DECISION

We’d been talking about it for months—those wine-soaked whispers that drifted between us in the dark, barely more than breath and heat. Hotwife roleplay, cuckold, humiliation, voyeurism… They’d lived in our search history, our pillow talk, our dirtiest dreams. But this time, we were finally ready to step out of fantasy.

Not recklessly. We weren’t about to dive headlong into some anonymous swingers’ party or sleazy backroom club. We wanted structure. Control. Immersion. That’s how we found The Sex Academy.

It called itself a “bespoke sexual transformation retreat”—a place where couples could explore their deepest desires safely, but without limits. Everything about it radiated dark luxury and strict discretion. Elegant testimonials. Encrypted booking forms. And that one line that sealed it for us: “Become what you were always meant to be.”

I had gone into the en-suite shower as my wife stepped out, and she was propped up in bed as I was drying, with the iPad on her lap. I noticed a pair of my women’s panties on my pillow, replacing my boxer shorts. Now, although she tolerated me wearing them, normally I had to slip into bed wearing them unnoticed until she discovered them as we started to fool around. It was extremely unusual, if not exceptional, that she had prompted me to wear them.

In bed, the iPad resting between us, we were scrolling through the course catalogue. I mentioned, hopeful, that the hot-wife cuckold couples course appealed to me. Then, more hesitantly—barely above a whisper—I added that the bi-hubby option intrigued me too. My heart was pounding just from saying it aloud. I quickly followed it up by saying I wanted to see her properly pleasured for once… to finally reach orgasm—something she’d never achieved during our marriage.

But she shook her head gently.

“I don’t think a couples’ course is right for us,” she said, calmly and clearly. “We’d just hold each other back. And I want you as you are—my loving husband.”

She looked at me with warmth and honesty. “Even though I’ve never come with you, I’ve still always enjoyed our sex. Especially since you always finish inside me—it proves your love.”

I swallowed hard, unsure how to feel. But she wasn’t done.

“And please… don’t feel bad about the orgasm thing,” she added, reaching out to touch my arm. “It’s not just you. I can’t even make myself come. Though, to be honest, I never really got into that. What with starting so early and having plenty of admirers, I never really had a break between lovers.

I’m beginning to think my body doesn’t respond unless I’m being taken. Used.”

There was a long pause as her eyes searched mine.

“That first time,” she said softly, almost wistfully, “when I lost my virginity… it wasn’t romantic. It was raw. He didn’t ask, he didn’t hold back. He just took me. I came so hard I cried. And I think… maybe that’s the part of me I need to find again.”

My mind reeled. I knew who she meant—her first lover. I’d heard the story before in passing, but now the image burned in my imagination. Her younger self, spread open, trembling beneath a man who didn’t coax or coddle, but simply fucked her. I pictured his big, black cock forcing its way into her tight, untouched pussy… and her body surrendering, overwhelmed, helpless, ecstatic. And added to that, the fact—perhaps even the humiliation—that despite being four years older, I had lost my virginity to her and had never cum in another.

She remained so composed. So sure of herself.

“I want the Slut Wife training,” she said, her voice firm now.

And before I could respond—before I could even begin to process it—she added, almost too casually, “And I think you should go on the Sissy course… since you like wearing panties so much. And now that you’ve admitted wanting to explore your bi side.”

I felt the heat rush to my face. My cock twitched helplessly beneath the soft press of my cotton-lace panties, and I saw the wet patch of leaking precum forming before I could try to hide it. She saw it too—and smiled.

All had been decided. There was a strange peace in the air between us, charged with tension but wrapped in something deeper—something almost tender. We were both riding a high of arousal, but beneath it ran the undercurrent of something more binding. She turned onto her side, and I instinctively moved to spoon her, my chest pressed against her back as I wrapped my arm around her waist. I slipped my fingers between her legs, and found her already wet—soft and warm and open. Her hips shifted to welcome my touch, and she reached back, hand inside my panties to stroke me, her hand wrapping around my aching cock in slow, deliberate strokes that made me gasp into the curve of her neck.

Pulling aside the panty leg, I released my cock and tried to enter her, slowly at first, but it felt less like fucking and more like making love—like trying to reach her, really reach her, with everything I had. I kissed her shoulder and whispered her name as I moved inside her, trying to give her all of me. I wanted to please her. Desperately. I focused on her breath, the sounds she made, the small movements of her hips—everything I could read, I followed. I tried with all my heart. I tried to fuck her.

But even in that closeness, I could feel it again—that gap. The subtle distance. My love was real, my effort honest, but still… it wasn’t enough. Not fully. She responded to me, but she also steered me—gently, confidently—guiding me with soft moans and quiet, insistent words. Her voice was tender but firm, coaxing me toward release. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t impatient. It was loving, in a way—but measured. Controlled. Like she cared for me deeply, but knew this moment would end like all the others, even faking her own orgasm to trigger my release.

And when I finally came, it was inside her, just the way she liked. Her body clenched around me, holding me there. Her eyes turned back to find mine, and I looked into them, lost. There was warmth in her gaze. Affection. But also something else. A quiet certainty. A knowing. As if to remind me—without malice, without shame—that no matter how much I loved her, no matter how hard I tried… I was still becoming something smaller. Something more hers.

And she, even now, was still wanting. Still longing. For more.

The following day, we enrolled. It required a £500 deposit. The instructions that followed were clear—almost clinical—especially regarding STI testing. And yet, there was something oddly thrilling about the formality of it all.

While we waited for our results, I took a closer look at what exactly we had each signed up for. At first, I’d assumed her course would be similar to the cuckold hotwife scenario I had once fantasized about—flirtation, seduction, me watching or being denied. But as I read further, I realised the “Slut Wife training” was far more intense. It excluded my presence and involved multiple lovers—up to three at once—and, most shockingly, it was described as a “no-holds-barred” experience. That stopped me cold. She had never once allowed me to try anal with her. I was pretty sure she was still an anal virgin. And now… this?

Then I turned my attention to the Sissy course I had agreed to take. That’s when it really hit me: it went way past just donning some lingerie, and it wasn’t just her cherry that was going to be popped.

There were a few rather embarrassing video call interviews—some with both of us together as a couple, others one-on-one. We answered questions, squirmed under scrutiny, and eventually, a date was set. Three weeks away. We were instructed to abstain from all sex in the meantime to ensure we got the “most from the experience.”

We were told to pack separate bags, no sharing. That alone felt strangely intimate—and intensely exciting.

As we packed, she gave me a knowing glance, and I surreptitiously slipped some of my more humiliating items into my case. There were the panties she already knew about, but also a plug, stockings, and suspenders—things I’d only ever worn secretly, when working away from home and in private moments I’d never dared to share with her.

ARRIVAL

When the day finally came, we arrived at the manor house just before sunset. It was even more imposing in person than in the photographs—thick stone walls blanketed in ivy, towering wooden doors, and tall windows glowing dimly with candlelight. It didn’t feel like a hotel. It felt like another world entirely.

We were greeted at the entrance by a tall, dark-skinned man of African descent dressed in tailored black slacks and a sleek silk waistcoat—Master Julien. The outline of his thick, heavy cock was impossible to ignore, straining subtly but unmistakably beneath the fabric. My eyes were drawn to it before I could stop myself, and the image burned itself into my mind. I couldn’t help imagining that enormous shaft spreading my wife open—claiming her—filling her in ways I never could.

Beside him stood a stunning woman of some mixed Asian descent dressed in a silken basque and a short, teasing skirt. Her thighs were wrapped in sheer black stockings, held up by glinting suspenders—Mistress Celeste. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, her eyes calm but intense, and her lips painted a vivid, glossy red. She looked me over slowly, deliberately, taking her time—then smiled. It was the kind of smile that said she already knew exactly what I was, maybe even more than I did.

“You must be our little sissy,” she purred.

My cock twitched in my panties. Master would be training my wife, and I couldn’t stop the flood of filthy images in my head—his cock stretching her, dominating her, making her moan in ways I’d never heard.

Mistress Celeste, I was told, would be guiding me—and something about the way she looked at me made me feel like I already belonged to her.

They led us into a small bar area, where we settled in and sipped our drinks as they guided us gently into conversation. They opened our files—reviewing our kinks, our fears, our limits—some of which were being shared between us for the very first time. We spoke more openly, more honestly, than we ever had before.

Then came the contract.

Mistress set a leather folder on the table. “The basic enrolment is £5,000,” she said, her nails tapping the cover. “But… if you sign over your media rights and consent to live-streaming and archive access to your training sessions, it’s completely free.”

I blinked. “Live-streaming?”

“For our private subscription network,” Master clarified. “Discreet, curated, well-paid viewers. You’ll be stars—if you want to be.”

“You don’t have to decide now,” Mistress added smoothly. “Think about it over dinner. If it’s not for you, no hard feelings. You’ll lose your deposit, but gain an experience few ever forget.”

That’s when she brought out the attaché case.

With a dramatic flourish, she flipped it open to reveal a collection of chastity cages—steel, silicone, some tiny, others outright terrifying with spikes. Each one was meticulously polished, gleaming under the low bar lights like sinister jewelry.

“We don’t want any… leaks during dinner, do we?” Mistress teased, her voice light and playful. “Choose your cage, sissy.”

My eyes moved slowly across the display until they landed on a larger steel cage. It looked heavy, solid—almost masculine. I reached for it, hoping maybe I could hold on to some shred of dignity.

“No,” my wife cut in quickly, pointing to something much, much smaller.

An inverted micro cage—steel, but with a soft pink silicone insert shaped and coloured like a little pussy with rosy lips. Attached to the front was a slim, flexible urethral tube. My cheeks flushed hot.

“Seriously…?”

Mistress arched an eyebrow. “She’s indicated her preference, but the choice is yours…”

My will melted. I looked at my wife, then back at the obscene little device, and picked it up with trembling fingers, placing it into Mistress’s waiting palm.

I stood, hands shaking, and undid my trousers. As they slid down to the floor, my lace panties were revealed—black, tight, already damp with anticipation and fear. My cock pressed desperately against the fabric, throbbing in protest.

“Lacy girly panties,” Mistress said with a smirk, giving my bulge an approving pat. “Lovely.”

Then she knelt in front of me, her demeanour turning clinical and focused. “This will take a moment. I don’t want to hurt you—too much.”

She eased my panties down, and my cock sprang free—no longer bound by lace, but moments away from a far more punishing prison.

“Ooh… quite a big boy, eh? Larger than I expected of a sissy gurl,” she murmured, glancing back toward my wife and Master. “And shaven cock and balls—that will make fitting easier.”

She slipped each of my balls through the base ring with practiced ease. Then Master appeared beside her, holding a towel wrapped around a handful of ice from the bar. Mistress pressed the cold compress around my shaft, and as it began to shrink, she applied a generous amount of lube, sliding the steel ring up and my cock under, pulling it through and fitting the ring snugly at the base of my cock and balls.

Then came the tube.

She poured cold lube into a little silver dish, dipped the pink silicone insert and trailing tube, and brought it to the tip of my cock.

“You’re going to feel it… deep,” she whispered.

I whimpered softly as the urethral tube slid inside—inch by inch. My cock twitched helplessly, confused and humiliated, but it submitted. Every centimetre that entered me made me feel smaller, more useless—and even more aroused.

She then brought the cage forward and pressed it against the little pussy forcing itself against the bulbous head of my cock. It was clearly too short—my cock didn’t quite fit—but that didn’t stop her. She pushed harder, forcing the cage back toward my pelvis, making my cock recoil inward as the tube slid even deeper.

Mistress chuckled darkly. “Perfect. You’ll pee through that now. No removing it without permission.”

She clicked the lock shut with a finality that made my knees weak, then held it up so my wife could inspect her handiwork, placing the key on a chain around her neck.

“No standing at urinals for you this week, or perhaps longer,” Mistress said, trailing her finger gently down my chest and smiling at my wife. “From now on, you use the ladies’ powder room. Sitting. Like a good little gurl.”

The heat in my face was unbearable, but I nodded. I felt owned. Caged. Changed.

And then I noticed another couple in the room—a young man and woman, clearly new like us. The man looked stunned, his eyes locked on the chastity cage now fastened tightly between my legs. He’d obviously witnessed part of my humbling. They were flanked by a pair of mistresses.

They were just getting the pitch, their own journey beginning, as the man’s tutor—an elegant redhead in latex—opened her attaché case and began laying out her own collection of cages.

I watched, transfixed, as the man was slowly coaxed out of his clothes and into his own version of humiliation. Our eyes met for a moment—just a flicker—and we both understood.

There was no going back.

DINNER IS SERVED

There was a deep, resonant gong, and I heard the muffled sounds of people gathering beyond the doors—but we, the two new couples and our tutors, remained seated. We were being made to wait, to feel the weight of the moment. Then a second gong echoed through the air like a ritual summons, and we all stood. Without a word, we followed Master and Mistress toward the dining room.

Candlelight flickered from antique lanterns above, casting golden shadows that danced across the high, vaulted ceiling. The room was exquisite—round 4-seater tables dressed in rich velvet, polished silver, and crystal. Five other couples were already seated, each accompanied by their trainers. Their outfits were provocative, theatrical—lace, leather, latex—but unlike the glossy perfection of porn, these were real people. All shapes, all looks, all ages. Some soft, some strong, all radiating something raw and unfiltered: Confidence. Experience. Ownership. Submission. Humiliation.

Only we, and the other new couple, wore what you’d call “normal” clothes. And everyone knew it. We might as well have walked in naked for how exposed we felt.

As we reached our assigned table, small signs came into view—placards placed discreetly in front of each couple. Master and Mistress paused and read ours aloud, clear enough for others to hear:

SLUTWIFE | SISSY

My face burned.

The other new couple followed and took their seats beside us. Their sign was read next:

LESBIAN | SISSY

With one of their mistress’s reading it out aloud, they both blushed profusely.

We were then presented with an ‘Academy’ shot glass, and everyone raised their glasses with the same crimson drink and toasted our arrival, downing it in one—surprisingly sweet and seemingly not strong at all.

My wife and I glanced around the room, taking in the others, trying to understand where we’d landed:

A confident man in a tuxedo sat next to a woman in a corset.

STAG & VIXEN

A nearly naked couple in only underwear, collars, and leashes clipped to their trainers’ chairs.

SEX SLAVES

An older lady in an elegant evening dress and jewellery, with a certain restrained poise, sat beside a younger man in a sharp suit—his eyes still, focused, eerily similar to the Master’s.

CUCKQUEAN & BULL

A statuesque woman in a leather corset and thigh-high boots rested beside her collared, portly submissive.

FEMDOM & SUB

And at the last table, a striking pair in matching black silk robes—she composed and regal, he silent, eyes low.

CHASTITY CUCKOLD

Waiters and waitresses moved around us like dancers—men and women in latex thongs, sheer tops, and delicate collars. One waitress bent to pour wine for my wife, her sheer mesh blouse barely concealing the round curve of her breasts. Her nipples were hard, clearly visible.

After the first course was served, a large screen above a stage area lowered from the ceiling and flickered to life, a soft intro announcing: Highlights from Today’s Sessions. I sat frozen, breath shallow, my eyes flicking from the screen to the faces of the couples nearby. Mistress leaned in, voice low, explaining that for couples in separate tracks, this was the first time they’d see what their other half had been doing.

What followed was… intense.

One scene showed a woman bent over, treated like a sex toy. Another woman was fingering her, then fisting her—then double-fisting her, the camera zooming in obscenely on her gaping cunt.

Meanwhile, her partner—naked and restrained—lay strapped to a bed, a dildo affixed to his face. A dominant woman straddled him, riding him aggressively, her juices soaking his face while she tortured his genitalia and asshole with an electric wand. His whole body spasmed, whimpers leaking from behind the gag. His cock was tiny and useless.

My own cock strained desperately inside its cage. It hurt. But I was grateful for the confinement. If I hadn’t been locked, I would have cum in my panties—right there at the table.

The room went quiet, heavy with arousal. Like the whole space had begun to throb.

My wife leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“You’re dripping again, aren’t you?” she whispered.

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

She already knew.

At the Cuckquean and Bull table, things had escalated. Her partner now openly fondled one of the waitresses, his mouth suckling greedily at her nipple like a starved infant. Her tutor casually lifted the waitress’s skirt and instructed the wife—elegant, proud—to rim the girl’s ass. The wife’s cheeks burned, but she obeyed, just as she was on screen, eating a girl’s dripping pussy—one her husband had just used and filled with cum.

CEREMONY

Then the screen dimmed, and a soft chime played. A message appeared across the display: Graduation Ceremony.

All four members at the Chastity Cuckold table stood. They had completed their week—and it was time to be recognized.

With a slow, ceremonial grace, they removed their black silk robes. The wife was stunning in her lingerie—lace and confidence. Her husband stood beside her, naked except for a polished steel cage, his eyes submissive and wide.

The applause that followed was genuine and warm—but the room hushed again as the screen lifted and a side curtain pulled back, revealing a bed and a single chair.

This was their showcase.

She was taken on stage—hard, deep, rough. Her Master used her like she’d begged for it, fucked her in every position, and she responded in kind. She moaned for him to fuck her like her husband never could. She climaxed again and again, soaking the sheets with orgasm after orgasm.

At one point, her husband was handed a camera and told to film—close-ups of her taking her Master’s huge cock. The lesson was clear.

When it was over, the husband was invited to perform cleanup. And he did—licking every drop of cum from her body, from inside her. Devoted. Ashamed. Trained.

Then she turned to the audience and asked if he should be released. The room murmured. He had, after all, been locked in chastity all week.

The crowd approved.

Mistress unlocked his cage. He climbed onto the bed and tried—desperately—to fuck her. His tiny, unused cock barely made contact.

The wife from the other new couple leaned in and whispered to her husband, a little too loudly:

“He looks just like you.”

It was deliberate. A game.

On stage, the wife let out a long, exaggerated moan as her husband pushed forward, his small, freshly uncaged cock slipping between her swollen, cum-slick folds. She looked down at him with open scorn, her voice dripping with derision.

“Oh my God… are you even in?”

Laughter rippled across the room.

She tilted her hips slightly, as if trying to feel him better, and added cruelly, “Come on, baby… fuck me like you mean it. Show me what a whole week of being locked up has really done for you.”

He thrust again—pathetic little pumps, his narrow hips working harder than they should’ve needed to—and she shook her head, clearly unimpressed.

“You used to be able to reach deeper,” she smirked, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Or maybe I’m just stretched out… after him.” She glanced pointedly toward her Master, who stood nearby watching, arms crossed, cock still glistening from the brutal pounding he’d just given her.

There were more comments from her—each one sharper than the last.

“So soft… are you even hard?”

“You spent all week in that cage just to dribble in two inches deep?”

He whimpered, face flushed with shame. His little cock twitched once inside her, and then slipped free entirely, sliding out with a lewd squelch, his shaft coated in his wife’s juices and another man’s cum.

He didn’t even try to go back in.

Instead, with his breathing ragged and desperate, he wrapped his hand around his sticky shaft and began to stroke—slick with another man’s essence. She reached down between her legs, scooping up some cum released by his pathetic pumping and rubbed it over her breasts.

I watched, stunned and aching in my own cage, as his hand moved faster. He was fucking himself with his wife’s lover’s cum, using it like lube, grunting softly, eyes locked on her cum-glazed tits.

“God, look at you,” she said, shaking her head with mock disappointment. “Jerking off like a good little clean-up boy. That’s all you are now.” Despite the cruel words, the eye contact and facial expressions between the two of them clearly showed this was exactly the finale they both wanted.

She reached up and pinched her nipples roughly, arching her back so her breasts jiggled in invitation.

“Go on, then. Paint my tits with your shame.”

He let out a breathy moan, and I could see his cock lengthen slightly—maybe four inches now, no more. The pathetic way it bobbed in his fist made my own caged cock throb in sympathy and arousal.

“Hurry up,” she snapped, her voice suddenly impatient. “We’ve got a long drive home, and I’m so done with this.”

That did it.

He groaned, his whole body shuddering as he came in jerky spurts, streaking her tits with thick white globs of cum. The applause that followed was half mockery, half celebration—yet he seemed relieved, even grateful. His breathing was shallow, his eyes glassy with humiliation and release.

“Now lick it up,” she ordered calmly, as though asking him to fetch her coat.

He didn’t hesitate.

On hands and knees, he leaned in, tongue out, and began to lap his own cum from her breasts. She held them still for him, watching passively as he cleaned her. His tongue darted over her nipples, trembling with need, tasting his own failure.

Giggles passed around the room.

But not from everyone.

The other sissy—like me—sat quietly, his eyes fixed. But he wasn’t alone. His wife was smiling at him. So was the sex slave we’d seen earlier. Approval. Connection. Something was forming there.

On stage, she stroked his head gently.

“Good boy,” she said. “Now let’s get you cleaned up and locked before we leave.”

He nodded, mouth still wet with cum, and followed her offstage, behind her like the obedient, broken pet he was.

The audience clapped again—louder this time. Some whistled. Others murmured approval. But I sat there in silence, my cock throbbing uselessly in its cage, my heart hammering in my chest.

And my wife? She just leaned back in her chair and whispered, without even looking at me:

“Would you like to be next?”

I sat frozen in place, my breath caught somewhere in my chest. My cock throbbed helplessly inside its cage.

My wife’s hand slipped under the table and rested on my thigh. Her nails bit into the fabric of my trousers—just enough to mark me.

Her message was clear.

This was only the beginning.

SIGNING UP

After the meal, we were quietly led away—just the two new couples—to a private lounge tucked into the East wing. It was time to decide. After everything we’d seen—every raw moan, every humiliating confession, every moment of twisted ecstasy—did we still want to enroll?

The air between us crackled. We walked in silence, but our bodies spoke loud enough. We stayed close to the other couple, sneaking glances when I thought no one was looking. The man looked stunned—like something inside him had just snapped. His partner, on the other hand, moved with regal confidence. She looked like she already owned him. Maybe she did.

I wondered if they saw the same thing in us—me, visibly flushed and leaking inside my cage, and her… radiant, calm, dominant. It was all too neat. We had arrived together. Seated side by side. Taken on the same tour, exposed to the same scenes. Everyone else at dinner was clearly further along. They were labeled. Settled. Performing. Yet it was more than this; I felt different, excited, liberated even. I could feel my blood racing, my cock desperately trying to harden, and sexual scenes running wildly through my mind.

My wife, I noticed, was also looking flushed, and her hand kept straying from her master’s thighs or chest to the bulge in his pants, openly, wantonly.

With shaking hands, I signed the waiver. A full release. All image rights, voice, nudity, sexual acts, and consented degradation—freely surrendered in return for the “free option.” I knew exactly what that meant. We would be filmed. Streamed. Watched. Archived. Used.

They collected our phones and car keys next. Gone. No escape now. No contact with the outside world. I belonged to this place.

Mistress Celeste and Master Julien exchanged a knowing glance, then our Mistress addressed the unsaid.

“Sissy training is most effective,” she purred, “when two are trained together. They push each other. They reflect, mirror, compete. And sometimes… they connect, and perform.”

The other sissy blushed crimson. I caught his gaze briefly. His eyes dipped instantly to the floor. He looked scared. Or maybe aroused. Or both. I understood it—because I felt it too.

The idea of being forced to submit beside him—with him—made something in my gut twist and flutter. Would we be made to edge each other? To serve the same cock? Would we be filmed licking each other’s cages or sucking each other’s cocks while our wives watched? Well, that last part was soon put to rest when they told us we’d only see our partners at breakfast and dinner—unless we happened to be included in the same sex scene. Which, they said, wasn’t likely.

We were to be taken to different rooms. My wife and I shared a loving embrace, and we kissed each other goodnight, her wishing me sweet dreams and saying she was sure she was going to be tucked up nice and tight tonight. I was left speechless and dribbling.

SETTLING IN

We were split up then. She was taken to Room 305, on the third floor. I was led to 205. Mistress Celeste clarified the rules: no males allowed on the third floor, and no females on the second. Segregation was strictly enforced. The West Wing was reserved for couples.

Inside my room, Mistress Celeste remained behind as I unpacked. My face was hot as she sifted through my things.

She pulled out my delicate pink lace panties and held them up.

“She knows about these?”

I nodded. “Yes, Mistress. She picked some of them.”

Her eyes gleamed. “She dresses her little cuck. How precious.”

That word—cuck—hit me hard. This week, that’s exactly what I would become. But not in the way I’d imagined. Not just kneeling at the foot of the bed, holding her hand while she moaned. Here, I would be feminized. Filmed. Controlled. And likely used. Maybe even bred, and missing out on witnessing her pleasure totally.

She reached deeper into the suitcase and found the silk pouch, the plug, the suspenders, the stockings.

“And these?”

I hesitated. “No, Mistress. She doesn’t know about those.”

Celeste smiled. “Secrets don’t last here. And neither does modesty.”

She packed everything else away—my male clothing, even the clothes I was wearing. She handed me a white laundry bag for my panties.

“We’ll have these washed,” she said. “Unless you’d prefer to keep them wet?”

I placed them in the bag without a word.

She next went through my wash bag, removing the spiced odour of aftershave and men’s deodorant, replacing them with a bottle of sweet-smelling perfume and women’s spray from a drawer.

Then she opened the wardrobe. Inside were two white cotton nightgowns—one slightly longer, modest and loose; the other shorter, tighter. Neatly folded beside them were several pairs of plain white panties: high-cut, childish.

“These are yours now. You’ll wear the longer one to bed. The shorter one and fresh panties in the morning, after your shower. You will only wear white panties… whilst you are still a virgin. Make sure to apply plenty of perfume. Breakfast is at nine. Do not be late.”

“Your training won’t start until tomorrow, since you need to be prepared. I suggest you familiarise yourself,” she said, handing me the TV remote, “and try to get a good night’s sleep. You have much to learn.”

Then she left me alone.

I moved slowly. I slipped the longer gown over my head. The cotton clung to me, cool against my chest and thighs. I stepped into the panties. Tight. Innocent. Already, the cage beneath them was staining the crisp white cotton.

I checked the second wardrobe. Locked. Same with the drawers. I had what I was given. No more.

BEDTIME ENTERTAINMENT

I perched on the edge of the bed, trembling, and turned on the television.

Every channel was porn.

But not the kind of porn you stumbled across late at night—this was live or recorded here. Real people. Real guests. Real depravity.

Each of the couples from the welcome dinner had a dedicated channel—uncensored, uncut. I remembered the labels on their nameplates now. They weren’t just roles—they were categories. Broadcasting slots.

Stag & Vixen.

Sex Slave Couple.

Cuckquean & Bull.

Femdom & Sub.

I flicked through slowly, each channel more addictive than the last. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to.

The Stag & Vixen stream came first.

He was seated on a velvet armchair, legs splayed, a look of utter entitlement on his face. His wife—the “Vixen”—was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a younger woman knelt between his thighs, nude except for a thin leather collar and heels.

His mistress.

She was bobbing her head up and down on his cock, her makeup already smeared, her mouth stretched wide around his thick shaft. He sat casually, one hand cupping a drink, the other resting on her head, fingers woven into her hair. Occasionally, he guided her, gently but firmly, a slight thrust of his hips making her gag ever so slightly.

He smirked at the camera.

It was intimate, casual—even affectionate in its domination.

She moaned around his cock, clearly hungry for more. A soft, slick sound echoed through the speakers. He looked down at her and stroked her cheek lovingly as she took him deeper, like a reward.

There was no sign of jealousy. No tension. This wasn’t punishment. This was arrangement. The Vixen had gifted her stag a young throat to fuck—and he was enjoying it thoroughly.

The camera slowly panned, showing the Vixen herself seated nearby, fully clothed, sipping wine, her legs crossed. She was watching them. Smiling. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

She wanted to go next, performing for him with her lover.

Next, the Sex Slave Couple was kneeling naked on a low-lit stage—each bound in shining restraints, their bodies trembling, displayed for inspection like exquisite, living merchandise. Their heads were bowed, collars gleaming under the spotlight, mouths pried open by metal gags, holes exposed by cruel positioning straps that left nothing to modesty. The screen was split—half showing the slaves, the other half filled with scrolling bids and anonymous usernames.

They were no longer lovers, not even partners. Just flesh. Auctioned property. Their suffering crowd-sourced, their degradation a shared spectacle, the pleasure of the unseen bidders fed by every shudder and moan. And the auction had only just begun.

Then I switched to the Cuckquean & Bull channel—and paused.

At first glance, she looked completely out of place. Mature—some would say old. Elegant. Dignified in a way that suggested she was a woman of status, of wealth. Plain-looking, perhaps, but a real lady.

Her dark hair, streaked with soft silver, was swept into a chignon that left the graceful lines of her neck exposed, adorned with a simple string of pearls. A silk robe clung to her body like memory, a deep midnight blue that whispered class, even as the belt hung loose around her waist. She stood barefoot on the plush rug of the bedroom suite, a wine glass untouched in her hand, her lips painted in a shade that matched her complexion perfectly.

She watched him — her husband, partner, toy boy, or perhaps even a hired role-playing escort, who could be sure — seated at the edge of the bed, his shirt already undone. A much younger woman, young enough to be her granddaughter, knelt between his thighs with boldness in her eyes. The girl was all youth: bare legs, flushed cheeks, a hungry smile. Her dress was hiked up around her hips, her panties tossed carelessly on the floor. She was already stroking him, teasing him, speaking to him in a tone of shameless flirtation.

“Are you sure?” the girl asked, glancing up, her hand pausing on his cock. In that brief exchange, it was clear that although humbled in this scene, the older woman still had some control over her toy boy and his sexual partners. That subtle power was what cemented the fascination of any watching. It inspired not pity, but admiration — an understanding of her presence.

“Yes,” the older woman answered evenly. “Please… go ahead.” She turned her gaze briefly toward the camera and smiled.

The younger woman’s smile widened before she dipped her head, taking the man into her mouth. The older woman flinched — just slightly — the wine in her glass trembling. Her breath caught, but she did not look away. She forced herself to watch — not as a voyeur, but as a wife. A witness. An offering.

At first, she stood still, every muscle taut, her dignity wrapped tightly around her like the last threads of silk. But as the sounds grew — the wet suckling, the low grunts of pleasure, the girl’s eager little moans — something in her began to loosen. She stepped closer. Slowly. Her bare feet moved soundlessly across the floor. The wine glass was forgotten on the dresser.

She knelt.

Her knees sank into the carpet as she came to rest beside the girl, her eyes wide with something between hunger and shame.

“May I?” she asked softly, almost unsure.

The girl paused, pulling back slightly, her lips glistening with arousal. The man looked down at his wife — surprised, aroused, then pleased. He gave a small nod.

The older woman leaned in.

She kissed his cock the way a starving woman might press her lips to ripe fruit. Her tongue flicked along the shaft, just beneath where the girl’s spit lingered. She licked him clean, then deeper, savoring both his taste and hers. The younger woman giggled softly, amused, then moved aside, letting the older woman take over.

The cuckquean opened her mouth wider, taking him in, her throat adjusting, her hand reaching over to grip the girl’s youthful, smooth calf for support.

She lifted her gaze to the girl. Their eyes met.

“Lie back,” she whispered.

The girl obeyed without hesitation, lying on the bed and parting her legs. The man stood, his cock slick and proud, watching as his wife shifted position. The older woman crawled between the young girl’s taut thighs and lowered her face with trembling devotion. She breathed in the scent of fresh sex and perfume, hesitating for a heartbeat.

Then she began.

Her tongue was careful at first — uncertain — but the girl’s soft gasps and gentle encouragement fueled her. She licked more confidently, letting herself sink into the rawness of it, the salt of sweat and the taste of another woman. The girl arched beneath her, hips rising, hands sliding into the older woman’s hair with a soft groan, releasing her bun so her hair fell loosely around her shoulders.

Her robe slipped almost completely open, revealing pale, sagging breasts, the curve of her stomach, and the trembling anticipation in her legs. She reached up to cup and stroke the girl’s pert breasts. The girl moaned above her, hips rolling forward to meet her mouth, hands gripping the sheets.

He watched in silence, then his voice cut through the wet sounds of licking and breath.

“Roll over,” he said. “Both of you.”

They moved without hesitation. The older woman lay back first, torso toward the foot of the bed, her hair fanned across the mattress, robe fully open now, no longer pretending at modesty. Her legs dangled off the edge, her bare heels brushing the floor. The younger woman straddled her face, thighs settling firmly around her head, body facing away.

The wife opened her mouth and began again, her tongue finding the slick seam, lips sucking gently, hungrily. She moaned beneath her — the pressure of another woman grinding against her mouth, muffling her sounds. Her hands slid to the girl’s hips to steady her — or to claim her.

Then she felt him move.

The bed shifted as he climbed up behind the younger woman. There was no ceremony — just the blunt heat of his cock pressing past her lips and into her, the thick sound of entry, a cry of startled pleasure from above. He held the younger woman’s shoulders firmly, driving forward, making her gasp and arch, shoving her face into the pillows. The movement pushed her even more firmly down against the wife’s mouth, her slick cunt grinding against her lips, her moans vibrating through the older woman’s whole body as his balls brushed her cheeks.

The wife trembled visibly.

She could obviously feel the rhythm of every thrust — the way he filled the girl, drove into her, possessed her. She could hear his breath quickening. Hear the girl’s cries growing louder.

Her hand slid between her thighs. Her fingers found her own bare, swollen pussy — so wet it was almost shameful. She whimpered softly as she touched herself, circling her clit, pressing, slipping in. Her hips rose slightly from the mattress, her knees falling open, utterly exposed. Her other hand gripped the bed’s edge as her tongue continued to worship the woman above her.

His thrusts became rougher, more urgent. She felt them through the younger woman’s body — each movement jarring her down, thighs tensing, cries muffled in the pillows.

And beneath it all, the wife’s sucking was heard.

Her fingers worked faster now, hips rocking, robe spread wide like an invitation, her body writhing under the weight of her own submission. She was lost in it — the rhythm, the sounds, the scent and taste and heat of it all. No longer composed. No longer elegant. Just a mouth, a tongue, a wet and wanting cunt aching to come.

And she did.

Mouth full.

Face smeared.

Fingers deep.

She came with a muffled cry into the soft flesh above her, thighs trembling, her whole body arching off the bed’s edge. Her orgasm crashed through her like a wave — raw, electric, humiliating and pure.

As if on cue, he came seconds later, groaning deeply, grinding himself into the woman above as his body shuddered. The girl collapsed forward, spent, still trembling, her weight resting fully on the wife’s face.

The room fell quiet except for breath — ragged, uneven, thick with sweat.

The wife lay beneath them, mouth still gently lapping, fingers finally still, body open and flushed, robe fallen to the sides like wings, her own juices leaking down her thighs.

Undone.

Beautifully used.

The girl rolled off the disheveled lady, who turned once more to look toward the camera, her face drenched in vaginal fluid and cum, smiling, even winking before closing her eyes in satiated bliss.

Reluctantly, I moved on.

The Femdom & Sub feed was more brutal.

A young man was bound like a spider in red rope, his body suspended just enough that his toes barely touched the floor. His Mistress circled him slowly, heels clicking, a black crop in her gloved hand. On the wall behind them, multiple monitors displayed scrolling chat comments from viewers. Anonymous tips popped up mid-scene: “Make him cry before he cums.” “Crop the soles of his feet.” “Peg him.”

She smirked, tapped the crop against her palm, and complied with terrifying precision. His moans turned into broken sobs as the screen zoomed in on his trembling lips.

ACCESS RESTRICTED

And then… I found her.

My wife, Slutwife Training, came up as a new feed.

She was seated on the edge of a bed, still wearing the dress from dinner—but now her heels were off, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed. Expectant.

She was watching someone. Not me.

Then… he stepped into view.

Tall. Dark-skinned. Powerfully built. Naked from the waist up, trousers low on his hips, thick shaft already heavy and hanging. Her Master, Julien.

Her expression changed the moment she saw him—brightened, softened, lit up from within. She looked at him like a goddess greeting her god.

I held my breath as she rose slightly, unzipped his trousers, and released him.

His cock flopped out with casual authority—thick, dark, already pulsing. She gasped softly.

So did I.

Then, with gentle, practiced reverence, she guided him to her lips. She didn’t glance at the camera. She didn’t speak.

She just opened her mouth, circling her tongue around his unbelievably bulbous head.

And then she took him in, slowly, reverently, savouring the moment.

I was transfixed—hypnotized—watching her worship the very man who was about to claim her. My own wife, radiant and dripping with submission, her lips stretched wide as she worked her jaw.

Then… he reached for something off-screen.

The feed cut. Just like that.

A flicker. Then black. A simple message: “Access Restricted.”

BROWSING THE ARCHIVES

I sat frozen, mouth open, heart pounding in my chest.

Had she known I was watching? Had he decided I wasn’t allowed to see more? Or was that moment—the first taste of his cock—something being saved for the public release later?

My stomach twisted. My throat felt dry. My cock ached desperately, trapped in its cage. I pressed my thighs together, the wet patch in my panties blooming bigger.

In my mind, I forced myself to keep watching; in reality, I couldn’t stop.

The lower half of the menu displayed a list of archives—hundreds of previous students grouped into erotic themes and perversions:

Hotwife.

Gangbang.

Gay.

Lesbian.

First Time Bi.

Cuckold.

Femdom.

BDSM.

Bukkake.

Pegging.

Sissy.

Watersports.

Humiliation Training.

More… and more perversions…

Most were locked.

I was only allowed to access the Sub, Bi, Cuckold, Sissy, and Gay categories. But even those were raw. Real. Merciless.

Two sissies, fully dressed in lingerie, makeup, and wigs, bent over in front of a live audience, taking turns sucking a glistening strap-on worn by a latex-clad domme. The room’s walls displayed digital votes: “Which one gets to cum first?” The loser would have to eat the other’s mess. They were both trembling, desperate, painted like sluts.

A masked Mistress knelt on a throne, ordering her male submissive to lick the cum from the soles of her stilettos while she sipped wine and read from a tablet. Viewers tipped rapidly, comments flooding in: “Closer camera on his tongue.” “Zoom in on the humiliation.” “Make him beg like a dog.”

In one scene, two feminized men were made to tongue each other’s asses before being placed in stocks and bred in front of a jeering audience.

In another, a husband was strapped to a chair, sucking a stranger’s cock while forced to watch his wife being spit-roasted by masked doms and then being released only to be spit-roasted himself as his wife looked over and smirked. I was transfixed, both my caged cock and my pantied ass tingling with excitement. Just what the hell was happening to me…?

I curled beneath the covers, breath short and shallow, cotton nightie sticking to my chest with sweat and arousal. The cage ached. My panties were soaked. My mind was full.

Of small but oh-so-suckable white sissy cocks and big manly cocks. Of my wife, kneeling, sucking and, no doubt, right now being filled and pleasured. Of the elegant cuckquean, demure and discarded. Of myself—soon to be on screen.

Used. Exposed. Owned.

I didn’t know if I was ready.

But I wanted it.

DREAMSCAPE

I was suddenly, overwhelmingly tired. Not just the kind of tired that came from a long day, but the kind that sank into my bones—the kind born of anticipation, of denial. It was like a fog, heavy and cloying, and something else too—something I couldn’t put my finger on but left a nagging at the back of my mind.

I reached for the remote, clicked the TV off, leaving me in silence, in the sterile dimness of my little room. The quiet pressed in around me. Too quiet.

Until I heard it.

A sound. Faint at first. Barely there.

A soft, steady thud.

Then again. Rhythmic. Like a bed moving.

Then—yes—a moan. Low. Drawn out. Undeniably feminine. And filthy. Beautiful. Distant, like it was drifting down from somewhere above… through the ceiling.

I froze.

My pulse kicked up as I tilted my head, straining to isolate it. I slid off the bed and crept toward the wall, bare feet silent on the cold floor. I pressed my ear against the plaster, the surface cool against my cheek.

There it was. Muffled. A gasp—sharp, high-pitched, needy. Flesh slapping against flesh, wet and rhythmic. Not just a bed creaking—no, there was more. Moans and cries, mixed voices, some deeper, others begging and sweet, urgent with pleasure. A cacophony of sex, of fucking. A chorus of lust playing out just beyond my reach. A hotel filled with it—others in their rooms, watching, touching, using each other. Or pleasuring themselves, alone or watching others.

Room 305. Her room.

Surely directly above mine.

Which meant…

It was them. Surely it had to be.

Julien. Her Master. My wife.

My breath caught, and a flush spread over my cheeks and neck as shame and arousal warred in my gut. I imagined it. Knew in every cell. My wife was up there, those pale, slender legs wrapped tight around his strong Black frame, her body open and eager as he took her, again and again. Owned her. Filled her.

I stumbled back to the bed and lay down, eyes closed but vision burning.

I recalled the vision of her from earlier, playing the scene forward in my mind: on her knees, mouth stretched wide, eyes watery as she gagged on his cock. Her throat bulging as he slid in deep, using her face, feeding her everything.

Then I saw her pinned beneath him, her soft white body dwarfed by his muscular mass, crushed deliciously into the mattress. Her fingers clawing at the sheets, back arched, mouth open in a raw moan as he split her open with every brutal, claiming thrust. I saw her pussy stretched around his thick, glistening shaft, lips clinging desperately, lewdly as he pulled back, then drove in deeper, harder. Her hips lifting to meet him, to keep him inside—inside the place since as her husband I’d only been allowed but never truly reached. Never filled, never would.

And all the while, my mind betrayed me—playing back a thousand porn clips I’d watched over the years, night after night whilst working away, alone in a hotel room, edging myself to exhaustion thinking it was my wife on the screen. Those cuckold scenes I craved more than anything: weak husbands listening through walls or hiding in closets as their wives moaned and begged for real cock, for men who could satisfy them properly. Men who made them cum with animal force. I’d watch for hours, stroking slowly, sometimes cumming in frantic, desperate spurts… but more often denying myself, reduced to leaking—just a stream of precum dribbling from my tip to slick my hand, to keep the ache alive. That ache had become my ritual. My release.

And now, my favourite fantasy was no longer a fantasy. It was happening. My wife was being fucked—truly fucked—by a man built for it, born for it. Her master. Her bull. And I was here, curled up pathetically in my little girl panties and soft cotton nightie, feeling my cock twitch and press uselessly against the unforgiving silicone and steel of my impossibly small inverted vagina cage.

God, I wanted to wank. I wanted it so badly. I could almost feel the ghost of it—those first strokes, those imagined jerks I’d start with in the dark, hips lifting, breath caught. But I knew—I knew—if I wasn’t caged, I’d cum within seconds. Just a few shameful, trembling strokes and I’d humiliate myself even further, shooting a load that could never match the precum I’d wasted imagining her being taken by better men. Even the solid steel cage I’d first chosen—thinking it would restrain me—would have been too generous. It wouldn’t have stopped me from climaxing like the needy, ruined minute-man cuck I’d so quickly become.

But this cage? This dainty, cruel little thing that turned my cock into a sealed, feminized slit? It allowed nothing. No pressure. No friction. No hope. Just a dull, throbbing ache. My cock could do nothing but twitch. Dribble. Strain. All I could do was curl tighter into myself, whimpering softly, my thighs squeezing together around the useless bulge between my legs as I rocked, painfully aroused as I felt the tube inside me move and I was utterly denied.

I was her husband. But more and more, that word felt meaningless. I was her witness. Her slave. Her sissy. And as I imagined her crying out beneath him, body convulsing, finally cumming like a woman should—I began to feel tears well up in my eyes.

I lay there, trembling, my heart thudding like a drum as the sounds continued—relentless and obscene. His body pounding into her. My wife. My wife being fucked by another man. No, not just another man. Him. Her Black Master. Julien.

She was surely orgasming. I could see it in my mind. Not faking it. Not like with me.

God, I remembered the way she used to whimper and writhe beneath me, trying to give me what she thought I wanted. Arching her back, clutching at me like a lover in heat, letting out those breathy little moans that were never quite right. And I pretended. I nodded. I smiled. I kissed her like I believed it.

But we both knew. We always knew.

She never came with me. Not really. Not fully. Not the way she needed to. It wasn’t a secret; it was a fact, and it was why we were here.

I had to stifle the sound I made, a broken whimper more pain than pleasure, and let the humiliation wash over me like a wave. She was his now. Her pleasure—real, raw, overwhelming—was his to give. My wife. My beautiful, only a few hours ago faithful wife, finally being made to feel something real… because of him.

Because of his cock. That impossibly thick, powerful Black cock that her pussy gripped now like it had found its purpose. But I also knew it was more than that, it was because he was taking her, fucking her, not merely making love to her.

And mine? My little, useless, caged thing twitched pathetically against its prison, soaked in pre-cum, humiliated by the sheer truth of the comparison. I wasn’t even in the same league. Not to her. Not to him.

I wasn’t a man. Not really. Not anymore. Especially now, knowing that any physical pleasure I’d be allowed at the Academy wouldn’t come from my wife—or even from another woman—but from… I could barely bring myself to admit it… cocks.

And still—God help me—I was internally hard, the tube within my inverted cock clearly felt, beautifully painful and deep. So confined I could hardly breathe. And so deeply moved I thought I might break.

A sob slipped from my lips, soft and shaking, and then the tears came—slow, silent, sliding over my cheeks as I lay there curled up, my body trembling from the ache.

But they weren’t just tears of shame.

No.

Somewhere beneath the raw humiliation, deeper than the ache of denial and inadequacy, was something else. Something purer. Almost beautiful.

Joy.

Because she had found it. At last. After all our years of unsatisfying, dutiful, performed sex. After the fake orgasms, the unspoken disappointments, the aching voids we tried to fill with affection and routine. She had found real fulfilment. Real climax. Real surrender.

And it wasn’t with me.

It was with him.

Her Master.

And that truth broke me open.

I let the tears fall. Quietly. Gratefully. Joyfully. Soaking my pillow.

Because she was finally whole.

And I was, at last, exactly where I belonged. Unused. Denied. Caged. I had now to find my own enjoyment here, on another route entirely.

The rhythm above me slowed… stopped. No more moans. Just silence.

But the images burned on behind my eyelids—her face slack with satisfaction, thighs sticky with his seed, her cunt filled to leaking. Her body claimed.

Eventually, I drifted into sleep—though sleep is too generous a word for the fevered state I sank into. I lay there curled on my side, the soft cotton of my white nightie clinging to my flushed damp skin, my caged little cock twitching and leaking hopelessly into the gusset of my panties. The bed upstairs had long gone still, but in my mind their rhythm never stopped.

I was haunted—possessed—by the sounds of her moans, of her body yielding, taken again and again by the man she’d chosen over me. No, not just him—any man. Any cock. Black cocks, thick and veiny, stretching now not her mouth but my own and then my hole. White cocks, cruel and mocking, smearing precum across my face. Sissy cocks like mine, pretty and locked, aching just to be touched and then unlocked to find release, in me. All of them blurred together in my dreamscape, a swirling, obscene carousel of masculinity. I sucked them, worshipped them, gagged on their weight and salt, my own cock pulsing uselessly behind its steel rings, forgotten, my virgin hole being taken, used and me begging for a sissy bottom of my own to gain release.

And then they came—into my mouth, across my cheeks, down my throat—and I swallowed like a good gurl, my lips glossy and swollen, my eyes fluttering, overwhelmed. Somewhere in those dreams, I saw her. My wife. Smiling at me as she pulled aside my nightie, revealing the pathetic stain in my white cotton panties. Her voice was soft and cruel, almost tender.

“You’re not pure anymore, sweetheart. You can’t wear white. Not after what you’ve become.”

And just like that, my last shred of dignity bled into the mattress. White was no longer for me. I was a cum-stained toy, a used-up sissy thing, ruined and redefined by the very men I envied and worshipped. My dreams spiraled deeper into surrender, my thighs clenching instinctively, trying to grind out an orgasm that would never come.

And I welcomed it.

My destiny.

My shame.

My truth.

All soaked into the crotch of my panties as I whimpered softly in my sleep, dreaming of cock.