The husband begs the wife to fulfill her fantasy of being dominant, she imposes certain conditions
Be careful with fantasies
(They Can Turn Into Reality)
“But why not?”
“I’ve already told you, Roberto, I don’t like it.”
“Let’s try it just once. If you don’t like it, we won’t do it again.”
“You’re bringing this up again. I don’t feel comfortable.”
“How do you know you’re not comfortable if we’ve never tried it?”
“I’ve already told you: just imagining it makes me uncomfortable. Why don’t we try something else? I’d rather we tried something new.”
“What’s the difference? It’s the same thing.”
“I’m willing to try anal sex. In fact, it doesn’t bother me. But that’s my limit.”
You see, we are a couple. I’m Roberto, 35 years old, slim, 1.70 m tall. My wife Alicia is the same age, a little taller than me at 1.75 m, slim but with generous hips and simply beautiful breasts—firm, and with the right bra they definitely turn heads on the street.
The argument came from my request (for the twentieth time) that she take a more dominant role during sex. We had been married nearly ten years, had no children, and sex had become routine for both of us. We both agreed on that.
However, she absolutely refused to even consider the topic and instead suggested new things like anal sex, trying to convince me to try something different.
I, on the other hand, had always had the fantasy of being dominated and taking a submissive role, and I was firmly determined to make it happen at least once.
“At least think about it and then tell me,” I suggested.
“All right, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take a week. In the meantime I’ll browse discussion forums, research the subject, and make the biggest effort to understand your point of view. After one week I’ll give you my answer, and if it’s no, I don’t want to hear another word about it. Agreed?”
“Sounds fair to me.”
It was Monday. For the rest of the week I saw her spending a lot of time in front of the computer, sometimes reading, sometimes writing long texts. I tried unsuccessfully to check her browsing history, but since we had separate profiles it was impossible to see which forums and blogs she was visiting.
A couple of times I asked innocently, “Did you find anything interesting? Any answers to your doubts?”
Her reply was always the same: “We agreed you’d give me a week. I’m still absorbing everything I’ve read.”
So the next Monday arrived. Unable to contain myself any longer, I asked, “It’s Monday—the day we agreed on. Have you reached a conclusion?”
“Yes.”
“And what is it?”
“We’ll do something, but there are conditions first.”
“Whatever you want,” I answered, more than anxious, thinking my fantasies were about to come true.
“Not so fast. First you have to hear the conditions.”
“Of course.”
“These are they,” she said, handing me a printed sheet of paper that I read immediately.
1. You will obey all my orders without question.
2. I will be in charge.
3. You will address me as Mistress.
4. You will accept the punishments I impose, knowing they are for your education.
5. You will thank me for the time I dedicate to your education.
6. Once we begin, there is no turning back. I decide when your education ends.
It was a little more than I had expected. I had only hoped she would wear a corset, stockings, boots, give me a couple of spanks and then have sex. This seemed more intense. Still, it was accept or forget my fantasies. The choice was clear.
“I agree.”
“Perfect. Then sign at the bottom and initial it.”
I signed. She examined it, then went to the nightstand drawer and returned with a small square box about five centimetres on each side and handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Open it. It’s a chastity device.”
“What for? With this I won’t be able to have erections.”
“That’s exactly the idea. After a while it will make you more docile.”
“Why don’t you put it on me?”
“Because if I do it, I know you’ll get hard immediately. Besides, it’s more humiliating if you put it on yourself.”
So I proceeded to put on the device. It was a little difficult; it seemed too small and squeezed my penis uncomfortably. Once I closed the padlock she said, “Give me the keys.”
I handed them over. She hung them on a chain around her neck.
“And how long will this stay on?”
“Depends on you. If you behave properly, we can remove it next Monday.”
“Next Monday? That’s too long.”
She looked at me severely, raising an eyebrow. “Pardon? Do I have to remind you that you signed a contract five minutes ago?”
“Sorry, Mistress.”
“Not Mistress yet. For now you will call me Ma’am.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good. We’re starting to understand each other. From now on you will do all the housework: washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, etc. If you do them correctly, you will get your reward next Monday. Now put your trousers on and go make dinner.”
I must confess that while preparing dinner I was distracted. As I said earlier, I didn’t know this side of Alicia. I had only expected a game, not to be locked up for a whole week. When dinner was ready I found her in front of the computer writing a long text.
“Ma’am, dinner is ready.”
“Don’t stand there. Let’s eat.”
We dined as usual. I didn’t dare touch the subject of my chastity. Before sleeping she sat on the bed, spread her legs and simply said, “Kiss me. Suck my clit—I want an orgasm.”
The torture lasted all week. Several times a day she would call me on the phone and ask, “How’s the little bird?”
“Caged,” was my only answer.
“Why don’t you go to the bathroom, take a photo and send it to me?”
Obediently I followed her instructions, becoming more and more excited while she constantly reminded me of my condition. At home, just as she had ordered, I cleaned, cooked, washed, etc., and every night I performed oral sex until she reached orgasm.
Monday arrived and I was beyond excited. All day I imagined the moment the device would be removed and I would penetrate her. I have to admit that a week in chastity had had a positive effect: I was permanently aroused, and following her instructions I had become an expert at oral sex.
“Well, today is the big day, Ma’am.”
“I don’t think so.” She took out a notebook and began to list:
1. Monday’s meal was too salty.
2. Tuesday’s lacked seasoning.
3. Wednesday, the display cabinet had dust.
4. Thursday, my skirts were not properly ironed.
5. Friday, you didn’t wash my underwear.
“I’m sorry, but there are too many mistakes. It’s impossible for me to release you.”
“But I can’t take it anymore.”
“You should have thought of that before. It’s your responsibility to do the tasks correctly.”
“And now? Are you leaving me like this?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you going to leave me like this, Ma’am?”
“Yes. I hope you reflect and perform your tasks properly. Next Monday we’ll have another evaluation.”
I don’t need to tell you that the following Monday I also failed the evaluation, and the one after that, and the one after that. There was always some problem: a layer of dust on the sideboard, underwear not washed properly (was it my fault the washing machine didn’t work well? Apparently yes).
This went on for two months. Daily teasing, house cleaning, the attentions I gave her. Little by little new tasks were added—tasks I, of course, failed. I prepared a drink and it had too much or too little alcohol; I was ordered to give a foot massage and did it incorrectly, etc.
At the end of the second month of chastity I was desperate (to say the least). The device had brought me to a state of total submission. I would do anything to get rid of it.
“There are some failures I’d rather not list,” she told me, “but given the effort you’ve made and seeing your state, I think it would be convenient for you to have an orgasm today and only today.”
“Yes, please. Thank you, Ma’am.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Lie down on the bed.”
I obeyed immediately, expecting her to free my little bird from its cage. Instead she approached with a vibrator in her hand and applied it to the device.
“I promised you an orgasm, not that I would release you.”
She began to run the vibrator all over the device. The vibration transmitted directly to my trapped penis. She took a bottle of lubricant, applied it to her fingers and said, “Let’s see if this helps.”
Before I could answer she inserted first one finger, then two, into my anus.
“Careful—no one has ever been in there.”
“Do you want me to stop? If you want I can stop right now.”
“No, please, keep going. I need to ejaculate.”
She continued applying the vibrator to the device while playing with her fingers in my anus. I must confess that at first the sensation was strange—not pain, not discomfort, simply new. Soon I surrendered and, almost without realising, began to enjoy the moment. Her fingers exploring me, the vibrations on my penis finally provoked a very copious orgasm.
“Look at the mess you’ve made. We’re going to have to take measures about this. Now change the sheets and kiss me until I also have an orgasm.”
What else could I do? I changed the sheets for a clean set and buried my tongue between her legs until I heard her screams as she reached orgasm.
Again, during the week we followed the usual routine: me doing the housework, her teasing me, then me giving her oral sex until she had at least two orgasms, while I became more and more shocked.
Another Monday, another evaluation that I, of course, failed.
“Now what are we going to do? It seems you’re not interested.”
“On the contrary, Ma’am, I’m so agitated I can’t concentrate. I beg you to let me have an orgasm.”
“I don’t know why I’m so good. Anyway, lie down on the bed.”
Again I dreamed she would remove the device, but to my dismay she began applying the vibrator once more. This time, however, she didn’t use her fingers. She slid her hand under the pillow and showed me a small anal plug.
“I almost forgot. I have a little gift for you.”
Immediately she began to apply pressure at the entrance of my anus until it was completely inside me. It wasn’t very big—perhaps five centimetres long by two in diameter—but bigger than her fingers, and I felt the invasion. She then began to move it in and out slowly while stimulating me with the vibrator.
Once more I surrendered to the new pleasures Alicia was introducing me to, and soon I had another orgasm.
“We’re going to have to do something about this. You can’t keep dirtying the sheets every time. Go change them.”
I made a move to remove the plug and she immediately said, “No, young man. That stays there to remind you that all of this was your idea.”
So I slept with the plug in, and I had to wear it all week. It had come to stay. Now when she called to tease me she asked:
“How’s the little bird?”
“Caged.”
“How?”
“Caged, Ma’am.”
“And your ass?”
“My ass is full, Ma’am.”
“Let’s see, send me some photos.”
Then I went to the bathroom, lowered my trousers, took a photo of my device (which of course I couldn’t remove) and another with the plug firmly inserted between my buttocks.
“How pretty. It excites me to see you like this.”
Pretty? How humiliating, I thought. There I was with my penis imprisoned, no chance of using it, and my ass dilated, displaying myself for her without even protesting.
We continued like this. The next Monday the scene repeated, except she replaced the plug with a larger one (not much bigger) while saying, “We have to train that little ass so you learn to enjoy it.”
Learn to enjoy it? What did she mean by that? She didn’t let me ask, because the other novelty was that she brought a small dessert plate and placed it under my genitals while she stimulated me.
“I found the solution. That way we won’t have to change the sheets. Isn’t it an excellent idea?”
“Yes, Ma’am, a great idea.”
When I had my weekly orgasm it completely filled the plate.
“Now drink it,” was her order.
“You expect me to drink it?”
“Do you want me to do it? It’s yours. It’s up to you to clean what you dirty. Well, actually you’re supposed to clean everything.”
“But it’s disgusting.”
“Two things, young man. First, I never complained all the times I gave you oral sex, and second, do I have to remind you once more of the contract you signed?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“If you don’t do it, forget about your weekly orgasms.”
In some strange, perverse way I had become so used to those orgasms that I would do anything to keep receiving that relief.
“Come on, I’m waiting,” she said, bringing the plate closer to my face.
Obediently I extended my tongue and began to lick until it was completely clean.
“See? It’s not so difficult. Now take care of me,” she said, opening her legs.
I won’t bore you with the events of the following weeks. Suffice it to say that the size of the plugs kept increasing over the next month until I was able to accommodate one of generous dimensions. On the other hand, I no longer even protested. Immediately after having an orgasm, and without any instruction from her, I would take the plate and begin to drink my own semen.
“I knew you would end up liking it. It’s what we could call… an acquired taste.”
One humiliation after another. Four months had passed since she ordered me to put on the device. I no longer even remembered what an erection felt like. I was completely domesticated.
During one week something caught my attention. Alicia was in front of the computer exchanging messages when she received a work call on her mobile. She went to the living room to answer it and gave me the chance to glance at the conversation. It was with someone called Mistress Samantha.
“Samantha, you’re on the right track, dear. From what you tell me he hardly resists anymore.”
“Your suggestion of the chastity device has been excellent. After a couple of weeks he became more willing, more docile.”
“That’s the idea. It reinforces the bond with the Mistress and is a constant reminder of his position.”
“You’re right. I’d even say he’s conditioned to ejaculate and drink his own semen. In fact, I think he’s starting to see it as a reward.”
“So what’s your doubt?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s right.”
“Remember it was his fantasy. He’s the one who asked for what’s happening.”
“Yes, of course. But do I have to break him like that? His fantasy was almost childish: that I dress as a dominatrix, give him a couple of spanks and then make love as usual.”
“If that had been the case, he would have been the dominant and you would simply have been playing a role, an act.”
“I can’t deny that. Besides, I don’t like violence. The idea of whipping him or leaving marks on his buttocks doesn’t excite me—the suffering of the other person.”
“Not even to educate him?”
“Not even. However, I’ve seen that I can control him in other ways. But break him like this?”
“It’s essential. He has to see himself as a mere object for your pleasure.”
“That’s clear. In fact I have to confess something: it excites me to dominate him this way—something I would never have thought.”
“Excellent. He fulfils his fantasy and obviously you must get something in return.”
“I can’t stop feeling a certain guilt.”
“Guilt?”
“I don’t know if it’s exactly guilt. What really excites me is feeling the power I have over him. It’s like a drug. Once you’ve tried it, you always want a little more.”
“Then don’t stop.”
“I don’t intend to. I want to go all the way.”
At that moment I heard her footsteps, indicating the call had ended, and I quickly withdrew, hoping she hadn’t caught me reading her conversations.
The following Monday another change appeared. Before proceeding with the usual ritual Alicia said, “You know what? All the hair on your body bothers me a bit. I’d like you to shave it off.”
“Shave it off? What for? I don’t even have much body hair.”
She took the vibrator, passing it from one hand to the other in a movement that ended up being sensual and provocative, and said, “Do you want it or not?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Can I use your depilatory cream?”
“Of course, darling. Go on, I’ll wait.”
I went to the bathroom, applied cream all over my body, waited the ten minutes indicated on the package, then showered, watching all my body hair—including pubic—wash away with the water.
“Perfect. You look beautiful. Now come here.”
We repeated the usual process: stimulate me with the plug, bring me to orgasm, make me drink my semen, then I licked her clit until she had at least two orgasms.
The next night, almost in passing, she said, “Today I want you to wear this.” She handed me a silk nightgown.
“Why?”
“No questions, no objections—or don’t you want your prize today?”
Prize? A day that wasn’t Monday? Two days in a row I could drink my semen? Well, things were improving a little.
I put on the silk nightgown. A shiver of pleasure ran through my body as I felt the texture against my shaved skin. That day, to my surprise, I reached orgasm much faster than before.
Two changes then occurred: even in chastity I began to enjoy an orgasm every day. On the other hand, every Monday a new feminine garment was inevitably added—first lingerie, then nylon pantyhose, then a garter belt with 7/8 nylons, high-heeled shoes. The final touch was a very tight corset that narrowed my waist and gave the appearance of having breasts.
“How beautiful you look. It excites me to see you like this,” she would say when she added a new item.
At the same time I was forced to go to work not only with the chastity device and anal plug, but also wearing feminine underwear and pantyhose.
The daily teasing, of course, continued:
“How’s the little bird?”
“Caged.”
“And your ass?”
“Full.”
“Take a photo of your legs. I want to see the device too.”
I would immediately go to the bathroom, lower my trousers and send her a photo showing the device and my legs sheathed in pantyhose.
“How pretty. I love it.”
More than once, locked in the cubicle taking photos, other people entered the bathroom. There was a certain perverse pleasure in sending images of myself with the device, the plug and stockings while someone urinated barely two metres away without suspecting what I was doing.
Then one Monday, when at least eight months of the contract had passed (I don’t remember exactly), she said, “I think we should take the final step.”
“Final step? What do you mean, Ma’am?”
“Well, look at yourself. You’re shaved, you have a corset that gives you an excellent figure, stockings with garters, high-heeled shoes. What’s missing?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea.”
“The last step, silly: makeup, wig and accessories, and you’ll be my lesbian lover.”
My will no longer existed. After wearing the device for so long I had become completely dependent on Alicia. She decided how I would have my orgasms, when I would have them. I was constantly attentive to her wishes in the hope of obtaining a small prize. The power over me was absolute. With total resignation the only thing I could say was:
“As you wish, Ma’am.”
“Excellent. Let’s proceed then.”
She led me to the vanity and there began to apply foundation, pluck my eyebrows, line my eyes, apply false eyelashes, blush on my cheeks and finally outline my lips, marking the V of the upper lip and painting them an intense red.
Then she continued with false nails and varnished them the same colour as my lips.
Earrings, rings and bracelets completed the outfit.
And there I was, completely shaved, corset, flat chest, stockings with garters, high heels, false nails, made up, with a rather androgynous appearance.
“Now the finishing touch,” she said as she placed a black wig on my head. The cut wasn’t very long, just above the shoulders, with a fringe in front.
“Beautiful,” she told me.
Meanwhile I contemplated myself in the mirror. There was no longer any trace of Roberto. Now I was looking at a beautiful woman.
“We can’t keep calling you Roberto. Now you are Giselle.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Come here, Giselle,” she said. “Take care of me after all the effort I’ve made for you.”
She opened her legs and showed me her genitals. Almost without thinking I plunged between them and began to kiss her until she reached orgasm.
Used to our previous sessions, I expected her to play with my plug and bring me to orgasm so I could drink it. Instead she said, “That’s enough for now. We’ll wait until next Monday for your prize. Meanwhile, when you get home I want you to dress exactly as you are now. You’ll find more than enough dresses in the wardrobe. You can’t walk around the house in a nightgown either.”
I took off my shoes and had no choice but to sleep like that, completely transformed, feeling my wife’s embrace, her breasts against my back, praying for Monday to arrive.
During the rest of the week a new routine was established. I arrived from work, put on makeup, dressed, and thus completely transformed I performed the usual housework. When she arrived she no longer only inspected the cleaning and order; now I myself came under her scrutiny.
“Your stockings are not put on correctly.”
“Your makeup leaves a lot to be desired. Look at your eyes—they’re uneven.”
“You’ve ruined your nail polish. Did you use latex gloves for cleaning?”
“You walk like a duck. Come on, practise in front of me and I’ll teach you.”
“Modulate your voice—lower, softer. Not falsetto, that’s ridiculous. More sensual.”
And so, inevitably, she would find some detail. If it wasn’t in the house, it was in me myself. Myself? I was thinking of myself with a feminine pronoun when I transformed. The perception of that detail astonished me for a moment.
During the weekend I was Giselle the whole time. She even ordered me to receive the young delivery man who brought some things she had bought online from the supermarket.
On Monday she asked me to dress especially for her: the inevitable anal plug, stiletto shoes, black seamed nylon stockings, corset. She added double-D breast prostheses. I paid special attention to the makeup—eyes lined with a gradient of shadows to give a cat-like look, blush, false eyelashes, lips also outlined and painted red. The same wig as the first day.
Rings, a necklace and bracelets completed the transformation. Finally, a short-sleeved black dress with a square neckline that revealed part of my bust and a very tight pencil skirt that enhanced my buttocks.
We dined as usual. The day had finally arrived, I thought. I began to count and, if my memory didn’t fail me, it had already been almost nine months in chastity. When we finished dessert she took my hand. “Shall we go to the bedroom?”
“Of course, darling.”
We reached the bedroom and she asked me to wait seated on a chair while she changed.
Hallelujah! Today they free me. I sat on the chair as she had indicated, crossed my legs in a feminine pose (I had already internalised the movements) and lit a cigarette while I waited.
She took quite a while. There were already two lipstick-marked butts in the ashtray when she returned.
She had turned into the goddess of all my fantasies: leather gloves almost to the shoulders, a leather corset that reduced her waist to the impossible, half-cups that enhanced her bust, natural-coloured seamed nylon stockings fastened with eight straps hanging from the corset, knee-high boots with at least twelve-centimetre stiletto heels.
Intense, dark makeup: black eyes, wine-red lips, hair tied in a ponytail that gave her an even more severe appearance.
However, there was a small detail that made me suspect things would not go as I had dreamed. In her crotch she wore a strap-on of at least 28 centimetres by five centimetres in diameter.
“Do you like it?”
“You look beautiful, Ma’am, but what you’re wearing scares me.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s a gift for you.”
“For me?” I asked while she approached with movements that reminded me of a cat hunting a mouse.
“For you. Don’t you want to kiss it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really like it.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re going to like it.” By now she was standing in front of me. She simply put one hand on my nape and began to apply pressure.
“Come on, don’t make me beg. Kiss it.”
I couldn’t resist the pressure of her hand. My lips approached and began to run along its entire length with my tongue.
“Put it in your mouth. Slowly. I’ll help you.”
I opened my lips and began to introduce it into my mouth.
“That’s it. Like that. How it excites me. I want to see the lipstick marked at the base. I want to see you swallow it all.”
Then she began to guide me. “Like that. Play with your tongue. Look me in the eyes when you kiss it.”
After a while she ordered me to stand up. She stood behind me. I could feel her penis pressing against my buttocks while she unzipped my dress. It fell to my feet.
“Leave it there and get on all fours, with your arms resting on the back of the chair.”
I did as she ordered and felt her remove the plug. She pressed the tip of her penis against the entrance.
“Do you want me to continue?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid it will hurt.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m going to go slowly and you’re going to like it.”
“Are you sure, Ma’am?”
“Of course. But you have to ask me.”
“Please continue, Ma’am.”
“Do you want to be my wife?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I want you to make me your wife.”
“Do you want me to be your owner?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I want you to be my owner.”
“Then ask me properly.”
“Please, Mistress, I want to be your wife. I want you to be my owner. Please penetrate me.”
“If that is your wish.”
She then began to introduce it slowly. I must confess, dear reader, that my fears were unfounded. I was already sufficiently dilated for the strap-on to enter without pain—almost with ease—and the sensation of pleasure was indescribable. I could no longer contain myself and began to beg her:
“Please, Mistress, deeper.”
“Do you like it?”
“I like it very much.”
She increased the rhythm, thrusting the dildo in and out to its full length. I was sweating, my makeup was running, I was crying but from pleasure. I couldn’t take any more. Never in my life had I experienced such ecstasy. At the same time I felt completely feminine, submissive; I would do anything my Mistress asked. My fantasies had been fulfilled beyond my wildest dreams, thanks to her.
Finally I ejaculated into the classic plate that was right under my caged penis. Instead of giving it to me to drink as usual, she rubbed the strap-on against my orgasm and offered it to me again so I could kiss it.
When she finished she removed the strap-on, got on all fours on the bed and said, “Today I want to try something different. Kiss my ass.”
Exhausted, I positioned myself behind her and began to play with my tongue in her anus while she used the vibrator to stimulate her clit.
“How I love your tongue in my ass. If I had known before, we would have done it long ago.”
I can say she enjoyed at least three times with my tongue running over that delicious orifice while she massaged her clit with the vibrator.
Exhausted, we fell asleep still dressed.
You might think the story ends here. You are very wrong. During the rest of the week we performed variations of the same situation—that is, her penetrating me, me having an orgasm and then kissing her ass—but with subtle changes. When I arrived home in the afternoon I would find in the wardrobe the outfit she had chosen for me. I played different roles: secretary, high-school student, French maid, etc.
On Friday night she decided on a total role reversal. I was dressed as a 1950s wife; she tied her hair up and put on a short wig that barely covered her ears, a suit with jacket and tie, men’s shoes and the final detail: a false moustache.
In the deepest voice she could manage she said, “Nice to meet you, beautiful. I’m Roberto.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Giselle.”
That night the Mistress–slave roles blurred. She simply became an attentive man who tried by every means to seduce me. “You look very pretty today. How is it we never met before?”
“What beautiful legs you have.”
“Thank you, Roberto.”
Her hands caressed my legs and rose daringly until they reached my thighs. I played the role of a pin-up, sensual but at the same time reluctant, until finally I surrendered to his charms. It was an experience that fascinated me. I felt beautiful, totally feminine. The pleasure one obtains when someone tries to seduce us is something I cannot convey.
Obviously we ended up making love—she as Roberto and I as Giselle—until we fell asleep with Roberto inside me.
On Saturday morning I got up and, as you can imagine, followed the morning ritual to adopt the personality of Giselle, ready to spend the weekend as such.
At that moment Alicia announced, “Prepare the house. Tonight we have guests for dinner.”
“Guests?” Then I’ll change. I headed to the bedroom when she stopped me.
“On the contrary. They’re coming to meet Giselle. I really liked that pin-up style you wore yesterday. I want you to look beautiful tonight.”
I didn’t know what to say. Until now everything had been a private game. Never, not even in my wildest fantasies, had I imagined presenting myself in public.
“Don’t just stand there. There’s a lot to do.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
For the rest of the day I dedicated myself to the tasks: cleaning, preparing everything, cooking, and then getting ready to receive the visitors.
I decided, as she had indicated, to go for a pin-up style: a corselette (a corset that only covers the waist), natural-coloured seamed nylon stockings, black twelve-centimetre stiletto shoes, a bullet bra with breast prostheses that gave them shape, a black pencil skirt that highlighted my narrow waist and buttocks, and finally a light brown short-sleeved sweater, very fitted, that emphasised my bust.
For the hair, a black wig with an updo. Night-appropriate makeup with marked contrasts: dark eye shadows, false eyelashes, and of course lips outlined and an intense red matching the acrylic nails. Several bracelets, rings and a simulated pearl necklace around my neck completed the ensemble.
Shortly after I finished getting ready the doorbell rang.
“Open the door, Giselle,” Alicia said.
I went to answer the door not knowing what I would find. It was simply a couple, yet neither of them would go unnoticed anywhere. The woman—tall and voluptuous—emitted an aura of authority, power and self-sufficiency. She entered the foyer as if it were her own house, took my chin with one of her perfectly manicured hands and said, “Alicia has done an excellent job educating you.”
Meanwhile the man accompanying her—very elegant, tall, at least 1.80 m (he towered over me even though I was in heels), dark-haired—looked at me with green eyes, took me by the waist and gave me a kiss on the cheek, saying, “You are beautiful. Your photos don’t do you justice. A pleasure. My name is Marcelo.”
“Photos?”
“Of course,” I heard Alicia’s voice behind me. “Samantha asked me to send her some photos of you so she could meet you. But please come in. Don’t stand there.”
We entered the living room. While the guests took their seats I went to the bar and served drinks for everyone: white wine for Alicia, a margarita for Samantha, and for me—while Marcelo preferred a whisky.
Alicia mentioned, “Samantha has helped me a lot with your education, Giselle. She deserves a lot of credit in that sense.”
I then understood that this was the Samantha with whom she had been exchanging messages and who had given her all the advice that had led to my current situation.
After a while we moved to the dining room. Already seated and eating, the conversation began.
“How was the final step, Alicia?” Samantha asked.
“Excellent. Giselle has been very receptive.”
“Did you like it?”
“It fascinated me. The feeling of power when penetrating her was incredible. In fact, I don’t think we’ll have conventional sex again.”
“And don’t you miss being penetrated?”
“A little, but Giselle’s talented tongue more than makes up for it. I’ve become used to having three orgasms a day, and you can’t imagine how I enjoy her tongue in my ass. You should try it sometime.”
“Would you share her with me?”
“Without any problem. In fact, it would be one more step in her education.”
And there I was, feeling them talk about me as if I were a book on the shelf or a lamp in the room, reduced to a mere object.
After this latest humiliation we moved to the living room, where I served coffee. Until that moment Marcelo had spoken practically nothing. I only knew his voice from his greeting when we met. At a certain point Samantha said:
“You know, Marcelo here is also dominant, though his tastes are somewhat particular.”
“Particular?” I asked.
We could say so. He only has sex with sissies like you, and after seeing your photos he insisted a lot on meeting you.
On hearing this I began to tremble with nerves. Had I fallen into a trap woven by Alicia and Samantha to hand me over to Marcelo? My nerves betrayed me and the coffee ended up spilling on my skirt.
“I think I should go and change my skirt,” I said.
“That’s not necessary,” Alicia told me. “Better take it off.”
I began to remove it when Samantha interrupted: “Not like that. Do a little striptease for those present.” Meanwhile Alicia put on background music.
I obeyed, slowly lowering the zip, caressing my legs in the process, trying to do it as sensually as possible, dancing to the rhythm of the music, and finally letting the skirt fall at my feet.
There I was, displaying my chastity device, an anal jewel embedded inside me, with stockings, garters, stiletto shoes and the sweater that further enhanced the bullet bra I was wearing.
Marcelo then stood up, approached me, embraced me by the waist and planted a kiss on my lips. Then he introduced his tongue into my mouth and, very much to my regret, I responded, taking his nape in my hands while our tongues played with each other.
Then he pulled away, lowered his trousers and exposed a male member of more than generous dimensions—larger than the strap-on Alicia had used earlier.
“Come on, beautiful. Show me how you kiss it.”
I sat on the sofa. Marcelo stood in front of me so his penis was at the height of my mouth, barely ten centimetres away.
At that moment I felt pressure on my nape while Alicia said, “Come on, kiss it. It’s the final step to turn you into a woman.”
Faced with my wife’s insistence and my scant resistance, I approached and began to kiss it. With one hand I held his testicles while I ran my tongue along his entire member.
“Stop playing and put it in your mouth already,” Alicia ordered.
Thanks to the practice of the last week I was able to introduce it into my mouth until it was completely inside. There I began to suck and play with my tongue while he performed a back-and-forth movement with his hips.
“What a delicious mouth. You didn’t do her justice, Alicia,” Marcelo remarked.
After a while Marcelo said, “Turn around, beautiful. Put your knees on the sofa and your hands on the backrest.”
I did so and remained with my ass exposed, ready for what I was sure was the next step.
I felt them remove the anal plug while he said, “How pretty. It was already lubricated.”
He began to penetrate me very slowly, little by little. I felt his prodigious member seeking its way inside me while it dilated me.
When he was completely inside he began to ride me.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to continue?”
“Please.”
“A pleasure to oblige you.”
His rhythm increased until at a certain moment he said, “I’m about to come. Turn around—I want to see your face.”
As he ordered, I turned and looked him in the eyes, mouth open, ready to receive my prize.
Almost immediately I felt, for the first time, the jet of semen falling into my mouth. Its taste was different from mine—pleasant, after all.
“Excuse me a moment,” I asked.
I went to the bedroom, touched up my smudged makeup, looked for a clean skirt and returned to the living room.
“You were excellent,” Alicia told me. “I feel very proud of you.”
And so the evening continued as if absolutely nothing extraordinary had happened. But I would never be the same again.
And that is the story. That’s why I said: beware of fantasies. Not only can they become reality, but they may be much more than you ever expected.