Shadyside, November 28, 2025
8:02 p.m. The porch light glowed soft amber against the cold.
Inside, every lamp in the living room was on, as if extra light could make this feel less like jumping off a cliff. Lynda wore a simple black silk slip that ended mid-thigh, no bra, no panties, bare feet on the hardwood. Her blonde hair was loose, straight down her back the way DeShawn had said he liked it in their texts. She kept smoothing the hem with nervous fingers. Michael—freshly showered, hair in a damp ponytail, wearing only charcoal-gray lounge pants and nothing else—paced in front of the fireplace. His little cock was already half-hard and leaking, a visible wet spot darkening the fabric. Every time he passed the mirror, he caught sight of himself (narrow shoulders, soft chest, tiny bulge) and the old whisper tried to rise: not a real man.
Lynda caught him on the fourth lap, wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, and pressed her lips to the nape of his neck.
“Breathe, Mikey,” she whispered. “I love you. Nothing changes that. Not tonight. Not ever.”
He turned in her arms, buried his face in her hair, and nodded against her.
The doorbell rang—two low, deliberate chimes.
Lynda’s knees actually buckled. Michael steadied her, then walked to the door on legs that felt borrowed.
DeShawn filled the doorway like a total eclipse. Black cashmere sweater stretched across his chest, dark jeans, and boots polished to a mirror. A small overnight bag hung from one massive hand (he’d texted earlier: water, electrolytes, towels, baby oil, extra test results, dark chocolate for aftercare). He was prepared the way soldiers are prepared.
“Evening, Mikey,” he said softly, voice like velvet thunder. Then to Lynda, “Evening, beautiful.”
Michael stepped aside. DeShawn entered, closed the door with a quiet click that somehow sounded final. For a moment, the three of them just stood in the foyer, the weight of eight years of heartbreak and hope pressing down on the hardwood between them.
DeShawn broke the silence first. “Before anything happens,” he said, setting the bag down, “we set the rules for Mikey. This is your marriage. I’m the guest. So, tell me, little man—what do you need from me tonight?”
He said it without condescension, just calm, open curiosity.
Michael’s mouth went dry. He glanced at Lynda. She gave him the tiniest nod: you’re safe, I’m here.
“I—I want to be included,” Michael managed. “Not ignored. I need… I need to hold her hand, or her ankle, or… something. I need to be part of it. And I—” His voice cracked. “I like it when you call me Mikey. Or pretty boy. Or… little man. Just… not mean. Not like I’m worthless. Just… like you know I’m small, and you’re okay with it.”
DeShawn’s smile was slow and warm. “Understood. You’re the husband. You’re the reason she’s glowing right now. I’ll never forget that.”
Lynda’s green eyes flicked to Michael—nervous, loving, then resolved. She lifted her chin, voice small but steady. "I want to be owned, Sir. Completely. I want you to take control of me… and of Mikey. Treat him like my loving little sissy femboy—who belongs to you tonight, too.”
Michael’s breath caught, a high, broken sound. His cock jerked so hard a fresh bead of precum soaked through the fabric.
DeShawn’s dark gaze shifted slowly from Lynda to Michael, unreadable for one heartbeat… two…Then the corner of his mouth curved—not cruel, simply certain.
“Sissies,” he said, voice like warm bourbon poured over gravel, “wear panties in this bedroom. And sissies are on fluff-and-cleanup-cock duty before they ever touch their wife’s pussy. You understand the rules, Mikey?”
Michael’s knees nearly gave out. He nodded frantically, cheeks flaming. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.
DeShawn’s smile widened, approving. “Good boy." Now go to your wife's dresser and get a pair of her panties. Black lace put them on and tuck your tiny cock. Mikey stood there a moment, looking bewildered. DeShawn looked at Mikey and in a strong but commanding voice, "Put them on. Now.”
Michael stumbled to the dresser on shaky legs, pulled open the drawer, and found some delicate black lace panties that he thought looked pretty. He stepped out of his lounge pants, cock bobbing uselessly, and slid the lace up his smooth legs. The fabric barely contained him; the head of his little cock peeked over the waistband, already smearing precum on the lace. Mikey tucked his cock back between his legs and pulled the panties up tight, holding his cock flat.
Lynda made a soft, hungry sound at the sight.
DeShawn crooked a finger. “Come here, princess.”
Michael walked forward, hips swaying without meaning to, and stopped in front of the bigger man. DeShawn cupped Michael’s chin and tilted his face up. “First duty—get me hard for your wife.” He guided Michael down until the smaller man was on his knees.
Michael’s trembling hands reached for DeShawn’s zipper, pulled it down, and freed the thick, half-hard monster inside. Even though it was only semi-erect, it dwarfed Michael’s face. Michael looked up once—eyes wide, pleading for permission.
DeShawn threaded gentle fingers through Michael’s ponytail. “Open, sissy.”
Michael did. He took the fat head into his mouth, lips stretching, tongue swirling awkwardly at first, then with growing eagerness.
DeShawn let him work for several long minutes—praising softly, “Good girl… just like that… get me nice and ready for that pretty pussy”—until the cock in Michael’s mouth was fully hard, slick with spit, veins pulsing.
DeShawn eased him off with a pop, lifted him effortlessly to his feet, and kissed his swollen lips once, possessive, approving. “Panties look perfect on you, Mikey. Now go hold your wife’s legs open so I can breed her.”
Lynda was already on the bed, thighs trembling, watching with glazed eyes.
Michael crawled up beside her, lace panties soaked at the front, and hooked his delicate hands under her knees, spreading her wide.
DeShawn settled between them, lined up, and looked down at Michael. “Guide me in, princess. Put me inside your wife.”
Michael reached down with his delicate fingers, wrapped them as far around DeShawn’s slick shaft as he could, and lined the head up with Lynda’s dripping entrance.
DeShawn pushed—one slow, relentless thrust until he bottomed out.
Lynda screamed, back arching, small tits shaking.
Michael kept her legs open, whimpering at the sight of his wife stretched impossibly wide, the black lace of his panties rubbing against Lynda’s thigh with every rock of DeShawn’s hips.
Hours later, after Lynda had come too many times to count, after DeShawn had painted her insides with three thick loads, after Michael had dutifully licked and sucked DeShawn clean between each round, DeShawn finally pulled out for the last time. A river of cum followed.
DeShawn looked down at the panting couple, Lynda wrecked and glowing, Michael in ruined black lace, face shining with tears and cum. “Clean your wife, princess,” he commanded softly.
Michael dove between Lynda’s thighs without hesitation, lapping gently, reverently, swallowing every drop of the proof that everything had changed.
When he finished, DeShawn gathered them both into his arms—Lynda in the center, Michael tucked under one massive bicep, lace panties still on—and held them while their breathing slowed. He kissed Lynda’s temple, then Michael’s damp forehead.
“Sunday night,” he murmured. “Same rules. Panties will be pink next time, Mikey.”
Michael whimpered and nodded into DeShawn’s chest.
Lynda reached for Michael’s hand and laced their fingers together over DeShawn’s heart. “Still us?” she whispered.
Michael, voice hoarse from use and emotion, answered against warm skin. “More of us than ever… Sir.”
Outside, the porch light stayed on, burning steady and sure into the cold November night.
Saturday, November 29, 2025 – late morning
Michael woke up sore in places he didn’t know could be sore—jaw, knees, thighs, and a deep, delicious ache in his little clit that still twitched every time he remembered the taste of DeShawn on his tongue. The black lace panties were ruined, stiff with dried cum (his own pathetic dribbles and DeShawn’s thick cum that had leaked out of Lynda all night). He was still wearing them. Lynda had insisted.
“DeShawn’s rules,” she’d whispered before they fell asleep, curled together like survivors.
He slipped out of bed carefully so he wouldn’t wake her, padded to the bathroom, and stared at himself in the mirror. Ponytail messy, lips swollen, faint beard burn on his cheeks and thighs. A faint handprint (DeShawn’s) glowed on one ass cheek where DeShawn had steadied him while he cleaned that massive cock for the third time. He looked like a well-used girl. He looked like a sissy. The thought sent a fresh pulse of blood to his tiny cock. He whimpered, pressed his thighs together, and felt the lace rasp over the sensitive head. The angst hit a second later, hard and nauseating. She’s going to leave me now. She felt it. She knows what a real cock feels like. She knows what a real man sounds like when he comes.
Mikey slid down the bathroom wall, knees to chest, and started crying silently—the ugly, terrified kind.
Lynda found him ten minutes later. She didn’t speak. Just sat on the cold tile, pulled his head into her lap, and stroked his hair until the storm passed.
When he could finally talk, his voice was tiny. “I’m not enough anymore. I saw your face when he was inside you. I heard the sounds you made. You’ve never looked like that with me. Never. And now you know. You know exactly how pathetic I am.”
Lynda’s fingers tightened in his ponytail, gentle but firm. “Listen to me, Mikey.” She only used the name now when she was deadly serious. “I have never come harder in my life than I did last night with your mouth on my clit while he fucked me. I have never felt more loved than when you cried and licked his cum out of me like it was holy. You didn’t just let him breed me—you helped him. You begged him. You held me together while I fell apart. That is not pathetic. That is the strongest, most generous, most masculine thing any man has ever done for me.”
She cupped his wet face. “I am sore in the best way, and every twinge reminds me of both of you. But when he left, the only arms I wanted were yours. You are my husband. You are my home. Nothing—nothing—changes that.”
Michael sobbed harder, but this time it was relief. They stayed on the bathroom floor until the tiles went numb under their legs. At 2:17 p.m., the group chat pinged.
DeShawn:
Good afternoon, babies.
Lynda—no panties until I arrive tomorrow night. Keep that pussy bare and ready. Edge three times today, but do not come. Send pics.
Mikey—shower, shave everything below the neck smoothly as a girl. Then go to Victoria’s Secret at Ross Park Mall. Buy the pink lace boy shorts in size small (the ones with the little bow at the front). Matching bralette, too. Wear them home under your boy clothes. Send me a mirror pic when you’re dressed.
You are both on a liquid diet after 6 p.m. Hydrate. Rest.
Tomorrow night, we go deeper.
Be ready to call me Daddy.
Michael’s tiny cock leaked instantly. Lynda’s breath hitched.
They looked at each other, half terrified, half laughing. “Victoria’s Secret?” Michael squeaked.
Lynda kissed him, eyes shining. “I’ll drive. And I’ll help you pick the sluttiest set they have.”
Sunday, November 30, 2025 – 7:58 p.m.
The porch light was on again.
Michael’s legs were silky smooth. The pink boyshorts and bralette were hidden under an oversized hoodie and jeans, but he felt them every second—the lace cupping his flat chest, the bow sitting just above his aching clitty cock. He’d sent the mirror selfie to DeShawn at 4:12 p.m.; the reply had been immediate:
DeShawn:
Perfect little princess. Daddy’s proud.
He’d come in the panties just from reading it. Lynda had made him keep them sticky.
When the doorbell rang, Lynda was in nothing but a sheer white babydoll that hid exactly zero. Michael opened the door, wearing the hoodie, cheeks flaming.
DeShawn stepped inside, carrying a matte-black gift box tied with pink ribbon. He kissed Lynda first—slow, filthy, claiming—then turned to Michael, cupped the back of his neck, and kissed him just as deeply.
Michael moaned into it like a slut.
“Show me,” DeShawn ordered softly.
Michael peeled off the hoodie and jeans with shaking hands. The pink set glowed against his pale, hairless skin. His tiny cock pushed obscenely against the lace, a wet spot spreading.
DeShawn hummed approval.
“Beautiful girl.” He handed Michael the box. “Put this on too.” Inside: a delicate silver chain anklet with a tiny heart charm that read DADDY’S GIRL in cursive, and a matching pink leather collar with a silver O-ring.
Michael’s hands shook so badly that Lynda had to fasten the collar for him.
DeShawn clipped a pink leather leash to the O-ring and gave it one gentle tug. “Training starts tonight, princess. You’re going to learn to come like a girl—hands free, just from Daddy fucking your wife and telling you what a good little cuck you are.”
Michael dropped to his knees right there in the foyer, forehead against DeShawn’s thigh. “Thank you, Daddy,” he whispered, voice breaking.
DeShawn stroked his hair. “Upstairs. Both of you. Daddy’s got a lot of cum saved up, and my princess needs her reward for being such a perfect sissy.”
They went upstairs on shaky legs, Michael crawling the last few steps because Daddy told him to.
Later—much later—when Lynda was limp and overflowing, marked with bites and handprints, when Michael’s face was painted with three loads and his own tiny cock had spurted untouched twice just from the sounds and the words and the collar around his throat, DeShawn gathered them both again.
DeShawn spooned Lynda from behind, reached over her to pull Michael close so the smaller man was sandwiched between them, leash still attached, collar snug.
Michael was crying again—quiet, overwhelmed tears.
DeShawn kissed the tears away. “Talk to me, baby boy.”
Michael’s voice was wrecked. "I’m scared you’re going to want him more than me now. That I’m… too small, too soft, too—everything I’m not.”
Lynda turned in DeShawn’s arms so she could face Michael and cupped his collared throat gently. “Listen to me, Mikey. I love the way he owns us. I love how safe I feel when he’s in charge. But when he leaves, I need you. I need your soft hands and your gentle mouth and the way you look at me like I’m the only woman in the world. You are my husband. You are my heart. He gives us something we didn’t even know we needed. You give me everything I’ll ever need.”
DeShawn’s deep voice rumbled against Michael’s back. “And you, princess—you belong to both of us now. But she goes to sleep in your arms every night. Don’t ever forget who she chose first.”
Michael nodded, crying harder, but smiling through it.
DeShawn kissed his temple. “Sleep, babies. Daddy will be back on Tuesday. Next time, we add plug training for our little girl here.” He unclipped the leash but left the collar on.
When the door closed behind him, Lynda pulled Michael on top of her, guided his tiny cock inside her very carefully, and let him rock gently while they kissed away each other’s tears.
“I love you,” she whispered into his mouth. “My perfect, beautiful sissy husband.”
Michael came instantly, a tiny, sweet spurt deep inside her mixed with Daddy’s thicker cum.
“I love you more,” he breathed. “Thank you for keeping me.”
They fell asleep still joined, collar glinting in the moonlight, porch light burning steady outside like a promise.
The family was growing—in all the ways that mattered.
