A Ride to Remember

You sit in the passenger seat with a fresh ice pack resting heavily on your lap, the cold pressing straight through the thin green tights against the soft, thoroughly used little cock that finished faster and weaker than every other man at the party. The repeated quick, watery orgasms have left you oversensitive; the chill bites deeper because of it. Whatever slight swelling remained after the last hand has already collapsed. Your cock folds inward until only the familiar wrinkled nub is left, trapped flat under the weight of the pack.

Your wife drives with one hand on the wheel. The other reaches over now and then to press the ice pack down harder, making sure the shrinkage holds. She is still naked under the long coat she borrowed, the night’s entertainment still clear in her satisfied expression.

“Two minutes and thirty-three seconds,” she says, almost fondly. “That was the best part. Every other husband lasted at least five minutes. Some made it to fifteen or twenty. Thick, creamy cum all over the wives’ hands. And you? Fastest by a mile and that thin little watery dribble. It was perfect.”

She glances at the flat front of your tights under the ice pack and smiles.

“I’m already talking with a few of the other wives about the next party. Same mix—normal guys and their women. No one hung, just average, so the difference stays honest. We’ll do the strip game again to get everyone naked, then line the men up for timed hand jobs. I want to watch you lose even harder. Maybe keep a running leaderboard. Your name at the bottom every single time.”

The ice pack shifts as she grinds it down again. The cold sinks in. Your cock has fully retreated now, soft and folded and almost nonexistent.

“I liked how obvious it was,” she continues. “All those ordinary cocks looking perfectly fine until someone held them next to yours. Suddenly average looked big. Suddenly normal looked impressive. That’s the value of keeping a tiny one around. You make everyone else feel better by comparison. Next time I might have the wives trade partners for longer. Let a few of the average guys take a real turn with me while you stay on your knees with the ice pack, watching and staying small.”

She laughs softly, eyes on the road.

“Or we keep the stamina tests going until you’re too sensitive to get hard at all. Pass you around the room, every wife gets a turn, every man gets to stand next to you so people can keep seeing the size difference. You’ll finish in under three minutes every round and leave that same watery mess. The others will last longer and come like men. It’s consistent. It’s funny. And you get so quiet and obedient when you’re the clear loser.”

The ice pack stays heavy on your lap the entire drive. By the time she turns into the driveway your cock is locked in its tiniest state—pale, wrinkled, completely soft, the tights lying flat beneath the melting pack. She parks, shuts off the engine, and looks at you with open satisfaction.

“Inside. Another ice bath before bed. I want you still this small when you fall asleep. And tomorrow we start planning the next average-guy party. You’re going to keep being the smallest, fastest, wateriest one in the room, baby. That’s your job now.”

She reaches over, lifts the ice pack just long enough to give the frozen little nub one slow, possessive squeeze, then settles the pack back down and opens her door.

“Come on. Let’s get that last-place little dick even colder.”