Mary shifted on the couch, the phone steady in her hand, and angled it toward the sliding glass door.
"Look at yourself."
Greg's head turned before he could stop it. The dark glass caught the room like a mirror—the couch, the lamp, Mary's silhouette with the phone, and him. Centered. A man in pink satin, the dress bunched at his waist, stockings catching the lamplight, collar bright against his throat. Bent forward on hands and knees. Behind him, Joe—broad, solid, pants open, cock buried deep.
"See what I see," Mary said, her voice soft and patient, the way you talk to a child who hasn't yet understood the lesson.
Greg couldn't look away. His own face stared back at him, slack and open-mouthed, cheeks flushed beneath the honey-blonde wig. His eyes were wet. His lips parted around a sound that never quite became a word. Joe's hands gripped his hips, thick fingers dimpling the satin, and with each thrust Greg watched his own body lurch forward, the collar tugging, his mouth dropping wider.
Joe didn't stop. Steady. Deep. The rhythm pressed Greg toward the glass with every pump, and he watched himself take it—watched the man in the dress get fucked, and it was him, it was him, and his cock was still hard and leaking and untouched and he couldn't stop looking.
"That's you," Mary said. "Right there. That's what I see."
A moan came out of Greg, high and broken.
Joe's pace picked up, his hips slamming forward now, and the wet sound of it filled the room. Greg's reflection lurched again, the wig slipping, one strap of the dress sliding off his shoulder. He saw his own cock bob beneath him, the tip slick and dark, searching for friction that wasn't there.
"Oh, look at you," Mary cooed. "Look at the pretty little thing on her hands and knees. Is she enjoying herself?"
Greg tried to answer. His mouth shaped the word but only a whimper came out.
"I'll take that as a yes," Mary said, and her smile was audible. "She's enjoying herself so much she can't even talk. That's what happens when you finally stop pretending, isn't it, sweetheart? When you let yourself be what you are."
Joe grunted behind him, a low animal sound, and his thrusts grew harder. Greg felt him bottom out with each stroke, the head of his cock pressing deep, and the pressure against his prostate made his vision blur. In the glass, his own eyes rolled back.
"Is she a good little bitch, Joe?"
"Fuck yes," Joe said through gritted teeth. "She's tight."
"Did you hear that, sweetie? You're tight. You're doing such a good job." Mary's voice was honey and vinegar. "Tell the camera how it feels. Tell me what Joe's cock is doing to you right now."
Greg's mouth worked. A sound came out—half breath, half moan.
"That's not an answer."
He tried again. "It's—" The word broke apart as Joe slammed into him. "It's—"
"Take your time, sweetheart. We're not going anywhere."
"It's so deep," Greg managed, and his voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper. "I can feel him—everywhere—"
"I know you can. And what else?"
"I—" Another thrust cut him off, and his arms nearly buckled. "It's so much. I can't think."
"You don't need to think. That's the whole point, isn't it? All you need to do is take it." Mary's patronizing tone wrapped around each word. "You're finally doing something you're good at."
Greg moaned, and the sound echoed off the glass.
Joe's rhythm didn't falter. Each thrust slammed Greg forward, his palms sliding on the rug, the collar tugging at his throat with every jolt. In the dark glass his reflection lurched—hair wild under the wig, mouth gaping, the pink satin bunched around his waist like a ruined party dress.
"She's having trouble focusing," Mary said into the phone. "Can you blame her? Look at that face."
Greg tried to close his mouth. Couldn't. Another thrust drove the air out of him in a sound that was half gasp, half whimper.
"Is she a good little cocksleeve, Joe?"
Joe's answer was a grunt, deep and guttural, his fingers digging into Greg's hips hard enough to bruise. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, faster now, harder, and Greg felt his mind going somewhere else—somewhere soft and dark where nothing existed except the pressure in his ass and the ache in his untouched cock and the reflection of a man who wasn't quite a man anymore.
"I asked you a question," Mary said, that patient, motherly tone wrapping around each syllable. "Is she a good little cocksleeve?"
"Fuck," Joe managed. "She's—yeah. She's perfect."
"Did you hear that, sweetheart? Joe thinks you're perfect. Joe thinks you're a perfect little cocksleeve." Mary let the word hang in the air. "What do you think about that?"
Greg's mouth shaped a syllable. Nothing came out but breath.
"I'll take that as a yes," Mary said. "She agrees. She knows exactly what she is now."
In the glass, Greg watched his own eyes roll back. Joe was pounding into him now, each stroke bottoming out, the head of his cock dragging across Greg's prostate with mechanical precision. Greg's own cock bobbed beneath him, untouched and dripping, a thin strand of pre-cum swinging with every lurch. He could feel it building—something huge and inevitable, pressure coiling low in his belly, his balls drawing up tight.
Joe's grunts turned to something else. Lower. More guttural. The sound of a man losing control.
"Oh," Mary said, and her voice brightened with recognition. "Oh, I know that sound. Do you know that sound, sweetheart?"
Greg couldn't answer. His whole body was shaking.
"Joe's getting close, isn't he? Joe's about to fill you up." Mary's voice was sweet as syrup. "But we can't have that. Not yet."
Her words cut through the fog. Greg felt Joe's rhythm stutter.
"Stop."
Joe stopped. His cock pulsed inside Greg, hard and hot and right there, but he didn't move.
"Pull out."
Greg felt Joe withdraw—the slow, wet slide of his cock leaving him empty. His ass clenched around nothing, and the sudden absence was almost painful. He heard himself make a sound, high and desperate, and his hips pushed backward, searching.
Nothing. Just air. Just the cold realization that Joe was no longer inside him.
In the glass, Greg watched his own body betray him—hips grinding back against empty space, cock bobbing and leaking, asshole clenching and unclenching around nothing at all.
"Look at that," Mary cooed. "Look at how much she wants it. She's searching for it, isn't she? She doesn't even know she's doing it."
Greg's hips kept moving. He couldn't stop them. His body had learned something in the last few minutes, and now it didn't know how to un-learn it.
"Sweetheart," Mary said, "tell the camera what just happened."
Greg's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. The words were somewhere deep in his chest, buried under layers of sensation and shame and something that felt terrifyingly like need.
"Take your time," Mary said. "We're not in a hurry. Joe can wait. I can wait. The camera can wait. Can't we?"
Behind him, Joe's breathing was ragged. Greg could hear it—the wet exhale, the shudder—and knew Joe was still hard, still slick, still right there.
"Joe," Greg managed, and his voice was wrecked. "Joe was—"
"Joe was what, sweetheart?"
"He was going to—" Greg's throat closed around the word.
"Going to what? Use your words. You were doing so well earlier."
Greg stared at his own reflection. At the man in the dress. At the collar around his throat. At his own desperate, leaking cock.
"He was going to come," Greg whispered.
"Say it louder. The camera needs to hear it."
"Joe was going to come." Greg's voice cracked on the last word but it came out.
"That's right," Mary said, and her satisfaction was audible. "Joe was going to come. And do you know where Joe was going to come, sweetheart?"
Greg's hips kept moving. Searching. Empty.
"Inside me," he said, and the words tasted like surrender.
"Inside your what?"
"Inside my—" Greg squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them again. In the glass, his face was wet with tears he didn't remember shedding. "Inside my ass."
"Good girl." Mary's voice was a caress and a brand. "Now let me explain what's going to happen next, because I think you need to hear it. I think the camera needs to hear it. I think Joe needs to hear it too."
She shifted on the couch, and in the reflection Greg saw her cross her legs, phone still aimed at him.
"Joe is going to put his cock back inside you," Mary said, her voice casual and instructive, like she was explaining a recipe. "And he's going to fuck you until he comes. He's going to pump your little ass full of his cum, and there's nothing you can do about it. You're going to feel it fill you up, sweetheart. You're going to feel every pulse of his cock as he empties himself inside you. And when he's done, you're going to be full of him. You're going to be marked. Claimed."
A sound came out of Greg—something between a moan and a sob.
"He's going to fuck away whatever manhood you thought you had left," Mary continued, her voice dropping to something almost intimate. "And he's going to fill you with his cum. Do you understand what that means, sweetheart? It means you're his. His bitch. His pretty little satin bitch who exists to take his cock and his cum and say thank you afterward."
Greg's whole body was trembling. His cock was so hard it hurt, dripping onto the rug, untouched and leaking and desperate.
"Do you want that, sweetheart?"
He couldn't speak. His throat had closed completely.
"I need you to say it," Mary said. "The camera needs to hear you say it. Joe needs to hear you say it. Do you want Joe to fill you with his cum? Do you want to be his bitch?"
Greg stared at his own reflection. At the dress. The collar. The leaking cock. The empty, clenching hole. The face that was his but not his—slack with pleasure, wet with tears, eyes wild with something he couldn't name.
"Say it," Mary said, and her voice sharpened. "Beg for it."
Behind him, Joe shifted. Greg felt the heat of him—the solid weight of his body, the slick head of his cock pressing against the back of Greg's thigh.
"Beg for his cum, Greg." Mary's voice was barely above a whisper. "Beg for him to make you his bitch."