Chapter 2: The Transformation
Jan sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, feet planted wide. The harness cut a dark line across her hips, the silicone cock jutting from the O-ring, thick and obscenely veined, curving slightly upward. She let him take her in. She gave him that much.
"Turn around."
Brett turned, slow, hands rising to his chest like a girl caught in a spotlight. The skirt lifted with the motion, showing the garter clips biting into the stockings, the leather corset cinching his waist above the swell of his hips. His legs were bare between the stockings and the skirt hem, hairless, smooth, gleaming with the last of the moisturizer she'd left on the counter.
"Mmm." She didn't move from the bed. "You keep that in a suitcase at work."
"Yes."
"And you thought I'd never find it."
"I never thought you'd look."
She stood. She crossed to him on bare feet, and he could feel her presence close the way you feel heat off an engine. Her fingers walked up his thigh, over the silk of the stocking. She hooked one finger under the waistband of the skirt at his hip and pulled it taut, then let it snap back with a soft crack against his skin.
"On the bed. On your back. Hands above your head."
He climbed up, the mattress dipping under his weight, the skirt shifting around his waist. He reached up and grasped the wooden slats of the headboard. Jan didn't touch the cage she'd set on the nightstand. Not yet. She climbed on top of him, knee either side of his ribs, her weight pressing down, the strap-on's shaft resting flat along his chest.
"Now," she said, voice dropping low and warm, "tell me about your best one. The best man you ever let fuck you."
His mouth went dry. "Which one?"
"The one that made you feel most like a whore."
Brett's eyes fluttered shut. "Vegas. His name was Marcus. I met him on a work trip. Three-day conference at a casino hotel. I messaged him on Grindr first night, sent him a video of me in this skirt, teasing myself, showing him my asshole after I'd cleaned it."
"What did he say?"
"He said, you're going to come to my room at the Palms and I'm going to destroy that married sissy pussy." Brett's voice came quicker now, the confession finding its own momentum. "I was high on poppers and nervous as hell. I wore the skirt under my jeans, the camisole under my hoodie. I walked through that casino with my cock hard as a rock, knowing no one knew what I was wearing underneath."
Jan slid off him. She moved to the foot of the bed, lifted his legs, pressed them back toward his shoulders. The skirt fell away, baring him. She reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, poured a slick pour into her palm, and worked it into his crack, two fingers pressing at his hole.
"Go on."
"He fucked me raw." Brett gasped as her finger slid inside him. "No condom. He said he wanted to feel every inch of that married cunt squeeze him, and I let him. He had me bend over the armchair in his suite. He held my head down with one hand and fucked me so hard I drooled on the carpet. He called me his little white bitch wife."
"Did he use anything else?"
"A sounding rod." His voice broke. "He had a steel rod, thin, and he pushed it into my cock while he fucked my ass. I came so hard I blacked out for a second, and he didn't stop. He just kept pumping until he shot all over my back."
U
Jan hummed. Her finger found the second knuckle, then the third. She worked him open, slow, patient, and he was already loose from his own prep, but she went deeper anyway, curling, searching for the spot that made his spine arch.
"You liked him owning you."
"I loved it."
She pulled her hand away. She reached for the cage, the steel cylinder cold and heavy. She stroked his cock once, twice, watching it stiffen despite his trembling, then she guided it into the cage and slid the lock through the ring. Click. The metal closed around him, the pressure intimate and absolute.
"Mine now," she said.
She repositioned, knees either side of his thighs. She took the silicone shaft in her fist, slicked it with lube, and pressed the head against his hole, worse than a finger, thick and ungiving after three months of nothing but that steel and her hand.
"Wait," he breathed.
"Not happening."
She pushed. His hole resisted for one hot second, then gave with a wet sensation that made him cry out. The head popped past his rim and sank into him, inch by inch, the silicone hot from being held against her body. He watched her face as she fucked him, calm and focused, her jaw set, her hips rolling in a slow grind that seated the whole shaft deep inside him.
"God, Jan."
"I got a call on the girls' trip," she said, rolling her hips again, feeling him clench around her. "Last month. Cancun. You remember."
"Yes."
"I met a man at the pool. Big, tall, dark skin, arms like tree trunks. He bought me drinks all afternoon and I let him." She angled her thrusts harder now, each one punching a gasp out of him. "He had a hotel room on the ninth floor. I went up with him because I was drunk and I was thinking about your Grindr messages and I was so angry I wanted to be a whore too."
She grabbed his hips, picked up the pace, the slap of their bodies filling the room.
"He fucked me raw. Came inside me. Told me he was breeding my married cunt, and I came so hard I clawed the sheets." She leaned down, her mouth inches from his ear. "And I'm going to do it again, Brett. And this time, you're going to watch."
She kept fucking him through the confession, slow and deep, each roll of her hips pressing the strap-on's base against her clit. Brett's hands stayed locked on the headboard, his mouth open, breath ragged, the steel cage pressing hard at the base of his trapped cock. Jan watched him the way you watch something you've just caught.
Then the phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She didn't stop thrusting. Her hand shot out, grabbed it, glanced at the screen. A Grindr notification, bright and lewd in the dark. She slowed, then stopped entirely, the shaft still buried inside him.
"Your phone's been pinging every minute since I started," she said. "You didn't think to silence it?"
"I forgot," Brett breathed. "I never brought it home. I swear."
She pulled out of him in one long, wet slide, leaving him gasping on the sheets, his hole still gaping, twitching. She sat on the edge of the bed, pale light from the screen washing over her face, and thumbed at the lock screen.
"Password."
"Six-eight-oh-four."
She typed it in. The home screen bloomed open, and she tapped the Grindr icon without asking. The app flickered open to his profile: no face, just a shot of a smooth chest in black lace, the caption reading married sissy, needs a real man. Her mouth twitched at the corner.
"Thirty-four missed messages." She scrolled. "Cute. You've got a regular fan club, don't you?"
"Jan, please. That's not me anymore. That's who I was."
She looked at him over the screen. "No. That's who you are. I'm just the one holding the phone now."
She turned back to the screen. Her fingers moved over the keyboard, tapping out a new post. Brett tried to crane his neck and see what she was writing, but she angled the screen away.
The app updated with a soft chime. She turned the phone around and showed him.
The post was written in his profile, under his fucking photo, in his name: "Married sissy and his wife. She wants a real man to come use her, then use him after. Our home and marriage bed, tonight. Send cock pics."
Brett stared at the words, chest heaving.
"You can't."
"Can't what? Preview a draft before I send it?" She turned the phone back, tapped once. Another chime. "Too late. It's live."
She ran her hand down the length of the silicone cock still strapped to her hips, slick with him, and smiled. "Now, my little sissy. Let's see who shows up first."