My Wife's Cock: Forced Feminine Slave

In the quiet hush of their suburban home, where the last of the evening light filtered through the half-drawn blinds of the living room, Sullivan stood near the mantel, twenty-eight years old and still wearing the soft cotton shirt and trousers he had changed into after work. The house smelled faintly of the lavender polish Hana preferred, and the only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft click of her heels on the hardwood as she moved through the adjoining hallway. Hana was thirty-two, a vision that never failed to stop his breath: long dark hair cascading in polished waves past her shoulders, soft curves filling out the fitted blouse and skirt she had worn that day, elegant makeup that made her eyes smoky and her lips a deep, inviting rose. She looked every inch the beautiful woman she was, yet beneath the delicate lines of her clothing she kept the thick, heavy cock she had never fully surrendered.

Before their marriage she had promised she would complete her transition, finish what she had begun, become wholly woman for him. After the wedding she had sat him down one night, voice gentle but unyielding, and confessed that she preferred it this way—preferred keeping that hard length and turning him, slowly and thoroughly, into her eager feminine slave. The confession had landed between them like a live wire. He had felt the heat rise in his face, the conflict twisting low in his belly: shame at how much the idea already stirred him, and a stubborn resistance that made him want to argue even as his pulse quickened. That tension still lived in the air every night, delicious and unresolved, because some part of him still balked while another part already ached to yield.

Hana paused in the doorway now, one hand resting lightly on the frame, her gaze locking onto his with that quiet command that always made his throat tighten. She smiled, slow and knowing, the kind of smile that said she already tasted his hesitation and his hunger in equal measure.

“Come here, Sullivan,” she said, her voice low, already growing husky. “It’s time.”

He crossed the room on legs that felt suddenly unsteady. When he reached her she lifted one elegant hand and traced a teasing fingertip along the line of his jaw, then down the side of his neck, leaving a trail of gooseflesh. Her perfume—something warm and floral—wrapped around him. He could see the faint outline of her cock beneath the fabric of her skirt, already beginning to thicken with interest, and the sight sent a conflicting jolt straight to his own groin.

“You know what I want,” she murmured. “The stockings first. Sheer black. Then the slip. The white one that clings. And the heels. Strappy. Tonight you wear all of it for me.”

Sullivan’s mouth went dry. He both craved and resisted the ritual; the words rose on his tongue—some half-formed protest about dignity, about the man he still thought he was supposed to be—yet his cock twitched hard inside his trousers at the sheer humiliation and the darker excitement coiled beneath it. Hana’s eyes dropped to the growing bulge and her smile widened.

“I can see you already,” she said, voice thicker now. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this. Slip out of those clothes.”

He obeyed, fingers clumsy on the buttons. Shirt, trousers, underwear—all of it dropped to the floor until he stood bare in the soft lamplight, cock half-hard and rising further under her steady stare. Hana stepped closer, her body heat radiating against his skin, and opened the small drawer of the console table where she kept the evening’s garments ready. She drew out the sheer black stockings first, the nylon whispering as she handed them over.

“Sit. Put them on. Slowly. I want to watch every inch.”

Sullivan sat on the edge of the low armchair. He rolled the first stocking up his left leg, the sheer fabric whispering over his calf, then his thigh, the contrast of black against his skin making him feel exposed and strangely elegant. The second followed. Already his breath came shorter. Hana watched with open hunger, one hand drifting down to cup the thickening length of her cock through her skirt, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke that made her lips part.

“Good,” she breathed. “Now the slip.”

The silky white slip was cool and liquid in his hands. He lifted it over his head and let it fall. The fabric clung immediately—thin, almost translucent, outlining the small peaks of his nipples, skimming the plane of his stomach, and draping over the hard curve of his cock so that the silk tented obscenely. The hem stopped high on his stockinged thighs. Heat flooded his face. He felt ridiculous and beautiful at once, and the twin sensations made his cock jump, smearing a small wet spot against the silk.

Hana made a soft, appreciative sound. She stepped in, took his hands, and guided him upright. Then she knelt—graceful even in that—and helped him into the strappy high heels, buckling each delicate strap around his ankles. When he stood again he was several inches taller, forced onto the balls of his feet, the posture pushing his ass out and making the slip ride higher. He swayed once, catching his balance, and the movement made the silk whisper against his aching cock.

“Look at you,” Hana said, rising. Her voice had gone rough with desire. She walked a slow circle around him, fingertips trailing across the silk at his waist, then lower to cup one cheek of his ass through the thin fabric. “My pretty thing. My feminine slave. You fight it every night, don’t you? That little spark of pride. But your cock gives you away every time.”

She pressed against his back, the hard ridge of her own cock nestling between the cheeks of his silk-covered ass. One hand slid around to palm him through the slip, squeezing with proprietary care. Sullivan shuddered. The resistance still flickered—some last stubborn part of him that wanted to say no, to reclaim the trousers and the ordinary evening—but mutual lust was already drowning it. His hips pushed back into her without conscious thought, seeking more pressure, more of that thick promise.

“Hana—” he started, the name half plea, half surrender.

She turned him gently so they faced each other. Her makeup was still perfect, lips parted, eyes dark. She took his hand and guided it beneath her skirt, letting him feel the heavy heat of her cock, already fully hard, the skin silk-smooth and burning. He wrapped his fingers around it on instinct, stroking once, and she exhaled a soft moan that went straight to his knees.

“You feel how much I want you like this,” she whispered. “Dressed for me. Open for me. Every night I get to fuck my wife’s soft little husband until he remembers who he belongs to. Tell me you want it too. Tell me you’re going to bend for me.”

The last of his hesitation cracked under the weight of his own need. His cock throbbed inside the clinging slip; a fresh bead of wetness darkened the silk. He looked into her eyes and found only heat and certainty, the same certainty that had claimed him after the wedding and every night since.

“I want it,” he said, voice rough. “I want you to dress me. Use me. I’ll take it.”

Hana’s smile turned fierce with pleasure. She kissed him hard, tongue sliding deep, one hand still on her cock while the other rucked the slip up over his hips so she could stroke him skin to skin. When she pulled back, both of them were breathing fast.

“Then get on your knees on the couch,” she ordered, husky and absolute. “Ass up. Present yourself. I’m going to look at what’s mine before I take it. And if that stubborn little voice tries to come back later, you already know the leather strap is waiting. But I don’t think you’ll need it tonight. Not when you’re this wet for me already.”

Sullivan moved on shaky legs, heels clicking, stockings whispering. He climbed onto the wide couch and settled on hands and knees, the silk slip flipped up onto his back, ass presented, cock hanging heavy and dripping between his thighs. The position left him open, vulnerable, exquisitely aware of every cool draft across his hole. Behind him he heard the soft sound of Hana’s skirt being lifted, the quiet rustle as she freed her cock completely. He could picture it—thick, flushed, the head already glistening—and the image alone made him push his hips back farther in silent invitation.

She stepped close. One warm hand settled on the small of his back; the other guided the blunt, slick head of her cock to rest against his entrance, not pushing yet, just resting there with deliberate promise. The contact sent a full-body tremor through him. Sullivan’s fingers dug into the couch cushions. The tension between them stretched taut and electric: the memory of her old promise, the new reality she had chosen, the nightly ritual that left him aching and dressed and eager. He both still felt the ghost of resistance and burned past it into pure want.

Hana leaned over him, breasts soft against his silk-clad back, lips near his ear.

“Tonight you’re going to take every inch up this pretty ass,” she murmured, “and then you’re going to open your mouth like the soft little cunt it is and clean me. You’re my feminine slave, Sullivan. Say it while you wait for me to push inside.”

He swallowed, cock jerking, hole fluttering against the hot pressure of her.

“I’m your feminine slave,” he whispered, and the words unlocked something deeper, darker, more complete. “Dress me. Fuck me. Use me every night.”

Her hand stroked once down his flank in reward, then settled firmly on his hip. The thick head of her cock pressed more insistently, beginning that first slow stretch, and Sullivan’s breath left him in a broken, eager sound. The evening had only just begun; the full weight of her possession, the deep claiming, the mouth she would use afterward, all of it still waited ahead, tension coiling tighter with every heartbeat as she held herself there at his entrance, letting him feel exactly how thoroughly he belonged to her.

Hana’s thick cockhead pressed harder, stretching Sullivan’s tight ring with deliberate patience. He gasped, the silky slip bunched at his waist, stockings whispering against the couch cushions as his knees spread wider. The high heels forced his ass higher, presenting him perfectly. She did not thrust yet. Instead she rocked just enough to let the flared head pop past the first ring of muscle, holding there while his hole fluttered and clenched around the intrusion.

“Feel that?” she murmured against his ear, breasts soft through her blouse against his silk-clad back. “That’s your wife’s cock claiming her pretty little husband. You’re already opening for me like a good girl.”

Sullivan’s cock jerked beneath the slip, smearing fresh wetness across the thin fabric. He pushed back instinctively, chasing more, even as a flicker of that old stubborn pride tried to surface. It died the moment she slid another slow inch deeper. The burn melted into thick, spreading heat. His fingers dug into the cushions.

“Hana… please…”

She rewarded him by sinking farther, inch by possessive inch, until her hips met the curve of his ass and her heavy balls rested against the silk of his stockings. Full. Stuffed. He moaned, low and broken, the sound vibrating through both of them. She stayed buried, rolling her hips in tiny circles so he felt every ridge, every pulse of her cock against his prostate.

“My pretty little wife,” she said, voice husky with ownership. “Look at you taking me. Soft silk, heels, ass stretched wide around your wife’s cock. You’re mine every night.”

Only then did she begin to move—slow, deep strokes that dragged almost all the way out before gliding back in to the root. Each thrust was measured, proprietary, designed to make him feel the length and thickness claiming him completely. The couch creaked softly. Sullivan’s cock swung and slapped against the silk with every impact, leaving dark, glossy spots. He stroked himself through the fabric without being told, fist moving in time with her hips, the friction of silk on sensitive skin making him whimper.

Hana fucked him like that for long minutes, never speeding up, never losing that controlled possession. Her hands gripped his hips hard enough to leave faint marks, pulling him back onto each stroke so he took every inch. Sweat beaded along his spine under the slip. His hole fluttered and gripped, greedy now, the earlier resistance drowned under wet, sliding heat and the constant press against that sweet spot inside him.

“You’re dripping all over my pretty slip,” she observed, reaching under to squeeze his cock through the soaked silk. “Such a needy little wife. Tell me how it feels having your ass used.”

“Full,” he gasped. “So full—Hana, your cock—feels so good. Don’t stop.”

She didn’t. She kept the same relentless rhythm until his thighs trembled and his moans turned continuous. Then, without warning, she pulled free. The sudden emptiness made him cry out. His hole clenched on nothing, gaping slightly, shiny with the slick she had left behind.

“On the bed,” she ordered. “Now. Bend over the edge for me.”

Sullivan scrambled up on shaky heels, the slip falling back down to mid-thigh, cock tenting it obscenely. He crossed to the bedroom on clicking heels, Hana right behind him, her own skirt still rucked up around her waist, heavy cock bobbing wet and dark. He bent over the foot of the bed exactly as she wanted—chest to the mattress, ass raised, stockings and heels framing everything she owned. The slip rode up again under her hands.

She lined up and drove back in with one long, smooth thrust that punched a raw moan from his throat. Bent like this she could go even deeper. She fucked him with those same slow, possessive strokes, hips snapping just enough at the end of each plunge to make her balls slap softly against him. One hand stayed on the small of his back, pinning him; the other reached around to stroke his silk-covered cock in time.

“My pretty little wife,” she repeated, voice thick. “Taking your wife’s cock so sweetly. Feel how deep I am? This ass belongs to me. Every night.”

Sullivan pushed back to meet her, stroking himself faster through the fabric, the dual sensation overwhelming. Pleasure coiled tight at the base of his spine. He was so close already, balls drawn up, hole milking her on every retreat.

Just before he could tip over she pulled out again. He whined at the loss.

“Knees,” she said. “Drop. Open that mouth. You’re going to be my cunt now.”

He slid off the bed onto the carpet, knees spreading, heels still on, stockings stretched tight. The slip clung to his dripping cock. Hana stood over him, beautiful face flushed, dark hair slightly mussed, cock gleaming with the evidence of his ass. She cupped the back of his head and guided the thick head between his lips.

“Suck. Soft little cunt mouth. Take it the way your ass just did.”

Sullivan opened wide and let her push in. The taste of his own body mixed with her clean, musky skin flooded his tongue. She thrust shallow at first, letting him adjust, then deeper, using his mouth with the same deliberate ownership she had used his hole. He moaned around the shaft, the vibration making her hips stutter. His hand never left his cock; he stroked himself hard through the wet silk while she fucked his face, slow and deep, cockhead nudging the back of his throat on every stroke.

“That’s it,” she groaned. “Pretty little wife sucking cock like she was made for it. Look at you—stockings, heels, slip, mouth full of me. My feminine slave. Every night I get this. Every night you give it.”

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes from the stretch, but he kept sucking, hollowing his cheeks, tongue working the underside. His free hand braced on her thigh. She threaded fingers into his hair and held him steady while she used him, hips rolling in that same possessive rhythm. Spit slicked his chin and dripped onto the slip. His cock throbbed in his fist, so hard it hurt, the silk glued to the head by constant precum.

Hana’s breathing grew ragged. Her strokes shortened, grew sharper. “Swallow it all,” she ordered. “Every drop. You’re my cunt tonight.”

She buried herself deep and came with a long, low moan, thick ropes of cum flooding his mouth and throat. Sullivan swallowed greedily, moaning in submissive pleasure the whole time, the taste and heat of her orgasm pushing him right to the edge. He stroked faster through the silk, hips jerking, so close—

But she pulled free before he could finish, a final pulse of cum striping his tongue and lips. He stayed on his knees, mouth open, panting, cock painfully hard and leaking through the slip, waiting for whatever she decided next. The leather strap still hung on its hook by the closet, a quiet promise if any resistance tried to return. Hana looked down at him, chest rising and falling, cock still half-hard and shiny, eyes dark with the knowledge that the night was far from finished.

Hana’s fingers lingered at the back of Sullivan’s head a moment longer, gentle now that the last thick pulse had left her. She looked down at her twenty-eight-year-old husband still kneeling in the high heels and ruined white slip, black stockings stretched taut over his thighs, chin glistening, cock straining obscenely against the soaked silk. The sight of him—twenty-eight, breathing hard, completely given over—pulled a soft, satisfied sound from her throat.

“Stand up, pretty thing,” she said, voice still husky but warmer. “Come to the bed.”

Sullivan rose on trembling legs, the strappy heels clicking once against the carpet. Hana guided him the few steps, then sat on the edge of the mattress and drew him down between her knees so his head rested against her soft bare thigh. Her cock, still half-hard and shiny, rested near his cheek. She stroked his hair slowly, nails lightly scraping his scalp in long, soothing passes. The floral scent of her perfume mixed with the musky evidence of what they had just done. Sullivan’s eyes fluttered shut. Every muscle that had been locked in need began to unknot under the rhythm of her fingers.

“You were such a good feminine slave tonight,” Hana murmured, her free hand drifting down to cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where a last smear of her cum still clung. “Look at you. Silk clinging to every hard line, stockings perfect, heels still on like a proper little wife. You took my cock all the way up that tight ass and then opened your mouth like the softest cunt. You swallowed every drop. I’m so proud of you.”

The praise sank into him hotter than the fucking had. Sullivan nuzzled closer, lips brushing the soft skin of her thigh, cock still throbbing inside the slip. He felt ridiculous and cherished at once, the twin feelings wrapping around the earlier humiliation until they became the same delicious thing. Her fingers never stopped moving through his hair.

“I love when you fight it just a little at the start,” she continued, voice low and intimate. “That token protest, the way you still try to remember the man who walked in wearing trousers. It makes the moment you finally say you’re my feminine slave even sweeter. But you know what happens when that little spark of pride shows itself.”

She reached behind her without looking. The leather strap hung on its hook just within reach; the soft slap of it coming free made Sullivan’s cock jump against the wet silk. Hana’s other hand kept stroking his hair, gentle, loving, even as she set the folded strap on the bed beside them.

“Up,” she said quietly. “Over my lap. Ass bare for me. We both know you need this, and we both know you want it.”

Sullivan climbed onto the bed on shaky knees and draped himself across her thighs, the silky slip pushed up to his waist so his stockinged legs and bare cheeks were offered completely. The high heels dangled. He felt the warm weight of her cock against his hip, still slick. Hana rested one palm on the small of his back, holding him steady, and with the other she let the leather trail once across his skin—cool, promising.

“These are for the way you hesitated earlier,” she said, almost tender. “For the half-formed words about dignity that tried to climb out of your throat before you begged me to use you. Count them for me.”

The first stroke landed firm and flat across the fullest part of both cheeks. The leather cracked loud in the quiet bedroom. Heat bloomed instantly. Sullivan’s cock jerked hard against her thigh.

“One,” he gasped.

The second came a fraction lower, overlapping the first, the sting sharper. He pushed his ass up into it without thinking.

“Two.”

The third and fourth landed in quick succession, left cheek then right, each one solid enough to leave a rising pink stripe. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes—not from pain, but from the perfect, grounding intensity of it. The discipline was as much a ritual as the stockings and the heels; it closed the circle of the night, burned away the last ghost of resistance, left him clean and owned.

“Three… four…”

Hana paused, rubbing the warm marks with her open palm, soothing the fire she had just lit. “Two more. You’re doing so well.”

The fifth stroke cracked harder, right across the sit-spots where he would feel it tomorrow when he sat at his desk. The sixth followed immediately, sealing the set. Sullivan’s voice broke on the final count.

“Five… six. Thank you, Hana.”

She dropped the strap to the floor and immediately gathered him up, pulling him fully onto the bed so they lay facing each other. Her hand returned to his hair, stroking slower now, fingers carding through the damp strands while her other hand slipped between their bodies to wrap around his neglected cock through the slip. She stroked him with the same gentle possession she had used on his scalp—long, firm pulls that made the wet silk glide over the swollen head.

“My beautiful feminine slave,” she whispered against his mouth. “You took your discipline so sweetly. Now come for me. Come while you’re still dressed like my pretty little wife, with my marks on your ass and my taste still on your tongue.”

Sullivan buried his face against her neck and thrust into her fist. The combination of the lingering sting, the silk, the heels still buckled around his ankles, and the soft continuous praise unraveled him in seconds. He came hard, thick ropes flooding the front of the slip, hips stuttering, a broken moan muffled against her skin. Hana worked him through every pulse, murmuring “good boy, good girl, such a perfect slave” until he collapsed trembling against her.

They stayed tangled while their breathing slowed. Hana peeled the ruined slip up and over his head, then unbuckled the heels one by one and rolled the stockings down his legs with slow care. She left him naked except for the pink stripes across his ass. He felt lighter somehow, emptied and filled at the same time. She rose only long enough to wet a soft cloth in the bathroom and clean him gently—between his cheeks, along his softened cock, across his mouth—then returned and pulled the covers over them both.

In the dim light she kept stroking his hair, over and over, the same tender rhythm.

“You were perfect tonight,” she said again. “Stockings, slip, heels, ass open, mouth open, and the strap when you needed it. I love using my wife’s soft little husband. Every single night.”

Sullivan turned his face into her palm, kissing the center of it. The earlier token protests felt distant now, almost sweet in memory. The heat on his ass was already fading into a pleasant glow. His body felt used and cherished down to the bone.

“I’ll be ready tomorrow,” he whispered. “Same ritual. I’ll put the stockings on the moment I get home. I’ll bend over the second you tell me. And if I try to pretend I don’t want it…”

“I’ll remind you with the strap,” Hana finished, smiling against his forehead. “And then I’ll fuck my pretty feminine slave until he remembers exactly who he belongs to.”

They lay quiet for a long while, limbs heavy, skin cooling, the suburban house settled into its nighttime silence around them. Hana’s cock rested soft against his hip; his own spent cock nestled against her thigh. Satisfaction hummed through both of them like a shared heartbeat. Already the shape of the next evening was forming in the dark—another pair of sheer black stockings waiting in the drawer, another silky slip, the heels lined up by the closet, the leather strap hanging in its place. The promise of it made Sullivan’s spent cock twitch once in lazy interest. Hana felt it and laughed softly, kissing the top of his head.

“Greedy little wife,” she murmured fondly. “Sleep. Tomorrow night I’ll dress you again and take everything you have to give.”

Sullivan closed his eyes, the last of the tension gone, body heavy and warm and perfectly claimed. In the final drift before sleep he felt her fingers still moving slowly through his hair, praising him without words, and he knew with absolute certainty that the ritual would continue tomorrow and the night after and every night after that.

And as the last conscious thought slipped away, Sullivan realized he had been the one who first placed the leather strap in her hand on their wedding night and asked her never to finish the transformation.