My Wife's Bull Fucks Her Sissy

The living room had been cleared the way a stage is cleared. The coffee table sat against the wall. A folded towel waited on the arm of the couch, and beside it the bottle of lubricant stood uncapped so no one would have to break the mood hunting for it. Lamps burned low, the color of honey, and the city beyond the windows made a dull, irrelevant sound. Otto stood in the middle of the rug in four-inch pink heels and felt every gaze he had asked for.

He was twenty-eight, a junior architect who spent his days drafting stairwells and egress plans, and tonight none of those measurements mattered. Pink satin held him: a balconette bra lifted with soft padding into the suggestion of breasts, a garter belt biting gently at his waist, panties cut high enough that the little steel cage at his groin showed through the sheer front panel. He had locked it himself an hour ago while Kendra watched, and the key was warm in her palm. The cage turned his cock into what she called his clit, small and snug and already throbbing so hard the pulse was visible. Stockings the color of pale rose climbed his legs and snapped to the garters. His makeup was complete—foundation even, blush high on the cheeks, lashes darkened until his eyes looked wet, mouth painted a glossy pink that matched the lingerie. He smelled like the perfume she had chosen, sweet and a little cheap, on purpose.

Kendra stood beside him, thirty-two, one hand spread at the small of his back. She had shed the blazer she wore to client meetings and put on a short black dress that left her thighs bare. Her hair was down. She looked at him the way she looked at a plan she already knew would land: pleased, certain, a little mean at the mouth. “Breathe,” she said, quiet, only for him. “You asked for this. You look perfect.”

He breathed. A damp spot had already darkened the pink panel where he leaked into the cage. He kept his hands at his sides the way she liked, fingers loose, offering nothing and everything. His calves ached from the heels. His mouth felt painted and obvious. Every shift of weight made the garters tug, and the tug went straight to the locked ache between his legs.

On the couch, Darius watched him without any politeness left. Thirty-five, a site supervisor who walked concrete and steel all day, he filled the cushion he sat on. His skin was deep brown in the lamplight, his forearms heavy, his shirt open at the throat. He had been Kendra’s bull since spring, the man she took when she wanted to be split open and worshipped, and tonight the agreement was different. They had said it out loud in the kitchen before the lipstick went on, all four of them standing around the island with the lights still bright: Darius would use Otto. Otto would be eager, would beg if begging was honest, would take the bull’s cock in his mouth and in his ass for as long as Darius wanted. Kendra and Yolanda would watch, would touch themselves, would touch each other if they felt like it. Anyone could stop it with the word they had chosen. No one had any intention of using it. Darius’s gaze moved over the stockings, the cage, the painted mouth, and stayed, hot and unhurried, until Otto’s knees threatened to soften under it.

Yolanda sat on the other cushion, thirty-one, Kendra’s friend from the years they had shared an office before Kendra changed firms. She had a realtor’s easy posture and a champagne silk robe already loose at the knee. Her eyes were bright. She looked Otto over and smiled, not unkind. “He’s shaking.”

“He’s ready,” Kendra said.

“I can see that.” Yolanda’s attention dropped to the wet patch on the panties, and her smile went slower. “Poor little thing. Locked up and dripping before anybody’s even touched him.”

Heat climbed Otto’s throat. He did not look away. That was part of what he had wanted when he said yes—being seen like this, feminized and obvious, while his wife’s bull measured him and her friend commented on the mess he was already making. His clit kicked helplessly against steel. Darius made a low sound in his chest, not quite a laugh.

“Come here,” Darius said.

Kendra’s hand pressed, guiding rather than pushing. She walked Otto the few steps to the couch and turned him so he faced the bull, then set both hands on his shoulders. “Down,” she whispered, close to his ear, warm and steady. “On your knees for him. You’ve been thinking about his cock since you put the lipstick on. I watched you in the mirror. Show him.”

Otto sank. The heels made it awkward and the rug saved his knees, and the awkwardness itself felt filthy, a man in pink satin folding down in front of the man who fucked his wife. Kendra stayed behind him a moment, fingers in his hair, not ruining the set of it, just reminding him she was there. “Good girl,” she murmured, and the words went through him like a hand. “Open your mouth if you want it. You do want it.”

“I want it,” Otto said. His voice came out thin. He cleared it and tried again, louder, because she had told him not to hide. “I want him to use me.”

Darius leaned back, thighs spreading, and dragged his zipper down without hurry. The sound was loud in the quiet room. He freed himself, and his cock sprang up thick and heavy, dark along the shaft, the head already glossy. It was bigger than Otto’s caged clit by a measure that made Otto’s stomach drop and his mouth water at the same time. Heavy balls rested against the open fly. The smell of him—clean skin, heat, a trace of soap—reached Otto where he knelt.

Otto licked his lips. He did it without thinking, a small hungry pass of his tongue over pink gloss, and Darius’s eyes tracked it.

“Yeah,” Darius growled, approval rough in his throat. “Look at that. Pretty mouth already shining for me.”

Yolanda had shifted closer to Kendra, who had come around to stand at the end of the couch. Yolanda’s hand settled on Kendra’s bare thigh and stroked, slow, proprietary in a friendly way, and Kendra’s breath changed. Otto heard it. He saw his wife’s fingers curl against her own dress. The room tightened around the four of them, around the wet sound of his own swallowing and the weight of the cock in front of his face.

“Please,” Otto said. The word embarrassed him and freed him in the same breath. He put his hands on Darius’s knees, stockings whispering as he leaned in, and looked up through darkened lashes. “Please use me. I’m your sissy. I want your cock. I want you to fuck my throat and then my ass and not be gentle unless you feel like it. I locked myself up for you. I’m dripping in these panties. Please.”

Kendra made a soft, wrecked sound. Yolanda’s hand slid higher on her thigh.

Darius wrapped a fist in Otto’s hair, careful enough not to yank the wig-smooth set of it loose, firm enough that Otto felt owned. “Since you asked so sweet.” He rubbed the slick head across Otto’s lower lip, painting gloss over gloss, and Otto opened.

The first push filled his mouth and blurred his thoughts. Salt and heat and the stretch at the corners of his lips. He moaned around it, shameless, and took another inch because Darius’s hand guided him and because he wanted the fullness more than he wanted dignity. Kendra had been fucked by this cock. Otto had listened through the bedroom door, fist around his cage, and now it was on his tongue, heavy enough to pin it down. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, sloppy on purpose, the way he had practiced on toys while she watched and told him what her bull would expect.

“There you go,” Darius said. “Eager little thing.”

He set a rhythm and then deepened it. Not cruel—Otto could breathe when Darius let him, and a tap on the thigh would have stopped everything; they had agreed on that too—but deep, steady, the head nudging the back of his throat until Otto’s eyes watered and mascara threatened at the rims. Spit slicked his chin and spotted the pink bra. Each thrust rocked him on his knees. His caged clit pulsed in time, leaking freely now, a thin strand dampening the inside of his thigh above the stocking. He gagged once, recovered, and pushed forward anyway, hungry for the next stroke, and Darius’s growl went darker.

“Fuck. He wants it.”

“He does,” Kendra said. Her voice had gone husky. Otto flicked his wet eyes sideways and saw her dress rucked up, Yolanda’s fingers between her thighs, Kendra’s own hand inside Yolanda’s open robe. They were watching him choke prettily on her bull’s cock and touching themselves while they did it, and the sight nearly undid him. He moaned around the shaft, a desperate vibrating sound, and Darius’s hips jerked.

“Enough of that or I’ll finish in his mouth,” Darius said, though he sounded like finishing was a real temptation. He drew out slowly, a shining string connecting Otto’s lip to the head, and wiped it across Otto’s cheek with his thumb. “Up. Over the couch. I want that ass.”

Kendra helped him stand because the heels and the dizziness made the room tilt. She kissed his wet mouth once, tasting Darius on him, and smiled against his lips. “You’re doing so well. Bend over for him. Show him what I trained.”

Otto folded over the arm of the couch, chest to the towel, ass tipped up, heels planted as wide as the garters allowed. The position presented him completely. Cool air hit the backs of his thighs. Kendra drew the pink panties aside rather than off, a deliberate exposure, and the cage hung small and shiny between his legs, dripping onto the rug. Yolanda made an appreciative noise and slipped two fingers into herself, robe fallen open, eyes fixed on the pale curve of Otto’s ass and the vulnerable place Kendra was slicking with lubricant.

Kendra worked him open with patient fingers first, two, then three, while Darius stroked himself and watched. Otto pushed back onto her hand and whimpered. “Please. I’m ready. I need him in me.”

“You hear that?” Kendra said to Darius. “My sissy husband, begging for your cock in his hole.”

“I hear him.” Darius stepped in behind Otto, one broad hand spreading him, the other guiding. The head pressed, thick, relentless, and Otto bore down the way he had learned, breathing out, wanting the stretch more than he feared it. It burned in a bright, perfect line and then gave, and Darius sank in by inches, filling him until Otto’s mouth hung open against the towel and his fingers clawed the couch cushion.

“Tight,” Darius said, almost reverent, and seated himself to the hilt. His hips met the garter belt. His balls rested heavy against the cage. Otto sobbed a thank-you into the towel.

Then Darius fucked him.

Deep, powerful strokes, not a rush, each one a full withdrawal and a full return that knocked a sound out of Otto’s chest. The couch shifted on the rug. Otto’s heels scrabbled and held. Every thrust lit him up from the inside, the thick cock dragging over the spot that made his caged clit jump and leak in helpless little pulses. He stopped trying to be quiet. “Yes—yes, use me, fuck your sissy, harder—”

Darius gave him harder. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and obscene, mixed with the softer sounds of the women. Kendra had one hand on Otto’s lower back, feeling the impacts travel through him, and the other between her own legs, fingers circling, her eyes half-lidded and fierce with pride. Yolanda had abandoned any pretense of just watching. She was sprawled against the cushions with her robe open, thighs spread, rubbing herself in time with Darius’s thrusts, moaning when Otto moaned, as if the sight alone was enough to wind her tight.

“Look at you,” Yolanda said, breathless. “Taking that cock like you were built for it. Kendra, he’s gorgeous like this.”

“I know,” Kendra said, and her fingers sped up. “My pretty husband. My bull’s little sleeve.”

Otto heard himself and barely recognized the voice—high, broken, begging for more even while he was already full. Darius’s hands gripped his hips hard enough to leave marks he’d find tomorrow under the garter belt, and the thought of those marks made him clench. Darius cursed and pounded deeper, balls swinging, the pace turning relentless. Otto’s cage swung and tapped his thigh. Precum striped the towel. He was close in the strange, full-body way the cage allowed, pleasure stacked with nowhere to go except through him.

“Not yet,” Darius said, as if he could feel it. He pulled out, and Otto whimpered at the emptiness, hole fluttering, pink panties still tugged aside and ruined. “On your back. I want to see that face while I finish in you.”

They moved him together, Kendra and Darius, turning him, settling him on the couch with his shoulders against the cushions Yolanda had just vacated. Yolanda knelt on the floor beside Kendra now, close enough that their shoulders touched, both of them flushed and shining, hands still working between their own thighs. Darius caught Otto’s stockinged ankles and pushed them up and wide, pinning them apart, heels in the air, garters taut. The position opened him completely. His caged clit stood up small and desperate against his belly, the steel wet, his hole slick and waiting.

Darius sank back in with one long stroke and Otto cried out, arms flung over his head, lipstick smeared, mascara finally running a little at the corners. Missionary, pinned, looked at. Darius fucked him there with heavy, deliberate drives, and his balls slapped Otto’s ass on every stroke, a filthy rhythm Otto felt in his teeth. The bull leaned over him, sweat gleaming on his chest, and held his eyes.

“Pretty little sissy cum-dump,” Darius said, voice low and rough and pleased. “That’s what you are. Taking my cock while your wife watches. Gonna fill this hole and then paint that lipstick. You want that?”

“Yes,” Otto gasped. “Yes, I’m your cum-dump, please, I’m yours, use me—”

He got a hand down to the cage. The steel was hot. He stroked it the only way he could, fingers rubbing the bars, pressing the trapped ache, and the combination undid him: Darius pounding deep, balls slapping, Kendra moaning his name, Yolanda panting beside her, the words pretty little sissy cum-dump ringing in his head. Pleasure crested without warning, sharp and total. He came hands-free, a thin, desperate spurt pulsing out of the cage and striping his satin belly, then another, his hole clenching hard around the thick cock, his voice breaking into a long, helpless moan. His legs shook in Darius’s grip. The orgasm rolled through him in waves that seemed to have no clean end, each thrust wringing another weak pulse from the cage until he was sobbing and smiling at the same time.

“Fuck,” Darius snarled, pace stuttering. “That’s it. Squeeze me.”

He drove in a few more times, deep enough that Otto saw stars, and then pulled out all at once. Otto barely had time to understand the loss before Darius was up over him, fist flying on his slick cock, the other hand braced on the couch. “Face up. Mouth open.”

Otto tipped his chin and opened his painted mouth, eager even spent, and Darius came with a rough groan. Thick ropes of cum lashed across Otto’s flushed cheeks, over the bridge of his nose, across the pink lipstick, one heavy stripe landing on his tongue. Another painted his chin and dripped toward the hollow of his throat. It was hot and messy and endless-feeling, Darius milking himself until the last drops clung to Otto’s lower lip and the gloss underneath was ruined into something filthier and more beautiful. Otto swallowed what had landed in his mouth and held still, glistening, letting them all see.

Kendra came with a sharp, bright cry, fingers buried, eyes locked on her husband’s cum-painted face. Yolanda followed a breath later, laughing once in the middle of it, shaky and delighted. Then they were applauding—actual soft clapping, breathless, affectionate, obscene in its cheer—while Darius stroked Otto’s hair back from his sticky forehead and looked enormously satisfied.

“Good girl,” Kendra said again, and came to kiss the corner of his mouth that was still clean. “You were perfect.”

Otto’s smile felt shy on a face covered in another man’s cum. He looked up at Darius, at the bull who had used him exactly as promised, and the thank-you rose without effort. “Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse, lipstick wrecked, stockings still clipped, cage still locked and dripping the last of his own mess. “Thank you for using me.”

Darius’s thumb traced his cheek, smearing a streak, gentle now. “Anytime. You beg real pretty.”

They cleaned what needed cleaning and left what could wait. Kendra unlocked nothing; the cage stayed, a warm secret under a robe she draped over Otto’s shoulders. Yolanda fetched the bottle of chilled wine from the kitchen, four glasses, no ceremony. They sat together on the rug and the couch, flushed and loose-limbed, and the wine was cold and bright after the heat. No one was drunk. No one needed to be. Kendra’s bare foot rested against Otto’s stockinged ankle. Yolanda described, laughing, the exact moment his eyes had rolled back. Darius said next time he wanted Otto on the bed, heels on his shoulders, for as long as the sissy could take it, and maybe Kendra riding his mouth while he did. Kendra agreed at once. Otto, glistening still at the hairline, spent and sore in the best way, nodded with that same shy, satisfied smile and said he would beg for it again whenever they wanted.

They were already planning the night Darius would claim him a second time, voices easy, glasses touching, when Otto lifted his wine and felt the truth settle under his ribs with nowhere left to hide.

He would spend the rest of his marriage grateful to be the hole his wife’s bull preferred.