Party Time

You arrive at the second party already iced, smooth, and locked into the role she spent five days drilling into you. The pink micro panties and black micro skirt sit flat against the soft, wrinkled little button that has not been allowed to swell since the final ice pack of the night before. The thin collar with its silver ring is snug around your throat. Your wife keeps the ring hooked on one finger as she leads you through the door.

The room is larger than the first party and already denser with bodies. Several women from the original night are back, but the real change is the men. Two of them stand near the center—one is the original stripper, the other is taller, broader, and already half-hard in tight black pants. Both are clearly hung. Your wife’s eyes light up the moment she sees them.

She does not waste time with small talk.

“This is my little watcher,” she announces, pulling you forward by the collar ring so the whole group can see the flat front of the micro skirt. “We’ve spent the week making sure he stays small and ready. Ice every morning. Affirmations every hour. Porn until he stopped pretending he wanted to be the one inside me. Tonight he stays on his knees with that soft little button in his hand while I get what he can’t give.”

She turns you around, lifts the micro skirt, and pulls the pink panties down just far enough to free the tiny, cold, wrinkled cock. It sits there pale and folded, shorter than her pinky knuckle, balls drawn up tight. She gives it a light pinch and a dismissive tug so everyone can see how little there is, then wraps your own hand around it.

“Hold it. Keep it on display. Do not stroke unless I say. Your job is to watch and stay soft.”

She points to a clear spot on the floor right beside the low couch. You kneel. The two hung men step closer. Your wife kisses the first one—the original stripper—openly and deeply while her hand drops to the thick outline in his pants. She does the same with the second man a moment later. Then she looks down at you, still holding your soft little button in your open palm, and smiles.

“Good boy. Eyes on us.”

The demonstration begins immediately.

She starts with the original stripper. He drops his pants and the heavy cock that ruined the first party swings free, already thickening. Your wife wraps both hands around it, strokes it to full hardness only inches from your face, then sinks to her knees just long enough to take the broad head into her mouth and show you how much of it she can manage. When she stands again she turns, plants one knee on the couch, and looks back at you while the stripper steps behind her.

“Keep that little button right where I can see it.”

He presses the thick head against her already-wet pussy and pushes in with one slow, stretching thrust. The sound that leaves her is low, guttural, and completely different from anything you have ever pulled out of her. Her mouth falls open. Her eyes flutter. You watch every thick inch sink into her until his hips are flush against her ass and she is visibly stretched around him. She stays still for a moment, just breathing and adjusting to the size, then nods.

He starts to move.

The first strokes are deep and deliberate. Each time he bottoms out her body jolts and a wet, filthy sound fills the space between them. Her fingers dig into the couch cushion. Within a minute her thighs are trembling. She forces you to describe the difference out loud between thrusts—how thick he is, how deep he reaches, how her pussy is gripping him in a way it never gripped you—while the soft little cock in your hand stays cold and useless. When he angles upward and starts grinding against the front wall of her pussy she suddenly tightens, lets out a sharp, broken cry, and comes hard. Her whole body shudders. Clear fluid drips down the thick shaft still buried inside her. She keeps coming in waves for several seconds, gasping and pushing back against him, while you are forced to keep your eyes on the place where they are joined and your soft little button on display.

She does not get a long recovery. The stripper keeps fucking her through the aftershocks, longer strokes now, and a second orgasm builds almost immediately. This one is louder. Her back arches. Her mouth stays open in a silent scream for a moment before the sound finally rips out of her. She soaks his cock and the couch beneath her, thighs shaking so hard he has to grip her hips to keep her in place. Only after the second orgasm starts to fade does he let himself finish, burying the full length inside her and pumping thick, heavy cum as deep as it will go. She moans through it, still twitching, and when he finally pulls out a thick rope of his cum follows and runs down the inside of her thigh.

She looks straight at you, still breathing hard, and makes you lean in close enough to see it.

“Thank him.”

The words leave your mouth because the week of conditioning left you no other option.

The second man does not wait. While she is still open and dripping he steps in behind her, lines up a cock that is even thicker than the first, and pushes in with one steady thrust. The stretch draws a higher, sharper sound from her. Her eyes roll back. She drops to both elbows on the couch and pushes her ass back to take more of him. He fucks her harder than the first man, deep and relentless, the wet slap of his hips against her filling the room. She comes a third time within two minutes—an intense, shaking orgasm that makes her legs give out so he has to hold her up by the hips while he keeps thrusting. Clear fluid squirts around his thick shaft and splatters the couch and the floor near your knees.

He does not stop. He hauls her upright, keeps one arm around her waist, and continues fucking her through a fourth orgasm that leaves her nearly screaming, her pussy visibly spasming and leaking around him. When he finally finishes it is with a long, heavy groan, the full length buried, pulsing as he empties himself as deep as the first man did. She collapses forward onto the couch when he pulls out, cum from both men thick and white on her thighs and dripping from her open, used pussy.

The women from the first party have moved closer. Some are openly touching themselves. Some reach down to flick or pinch the soft little button still held in your palm. One woman presses a fresh ice cube against it so the tiny cock stays as small as possible while the real cocks continue to use your wife.

The two men recover quickly. The original stripper takes her again, this time on her back with her legs pushed wide so you have a perfect view of his thick cock stretching her open and disappearing inside her over and over. She comes twice more in that position—once when he grinds deep and steady against her cervix, and again when he pulls almost all the way out and then drives back in hard enough to make her cry out and squirt around him. The second man follows, flipping her onto her hands and knees and taking her even deeper. She comes again while looking directly at you, her eyes glassy, her mouth open, the soft little button in your hand the only thing she allows you to hold while another man’s cock forces orgasm after orgasm out of her body.

By the middle of the night your wife has taken both men multiple times in multiple positions. Thick, heavy cum—nothing like the watery fluid you produce—coats her thighs, her pussy, her tongue, the couch, and the floor. She has made you hold your little cock against each of their shafts for scale between rounds, made you clean the excess off her with your tongue when she ordered it, made you stay on your knees with the soft button still in your open palm even when your legs started to shake. The collar ring never leaves her finger for long. Every time your eyes drop she lifts your chin with the ring and reminds you of the affirmation she drilled into you all week.

“My cock is a button. Buttons watch. Real cocks fuck my wife. I stay small so she can stay full.”

She loses count of her own orgasms. Each one is louder, wetter, and more intense than anything you ever managed to give her. She comes on their cocks, on their tongues, grinding against the thick shafts while you are forced to watch from inches away, the soft little button in your hand serving as the permanent, humiliating contrast. When she finally takes a longer break she sits on the edge of the couch, pulls you forward by the collar, and makes you lick her clean while both men stand over you, still half-hard, their heavy cocks resting near your face as a living size comparison. She keeps your soft little button pinched between her fingers the entire time so the contrast never leaves your field of vision.

“This is the second party,” she says, voice rough and thoroughly fucked, still holding your tiny cock on display for anyone who wants another look. “Longer than the first. More cock. More of my orgasms. More time with you exactly where you belong. The final one on Halloween will be even heavier. You’ll be ready. You’ve been ready since I started icing you and showing you the truth.”

She does not let you stand. She keeps you on your knees with the soft, cold, wrinkled little button in your hand while the two hung men recover and the rest of the party continues to watch, touch, and wait for the next round. The conditioning held. The little watcher stayed small. And the night is still far from over.