Tiny Cock Loser Gets Teased

There is a special place in my heart for men who lie about their size, because every single one of them is volunteering for the exact lesson I'm happiest to teach. This one found me at the bar on a Friday, all cologne and confidence, telling me and anyone within earshot that he was notoriously big. His words. Notoriously. Like there were monuments.

I let him buy me a drink. I let him talk. I asked questions with wide eyes and nodded along while he described himself like a nature documentary, and the whole time I was thinking about how good it was going to feel to ruin him.

I told him to prove it. He laughed like I was joking. I wasn't joking. I stood up, took his hand, and walked him straight out the back of the bar into the parking garage. Fluorescent lights, concrete echo, nobody around except a sleepy attendant booth two floors down. Perfect.

He unzipped with this big showman flourish, like he was unveiling a statue, and what came out was cute. That's the kind word. The honest word is tiny. The bratty word, the true word, is exactly what I said out loud while I stared at it. I told him oh no, oh honey, no, with my hand flying to my mouth.

His face did something I will treasure forever. The confidence drained out of him so fast I half expected to hear it hit the concrete.

I circled him slowly, heels clicking, looking him up and down like a disappointed art critic. All that talking, I said. All those adjectives. And this is what he was describing? This little guy? I crouched down to get eye level with it, which made him make a strangled noise. I asked the little guy if he was the notorious one.

He was officially a tiny cock loser, and the beautiful thing was that some buried part of him had been waiting his whole life for a girl to say it to his face.

I didn't touch him at first. I just looked, and laughed, soft and delighted, and narrated everything I saw. How it barely cleared his zipper. How my thumb would probably cover the whole thing. How he'd been walking around all night like a king while smuggling a peanut. Every word landed and every word made him harder, which made me laugh harder, which made him harder still. It was a perfect humiliation loop and I was drunk on it.

He tried to cover himself with his hands. I tapped them away, not hard, just a sharp little tap, and told him no, hands behind his back. If he was going to be a loser, he was going to be a well-behaved one. He obeyed instantly, and honestly the obedience was filthier than the size. I made him say it out loud, made him tell me what he was. He mumbled something at the concrete. I told him I couldn't hear him. Louder, wrecked, he said he was a tiny cock loser. I clapped like he'd just won a prize, and the sound echoed off every parked car on the level.

I circled him again while he stood there exposed and trembling. I told him what was tragic: he had a good face, good shoulders. He could have been quiet and mysterious and gone home with somebody. But no. He had to be notorious. I flicked him lightly with one fingernail and he yelped, which set me off laughing, which set him off throbbing, the whole perfect loop tightening until he was practically vibrating.

He whispered please. I don't even know what he was asking for. Touching, mercy, more. Probably all three. I asked him please what, told him to use his big boy words. Oh wait, I giggled. Sorry. Too soon?

He begged. Actually begged, there under the buzzing lights with his pants around his thighs, while I stood over him fully dressed and gorgeous and completely in charge. So I gave him two fingers. Just two, wrapped around him with room to spare, stroking slow while I kept up the commentary about how adorable his little struggle was. He lasted about a minute. Maybe less. He apologized while he came, which I have decided is the funniest possible thing a man can do, and I patted his cheek like a proud teacher.

I told him that wasn't so bad, that he was very brave. I fixed my lipstick in the side mirror of a parked car while he put himself away with shaking hands. Then I turned, kissed two fingers, and pressed them to his forehead like a blessing.

I told him he was going to think about this every time he even considered bragging again. And he was going to love thinking about it. That's his life now.

I walked back toward the bar alone, hips swaying, listening to him scramble after his dignity behind me. At the door I looked back and blew him a kiss. Same time next Friday, tiny?