Okay.

So, I wasn’t even planning to hook up with anyone that night. I was out at this cocktail bar, a top-floor lounge with a skyline view—you know the vibe—and I ended up meeting this guy. He was cute enough, but he had nervous energy, and he was sweet. We talked for a while, and I gave him my number. Nothing wild.

Over the next few weeks, we went on a couple of dates. He tried really hard to impress me. He took me to this overpriced sushi place and opened my door like he thought chivalry would earn him a reward. I let him think it might.

Eventually, we ended up back at my penthouse—my space. Tall glass walls, candlelight, and champagne chilled before he even walked in. I wore this black satin robe, low cut, no bra underneath. I looked dangerous. He looked… nervous.

But I didn’t mind. Nervous is easy to control.

We started kissing. He was trying so hard. His hands were trembling, barely skimming my body like I might slap him for touching me wrong. It was hot for a second–his desperation, that little gulp he made when I pushed him onto the couch. I straddled him, kissed him slow, let my robe slip just enough to tease.

And then… I felt it.

Between us.

I paused.

Something didn’t feel right.

His dick was… tiny. Like, noticeably. And soft. Like, melting. I shifted my hips. Nothing. Still soft. Still missing. I actually thought maybe he was hiding it–tucking or something. It felt so unimpressive under me.

I sat back and looked down at him.

“Take your pants off.”

He blinked. “W-what?”

“I said, take them off. I want to see what’s going on down there.”

And this poor, insecure man actually looked afraid.

He stood up, hands fumbling at his belt like a schoolboy who’d been caught. Slowly, he pulled his pants down. His boxers followed. And… oh. Oh.

There it was.

This tiny, soft little nothing of a dick just bobbling there. It looked ashamed to exist.

He mumbled, “It’s just soft because I’m nervous. I get self-conscious about the size sometimes.”

And I swear to god… I burst out laughing.

Not a giggle.

Not a smirk.

I howled.

“That’s it?! That’s what you were hiding like it was some sacred secret?” I said. “No wonder you didn’t want to take your pants off. You could’ve just stayed fully dressed and no one would’ve noticed.”

His face turned red. Like, red. I could see his chest rising fast, like he wanted to run out the door, but his feet were glued to my rug.

“Does it even do anything?” I asked, leaning closer with a mocking little smile. “Or is it just for decoration?”

And the craziest thing happened–he started getting hard.

This useless little shrimp dick started standing up like it thought it had a chance.

I laughed harder. “Oh no… it gets worse when it’s hard?”

He tried to speak—something dumb, like “I really like you,” or “Please don’t make fun of me,” but I was already unlocking my phone.

“I’m not wasting a pussy on that,” I told him flatly, walking toward the window. “But you’re gonna be very useful for something else.”

I opened FaceTime.

And yes–yes, I did. I called three of my closest friends. Right there. He stood in the middle of my penthouse like a naked little freak while I angled the camera and said:

“Ladies… Look what I just uncovered.”

The screaming laughter on that call still echoes in my mind. One of them almost dropped her wine. Another said it looked like a baby toe. I think someone said “That’s not a dick, that’s a warning.”

And he just stood there. Hard. Humiliated. Breathing like he’d just been hit by a truck full of reality.

I didn’t hang up.

I walked back over, phone still on, leaned down in front of him, and whispered:

“This is your purpose now. You don’t get to fuck me. You get to entertain us.”

And he did.

I made him stand there while we asked him questions like a little game show.

“Do you even leave marks when you cum?”

“How does a woman fake moans for that?”

“Do you own pants that fit a real man?”

He just nodded, hard as a rock, totally broken and soaking in the humiliation like it was the only thing that kept him alive.

And after the call ended, I didn’t even dismiss him. I just curled up on the couch and told him to get on his knees by my feet while I watched a movie. I didn’t even look at him. He just knelt there. Naked. Forgotten. And leaking.

Still does, honestly. He sends me tributes just for the privilege of being humiliated again. Sometimes I send his photo to the group chat and we rate his dick on a scale of “tragic” to “nonexistent.” I even made him send me a ruler pic next to it so I could show the exact length to the girls.

I’ll never fuck him.

Never even touch him again.

But he’s mine.

Mine to mock.

Mine to use.

Mine to keep around as a reminder of how small some men really are.

And I never forget to remind him:

I’ve had better things inside me by accident.

 

The End.

 

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