Riding Home

You sit in the passenger seat again, still wearing the pointed ears and the remains of the face paint, the tight green elf pants pulled back on but doing nothing to hide how small you are. A fresh ice pack rests heavily on your lap, pressed directly against the soft, oversensitive little cock that has been handled, stroked, and laughed at all night. The cold is already working. Whatever weak swelling the stamina tests had produced is collapsing again, folding inward until only the familiar wrinkled nub remains trapped under the fabric and the ice.

Your wife drives with one hand on the wheel. The other occasionally reaches over to press the ice pack down harder, making sure the shrinkage sticks. She is still naked under a long coat she borrowed at the party; the coat hangs open enough that you can see the curve of her breast when the streetlights pass.

“That was fun,” she says, voice warm and satisfied. “Watching all those other little dicks get the same treatment. You’re not special, baby. You’re just one of the club.”

She glances over, eyes bright.

“I’m already talking with the other wives about the next get-together. Smaller group next time. Just the ones who really like showing their husbands off. We can do longer stamina tests. Maybe make you all stand in a line so we can time you side by side. Or keep you locked in little cages until the party starts so you’re already tiny when the clothes come off.”

The ice pack shifts as she presses it again. The cold bites deeper. Your cock has fully retreated now, soft and folded and almost nonexistent under the weight of the pack.

“I liked seeing you next to the other small ones,” she continues. “Some of them were even smaller than you. Some were about the same. But every single one of you finished fast and came watery. It was consistent. Cute. We’re thinking of making it a monthly thing—ice packs, Nair, costumes that don’t hide anything, and then the wives pass the little dicks around until they’re all spent and soft. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being one of the tiny ones on display again.”

She smiles at the road ahead.

“And next time I might let some of the other wives take you into a bedroom for a private turn. Hands, mouths, maybe more. While I do the same with one of the other small husbands. We can compare notes afterward. See whose little dick was the quickest, whose cum was the wateriest, whose balls disappeared the most from the cold.”

The ice pack stays heavy on your lap the entire drive. By the time she pulls into the driveway your cock is as small as it has ever been—wrinkled, folded, completely soft, the fabric of the tights lying flat under the melting pack. She parks, turns off the engine, and looks at you with the same wicked affection she has worn all night.

“Inside. Ice bath again before bed. I want you still this small when you fall asleep. And tomorrow we start planning the next party with the rest of the mini-dick club. You’re going to be busy, baby.”

She reaches over, lifts the ice pack just long enough to give the tiny frozen shape underneath one slow, possessive squeeze, then settles the pack back into place and opens her door.

“Come on. Let’s get that little thing even colder.”