Party Time

You stand near the edge of the living-room dance floor in the hostess’s sprawling Halloween party, the green elf tights already feeling like a second skin that has decided to betray you. The fabric is so thin and so tight that every soft contour of your cock is mapped in perfect, merciless detail. Or rather, the complete lack of contour. There is no bulge. There is barely a shadow. The little codpiece she sewed on sits flat against your groin like a sad, empty pocket, and the rest of the material simply hugs the soft, retracted shape of what used to be your dick.

Your wife is in her element. The sorceress gown clings to every curve, the deep slit flashing the long line of her thigh every time she shifts her weight. She has one hand resting lightly on the small of your back, the other holding a drink, and she is smiling the way she only smiles when she is about to make you the center of attention in the worst possible way.

Three of her closest friends—dressed as a cat, a nurse, and a devil—are clustered around the two of you, laughing at something she just said. You already know what is coming. You can feel the heat climbing your neck.

“Hold still, baby,” she murmurs, loud enough for them to hear. “I want the girls to see the masterpiece.”

She turns you slightly so the overhead light hits the front of the tights dead-on. Then she reaches down and, with two fingers, gently pinches the empty fabric of the codpiece and tugs it outward an inch before letting it snap back against nothing.

“See? Completely flat. Not even a little tent. I measured him before we left—after the ice bath, of course—and we’re sitting at just under three inches soft. The tights don’t even have to work to hide anything. There’s nothing to hide.”

The cat-girl covers her mouth, eyes wide with delighted shock. The nurse leans in closer, openly staring at the smooth, soft outline of your cock pressed against the thin green material. The devil simply grins and says, “Jesus, Claire. You weren’t kidding.”

Your wife laughs, the sound warm and fond and utterly cruel. “I never kid about this. Look how the fabric just… settles into the little crease. You can literally see the head and the shaft and how far it’s trying to crawl back into his body. It’s adorable. Pathetic, but adorable.”

She keeps her hand on your lower back, holding you in place while the three women examine you like a curiosity on display. You feel your cock give a helpless twitch inside the tight prison of the tights, and the movement is so small that the fabric barely registers it. Your wife notices anyway. She always does.

“Oh, he’s getting shy,” she coos. “Look—there it goes, trying to disappear even more. Every time someone stares it just shrinks a little further. It’s like a built-in defense mechanism. Except the defense is ‘make yourself even more ridiculous.’”

She guides you a few steps to the left so you are standing near a tall guy in a pirate costume who is talking to someone else. Your wife’s voice drops into that conversational, almost helpful tone she uses when she is about to compare you to another man.

“See him? The pirate. He’s soft right now too, but look at the front of those pants. Actual bulk. Real weight. I’ve seen him at the gym—when he gets hard it’s thick enough that the head stays outside his fist. That’s what a proper cock looks like when it’s just hanging out. Now look at you.” She reaches down again and gives the empty codpiece another light flick with her fingernail. “This is what happens when nature decides you only needed the starter model.”

The nurse is still staring. “Does it ever get hard anymore?”

Your wife shrugs, completely unfazed. “Sometimes. When I tease him enough. But even then it’s only about four and a half, maybe five on a very good day, and it stays thin. Nothing like the guys I used to date. Nothing like half the men in this room.” She turns you slightly again so you are facing a group of guys by the drinks table. “That one in the Superman shirt? I’ve seen the outline when he was changing after a run. Easily seven soft. Thick. The kind that makes a real tent. And the one next to him—the doctor—his wife already told me he bottoms out in her every time. You’re never going to do that. You’re never going to fill anyone. You’re the cute little accessory I bring to parties so everyone can remember what ‘small’ actually looks like.”

You feel the blood hammering in your ears. Your cock is fully soft now, the cold from the earlier ice bath still lingering in the tissue, the tight fabric keeping every soft inch on display. There is nowhere for it to go. The tights refuse to let it hide.

Your wife keeps talking, voice bright and cheerful, as if she is describing a new piece of furniture.

“I made him wear these without underwear on purpose. I wanted the girls to be able to see exactly how little there is. No padding, no tricks. Just pure, honest, sad little penis. Watch—”

She reaches down, cups the entire soft package through the fabric in one hand, and lifts it slightly so the women can see the complete outline of shaft and head and the way the skin has gathered at the base. Then she lets it drop. The fabric settles back into its flat, almost concave shape against your body.

“That’s the whole thing. That’s what I get to play with. That’s what I married.” She leans in and kisses the side of your neck, still holding you in place for inspection. “And the best part is he gets hard from this. Look at his face. He’s mortified and turned on at the same time. It’s my favorite combination.”

The cat-girl is laughing now, a little breathless. “You’re evil.”

“I’m honest,” your wife corrects, still smiling. “And honesty looks good on him. Especially when it’s stretched tight across a cock that doesn’t even have the decency to make a proper bulge.”

She steers you toward another cluster of people, still narrating as you walk. Every few steps she reaches down and casually adjusts the front of the tights, making sure the soft shape stays centered and visible. When you pass a tall guy in a tight black vampire outfit she slows deliberately.

“That one,” she says, loud enough for the three friends still trailing you. “I’ve seen the outline when he sits. Real length. Real thickness. The kind of cock that actually moves the fabric when it softens or hardens. Yours just sits there like a polite little afterthought. No bounce. No weight. No presence. Just a quiet little reminder that some men got the good genes and some men got… this.”

She gives the empty codpiece one more affectionate squeeze, then lets her hand rest there, openly cupping the soft, inadequate shape while she continues chatting with her friends as if nothing unusual is happening. The thin green fabric is warm from your skin and from the heat of her palm. Your cock twitches again, helplessly, and the movement is so minor that only she notices.

“See?” she murmurs against your ear, still smiling for the audience. “Even the twitch is tiny. Everything about it is tiny. And everyone here can see it.”

She keeps you on display for the next twenty minutes, moving you from group to group, pointing out every man whose pants show actual bulk, every casual outline that proves someone else is carrying real size. Each time she does it she makes sure the women get another clear look at the flat front of your tights, another chance to confirm that there is simply nothing there worth noticing—except the humiliating fact of how little there is.

By the time she finally leads you toward the hallway for a “private word,” your cock is fully retracted, the tights clinging to every soft, shrunken detail, and her friends are still laughing behind you. She stops just out of sight, presses you back against the wall, and slides her hand down the front of the costume one more time, cupping the entire soft package with an almost tender grip.

“They all saw it,” she whispers, eyes bright with pure satisfaction. “Every single one of them knows exactly how little my husband is packing. And you stood there and let them look. Good boy.”

Her fingers give one slow, deliberate squeeze through the thin fabric.

“Now we’re going to go back out there and do it again. Because I haven’t finished showing you off yet.”