The FuFu Clip
A Fictional SPH Story by CuckExtreme99.
“Look at it,” Brooke said, nodding at his crotch. “Honestly, babe. I still can’t believe I married that.”
Nathan’s face burned hot, and his pathetic little nub twitched anyway. That was the problem—every ounce of contempt she poured on him made the thing harder. It stood at maybe three inches, fully aroused, a stubby pink thumb jutting from a patch of trimmed hair. His balls were small and tight against his body, barely a mouthful.
“Two point eight inches,” Brooke recited, as if she were reading his measurements off a spec sheet. “That’s what the nurse wrote down. She asked me if I wanted to be in the room when she measured, and I said no, because I’d already seen it a thousand times and it never gets bigger.”
His little dick bobbed. Brooke laughed—actually laughed, a bright, genuine laugh that made his ears ring with shame.
“You’re so broken. God. Okay, come here. Tyrell’s going to be here in forty minutes, and my little girl needs to get dressed.”
My little girl. That’s what she called him on these nights.
She hopped off the counter and grabbed the pink satin panties from the towel rack—high-cut, with a little white bow at the front, sized for him specifically after too many ruined pairs. She knelt, and Nathan stepped in, and she drew the fabric up his legs slowly, letting him feel every inch of the glide, before tucking the satin over his tiny erection. The material was snug, and his little tent poked out comically, barely enough fabric displaced to notice.
Then came the real ritual—the fufu clip.
Brooke held it up between two fingers so he could see it in the mirror: a small, clear plastic clamp, deceptively innocent-looking. She’d bought it online eighteen months ago, after showing him a video of other tiny-dicked men wearing them. He’d cum in his pants watching the tutorial, and she’d made him watch it three more times before she ordered one in his size.
“Panties down, sweetie.”
He pushed the satin to his thighs. Brooke took his balls in one hand and gently, expertly, tucked them back and up, pressing them into the soft pockets of flesh on either side of his groin. Then she pulled his little dick back between his legs, folding it down and under, and fitted the clip around everything, securing the whole sad package flat against his body.
Nathan looked in the mirror and felt the familiar vertigo. Where his cock and balls had been, there was now a smooth cleft—a convincing little mound with a slit, a faux pussy formed from his own tucked genitals. The clip held it all in place, hidden and useless. With the panties pulled back up over it, anyone looking at him would see a flat, girlish front with a delicate little seam.
“There she is,” Brooke cooed, patting his faux cunt through the satin. “My little clit-girl. Doesn’t that feel right? Doesn’t it feel honest?”
“Yes,” Nathan whispered. It did. That was the thing he could never explain to anyone. It felt like the truth.
“Say it properly.”
“I have a pussy, because my clit is too small to be a dick.”
“Good girl.” She stood and kissed his cheek. “Now go pick something pretty to sit in. Tyrell texted that he wants you in the white thigh-highs tonight.”
—
Tyrell arrived at eight, and Nathan was on his knees in the living room in white thigh-high stockings, pink panties, and nothing else, his faux pussy smooth between his legs. Brooke answered the door in her bodysuit, and Tyrell filled the doorway—six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with a smile that always looked a little hungry.
“Damn, look at that,” Tyrell said, stepping inside. His eyes went straight past Brooke to Nathan kneeling by the couch. “She’s already in position. You train her good.”
“She trains herself,” Brooke said, pulling him down into a kiss. “I just provide the wardrobe.”
Tyrell walked over to Nathan and stood above him, crotch at eye level. He unbuckled his belt with slow, showy deliberation, the leather whispering through the loops. Nathan’s mouth went dry.
“You know what to say, girl.”
“Welcome home, Sir. Thank you for fucking my wife the way I can’t.”
Tyrell grinned and unzipped. He wasn’t even hard yet, and his cock hung down heavy and thick, swinging as he freed it—a dark, veined, heavy slab of meat that made Nathan’s tucked nub ache against its clip. Soft, Tyrell was more than double Nathan’s hardest.
“Look at that,” Tyrell said, hefting his cock in one hand like he was showing off a trophy. “You see this, girl? This is what a dick looks like. You ever seen one before? Oh, that’s right—” he snapped his fingers, “—you’ve got a little pussy now, don’t you? You wouldn’t know.”
“Yes, Sir,” Nathan breathed. His faux cunt was leaking into the satin, a dark wet spot spreading at the front of the panties.
“Show her, baby,” Brooke said, already peeling off her bodysuit. She was naked now, her nipples hard, and she dropped to her knees beside Nathan—right beside him, so their shoulders touched—and wrapped both hands around Tyrell’s cock. Two hands, and there was still cock left over. She stroked him to full hardness while Nathan watched from a foot away, and Tyrell swelled to a good nine thick inches, the head fat and dark and glossy.
“Count it out for her,” Tyrell said.
“Nine and a quarter,” Brooke recited happily, measuring him against her forearm. “That’s more than three of my husband. Three of him, stacked tip to base, and Tyrell still wins.” She leaned in and sucked the head of Tyrell’s cock, moaning, keeping eye contact with Nathan the whole time. “Mmm. And it tastes like something. When I suck my husband, it’s like a pacifier. Like sucking a thumb.”
Nathan whimpered. The clip was doing its cruel work, pressing his arousal flat, giving him nothing to feel but pressure and satin and the total, annihilating smallness of himself.
They moved to the couch, and Nathan was given his spot: the padded footstool at the end, close enough to see everything, far enough that no one would accidentally touch him. He sat with his knees together like Brooke had taught him, hands folded in his lap like a good girl.
Brooke got on all fours on the couch, her ass toward Nathan, her dripping pussy on display—pink, swollen, glistening. She’d made him stare at it for a full minute before Tyrell arrived, making him repeat that he’d never once filled it.
Tyrell knelt behind her and pressed the fat head of his cock against her opening. He didn’t push in. He just let it rest there, splitting her lips, while Brooke looked back over her shoulder at her husband.
“Tell him, sweetie. Tell him what you told me on our wedding night.”
“That it’s okay if I never make you cum,” Nathan recited, voice cracking. “That your pleasure matters more than mine.”
“Aww.” Brooke’s face went soft and mocking at once. “And does it look like I’m suffering, baby? Look how wet I am for him. You never once made me wet. Not once in nine years. I used to fake it and then go cry in the bathroom, and now—” Tyrell pushed in, slow, feeding that huge cock into her inch by inch, and Brooke’s voice dissolved into a long, shameless moan. “Now I get this every week.”
Nathan watched his wife’s pussy stretch around Tyrell’s girth, her lips gripping him, her whole body shaking as nine inches bottomed out inside her. Tyrell held still, fully seated, and grinned at Nathan over his wife’s arched back.
“She’s taking all of it, girl—every inch. You know why she can take all of it? Because this pussy was made for cock. Real cock. Your little nub would just rattle around in there like a marble in a bucket.” He pulled out slow, dragging her lips along his shaft, then slammed back in hard enough to make Brooke scream.
The fucking was loud, long, and merciless. Tyrell took Brooke in every position—flipping her onto her back so Nathan could see her face, see her eyes rolling back, see her cum twice on that big black cock while she chanted yes, yes, yes, fuck me, don’t stop, don’t ever stop. He took her on her side, one leg over his shoulder. He took her riding him, her tits bouncing, while she looked directly at her husband and mouthed the words thank you.
And through all of it, they talked to Nathan. That was the arrangement. That was the point.
“Are you leaking, girl?” Tyrell asked, mid-stroke, not even looking at him.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Through your little pussy panties?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Show me.”
Nathan stood on shaky legs and stepped close. The front of his pink panties was soaked, the satin clinging to his faux cunt, and Tyrell reached out with two fingers and pressed the wet fabric against Nathan’s tucked, clipped package, rubbing the seam of his fake slit.
“Look at that,” Tyrell said to Brooke. “She’s got a wetter pussy than some real women I’ve fucked. Too bad it’s not good for anything. Can’t fuck it. Can’t breed it. It’s just a leaky little decoration.” He pressed harder, and Nathan’s knees buckled. “You feel that? Feel how I can just squash your whole sex life under two fingers? That’s all you are down there. Two fingers’ worth of man.”
Brooke came a third time, and this time Tyrell let go with her—burying himself to the hilt and groaning as he pumped her full, his heavy balls tightening against her ass, his cock visibly pulsing inside her. Nathan watched his wife’s pussy milk every drop, watched the thick cream start to leak out around Tyrell’s shaft, and his little tucked nub throbbed so hard against the clip that he whined out loud.
They collapsed together on the couch, kissing, Tyrell’s softening cock still inside her. Then Brooke snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor between Tyrell’s legs.
“Clean up, sweetie. And keep your hands off your little pussy. You don’t get to touch yourself. You cum the way we say, or you don’t cum at all.”
Nathan knelt and did his work—licking Tyrell’s cock clean of their combined mess, sucking the cum from his wife’s well-fucked pussy while she held his head and cooed praise that was indistinguishable from insult. Good girl, that’s all you’re good for; that tongue is the biggest thing you’ve ever given me.
When they were both clean, Brooke had Nathan lie on his back on the coffee table, right in the middle of the room, thighs spread, his satin-covered faux pussy displayed. Tyrell sat on the couch with his arm around Brooke, both of them recovering, both of them looking down at him.
“Show us how girls cum,” Brooke said sweetly. “No hands on the clit. Just rub that little pussy through your panties, like a good girl. Hump the air if you have to.”
Nathan reached down and pressed two fingers against the wet satin over his tucked package, rubbing the fabric against his clipped dick and balls in tight little circles—masturbating like a girl, the way they’d trained him, his fingers finding the seam of his faux slit. At the same time, his three-inch nub stayed crushed and useless beneath the clip. The pressure was maddening, indirect, barely enough. He whined and squirmed and rubbed faster, and the two of them watched him like he was a pet doing a trick.
“Look at her go,” Tyrell chuckled. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. That’s not even jerking off. That’s a girl diddling her clit through her panties because nobody will fuck her.”
“Nobody will ever fuck her,” Brooke corrected, giggling. “Her clit’s too small to be a dick, and her pussy’s too fake to be a pussy. She’s got nothing. She’s got two holes that belong to me and a wet spot in her panties.”
Nathan was crying now—soft, hot tears of pure, consensual humiliation—and rubbing faster, hips lifting off the table, chasing the pressure through the clip and the satin. Brooke leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand.
“Cum for us, sweetie. Cum like the girl you are. Show Sir what your little pussy does.”
The orgasm hit him sideways, crushed and strange and overwhelming—no spurting, no thrusting, just a helpless, dribbling leak as his trapped nub pulsed against the clip and his cum soaked out through the satin in a slow, warm flood, spreading across the front of the pink panties. He moaned in a high, breathy register he’d never used before the clip, and Brooke and Tyrell both burst out laughing, genuinely delighted, as they watched the wet bloom spread.
“She didn’t even shoot,” Tyrell said. “It just leaked out of her. Like a girl.”
“Like a girl,” Brooke agreed. She slid off the couch, knelt beside the table, and pressed a soft kiss to the soaked satin over her husband’s faux cunt. Then she looked up at his tear-streaked face with all the love in the world. “Good girl. That’s my good girl. Was that perfect, baby?”
Nathan nodded, wrecked and floating and utterly content. “Perfect.”
“Same time next Friday,” Tyrell said, reaching for his belt. “I’ll bring her a new pair of panties. Something with lace.”
Brooke helped her husband up off the table, held him steady, and whispered against his ear: “I love you, clit-girl. My whole heart.”
And Nathan, dripping, small, and completely seen, believed her.
The End.
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