*****

Part 3…

After Kyoko tattooed the word “Tiny” just above my babydick, Betty, my best friend, added Chloe to the group chat, along with Kyoko, Page, Christy, and herself. Chloe, my little sister Jodie’s best friend, was now in on the secret. She had managed to make me cum simply by holding my cock between two of her fingers, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the next step would be. All I knew was that it would be with Page. She was by far the kindest of the group, always ready with a joke. And of course, she didn’t hold back when Kyoko and Chloe shared the video where they got me to admit how much I loved being treated like a sissy—my dicklette caught between Chloe’s fingers—just before I let out a small pearl of cum, smiling from ear to ear.

I was already at Page’s door. My heart raced as I knocked softly, my mind replaying the embarrassing video and Chloe’s teasing words: “I think Page should be next to play with Liam’s little cock.” Page opened the door, her short red dyed hair tousled and a bright smile lighting up her face. She wore nothing but a tight, black yoga outfit that hugged every curve of her fit body. Her toned legs and flat stomach were on full display, the fabric clinging so tightly I could see the outline of her nipples. She looked effortlessly sexy, and I felt my tiny dick twitch in my pants, knowing how ridiculous it would look if she saw it.

My eyes traveled down her body, starting with her bare feet—small and neat, toenails painted a vibrant pink. They led up to slender ankles and calves that flexed with subtle muscle as she shifted her weight. Her thighs were powerful yet smooth, disappearing into the tight fabric of her leggings, which rode low enough to reveal a hint of hip bone. Her waist was narrow, leading to a firm, athletic torso that tapered into strong shoulders and arms. The yoga top was cropped, showing off her toned midriff and the soft curve of her breasts beneath the stretchy material.

Finally, I reached her face. That iconic red hair, messy and boyish, framed bright, mischievous eyes that crinkled at the corners as she grinned. Her nose was slightly upturned, dotted with freckles, and her lips were full and curved in a playful smirk. She radiated warmth and energy, but there was a sharp intelligence there too—like she could read every nervous thought racing through my head. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting me take her in. “See something you like, Liam?” she teased, her voice light but carrying an edge that made my stomach flip.

I nodded without thinking, a dumb, automatic response. Page threw her head back and laughed—a rich, genuine sound that filled the hallway. “Good answer! Come on,” she said, turning and padding barefoot down the hall. “We’re gonna do a little yoga session. Clear the mind, stretch the body…” She paused, glancing over her shoulder with a wicked gleam. “…and maybe explore some tiny new perspectives.” My face flushed hot as I followed her into her bedroom, the scent of lavender and clean sweat hanging in the air.

Page rummaged through a sleek chest of drawers, her toned back muscles shifting beneath the sheer fabric of her top. She pulled out something small, folded neatly in shimmering blue fabric. “Here,” she said, her voice softening unexpectedly as she turned and held it out. It was a leotard, the same electric blue as her eyes, with thin straps and a high-cut leg. “This was mine from gymnastics, years ago. Should fit you.” Her gaze wasn’t teasing anymore; it held a strange, almost protective warmth. “Put it on. Let’s see how it looks.”

I took the silky material, my fingers trembling slightly. The intimacy of wearing her old leotard, something that had hugged her body, felt more exposing than being naked. I stripped down quickly, avoiding her eyes as I stepped into the cool blue fabric. It pulled snugly over my thighs, the thin material clinging everywhere, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. My pathetic 1.7 inches was clearly outlined, a humiliating nub against the vibrant blue. Page watched me, her head tilted, that affectionate look deepening as a small, genuine smile touched her lips. “Perfect,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “Just perfect for you, Liam.”

Before I could even process the compliment, or the overwhelming vulnerability, her expression shifted back to its usual playful spark. “Now,” she clapped her hands once, the sound sharp in the quiet room, “Guests are waiting in the living room.” My blood ran cold. Guests? Here? Now? She saw the panic flood my face and chuckled, stepping closer. “Don’t worry, they’re very excited to see you. Especially in your new outfit.” She gave my shoulder a light, almost reassuring squeeze that did nothing to calm the frantic pounding in my chest.

She guided me, barefoot on the cool hardwood floor, towards the living room door. I could already hear muffled laughter, a sound I recognized instantly. My knees felt weak. Page pushed the door open wide, revealing Sandra perched on the arm of the sofa, her undyed short hair a stark contrast to Page’s vibrant red, her grin wide and expectant. Next to her sat Joey, my rival colleague, looking effortlessly chic and coolly amused, one eyebrow arched as her gaze travelled down my body. And standing by the window, leaning against the frame with an air of detached curiosity, was Laura Finel. My former biology teacher. Her stunning black and green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the tiny bulge outlined in electric blue spandex between my legs.

They were all dressed for yoga. Sandra wore bright orange leggings and a matching cropped top, her toned abs on display. Joey was in sleek black, the fabric hugging her slim frame, a subtle sheen making her look sculpted and dangerous. Laura, devastatingly gorgeous even in casual wear, had opted for deep emerald green leggings and a matching sports bra, the colour making her eyes look impossibly intense. The air crackled with their collective presence, a wave of confident femininity and sharp awareness washing over me. Four pairs of eyes, amused, curious, and appraising, locked onto my trembling form clad in Page’s tiny leotard.

They spoke as if they hadn’t noticed the humiliating outline against the thin blue fabric. “Liam! So glad you could join us,” Sandra chirped, her voice bright and cheerful, bouncing slightly on the sofa arm as if discussing the weather. “Page said you were game for some partner stretches.” Joey gave a cool, professional nod, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Excellent. Flexibility is key to avoiding workplace injuries, Liam.” Laura remained silent, her gaze unwavering but distant, almost analytical, as if studying a specimen under glass rather than my exposed, minuscule bulge. Page nudged me gently forward into the centre of the room. “We thought we’d start with some deep breathing exercises,” she announced, her tone warm and encouraging, completely ignoring my obvious distress. “Ground yourself, Liam. Find your centre.” My centre felt like a frozen pea trapped in spandex.

I turned to Page, my voice barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of their amused stares. “They know? About… everything?” The tattoo, the video, the pathetic size of me? Page didn’t answer. Just winked. Her red hair caught the afternoon light as she tilted her head, that familiar playful spark dancing in her eyes. It was a silent confirmation wrapped in mischief, making my stomach drop. Her wink said it all—they knew, they’d seen, and this was just the beginning. She patted the mat beside hers, the gesture both inviting and inescapable. “Don’t overthink it,” she murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “Just breathe.” But all I could manage were shallow, panicked gasps, my pulse thundering in my ears as Sandra giggled softly.

We settled onto our mats, the cool hardwood biting into my knees through the thin leotard. Page guided us into a simple seated twist, her voice calm and steady—a stark contrast to the tension thickening the air. Sandra twisted gracefully, her orange leggings stretching taut over her thighs as she sighed dramatically. “Ugh, my glutes are screaming after that spin class yesterday,” she announced, rolling her shoulders. Joey hummed in agreement, her sleek black outfit making her look like a shadow as she stretched her long legs. “Mine too. Though I find a good foam roller helps.” Laura remained silent, her emerald eyes fixed on the far wall, but her posture was unnervingly perfect, every muscle controlled. No one looked directly at me, yet I felt their awareness like a physical touch. My tiny cock felt impossibly obvious beneath the electric blue spandex, a trapped, shameful secret on display.

We flowed into cat-cow, arching and rounding our spines. Page’s breath echoed beside me, deep and rhythmic. “You know,” Sandra chirped suddenly, sinking into cow pose, her voice light and conversational, “I saw the cutest little keychain downtown. Tiny, like… smaller than my pinky nail. Just adorable.” She giggled, the sound bouncing off the walls. Joey smoothly transitioned into cat, her spine a perfect curve. “Miniature things do have a certain… charm,” she remarked dryly, her gaze flickering almost imperceptibly towards my mat. “Practicality is another matter, of course.” Laura finally spoke, her voice as kind and measured as I remembered from biology lectures, though her words landed with cold precision. “Size matters,” she observed, her green eyes briefly meeting mine as I rounded my back, feeling utterly exposed. “In nature, diminutive forms frequently serve highly specialized, if… modest, roles.” My face burned. They weren’t talking about keychains or nature. They were talking about me, circling the humiliation without naming it.

We moved into downward dog, bodies forming inverted V’s. The stretch pulled at my hamstrings, but the real tension was the suffocating awareness of four women looming around me. “Remember that viral video?” Sandra asked from her mat, her voice slightly muffled. “The one with the micro-piglet wearing the teeny hat? Utterly precious. Could fit in a teacup.” Page chuckled, her hands planted firmly. “Oh, absolutely. Some things are just… made to be small. Almost designed for it.” Joey chimed in, her tone laced with her trademark kind sarcasm. “Indeed. Oversized expectations are so… unnecessary. And frankly, a bit vulgar.” Laura held her pose perfectly still, a statue in emerald. “Small things can be cute,” she stated quietly. “But also embarrassing,” her eyes drifted downwards towards my straining leotard for a fraction of a second, “true men know what I mean.” Each word, each innocent observation, felt like a scalpel peeling back a layer of my dignity. They were dissecting my shame in code.

My gaze, desperate for escape, flickered downwards, landing on their feet. Page’s bare soles were inches from my face, the skin smooth and dusted with fine sand from her walk earlier, her pink-polished toes flexing slightly against the mat. Next to her, Sandra’s feet in her bright orange leggings were small and neat, resting lightly on the floor, radiating an effortless grace. Joey’s sleek black-clad feet were positioned with precise, professional alignment, the arch high and strong, conveying a quiet, intimidating power. And Laura’s, visible beneath the emerald green leggings, were elegant and pale, the toes perfectly straight – the feet of someone utterly in command. Each pair was flawless, a stark, silent counterpoint to my own trembling vulnerability and the ludicrous bulge straining against the thin blue fabric. Their perfection was a physical weight pressing down on me.

The pose shifted. We lowered onto our bellies for cobra. As my chest pressed against the mat, the leotard stretched tighter, pulling the fabric taut over my pathetic outline. Sandra let out a soft sigh beside me. “Oh! That reminds me,” she began, her voice bright and airy, effortlessly cutting through the heavy silence. “I bumped into Chloe this morning at the coffee cart. Poor thing was practically vibrating, she was so full of news.” Sandra lifted her chest higher, arching her back gracefully. “She had the most interesting chat. Couldn’t wait to share it.” My breath hitched, the stretch forgotten. Chloe. News. My mind raced – the tattoo, the video, the humiliating admission? Page glanced at me, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp, watching my reaction like a hawk.

Sandra continued, her tone light but deliberate. “She was telling me all about this… experience she had,” she paused, savoring the word, “with something remarkably tiny. Said it was almost unbelievable. So small, yet so… responsive.” Joey let out a soft, knowing hum from her mat, her gaze fixed on the ceiling as she held the pose. “Responsive? That implies a certain level of functionality, Sandra,” she remarked, her voice cool and professional. “Though I imagine the scale requires rather… specific techniques.” Laura remained silent, but her emerald eyes flickered towards my exposed backside for a fleeting second. Sandra giggled. “Oh, absolutely! Chloe was quite graphic about the techniques she used. Just two fingers, apparently. Said it was like coaxing a little pearl.” The heat in my face was scalding. She wasn’t just talking about me; she was describing the act, the feeling, the size, to the entire room.

“And the most fascinating part?” Sandra continued, lowering her chest back towards the mat before pushing up again, her orange leggings stretching. “She swore she never saw someone just… leak like that. Without any stroking at all. Just being held.” Her words hung in the lavender-scented air, sharp and precise. “Imagine that. Just the pressure of being contained. That’s all it took.” Page shifted beside me, her breathing steady, but I felt the weight of her attention. Joey uncrossed her ankles, stretching one leg out long and lean. “Precocious release,” she murmured, almost clinically. “Often a sign of heightened sensitivity. Or… significant constraint.” Laura finally spoke, her voice a low, velvet murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. “Especially delicate ones.” Their dissection was clinical, relentless. They were mapping my humiliation with scientific detachment.

My body betrayed me completely. The vivid descriptions, the casual dissection, the overwhelming presence of these four stunning women, all focused on my shame – it was too much. A familiar, terrifying pressure built low in my groin, intense and undeniable. My pathetic 1.7 inches strained against the electric blue spandex, harder than it had ever been, throbbing with a frantic pulse I was certain everyone could see. The fabric felt impossibly thin, stretched taut over the rigid nub. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to breathe, to think of anything else – cold showers, tax forms, decaying leaves – but it was useless. The leotard was a second skin, revealing everything. And then it happened. A single, warm bead of precum seeped from the tip, escaping the tight confines of the fabric, leaving a tiny, unmistakable wet spot on the vibrant blue, glistening under the room’s light. Mortification washed over me in a scalding wave. I froze, mid-cobra, praying it was invisible.

Laura Finel’s sharp intake of breath cut through the room’s tension like a knife. Her stunning black and green eyes, previously distant and analytical, snapped down to my groin with laser focus. A slow, knowing smile curved her full lips, devoid of malice but filled with detached, scientific fascination. “Oh my,” she murmured, her voice soft, melodic, and impossibly clear in the sudden silence. She didn’t point, didn’t gesture, simply tilted her head, her gaze fixed on the damp spot. “It appears our delicate Liam is having a baby boner.” Her words, delivered with the same kind precision she’d once used to explain mitosis, hung in the air. “A clear, viscous fluid. Precum, I believe.” Sandra’s head whipped around, her eyes wide with gleeful shock. Joey’s coolly amused expression deepened into something sharper, more intrigued. Page, beside me, let out a soft, almost sympathetic sigh, her playful spark momentarily dimmed by the raw exposure.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Sandra was the first to break it, scrambling off her mat with surprising agility. She closed the distance between us in two quick strides, crouching down beside my trembling form still frozen in cobra. Her bright orange leggings were eye-level now, her gaze intense and curious. “Laura’s right,” Sandra breathed, her voice hushed but carrying across the room. “Look, it’s… it’s beading.” Her finger hovered, an inch from the damp blue fabric, tracing the tiny, glistening droplet without touching. “Just like Chloe described. So small… so precise.” She looked up at me, her expression a mix of genuine wonder and merciless amusement. “Does it… feel like that all the time? Like you’re just… waiting to spill?” Her question, innocent and devastating, stripped away any last shred of dignity.

I couldn’t look at her, or Joey’s cool appraisal, or Laura’s detached fascination. My eyes found Page. Her red hair was a messy halo against the afternoon light filtering through the window, her face unusually still, the playful spark replaced by a quiet intensity. Something about her stillness, the lack of mockery in that moment, cracked me open. The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, my voice trembling like my body. “It’s… it’s not waiting,” I stammered, staring into her blue eyes. “It’s… terrified. And… ashamed. But also… god, Page, it’s… hungry? Like this awful, desperate need to be seen, to be… proven. Proven that it’s real, that it can… do something. Even just… leak.” I swallowed hard, the confession burning my throat. “It feels like this tiny, burning knot of panic and… and wanting. All the time. Especially now. With you all watching. Knowing.”

Joey’s sharp, delighted laugh shattered the heavy silence first. It wasn’t cruel, exactly, but rich with the kind of sarcastic amusement she wielded like a scalpel. “Oh, Liam,” she chuckled, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, her gaze locked on the damp spot. “‘Hungry’? ‘Desperate need to be proven’? That’s… unexpectedly poetic.” She shook her head, a wry grin playing on her lips. “You always did have a unique way of framing workplace challenges.” Sandra immediately dissolved into bright, tinkling giggles, clapping her hands together once. “Terrified and hungry!” she echoed, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet where she crouched beside me. “That’s adorable! Like a scared little mouse that wants cheese! Oh, Liam, you are too much!” She wiped imaginary tears from her eyes, her orange-clad shoulders shaking with mirth.

Laura Finel simply smirked, a cool, elegant curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her distant, green eyes. She uncrossed her ankles and rose smoothly from her mat, brushing non-existent lint from her emerald leggings. “It’s too much,” she declared, her voice still kind, still measured, but the detachment was now laced with a distinct, almost clinical condescension. “The vulnerability. The… earnestness.” Her gaze swept over me, lingering on the leotard. “Frankly, Liam, it borders on the biologically pathetic. But,” she added, the smirk deepening, “undeniably fascinating. A case study in miniature inadequacy.”

Joey threw her head back and laughed, loud and sharp – a sound like breaking glass. It filled the room, bouncing off the walls, utterly devoid of warmth. “Pathetic? Oh, Laura, don’t be cruel,” she managed between chuckles, though her eyes, dark and gleaming, held nothing but cruel amusement. She pushed herself up with effortless grace, circling my frozen form like a predator. “I think ‘uniquely disadvantaged’ is more accurate. And ‘hungry’! My god, Liam, that’s the funniest damn thing I’ve heard all quarter.” Sandra dissolved into fresh peals of delighted giggles beside me, rocking back on her heels, her orange leggings a blur of bright mockery. “Terrified mouse wants cheese!” she squealed, pointing a finger that trembled with laughter, her eyes crinkled shut in pure, merciless delight. “Perfect! Just perfect!”

The heat radiating from my face felt like it could ignite the mat beneath me. Laura’s cool smirk, Joey’s circling, Sandra’s pointing finger – it was a whirlwind of humiliation. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. Then, a gentle pressure on my head. Page’s hand. Her fingers slid softly through my hair, a startling contrast to the cacophony of laughter. I flinched instinctively, bracing for another blow. But her touch remained, steady and surprisingly tender. “Shhh,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing, cutting through the noise. The laughter didn’t stop, but it seemed to recede slightly, muffled by the sudden intimacy of her gesture. “Look at me, Liam.”

I forced my eyes open, meeting hers. Page’s blue gaze held none of the mockery swirling around us. Instead, there was a deep, knowing softness, a flicker of something almost protective. Her thumb brushed my temple. “It’s okay,” she whispered, leaning in so close I could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose. “This is all part of it. Exactly what we wanted.” Her words landed softly, yet carried the weight of revelation. We. Not just her. The collective. The plan. Her smile wasn’t playful now; it was gentle, conspiratorial, an anchor in the storm. “Seeing you like this… open, honest, needy…” Her gaze flickered down towards the damp blue fabric for a split second before returning to mine, intense. “It’s perfect. Just as we hoped.”

The laughter behind us faltered. Sandra’s giggles subsided into a curious hum. Joey’s predatory circling halted, her sharp eyes narrowing as she watched Page’s intimate gesture. Laura remained standing by her mat, her earlier smirk fading into an expression of cool, analytical interest. The shift was palpable – the raw amusement giving way to something more focused, more deliberate. Page’s hand stayed in my hair, grounding me. “Breathe, Liam,” she instructed softly, her voice steady and calm despite the charged atmosphere. “Deep breaths. Fill your lungs.” I obeyed, gulping air that tasted faintly of lavender and something sharper, like anticipation. My tiny cock still throbbed against the spandex, the wet spot a cold brand of shame, but Page’s touch was a lifeline.

Without warning, her free hand darted down. Her fingers, warm and surprisingly strong, hooked into the taut blue fabric at my hip. I gasped, my entire body tensing. “W-what?” I stammered, panic flaring anew. Page didn’t hesitate. With a swift, practiced tug, she peeled the shimmering leotard down past my trembling thighs. The cool air of the room rushed over my exposed skin, a shocking contrast to the suffocating pressure of the spandex. And there it was – my pathetic 1.7 inches, fully erect, glistening with a single bead of precum at the tip, utterly exposed. Page’s gaze didn’t leave mine, her expression softening further into something almost maternal. “There,” she murmured, her thumb still stroking my temple. “No more hiding.”

Her voice lifted then, clear and calm, cutting through the stunned silence that had fallen over Sandra, Joey, and Laura. “Everyone,” Page announced, her tone gentle but firm, commanding attention. “Look.” She didn’t gesture, didn’t point. Her words were the command. “Look at Liam. Look at his shame. His truth.” My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. The sheer vulnerability was paralyzing – my tiny, throbbing erection laid bare under the unforgiving light, surrounded by these four powerful women. I squeezed my eyes shut again, unable to face their scrutiny, the heat in my face a furnace. Page’s hand remained steady in my hair, anchoring me to the spot, forcing me to endure. “See how it trembles?” she continued softly, almost reverently. “See how it burns?”

A soft, collective intake of breath filled the room. I cracked my eyes open. Sandra was leaning forward, her orange-clad knees pressing into the mat, her expression no longer mocking but wide-eyed with raw, fascinated curiosity. Her gaze was fixed, unblinking, on my exposed groin. Joey stood perfectly still, her professional cool momentarily fractured, replaced by an intense, analytical focus that swept over me like a physical touch. Laura Finel’s lips parted slightly, her green eyes narrowed with that detached, biological interest I remembered so well from her lectures. “Fascinating,” Laura murmured, her voice low and measured, devoid of cruelty now, only pure observation. “My son is bigger, and he is only 10.” Her gaze drifted upwards, meeting mine for a fleeting, chilling moment. “And the precum… a true loser.”

Page’s thumb continued its soft, rhythmic circles on my temple, her other hand resting lightly on my bare hip. “He’s beautiful like this, isn’t he?” she said, her voice a gentle murmur that somehow carried across the silent room. “So… honest. So completely open.” Sandra nodded slowly, her earlier giggles vanished, replaced by a hushed awe. “It’s… really tiny,” she whispered, her voice trembling with something like reverence. “Smaller than I pictured. But… so hard. Look how it pulses.” Joey took a single, deliberate step closer, her shadow falling over me. “The angle is poor,” she observed clinically, her tone sharp. “The shaft is practically nonexistent. Just a… swollen tip. Like an overgrown clitoris.” She tilted her head, a strand of brown hair falling across her cheek. “How does it even function?”

Laura Finel crouched gracefully beside Sandra, her emerald eyes fixed on my throbbing 1.7 inches. She didn’t touch, didn’t move, just studied it with the intensity of a biologist examining a rare specimen. “The precum,” she noted quietly, her voice devoid of judgment, pure observation. “It’s welling again. Without stimulation. Just the exposure.” Page smiled down at me, her blue eyes warm and encouraging. “Exactly, Laura. Exposure.” Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on my hip. “And anticipation. That’s all it takes for him.” She leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. “You feel it, don’t you, Liam? That pressure? That… desperate little throb? It’s building. I can see it. You’re going to cum. Right here. Right now. Without anyone touching you. Just from us watching. Just from the shame.”

My stomach clenched. “No,” I choked out, shaking my head, my voice a raw scrape. “I don’t… I don’t want to…” The denial was instinctive, useless. Page’s laugh was soft, musical, and utterly devoid of malice. “Oh, Liam,” she chuckled, her thumb tracing the shell of my ear. “You adorable liar. You absolutely do want to. You’re starving for it. To prove just how responsive your little pearl really is.” She glanced up at Sandra, her smile turning conspiratorial. “Sandra, sweetie? Grab your phone. I think Liam’s about to give us a very special demonstration. The others will want to see this.” Sandra’s eyes lit up with gleeful understanding. “Oh! Yes! Absolutely!” she chirped, scrambling to her feet and fumbling in her leggings pocket. “The full HD reveal! Chloe will die!”

Panic surged, cold and sharp. I tried to twist away, to hide my throbbing shame, but Page’s grip on my hair and hip tightened like steel bands. “Shhh, shhh,” she soothed, her voice honeyed poison. “Resist. Please. Squirm. Fight it. The more you struggle, the funnier it is when you lose. And you will lose.” Her eyes held mine, blue and intense. “We all know it. Watch his face, Laura. See the panic? The absolute terror mixed with that desperate, hungry need? It’s textbook.” Laura leaned in, her emerald eyes dissecting my expression with cool precision. “Indeed. The autonomic response is fascinating. Pupils dilated, respiration shallow and rapid… classic fight-or-flight overlaid onto a sexual arousal state. Quite the spectacle.”

Page chuckled, low and rich. “Okay, Liam,” she purred, nodding towards Sandra who was already holding her phone up, the red recording light glaring like an accusing eye. “Tell the nice camera how much you don’t want this. How hard you’re fighting it. Be dramatic! Sell it!” She squeezed my hip again, her thumb pressing near the base of my tiny, exposed cock. “Go on. Tell the camera you’re resisting with all your might. Swear you won’t cum.” My mouth opened, but only a strangled gasp emerged. The pressure was unbearable, a white-hot coil tightening low in my groin. I could feel the tremors starting deep inside, radiating outwards. “I… I am resisting!” I finally choked out, my voice cracking, my eyes wide with genuine, frantic fear. “I don’t want to! I’m fighting it! Please!” The words felt hollow, ridiculous, even as I said them. Joey snorted. “He’s even worse at lying than he is at growing a proper dick.”

Laura leaned closer, her face a mask of detached fascination inches from my straining erection. “Observe the rapid engorgement,” she murmured, her tone clinical. “The glans is flushing a deep, almost painful-looking crimson. Fascinating vascular response for such a… minimal structure. The precum is pooling significantly now.” Sandra zoomed in with her phone, her breath catching. “Oh, wow, Laura’s right! It’s like… beading up constantly! Look at the shine!” The cool air, their focused stares, Page’s relentless commentary – it was too much. A violent tremor wracked my whole body. “Oh god,” I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut, tears of humiliation burning behind my lids. “It’s… it’s happening…” My tiny cock felt like it was vibrating against my lower belly, impossibly hard and impossibly small.

Page’s grip on my hair tightened, pulling my head back. “Open your eyes, Liam,” she commanded, her voice sharp yet still carrying that terrifying gentleness. “Watch them watch you. Watch Sandra film your pathetic little surrender.” I forced my eyes open just as the first pulse hit – not an explosion, but a weak, pathetic spurt, a single thick rope of pearly white that arced maybe an inch before landing hot and sticky on my own trembling stomach. A strangled sob escaped me. “There it is!” Sandra squealed, her phone buzzing with the zoom. “Got it! Oh my god, it’s so… small! Like a little squirt gun!”

Joey crouched beside Laura, her gaze analytical. “So little,” she noted dryly. “And it doesn’t shrink. Look at it – still fully erect, still leaking.” Laura nodded, her green eyes fixed on the mess on my belly. “The emission seems disproportionate to the erection’s maintained rigidity. Highly inefficient. Almost comically so.” Page chuckled, her thumb tracing the shell of my ear again. “See, Liam? Proof. You couldn’t hold back for thirty seconds once we really looked. Your hungry little pearl just had to show off. Pathetic. But perfect.” She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear. “How did it feel? That tiny little pop? Was it everything you needed?”

Sandra lowered her phone, grinning. “Got the whole thing! The shaky gasp, the pitiful squirt, the way your whole body clenched like a scared shrimp!” She tapped her screen rapidly. “Sending it to the group chat right now. Chloe’s gonna flip!” My stomach dropped. I could imagine the notifications flooding in – Christy, Betty, everyone. Page squeezed my hip. “Relax,” she murmured, though her eyes gleamed. “This is your moment. Your truth. Shared.” A notification ping echoed from Sandra’s phone, then another, and another. Sandra giggled. “Betty says ‘It’s perfect bestie!’ Christy just sent three crying-laughing emojis. Oh! Chloe replied!” She held up the screen: a screenshot of Chloe’s text: ‘Told u he leaks like a faucet. Cute little sprinkler.’ The humiliation was a physical wave, washing over me, leaving me shivering and exposed on the mat.

Page’s grip loosened slightly. She leaned back, surveying me – my tear-streaked face, the pathetic cum splatter on my stomach, my tiny, still-throbbing erection. “Okay,” she said, her voice shifting to a practical, almost gentle tone. “Enough of this for now.” With surprising care, she peeled the shimmering blue leotard completely off my legs and tossed it aside. The sudden, total nakedness was another layer of vulnerability. “Stand up, Liam,” she instructed softly. My legs trembled violently, but I managed to push myself upright, standing naked before the four women who watched me with varying expressions – Sandra’s bright curiosity, Joey’s sharp assessment, Laura’s cool detachment, and Page’s unnerving gentleness.

Page moved gracefully to the center of the room, sinking onto her own yoga mat. She extended one leg, then the other, resting her heels on the floor, her perfect, high-arched feet flexed towards me. “Come here,” she murmured, patting the space on the mat directly in front of her feet. I shuffled forward, my gaze fixed on the floor, the cool air prickling my exposed skin. “Kneel,” she said, the command gentle but absolute. I sank to my knees on the soft mat, the position feeling both submissive and strangely intimate. Page tilted her head, her blue eyes studying me intently. “Now,” she began, her voice low and calm. “I want you to kiss my feet. Gently. Show your appreciation.” Her gaze swept towards the others. “And after you kiss each of mine, you’ll move to Sandra, then Joey, then Laura. And for each one… you will tell us what you truly think about them. Honestly. No holding back.”

I leaned forward, my trembling lips meeting the smooth, warm skin of her right instep. The scent of clean sweat and lavender oil filled my senses as I pressed a soft, lingering kiss. It felt foreign, humbling, yet a strange current of connection pulsed through me. Pulling back slightly, I kept my head bowed. My voice was a raw whisper. “Page… you’re… electric. You make everything feel alive, even when it hurts. You see through everything, and you don’t look away. It’s terrifying. And… magnetic.” A soft, satisfied hum escaped her. “Good. Now the other one.” I kissed her left foot, the arch even higher, the skin impossibly soft. “And?” she prompted. I swallowed. “You… you orchestrated this. All of it. You knew exactly how to peel me open. And you enjoy it. Not just the cruelty… but the… intimacy of the control. It’s like a game you play perfectly.”

Page nudged me gently towards Sandra with her bare toe. I shuffled on my knees across the mat, the cool wood floor biting into my skin. Sandra watched me approach, her expression bright with anticipation, her legs crossed casually, her orange-clad feet resting on the mat. I bent down, kissing the top of her right foot, tasting faint salt and fabric softener. “Sandra,” I breathed, my face still close to her foot. “You’re… the spark. The instant reaction. You laugh, and it makes everything feel… lighter, even when it’s cruel.” I kissed her left foot. “But it’s… sharp. Your joy cuts. It finds the rawest spot and digs in. It’s not mean… just… relentless. And you love sharing it.” Sandra beamed, a delighted giggle bubbling up. “Oh, I do! And you’re so cute when you squirm!”

I turned towards Joey. She sat perfectly upright, her slim legs stretched out, her brown hair framing a face set in cool appraisal. Kneeling before her, I felt dissected before I even touched her. I pressed my lips to her instep, the skin smooth and cool. “Joey,” I murmured against her foot. “You’re… the scalpel. Precise. Cutting. You see the flaw instantly.” I kissed her other foot. “Your sarcasm isn’t just jokes. It’s… assessment. You measure everyone, find their weakness, and then… poke it. Just enough to test. To see how deep the failure goes. Mine… is obvious.” Joey’s lips curved into a thin, satisfied smile. “Observant,” she stated dryly. “For once. Though ‘obvious’ hardly covers the depth of yours.”

Finally, I shuffled towards Laura Finel. She reclined gracefully, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, those unsettling green eyes fixed on me with detached interest. Her feet were bare, perfect, resting on the mat. My throat tightened. I bent, pressing a trembling kiss to her right arch, inhaling the faint scent of chalk and something floral. “Laura,” I whispered, my voice cracking. The memory of a thousand stolen fantasies flooded me. “In high school… every night… for years.” I kissed her left foot, lingering, the admission burning my tongue. “I jerked off to you. To your voice, your laugh, the way you’d lean over my desk. I imagined… impossible things. Your hands. Your mouth. On me.” The shame was molten. “Even though… even though I knew it was pathetic. That I was… nothing. That my cock was too small to even fantasize about touching you properly.”

Laura didn’t pull her foot away. Her cool fingers traced the shell of my ear, mimicking Page’s earlier gesture, but her touch held no comfort, only clinical curiosity. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice a low hum like distant machinery. “I knew. The flush on your neck when I called you to the board. The way you’d fumble your books.” Her green eyes bored into mine, devoid of warmth. “Such a waste of adolescent energy. All that desperate friction… for what? To spill seed over dreams of a woman who wouldn’t even register your pathetic little nub in her hand?” Her thumb pressed against my pulse point. “Did you picture me laughing? Like I’m laughing now?”

A shudder ripped through me, raw and involuntary. The truth spilled out, ugly and unstoppable. “Yes,” I choked, my lips still brushing her arch. “Sometimes… I imagined you seeing it. Your perfect face twisted in disgust. Your laugh sharp as glass. ‘Is that it?’ you’d sneer.” My voice dropped to a broken whisper. “I came hardest… thinking of your disgust.” Laura’s laugh wasn’t loud. It was a soft, chilling exhale, a sound of pure, distilled contempt. “Oh, Liam,” she sighed, her thumb sliding down to tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet her gaze. “You didn’t need imagination. Reality is so much more satisfyingly… small.”

The atmosphere shifted subtly. Joey stood, brushing invisible lint from her leggings. “Entertaining as this little puppet show has been,” she stated, her tone clipped and professional, “I have actual work requiring functional adults.” She didn’t spare me another glance, heading towards the hallway. Laura rose with fluid grace, her green eyes lingering on me for a moment – a final, dismissive assessment of the specimen – before following Joey without a word. The front door clicked shut behind them, leaving a silence that felt thick and strangely hollow. Only Page and Sandra remained, Sandra still scrolling through her phone, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. I stayed kneeling, exposed and trembling, the phantom sensation of Laura’s contempt still prickling my skin.

Page stretched languidly, the movement drawing my eyes. She stood and walked to the discarded pile of my clothes, scooping them up. “Alright, champ,” she said, her voice surprisingly casual as she tossed the bundle towards me. It landed with a soft thump near my knees. “Get dressed. Fun’s over for now.” The sudden ordinariness of the command was jarring. Sandra pocketed her phone, her grin widening. “Oh, but the real fun’s just starting! That video is pure gold! Betty’s already planning caption ideas.” She winked at me before skipping out of the room, calling back, “Don’t forget to hydrate, Liam! Big emotions, tiny squirts!”

As I pulled on my jeans with trembling hands, the cheap denim scraping against my oversensitive skin, Page watched me. Her expression wasn’t cruel now, just… assessing. Efficient. “When you leave,” she stated, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, “Call Betty. Immediately.” The instruction was delivered calmly, but it carried the weight of an unspoken threat. “Don’t make her wait. She’s… eager.” My fingers fumbled with the button on my jeans. Betty knew. Everyone knew. The image of her seeing Sandra’s video – my pathetic gasp, the weak spurt, my tear-streaked face – sent a fresh wave of heat up my neck. Page tilted her head, reading the panic. “She’s your best friend, Liam,” she added softly, a hint of that terrifying gentleness returning. “Wouldn’t you want to hear her reaction… firsthand?”

I shoved my feet into my sneakers, not bothering with the laces. The air in the room still felt charged, thick with the lingering scent of lavender oil and something sharper, like humiliation distilled. Page didn’t move from the doorway, her gaze tracking my every clumsy movement. “Tell her everything,” she instructed. “How it felt. The exposure. The laughter. Laura’s words. Especially Laura’s words.” A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “Betty always loved Laura Finel stories. This one will be… unforgettable.” The implication hung heavy. Betty, my confidante since childhood.

The walk to my car felt like crossing a minefield barefoot. Every rustle of leaves, every distant car engine, seemed amplified, accusatory. My phone vibrated in my pocket – once, twice, a relentless staccato beat. Notifications. The video. Sandra’s triumphant broadcast. My hand shook as I fumbled with the car door lock, the metal cold against my sweating palm. Inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and worn upholstery offered no comfort, only a cage. I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the silence pressing in until it roared in my ears. I couldn’t delay it. Page’s instruction was a command. My thumb hovered over Betty’s contact photo – her bright, trusting smile felt like a physical blow now.

The phone barely rang once before she answered. “Liam? Hey!” Her voice was light, cheerful, utterly normal. It shattered something inside me. “Hey, Betts,” I managed, the words thick and clumsy. A beat of silence. Then, a soft, knowing giggle. “Soooo… Sandra sent something.” The cheerful tone was still there, but layered now with something else. Amused anticipation. My throat closed. “Yeah,” I croaked. “I… I saw.” The image of her watching it – my naked shame, the pitiful squirt, the tears – flashed behind my eyes. “Page told me to call. Said you were… eager.”

Another giggle, warmer this time, almost affectionate. “Oh, Liam. Oh, wow. That was… something.” She paused, and I could practically hear her smile widening. “Page is right, you know. You did make another big step today. A huge one.” Her voice dropped, becoming conspiratorial, intimate. “Exposing yourself like that? Letting them film it? Letting them all see?” A soft sigh, almost admiring. “It’s brave, in a weird, totally messed-up way. Showing your truth. Your… little truth.” The emphasis on “little” wasn’t cruel, just factual, and it sent a fresh jolt of humiliation through me, mixed with a confusing pang of… something else. Acceptance? “Laura really got to you, huh? Her laugh… God, I wish I’d been there to see your face when she said that.” The intimacy of her tone twisted the knife. She wasn’t mocking me like the others; she was sharing it. Relishing it with me.

“Betty, please,” I whispered, my forehead resting against the cool steering wheel. “It was… awful. Worse than awful. Page… she made me kiss their feet. Tell them what I thought.” My voice cracked. “I told Laura… I told her everything. About high school. The jerking off. Imagining her disgust.” Silence stretched for a moment, thick and heavy. Then Betty sighed again, a sound rich with satisfaction. “Oh, Liam. You beautiful, pathetic idiot. That’s… perfect. That’s exactly what she needed to hear. And you said it. To her face.” Her voice softened impossibly. “That’s what Page loves, you know. That fight. The way you squirm and beg and deny it… right up until the moment you break and spill it all. The way you lost. She adores the struggle. The desperate little battle you put up before your tiny cock betrays you completely. It’s… adorable. Seeing you fight it and lose? That’s the best part.”

Betty’s voice shifted, dropping an octave, becoming startlingly vivid. “‘No, no, I won’t!'” she mimicked, a perfect, breathless echo of my own panicked gasp from the video. “‘I’m fighting it! I swear I’m fighting it!'” She paused, letting the imagined denial hang in the air, thick with futile resistance. “And then…” Her voice became a soft, sensual whisper, “…that tiny little shudder. That choked ‘Oh god’. The way your whole body just… locks. Like a little mouse caught in a trap. And then… pop.” She made a soft, wet, clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth. “That sad little squirt. Barely a teaspoon. Fighting so hard… and losing so completely.” She chuckled, warm and intimate. “That’s the moment, Liam. That exact second when the fight drains out of you and your hungry little pearl just… gives in. That’s what makes it beautiful.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, the steering wheel cool and hard against my forehead. Betty’s mimicry wasn’t mockery; it was re-enactment. Worship. She was savoring every choked syllable, every tremor, every micro-expression of my defeat. “Page was right to make you call,” she murmured, her voice rich with satisfaction. “Hearing your voice crack while you describe it… while you relive it… knowing you’re reliving it for me? It’s almost as good as watching the video again.” A soft sigh. “That desperate little battle you put up, knowing you’ll lose… it’s exquisite. The ultimate tease before the inevitable, pathetic surrender.”

“Are they…?” I managed, the question catching in my shredded throat. “Sandra, Joey, Laura… are they in the group chat now?” The thought of Laura’s green eyes, cool and dismissive, scanning the reactions to my humiliation was a fresh lance of agony. Betty’s chuckle was warm honey laced with acid. “Oh, sweetie. Of course they are. Sandra added them the second she sent the video. Laura’s probably dissecting your ‘emission efficiency’ with Joey as we speak. Sandra’s spamming crying-laughing emojis. Page is… well, Page is orchestrating. Watching the reactions. Watching you squirm right now.” She paused, letting the image sink in. “Your shame isn’t private anymore, Liam. It’s a group project. And everyone’s contributing.”

My phone buzzed violently in my hand, startling me. A notification banner slid down the screen: ‘Chloe added Laura, Joey, Sandra to the group’. The list expanded before my eyes. Eight names now. Eight witnesses. Eight judges. Betty, Christy, Kyoko, Chloe, Page, Sandra, Joey, Laura… and me. Liam. The subject. The exhibit. “See?” Betty murmured, her voice soft and close, as if she were breathing directly into my ear. “The family’s all here. Your deepest, most pathetic moments… shared in real-time. Isn’t it cozy?” The screen lit up again. A message from Sandra: ‘Liam’s face when Laura called his cock a nub!!! Saving that FOREVER.’ Below it, a brief flicker: ‘Laura is typing…’ The anticipation was a physical weight, crushing my chest.

Laura’s message appeared, clinical and devastating: ‘Fascinating post-ejaculatory rigidity. The erectile tissue remains engorged despite emission, suggesting a persistent, almost compulsive state of arousal. Truly inefficient. A biological dead end.’ Her words hung there, a dissection report pinned to my soul. Instantly, Joey replied: ‘Agreed. The angle of the ‘sprinkler’ event supports Chloe’s initial assessment. Minimal hydraulic pressure. More seepage than projection.’ Sandra chimed in with crying-laughing emojis: ‘Cute little sprinkler is right!!! Needs a tiny warning sign: “May leak when humiliated”.’ My vision blurred, the glowing screen a constellation of my ruin. Eight people. Eight minds dissecting my trembling, leaking failure.

Then Kyoko’s name flashed. No text, just a single, silent action notification: ‘Kyoko changed the group photo.’ My stomach dropped. I tapped the group icon. It loaded slowly, cruelly. There it was: the freeze-frame Sandra had captured mid-recording. My head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut in agonized ecstasy, mouth a slack oval of surrender. Below, perfectly centered in the frame, the undeniable evidence – my rigid 1.7 inches, glistening with precum, caught in the split-second of that weak, shameful spurt arcing pathetically onto my own stomach. A monument to inadequacy. My face, contorted in the throes of an orgasm induced purely by exposure and contempt, was now the banner for my entire social world.

The chat exploded. Christy: ‘OMG KYOKO YES!!!! PERFECT CAPTURE!!!!’ Sandra: ‘ICONIC. His face!!! That sad little squirt!!!’ Chloe: ‘Tiny but proud! Look at that baby boner STILL standing tall after its big moment! Dedication!’ Even Betty chimed in, her words echoing her earlier intimacy: ‘That’s the exact moment. The beautiful, pathetic surrender. Perfect.’ Each notification vibrated like a physical blow against the steering wheel. I stared at the image – my public brand. Kyoko, the sharp tongue beauty, always observant, had delivered the most devastating blow yet: immortalizing my utter defeat as the literal face of the group.

My thumb hovered, trembling, over the keyboard. What could I possibly say? Denial? A joke? A plea? Anything felt futile against that image, against Laura’s clinical dissection, Joey’s sarcastic precision, Sandra’s glee, Chloe’s mock praise, and Betty’s intimate appreciation of my breaking point. The silence from my end became its own loud statement. Page broke it, her message stark against the flurry: ‘Liam. We see you lurking. Say something.’ The command was gentle, inevitable. Resistance was pointless. Page always won.

I tapped the heart icon. Just the heart. ❤️. It felt like signing my own execution order. Small, red, pulsing uselessly against the tide of their words and my own frozen image. It was the only honest thing left – a surrender not just of my body or my secrets, but of any pretense of control over how they saw me, how they used me. The admission was silent, deafening.

The response was instantaneous. Sandra: ‘Awwww! Tiny heart for tiny feelings!!! ❤️’ Joey: ‘Sentimental leakage. Predictable.’ Laura: ‘Note the delayed emotional response. Correlates with the observed physiological inefficiency.’ Their analysis continued, dissecting my single emoji like a lab specimen. But then Christy chimed in: ‘Actually… kinda sweet? In a messed-up way. Like a puppy offering its belly after being scolded.’ Her unexpected, slightly bewildered observation hung there, a strange island of almost-acceptance in the sea of humiliation. Chloe piled on: ‘Our little leaky puppy! Needs belly rubs… or maybe just a tiny towel?’ The tone shifted, becoming less purely clinical, more… possessively affectionate in its mockery.

Page’s next message cut through the chatter, directed solely at me: ‘Good boy. Now go home. Rest. You’ve earned it.’ The command felt like both dismissal and an unsettling reward. ‘But…’ she added, a moment later, ‘Check your texts when you get there. Something special waiting. From all of us.’ The promise landed with the weight of a threat wrapped in velvet. Special. What fresh hell could ‘special’ mean? A compilation video? Close-ups? My trembling hand started the engine, the mundane sound jarring against the digital crucifixion glowing on my phone screen.

The drive was a blur of streetlights and suffocating silence. Every red light stretched into eternity, every pedestrian’s glance felt like they knew. The group chat kept buzzing in my pocket – a relentless, mocking heartbeat against my thigh. I didn’t dare look. Not yet. Page’s ‘something special’ loomed larger with each mile. Was it more footage? A poll rating my performance? Laura’s detailed anatomical report? My knuckles stayed white on the wheel, the ghost of Laura’s clinical contempt and Betty’s intimate dissection clinging like sweat.

My apartment door clicked shut behind me, the familiar quiet suddenly oppressive. I leaned back against the cool wood, eyes closed, trying to breathe. The silence roared. Then, my phone buzzed – not the group chat, but a direct message notification. From Page. It simply said: ‘Open it.’ Attached was a single file. A video. My thumb hovered, trembling. This was the ‘special’. Taking a shaky breath, I tapped it.

The screen filled with my own face, contorted in that agonized moment of surrender – the exact freeze-frame from the group photo. But it wasn’t static. It zoomed in, slowly, cruelly, focusing on my eyes squeezed shut, my slack mouth, then sliding down my neck to my chest… and lower. The camera lingered on my stomach, glistening with the single weak spurt, then pulled back slightly. I saw it wasn’t just the video Sandra took. It was a compilation. Quick cuts flashed: me writhing in the leotard, precum staining the shimmering blue; Page yanking the fabric down, exposing me; my trembling form kneeling before Laura; and finally, the close-up of my release, intercut with reaction shots – Sandra’s gleeful grin, Joey’s arched eyebrow, Laura’s coolly assessing gaze, Page’s terrifyingly satisfied smile. Overlaid was soft, haunting piano music, turning my humiliation into a perverse art piece.

Read Part 4 Here…

*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website, which is why we are able to publish it here. Thanks for your submission.