Strip Search
A Fictional SPH story by NaughtyBoy88.
Kyle sat on the cold metal bench, hands cuffed in front of him, trying to wrap his head around the fact that a busted taillight and an unpaid parking ticket had landed him here. Twenty-three years old, never been in trouble beyond a couple of warnings, and now he was waiting to be processed at the county station.
The door clicked open. A female officer stepped in—tall, early thirties maybe, dark hair pulled back tight, uniform pressed crisp. Name badge read Officer Reynolds. Behind her, another woman, younger, followed, holding a clipboard. This one wore a civilian admin outfit—slacks and a polo with the station logo. Her badge read T. Brooks, Intake Clerk.
“Stand up,” Reynolds said flatly.
Kyle complied, the chain between his wrists clinking against the bench.
“Charges are minor, but you were brought in on a warrant, which means full intake. That includes a strip search.” She said it like she was reading a weather report. “Officer protocol requires a witness present. Brooks is here for documentation.”
Kyle swallowed. “Strip search? For a parking ticket?”
“Unpaid warrant,” Reynolds corrected. “State law. Anyone brought in on a warrant gets processed. You can refuse, but that means you stay in holding until a judge reviews your case. Could be Monday. Today’s Thursday.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.”
Reynolds uncuffed him and set them on the table. “Remove your clothes. One item at a time. Place them on the table.”
Kyle pulled his shirt over his head. The air hit his bare skin, and he felt the first real flush of vulnerability. He was lean, not particularly built—average height, narrow shoulders. He kicked off his shoes and socks, then hesitated at his belt.
“Keep going,” Reynolds said. She stood with her arms crossed, watching without expression. Brooks stood beside her, pen poised over the clipboard.
He unbuckled, pushed his jeans down, and stepped out of them. Standing in just his boxers now, he instinctively kept his hands in front of him.
“Those too.”
Kyle hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down. His cock—soft, shriveled from nerves and the cold air—hung barely two inches from his body. The head poked out from a thin patch of dark pubic hair, his balls tight and small against his thigh. He’d always known he was small. Wasn’t something he advertised. Wasn’t something he could change. But standing bare under fluorescent lights in front of two fully dressed women, it was impossible to hide.
He placed his boxers on the table and stood there, naked, hands at his sides.
That’s when he saw it in the mirror.
Reynolds was standing slightly behind Brooks. Her eyes dropped to his crotch, and the corner of her mouth twitched. Then—subtle, barely perceptible—she held up her pinky finger. Just raised it slightly from her crossed arms, wiggling it once.
Brooks glanced at her, followed the gesture, and her lips pressed together hard. She looked down at the clipboard, but her shoulders were shaking. A silent laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek.
Kyle’s stomach dropped. His face went hot. He looked away, but the mirror was right there—he couldn’t avoid it. He could see them both reflected clearly. Reynolds was now making a face—eyebrows raised, lips pursed in an exaggerated “ooh” expression, the kind someone makes when they see something pathetically small. She mouthed a single word to Brooks: tiny.
Brooks snorted. She covered it with a cough. “Sorry. Allergies.”
Reynolds’ expression snapped back to neutral. “Lift your arms. Spread your fingers.”
Kyle raised his arms, feeling his groin fully exposed. His cock sat there like a thumb nub, completely soft, completely shriveled. He watched in the mirror as Brooks leaned slightly to get a better look, her eyes dropping down with undisguised curiosity. She wrote something on the clipboard, then angled it so Reynolds could see. Kyle caught a glimpse in the reflection.
She’d drawn a tiny circle with an arrow pointing to it and the words “LOL barely there” scrawled in the margin.
Reynolds exhaled through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Close enough.
“Turn around. Face the mirror. Hands on your head.”
Kyle turned. Now he was staring directly at their reflections. He couldn’t look away without closing his eyes entirely, and he didn’t want to draw more attention. So he watched.
Reynolds stepped closer behind him. “Spread your legs. Wider.”
He widened his stance. In the mirror, he could see himself from the front—pale, naked, his small package completely on display between his thighs. And behind him, Reynolds was looking down, her face visible over his shoulder in the reflection. She caught his eyes in the mirror and held them. Then she glanced down at his crotch, back up at his eyes, and smiled. Not a kind smile. A slow, knowing smirk.
“I’ve seen bigger ones on my nephew’s diaper changes,” she murmured. Just loud enough for him to hear. Just quiet enough to deny saying it.
Brooks let out a short, sharp laugh before catching herself. “Sorry. Sorry. Allergies.”
Kyle’s face burned. His cock, impossibly, seemed to shrink even further, pulling tight against his body. The humiliation hit him in waves—hot, prickling, spreading from his face down his chest to his stomach. And something else underneath it. Something he didn’t want to name. A tightness in his throat. A flutter low in his gut.
He was embarrassed. Humiliated. Exposed.
And he could feel himself getting half-hard. Not fully—his cock was too small for “fully” to mean much—but enough that the head jutted out slightly, twitching.
Reynolds noticed. Of course she noticed. Her eyes dropped, and her smirk widened. “Well. Someone’s enjoying himself.”
“I’m not—I’m not—” Kyle stammered.
“Relax. It happens.” She said it dismissively, like she was talking about a puppy getting excited. “Though usually it’s bigger when it does.”
Brooks lost it. She bent over the clipboard, shoulders heaving, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes. She tried to disguise it as more coughing, but it was useless.
“Brooks. Compose yourself,” Reynolds said, but she was fighting a grin now too.
Kyle stood there, naked, facing the mirror, watching two women laugh at his erection. His tiny, barely-there erection that didn’t even clear his thumb when he wrapped his hand around it. He should have been furious. Should have demanded a lawyer, a supervisor, someone.
Instead, his cock gave another small twitch.
“Okay.” Reynolds stepped back, professionalism sliding back into place like a mask. “Squat and cough.”
Kyle lowered himself into a squat. His legs spread, and in the mirror he could see everything—his small balls hanging barely an inch, his little cock sticking straight out like a stubby finger. He coughed. Nothing.
“Again. Deeper squat.”
He went lower. Coughed again. In the mirror, Brooks was watching openly now, pen forgotten. She tilted her head, studying his crotch like it was a curiosity in a museum. She held up her pinky too, wiggling it at Reynolds.
Reynolds nodded slowly. “Noted.”
Kyle stood back up. His face was crimson.
“You can get dressed,” Reynolds said, turning away.
Kyle grabbed his boxers and yanked them on as fast as he could. His hands were shaking. He dressed in silence while Reynolds filled out paperwork and Brooks—still pink-faced, still smirking—scribbled notes on her clipboard.
As he buckled his belt, Brooks tore a page off the clipboard and folded it. She slid it across the table toward him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Intake receipt. For your records.” Her eyes were bright, her voice steady. But on the folded paper, in neat handwriting, she’d written: If you ever want to be laughed at again, come back anytime. Ask for Officer Reynolds. She loves the little ones.
Kyle pocketed the note. His cock was still half-hard in his jeans.
Reynolds recuffed him and led him toward the door. As they stepped into the hallway, she leaned close to his ear.
“For what it’s worth,” she whispered, “it was cute. Like a little button.”
She patted him on the shoulder and walked him toward processing.
Kyle said nothing. But the note in his pocket felt heavy, and he was already thinking about coming back.
—
Round Two
Three weeks. That’s all it took.
Kyle sat on the same metal bench in what he was starting to think of as his room. Same fluorescent hum. Same bare walls. Same mirror. This time the charge was trespassing—he’d cut through the rail yard on his way home from work, and a transit cop had decided to make an example of him: another warrant, another full intake.
He told himself it was bad luck. Told himself he hadn’t been thinking about the note folded in his wallet, the one he’d read so many times the creases were wearing through. Told himself his hands weren’t sweating.
The door opened.
Reynolds walked in first—same crisp uniform, same dark ponytail, same flat expression. But something shifted behind her eyes when she saw him—a flicker of recognition, a slight narrowing. She remembered him.
“Kyle Davenport,” she said, reading from the file. “Back so soon.”
Behind her, Brooks stepped through the door. The intake clerk’s eyes found him immediately, and her face did something it shouldn’t have in a professional setting. She smiled. Wide. The kind of smile that said I was hoping it’d be you.
“Well,” Reynolds said, setting the file on the table. “You know the drill by now.”
Kyle stood. His throat was dry. “It was just trespassing. I was cutting through—”
“Don’t care. Warrant means full intake. Full intake means strip search.” She uncuffed him and set the restraints aside. “Brooks is here for documentation. Again.”
Brooks held up her clipboard. Tucked behind it, almost hidden, was the folded note he’d left with last time. She tapped it against the board and mouthed: Brought it for good luck.
Kyle’s stomach clenched. His face was already warm.
“Strip,” Reynolds said. “One piece at a time.”
He pulled his shirt off. The air hit his bare chest, and he felt the familiar prickle of exposure. Shoes and socks were placed on the table. Belt. Jeans. He stood in his boxers, and his hands trembled slightly as he hooked his thumbs in the waistband.
“Come on,” Brooks said. Not impatiently. Eagerly.
He pushed them down and stepped out.
His cock hung there—soft, barely two inches, shriveled from the cold and the nerves. His balls were tight, small, pulled close to his body. He stood with his hands at his sides, fully exposed, and waited.
Reynolds didn’t bother with subtlety this time.
She looked at his crotch, then at Brooks, then back at his crotch. “Yep. Still tiny.”
Brooks burst out laughing. Not a snort, not a suppressed giggle. A full, open laugh that bounced off the bare walls. She slapped the clipboard against her thigh. “Oh my God, I forgot how small it actually was. Look at that thing. It looks like a belly button with a little thumb sticking out.”
Kyle’s face went scarlet. His cock twitched—that involuntary, traitorous response he’d been dreading and hoping for in equal measure.
“He’s getting hard already,” Brooks said, pointing. “See? It’s twitching. That little nub is trying so hard.”
Reynolds stepped closer. She didn’t whisper this time. She spoke at full volume, her voice flat and clinical but with an edge of amusement that cut like a blade. “Kyle, I’m going to need you to lift your arms and face the mirror. We’ll conduct the visual inspection.”
He raised his arms. In the mirror, he saw himself—pale, naked, his small package on full display between his spread legs. Behind him, both women stood shoulder to shoulder, looking directly at his crotch.
“Holy shit,” Brooks said. “It’s even smaller than I remembered. Is that seriously as big as it gets soft?”
“That’s as big as it gets hard,” Reynolds said.
“You’ve seen it hard?” Brooks turned to her.
Reynolds smirked. “Last time. Barely made it past his knuckles. I’ve seen tampons bigger.”
Brooks howled. She doubled over, one hand on her knee, the other holding the clipboard out to keep from dropping it. “Tampons! Oh my God, Reynolds. Tampons.”
Kyle stood there, arms above his head, watching them in the mirror. His cock was responding despite every effort to will it down. It stiffened slowly, pathetically—pushing out to its full three inches, jutting from his body like a pinkie finger. His balls hung slightly looser now, but they were still small, still tight, still laughably inadequate against the backdrop of two fully clothed women openly mocking him.
“Look at that,” Brooks said, straightening up. She walked closer, studying his erection with open curiosity. She tilted her head left, then right. “That’s it, huh? That’s the whole thing?”
Kyle said nothing. His jaw was clenched.
“I asked you a question, Kyle.” Her voice was light, almost sweet. “Is that the whole thing, or is there more hiding somewhere?”
“That’s it,” he muttered.
Brooks turned to Reynolds. “Did he just confirm it? Did he just say that’s his full size?”
“He did.” Reynolds pulled out her phone and tapped the screen a few times. She held it up, showing Brooks something. “Size chart. Average erect male: five to five-and-a-half inches. Kyle’s erect measurement (visual estimate): three inches. Maybe three and a quarter if we’re generous.”
“Generous,” Brooks repeated, grinning. “We are not being generous.”
Kyle’s cock pulsed. A bead of precum formed at the tip, glistening under the fluorescent light.
“Oh!” Brooks pointed. “He’s leaking. The little guy is leaking. That’s so cute. It’s like a little faucet that barely works.”
Reynolds leaned in, examining the precum with clinical detachment. “Premature emission. Common in men with underdeveloped genitalia. The body compensates for inadequate size with heightened sensitivity.” She looked at Kyle’s face in the mirror. “Is that what’s happening, Kyle? Is your little dick too sensitive?”
He closed his eyes. “Please stop.”
“No. Turn around. Hands on your head. Face me.”
He turned. Reynolds stood directly in front of him now, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something clean and sharp. Her eyes dropped to his crotch, and she looked at his erection the way someone looks at a bug on a windshield.
“Three inches,” she said. “Maybe. And what—maybe an inch and a half around? That’s barely thicker than my thumb.” She held up her thumb next to his cock without touching it. Her thumb was bigger. “See? My thumb’s bigger than your dick, Kyle.”
Brooks appeared beside her, holding up her pinky. “My pinky’s bigger too. Look.” She lined her pinky up next to his cock, not touching it, just hovering. Her pinky was the same length. Maybe slightly longer. “Oh, my God. My pinky is literally bigger than his erection. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Kyle’s cock pulsed again. Another bead of precum rolled down the tip.
“He likes this,” Brooks said, watching the precum. “Look at him. He’s getting off on being told his dick is the size of a pinky.”
“I know,” Reynolds said. “He came back, didn’t he? Could’ve paid the ticket online. Could’ve avoided the warrant. But he trespassed through the rail yard because he knew it’d bring him back here.” She looked up at his face. “Didn’t you, Kyle?”
His silence was an answer.
Reynolds smiled. “Squat and cough.”
He lowered himself. His legs spread, and his small cock stuck straight out, twitching. His balls hung low between his thighs, barely visible. He coughed.
“Again. Deeper.”
He went lower. Coughed. In the mirror, he could see Brooks crouching down to eye level with his crotch, studying it like a specimen.
“His balls look like two acorns in a change purse,” she said. “I’ve seen grapes with more volume.”
Reynolds snorted. “Okay. Stand up.”
Kyle stood. His cock was still hard—three inches of pink, twitching, precum-slicked shame jutting from his body. Both women stared at it openly.
“You know,” Brooks said, tapping her pen against her lips, “I should document this properly. For the file.” She wrote something on the clipboard, then turned it around to show him.
In the intake notes section, she’d written: Subject presents with micropenis. Erect length visually estimated at 3 inches. Girth below average. Subject exhibited signs of arousal during inspection, including involuntary erection and seminal fluid emission. Subject’s penis is smaller than the documenting clerk’s pinky finger. Subject appears to derive sexual gratification from said observation.
Kyle read it. His cock pulsed.
“He’s twitching again,” Reynolds said.
“Of course he is. He’s reading about his own tiny dick, and he can’t help himself.” Brooks tore off a fresh page and wrote something else. She held it up: RECOMMENDATION: Subject should be required to submit to strip search upon every future intake, for his own benefit.
Reynolds read it and laughed. A real laugh, full and warm. “Approved.”
Kyle’s cock was leaking steadily now, a thin string of precum dangling from the tip. He was close. Not to orgasm—he hadn’t touched himself, and neither of them had touched him—but to something. Some edge of humiliation that made his whole body feel like it was vibrating.
Reynolds noticed. She stepped close—close enough that her uniform brushed his bare chest. She looked up at him, then down at his twitching cock, then back up.
“If you come on my floor,” she said quietly, “I’ll add a cleaning fee to your charges. And I’ll tell every officer in this building what you’re working with.” She paused. “Actually, I might do that anyway.”
Brooks grinned. “I already told dispatch. They think it’s hilarious.”
Kyle’s cock spasmed. A thick rope of cum shot from the tip—weak, barely traveling an inch before it dripped down his shaft and over his small balls. Then another spurt, thinner, oozing out and hanging in a string before dropping to the floor. His cock pulsed three more times, each producing less, until the last was just a dribble that ran down his length and pooled in his pubic hair.
He stood there, panting, covered in his own cum, his tiny cock already softening back to its shriveled state.
Both women stared at the mess.
“That was pathetic,” Brooks said. Not cruelly. Almost admiringly. “He came from being laughed at. Didn’t even touch himself. Just stood there while we made fun of his dick and he blew his load.”
Reynolds looked at the floor, then at Kyle. “You’re cleaning that up.”
She handed him a tissue from her pocket. He wiped himself off, then knelt and wiped the floor, his face burning, his cock hanging limp and spent between his thighs.
Brooks watched him clean on his hands and knees. She tore off the note page from the clipboard and folded it. She tucked it into his jeans on the table.
“New note,” she said. “Same invitation. But this time, we’re bringing a ruler.”
Reynolds raised an eyebrow. “And maybe a camera.”
Kyle finished cleaning up. He dressed in silence, hands still shaking. When he pulled the note from his jeans, he read it:
You came from being laughed at. That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen. Do it again. Ask for us. We’ll be waiting. — R & B
He folded it into his wallet, next to the first one.
Reynolds recuffed him and led him out. In the hallway, she leaned close.
“Three weeks,” she whispered. “That’s your pattern. I’ll see you in three weeks.” She paused. “Bring a smaller size next time. Oh wait—you can’t.”
Kyle said nothing. But as she walked him toward processing, he was already thinking about the rail yard. About cutting through it again. About getting caught.
Three weeks. Maybe two.
—
Two weeks this time. He didn’t even make it three.
Kyle sat on the metal bench, hands cuffed behind his back, staring at the mirror. He’d gotten caught in the rail yard again. Same spot, same fence he’d climbed over, same transit cop who’d recognized him on sight. The cop hadn’t even pretended to consider a warning. He’d just smiled and said, “Third time’s a charm, Davenport,” and hauled him in.
Kyle knew what he was doing. He’d known the first time, probably. The rail yard was just an excuse. The trespassing was just a door he kept knocking on because he liked what was on the other side.
The door opened.
Reynolds came through first—same uniform, same ponytail, same flat stare. But tonight there was something different in the set of her jaw. Something deliberate. She held the door open, and Brooks followed, clipboard tucked under her arm, pen behind her ear. Brooks was chewing gum, snapping it between her teeth, and when she saw Kyle sitting there in his jeans and t-shirt, she snapped it twice as loud.
“Well, well, well,” Brooks said. She didn’t smile. She looked almost disappointed, the way a cat looks when the mouse runs into the same corner for the third time. “Two weeks. Couldn’t even wait the full three.”
“Got eager,” Reynolds said. She set the file on the table and crossed her arms. “Couldn’t stay away.”
Kyle said nothing. His throat was dry. His palms were sweating behind the cuffs.
Reynolds studied him for a long moment. Then she uncuffed him and set the restraints on the table, same as before. But she didn’t step back. She stayed close, looking down at him.
“Kyle,” she said. Her voice was quiet. Almost gentle. “We need to talk about this.”
His stomach dropped. This wasn’t how it usually went. Usually there was the order, the strip, the mocking. The rhythm of it. This was something else.
“What?” he said.
Brooks pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. She crossed her legs, set the clipboard on the table, and leaned forward. Her gum snapped.
“Two weeks,” Brooks said. “You came back in two weeks. Last time was three. The time before that, you probably didn’t even know what you were doing. But now you know. And now we know.” She tapped the clipboard. “So let’s skip the part where we all pretend this is about a busted taillight or a fence you hopped.”
Kyle’s face was hot. “I don’t—”
“You do.” Reynolds pulled out the chair beside Brooks and sat. Two women, fully clothed, sitting across from a man in cuffs who hadn’t been told to strip yet. The power balance was so tilted he could feel it in his teeth. “You come here. You get arrested on purpose. You let us search you. You get hard when we laugh at you. You came on my floor last time without anyone touching you.” She paused. “You went home and read that note. How many times?”
Kyle swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
He looked at the table. “A lot.”
“How many is a lot?”
“Every night,” he said quietly.
Brooks snapped her gum. “Every night. You read a note about your tiny dick every single night for two weeks, and then you went out and got yourself arrested again.” She shook her head slowly. “That’s not a kink, Kyle. That’s a pilgrimage.”
Reynolds reached across the table and tilted his chin up with one finger. She looked at his face the way she’d looked at his cock—studying, appraising, cataloging.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “I’m going to give you a choice. First option: you strip; we search; we mock you; you leave with another note—same cycle. You come back in two weeks. Or one week. Or tomorrow. And it never stops, because you don’t want it to stop.”
She let go of his chin.
“Second option: you strip, and we do this for real.”
Kyle blinked. “What does that mean?”
Brooks uncrossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. She looked at Reynolds. Reynolds nodded.
“It means,” Brooks said, “that if you’re going to keep coming back here with that little thing between your legs, getting hard every time a woman tells you it’s small, then we’re done pretending this is a strip search.” She pulled the pen from behind her ear and tapped it against the clipboard. “It means you stop getting yourself arrested for trespassing and you start showing up on purpose. Not to booking. To us.”
Kyle’s heart was hammering. His cock was already hard in his jeans—three inches straining against the denim, a wet spot forming where the tip pressed. He could feel it. He knew they could see it.
Reynolds glanced at the wet spot on his jeans and smirked. “Already leaking. Pathetic.” The word hit him like a slap, and his cock throbbed. “See? You can’t help it. You’re wired for this. Every time someone tells you that thing is small, you get a little closer to the edge. And you’ve been sitting here for five minutes fully clothed, and you’re already soaking through your pants.”
She stood. Walked around the table. Stood behind him. He could feel her body heat against his back, could smell that same clean, sharp perfume.
“Strip,” she said. “Last time. After tonight, you don’t get arrested anymore. You just show up.”
Kyle stood on shaking legs. He pulled his shirt off. Shoes, socks. Unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down. The wet spot on his boxers was obvious—a dark circle where his cock had been leaking. Brooks pointed at it.
“Look at that. He’s been dripping since he sat down. That little thing is like a leaky faucet.” She snapped her gum. “Take them off.”
He pushed his boxers down and stepped out. His cock stood straight out from his body—three inches, rigid, twitching, the tip glistening with precum. His balls were tight and small, pulled up close. He stood naked in front of two seated women who were fully dressed and looking at his crotch like it was a punchline.
“Same little dick,” Brooks said. She didn’t laugh this time. She said it matter-of-factly, the way you’d note the weather. “Three inches. Leaking. Pathetic.” She wrote on the clipboard. “You know, I’ve documented this thing three times now, and it hasn’t grown once.”
Reynolds reached around from behind him and held her hand flat against his lower stomach, just above his cock. Her fingers pointed down. His cock didn’t reach her palm. It stopped short by a full inch.
“See that?” she said to Brooks. “Doesn’t even reach my hand. If I laid my palm flat against his body, his dick doesn’t touch it. It’s too short.”
Brooks stood and came closer. She held her hand flat against his stomach the same way. Same result. His cock fell short.
“Wow,” Brooks said. “That’s… actually really small. Like, I knew it was small, but seeing it next to an actual hand really puts it in perspective.” She held up her pinky next to his cock. “Pinky’s still bigger.”
“Thumb’s bigger,” Reynolds said. She held her thumb up. “Index finger’s bigger. Honestly, what isn’t bigger?”
Kyle was trembling. His cock pulsed, and another bead of precum oozed from the tip, hanging in a long string before dropping to the floor.
“He’s close again,” Brooks said. She was watching his cock the way someone watches a timer. “He’s going to blow. Look at it twitching.”
“Not yet.” Reynolds stepped back. “Turn around. Face the mirror. Hands on your head.”
He turned. In the mirror, he saw himself—naked, flushed, his small cock jutting out obscenely, the two women standing behind him. Reynolds reached into her pocket and pulled something out. A ruler. Clear plastic, twelve inches. She held it up next to his cock.
“Let’s settle this,” she said. She pressed the ruler against his body, the zero end at the base. His cock reached the three-inch mark. Barely. The tip quivered right at the line.
“Three inches,” Reynolds said. “Confirmed. Documented.”
Brooks wrote it down. “Three inches. Erect. Measured by ruler. Confirmed tiny.”
“Now the girth.” Reynolds wrapped a thin strip of paper around his cock. It barely made a full circle. She held it up. “Four inches circumference. That’s about one and a quarter inches across.” She looked at Brooks. “A quarter is one inch across.”
“So his dick is barely wider than a quarter,” Brooks said. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a quarter. She held it up next to his cock. The quarter was almost as wide. “Oh, my God. It’s almost the same. His dick is the width of a quarter.”
Kyle made a sound. A small, strangled noise in the back of his throat. His cock was bouncing now, twitching in rapid pulses, precum running down the shaft in a steady stream.
“He’s going to come,” Brooks said. She set the quarter on the table and picked up the clipboard, ready to document. “He’s going to come from a ruler and a quarter.”
Reynolds leaned close to his ear. “Do it,” she whispered. “Come for us. Show us what a three-inch dick looks like when it blows.”
Kyle’s whole body seized. His cock spasmed, and cum erupted from the tip—weak, thin, barely shooting an inch before it arced down and dripped onto the floor. Three more pulses, each producing less, until the last was just a slow ooze that rolled over the head and down his shaft, pooling in his pubic hair. His cock softened immediately, shrinking back to its resting two inches, wet and spent and pathetic.
Both women watched.
“Three inches,” Brooks said, writing. “Ejaculation achieved without physical contact. Stimulus: verbal humiliation and measurement. Volume: minimal. Distance: negligible.” She looked up. “Pathetic.”
Reynolds walked to the table and picked up a small card. She held it out to Kyle.
“Here,” she said. “This is for you.”
Kyle took it with shaking hands. It was a plain white card with an address, a time—9:00 PM Fridays—and a door code. Nothing else.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It’s the side entrance to the station,” Reynolds said. “Service door. Key code gets you in. Every Friday night, nine o’clock, Brooks and I are on desk duty. No one else uses this wing after eight.” She paused. “You show up. You strip. We do whatever we want with you. No arrest. No charges. No pretending.”
Brooks snapped her gum. “And we do mean whatever we want. You don’t get to ask for things. You don’t get to negotiate. You walk in, you take off your clothes, and you let us play with that little thing until we’re bored.”
Kyle looked at the card. His cock was already stirring again—just barely, a twitch, a thickening. Two inches becoming two and a half. Both women saw it.
“Already getting hard again,” Reynolds said. She shook her head. “Unbelievable.”
Brooks laughed. Not the full, open laugh of before. Something quieter. Almost fond. “He’s a little freak. A tiny-dicked little freak who can’t help himself.”
She tore a page off the clipboard and folded it. She tucked it into his jeans on the table.
“One more note,” she said. “For the road. For old time’s sake.”
Kyle dressed slowly. His hands were still shaking. He pulled the note from his jeans and read it:
This is the last one. No more notes. No more arrests. From now on, you come to us. You bring that tiny little thing, and you let us do what we want with it. You’ve been coming back because you can’t stay away. So stop pretending. Stop getting arrested. Just show up. Friday. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late. And Kyle—don’t wear underwear. It’s not worth the extra step. — R & B.
P.S. We’re bringing a measuring tape next time. And a camera. And maybe a friend.
Kyle folded the note and put it in his wallet with the other two. Three notes now. Three creased, worn, read-a-thousand-times notes.
Reynolds walked him to the door. She opened it, and the hallway stretched out ahead of him—fluorescent lights, linoleum floor, the exit sign glowing red at the far end.
“Friday,” she said.
“Friday,” he repeated.
She put her hand on his shoulder. The same gesture as the first time. But this time she squeezed, and her hand slid down to his chest, resting over his heart. It was pounding.
“Your heart’s going a mile a minute,” she said. “Like a rabbit.” She leaned close. “I like that. I like that you’re scared and you’re still going to show up.”
She let go. Stepped back. The door began to close.
“Hey, Kyle,” Brooks called from inside the room. He turned. She was standing by the table, clipboard under her arm, gum snapping. She held up her pinky.
“See you Friday, little guy.”
The door shut.
Kyle walked down the hallway toward the exit. He could feel the card in his wallet, pressed against the notes. Three notes and a door code. A schedule. A standing invitation to walk into a room and take off his clothes and let two women tell him, over and over, that his cock was too small to matter.
He pushed through the exit door and the night air hit him. Cold. Clear. He stood on the sidewalk and breathed.
Friday. Four days away.
He drove home with the windows down, the cold air on his face, the card burning a hole in his wallet. He showered. He ate. He got into bed. He pulled out his wallet and read all three notes, one after another, laid out on his chest in the dark.
He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. He just read them, and his small cock lay against his thigh, twitching occasionally, leaking a little, and he thought about Friday. About the service door. About the code. About Reynolds standing behind him and Brooks sitting across from him and both of them looking at his three inches and laughing.
He fell asleep with the notes on his chest and the card in his hand.
Four days.
He made it three.
The End.
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