The blindfold pressed against Greg's eyelids, a strip of black silk that had become his entire world. He heard nothing but the thud of his own heart, felt nothing but the satin clinging to his skin—the gown pooled around his bound body, cool and slick against his thighs, the corset cinched tight enough to steal breath from his lungs. His wrists strained against the restraints, leather cuffs biting softly into his skin, ankles similarly bound and spread, leaving him open, exposed, utterly at her mercy.
He heard a door open. Footsteps. Two sets. One light and familiar—Emmy's bare feet on the hardwood. The other heavier. Deliberate. A man's shoes.
His breath caught. No. She didn't. She wouldn't.
Then a voice—low, dark, amused, a voice he'd heard at dinner parties and backyard barbecues, laughing at his jokes, stealing fries off his plate. 'Well, well. Emmy said she had a surprise for me.'
Joe. Greg's body went rigid, every muscle locking at once. The gag stole his voice, a silk scarf knotted between his teeth, and all that came out was a muffled, desperate sound—something between a whimper and a protest that never became words.
He pulled against the restraints, wrists twisting, ankles jerking. The bed frame creaked but held. The satin rustled beneath him, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. His cock strained against the gown's fabric, stiff and aching, and the sensation made him burn with shame—he was terrified, and his body was betraying him.
'Easy, easy,' Joe said, closer now. 'You look good, Greg. Real pretty.'
He heard Emmy's soft laugh, low and pleased. Then her voice, that tone she used when she was in control—that dark, honeyed thing that made his stomach flip. 'I told you I had something special planned for his birthday. Something we've talked about.'
Greg's breath came in shallow gasps through his nose, the blindfold wet against his eyes. He wanted to see. He didn't want to see. Every sound felt magnified—the creak of the bed as someone shifted weight, the rustle of fabric, the soft pad of bare feet on the floor.
Fingers brushed his calf. Light. Deliberate. Tracing the edge of his stocking where it met bare skin, just above the knee. He knew those fingers—had seen them wrapped around a beer bottle, gesticulating at a joke, clapping him on the shoulder after a good game. But this was different. This was slow. Exploratory. A touch that lingered.
He strained against the gag again, a raw, desperate sound tearing from his throat. The word no wouldn't form, wouldn't push past the silk. His head thrashed side to side, the blindfold staying firm, his hair catching on the pillowcase.
'Look at him,' Emmy said, her voice full of heat, satisfied and hungry. 'All dressed up. All tied up. And he can't even say a thing.'
The fingers continued their path, tracing up over his knee, along the inside of his thigh. Joe's touch was unhurried, almost reverent, and Greg felt a shudder roll through him—part fear, part something else, something that made his cock throb against the satin and his face burn with humiliation.
'Today's going to be a little different for my little sissy,' Emmy said, and her voice dropped lower, more intimate. 'You've been such a good boy, telling me all your fantasies. Letting me dress you up, tie you down. And now—now I'm giving you something more.'
He heard her move, felt the mattress dip as she sat beside him. A hand found his hair, fingers threading through the long blonde wig, stroking gently. He leaned into the touch despite himself, desperate for any tenderness in the midst of his terror.
'Joe's been wanting you for a long time,' she whispered, her lips close to his ear. 'And you've wanted this too. I know you have. The way you talk about it in the dark, when you think I'm asleep. How you wonder what it would feel like.'
Greg's breath hitched. His entire body trembled, caught between the instinct to fight and the surrender he'd dreamed of a hundred times but never believed would become real.
Joe's hand settled on his inner thigh, warm and firm, and Greg felt his hips shift involuntarily—an invitation he hadn't meant to give, a betrayal written in his own flesh.
'He's so wet for it,' Joe murmured, almost to himself. 'God, Emmy. Look at him.'
'I know,' she said softly, and there was love in her voice, and hunger, and something that made Greg's throat tight. 'My pretty sissy boy. So scared. So ready.'