Pretty Average

The bar had emptied out faster than usual that night. The last regulars had stumbled out into the cool evening air nearly an hour ago, leaving behind only the faint smell of spilled beer and the low hum of the neon signs still glowing above the shelves. Ed wiped down the same stretch of counter for the third time, the cloth moving in tight, useless circles. His hands needed something to do. Anything to keep them from shaking. Andrea leaned against the far end of the bar, arms folded beneath her full breasts, watching him with that half-amused, half-predatory smile she always wore when they were alone. The kind of smile that made the back of his neck prickle.

“Inventory’s not going to do itself, Eddie,” she said, voice low and teasing, almost lazy. “Come on. Storeroom. You and me.”

He followed her through the swinging door into the back. The storeroom smelled of cardboard, spilled liquor, dust, and the faint sharp perfume she always wore—something expensive that clung to the air and made his stomach twist. Andrea locked the door behind them with a soft, deliberate click, then turned and leaned against the metal shelves, one hip cocked to the side. The single overhead bulb cast hard shadows across her face and the curve of her body.

“You look tense,” she said, studying him. “Something on your mind?”

Ed swallowed. His face already felt warm. “Just… long shift. That’s all.”

Andrea’s eyes drifted downward without shame, lingering blatantly on the front of his black work pants. “You always get like this when it’s just us. I’ve noticed. The way you jump whenever I get close behind the bar. The way you try to hide. What’s the matter, Eddie? You shy?”

He forced a weak, shaky laugh. “I’m pretty average, I guess.”

Andrea’s eyebrows shot up. Then she laughed—loud, bright, and completely unrestrained. The sound bounced off the metal shelves and the stacked cases of bottles, filling the small room until it seemed to press against his ears.

“Pretty average?” she repeated, still chuckling, wiping at the corner of one eye. “Oh, honey. Only the smallest of men call their dicks ‘pretty.’ You know that, right? Nobody with anything worth looking at says that. ‘Pretty average.’ Christ. That’s the kind of thing a guy says when he’s hoping no one will ask to see proof.”

Ed’s ears burned. He looked at the floor, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hands found the hem of his shirt and twisted the fabric until his knuckles went white. The word “pretty” now felt like a brand on his tongue.

Andrea pushed off the shelves and stepped closer, still smiling, the click of her heels soft on the concrete. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. You prove to me you’re ‘pretty average’… and I’ll let you see me naked. Fair trade. No clothes. Just you and me and the truth. Right here in the storeroom. No one else around. No excuses.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“You heard me.” She reached for the top button of her blouse and flicked it open, just enough to show a hint of black lace against pale skin. “Drop the pants. Show me what ‘pretty average’ looks like. If you’re not lying, I’ll strip. Right here. Right now. Every last stitch.”

Ed’s mouth went dry. His heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat and in the tips of his fingers. He hesitated, fingers hovering near his belt buckle. Andrea waited, patient and expectant, one eyebrow arched, the open button of her blouse framing the soft upper curve of her breasts.

“Come on,” she coaxed, voice soft and almost kind. “I’ve seen every size under the sun. You’re not going to surprise me. Unless…” Her smile widened, teeth flashing. “Unless you’re even smaller than I think. Then you might surprise me a little.”

Humiliation and something hotter and more desperate warred in his chest. Slowly, face already turning red from the neck up, he unbuckled his belt. The metal clinked loudly in the quiet room. He unbuttoned the fly with clumsy fingers, then shoved his pants and boxers down in one awkward motion until they pooled around his ankles, the fabric bunched over his shoes.

Andrea’s eyes dropped immediately.

What she saw made her giggle—a bright, delighted sound that started high and then rolled lower in her throat.

Ed’s balls hung low and soft, completely covering the place where a shaft should have been visible. There was nothing protruding. Just a smooth stretch of skin and the gentle curve of his modest scrotum. No tip. No hint of length. Just empty space where a cock ought to sit. The overhead light made the situation look even worse, clinical and unavoidable.

“Where is it?” she asked, still giggling, leaning in closer until he could smell her perfume mixed with the faint scent of her skin. “Did it fall off? Did you leave it in your other pants? Or is it just… hiding?”

Ed’s face went from pink to deep crimson. Heat flooded his cheeks, his ears, the back of his neck. He reached down with trembling fingers and carefully parted his balls, fishing out the tiny, soft stub of flesh that had been completely hidden between them. It was no thicker than a finger and barely long enough to rest against his palm once freed. Soft, wrinkled, pale, and utterly dwarfed by the testicles that had swallowed it whole. He held it out between two fingers like something fragile and shameful.

Andrea clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with fresh laughter. “Oh my god. It was inside. That’s adorable. That’s actually adorable. Look at that little thing. Completely buried. I wouldn’t have known it was there if you hadn’t dug it out for me.”

He stood there, pants around his ankles, holding his own dick between two fingers, unable to look at her face. His breathing had gone shallow. Every second felt stretched and exposed.

Andrea tilted her head, still studying the little thing with open curiosity. “So when you pee… do you just piss all over your own balls? Like, does it just dribble straight down into the pouch? Do you have to stand there with your legs apart so you don’t soak yourself?”

Ed shook his head quickly, voice tight and strained. “No. I… I lift it. I aim. Carefully.”

She scoffed, unimpressed, still staring. “Does it grow?”

He nodded once, the motion small and miserable. His whole face was the color of a ripe tomato now. Heat radiated off him in waves. He could feel sweat starting at his temples.

Andrea’s smile turned sharper, more interested. “Well then. Let’s find out how much. Fair’s fair. You showed me yours…”

She didn’t wait for permission. Her fingers worked down the remaining buttons of her blouse one by one. She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it fall to the dusty floor in a soft heap. The black lace bra underneath barely contained her full, heavy breasts; the fabric strained across the soft weight of them. She reached behind her back, unhooked the clasp with a practiced twist, and peeled the cups away. Her nipples tightened in the cooler air of the storeroom—dark, prominent, and unapologetic. She stood for a moment letting him look, then moved to the zipper of her skirt.

The skirt dropped next. She unzipped it at the side and let it fall, stepping out of it in one smooth motion. Matching black panties followed. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down her long legs, kicking them aside with the toe of one shoe until she stood completely naked in the middle of the storeroom, hands on her hips, watching him.

The effect was immediate and humiliatingly obvious.

Ed’s tiny cock twitched hard. Blood rushed into it so fast it almost hurt—a sudden, eager surge that made his knees weaken. The soft stub thickened and lengthened in one continuous motion, stretching, straining, until it stood out from his body at a slight upward angle, the head flushed a deeper pink.

Two and a half inches.

That was all.

Two and a half inches of pale, thin flesh, the head barely larger than a pencil eraser, the shaft no thicker than his little finger. It pulsed once, twice, as if proud of the effort, then simply stood there—stiff, desperate, and pitifully short against the backdrop of his body and the open air of the storeroom.

Andrea stared.

Then she threw her head back and cackled.

The laugh was loud, delighted, and utterly merciless. It filled the small room, echoing off the shelves and the concrete floor. She pointed at the little erection bouncing between his legs, eyes sparkling with pure amusement, breasts rising and falling with each burst of laughter.

“Two and a half inches!” she crowed between gasps. “That’s it? That’s the whole show? Oh, Eddie. You poor, sweet, tiny thing. ‘Pretty average,’ he says. Look at it! It’s standing as hard as it can and it still doesn’t clear your own balls properly! It’s trying so hard and it’s still just… that.”

Ed’s knees felt weak. The humiliation crashed over him in thick, hot waves that made his stomach clench. His cock—what little there was of it—bobbed helplessly with every pulse of his racing heart. He wanted to cover himself, to yank his pants up, to disappear into the floor or melt into the shadows between the shelves. Instead he stood frozen, pants still around his ankles, face burning, while his boss laughed openly at the smallest hard-on she had ever seen in her life.

Andrea wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye and stepped closer. Her bare breasts swayed with the movement. She reached out and, with one fingertip, gave the tip of his tiny erection the lightest possible tap.

It bounced.

She giggled again, the sound softer now but no less cutting. “It actually moves when I touch it. Like a little spring. God, this is better than I expected. Look at how it jumps. So eager. So hopeless.”

She circled him slowly, completely naked and completely at ease, while he stood exposed and rigid with shame, the cool air of the storeroom touching every inch of him. “Tell me something, Eddie. Have you ever actually made a woman come with that? Be honest. No lying. Not after this.”

He opened his mouth. No sound came out. His throat felt locked.

Andrea stopped in front of him again, close enough that the heat of her body reached him, close enough that he could see the faint sheen of moisture at the soft cleft between her legs. She looked down at the two-and-a-half-inch spike of flesh and smiled the softest, meanest smile he had ever seen.

“I didn’t think so,” she murmured. “But don’t worry. We’re just getting started with inventory. And I think I just found the most interesting thing in this entire storeroom.”

She reached out again, this time wrapping her thumb and forefinger around the entire length of him. The two digits met easily around the shaft with room to spare. She gave a gentle, experimental stroke from base to tip—one short, deliberate glide that covered every millimeter he had to offer and then some. The friction was light, almost delicate, and yet it sent a jolt straight through him.

Ed’s breath hitched. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, chasing the contact even as shame flooded him hotter than before.

Andrea laughed under her breath, still holding him between two fingers like a curiosity she had found on a shelf. “So responsive. So desperate. And so, so small.” She looked up into his red face, eyes gleaming with open enjoyment. “You’re going to stand right there while I finish the rest of the inventory. Pants stay down. Hands stay at your sides. And every time I walk past you, I’m going to check on my little friend here. See if it’s still trying its best. See if it’s still standing at its full, impressive two and a half inches.”

She released him and turned toward the nearest shelf of liquor bottles, completely naked, hips swaying with casual confidence. Over her shoulder she added, almost casually, as if discussing the weather:

“And if it softens even a little… I’m going to make you get hard again. Using only my words. And you’re going to thank me for it. Out loud. Every single time.”

Ed stood there, cock still straining at its absolute maximum of two and a half inches, balls drawn tight underneath, face on fire, while his boss began counting bottles as if nothing unusual was happening at all. The only unusual thing in the room was the tiny, throbbing proof of just how far below average he really was—and the soft, occasional chuckle that escaped Andrea every time she glanced back over her shoulder and saw it still standing there, pink and desperate and completely exposed under the single harsh light.