I’d signed up thinking it would be chill. Some extra credit, maybe a free snack at the end. The flyer said:

“Seeking male volunteers for Kinesthetic Art & Bondage Form Lab — Clothing optional (but modesty respected). No experience necessary.”

So, naturally, I assumed I’d be standing there while a bunch of girls tied knots on my arms or whatever. They promised I could keep my underwear on.

What didn’t they mention? That I’d be the only model. And that the class had twelve students. All women.

And that the instructor, Professor Myra Jameson, had no concept of personal space.

She greeted me barefoot, in linen pants and a loose black tank top that looked like it had lived five lives before today. Her curly gray hair was tied in a messy knot. She radiated warmth, energy, and the kind of casual authority that made you obey before thinking twice.

— You must be Liam! she beamed. Excellent. Come on in — girls, meet our structural base for today.

They were already seated on mats around the room, ropes coiled beside each one like tame snakes. All barefoot, all in sports bras and soft shorts, like it was a yoga class that had forgotten about gravity.

My throat tightened.

— Just strip down to your base layer and stand here, Myra said, tapping a spot on a low wooden platform in the center of the room. The floor was scattered with mirrors and soft spotlights.

I stepped up, tugged off my hoodie, and then slid down my sweatpants. Left in only my simple black boxer-briefs. Loose. Not particularly flattering.

I heard whispers.

Not mean. Not mocking. Just… curious. Intrigued. Analytical.

— Don’t worry, Myra said brightly. You’re not being judged. We’re studying how rope shapes the body — not the body itself, although the body helps.

She winked. I laughed nervously.

The girls began to circle. Slowly. Picking up their ropes, approaching me like dancers moving into formation. One — a tall redhead with heavy-lidded eyes — tugged her rope tight between her hands.

— Can I start on the arm?

— Thigh, here, Myra said. We’re beginning with hip balance.

Before I could respond, someone was kneeling beside me. A warm hand slid along the outside of my leg, adjusting its angle. Another girl’s fingers gently gripped my wrist and began wrapping it in slow, practiced loops.

The rope was soft. Thicker than I’d expected. It didn’t burn — it hugged. Firm and controlled.

But with each pass, they got closer. Across my hips. Behind my knees. Around my waist. The boxer-briefs became a problem fast. The rope would catch, pulling the waistband upward and digging the fabric into the skin. I shifted awkwardly.

Myra clicked her tongue.

— See? This is where fabric causes interference. Has anyone seen the tension curve?

One girl raised her hand — a brunette with a squat build and a very serious expression.

— The rope’s bunching against the waistband. It’s distorting the shape of the pelvic shelf.

Myra nodded, pleased.

— Excellent observation. Let’s go ahead and correct.

She turned to me with a gentle smile.

— Liam, would you be comfortable continuing without the barrier?

I blinked.

— You mean…?

— Just for realism. You’ll still be respected. I just wanted to let you know that there’s no touching there, of course. Pure form and symmetry.

Twelve girls. One professor. All eyes are on me.

I nodded. Slowly.

— Good man, she said warmly.

I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, hesitated, and then pushed them down.

Silence.

Then someone exhaled. Another adjusted their rope.

I stood there, naked now, the air brushing my thighs, my dick soft and small and hanging in front of all of them. I didn’t dare look down — I felt how unimpressive it looked.

They didn’t laugh.

They didn’t gasp.

They just looked.

And that was somehow worse.

The ropes moved again — sliding across my skin now, uninterrupted by cloth. Around my waist, across my hip, just beneath my ass. I tried not to flinch when fingers brushed too close to me. They weren’t being sexual. That was the terrifying part. It was clinical. Artistic. Controlled.

But my cock? My cock didn’t care.

It shriveled. Fully soft. Cold. Tight to my body like it knew it didn’t belong here.

One girl, blonde and freckled, crouched in front of me and began wrapping a harness across my lower pelvis, the rope curving between my thighs. She was only centimeters from my dick — didn’t touch it — but it dangled right there, small, exposed, trembling with each breath.

She looked up at me with a polite smile.

— Can you widen your stance just a bit?

I did.

She adjusted the rope again, and it pulled tight across my groin. My balls shifted. My dick lifted slightly, only because it had nowhere else to go. The base pressed upward against the rope. The tip… just drooped.

One of the girls whispered from behind me:

— Is that… it?

I heard the intake of breath. Then Myra’s voice — loud, amused, theatrical:

— I assure you, the rope is not obstructing anything.

Laughter.

Not cruel. Not loud. But full. Real. A few giggles, one open-mouthed gasp that someone tried to muffle with her hand. And still — no one looked away. Not one.

The redhead made a low hum.

— I’ve tied bottle necks with more length.

Myra stepped forward again, walking slowly, barefoot, like an instructor observing a sculpture. She circled me once, then stopped behind me and tapped the small of my back with her finger.

— He’s trembling. Could you take a look at the glutes?

Another girl — glasses, tall — bent down and made a quick note in a sketchpad.

— Micro-response to tension. Rope pulling too close to the reproductive zone. Possible shame stimulation.

I couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t hard. But I was burning. My cock twitched once — just once — barely moving. But everyone saw it.

Cora — the freckled one at my side — tilted her head, eyes still trained on the harness she was tying just above the base of my shaft.

— It’s reacting.

The girl across from her leaned closer.

— Reacting how?

— Just… pulsing. Like… very slightly.

Silence again. Then one girl, half-serious:

— Should we mark that as involuntary arousal?

Myra laughed.

— Well, it’s not voluntary, surely.

More laughter. Warmer this time. Like I was a shared secret.

Could someone please reinforce the line under the shaft? She asked. Just to stabilize.

I felt another set of fingers at my inner thigh, pulling the rope tighter under my balls, around the base. The rope now cradled my dick — not harshly, but completely like it presented it.

And the effect was horrifying.

I looked down.

There it was: my cock, held up by rope, framed by art students. Still small. Still pathetic. And now — lightly twitching inside the outline they’d built around it.

Myra stepped into my line of sight.

— Beautiful symmetry, she said calmly.

Then, quieter, to the class:

— And an honest subject. Never underestimate the power of vulnerability in art.

The room had gone quiet again — but not out of respect, out of focus. Twelve women surrounded me like sculptors around a slab, ropes in hand, minds engaged. My cock, tiny and flushed, sat nestled in its new display frame — supported by a Y-knot that lifted it gently off my skin. Not restrained. Just… offered.

And still, it twitched. Slightly. The rope made it worse. Every breath nudged it against the fiber, which rubbed it just enough to keep it alive. Not hard — not even close — but awake. Embarrassingly awake.

— This is a fascinating case study, Myra said.

She walked behind me again, barefoot steps quiet on the studio mats.

— The body under passive tension becomes its visual contradiction. He’s soft… and yet he responds.

A girl near my left hip muttered:

— Like a lightbulb that flickers, but never turns on.

More muffled laughter.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My whole body had gone stiff — except the part that shouldn’t be. The part now cradled and twitching, the part being watched and discussed like a cracked teacup.

— May I? Myra asked.

I didn’t know what she meant. Then I felt it: her fingertip — gloved — gently adjusting the rope that passed directly beneath my shaft. The motion pressed it higher, accidentally aligning it with one of the horizontal wraps around my pelvis. The tip now pointed slightly outward, helpless and useless.

My knees wobbled.

— You okay? one girl asked. Not cruel — just… curious.

I nodded, too fast.

Myra looked at me again, head slightly tilted.

— It’s not often you get a volunteer this open. This is structurally honest.

Another girl added:

— Or this is small.

No one corrected her.

Cora stepped back, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

— I think we’ve maxed the frontal view. Should we rotate him?

Myra clapped once.

— Brilliant. Let’s observe stress distribution from behind.

Two girls took my shoulders and gently turned me around.

Now I stood facing the wall, fully on display from the rear. My ass wrapped in ropes that cut diagonally across the cheeks, my thighs bound just enough to keep my stance wide. The rope beneath me cradled my balls — lifted them. They felt blue, tight, humiliated.

But the worst part was that I could still feel their eyes.

Not touching. Just watching.

One girl laughed quietly.

— His balls look like they’re clenching from shame.

Another said:

— I don’t even think he has enough to clench.

Someone whistled.

And then I heard sketchpads open. Graphite scratching. Notes are being made. Not of me, the person. Of the structure. The subject. The example.

Myra’s voice again — now softer, warmer.

— You’ve done beautifully, Liam. Truly. And I hope you understand how rare this is. Most men would never let themselves be seen in this state.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

She stepped around, came into my view, and placed a folded towel in her hands.

— You may dress when ready. Please feel free to take your time.

I nodded, eyes down, still bound, still twitching. My cock now fully exposed in the mirror on the wall across from me — a tiny, twitching stem held aloft by a pattern of rope someone had called beautiful.

As they walked away, I heard one girl say, half-laughing, half-sincere:

— That was honestly braver than a nude model.

Cora replied:

— Yeah. At least they usually have something to show.

The studio door shut behind them.

And I stood alone, dressed in knots, body trembling, the rope still hugging everything I didn’t want anyone to see — and everything they already had.

 

The End.

*****

 

 

Medical Screening

I already hated the word “mandatory.” Especially when it was printed in all caps across the top of the email:

MANDATORY MEDICAL SCREENING — ALL FIRST-YEAR MALES.

I was the third in line that morning. The first two had come out of the room laughing nervously, adjusting their waistbands. That should’ve been a warning. But I told myself it was just routine. Standard procedure. Quick check-up, in and out.

I stepped inside when my name was called.

The room looked like a cross between a nurse’s office and a storage closet — pale yellow walls, an ancient height chart stuck unevenly to the wall, a grey plastic exam table, and a standing blood pressure machine that wheezed when it was in use.

Two women were inside.

One stood by the clipboard: late 30s, thin-framed, with hair in a tight bun, pale skin, and eyes that seemed permanently unimpressed. Her name tag read Ms. K. Vernon. She didn’t smile when she greeted me.

— Shirt off. Shoes too. Step to the chart.

Her voice was papery, clipped. Like she didn’t speak unless she had to, and resented it when she did.

The second woman was younger. Maybe mid-20s. She had an open, curious face — not pretty in a polished way, but warm, round-eyed, with short brown hair and soft fingers that tapped nervously at her tablet. The tag on her breast pocket read CORA / Intern. She gave me a quick smile as I took off my shoes.

I stepped to the wall. The height chart was faded and peeling at the corners. Ms. Vernon adjusted the slider with precise, impersonal fingers.

— One-sixty-eight. Next.

She motioned to the scale. I obeyed. Weight. Temperature. Blood pressure. The cuff wrapped around my arm and hissed like a trapped snake.

— Last part. Full skin inspection. Remove all lower garments, including underwear.

I blinked.

— Wait– I thought this was just–

— Full skin inspection, she repeated, without looking up. Per insurance protocol. Standard.

Cora gave a small, encouraging nod, like this happened every day, and I was being silly for hesitating.

I turned, slowly. Slid off my sweatpants. Then, with a deep breath, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my briefs and pushed them down.

The air hit first. Then the silence.

I stood there. Naked. Hands awkwardly at my sides. My dick hung quietly between my thighs, completely soft, the skin pale and tight from the cold. It didn’t look good. It never did soft. Not even average. It looked… sad, as if it didn’t want to be there either.

Cora blinked once. Her eyes darted down, then quickly away. Ms. Vernon remained expressionless.

— Arms up.

I obeyed. She moved behind me. I could feel her examining my back, my hips, my thighs. The latex of her gloves was smooth but impersonal, like I was just another surface to disinfect.

Then she stepped in front of me again and looked down.

Not long. But long enough.

— Noted. Minor asymmetry, she said quietly. Glans exposure is limited.

I froze. My ears burned.

Cora shifted. Her tablet made a soft tap as she scrolled through something.

— Question — she hesitated — is this within low-normal range, or sub-threshold?

Vernon didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached over to the file drawer, pulled out a laminated chart, and held it next to me — eye-level.

A diagram. Measurement ranges. Side views.

I glanced at it and immediately wished I hadn’t. My number wasn’t even near the bottom of the “normal” zone.

Vernon’s voice was flat as a table.

— Estimated flaccid: 4.0 centimeters. Well below baseline.

Cora looked at me. Her lips parted. Not in shock — just… processing.

— Oh.

Just that.

Then she added — almost absently:

— He’s blushing. But not just on his face.

Ms. Vernon didn’t look up.

— Noted: elevated shame response. Peripheral flushing. Early autonomic activation.

I felt my whole body tense.

I was still standing there. Still exposed. Still being recorded. Measured. Interpreted. The only person in the room without clothes. The only person in the room whose size — whose entire self-worth — was being discussed clinically, as if I weren’t even there.

— Recheck baseline in case of vascular suppression, Cora said.

Vernon finally nodded.

— Ten-minute delay. Could you sit at the table?

I sat, thighs pressed together, dick shriveling even further under their gaze.

Cora stepped closer. Her voice was gentler now.

— Just relax. Please don’t think about it. We need it soft for consistency.

I wanted to disappear.

The table’s paper crinkled under me as I sat, legs together, back hunched. I tried to breathe slowly. The air felt cold. Sterile. Everything in the room was white or grey, except for me — pale, pink, and completely exposed.

My penis rested lightly against my thigh like a thing that didn’t belong to me. Smaller than usual now. Retreated. Like it had sensed the attention and tried to evacuate.

Cora stood across the room, her tablet in hand, tapping softly. She avoided looking at me — or at least tried to pretend she was. Ms. Vernon sat in a metal chair by the filing cabinet, arms crossed, watching the wall clock tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I counted on it. Anything to distract from the way my body felt: too open, too warm in some places, too cold in others. My thighs itched from tension. My hands rested on my knees, but every few seconds, I had to stop them from shifting to cover myself.

Then Cora spoke again — a little too lightly.

— So… Luke, right?

I nodded. My throat felt dry.

— You’re a first-year? What’s your major?

I blinked.

— Uh. Computer engineering.

— Cool. That’s like, circuits and… stuff?

— Yeah. Circuits and stuff.

She smiled. The way you smile at a wounded dog you’re not sure you want to pet.

— That sounds like it takes a lot of focus. That’s good. Focus is helpful in these situations.

Her eyes flicked down, just for a second.

I crossed my ankles. Too late.

Tick.

Tick.

Vernon finally stood and moved toward me again. She didn’t speak. Just snapped her gloves back on and gestured.

— Stand.

I obeyed.

She knelt in front of me, clipboard in hand, her face level with the soft droop between my thighs.

— Re-evaluating flaccid baseline.

Her latex fingers brushed my inner thighs. Not my dick. Just near it. The skin there was hypersensitive now — every touch set off tiny pulses through my stomach.

Then her finger slid under the shaft — just the tip of her glove, lifting gently to get a better angle.

My knees nearly buckled.

She looked up, expression unchanged.

— No significant vascular change. Volume remains below the lower threshold.

Cora stepped forward now. Tablet in hand. She tilted her head.

— Wait… wait, I think it is changing.

I felt it too. A faint twitch. A shift. Blood pulling downward, not enough to become hard — but just enough to make it lift slightly.

I wasn’t aroused. Not really. But my body didn’t care what I felt. It just responded.

— You okay? Cora asked softly.

I nodded, eyes on the ceiling.

Ms. Vernon let the shaft fall back against my thigh with a faint pat.

— Noted: involuntary tumescence under passive observation. Response: shame-facilitated.

Cora’s brows knit.

— Do we… measure at semi?

— Only if duration exceeds baseline window, Vernon replied, already checking her watch.

I stood there, dick half-hanging, half-rising, cheeks blazing. The only sound was the soft tapping of the tablet and the sound of my breathing.

Then Cora said — far too gently:

— Don’t worry. This happens sometimes, especially in cases where the subject is… nervous.

I looked at her. Her eyes weren’t cruel. They were curious.

— Or… very sensitive.

Her voice dropped just enough for it to feel private.

I tried to respond. Couldn’t.

Then she added, almost to herself:

— You’re smaller than I expected, honestly.

Vernon didn’t blink.

— Confirmed.

I swallowed hard.

Cora tilted the tablet toward her chest and spoke in that half-professional, half-intrigued voice again:

— I mean, I guess that’s why the shame response is so strong. It’s not just exposure. It’s a comparison.

Vernon nodded.

— Especially in males with minimal secondary development. Adrenal type.

They weren’t talking to me anymore. They were talking around me. About me. Like I was a case file.

My dick pulsed again. Full now. Not big. Just… hard.

Cora glanced down and blinked.

— Oh.

Then, with a hint of a smile:

— That’s… unfortunate.

It wasn’t a real erection. Not to me. Not arousal, not want — just shame, pressure, exposure, and helplessness swelling into something involuntary. My cock stood there uselessly, thin and hard, barely lifting from my body like it was trying to be noticed and failing even at that.

Cora looked at it with the kind of fascinated politeness reserved for strange, delicate objects in a museum. She tilted her head slightly, as if viewing from another angle might explain something.

— This counts as erect? she asked quietly.

Ms. Vernon checked the clock, made a note, then stepped closer again.

— Record maximum hardness for documentation.

I didn’t move. My whole body had gone still. Only my cock pulsed — small, tight, exposed in the center of the room, under a pair of professional eyes and a pair of very young ones.

Vernon crouched again, measuring tape in hand. She pulled it out, placed it just beneath the base, and adjusted the slack as if she were tying a ribbon.

— Full length: 7.3 centimeters.

Pause. Then, drier:

— Girth: 7.6.

She looked up at Cora.

— Technically symmetrical.

Cora bit her lip — not from desire, not from restraint. Just to keep from smiling, I could tell.

— Does it still count as a micropenis if it becomes erect this quickly?

Ms. Vernon raised an eyebrow.

— Not clinical. Just unfortunate.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. My knees wanted to lock, but trembled instead. The erection — pathetic, pitiful — twitched once more as if trying to remind us all it was real, that I was real.

Cora’s eyes never left it.

— Are you okay? She asked again, quieter.

I nodded. Or thought I did.

She leaned a little closer. I smelled the scent of citrus lotion on her hands.

— You’re really red. And cold.

She reached toward the table, picked up a folded sheet, and — for the first time in what felt like forever — covered me.

Not gently. Not to be kind. Just like a nurse finishing cleanup after an exam.

— You can get dressed now.

Her voice dropped as she turned to her tablet:

— Final notes: subject exhibited full erection during passive exposure and observational commentary. The psychological profile suggests a strong response to humiliation. Possible overlap with performance anxiety. Recommendation: exclude from future shared screenings.

Ms. Vernon added, without looking:

— Or assign to all-female observer sessions only.

I pulled my underwear on with trembling fingers. My cock still half-hard, now trapped and twitching against the fabric. It felt smaller inside the briefs somehow — like it had been punished and stuffed back into its cage.

I didn’t speak. Just dressed. Quietly. Mechanically.

As I reached the door, Cora’s voice floated behind me — light, curious, almost friendly:

— Hey… don’t worry.

I paused.

— I’ll forget what it looked like. But probably not how it reacted.

The door clicked shut behind me.

And I couldn’t decide if I wanted to hide forever —

Or if I’d come back next year.

 

The End.

 

 

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