Greg's heels clicked hollow against the stairwell concrete. Each step pulled the corset tighter against his ribs, the satin gown whispering around his thighs. Joe's hand pressed firm against his lower back, guiding him upward, and Emmy's breath warmed the nape of his neck. They reached the landing, and Greg heard the key turn in the lock.
The door swung open. Emmy stepped aside, and Greg felt Joe's hand nudge him forward into the dark apartment. The familiar smell of Emmy's jasmine candle hit him, and then the door clicked shut, sealing them inside.
Joe's hands found Greg's waist and spun him around. The movement sent the gown swirling, and Greg's blonde wig shifted across his shoulders. Joe's eyes raked over him—dark, hungry, seeing past the makeup and satin to something Greg didn't want named. Not a woman. The thing he'd become. "Vanessa," Joe breathed, and the name landed like a brand.
Greg stepped back. His heel hit the wall. He couldn't go further. His cock, traitor and throbbing, pushed against the satin, a damp spot blooming at the tip. Joe's gaze dropped to it, and a slow smile spread across his face.
"You told him you'd share me." Greg's voice cracked. He felt the words scrape out of his throat. "Didn't you?"
Emmy stepped forward. Her hand found his—fingers sliding between his gloved ones—and she looked into his eyes. The steel in her gaze froze him. Not cruelty. Ownership. "Share?" She tilted her head, her dark hair catching the streetlight through the blinds. "I told Joe I want to watch him take Vanessa tonight."
Greg's chest seized. The corset dug into his lungs. He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
Joe closed the gap. His arms wrapped around Greg's waist, pulling him against a broad, solid chest. Greg felt the heat of Joe's body through the satin, the rough press of his hands spanning across his back, and then Joe's mouth found his neck. It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim—lips and tongue and teeth dragging across his skin, biting, sucking, ravaging. Greg gasped. His hands came up to push, but Joe's grip was iron, unyielding, holding him locked in place.
Greg's eyes found Emmy across the room. She stood with one hand braced against the wall, her breathing already quicker, her pupils blown wide. She watched. Approving. Satisfied. Her lips parted slightly, and Greg saw the hunger in her face.
His mind screamed. Push him off. Run. Say no. Do something.
But his body didn't move. It stayed soft and yielding in Joe's grip, trembling, alive. His cock pulsed against the damp satin, and Joe felt it. Joe ground forward, and Greg felt the hard length of him pressing against his own trapped erection through the layers of fabric. A low growl rumbled in Joe's chest against his back.
"No limits," Emmy said, her voice low and warm. "You agreed, Greg. It's time you learned what being a woman is like. You might as well relax and enjoy it."
The words hit him like a fist to the gut. Sold out. Sold. His girlfriend was watching him get taken. Joe's hands roamed across his body—down his sides, over his padded hips, up to his false breasts, squeezing and groping, everywhere at once. Joe's mouth found his neck again, biting hard enough to leave a mark, and Greg felt ownership bloom into his skin.
Greg tried to squirm. Joe's grip tightened, pulling him impossibly closer. Their erections pressed together through the satin, grinding, and Greg felt Joe's breath hot against his ear. "That's it, Vanessa. Let it happen."
Emmy pushed off the wall. "The bedroom's this way." She motioned toward the hallway, her voice breathy, her dark eyes fixed on them. Greg followed her gaze and saw the door to her room standing open. Pink satin sheets glittered on the bed—fluffy, girly, virginal. A bed dressed for a deflowering.
Joe's hand clamped around Greg's wrist and pulled. His heels stumbled across the hardwood. Joe's grip didn't loosen—guiding, steering, owning his direction. They stopped at the foot of the bed, and Joe reached for the zipper at the back of Greg's gown.
Emmy's hand shot out and caught Joe's wrist. "No," she said, her voice a knife. "Vanessa stays dressed for you. Like the sissy she is."
Joe's hand dropped. A slow smile spread across his face. "Perfect."
Greg stood between them, trembling in his satin and corset, the damp spot cooling between his thighs, the name "Vanessa" ringing in his skull like a death sentence. Emmy's hand pressed flat against his lower back, guiding him down onto the pink satin sheets. He went, his body obeying before his mind could catch up, and the bed dipped beneath him. Joe followed, his weight pressing the mattress down, his hands finding Greg's hips in the darkness.