The blaring sirens cut through the afternoon bustle of the downtown square like a knife, and before I knew it, two cop cars screeched to a halt right in front of me. I was just grabbing a coffee from the street vendor, minding my own business after a long shift at the office, when rough hands yanked me back by the collar.

“Freeze, Ramirez!” a woman’s voice barked, sharp and commanding.

Ramirez? Who the hell was that?

I spun around, heart pounding, to face two female officers—both tall, stern-faced, with badges gleaming under the sun.

The first one, with short blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back. “You’re under arrest for drug trafficking, you slimy bastard.”

Her partner, a brunette with a ponytail and a no-nonsense glare, slapped cuffs on my wrists so tight they bit into my skin.

I stammered, “Wait, what? I’m not Ramirez. My name’s [withheld]! You’ve got the wrong guy!”

But they weren’t listening. A crowd was already forming, shoppers pausing mid-stride, office workers peering from windows, even a group of teens on skateboards circling closer like sharks.

They dragged me to the center of the square, right by the fountain, where everyone could see.

“Public safety search,” the blonde announced loudly, her voice carrying over the murmurs. “This is El Toro, the notorious drug lord. Stand back!”

Gasps rippled through the onlookers as more people gathered, phones whipping out to record. I protested again, louder this time, but the brunette shoved me against the fountain’s edge, my face pressed to the warm stone.

“Empty your pockets,” the blonde ordered, her gloved hands rifling through my jeans without ceremony.

She pulled out my wallet, keys, and phone, tossing them into a plastic bag. Then, with a smirk that made my stomach drop, she unzipped my fly.

“Full strip search. Protocol for high-risk suspects.”

My mind raced. This couldn’t be happening. “Please, officers, I’m innocent! Call my boss, anyone!”

But the brunette just chuckled, yanking my shirt up over my head and off, exposing my bare chest to the breeze and the stares.

The crowd swelled to at least fifty people, whispering and pointing. A woman in a sundress covered her kid’s eyes but peeked herself. The blonde hooked her fingers into my belt loops and tugged my jeans down to my knees in one rough pull, my boxers following right after. Cool air rushed over my skin, and there I was, pants around my ankles, completely naked from the waist down in broad daylight.

My micropenis—barely a nub, inverted like a shy turtle hiding in its shell, peeked out from the tuft of hair above it. It wasn’t even a full inch, soft and withdrawn, looking more like a clit than anything masculine.

For a beat, the square went quiet, the officers pausing as they spotted it. Then the laughter started.

The brunette burst out first, a deep belly laugh that echoed off the buildings. “Holy shit, look at that! Is that your dick or did it run away?” She straightened up, wiping her eyes, while the blonde snorted, prodding at my thigh with her baton. “El Toro? More like El Nada. That tiny inverted thing couldn’t smuggle a Tic Tac.”

The crowd lost it.

Roars of laughter exploded from all sides—men doubling over, women howling and clapping.

“Oh man, that’s pathetic!” a guy in a business suit yelled, zooming in with his phone.

“Inverted penis? What a joke!”

A cluster of college girls nearby pointed and giggled uncontrollably. “Eww, it’s like a button! No wonder he’s not the big bad drug lord—can’t even fill out his undies!”

Insults rained down:

“Microdick!”

“Pencil dick on vacation!”

“Bet that thing’s never seen action!”

Phones flashed everywhere, capturing my shriveled little nub bobbling uselessly, exposed and ridiculed under the relentless sun.

I stood there, cheeks burning, trying to twist away but pinned by the cuffs and their grips. The humiliation burned hotter than the pavement under my bare feet. One officer kicked my jeans aside completely, forcing my legs apart for a ‘cavity search,’ her gloved fingers brushing my ass cheeks as she inspected.

“Clear,” she announced with a grin, but the damage was done.

The other shone a flashlight right on my groin, making the tiny inverted penis shrink even further into itself. More laughter, louder now, drawing even bigger crowds from the streets.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of jeers and flashes, the brunette radioed in. “Wait… This guy’s ID says [withheld]. Shit, false positive on the facial rec.”

They uncuffed me, tossing my clothes back like trash, but the square was alive with mockery. As I scrambled to pull up my boxers over the pathetic nub that had betrayed me, people chanted, “Babydick Babydick!”

I bolted, face aflame, the echoes of their cruel amusement chasing me down the block. Mistaken identity or not, my secret was out, and the whole city knew just how small I really was.

 

The End.

 

 

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