The Lineup
An SPH Experience by thisiscinemattie.
I’d been to a few gatherings like this before—mostly just mingling, maybe some light teasing, nothing too intense. But this one felt different the moment I walked through the door.
A woman in her thirties with auburn hair and a clipboard checked me in at the entrance. She wore a fitted black dress, heels, and pearl earrings. I wore nothing but my shoes, having stripped in the foyer as instructed.
“Name?” she asked without looking up.
“Daniel.”
She found my name on her list and checked it. “Living room is through there. Help yourself to drinks. The main event starts in thirty minutes.”
Main event?
I walked into the living room, hyper-aware of my nakedness. The space was warm, filled with soft music and the hum of conversation. Maybe fifteen women sat or stood throughout the room, fully dressed in cocktail attire, holding wine glasses and chatting. Scattered among them were about ten other nude men, some standing awkwardly, others sitting on the edges of furniture, all of us exposed while every woman remained clothed.
My cock—maybe two inches soft, barely visible beneath its patch of dark hair—drew a few glances. I was used to that. What I wasn’t used to was the electricity in the air, the sense that something was building.
A blonde woman in a red dress caught my eye and smiled. “First time at one of these?”
“Third, actually.”
“Then you know the drill.” She sipped her wine. “Or maybe you don’t. This party has a reputation for being… more involved.”
Before I could ask what she meant, the auburn-haired woman from the front door appeared in the center of the room and clapped her hands.
“Ladies, if I could have your attention. It’s time for the sorting.”
The room went quiet. The nude men exchanged confused glances.
“All male guests, please line up along the far wall. Hands behind your backs. Feet shoulder-width apart. You will remain in position until the sorting is complete.”
My stomach dropped. Sorting?
We shuffled toward the wall, ten of us, maybe twelve—I couldn’t count precisely in my nervous state. We lined up awkwardly, some of us trying to cover ourselves before remembering the instruction.
“Hands behind your backs,” the auburn-haired woman repeated. “You will present yourselves properly. No hiding.”
I laced my fingers behind my back, my small cock jutting forward, exposed and vulnerable. The men on either side of me did the same. The guy to my left was tall, fit, with a cock that hung maybe four inches soft. The guy to my right was shorter and stockier, with a thick but short member—maybe three inches.
The women gathered around us in a semi-circle, wine glasses in hand, expressions ranging from curious to amused to predatory.
“Tonight’s entertainment,” the auburn-haired woman announced, “is the Great Cock Census. We will sort these gentlemen by penis size, from smallest to largest. They will stand in this line in perfect order, and we will determine exactly where each one ranks.”
A ripple of laughter and excited murmurs passed through the women.
“Feel free to examine the merchandise. Move them around as needed. But remember—no touching below the waist without explicit permission. We want them properly displayed, not aroused. Yet.”
The blonde in red approached me first. She stood close enough that I could smell her perfume, her eyes dropping to my crotch.
“Well, well,” she said, loud enough for others to hear. “This one’s definitely in the running for bottom tier.”
My face burned. My cock—already small—seemed to shrink further under her gaze.
“Let me see,” another woman said, stepping up beside her. This one was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and a tight purple dress. She crouched slightly, examining my package from different angles. “Definitely small. But I think I saw one or two even smaller.”
“Move him down,” the blonde said. “We’ll find his proper place.”
I was directed to shuffle several feet to the left, away from the taller men. A woman with short gray hair and an elegant pantsuit took my arm and positioned me more precisely.
“Chin up. Shoulders back. Let us see everything.”
I adjusted my stance, standing straighter, my hands still locked behind my back. My tiny cock pointed outward, a pale nub against my dark hair.
The sorting continued. Women moved among us, examining, comparing, discussing.
“This one’s definitely bigger than that one.”
“Look at the girth on him. That counts.”
“Move him up two spots.”
“No, no, I think he belongs between these two.”
I watched as men were shifted left and right, some sent toward the “small” end, others toward the “large.” The process was methodical, thorough, and utterly humiliating.
A woman in a green dress stopped in front of me and tilted her head. “What’s your name?”
“Daniel.”
“Daniel.” She repeated it slowly, as if committing it to memory. “I’m going to remember you. You’re going to be near the end, aren’t you?”
“I… I think so.”
She smiled. “There’s no ‘think’ about it. We’ll know exactly where you rank. And so will everyone else in this room.”
She moved on to examine the next man, but her words echoed in my head.
Exactly where you rank.
The line shifted again. A younger man with a smooth chest and barely any pubic hair was moved next to me. His cock was small—maybe an inch and a half soft—and he looked like he wanted to disappear.
“Look at these two,” the dark-haired woman in purple said, standing in front of us. “Practically twins.”
“Compare them properly,” the blonde in red instructed.
The purple-dressed woman reached out—hovering her hand near our crotches without touching—and made a visual comparison. She pursed her lips.
“No, they’re close, but this one—” she pointed at me “—is slightly bigger. See? There’s a bit more length.”
“Are you sure?” another woman asked. “They look the same to me.”
“Look closer. The head on this one extends further.”
A small crowd of women gathered, studying our cocks side by side. I stood frozen, hands behind my back, as they debated which of us was smaller.
“The other one is definitely smaller,” the gray-haired woman declared. “Look at the shaft. It’s barely there.”
“Move him down then.”
The young man beside me was shuffled further down the line, toward the smallest end. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his face crimson.
I remained where I was, but the comparison had been made publicly. My cock—slightly bigger than his, but only barely—was now a matter of record.
The sorting continued for another twenty minutes. Women moved us like chess pieces, adjusting, readjusting, ensuring perfect order. Some of them took photos with their phones. Others made notes.
At one point, a tall man with an impressive six-inch soft cock was moved to the far right—the “large” end of the spectrum. The women near him clapped and cheered.
“Now that’s a proper cock.”
“I want him in my group later.”
“Look at how it hangs. Beautiful.”
He stood straighter, clearly enjoying the attention.
At the other end of the line, the two smallest men huddled together, both of them barely an inch soft, their cocks almost invisible. They stared at the floor, shoulders hunched.
And then there was me.
Third from the end. Third smallest.
Out of twelve men, only two had smaller dicks than mine.
The auburn-haired woman walked down the line, inspecting our final arrangement. She nodded slowly.
“Perfect. Ladies, I present to you the Great Cock Census lineup. From smallest to largest, our male guests stand in order of endowment.”
She walked to the far left—the smallest end—and addressed the first man.
“What’s your name?”
“Adam,” he whispered.
“Adam. You have the smallest cock in the room. How does that make you feel?”
He didn’t answer.
“Speak up. We want to hear it.”
“Embarrassed,” he managed.
“Good. That’s honest.”
She moved to the next man—the second smallest. “And you?”
“Connor.”
“Connor. Second smallest. Still nothing to write home about, is it?”
He shook his head.
Then she stood in front of me.
“And you?”
“Daniel.”
“Daniel. Third smallest. Out of twelve men, only two are smaller than you. How does that feel?”
My throat was dry. “Humiliating.”
“Is that all?”
I hesitated. The truth pressed against my lips. “And… exciting.”
The women laughed softly. The auburn-haired woman smiled.
“Ah, a size queen in reverse. You enjoy being small, don’t you?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Of course you do. Look at you—standing here, exposed, ranked, and your little cock is getting hard.”
I glanced down. She was right. My tiny penis had stiffened, rising to maybe three inches hard—the smallest erection in the room, by far.
“Oh, that’s precious,” the blonde in red said, stepping closer. “He’s getting off on this.”
“Look at how cute it is,” another woman added. “Like a little clitty.”
The word sent a jolt through me. Clitty.
The women examined my erection with amusement.
“Can you even fuck with that thing?”
“It would barely go inside.”
“More of a decoration than a tool.”
I stood there, taking it all. Every comment. Every laugh. Every comparison.
And my cock stayed hard.
The auburn-haired woman moved on, continuing down the line, announcing each man’s name and rank. The fourth smallest. The fifth. Sixth. Seventh. All the way to the largest—a man named Patrick with a cock that had to be seven inches soft, nine hard.
When she finished, she turned to face the women.
“Now that we know exactly what we’re working with, who would like to claim their partners for the evening’s activities?”
Hands raised. Women called out numbers—positions in the line.
“I’ll take number twelve.”
“I want number ten.”
“Give me number eight.”
The largest men were claimed first. Then the middle ranks. Slowly, the line emptied as men were paired off with women and led to different rooms.
The two smallest men remained. And me.
“Anyone want these three?” the auburn-haired woman asked, gesturing to us.
The blonde in red stepped forward. “I’ll take the third smallest. Daniel.”
The dark-haired woman in purple raised her hand. “I’ll take the smallest. Adam.”
A woman in a gold dress who had been quiet until now spoke up. “I’ll take the second one. Connor.”
We were claimed last. The leftovers. The smallest.
The blonde in red approached me and placed a finger under my chin, lifting my face to meet her eyes.
“You’re going to be fun,” she said. “I have a thing for small cocks. They’re so… manageable.”
She took my hand—not my cock, not yet—and led me toward a back room.
—
The room was small, dimly lit, with a single bed and a chair. The blonde sat in the chair and crossed her legs.
“Stand in front of me. Hands behind your back.”
I obeyed, my tiny erection pointing toward her.
“Third smallest out of twelve. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“No? Then why is your little clitty so hard?”
I didn’t have an answer.
She studied me for a long moment. “I’m going to tell you what happens now. You’re going to stand there while I look at you. I’m going to examine every inch of that tiny cock. I might take pictures. I might invite others in to see. And you’re going to let me, because you love this. You love being the third smallest. You love being ranked and sorted and humiliated.”
My cock throbbed.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I couldn’t.
“Good boy.” She leaned forward, her face inches from my crotch. “Now, let’s get a proper look at what we’re working with.”
—
She examined me for an hour.
She measured my cock with a ruler—three inches hard, one and a half soft. She took photos from every angle. She compared me to objects in the room—a tube of lipstick, her pinky finger, a battery.
At one point, she called in the dark-haired woman and the smallest man, Adam. They stood side by side while she compared our cocks, discussing the differences, the similarities, the way they looked next to each other.
“See? His is just slightly bigger,” she explained to the other woman. “But honestly, they’re both in the same category. Useless for fucking. Good for one thing only.”
“What’s that?” the dark-haired woman asked.
“Entertainment.”
They both laughed.
When the night ended, I dressed in the foyer with the other men. We didn’t make eye contact. We didn’t speak about what had happened.
But as I walked to my car, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Thanks for tonight, third smallest. Same time next month?
I stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then I typed back: Yes.
—
I’ve been to three more parties since then.
Each time, the lineup happens. Each time, I’m sorted, examined, teased.
Each time, I rank near the bottom.
And each time, I leave harder and more satisfied than I’ve ever been in my life.
The smallest men have formed a kind of club—we exchange messages between parties, share our experiences, joke about our rankings.
Did you see the new guy? He might be smaller than all of us.
I moved up one spot this time. Progress!
Same time next month, gentlemen?
We’ve embraced what we are.
The smallest men around.
And somehow, that’s exactly where we want to be.
The End.
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