Note your place – small penis humiliation

Showing how small he is

I knew when I took on a tiny tooled boy that he’d need to be kept in line. These guys tend to get proud that they’ve scored themselves a domme, rather than being grateful that she’s taken them on in spite of their inadequacy. That dance is what makes owning them delicious. But I have to stay on top of it.

Find a humiliating mistress in

I’ve found the most effective way of keeping them humble is by keeping them highly aware of what they can’t offer me. They ought to feel lucky I keep them around.

You get off work earlier than I do. When I get home, you know you have to be ready for the daily measuring. You dread it as always, but you know that it’s required and that if you were to push against my wishes on it even one iota, you’d be packing your bags and dragging your sorry, stubby snake out the door. Well, pushing or toting it is more like it. It would hardly drag.

I’ve texted you from the parking garage so you can be in place. Like every other day, you stand naked and obedient on the platform as you wait to hear my key in the door. Your heart pounds a bit at the sound, and you feel yourself flush. After 10 months here, of doing this every day, you still can’t believe how ashamed you feel that Mistress is going to take the measure of your meager meat. You’ve proved how devoted you are. Does she have to keep emphasizing your primary failing? But no one has ever treated you so well. The way you feel about her, she can measure you every day for eternity, no matter how red your face gets.

She sets down her bag, takes off her coat. You’ve told her it feels wrong to you not to help her with those things. For that, you got a response of, “I’ll tell you what’s right and wrong, and I said stay on the platform. So shut up and do what I say and don’t question it.” One of many reminders that she’s in charge and you damn well better accept that if you’re going to be allowed to stick around.

Her hand goes to her throat and unbuttons her blouse a way down so she can reach into her cleavage and retrieve the key. She doesn’t let you touch her breasts, but you watch her hand and imagine what it feels like when one of the other men who come to the apartment touches her. You’ve seen them. One time she locked you in the closet and let you watch through a slit in the door while she was in her room with a man who…well, I would say was bigger than you, but, c’mon, that’s almost every man in the world, unless they’re a transman with a T-clit dick.

I pull the key out of my bra and pull the string over my head. The key’s a little sweaty, so I dry it off on my leg before I insert it in the hole. I say to you, “Do you see how long this key is in relation to the hole it’s entering? Just a little reminder of how relative size is supposed to work. I can’t even open this damn case without this key making me think about your worthless dick and questioning why I ever took you on.”

The penis measurements ritual

You’ve nothing to say to that. She’s right. As always. You couldn’t even fill a keyhole, so what response could you possibly give her? As usual, you go with groveling. “Mistress, I know my dick is worthless. I’m so grateful you took me on. Please, please, just give me a chance to keep pleasing you in other ways. Please. Just for today.” I snort a little. You’ve always been a brown-noser and a bootlicker. It serves you well. God knows with that toddler-sized excuse of a weewee you have, you had plenty of reason and opportunity to develop defense mechanisms.

I gently open the lid of the case, propping it up, and remove the calipers. Like a good boy, you’ve positioned yourself below the spotlight fixture, and stand with your hands behind your back. Some days, the idea of Mistress walking toward you with those calipers is horrifying, and your dickhead makes like a turtle. Other days, the idea is unfathomably exciting, and you feel the blood rush to it, making it as long and turgid as it ever gets, which is to say, not very. You’re not sure which is more embarrassing–the times when you can’t even get it up out of fear, or the sight of the log, correction, twig between your legs, trying to look like an actual human organ. I see that today is one of the latter–a wee baby boner is saluting me from over there. You squirm as I look at you. It’s all you can do not to take your hands from behind your back to cover that humiliating sight. I laugh at you and watch you flush redder again. This is so much fun. Every damn day.

I’ve had the case installed right by the light switches. I flip off the room lights. It’s dark. I stand still and move my hand silently toward the other switch, just letting you anticipate the moment when that spotlight is going to come on, illuminating your shame for Mistress’ pleasure. When I finally flip the switch, I’ve left the light off long enough for your pupils to dilate, and the spot temporarily blinds you. I can see you want to reach up and shield your eyes, but again, good boy! You leave your hands behind your back.

I walk toward you with the calipers, holding it and slapping it into the palm of the other hand while I walk in a circle around you. I like to watch you fidget, see the dread on your face, see you shift your weight from one foot to the other. Bet you wanna run. But you never will.

So the daily moment of truth has arrived. You stand straight and look forward. You hope that your decision to wait one more day to trim your pubic hair to my desired length was a good one. Once, you waited too long and I got creative.

You feel the cold steel of the calipers as I push one end gently into your groin at the base of your penis. You hear the measuring part slide out. In a disappointingly short amount of time, it stops.

I say, “Eighty. Pfft.”

You sigh. That’s not too far off typical when you have a hardon, but things could be better. One time I got an 83 reading. I’ve accepted that with you, 83 is as good as it gets.

I hand you the calipers. You go and replace it gently in the case, then pull out The Notebook, pencils and calculator. On the latest page, you write in black pencil in the first two columns

6/11/2018 – 80

“Just 3.15 inches today, Mistress,” then write it with the red pencil in that column. “Shall I put any comments, Mistress?” I tell you that there’s nothing worth mentioning today, much like other days, that the comment box is there for me to mention something noteworthy or at least more noteworthy than the pitiful variations I see in your measurements. Though sometimes I do use the comments box to make you write down something about what a disaster you are, or how disenchanted I am with your wee wiener, or how your lack is making me need to soon bring home a real man instead. I ask you what yesterday was. “3.19.” I let out a great sigh of disappointment and tell you that I had some thought that you were moving in the right direction, but that the little hope that perhaps you’d be a late bloomer is constantly being squashed.

I turn my back on you and go to get changed. Like every day, you place the tools and The Notebook back in the case, opening the lined ledger up to the most current page. Your eyes skim over the measurements of the last couple weeks. It’s disgusting, really. You know Mistress is appalled by you, and you feel very, very fortunate that she lets you stay in spite of the numbers you see before you. Unless it’s a flaccid day (even worse), all the numbers are pretty much between 3.1 and 3.25 inches. That’s the long and the short of it, or really the short and the shorter of it. You look down at your Vienna sausage and feel the overwhelming emotion of your life–self-loathing. Who knows what you might have been if you had any sort of dingus at all. You were very lucky to find Mistress.

Shamed in public

The Notebook stays in the case, lit, any time other than when you’re being measured–or if I decide to use it for something. As you look at it, you think about the early days when Mistress first took you in. At first, when the company would come over, you thought Mistress might close the book, take it out, or at least turn the light off in the case! But you had another think coming. Not only did she leave it there, but she drew people’s attention to it, and described your daily ritual to the giggles and guffaws of the guests! Most of the time she let you keep your clothes on when guests were there, but occasionally she’d have you wear chaps with no underwear so your deficient dong would be out for inspection by the guests, and for comparison with the measurements in the book. They would pass The Notebook around, and you’d have to stand by each person as they read out numbers and guessed what you might be now. Usually at 1″, given how mortified you are when people are staring at your penis and surmising. They congratulate me for my kindness and generosity in keeping you around and lecture you severely about the level of gratitude you should be showing, considering what they are currently witnessing between your legs.

You need nothing more than edging

The Notebook also comes out for punishment or correction. Today’s one of those days. I come back to the case and lock it, then lead you into the living room. I make you stand on your knees and read out weeks worth of numbers. I insist on the same format for every day–“June 1st, 2018. 81 millimeters, which is just 3.19 inches, Mistress,” and so forth. Weeks and weeks worth, plus each and every degrading comment that I’ve thought of to annotate the numerical documentation of your joke of a johnson. At some point, I make you start edging while you read. You are excited that I’m letting you touch yourself. As always, you masturbate with two fingers and a thumb, which is all you need to encompass the vast length of your dinker. I watch and giggle, until I tire. Then I do what I always do–pull out an endothermic pack usually used for sports injuries, pop it, and cover your tiny thing with it to make the swelling go down. The pack is disgusting in the end, with your pre-cum on it, covering your now inch-long prick. Christ. I have never seen such a leaker. So I give you the gooey pack and make you throw it away.

‘s humiliatrixes

And tomorrow will be another day. Maybe a miracle will happen and your level of excitement will pull your pud out even a bit, to a better length than you’ve seen before. 84 again, maybe? 85? But probably not.

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