*****

Part 3…

I have a small one. I realized that pretty early on. For a long time, I avoided talking about it. I didn’t tell people my dick was small. It was my shameful secret, though not nearly as secret as I wished it was. On several different occasions, others saw it. Laughter and cruel jokes followed, but mercifully, they died out soon enough, and my little condition was forgotten.

By the time I was eighteen, I had two girlfriends. But I’d never had sex with them. I had not even taken my clothes off in their presence. I’d only told one of them my penis was diminutive. She’d laughed. I’d never brought it up again.

At eighteen, I was still a virgin. I lacked confidence around girls, owing to my subpar endowment. Even the thought of getting undressed in another’s company was disabling.

I liked girls, don’t get me wrong. I daydreamed of girls, especially one in particular. She was a lot older than me. People said she was twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She was tall and slender, with fantastic legs and perky breasts. Her hair was cut short and usually dyed black or red.

I had never seen her wear anything but very short dresses. She always strutted around the neighborhood in high heels, showing those impossible, long legs and driving me — and doubtlessly many other boys — crazy. She never wore bras, and her boobs would bob wildly under the tight top of her dress as she walked. My gaze always lingered upon her when she passed; I forever hoped to make out the size and color of her panties through the fabric of her dress. She always wore thongs; the size and shape of her bare buttocks were easy to guess through the vaporous fabric of her dress. Better still, I often caught glimpses of them under the fluttering hem. When that happened, I felt transported with delight for hours on end.

I never talked to her. I didn’t even say hi. I was sure she hadn’t noticed me — let alone knew my name. Hers was Amanda.

One day, I was walking back home when I nearly ran into her.

“You’re Ian, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Hi,” I stammered, caught off guard. “Yes. Ian. I am.”

“Come with me.”

I followed her to a house, not ten minutes from where we’d bumped into each other.

When we got inside, she said, “Take your clothes off. ” She stared at me from the top of her high-heel platforms, on which she was taller than I. We were in a large living room with huge windows to the garden in front of the house.

“Uhm… why?”

“Why!? Because.”

“`Because’ is not an answer.”

“How would you know that?” she asked, clearly annoyed.

“Just so.”

“`Why’ is not an answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it. Just undress.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Seriously? You get the chance to show your junk to a woman, and you say no? What are you? A man or a dummy?”

“What do you want to see, huh? Never seen a man naked before?”

“I won’t see one now, if that’s your concern. Just shut up and strip, for crying out loud.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’re worse than a girl. I don’t like girls.”

“Yeah… Up to you.”

She rolled her eyes, then put her hands on her hips and stuck a leg out. She was fuming. “Okay. Tell me. Why don’t you want to do it?”

“I don’t think I want what you want.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t want to do what you want me to do.”

“I want you to strip.”

“And after that?”

“What after that?” she asked as if uncertain, not sure of my meaning. “You can put your clothes back on.”

“Then why do you want me to take them off?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She frowned. “Fine. I’ll tell you. I want to look at you.”

“Why?”

“Because. That’s what people want: to look at other people with no clothes on.”

“Not everybody wants that.”

“Adults do. Clearly, you’re not one.”

“I’m almost nineteen.”

“Then act like you’re nineteen.”

“But you’ll laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?”

“If I take my clothes off. You’ll laugh.”

“Because you’ll be naked?”

“No…”

“Then why?”

“Uhm, I don’t know. Girls always laugh.”

“I’m not like other girls.”

“Can we just talk?”

“We can talk. When you’re naked.”

“And if I don’t take my clothes off?”

“Then you must leave.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.” I pulled the shirt off over my head, then unbuttoned my pants.

“Don’t turn around,” she admonished me in a sharp voice. “What are you? A woman?”

I was miserable as I pulled my pants down, and then my underwear. After I stepped out of the last leg hole, I remained crouched for a moment, fearful of standing up and exposing myself to the cruel woman. At last, I straightened myself and stood there in front of her, covering my boy bits with my hands.

“Arms on the sides!” she growled. “I haven’t seen one quite like you yet!”

At that point, I was trembling — something she did not miss.

“What’s with you? Are you cold or anything? Speak!”

I could only look down and to the side.

“What’s with that bush? It’s bigger than the ones I have in the garden. Do you ever trim it?”

I did not answer. I couldn’t. The emotion was choking me. My cheeks were burning and I feared that was showing.

“Spread your legs,” she said.

I complied, and I don’t know why.

“Look at that! It’s as small as they said it was. Wait here. Don’t move!” she screeched. “You hear me? I’ll be right back. I need to get my camera; I need to take some pictures. I really did not think it would be that small.”

Despite her warnings otherwise, she was out of the living room for a good while. I could hear her moving around and rummaging through the back of the house, and all that time I thought about running away — putting my clothes back on in a rush, or even grabbing them and darting through the door naked, then getting dressed when out of the house. Like a mouse paralyzed by a snake’s gaze, however, I could not move. I felt weak. I felt my legs about to give way. My heart was pounding; my temples were throbbing. I glanced toward the big garden windows from the corner of my eye, afraid somebody might see me from the street beyond the fence. I wanted to hide myself, but I only dared turn slightly to one side, facing away from the windows.

When she finally returned, it was with great impetus and in a businesslike hurry. She stopped in front of me, put a knee on the ground, and started firing the camera, adjusting the angle as she went. She did all that without looking once at me, only at my genitals. She kept giving me directions, in a steady, professional tone: “Straighten up. Stand tall. Hips forward. Face me.” She kept snapping and speaking in a flat and precise tone, just like a real photographer on assignment. “Push your butt forward. Spread your legs. Your right leg is further out. That’s it. Raise your ass. Like that. More. Now shake it — just like you’re fucking. Oh, you don’t know anything about that. Turn left. To the light. Window. I need more light.” She had me walk in front of the massive glass panes, fully naked and exposed to the street behind the fence, and pose: hands on hips, legs wide, and butt pushed out. She circled me, clicking continuously and shooting me from every direction: front, sides, and even from behind. She never stopped once in one place. She also never stood up straight, but rather crawled and shifted from knee to knee, searching for a better angle.

“You really need to shave,” she said when she stood up and finally looked at me. She held the camera in front of her, the finality of her pose unmistakable. “Your tiny peepee would make a great subject.”

“Can I dr-dressed up now?”

“What? Are you in a hurry? Girlfriend waiting for you?”

“No-no. No gir-girlfriend.”

“Are you horny?” she asked, smiling. “I would be, if I were you.”

Arousal was the furthest thing from the state I was in. “I want to go.”

“Fine,” she said. “Go.” She stepped in close — very close. Her raised chin was jutting just below my eyes, and her face was so near I could feel her breath tickling my cheeks. Next I felt her hand grabbing my dick and balls. It must have been facing up, for I felt her nails digging in my flesh, under my sack. “You did not think you could leave before I copped a feel of your family jewels, did you?”

I shook my head, unable to utter a word.

“Do you like it?” she asked. Has anyone ever done this to you?” she continued when I did not answer. I bet I’m the first—the first woman to touch you there. Am I? Answer me!”

“Yes, please,” I wailed more than I moaned. “Yes.”

“`Yes’ what?”

“You’re the first.”

“Want to cum?”

“No, please. Can I go now?”

“You want to cum. Wouldn’t that be nice? To have a pretty girl playing with your tiny little peepee?” She released my genitals from her tight grip and pinched my penis gently between two fingers. “How’s this?. Feels good, doesn’t it? Don’t be shy.” Her fingers slid up and down my flaccid penis, and the pressure they applied through its loose skin felt quite pleasurable. As she did that, she planted two fingers in my sack, poking my balls, and then my entire package started to jiggle with the short, rhythmic motions of her hand.

“Look at you, shaking already. Good boy!” Her voice dropped, turning to a moan. “Yeah… just like that. Yes… Oooh.” I started panting. I was only half hard when I shot my load on the inside of her forearm.

“Get out of here!” she shouted. She took a step back and pointed to the door. “Out! Now! Take your clothes and leave!”

To Be Continued…?

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