Comps

You sit in the passenger seat with the thick ice pack still pressed firmly against the front of your tights, the ribbon holding it in place so the cold never lets up. Your wife drives with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching over to grind the pack harder against the soft, vanishing shape of your cock. By the time she parks in front of the large, brightly lit house the damage is complete. Whatever tiny wrinkled nub had existed after the Nair and the bath has been reduced to almost nothing—just a cold, soft fold of skin trapped flat beneath the tight green fabric.

She unties the ribbon, pulls the ice pack away, and smooths the front of your tights with both hands. The material lies completely flat. There is no bulge. Not even a soft shadow. She takes a quick photo of the smooth crotch for her private collection, then opens your door.

“Come on, my little elf girl. Time for your audience.”

The moment you step inside it is obvious the entire party is women. No men in sight—only beautiful, laughing, costumed women filling every room. Cats, nurses, devils, goddesses, witches, schoolgirls. Music thumps. Drinks flow. And every pair of eyes that lands on you lights up with the same delighted recognition.

Your wife keeps a possessive hand on the small of your back and steers you straight into the center of the largest cluster.

“Ladies,” she announces, voice bright, “I brought the entertainment.”

She turns you slowly so everyone can see the full effect: pointed ears, elaborate face paint, smooth hairless body under the tight tunic and pants, and the complete absence of any male shape at the front. Several women immediately step closer. A tall redhead in a tight black catsuit reaches out without asking and presses her palm flat against your crotch, feeling for anything that might be hiding.

“Oh my god. There’s nothing there.”

“I iced him the whole drive,” your wife says proudly. “And we Naired him completely first. Smooth as a doll and about the same size where it counts.”

More hands join. Fingers poke and pinch the flat fabric. Someone lifts the hem of your tunic to get a clearer view of the way the green material simply follows the soft contour of your body with nothing pushing it outward. A blonde in a nurse costume drops to one knee right in front of you, tugs the waistband of the tights down just far enough to expose the tiny, cold, wrinkled nub, and stares.

“It’s folded inside itself. Look at that. You can barely even see the head.”

She snaps a quick photo before your wife laughs and pulls the waistband back up, settling the fabric flat again.

The mocking is constant and affectionate in the cruelest way. Women take turns holding the soft outline between their fingers, measuring it against their pinkies, comparing it to the size of a grape, a thimble, a large clit. Someone asks if it ever gets hard. Your wife answers for you, telling the whole group how even fully erect it is still shorter than most of their thumbs. Another woman wants to know if you can feel anything when they squeeze. You can. The cold has made every light touch sharp and humiliating.

They make you turn, bend, walk in a slow circle so the lights catch the smooth front of the tights from every angle. Each time you move the complete lack of bounce or swing is pointed out and laughed at. Your wife stays right beside you the entire time, occasionally reaching down to give the soft, frozen shape a public squeeze or a dismissive little pat, making sure no one misses how small you are.

After nearly half an hour of this the front door opens again and a new figure steps inside. He is tall, shirtless under an open leather vest, wearing only tight black pants that do nothing to hide the heavy, thick outline of a very large cock even while soft. A professional stripper, hired for the night. The room’s attention shifts the moment he walks in.

Your wife’s smile widens.

“Perfect timing. Everyone, this is the comparison I ordered.”

She leads you straight over to him. Up close the difference is brutal. Even soft, the bulge in his pants is thick and long, the kind of shape that makes the fabric stretch and hang with real weight. Your own front remains perfectly flat.

“Drop them,” your wife tells him casually, as if she has every right. The stripper shrugs, unbuttons, and pushes the tight pants down. A massive flaccid cock swings free—long, thick, heavy, the head already broad, the shaft veined and substantial. His balls are full and low. The entire package hangs with the kind of weight your body has never known.

The women immediately form a tighter circle. Your wife reaches out, wraps both hands around the thick soft cock, and lifts it so everyone can see the length and girth. Then she reaches for you with one hand, yanks the front of your tights down again, and holds your tiny wrinkled nub right beside the heavy shaft.

The contrast draws a fresh round of laughter and delighted gasps.

“This is what a real cock looks like soft,” she says, giving the thick shaft a slow stroke that makes it begin to fill. “And this—” she wiggles your cold little fold of skin between two fingers, “—is what I get to take home. Look how it doesn’t even reach past the head of his when he’s still soft.”

She keeps stroking the stripper. Blood flows. The massive cock swells in her grip, lengthening and thickening until it stands heavy and hard, easily twice the length of your fully erect size and more than twice the girth. She holds the two of you side by side again—your soft, iced, almost invisible nub and his thick, veined, fully hard cock—so every woman can see the impossible difference.

“This is why we iced him,” your wife continues, still slowly pumping the stripper’s cock while she keeps your tiny package on display. “So you could all see just how small he can get… and just how far he is from something like this.”

The women press closer. Hands reach out to touch both of you—fingers wrapping around the thick shaft, other fingers poking and pinching the soft little nub that can barely be felt. Comments fly about how the stripper’s soft cock is already bigger than you get hard, how his balls alone are larger than your entire package, how the head of his cock is broader than your shaft has ever been. Your wife keeps the comparison going, stroking the massive erection with one hand while she uses the other to stretch and display your frozen little dicklet, making sure no one misses a single humiliating detail.

She looks at you while she does it, eyes bright with pure satisfaction, and speaks just loud enough for the nearest women to hear.

“This is your night, baby. All these women, one real cock, and you. The entertainment. The before picture. The punchline. And we haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”

She keeps both of you on full display—his thick, hard cock glistening under her steady strokes and your soft, icy, almost nonexistent little package—while the circle of women watches, touches, laughs, and waits to see just how much further she intends to take the comparison.