The silk filled his mouth, soft and intimate, carrying the faint, floral scent of Amy's body wash. George's eyes went wide, a muffled sound caught in his throat as the fabric settled between his lips, the taste of her—clean, familiar, wrong—flooding his senses. Humiliation burned hotter than arousal, but his cock throbbed against the satin dress, a traitorous pulse Mark watched with a satisfied smile.
"Bite down," Mark said, his voice low, almost gentle. "That's it."
George's jaw trembled. The panties were silk, fine and smooth, and they filled his mouth completely, pressing against his tongue, his cheeks, the roof of his mouth. He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe through his nose. The world became the pressure of the gag, the bite of the ties, and the dark promise in Mark's eyes as he climbed onto the bed beside him.
The mattress dipped under Mark's weight. George felt the shift, the gravitational pull of another body settling into the space beside his own. Mark's knee pressed against his thigh through the satin, a deliberate point of contact that sent a shiver through the bound figure.
"Look at you," Mark murmured, his hand finding George's chin, turning his face toward him. "So pretty. So quiet now."
George's breath hitched. His eyes were wet, the mascara Amy had applied starting to blur at the edges, but he couldn't wipe them. Couldn't hide. Couldn't do anything but lie there, bound and gagged, as Mark's thumb traced his jawline, then his lower lip, pressing gently against the silk.
"You're doing exactly what she wanted," Mark said. "Exactly what you wanted, even if you forgot for a minute."
Mark's hand moved lower, palm flat against the satin bodice, feeling the corset underneath, the rigid boning that cinched George's waist into a feminine curve. He pressed, testing, and George felt the pressure through layers of fabric—the corset's resistance, his own shallow breathing, the heat of Mark's hand seeping through.
"Your heart's racing," Mark observed. "I can feel it through all of this." He leaned closer, his mouth near George's ear. "That's good. That means you're alive in this moment, and you want this."
George made a sound—muffled, desperate, half a word swallowed by silk. Mark ignored it. His hand continued its slow exploration, sliding down the curve of the corset, over the satin of the skirt, until he reached the hem where the dress pooled around George's bound ankles.
"Amy chose this dress," Mark said, his fingers finding the edge of the fabric, lifting it slowly. "She told me about it. The color. The way it flows when you walk. The way it feels against your skin."
The hem rose. Cool air touched George's calves, then his knees, then his thighs where the stockings ended and bare skin began. He felt exposed, the satin dress bunched at his hips, the garters visible, the pale skin of his upper thighs trembling under the bedroom light.
Mark's hand settled on his thigh, warm and heavy. "She wanted you to feel this," he said, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the sensitive skin just above the stocking's edge. "Every part of it."
George's hips twitched—a reflex, a betrayal. His cock, still hard, pressed against the satin of the dress, a visible ridge beneath the fabric. Mark's gaze dropped to it, and a slow smile spread across his face.
"There he is," Mark said softly. "There's the sissy who wanted this."
George shook his head, the wig shifting against the pillow, tears tracking through his makeup. But his body didn't lie. His cock strained against the satin, aching, leaking, desperate in a way that transcended his panicked mind.
Mark's hand moved from his thigh to the center of the dress, palm pressing against the hard ridge. George gasped against the gag, a sharp, muffled sound that was almost a sob. Mark didn't rush. He held the pressure, feeling George's arousal through the fabric, watching his face, reading every flicker of shame and need.
"This is the gift," Mark said, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Not just your body. Your surrender. Your choice to stay in this moment, even when every instinct tells you to run."
George's chest heaved. The room smelled like Amy's perfume, like Mark's skin, like the satin and sweat and something raw that was happening between them. The silk in his mouth was wet now, tasted of his own saliva and the ghost of his wife. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the panic receded, replaced by something quieter—a strange, terrifying stillness.
Mark's hand pressed harder. "That's it," he whispered. "Stay here. Stay with me."
Mark shifted, his weight lifting from George's side as he moved. The mattress dipped and swayed, and George felt the displacement of air, the warmth withdrawing, before Mark's knees settled on either side of his hips. The satin dress pooled around George's waist where Mark had bunched it, and now Mark's thighs pressed against his bare hips, pinning the fabric, pinning him.
George's eyes flew open. The struggle was instinct—his wrists pulling against the silken bonds, his feet pressing into the mattress, his hips trying to twist free. But Mark was heavier than he looked, broader, and his weight settled like a lock clicking shut. George's bound arms strained, the headboard creaking, but the knots held.
"Shh," Mark breathed, settling lower, his pelvis finding the hollow of George's hips. "Shh, sissy. It's too late to run."
George turned his head, the wig whispering against the pillowcase, his gaze sliding away from Mark's face to the wall, the lamp, the crooked frame of a photograph he couldn't quite see. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but the weight pressing him into the mattress, the heat of Mark's body sinking into his.
Mark's hand found his chin, firm, turning his face back. "Look at me."
George's jaw clenched around the silk. His eyes, wet and blurred, met Mark's.
"That's better." Mark's hips rolled—a slow, deliberate grind, and George felt it through every layer: the satin of his dress bunched at his waist, the corset's boned resistance, and the hard length of Mark's naked cock pressing against his own trapped erection.
A sound escaped George—muffled, high, cut off by the panties filling his mouth. His hips tried to buck, to twist, to escape, but Mark's weight held him flat, and the grinding continued, slow and relentless, cock against cock through layers of denim and satin.
"You feel that?" Mark's voice was low, rough, his breath warm against George's cheek. "That's what a man feels like against you. Not Amy. A man."
George's eyes spilled over, mascara tracking black down his temples. He shook his head, a tiny, desperate motion, but Mark kept grinding, his hips finding a rhythm, his hands gripping George's waist through the bunched satin.
"She wanted this," Mark said, his mouth near George's ear. "She dressed you up like a pretty doll and handed you over. She knew exactly what you needed."
His hips rolled again, harder, and George felt his own cock twitch against the pressure, a traitorous pulse of pleasure that made him sob against the gag.
"You're so hard for me," Mark observed, his voice carrying a note of dark wonder. "Look at this sissy cock, straining against that pretty dress, aching for a man's touch."
George's thighs trembled. The stockings whispered against the sheets as Mark shifted, spreading his knees wider, forcing George's legs apart. The satin stretched tight across George's hips, and Mark's hand slid between them, palm flat against the ridge of George's erection, pressing down through the fabric.
"I'm going to fuck you raw," Mark said, the words slow and deliberate, each one landing like a hammer. "I'm going to make you forget you were ever anything but a pretty little thing spread open for a real man. I’m going to fuck you til you’re gay."
George's breath came in short, sharp gasps through his nose, the silk in his mouth wet and hot, his chest heaving under the corset's rigid embrace.
"And when I'm done," Mark continued, his hips grinding in a slow circle, grinding their cocks together through the barrier of fabric, "you're going to know exactly what you are. What you've always been." He paused, letting the weight of his body settle deeper into George's. "A sissy who needed a man to show him."
The word landed—gay—and George's whole body went rigid, a strangled sound tearing from his throat. He pulled at the bonds, the headboard groaning, his hips bucking against Mark's weight, but Mark held him, absorbed the struggle, and kept grinding, slow and steady, until George's strength bled out into the mattress and he lay trembling, breath ragged, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"That's right," Mark whispered, his hand sliding up George's chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat through the corset. "Fight it. Fight yourself. But your body already knows what it wants." He pressed his hips forward, grinding harder, his cock a hard line against George's through the satin. "And your body's going to win."
Mark's weight shifted, his hips lifting just enough to break the grinding pressure. The sudden absence left George cold, exposed, the air touching the wet spot on the satin where his cock had leaked through. Mark's hands slid down, palms dragging over the bunched fabric at George's waist, over his hips, down the length of his thighs, the satin whispering under his touch.
"You have such pretty legs," Mark said, his voice low and unhurried. "Amy told me about them. How smooth they are. How she loves when you wear stockings."
His hands reached George's knees, then slid back up, this time under the hem of the dress, pushing the satin higher until George's entire lower body was bare—stockings, garters, pale thighs, and the small patch of dark hair at his groin where his cock rose from the corset's bottom edge, flushed and slick with pre-cum.
Mark's fingers found the base of George's cock, wrapping around it, and George's whole body seized—a strangled cry swallowed by the silk in his mouth. Mark held him there, thumb tracing the vein along the shaft, feeling the pulse, measuring his arousal.
"Look at this," Mark murmured, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of George's balls, cupping them, weighing them. "So full. So desperate. You've been holding this in for a long time, haven't you, sissy?"
George shook his head, tears spilling, mascara tracking black down his temples. But his hips betrayed him, rocking into Mark's grip, seeking more pressure. Mark laughed softly, a dark, knowing sound.
"Your mouth says no. Your cock says yes. I wonder which one I should believe."
Mark's hand released his cock and slid lower, fingers tracing the crease where George's thigh met his body, then dipping further, into the cleft of his ass. George's breath caught, a sharp inhale through his nose. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through him that was equal parts panic and heat.
"This is what you really want," Mark said, his finger pressing gently against the tight ring of muscle, not entering, just probing, testing. George bucked, trying to twist away, but Mark's other hand pressed his hip down, pinning him to the mattress. "Don't run, sissy. You know what's coming."
The finger circled, slow and deliberate, applying the faintest pressure against the entrance. George's ass clenched, resisting, but Mark didn't push. He just kept that steady, circular pressure, letting George feel the possibility, the promise.
"You're so tight," Mark observed, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "Don't worry. I'm going to open you up real slow."
He pressed a little harder, and George felt the tip of Mark's finger breach him, just the first knuckle, a foreign intrusion that made him gasp and clench. Mark held there, not moving deeper, just letting George feel the stretch, the fullness of being entered.
"That's it," Mark whispered. "That's the first inch. There's going to be a lot more inside you before the night is over."
Mark withdrew slowly, the friction a dry, sharp sensation, and George's breath shuddered out of him. Mark sat back on his heels, looking down at the bound figure beneath him—the tears, the ruined makeup, the flushed skin, the hard cock still straining against the corset's edge.
"Stay right there," Mark said, his voice casual, as if he were stepping out for a moment. He climbed off the bed, his naked body moving with easy confidence, and walked to the dresser. The second drawer—the one Amy had mentioned. He pulled it open and retrieved a small glass bottle, amber liquid inside, labeled neatly in Amy's handwriting: George.
Mark held it up, the light catching the oil through the glass. "She thought of everything," he said, turning back to the bed. "Even this."
He returned, the bottle warm in his palm, and settled back into the space between George's spread thighs. With deliberate care, he uncapped it, the scent of unscented oil filling the air—clean, clinical, stark against the floral perfume of Amy's panties still filling George's mouth.
"Let's get you ready," Mark said, pouring a generous amount onto his fingers, the oil glistening in the lamplight. His hand disappeared between George's legs, and the first touch of oil against his ass was cool and shocking, the slickness immediate and intimate.
The first finger slid in, oil-slick and deliberate, breaching George's ass in one smooth push. George's back arched off the mattress, a muffled scream swallowed by the silk in his mouth, his hands straining against the bonds as the intrusion filled him—foreign, stretching, impossibly intimate.
"That's it," Mark murmured, his finger sliding deeper, knuckle by knuckle, until he was buried to the base. "Feel that, sissy? That's a man's finger inside you. Your first one."
George's breath came in ragged gasps through his nose, his chest heaving against the corset's rigid hold. His cock, still hard and slick with pre-cum, twitched against his belly, and he hated himself for it—hated the way his body opened around the intrusion, the way his hips rocked into the pressure instead of away from it.
"You're taking it so well," Mark said, his voice carrying a note of mock admiration. "Like your ass was made for this. Like it's been waiting for a man to fill it." He began to move his finger, slow pumps in and out, the oil making each slide obscenely wet. "How long have you been holding this in, Gina? How many nights did you lie next to Amy, thinking about this?"
George shook his head, tears spilling, but his body betrayed him—a low, helpless moan vibrating through the silk as Mark's finger pressed deeper, finding a spot that sent electricity through his spine.
"There," Mark said, his voice dropping, predatory. "Found it." He pressed again, rubbing slow circles against George's prostate, and George's whole body seized, his cock jumping, a bead of clear fluid welling at the tip. "Your little button. The one that's going to make you forget your own name."
George's hips bucked, torn between escaping the pressure and chasing it, and Mark laughed—a low, dark sound that made George's face burn with humiliation even as his cock throbbed with pleasure.
"Look at you," Mark said, withdrawing his finger slowly, then pressing two in at once. George's body rejected the stretch at first, clenching hard around the intrusion, but Mark pushed steadily, inexorably, until both fingers were buried deep inside him. "Two fingers now, sissy. And you're still so tight. But don't worry—I'm going to open you up real nice."
George sobbed against the gag, the sound wet and broken, as Mark began to fuck him with both fingers, a steady, pumping rhythm that spread the oil deep inside him. The stretch burned, a sharp fullness that pushed at the edges of pain, but underneath it was something else—a heat that spread through his pelvis, building with each thrust.
"Your cock is so hard," Mark observed, his free hand reaching down to wrap around George's shaft, stroking in time with his fingers. "Dripping like a little bitch in heat. You love this, don't you? Being opened up by a man's fingers while your wife's panties fill your mouth."
George tried to shake his head, but the movement was lost in the rhythm—Mark's fingers driving into him, Mark's hand stroking his cock, the dual sensations short-circuiting his brain until he couldn't tell where the shame ended and the pleasure began.
"You're nothing but a fag," Mark said, the word landing like a slap. "A pretty little fag in a dress, getting his asshole stretched by a real man." He pushed his fingers deeper, pressing hard against George's prostate, and George's hips jerked, a strangled moan tearing from his throat. "Say it. Say 'I'm a fag.'"
George shook his head, tears streaming, but Mark's fingers kept working, relentless, and the pressure built in his gut, coiling hot and tight. "Your body knows what you are," Mark said, scissoring his fingers inside George, stretching him wider. "Even if your mouth can't say it. Look at your cock—so hard it hurts. Look at your ass—clenching around my fingers like it's starving for more."
He pushed a third finger in, and George screamed—a high, muffled sound that dissolved into a sob. The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that seemed to reach into his throat, and Mark held there, letting him feel every inch of the invasion.
"Three fingers, whore," Mark said, the word dripping with contempt. "That's how many you get before I put my cock in you. Three fingers to make sure you're ready to take every inch of a real man."
George's legs trembled, his thighs slick with oil, his cock leaking against his belly as Mark began to move—pumping all three fingers in and out, a steady, brutal rhythm that pushed against his prostate with every thrust. The pleasure was excruciating, building in waves, and George found himself rocking into it, his hips meeting Mark's hand, chasing the pressure even as his mind screamed in protest.
"That's it," Mark said, his voice a dark purr. "Stop fighting. Let yourself feel what you really are. A sissy. A fag. A whore in a dress, spread open and dripping for a man's cock." Each word landed like a brand, and George's body responded—a shudder, a moan, his ass clenching around Mark's fingers as the pressure built toward something he couldn't name.
"You're going to come," Mark said, and it wasn't a question. "I’m going to make you come like a bitch, and when you do, you're going to know exactly what you are."
George's hips moved faster, his breath coming in desperate gasps, the coil in his gut winding tighter with every thrust of Mark's fingers. He was so close—so close—and he couldn't stop it, couldn't slow it, couldn't do anything but surrender to the pleasure building in his ass and his cock and his ruined, trembling body. And suddenly Mark pulled his fingers out. “Not yet my little Gina. You don’t get to come until I’m filling you with my seed.”