Games

You sit in the enger seat with the ice pack still strapped firmly against the front of your tights, the cold keeping your cock in its tiniest, most folded state. Your wife checks it one last time before she parks, presses the pack harder for a final ten seconds, then removes it and smooths the green fabric flat. There is still no bulge. Just smooth, tight material over a soft, icy, almost nonexistent little package.

She takes your hand and leads you inside.

The party is evenly split—men and women in roughly equal numbers, all in costume, drinks in hand, music playing. Your feminine elf look draws immediate attention. Pointed ears, face paint, hairless smooth skin, and the completely flat front of your tights make several people do double-takes. Your wife keeps you close, one hand resting on the small of your back, the other occasionally cupping the soft nothing between your legs so everyone nearby can see how little is there.

After the first round of greetings and open stares, the hostess—a smiling woman in a witch costume—claps her hands and announces the night’s main game.

“Truth or Strip! Lose a round, lose a piece of clothing. Last ones naked get a special prize from the hosts. Everyone plays.”

The game moves fast. Simple questions, silly dares, quick forfeits. Costumes begin coming off piece by piece. Capes, jackets, skirts, pants, shirts. Laughter rises as more skin appears. Your wife loses her outer robe early and seems perfectly happy about it. You lose the tunic after only two rounds, leaving you in just the tight green pants, pointed ears, and face paint. The flat front of those pants becomes the main topic of conversation every time the circle’s attention lands on you.

Another round. Another loss. Your wife reaches over, hooks her fingers into the waistband of the elf pants, and peels them down in one smooth motion for you. You step out of them. Completely naked now except for the ears and the makeup. Your soft, ice-shrunk cock is fully on display—tiny, wrinkled, folded inside the foreskin, shorter than the first knuckle of her pinky, balls drawn up so tight they barely show. The room’s reaction is immediate and loud.

But the game continues, and soon the rest of the clothing is gone too.

Every man and every woman ends up naked. The living room becomes a sea of bare skin under the party lights. You look around, heart hammering, and take in the other men.

Most of them are average.

Not huge. Not tiny. Just ordinary, everyday soft cocks—four to five inches, some a little longer, some a little shorter, normal thickness, normal balls. A few are already half-hard from the exposure and the alcohol, showing typical, unremarkable erections. No one is hung. There is no thick, heavy, eye-catching cock in the room. Just a collection of perfectly normal men… and you.

The difference is devastating.

Your tiny, cold, folded-up dicklet sits there looking almost unreal next to even the most modest of the average cocks around you. Women notice first. Then the men. Comments start flying.

“Jesus, look at that one.”

“Is it even real?”

“I’ve seen larger clits.”

Your wife stands beside you, completely naked and completely at ease, and reaches down to lift your soft little package between two fingers so everyone can get a clear view.

“This is my husband,” she announces, voice bright with pride and cruelty. “We iced him and Naired him before we came. This is as big as he gets when he’s cold. Even hard he’s still smaller than most of you soft. I just wanted everyone to see the low end of the spectrum tonight.”

She keeps holding you on display while people step closer. Average cocks are compared directly to your tiny wrinkled nub. Soft shafts that look completely ordinary suddenly seem substantial when held beside something so small. Women take turns measuring your dicklet against their fingers, against the other men’s cocks, against the head of the nearest average erection. Each comparison draws fresh laughter.

One man with a perfectly normal five-inch soft cock stands next to you while his wife holds the two of you side by side. The difference is so stark it borders on absurd. Another average cock is pressed gently against yours so the room can see how your entire package is shorter than just the head of his. Your wife keeps up a running commentary the entire time—pointing out how smooth and hairless you are, how completely your balls have disappeared, how the cold has left you looking more like a little girl than a man.

The game is long over. No one bothers putting clothes back on. The naked crowd simply stays that way, drinking, talking, and repeatedly returning to the tiny, icy-cold cock that is so much smaller than everything else in the room. Your wife never leaves your side. She keeps one hand on you at all times, lifting, squeezing, stretching, and displaying the soft little nub so that every new person who walks up gets the full, humiliating comparison to the perfectly average cocks all around you.

“This,” she says more than once, still smiling, “is why we came. Everyone else is normal. He’s the special one.”

And under the party lights, surrounded by naked average men and the women who keep reaching out to touch the difference, you stand there with your tiny, folded, hairless dicklet on permanent display, the clear and undeniable smallest in the room.