How One Disappointing Reveal Turned Into the Most Fun I've Ever Had

I'm Mistress Maxie, and I have a very particular appetite. I like men who look like men—tall, broad-shouldered, deep voices, big hands that look like they could break me in half. I like the idea of being overpowered, of being taken by someone bigger and stronger.

At least, that's what I thought I liked.

I met Marcus at a whiskey bar downtown. Six-foot-three, jawline that could cut glass, forearms like tree trunks. He was a contractor—built houses with those hands. I spent the whole night imagining them on me, rough and demanding, imagining the thick cock he had to be packing behind that expensive zipper.

I was wet by the time we got to his car. Dripping, actually. I could feel my thong sticking to my lips as he drove us back to his place, his hand sliding up my thigh, his thumb brushing the edge of my skirt. "Can't wait to feel you," he growled, and I believed him. I believed every inch of him was going to be massive.

We barely made it through the door before I was on my knees, reaching for his belt, desperate to see what I was working with. I had plans for that cock. I was going to choke on it, let it stretch me, ride it until I couldn't walk straight.

I pulled his pants down.

And I laughed.

I couldn't help it. It just came out—a sharp, surprised burst of laughter that I immediately tried to turn into a cough. But it was too late. He'd heard me.

There it was. Between those muscular thighs, above those heavy balls that looked like they belonged to a real man, was... was that it? It looked like a thumb. No—smaller. A pinky finger, maybe. A fat little nub barely peeking out from his dark hair, so small that his pubes almost swallowed it whole. It was hard—painfully, pathetically hard—and it still couldn't have been more than two inches. Two inches of disappointment. Two inches of false advertising.

"Oh my god," I said, looking up at him. His face was red. He knew. He'd always known. "That's... that's what you've got? That's the cock you've been teasing me with all night?"

He stammered something. Tried to reach for me. I slapped his hand away.

"Don't," I snapped, standing up, wiping my knees. "Don't touch me with that thing. What were you going to do with that? Tickle my clit? You'd probably get lost inside me. I'd have to ask if it was in yet, and we both know I'd be lying when I said I could feel it."

His little nub twitched. Actually twitched, like it was trying to grow, trying to prove me wrong. It didn't work. It stayed exactly that pathetic size—pink and shiny and useless.

"Does it even get bigger?" I asked, circling him, looking at it from different angles like a scientist examining a failed experiment. "Or is that it? Is that the whole show? Because I've seen bigger clits on gym girls, Marcus. I've seen tampons that would satisfy me more."

He was fully hard now, his face burning with shame, and that little thing was pointing straight up, desperate and ridiculous. And I realized something—I was still wet. Wetter, actually. My pussy was throbbing, not with desire for that pathetic nub, but with the power of it. With the cruelty. With the delicious, filthy fun of breaking him down.

"Sit down," I commanded, pointing to the couch. "And touch it."

Making Him Admit What He Was
He sat, naked from the waist down, his muscular body looking even more ridiculous contrasted with that tiny excuse for a cock. He looked up at me with pleading eyes, but I wasn't feeling merciful. I was feeling mean.

"Rub it," I ordered. "Show me how you make yourself cum. Show me how two fingers is probably too many."

He reached down with his big, rough contractor hands—hands built for framing houses and lifting beams—and wrapped them around that pathetic little nub. His fingers overlapped. There was room to spare. He started rubbing, fast and frantic, humping his own hand like a desperate little dog.

"Look at you," I laughed, stepping closer, looking down at him. "Look at how pathetic you are. You look like you're trying to jerk off a grain of rice. Is that all you need? Two fingertips? God, you must cum in seconds. No wonder you wanted to get me home so fast—you probably knew you'd blow if I breathed on it wrong."

He was panting now, his hips bucking, rubbing himself against his palm. His face was red, sweat on his forehead, and that little thing was twitching but not growing. It would never grow. It was a clit with an ego. A clit that thought it was a cock.

"Say it," I demanded, kicking off my heels, pulling up my skirt. I wanted to see this while I touched myself. "Tell me what you are. Tell me what that is between your legs."

"I'm... I'm small," he gasped, his fingers moving faster, frantic and humiliated.

"Louder. And be specific."

"I have a tiny cock!" he almost shouted, his voice breaking. "It's so small! It's useless! I'm like a girl!"

"That's right," I purred, sliding my hand into my panties. I was soaked, absolutely dripping, my pussy hot and swollen and ready. But not for him. Never for him. "You're not a man, Marcus. You're a little clit-boy. You couldn't satisfy me if you tried. I'd need a magnifying glass to find it inside me. I'd need tweezers to pull it out."

I started rubbing my clit—my real one, the one that was bigger than his "cock"—watching him hump his hand like the pathetic creature he was.

"Look at the difference," I said, pulling my panties to the side so he could see me, see how wet I was, see what he would never have. "Look at my pussy. See how wet it is? But not for you. Never for you. I'm wet because you're humiliating yourself. Because you're sitting there rubbing that little nub while a real woman gets herself off to your shame."

He was making sounds now—whimpering, pathetic noises, his hips jerking uncontrollably. He was close. I could tell. His face was twisted with the effort of holding back, of trying to make it last, but he couldn't. He didn't have the stamina. He didn't have the size. He had nothing.

"You're going to cum in your hand like a teenager," I sneered, rubbing myself faster, feeling my own orgasm building. "You're going to spurt that little load all over your fingers, and then you're going to lick it up. Because that's what clit-boys do. They eat their own mess because no woman will ever let them make one inside her."

The Mess He Made (And the Mess He Cleaned)
He came with a wail—high-pitched and broken, nothing like a man's grunt of release. His little nub twitched and dribbled, a pathetic puddle of cum landing on his fingers, thin and watery, barely enough to coat his palm. He kept rubbing, milking that tiny thing, more leaking out, his whole body shaking with the force of his shameful orgasm.

I watched the whole thing, my fingers buried in my pussy, and I came hard—clenching around my own hand, my juices running down my thighs, my scream drowning out his whimpers. I came thinking about how small he was, how useless, how I would tell every girl I knew about the "hung" contractor who turned out to be packing a micropenis.

When I finished, I stood over him, looking down at his spent, shaking body, his hand covered in his own mess.

"Now lick it," I said softly. "Clean up your mess, clit-boy."

He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. But he did it. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked his own cum off his fingers, swallowing it down, his throat working, his face burning with the ultimate degradation.

I pulled my skirt down and picked up my purse. "I'm going to go find a real cock," I told him, heading for the door. "One that can actually touch my walls. You keep rubbing that little thing, Marcus. It's all you're good for."

I left him there, naked and used and humiliated, his tiny cock already trying to get hard again.

And I went to the bar next door, found a man with a proper bulge, and fucked him in the bathroom while I thought about Marcus at home, rubbing his nub to the memory of my laughter.

Are you reading this and feeling that familiar twist in your stomach? That hot, shameful ache?

Good. That means you know exactly what you are.

I'm Erika, and I specialize in telling boys like you the truth. The truth about that pathetic little thing between your legs. The truth about how you'll never satisfy a woman. The truth about what you really are—a clit with delusions of grandeur.

If you're small, if you're inadequate, if you know deep down that you're not a real man and you need a woman like me to remind you of it while you rub yourself raw—then pick up the phone.

I want to hear you whimper. I want to hear you admit it. I want to make you measure it and tell me the number so I can laugh while you hump your pillow like the desperate, tiny-dicked loser you are.

Call me. Let's see if you can last longer than Marcus did. (Spoiler: you probably can't.)

— Erika, your new favorite reason to cry and cum at the same time