Personal Post

I wore this exact thing the other week when I begged my girlfriend to let me fuck her with my "big cock," which is this thing:

I admit she pulls it off better than I do. I'm a pretty skinny guy and I just couldn't keep my unsightly bulge from swelling up.

It was the first time I cross-dressed in front of her and the first time I fucked her with a strap-on. It was scary and exhilarating and fun and awesome and I want to do it again. She said her favorite part was when I fucked her with my "big cock." What that means for my biological tool, we shall see.

I am writing more. I promise. Updates soon.

Also putting this here. This is way hotter than any porn I have seen. Hysterical Literature.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQuT-Xfyk3o

The Price of Admission Part 3

[Not sure why this part was so hard for me to write. I guess the story got kinda real. Anyway, this is a necessary step for what's coming next in the story. I hope you enjoy.]

Let me just take a moment to stress that my involvement in what comes next started and ended with a single phone call in which I asked Darla to take my boy out and scare him a little. Everything else was her doing.

She met him in an upscale restaurant downtown. He showed up in worn sneakers and jeans, presumably arriving by bus. If I know Darla, she probably wore something black, sheer, tight, and more than a little intimidating. She mentioned a spiked necklace and black lipstick. The two of them had met at work when she was trying to sort out why she wasn’t receiving her mail. She was unimpressed with him. At 22, Darla was much closer to his age than mine, and cute too. She barely stood five feet tall, actually shorter than Roberts, I think. I’d had a soft spot for her since she joined the agency. A short girl with as much sass as she could always win me over. Besides, her brown ringlets and button nose were just irresistible.

“I took the chance and ordered you a salad,” she explained, “in case you showed up.”

“What kind of salad?” Roberts wanted to know.

He wore a cute pair of shorts and a ¾ shirt that ended just above his navel. He hadn’t shaved properly and an obstreperous tendril of stubble extended from his waistline and curled around his navel. Darla thought it was indicative of his general bad hygiene. Apparently, he managed to steer the conversation to his childhood illnesses, least favorite dogs,  and favorite daytime dramas within the first twenty minutes. You’ve got to love a boy as oblivious as that. He clearly felt uncomfortable in such a classy establishment, especially wearing what he was, particularly being served by a woman. When she spilled a drink on him, he tried to clean himself, but she insisted on rubbing the soda into his tight shorts.

Darla drove him all over town, to a new club with a line halfway around the block, to an old bar with retro games, out for a quick bite—she insisted on picking up her friend, Shelly—then back to the clubs. I don’t actually know Shelly, but I hear she’s a tall woman, and not entirely fit. I guess her breasts and belly have a way of escaping her shirt once she gets moving. Darla didn’t drink much, so that she could drive, but she never missed an opportunity to buy Roberts one, and Roberts never said no. Shelly (already plenty drunk herself) redoubled the effort, going shot for shot with the boy.

“Body shots!” she insisted. “Take it from my cleavage. No hands!” When he got close, she smacked his face around with her chest, laughing uproariously when he made a face and backed off.

Roberts obviously knew what he was doing on the dance floor, swaying his hips seductively, backing his ass up when someone took up behind him, singing, shaking, writhing, and moaning. Darla said it was a treat to watch, even though she didn’t like to dance. Shelly was more than happy to take her place, her hands sliding along his skin, groping his nubile angles. During a particularly intense bump-and-grind, she got so hot and red that she had to stop and get a drink by herself, leaning over the bar as she fanned herself. In the absence of her touch, Roberts happily took over the groping himself, rubbing up and down the skinny frame beneath his clothes.

”He’s a slut,” Shelly noted to Darla.

They asked Roberts to take them back to his place. Apparently he had an out-of-town friend. As they drove, the night air blowing through the open windows gave a therapeutic, if not entirely desired, reprieve from the heat and sweat and heady scents of the writhing bodies of the club. The wind pulled the hot moisture from their hair and clothes. “How old did you say you were?” Shelly shouted back to Roberts over the loud music.

“Eighteen.”

The women tittered. “You look older,” said Shelly. “Like a grown man.”

“Let me see your hands,” she said a little while later, turning around to face him. “Wow! It’s so tiny.” She curled her much-longer digits over his fingers. “The other boys must be so jealous of your tight, little body.”

“Well, I guess s-uh-so. I don’t know. I never got tha-uh-that much attention in school.”

“Shut up!” insisted Shelly. “You’re so cute you don’t even know it. That’s so cute. I mean, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but believe me when I say that a lot of girls would want nothing more than an itty-bitty honey on their lap like you.” She shot him a smile, “Like me.”

The women helped him open all the windows of the house, letting in the cool night. Shelly produced a flask from somewhere deep in her purse and they set to talking sitting on a couple of sofas beside the open kitchen. Darla finally found something in common with him in the stacks of boxes around the room. “There’s no way that Shelly Harlot is better than Fierceness. Never. No superhero can beat the depth of character and constantly changing plots of Fierce. Female or male,” insisted Darla

“Fierce is such a boring choice. That’s like saying you’re into asian teen porn. So done already,” poo-pooed Roberts.

“Anyway,” Darla dismissed his opinion, “it’s just cool to meet a boy who likes comics. The whole community is a fish market, as you know. The hairy virgins scare off the normal boys.”

Roberts agreed,  safely removing from her hands off the first edition Shelly Harlot comic One. “But you know why that is, right? Who’s your favorite male superhero? Can you even name one?”

“I guess Alan Orangutan is kinda cool. I don’t know. They all just seem so manly, you know?”

“Exactly,” said Roberts. “It’s pretty boring when they’re all long-legged, shapely, toned Adonises whose only problem is which superwoman to fall in love with at the end.”

“I’m not into comics,” interjected Shelly, finishing off the flask with a long swig, “but I can do a cool magic trick. Check this out.” She pulled a length of cord from her purse and sitting next to Roberts, close. “I’ve been practicing this everywhere, on the bus and stuff. It’s very relaxing when your hands take over and you don’t have to think anymore. So if I do this,” she grabbed his wrists together in one of her hands and wrapped the rope around them a few times, “and then like his,” she tied some kind of knot in the middle, “then you will find you can’t take your hands apart. See?”

Roberts struggled a bit, rubbing his wrists together without any change in the rope. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m stuck.”

“Come on now,” Shelly pushed Roberts back into the cushion. “Try harder. Really try now.”

Roberts struggled a little more with no change.

“Come on now, if you do this...” she helped pull down on his hands the knot, rope, and all spooled off his wrists like thread. “Easy. You’re free.”

“That’s not really a magic trick,” complained Roberts. “That’s just tying a knot.”

“Anything is magic if the reveal is surprising enough,” Shelly responded. “Do you have anything else to drink?”

“There’s something in the fridge,” said Roberts, getting to his feel. After a couple of steps, he nearly broke his ankle in his tall, red heels.

“Careful now,” called Shelly, standing to join him. She touched him on the ankles as he steadied himself against the wall. Her finger traced this inside of his leg as she stood, drawing a shiver of energy up his spine.

“Hey now,” he cautioned.

“What?” asked Shelly. “You don’t want me touching you?”

He smiled at her over his shoulder, “You can look, but you can’t touch.”

Shelly laughed bitterly. “What? You’re not a frigid bitch, are you?”

Roberts returned with the beer. “Please don’t use that kind of language with me. Here’s your beer. It’s my last one, so I hope you like it.”

Shelly took the beer in silence, lips pursed, eyes smouldering.

Darla asked, “Out of curiosity, how much did that beer cost?”

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug as he sat down. “Probably a buck and a half. Why?”

“You want to know how much I spent on you tonight?”

“Umm, I’m not sure. That was very nice of you. Thank you.”

Darla smiled coldly. “I think that’s the first time you’ve thanked me all night.”

Shelly shifted so she sat beside Roberts. “Let me see your hands again,” she asked.

“I don’t know…” he said. “Darla, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea- Hey!”

Shelly, despite her apparent drunkenness, moved fast and effectively, snatching his wrists and binding them just as fast. “Don’t worry, it’s the same knot. You can pull loose whenever you want to,” she explained.

“Please, Shelly,” he complained, tugging on the rope. This time it wasn’t just tied around his wrists, but also around the heavy iron frame of the couch. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not a comedian. I’m a magician, remember. I think my next trick will be to make you appear grateful. Do you want to thank my friend again?”

Roberts tugged this way and that but the rope held him tight, hands uselessly locked together. “I really did-ah-didn’t mean to give you lay-ladies the wrong idea.”

Shelly asked, “What idea would that be? That you want more than our money?”

“Le-let’s just call it a night, shall w-we?” Roberts tried to laugh, eyes searching desperately for mercy in Shelly’s smile. ‘Ju-j-just-ah-just untie me and-uh-and we’ll talk. Okay?”

Shelly said, “You look comfortable as you are.”

Darla was on her feet, standing over Roberts on the couch, and her foot edged closer to his crotch as she spoke. “You got something to show us under there? What are we working with?”

Roberts was in rare form, gasping and shaking and stuttering like never before. “Now I would have t-tuh-ah-told you earlier, only I wasn’t… I didn’t… oh please don’t hurt me.”

When they had his pants off, they saw what he was talking about.

“Where’s the key?” demanded Shelly.

“Tha-uh-um-huh-um-that’s the th-thing. My ex-eh-uh-ex-girlfriend has it.”

Darla was disappointed too. In my defense, I didn’t think things would get this far. I thought it would be a casual humiliation on the curbside in front of anonymous onlookers. I never really thought they’d get his pants off. Maybe he was just a bigger slut than I gave him credit for.

Shelly sat close now, her mouth inches from his ear, her flowing body draped over his thin, shivering form, her chest against his back, his skin pulled tight by the angle of his tied hands. “You know, that isn’t the only way we can have fun,” she suggested. Roberts struggled at his rope with renewed intensity. “Hush, hush. Calm,” she cooed as she ran a finger down his side, around the back to his ass. Darla took up in front of him while Shelly pulled his hips up to a kneeling position on the couch. Shelly started to open up his ass with one finger, then two, using the lube from her bottomless purse. Darla shimmied up her skirt and down her thong and guided Roberts’ protesting face towards her ass.

“No pussy for you,” Darla cautioned. “You haven’t earned it. Just lick my ass.”

Shelly asked, “Where are your toys?” but it was too late, Roberts was already occupied. So she started searching herself, wandering through the darkened house until she found a bedroom, and in the bottom drawer of the dresser, a collection of toys including an impressively sized, pink vibrator complete with bulging veins down its surface. “Is this yours?” she asked, returning, but Roberts couldn’t look away with Darla’s hand on the back of his head. “You must be some kind of slut,” insisted Shelly as she lubed up the pink appendage. Roberts’ moans rose urgent and jagged, muffled between pleas for mercy. “Hush that trash,” Shelly cooed into his ear. “Say something nice. We’re making love after all.” Roberts didn’t have anything nice to say.

When the women had had their fun, Shelly pet Roberts’ hair, matted with sweat. She asked Darla, “How much did you spend?”

Darla was flushed and still bottomless, leaving stains on an armchair. In the end Roberts had indeed gotten a taste of her pussy, not the he had asked for it (willingly). “Huh?”

“On him. Tonight. How much was it?”

“Shit,” murmured Darla as she thought. “Close to a hundred bucks. Those downtown drinks are crazy.”

“A hundred bucks!” Shelly whistled. “Do you think you got your money’s worth out of him?”

“Not really.”

The Birthday Present

This story, like so many others, is inspired by and dedicated to Mysty Mason, from whom all good ideas originate.

I will continue the other story soon. I wrote some parts out of order and now I have to knit it back together.

For my daughter, Rebecca’s, 16th birthday, I made possibly the greatest mistake of my life. Against my better judgement, at the strenuous urging of her mother, I paid for my daughter to be augmented. For those of you not from around here, that means she had an extended, in her case, enormous, sex organ grafted onto her existing sex organ. The plastic surgeons connect up all the nerves and whatnot, and women are able to use them just like cocks. It’s a weird fad, I always thought, but it doesn’t seem to be going away. Even my mother got herself augmented in her later years. The irony is that the women who are most in favor of female supremacy were the ones who were getting the fake cocks. Why would women who despise penises want their own?

“Well, it’s not exactly a penis,” my wife insisted at the parent-teacher conference.

“How is it not?” I asked.

Mrs. Haley, Rebecca’s math teacher, was herself augmented, and had brought up the idea. “It’s much more than a simple penis. There are more nerve endings in the head than you have in your whole body, for a start. The fluid that it produces is far different from cum. In fact, some say it has restorative and energizing properties.”

“Propaganda,” I dismissed her.

Mrs. Haley persisted, “I don’t want to have to be the one to explain this, but a social dynamic develops among the upper classmen. Certain girls lead and certain girls follow. If she isn’t augmented before the end of puberty, she will miss out on the height and muscle growth that are side effects of the process. She will never be able to captain the soccer team if she can’t compete physically. And besides, and this is the really ugly part, there’s a respect thing. So many of the girls are getting them these days, those who do don’t just get treated differently. And heaven help the boys!”

Rebecca had begged me for years. One by one each of her friends had gotten their augmentations, and sure enough the procedure was followed by a spurt of growth for each one. Little Sandy, an adorable girl in her youth, now towered over both of us when she came over to dinner. But the growth also brought an attitude, I couldn’t help but notice. A devil-may-care disrespect for anything getting in the way of their wants. Maybe that’s just adolescence, like my wife says, but it seemed like something more.

Amy, my wife, had made up her mind years ago. Starting at age 11, when Rebecca was just a waifish pre-teen, Amy started transferring power over to her. When Amy left town for a week for work, she insisted I listen to Rebecca.

“I can’t make her grilled cheese again. It’s not healthy,” I explained to my wife on the phone.

“Put me on speaker,” she insisted. “Rebecca, you can’t eat only bread and cheese, it’s not good for you.”

“Mommy,” Rebecca’s voice whined. She was so whiney at that age. “You said I was in charge.”

“I did say that, but being in charge means the responsibility to do right for everyone. You can’t take advantage of it.”

“Well then I guess I’m not in charge,” she huffed, sitting in a dining room chair in the angriest way a person has ever sat in a chair.

“I’m sorry, Dave,” Amy told me, “I did say she was in control. You need to learn to give up some control to her even if it goes against your better judgement. You need to let her make her own mistakes.”

“This is absurd,” I insisted. “I shouldn’t have to eat garbage just because an 11 year old wants to.”

“Baby, that 11 year old is my daughter and you will treat her with respect.”

She was only “our” daughter when she needed something from me. The rest of the time she was Amy’s daughter. In truth, Amy had conceived her with DNA from an anonymous woman in a database. This donor had great education, employment, intelligence and was beautiful to boot. The decision hurt me deeply at the time, but I always treated Rebecca as my own flesh and blood.

Amy was happy to take advantage of that fact at other times. As the big birthday approached, she insisted I accompany Rebecca to the clinic. “It would be nice if you paid for the operation too.”

“Me? Why?” Amy easily made four dollars aor every one that I scraped out at work, and I hated the idea in the first place.

“It’s just a nice father-daughter thing to do. All of her friends had their fathers beside them, even Sandy, whose dad is divorced and lives in another state. Seriously.”

“Doesn’t the whole thing seem weird to you? I mean, I’ll be expected to… test it out. This is inscest, right? It’s creepy.”

“Well, first of all, you’re not her real father, so don’t worry about that. But you know how hard it is to get a boyfriend, especially a big girl like her. There’s, like. five girls to every guy at her school since everyone has two moms these days. If she had a boyfriend or something, of course, it would make sense for Rebecca to go with him, but she just doesn’t. Don’t make this hard, baby.”

The receptionist at the doctor’s office wasn’t augmented, but the doctor was. Her scrubs laid flat across her oversized member. “Are you excited to take this next step?”

“I am,” gushed Rebecca.

“It’s very exciting. You can become more woman than you ever imagined while also taking the best parts of being a man. You will become the perfect completion of humankind. And what about you, Pops? Are you excited?”

I forced a smile.

Rebecca flipped through the book of penises, each a surprisingly tasteful picture of a woman against a nondescript background. “Definitely this one,” she selected. “It’s love at first sight.”

I nearly choked when I saw it. “Is that the biggest one in the book?”

Rebecca blushed. Doctor Holly shushed me, “Don’t shame her for being honest. A lot of girls don’t have the nerve to pick that one.”

“It better not be this color though,” she worried. “Are they all this white-pink color?” Unlike her mother and I, Rebecca had bronze skin made brown from a summer of tanning.

The doctor patted her knee, “Don’t worry, we’ll grow it from your own skin. Normally we could even have a relative, a brother or cousin or something grow it and then graft it onto you, but I see that there is no one genetically close to you.”

“I’m an original,” Rebecca confirmed.

“Won’t the big one be be, like, hard to clean or something?” I objected.

The doctor swayed her head noncommittally. “It does need to be cleaned regularly, like all the others. Both urine and secretions to keep the tubes open. I expect dad will be helping with that.”

I nodded.

“Have you been practicing?”

“Practicing?”

The doctor got up, shaking her head, and found her prescription pad.  “You’ll want some level of oral and anal training before the big day if you want this to go smoothly. The secretions will help your body adapt to the stresses of the cock, but behavioral therapy works best. The local recreational center has classes on blowjobs and I expect your wife can help with the other end.”

The largest cock also happened to be the most expensive. It amounted to nearly a quarter of my yearly income. My wife found it impolite to discuss money, so I couldn’t even complain.

A couple of weeks before the surgery, Rebecca came down to the dining room in her underwear, half in tears. “I don’t know,” she said. “Is it supposed to look like this?”

A tube of flesh had grown on her inner thigh, stretching from a few inches above her knee to her panty line, and a third the width of her meaty thigh. “Weird,” I whispered to myself.

Rebecca wailed, “I heard that. Oh my god I’m so embarrassed. I’m such a freak.”

“You’re not a freak,” Amy comforted her, petting her hair. “Your father didn’t mean it.” Rebecca’s growth spurt had already started. She stood a few inches taller than me, but still a few shorter than her mother.

“I didn’t mean it,” I repeated. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s so ugly,” she complained. “I’m scared it’s going to come out ugly.”

“It’s beautiful,” I insisted. “I think your legs look beautiful. And you’ll look even better after the surgery.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” Rebecca hugged me, squeezing out a little sigh. Suddenly she seemed coy and looked down at her feet. “Will you kiss it?” she asked.

“Oh, Rebecca, honey,” I started in a negative tone, but my wife caught my eye.

“That sounded like a direct request to me,” Amy said.

“You two can’t be serious.”

Amy said with a shrug, “you’ll be doing a lot more than that soon.”

They laughed while I kissed the bulging head of the proto-cock. That night, while my wife stretched my ass with her new strap-on, she said, “watching you kiss that growing cock was such a turn-on for me. I want to see more of that.”

I drove Rebecca to and from her surgery, ignoring the laughter of the ladies in the waiting room while I flipped through Futa Forward magazines, waiting for my new girl to emerge. When she did she was groggy and horny. I was able to get leave to work from home for a few days to better take care of my little girl, so I posted up in the study while she watched movies and shows in the next room. A few hours later, when I heard grunts and moans on the TV, I knew I was in trouble.

“Daddy,” her sore voice croaked through the house.

Her python was out and already inflated, hovering above the blankets of the sofa. On the TV a young boy was getting reamed by two women wearing strapons. The boy wore nothing but a chastity cage. “Will you help me?” she asked.

As humiliating as the display the other night was, it was nothing compared to actually sucking the cock. I hated the experience. Almost immediately the thing started leaking. I did my best to keep from dribbling on the blankets, but I was quickly overwhelmed. I swallowed mouthful after mouthful. The fluid tasted like my wife’s vagina, like the smell of body odor and dirty laundry. Rebecca’s long fingers went from gently caressing my hair to insistently pushing on my head. “Hang on now,” I tried to say, but only mumbled into her wide appendage. My mouth stretched wide to accommodate the whole head, the juice dripping straight down my throat. She slid her hips up, driving deeper and deeper into my mouth. When I finally gagged, she came right away, maybe in response to it. As I made my hurling sound, she pushed down hard on my head and blasted lump after lump of lady cum straight down my throat. I came up choking and wiping my mouth and eyes. “Thank you, Daddy,” she mumbled as she laid back to sleep.

The lady tyrant demanded my services again that morning, and then again in the afternoon. The fourth time I heard the call “Daddy? Daddy?” my stomach dropped. I already felt full to bursting with her disgusting cum. I’d always found my wife’s scent pleasant, but this new flavor stuck around in my mouth forever. Eventually Amy, who had gotten home from work, came by my door. “Rebecca wants you,” she said.

“I know.”

“Well?”

I groaned.

“Hey, I changed all the diapers when she was little. This is your job now.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. I changed the diapers.

“Well, it’s the idea anyway.”

I negotiated with the two of them that I would take it up the ass twice a day if I didn’t have to suck on the thing anymore. The doctor had said anal feedings were fine, but less effective for the curative properties. I was fine with taking the chance. My wife insisted on watching as her daughter took me for the first time. While I was cleaning myself I heard Rebecca calling, “Hurry! I feel like my balls are going to explode.”

When I got down there she was rubbing her nipples. “My whole body is tingling. My breasts are so sore. My ass tingles too.”

Amy nodded. “Must be the flood of hormones they were talking about.”

Rebecca dripped a few drops of her natural lubricant on my hole before entering. I squeezed a pillow as I bent over the sofa. Amy cringed in sympathy and patted my hand. “Slowly. Slowly,” I cautioned.

“Wow, this feels a lot better than his mouth,” Rebecca told her mother. “You must have done a good job on this ass.”

The cock was bigger than any strapon Amy owned, and felt different too. Once inside, the thing never stopped moving, never giving me a moment to relax. It pulsed with the heavy surging of blood and grew inside of me. Twice I had to crawl off of her from the immense pain, but she was understanding and backed off. “Alright, here we go,” she decided eventually, and started pumping my ass hard. I started moaning as each thrust drove the bulbous head deeper into my guts, but moans turned to screams as she got too deep. “Oh fuck yes, take it all,” she was shouting over my noise. My wife smiled sympathetically and brushed the hair from my eyes. “You’re doing so good,” she cooed.

“I don’t want… I don’t want…” I screamed.

Rebecca had her full weight on me now. My legs shivered under the pressure. With her added mass, the girl was probably heavier than me, and she felt it. She rubbed her chest across my back as she thrusted, her hands enclosing my shoulders. Finally she came, holding me so close I could almost feel her balls behind mine. She pulled out quickly, seemingly ripping my guts out with the bulbous head, dripping copious amounts of lady cum on the floor.

Amy said, “You did so good. I’m so proud of you honey. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Wait a sec- what’s that?”

She pointed to the puddle of filth between my legs.

“Is that… white? Is that boy cum?”

Sure enough another droplet oozed from my cock.

Amy hummed. “I don’t know how I feel about this. It’s pretty weird.”

Rebecca agreed, “Gross.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes and grabbed my limp cock. “It’s just something that happens,” I explained. “I didn’t get hard.”

That didn’t stop Amy from chewing me out earlier. “I just feel betrayed,” she explained. “I mean, that’s my daughter. If you have sexual feelings for her, then this is a big problem. You’re just supposed to be helping her out, not falling in love with her.”

No matter how many times I insisted that it wasn’t like that, she insisted that I go back to wearing my chastity enforcer. She had made me wear the thing for a time early in the relationship, but quickly gave it up in favor of spankings. Now, it seemed, she needed to know that I wasn’t getting erect. Ever, apparently, because there was no talk of a release date.

Rebecca invited her futa friends over more and more, especially Sandy, who started making comments about my figure when I’d leave the room. “That ass looks tight,” she noted. “Is it tight? I’m jealous. My dad’s old and basically used up already. I bet your dad squirms.”

Now that I was in chastity full time, the women seemed more lax about being discreet. On a few occasions, Amy invited Rebecca to take me in the kitchen in front of friends, thinking nothing of showing off my caged dick or her own new toy. Rebecca's freedom and newfound confidence radiated off of her and she began to wear nothing but a tight stretchy white shirt and her hip-hugging grey sweatpants around the house. All of her futa friends wore essentially the same thing when they came over.

In August I turned 35. My wife promised a memorable birthday and she delivered.

“I have something every special for you,” she told me at the dinner table at the end of the night. “I was looking over our finances and, as you know, Sweetie’s been asking for a rent boy who could take some of the pressure off of you. Well, we don’t have enough to hire help, but you could quit your job and look after Rebecca full time. What do you think?”

I didn’t know what to say. Some part of me would be happy never to wake up early and go to work again, but the other part dreaded what my life would become.

“I have a present too, Daddy,” said Rebecca. “Since we’ll be spending so much time together, I thought it would be fun to get you these.”

She presented a bag. Inside were panties, stockings, gloves and collars, all black and pink and uber sexy. “Oh my,” was all I could say. “You know about this?” I asked my wife.

Amy nodded. “We talked about it, and I see her point. It gets a little boring watching her take you the same way night after night. It would be fun to spice up the proceedings a little.

Rebecca asked, “Do you want to try some on before you post up on the couch?”

I sighed. “Oh, do I have to? I thought we could skip just this one.”

Rebecca shifted uneasily in her chair. “You know I have to cum and urinate twice a day to keep it clean. It’s dangerous to skip one.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I thought you could masturbate this once.”

Both women gasped. Amy spoke first, “That’s disgusting.”

“Gross, dad.”

“What?” I asked.

Amy tsked. “I know that it might not bother a chronic masturbator like you, but normal people don’t jerk off. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about this.”

I groaned. “It’s just so big. It kinda hurts. I hate having to do it every day. Twice. Isn’t there someone else who could help?”

Amy shook her head. “You’re being so selfish. I could understand if you didn’t like it up the ass, but I’ve been making you cum that way for years. Just stop complaining about it already.”

Of course there was no one else. It was an argument I had tried and lost already. Like every other night I ended up bent over the sofa, biting the pillow, only now I wore black lace panties while it happened. That night my wife refused to release me from chastity, saying I hadn’t been good enough. Instead she let me fuck her with a strap-on nearly twice the size of my little thing. It was probably all the same anyway, since I can hardly get hard after Rebecca’s hard reaming.

The Price of Admission Part 2

“How was it?” Roberts asked in a small voice.

“I thought you did well,” I said, getting up and putting on my black and floral, silk robe. “That was your first time, right?”

He nodded. His gangly limbs spread across the bed, his bright red cock shrinking back to its usual, unimpressive size. Across his white chest I had left my marks: raised red slashes and round red welts. They looked like footprints in fresh snow. “How did you like it?” I asked.

“It was, eh, was a little scary, at times. Um, but it was interesting. And fun.”

I walked around the room, opening windows and tidying the spots we had rolled, pushed, sprawled, and braced ourselves upon and through. I savored that particular sensation of silk sliding across my skin, especially after sex, especially in the cool night air. The stuffy smell of sex gave way to the crisp summer night air. In truth he hadn’t done all that well. When I first removed his chastity enforcer after our date, he came almost immediately. His penis skin could have been made of felt, it was so soft. Embarrassed, of course, he tried to make an awkward exit, but I instructed him to go make us a snack in the kitchen. Bless his heart, he made us grilled cheese in the waffle iron.

When his jumpy, mealy-mouthed chatter subsided, I made another move. He was eager if nothing else. Happy to follow instructions, happy to listen, but very little initiative, almost no passion. In short, he fucked not like a man but like a boy. Which, hey, that’s fair enough, sparkly new virgin that he was.

His eyes followed me as I moved around the room. I caught his gaze every now and then. “What?” I asked coquettishly. His look was intrigued but somewhat concerned. “I don’t know,” he said. “Some of it was kind of weird.”

“Like what?” I asked, sitting at the edge of the bed, letting the front of the kimono hang low and open below my breasts. He sat up with legs crossed like we did in kindergarten, his little dick retreating into itself. “I was doing what you asked,” he said softly, avoiding my gaze, “but you kept hurting me.”

I chuckled softly, gently, caressing the patchwork markings I’d left. “I wasn’t really hurting you,” I said, “it was just to turn you on. Get you going. None of them will be there in a couple hours.” Except the hickeys, which would probably bruise. I didn’t even want to see his back, where I did most of my clawing.

Roberts sort of pulled away and scooted to the other side of the bed where he let his legs hang down. “And I feel weird about the last thing.”

“The last thing?” I inquired. “Like when I was playing with your ass?”

He nodded, shoulder slumped in shame.

“Aw come on,” I said, crawling across the bed to him. I laid my head on his lap, right over his glistening member. “Lots of guys like it when I put something in there. I usually do more than a finger.”

“Well I didn’t like it,” he responded.

“Did it make you feel,” I bit his thigh, “violated?”

He jerked with a whimper of pain. “I don’t know. I guess so. It was just, mm, it was weird.”

I was on my knees, rubbing his back, my fingers bouncing across the furrows I’d left there. “Don’t feel bad. It’s just a normal part of sex. Do you want to know what I think?” He sort of sniffed and looked at me. “I think you actually liked it. I mean, you got way harder and you started humping me so much better. I thought it was great.”

“Do you mean that?” he asked, eyes searching for validation.

“Absolutely.”

Training a boy is like gardening. You can never create something totally new. You find your patch, with its overgrowths and twisting vines and you start to prune. A bit here, a bit there, you trim and cut back, and then you encourage growth and development. I could never have made Roberts into a total sissy if the sprouts weren’t already there. All I had to do was prune back the bravado and immaturity, the hang-ups and misgivings, and it was only a matter of letting his dependence and submissiveness grow. With a little love and constant caring, I could coax out the best parts of him, and start to mold the sissy I always wanted. Of course, it’s easy to talk about in the abstract. In reality, the process is never straightforward, as there are hidden snags and deep neuroses. Nor was I the only person making decisions here. Like it or not, Roberts could choose his own path in life, and at times it didn’t seem like he could be the person I wanted him to be.

School was over in a fall and Roberts had been so busy chasing skirts that he hadn’t planned properly. Since he wasn’t going to university and he didn’t have a job (well, he made pizzas), I found it necessary to step in. The first thing that had to go was his nasty shitbox car he had bought with pizza money. I couldn’t stand the embarrassment of having that thing outside of my house at night (never in the driveway because it leaked). But in order for him to give up the car, he had to have transportation from his home and job. So I moved him in with me and found him a job in my office, in the mail room. That way I could drive him in my nice Desrail, the shitbox could be retired, and I could keep tabs on his comings and goings. And yet, for all that forward progress, he still insisted on bringing his taped up, busted skateboard in the trunk. Sometimes his pack of “homies” would come by work and they’d skate around the industrial park on his lunch break. From what I could tell none of the others had jobs at all.

Donna from the mailroom came to my office in a huff less than a month later. My office boy sat her in an armchair in the visiting area of my office. Even though Donna was technically a few ranks below me, she held a similar administrative position in her department and I treated her with respect. “I know you like him, I get it, and it’s not the first favor I’ve done of this kind–hell, it’s not even the first of its kind I’ve done for you, but the boy is completely useless. I really–there’s nothing I can do. I can’t use him.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, getting a coffee from my secretary for each of us.

“He don’t pay attention to anything. He sorts shit wrong. He delivers things to the wrong people because he’s not paying attention. Seriously, I tell him what to do and his eyes are completely vacant. There’s nothing going on in there.” Donna was already an anxious woman, but when she wore loose, flowing blouses, as she often did, and talked violently with her hands, she was a self-contained tropical storm of heaving waves, threatening to overwhelm you with her sea problems. She had a rosy pink nose and a blotchy complexion. You could just imagine the cartoon steam billowing out of her ears and nose.

I spoke low and slow to try and bring her down to my level. “I understand that you’re frustrated. I don’t want to make your life harder just so mine can be a bit easier. Is there anywhere else he could be useful?”

Donna shook her head, her chins following after, “I already have him working the dumbest, easiest job in the place. Literally all you have to do is pay attention. I wouldn’t trust him with anything else.”

“Is there another department, maybe?” I asked. Donna pondered on that while my secretary organized the papers on my desk. “Don’t mix up Dole with Dillow,” I reminded him.

“HR always needs paper pushers,” she suggested, “but that’s certainly more involved than sorting mail. I mean, can he even write? Sorry, that was rude, but really. You know, there’s always,” she glanced towards my secretary, specifically at his ass as he bend across the desk. I shook my head, starting to talk, but she beat me to it, “I know, you need someone competent. Me too.”

I realized that I would need to get more involved. This kid wasn’t just a mess sexually, he didn’t have his life together. I figured that if he couldn’t work like a man, he could still serve as a houseboy. In the confines of my house I could train him up before introducing him to the wild again. With young boys the fun is being able to mold them exactly how you like, but with that comes a responsibility to train them properly.

I had hoped my latest project would be somewhat self-sufficient, but it seems that his mother taught him nothing. I had to teach him each of the chores in a somewhat laborious process of leading him around by a leash and securing him in the area needing improvement. After an hour or so, I would check on progress and administer corporal punishment if necessary. I don’t personally take pleasure in inflicting pain, at least not the physical kind, so I didn’t really enjoy the process, and Roberts clearly wasn’t pleased either. The way he wailed, you would think he had never seen the flat side of a paddle before.

During this time our sex life changed a bit too. Roberts had so little in his life to lose, it was hard to find leverage to keep him acting right, so I found it necessary to institute certain rules. Early on, I let him cum in me twice or three times a week. I now instituted a rule that he would be allowed to have sex each week on Sunday if he was very good. Of course, for a youth of his age, only once a week is not often enough to prevent him hurting himself in the enforcer, so he was allowed four hours of personal release time per week that he could use whenever he wanted. From what I can tell, he was masturbating about once a day, which honestly wouldn’t bother me if he was getting his chores done. Unfortunately, he was not getting his chores done often.

“Can I have my release time yet?” he whined in that particular teenage way.

“Did you finish the dishes?” I asked, not looking up from my magazine.

He rolled his eyes. “I just cooked. Can’t I do them later?”

“No, you can do them now, and you can get release time later. That’s how it works, remember?”

He sort-of stomped off and huffed around the kitchen for a while. When he came back he was getting red in the face. I couldn’t help but notice how hilariously cute and tiny-sounding his stomping was. “I wish I’d never given you my key. I never had to deal with this from my mom!”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Maybe that’s why you’re such a spoiled child. I mean, come on, Roberts. You’re an adult now and you’re throwing a tantrum like a baby.” That seemed to shut him up. On his way out of the room, I called to him, “Roberts, there’s a glass.” The wineglass sat on the table before me, so he had to walk all the way across the room and come right up to me to retrieve it. We had a strict ‘no male clothing’ rule in the house, so he opted to wear nothing. I resisted the urge to tug on his little cage or slap his ass as he walked by. “Thank you,” I said when he picked up the glass. He only glowered at me.

I heard the glass on the kitchen counter, but instead of the sound of water running, I heard the pad of his feet across the hardwood of the front room, up the stone stairs and the closing of the bedroom door. I didn’t let his disobedience bother me, I just kept reading.

When he returned about a half hour later he went straight to the kitchen and started washing. I came in behind him and found him wearing my favorite of his panties, a pink lacy number that showed off his tight ass in the best light. “How was your break?” I asked.

“Huh?” he asked, eyes all wide and innocent.

“What were you doing up there?”

He looked back at the dishes and said noncommittally, “Cleaning.”

I could have laughed if I wasn’t so annoyed. “And what did you clean?” I asked.

“You know. Made the bedroom look nice.”

I was right behind him now, watching his washing over his shoulder. I felt the outline of the panties, two bands across each ass cheek, meeting in the middle and sliding down, all the way around his pert ass, up that warm crease between his legs. I grabbed his balls lightly and kneaded them around. “Are your guys feeling sore? You didn’t get any release yesterday, did you? Why was that?”

“I was bad,” he muttered.

I removed the panties, sliding them down slowly and lifting his feet out of them. Finally I caught a glimpse of his caged package. “And what the fuck happened here?” I demanded. His enforcer was all fucked up. His balls glistened with lube where he had slid it off without the key, and his cock was not at all seated in the plastic tube. I always made sure his enforcer was properly installed every morning, and this was not my handiwork. “Seriously, answer me, what is going on?”

“Well, I asked first,” he said, lower lip jutting defiantly.

“This is absurd,” I said, giving his balls a hard slap. “This is ridiculous. You’re like a child. Just an annoying little shit. I’m too old for this shit. You’re not serious about this relationship.”

Things went downhill from there. As soon as I threatened to throw him out, suddenly he was singing a different tune. Suddenly he loved me and needed me and please please how will I live, where will I sleep, etc. His sniveling only annoyed me. By the end he was sobbing.

“Just hush. Please. Just shut up your bullshit and get out of my house. You don’t live here anymore. To live here, you need to make your own money, or you can work for me. You don’t get to laze around all day and then disobey me at night.”

Eventually he gave up protesting and made up his mind. “That’s fine,” he told me, one bag of clothes under his arm, his panties clearly showing through his tights. “You think you’re so great. Women would love to be with me. I could find someone else in a week.”

Somehow he didn’t find it suspicious that he did just that.