Regular Plans?

You sit in the passenger seat with a fresh ice pack resting heavily on your lap, the cold pressing straight through the thin green tights against the soft, overused little cock that has been stroked, thumped, and laughed at all night. The residual sensitivity from the repeated watery orgasms makes the chill sharper. Whatever weak swelling remained after the last hand has already collapsed. Your cock folds inward until only the familiar wrinkled nub is left, trapped flat under the weight of the pack.

Your wife drives with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching over to grind the ice pack down harder. She is still glowing from the party, coat open over her naked body, the scent of the stripper’s thick cock still faintly on her fingers.

“That was exactly what I wanted,” she says, voice low and pleased. “All those women taking turns on you while I got to handle something real. You finished so fast every single time. Watery little spurts. And he just stayed hard in my hands, thick and heavy, leaking like a man.”

She glances at the flat front of your tights under the ice pack and smiles.

“I’m already texting the stripper. He said he’s available for private parties. Next time I think I’ll hire him for the whole evening. Maybe two of them. Hung guys who don’t mind being compared to something like you. We can do the same setup—ice you down first, put you in something tight that shows how little there is, then let the women pass your baby dick around while I stroke the real ones. Or suck them. Or more.”

The ice pack shifts as she presses it again. The cold sinks deeper. Your cock has fully retreated now, soft and folded and almost gone.

“I liked how they all saw the difference,” she continues. “Your little wrinkled nub next to that thick, heavy cock. The way they laughed when you came in under two minutes and left nothing but watery mess on their hands. Next time I might let him fuck me while you watch. Keep the ice pack on you the whole time so you stay tiny. Or maybe I’ll have you kneel right beside us and hold your little dick out so everyone can see what I could have had versus what I actually get to use.”

She laughs softly, eyes on the road.

“We could even make a regular thing out of it. Once a month. Hire someone properly hung, invite the same group of women, ice you down until you’re as small as you are right now, and then let them test your stamina again while I enjoy the real cock in the room. You can be the before picture. The entertainment. The reminder of why bigger is better.”

The ice pack stays heavy on your lap the entire drive. By the time she turns into the driveway your cock is locked in its tiniest state—pale, wrinkled, completely soft, the tights lying flat beneath the melting pack. She parks, shuts off the engine, and looks at you with open satisfaction.

“Inside. Another ice bath before bed. I want you still this small when you fall asleep. And tomorrow I’m booking the stripper for next weekend. You’re going to get a lot more practice being the tiny one in the room, baby.”

She reaches over, lifts the ice pack just long enough to give the frozen little nub one slow, possessive squeeze, then settles the pack back down and opens her door.

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