going to put this—” he held his cock, waved it, let it slap against his thigh with a thick, heavy sound “—inside her. All nine inches. And she’s going to feel it in places your little thing has never been. She’s going to feel it in her stomach. She’s going to cum on it — probably three or four times, because that’s what she told me she needs. And you’re going to sit in that chair and watch, because that’s what little-dick husbands do.”
Kevin’s cock pulsed. A bead of precum rolled down his shaft and pooled at the base.
“He likes it,” Vanessa said, grinning. “Look at his little guy. It’s so hard it’s shaking.”
“It’s cute,” Andre said. Not a compliment. An observation. The way you’d call a puppy cute.
—
Andre pulled Vanessa’s panties to the side and lowered his head. Kevin watched another man’s tongue — broad, pink, deliberate — lap at his wife’s pussy. He watched Vanessa’s back arch off the bed. He watched her hands grab the sheets, grab Andre’s head, grab her own tits. He watched her cum in under two minutes, her thighs clamping around Andre’s skull, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
Kevin had gone down on Vanessa a hundred times. He’d never made her cum like that. He’d never made her cum from oral at all. He’d made her cum from his fingers, a few times, and once from his cock — he thought — though she’d later admitted she’d been rubbing her clit against his pubic bone, so technically it was friction, not penetration.
Andre raised his head, his chin glistening, and kissed Vanessa again. She licked her own juice off his lips.
“Get on top,” he said.
Vanessa scrambled. She climbed onto Andre’s lap, her knees on either side of his hips, her pussy hovering over that massive cock. She reached down and held it — her fingers still not meeting around the shaft — and positioned the head at her entrance.
She looked at Kevin.
“Watch, baby,” she said. “Watch where a real cock goes.”
She sank.
Kevin watched. He watched the head disappear first, then inch after inch of thick, dark shaft sliding into his wife’s body. He watched her pussy stretch around it — stretch obscenely, impossibly, the lips pulled taut and thin, the flesh gripping and yielding at the same time. He watched her take six inches, seven, eight — and then she stopped, gasping, her eyes wide.
“Oh my god,” she breathed. “Oh my god, it’s so deep. I can feel it — oh god — I can feel it in my—”
“Take it all,” Andre said, his hands on her hips. “You can take it all.”
He pulled her down. The last inch disappeared. Vanessa’s eyes rolled back, and she came again — just from the penetration, just from the fullness — her whole body shaking, her mouth open, a long, low moan coming from somewhere deep in her chest.
Kevin’s cock was leaking so much precum that his lap was wet. His four inches were straining so hard they looked like they might snap. He hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t needed to. The sight of his wife impaled on nine inches of cock, cumming without any friction at all, just from being filled — that was enough.
“Look at him,” Vanessa said, her voice shaky, her hips starting to grind. She was looking at Kevin, at his lap, at his tiny, twitching, leaking cock. “Look at his little thing. It’s so small. It’s so fucking small, Andre. I can’t believe I spent a year trying to feel that inside me.”
Andre laughed, his hands squeezing her ass, his hips starting to thrust up into her. “What’s it feel like? When he fucks you?”
Vanessa moaned — a real moan, from the thrusting — and tried to talk. “It feels like — oh god, right there — it feels like nothing. Like — unh — like a finger. Like one finger. Just — oh fuck, harder — just poking around in there. I can’t even tell if he’s in sometimes. I have to reach down and check.”
Andre fucked up into her hard, and Vanessa yelped, then laughed. “With this — oh god — with this I don’t have to check. I can feel every inch. I can feel it in my fucking throat.”
Kevin came.
He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. His cock — his four-inch cock, his little button, his cute little thing — erupted in his lap, shooting thin ropes of cum onto his stomach and thighs. It was the most intense orgasm of his life, and it happened without a single stroke, without a single touch, just from the words and the sight and the devastating truth of his own inadequacy.
Vanessa saw. She always saw.
“Aww,” she said, still riding Andre’s cock, still grinding, still full. “Baby came. He came without even touching himself. That’s so pathetic. That’s so fucking pathetic, Andre. He just came from watching me get fucked.”
“Little guy’s got a hair trigger,” Andre said, thrusting up, making Vanessa’s tits bounce. “Makes sense. Probably doesn’t take much to set off something that small.”
Kevin sat in his own cum, his cock already softening, shrinking back down to its one-inch resting state, and watched his wife ride another man to orgasm after orgasm. She came three more times — once on her back with her legs over Andre’s shoulders, once on all fours with Andre behind her, once on her side with Andre spooning her and sliding in and out with long, deliberate strokes that made her whimper into the pillow.
When Andre finally came — pulling out, stroking his cock, shooting thick ropes of cum across Vanessa’s ass and lower back — Kevin counted the spurts. Eight. Eight thick, heavy ropes, each one more cum than Kevin had produced in his entire life.
Vanessa lay there, cum-painted and trembling, and looked at Kevin in his chair.
“Come clean me up, baby,” she said softly. “Come here.”
Kevin stood on shaky legs, his one-inch nub dangling between his thighs, his stomach and lap covered in his own thin, watery cum. He walked to the bed, to his wife, to the mess another man had made on her body.
He knelt on the mattress and started licking.
Andre, already pulling on his jeans, watched with a half-smile. “Good little man,” he said. “Clean up your wife.”
Kevin licked Andre’s cum off Vanessa’s skin. It tasted salty, thick, nothing like his own. There was so much of it. He licked and swallowed, licked and swallowed, while Vanessa cooed and stroked his hair and told him he was a good boy.
When he was done, Vanessa turned over, cupped his face, and kissed him. A real kiss. A loving kiss. Then she looked down at his crotch — at his one-inch soft cock, sad and spent and invisible — and smiled.
“Same time next week?” she asked.
Kevin’s cock twitched. One inch of twitching. But it twitched.
“Same time next week.”
Same time next week became same time every week.
Then twice a week.
Then whenever Andre felt like stopping by.
Kevin stopped keeping track.
Three months in, the routine had calcified into something almost domestic. Tuesdays and Fridays. Andre would arrive at seven, sometimes earlier if Vanessa texted him something that got him worked up at the office. Kevin would answer the door — always naked now, that was a rule Vanessa had instituted after the second week — and Andre would walk past him like he was furniture. Sometimes Andre would pat Kevin’s head on the way in. Not affectionately. Absently. The way you’d pat a dog without looking at it.
The chair in the corner had gotten a lot of use. Kevin had worn a groove into the leather from sitting in it, watching, leaking, cumming without touching himself. He’d started keeping a towel on the armrest because the precum situation had gotten out of hand. Some nights he’d soak through the towel.
His four inches had become a kind of running joke between Vanessa and Andre, a bit they’d do like performers working a crowd. Vanessa would hold up her pinky finger when Andre walked in. Andre would laugh and say something like “Where is it? I can’t see it,” and Kevin’s cock would twitch and leak, and he’d feel that specific, annihilating shame that had somehow become the only thing that got him hard anymore.
He couldn’t get hard without it now. He’d tried. One night, about six weeks in, Vanessa had sent Andre home early — he had a thing, she’d said — and she’d climbed into bed with Kevin, straddled him, tried to fuck him. Her hand had wrapped around his cock, and she’d stroked it, kissed him, whispered nice things. Normal things. Things a wife would say to a husband during normal married sex.
Nothing.
His cock lay in her hand like a worm. One inch of soft, useless flesh.
“You need it, don’t you?” she’d said, not angry, just curious. “You need him here.”
He’d closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
She’d rolled off him, picked up her phone, texted Andre. Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. Kevin answered it naked, his one-inch nub dangling, and Andre walked in, already unbuttoning his shirt, and Kevin’s cock had started to rise before Andre even got to the bedroom. Four inches of desperate, pathetic steel.
Vanessa had laughed from the bed. “See? He needs you, Andre. He literally can’t get hard without you.”
Andre had looked at Kevin’s little erection and shook his head. “That’s some wild conditioning, little man. Pavlov’s cuck.”
—
Four months in, Vanessa started bringing up chastity.
They were in bed — just the two of them, a rare night off — and she was lying on her side, tracing circles on Kevin’s stomach with her fingernail. Her hand drifted lower, found his soft cock, that one-inch nub, and she held it between her thumb and forefinger the way she had that first night.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“Dangerous.”
“Shut up.” She gave his cock a little squeeze — the whole thing, from base to tip, fit in her grip with room to spare. “I’ve been thinking about locking this up.”
Kevin’s breath caught. His cock tried to get hard in her fingers. It couldn’t, quite — the grip was too tight — but it swelled, pushed against her fingers, strained.
She laughed. “Right now it’s trying so hard. Feel that? That’s four inches trying to become four inches, and it can’t even do that because I’m holding it.”
“What kind of cage?”
She smiled. She’d already researched it. Of course she had. Vanessa researched everything. She’d probably read reviews, compared models, made a spreadsheet.
“Small one,” she said. “Obviously. Like, really small. There’s one that’s designed for — and I’m quoting the website here — ‘micro penises and clitties.’ It’s called the nub cage. It’s two inches. You’d have room to spare.”
Kevin’s cock twitched in her grip. She felt it and her smile widened.
“You’d wear it all the time. I’d have the key. Andre would have a copy too, actually — I think that would be hot, him having that kind of control over you. You’d only come out when I say so. Or when Andre says so.”
“What about work? The bathroom—”
“You sit to pee anyway, baby. Don’t lie.”
He did sit to pee. He’d started months ago. Standing made a mess because there wasn’t enough to aim. She was right. She was always right.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Lock it up.”
Vanessa kissed him — hard, deep, her tongue in his mouth — and his cock strained in her fingers, all four inches, and she pulled back and laughed at how desperate it looked.
“Not yet,” she said. “Andre needs to be here for that. He should put it on you.”
—
The cage arrived on a Wednesday. A small, stainless steel device that looked like it was made for a doll. Kevin held it in his palm and felt his stomach drop, and his cock rise simultaneously, two contradictory reactions that had become his default state.
The cage was two inches long. His cock, hard, was four. Soft, it was one. The cage would hold him soft. The cage would make sure he stayed soft unless someone decided otherwise.
Friday night. Andre was on the bed with Vanessa, both of them naked, Andre’s nine-inch cock lying thick and heavy across his thigh while Vanessa stroked it absently, like she was petting a cat. Kevin stood at the foot of the bed, naked, his four-inch erection pointing at the ceiling.
“Bring it here,” Andre said.
Kevin walked to the side of the bed, holding the cage in both hands like an offering. Andre took it from him, examined it, turned it over in his big hands. His fingers were longer than the cage.
“Two inches,” Andre said. “This is generous, little man. Could’ve gone smaller.”
Vanessa giggled.
Andre looked at Kevin’s cock — hard, flushed, straining — and wrapped his hand around it. His fist engulfed it. Kevin’s cock disappeared in Andre’s grip, all four inches swallowed by that big hand, and Kevin gasped.
“Feel that?” Andre said. “Feel how your whole dick fits in my hand? My dick doesn’t fit in anyone’s hand. Not even mine. That’s the difference, little man. That’s the difference between a cock and a clit.”
He released Kevin’s cock and reached for the cage. “Get soft for me.”
Kevin’s cock was rock hard. Four inches of steel. It wasn’t getting soft.
Andre laughed. “Can’t get soft, can you? Too excited.” He looked at Vanessa. “Make him soft.”
Vanessa sat up, leaned forward, and whispered in Kevin’s ear: “Think about your little dick in this cage forever. Think about never getting hard without permission. Think about Andre owning your cock.”
His cock throbbed. It got harder.
She tried again. “Think about me laughing at it. Think about Andre calling it a clit. Think about everyone knowing.”
Still hard. Four stubborn, desperate inches.
Andre sighed, reached down, and grabbed Kevin’s balls. Squeezed. Not gently. A sharp, bright pain shot through Kevin’s groin, and his cock deflated like a balloon. One inch. Soft. Pathetic. Ready.
Andre slid the cage over Kevin’s cock. It fit. Of course it fit — there was room to spare. The one-inch nub sat in the two-inch cage with space around it, and the ring locked behind Kevin’s balls, and the small padlock clicked shut with a sound that seemed to echo in the room.
Vanessa held up the key—small, silver, glinting in the lamplight.
“There,” she said. “That’s mine now. That’s ours now.” She looked at Andre. He held out his hand, and she placed a second key in his palm. He pocketed it without looking.
Kevin looked down. The cage sat between his legs, small and gleaming, his cock invisible inside it, his balls pushed forward, framed by the steel ring. He looked neutered. He looked owned.
His cock tried to get hard. He felt it strain against the cage, felt the metal bite, felt the frustration build and build with nowhere to go. A drop of precum leaked through the slot in the cage and ran down the steel.
“Already leaking,” Andre said. “Pathetic.”
Vanessa pulled Kevin onto the bed — not beside her, below her, positioning him on his back at the foot of the bed — and climbed on top of him. She straddled his face, her pussy inches from his mouth, her wetness already dripping onto his chin. She was facing Andre, who was positioning himself behind her.
“Open your mouth, baby,” she said. “I want you to feel what happens when a real cock fucks me. I want you to feel it from the inside.”
Kevin opened his mouth, and Vanessa lowered her pussy onto his face. At the same time, Andre knelt behind her, his cock pressing against her entrance, and Kevin watched from inches away as that massive, thick, dark cock slid into his wife. The head entered first, stretching her open, and Kevin’s tongue was right there, right at the edge, feeling the shaft slide past his lips, feeling the thickness of it, the heat of it.
Vanessa moaned. Kevin’s cock strained in its cage. The metal dug into his flesh. He whimpered into her pussy, and the vibration made her moan louder.
Andre fucked her. Slowly at first, then harder, his cock sliding in and out, his balls swinging forward and hitting Kevin’s chin on each thrust. Kevin licked what he could — Vanessa’s clit, the base of Andre’s shaft when it pulled back, the junction where they connected. He tasted his wife’s wetness, another man’s skin, and the salt of their combined sweat. He licked and licked, his cock screaming in its cage, his body writhing beneath them.
Vanessa came twice. The second time, she ground down on Kevin’s face so hard he couldn’t breathe, her thighs clamped around his ears, her pussy spasming against his mouth while Andre drove deep and held.
When Andre pulled out, his cock was covered in Vanessa’s cream — thick, white, clinging to the shaft. He swung it down to Kevin’s mouth.
“Clean it,” he said.
Kevin opened his mouth and took the head of Andre’s cock between his lips. It was huge — his mouth barely fit around it — and he tasted Vanessa’s cum and Andre’s precum and the musk of their fucking. He licked and sucked as much of the shaft as he could, his tongue working over the ridges and veins, cleaning every inch he could reach.
“Good little man,” Andre said, and the words made Kevin’s cock lurch in its cage so hard the whole device shifted on his body.
—
Six months in, Kevin couldn’t remember the last time he’d been unlocked.
He’d cum — of course he’d cum. Vanessa had milked him twice through the cage, pressing a vibrator against the steel until his cock leaked cum in a slow, ruined stream, no pleasure, no satisfaction, just fluid leaving his body. Both times, Andre had watched and laughed. Both times, Kevin had been locked back up immediately after.
His cock had gotten smaller. He was sure of it. Not just soft — hard, too. When Vanessa unlocked him for his weekly cleaning — five minutes in the shower, supervised, no touching — his erection barely reached three and a half inches. The cage had compressed him. The constant confinement had reshaped him.
Vanessa had measured. Of course she’d measured.
“Three and a half,” she’d announced, holding the ruler against his straining cock. She’d looked at Andre, who was sitting on the bathroom counter watching. “It shrunk.”
“Use it or lose it,” Andre said. “Should’ve been using it all these years. Now it’s too late.”
Kevin had looked down at his cock — three and a half inches, thinner than before, the head smaller, the shaft weaker — and felt something break inside him. Not a bad breaking. A releasing. Like a dam giving way and the flood behind it finally flowing free.
He didn’t need his cock anymore. He didn’t want his cock anymore. He wanted the cage. He wanted the shame. He wanted Andre’s cock in his wife and his tongue on their mess and his little thing locked away, forgotten, irrelevant.
“Lock it back up,” he’d said. And Vanessa had smiled, and Andre had smiled, and the cage had clicked shut, and Kevin had felt — for the first time in his life — like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
—
One year.
The anniversary fell on a Friday. Vanessa had planned it for weeks.
Kevin answered the door naked, caged, his little steel nub gleaming between his legs. Andre walked in, but he wasn’t alone. Behind him, two more men — both black, both built, both grinning. One was tall and lean with a cock that hung to his knee, soft. The other was stocky, thick, with a cock that was short but impossibly thick, like a beer can.
“Happy anniversary, little man,” Andre said. “Vanessa said she wanted a party.”
Kevin’s cock strained in its cage. Three and a half inches trying to become three and a half inches, failing, the metal biting, the precum leaking.
In the bedroom, Vanessa was on the bed, naked, her body flushed and ready, her pussy glistening. She looked at the three men filling her doorway, and her eyes went wide and hungry.
“Baby,” she said to Kevin, “I’m going to need you right here.” She pointed to the pillow beside her head. “I want you close. I want you to see everything.”
Kevin climbed onto the bed and lay on his back beside his wife. His caged cock sat on his stomach, small and silent. Vanessa turned her head and kissed the cage, her lips pressing against the steel, her tongue tracing the slot where his cock was hidden.
“One year,” she whispered. “One year since you gave me this. One year since you gave me everything.”
She looked up at the three men, standing at the foot of the bed, their cocks rising, three different shapes and sizes, all of them bigger than anything Kevin had ever had.
“Gentlemen,” she said, spreading her legs. “I’m yours tonight. All of me. Every hole.”
She looked at Kevin. “And my husband is going to watch. And when you’re done with me, he’s going to clean up every drop. Aren’t you, baby?”
Kevin’s cock pulsed in its cage. Three and a half inches of nothing, locked away, useless, forgotten. But his mouth was wet. His tongue was ready. His whole body was tuned to the frequency of his own humiliation, and it sang.
“Yes,” he said. “Every drop.”
Vanessa smiled. The men moved toward the bed. The mattress dipped under their weight. Hands found her body — her breasts, her thighs, her pussy, her mouth. Cocks pressed against her skin, slid across her lips, pushed into her from both ends.
Kevin lay beside his wife, his caged cock on his stomach, his head on the pillow next to hers, and watched her face as she took her first cock of the night — Andre, always Andre first, sliding in deep, stretching her wide, making her eyes go glassy, and her mouth fall open.
“Happy anniversary, baby,” she moaned, her hand finding his caged cock, squeezing the steel, feeling nothing move inside. “Happy anniversary.”
Kevin watched. Kevin leaked. Kevin waited for his turn — his mouth, his tongue, his purpose.
The night was long. The night was exactly what he deserved.
The End.
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