Joe's finger slides out, slow and deliberate, and Greg's body clenches around nothing—a desperate, hollow ache that makes him whimper through the gag. His hips chase the loss before he can stop them, and Emmy's laugh is soft and cruel against his ear.
"Look at you," she murmurs. "Already missing it."
Joe shifts, settling his weight between Greg's spread thighs, and the mattress dips with his movement. Greg's vision blurs with tears, but he sees clearly enough—Joe's hands working his belt, the denim straining as he adjusts himself. The energy in the room changes, thickens. Joe isn't following anyone's lead now.
Emmy's hand stills on Greg's cock. She's watching Joe too, her breath catching just slightly, and Greg feels his heart hammer harder at that—at the crack in her control, the moment where even she didn't see this coming.
Joe unbuttons his jeans with unhurried precision. The sound of the zipper is obscenely loud in the quiet room. He doesn't look away from Greg when he reaches inside, when his cock springs free—thick, already hard, the head flushed dark.
Greg's thighs tremble. He can't close them. Can't do anything but lie here, spread and wet and shaking, watching Joe slick himself with lube.
"You're going to watch," Joe says, his voice low and warm. "Every inch. I want you to see what's about to happen to you."
Joe settles his weight against the backs of Greg's thighs. The head of his cock presses against the slick entrance—just presses, not pushing, not yet. Greg feels the pressure, the promise of it, and his whole body goes rigid.
"No," he tries to say, but it comes out a muffled, desperate sound through the gag. His head shakes, small and frantic. No, no, no—
Emmy's hand cups his jaw, turning his face toward hers. "Look at me, baby." Her voice is honey and steel. "You wanted this. You told me. Late at night, whispering about what you dreamed."
Greg sobs. Shakes his head again.
"Then show me you don't want it," she says softly. "Say the word and we stop."
He can't say the word. They both know it.
Joe presses forward—not entering, just the head of his cock pushing against the hole, testing, teasing. Greg feels the stretch of the pressure, the slick head nudging at his entrance, and his cock twitches hard against his belly, leaking another stripe of pre-cum across the satin.
"Look at that," Joe breathes. "You're dripping for me, sissy. Your ass is begging."
"Tell him what you need," Emmy whispers. Her hand slides down his chest, over the corset, resting on his stomach. "Tell him you need his cock."
Greg shakes his head, but his hips betray him—a tiny roll forward, pressing into that pressure, and Joe laughs low in his throat.
"Was that a yes? I couldn't tell." Joe pulls back, just an inch, and Greg's body clenches around the emptiness again. "Use your words, pretty boy. Oh wait—you can't."
Emmy's fingers find the knot of the gag. She loosens it, pulls the silk free from his mouth, and Greg gasps—air, sound, the ability to speak flooding back.
"Now," she says, her mouth against his ear. "Tell him. Beg him to fuck your tight little sissy cunt."
Greg's lips part. Nothing comes out. Joe presses forward again—just the tip, just the pressure, the head of his cock pushing against the slick ring of muscle.
"I—" Greg's voice cracks. "Please."
"Please what?" Joe's voice is gentle, almost kind. "I need to hear it, Greg. What do you want?"
"His cock," Emmy supplies. "You want his cock inside you, don't you, baby? You want to feel him stretch you open."
Greg nods, a broken, jerky motion. "Yes. Please. I want—"
"Want what?" Joe presses harder—not entering, just the tip denting the entrance, and Greg feels the burn of the stretch, the promise of what's coming.
"I want your cock," Greg chokes out. "Please. Fuck me."
Joe pushes. The head slides past the ring of muscle, and Greg's back arches off the bed, a sound torn from his throat—half sob, half moan. The stretch is overwhelming, the fullness already too much, and Joe stops, buried just an inch inside him.
"Good boy," Joe murmurs. "Now. Ask for the next inch."
Emmy's hand tightens on his throat—not choking, just pressure, a reminder of who owns this moment. "He asked you a question, pretty boy." Her voice is silk over steel. "The next inch. You want it, don't you?"
Greg's breath comes in short, wet gasps. Joe's cock is still buried that single inch inside him, the stretch a burning promise, and his whole body trembles with the need to either push onto it or pull away. He can't decide which. Both. Neither.
"I—" His voice breaks. "Yes."
"Yes, what?" Joe's thumb traces lazy circles on Greg's inner thigh, patient, unhurried. The head of his cock pulses against the tight ring of muscle, not pushing deeper, just waiting.
"I want the next inch." The words feel like they belong to someone else. A stranger. A whore.
"You want my cock deeper in your tight little sissy cunt?" Joe's voice is warm, almost kind, and that makes it worse. "Say it."
Greg's eyes squeeze shut. Tears slip down his temples, soaking into the blonde wig. "I want your cock deeper in my—" He chokes. Can't.
Emmy's grip on his throat tightens, just a fraction. "Say it, baby. You know the words. You've dreamed them."
"In my cunt," Greg whispers. "Please. I want your cock deeper in my cunt."
Joe pushes. Another inch slides in, slow and inexorable, and Greg's back arches off the mattress, a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest—half sob, half moan. The stretch is exquisite, burning, too much and not enough.
"Good sissy," Joe murmurs. "Taking it so well. Your ass is hungry for it, isn't it?"
Greg can't answer. His hands clench into fists above his head, the leather cuffs biting into his wrists, and he feels his cock throb against his belly, leaking another stripe of pre-cum across the ruined satin.
Emmy's hand slides down his chest, over the corset, resting on his stomach. She presses down, just slightly, and Greg feels Joe inside him—feels the shape of him through the thin wall of flesh. "Look at that," she breathes. "I can feel him in you. He's filling up my sissy boy."
Joe doesn't move. Just stays there, buried two inches deep, letting Greg adjust to the intrusion. His hand finds Greg's hip, grips hard enough to bruise, possessive and claiming.
"You're so tight," Joe says, low and wondering. "Tighter than I imagined. And I've imagined a lot, Greg. Late at night, thinking about what it would be like to have you like this."
Greg whimpers. His hips twitch, caught between the urge to push onto Joe's cock and the urge to escape. The movement makes Joe's cock shift inside him, and a jolt of pleasure arcs through his body, making his toes curl in the stockings.
"Did you feel that?" Emmy's voice is sharp with delight. "He felt that, didn't he? Your little sissy cunt clenching around him."
"Ask for the next inch," Joe says. His voice is strained now, the first crack in his composure. "I want to hear you beg for every single one."
Greg shakes his head, but his body betrays him—his hips roll forward, taking Joe deeper, and a moan spills from his lips. "Please," he gasps. "Please, I want—"
"Want what?" Emmy's mouth is against his ear, her breath hot. "Tell him what you want him to do to you."
"I want you to fuck me," Greg chokes out. "Please, Joe. Fuck my—" He swallows. "Fuck my cunt. Make me feel it. Please."
Joe pushes. Another inch. Greg's vision whites out at the edges, the stretch overwhelming, and he hears himself sob as Joe's cock sinks deeper into him. Three inches. Maybe four. He's lost count. He's lost everything except the fullness, the burn, the heat of being opened.
"That's it," Emmy whispers. "That's my good little sissy. Taking it. Taking all of it."
Greg's hips push back again, desperate and uncoordinated, trying to swallow the rest of Joe's cock in one hungry thrust. The leather cuffs bite into his wrists as he strains against them, his whole body arching toward the fullness he craves.
Joe's hands lock onto Greg's hips, holding him still. The stretch inside Greg pulses, Joe's cock lodged somewhere deep but not deep enough, and Greg whines—a high, broken sound that slides through the humid air.
"Ah-ah," Joe murmurs. "Not yet, pretty boy. You need to earn this."
Greg's head thrashes against the pillow, the blonde wig slipping, strands of synthetic hair sticking to his tear-wet cheeks. "Please," he gasps. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." Joe's voice is soft, almost kind, and somehow that makes it worse. "But wanting isn't the same as deserving."
Emmy's hand finds Greg's chin, forces his head to the side, makes him look at her. Her brown eyes are dark, glittering with something hungry and proud. "My stupid little sissy," she breathes. "Look at you. Three inches of your friend's cock in your ass and you're trying to impale yourself on the rest. What would your mother think?"
A sob tears from Greg's throat. The words hit him like a slap, and his cock twitches, leaking another stripe of pre-cum across his belly. The shame burns—but underneath it, the arousal sharpens, cutting deeper.
"That's right." Emmy's thumb traces his lower lip. "Your mother's boy, spread open on a gay man's cock, begging for it. Begging to be filled like the cheap little whore you are."
Greg's hips buck again, involuntary, and Joe's grip tightens, nails biting into the soft flesh above Greg's hip bones. "You want the rest?" Joe asks.
"Yes." The word comes out broken, wet.
"Then look at me."
Greg's eyes find Joe's. His dark eyes are patient, hungry, waiting. There's no cruelty in them—just a steady, burning want that makes Greg feel seen in a way that terrifies him.
"Tell me what you are," Joe says.
Greg's mouth opens. Closes. His breath shudders out of him in a sob. "I'm—" The words stick in his throat, barbed and jagged.
Emmy's hand slides down his chest, rests on his stomach, presses just enough that he can feel Joe's shape through the thin wall of flesh. "Tell him, baby. You know what you are."
"I'm a sissy," Greg whispers. His face burns, tears sliding hot down his temples. "I'm a faggot."
Joe shakes his head slowly. "That's not it. That's the easy part. What are you?"
Greg's whole body trembles. His cock aches, desperate and untouched, and the fullness of Joe inside him is the only anchor in a world that's spinning apart. "I'm your whore," he chokes out. "I'm a cock-hungry little whore and I need your—" His voice breaks, comes back smaller. "I need your cock in my cunt. Please. Please, Joe. Let me have it. Let me have all of it."
Joe's breath catches—a tiny crack in his composure, the first real evidence that this is affecting him too. His eyes darken. His grip on Greg's hips shifts, positioning him.
"One inch," Joe says. His voice is rough now. "Beg for one inch, and you get it."
Emmy leans close, her lips brushing Greg's ear. "Go on, pretty boy. Beg for your friend's cock. Make him want to give it to you."
Greg's eyes screw shut. His hands clench, the cuffs creaking. "Please," he gasps. "Please, Joe. Give me another inch. Fill my—my cunt with your big fat cock. I need it. I need you inside me, please—"
Joe pushes. Another inch slides in, slow and inexorable, and Greg's back bows off the mattress, a keening moan pouring out of him as the stretch blooms through his body. Four inches. Maybe five.
"Good sissy," Joe murmurs. "Now. Ask for the next one."
Joe holds still, five inches deep, and Greg's body pulses around him—a desperate, rhythmic clenching that betrays exactly how much he wants more. The lamp casts long shadows across the bedroom, catching the sheen of sweat on Greg's chest, the smear of pre-cum on his belly.
"Look at you." Emmy's voice is low and reverent. She traces a finger along the edge of the corset, following the curve of his waist. "Look at what you're letting him do to you."
Greg's eyes are glassy, tears tracking through the makeup she spent an hour perfecting. His chest heaves under the silicone breasts, the satin gown bunched around his hips, the blonde wig a tangled halo on the pillow.
"You love it," Emmy says. It's not a question. "You love being used by a man."
Greg shakes his head—a tiny, desperate motion—but his cock throbs, another pearl of pre-cum beading at the tip, and Joe's cock twitches inside him, and the denial dies in his throat.
"Tell me." Emmy's hand slides down, wraps around his cock, and Greg cries out—the first touch he's had there in what feels like hours. "Tell me the truth, or I stop. I send Joe home. You spend the rest of your birthday tied to this bed, empty and aching."
Greg's hips buck, trying to fuck into her fist, but she holds him still, her grip firm and unrelenting. "Emmy—"
"The truth, Greg."
Joe shifts his weight, and the movement sends a shockwave through Greg's body, the angle changing just enough that Joe's cock presses against something that makes stars burst behind Greg's eyelids. He sobs. His hands clench against the cuffs.
"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, I—I love it. I love being used. I love—" His voice breaks. "I love that he wants me. That you want me to be his."
"Whose?" Emmy's grip tightens on his cock, just shy of painful. "Say his name."
"Joe's." The word comes out wrecked. "I love being Joe's little—" He swallows. "—sissy. I love that he's fucking me. That you're making me take it."
"And?"
Greg's eyes find hers, desperate and pleading. "And I want more. I want all of him. Please, Emmy, please—make him give me all of it."
Emmy's lips curve, slow and satisfied. She looks up at Joe, her hand still wrapped around Greg's slick cock. "You heard him. He wants to feel useful. He wants to be your little cocksleeve."
Joe's jaw tightens. His hips press forward just slightly, testing, and Greg's mouth falls open, a high whine spilling out. "He's tight," Joe murmurs. "So fucking tight. I could stay here all night."
"Then make him earn it," Emmy says. "Make him tell you what he really is."
Joe's hand cups the back of Greg's thigh, thumb pressing into the soft flesh. "You heard your wife. What are you, Greg?"
Greg's chest heaves. His tears have smeared the mascara, black tracks running down his temples, and his voice comes out thin and broken. "I'm your whore. I'm a faggot. I'm a—" He chokes. "I'm a sissy who needs a real man's cock to feel whole."
"Say it again." Joe's voice is barely a whisper.
"I need your cock." Greg's hips roll, trying to take him deeper. "Please, Joe. Please. I need you to fill me. I need you to use me. I need—"
"Need what?"
"I need to be your bitch." The words tear out of him, raw and broken. "I need you to fuck me like I'm nothing. Like I'm just a hole for you. Please. Please, I'm begging you."
Joe's eyes meet Emmy's. Something passes between them—a shared understanding, a confirmation. Then Joe's hips pull back, slow, until only the tip remains, and Greg whines at the loss.
"Ask for it," Joe says. "Ask for every inch. And when I give it to you, you're going to take it and thank me."
Greg nods, frantic, his whole body trembling. "Yes. Yes, please. Give me your cock. Please, Joe. Fill my—" He sobs. "Fill my cunt. Make me feel it. Make me feel like your whore."
Joe pushes. One inch. Two. Greg's back arches, a guttural moan pouring out of him as Joe's cock sinks deeper, past where he's been before, opening him wider.
"That's it," Emmy breathes. "That's my good boy. Taking it. Taking all of it for your friend."
Joe's hips meet Greg's ass, flush, buried to the hilt. For a moment, no one moves. Greg's chest heaves, his eyes wide and wet, his mouth open on a silent cry. He can feel Joe everywhere—the weight of him, the heat, the impossible fullness that makes him feel split open and whole at the same time.
"Look at that," Emmy murmurs. She presses her palm against Greg's lower belly, feeling the shape of Joe inside him. "You took all of him. Every inch." She leans down, kisses the corner of his mouth. "I'm so proud of you, baby."
Greg's sob breaks free, raw and grateful. His hips shift, testing the fullness, and Joe groans—a low, rough sound that vibrates through Greg's bones.
"Thank you," Greg whispers. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—"
Joe's hand finds his, fingers threading through the cuffed grip. "You're welcome, pretty boy."
And then he begins to move.
Joe's hips pull back slow, the drag of his cock against Greg's inner walls drawing a broken whimper from deep in Greg's throat. Then he pushes forward, all the way, and Greg's back arches off the mattress, a guttural moan tearing past his lips—raw and animal and completely involuntary.
"Listen to that," Emmy murmurs, her hand still wrapped around Greg's cock, feeling it throb against her palm. "Listen to the sounds my husband makes when a real man fucks him."
Joe sets a rhythm—slow at first, deliberate, each thrust a statement. His hands grip Greg's hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the stockings, and Greg's head rolls back, the blonde wig fanning across the pillow, his mouth open on a silent cry.
"Look at you." Joe's voice is low, almost reverent. "So eager. So desperate. You've been wanting this for a while, haven't you, pretty boy?"
Greg's only answer is a choked sob, his hips rising to meet the next thrust, chasing it before Joe's even fully withdrawn.
"He has," Emmy says. She strokes his cheek, catching a tear with her thumb. "He's been dreaming about it for months. Waking up hard, whispering your name in his sleep." She leans close, her lips brushing his ear. "Did you think I didn't notice, baby? Did you think I couldn't tell?"
Greg shakes his head, a tiny motion, but his hips keep moving, fucked into submission by Joe's steady rhythm.
"Pathetic," Joe mutters, but there's no cruelty in it—just a kind of wonder. "You're fucking pathetic, you know that? Begging for it. Taking it. Loving it." His pace quickens, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. "Look at you. Look at what you've become."
Emmy's hand tightens on Greg's cock, her grip firm and knowing. "What has he become, Joe?"
"A whore." Joe's voice drops. "A pretty little whore in a dress, spread open for his wife's friend." He thrusts deeper, harder, and Greg's cry pitches higher. "My whore."
"Say it," Emmy breathes. "Tell him who you belong to."
"You," Greg gasps. "Emmy—"
"And him." Her hand moves, a slow stroke that makes Greg's whole body shudder. "Tell him."
Greg's eyes find Joe's—dark and hungry and patient. "You," he whispers. "I belong to you. I'm—" His voice breaks. "I'm your whore."
Joe's hips still, buried deep, and for a moment the only sound is Greg's ragged breathing. Then Joe leans forward, his chest pressing against the silicone breast forms, his lips close to Greg's ear. "That's right," he murmurs. "And don't you ever forget it."
He pulls back and thrusts, a long, deep stroke that makes Greg's eyes roll back. Emmy's hand works his cock in time with Joe's rhythm, and Greg is caught between them—filled and stroked, owned and loved, broken and whole.
"That's it," Emmy whispers. "That's my good boy. Taking it. Taking all of it."
Joe's pace builds, faster now, the slap of his hips against Greg's ass echoing off the walls. Greg's moans come in rhythm, each thrust punching a sound out of him, and his hands clench against the cuffs, desperate for something to hold.
"I'm close," Joe grunts as he pulls out. "You want it, pretty boy? You want me to fill you?"
Greg nods, frantic, babbling. "Yes, please, yes—"
"Then tell me what you are."
"I'm your whore. I'm your faggot. I'm—" Greg sobs. "I'm your cocksleeve. Please, Joe, please, I need it—"
Joe's hand finds Greg's throat, squeezing, a reminder of who's in control. "Earn it," he says, squeezing just enough to choke but not enough to hurt.
Greg’s eyes bulge as his hips search for Joe’s, his anus searching for that cock. Emmy laughs. ‘My little sissy whore acting like a true fag. Beg Joe to fill you with his seed!’
Greg strains to get out a plea for Joe to come inside him, to fill his ass with cum. He begs Emmy to tell Joe to fill his insides with his seed.
Joe's grip on Greg's throat loosens, and something in his eyes shifts—darkens, hungers, breaks free. He doesn't answer with words. He answers with his body.
Joe shoves back into Greg in one brutal, seamless thrust, buried to the hilt before Greg can draw breath. Greg's scream tears through the room—high and broken and grateful—as Joe's hips snap forward again, harder, faster, a rhythm that has no patience, no mercy.
"Faggot," Joe growls, slamming deep. "Sissy." Another thrust, harder. "Whore." The word punches out of him with each drive, a litany of degradation that makes Greg's eyes roll back.
Joe fucks him like he's starving for it—like years of wanting, of watching, of imagining have finally found their outlet. His hands grip Greg's hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the flesh above the stockings, and his breath comes in ragged, animal gasps.
Greg's moans pitch higher with every thrust, his body arching to meet each one, the satin gown bunched and twisted around his waist. The blonde wig has gone askew, strands plastered to his damp forehead, but he doesn't care—can't care—because Joe's cock is hitting something inside him that turns his brain to static.
"Cocksucker. Bitch. Cunt." Joe's voice is raw, barely human, each name a hammer blow. His pace quickens, the slap of his thighs against Greg's ass a wet, relentless percussion.
Emmy's hand tightens on Greg's cock, a slow, deliberate squeeze—not enough to push him over, just enough to keep him teetering on the edge. Her thumb circles the head, spreading pre-cum, and Greg whimpers, caught between Joe's merciless pounding and her teasing grip.
"Let Joe make you cum like the faggot whore you are, baby." Emmy's voice is low and honeyed, cutting through the animal sounds. "He's fucking away your manhood in front of me, and you're loving it. Look at you." She presses her free hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammer. "You're going to come from getting fucked in the ass. Just like the fag sissy you are."
Greg's sob turns into a gasp as Joe drives deeper, harder, his pace relentless. The headboard knocks against the wall, a steady drumbeat that matches the slap of skin on skin.
"You feel that?" Emmy's hand slides down Greg's stomach, pressing flat against his lower belly. "You feel him inside you? That's a real man, Greg. That's what you needed all along."
Joe's rhythm loses its precision, turns violent and desperate. His breath hitches, a growl building in his chest. "Argh—I'm going to come," he groans, veins bulging in his neck as he thrusts deep, harder, each stroke a statement of ownership.
He slams forward one last time, buried to the hilt, and his body locks up as his seed spurts deep inside Greg—hot, thick, pulsing. A guttural roar tears from his throat, animal and triumphant.
Emmy pushes down on Greg's stomach, hard, so he can feel Joe's cock twitching, pumping, filling him. "Feel that, you fucking whore," she hisses. "Feel him fill your sissy cunt."
Greg's body convulses, his cock throbbing in Emmy's grip, but she holds him at the edge—waits, watches, savoring the desperate sounds falling from his lips. “Oh my god you’re about to ccome like a woman aren’t you?” shes says derisively.
"Well, come like a bitch, Greg!" Emmy screams, her voice cracking with raw command. "Come like the cock-hungry faggot you are!"
She strokes him hard, once, and Greg shatters.
Greg's scream tears through the room—deep and raw and broken, a sound that seems to come from somewhere beneath his ribs. His body arches off the bed as his cock pulses, spurting thick ropes of cum across Emmy's hand, across his own stomach, across the twisted satin gown. Hot and white and endless, each pulse wrenched from him like a confession he didn't know he was making.
His whole body convulses, muscles locking and spasming, the cuffs rattling against the bedposts as he bucks through the aftershocks. Joe's hips press deep, grinding, riding out his own release, and Greg feels every pulse of Joe's cock inside him—deep, hot, claiming. Joe's seed fills him, leaks around the shaft, trickles down his thighs.
Greg's vision whites out, then returns in fragments: the ceiling fan spinning slow, the lamp's yellow glow, Emmy's face hovering above him. She's smiling—soft and satisfied and cruel—and her hand is still wrapped around his cock, feeling it twitch through the last spasms.
"That's it," she whispers, her voice honey-warm against his ear. "That's my good little sissy. Let it all out. Let Joe take everything you've got."
Greg's throat works, but no sound comes out—just a broken, reedy whimper as his hips give one last involuntary thrust against Joe's spent cock. His fingers clench and unclench in the cuffs, desperate for something solid, something real.
Joe's weight settles over him, chest to back, sweaty and heavy and breathing hard. His lips brush Greg's shoulder, and he murmurs something low and satisfied that Greg can't quite catch—just the vibration of it, the warmth.
"Look at you," Emmy breathes, her thumb tracing a slow circle through the mess on Greg's stomach. "Covered in your own cum. Full of his. Just a wet, used little whore on your birthday."
Greg's eyes flutter, half-closed, tears and mascara tracking down his cheeks. He can feel Joe's heart hammering against his spine, feel Emmy's fingers trailing through the slick heat on his skin.
"You took him so well," Emmy continues, her voice dropping to something almost tender. "All those inches. All that cock. Opened right up for him like a good little faggot."
Joe shifts, pulls out slowly—a wet, deliberate drag that makes Greg gasp, his body clenching around the sudden emptiness. A trickle of warmth follows, sliding down his inner thigh, and he shudders at the sensation.
Joe collapses beside him on the rumpled sheets, one hand draped across Greg's hip, possessive even in exhaustion. His breath comes in long, ragged pulls, and his eyes are half-lidded, satisfied, watching Greg with a hunger that's finally been fed.
Emmy bends down, her lips brushing Greg's ear. "You're beautiful like this," she murmurs. "All broken open. All mine."
Greg's chest hitches—a sob or a laugh, he can't tell anymore. The corset digs into his ribs, the wig is a tangled mess beneath his head, and he can feel Joe's cum seeping into the sheets beneath him.
Emmy straightens, looks down at him with those warm brown eyes that miss nothing. Her red lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile.
"Happy birthday, bitch."