My job takes me to different corners of the world, a perk that has led to some unforgettable experiences. This particular incident took place during a work trip to Amsterdam, and if you have read my earlier post about my first nude beach adventure, you might recall the girl I met there.

We hit it off instantly that day, our connection sparking something electric. We stayed in touch, our friendship deepening through late-night texts, steamy photo swaps, and video calls that grew increasingly spicy. Our conversations spanned life, work, naturism, and eventually, our deepest sexual desires. She was always more open, her liberal views on nudity and sex coaxing me out of my shell. I was slower to reveal myself, but her playful teasing about my ‘tiny dick,’ which she had seen that day on the beach, broke the dam.

One night, after her gentle prodding, I confessed my kink for SPH, that intoxicating rush of shame and arousal tied to my size. I also admitted, with some hesitation, my submissive tendencies, which she had already suspected. By the time we both landed in Amsterdam, we had bared all our kinky secrets, and the air between us crackled with anticipation.

We were staying at the same hotel, and the tension ignited fast. From the first day itself, we were tangled in each other’s arms, stealing heated make-out sessions in my room or hers, sometimes with a flimsy excuse, sometimes without. We hadn’t crossed into full-on sex, though we never discussed why; it just hadn’t happened yet.

The real chaos erupted one evening when we decided to explore Amsterdam’s Red Light District after sunset. During planning, I mentioned I had never been to a sex shop, and her eyes gleamed with mischief, like she had been handed a personal challenge. As we left the hotel, she leaned in close, her voice a sultry whisper, “I have got a little plan to mess with you while we explore the sex shop. You game?”

Her sly smile sent a jolt through me, my stomach fluttering with nerves and excitement. ‘What did she have in mind?‘ I wondered. Her teasing nature was playful but soft, so I convinced myself it wouldn’t be too wild.

The neon-lit streets pulsed with energy, even on a relatively quiet Tuesday evening, as we wandered, her hand tightening around mine, her whispers teasing and deliberate. “Gonna be fun watching you squirm in the sex shop,” she would murmur, or, “Don’t chicken out, okay?”

Her words, just for my ears, stoked a fire in me. Defiant, I told her I wasn’t fazed by her so-called threats, thinking she was exaggerating to rattle me. ‘Who does she think I am? Does she really think I can’t handle a sex shop?‘ I scoffed inwardly.

We slipped into a shop, mostly deserted at that time, and Amsterdam’s brazen openness hit me like a tidal wave. The place was unapologetic with dildos, lingerie, and BDSM gear displayed in the windows like everyday trinkets. But for me, it felt like a spotlight was trained on my every move. My little dick twitched at the sight of massive toys, scandalously skimpy outfits, and kinky gear, like latex bodysuits, collars, leashes, cuffs, that stirred fantasies I had only dared explore in porn. Embarrassment crashed over me for no reason, sweat beading on my forehead, my face burning like I had been caught red-handed. ‘Why am I freaking out?‘ I wondered, my arousal and shame twisting into a delicious knot. I was rock-hard, the humiliation feeding my desire.

She reveled in my discomfort, her grin wicked yet playful. “Relax, it’s no big deal… yet,” she would say in that almost-genuine-yet-teasing tone, her quick squeezes of my hand or winks keeping me on edge. Her subtle touches were like electric shocks, a constant reminder that she was orchestrating something, her plan unfolding with every step.

We drifted to the dildo section, where she announced she wanted to buy one. Rows of them, varied shapes, sizes, and girths, made my eyes dart, half-aroused, half-paranoid someone would catch me staring, as if it were a crime. She casually handed me a 6.5-7-inch dildo, asking, “What do you think? Is it good?” as if I were some dildo connoisseur.

I froze, my face a mask of dumbfounded panic at the thought of someone hearing her, eyes screaming, ‘Why the hell would I know?‘ Her laughter erupted at my shocked, flushed expression, and I playfully swatted her arm with the dildo, joining her giggles despite myself after I had seen that no one was near us.

But she wasn’t done. “Come on, feel it! Run your hand over the tip, the shaft. Check the girth,” she teased, her hand gliding over the toy with a seductive smirk.

I glanced around again, my heart racing, as I was paranoid that someone might overhear or see us. Still, no one was close, except a salesgirl at a safe distance. I tried to deflect, feigning annoyance with a faint smile as I shook my head.

“Do you actually want to buy one? If not, let’s move on,” she said.

But she leaned in, guiding my hand to keep the dildo in view, her grip firm but teasing.

“This is what a ‘real’ average-sized cock feels like,” she whispered, emphasizing the word ‘real,’ her voice dripping with mischief. “I am not joking. Go on, touch it. Compare it to how you feel when you touch yourself.”

There was genuineness and a hint of seriousness this time, and it was laced with something dark. I looked at her with disbelief while I considered doing it. Multiple thoughts were running wildly in my head: ‘Is this some trap?

Is she just fucking with me?

Why does she seem to really want me to do it?

Should I really be doing it?

Maybe I want to know it, too.

You are so fucked up that you even think of touching a so-called real cock in front of your friend in a shop.

I am doomed.

I can trust her, right?

Just do it. Know what a real cock feels in a hand.

Fuck, there it goes. My dick just throbbed…‘

These might have just been some three to four seconds, but I felt too awkward as I kept staring at her, trying to make a decision.

My face burned as I looked into her eyes, the idea of feeling a ‘real’ cock blindsiding me. Her devilish grin continued to carry that strange sincerity, still showing that she genuinely wanted me to do it, despite knowing how it looked from the outside. She was also not at all hiding that she was going to enjoy seeing me embarrassed by doing it. Suddenly, something in me strongly craved for sliding everything aside and doing it, humiliating myself before her and in front of whoever else looked our way.

I was almost sold on doing it, but the sudden appearance of a person in my peripheral vision pulled me back, setting a wave of fear coursing through me. Reflexively, I started to pull back, but her grip on my tightened, her sharp gaze locking me in place, commanding compliance. The humiliation was visceral, my dick throbbing painfully as shame and arousal collided. It felt wrong to touch it in the shop, the weight of my inadequacy screaming in my head. But to my own shock, I gave in. My other hand grazed the dildo’s tip, then wrapped around the shaft, squeezing to feel its size and texture. I felt so ashamed, embarrassed, and dirty doing it under her watch. I was openly accepting my inadequacy. Her wide, triumphant grin only deepened my embarrassment, my arousal spiking under her gaze.

A sudden sound from behind us made my heart lurch, sweat prickling my back as I yanked my hand away. My friend smirked, relishing my speechlessness. The salesgirl nearby might have caught the vibe after I had hit my friend with the dildo earlier, or perhaps wondered why a guy’s friend was so invested in dildos. Still, she stayed silent for a brief moment, her presence amplifying my inner panic. Did she see me touching it? I wondered, dread and shame twisting in my gut.

The salesgirl finally approached, all business, asking if we needed help. Noticing the dildo in my hand, she directed her question to my friend. Relief washed over me until my friend grabbed the dildo and confirmed she was taking it, then pivoted. “Not with this, but we need help with vaginal masturbators,” she said.

I involuntarily blurted, “I don’t want one!” my face scorching, pulse pounding in my ears as I shot her a what-the-fuck look.

You might wonder what’s a big deal here, but it was for me, at that moment. I am weirdly and ironically shy in some scenarios, although on the other hand, I have been to a nude beach, among other things.

‘What’s she playing at?‘ I wondered, but that twisted thrill surged, my dick stirring harder, opening me up to crave for seeing it.

She flashed a wicked grin. “It is a gift, and you don’t get to say no.”

My stomach knotted, aroused, nervous, trapped in a whirlwind of ‘Should I stop her? Or lean into it?’ Pre-cum leaked, soaking my boxers.

The salesgirl led us to the masturbator shelf, explaining options like it were just another day. My friend handed me one she had shortlisted, instructing me to slip my pinky into the opening to ‘test the feel.’ I was stunned and mortified that she would say this in front of the salesgirl. My heart raced, heat flooding my face and pants as I realized what this implied. I darted what-the-fuck look at her again.

“Do it!” she almost scolded without raising her voice.

To my own disbelief, I didn’t resist then, not even for show. Shaking (I felt), I slid my pinky in, her and the salesgirl watching as my shame burned brighter.

Then, casually, she said, “Hmm, the opening is too big for you.”

It wasn’t! The toy was fine for my less-than-4-inch dick, but her words were deliberate, totally absurd, outing my secret to the world. My pinky had fitted just fine in it. And of course, my dick is bigger than my pinky in both girth and length. So, this told the salesgirl a lot more than my size when I remained silent after my friend’s absurd comment. I was simultaneously worried if her words were too much, like breaking some unspoken rule, even for a sex shop. But maybe the almost empty shop with no customers in sight now let the salesgirl slide it.

My cheeks blazed further, heart hammering in my throat. My friend then doubled down, asking the salesgirl for a smaller size. The salesgirl’s eyes flicked to my flushed face, a hint of curiosity or amusement in her gaze, but she tried to remain professional. My dick throbbed harder, pre-cum leaving a sticky mess, as humiliation and arousal crashed together. A voice inside screamed, ‘ She’s outing me, and I’m fucking loving it, aren’t I?‘

After checking some shelves, the salesgirl said they were out of smaller masturbators, and this was the smallest they had at the moment. My friend pressed, her tone suggestive, “This won’t work for you, right? Too big,”

I knew the script that she wanted me to follow. I thought I had understood the mess she said she would create in my mind. I took a moment to answer, during which she grabbed the masturbator in my hand with suggestively pressing her fingers on mine, telling me not to think of saying anything else but what she wants. With a gulp, hesitating, sweat on my forehead, I mumbled, “Yeah, you are right… It is too big.”

I screamed internally for being so verbose, once again confirming my inadequacy aloud. Her victorious grin was pure mischief, the salesgirl’s faint smirk deepening my flush. My mind spiraled: ‘They both know I am small. They know.’

I thought that was the peak, but she wasn’t done. “We also want to see the strap-ons,” she announced.

‘We!?‘ my mind screamed.

My ears burned. We had shared kinks, but she had never hinted at being bi or having a boyfriend (then who might have been into it). And then it hit my messed-up, dumb, and stupid brain. She was possibly implying I would be the one taking it. I could not believe it at completely. My heart slammed, breath catching as I imagined the salesgirl picturing me as the bottom. Her glance carried a subtle glint, sending chills through my sweaty skin. The humiliation was electric, my little dick a leaking mess. ‘Tiny and submissive?‘ my mind asked me. It was almost too much, but it set me on fire, too.

I grabbed her arm as the salesgirl turned to take us to the strap-on section, hissing, “What the fuck are you doing!?”

Red-faced, horrified, a total wreck. She smirked, eyes devilish, mouthing, ‘Play along,’ I thought. I don’t know if it was her or it was my inner craving for humiliation, but I was hooked, my mind torn between running and begging for more as we walked towards the strap-on section.

I felt weaker, more helpless, and less of a man as I walked. But I was walking beside my friend as we followed the salesgirl. I was ashamed of what was making me keep going, what was making me remain aroused. And I was getting further turned on by it, too.

Super twisted.

Totally fucked up.

At the strap-on section, the salesgirl ran through features, her professionalism tinged with growing amusement. My friend grabbed a (relatively) large one (as per my standards), and the salesgirl asked if we were experienced. I couldn’t speak; I was too mortified even to deny being a bottom. My friend said, “First time,” and my throat tightened, panic spiking: ‘Is she serious? Must be just playing, right?‘ I wondered. The salesgirl then suggested a smaller one, still bigger than me. Then asked me directly, her gaze shifting between us.

“Have you been preparing for it?” Her tone was professional, but that amused edge was unmistakable, her eyes lingering too long.

I felt more than naked under her gaze. I felt like her eyes were the strap-on that was fucking me right there, right at that moment, in front of my friend.

I froze, my wide-eyed panic screaming, ‘What does that even mean?‘ I was in no state to understand the pragmatic or non-literal meaning of any sentence. It was a mistake I quickly regretted. Shame flooded me, but my arousal anchored me.

The salesgirl added, “Unless you’re sure, I suggest starting with something smaller, like a butt plug. They are popular among beginners.”

My mind spun with the humiliating image of a butt plug in my ass, and my asshole clenched instinctively. Another wave of shame hit, my heartbeat deafening, sweat trickling down my spine. The throbbing and leaking made me feel I was going to cum in my pants. I was more aware of my asshole in that chaotic moment.

Given the history, I braced for my friend to agree with the salesgirl on the butt plug quickly, but she totally flipped the script, for much, much worse.

“Oh, no, the strap-on is for him to use on me, since, well, you know…” Her voice was full of feigned innocence and pity.

My jaw dropped, face burning hotter than ever. I could feel the heat evolving through every pore of my skin. Even the salesgirl can no longer maintain her professional demeanor. She was both confused and shocked.

My friend later said she wished she had snapped a photo of my shocked, humiliated expression.

In that moment, I thought being at the bottom was less brutal. The image of a plug in my ass suddenly felt a lot better than the one now flashing in my mind: my leaking, tiny dick discarded beneath a massive strap-on. I was so disoriented that I considered blurting that she was joking and begging for the butt plug instead. But no clear sentence formed in my mind, and nothing came out of my mouth. Sweating, heart racing, little dick throbbing invisibly (a perk for being small, no noticeable bulge), I drowned in humiliation, pre-cum creating a sticky disaster in my underwear.

I felt murdered when the salesgirl suggested that I consider cock sleeve strap-ons. It did not interest my friend for some reason. The shift from one shame to another left me reeling, my mind a haze of ‘This is worse… or is it better?‘

The salesgirl blinked, a soft chuckle escaping before she tried to revert to professional mode and failed. Her amusement was clear, her glance at me tinged with amusement and pity. My friend clarified, for absolutely no reason, her voice softer, flat, but cutting, “He is just too small to feel, you know? We thought this might help.”

We hadn’t even tried sex yet, and I knew my dick wasn’t that small not to feel ‘anything’ at all! But the only reason she said it out loud was to tease and humiliate me. I was again deeply worried about violating some public decency rule, but the salesgirl gave a faint, pitying smile that momentarily seared into me, the humiliation lingering like a bruise. I gave up, resigned to play along, feeling I had nothing left to protect.

But she still wasn’t done. After keeping the same strap-on, she asked the salesgirl about toys for guys with ‘little packages.’ Hearing it aloud stopped my heart, even if it wasn’t new information. The salesgirl gave a naughty smile this time while nodding her head. The salesgirl then showed us strokers, vibrators, cock rings, cages, and BDSM gear like plugs.

My friend mused aloud, glancing at me, “Would a cage be better for him while he is using the strap-on?”

I looked at my friend as if I am seeing a ghost. “Noooo!” I said in a pleading, begging, and scary, shaky voice, as if I was actually going to let her cage me.

At the next instant, I found myself ashamed of this, too. I saw a dark glint in my friend’s eyes which made me feel like sinking into the floor.

But her kind nature shone through as I negotiated (or you can read it as begged), and we settled on a basic metal cock ring.

“Since the masturbator is not available, consider the ring as my gift,” my friend told me, her voice again showing more genuineness and less mischief.

The salesgirl then asked for the size and engraving details. I tried to say no, but my friend cut me off, insisting, “His name on it,” and gave my name to the salesgirl.

My weak protests were silenced. The salesgirl handed the ring to another staff member for engraving, sharing usage tips as my mind spiraled: humiliated, owned, craving every second of it.

The stay in the shop was extended because my friend decided to browse the lingerie to pass the time, as we were told they needed some time for the engraving. She ended up with two sets by the time we were told that the ring was ready.

At checkout, the salesgirl mentioned smaller masturbators would be in stock tomorrow, her tone professional but with a knowing and pitiful smile. We paid, thanked her (while I died inside), said we would consider returning (which we couldn’t, due to time constraints), and left for good.

On the walk back, my friend kept the tease alive, her voice low and sharp. Each jab sparked my little dick, the sticky pre-cum a constant reminder. I wanted to confront and argue, but couldn’t; she knew that I knew that she knew that I was loving it deep down. She obviously was right, and I hated how much I craved it.

Back at the hotel, we went to my room. She pulled out the cock ring, snapping its quick pics. “Come on, present yourself,” she commanded gently, her naughty smile firm but not harsh.

I stripped naked under her gaze, heart racing from the night, standing vulnerable while she remained clothed, her eyes devouring me. She slid the ring onto my tiny, hard, leaking dick, the cold metal biting in the air-conditioned room. I felt caged, not physically, but mentally, owned by her. She took more photos for her ‘collection,’ capturing my full naked body.

“My gift, my pics,” she teased, even though I had shown no resistance.

We then dove into each other, making out like starved animals. When the moment came, I strapped on, the act humiliating but intoxicating. I fucked her until she came, the experience thrilling yet humbling. The strap-on over my hard dick was totally impractical. We had to make some ‘adjustments’ to it before it could be really used. This interruption was frustrating, but the humiliation it later brought made it worthwhile. Later, she let my real dick brush her pussy, and I came hard in seconds, shame and arousal blending perfectly. Her soft giggle, pitying yet warm, sealed the night’s mind-bending intensity.

Subtle, overwhelming, unforgettable.

 

The End.

 

 

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