Height Check

The locker room was empty by the time I finished wiping the last bench. My shift had been quiet — just folding towels, disinfecting mats, and keeping to myself. That’s what I liked about working late at the university gym: no noise, no pressure, no one watching. I was just a quiet guy making some extra money and avoiding eye contact.

I stood to stretch my back, only to hear the echo of bare footsteps behind me. Slap. Slap. Slap. The slow, deliberate kind that fills a room like the sound of a countdown. I turned, and there she was — NORA — standing at the edge of the weight area, staring directly at me. Tall. Towering. Her dark, muscular frame practically shimmered under the harsh lights, the sheen of sweat catching on every ridge of her abs, her arms, her collarbones. Her basketball shorts clung to her hips like they’d been painted on. A white tank top hung damp around her chest, slightly lifted by the rise of her breasts with every breath. Her long black hair was braided down her spine, tight and perfect.

Barefoot. Always barefoot. I’d seen her a few times before, always walking through the gym like she owned it. She never spoke to me until now.

— You’re new, right?

I nodded, barely making a sound.

— Thought so. You look… soft.

She walked closer. My throat tightened. She wasn’t just tall — she was massive. I don’t mean bulky like a bodybuilder. She was carved. Toned. Her shoulders rolled with that same quiet confidence as her steps. I felt like a coat rack in comparison. I was maybe 165 cm on a good day. She had to be pushing 190.

— Height? — she asked flatly, stopping right in front of me.

— Um… about 165?

She raised an eyebrow.

— Stand here.

She pointed at the wall behind me. There was a laminated height chart — the kind for kids — stuck up with tape. I’d always ignored it. Now she grabbed a measuring tape from the shelf and let it snap once in her fingers. I obeyed, my back pressing against the cold tile.

She stepped close. Too close. Her scent hit me — musky, like salt and sweat and something I couldn’t name. She ran her finger from the top of my head to the height line.

— One sixty-four. Cute.

She didn’t step back. I could see her chest rise directly in front of mine. Her abs level with my sternum. She looked down at me with an amused curve in her lips.

— Gotta say, I’ve seen some freshmen before. But you? You’re like… travel size.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Then she tilted her head, slowly dragging her eyes down my body. From my jawline to my shirt. From my belt to my legs. A pause. Then a smirk.

— Everything to scale?

My heart skipped. My skin flushed. She saw it.

— No answer? That’s usually a yes.

She tapped the waistband of my shorts. Not hard — not rough. Just enough to make the fabric shift. Her fingertip brushed the front, barely grazing me.

— Looks like a pretty shallow tent, too.

I tried to step back, but the wall had me pinned.

— Let’s test something. Take off your shirt.

— W-what?

— You heard me. Take it off.

I froze.

— Unless you’re saying no to a senior player who benches more than your body weight.

Her eyes gleamed, challenging.

My hands moved before my brain could stop them. I pulled off my shirt, folding it quickly, trying to cover myself. She snatched it away.

— Arms at your sides.

I obeyed.

She circled me once. Her footsteps — that same bare slap against the tiles — echoed as she stopped behind me.

— Now the shorts.

I flinched.

— I… I really shouldn’t–

She leaned in and whispered.

— I wasn’t asking.

Her tone didn’t rise. Didn’t change. But it landed like a brick.

Hands trembling, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and lowered them, revealing my snug gray briefs underneath. My legs were pale and thin. My thighs looked like chopsticks compared to hers. She stepped back into view, arms crossed.

Her eyes scanned the bulge — or lack of one.

She clicked her tongue.

— That’s it? Are you not even trying to lie about it?

I looked away. My whole body was burning.

— Eyes forward, little man.

I did.

She stepped forward, toes brushing mine. Her foot was larger than mine. Her leg, thicker. Her presence swallowed me whole. Then her fingers reached down–

— Let’s see what we’re working with.

I froze. Her fingers were already hooked around the elastic of my briefs. Just two of them — thumb and index — but they pulled the waistband forward with such ease it felt symbolic. Like everything about me could be undone with the pinch of her hand. I barely breathed.

She looked inside. Not long. Just a glance.

Then she let the fabric snap back against my hips with a sharp thwick. I flinched.

— Yep, that’s what I thought.

She didn’t laugh. That would’ve been easier. She looked… disappointed. Or maybe bored.

— Honestly, I figured you were hiding something. Some surprise. But no. You’re just that small.

I wanted to say something—anything. But there was nothing to say. Not with my dick curling up against my body like it was trying to disappear. Not when I was standing half-naked in front of the tallest, strongest woman I’d ever seen. Not when she was staring right at it.

— Hands behind your back, she said. I obeyed again, because I didn’t know how not to.

Then she walked behind me — slow, barefoot steps — and reached forward to press her palm flat between my shoulder blades. I jolted, but she kept the pressure firm.

— Stay right there.

She crouched behind me. I heard the beep of her phone. A few clicks. Then she stepped away.

When I turned slightly, she was holding her phone up — not at me, but toward me. The front camera is on. A live preview of how I look right now. My own image blinked back at me — thin arms, sunken chest, briefs sagging from the pull, thighs too close, legs too white. I looked like a naked boy caught where he shouldn’t be. And behind me, in the frame, was her reflection. Towering. Unbothered. Dressed and gleaming with sweat.

— Take a good look, she murmured, holding the phone still.

I did. And I saw the exact thing she wanted me to: the difference. The contrast. Her skin glowing, her body powerful, her stance wide and grounded. And me — curled in, flinching, fragile, flushed red from the neck down.

She swiped the camera around, reversing it. Now she was filming me. I looked directly into the lens and saw myself trembling.

— Don’t worry, she said. I’m not saving this. You’ll forget the image. But you won’t forget how it felt.

She set the phone aside and looked down at me. Her gaze drifted lower, stopping between my legs. I followed her eyes and felt the panic tighten in my chest. I was hard.

Not fully. But enough to be seen.

–…Oh no.

She crouched again, her face inches from my crotch. I could see the shimmer of sweat on her cheekbones, her braid swinging slightly as she tilted her head. She spoke calmly. Too calmly.

— That little twitch… is that real?

I bit my lip.

— You’re turned on? From this?

I shut my eyes.

— That’s even sadder than I thought.

She stood. Her voice didn’t rise, but it got colder.

— Get on your knees.

I hesitated. She didn’t ask again.

I sank. The floor was cold. Her legs were now at my eye level — thick thighs, the hem of her shorts hovering inches above me. I could smell her sweat now, earthy and sharp, rising from her like steam.

She looked down at me with pure control.

— I want you to put your hands behind your head, like a mugshot. I’d appreciate it if you could keep your gaze straight ahead.

I did.

— You hard again?

I didn’t answer. She bent forward, fingers suddenly gripping the waistband of my briefs from the back, dragging them higher and higher until the fabric tugged between my cheeks, then up — tight. Not enough to rip. Just enough to hurt.

I whimpered.

She kept pulling.

— This is how you get off? On women who could crush you?

I nodded. I didn’t want to — I didn’t even mean to — but my neck moved on its own.

She let go. The snap echoed. I exhaled in a ragged burst.

— Good. Then you’ll love what happens next.

She turned away without another word and walked slowly toward the squat rack. I stayed on my knees, unsure whether I was supposed to move—or even allowed to. The air was thick with the scent of rubber, sweat, and her. My briefs were still wedged between my ass, my erection shamefully visible and throbbing against the thin cotton, exposed to the gym lights.

When she returned, she was holding one of the small resistance bands. Purple. Thick. Loop-style. Without breaking eye contact, she reached behind me, grabbed both of my wrists, and looped the band around them, pinning them together tightly behind my back. I gasped.

— That’s better.

Her voice was calm. No cruelty, no mockery — just total ownership. She could’ve been tying her shoes.

— Stay upright.

She placed her palm against my chest and pushed gently until I sat back on my heels. The difference in size between her hand and my torso made me feel like a child being positioned.

Then she crouched again in front of me. Face to face.

She studied me like I was a problem she was trying to solve — or maybe a specimen. Her eyes drifted from my red cheeks to my mouth, then down, stopping at my tented underwear.

— Take a breath, little guy.

I did. She nodded.

— Now let’s talk honestly.

She reached forward, slowly, like it was no big deal, and placed two fingers under the waistband of my briefs. Just enough to pull them outward. She looked down into them again, not with surprise — she already knew — but with quiet satisfaction.

— I think this is the smallest dick I’ve seen on campus.

I whimpered. She didn’t stop.

— And I’m not just saying that to mess with you. I mean it. I’ve seen freshman streakers with more to offer. I’ve had teammates show me dick pics that had more length in the shadow than what you’ve got here.

She let the elastic go again—thwack. I flinched, knees trembling.

— And yet… you’re hard. From me saying that.

She tilted her head, smirking.

— That’s special.

Her hand slid over my thigh, not sexually — but possessively. She squeezed, slowly. Then moved to the other.

— Do you like being small?

I didn’t answer.

She slapped my inner thigh — quick and sharp.

— Answer me.

— Y-yes…

— Louder.

— Yes. I like being small.

Her fingers hooked under the waistband again — this time in front. I held my breath as she slowly began pulling the briefs upward, giving me the cruelest, slowest front wedgie I’d ever felt. The fabric dug under my balls, yanking everything upward. My spine arched with the pain.

— You like it when a woman shows you how small you are?

— Yes…

She yanked higher.

— You like being naked in front of someone taller, stronger, dressed, while you sit there leaking like a puppy?

— Yes, oh god…

My voice cracked.

She let go, letting the underwear slap back against my waist. My cock throbbed visibly, twitching against the damp cotton.

— You know what you are?

I looked up, eyes watering.

— You’re not a man. Not even close. You’re a tiny little hard-on with a name tag.

I whimpered again.

Then she leaned forward and whispered into my ear:

— And now that I’ve seen it… You’ll always wonder if I told the team. If I showed them. If they’re laughing behind your back.

She paused.

— Or maybe in front of it.

She stood. Towered over me again. Her sweat dripped down her calf, landing near my knees.

— You can get dressed now.

I stayed still.

She looked down and smirked.

— Or maybe… You want to walk out like this? Go ahead. Show the rest what a man looks like.

I couldn’t speak.

She walked away — slow, barefoot, silent now. Her braid swung across her back. She didn’t even look back.

The door shut behind her with a soft hiss. The silence that followed was unbearable.

I sat on the floor, hands still bound behind me, my briefs pulled up into me, cock hard and aching, face burning, and every inch of me vibrating with shame.

And somehow — horribly — that shame throbbed harder than anything else I’d ever felt.

The End.

*****

Stage Fright

By AlexisVane.

Most nights, I was just a silhouette above the lights. I liked it that way—invisible. In control. Rigging cables, checking dimmers, adjusting angles while everyone else played their little drama games below. The theatre wasn’t mine, but the shadows were. And I was good at staying inside them.

Until tonight.

I was coiling a cord backstage when I heard her voice. That high, breezy, singsong tone — the one that never matched the scene she was in.

— Little tech boy still on duty?

Lana. Of course.

She appeared between the curtains like she’d been summoned by tension alone. No spotlight, no script — just her. Hair twisted messily like she’d done it mid-monologue. Cropped turtleneck clinging to her small chest. A sheer wrap skirt tied loosely around her hips, slipping open enough to flash one long, pale thigh. She wore platform sandals, absurdly tall, giving her an almost marionette posture—her toes pointed, her ankles angled, as if she were balancing on her own performance.

— Forgot my purse. Or maybe I forgot to thank you for last week’s perfect blackout cue. Still deciding.

She was already walking toward me.

I straightened up, cord still in hand, heart already picking up speed.

— You shouldn’t be back here alone, I said. Stage crew’s off-hours. They lock up in thirty.

She smiled like I’d said something cute.

— Then you’ll protect me, won’t you?

She stopped a meter away, head tilting.

— Do you act, tech boy?

— No.

— Ever want to?

— No.

She pouted, not like a flirt. More like a child denied a toy.

— Shame. You’ve got a good face for tragedy. All angles and shadows. Plus, you’re skinny enough to read as tragic even without a monologue.

I clenched my jaw. She saw it. Her eyes lit up.

— Oooh. Did I poke something?

I turned away, pretending to fiddle with the cable reel.

She stepped closer. Her voice dropped.

— I have this scene. In a one-act I’m directing next semester. Gritty. Minimalist. The male lead is humiliated in silence by a woman who never touches him. All power, no hands. Want to help me block it?

I exhaled hard through my nose.

— Lana, I’m not an actor. I’m here to fix the–

She pressed a single finger to my lips.

— Just stand. Here.

She guided me, light as air, onto the stage. The house was empty. No seats occupied. No crew. Just the echo of our shoes and the dust of the curtains.

— You’re in his place now. The ashamed one. Alone. Lights up.

She clicked the floor switch. A white cone of light beamed down onto me. Harsh. Overexposed.

She circled.

— You’ve got his posture already. See that? Hunched. Defensive. Like your dick shrank the second I touched your mouth.

My throat tightened. She was circling again, like a cat. Or maybe a stage manager before opening night — eyes sharp, cruel only because the clock was ticking.

— Take off the jacket, she said. Not a question.

— Lana, come on–

— We’re rehearsing. Don’t be disrespectful to the text.

There was no text. I knew that. But something in her voice — that casual command — made my hands move. I slipped the jacket off.

— Now the shirt.

I hesitated. She narrowed her eyes, then suddenly shrieked — high and nasal, a caricature of stage melodrama:

— OH, YOU POOR THING! ARE YOU SHY?

The words echoed against the rafters.

I flinched.

— Lana. Stop.

She dropped back into a whisper.

— Then do it, mouseboy. Or I scream again.

I peeled the shirt off. Cold air bit my chest. She studied me.

— Jesus. I didn’t think rib cages could tremble.

She walked up, chest to chest — or where her chest would be, if she weren’t so damn tall on those stupid shoes.

— Now the belt.

I swallowed.

She leaned close. Her breath was warm.

— The audience can’t feel your shame if they can’t see it.

My fingers moved to the buckle. Not because I wanted to — but because she was watching. Not just with her eyes. With her whole body. Like a director daring me to break character. Or maybe a predator giving me one last chance to crawl.

The belt clinked. My jeans sagged, brushing my thighs and catching at my knees. I stood there in plain black briefs. Nothing fancy. Too tight. Too honest. And already slightly tented in the worst way possible.

Lana didn’t smirk. That would’ve been cliché. No — she cocked her head, studying the fabric like a critic in a gallery.

— Hm. Stage note: costume doesn’t match character. Looks like you thought you had something to hide, but… It’s not exactly working, is it?

I instinctively brought my hands down to cover myself.

She raised her voice — not loud, but sharp, like a line snap in rehearsal.

— Don’t block the light.

I froze. Arms at my sides again.

She circled behind me and tapped her fingers on my shoulder blades, rhythmically.

— Slouched. Still closed. You’re supposed to be ashamed, yes, but not protected. Think: opened. Presented. Exposed.

Then I felt it — her fingers sliding under the waistband of my briefs at the back. I twitched.

— Relax, actor. I’m not undressing you. Just checking the fit.

She gave a single, slow yank upward. Not aggressive. Just cruel enough. The fabric pressed between my cheeks, dragged upward, stretching tight against my balls.

I gasped.

— There we go.

She stepped in front of me again. Her eyes were fixed below my waist. The tip of my erection was now straining against the cotton, small and desperate, every throb betraying me.

She crouched suddenly — a slow, elegant squat in those ridiculous shoes — bringing her face level with my crotch.

Her voice dropped to a confessional whisper.

— God, this is adorable.

She wasn’t mocking. Not directly. It was worse. She sounded like someone discovering a kitten too sickly to adopt.

— Is this really your full tragic arc? Curtain up and… this?

I whimpered. A real sound. It escaped before I could kill it.

She tapped my thigh with two fingers.

— You’re hard from this? From being looked at?

I said nothing. Couldn’t.

She stood. Towered. One of her sandals bumped against my shoe — her foot was longer than mine. That shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

— I once did a monologue about a dying lover, she said, almost wistfully. Guy had a ten-inch prosthetic strapped to his thigh under the costume. No one saw it. But we all felt it in the room.

Then her gaze dropped back to me.

— You, on the other hand… You’re like a footnote. A stage direction. “The boy fidgets.”

She stepped closer. I could feel the platform of her sandal against my bare toes. Her skirt brushed my thigh, sheer and soft. She didn’t touch me—not really—just the air between us did.

Then she slipped something from her wrist. A silk ribbon. Black. Long.

— This? Prop from the last show.

She looped it around my neck and tied it loosely like a choker. Then — gently — tugged the ends forward, leading me toward the curtain.

— Come now. Let’s practice the final scene.

I stumbled forward, forced to follow. The spotlight faded behind us. The theatre swallowed us into its dark lungs. She guided me by the throat-ribbon like a dog on parade.

— You’re not an actor, she said. You’re a trigger. Something the audience gasps at before the real scene begins.

We reached the side curtain. She pulled it aside, revealing the side mirrors, the makeup counter, and the reflection of me — half-naked, underwear wedged, erection twitching pathetically, a black ribbon at my throat.

She whispered behind me:

— And that, my sweet little cue mark, is what true stage presence looks like.

The mirror didn’t lie.

There I was: pale, wiry, standing under a rattling ceiling fan, briefs dug high into my ass, erection curled awkwardly forward against the fabric like it was trying to beg for attention. My arms hung at my sides, limp. My face — flushed, hollow, my mouth slightly open. And around my neck, a long black ribbon, tied with a neat little bow.

Behind me, Lana stood tall. Not in height — she wasn’t that much taller — but in posture, in weight, in gravity. One hand on her hip, the other tugging the end of the ribbon like she was reeling in a catch. Her mouth was twisted in an expression that wasn’t quite a smile. Not amusement. Not disgust. Something more abstract. Like she was trying to memorize how humiliation looked in real time.

— You see that? she asked softly. That reflection? That’s art.

She stepped around me. One of her platform sandals slid between my bare feet. Her skirt brushed my knee again, and the ribbon shifted across my throat with a whisper.

— I don’t think you ever wanted to be behind the lights.

Her fingers traced the air near my shoulder.

— I think you wanted this. All of it. Just not like the others. Not clapping. Not bowing. Just… like this.

She let the ribbon go. It hung down over my chest like a leash no one was holding anymore.

Then she crouched in front of me again, calm and precise, until her eyes met my bulge. She stared at it. Just stared.

I twitched.

— Tell me something, she said quietly. Have you ever been touched by someone in a full costume?

I shook my head. My voice had long since gone useless.

— Ever stood fully clothed in shame while a woman laughed at your size?

I blinked. Wrong answer.

She slapped the inside of my thigh — not hard, but fast.

— Answer me, cue mark.

— N-no…

— Good. Then this is your first real scene.

Her hand moved — not toward my dick, but to the waistband again. She pulled up, slow, digging the briefs deeper, pressing them between my balls and lower belly until I thought the elastic would slice me in half. My knees buckled. She held the fabric there.

— Look at me, she said.

I did. Her eyes didn’t blink.

— You’re gonna go home with red marks. A stain in your underwear. And no applause. No audience. No climax.

She let go.

The snap of the waistband echoed louder than it should’ve.

I gasped. My cock throbbed uselessly against the now-wrinkled front of my briefs. The ribbon hung like a funeral tie. My mouth was dry.

Then she smiled. Softly. Warmly. Her first real smile.

— Curtain.

She turned, stepped away, grabbed her purse from the vanity like it really had all been just an errand. The heels of her sandals clacked against the wooden floor. She reached the door, paused, and looked back over her shoulder.

— Rehearsal’s over, actor.

I didn’t move.

She slipped out and left me there: cock pressed forward, underwear twisted cruelly up, body trembling under the fan, and the mirror still watching.

I wasn’t ready to leave the stage.

The End.

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