Joe's finger slid deeper, and Greg felt his body make a decision before his mind could object. The muscle yielded—a slow, hot surrender that made his thighs tremble against the wool rug. Joe didn't rush. He worked his finger in to the second knuckle, then back, then deeper, the lube making every movement wet and audible in the quiet room.
"There we go," Mary said, her voice carrying that soft, delighted lilt that cut deeper than any scream. She shifted on the couch, the phone steady in her hand, red recording light blinking. "He's getting you ready, isn't he, Greg?"
Greg's breath came in short, punched-out bursts. The satin dress pooled around his hips, bunched above where Joe's hand worked between his legs. His cock hung hard and leaking beneath him, untouched, the tip dark and slick against the pink fabric.
"Tell the camera how much you love being stretched open by Joe's hands." Mary leaned in, bringing the phone close enough that Greg could see his own reflection in the dark glass—wig slightly askew, lipstick smeared, eyes wet and wild.
"I—" His voice cracked on the first syllable. Joe's finger curled inside him, pressing against something that made white light bloom behind his eyes. "I love it. I love being opened up."
The words came out on a moan, and Greg hated how true they sounded. How true they felt.
Mary made a soft, pleased sound—the kind of noise someone makes watching a puppy do a trick. "Good girl. Now tell me exactly what's happening. What is Joe doing to you right now?"
Joe pulled his finger out to the tip, then pushed back in, slow and deliberate, the slick sound filling the space between Greg's gasps. The rug fibers bit into his knees. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked.
"He's—" Greg swallowed, his throat dry. "He's lubing my ass with his fingers."
The sentence came out half-moan, half-whisper, and the shame of it—saying those words aloud, on camera, in this dress—sent a fresh pulse of heat through his cock. A bead of pre-cum dripped onto the rug.
"That's right," Mary cooed. "And do you want to thank Joe for being so thorough?"
"Thank you," Greg breathed. His voice didn't sound like his own anymore. It was higher, thinner, desperate. "Thank you, Joe."
A low rumble from behind him—Joe's version of acknowledgment. Then a second finger pressed against him, and Greg felt his body tense and yield in the same shuddering breath. The stretch was more this time. Fuller. Joe's fingers were thick, calloused, and Greg could feel every ridge and knuckle as they worked their way inside.
"Oh—" Greg's back arched without permission, his spine curving down, his ass pushing back against Joe's hand. The satin rustled with every tremor. "Oh god—"
"There's another one," Mary said, the phone steady, her tone bright and instructional. "Tell the camera, Greg. Describe it."
"He's—two fingers now—" Greg's eyes squeezed shut, then opened again because Mary would want him to look at the lens. "He's stretching me. Opening me up. It's—"
Joe scissored his fingers, and Greg's sentence dissolved into a sound he'd never made before—a high, keening whimper that vibrated in his throat. His hands fisted in the rug, knuckles white against the wool.
"It's what?" Mary prompted, leaning closer. Her dark eyes glittered above the phone. "Use your words, sweetheart."
"It's so full," Greg managed, the words tumbling out between gasps. "I feel so full. He's—his fingers are inside me and I can feel every—"
A third finger pressed against his rim, and Greg's whole body clenched—a reflexive resistance that Joe met with patient, steady pressure. Not forcing. Waiting. His other hand was firm on Greg's hip, holding him in place.
"Breathe," Joe said, low and calm, like he was talking to a spooked horse. "You can take it."
"Oh, I think he can too," Mary agreed in that patronizing sing-song. "Can't you, Greg? You're going to take every inch Joe gives you, and you're going to tell the camera exactly how it feels."
The third finger pushed through, and Greg cried out—a raw, broken sound that echoed off the living room walls. The stretch was enormous now, a deep, burning fullness that bordered on pain but teetered over into something else entirely. Something that made his neglected cock jump and leak.
"Look at you," Mary breathed, and for just a moment her voice lost its mocking edge, replaced by something almost reverent. Then it snapped back, sharp and cruel. "Look at the pretty little sissy taking three fingers. Joe, is he tight?"
"Yeah." Joe's voice was strained now, the first crack in his unbothered calm. "Real tight."
"Tell the camera what's happening, Greg. Every detail."
Greg's arms were shaking. His thighs were shaking. Everything was shaking except Joe's hand, which moved inside him with a slow, relentless rhythm that was driving him out of his mind.
"Three fingers," he gasped, forcing the words out because she'd told him to and he couldn't seem to disobey anymore. "Joe has three fingers inside me. Stretching me. Getting me—getting me ready for—"
"For what?" Mary prompted, her voice dropping into that babying, condescending register. "Getting you ready for what, sweetie?"
"For his cock." Greg's face burned. The words felt impossible in his mouth, and yet they came out anyway, tumbling over each other. "He's getting me ready for his cock."
Mary made another of those pleased little sounds. "And are you grateful, Greg? Are you grateful that my husband is taking the time to open you up so carefully?"
"Yes." The word was barely a whisper. "Yes, I'm grateful."
"Say it properly."
"I'm grateful, Joe." Greg's voice cracked. "Thank you for—for opening me up. For your fingers. For getting me ready."
Joe's response was physical: he pulled his fingers almost all the way out, then pushed them back in, deeper than before, and Greg felt his body give around them, yielding more completely with every stroke. The slick sounds were obscene now, wet and rhythmic.
"Such good manners," Mary cooed. "Joe, I think he's ready. What do you think?"
"Yeah." Joe pulled his fingers out slowly—Greg felt every millimeter of the withdrawal, his body clenching around the sudden emptiness. "He's ready."
Greg stayed on his hands and knees, trembling, his hole exposed and twitching, the cool air of the room a shock against the wetness Joe had left behind. Behind him, he heard the sound of Joe squeezing more lube into his palm, the slick sound of it being worked over flesh.
"Stay just like that," Mary instructed, and the phone tilted down to capture the full tableau—Greg on all fours in his bunched pink satin, Joe rising to his knees behind him. "Doggy style. Like the bitch you are."
Greg heard Joe position himself—the shift of denim, the soft grunt of effort, the wet sound of a lubed hand on a lubed cock. Then he felt it: the blunt, hot pressure of the head of Joe's cock pressing against his entrance. Not pushing in yet. Just resting there. Waiting.
"Tell me what's happening now, Greg," Mary said, the phone steady in her hands.
Greg's voice came out thin and shaking. "Joe has pressed the tip of his cock—"
Mid-syllable, Joe pushed.
The head of Joe's cock breached him, and Greg's sentence shattered into a gasping, full-throated cry. "OH MY GOD—"
The stretch was unlike anything his body had ever known. Joe's fingers had opened him, but this—this was a different category of fullness. The head of Joe's cock was thick and hot, and as it pushed through the tight ring of muscle, Greg felt his whole body reorganize itself around the intrusion. His back arched. His mouth fell open. His vision went white at the edges.
"Oh my," Mary said, drawing out the syllables like she was savoring a dessert. "Is it big, Greg? Is Joe's cock as big as it feels?"
Greg couldn't answer. He couldn't form words. His breath came in short, shocked gasps, and every nerve in his body was screaming the same thing—full, full, full.
"I asked you a question." Mary's voice sharpened, just slightly. "Is it big?"
"Yes," Greg choked out. "Yes, it's big. It's so big. I can't—"
"Shhh." Mary's tone dropped back into that patronizing, babying register. "You're doing so well, sweetie. Just breathe. Let the big man behind you take care of everything."
Joe had stopped once the head was fully inside, giving Greg's body time to adjust. His hands were firm on Greg's hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of his lower back through the satin. Greg could feel Joe's pulse through the connection, a steady throb that matched his own racing heartbeat.
"Ohhh," Mary cooed, the phone still recording, "is the prissy little sissy feeling good from the big man behind her?"
Greg's response was a sound he'd never made before—something between a moan and a sob, dragged up from deep in his chest. The shame of her words should have shriveled him. Instead, it made his cock throb.
"Look at you," Mary continued, her voice dripping with condescending delight. "Look at you taking his cock like you were made for it. Were you made for this, Greg? Is this what you've always wanted?"
"I—" Greg's voice was a wreck. "I don't—"
"Shhh, don't think. Just answer. Is this what you've always wanted?"
Joe's thumb stroked a small circle against Greg's hip, and the tenderness of the gesture—amidst everything else—broke something open in Greg's chest.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes."
"Good girl." Mary settled back on the couch, the phone steady. "Joe, give him a little more."
Joe pushed deeper.
Greg's mouth opened on a soundless scream as another inch of Joe's cock slid inside him. The fullness was staggering now, stretching him past what he'd thought his body could take. His fingers clawed at the rug. His cock—still untouched, still leaking—swung heavy beneath him.
"There you go," Mary breathed. "Look at you opening up. Tell me what's happening, Greg. I want to hear you say it."
Greg tried to form words. His voice came out in fragments, punctuated by gasps as Joe continued his slow, inexorable press inward. "Joe is—he's inside me—his cock—deeper—"
"That's right. What does it feel like?"
"Full." The word was a moan more than speech. "So full. I can feel—every inch—"
"Every inch," Mary echoed, savoring the phrase. "And how many inches is that, do you think? How much of my husband's cock is inside you right now?"
Greg couldn't answer. Joe pushed again, and this time Greg felt something inside him give way—a final surrender—and Joe's pelvis pressed flush against his ass.
Balls deep.
Greg's whole body shuddered. His arms gave out, and he dropped to his elbows, face pressed against the wool rug, ass still raised in the air. Joe was seated inside him completely now, and the sensation was so overwhelming that Greg forgot to breathe for a long, suspended moment.
Mary let the silence stretch, her phone recording everything—Greg's trembling body, the satin bunched at his waist, Joe's thick hands on his hips, the point where their bodies connected.
"There you go," she said finally, her voice dropping into something almost tender in its cruelty. "There you go, you faggot whore." She leaned in, bringing the phone close to Greg's face. "My husband is balls deep inside you."
The words hit Greg like a physical blow—and then, impossibly, they hit him like pleasure. A deep, rolling wave of it that started where Joe was buried inside him and radiated outward until his whole body was vibrating with it.
He let out a moan. Not a whimper, not a gasp—a full-bodied, deep-chested moan of pure pleasure that he couldn't have suppressed if he'd tried.
Mary caught it. The phone caught it. Everything.
"Oh, you like that," Mary said, and her voice shifted again—still patronizing, but now with an edge of genuine satisfaction. "You really do love being Joe's bitch, don't you?"
Greg didn't answer with words. He couldn't. Instead, he pushed back against Joe—a tiny, instinctive movement, his body seeking more friction, more fullness, more of whatever this was.
Joe's hands tightened on his hips. "Easy."
"Don't you dare tell him to go easy," Mary said, but there was a smile in her voice. "He's been waiting for this all night. Haven't you, Greg?"
"Yes." The word was muffled against the rug. "Yes, I—"
"Then let's give you what you need." Mary settled back on the couch, crossing her legs, the phone still raised. "Joe. Fuck him. Slow at first."
Joe pulled back—Greg felt every inch of the withdrawal, the drag of Joe's cock against his stretched, sensitive walls—and then pushed in again. Slow. Deliberate. A single, perfect thrust that filled Greg completely.
The moan that broke out of Greg was louder this time, unrestrained, his voice cracking on the high notes. The satin dress rustled around his hips. His cock leaked steadily onto the rug, a dark wet spot spreading beneath him.
"Again," Mary commanded. "And Greg? I want you to describe every stroke."
Joe pulled back and thrust in again. Slower. Deeper. Greg felt the head of Joe's cock dragging against something inside him that made his vision spark.
"He's—" Greg's voice was barely recognizable now, high and desperate. "He's fucking me. Joe is—his cock is—in and out—slow—"
"How does it feel?"
"Amazing." The word escaped before Greg could filter it, and the truth of it hit him harder than any lie could have. "God, it feels amazing. I can't—I didn't know—"
"You didn't know what?" Mary prompted, the phone steady.
Joe thrust again, and Greg's sentence dissolved into a moan. When he found his voice again, it was barely a whisper. "I didn't know it could feel like this."
The admission hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Mary's smile softened—just slightly, just for a moment—and then sharpened again.
"Of course you didn't," she said. "That's why you needed me. You needed someone to show you what you really are." She leaned forward, the phone capturing everything. "Joe, a little faster now. I want to hear the sissy moan."
Joe's rhythm quickened. Still slow, still deliberate, but with a building pressure that made Greg's body rock forward with each thrust. The slick sounds of fucking filled the room—wet and rhythmic and obscene—punctuated by Greg's increasingly desperate moans.
The collar shifted against his throat with every impact. The leash trailed on the rug beside him, forgotten but still attached, still marking him as owned. Joe's hands were hot on his hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and Greg found himself pushing back into every thrust, meeting Joe's rhythm with his own needy movements.
"Look at you," Mary breathed, and for a moment her voice lost the condescending edge entirely. "Look at you taking him. You were always meant for this."
Greg couldn't argue. Not with Joe's cock buried inside him. Not with his body singing with pleasure he'd never let himself imagine. Not with Mary's phone documenting every second of his surrender.
"Harder," Mary said. "Joe, harder."
Joe's next thrust slammed into Greg with enough force to send him sliding forward on the rug. Greg cried out—a broken, keening sound—and his hands scrabbled for purchase against the wool fibers.
"Describe it," Mary demanded, the phone unwavering. "Tell the camera what's happening to you."
"He's—fucking me harder—" Greg's voice jumped with every impact. "Joe is—his cock—deeper—every time—I can feel him—in my—"
"In your what?"
"In my—" Another thrust cut him off. "—stomach. I can feel him in my stomach. God—"
Mary made a soft, satisfied sound. "That's because he's so deep inside you, sweetie. Balls deep. Filling you up completely. Aren't you lucky?"
"Yes," Greg gasped. "Yes, lucky. I'm—lucky—"
"Tell Joe thank you."
"Thank you, Joe." The words came out on a sob—not of pain, but of overwhelming sensation. "Thank you for—fucking me. Thank you for—" Another thrust cut him off. "—your cock. Inside me. Thank you—"
Joe's rhythm was steady now, a deep, driving pace that filled the room with the wet slap of skin against skin. His breathing had gone rough, audible over Greg's moans, and his grip on Greg's hips was iron-tight. The satin dress had ridden up completely, bunched around Greg's lower back, leaving his ass bare and vulnerable to every thrust.
"You're so beautiful like this," Mary said, and the word—beautiful—landed in Greg's chest like a stone dropping into still water. "On your knees. Taking cock. Being exactly what you are."
Greg sobbed. His cock was aching now, untouched and dripping, the head dark and swollen. Every thrust from Joe sent a fresh pulse of pre-cum spattering onto the rug, and Greg was dimly aware that he'd never been this hard in his life. Never been this aroused. Never felt this completely, utterly undone.
"Is this better than when you used to dress up alone in your apartment?" Mary asked, her voice casual, like she was asking about the weather. "Better than when you'd put on your little panties and touch yourself in the dark?"
"Yes." The word was a choked whisper.
"Say it. Louder."
"Yes!" Greg's voice cracked on the word. "This is—better