THE SIZE QUEEN'S CONVENTION

 

The other night, after reading the posts about how all the gerbil-dicked men on this board should be made to stand in a line and masturbate for the amusement of the Size Queens,  I logged off and went out for a meal at a Mexican Restaurant.  I love spicy food, but sometimes, it doesn't love me.  I had a really bad stomach ache and that night I had the most incredible nightmare...

 

Once upon a time, a post appeared on the Yahoo small penis humiliation club.  One of the Size Queens had concocted a marvelous idea and she eagerly shared it with her "sisters in Size appreciation".  Quite simply, what she proposed was a convention of Size Queens to be held at a hotel in a city as centrally located as possible to ensure all would attend.  In addition to the usual convention activities of fine dining, shopping and clubbing, the inventive Size Queen laid out a most astonishing agenda.

 

She believed the small guys, or weenies as she preferred to call them, owed the Size Queens an incredible debt, for the Size Queens' willingness to take time from their busy lives to come to the club and heap abuse on these no-dick wimps.  So she thought the convention should be paid for by the weenies.  Each Size Queen who wished to go would list her name in a special file, accessible only to the "organizer".  When she had all the names, she would release the number of participants on the board.  Then, the weenies would petition the group for the honor of sponsoring a Size Queen's trip to the convention and the further honor of going along as her domestic servant in the bargain. 

 

The weenies chosen for this duty (picked by virtue of their responses to a humiliating questionaire posted on the board) would then be required to establish a $10,000 line of credit, the information for controlling it then being passed along to the Size Queen he had been chosen to sponser.  The Size Queen then had the option of having the weenie make all the arrangements or if she preferred, she could make them herself.  The money would pay for the travel and hotel accomodations for the Size Queen and her small guy, plus one guest of the Size Queen and leave enough to pay for incidental expenses, too. 

 

It was the Size Queen's choice whether she brought a Real Man with her, or if she brought a Size Queen friend.  Since, however, some of the money would be used to hire the finest male escorts available in the convention city - handsome young men chosen for their breeding, ability to please and respect a woman, and, of course, the Size of their appendages - bringing along a real man was unnecessary.  In addition, noted female supremicists and dominant women were invited to address the convention, their expenses borne by those weenies who hadn't made the cut.  And special sessions of small penis humiliation were scheduled to occur each day in one of the hotel's ballrooms. 

 

Well, 12 women signed up for the trip, some coming from as far away as England and Australia.  The weenies were chosen and they all did what was required of them, supplying the financing.  I was so excited that I was among the chosen.  I was assigned to a saucy young Size Queen who immediately christened me Asswipe.  She made me email her a picture of my cock and a few minutes after I did, she emailed me back to say that I had the smallest dick she had ever seen. "The only time I ever had something that small between my lips," she told me gleefully, "was when I smoked cigarettes."  Of course, she posted my picture to the club and her reaction to it - the result was a wave of cruel and belittling comments that made me shiver with fear about what would happen to me at the convention. 

 

The Size Queens decided it was best to let us weenies make all arrangements except for our own travel plans; these the Queens made for us, routing us on the worst airlines with several stopovers and whatever inconveniences they could arrange.  Consequently, the U.S. Queens left Thursday morning for a Thursday afternoon arrival (the overseas Queens having a bit longer trip, but First Class all the way), while most of the weenies had been traveling for two and a half days already by the time they arrived.  Except for one small-dicked guy, lucky enough to live in the convention city, who was forced to take a one day detour out of town and then go to the hotel early to supervise the arrangements.

 

His first job was to meet and approve the male escorts.  He took a small room at the hotel, changed into the female garments he'd been ordered to wear and interviewed 30 well-hung studs.  He was forced to examine their genitalia intimately and, if any of the studs requested blowjobs, he was to comply.  As it turned out, he sucked 8 large cocks that afternoon, which he had to videotape along with the interviews.

 

The weenies got to the hotel first and checked into the suites where our Queens would be staying.  We changed into the frilly maid outfits that were our specified attire and prepared the rooms for the arrivals of our Goddesses. Finally, the Queens arrived at the hotel and checked in.  They were placed four to a suite, each with a bedroom and private bath, while we weenies were told we'd each four be sleeping in the closet of our suite's main room.

 

Everyone saw the sign in the lobby that our's was not the only convention the hotel was hosting that weekend, but no one recognized the acronym of the other organization and it didn't seem important enough to anyone to inquire.

 

None of the Queens had brought men with them as they knew the supply of well-hung studs would be ample.  Instead, they brought women friends who had expressed an interest in humiliating small-dicked men.  So, there were 24 Size Queens attending and 12 minnow-dicked wimps serving them.  Throughout their stay, the 30 well-hung studs were available, housed in six convention suites on the same floor as the Queens.  But the first order of business was a meeting in a conference room on the second floor. 

 

We weenies were incredibly humiliated by the fact that we had to make our way to the conference room by taking the elevators one floor at a time, then get off and wait for the next elevator to travel one more floor, and so on.  The thinking behind this, we were informed, was that with such small penises, we might, in some way,  be particularly suseptible to extreme changes in altitude.  So the Queens explained that they were only looking out for our well-being and all of us were grateful. It was particularly humiliating, however, as we were all still in our maid's outfits.  Sent out to accomplish this a good half hour before the meeting started, we weenies arrived at the conference room 10 minutes before the meeting and were forced to stand around outside the locked room.

 

At this point we weenies learned, to our chagrin, that the other convention was a meeting of a national organization for powerful female executives and entrepeneurs.  Female bankers, lawyers, corporate officers, business owners and all manner of powerful women were in attendance.  In contrast to the relativly small Size of the Goddesses' convention, this convention boasted 400 participants.  And there was no shortage of them walking up and down the halls of the conference area.  The word spread like wildfire about the feminized males hanging around in the hall and one of the organizers of the larger convention came out to see what the fuss was about.

 

When she spotted us hapless male maids cowering by our room door, she marched over and in a loud voice berated us as perverts for sullying the atmosphere at the professional womens' convention.  She was on the verge of ordering hotel security to "throw all the he-maids out", when a Size Queen arrived to unlock the conference room door.  She quickly explained our presence and, once they understood the context of these shamed males' humiliating position, the professional women roared with laughter and congratulated the Size Queens on their imaginative and exciting convention plans.  The Size Queens, several of whom had walked up during the conversation, extended a warm welcome to the professional women and invited them to attend the humiliation sessions that would be held in one of the ballrooms on Friday and Saturday night and Sunday morning as well as the special demonstrations and seminars.  The women thanked the Size Queens for the invitation and agreed to spread the word to all their members.

 

"What sort of things do you do to them?" the leader of the larger conference asked.

 

The Size Queen organizer of the trip chose a weenie at random - the one standing next to me - and told him to stand with his legs spread.  The poor degraded sap spread his pitiful stick-like legs and the beautiful Size Queen thrust her knee up into his groin.  He collapsed to the floor making a frightful noise in his throat - like a scream that was shut off in the middle.  His eyes rolled back in his head and he rolled on the floor, holding his mashed privates and moaning. 

 

All the women cheered!  Laughter followed.  All of us weenies looked worriedly around, wondering who would be next.  The head Size Queen looked at me and said, "Get on your knees and gently rub his balls until he comes around."

 

I did as I was told.  I did not want her knee felling me.  I pulled down the ruffled panties that the fallen weenie wore and gently cupped his battered balls in one hand as I gently rubbed his little cock with my other hand.

 

The head Size Queen watched for a moment and said, "You're good at that, wimp, have you had a lot of practice?"  A wave of laughter drowned out my answer of, "No ma'am." I turned bright red.

 

It took about ten minutes to get settled in the conference room.  Then the head Size Queen laid out the weekend's agenda.  Among the highlights was a tour of several of the more impressive "playrooms" of local dominant females, three nights of clubbing with their male escorts, several shopping expeditions, and the several seminars.  Friday and Saturday nights after the two formal dinner parties, there would be a couple of hours spent tormenting the weenies on the small raised stage at one end of the ballroom.  Sunday morning would be an awards ceremony.  A number of very interesting activities had been concieved just for this occasion, the organizer explained.  It sounded like everyone but we, the weenies, would be having fun.

 

As a sample of the torments we would be undergoing, several of the Queens locked their weenies' sub-par equipment into a variety of chastity or cage devices.  My Goddess put something on me similar in some ways to Chinese finger cuffs, which she then tied off to my ankles in such a way that every step I took felt like it was going to yank my dick off.  "You need to walk more girlishly," she informed me. "This will help."  She was so cheerful about it, I thanked her for her help.  She giggled in delight as she watched me painfully walk back to the elevator. 

 

On and off, every floor, made it nearly forty minutes to get back to the room as the elevators were much busier.  It seemed all the women from the other convention had heard about us.  Every time we entered an elevator, there was a new batch of women making fun of us and calling us names and some of them would spit on us or trip us or pull our panties down.  It was so degrading, knowing that every woman in the hotel knew about us and was eager to get in on adding to our torment.

 

Since the weenie with the recently "busted balls" was looking after the two Size Queens in the room adjacent to my Goddess and her friend, I tried to help him out with unpacking and hanging up or putting in drawers his Ladies' belongings. but only after I'd finished attending to the belongings of the women who were my responsibility.  I didn't wish to incur my Goddess' wrath. I knew it was unlikely that I would get through the weekend without some sort of ball busting befalling me, but the longer I could avoid it, the better.

 

Our Goddesses returned to the room and you never saw four shrimp-dicked men run around in such a frenzy in all your life, getting and fetching, pampering and spoiling, as the eight beautiful women prowled the suite in various states of undress, teasing and tempting us with the beauty we would never get close to.  They were free with the swats on our asses, the slaps to our faces, the pinches and prods and kicks and sneers. 

 

At one point, two of the Queens got into a spirited argument over the respective virtues of penis slapping and weenie whacking.  It seemed to me there was little difference between the two, but when I was called forward to serve as a "volunteer" I found out different.  Getting me out of the device my Goddess had put me in was an agony.  Then things got really cruel.  Penis slapping was just as it sounded, a vicious slap to the dick administered with an open hand.  It bent me over in agony.  But weenie whacking, I learned to my painful distress, involved both hands brought together on the dick much like applause or the crash of cymbals.  The Queen in favor of that punishment was quickly proved the winner, when the first one she gave me knocked me to my knees. 

 

The losing Queen was gracious in defeat to her equal, but took her frustrations out on me by placing my dick on the edge of a coffee table, then slamming a telephone book on top of it.  The winning Queen then observed that that punishment was probably the best of all and so, both were happy.  I, on the other hand, was bent over in considerable pain for the next hour.

 

The ladies were ready to take their leave a few moments later, heading out for a meal at a four star restaurant.  They had arranged for salads to be delivered to the suite for we four weenies.  Before they left, they supervised us in jerking off on the salads.  Then they made us trade plates with one another, so that we were eating another weenie's cum dressing.  We were expected to eat, then spend the rest of the evening hand washing our Goddesses delicates, polishing their shoes, steaming the wrinkles out of their clothes and otherwise looking for ways to make their lives more comfortable.  We kept working until they returned to the suite at 2am, two of them with con-studs in tow. 

 

They lined us up and made us kiss the tips of the con-studs enormous tools, then we were told to put on our nighties and we were shoved into the closet and locked in for the night.  It took quite a while for us to arrange ourselves on the floor in a way that was as comfortable as possible, but the weenie with the "busted balls", whose Goddess referred to him as Shithead, had a bad case of gas from the cucumbers in the salad and he didn't stop farting all night.  It was so bad, when the Queens let us out the next morning, they were nearly sick at the smell.  And they hadn't slept in a four by six closet on top of one another with that odor.

 

We spent the morning attending to our ladies' needs, then were put into diapers, plastic pants, nipple clamps and bonnets to accompany them to the first seminar - Taking Charge!

 

The beautiful dominatrix running the seminar went into great detail about methods she successfully employed to make men do her bidding.  From the eager looks and knowing smiles that passed acoss the faces of the Size Queens, it was clear they were filing away every idea.  Of course, the domina needed volunteers to illustrate certain points and that's how weenies "Dipshit" and "Fuckface" were forced to undergo a humiliating series of abuses in the front of the room.  Dipshit wound up with his tiny pecker bathed in Ben Gay; I must admit, despite my empathy for his situation, the way he ran around the room screaming that his dick was on fire was pretty funny.  Fuckface was treated to clothespins clamped onto his dick and scrotum, then the domina gave rubber bands to the Size Queens and they spent ten minutes or so trying to shoot the clamps off.  Fuckface was covered with little rubber-band-induced red welts from his chest to his knees.

 

After the seminar, the Queens adjourned to a chartered bus for a shopping and lunch expedition, leaving the weenies taped together naked with duct tape in the main room of one of the suites, groin to ass, forming a circle of virtual Greeks.  We each wore butt plugs and had little ribbons tied around our dicks.  When the hotel maids entered to clean, they fell about in hysterics and called all the female workers of the hotel up to the room to see.  This induced, in many of us, raging (miniscule) erections, which tended to cause a rather humiliating surprise to the weenie in front of you.

 

That evening, we were told to dress in our Little Boy Blue Suits - satin breeches, silky white lace shirts and stockings and velvet coats.  They were designed for little boys, but Sized for us and we looked more ridiculous than you can ever imagine, particularly after we had our make-up applied.  Once again, we were forced to run ourselves ragged helping our Goddesses get ready, then we had to play that same humiliating game of traveling one floor at a time on the elevators. 

 

The women from the other convention were delighted to see us and we underwent a lot of torment at their hands.  I was seized by three of them and my hands were tied behind my back and lashed to the railing in the elevator.  Then my breeches were pulled down to reveal the pink crotchless panties that we were forced to wear underneath.  Tucking my little tool away with the admonition that they didn't want anyone to actually die laughing, they left me that way after pushing the button for the lobby.  The doors of the elevator opened in the lobby and a crowd of nearly 30 women surged forward to get into the car, but when they saw me, pandemonium broke out.  One quick thinking lady ducked in long enough to push the hold button and then I was left there for ten minutes on display to anyone who happened by. It was monumentally humiliating.

 

The dinner itself was a rather sedate affair, enlivened only by the use of the con-studs as loinclothed waiters and the weenies as sissy busboys.  But the after-meal activities were some of the most humiliating and painful moments I have ever experienced.

 

The first order of business was a short speech by the Size Queen who had conceived and organized the trip.  She explained that for each evening's small penis humiliation session, three games had been devised.  Each game would be explained right before it was played.  But to begin with, cheesy stripper music was provided and the weenies were ordered to give our best showing as we stripped to our crotchless panties.  By this time, at least a hundred women from the other convention had arrived in our room and it was getting so crowded that the hotel sent a representative down to open the folding wall that separated our ballroom from the one used by the professional women's convention.  So, by the time the stripping music started, we had an audience of nearly 400 women, shrieking and laughing and jeering at us.

 

Our pitiful strip tease routine was so bad, they began to boo us and throw food.  I got hit in the forehead with an overipe tomato and Shithead caught a big sloppy wad of mashed potato in his ear.  Fuckface was nailed by a noseful of apple sauce and Dipshit was pummeled with brussel sprouts in cheese sauce. I didn't see any of the other scores occur, but by the time we were down to our panties, every one of us had suffered at least one direct hit of some kind.

 

The first game was musical chairs.  There were 12 weenies and 11 chairs for the start.  We were taken into the kitchen to be blindfolded with scarves and, upon our return, were instructed to place our left hands on the shoulder of the weenie in front of us.  It worked just like regular musical chairs except for two key additions.  First was the fact that the loser in each round would have his dick dunked in a bowl of Louisiana Hot Sauce for 30 seconds, while he was hogtied in such a way as to be unable to move as his jewels burned.

 

The second little variation on the game was never mentioned to us.  While we were in the kitchen getting blindfolded, however, everyone else in the room was let in on the fact that on two chairs in each round would be placed a sheet of cardboard that had three thumbtacks glued point side up.  When we returned, we were told that anyone who sat down at the end of a round, but stood up again before being instructed to do so, would get three whacks on the pecker with a wooden ruler, to be administered by the Goddess who "owned" the offender.

 

I found out later that an amazing amount of very spirited wagering was going on in the audience throughout all our games.  This led to some Size Queens losing money, which led to serious punishments for the weenies that failed them.  It quickly became plain that this would be a long weekend.

 

Poor Shithead was the first to be eliminated in the Musical Chairs and he screamed in pain as the Hot Sauce bath commenced.  They kept him in agony for about three minutes before dousing his groin with ice water to wash off the Hot Sauce.  Both of the weenies who had landed on the tacks had jumped up in pain, so they were led to the other side of the stage, where their Goddesses gave them a severe wooden ruler whacking.  The ladies were cheering and laughing and having a wonderful time. 

 

The con-studs were having their own problems as hundreds of women were pinching their butts and putting their hands up their loinclothes and pulling them down onto their laps for a little affection.  Six of them were assigned to under table duty, where they asked for a show of hands at each table, then crawled underneath to give pleasure.  It was not unusual to see a women in mid-wager start suddenly waving her money around as she burst into wild animalistic cries of delight.

 

Dipshit was one of the unlucky tack sitters in round two and he got a whacking for his trouble.  The weenie who lost the round displayed commendable courage during his "heat treatment", but by the end, he was in tears.

 

Fuckface lasted until the fourth round and he was brave about his Louisiana bath water, but by the end of the 3 minutes he was begging for relief in whatever ridiculous way was suggested by the women nearest him.  He barked, crowed, mewed and cried before they bathed his burning pain away.  I was one of the tack sitters and got my weenie whacked with a ruler by my giggling gorgeous Goddess.

 

I sat on the tacks three more times before I lost in round nine.  My second time, like my first, I jumped up and got a ruler whack, but the last two times I managed to sit still, despite every nerve in my body screaming at me to get up.  Then I had to take the Hot Sauce treatment and I was a total wuss, crying and screaming and begging right from the first instant.

 

The weenie who won the Musical Chairs final round watched as the weenie he'd beaten took the bath and I guess he thought he'd escaped that fate.  But as winner he was in for worse as the Queens ordered him to take the bath, then wank himself before they would pour on the ice water.  He spent the rest of the night moving very slowly and carefully.

 

The next event was called Annie Oakley.  Each weenie had to serve as a target for 6 women.  We were placed in a chair with a piece of plexiglass in front of us.  The only opening was a small circle cut out where our balls were left to hang.  To insure they stayed out of the way, our dicks were duct taped up to our stomachs.  Despite all the torments that were devised for the convention, having that piece of duct tape removed at the end of this game was the single most painful thing I've ever experienced.  But that doesn't mean the game itself was any kind of walk in the park.

 

The 24 Queens, who could have easily kept this game just for themselves, each generously chose two women apiece from the other convention to help make up their teams.  5 points for a hit, an extra 2 points if the target yelled or screamed in pain, although we weren't told that part until later to prevent us boosting our Goddesses' scores unfairly.  The weapons?  Original authentic Red Ryder BB Guns (You'll put an eye out!).  Each lady got three shots and there were 6 shooters per weenie.  The distance was 30 feet, which they had determined was enough for the BB to really sting, but too far away for it to break skin.  I wondered aloud how they had determined that.  Fuckface said his Goddess lived in the same city as him, so weeks earlier, he had been drafted to serve as a test subject for just that purpose.  He said that at 20 feet, he'd thought he would never walk again, the pain was so severe, but at 40 feet, it rarely stung badly enough for him to cry out.  We angrily told him that he could have pretended it hurt worse at 40 feet, but he just shook his head and said he couldn't lie to a Goddess.  We had to agree with that.

 

My Goddess, much to her delight, had a team full of Dead Eye Dicks, or should I say Dead Dick Eyes?  18 shots, 17 hits and I yelled out loud on twelve of them.  My Goddess rewarded me by bringing me up beside her as she accepted the trophy and then turning and spitting right in my face.  Her team followed suit and I stood there, flashes going off all around me as untold cameras recorded my humiliation, with what felt like a bucket load of snot and saliva running down my face. It could have been worse.  The losers were made to sit still for target practice for any other woman in the room who was willing to put up a five dollar bill for the privilege - the money going to the lovely young ladies who'd worked the porta-bars throughout the evening. Many of them called this the best night at work they'd ever had.

 

The last event of Friday evening was a variation of the old circle jerk.  We were divided into two groups of six and placed in devices that held us in a kneeling position. One group at a time was arranged around a small table.  On the table was placed a plate that held a single large oatmeal cookie.  We were required to beat off and to make sure when we came, we shot our juice onto the cookie.  The one who took the longest  to cum...had to eat the cookie. 

 

It was then that I realized just how many pictures were actually being taken.  Flashes had been going off constantly.  Several video cameras were visible in the hands of audience members.  I felt utterly degraded.  The contest began and I watched the first group coat the cookie in what seemed record time.  I was in the second group and the times to beat were short indeed. We began our round and try as I might I couldn't get my poor whacked and BB battered little weenie to spew.  I watched in growing horror as the others shot their loads, one by one, until it was just me and Shithead going at it.  We'd been at it so long, it was just a question of which of us came first. 

 

Suddenly, I saw my Goddess step up behind Shithead and she began to whisper in his ear.  His eyes closed and he leaned his head back as she whispered furiously.  Then with a loud, keening cry of release, Shithead started shooting his seed all over the cookie.  My Goddess gave me a cruel smile, pointed at her watch, shook her head sadly and pantomimed me eating the cookie.  It made her laugh to see the stricken look on my face, ss I realized I would indeed be the one eating this cum-covered morsel.  The realization made me go over the edge and add my own fluid to the treat.

 

I was released from the device and photographed from every angle as I was ordered to comply with my punishment as loser.  With tears in my eyes, drying snot and saliva coating my face and the laughter of nearly 400 women in my ears, I slowly consumed the gooey, slimy, salty, pungent, sloppy, disgusting cookie.  The women started clapping and I was helpless to do anything but sit and listen to the jeers and giggles and shrieks of joy.  It was the most mortifying moment I had ever experienced.

 

That night, we were put into cloth diapers and no one was allowed to go to the bathroom.  Someone (probably the con-studs) had lined the floor and lower walls of the closet with plastic and we were pushed in to spend the night.  Needless to say, none of us could hold our bladders and before long, streams of warm urine were flowing all around us.  And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, Shithead had another gas attack that lasted until very late.  Our Goddesses had gone out clubbing again and when they came in after 4am, he was still farting like crazy and apologizing each time in his wimpy voice.

 

Saturday morning found us stinking like a line of dirty urinals.  We showered and put on our "I Dream of Jeannie" genie costumes.  We cleaned and disinfected our closet and replaced the plastic lining. Then we attended to our Goddesses, who left soon after breakfast for more fun in the city.  We were left to clean, wash, iron and otherwise devote ourselves to domestic duties.

 

The Goddesses returned in mid-afternoon for a seminar by a noted female supremicist.  The weenies, still in our genie costumes, were made to kneel before the stage she trod.  We were on all fours, with pieces of a stage walkway strapped to our backs and locked together.  She walked out on that platform several times during her speech, even jumping up and down on it at one point to illustrate our sturdy devotion.  Oh, my aching back.

 

Then we were broken up into three groups to serve as "volunteers" at one of the three femdom demonstrations.  I was glad to hear my group escaped serving at the CBT forum and I breathed another sigh of relief when we weren't chosen for the caning demonstration.  But we did not really get away with anything as we were thus placed in the hands of a very cruel domina who intended to display her personal methods for introducing wimps to forced bi-oral. 

 

We began by being forced to suck one another off and when we had that mastered, the con-studs were led in.  Let me tell you, there is a BIG difference between sucking on a three inch cock and a nine inch cock.  Not to mention the nearly triple volume of the "reward" at the end of your efforts.  Now, my jaw ached as much as my back.

 

We were dressed as clowns for bussing the dinner tables, ruffled clown tops and white makeup with red noses, but instead of pants, we were put in big silk boxer shorts decorated with hearts, worn over crotchless pantyhose.  The shorts had been "altered" to provide drop-down velcroed panels in front of our tiny jewels.  This kept them covered lest a lady see them and lose her appetite, while ensuring that anyone who wanted to gain access could.  Our usual table bussing method was replaced by instructions that each weenie scrape the food from the plate he removed down the back of the pantyhose of the other weenie serving that table.  By the end of dessert, we all looked like we had a load in our shorts. The heads of our dicks had been painted red with lipsticks to mimic our clown noses and the lineup we were forced to stand in after dinner to show off that devilishly clever humiliation was very embarrassing.  Then it was time for the games to begin.

 

The first game was another target shooting game called Cream The Weenie's Panties.  The weenies were lined up on stage in crotchless black panties with our preemie peckers pulled through and on display.  Our hands were tied to a long pipe that hung down from above and we were blindfolded to keep us from flinching or trying to dodge incoming fire.  From the kitchen, the con-studs wheeled in huge bowls filled with profiteroles, which is the fancy name for cream puffs.  Each Goddess was given a large bowl of profiteroles and a very efficient looking professional slingshot.  Every direct hit was 5 points, hits anywhere else on the body were 2 points, except dead center in the face which was 3 points and any squeals or yells from us counted as minus 1 point.  Again, we were not told of this, so thinking it would work the way it had the night before, we were making lots of noise. This caused our Goddesses to lose points, so after a while they all started hitting us in the mouth with the puffs, in hopes of shutting us up.

 

The big scoring hit, though, was if a Goddess managed to impale a profiterole on an erect penis.  That was ten points and an additional five could be had if the sub-dick in question penetrated the entire puff and poked through the other side.  Unfortunately for my Goddess, my thimble-dick wasn't long enough to acccomplish this, no matter how deadly her accuracy and I endured a marathon face-slapping later that night for my failure to please.

 

Fuckface, much to his own surprise, helped his Goddess take first prize by maintaining a nearly 4 inch erection throughout, which she completely impaled no fewer then five times.  She rewarded him with a bucketful of ice cubes poured into his panties, which caused him to do something the Goddesses chose to label a victory dance.

 

The next contest was Oh You Beautiful Doll.  Each weenie was issued a blowup up doll and a pile of women's clothing.  At the whistle, we had to blow up the doll, dress it in one of the outfits we had been given, put on the other outfit ourselves, mount the doll and fuck it until we came.  This was timed and the fastest weenie won the honor of sucking the cum out of every doll.  The losers would be forced to lick out the winner's ass.  It was incredibly embarrassing to fuck the doll but the hard part was blowing it up.  It took quite a while and left us all exhausted.  Much to our surprise and disgust, Shithead was the winner with his by-now well-known propensity for premature ejaculation working to his advantage.  Unfortunately for the rest of us, his gas pains returned during our forced tongue service to his anus and nearly everyone got a face- or tongue-full of stench, including me.

 

Now attired in the bright red silky lace-trimmed slip I'd been given for my doll worship, I was placed second in line for the evening's final entertainment segment, the Paddle Tunnel.  Every woman in the room was lined up in a conga line that stretched around the room three times.  They were each issued a plastic paddle (400 plastic paddles? Just like that out of nowhere? Hey! I told you this was a dream!) and they stood with their legs apart.  We were forced to crawl through the entire line of them, getting our asses whacked by the paddles.  Since they hobbled Shithead, who was in front of me - farting like crazy the whole time, thank you very much - it was a very slow, smelly and painful parade.

 

We were left to return to our rooms (one floor at a time) in the outfits we were wearing as our Goddesses went out for their dungeon tour and a late-night pub-crawl.  Since the Goddesses were incapable of being so utterly thoughtlessly cruel, they decided even weenies deserved blow-jobs on a Saturday night.  So each suite's Goddesses appointed a designated cocksucker for the evening.  The resulting decision by the Goddesses in our suite left me with Fuckface, Shithead and Dipshit to service before bedtime. But on my way up to the room, I was snatched by a group of the other convention's participants and covered with the contents of their floor's fire extinguisher.  Then, I was once again tied up in the elevator and sent to the lobby.  It took about ten minutes before a barmaid from the hotel's saloon found me and, after laughing herself silly, released me.  By the time I got back to the room, my three weenie compatriots were getting very impatient for their blow-jobs, so I fell to my knees and got to work. Thankfully, Shithead seemed to have passed the last of his wind (most of it right in my face during the Paddle Tunnel) so our sleep was relatively undisturbed that night.

 

Sunday morning, we were up at dawn, readying ourselves and our Goddesses for the travelling we'd be doing that afternoon.  We were put in ballerina outfits for breakfast, which was held in the ballroom.  My Goddess got quite a kick out of filling the back of my pantyhose with pancakes, butter and syrup.  It felt very squishy when I sat.  I sort of liked it.  We were told of the schedule for the day over our second cups of coffee and it was a doozy.

 

The Goddesses had a bus to catch, over to a nearby park, where they could jog, walk or attend a nearby house of worship.  Or, of course, shop.  I later overheard Shithead's Goddess and Dipshit's Goddess talking about the novelty shop they'd found.  Then they clued Fuckface and I in on their plans.  They had bought some itching powder.  They intended to put Dipshit and Shithead in diapers for their trip home.  But instead of using baby powder...

 

"I read this one on the Web!" said Dipshit's Goddess.

 

"I just wish we could see what happens," said Shithead's Goddess.

 

Fuckface and I just shuddered.  We sure felt lucky our Goddesses weren't so incredibly cruel.

 

Once the Goddesses returned from their morning jaunt, we were to convene in the ballroom for the final gathering - lunch, another humiliation session and the awards for the weekend's gaming.  Then it would be farewell to the Queens, followed by a later departure for the weenies. We were told to get the luggage down to the lobby for transport, then to put on our costumes for the final humiliation session.

 

The final session was held at the currently closed and drained indoor swimming pool.  It was strictly the weenies, the con-studs and the Queens, but the walls were glass so we had our usual sizable audience.  All the weenies were dressed in extremely frilly little-girl outfits, gorgeously overdone confections of ribbons and lace, silks and chiffons, ruffles and bows and petticoats like you can't believe.  Such hair as we had was put into pigtails or worse.  We wore frilly little anklet socks over crotchless pantyhose and had brand-new Mary Janes on our feet.  And enough make-up on each of us to supply an entire Las Vegas chorus line.  We made the MC in Cabaret look drab.  Everyone who laid eyes on us nearly collapsed with laughter.

 

What they couldn't see was the part the Queens liked best - vibrating butt plugs connected to penis harnesses, both of which could also deliver a mild electric shock, all working from wireless remotes that the Queens wielded like phasers locked on stun.  Because now, it was time to get serious. We'd been warned at the outset that only grievous physical injury or permanent damage was outlawed and we just had to be prepared for anything else that might happen.  We had already found that to be true.  However, we still weren't prepared for the cruelty of the final day's games.

 

It began with a game called "Fuck a Duck".  The kitchen supplied twelve ducks, stuffed with a bread-based filling rich in spices (ouch!), hot sauce (yeow!), pretzel sticks (scrape!) and cayenne pepper (ooh ooh!).  The idea was that the ducks themselves were for the con-studs table, while the stuffing would be a meal fit for weenies...just as soon as twelve stubbly-dicked men in little-girl outfits got themselves as hard as their little preemie peckers could get and went forth to Fuck a Duck.  The Queens, meanwhile, would dine on Non-Fucked Pheasant.

 

In the middle of the act itself, a woman came right up in front of me and crouched down to take a picture with a very professional looking camera setup.  She took her time lining up her shot, then fired off a couple.  I saw myself in my mind as she must have seen me in her lens, a grown man with a baby-sized dick, dressed in drag, buttfucking a soon to be roasted duck in front of a large audience of laughing women.  It felt as though the gradual haze of distance I had acquired over the past few days, the slightly withdrawn sense that this wasn't really happening to me, vanished completely in that instant and I felt myself blush deeply from head to toe.  I'd rediscovered my capacity for utter public humiliation and managed to surpass it, leaving me feeling more truly vulnerable than I had felt in years.  I burst into tears as I pounded the birds' ass with a vengeance and the audience howled at my efforts.

 

I came finally and the now-fucked duck was carried back to the kitchen with the others for the chefs to work their magic.  I was trembling both from the effort and my own reawakened sense of profound humiliation.  We were instructed to take ten while the next event was readied.  We could have used a lot longer because the next event required us to orgasm, too. 

 

The next event was called "You Fucking Fruit" and it was a demonically simple concept.  We were bent over and lubed, then each of us was penetrated by a con-stud in preparation for accepting an entire unripe banana up our backsides.  Then we were forced to fuck grapefruits through little holes cut in their skin.  Do I even need to point out to you the effect of intensely tart and acidic grapefruit juice on a penis rubbed, by this time, very nearly raw?  Because it was so painful, we were not allowed to control the grapefruits.  Rather we were laid on our backs (which made the banana take on a whole new dimension in my "imagination") and the grapefruits were ground on our dicks by our Goddesses, the way you'd grind them on a juicer.  Not a one of us got through it without screaming.  And it took a good long time.

 

There was an additional 15 minute rest period before the grand conclusion, which the Queen's had dubbed "The Weenie Parade".  It began with us posing for pictures fucking open cans of Crisco; something about a long-standing tradition.  It was followed by the activity that finally made it clear to me why we were in by a drained pool.

 

The weenies were placed in the pool, standing at the deep end, and we were issued goggles.  We were required to take hold of the dick of the guy in front of us, forming a cirle that brought us along the deep end up towards the shallow a few feet then across and back around.  As we passed the edge along the deep end, the con-studs were lined up, pissing on us.  As we walked up and down the edges of the sides, Size Queens pelted us with eggs and rotten tomatoes.  And as we crossed from one side to the other, we passed beneath the end of the diving board, where a variety of things were dumped on us, ranging from a large pot of tomato sauce to a large pail of mud.  I got a large kettle of baked beans poured on my head, then the next time around I got chocolate syrup and finally the last time I was covered in custard.  The studs had been knocking back bottle after bottle of some local spring water and they pissed forever.  Put it all together and you have 12 incredibly stinky, utterly humiliated weenies.

 

But that was not enough.  We were then herded to the loading dock and placed into a dumpster, where the women of the kitchen staff (who'd been in the Queen's employ from the start) brought out several days worth of rotting garbage, disposed food and kitchen debris, which they dumped over our heads.

 

When we were  covered in slime and waste to a point where we were unable to tell one another apart, we were marched through the mostly deserted downtown area.  The only brush we had with trouble was two women cops who stopped us, but just long enough to enjoy our abject humiliation.  They mentioned to the queens that for the next year's convention, they'd be happy to arrange for a couple of deserving weenies to spend the night in the drunk tank, dressed like whores. 

 

The final part of the "Weenie Parade" was stripping outside in the parking lot to be hosed off by our Goddesses, then walking past each woman from the two conventions and allowing them to slap, pull or spit on our dicks.  Then we were left to find our own way back inside when they disappeared and locked the doors behind them. 

 

We were to go formal to the Awards.  Female formal, that is.  Pink chiffon gowns and white high heels.  It actually felt kind of normal, by now.  The contempt the Goddesses showered down on us felt natural and right now, too.  I could tell that nearly every one of us was doing the math to see if he could afford next year.

 

At the awards ceremony, my Goddess took two trophies - one for the Annie Oakley game and the other for having the weenie who had to eat the cum-covered cookie.  The trophies were great.  A woman's hand squeezing a tiny dick and balls on top and a plaque at the bottom.

 

Then the final penultimate indignity.  We were officially measured and entered into the "Book of Tiny Peckers".  I had only seen one other sub with a dick smaller than mine, but my Goddess was determined that we win this, so she slipped ice cubes into my panties before I went up to be measured and my poor tormented little hen's tooth just about crawled up inside of me to hide.  So instead of measuring 1.75",  I measured .75".  I won all time smallest weenie.  They put me on a stool and started snapping pictures.  What a sight I was, my skirts up around my waist, my little wick sticking out for all to see - all that had a good magnifying glass, that is.

 

There was much laughter, but I enjoyed it.  I couldn't wait to return and defend my title.

 

We left that evening, after we'd gotten the Queens off in style and then returned to the empty pool and cleaned it out, not at all a simple task in formal gowns and high heels.  Once again, the Queens had gone out of their way to make our voyages long and tiresome.  I realized later on the plane that I probably shouldn't have eaten the fucked stuffing.  I spent almost the whole three flights and all my stopover time on the toilet.  My anus was heinous!  And by about the fourth hour, it really began to burn.  It was a horrible trip.

 

Days later, I emailed Shithead and asked him how he'd enjoyed the trip.  He wrote back and asked if I'd been sick.  His actual words were, "Hey Asswipe, did you have the shits like Fuckface did all the way home?"

 

I told him I had and Shithead wrote back and told me that our goddesses had confided in Dipshit and him about their plan to slip Fuckface and me a massive dose of laxatives just before they left the hotel.  I said, "And you didn't tell us?"

 

He replied, "Yeah, like the way you warned us about the itching powder.  You know it made Dipshit so crazy, the flight attendents had to restrain him and he was arrested in the next airport they landed at?  He was trying to rub the itch but it looked to them like he was trying to fuck one of the floatation cushions!"

 

We batted things back and forth for a few more emails, then we stopped.  Doesn't matter.  I'll see him next year at the Second Annual Size Queens Convention.  I wouldn't miss it for the world!

 

 

...Then I woke up.  I remembered the dream perfectly.  I was amazed.  I'd never had such a vivid dream before.  It was like nothing I had ever experienced.  It only took a few minutes for me to reach a decision.  I grabbed the phone and made the call.  Reservations for 7PM at that Mexican restaurant.  I’m going to have myself a dream meal.

 

THE END