SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

*****

Part 5…

After the humiliating experience with Christy, I spent a lot of time jerking off, reading the group chat, with the girls never running out of jokes about my little exploits and pushing me to admit I actually enjoyed it. Chloe and Sandra loved teasing me by pretending they were about to tell Jodie—my little sister and their friend. But Betty, my best friend, always reminded them that wasn’t part of the plan.

I had grown used to the “Tiny” tattoo above my dicklette, done by Kyoko, and every time I was cumming, I couldn’t help but smile foolishly as I looked at it.

The weekend arrived, and I found myself sprawled on our mom’s worn-out sofa, flipping through channels mindlessly. Jodie sat beside me, her dyed blonde streak catching the dim light as she painted her nails black. “Anything good on?” she asked, blowing on her fingertips. Her brown eyes flicked to mine, warm and trusting—a sharp contrast to the dark lipstick she always wore.

She’d just showered; her short hair was damp, sticking to her temples. She wore only a black pair of panties and a loose hoodie that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone. The hoodie was mine, actually—an old band tee I’d forgotten about. It hung low on her thighs, and I forced myself to stare at the TV screen instead of her bare legs curled beneath her.

“Nothing but reality crap and infomercials,” I muttered, thumbing the remote harder than necessary. The scent of her cherry-scented nail polish mixed with the clean, soapy smell still clinging to her skin. My own hoodie felt tight around my neck suddenly. She shifted, stretching her legs out, and her foot brushed my thigh. I flinched.

My mind raced back to Chloe’s threat—her grinning promise to show Jodie the video. That clip where I’d whimpered, hips bucking uselessly against her palm as she laughed, trapping my pathetic little cock between her fingers until I spurted onto them. Would she really do it? Would Jodie see me like that? Sweat prickled my hairline. I stared at the TV like it held answers, jaw clenched.

Jodie nudged my knee with her toe. “You’re quiet,” she murmured, tilting her head. Her damp hair brushed my shoulder. “Still sulking about Christy?” Her tone was soft, teasing but kind. She didn’t know. She couldn’t. Betty wouldn’t let them. But Sandra’s smirk flashed in my memory—the way she’d whispered, “Imagine Jodie watching you squirt.”

My throat tightened. What if Sandra did show her? That video where Page just… talked. Her voice low, commanding, while I lay there trembling, untouched. “Resist. Please. Squirm. Fight it,” she’d hissed, and I did—staring down at my own pitiful erection, throbbing uselessly until I came with a choked sob onto my stomach. Just words. Just humiliation. If Jodie saw that… I swallowed hard, the remote digging into my palm. She’d see me broken. Weak.

Jodie’s foot nudged me again, softer this time. “Seriously, Liam. You okay?” Her brow furrowed, genuine concern flickering in her brown eyes beneath the dyed blonde lock. The scent of cherry polish was suddenly cloying. I imagined her watching that screen—seeing my face contort, hearing Page’s mocking laugh, watching my pathetic little spurt. Would she flinch? Would that warm trust in her eyes freeze over? Disgust? Pity? Worse?

My knuckles whitened around the remote. “Fine,” I rasped, throat dry. “Just… tired.” The lie tasted bitter. On screen, a perky woman demonstrated a vegetable slicer, her smile unnervingly bright. Jodie hummed, unconvinced, dipping her brush back into the polish bottle. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid—Christy’s smirk, Chloe’s threats, the phantom sting of Vic’s release hitting my cheekbone while Christy filmed my humiliation.

The heavy tread of footsteps broke the tension. Mom appeared in the doorway, purse slung over her shoulder, car keys jingling in her hand. She looked exhausted, shadows under her eyes, but still managed a weary smile. “Heading out for groceries,” she announced, smoothing her blouse. Her gaze drifted over us—me frozen on the sofa, Jodie curled up like a contented cat in my stolen hoodie. “You two stay out of trouble, alright? Have some fun.” Her eyes lingered on Jodie, and a flicker of something passed between them—a quick, knowing smile that didn’t quite reach Mom’s tired eyes. It was subtle, intimate, and utterly baffling.

Jodie waved her drying nails. “No promises!” she chirped, her grin wide and innocent. Mom chuckled softly, shaking her head, and disappeared into the hall. The front door clicked shut behind her. Silence settled back over the living room, thick and uneasy. I tried to focus on the infomercial woman slicing cucumbers into perfect spirals, but my pulse hammered in my ears. Then, faintly, the low murmur of voices drifted from the entryway. Not Mom’s. A lighter, familiar cadence—Betty’s voice. Playful and sweet. A burst of giggles followed, bright and conspiratorial, slicing through the quiet house like shards of glass. My stomach clenched. Betty was here? Now? Why?

The living room door swung open. Betty stood framed in the doorway, her smile radiant, eyes sparkling with mischief. She didn’t hesitate. “My favorite siblings!” she declared, her voice warm honey. In two quick strides, she was beside the sofa. Before I could react, she leaned down, wrapping one arm around Jodie’s shoulders and the other around mine, pulling us both into a tight, unexpected hug. Her floral perfume enveloped me, clashing violently with Jodie’s cherry polish scent. Jodie instantly melted into the embrace, leaning her head against Betty’s arm with a happy sigh. “Took you long enough,” Jodie murmured, her voice muffled against Betty’s sleeve. She sounded relieved, like she’d been waiting. Betty squeezed us tighter, her fingers pressing firmly into my shoulder blade.

Betty pulled back slightly, keeping one arm draped casually over Jodie’s shoulders, her other hand resting lightly on my knee. Her thumb traced a slow circle on my jeans. “Couldn’t stay away,” she chirped, her gaze flicking between us. Jodie beamed up at her, that trusting warmth fully returned. “We were just drowning in boredom,” Jodie confessed, wiggling her freshly painted nails. “Liam’s been brooding about Christy again.” Betty’s eyes locked onto mine, sharp and knowing. Her smile softened, almost pitying. “Oh, Liam,” she sighed, her thumb pressing harder into my knee. “Still letting them live rent-free in your head?” She leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. “You know I wouldn’t let them cross that line.” Her whisper was a promise, but her fingers tightened possessively on my leg.

The tension coiled in my shoulders eased slightly at her words. Betty wouldn’t betray me. She’d always been the shield against Chloe and Sandra’s sharper edges. Jodie shifted, stretching her legs across Betty’s lap now, her bare toes brushing my thigh again. “Betty’s got gossip,” Jodie announced, eyes sparkling. “Tell him about the group chat today!” Betty laughed, a light, musical sound that didn’t quite mask the predatory gleam in her eyes. She pulled out her phone, screen glowing brightly. “Well,” she began, thumb scrolling, “Chloe was feeling particularly… creative.” She angled the phone slightly towards Jodie, just enough for me to glimpse the top of a familiar chat window filled with pink hearts and laughing emojis. My pulse spiked. Jodie leaned in eagerly, completely oblivious. “Ooh, what’d she say?” Jodie asked, her innocent curiosity a knife twisting in my gut.

Betty’s thumb hovered over the screen. “She found this adorable nickname for Liam,” she purred, her gaze locking onto mine, sharp and unblinking. The room felt suddenly airless. I could see the reflection of the chat in her pupils—a blur of text ending with Chloe’s unmistakable taunt: ‘Show Jodie the video yet? Tiny deserves an audience.’ Betty’s smile widened, serene and dangerous. “She thinks we should call him…” she paused, drawing it out, savoring my frozen panic, “…Little Soldier.” Relief washed over me, cold and shaky. It was harmless. Stupid, but harmless. Jodie giggled, nudging my knee with her foot. “Aw, that’s kinda cute!” she chirped. Betty’s thumb pressed harder into my leg, a silent warning beneath her sweet facade. “Isn’t it?” she murmured, her eyes never leaving mine. The threat lingered, unspoken but thick in the air—one wrong move, and Jodie sees everything.

Jodie stretched languidly, her toes brushing Betty’s thigh. “So,” she began, her voice casual but laced with an unfamiliar edge. Her brown eyes flicked to Betty, then back to me, sharp and knowing. “Is it finally time?” A slow, conspiratorial smile spread across her lips—utterly alien on her usually sweet face. My blood turned to ice. Betty didn’t hesitate. She gave a single, deliberate nod, her expression shifting from playful sweetness to cool command. “Bring the laptop, Jo,” she ordered softly, her hand still clamped possessively on my knee, pinning me to the sofa. “The one in my bag by the door.”

Jodie sprang up with startling agility, her bare feet padding silently across the worn carpet. She returned moments later clutching Betty’s sleek silver laptop, her movements precise, almost rehearsed. She settled back beside Betty, flipping the device open with a soft click. The screen flared to life, casting a pale glow on their faces—Betty’s serene, Jodie’s eager. My throat seized. This wasn’t oblivious curiosity anymore. This was anticipation. Betty leaned in, her fingers tapping the trackpad with practiced ease. “Let’s find that clip Chloe was teasing about,” she murmured, her voice dripping with false innocence. “The one Liam’s been so worried we’d see.” Jodie’s breath hitched beside her, eyes glued to the screen. She knew. She’d known all along.

The screen flickered, resolving into a familiar room—Kyoko’s studio apartment. Kyoko lounged on her bed, her sharp grin predatory, while Christy perched beside her, twirling a strand of pink hair. Both wore matching smirks. Kyoko pointed a camera phone directly at the lens. “Alright, Tiny,” Kyoko’s voice crackled through the laptop speakers, sharp and mocking. “Showtime.” Christy giggled, holding up her pinky finger, wiggling it slowly. “Yeah, Tiny Soldier,” she cooed, her voice saccharine sweet. “Stroke that frustration out. Use this.” She mimed stroking her pinky, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “Bet it feels huge compared to your little acorn, huh?” Kyoko barked a laugh. “Think of it as a mercy fuck from Lady Luck!”

Jodie leaned closer, her damp hair brushing my shoulder. The scent of cherry polish was overpowering now. Her gaze remained fixed on the screen, utterly absorbed. “How does that feel?” she asked softly, her voice devoid of malice, almost clinical. Her brown eyes finally flicked to mine, wide and unreadable. “Watching yourself like that? Knowing we see it?” The question hung, sharp as broken glass. Betty’s hand rested possessively on Jodie’s knee, a silent reinforcement.

The screen flickered violently. Suddenly, it wasn’t Kyoko’s apartment anymore. It was the sterile glare of Kyoko’s tattoo studio. My own panicked gasp echoed tinny through the speakers – my gasp. There I was, shirtless and trembling on the vinyl table, the fresh “Tiny” tattoo stark and red above my groin. Kyoko stood back, wiping ink from her gloves with a smirk. Chloe loomed over me, her expression predatory. Her fingers weren’t stroking. They were simply there – a loose, casual cage encircling the base of my exposed, straining dicklette. Her thumb rested lightly on the swollen tip. “Look at it,” Chloe commanded on the video, her voice low and hypnotic. “Look at how fucking pathetic it is.” My filmed self obeyed, eyes wide with shame and helpless arousal fixed on her encircling fingers. “It’s throbbing,” Chloe observed, almost bored. “Like a scared little rabbit’s heart.” Kyoko’s laugh, sharp and sudden, cut through the audio. “Pathetic,” she echoed.

My filmed body arched involuntarily on the screen. A choked whimper escaped my lips. Chloe’s fingers didn’t move. They just held. Squeezed slightly. Maintained that impossible, torturous pressure. “You want it?” Chloe taunted softly, leaning closer to the camera lens, her face filling the screen. “You want to cum just because I’m touching it?” My filmed self’s hips jerked uselessly against her immovable grip. A desperate, ragged breath tore from his throat. “Go on then,” Chloe whispered, her voice dripping venomous sweetness. “Cum for us, Tiny. Cum because I let you.” On screen, my eyes squeezed shut. My entire body tensed like a bowstring. A strangled cry ripped out – raw, humiliated, utterly involuntary. A pathetic spurt, barely visible, pulsed against Chloe’s unmoving thumb. Kyoko’s delighted cackle drowned out the choked sob.

Jodie leaned forward, her brow furrowed. Her gaze flicked from the screen to my face, then back again. “You look… confused?” she murmured, her voice hesitant, almost puzzled. On the laptop, the video froze on my filmed face – eyes wide, mouth slack in a silent scream of release mixed with utter bewilderment. The confusion wasn’t about the act itself; it was etched deep in the slackness of my jaw, the dazed glaze in my eyes – the sheer disbelief that this was what release felt like under Chloe’s cruel control. Jodie tilted her head, her damp hair brushing my arm. “Why does he look like that?” she asked Betty, her tone genuinely curious, devoid of mockery. “Like… he is happy?”

Betty’s thumb resumed its slow circle on my knee, her grip tightening subtly. Her serene smile didn’t waver. “Because he is happy, Jo,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk. She tapped the trackpad, rewinding the clip a few seconds. It froze again on the exact moment – my filmed self arching, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in that choked cry. Betty pointed at the screen. “See? That’s pure relief. Pure… surrender.” She turned her head slowly, her blue eyes locking onto mine, piercing through my panic. “Isn’t it, Liam?” The question hung, heavy and loaded. Jodie watched me intently now, her brown eyes searching my face, mirroring the confusion captured on the screen. The scent of cherry polish mixed with Betty’s floral perfume felt suffocating.

Jodie shifted, her bare knee pressing against my thigh. She tilted her head, her damp black-and-blonde hair falling across her forehead. “Are you…” she began, her voice hesitant, “…hard right now?” The question landed like a feather, soft and curious, utterly devoid of malice. She glanced down instinctively towards my lap, then back up at my face, her expression open, almost clinical in its innocence. Betty’s laugh was a low, melodic chime. “Oh, Jo,” she murmured, her fingers digging possessively into my leg. “Look at him. His jaw’s clenched tighter than a vault. His knuckles are white.” She leaned closer to Jodie, her breath warm against my sister’s ear, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s obvious. Isn’t it, Liam?” Her whisper was a velvet knife. “The way he’s breathing? Shallow, quick?” She paused, letting the observation sink in. “He’s terrified. And hard. Always happens when he’s cornered.” Betty’s thumb pressed down hard, a final punctuation mark. “Like a scared little rabbit.”

Without conscious thought, my hands moved. Fingers hooked under the worn fabric of my t-shirt, pulling it up and over my head in one jerky motion. The cool air of the living room hit my bare chest. My jeans followed, shoved down past my hips, pooling around my ankles. I stood there, trembling slightly, the “Tiny” tattoo stark above my rigid, straining cocklette. It pulsed visibly, utterly exposed. There was no command, no demand – just the raw, undeniable proof of Betty’s assessment hanging in the thick air. The infomercial woman’s cheerful voice sliced through the silence, extolling the virtues of spiralized zucchini.

Jodie’s giggle was sudden, bright, and utterly devoid of malice. It bubbled up like clear water, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked from my trembling erection back to Betty. “See?” she chirped, nudging Betty’s arm with her elbow. “We didn’t even have to ask!” Her tone was pure, delighted observation, as if commenting on a surprising but obvious trick. She leaned forward slightly, her damp hair swinging, her gaze fixed with open curiosity on my exposed state. “It’s like a little pink thimble,” she murmured, fascinated. “All shiny and hard.” Betty’s serene smile deepened into something richer, more possessive. Her blue eyes glittered with triumph. “Of course he did,” she purred, her voice low and velvety. “He knows what happens when he tries to hide it.” Her hand slid from my knee, fingertips trailing possessively up my inner thigh, stopping just short of touching the straining flesh. The threat was implicit, electric. “Don’t you, Liam?” The question hung, demanding acknowledgment of the helpless truth Jodie had just witnessed.

I nodded. A jerky, involuntary dip of my chin. My throat felt like sandpaper. The nod wasn’t just agreement; it was surrender. Surrender to the exposure, to Betty’s control, to Jodie’s innocent scrutiny that somehow cut deeper than any mockery. Surrender to the humiliating pulse throbbing visibly beneath the “Tiny” tattoo. Betty’s approving hum vibrated through the tense air. “Good boy,” she breathed, her fingers finally brushing the hot, taut skin at the very base. The feather-light touch sent a jolt through me, making my hips twitch forward helplessly. Jodie watched, utterly absorbed, her head tilted like a curious bird studying a strange insect.

Betty’s free hand tapped the laptop trackpad. The screen flickered violently. Kyoko’s studio vanished, replaced by the harsh, sterile glare of Page’s gymnastics studio locker room. Page stood centered, flanked by three of her teammates – lean, powerful girls in matching crimson leotards. Page’s smile wasn’t predatory like Kyoko’s or cruel like Chloe’s. It was bubbly, naive, utterly in amusement. She held up her hand, fingers splayed. Her teammates mirrored her, each extending a single pinky finger, held rigidly straight. Page’s voice, cool and clear, cut through the speakers: “See, girls? This is all he needs.”

She stroked her own pinky slowly, deliberately, from base to tip. Her teammates watched, expressions ranging from detached curiosity to faint amusement. One, a girl with fiery red hair pulled into a severe bun, mimicked the stroke with her own pinky, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Seriously?” she asked, skepticism lacing her tone. Page nodded, her serene smile unwavering. “Seriously, Maya. Watch.” She turned her pinky sideways, presenting the narrow edge. “Imagine the friction,” she murmured. “The sheer inadequacy.”

The camera angle shifted abruptly, zooming in on Maya’s face. Her skepticism melted into dawning, cruel understanding. “No way,” she breathed, a slow grin spreading. “That’s… efficient.” Page giggled, the sound bright and jarring against the sterile tiles. “Right? And Liam?” She leaned conspiratorially towards the lens, her voice dropping to a stage whisper dripping with faux sweetness. “We know everything. Every whimper. Every pathetic little squirt.” Her teammates exchanged glances, their amusement hardening into something colder, sharper. Maya’s pinky tapped the air pointedly. “Bet he’s squirming right now,” she mused, her gaze locking onto the camera lens as if she could see me through it. “Knowing we’ve seen him beg.”

Jodie leaned forward, her breath warm on my arm. Her gaze wasn’t on the screen anymore. It was fixed lower, utterly transfixed. Her brown eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating in the laptop’s glow. “Liam…” she murmured, her voice hushed with genuine astonishment. “It’s… twitching.” Her words weren’t mocking; they held the pure, detached fascination of someone observing a strange phenomenon. “Like a little heartbeat.” She pointed, her finger hovering inches from my exposed skin. “Right there. See?” Her innocent curiosity was a scalpel, peeling away any last shred of dignity. Every pulse of my trapped, straining cocklette felt magnified under her unwavering stare.

Betty chuckled softly, a low, rich sound vibrating against my shoulder. Her thumb resumed its slow, possessive circle on my inner thigh, dangerously close to the base. “Of course it is, Jo,” she purred. Her free hand gestured towards the laptop screen where Page’s pinky finger stroked the air. “He knows what’s coming.” She tilted her head, her blue eyes locking onto mine, sharp and utterly devoid of mercy. “The plan was always exposure. Chloe? Sandra? Kyoko?” She listed the names like ingredients in a recipe. “They were just the appetizer.” Her smile widened, serene and terrifying. “Page and her team? Maya? They’re part of the network now. The truth spreads.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing my ear. Her whisper was ice. “Imagine gym class whispers. Locker room glances. Every girl knowing exactly what ‘Tiny’ means.”

Jodie’s brow furrowed slightly, her gaze flicking from my twitching flesh back to Betty’s triumphant face. Understanding dawned slowly, widening her eyes. “Oh,” she breathed, the sound soft but carrying immense weight. A slow, hesitant smile touched her lips, mirroring Betty’s confidence but tinged with her own innocent curiosity. Without a word, she reached across Betty’s lap, her fingers brushing mine as she took control of the trackpad. Her touch was cool, deliberate. She scrolled down Betty’s meticulously organized chat history, past Kyoko’s studio clip, past Page’s locker room proof, stopping abruptly on a video thumbnail titled “SURPRISE FOR JO!” Jodie’s thumb hovered for a heartbeat, then clicked decisively. The screen dissolved into the familiar chaos of Jodie’s own high school cafeteria.

The camera wobbled, then steadied. Chloe and Sandra stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the center of the frame, their expressions a blend of predatory glee and theatrical surprise. Behind them, blurred but unmistakable, were faces I recognized – girls from Jodie’s art class, her volleyball teammates, even quiet Emily from the library club. Every single one held their phone aloft, screens angled towards the camera. Every screen displayed the same image: a crystal-clear, zoomed-in shot of my exposed, straining cocklette, throbbing helplessly beneath the “Tiny” tattoo – the exact image Jodie was seeing live right now beside me. Chloe grinned, waving her phone like a trophy.

“Hey Jo!” she called out, her voice tinny through the speakers but dripping with malice. “Look what we found! Your brother’s little secret!” Sandra leaned in, her face filling half the frame. “Bet you didn’t know he was this adorable!” Laughter erupted from the girls behind them, a wave of cruel amusement washing over the audio.

Jodie’s breath hitched beside me. Not in shock, but in a sharp intake of fascinated recognition. Her finger jabbed towards Sandra’s phone on the screen. “That’s… that’s from Kyoko’s studio!” she breathed, her voice hushed with realization. Her brown eyes darted from the laptop to my exposed flesh, comparing the image with the trembling reality inches from her face. “The angle… the lighting…” She leaned closer to the screen, her damp hair brushing my arm. “And that one,” she pointed to Emily’s phone showing Chloe’s grip around my base, “is from the locker room clip Page sent!” A strange mix of awe and detached analysis colored her tone, as if she were solving a puzzle. Betty’s hand tightened on my thigh, her nails digging in. “The network works fast, Jo,” she murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Everyone sees. Everyone knows.”

I tried to jerk back, my voice cracking. “J-Jodie, stop—” The protest was weak, drowned by the cafeteria laughter blaring from the speakers. Jodie’s head snapped towards me, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Stop?” she echoed, tilting her head. Her gaze dropped pointedly to my straining cocklette, twitching violently under her scrutiny. “But Liam,” she said, her voice softening into something almost soothing, “it’s so fun figuring it out!” A bright, innocent smile lit her face, utterly devoid of malice. “Like detective work! Seeing where each piece fits!” She gestured excitedly at the laptop, then back at my body. “Kyoko’s video… Chloe’s grip… Page’s pinky…” Her eyes sparkled with pure, childlike delight. “And now this!” Her fingertip hovered near my tip, not touching, just indicating the desperate pulse beneath the tattoo. “It’s the proof! The living proof!”

The cafeteria video resumed. The crowd of girls shifted, parting slightly. Laura Finel, my former biology teacher, stepped smoothly into the center frame. Her sleek black hair was pulled back severely, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face and the cool, detached intelligence in her grey eyes. She wore her usual crisp blouse and pencil skirt, radiating an aura of academic authority utterly incongruous with the scene. In her perfectly manicured hand, she held her phone aloft.

The screen displayed a close-up, high-definition video feed – unmistakably live – showing my trembling, exposed cocklette from Jodie’s current perspective. The angle was identical to what Jodie herself was seeing inches away. Beside Ms. Finel stood Mrs. Henderson, my stern calculus teacher, and Ms. Alvarez, the bubbly Spanish instructor. Each held their own phone, their screens mirroring Ms. Finel’s live feed, broadcasting my humiliation back to the cafeteria, and presumably, beyond.

Ms. Finel’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Fascinating specimen, Jodie,” her voice cut through the chatter, cool and clinical, echoing strangely from both the laptop speakers and the phone in her hand on-screen. “Observing the physiological response to acute social stress in real-time. Textbook parasympathetic override.” Mrs. Henderson snorted softly, adjusting her glasses. “Pathetic. But predictable.”

Jodie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Not in horror, but in sheer, delighted astonishment. “Ms. Finel!” she breathed, her voice filled with awe. Her eyes darted frantically between the live feed on Ms. Finel’s phone within the video, the identical image on the laptop screen, and the pulsing reality of my exposed flesh beside her. “She… she’s watching right now! Like us!” Her finger trembled as she pointed at the screen within the screen, where Ms. Finel’s grey eyes seemed to lock directly onto Jodie’s through the layers of video.

“And she knows biology!” Jodie’s whisper was hushed, reverent. “She understands why it does that!” Her gaze snapped back to my straining cocklette, her scientific curiosity momentarily eclipsing everything else. “The parasympathetic… override?” she repeated slowly, tasting the unfamiliar term, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as she tried to connect the textbook explanation to the frantic twitching inches from her face.

Betty’s chuckle was low and rich, vibrating against my shoulder. Her fingers tightened possessively on my inner thigh. “Of course she does, Jo,” she purred, her voice thick with triumph. “The network includes educators. They appreciate… thorough documentation.” She tapped the trackpad decisively. The cafeteria chaos dissolved instantly, replaced by the sterile, fluorescent glare of my workplace break room.

The abrupt shift was jarring. Plastic tables, vending machines humming, the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the air – utterly mundane, yet now a stage for my annihilation. Packed shoulder-to-shoulder were nearly every female colleague from the office: Sarah from accounting, Linda from HR, Brenda from IT, even Mrs. Gable, the stern, grey-haired receptionist. They stood in a dense semicircle, faces a mixture of detached curiosity, mild disgust, and cruel amusement. And right in the center, flanked by two smirking and cute junior assistants, stood Joey.

My breath froze. Joey. Her warm brown eyes, usually crinkling with kindness when she brought me coffee, were wide and unblinking. Her lips, which I’d imagined smiling at me in a different context countless times, were parted slightly in false shock. She clutched her phone tightly, its screen angled away, but her gaze was fixed not on her device, but on the large flatscreen TV mounted on the break room wall.

The screen showed the exact same live feed Ms. Finel had displayed moments before: my trembling, exposed cocklette, pulsing beneath the “Tiny” tattoo, captured from Jodie’s perspective inches away. The sheer, horrifying intimacy of it – my colleagues seeing this, seeing me like this, stripped bare not just physically but in the rawest moment of my degradation – sent a fresh wave of icy dread crashing through me. My hips jerked involuntarily, a pathetic, silent plea.

The video ended abruptly, plunging the laptop screen back to Betty’s orderly desktop. Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic hammering of my own heart against my ribs. Slowly, deliberately, Betty lifted her hand from my thigh. She turned her head, her serene smile deepening into something triumphant and terrifyingly satisfied. Her blue eyes, sharp as cut glass, locked onto mine, holding me pinned. Beside her, Jodie mirrored the movement.

Her brow, furrowed in scientific concentration moments before, smoothed into pure, unadulterated delight. Her brown eyes sparkled, wide and bright, fixed on my face. There was no malice in her gaze, only the radiant, innocent thrill of discovery confirmed, of a puzzle solved beyond doubt. Their twin stares – Betty’s icy triumph and Jodie’s joyful wonder – formed an inescapable vise, squeezing the last shred of resistance from my lungs. They didn’t need to speak; their shared look screamed victory louder than any cheer.

Betty leaned back against the couch cushions, stretching languidly like a cat basking in sunlight. Her gaze drifted from my face down to my exposed, still-twitching cocklette, then back up, a slow, deliberate appraisal. “So,” she murmured, her voice a low, velvety purr that resonated in the heavy quiet. “Now everyone knows.” She let the statement hang, the finality of it settling like dust. “Joey. Laura. Brenda. Mrs. Gable.” Each name was a hammer blow. “The girls at school. The gym team.” She tilted her head, her smile widening fractionally. “Kyoko. Chloe. Sandra. Page.” She paused, letting the litany sink in. “Helen.” My breath hitched at Mom’s name. Betty’s eyes glittered. “She saw the feed from the grocery store parking lot. Texted me.” She tapped her phone screen, still dark on her lap. “She said…” Betty’s voice dropped, mimicking Mom’s weary tone with chilling accuracy, “‘Just keep him quiet until I get home.’” The casual betrayal, delivered through Betty’s serene mask, was a fresh stab of ice.

Jodie shifted beside Betty, her eyes wide and bright. She scooped up her own phone, fingers flying across the screen with eager precision. “Oh! Oh! Show him this, Betty!” she chirped, thrusting the device towards Betty. Betty took it, her expression softening into indulgent amusement as she scanned the screen. “Ah,” she breathed, a genuine warmth touching her smile. “The ‘Nothing’ clip.” She angled the phone towards me. On the screen, frozen mid-action, was a video clearly taken secretly in my bedroom. It showed me lying on my bed, fully clothed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Then, slowly, subtly, my hips began to rock – tiny, desperate thrusts against the mattress. The camera zoomed in, capturing the unmistakable tremor building in my thighs, the choked gasp escaping my lips, the dark stain spreading across the grey fabric of my sweatpants as I climaxed silently, utterly alone. The sheer banality of the setting contrasted violently with the act. Jodie bounced slightly on the couch cushion. “I filmed it last Tuesday!” she announced, her voice bubbling with pride. “When you thought I was asleep! You didn’t even touch yourself! Just… rocked!” Her giggle was pure, delighted astonishment. “Like magic!”

Betty scrolled down. Below the video was a text thread between Jodie and Mom. Jodie’s message was timestamped yesterday: ‘Mom look what Liam did! No hands! Just thinking??’ Attached was the video. Mom’s reply was chillingly swift: ‘Oh honey. That’s… pathetic. But fascinating. Shows how weak he is inside. I love seeing boys that weak. Makes things easier.’ The words ‘I love seeing boys that weak’ seemed to pulse on the screen, confirming a complicity deeper than I’d ever imagined. Betty’s thumb tapped the screen. “Helen understands,” she murmured, her voice low and resonant. “She sees the surrender. The emptiness.” She looked from the phone to my exposed, trembling body. “Just like now. No touch. Just… exposure. And look at you.” Her gaze lingered on the frantic pulse beneath my tattoo. “Dripping.”

Jodie leaned forward, her damp hair brushing my shoulder. “You were thinking about Kyoko’s needle,” she whispered, her breath hot on my ear. Her tone wasn’t accusatory; it was clinical, detached. “In the video. When you… finished.” She pointed at the frozen image on her phone – my sweatpants stained, my face slack. “I could tell. Your eyes were squeezed shut. Your lips moved.” She mimicked my silent gasp perfectly. “Kyoko. Kyoko. Kyoko.” The repetition was soft, rhythmic, hypnotic. “You came just remembering the pain.” Her fingertip hovered near my tip again. “Just like you’re pulsing now, remembering Chloe’s grip. Page’s pinky.” Her innocent curiosity sharpened into terrifying insight. “It’s not terror, Liam. It’s… relief.” She glanced at Betty, seeking confirmation. “Right?”

Betty nodded slowly, her thumb resuming its slow circle on my thigh. “The mind breaks before the body does, Jo,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on my twitching flesh. “He’s been trained. Pain. Humiliation. Exposure.” She listed them like steps in a lesson plan. “Now, they trigger release.” Her smile was serene, triumphant. “His body knows its purpose.” She tapped Jodie’s phone screen, still showing Mom’s damning reply. “Helen saw it years ago. That emptiness inside him.” Betty’s voice dropped to a whisper meant only for me, yet carrying perfectly in the stillness. “She knew he’d beg for it. Crave it. Become… nothing.” Her fingers trailed higher, grazing the base of my erection. “Look at him. He’s already there.”

I froze. Tuesday. That clip Jodie filmed. That silent, pathetic rocking against my mattress. How long had she known? How long had she watched? The question clawed its way up my throat, raw and desperate. “J-Jodie?” My voice cracked, barely audible. “Since… since when?” My eyes darted between her bright, curious face and the frozen image on her phone – my shame captured forever. “Tuesday… you filmed it… but…” The implication choked me. Had she seen others? Had she always seen? The innocent giggle when she touched my thigh earlier, the fascination with my twitching cocklette… were they rehearsed? Calculated? My mind reeled, picturing her quiet presence in my room while I slept, her phone silently recording my weakness. “How long?” The whisper was ragged, pleading.

Jodie tilted her head, her boy-cut black hair shifting slightly. A soft, almost apologetic smile touched her lips beneath the black lipstick. “Oh, Liam,” she breathed, her voice gentle, soothing. “Since Betty told me.” Her brown eyes flicked to Betty, then back to mine, wide and earnest. “Three weeks ago. Before Kyoko. Before Chloe. Before… everything.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Her gaze drifted pointedly downwards, lingering for a heartbeat on my exposed flesh. “She explained it all. How tiny it really is. How it… works.” A faint blush touched her cheeks, but her eyes remained fixed on mine, utterly sincere. “She said it was important I understood. So I wouldn’t be shocked later.” She paused, her brow furrowing slightly as if recalling Betty’s exact words. “She said you needed… managing. And I could help.”

Betty sighed, a sound of pure contentment. She stretched again, her fingers sliding possessively up my inner thigh until her thumb rested firmly against the base of my straining cocklette. “Enough talk,” she announced, her voice crisp, decisive. Her blue eyes locked onto mine, sharp and commanding. “It’s time for the final show.” Her thumb pressed down, a deliberate, anchoring pressure that sent a jolt of helpless arousal through me. “Jo, bring up the stream.” Her gaze never left mine, holding me captive. “The network’s waiting.”

Jodie hummed softly, fingers dancing across the trackpad. Instantly, the screen split into dozens of small, flickering rectangles. Each window showed a different face – Chloe grinning wickedly, Sandra sipping coffee with cruel amusement, Kyoko adjusting her camera with cool detachment, Page whispering to Maya, Ms. Finel observing clinically, Mrs. Henderson scowling, Ms. Alvarez giggling, Brenda from IT rolling her eyes, Mrs. Gable pursing her lips, Laura Finel nodding approvingly, and Joey… Joey staring directly into her lens, her expression a mask of forced detachment that couldn’t hide the faint tremor in her bottom lip. Every single window framed the same central image: my naked torso, my trembling thighs, and my exposed, throbbing cocklette trapped beneath Betty’s thumb. My humiliation wasn’t just broadcast; it was curated, dissected live by every woman who now owned my shame.

Betty leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. Her voice, low and resonant, sliced through the suffocating silence. “Introduce yourself, Liam,” she commanded, her thumb pressing harder against the base of my erection, making it twitch violently under the collective gaze. “Properly. For the network.” Her free hand gestured towards the screen, towards the mosaic of expectant, mocking, or clinically fascinated faces. “Tell them who you are. Tell them what you are.” Her breath was hot, smelling faintly of mint and triumph. “Do it now.”

My throat clenched. The words felt like shards of glass. I stared at the laptop screen, at Chloe’s smirk, Ms. Finel’s detached curiosity, Joey’s conflicted eyes. My gaze dropped to my own trembling flesh, trapped and pulsing under Betty’s thumb, illuminated by the laptop’s glow. The tattoo – “Tiny” – seemed to pulse in time with my frantic heartbeat. A choked sound escaped me, half-whimper, half-gasp. “I…” The syllable cracked, echoing pathetically in the quiet room. Betty’s thumb dug in, a silent, painful prompt. Jodie leaned forward, her brown eyes wide and encouraging, nodding slightly as if willing me to speak.

“I’m Liam,” I rasped, the name tasting like ash. My eyes flickered across the mosaic of faces – Sandra’s cruel amusement, Mrs. Gable’s stern disapproval, Kyoko’s cool assessment. Betty’s thumb pressed harder, demanding more. “I’m…” The truth hovered, monstrous and undeniable. “I’m the Tiny Soldier.” The nickname, flung as an insult, now felt like my only identity. Jodie let out a soft, delighted sigh, nodding vigorously. On screen, Chloe blew a kiss. Page whispered something to Maya, who stifled a giggle.

“It happens,” I choked out, my gaze fixed on Joey’s conflicted eyes. “The cumming. When… when they laugh. Or point. Or just… look.” My hips twitched helplessly under Betty’s thumb. “When Kyoko tattooed me. When Chloe squeezed. When Page used her pinky.” Each admission was a fresh humiliation laid bare. “I don’t want to. I swear I don’t.” My voice cracked. “But it just… leaks.” The word felt filthy, inadequate. “A dribble. Barely anything. Like… like a drop of sweat.” Ms. Finel leaned closer to her screen, grey eyes analytical. “Parasympathetic override,” she murmured, her clinical voice echoing faintly through Betty’s speakers. “Predictable.”

Betty’s thumb traced a slow circle around the base. “Show them,” she commanded softly. Her pressure eased just enough. My cocklette pulsed violently, straining upwards, a bead of clear fluid welling at the tip. “See?” Betty whispered. “Even talking about it. Even remembering.” The droplet trembled, catching the laptop’s light. Chloe whistled mockingly from her window. Sandra smirked. Jodie leaned in, her breath hot on my neck. “It’s so shiny,” she observed, fascinated. “Like dew.”

Jodie’s finger tapped my shoulder lightly. “Liam,” she murmured, her voice suddenly thoughtful, almost dreamy. Her gaze drifted from the screen to my face. “Do that sound again.” Her brow furrowed slightly, recalling the choked gasp from her “Nothing” video. “The little gasp you made. When you… finished.” She tilted her head, her dark lipstick catching the light. “But… softer. Higher.” Her brown eyes held mine, wide and innocent. “Like a girl would moan.” She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do it for them. Show them how pathetic it sounds.”

My throat tightened. The command was absurd, degrading in a way that cut deeper than the exposure. I stared at Jodie’s expectant face, then at the mosaic of watching eyes on the screen – Kyoko’s cool assessment, Chloe’s predatory grin, Ms. Finel’s detached curiosity. Betty’s thumb pressed a silent, insistent reminder against my pulsing flesh. A choked whimper escaped me, thin and reedy. Jodie shook her head gently. “Higher, Liam,” she urged softly, mimicking a breathy sigh herself. “Like this… Hnnngh…” The sound was startlingly accurate, a soft, feminine flutter of breath that felt like sandpaper on my nerves. “Try.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the stares. The memory of Tuesday surged – the desperate rocking, the silent climax into my sweatpants, the utter emptiness afterward. That gasp Jodie captured. I forced my lips apart, pushed air through my constricted throat. “Hh…” It was a strangled rasp, nothing like Jodie’s example. Humiliation burned my cheeks. On screen, Sandra snorted derisively. Chloe cupped a hand to her ear mockingly. “Louder, Tiny!” she called out, her voice tinny through the speakers. “Let us hear the pathetic squeak!”

Jodie leaned closer, her damp hair brushing my ear. “No, Liam,” she whispered, her voice gentle but firm. Her fingertip traced the rim of my ear, making me flinch. “Softer. Breathier. Like you’re surprised.” She demonstrated again, a delicate, fluttering “Ahhn…” that hung in the air, unbearably feminine. “Like when Kyoko’s needle hit that tender spot.” Her breath hitched slightly on the memory, mimicking the sound perfectly. “Try.”

I sucked in a ragged breath, my eyes darting to Joey’s frozen expression on screen – her lips slightly parted, her gaze locked on my trembling form. The pressure built, a familiar, shameful coil tightening low in my belly. Betty’s thumb pressed harder, anchoring me. “Hhhh…” It escaped thin and reedy, barely audible. Jodie shook her head, disappointment flickering in her brown eyes. “Higher,” she insisted softly. “Like this.” She leaned in until her lips almost touched my ear and released a soft, trembling sigh: “Mmmh… yes…” The sound vibrated against my skin, intimate and degrading.

Christy’s room flooded back – the stale cigarette smoke clinging to cheap floral curtains, the flickering neon sign outside painting stripes on her peeling wallpaper. Her grin when Vic came on my face. “Ah!” The gasp ripped from me now, sharp and involuntary, echoing Jodie’s instruction perfectly – a startled, feminine cry of helplessness. “Mmmh… Christy…” The name slipped out, a choked whimper riding the crest of remembered pain and the unbearable pressure of Betty’s thumb. My hips jerked upwards, a tiny, futile thrust against her restraining hand.

On screen, Chloe’s grin widened into a predatory slash. “There it is!” she crowed, her voice tinny through the speakers. Sandra clapped slowly, sarcastically. Ms. Finel leaned closer, adjusting her glasses. “Observe the vocalization shift,” she murmured clinically. “Direct associative recall overriding inhibitory control.” Kyoko simply nodded, her expression unreadable. Joey’s eyes widened fractionally, her mask of detachment cracking for a heartbeat.

Jodie giggled, a bright, delighted sound that cut through the tension. She bounced off the couch and rummaged in her oversized canvas bag, pulling out a slim, pale pink vibrator. It hummed faintly as she thumbed the lowest setting. “Betty said boys can’t cum from these,” she announced, her voice laced with innocent curiosity. She held it up, the soft glow illuminating her black-lipsticked smile. “Too buzzy. Too… girly.” Her brown eyes fixed on my exposed, twitching flesh. “But you’re not really a proper boy, are you, Liam?” She tilted her head, the blonde lock falling across her forehead. “Let’s test it.”

I jerked back instinctively, pressing myself against the worn couch cushions. “No!” The word tore out, raw and desperate. “That’s—that’s for girls!” My gaze darted from the humming pink plastic to Betty’s impassive face, then to the mosaic screen where Chloe was grinning savagely. “I’m not—I don’t—” My protest choked off as Betty’s thumb pressed down hard on the base of my cocklette, pinning me. “It’s degrading!” I gasped, my face burning. “I’m a guy!”

Betty chuckled softly, a low, rich sound that vibrated through my thigh where her hand rested. “Exactly,” she murmured, leaning close. Her breath warmed my ear. “That’s why it’s perfect.” Her blue eyes flicked to Jodie, who was watching with rapt fascination, the vibrator humming softly in her hand. “The louder you squirm, Liam,” Betty continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper the network could surely hear, “the bigger the fail.” She squeezed gently, making me whimper. “They love watching you try to be something you’re not. A man.” Her thumb traced a cruel circle. “Your pathetic protests just prove how deep the training goes. How completely you belong to us.”

Jodie nodded eagerly, her black-lipsticked smile widening. “Like when you yelled ‘No!’ at Page,” she chirped, mimicking my strained voice. “And then you still squirted!” She scooted closer, the pink vibrator humming louder as she brought it near my trembling flesh. Her brown eyes shone with clinical curiosity. “Betty says the buzzing confuses boy-brains,” she explained, tilting her head. “Too much buzz, not enough stroke.” She paused, the vibrator hovering inches away. “But yours isn’t a boy-brain anymore, is it? It’s just… needy.” Her fingertip brushed the tip, making me flinch violently. “So let’s see what happens when needy meets buzzy!”

Betty’s thumb pressed harder, anchoring me as Jodie touched the humming plastic directly beneath my glans. The vibration wasn’t painful—just intensely alien. Wrong. A high-pitched whine escaped my throat, thin and involuntary. “S-stop!” I choked out, hips jerking uselessly against Betty’s iron grip. On screen, Chloe leaned forward, grinning. “Louder, Tiny!” she yelled. Ms. Finel adjusted her glasses. “Vocal resistance indicates cognitive dissonance,” she noted clinically. “The protest is performative. Observe the erection—no detumescence.” Betty chuckled, her breath warm on my neck. “Exactly,” she murmured. “The harder you fight, the clearer it is. Your body knows its owner.” She nodded to Jodie. “Press harder, Jo.”

Jodie obeyed, leaning in with both hands now, pressing the vibrator firmly against the underside of my cocklette. The buzzing intensified, flooding my senses—a relentless, high-frequency thrum that seemed to scramble thought. My breath hitched. “Nnngh—it’s too much!” I gasped, the sound rising unnaturally high. Jodie’s eyes widened. “Like that!” she breathed, fascinated. “Higher! Like Page made you!” The memory surged—Page’s pinky circling relentlessly, her laugh sharp as glass. “Ah!” The cry tore loose, sharp and fluting, almost feminine. Betty’s thumb shifted, pressing directly onto my frenulum. “Yes,” she hissed. “Give it to them. Show them the lie.”

The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated—not the deep thrum I’d once imagined, but a frantic, buzzing wave cresting from that alien vibration. “Mmmh!” The moan escaped breathy and soft, my lips curling upwards in a dazed, involuntary smile. My hips jerked uselessly against Betty’s grip. “I’m… not…” I slurred, head lolling back against the cushion, vision blurring the mosaic of watching faces. “Not cumming…” The lie felt thick and clumsy on my tongue, even as my cocklette pulsed violently against the pink plastic, a pathetic dribble of clear fluid welling and dripping onto Jodie’s fingers. Chloe’s triumphant laugh echoed. “Liar!” she shrieked. “Look at it weep!”

Jodie gasped, pulling the vibrator away. She stared at the tiny, glistening droplet clinging to its tip, then at the wetness on her own skin. Her brown eyes widened with fascinated disgust. “It’s… sticky,” she murmured, wiping her finger quickly on my thigh. “Like snail slime.” She held the vibrator up towards the laptop camera, the droplet catching the light. “See? He lied!” Betty chuckled, her thumb releasing its pressure only to stroke the slick mess on my trembling flesh. “Of course he lied,” she purred, her voice thick with satisfaction. “His mind’s shattered. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore. Only what we tell him is real.”

Jodie tilted her head, studying my dazed expression. A slow, mischievous grin spread beneath her black lipstick. She puckered her lips exaggeratedly, her voice suddenly dropping into a high-pitched, infantile coo. “Widdle Liam not cumming?” she lisped, mimicking a toddler’s whine. Her eyes sparkled with cruel delight. “No, no! Not cumming! Bad widdle pee-pee!” She giggled, a sound like breaking glass, and poked my wet cocklette with the tip of the vibrator. “Shhh! Bad pee-pee make mess! Naughty!”

The baby-talk burrowed under my skin, hotter than Kyoko’s needle. My face burned crimson. On screen, Chloe doubled over laughing, slapping her knee. Sandra mimed wiping tears. Even Ms. Finel’s lips twitched in clinical amusement. “Mmmh… stop,” I whimpered, the sound thin and reedy, echoing Jodie’s mockery unintentionally. Betty’s hand tightened possessively on my thigh. “Listen to him,” she murmured, her voice thick with triumph. “He’s begging in her voice now.”

Jodie leaned closer, her damp blonde lock brushing my cheek. She puckered her lips again, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Bad pee-pee make sticky!” she cooed, her lisp exaggerated. She tapped the vibrator’s tip against my glistening flesh, sending fresh jolts of shame through me. “Need diaper?” Chloe’s tinny shriek pierced the room: “YES! Put him in diapers!” Jodie giggled, nodding eagerly. “Messy widdle soldier!” She traced the wet trail on my thigh with a fingertip. “Shame, shame.”

My resistance crumbled. The humiliation coiled deep, twisting into something hot and inevitable. “Mmmh… was… was good,” I whimpered, my voice thin and high, instinctively mirroring Jodie’s baby-talk cadence. “Best… bestest..” The words felt thick and clumsy, sticky like the mess on my skin. “Pee-pee… liked the buzzy…” On screen, Chloe howled. Ms. Finel murmured, “Regression complete. Vocal assimilation confirms neural surrender.” Betty’s thumb stroked my trembling belly, possessive. “Louder,” she commanded softly. “Tell them.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing Page’s pinky, Kyoko’s needle, Christy’s grin. “Bestest cummy ever!” I squeaked, the pitch unnaturally high, forcing the infantile words past trembling lips. “Buzzy made pee-pee happy!” Jodie clapped her hands, delighted. “See?” she chirped, holding the damp vibrator up for the network. “He admits it!” My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. “More buzzy?” I breathed, the question slipping out in that same breathy, childish lisp. “Pwease?”

Betty’s low chuckle vibrated against my skin. “Good boy,” she purred, her thumb tracing the slick mess on my thigh. “But first… tell everyone.” She gestured towards the mosaic screen – Chloe leaning forward hungrily, Ms. Finel observing with detached fascination, Joey’s conflicted gaze locked on my humiliation. “Tell them what the buzzy did.” Her thumb pressed gently against my oversensitive flesh. “Properly.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, the baby-talk cadence clinging like syrup. “Da… da buzzy made me go squishy,” I lisped, my voice thin and reedy. My cheeks burned, but the shame felt distant, muffled. “Made widdle pee-pee leak its bestest sticky.” Jodie giggled, poking my belly with the vibrator. “Better than Page’s pinky?” she chirped. I nodded frantically, my hips twitching. “Yesh! Better dan Page! Better dan Kyoko’s hurty needle!” The admission tumbled out, breathy and high. “Da buzzy buzz felt… magic! Made me feel all floaty an’… an’ empty.” On screen, Chloe mimed wiping away tears of laughter. Ms. Finel murmured, “Sensory overload preference confirmed. Degradation threshold exceeded.”

Betty’s thumb traced the slick trail on my thigh, her touch deliberate. “Empty,” she echoed softly, her voice a low purr against my ear. Her blue eyes locked onto mine, sharp and assessing. “Is that what a boy feels, Liam?” The question landed like a hammer blow. “Is that… boyness?” Her thumb pressed down on my spent cocklette, a soft, insistent reminder of its pathetic state. “This trembling? This leaking? This… nothing?” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Tell us. Are you still a boy?”

My throat tightened. The baby-talk cadence felt like a suffocating mask. I stared at Betty’s unwavering eyes, then at the mosaic screen – Chloe leaning forward, lips parted; Ms. Finel’s clinical detachment; Joey’s frozen, unreadable expression. The buzzing echo still hummed in my nerves. “N-no,” I whispered, the sound thin and cracked. “Not… not a boy.” The admission scraped raw. “Not… anymore.” Jodie gasped softly beside me, her brown eyes wide with fascinated glee. “Then what?” Betty prompted, her thumb circling possessively. “What are you now?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Kyoko’s needle. Page’s pinky. Christy’s grin. The sticky wetness cooling on my thigh. “A… a thing,” I breathed, forcing the lisping cadence. “A leaky thing.” My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. “For… for giggles.” Chloe’s triumphant cackle erupted from the speakers. “YES!” Sandra echoed, “A giggle-toy!” Ms. Finel adjusted her glasses. “Objectification acceptance. Terminal identity dissolution.” Betty’s thumb pressed harder. “Louder,” she commanded. “Tell them your name.”

My lips trembled, sticky with shame. “Da… da Tiny Soldier,” I lisped, the childish cadence scraping my throat raw. “But… but not soldier now.” Jodie’s vibrator buzzed impatiently near my thigh. “Soldiers fight,” I whispered, forcing the high-pitched whine. “I… I jus’ leak.” The admission hung in the air, thin and reedy. Chloe’s tinny voice cut through: “Leaky what? Say it!”

The baby-voice felt like syrup coating my tongue, thick and sickly sweet. “Leaky… giggle-toy,” I squeaked, pitching it unnaturally high. The words tasted like ash. “For… for giggles.” My hips gave a tiny, useless jerk against Betty’s restraining hand. Jodie clapped, delighted. “Yes!” she chirped, bouncing slightly. “My giggle-toy!” She poked my wet cocklette with the humming vibrator again, making me gasp—a thin, fluttering sound that echoed her own lisp. “See? It likes it!”

Jodie leaned in suddenly, her damp hair brushing my cheek. Her breath hitched, warm and close. Then, in a perfect, mocking baby-voice, pitched high and dripping with saccharine pride, she whispered directly into my ear, the sound vibrating against my skin: “Mmmh… so p-pwoud… my sissy big bwother…” Her fingertip traced the wet trail on my thigh. “Finawwy… finawwy accepts… you wole.” She giggled, a sharp, bright sound. “Good widdle giggle-toy!”

On screen, Chloe mimed wiping away tears of laughter, while Ms. Finel nodded slowly, clinically noting the “reinforcement of assigned identity.” Betty’s thumb pressed possessively into my hip bone, her silence heavy with approval. The baby-voice burrowed deep, twisting the humiliation into something strangely warm—an acceptance that felt like surrender. My lips trembled, instinctively shaping themselves to mirror her lisp.

“Fank… fank you,” I breathed, the sound thin and reedy, echoing her cadence perfectly. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk towards her touch. “Wuv… wuv da pwoud.”

Jodie’s eyes lit up with cruel delight. She held the still-damp vibrator tip close to my lips. “Kiss it?” she lisped, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper the network could surely hear. “Kiss da buzzy dat made you… pwoud?” Betty’s hand tightened on my thigh, anchoring me. Chloe’s tinny voice cut through: “DO IT!”

I stared at the humming pink plastic, slick with my own fluid. Shame warred with the terrifying urge to please, to earn more of that twisted pride. Slowly, hesitantly, I leaned forward. My lips brushed the cool, wet surface. The faint vibration buzzed against my mouth.

“Mmmh…” The moan escaped, soft and high. Jodie giggled, pressing it harder against my lips.

“Say fank you… to da buzzy!” she commanded, her baby-voice laced with steel.

“Fank… fank you, buzzy,” I lisped against the plastic, tasting salt and shame. “Fank you… fow… fow my pwoud.”

Two days later, the framed photo sat prominently on the living room shelf, nestled between a ceramic owl and Helen’s dusty yoga trophy. Sunlight streamed through the window, glinting off the glass. Inside the frame, the image was stark: my hard, pathetic cocklette, barely visible, trapped between two bare feet. Jodie’s pale, painted toes pressed down firmly on the base, her black-lipsticked smirk just visible at the edge of the frame. Beside hers, Helen’s foot rested lightly on the tip, her chipped red nail polish a jarring splash of colour against the pale skin. The angle was deliberate, clinical – humiliation presented as domestic art. Helen had taken it herself, her expression amused behind the phone, moments after walking in the door from work, her grocery bags still slumped by the couch.

Jodie bounced into the room, humming, and paused before the shelf. She tilted her head, studying the photo. “Still looks tiny,” she chirped, tapping the glass with a fingernail. “Even squished.” She glanced back at me, curled silently in the armchair, my knees drawn up. “Mom says it’s proof,” she added, her voice bright. “Proof you finally understand.” She traced the edge of the frame with her fingertip. “Your place.” The word hung in the air, simple and devastating. She didn’t need to elaborate. The photo screamed it: a belonging pinned between the feet that mattered, a tiny, exposed thing owned by their amusement.

Read The Final Part Here…

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