All Those in Favor of Watching It Disappear

Morning light crept across the lounge in thin, pale bars. Marcus woke already leaking into the white lace that covered the smooth button between his legs. The layered pink-and-red favors sat warm and permanent against his throat. His body felt softer than it had the night before—skin smoother, lips fuller, hips carrying a slight natural tilt that made the lace sit differently. When he shifted, the hypersensitive nub sent a sharp, helpless spark through him and a high, quiet sound escaped before he could stop it.

Tom lay beside him in the same state: lace panties, smooth button, softly flushed cheeks, breathing in small, pretty pulls. Several other men on the platform stirred with the same dazed, feminized awareness. Every cock that had existed the previous evening was gone or reduced to the same useless, throbbing buttons.

Sandra entered with Claire, Lena, and a small group of women who had stayed overnight or returned early. Ingrid Dietleifsen followed, silk robe open, expression calm and proprietary. A velvet tray of additional short pink strands and a few new items—small pink collars, soft makeup, a selection of even daintier lace—rested in Sandra’s hands.

“Inspection and reinforcement,” Sandra announced. “Up. Present. Lace stays on until we say otherwise.”

The men rose. Marcus found himself automatically standing with knees closer together, shoulders rounded, the flat front of the lace panties on full display. The mild sissification made the posture feel natural. Looking down at the almost featureless mound beneath the fabric sent a fresh wave of humiliation that the favors immediately converted into heat.

Lena moved down the line with her tablet and a small ruler. She paused in front of each man, pulled the lace aside, measured the remaining button, and recorded the result while the women watched and commented freely.

When she reached Marcus she stretched the tiny, flushed nub between two fingers and held it up for the room.

“Still a button. No measurable shaft. Extreme sensitivity. Feminization markers advanced overnight—smoother skin, fuller lips, reduced muscle definition, instinctive closed-knee posture. He’s even prettier than last night.”

Claire crouched in front of him and gave the exposed button a light, dismissive flick. Marcus’s hips jerked; a clear bead of fluid welled up immediately.

“Look at that,” she said, loud enough for everyone. “It used to be a normal cock. Now it’s just a shiny little clit for us to play with. And he’s leaking from a single flick. Pathetic and adorable.”

She looked up into Marcus’s eyes. “Say it. Loud.”

“It used to be a normal cock,” Marcus repeated, voice higher and softer. “Now it’s just a shiny little clit for you to play with. I’m pathetic and adorable.”

“Again. Add how pretty you’re getting.”

“I’m getting prettier while my cock disappears. It’s just a tiny clit now. Thank you for making me small and soft.”

The words left his mouth and the favors rewarded him with another pulse of heat. Around the platform the same ritual unfolded. Each man was measured, displayed, flicked, and forced to narrate his own reduction in detail while the women laughed, compared, and added fresh layers of verbal humiliation.

“Tom’s is even smoother than yesterday. Nothing left to grab. Just a soft little bump.”

“This one still had two inches last night. Now it’s flush with his body. All that ego for nothing.”

“They’re blushing so nicely. The sissification loves the humiliation.”

Sandra began clipping additional short pink strands into place. Each new favor produced a subtle deepening of the soft changes—lips a fraction fuller, skin silkier, a stronger urge to keep the lace neat and the knees together—while the buttons themselves seemed to grow even more sensitive. No further size remained to lose; the strands simply locked the current state and amplified the psychological weight of it.

Ingrid walked the line once, stopping in front of Marcus. She hooked a finger in the waistband of his lace panties and tugged them down just far enough to expose the button completely.

“You were an ordinary man with an ordinary cock two days ago,” she said conversationally. “Now you’re a soft, pretty thing with nothing between your legs but a useless little nub. You’re going to spend today being reminded of that difference in every way we can invent. Mouth and fingers only. Lace back up.”

Marcus pulled the panties into place with trembling hands. The fabric settled over the oversensitive flesh like a constant, humiliating caress.

The morning session began.

Women arranged themselves on the low benches and chairs. The tiny, sissified men were directed onto their knees or backs in the center of the room. Marcus found himself on his back on a padded ottoman, legs spread, lace pulled aside. Claire sat on his face without preamble while Lena crouched between his thighs and began a slow, methodical torment of the exposed button—light stretches, fingertip circles, occasional sharp pinches—while delivering a continuous stream of humiliation.

“This is all that’s left of you. A soft little bump that can’t fuck anything. It can’t even get properly hard. It just sits there and leaks when we touch it. And look how pretty your face looks between my legs while it happens. Fuller lips, softer eyes. You’re turning into the perfect little oral toy.”

Marcus licked in steady, obedient strokes. Every cruel description made the button throb harder against Lena’s fingers. When Claire shifted her weight and ordered him to speak, he did so between licks.

“I’m just a soft little bump… that can’t fuck anything… I’m turning into the perfect little oral toy…”

“Thank me for shrinking you.”

“Thank you for shrinking me. Thank you for making it disappear. Thank you for making me prettier while you took it away.”

Claire came against his tongue with a satisfied sigh, then immediately rotated him to the next woman. The pattern repeated for hours. Marcus was moved from face-sitting to long sessions of being displayed on all fours with the lace pulled down so every woman could inspect, flick, and compare his button to the others. Forced verbal acknowledgments never stopped.

“Tell us what you used to have.”

“I used to have a normal cock.”

“And now?”

“Now I have a tiny, useless clit under lace. I’m a pretty, soft boy who only licks and says thank you.”

“Louder. Make sure the other tiny boys hear.”

He repeated it louder. The other men were forced to echo similar confessions while women ground against their faces or rubbed wet folds directly over the hypersensitive buttons, laughing at how little sensation the men could actually provide.

Tom was paired with Marcus for a dual demonstration. Both were placed on their backs side by side, lace removed entirely, buttons fully exposed. Two women sat on their faces while Lena and Claire knelt between their legs and played with both nubs at once, stretching them, slapping them lightly, pressing them side by side for comparison.

“Identical now,” Claire announced. “Two ordinary men reduced to matching little clits. Neither of them will ever fuck anyone again. Their only job is to look pretty, keep their lace neat, and use their mouths. Say it together.”

Marcus and Tom spoke in near-unison, voices soft and high:

“We’re identical little clits now. We’ll never fuck anyone again. We only look pretty, keep our lace neat, and use our mouths.”

The women rewarded the confession by grinding harder and delivering a fresh round of precise, humiliating touches that left both buttons swollen, shiny, and leaking steadily onto the platform.

Midday brought a new layer. Sandra produced a small case of soft makeup—tinted lip balm, a light blush, a touch of mascara. The men were ordered to hold still while the women applied it. The mild sissification made the sensation of the makeup going on feel intimate and correct. When Marcus caught a glimpse of himself in a handheld mirror the reflection was softly unfamiliar: fuller lips with a subtle sheen, gently flushed cheeks, eyes that looked larger and more passive. The flat lace front completed the picture.

“Pretty,” Ingrid murmured, tilting his chin. “A pretty, cockless boy. That’s what the favors have made you. And you’re going to thank every woman who uses your mouth today for the privilege of reminding you.”

The afternoon session escalated the humiliation. The tiny men were arranged in a loose circle on their knees, lace panties on, makeup fresh. Women walked the circle, selecting mouths at random, grinding against faces, delivering running commentary while the men were forced to keep their hands behind their backs and their buttons untouched except when a woman decided to reach down and torment them.

“Look at this one trying so hard to stay still while I use his pretty mouth. That little lace-covered bump is twitching like it wants attention it doesn’t deserve.”

“None of you will ever feel what it’s like to be inside a woman again. That part of you is gone. Permanently. All you get is this—our cunts on your faces and our fingers on what’s left.”

“Say thank you for being reduced.”

A chorus of soft, high voices answered:

“Thank you for reducing us.”

“Thank you for taking our cocks away.”

“Thank you for making us small and pretty and useless for fucking.”

Marcus was pulled into the center for a special focus. He was placed on his back with his head hanging slightly off the edge of the platform so a woman could fuck his throat at her own angle while another sat on the smooth button and ground in slow circles. Lena crouched beside his head and kept the verbal stream constant and specific.

“You used to walk around with a regular cock and ordinary confidence. Now you’re a soft, made-up little thing with a clit under lace, taking cock in your throat while a woman uses your useless nub as a grinding post. This is what you are. This is what you’ll stay. Every time you look down you’ll see nothing. Every time you speak you’ll hear how high and soft your voice has become. You’re not a man with a small cock. You’re a pretty, cockless oral toy. Confirm it.”

Marcus’s reply was muffled and wet, but the words were clear enough:

“I’m a pretty, cockless oral toy… nothing between my legs… high soft voice… thank you…”

The woman on his face came with a low moan. The one grinding on the button followed shortly after, laughing as the hypersensitive flesh twitched helplessly under her. Marcus was left trembling, makeup slightly smeared, lace soaked at the front, the favors pulsing with quiet approval.

The pattern continued until the light outside began to fade. New pink strands were added whenever a woman felt a particular man needed deeper soft conditioning. Each strand locked the humiliation in further, making the verbal confessions feel more natural, the lace feel more necessary, the absence between their legs feel more permanent and correct.

By early evening the men were lined up on their knees for a final group inspection. Lace on, makeup refreshed, buttons on full display when the panties were pulled aside. Ingrid walked the line with Sandra, stopping at each man to stretch the tiny remaining flesh, deliver a personal remark, and require a tailored confession.

When she reached Marcus she pinched the button firmly enough to make his knees shake.

“Name what’s left of you.”

“A tiny, useless clit under lace.”

“Name what you used to be.”

“An ordinary man with an ordinary cock.”

“Name what you are now.”

“A soft, pretty, cockless boy who only licks and says thank you.”

“Again. Louder. So every other tiny boy hears the standard.”

Marcus repeated it louder. The other men were required to echo their own versions. The collective soft voices filled the lounge with a chorus of self-humiliation that the favors turned into shared, helpless arousal.

Ingrid gave Marcus’s button one last dismissive pat and let the lace snap back into place.

“Satisfactory. You’ll sleep in the lace. Makeup stays. In the morning the conditioning continues at the company. The shrinking is complete. The humiliation and the soft prettiness will only deepen.”

The women began to leave in ones and twos, some taking a final mouth or a final round of button-teasing before they went. Marcus was directed to a low mattress with Tom and two other tiny, sissified men. They settled onto their backs as ordered, lace still on, hands at their sides, the hypersensitive nubs already twitching from residual air and fabric.

Sandra dimmed the lights.

“Sleep. Dream about how much smaller and prettier you became. Tomorrow you start showing the rest of the company what the favors have made of you.”

Marcus closed his eyes. The lace felt permanent. The smooth button beneath it felt permanent. The soft changes in his face and body felt permanent. The steady loop of humiliating truths the women had forced him to repeat all day echoed quietly in the favors’ warm pulse:

*Used to have a cock. Now I don’t. Pretty. Soft. Tiny. Only good for licking and thanking them for taking it away.*

Beside him Tom gave a small, high, contented sound as a residual wave of sensitivity passed through his own matching button.

The lounge settled into silence.

Every man on the mattresses was smaller, softer, and thoroughly reminded of exactly how little remained between their legs—and how much prettier they had become while it disappeared.