Morning video

John woke to the sound of his mother's laughter echoing from downstairs, bright and sharp enough to cut through his post-orgasm haze. He lay there for a moment, disoriented, his hand still sticky against his stomach, the baby blue briefs, now crusted with evidence of his shame, pulled halfway down his thighs. The book sat on his nightstand, innocent-looking, deceptively like any other journal.

"Charlotte, come look at this," his mom called, her voice carrying that particular tone of amused scandal. "Mrs. Henderson from two blocks over just sent it to the neighborhood group chat."

John's blood ran cold. Mrs. Henderson. The Ring camera. The porch.

He scrambled up, his tiny nub already twitching with that traitorous arousal that bordered on panic. He could hear Charlotte's footsteps, her sleepy morning voice. "What is it?"

"Some little pervert exposing himself on her porch at dawn," his mom said, and John could picture her shaking her head, still smiling. "Can you believe the nerve? Look at this! He's wearing actual children's underwear. With a carrot on it!"

John crept to his door, cracking it open. He had a clear view of the kitchen island from here, could see the back of Charlotte's head as she leaned over their mother's shoulder, both of them staring at his mom's phone.

"Oh my god," Charlotte giggled, that cruel, delighted sound that only teenage girls can make. "Is that... is that his actual penis? It looks like a button. Like a little kid's."

"That's what I'm saying," his mom laughed, not unkindly, just genuinely baffled. "Mrs. Henderson said he was riding a bike around the neighborhood half-naked. Probably some developmentally delayed young man. But look," She paused the video, zoomed in. John could see the pixelated freeze-frame of himself, double peace signs, his inch-long shame fully displayed. "he's smiling like he's proud of it. Look at that little thing. It's almost cute, in a pathetic way."

"More like microscopic," Charlotte snorted. "That's smaller than my pinky finger. I didn't know they came that small on actual adults. He looks our age."

John's hand drifted down without his permission, cupping the minuscule bump in his ruined briefs. He was hard, straining to his full, laughable inch. The humiliation was physical, a hot wave washing over him as he stood there, eavesdropping while his own mother and sister dissected his inadequacy over breakfast.

"He must be a premature ejaculator too," his mom observed, scrolling to the part where he'd groped himself. "Look, he touches it for two seconds and he's leaking through the fabric. Poor thing probably can't last thirty seconds with that little nub."

"Gross, Mom," Charlotte laughed, but she didn't look away from the screen. "Can you imagine? Having that between your legs and still thinking anyone wants to see it? I'd die of embarrassment."

"You'd think," his mom agreed. "But men with equipment that tiny often develop strange complexes. Overcompensating, or just accepting their place as objects of pity. Look at his face, though. He loves it. See that expression?"

John bit his lip, hard. His balls were tight, aching. The book's curse was working he could feel the orgasm building from nothing but their voices, their casual demolition of his manhood. He wasn't even touching himself, just standing there, listening to his twin sister call his penis "microscopic" while his mom called him an object of pity.

"He's probably a virgin," Charlotte speculated, and John whimpered involuntarily, the sound lost in the hallway. "Obviously. Can you imagine trying to have sex with that? You'd need tweezers just to find it."

"Charlotte," his mom scolded lightly, but she was still grinning. "Be nice. He's clearly got problems. Though I will say, if that were my son, I'd have him in diapers. That thing certainly isn't functional for anything adult."

The pressure in John's groin peaked. He pressed his forehead against the doorframe, shaking, his hips jerking forward in tiny, involuntary thrusts. He was going to cum. Right here. Standing in his own doorway, listening to his mother suggest he should be in diapers, listening to his sister compare him to her pinky finger.

"Should we call the police?" Charlotte asked.

"Nah," his mom said, finally setting the phone down. "Mrs. Henderson said he was harmless. Just a sad little exhibitionist with a baby dick. Probably lives in his parents' basement. Though I hope his mother knows what he's doing with her laundry—those briefs look expensive. Custom-printed with his name and everything."

"John," Charlotte read from the screen, where the back of the waistband was visible in one frame. She laughed harder. "His name is John! That's hilarious. Little Johnny and his little johnson."

John came.

He didn't make a sound, or if he did, it was swallowed by their laughter. It was the most intense, humiliating orgasm of his life, thirty seconds of pure, watery release soaking through his briefs again, his knees buckling as he bit his fist to stay silent. His microscopic penis pulsed helplessly, pumping out the pathetic load, all while his mother and sister sat twenty feet away discussing how he should be in diapers.

He slumped against the wall, trembling, his briefs now completely soaked. The book seemed to pulse on his nightstand, inviting. He could change this. Could make them forget. Could make them—

"John?" Charlotte called suddenly, making him freeze. "Are you up? Mom's making pancakes."

He looked down at himself. The wet spot was visible, dark and obvious on the baby blue fabric. His hairless legs shook. The video was still on the phone, probably saved now, probably shared to the whole neighborhood chat.

"Y-yeah," he managed, his voice cracking. "Be down in a minute."

"Don't take too long," his mom added, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "And make sure you change your underwear. You've been wearing those same briefs for two days now, I can smell you from here."

John felt his spent little nub twitch weakly, already preparing for round two.