Experiments begin

You are still on your back with your wife’s pussy settled over your mouth, her weight pinning you in place. Her pinky continues its light, relentless tickle against your taint while her other hand keeps the soft, wrinkled little button of your cock pinched between two fingers. The ice from last night has left it as small as it can go—folded inside the foreskin, pale, barely there.

She reaches for her phone with the hand that isn’t pinching you, unlocks it one-handed, and opens a playlist she clearly prepared in advance. The first video starts. Soft lighting. A close-up of several small, soft cocks laid out side by side on a man’s thighs. None of them are big. Most are shorter than average even soft; a few are true tiny stubs, wrinkled and tucked.

“Watch,” she says, grinding her wet pussy slowly across your tongue. “These are the ones that look like you.”

She lowers the phone so the screen is close to your face and, at the same time, stretches your little button out slightly between her fingers so it sits in the same frame as the cocks on screen. The comparison is immediate and merciless. Your soft nub is the same size as the smallest ones in the video, and smaller than most of the others.

“See? You’re right in the middle of the pack. Not even special. Just another little wrinkled button.”

She keeps the phone steady and her pinky moving in slow circles over your taint while the video continues. One of the small cocks on screen is stroked by a woman’s hand. It hardens only a little, stays thin, and finishes quickly with a thin, watery spurt. Your wife pinches your own soft package in time with the strokes on screen, giving it tiny tugs and rolls.

“That load looked just like yours last night,” she murmurs. “Thin. Watery. Fast. Keep watching.”

The next clip shows three small soft cocks being measured with a ruler. The longest is barely three and a half inches soft. The shortest is under two. She pauses the video on the close-up of the shortest one and holds your pinched little button right next to the screen again.

“Shorter than the first knuckle of my pinky,” she says, echoing her own words from the bathroom. “Just like this. Cute. Useless. Perfect for the club.”

She resumes the video and resumes the slow grind of her pussy over your mouth. Her pinky never stops tickling your taint. Her fingers never stop pinching and displaying the soft little nub so you have to see it beside every new small cock that appears. Another clip starts—multiple tiny dicks being jerked in a row by laughing women, each one finishing fast with the same thin, clear fluid. Every time a small cock on screen hardens or spills, she gives yours a matching pinch or a light flick and asks if you felt it twitch.

“This is the experiment,” she says, breathing a little heavier as she rides your face. “We watch little dicks that look like yours. We compare them directly to this soft button I’m holding. And you stay right here underneath me with my pinky on your taint so you can’t hide how small and sensitive you are.”

She scrolls to another video without lifting her hips, still pinching your cock, still tickling, still grinding. The screen fills with more soft, small, wrinkled packages—some locked, some being measured, some being laughed at while they try and fail to make any real size. Each time she holds yours up next to them so the lack of difference is unavoidable.

“When this playlist is over,” she tells you, voice low and pleased, “we’re going shopping for that new cute costume. Something that matches this little button perfectly. But first we finish the experiment. Keep your tongue working. Keep watching the screen. And keep this tiny thing right where I can pinch it every time another little dick shows up that looks just like yours.”

She settles her weight more firmly over your mouth, pinky still tracing slow circles on your taint, fingers still pinching the soft wrinkled nub, and lets the next small-cock comparison video play on.

You are still soft and tiny when she finally lifts her hips off your face. Her pinky gives your taint one last slow tickle and her fingers deliver one final pinch to the wrinkled little button before she lets go. She wipes herself casually on your cheek, then stands and pulls you up by the wrist.

“Shopping time. We’re finding something that matches this.”

She does not let you get dressed in normal clothes. Instead she hands you a pair of tiny, stretchy black shorts that are barely more than a wide waistband and two short legs. When you pull them on, the soft little nub creates almost no shape at all. The fabric lies flat. She adds a cropped pink hoodie that ends well above your navel and a pair of white ankle socks. No underwear. The outline of your folded cock is so faint it might as well not exist.

“Perfect starting point,” she says, already grabbing her keys and the same ice pack from last night, now re-frozen. She presses it against the front of the shorts for a full minute before you leave the house, just to make sure everything stays as small as possible. “Let’s go.”

The store she chooses is a mix of costume shop and alternative clothing boutique—racks of tiny skirts, micro shorts, thigh-highs, crop tops, and novelty lingerie. It is mid-afternoon and quietly busy. She keeps you close, one hand often drifting down to adjust the flat front of your shorts or to give the soft little button a quick, hidden pinch through the fabric.

She starts pulling items immediately.

First is a pair of pale pink micro panties with a tiny satin bow at the center. She makes you step into a changing room, watches you strip the shorts off, and holds the panties open. When you pull them up, the soft wrinkled nub disappears completely under the thin fabric. There is no bulge. Only the faint suggestion of a soft fold. She pinches it through the satin, smiling.

“Cute button, cute panties. They match.”

She takes a photo, then has you try a black micro skirt that barely covers the tops of your thighs. Without the panties the skirt hangs completely flat in front. With the panties it still shows nothing. She makes you turn, bend, walk a few steps while she watches the fabric stay smooth and empty-looking.

Next come tiny white boy-shorts with a cartoon unicorn print, a red plaid schoolgirl skirt so short it is almost a belt, and a pair of stretchy lavender booty shorts with “Property of His Wife” printed across the ass in glitter. Each time you change she pinches the soft little package through the new fabric, holds it for a second, and comments on how perfectly the clothes refuse to show any real shape.

“This is what happens when the dick is only a button,” she says, standing behind you in the mirror while you wear the schoolgirl skirt and nothing underneath. Her fingers reach around, find the tiny soft fold, and pinch it firmly so you can both see the way the skirt still hangs flat. “No matter what we put you in, there’s nothing to fill it. That’s why these are perfect.”

She decides on three pieces: the pale pink micro panties with the bow, the black micro skirt, and the lavender booty shorts with the glitter writing. At the counter she places them down without any embarrassment and adds a thin pink choker with a small heart charm. The clerk glances at the flat front of your current shorts, then at the items, and says nothing. Your wife only smiles and pays.

Back in the car she immediately makes you change into the pink micro panties and the black micro skirt. The ice pack goes back on your lap for the drive home, pressing the soft little button even flatter under the new, even tinier clothes.

“Experiment continues at home,” she says, pulling out of the parking lot. “New costume, same little button. We’ll put the small-cock porn back on and see how these look on camera while I hold you up next to the screen again.”

She reaches over, slips her fingers under the micro skirt and into the pink panties, finds the soft wrinkled nub, and gives it a slow, possessive pinch that lasts the rest of the drive.