Monday blurred into a haze of aching, leaking need. DeShawn’s texts arrived all day like perfectly timed lashes.

DeShawn (10:12 a.m.)

Princess, order the Holy Trainer Nano pink cage online today. Overnight shipping. Send me the tracking. You do NOT come again until Daddy locks that useless little clit away.

DeShawn (2:47 p.m.)

Lynda, send Daddy a video of you edging that pretty pussy while you tell the camera how much better Daddy’s cock is than your husband’s baby dick. Make it good, slut.

DeShawn (9:03 p.m.)

Both of you in bed by 10:00 p.m. No touching each other. Mikey sleeps in his soaked pink panties tonight. Dream about how full your wife is going to be tomorrow.

Michael obeyed every command like a robot. He ordered the cage. He held the phone while Lynda filmed herself, tears in her eyes from frustration, moaning the cruel words DeShawn wanted to hear. Michael’s tiny cock leaked the whole time, but he didn’t touch. By Tuesday morning he was shaking.

The cage arrived at 11:07 a.m. Lynda locked it herself, fingers trembling, whispering “I love you” over and over while the pink plastic clicked shut around his soft, denied tiny cock. The key went on a thin silver chain around her neck, nestled between her breasts.

Michael stared at himself in the mirror and hated what he saw: smooth, hairless, collared, caged, ponytail loose and feminine. He looked like a joke. He spent the afternoon curled on the nursery floor—the yellow room they never used—crying so hard he dry-heaved.

I’m nothing now. She’s going to leave me. I’m not even allowed to be a man in our bed anymore. I’m just a locked-up sissy who watches.

Lynda found him there at 4 p.m. and held him, but he couldn’t stop.

“I’m disgusting,” he sobbed into her shoulder. “I’m not a husband. I’m not a man. I’m just one thing you both use now.”

Tuesday, December 2, 2025 – 8:00 p.m. exactly

DeShawn walked in and read the room in two seconds flat.

Michael was on the couch in an oversized hoodie and thigh-high white stockings (another delivery, another order obeyed), knees drawn up, face blotchy from crying. Lynda hovered, eyes red, wringing her hands.

DeShawn set his bag down slowly, his expression softening with concern as he took in their pain.

“Mikey. Look at me, sweetheart.”

Michael couldn’t, his gaze fixed on the floor.

DeShawn’s voice dropped, dangerous quiet but laced with the love that had grown between them over months of shared vulnerability.

“I’m going to say this once, little boy. You keep telling yourself you’re less than a man, I’m going to start treating you like you’re less than a man. I will break you down until you beg me to stop. And your wife will help me. Do you understand?”

Michael whimpered, but the self-hate was louder than the fear.

“I am less,” he whispered. “I’m nothing.”

DeShawn’s face went stone cold, though his eyes held a flicker of regret for what he knew had to come next.

“Lynda. Strip the sissy. Put him in the corner, nose to the wall, hands on head. If he moves, you tell me.”

Lynda’s lip trembled, her eyes pleading.

“Sir—please, he’s already hurting so much. Isn’t there another way?”

“Do it,” DeShawn said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “He needs this lesson, beautiful. Trust me. I love him too much to let him believe this poison.”

She did, though her hands shook as she obeyed.

Michael stood shaking in the corner all night, naked except for collar, cage, and stockings. The hardwood was cold against his bare feet; the air smelled faintly of Lynda’s perfume and his own drying tears. While he faced the wall, DeShawn took Lynda everywhere—first bent over the couch, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the living room, her gasps turning to throaty moans as DeShawn’s thick cock stretched her open. Then up the stairs, her back against the banister, legs wrapped around his waist, the creak of wood mixing with her rising cries of “Daddy, please.” On the kitchen island next, Lynda’s ass perched on the edge, marble cool beneath her, DeShawn driving into her with slow, brutal rolls of his hips that made her breasts bounce and her voice break into desperate screams. Finally in their bed, the headboard thumping rhythmically, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air, Lynda’s nails digging into DeShawn’s broad back as he worshiped her with deep, claiming strokes.

Every time Michael sniffled or shifted, DeShawn’s voice cracked like a whip, listing every degrading name he believed Michael needed to hear in that moment to confront his self-loathing.

“Shut up, you pathetic little fag. Real men don’t cry when their wife gets properly fucked.”

“Look at that tiny, locked shrimp—you call that a cock? That’s a useless baby clit on a Ken doll.”

“You’re nothing but a worthless cuck, a sniveling sissy bitch with a locked-up nub.”

“You’re a cum-guzzling cleanup fag, lucky I even let you breathe the same air as her pussy.”

“You’re a panty-wearing loser, a beta bitch who can’t satisfy his own wife.”

Lynda tried to protest once, her voice breaking.

“Sir, please, he’s hurting—”

DeShawn’s open hand cracked across her cheek—not brutal, but sharp enough to shock, the sound ringing out. He cupped her face immediately after, thumb stroking the reddened skin tenderly.

“You will repeat every name I just used, beautiful. Word for word. I know it’s hard, but he needs to hear it from you too—the woman he loves most—so he finally understands how ugly this thinking is. I love him. You love him. Help me save him.”

Lynda’s eyes filled with fresh tears. She hesitated, voice trembling with reluctance, hating every syllable because she adored her husband, but she trusted DeShawn completely—she believed he was right, that this harsh mirror was the only way to shatter Michael’s spiral.

“You’re… a pathetic little fag,” she whispered, choking on the words. “With a useless baby clit. You’re a worthless cuck… a sniveling sissy bitch. A cum-guzzling cleanup fag… a panty-wearing loser… a beta bitch who can’t satisfy me.”

Michael sobbed brokenly, forehead pressed to the wall, cage dripping the pre-cum of shame onto the hardwood, the warm pre-cum cooling quickly against his thighs. The names burned, but beneath the humiliation, a spark of clarity flickered—he knew this was DeShawn’s tough love, and Lynda’s reluctant obedience proved how deeply they both cared.

Hours later, when Lynda was limp and overflowing, voice gone from screaming, DeShawn finally spoke again.

“Mikey. Come here.”

Michael crawled, knees burning on the floor, but his movements held a quiet determination now. He knelt at the foot of the bed, face streaked with tears and snot.

DeShawn sat up, pulled Michael’s head into his lap, huge hand stroking the ponytail gently, his touch full of affection.

“Listen to me now, baby boy. Are you listening?”

Michael nodded, no longer fully broken but mending.

“You are not worthless. You are not nothing. You are the man this woman has chosen every single day for five years. You are the man who looked at eight years of failure and said, ‘I will give her anything, even if it breaks me.’ That is not weakness. That is fucking Hercules-level strength. I love you for it, Mikey. We both do.”

DeShawn’s voice softened further, thick with emotion.

“I just showed you what worthless feels like. Did you enjoy it?”

Michael shook his head firmly.

“Good. Because you are not worthless. You are precious. You are loved. You are strong. And if you ever talk about my pretty princess like she’s garbage again, I will tear you down so completely you won’t recognize yourself. Then I’ll build you back up right. We clear?”

Michael nodded, tears of relief now, whispering, “Yes, Daddy. I love you too.”

DeShawn lifted his chin, eyes shining with genuine pride and love.

“Do you want to be our loving sissy? The one we both cherish. The one we dress up and adore and protect?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Michael whispered, voice steadying, a secret thrill blooming in his chest—he wanted to be pretty for DeShawn, to be his girl too, soft and feminine in ways that made Daddy’s eyes light up. “Please. I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I’ll be beautiful for you.”

DeShawn kissed his forehead tenderly, then guided Michael’s mouth to his spent cock, still slick and heavy with Lynda’s juices.

“Clean Daddy, sweetheart. Show me what you understand.”

Michael licked and sucked gently, reverently—the salty tang of cum and Lynda’s sweetness coating his tongue, tears falling onto DeShawn’s muscled thigh.

When Daddy was clean, DeShawn laid him between Lynda’s thighs.

“Now your wife. Gentle, baby. She’s sore.”

Michael lapped at Lynda’s swollen, overflowing pussy like it was communion—the thick, musky flood of DeShawn’s cum mixed with her own creamy arousal, hot and viscous on his tongue. She tasted used, claimed, perfect.

Lynda came one last soft time, thighs trembling around his ears, fingers threaded through his hair, whispering, “I love you, my perfect boy. I’m sorry for the words—I only said them because I believe in him, because we both love you so much.”

When they were both clean, DeShawn pulled the key from around Lynda’s neck and handed it to her.

“Unlock your husband.”

Lynda’s hands shook as she removed the cage. Michael’s cocklet sprang free, angry red and leaking, aching from hours of denial.

DeShawn looked Michael dead in the eye, respect and love evident.

“Reclaim your wife, Mikey. Right now. Show her who she belongs to when I’m not here.”

Michael crawled up Lynda’s body, steady now, and slid into her loose, cum-slick heat with a broken moan. She was so open, so stretched, so wet from DeShawn, the glide easy and obscene, her walls fluttering weakly around his smaller cock. She wrapped legs and arms around him, kissed his tears, the scent of sex still clinging to her skin.

“Fuck me, husband,” Lynda whispered. “Come home. I love you both so much.”

Mikey tried his best to make it last, but excitement won out and he lasted thirty seconds—spilling weakly inside her with a cry that sounded like healing, the warmth of his release mixing indistinguishably with DeShawn’s.

DeShawn watched, eyes soft with affection.

“New rule,” he said quietly. “Every night I breed her; you reclaim her after I leave. You fuck her like a husband, like a man, like the love of her life. And when I’m not here, there is no cage, no panties, no sissy. You are Michael—her brilliant, gentle, perfect man who she chose first and chooses last. But when we’re together, you can be our pretty girl if that’s what you want.”

He pulled them both into his arms, holding them close.

“You are both mine. But you are each other’s. Always. And I’m yours too.”

Michael cried himself to sleep between them, uncaged, held, finally believing he was enough—and secretly yearning to embrace his femininity more, to be DeShawn’s pretty girl as much as Lynda’s husband.

The porch light stayed on long after DeShawn left—burning for the family that had survived its darkest night and come out stronger on the other side.

December 2025 – Cycle 1

The first negative test came two weeks after that Tuesday reckoning.

Lynda sat on the bathroom counter, stick in hand, tears falling onto the single pink line.

Michael—uncaged that night, as always when DeShawn wasn’t there—held her so tightly his arms shook.

“We’re okay,” he whispered into her hair. “We’re more than okay. We’re us. And DeShawn loves us—he’ll be here soon.”

DeShawn arrived the next night anyway.

He bred Lynda slow and deep on the living room rug, the thick pile soft beneath her back, his weight pinning her as he filled her inch by inch. The wet sounds of her soaked pussy taking him were loud in the quiet room; her moans rose sharp and sweet, nails scraping down his back as he bottomed out again and again, the heavy slap of his balls against her ass punctuating every thrust, whispering “I love you, beautiful” with each stroke.

Michael knelt beside them in pale-blue lace panties and matching garter belt with white stockings, pleated skirt and simple white crop top. Mikey looked like Lynda's younger sister—the outfit he’d chosen himself that morning, wanting to feel pretty for Daddy—the fabric damp against his caged clit, holding her hand, whispering encouragement while his own arousal throbbed uselessly, his secret desire to be DeShawn’s girl making the scene even more intoxicating.

After the second load—hot, thick pulses flooding her until it leaked out around DeShawn’s shaft—DeShawn unlocked Michael’s cage, guided him into Lynda’s overflowing pussy, and let the smaller man reclaim her while still inside. The impossible fullness stretched her deliciously; she keened, back arching, as the two cocks slid against each other in her slick heat. They moved together until Michael spilled his thin tribute with a broken cry, the sensation of DeShawn’s girth rubbing against him through her walls pushing him over the edge.

Then DeShawn fucked Michael for the first time—slow, lots of cool lube, the blunt pressure blooming into burning stretch, then sweet fullness as he sank deep. Constant check-ins, Lynda kissing Mikey’s tears the whole time, her fingers stroking his hair while DeShawn’s hips rolled in long, deliberate strokes that lit every nerve ending inside him, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful like this, my pretty girl.”

When DeShawn came deep in Mikey’s ass—hot jets painting his insides—Michael came again untouched, sobbing “Thank you, Daddy—I love you” over and over, body clenching rhythmically around the invading cock.

January 2026 – Cycle 2

Another negative.

Michael’s angst flared hot and ugly, but he pushed through it with quiet resolve.

He spent a whole day convinced Lynda was only staying out of pity, but by evening, he’d talked himself down, reminding himself of DeShawn’s words.

DeShawn showed up unannounced, put Michael over his knee, and spanked him until his ass glowed red and throbbing, each sharp crack drawing out every poisonous thought in gasping confessions—though DeShawn’s hand lingered afterward, soothing the sting with gentle rubs.

Then fucked the tears out of him on the kitchen floor—cold tile against Michael’s knees, DeShawn’s cock slick with lube and pre-cum driving into him from behind, heavy balls slapping against his caged ones while Lynda watched, fingers buried in her own dripping pussy, telling her husband how beautiful he looked taking Daddy’s cock, cheeks flushed, mouth open in silent cries of overwhelmed pleasure. Michael had done his makeup that morning—subtle eyeliner and gloss—to feel like DeShawn’s girl, and Daddy noticed, growling appreciatively.

That night they instituted the new ritual:

DeShawn breeds Lynda → Michael cleans both → Michael reclaims Lynda like a husband → the three sleep tangled together, Mikey in the middle, cage off, held by both of them, whispering “I love you” to each other in the dark.

February 2026 – Cycle 3

Still negative.

Lynda started crying in the cereal aisle at Giant Eagle because a toddler smiled at her.

Michael held her in the parking lot until store security asked if they were okay, his arms steady and comforting.

DeShawn’s response was to move in for the entire fertile week—five straight nights of breeding, each one filled with tender words and loving touches.

Michael learned to deep-throat—the musky taste of DeShawn’s skin, the heavy weight on his tongue, veins pulsing as he took him to the root, gagging softly until tears streamed and his throat relaxed, DeShawn’s hand gentle in his now-styled ponytail.

Learned to ride Daddy’s cock while Lynda sat on his face—her soaked folds grinding against his mouth, the taste of her arousal sharp and sweet, muffling his moans as DeShawn’s thickness split him open from below, hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, calling him “my gorgeous girl.”

Learned to come from just Daddy’s fingers in his ass—thick digits curling relentlessly against his prostate—and Lynda whispering, “You’re such a good girl for us, Mikey,” her breath hot against his ear.

Every morning DeShawn made them breakfast, kissed them both goodbye with lingering affection, and went to work.

Every night he came home and reminded them who they belonged to, but always with respect and love.

March 2026 – Cycle 4

Negative again.

The despair was quieter now, worn smooth by routine and their deepening bond.

Michael’s sissy wardrobe had taken over two drawers—he curated it himself, choosing pieces that made him feel feminine and desired, secretly thrilled when DeShawn’s eyes darkened with appreciation.

He wore panties under his scrubs at the hospital—the lace rubbing teasingly against his skin all day.

Wore a plug during rounds sometimes, the fullness a constant reminder, just to feel owned—and pretty.

Patients called him Dr. Fair and had no idea the world-famous oncologist was leaking in lace because Daddy had texted him a single word: Edge. But Michael carried himself with quiet confidence now.

Lynda’s body changed—hips softer, breasts fuller from the constant sex, nipples dark and sensitive.

She glowed even when she cried, often whispering to Michael how much she loved their life with DeShawn.

April 2026 – Cycle 5

The test was negative, but something felt different.

Lynda’s period was four days late.

They didn’t dare hope.

DeShawn bred her anyway—gentle this time, almost reverent, slow glides that made her gasp and clutch at the sheets, the slick sounds soft and intimate, his lips brushing her ear with “I love you both.”Made love to her like a husband while Michael watched from the chair in pink satin, caged, tears streaming, the ache in his denied cock almost sweet. He’d added a touch of blush that day, wanting to be DeShawn’s pretty girl.

After, DeShawn unlocked him and let him reclaim her for over an hour, slow and worshipful thrusts into her swollen, cum-filled heat while Daddy held them both, the scent of their mingled release thick in the air.

“I love you both so fucking much,” DeShawn said into the dark, voice thick.

Michael believed him—and whispered it back.

May 15, 2026 – Cycle 6, Day 28

Lynda peed on the stick with shaking hands.

Michael sat on the bathtub edge in nothing but thigh-highs and the silver “Daddy’s” anklet he now never took off, his makeup subtle but enhancing his feminine features.

They waited the three minutes in silence.

Two lines.

Lynda screamed.

Michael fell off the tub edge, hit the tile, and started laughing and crying at the same time.

They called DeShawn on speaker, both sobbing.

He was there in eighteen minutes.

DeShawn walked in without knocking anymore; he hadn’t knocked in months.

He took one look at the stick, and the strongest man they’d ever known dropped to his knees right there in the bedroom doorway, forehead pressed to the floor, shoulders shaking with silent, wrenching sobs.

Lynda and Michael went to him together, wrapping around him like they could hold all six-foot-five, two-hundred-forty pounds of him together with love alone.

When he finally stood, his eyes were red, terrifyingly soft. He didn’t speak. He simply lifted Lynda into his arms, carried her to bed, and laid her down like the most fragile, priceless thing in the universe.

Then he turned to Michael.

“Strip, princess. Everything off. Tonight, you’re both naked. No roles. Just us—the three people who love each other.”

Michael’s fingers shook so hard he could barely manage the buttons. DeShawn helped him, peeling away the last of the lace, the collar, the anklet, until Michael stood bare, small cock hard and leaking, tears already falling.

DeShawn stripped too—slow, deliberate—until all three of them were just skin and scars and love, the air thick with anticipation and the faint musk of months of shared intimacy.

He pulled them both down onto the bed, arranged them so Lynda was in the center, Michael spooned behind her, DeShawn in front. Then he kissed them—first Lynda, deep and filthy, tongue claiming her mouth while his fingers teased her slick folds; then Michael, devouring his lips until Mikey was whimpering and grinding helplessly against Lynda’s ass, pre-cum smearing hot trails on her skin.DeShawn’s voice, when it came, was raw.“I need to feel both of you tonight. One last time. All the way. Because I love you—both of you—with everything I’ve got.”

He entered Lynda first—slow, bare, relentless—the blunt head breaching her, stretching her open inch by inch until she was sobbing his name, legs wrapped around his waist, nails raking fiery lines down his back. The wet heat of her gripped him like velvet; every thrust dragged a broken moan from her throat.

Michael watched from inches away, tears streaming, cock trapped between Lynda’s ass cheeks, leaking a steady river of pre-cum that made the slide slick and obscene.

DeShawn reached back without looking, found Michael’s hip, and pulled.

“Inside her with me, baby boy. Both of us. Now.”

There was no room, no logic, just raw need.

Michael pushed in alongside DeShawn—the impossible stretch burning bright, Lynda’s walls forced wide around both cocks, the friction of DeShawn’s shaft rubbing directly against his own sending sparks up Michael’s spine. Lynda screamed, a high, broken sound of pure overwhelmed ecstasy, her body shaking between them.

They moved together—slow, filthy, perfect—two cocks dragging against each other inside her slick heat, every thrust forcing broken cries from all three, the wet squelch of overflowing arousal loud in the quiet room.

DeShawn’s hand found Michael’s throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding.

“Look at me, Mikey.”

Michael’s tear-filled eyes met DeShawn’s.

“You are the strongest man I’ve ever met,” DeShawn growled, voice cracking. “You gave her this. You gave her everything. Never forget it. I love you for it.”

He slammed deep one final time and came—roaring, hips jerking—flooding Lynda so full the hot pulses squirted out around both cocks, dripping down their joined bodies.

Michael followed instantly, untouched, spilling weakly between DeShawn’s shaft and Lynda’s clenching walls, sobbing “Daddy” and “I love you” in the same broken breath.

They stayed locked together, shaking, bodies slick with sweat and release, for what felt like hours.

Eventually DeShawn pulled out slowly with a wet sound, turned Michael to face him, and entered him in one long, possessive thrust—no prep, just trust and lube and months of training—the sudden fullness making Michael gasp, back arching.

Lynda wrapped around Michael from behind, kissing his neck, whispering, “Take him, baby. Take our goodbye. You’re so beautiful,” her breasts soft against his back, nipples hard points.

DeShawn fucked Michael like he was trying to brand his soul—deep, punishing strokes that hit his prostate relentlessly, the slap of skin sharp, sweat dripping from his brow onto Michael’s chest—until Michael came again, this time dry, body convulsing, tears soaking the pillow.

DeShawn followed, burying himself to the root and unloading so hard Michael felt every thick pulse deep inside, felt owned, felt cherished, felt destroyed in the best way.

When he finally pulled out, warm seed trickling down Michael’s thighs, the silence was deafening.

DeShawn gathered them both—Lynda in one arm, Michael in the other—and held them so tight breathing was optional, their sweat-slick skin sticking together. His voice, when it came, was wrecked.

“This is the last time I breed you in this bed. You’re pregnant. You’re whole. You’re a family. And I’ll always love you both.”

Lynda sobbed into his chest, whispering “We love you too, DeShawn.” Michael clung to his waist like he was drowning, echoing her words.

DeShawn kissed Lynda’s temple, then Michael’s tear-streaked face.

“If that baby ever needs a sibling, you call Dr. Evie. I’ll come running. I’ll always come running. But tonight—” he pressed a final kiss to Michael’s swollen lips, then Lynda’s—“tonight you get your bed back. You get your wife back. You get to be Michael Fair again, the man who gave her the fucking moon.”

He stood, dressed in silence, every movement slow, like it hurt to leave.

At the bedroom door he turned.

“I love you both so goddamn much it hurts.”

Then he walked out.

The front door closed with a soft click that sounded like the end of the world and the beginning of everything at once.

Michael and Lynda didn’t move for a long time.

Eventually Michael rolled Lynda onto her back, slid into her overflowing, ruined pussy—gentle, reverent, home—the familiar heat now slick with both their releases, loose and welcoming. He made love to her like the very first time, slow rolls of his hips, tasting the salt of her tears as they kissed, both of them crying, whispering “I love you” with every thrust—and silently thanking DeShawn for the love they all shared.

When they came together—quiet, perfect, theirs—waves of soft pleasure rippling through them, Michael stayed inside her, hands cradling the place where their baby grew.

The porch light burned all night.

In the morning, they turned it off together.

The house was theirs again.

And for the first time in almost nine years, every room finally felt full—though they knew DeShawn’s love would always be a part of them.