No Bulge, All Attitude
A Fictional SPH Story by CamWhore1.
I’d spent two hours getting ready. The shoulder-length black wig had been expensive, but it fell perfectly, framing my face in a way that made me look almost dangerous. The eye makeup had taken the longest—blacking out the entire area around my eyes, adding the signature dark streaks extending down my cheeks like smudged tears. I’d topped it off with a black t-shirt featuring a skull design and, most importantly, those tight faux leather pants.
They were second-skin tight, clinging to every curve and line of my body. I’d bought them specifically for this costume, one size too small on purpose because that’s how Alice would have worn them. Looking in the mirror before I left, I thought I looked pretty fucking good. The pants hugged my ass perfectly, and the overall effect was convincingly rock-star.
What I hadn’t considered—what I’d somehow let slip past my planning—was that Alice Cooper’s signature look included a very obvious bulge in those tight pants. And I, with my modest three-inch erection and barely-there softie, had no such advantage.
—
The party was already in full swing when I arrived. Our friend Chloe had rented out the back room of a bar downtown, and probably thirty people were milling around, showing off their costumes. I spotted a Madonna, two different KISS members, and someone who’d gone all-out as Meat Loaf from the “I’d Do Anything for Love” video.
“Holy shit, man!” Tyler waved me over, his Freddie Mercury mustache slightly crooked. “You went all out!”
“Thanks.” I did a little spin, showing off the outfit. “Took forever to get the makeup right.”
“The eyes look insane. How’d you even do that?”
“Lot of patience and even more black eyeshadow.”
Other friends drifted over, complimenting the costume, asking about the wig, touching the leather pants to see if they were real. I was basking in the attention, feeling good about my choices, when Chloe appeared in front of me with a drink in each hand.
“Alice fucking Cooper!” She handed me one of the cups. “You look incredible. The makeup is perfect.”
“Thanks, Chlo. You went as—”
“Gwen Stefani, obviously. No Doubt era.” She did a little pose, showing off her plaid pants and crop top. “So, I have to ask—how long did the pants take to find? They look painted on.”
“Honestly? Found them online. Had to order two sizes before I got the right fit.”
“Well, they’re perfect. Very authentic.” She took a sip of her drink, her eyes dropping deliberately to my crotch. “Very… authentic.”
I felt a prickle of unease but laughed it off. “That’s the goal, right?”
Chloe’s smile widened. She leaned closer, and I thought she was going to compliment something else. Instead, she pointed directly at my crotch and said, loud enough for everyone standing nearby to hear:
“Oh my god, you have no bulge! Where is your dick?”
The words hit me like cold water. I felt my face heat instantly, a flush spreading up my neck and into my cheeks. Several people turned to look, their eyes dropping to the smooth, flat front of my leather pants.
Chloe burst out laughing, clearly finding this hilarious. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but they’re so tight and there’s just—there’s nothing there!”
I should have said something. Should have laughed it off, made a joke, defended myself. But my throat had gone dry, and beneath the embarrassment, something else was stirring. Something hot and tight in my stomach that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
She’s right, I thought. There’s nothing to see.
My cock, pathetic as it was, had started to react to the humiliation. I could feel it trying to stiffen, that familiar warmth of arousal spreading through my groin. But even hard, my three inches didn’t make much of an impression through the thick faux leather. The pants had a slight wrinkle where a bulge should be, but that was it—no outline, no visible shape, just smooth, flat nothing.
“Chloe, you’re terrible,” someone said, but they were laughing too.
I stood there, frozen, my face burning, my tiny cock hardening in my pants with nowhere to go and nothing to show for it. The embarrassment was excruciating, but the arousal was worse—because I couldn’t deny how much the public call-out was turning me on.
That’s when I noticed the looks. A few of the guys were glancing at my crotch, then at each other, smiling in a way that made it clear they’d noticed the same thing Chloe had. One of them—Brandon, dressed as a reasonably convincing Jim Morrison—mouthed something to Tyler that I couldn’t quite catch. Tyler’s eyebrows rose, and his gaze flicked to my pants before he looked away, smirking.
They know, I realized. They can all see I’ve got nothing.
I acted like I hadn’t heard Chloe, taking a long drink from my cup and pretending to be interested in something happening across the room. But my heart was pounding, and my inadequate cock was fully hard now, a small stiff rod hidden inside the tight leather, invisible to everyone.
That’s when I felt the hand on my ass.
Startled, I turned to find Ryan standing behind me, dressed as a half-assed Axl Rose with a bandana and leather jacket. He grinned, his hand still on my ass, giving it a firm squeeze through the leather.
“His ass looks great in those pants,” Ryan announced to the group, his voice carrying. Then he pulled back and smacked my ass hard enough to make a sharp crack sound that echoed through the conversation lull.
The sting went straight to my cock.
“Damn, nice form,” Chloe said, still giggling. “Alice Cooper with a great ass and no package. It’s a whole vibe.”
More laughter. I felt Ryan’s hand linger for a moment before he moved away, still grinning.
“Seriously though, man,” Ryan said, leaning close enough that only I could hear. “You’re filling those out in the back, at least. Can’t win ’em all.”
He clapped my shoulder and walked off toward the bar, leaving me standing there with my face on fire and my three-inch cock straining against the leather with absolutely nothing to show for it.
—
The conversation moved on, as conversations do. Someone started arguing about whether Prince or Hendrix was the better guitarist, and the attention shifted away from me and my non-existent bulge. I drifted toward the edge of the group, still flushed, still hard, still processing what had just happened.
She pointed. She laughed. Everyone saw.
My cock throbbed in my pants, aching in that confined space, and I had to resist the urge to adjust myself. What would be the point? There was nothing to adjust. No visible outline to reposition. Just smooth, flat leather and the pathetic secret hidden underneath.
“You okay?”
I looked up to find Brandon beside me, his Jim Morrison costume slightly askew. His eyes were knowing, amused.
“Fine,” I said, my voice slightly hoarse. “Just, uh. Yeah. Fine.”
Brandon’s gaze dropped to my crotch, then back up to my face. “Chloe’s got a big mouth. Don’t let it get to you.”
“I’m not.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He smirked. “You look a little flushed.”
“It’s the makeup. Hard to tell.”
“Sure.” He took a drink. “For what it’s worth, I think the costume is great. Very committed. Most guys wouldn’t have the balls to wear pants that tight.”
Because most guys have something to show, I thought. And I don’t.
“Thanks,” I said instead.
Brandon leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You know, I noticed earlier. Before Chloe said anything. Those pants don’t leave much to the imagination—or, I guess, they leave too much to the imagination.” He chuckled. “But you wore them anyway. That takes confidence.”
Was he making fun of me? I couldn’t tell. His expression was friendly, but there was something underneath—something that made my small cock twitch again.
“I didn’t really think about it,” I admitted. “Just wanted the costume to look right.”
“And it does. You look like Alice Cooper. Just… a very smooth version.” He grinned. “It’s not a bad thing. Some girls like that.”
My face heated again. “I, uh—”
“I’m just saying.” Brandon shrugged. “If you’re worried about what people think, don’t be. Most of us are too drunk to care about your dick size.”
But you noticed, I thought. You noticed before Chloe even said anything.
The humiliation was a living thing now, curling hot in my chest and groin. I was fully hard, my three inches straining against the leather, and I knew if anyone looked closely enough—if anyone touched me—they’d feel that small, hard presence. But visually? There was nothing. Just the smooth front of tight pants and the knowledge that everyone in that room now knew my secret.
“I need another drink,” I said, mostly to escape.
“Get me one too,” Brandon said, not unkindly. “And relax, man. It’s a costume party. Nobody’s judging.”
Everyone’s judging, I thought as I walked toward the bar. And I’m getting off on it.
—
I spent the rest of the night in a strange headspace. Every conversation felt loaded, every glance at my crotch magnified. I caught people looking—quick flicks of the eyes downward, then away. Smiles that might have been friendly or might have been mocking.
Chloe came up to me later, slightly apologetic. “Hey, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you earlier. I was a bit tipsy and it just—came out.”
“It’s fine,” I said, and meant it. “I knew the pants were tight.”
“They really are.” She hesitated. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think anyone cares. You look hot. The whole androgynous rock star thing works for you.”
“Thanks, Chlo.”
She smiled and moved on, but I caught her eyes dropping one more time to that smooth, flat front. Checking. Confirming. Yes, there’s really nothing there.
Ryan found me again near the end of the night. He’d had several more drinks and was loose, friendly, his hand landing on my shoulder in a companionable grip.
“Dude, your costume is still the best one here,” he declared. “The commitment. The makeup. The ass.” He grinned. “Seriously, those pants should be illegal. I’ve seen three different people checking out your butt tonight.”
“My butt seems to be getting more attention than the rest of me,” I said dryly.
“That’s because the rest of you is hidden behind that flat front.” Ryan laughed, not meanly. “I’m just saying—work with what you’ve got. And what you’ve got is a great ass.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do that.” He squeezed my shoulder. “And hey—next time, maybe go as someone who wears looser pants. Might save you some grief.”
“Maybe.”
But even as I said it, I knew I wouldn’t. Because underneath the embarrassment, underneath the flush and the shame, there was something else. Something that had been growing all night, fed by every glance, every comment, every reminder that my small cock was on display in its absence.
They know, I thought again, watching Ryan walk away. They all know.
And my three inches throbbed happily in its tight leather prison, invisible and aroused and secretly, shamefully thrilled.
—
The party wound down around 2 AM. I helped Chloe clean up, gathering cups and napkins, my costume still intact, my makeup slightly smeared. My cock had finally softened, returning to its barely-there soft state, creating no more of a bulge than it had when hard.
“You staying to help?” Brandon asked, lingering by the door.
“Nah, I should head out. Early morning tomorrow.”
“Sure.” He smiled. “Great costume, man. Seriously. Don’t let the bulge comments get to you.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” He paused. “You know, if you ever want to talk about it—whatever—I’m around. I know it can’t be easy, having people comment on… that.”
My face heated again. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Okay.” He nodded and left, but his words stayed with me.
It can’t be easy.
It wasn’t easy. But it also wasn’t what I’d expected. The humiliation should have been pure shame. Instead, it was a complicated mess of embarrassment and arousal, a hot knot in my stomach that I was still trying to untangle.
Walking home in the cold night air, I thought about the evening. About Chloe’s pointed finger and loud laugh. About Ryan’s hand on my ass, the sharp smack that had made my cock leak. About Brandon’s knowing looks and quiet comments. About all the glances, the smiles, the silent acknowledgments.
I have no bulge. Everyone saw. Everyone knows.
My cock stirred again in my pants, that familiar three-inch length beginning to harden. I reached down and pressed my palm against the flat front of the leather, feeling the small hardness underneath. Barely noticeable. Invisible to anyone looking.
But I could feel it. And somehow, that was enough.
The End.
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