THRESHOLD – The first, tentative exposure; opening up to touch and vulnerability.
I trembled as she knelt between my legs. Her fingers were warm and slick with lube as she pulled aside my knickers and smeared it over my tight, untouched hole, massaging slowly in soft, circular strokes. Her eyes never left mine.
“God… look at you,” she murmured with a quiet, affectionate laugh, shaking her head slightly. “So pretty back here.” Her thumb pressed a little firmer, lingering as if to savour my reaction. “So tight,” she added, amusement curling into her voice. “So fuckable. I can’t believe this is really you.”
Then her finger pushed gently inside. I gasped. The sensation was surreal—not just the penetration, but the intimacy of it. Her watching me. Me completely exposed, completely surrendered. She worked her finger in and out with deliberate patience, whispering praise while I moaned and squirmed beneath her. I clutched the sheets, my cock straining inside its cage.
After a few minutes of steady fingering and generous lube, I was panting, whining, desperate. “Please,” I whispered. “Please fuck me.”
The moment the dildo’s tip touched my hole, I froze. My breath caught. It wasn’t even inside yet—just resting there, warm and slick and full of promise. She looked down at me with calm, commanding patience.
“Relax,” she whispered. “Let me in. Let me fuck you properly.”
I tried—God, I tried. My legs were pulled back, thighs quivering, my ass fully exposed. She leaned in gently, applying slow, steady pressure. The slender shape opened me, sliding in inch by inch, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying out—less by pain, more in disbelief and pure submission.
“There it is,” she said softly, stroking my thigh. “You’re opening up for me. Just like you should.”
My muscles clenched at first, trying to resist, but she didn’t force anything. She waited, rocking subtly, letting my body surrender on its own. And it did. I felt it happen—my hole relaxing, my mind slipping into that helpless space of giving in. Then the tip slid past the threshold, and I gasped.
“Fuuuck,” I moaned, clawing at the sheets. “Oh my God…”
She paused with just the tip inside me, letting me feel the stretch. It burned slightly, it filled me, it felt impossibly strange… but there was something else too. Something electric. The feeling of being taken. Being used. I looked up and saw her—my wife, in black lace, wearing a strap-on—kneeling between my legs, watching the place where her cock was slowly disappearing into me.
“You’re doing so well,” she murmured. “Look at you, baby. You’re being such a good little fucktoy.”
My cock twitched violently. I could feel a wet patch forming in the front of my panties, precum soaking the lace. I was leaking helplessly, and she still hadn’t touched me.
She pushed deeper. I whimpered, arching my back, every inch overwhelming me—stretching me, exposing me, arousing me beyond anything I’d ever known.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice turning low and steady, leaving no room to hide. “Don’t look away. I want you here with me. I want to see it happen in your eyes.”
I obeyed, shaking, breath breaking as I held her gaze. It felt like she wasn’t just watching my body anymore, but peering straight through me, daring me to stay present as her hips pressed forward. The shaft slid deeper, spreading me open, and my hole fluttered helplessly around her. The harness straps pulled tight across her hips, her breathing heavy and controlled, every inch of her attention fixed on my face. She looked powerful. Certain. Like this was exactly where she was meant to be, and exactly where she meant me to be too.
When she bottomed out—when I finally had every inch inside—I let out a broken, desperate moan. My whole body shook, my thighs quivering uncontrollably. But above everything else, I felt full. Claimed.
She didn’t move. Not at first. She stayed deep inside me, letting my body adjust, her hands gliding slowly up my thighs to grip my hips.
“You’ve just been penetrated, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You’ve officially lost your anal virginity. How does it feel?”
I could barely form words. “It… feels… oh my God… amazing?”
She laughed softly—warm and wicked—and then she began to move.
Slowly at first. Carefully. Pulling back just enough for the shaft to drag inside me before sliding in again. A rhythm that made my toes curl, and my breath break into gasps. My cage throbbed against soaked lace.
The room filled with wet, rhythmic sounds—lube, moans, the faint soundtrack of porn still playing in the background. But it was irrelevant now. This was my porn: my wife fucking me in lingerie, taking me like she owned me. Because she did.
“Say it,” she whispered, thrusting a little harder. “Say what you are.” “I’m yours,” I whimpered. “More.”
“I’m your little sissy,” I gasped. “Your fucktoy. Your pussy.” “That’s right,” she growled, driving deeper. “And now you understand what it will mean for me to give myself there, while you bear witness.”
I froze as my imagination took over, painting the scene I thought she was suggesting. Her on her stomach, ass up, taking someone else. Someone bigger. Someone she actually wanted to give that to.
And with every thrust, every word, every humiliating inch inside me, I realised:
I wanted her to have that.
I wanted her to compare.
I wanted to watch her be taken the way I was being taken now—and more.
Just as I started melting into the rhythm—finally adjusting to the fullness, the burn, the helplessness of being fucked—she changed pace. Her thrusts slowed, teasing, shallow. Then, without warning at all, she pulled out.
UNFOLDING – Pushed further, exploring limits and deepening submission.
I let out a shocked, broken moan as she pulled out of me. My hole twitched helplessly, lube glistening around the stretched rim. I was gaping, aching, my cock pressing desperately against the soaked lace of my panties. I was seconds from exploding. I reached towards myself instinctively, but she slapped my hand away with effortless authority.
“No touching,” she said. “You haven’t earned it.” I could’ve cried. My whole body shook with need, and she just watched me—amused, predatory, enjoying every twitch.
“I think you’re ready for the next size,” she said, standing and unbuckling the harness.
She slid the small dildo free and held it up between us, proud. “See?” she said, as if presenting a medal. “You took this like a good little slut. Now it’s time to open you up more.”
I stared in helpless anticipation as she selected the medium dildo—longer, thicker, textured, and shaped in a more realistic way. She lubed it slowly, deliberately, making sure I watched every slick stroke. My hole still throbbed from the first penetration, trying to close even as it pulsed open… wanting more.
She re-strapped the harness, tightened the buckles with confident snaps, and knelt on the bed again. “Pull your legs back,” she said. “I want you to see this one open you.”
I obeyed, lying there, exposed and shaking. She lined the thick dildo against my hole, and before pressing, her eyes flicked down to my lap.
“About the same size as yours,” she murmured, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Not that I’m complaining—I know exactly how much you wanted to fuck me in the ass with something like this.”
I shivered, heat and shame coiling together, my cock twitching involuntarily.
Then she pressed. The size difference was immediate—my body tensed, every nerve alert, but her warm hand on my thigh grounded me. “Relax,” she whispered. “You know you want this.”
I exhaled shakily, and she pushed again. This one didn’t ease in. It forced its way. It stretched. I cried out, arching sharply as the blunt head finally breached me. The pressure was intense—painful, humiliating, perfect.
Her eyes flicked up to mine, a gleam of satisfaction there. “See?” she said softly, still holding me close. “Just like you imagined. You wanted me filled like this, didn’t you?” Her voice was low, warm, soft, but every syllable cut straight through me.
“You begged to fuck my ass. You imagined me taking your whole cock, stretching around you…” She pushed the dildo just a little deeper, and my body tensed instinctively, every nerve alight with pressure and shame.
“And now… now you’re the one stretching.”
Her fingers brushed my stomach, tracing down to my hips, then lingered. “You wanted me… you wanted to invade me. To take my last virgin hole. And look at you now—exposed, trembling, letting me do it to you, letting me show you exactly what that feels like.”
She pressed closer, her lips near my ear. “All those fantasies you had, where you imagined claiming me, taking what was mine… they’re happening. And I can see it—your face, your body, everything—telling me just how much you wanted this.”
She let her hands glide slowly down my body, deliberate, taunting, until her fingertips reached the smooth, bare skin between my thighs. She smiled when she felt it—my cock, my crotch, and my ass all freshly shaved, stripped clean exactly the way she wanted.
“Mmm… that’s better,” she whispered, dragging a fingernail lightly along my exposed mound. “Smooth where it matters. Smooth where you’re my toy.”
She tugged gently at the lace panties stretched over me, snapping the waistband against my hips. “You look ridiculous… and perfect. My pretty little feminine slut all dolled up, shaved like a girl, tucked into lingerie like you don’t even remember you’re supposed to be a man.”
Heat rushed to my face so fast it left me dizzy. I couldn’t find a single word in reply—my mouth opened, then closed again, the humiliation too sharp, too exposing to shape into speech. I just lay there beneath her gaze, flushed, pinned, and silent, my inability to answer saying far more than anything I could have forced myself to say.
She leaned closer, her voice warm and mocking at the same time. “You know what I see when I look at you like this? Not a husband. Not even a man. Just… something pretty for me to use.”
Her thigh pressed deliberately between mine, a quiet reminder of how little room I had to move, how completely she’d positioned me where she wanted.
“You’ll keep yourself bare like this from now on,” she said calmly, as if stating a simple fact. “No more hiding behind boxers. No more pretending.” Her mouth curved as she looked down at me. “Panties only. All the time. Because you like being exposed for me. Because you like knowing I can see exactly what you are… and because it amuses me to watch you try to carry yourself like a man while dressed for my pleasure.”
Then she shifted her weight, pinning my wrists more firmly, her hips hovering just above my face, her scent falling over me like a command.
“And now,” she said, her voice dropping to that low, devastating register, “my little toy is going to ride my cock.”
Her eyes sparkled as she studied me, lingering on every tremor, every soft, needy gasp, savouring how completely I gave myself away to her gaze. She leaned closer, her breasts brushing my chest, scent thick and intoxicating. Her warm breath teased my ear. “That thick, deep pressure… the kind that makes you shiver and gasp… the kind you thought I should feel for you? You get to feel it now,” she whispered. “Every bit of it. And you’re going to do it like the pretty little thing you are—lifting yourself, lowering yourself, offering yourself up, eager and obedient, impaling yourself for me while you bounce and blush and take it all.”
My heart hammered. She moved and leaned against the headboard, the strap-on jutting upright between her legs like a throne. I crawled towards her, my face burning, and straddled her hips. Reaching behind me, I guided the thick shaft towards my spread, dripping hole.
It took effort—real, shaking effort—to lower myself. The stretch was deep and consuming. I winced, gasped, bit down on my lip as I sank down onto her. She held my thighs, steady, watching me impale myself.
“That’s it,” she purred. “Take it. Earn it.”
When I finally had her fully inside, I paused—shaking, moaning, adjusting to the deep fullness—before moving. Slowly at first, then rhythmically, I rode her. My caged cock bobbed pathetically, leaking constantly into my panties. My thighs burned. My hole ached. But I kept going. I needed it.
REVERIE – A moment of private fantasy, curiosity, and the mind wandering.
Her eyes stayed locked on me—proud, possessive, hungry—but there was something else there now, something softer and more inward. She reached up and let her fingers drift slowly over the lace of my bra, unhurried, almost indulgent, feeling the false, pliant swell beneath as if she were testing an idea rather than a body. A quiet sound slipped from her throat as she did, a breath she didn’t bother to hide.
I slowed, then stilled completely, her cock left half-buried in my ass as she drew me closer over her. Her eyes slipped shut, her face softening into something distant and dreamlike, as if she’d momentarily drifted away from the room and into the fantasy playing out behind her lids.
She leaned in, pressing her face into the padded curves, lingering there. Her lips brushed the lace in slow, exploratory passes; her cheeks followed, nuzzling into the illusion of cleavage as though she were practising the gesture on something safe, something that wouldn’t ask anything of her. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into it.
Almost unconsciously, her other hand rose to her own breast. She mirrored the touch she was giving me, fingers spreading, then tightening. Her breathing deepened; her nipples hardened sharply under her grasp, and this time the sigh she gave was unmistakably hers—full, unguarded, pleased.
Her gaze flickered open, unfocused, lost in the picture she was building. Meanwhile, her free hand wandered lower over me, almost absent-mindedly, brushing the lace at my waist. She toyed briefly with the little bow on my panties, smiling faintly—until her fingers met the unyielding bulge beneath the damp fabric. The contrast broke something.
She stilled.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she pulled back, her eyes focusing. Her hand rose again and caught one strap, tugging just enough for it to slip down my arm. The bra sagged, betrayed by gravity and padding; the fillets slumped, doing their best to maintain a fantasy they could no longer support. I watched the moment drain from her face as the illusion collapsed.
She exhaled, a touch of regret in it, then looked at me again—fully this time.
And I understood: the reverie hadn’t been about me at all—I’d only been the familiar surface she leaned on while something truer unfolded inside her, a dawning curiosity about women, about softness and heat and recognition, a hidden bisexual longing she was finally letting breathe, thrilling her with the realisation that her desire was wider, richer, and far more dangerous than she’d ever allowed herself to admit.
“You look ridiculous,” she whispered. “Riding cock in lace and a fake bra… dripping like a slut.”
The softness drifted, her face settled, the inward warmth draining away as if she’d shut a door behind her. She drew back just enough to see me clearly again—not as a surface for imagination, not as something delicate or almost-real, but as I actually was. Shaved. Padded. Arranged. Trying very hard to hold together something that was never meant to convince.
She let her gaze travel over me slowly, clinically now; the fallen strap, the sagging bra, the lace clinging where it shouldn’t. Whatever tenderness had crept into her touch moments earlier was gone, replaced by a cool, assessing calm.
“That was my fantasy,” she said evenly, almost conversationally. “You don’t get to drift into it with me.”
She reached out and corrected the strap, sliding it back onto my shoulder with brisk precision. No lingering. No indulgence. The touch was practical, corrective—putting me back into place rather than drawing me closer.
She lifted her hips in a slow, deliberate roll; a wordless insistence that sent a jolt through me. The motion drew a sharp, needy breath from her, and her hands tightened at my waist, guiding rather than forcing, inviting me to move with her rhythm. Her body spoke in pulses and pressure, urging me on, coaxing me to answer her with my own movement—humping her desperately, surrendering to the shared heat and the unspoken command carried in her touch.
I whimpered. I was soon right on the edge again—twitching, shaking, a breath away from losing control. The friction, the spread, the humiliation—it was all too much.
And before I could even gasp, she grabbed my hips and lifted me off her. “No,” she said, eyes glittering with wicked satisfaction. “Not yet.”
A broken sob escaped me as I collapsed against her, shaking violently from the denial. My hole clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. My cock leaked helplessly in a steady stream, but it wasn’t enough.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please don’t stop again…”
CLAIMED – Full immersion in sensation; the body responds as control is taken.
She smiled and pulled the harness off completely. “One more,” she said. “The final one.”
I looked over and saw her lubing the largest dildo—the massive, eight-inch thing we’d laughed nervously about in the store. In her hands, it no longer looked like something made to mimic a body part at all, but like a prop pulled from an impossible fantasy: oversized, glossy, deliberately overdesigned. Its shaft was sculpted with exaggerated curves, heavily ridged veins, and at the tip, it swelled outward into a pronounced, flaring crown, more emblem than anatomy. The whole thing followed the logic of a woman’s imagination rather than reality—bold, excessive, unapologetic—shaped not just to assert intent, but to promise pleasure, to announce that it existed for one purpose only, and that purpose was to be felt.
She coated it slowly, deliberately, letting the lubricant gleam along every curve, turning the preparation into something ceremonial—less like getting ready and more like consecrating an instrument meant to overwhelm.
“On all fours,” she said. “I want to fuck you properly this time.”
I turned over and positioned myself on hands and knees, ass high in the air, and she pulled my lacy knickers down around my thighs. I was exposed. Humiliated. Shaking. Ready.
She climbed behind me and spread my cheeks, admiring the view. “You’re ruined already,” she said with a laugh. “But this one’s going to break you.”
When the thick head pressed against my loosened hole, I whimpered. It felt huge. Impossible. “Relax,” she whispered, placing a hand on my lower back to steady me. “Take it. I know you can.”
I braced myself. And then she pushed.
The tightness was unreal. My whole body jerked. I cried out, clawing at the sheets, panting as the thick cock slowly forced its way inside me, the bulbous head stretching me before relaxing slightly behind it to hug the shaft. Unrelentingly, she fed it into me, waiting just long enough for my body to open before pushing deeper. It was overwhelming. It was glorious.
When she finally bottomed out, her thighs met mine with a smack, and I let out a trembling moan.
“There,” she growled. “You’re mine now.” Then she started to fuck me.
The orgasm built again, even stronger than before, overwhelming, inevitable. I was whimpering, babbling, begging. “Please! Please, I’m gonna…. please let me come, please!”
But just as my whole body tensed, just as the orgasm reached the point of no return, she pulled out.
I buried my head and screamed into the pillow. My cock throbbed violently, shooting nothing, denied again, ruined and aching. My hole twitched, gaping, leaking lube.
She leaned down, her mouth close to my ear. “You’ll come when I say. Not a second before.”
And I knew, in that moment—on all fours, open, denied, humiliated—that I wasn’t the man in the bedroom anymore. I was a pussy. And I loved it.
She let me suffer in that empty, twitching limbo for what felt like forever—my cock bobbing uselessly between my thighs, dripping helplessly, my hole still slack and leaking from the stretch of that thick, punishing dildo.
Then she came back to the bed, getting me to turn over and settling beside me, her hand tracing idly down my trembling stomach.
“Feel that frustration?” she murmured. “That ache? That pathetic, desperate need to cum?” Her fingertips skimmed just above my cock without touching it, making it jerk in the air.
“That’s what I deal with every single time we make love.” Her tone wasn’t angry—just brutally honest, matter‑of‑fact. “You finish. You cum. And I’m left right here… stuck on the edge. Wanting more. Not getting it.”
She leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “So now you know what it feels like. Not getting there. Not being taken all the way.”
Her hand finally cupped my balls—not to help, not to soothe, but to hold me in place.
“Welcome to my world, sweetheart.”
I heard the harness buckle again. Felt the mattress shift behind me. My body tensed.
“You want to cum?” she asked, her voice low, calm, maddeningly in control. My face was still buried in the pillow, breath shaking. “Yes… please… I need it.”
I felt her fingers at my crotch — that familiar click, the tiny metallic shift of the lock — and then the cage popped open. My cock sprang free instantly, slapping against my stomach, hard and aching and angry from being kept prisoner.
She chuckled softly. “God… look at you.” She reached for the steel base ring, trying to work it off my swollen cock, her fingers slipping with the mix of lube and sweat. “Hold still,” she murmured, tugging. “It’s… it’s stuck—” she started, frustrated.
“Bugger the ring,” I gasped, lifting my hips toward her hand. “Fuck me.”
She froze for a heartbeat — then burst out laughing, warm, delighted, wicked.
“Don’t you mean…” She leaned down, lips brushing my ear, voice dripping with amused cruelty.
“Fuck the ring… bugger me?”
Her laughter filled the room, soft but sharp enough to cut straight through me — because we both knew, in that moment, that she had me exactly where she wanted me. Pinned. Begging. Open. And hers.
She placed one hand on my lower back and leaned over, the mushroom head of the dildo nudging back between my sore, needy cheeks. “Then take it,” she growled. “All of it.” And she slammed it back in.
I screamed. It wasn’t pain—it was overwhelming relief. My body opened for her, hungry for the stretch, the weight, the fullness. I shoved back against her without thinking, desperate for more, moaning uncontrollably as she gripped my hips and started fucking me hard.
There was no buildup this time—no teasing, no gradual thrusts. Just relentless motion, powerful and claiming, driving me forward like she owned every reaction. The sound of movement filled the room. My broken gasps. Her breath steady behind me.
She reached forward and caught the straps of my bra, her fist curling tight, using them to pull me back into her rhythm. The motion wasn’t hurried—it was deliberate, relentless, a pace she knew would undo me slowly. Each pull dragged me back into her, then let me drift forward just enough to make the next return feel deeper, heavier, harder to take.
The sensation built with every movement—an insistent fullness, a pressure that spread outward until it felt like my whole body was centred there, responding whether I wanted it to or not. My muscles fluttered uselessly, trying to adjust, to cope, but she didn’t give me time. She kept me right on that edge where it was too much and not enough at the same time.
She used the straps to guide me exactly where she wanted me, keeping me open, keeping me close, letting the rhythm sink in until my thoughts thinned out and all I could do was move with her. Each pull made my breath stutter, each return sent a shiver up my spine, until I wasn’t sure where the feeling ended and I began.
My ass felt like it was on fire, the heat blooming outward and burning straight through to my brain. It scrambled me—pulling my mind back and forth between the here and now and the memory of how this was supposed to go. This had started with me wanting her, wanting to take her that way, wanting to finally do to her what I’d obsessed over for so long. That was the bargain I’d made with myself.
THE SPIRAL – Mind and body intertwine, confusion, arousal, and lust intensify.
But as she moved behind me, as the pressure and rhythm dragged on, that original intention felt distant, almost absurd. Each surge pulled me further away from it, flipping my thoughts between the fantasy I’d once clung to and the reality of where I actually was—bent, burning, losing myself, my body learning a different lesson entirely. The contrast only fed the intensity, until I couldn’t tell which version of me was real anymore, only that the heat and surrender were winning.
She felt it—my loss of control—and smiled behind me, tightening her grip just enough to remind me who was setting the pace, who was deciding how long this would last.
“Look at you,” she said, almost laughing, her voice warm with satisfaction. “So eager. So desperate. You’re never like this… not even when we make love.”
She reached up and caught my chin, turning my head just enough that we were both reflected in the wardrobe’s mirrored doors. The sight stole what little breath I had left—me on all fours, knickers stretched across my thighs, flushed and shaking, her close behind, composed and in control. And there—impossible to ignore—was my body’s betrayal: the rigid line of my rock-hard cock pressed against my stomach, clinging there as if gravity itself had given up trying to pull it down. It felt like watching the porn playing on the screen, except we were the stars, and I could feel every thrust in my ass instead of just imagining it in my head.
She smiled when she saw it too, slow and knowing. “Even like this,” she murmured. “Bent over. Taken. And still you’re aching that badly.”
Her grip tightened, drawing me back into her rhythm again, making sure I couldn’t look away from myself. The sensation deepened with every movement, a spreading pressure that made my thighs tremble and my reflection blur. Watching it—seeing how involved I looked, how obvious my want was—only made it worse.
“That’s it,” she whispered, satisfied. “I want you to see exactly what I do.”
She tugged again, harder this time, the straps biting into my shoulders as she used them like reins, pulling me back into position. The motion drove her deeper, stretching me wider, forcing a broken sound from my throat. She rocked her hips slowly, deliberately, feeling how tightly I clenched around her.
Leaning in closer, tilting my head gently so she could catch my gaze, she could see the tears running down my face. “There’s my good little toy,” she mumbled. “I want to watch you, I want you to feel it, hot, real, pulsing… every inch, just like you’ve always secretly wanted.”
Just like you’ve always secretly wanted… hot, real… My cock throbbed, twitching and leaking, as my mind spiralled into the forbidden—imagining a real, hard cock plunging into me, filling me completely. And then it hit me—or maybe I was imagining it—the humiliating, intoxicating thought: she wanted to watch me taken by a man. Or was I reading too much into it? The doubt only sharpened the ache between my thighs.
My thoughts persisted. I couldn’t stop imagining it. Thick cocks pressing into me, stretching me, filling me, my hole giving itself over to every thrust. And then my mind wandered further, like Pandora’s box had opened, more dangerously: her, kneeling, on hands and knees, her own hole claimed and filled, her moans mingling with mine as we both serviced cock after cock, our bodies trembling, our holes hot, slick, and insatiable. Cocks for me. Cocks for her. Cocks for both of us together, pounding, dripping, forcing us to surrender completely.
Heat, shame, and lust twisted together, coiling in my gut. Am I even man enough to be her husband? And if not me being her man to satisfy… then who? Every imagined thrust, every cock sliding in, every groan we gave, every inch of our holes taken, left me quivering, humiliated, and utterly addicted to the thought of shared submission, of us both giving ourselves over, needing, aching, and wanting.
I trembled beneath her gaze, caught between shame and desire, imagining us both involved with others, undone together by something dark and intoxicating. And then the truth settled in, slow and merciless: maybe only one of us was truly submitting. She wasn’t giving herself up at all. She was taking—taking them, using their bodies and their hunger for her own satisfaction, feeding on the thrill of control and excess in ways I’d never given her.
And worse than that was perhaps how much of her pleasure would come from watching me—seeing me reduced, opened, yielding to what she chose for me, while she claimed sensations and power I’d never sparked in her myself. It wasn’t just that she wanted more than I could give—it was the unbearable, raw reality that I would never satisfy her, not fully, not in the way she craved. Every thrust, every touch I offered fell short, leaving a gap only others could fill. And she knew it—knew that no matter how desperate, how devoted, I would always be chasing the pleasure she demanded but could never take from me. That thought burned hotter than any shame I’d felt before: that my role wasn’t to fulfil her, but to witness her fulfilment through others, and in my heart of hearts, it’s what I craved.
Then my imagination spiralled somewhere else entirely, fuelled by that earlier crack in her composure—her taking pleasure not from men at all, but from women. I pictured her drawing satisfaction purely from their touch, from the softness of skin against skin, from lingering hands and curious mouths, from the slow, deliberate way she might explore and be explored. I saw her relaxed and confident, awakened in a way that didn’t revolve around anyone else’s need but her own—giving and receiving touch and intimate oral attention, knowing instinctively where to place her mouth, how to please and be pleased, with an ease that made it clear she didn’t require a man to feel complete. The thought unsettled me and thrilled me at once: her discovering that kind of satisfaction, self-directed and indulgent, choosing desire entirely on her own terms while I existed only as her toy, my own hunger and inadequacy feeding her indulgence.
My thoughts tumbled into a darker, hotter place: a dungeon-like playground, dimly lit, scented with sweat and anticipation. Sue was the centre of it all, sprawled across a decadent four-poster bed, silk sheets clinging to her curves, her body glistening. Around her, men and women moved with purpose, hands roaming, mouths eager, all drawn to her. And me—I was trapped in the stocks beside the bed, utterly exposed, legs spread, wrists and head locked tight, every nerve screaming with need, every inch of me on display for them to command and toy with.
I swallowed every drop of cum I was given, shivering as I worked, my focus collapsing into nothing but the taste, the heat, the need to obey. Some men pulled away for a moment, only to be urged on by the wives circling around us, their voices sharp and sultry. “Take him harder,”one purred, leaning close to her husband’s ear. “Show him how much he belongs to you,”another breathed, her hand brushing my hair as she pushed his head toward my mouth. Every whispered command, every teasing nudge, made the men more desperate, more insistent, driving cock after cock into my ass, making me gag, moan, and shake, caught between pleasure and humiliation.
They came in every imaginable shape and size; some hesitant and small, arriving with their wives’ murmured encouragements and sharp little laughs, reminding them that this was the only sex they were getting. Others carried themselves with heavier certainty, unhurried, making me wait, making me feel the difference.
A few came prematurely, undone almost immediately by the closeness, by the intensity of being witnessed and permitted. Others lingered, deliberate, leaving a stronger impression before finally letting go. I took it all as it came, without pause or resistance, responding on instinct alone, every sensation blurring into the next. Each moment reinforced the same quiet truth: I was there to receive, to accommodate, to be shared—no longer measuring myself against them, only existing for what they took. I felt the impossibly thick, veined shafts stretching me open, pounding me without mercy, and at the same time, men’s cocks in my mouth, filling me, marking me. The wives’ laughter, their encouragement, the sharp little moans and gasps, made it impossible to separate one sensation from another—I was being fucked, consumed, used from both ends, their voices guiding, urging, demanding. “Look at him—our little boi pussy, isn’t he just the cutest little sissy?” one called, and the words twisted inside me, setting fire to every nerve. My breath hitched, my muscles fluttered, and my mind surrendered entirely, lost to the rhythm of cocks and voices all around me, each one adding to the exquisite, filthy chaos that was mine to endure, and to crave.
One couple claimed me completely. He had my ass, hips snapping forward, burying his long cock deep into my hole, every thrust knocking the air from my lungs. I could feel him everywhere inside me, filling my ass, pounding it with a hunger that made my thighs shake.
She controlled the rest of me. Her hands tangled in my hair, forcing my face hard into her crotch, my mouth sealed to her sopping wet pussy. I breathed her in, tongue working desperately, nose pressed against her slick heat as she ground herself against my face. Her moans spilled down over me, sharp and commanding, mixed with soft laughs of satisfaction as she used my mouth while her husband used my ass.
She leaned forward to kiss him while he fucked me, their lips meeting above my head, her body trembling as she rode my face. “That’s it,” she purred, fingers tightening painfully in my hair. “Stay there. Take him. Taste me, all of me. This is what you’re for.”
I swallowed every drop of cum I was given, gasping as I worked, my focus narrowed to nothing but finishing each orgasm as it came. Some pulled away instead, choosing distance and display for themselves—or for someone else’s watching pleasure. My body reacted only faintly now, spent and unsteady, a hollow ache where urgency had already burned itself out. Muscles still twitched from what had been forced from me in multiple earlier orgasms, while my cock swung uselessly between my legs.
The first had been entirely Sue’s design, right after she clicked the stocks shut. I stood bent over, legs spread in my stockings and suspenders, trembling and exposed, every nerve raw and alive. She moved behind me with that controlled, deliberate grace, hands sliding over my lace-topped thighs.
Crouching low, she wrapped her hand around my cock, thumb brushing over the tip. “Cum for me, gurl,” she said, her voice teasing, commanding, full of satisfaction. “I want it all… every drop. I need it in my hand so I can make you ready—so I can lube your little hole, and his big cock so that he can slide in without you embarrassing yourself.”
Her words hit me like fire. Every shiver, every flush of heat, pushed me closer. I bucked, helpless, hips pressing back into her grip as she stroked me hard, whispering, “Yes… that’s it… good gurl… give me everything.” My cock pulsed and spurted, hot and sticky, exactly where she wanted it, coating her palm in my trembling cum.
She didn’t pause. Her fingers dipped between my cheeks, slick with my release, spreading it over my hole, dragging it along the first cock as she guided him forward. “Open for him, baby,” she murmured, pressing him against my slick, trembling hole.
Before I could brace myself, he plunged in, deep and hard, stretching me wide. My body froze, quivering, helpless against the relentless press of his cock. My thighs shook, chest pressed to the floor, my cock twitching uselessly between my legs. She let him hold me there, keeping me pinned while I gasped and whined, every nerve burning, every inch filled.
Her hands lingered briefly on my ass cheeks, spreading them open and guiding me, ensuring I stayed where I was meant to be; her obedient little toy, held open and used exactly as she wanted. Then, with a satisfied smirk and a light laugh that sent shivers through me, she rose.
“Good gurl,” she whispered over my shoulder, her eyes lingering on my trembling form. “I’ll be back for you later. For now…”
She turned and strode to her four-poster bed, already crowded with her lovers. Silk sheets rustled, moans mingled, and I could see her settle in among them, hips rising to meet hands and mouths with abandon. I stayed pinned, every muscle taut, watching as she claimed them with the same hunger and control she had used on me—her attention elsewhere, leaving me utterly exposed, aching, and painfully aware of my place.
Sue’s hands were everywhere, stroking, guiding, taking. I watched her arch her back, hips lifting to meet the cocks thrusting toward her. Her moans were rich and unrestrained, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, riding the waves of pleasure. She explored the mouths and bodies around her, tasting, feeling, claiming—letting them touch her, lick her, fill her, all while her attention flickered toward me, making sure I saw, making sure I knew my place.
I tried desperately to flush the scenario from my mind, opening and closing my eyes as if I could force the images to change—to something more grounded, or at least less perverse. But they clung on, stubborn and vivid, twisting further instead, growing darker and more depraved the harder I tried to push them away.
The cocks in my mouth pulsed in rhythm with hers, and I could feel each hard, slick rod pressing against my lips and tongue, the taste of cum filling me, sliding down my throat. I licked every vein, every twitching tip, imagining them pounding her, filling her, taking her with abandon. And in that moment, my mind flipped: I wasn’t just servicing them for her pleasure—I was part of the scene, a willing, trembling participant, my own arousal a hot, aching counterpoint to the chaos around me.
I watched as one of the men pushed her onto her back, hips rising to meet him, her pussy slick and glistening, spreading for him, moaning my name in between gasps for air. Another slid into her from behind, and I imagined the feel of both, one cock filling her pussy, another pressing into her ass, hands gripping the sheets as she rode them, helpless and greedy for more. My own cock swinging against me, twitching uncontrollably, my juices mingling with the mess on the floor.
At one point she leaned over to brush my hair, murmuring encouragement. “Yes, take them all… make them hard… taste me as you clean them.” Each word wrapped around my mind, pulling me deeper into submission, into lust, into my most shameful fantasies made real. I imagined her hands and mouth roaming freely across bodies, exploring women as well as men, tasting, teasing, claiming, while I remained her devoted little sissy, servicing every cock, watching, swallowing, trembling, utterly hers.
The cum kept coming, thick, hot, and sweet, dripping down my chin and my nylon-clad thighs, pooling on the floor, coating my trembling hands. My own body twitched, shuddered, and ached, but I remained in the stocks, collapsed onto my knees now, lips and tongue busy, utterly consumed by the need to please, my ass left open for cock after cock to take at will. And she—Sue—was lost in it, riding cocks, tasting mouths, exploring pussy, taking everything she wanted, enjoying the power, the indulgence, the sheer ecstasy of being surrounded, claimed, adored.
SPENT – The height of pleasure, denial, and overwhelming release.
And in that chaos, in that heat, in that decadent, filthy tableau, my thoughts suddenly snapped back to the present, dragged out of that dark spiral by Sue’s voice cutting straight through my mind fuck. Calm. Certain. Possessive. “Listen to me,” she said softly, with a confidence that left no room to resist. “This isn’t about your cock anymore.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, as if she were teaching me something important, something she wanted etched into me. “What you’re feeling now comes from lower than that,” she continued. “From being open. From letting yourself be taken.” Her hand steadied me as her words went on, guiding my focus inward. “That ache, that pressure—it’s your boi pussy responding.” Then she named it out loud, letting the word land and claim me completely. “This is a sissygasm,” she told me, her voice warm with certainty. “You’re going to cum because I’m fucking you there. Because your body has learned how.”
Hearing her say it—hearing her explain it—was enough to unravel me. I felt the unmistakable rush building low in my body, breaking through the edge I’d been held on, every nerve aflame as I truly felt the impossibly thick, long, veined cock pounding my ass, no, my boi pussy. Each thrust stretched me, filled me, pressed deep and relentless, the sensation raw, consuming, impossible to ignore, driving the sissygasm higher until all I could do was shudder and let it take me. Everything narrowed—sound, sight, even time itself collapsing inward as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter. My breathing went shallow and ragged, every nerve screaming with anticipation as I realised I was right there. Shame, desire, fear, and need crashed together, impossible to separate now, my mind racing even as my body took over, carrying me helplessly toward release whether I was ready to face it or not.
It hit me like a wave. My whole body tensed. My eyes rolled back. And I came.
I exploded with my face buried in the pillow, my body locking up as my cock stood rigid, jutting forward as if pulled upward by the force of it, twitching and jerking against me. Each violent pulse sent hot spurts splashing across my belly and soaking the sheet, my hips snapping helplessly with every surge. It was overwhelming—white-hot, disorienting, a release so intense it erased everything else.
But she didn’t stop.
She fucked me through it, unhurried and possessive, until my strength finally gave out. I sagged forward onto the wet sheet, muscles quivering, my body spent and oversensitive. I could only lie there, twitching and breathless, feeling emptied and undone, while she stayed close behind me, holding me in that moment until nothing was left but heat, softness, and surrender—my hole still wrapped tightly around the base of that thick cock.
Eventually, she eased out of me with a long, slow drag, and I moaned at the emptiness it left behind.
I flopped onto my side, sweaty and dazed, still catching my breath. She unstrapped the harness and lay beside me, her fingers tracing lightly over the mess on the bed and my torso.
“Good boy,” she whispered. “You did so well.”
AFTERGLOW – Quiet reflection, the interplay of desire, exposure, and mutual understanding.
I blushed and smiled, completely wrecked yet glowing inside, my mind still reeling from what we’d done and from that mind‑fuck fantasy that had flashed through me in what was probably only a couple of minutes, yet had felt utterly real.
And as she held my gaze, tears still warm on my cheeks, a quiet realisation settled in.
This wasn’t just about what she was doing to me—or what I wanted her to do. In that moment, stripped bare and seen too clearly, I understood that we’d both been exposed. She’d opened me up not only in body but in mind, stirring thoughts I hadn’t known how to face. I told myself—over and over—that they were only fantasy, intense precisely because they weren’t meant to cross into reality, and I clung to that reassurance, insisting that some desires were safest, truest, and only pleasurable when they stayed imagined.
My hunger. Her curiosity. Two private truths we’d carried separately, now lay out between us, undeniable.
Whatever we told ourselves after this, we would both know: something real had surfaced—and neither of us could pretend we hadn’t seen it.
