The leash went taut.
Mary's wrist flicked upward — a small motion, almost casual — and Greg's chin followed. The collar pressed into the hollow of his throat. His eyes found hers, and what he saw there made his stomach drop. Amusement. Calculation. The look of a woman who had already won and was simply deciding how long to play with her food.
She reached down.
Her palm pressed flat against the front of his dress. The pink satin was still damp where his cock had leaked through it, a dark patch the size of a quarter spreading outward. Mary's fingers splayed, and Greg felt every one of them through the fabric — the pressure of her hand mapping the shape of him, the ridge of his shaft, the swollen head straining against the corset's lower edge.
"Still hard," she said.
Her voice was light. Almost airy. The way someone might comment on the weather.
"You actually enjoyed that."
Not a question. Mary's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. She pressed harder, and Greg's hips jerked — an involuntary twitch, his body betraying him before his mouth could form a denial.
"I didn't—" he started.
"Didn't what?" Mary's thumb traced the outline of his cockhead through the satin. Slow. Deliberate. "Didn't enjoy having your lips wrapped around my husband's cock? Didn't enjoy the taste of his cum shooting down your throat?"
Greg's face burned. The makeup — foundation, blush, the careful stroke of mascara on his lashes — felt like a mask someone else had painted on him. Someone who had chosen this outfit, walked through that door, knelt on this floor. Someone whose body was responding in ways his mind could not control.
"I did it because you made me," he managed.
"Mmm." Mary withdrew her hand. Wiped her palm on the edge of Greg’s dress as if she'd touched something unclean. "And yet."
She nodded toward his lap. The tent in the satin had not diminished. If anything, it had grown more pronounced — the fabric stretched taut, the wet spot spreading, a bead of pre-cum soaking through to glisten under the living room lights.
"That doesn't look like someone who was forced."
Joe leaned forward on the couch. His breathing had steadied, but his eyes — hazel, sharp, curious — had not lost their hunger. He'd tucked himself back into his pants but hadn't bothered to zip up. The dark trail of hair below his navel disappeared into denim, and Greg could not stop his gaze from flicking to it. To the shape still visible beneath the fabric. To the memory of how it had felt in his mouth.
"Now I wonder," Mary said, "what else you can enjoy."
She tugged the leash again. Greg scrambled to his feet, heels clicking on the hardwood, the dress rustling around his thighs. Standing, he was taller than her — he'd always been taller than her — but the collar and leash made height irrelevant. She held him like a dog on a walk, and he stood there, six feet of trembling satin and shame, waiting for the next command.
"Display yourself."
Greg blinked. "What?"
"Display. Yourself." Mary punctuated each word with a tiny tug on the leash. "You're wearing the prettiest outfit you've ever owned. The least you can do is show it off."
"I don't—"
"Walk." She gestured toward the open space between the couch and the dining table. "Like a fashion show. Catwalk. You've seen models do it." Her smile sharpened. "You've probably imagined being one."
The heat in Greg's face spread downward. His throat. His chest under the corset. The place where the garter straps bit into his thighs. He wanted to argue. He wanted to rip the collar from his neck and walk out the front door, heels be damned, dress be damned, everything be damned.
Mary held up her phone.
On the screen was a still frame from the guest room video. Greg, mid-stroke, head thrown back, the pink satin bunched around his waist. His face was unmistakable. The wig was slightly askew, revealing a flash of blonde underneath, and his mouth was open in an expression of pure, helpless pleasure.
"Catwalk," Mary repeated. "Now."
Greg walked.
The first step was the hardest. Heels he'd only worn for an hour, legs unsteady, the dress swishing against stockings. His cock bobbed with every movement, unignorable, the satin clinging to its shape and releasing, clinging and releasing. Joe's eyes tracked him like a spectator at a tennis match — left, right, left — following the sway of his hips that the heels forced into him whether he wanted it or not.
"Slower," Mary commanded. "You're not running from a fire. You're showing off merchandise."
Greg slowed. The humiliation of it — the deliberate sashay, the way the dress caught the light, the click-click-click of heels on wood — settled into his bones like cold water. But beneath the cold, something else. Something hot. His cock throbbed, visibly, the wet spot spreading, and Mary laughed.
"Look at that," she said. "Joe, are you seeing this?"
"Hard to miss." Joe's voice was gravel, low and rough. He'd rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, watching Greg with an expression that mingled amusement and something darker. Something predatory.
"He's leaking through the dress." Mary stepped closer, phone still in hand, and gestured at the stain. "Sucking my husband's cock made him this wet. That's not normal, is it? For a straight man?"
Greg stopped walking. "I am straight."
"Are you?" Mary circled behind him. He felt her fingers brush the small of his back, just above the bow of the dress's sash. "Because a straight man doesn't get hard in a corset. A straight man doesn't leak through satin while another man's cum is still in his mouth."
She came around to face him again. Their eyes met. Hers were dark, glittering, utterly without pity.
"I think you might just be a fag, Greg."
The word hit him like a slap. He flinched — actually flinched — and Mary saw it. She catalogued the reaction, filed it away, and pressed harder.
"A sissy little fag who's been pretending his whole life. Dating women. Breaking up with women." Her voice dropped to a murmur, intimate and venomous. "But the whole time, what you really wanted was to dress up like a girl and suck cock."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Mary gestured at his body. The dress. The stockings. The erection that had not softened, not once, through any of this. "The evidence is dripping onto my floor, Greg. You can argue with me, but you can't argue with that."
Joe chuckled. Low. Rumbling. "He's not even trying to hide it."
"Why would he?" Mary turned to her husband, playing to the audience now. "He's been hiding for years. Hiding from me. Hiding from himself. And now that he's finally dressed the way he's always wanted —" she flicked the hem of Greg's dress with her finger, making it flutter against his thighs "— he can't stop throbbing."
Greg opened his mouth. Closed it. His throat worked around words that wouldn't come. The collar was too tight. The room was too warm. His cock was so hard it hurt, and every time Mary spoke, every time Joe's eyes traced his body, the ache sharpened.
"Walk again," Mary said. "And this time, when you reach the end, turn and pose. Let us see what Joe's been looking at."
He should refuse. He should walk out the door, video be damned, dignity intact. But his body was already moving — heels clicking, hips swaying, the satin rustling a soft pink whisper against his stockings. He reached the far wall, turned, and stood there like a mannequin in a store window. Arms limp at his sides. Chin down. The picture of submission.
"Beautiful," Mary said. The word was a razor. "Now come back. Slower."
He came back slower. Each step a small eternity, his reflection flickering in the dark glass of the entertainment center — a honey-blonde woman in pink satin, tall and broad-shouldered, her lipstick smeared at one corner from where a cock had stretched her mouth. It took Greg a moment to recognize himself. And when he did, his cock pulsed so hard he felt it in his teeth.
"Stop." Mary held up a hand when he was three feet from the couch. "Right there. Don't move."
She turned to Joe. "What do you think?"
"I think," Joe said slowly, "he's the best-dressed slut I've ever seen."
Mary smiled. The predator's smile. The smile Greg remembered from the night she'd found his lingerie drawer — the night she'd looked at him differently, with something calculating behind her eyes. He'd thought it was disgust then. Now he understood it was something else entirely.
"Here's what's going to happen tonight," Mary said.
She walked toward him. The leash was slack in her hand, but she gathered it up, loop by loop, until she stood close enough that he could smell her perfume — jasmine, the same scent she'd worn when they were dating. It hit him in a wave of memory. Her hand on his chest in a dark movie theater. Her mouth on his ear, whispering things he'd never told anyone. The way she'd asked if he wanted to try on her panties, and the way he'd said yes before he could stop himself.
"Sucking Joe's cock was just the beginning."
Greg's throat tightened.
"You're going to get on your hands and knees. Right here. On this floor." She pointed at the rug between the couch and the coffee table. Beige wool. Expensive. "And my husband is going to fuck you."
The words landed in Greg's chest and detonated. His head shook before his brain caught up — a reflex, a denial that was already crumbling before it formed.
"No."
"Yes."
"Mary, I'm not—"
"You're not what?" She stepped closer. Close enough that her breasts brushed the satin of his dress. "You're not going to let him? Because from where I'm standing, you've done everything I've asked tonight. You put on the dress. You put on the collar. You got on your knees and sucked my husband's cock until he came in your mouth." She reached up and touched his chin, tilting his face down toward hers. "And you swallowed every drop. So tell me, Greg. What part of that suggests you're going to say no now?"
He tried to form words. His lips moved, but nothing came. Behind him, the couch creaked — Joe shifting his weight, settling in, making himself comfortable.
"He's going to fuck you like the sissy you are," Mary said. Her voice was soft now. Almost crooning. "Like the bitch you've always been. The whore who shows up to dinner in a pink dress with his cock already hard, hoping someone will notice, hoping someone will use him."
"I didn't—"
"You did." She pressed the phone against his chest. The video was still queued, the thumbnail of his shame bright on the screen. "You walked through my door in a dress and heels because you wanted this. You've wanted it since the first time you borrowed my panties. Since the first time you looked in the mirror and saw something that made your heart race."
Greg's cock was leaking now. A steady, insistent drip that soaked through the satin and left a visible slick trail down the front of the dress. Mary glanced at it. Smiled.
"See? Your body knows the truth even if your mouth doesn't."
"I'm not gay." He barely got the words out. His voice was a rasp, a ruin.
"Doesn't matter what you call yourself." Mary tugged the leash, pulling him down until his face was level with hers. "What matters is what you are. And what you are, Greg, is a hole that needs filling. My husband's cock is going to do that. It's going to open up your tight little ass and fuck the man right out of you."
Joe stood up from the couch. The movement was unhurried, almost lazy — a man who knew he had all the time in the world. He came up behind Greg, close enough that Greg could feel the heat of his body through the dress. Could smell him — musk and sweat and the faint, lingering salt of his own mouth on Joe's skin.
"I haven't done this before," Joe said. Low. Matter-of-fact. "Anal, I mean. Not with a guy." His hand found Greg's hip. Thumb pressing into the hollow where the garter strap connected to the stocking. "But Mary's been telling me about it. All week. About how tight you're going to be. About the sounds you're going to make."
Greg's breathing went shallow. Rapid. His chest heaved against the corset.
"She says you're going to scream," Joe continued. His other hand came up, resting on Greg's opposite hip, boxing him in. "Says by the time I'm done, you won't even remember you ever thought you were straight."
"Please." Greg didn't know what he was asking for. Mercy, maybe. Or the opposite.
"Please what?" Mary's voice, bright and cruel. "Please stop? Or please fuck me? Be specific, Greg. You're a grown man. Use your words."
He couldn't. The words wouldn't come. They'd been replaced by images — Joe behind him, Joe inside him, the thick, blunt pressure of what he'd felt in his mouth now pushing somewhere else, somewhere smaller, somewhere that had never been touched. His cock jumped at the thought, and Mary caught it.
"Look at that," she breathed. "You just pictured it, didn't you? My husband's cock spreading you open. And you got harder." She laughed, a short, incredulous sound. "You're the biggest faggot I've ever met, and you don't even know it yet."
Greg shuddered. The word again. Faggot. Sissy. Whore. Each one landing like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward, stirring something in the depths.
"Here's the video," Mary said, holding up the phone once more. This time she pressed play. Three seconds of footage — Greg's face, Greg's hand wrapped around his cock, Greg's mouth open in a silent moan — before she stopped it. "Every time you think about saying no, I want you to remember that this exists. And that I have your mother's email address. Your boss's. Your brother's."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me." Her smile didn't waver. "Or don't. I'd almost prefer you didn't. It's more fun this way."
Joe's hands tightened on Greg's hips. Pulled him back, just an inch, so that the swell of his cock pressed against Greg's ass through denim and satin. Greg felt it — the heft of it, the heat — and a sound escaped his throat. A whimper. High and desperate and utterly involuntary.
"There it is," Mary said. "That's the sound I've been waiting for."
"I'm going to fuck you," Joe said into Greg's ear. His beard scraped against the side of Greg's neck, and Greg's whole body erupted in goosebumps. "I'm going to bend you over this couch and push my cock inside you, and you're going to take every inch. And you're going to thank me for it."
Greg's knees buckled. Joe caught him — arms around his waist, solid and unyielding — and held him upright against his chest.
"And Mary's going to watch," Joe went on. His voice was a rumble through Greg's spine. "She's going to sit right there on that couch and watch me fuck the man she used to date. Watch me turn him into something else. Something better."
"Something honest," Mary added. She'd settled onto the arm of the couch, legs crossed, the leash still wrapped around her wrist. "Finally."
"Please." Again. That word. Greg didn't know what it meant anymore.
"You'll scream," Mary said. She wasn't smiling now. Her expression was intent, focused, the way she'd looked when she was working on a project in college — a woman solving a problem. "Not from pain. From pleasure. You're going to scream so loud the neighbors might hear, and you won't care. You won't care about anything except the feeling of my husband's big, thick cock stretching your asshole open."
Greg groaned. A sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
"He's going to fuck the man out of you," Mary continued. "Stroke by stroke. Until there's nothing left but a sissy in a pink dress, taking cock like he was born for it. Because that's what you are, Greg. Under all that denial, under all those years of pretending — that's what you've always been."
Joe's hand slid from Greg's hip to the front of his dress. Cupped his cock through the satin. Squeezed.
"And you want it," Mary said. "Don't you?"
The squeeze. The heat. The beard on his neck. The leash around his throat. The video. The threat. The dress. The heels. The wet spot spreading. The taste of Joe's cum still faint on his tongue. It all swirled together into a single, overwhelming truth that Greg could no longer outrun.
He looked down in shame.
Mary saw it, and her smile returned — wider now, triumphant.
"Say it."
Greg's voice broke on the first syllable. "I..."
"Louder."
"I want it."
"Want what?"
His face was on fire. His cock was dripping. His knees were shaking. Behind him, Joe's erection pressed insistently against his ass, and in front of him, Mary's dark eyes glittered like chips of obsidian.
"I want him to fuck me."
Mary stood. She looped the leash around her hand one more time, pulling Greg's face close to hers. Their lips nearly touched — the lipstick he'd applied, First Kiss, now a shade darker where it had smeared, and her own mouth, bare and precise.
"Then that's exactly what's going to happen."
She released him. Turned to Joe. "Get the lube from the bedroom. The good one."
Joe's hands left Greg's hips. The loss of contact was almost physical — a sudden absence of heat that made Greg sway on his heels. He heard Joe's footsteps retreating down the hall, heavy and unhurried, and then he was alone with Mary.
"Kneel," she said. "While we wait."
Greg knelt. The rug was soft under his knees — softer than the hardwood had been earlier, when he'd been sucking Joe's cock. The dress pooled around him in a circle of pink satin, and his erection jutted obscenely upward, weeping steadily now, a thin string of pre-cum connecting the wet spot on his dress to the wool fibers of the rug.
Mary looked down at him. The leash was still in her hand.
"You know," she said, "I used to lie awake at night thinking about this. After you broke up with me. After I found your diary." She tilted her head. "I'd imagine you on your knees. In my clothes. Begging. And I'd wonder if you ever thought about me the same way."
Greg couldn't meet her eyes.
"But you didn't, did you? You broke up with me and you tried to forget. Tried to be normal. Tried to be straight." She crouched down, bringing her face level with his. "How's that working out for you?"
From down the hall, the sound of a drawer opening. The clink of a bottle.
"Joe's going to be gentle," Mary said. "At first. Because I told him to be. But after that —" she shrugged, the dress shifting on her shoulders "— it's out of my hands. He's been looking forward to this."
Footsteps. Returning. Greg heard Joe re-enter the room, heard the soft thud of the lube bottle being set on the coffee table, heard the metallic rasp of a zipper.
"Look at me," Mary said.
Greg looked. Her dark eyes held his, and in them he saw everything — the anger, the hurt, the satisfaction, the hunger. The years of waiting. The moment of arrival.
"By the time the sun comes up," she said, "you're going to be someone new. Someone who doesn't hide. Someone who knows exactly what he is." She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead — gentle, almost tender. "And you're going to thank me."
Behind him, Joe cleared his throat. "Ready when you are."
Mary straightened. The leash went slack in her hand as she stepped back toward the couch, settling onto the cushions, crossing her legs, arranging her dress over her knees. Her eyes never left Greg's.
"Then let's begin."