Friends in Low Places

Liora kept your face buried between her thighs until your tongue ached and her juices ran down your chin and neck. Only when she was satisfied did she rise, leaving you gasping on the platform, face shiny, tiny cock still stubbornly hard and glistening with the mess she had smeared across it.

She walked to a side table, picked up her phone, and typed a short message. The soft chime of a reply came almost immediately. She smiled without looking at you.

“Company is on the way,” she said. “Three of them. Women who appreciate a good before-and-after.”

Your stomach tightened. The loft suddenly felt colder. You started to sit up; she put one bare foot on your chest and pressed you flat again.

“Stay exactly where you are. Hands at your sides. Cock on display. I want them to see every inch of what’s left the moment they walk in.”

Minutes later the iron door opened. Three women entered without knocking—confident, already laughing softly among themselves as if they had been briefed. The first was tall and athletic, dark skin gleaming under the candlelight, wearing only a short black wrap that barely covered her ass. The second was shorter, curvy, red hair pulled back, freckles scattered across her chest and the tops of her full breasts. The third was older, perhaps in her late thirties, elegant, with sharp cheekbones and a cold little smile; she wore a silk robe that parted with every step to show the neat landing strip above her cunt.

They stopped a few feet from the platform and stared.

The redhead spoke first, voice bright with delight. “Oh my god. You weren’t exaggerating.”

The athletic one crouched for a closer look, head tilted. “That’s it? That’s all that’s left?” She reached out without asking and flicked the head of your miniature cock with one finger. It bounced and leaked a fresh bead of precum. She laughed. “Still hard. Adorable.”

The elegant woman simply studied you, arms folded. “He used to be bigger?”

“Seven and a half,” Liora answered, stepping up beside them. “Thick. The kind of cock men are proud of. Now look.”

She reached down, pinched your tiny shaft between thumb and forefinger, and wiggled it side to side so the three women could see how little there was to hold. A collective murmur of amused satisfaction rose from them.

“Get him up on his knees,” the redhead said. “I want to see it from every angle.”

Liora hauled you upright by the hair until you knelt on the platform, thighs spread, ruined cock jutting helplessly in front of you. The three newcomers circled. Hands touched without permission—fingers measuring the stub against a palm, a fingernail tracing the underside, another woman gently rolling your shrunken balls as if weighing how much smaller they had become.

“It’s so sensitive,” the athletic one observed, rubbing the head in small circles with her thumb. You twitched and leaked harder. “Look at him jump. One little touch and he’s dripping.”

The elegant woman crouched in front of you, eye-level with the tiny cock. “Open your mouth.”

When you hesitated she slapped the side of it lightly. The sting was sharp and concentrated. You opened. She slid two fingers inside, pressed down on your tongue, then withdrew them shiny with spit and wiped them across your forehead like a mark.

“Good. Now stay quiet while we decide what to do with you.”

They talked about you as if you weren’t there—comparing notes, laughing, occasionally reaching out to stroke or pinch or slap the miniature shaft just to watch it bounce. Liora produced a small measuring tape and made a show of recording the exact length and girth while the others watched. The numbers were read aloud. More laughter.

The redhead was the first to use you. She pushed you onto your back, straddled your face, and settled her cunt over your mouth with the same casual ownership Liora had shown. At the same time she reached behind herself, found your tiny cock, and began to stroke it with two fingers in time with the slow grind of her hips.

“Lick,” she ordered. “And don’t you dare come until I say.”

You licked. She was already wet, the taste different from Liora’s—sweeter, muskier. Behind her the other two women took turns playing with your cock and balls: light slaps, slow squeezes, the occasional wet kiss pressed to the head that made your hips jerk. Every time you groaned into the redhead’s cunt she ground down harder, muffling the sound.

When she came it was with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around your head, cunt pulsing against your tongue. She stayed seated until the last tremor passed, then rose and wiped herself on your cheek.

The athletic woman took her place immediately, facing the opposite direction so she could watch the others while she rode your face. She was more aggressive—rolling her hips, demanding deeper licks, reaching back to stretch your tiny cock between two fingers and hold it taut while she used your mouth. The elegant woman knelt beside your hip, lowered her head, and took the entire stub between her lips, sucking with precise, almost clinical focus. The dual sensation—hot cunt on your tongue, tight wet suction on your ruined cock—pushed you to the edge again.

“Not yet,” Liora warned, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you gasp. “You come when we decide you’re allowed.”

They rotated. Every woman used your mouth. Every woman played with the tiny cock—stroking, sucking, slapping, measuring, laughing. Someone produced a small vibrating bullet and held it against the underside of the head while another woman sat on your face. The concentrated buzz made your vision blur. You were reduced to wet, desperate sounds and the constant, humiliating throb of an organ that no longer had the size to match its urgency.

At last they arranged you on your hands and knees. Liora knelt in front of you, the other three behind and beside. The elegant woman guided your face between Liora’s thighs again while the athletic one pressed the head of your miniature cock against her own entrance from behind—just the tip, just enough pressure to remind you how little of you there was. She laughed every time she tried to take more and failed.

“He can’t even stay inside,” she announced. “It keeps slipping out. Useless.”

They took turns attempting the same thing, grinding the stub between their folds or pressing it against their clits, treating it like a novelty rather than a cock. Each failure drew fresh mockery. Your face stayed buried in Liora’s cunt the entire time, tongue working, tears of overwhelmed sensation and humiliation mixing with her wetness on your cheeks.

When they finally allowed you to come it was under instruction. The redhead held the vibrating bullet against the head while the others watched. Liora gripped your hair and forced your eyes to the mirror so you could see the spectacle: four women surrounding you, your tiny cock twitching and spurting weak, thin ropes across the platform while they smiled and commented on how little volume there was, how quickly it was over, how the organ itself barely moved.

You collapsed forward when it ended, chest heaving, face and cock shining with the evidence of everything they had done. The women stood over you, still naked, still amused, already discussing who would go first the next time they came back.

Liora crouched beside your head and stroked your hair almost affectionately.

“They liked you,” she said softly. “They want to bring friends next time. Bigger group. More hands. More mouths. More laughter.”

She glanced at the others, then back down at the ruined, still-twitching stub between your legs.

“And you’re going to stay exactly this size while they do it.”