The Halloween Bet
By MinimumSiz3.
A few weeks before Halloween, my buddy Jack and I got into this stupid bet during a backyard barbecue. We were grilling burgers, pounding beers, and trash-talking about the upcoming NFL game. “Loser dresses like a full-on slut for the Halloween party,” he said, grinning like an asshole. “Lingerie, heels, makeup—the works.”
Our place was hosting, my wife Lisa and I, inviting like 30 people. I laughed it off, figured my team would crush his.
Wrong.
Blowout loss—42-10.
Jack whooped, slapping my back. “You’re my bitch now, dude. I pick the outfit.”
Party night’s here, house packed with friends, neighbors, thumping music, fog machine going. Jack shows up with a bag from some lingerie shop, smirking. Pulls out: sheer black nylon stockings, a lacy garter belt, a tiny black silk g-string that looked like it could floss a tooth, a padded black bra, and a skintight red dress hugging every curve like a second skin. Plus, red stilettos.
“Put it on, princess,” he says, tossing it at me.
Lisa’s eyes light up—our SPH thing’s no secret to her anymore.
She bites her lip, watching as I strip in the bedroom.
First, the g-string. Slid it up my thighs, that thin silk pouch cradling my pathetic little dick—soft, it’s a quarter-inch nub, buried in my pubes like a shy turtle. For once, no sagging emptiness. The fabric hugged it tightly, perfectly supporting the tiny worm and my pea-sized balls, flattening everything into… nothing. No bulge, just smooth silk front.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, staring in the mirror.
It fit like it was made for my micro-cock. Stockings next—rolled them up smooth, clipped to the garter straps snapping against my ass. Bra stuffed with socks for fake tits. Dress zipped up, clinging to my hips, ass popping out slutty. Heels wobbled me like a newborn deer.
Our friend Gina—hot chick who does pro makeup—handles the rest. Long hair already, she teases it into loose waves, slaps on foundation, smoky eyes, red lips, glossy enough to suck cock. “Purse your lips, honey,” she giggles, blending blush. “You’re gonna turn heads.”
Full transformation: I looked fuckable. Stepped out to cheers and wolf-whistles.
“Damn, girl!” Jack hollers.
Lisa grabs my ass, whispers, “Tiny bulge suits you.”
All night, I’m strutting—okay, teetering—in heels, dress riding up, garters peeking. Guests swarm: laughs at first, then teasing ramps up. Neighbor Dave slaps my padded tits: “Nice rack, but what’s under the hood?” His hand grazes my crotch—flat silk, no give. “Wait, nothing there? Flat as a board!”
Group roars. Some chick pinches my ass: “Bubble butt goals!”
Drunk bro humps the air behind me: “Bend over, bitch!”
Touches everywhere—fingers snapping garters, palms cupping cheeks. My nub throbs trapped in silk, leaking pre into the pouch, but zero outline. Comfortable as hell—no boxer-brief sag, just secure humiliation. Heart races, cocklette straining futile against fabric.
Jack corners me late, beers in hand. “Double or nothing, princess. Flip cup—one on one. Win, change out. Lose… dress off. Right here.”
The crowd gathers, chanting.
I’m buzzed, horny from the teasing—why not?
We flip: his cup hits first.
Boom.
Loser again.
“Strip!” they yell.
Hands shaking, I unzip the red dress, let it pool at my heels. Cheers explode, whistles piercing.
Standing there: bra, garters framing stockings, g-string barely covering my junk, ass bare and jiggly.
Gina bursts out laughing, pointing right at my crotch. “Barely even a bulge! And a great ass!”
Flashbulbs pop—phones out, capturing the flat silk front, my tiny dick outlined faintly if you stare, but mostly invisible.
Jack howls: “Look at that! Smoother than my girl’s pussy!”
Lisa sidles up, hand sliding over the silk, pinching the hidden nub. “Told you—your little clit fits perfect.”
Face burning, I spin for them, ass flexing, garters taut.
Dudes grope closer: “Feel that fabric—nothin’!”
One yanks the waistband peek: “Babydick alert!”
Laughter crashes like waves. My micro-cock pulses, desperate, pre-soaking through.
Party peaks: I’m the slut mascot, serving drinks in lingerie, bending for spanks, posing for pics. Every grope hits the flat pouch, reminding me—smallest cock here, tucking invisible. Gina drags me to dance, grinding her ass on my silk front: “Can’t feel shit!”
Jack joins, his bulge—real man’s—pressing my thigh, thick even soft. “Feel the difference?”
Humiliation floods me, arousal peaking. Lisa pulls me aside mid-party, into the bathroom. Drops to knees, yanks g-string aside—my quarter-inch softie flops out.
“Pathetic,” she moans, thumb-flicking it hard to two inches.
Sucks the head quick, spits. “Cum from the shame later.”
Back out, I endure more: ass-slaps, tit-grabs, endless “no bulge!” chants.
Dawn hits, guests trickle out, alone with Lisa, Jack, and Gina. They make me model spins—g-string riding up my crack.
“Best costume,” Gina says.
Jack: “Smallest package.”
I jerk off in bed later, Lisa watching: fist pumping my thin three-incher, replaying laughs, touches, that flat silk shame. Squirt weak ropes on my stockings. Wife rides my face: ‘My little panty boy.’ Bet lost twice, but Kink won big.
Next Halloween? Betting again—hoping for skimpier.
The End.
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