Training

Monday begins with your wife already straddling your face, her pussy wet and open over your mouth, her pinky buried against your taint in slow, filthy circles. Two fingers of her other hand have the soft, wrinkled little button of your cock pinched and stretched so the head is forced into view. On the phone screen only inches from your eyes is a close-up of an average cock—five solid inches soft, thick enough that a woman’s fingers leave gaps—held directly against a tiny, folded nub almost identical to yours. The woman on screen is stroking both at the same time, the average one swelling to a heavy six-and-a-half while the little one barely reaches three.

“Watch how much bigger normal looks next to a button like yours,” she says, grinding her clit across your tongue. “This is the porn we’re using all week. Spicier. Closer. No mercy on the comparisons.”

She keeps you there for thirty-five minutes. Every time the average cock on screen hardens or shoots thick, creamy ropes, she pinches your soft button harder and makes you stare at the difference in size, color, and volume. When the tiny cock on screen finishes with a thin, watery dribble she laughs and tugs yours in the same rhythm.

After she comes she tapes the week’s schedule to the mirror and walks you through it while pressing a fresh ice pack against your still-pinched little cock.

Morning ice bath – 34 °F – twelve minutes with her hand on your button the entire time.

Measurement photos before ice, after ice, and after any accidental swelling—sent immediately to her phone.

Midday: ten minutes of holding your soft cock against screenshots of average hard cocks.

Evening: forty-five to sixty minutes of explicit size-comparison porn with her sitting on your face, pinky on your taint, free hand constantly pinching and stretching you for side-by-side views.

Costume practice in the pink micro panties and black micro skirt for at least ninety minutes while she narrates how average the other men at the next party will look next to you.

Tuesday the porn gets rougher. The playlist now includes women measuring average cocks with rulers right before they measure the tiny ones, then forcing the small soft cock to press against the average one’s shaft or balls for scale. Your wife mirrors every action. She keeps a plastic ruler on the nightstand, measures your cold little button after the morning ice bath (still shorter than her pinky knuckle), then makes you hold it against the phone while an average five-inch soft cock is measured on screen. Evening session lasts a full hour. She rides your face harder, drips more, and every time an average cock on screen produces a thick, ropey load she pinches your button and reminds you of the watery mess you left at the first party.

“Normal men come like that. You come like the little ones. That’s why the comparisons matter.”

Wednesday she adds live commentary over the videos. While a woman on screen jerks an average cock and a tiny cock side by side, your wife describes in explicit detail how the average one stretches her fingers, how heavy it feels, how the cum lands in thick white streaks, while your own soft button stays pinched and useless in her other hand. She makes you repeat after her: “Average is thicker than my whole cock. Average comes more than I do. I am the size comparison.” Costume practice now includes standing against the wall in the micro skirt with the ice pack taped to the front while she takes photos of your flat crotch next to a thick dildo and a ruler.

Thursday the sessions get longer and meaner. Morning ice bath is fifteen minutes. She sits on the edge of the tub, one hand pinching your cold little cock, the other scrolling through the most explicit comparison clips she can find—slow-motion shots of average cocks throbbing while tiny ones stay soft, close-ups of thick cum dripping past wrinkled little nubs, women laughing while they try to make the small ones look bigger and fail. Evening porn lasts seventy minutes. She comes twice on your tongue, never letting go of your button, never stopping the taint tickle, and every orgasm she has is timed to an average cock on screen finishing with a heavy, creamy load.

Friday is the peak of the conditioning. Morning ice bath is twenty minutes. She Naits any new stubble herself, taking slow, deliberate passes around the base of your tiny cock and between your cheeks while a comparison video plays on the bathroom speaker. Afterward she dresses you in the full set—pink micro panties, black micro skirt, lavender glitter shorts, collar—and keeps you in it all day. Measurement photos are taken every ninety minutes and added to an album titled “Smaller Than Average.”

At lunch she sits on your face for another full hour of the spiciest clips yet: women forcing tiny soft cocks to rub against average hard ones, average cocks slapping against little wrinkled buttons, side-by-side hand jobs where the average finishes in thick ropes and the tiny one produces only a clear, watery bead. She pinches and stretches your button through every second of it, making you watch the size difference while she grinds out another orgasm on your tongue.

In the afternoon she makes you practice the exact position she plans for Saturday—kneeling in the micro skirt with your soft little cock held out on your open palm while she stands over you with the thick dildo, comparing them out loud, then making you thank her for showing you how far below average you are.

By Friday night the week has done its work. You are permanently smooth, trained to stay ice-cold and folded, conditioned to stare at average cocks next to your own without looking away, and dressed exactly like the smallest man in any room of ordinary husbands. She locks a fresh ice pack against the front of the micro skirt, hooks her finger in the collar, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Tomorrow’s the second party. More average men. Longer timed tests. Spicier comparisons. You’re going to be the clear smallest again, and every wife is going to make sure you see it. Stay tiny for me tonight.”

She leaves the ice pack in place, keeps the collar locked, and falls asleep with her hand still loosely wrapped around the soft, wrinkled little button she has spent five full days conditioning into the bottom of every size comparison.