Joe’s thumb circles through the satin, slow and deliberate, finding the shape of Greg’s trapped cock beneath the smooth fabric. The gown clings wet against the head, a dark spot spreading where pre-cum soaks through, and Greg’s whole body seizes — hips jerking up into the pressure before he can stop them, a strangled moan tearing through the silk gag. The corset forces his lungs shallow, every breath a reminder of how completely he’s caged, how helpless he is, and still his body bucks again, chasing the friction like an animal.
Emmy’s hand closes in his hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, and she pulls his head back until his throat is bared. Her lips brush his ear, warm and close. “That’s it, sissy. Let him feel how much you need it.” Her voice is honey and nails, sweet and sharp, and Greg’s cock pulses under Joe’s thumb, leaking through the satin, betraying everything he can’t say.
The mattress shifts as Joe climbs onto the bed. The weight settles between Greg’s spread thighs, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Greg’s hips, and Greg can feel the heat of Joe’s body through the gown — can smell him, soap and something darker, something male. Joe’s thumb keeps circling, unhurried, a lazy rhythm that makes Greg’s hips stutter.
“Take the blindfold off.” Joe’s voice is low, amused, like he’s savoring a meal he’s waited years to taste. “I want him to see me.”
Emmy’s fingers leave his hair, and the blindfold slides away. Light stings — the bedside lamp, warm gold — and then Greg’s vision clears. Joe’s face is inches from his own, dark eyes bright, that knowing smirk curving his mouth. He looks down at Greg like he’s already won, like Greg is something beautiful and broken and his.
“Look at you, Greg.” Joe’s gaze trails down the satin, over the swell of the breast forms beneath the gown, down to where his own thumb still presses against Greg’s trapped cock. “Every inch the pretty sissy Emmy said you’d be.”
Emmy leans into his field of vision, her chestnut hair brushing his cheek. Her hand cups his jaw, tilting his face toward her. “I want you to see Joe take you,” she says, her brown eyes warm and hungry. “Every second. Every inch. You’re going to watch him fuck you, and you’re going to love it.”
Joe’s lips graze Greg’s stocking-clad knee. The touch is featherlight, almost reverent, and Greg shivers — a full-body tremble that starts at the contact and spreads through his clamped ribs, his bound arms, his flexing thighs. The corset squeezes a gasp from him, thin and desperate through the gag.
“Sensitive today, aren’t we?” Joe murmurs against the nylon. His tongue flicks out, wetting the fabric just above Greg’s knee, and Greg makes a sound he’s never heard himself make — high and keening, caught between shame and need.
Emmy strokes his hair, gentle now, almost loving. “That’s my good sissy boy. Let Joe feel how ready you are.”
Joe’s hand slides up Greg’s thigh, palm flat, fingers spreading as he presses into the stocking. He finds the band of the garter and hooks a finger under it, snapping it lightly against Greg’s skin. Then his hand moves higher, cupping Greg’s hip through the satin, squeezing once — a firm, proprietary grip that says mine.
Greg’s cock throbs, trapped, aching. The satin is soaked now, a wet patch spreading from the tip down the shaft, and he can smell himself — salt and arousal, sharp in the warm room. He tries to close his thighs, to hide, but the cuffs hold him spread, wide open, utterly exposed.
Joe’s other hand joins the first, palms sliding up Greg’s sides, over the corset’s boning, up to the breast forms — soft silicone beneath the gown. Joe cups one, testing its weight, then squeezes gently. “She did a good job with these,” he says to Emmy, his eyes never leaving Greg’s face. “Feels real.”
“They’re the best I could find.” Emmy’s voice is warm, proud. “I wanted him to feel beautiful.”
“He is beautiful.” Joe’s thumbs circle Greg’s nipples through the satin and silicone, and Greg’s back arches, a broken sound tearing from his throat. His body doesn’t know what it wants — to escape, to press into the touch, to die of shame or come apart from pleasure.
Joe leans down, his mouth hovering over the wet spot on Greg’s gown — the outline of his cock, dark and desperate. “Look at this,” he says, almost to himself. “So hard for me. You’re dripping through your pretty dress, Greg. Did you know that?”
Greg shakes his head — a frantic, helpless motion — but his hips cant up again, searching for contact, and Joe laughs, low and dark.
“Liar.” Joe’s palm flattens over the wet spot, pressing down, and Greg’s eyes roll back, a sob punching through the gag. The pressure is perfect — too much and not enough — and he grinds into Joe’s hand without permission, his whole body begging.
Emmy’s voice cuts through the haze. “Look at you, sissy boy. Look how wet you are for him. Just a little slut in a satin dress, grinding on your friend’s hand like a bitch in heat.” She tsks softly. “And you said you didn’t want this. Your body knows better.”
Joe’s hand moves, slow, rubbing Greg through the soaked fabric, and Greg’s hips roll with the rhythm, helpless, lost. Pre-cum soaks through the satin, slicking Joe’s palm, and Joe hums approval.
“Feel that?” Joe murmurs. “He’s so wet I could slide right in, just like this. Pull the gown aside and push into him, and he’d take it — wouldn’t you, Greg?”
Greg whimpers, high and broken, and his hips don’t stop moving. They can’t. The coil in his belly is tightening, every nerve ending screaming, and he’s so close — so close to the edge — and he doesn’t know if he wants Emmy to tell Joe to stop or to keep going, to push him over into the dark.
But Joe’s hand stills. Just holds pressure, wet and hot, and doesn’t move. Greg makes a sound of pure frustration, his hips bucking against the stillness, but Joe holds him there — teetering, desperate.
“Not yet, pretty boy.” Joe’s smile is sharp and kind. “I’ve been waiting years for this. I’m going to take my time.”
Emmy strokes Greg’s cheek, catching a tear he didn’t know was falling. “Shh, my good sissy. We’re just getting started.”
Joe’s hand slides up Greg’s thigh, fingers trailing over the garter’s edge, then higher still—past the corset’s boned grip, over the swell of silicone, until his palm settles on Greg’s hip. He squeezes once, firm, possessive, and Greg’s cock jumps against the soaked satin, a fresh pulse of pre-cum darkening the fabric.
“Look at you,” Emmy murmurs, her voice low and honeyed, her fingers tracing the line of Greg’s jaw. “So hard you’re soaking through your pretty dress. You’re a mess, sissy boy. A wet, needy little mess.”
Greg’s cheeks burn under the makeup, shame and arousal twisting in his chest until he can’t tell them apart. He tries to shake his head, to deny it, but his hips betray him—rolling up against Joe’s hand, chasing pressure he can’t stop wanting.
“Don’t bother pretending,” Joe says, his thumb circling Greg’s hip bone through the satin. “We can all see what you are right now. What you’ve always wanted to be.”
Emmy’s hand finds his cock through the gown, pressing down on the wet spot, and Greg gasps—a broken, muffled sound that tears through the gag. “See how he responds?” she says to Joe, her voice warm with mock wonder. “Just a little slut in a satin dress, grinding on any hand that touches him.”
Joe’s other hand slides up Greg’s inner thigh, fingers brushing the sensitive skin where stocking meets bare flesh. Greg shivers, his whole body tensing, and Joe hums approval. “So responsive. You trained him well, Em.”
“He trained himself,” Emmy says, and she twists her wrist, grinding her palm against his trapped cock. Greg whimpers, high and desperate, his vision blurring at the edges. “I just gave him permission to be what he already was.”
Joe’s fingers creep higher, tracing the inside of Greg’s thigh, following the line of the garter toward the apex of his legs. Greg’s breath catches—he knows where that hand is going, knows what Joe will find, and his body reacts before his mind can catch up: his thighs try to close, but the cuffs hold him spread, wide open, and Joe’s fingers keep climbing.
“Easy, pretty boy,” Joe murmurs, his fingertips brushing the seam of the satin where it stretches over Greg’s ass. “Just checking what we’re working with.”
Greg makes a sound—something between a sob and a plea—but Emmy shushes him, her hand moving from his cock to his hair, stroking gently. “Let him, sweetheart. You know you want it.”
Joe’s palm flattens against Greg’s ass, pressing the satin into the cleft, and Greg’s whole body goes rigid. He feels the heat of Joe’s hand through the thin fabric, feels the weight of it, the promise of what comes next. His cock throbs, trapped and aching, and a thin stream of pre-cum leaks onto his belly, warm and shameful.
“God, look at that,” Emmy says, her voice dropping an octave, sharp with mock disgust. “You’re leaking like a bitch in heat, and he hasn’t even touched your little hole yet.” She tsks softly. “Pathetic. My pretty little sissy boy, so desperate for a cock he’d spread his legs for anyone.”
Joe’s middle finger presses against the satin, finding the tight ring of muscle beneath, and Greg jerks—a full-body spasm that makes the bed frame creak. The touch is electric, shocking, and his cock jumps again, spilling another hot pulse of pre-cum onto the soaked gown.
“So tight,” Joe murmurs, almost to himself, his finger circling the puckered fabric. “Even through the dress, I can feel how tense he is. You need to relax, Greg. This’ll be a lot more fun if you let it happen.”
Emmy’s hand leaves Greg’s hair, and he hears her move—the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood, the click of a drawer opening. She returns a moment later, holding a small bottle that catches the lamplight. Lube.
“Here,” she says, pressing the bottle into Joe’s free hand. “Get her cunt ready for you.”
The word lands like a slap—*cunt*—and Greg’s face burns, humiliation flooding through him so hot he can feel it in his fingertips. He shakes his head, a frantic, helpless motion, but his cock doesn’t care; it stays hard, aching, the head slick and swollen against his belly.
Joe takes the bottle, and Greg hears the wet click of the cap opening. “You hear that, Greg?” Joe’s voice is low, amused, warm with cruelty. “Your wife just called your ass a cunt. And you’re still hard. Still dripping.” He pops the cap open, and the sound of lube squeezing into his palm is obscenely loud in the quiet room. “You really are a sissy, aren’t you?”
Greg whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut. He doesn’t want to see it—doesn’t want to watch Joe’s slick fingers slide between his legs—but Emmy’s hand cups his jaw, forcing his eyes open.
“No hiding,” she says, her voice soft and merciless. “I want you to see every second of Joe opening you up. I want you to feel it. And I want you to remember that you *chose* this.”
Joe’s hand slips under the hem of the gown, the fabric riding up Greg’s thigh, exposing the top of the stocking and the bare skin above. His fingers are wet, slick with lubricant, and when they find Greg’s entrance—circling the tight ring of muscle—Greg’s whole body locks up, breath held, every nerve screaming.
“Breathe,” Joe says, his voice softening just slightly. “First time’s always the hardest. Just breathe, and let me in.”
Greg’s lungs burn. The corset forces his breaths shallow, and he can’t get enough air, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel the slick pressure of Joe’s finger pressing against his hole, circling, teasing, and then—
Joe pushes in.