The Bikini Fitting
A Fictional Story by SmallPP23.
I’d promised my friend a birthday present. She’s back home, stateside, and she’d mentioned wanting a bikini—something European, something she couldn’t get at a Target or an Amazon warehouse. She’s thin. Narrow hips, small chest, A-cup. She wears the kind of swimsuits that look like they were designed for women with little to cover, which works out fine because she doesn’t.
I found a shop. It was small—boutique-small, not even a sign in English, just a hand-painted Danish word I couldn’t read and a window display with two mannequins in swimwear. I went in. A bell chimed. The interior was white tile and blond wood and racks of swimsuits arranged by color—blacks on the left, then blues, then greens, then a wall of patterns and prints. The lighting was soft and natural, the kind that comes from bulbs designed to mimic daylight, which in Denmark in October is probably a therapeutic necessity.
The cashier was behind a small counter near the back. She was maybe mid-thirties, Nordic in the way that the word Nordic implies—tall, blonde, fair-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and the kind of composed, slightly distant expression that I’ve come to understand is not coldness but simply the Danish default. She was wearing a fitted black top and jeans. She looked at me when I entered, gave a small nod—the Scandinavian acknowledgment, not friendly, not unfriendly, just I see you—and went back to whatever she was doing on her phone.
I browsed. I found a bikini—black, simple, a string-tie bottom and a triangle top. The sizing was European, which I roughly translated in my head. My friend is a small. An extra-small, really. She’s five-foot-four, maybe a hundred and ten pounds, with a frame that makes A-cups look proportionate rather than lacking. She’s not curvy. She’s not busty. She’s just thin and small and the kind of woman who can wear a string bikini without anything spilling out because there’s nothing to spill.
The thing is—and this is the thing that had been sitting in the back of my head since I walked into the store, maybe since I walked onto the Strøget, maybe since I landed in Denmark—physically, my friend and I are built almost the same. We’re the same height, within an inch. We’re the same weight, within a few pounds of each other. We have the same narrow shoulders, the same flat stomachs, the same general frame. She has A-cup breasts. I have what could charitably be called A-cup breasts—pecs with a slight layer of soft tissue that, in the right light, in the right shirt, could pass for very small breasts. We’ve been mistaken for each other from behind. We’ve been asked if we’re siblings. We are, physically, nearly identical in build.
Which means: if a bikini fits her, it would fit me.
That thought was sitting there. Small and quiet and persistent, the way these thoughts always are—the thoughts that lead to the thing I do, the exposure thing, the smallness thing, the thing that hums in my chest and makes my pulse quicken, and my mouth go dry.
I brought the bikini to the counter. The cashier looked up from her phone.
“Did you find everything?” she asked. Her English was accented but precise.
“I think so. It’s a gift. For a friend.”
She scanned the tag. Looked at the size. Looked at me—a quick assessment, the kind that retail workers do automatically, matching the product to the customer.
“Would you like to try it on first?” she asked.
And there it was.
I knew it was a joke. Or close to a joke. The kind of thing a cashier says in a bikini shop when a man is buying a women’s swimsuit—a small joke, a throwaway line, the verbal equivalent of a raised eyebrow. She said it with the faintest trace of a smile, the kind that appears and disappears in the same instant, the kind that says I’m being slightly funny and we both know it.
But the light switch clicked.
That’s the only way to describe it. A light switch. In my head. One second the thought was sitting quietly in the back, and the next second it was on—full, blazing, undeniable.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to try it on.”
The cashier’s expression shifted. The faint smile disappeared. She looked at me the way you look at someone who has just responded to a joke with complete seriousness—the slight widening of the eyes, the tiny recalibration of the face, the moment where you realize the other person isn’t playing along but is actually, genuinely doing the thing you joked about.
She recovered fast. Nordic composure. She pointed to the back of the store, past a rack of one-piece swimsuits, to a narrow hallway with three dressing room doors.
“Any of those,” she said. “Just let me know if you need a different size.”
I took the bikini. I walked to the back. I went into the first dressing room and closed the door behind me.
—
The dressing room was small—three feet by four feet, a mirror on the wall, a small bench, a hook on the back of the door. The lighting was the same daylight-mimicking bulbs as the rest of the store, which meant it was bright and unforgiving, showing everything.
I took off my shoes. I took off my jacket and hung it on the hook. I pulled off my sweater. I stood in my briefs and my undershirt and looked at myself in the mirror.
I’m thin. I’ve always been thin—narrow shoulders, flat chest, flat stomach, slim hips. My body is androgynous in a way that has followed me my whole life—the kind of build that doesn’t read as distinctly male from a distance, especially without a shirt. My chest is smooth. My stomach is smooth. I don’t have much body hair—some on my legs, a small patch on my lower abdomen, a little under my arms. I shave my pubic area. I’ve been shaving it for years—not for any fetish reason, originally, but because it felt cleaner, and then because it made the smallness more pronounced, and then because the smallness being pronounced became the point.
I pulled off my undershirt. I pulled down my jeans. I stood in my briefs—white, plain, the kind of underwear that doesn’t hide anything because there’s nothing to hide. My cock was soft. Less than an inch. An inny. A nub that barely protruded from my body, sitting on top of two small, tight balls that were drawn up against my groin in the cool air of the dressing room. The whole package was small—smaller than small, barely present, a smooth expanse of skin with a tiny protrusion that looked more anatomical error than anatomy.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at my crotch. I looked at the flat, nearly featureless space between my legs and I thought: this is going to work.
I picked up the bikini bottoms. They were small—string ties on the sides, a triangular panel in front, a triangular panel in back. I stepped into them and pulled them up.
Here’s where I made my decision. The practical decision. The decision was also not practical.
I could have taken off my briefs. I should have taken off my briefs. That’s how you try on a swimsuit—you wear it against your skin, not over your underwear. But if I took off my briefs, I’d be naked under the bikini. The bikini bottoms would be the only thing between my bare cock and the open air of the store, and the fabric was thin, and the front panel was small, and my cock—my less-than-one-inch, shaved, barely-there cock—would be directly against the fabric with nothing else.
So I rolled my briefs under the bikini. I tucked the waistband of my briefs down and rolled the fabric until it was bunched up underneath the bikini bottoms, hidden, creating the illusion that I was wearing nothing underneath. The bikini sat against my skin. The front panel covered my cock—or rather, covered the space where my cock was, the tiny nub pressed flat against the fabric, invisible, creating no bulge, no contour, no suggestion of anything underneath.
I looked in the mirror. I saw what I expected to see.
Flat. Smooth. Nothing. The bikini bottoms fit me the way they would fit a woman with a smooth crotch—no bulge, no outline, no evidence of genitals. Just fabric against skin, flat and tight, the string ties sitting on my hips, the back panel covering my ass, which is small and flat and, like the rest of me, androgynous.
I put on the top. The triangle cups sat on my chest, covering my non-existent breasts—the string tied behind my neck and behind my back. I adjusted the cups. They sat flat against my pecs, the tiny triangles of fabric covering the tiny amount of tissue that existed there, and the effect was—I won’t say convincing, because I wasn’t trying to convince anyone. I was trying it on. I was seeing if it fit.
It fit.
I looked at myself in the mirror—a thin, androgynous person in a black string bikini, with no bulge in the front and no cleavage in the top, with narrow hips, slim legs, and a body that could be male or female depending on what you were looking for—the bikini fit. The size was right. The proportions were right. If it fit me, it would fit my friend.
My heart was pounding. I could feel it in my chest, in my throat, in my temples. The pulse of it, the thud of it, the way it quickens when the switch is on and the thing is happening. I was about to walk out of this dressing room in a women’s bikini, into a store in Copenhagen, in front of a Nordic cashier. Whoever else was browsing, I was about to stand in front of the main mirror in the hallway and look at myself.
I opened the door.
—
The hallway outside the dressing rooms was narrow—maybe five feet wide —with a large mirror mounted on the wall at the end, opposite the entrance. From the hallway, you could see into the main area of the store—the racks, the counter, the front window and the street beyond. From the main area of the store, if you looked toward the back, you could see the hallway and anyone standing in front of the mirror.
I stepped out. I stood in front of the mirror. I looked at myself.
The bikini fit. It fit the way I knew it would—flat, smooth, nothing in front, nothing on top. I looked like a flat-chested woman. I looked like a man in a bikini. I looked like something in between, something that didn’t resolve into a clear gender, something that existed in the ambiguous space where thin builds and androgynous bodies live.
I turned. I looked at my ass in the mirror. Small, flat, the bikini bottoms covering the minimum, the string ties cutting across my hips. I turned back. I looked at the front. I looked at the flat panel of fabric where a bulge should be and wasn’t.
There were three other people in the store. Two women browsing a rack of one-pieces near the front. A man standing near the door, waiting—boyfriend, husband, the male role in a bikini shop, standing and looking at his phone.
They looked up—all three of them. The two women glanced at me—the quick, automatic glance you give when someone appears in your peripheral vision—and then looked back at the rack. Then one of them glanced again. A longer look. The kind where you’re not sure what you’re seeing, and you need another second to process. She looked at me—my face, my body, the bikini, the flat front, the triangle top—and her expression did nothing. Nordic. Composed. She looked, and she registered, and she turned back to the rack.
The man by the door looked up from his phone. He saw me. He looked at me the way men look at other men who are doing something unexpected—a slightly confused, slightly amused, slightly uncomfortable look. He looked at my face, registered that I was male, looked at the bikini, looked at the flat front, and his eyebrows went up. Just slightly. The involuntary response of a man seeing another man in a woman’s bikini with no visible genitals. He went back to his phone.
The rush hit me. The specific, irreplaceable rush—the one that comes from being seen, from being exposed, from standing in a public space in a state that invites assessment and judgment. My heart was hammering. My skin was tingling. My cock—my less-than-one-inch cock—was pressed flat against the bikini fabric, soft and tiny and invisible, and the knowledge of its invisibility, the knowledge that I was standing in a women’s bikini with nothing showing, nothing bulging, nothing suggesting that I had anything between my legs—that knowledge sat in me like a warm, humiliating weight.
The cashier appeared at the end of the hallway. She’d walked over from the counter. She was looking at me with that same composed Nordic expression, but there was something behind it—curiosity, maybe. Or amusement. Or the professional interest of a retail worker assessing a fit.
She looked at me. Up and down. A thorough look, the kind that a fitter gives—assessing the size, the cut, the way the fabric sits on the body. She looked at the top, at the flat triangles against my chest. She looked at the bottoms, at the flat front panel, at the string ties on my hips. She looked at my legs, my stomach, my shoulders.
“You are wearing something underneath?” she asked.
The question was direct. Matter-of-fact. The tone of someone who has seen enough people in dressing rooms to know that the answer is sometimes complicated.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “My underpants. I rolled them under.”
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of the bikini bottoms. I was going to pull them open—just the waistband, just enough to show her the rolled-up fabric of my briefs underneath. A quick flash. Proof of coverage—the normal, expected response to the question.
But my thumb caught. It caught the bikini waistband and the briefs’ waistband at the same time, and when I pulled, I pulled both. The front of the bikini bottoms gaped open—opened wide, the fabric pulling away from my skin, the front panel dropping forward—and the cashier, who was standing three feet away, looking directly at my crotch, saw everything.
Everything.
My cock. My less-than-one-inch, shaved, soft cock. The tiny nub sitting on top of my small, tight, shaved balls. The whole arrangement—bare, exposed, visible in the bright daylight-mimicking bulbs of the store, as clear and detailed as if I’d pulled my pants down on a stage.
Her eyes bulged.
That’s the only way to describe it. Her eyes—Nordic blue, composed, professional—bulged. They went wide. The pupils dilated. The composure cracked for a full second, maybe two, the involuntary response of a woman seeing something she wasn’t expecting. Not a cock—I’m sure she’d seen cocks before, in dressing rooms, in life—but that cock. That size. That small. A grown man’s genitals that looked like they belonged on a child. A cock that was less than an inch, that was barely a protrusion, that was more nub than penis. Balls that were small, tight, and barely there. The whole package shaved and exposed and tiny and undeniable.
She recovered. Nordic composure snapped back into place like a mask being reattached. She nodded—just a nod. A single, small, contained nod.
“Okay,” she said. “You can pull them up.”
I let go of the waistband. The bikini snapped back against my skin. The flat front returned. The nothing returned. My cock was hidden again—pressed flat, invisible, a secret between me and the fabric and the cashier who had just seen it.
—
But I wasn’t done. The switch was on. The rush was flowing. And the thing about the rush—the thing about the switch—is that it doesn’t let you stop at one exposure. It pushes. It wants more. It wants the feeling again, the hit again, the specific devastating thrill of being seen and being small.
I turned to the mirror. I looked at myself. And then I walked.
I walked down the hallway. Not a normal walk—a walk. An amateur model strut. Hips slightly swinging, shoulders back, chin up, the kind of walk you see on fashion shows, the kind of walk that says look at me in a language that doesn’t require words. I walked from the mirror to the end of the hallway, turned, and walked back. I turned at the mirror to look at my ass—the small, flat, bikini-covered ass that looked like a woman’s ass from a distance and a man’s ass up close. I looked over my shoulder at the mirror. I posed.
The two women by the rack were watching now and not glancing—watching. They’d stopped pretending to browse. One of them had her hand on a hanger, but her eyes were on me, following me as I walked down the hallway, her expression the same Nordic neutrality but with something behind it—amusement, I thought. Or curiosity. Or the specific interest of women watching a man do something unexpected in a bikini shop.
The man by the door had put his phone down. He was staring. Not discreetly—openly, the way you stare at something you can’t look away from. A man in a bikini, walking like a model, flat in the front, flat in the back, androgynous and thin and strange. He was staring, and he wasn’t hiding it.
The cashier was standing at the end of the hallway, watching. She’d crossed her arms—not hostile, not defensive, just the posture of someone settling in to observe. She was watching me walk, watching me pose, watching me turn and look at my ass, and her expression had settled into something I can only describe as sympathetic. A sympathetic smile. The smile you give to someone who is doing something awkward and brave and slightly sad, and you want them to know you’re not judging them even though you are, a little, because how could you not.
I stopped at the mirror. I looked at myself. I looked at the flat front. I looked at the space where a bulge should be and wasn’t. I looked at the triangle top sitting on my flat chest. I looked at the thin, androgynous body in the black bikini, and I felt the humiliation settle into me like heat—warm and heavy and spreading.
“What do you think?” I asked. My voice came out thin. Quivering, maybe. The adrenaline making itself known in my vocal cords, turning my question into something that sounded less like confidence and more like desperation.
The cashier looked at me. She held the sympathetic smile. She gave me the same thorough up-and-down assessment she’d given before—the professional look, the fitter’s look, the look that takes in the whole body and the whole fit and renders a judgment.
“I think it fits you perfectly,” she said.
Flat. Emotionless. The words delivered with the same neutral precision she’d used when she asked if I wanted to try it on. It fits you perfectly—a statement of fact. The bikini fit me. The size was right. The proportions were right. A woman’s extra-small string bikini fit a grown man’s body because the man was thin, small, and flat, with nothing in front to interfere with the fit.
It fit me because I had no bulge. It fit me because my cock was less than an inch and my balls were small and the whole package pressed flat against the fabric and created no contour, no shape, no evidence of existence. It fit me the way it would fit a woman with a smooth crotch—perfectly, because there was nothing there.
I looked down. I looked at the flat front. I looked at the nothing.
It did fit me. It was like I was a girl down there. Flat. Smooth. Nothing.
—
I went back to the dressing room. I closed the door. I stood in the bright light, and I took off the bikini. I looked at my cock—my less-than-one-inch cock, soft, shaved, tiny, the cock that had just been seen by a Nordic cashier in a Copenhagen boutique, the cock that had made her eyes bulge, the cock that had been exposed in a flash of fabric and registered and filed and nodded at.
I was hard. Under the briefs, under the rolled fabric, my cock was hard. Three inches. My full three inches. Straining and tiny and invisible in my underwear, pressing against the bunched fabric, aching with the specific, humiliating arousal that comes from being seen and being small.
I got dressed. I put on my sweater, my jeans, my shoes. I folded the bikini. I walked to the counter.
The cashier rang me up. She was professional. She was composed. She didn’t mention what she’d seen. She didn’t mention the strut. She didn’t mention the flat front, the bulging eyes, or the nod. She scanned the tag, told me the price in kroner, accepted my card, put the bikini in a small paper bag with the shop’s logo on it.
“Good gift,” she said as she handed me the bag.
“Yes,” I said. “I think she’ll like it.”
I walked out. The bell chimed behind me. The Strøget was still gray, still beautiful, and still full of tall, calm Scandinavians on bicycles. I walked. My heart was still pounding. My cock was still hard—three inches, straining, tiny in my pants. My face was flushed. My hands were shaking slightly.
I bought the bikini. I gave my friend something else instead.
I kept the bikini. It’s in my drawer. I put it on sometimes, in my apartment, in front of the mirror. I look at the flat front. I look at the nothing. I remember the cashier’s eyes bulging, her sympathetic smile, and her flat voice saying it fits you perfectly, and I feel the rush again, the warm, heavy, humiliating warmth of being small and seen and known.
Less than an inch. Shaved. Soft. A nub. A nothing. A cock that fits in a woman’s extra-small bikini without creating a bulge. A cock that made a Nordic cashier’s eyes bulge in a Copenhagen boutique on a gray October afternoon.
I still have three hours to kill in Copenhagen. I think I’ll go back to that shop. I think I’ll buy another one.
The End.
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