I felt my stomach drop the moment I saw the folder labeled “Private – Do Not Open.”
It was supposed to be a simple motherboard replacement on a sleek silver laptop. The owner—Marcus, according to the work order—had dropped it off that morning, all nervous energy and fluttering hands. I’d noticed his manicured nails, the subtle gloss on his lips, but I’d seen plenty of metrosexual guys before. Nothing prepared me for what I found buried three folders deep.
There he was. Or rather, *she* was.
Marcus in full transformation. Blonde wig cascading over bare shoulders. Red lipstick smeared just enough to look freshly used. Lingerie that cost more than my rent—black lace cups barely containing what I now realized were silicone breast forms, matching panties strained over a flat-front cage I recognized immediately. A chastity device. The kind sissies wore when they wanted to be owned.
I scrolled further. Dozens of photos. Some solo, posing like a desperate slut. Others… my cock twitched. Others with men. Real men. Their thick cocks disappearing between those painted lips, hands gripping that wig while Marcus’s eyes rolled back in submission.
My repair bench suddenly felt very small. I checked the work order again. Address. Phone number. Marcus had been so polite, so *timid*, asking if I could rush the repair.
I could rush something else entirely.
—
He came back three hours later, right on schedule. The bell above the shop door chimed, and I watched him enter from the back room—slender, soft-featured, wearing a loose sweater and skinny jeans that did nothing to hide the absence of a bulge.
“Is it ready?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were hazel, lined with something subtle. Mascara, maybe. He was already halfway there, even in boy mode.
I slid the laptop across the counter. “All fixed. New motherboard, runs like new.”
“Thank you so much, I really—”
“Found some interesting files while I was backing up your data.” I kept my voice casual, watching the color drain from his face. “That ‘Private’ folder? Very thorough documentation. The red lingerie set is my favorite. Especially the ones where you’re on your knees.”
Marcus froze. His hand hovered over the laptop, trembling. “I… that’s… you weren’t supposed to…”
“Supposed to what?” I leaned forward, letting my size dominate the narrow counter between us. I was twice his width, gym-built, with rough hands that could break him or make him scream. “Supposed to see what a desperate little sissy slut you are? Supposed to know you spend your nights locked in chastity, dreaming of real cock?”
“Please.” It came out as a whimper. “Please don’t tell anyone. My job… my family…”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell anyone.” I reached out and gripped his wrist—not hard, just enough to remind him I could. “Not if you’re a good girl for me.”
His breath hitched. *Girl.* He reacted to it like I’d stroked his caged clitty.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I continued, pulling out my phone. “You’re going to give me your address. Tonight, at 8 PM, you’re going to be dressed exactly like in those photos. The blonde wig, the red lingerie, the heels. The cage stays on—you don’t get to touch that pathetic thing. You’re going to answer the door on your knees, and you’re going to ask me properly to let you serve.”
Marcus’s eyes were wet, his lower lip trembling. I could see it now—the fear mixing with something else. Relief, maybe. The secret was out, and someone was finally taking control.
“I can’t,” he whispered, but his body leaned toward me. “I can’t just…”
“You can.” I opened the photo gallery on his laptop, spinning it to face him. There he was, mouth stretched around a stranger’s cock, mascara running down his cheeks. “Look at this. Look at how happy you are. You’ve been waiting for someone to make you do it. To take away the choice so you can just be what you are.”
He stared at the screen. His own debasement stared back.
“Eight PM,” I repeated. “Or these photos go to your email contacts. Every colleague. Every family member. Every friend who thinks you’re just a quiet, normal guy.”
Marcus swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he nodded.
—
At 7:55 PM, I stood outside his apartment door in a nice suburban complex. Respectable. Quiet. The kind of place where no one would suspect what was happening behind closed doors.
The door opened at 8:00 exactly.
He was perfect.
The blonde wig was high quality, falling in soft waves to his shoulders. The red lingerie—matching set, just as instructed—cupped those fake breasts perfectly, the lace trim cutting across his smooth, shaved chest. The panties were strained, not by cock, but by the flat, contained shape of a pink chastity cage I could see through the thin fabric. His legs were shaved smooth, ending in black stilettos that made his ass arch and his posture submissive.
His makeup was better than most women I knew. Smoky eyes, glossy lips, contouring that transformed his face into something feminine and fuckable.
He was on his knees. Just as ordered.
“Please,” he said, voice pitched higher, practiced. Feminine. “Please let me serve you, Sir. I’m just a dumb sissy slut who needs to be used. Please make me your bitch.”
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The apartment was neat, organized, with a pink dildo visible on the nightstand through the bedroom door. He’d been preparing for this even before he knew it was coming. The anticipation had probably been killing him all day.
“Look at you,” I said, circling him. He kept his head down, trembling. “Already leaking in your cage. You can feel it, can’t you? The rightness of it. Being on your knees. Being owned.”
“Yes, Sir,” he breathed.
I gripped his chin and forced his head up. The eye contact broke something in him—I could see it. The last resistance crumbling.
“You’re not Marcus tonight,” I told him. “Marcus is the lie. What’s your real name, slut?”
“Melody,” he whispered. “My name is Melody.”
“Good girl, Melody.” I unzipped my jeans and freed my cock—thick, heavy, already hard from anticipation. It slapped against his cheek, leaving a smear of precum on his perfect makeup. “Now show me what those photos promised. Show me what that hungry sissy mouth can do.”
Melody didn’t hesitate. Not anymore. The blackmail was just an excuse—the permission he’d needed to stop pretending.
He opened wide and took me deep in one stroke, like he’d been training for this moment his whole life. His throat relaxed, accepting my length, his tongue working the underside while his hands came up to cradle my balls. The cage between his legs twitched uselessly, leaking pre-cum into the lace panties, his own arousal locked away where it belonged.
“That’s it,” I groaned, gripping that blonde wig. “That’s a good little cocksucker. This is what you were made for, isn’t it? Not fixing laptops or wearing suits. Just being a hole. Being my bitch.”
He moaned around me, the vibration making my thighs tense. I started to thrust, holding his head still, fucking his face with slow, deliberate strokes. Makeup began to smear. Drool spilled down his chin, mixing with my precum, making a mess of that pretty face.
I pulled out with a wet sound and dragged him to the bedroom by the hair. He crawled, heels clicking on the hardwood, cage bouncing between his legs. I pushed him face-down on the bed, ripped the panties aside to reveal the pink plastic cage straining against his arousal, and spat on his exposed hole.
“Beg,” I commanded.
“Please fuck me, Sir,” Melody gasped into the mattress, arching his back, presenting himself like a bitch in heat. “Please ruin my sissy pussy. I need it so bad. I’ve been practicing with my toys but I need a real man. I need to be owned. Please, please fuck your bitch.”
I didn’t make him wait. I pressed in slowly, feeling him open around me, tight and hot and desperate. He cried out, high and feminine, as I filled him completely.
“Look at you,” I grunted, starting to move. “Taking cock like you were born for it. This is your real purpose, Melody. Not that job. Not that life. Just being a wet hole for real men to use.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, pushing back against me. The cage bounced with every thrust, leaking steadily now, his prostate getting pounded with each stroke. “I’m your bitch, Sir. Your sissy whore. Please use me, please own me, please don’t stop—”
I gripped her hips and started to fuck her in earnest. Hard. Deep. The bed slammed against the wall. Her moans became screams, unashamed, primal. The neighbors would know. Let them know. Let them wonder what kind of slut lived next door.
I flipped her over, wanting to see her face. The makeup was ruined now, streaked with tears and drool, and she looked more beautiful than ever. Legs spread wide, heels digging into my back, cage twitching helplessly as I pounded her prostate.
“Who owns you?” I demanded.
“You do, Sir!” she screamed, eyes rolling back. “You own me! I’m your sissy bitch!”
“That’s right.” I felt the pressure building, the heat coiling at the base of my spine. “And you’re going to take my cum like a good girl, aren’t you? You’re going to walk around all week with my seed inside you, remembering who you belong to now.”
“Please, please cum in me, Sir,” she begged, reaching down to touch her cage, denied and desperate. “Please fill your bitch. I need it. I need to be marked. Please—”
I roared and buried myself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside her, filling her with thick, hot cum. She came simultaneously, or as close as she could—her body spasming, her cage leaking a thin stream of ruined orgasm, her sissy pussy clamping down on me, milking me dry.
I collapsed on top of her, both of us panting, sweating, ruined. The smell of sex and makeup and submission filled the room.
After a long moment, I pulled out slowly, watching my cum leak from her gaping hole. I took out my phone and snapped a photo—her face, her cage, her used pussy. Evidence for the next time.
“Same time tomorrow,” I said, zipping up my jeans. “And wear the blue lingerie set. I saw it in your photos. The one with the garter belt.”
Melody—Marcus—lay there trembling, cum dripping down her thighs, cage still leaking, and smiled a real smile for the first time.
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered. “Thank you, Sir.”
I left her there, used and owned, already counting the hours until tomorrow. The laptop repair had been the best business decision I’d ever made.
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