A year had passed since Alisha’s pregnancy with Ryan’s child was announced, and the weight of that time had reshaped me into something I barely recognized. Their son, now four months old, wailed through the house, his features a cruel mirror of Ryan’s—sharp eyes, strong jaw, nothing of me. Ryan had claimed our bedroom as his domain, leaving me on the couch, its sagging cushions a permanent reminder of my exile. The cage around my cock was my constant companion, its metal grip tighter than ever, a symbol of my submission. My weekly “freedom” sessions, supervised by Ryan’s mocking gaze, were my only relief, but even those were tainted by the images of him and Alisha burned into my mind.

Alisha had transformed, her body honed post-pregnancy into a weapon of seduction, her cruelty sharpened by motherhood. She doted on the baby, her tenderness reserved for him and Ryan, while I was an afterthought, left to scrounge for scraps while they feasted on meals charged to my credit card. The peephole remained my shameful addiction, each session more depraved, recorded for Ryan’s growing “collection.” His friends, a rotating cast of predatory men, had become regulars, their presence a constant threat.

But something new had crept into our twisted dynamic. One evening, as I choked down a bowl of cereal in the kitchen, Alisha sauntered in, her eyes glinting with a new kind of malice. She tossed a package onto the counter—a pair of pink lace panties, delicate and humiliatingly feminine.

“Put these on,” she said, her voice cold. “Ryan thinks it’s time you embraced your place.”

My stomach twisted. “What… what are you talking about?”

She smirked, leaning closer. “You’re not a man, not really. Ryan’s the man here. You’re… something else. And we’re going to make it official.”

I wanted to protest, but the cage tightened as my body betrayed me with a sickening thrill. That night, under her watchful eye, I slipped on the panties, the lace scratching against my skin, the cage barely fitting beneath. Ryan laughed when he saw me, his hand clapping my shoulder. “Look at you, princess. Suits you.”

The feminization escalated. Alisha started dressing me in more women’s clothing—silk stockings, a tight corset, even a wig of long, dark hair. They called me “Sissy” now, never my name. Ryan would parade me in front of his friends, who jeered and groped, their hands lingering on the lace as I stood there, humiliated yet unable to stop the heat pooling in my caged groin. The peephole sessions took on a new layer of shame—I’d watch Alisha and Ryan, my panties damp with precum I couldn’t release, my body aching in its feminine prison.

One night, I overheard them in the bedroom, their voices low and conspiratorial. “Another one?” Alisha asked, her tone excited. “You sure?”

Ryan chuckled. “Why not? You’re perfect for it. And Sissy over there can watch the whole process again.”

My heart sank. Another pregnancy. I crept to the peephole, my stockings whispering against my thighs. The camera was rolling, its red light a constant accusation. Alisha was naked, her body glistening with oil, her curves more pronounced than ever. Ryan stood over her, his cock already hard, a leather paddle in his hand.

“Let’s give the collection something special,” he said, smacking her ass. She moaned, arching into the strike, her skin reddening. The camera caught every detail—her gasps, the welts, the way she begged for more. I adjusted my corset, the lace of my panties chafing against the cage, and watched as Ryan took her, his thrusts brutal, her screams filling the room.

“Tell the camera what you want,” he growled, slowing to let her speak.

“I want your baby again,” she gasped, staring into the lens. “Fuck me full, Ryan. Give me another.”

The words were a punch to the gut, but my body responded, the cage biting as I strained against it. They fucked in every position, her body yielding to him, her moans a symphony of pleasure I’d never given her. When he came, he pulled out, letting his cum spill across her belly, a deliberate show for the camera. She rubbed it into her skin, smiling as if it were a sacrament.

A few weeks later, Alisha confirmed it. “I’m pregnant again,” she said, her hand on her still-flat stomach, Ryan’s arm around her. “Isn’t it exciting, Sissy? Another of Ryan’s babies.”

I nodded, my throat tight, the wig’s strands tickling my neck. Ryan smirked, tossing me a new outfit—a sheer babydoll dress, pink and frilly. “Wear this tonight. We’re having company.”

That evening, Ryan’s friends arrived, their eyes raking over me in my new attire. The scarred man from before grabbed my ass, his fingers digging into the lace. “Cute little Sissy,” he sneered. “You gonna watch the show?”

The “show” was worse than I’d imagined. Alisha, glowing with early pregnancy, was the center of attention, her body passed between Ryan and his friends. The camera rolled as they took turns, her moans echoing, my cage a torture device as I stood in the corner, dressed like a doll, unable to look away. They mocked me openly now, Ryan forcing me to hold the camera at one point, my hands shaking as I filmed Alisha’s ecstasy.

Weeks turned into months, Alisha’s belly swelling again, her sessions with Ryan and his friends growing more frequent. I was fully feminized now—makeup, heels, a full wardrobe of women’s clothes. They’d even started calling me “Samantha,” a name that burned every time I heard it. My weekly release was a cruel ritual, Ryan unlocking the cage in front of his friends, who laughed as I fumbled in the bathroom, my feminized reflection staring back at me in the mirror.

One night, as Alisha’s second pregnancy neared its end, Ryan pulled me aside. “Samantha,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension, “you’ve been such a good girl, we’re gonna reward you.”

I followed him to the bedroom, my heels clicking, dread and anticipation warring inside me. Alisha lay on the bed, her belly massive, her body naked except for a thin chain around her neck. Ryan handed me the camera. “Film this,” he ordered. “And don’t fuck it up.”

What followed was the most intense session yet. Ryan fucked her with a tenderness I’d never seen, his hands gentle on her belly, her moans soft and intimate. She looked at him with something like love, her words a dagger: “You’re the only man I need, Ryan. The only one who matters.”

When they finished, Ryan took the camera and turned it on me. “Smile, Samantha,” he said. “Tell the world what you are.”

I froze, my painted lips trembling. “I’m… Sissy Samantha,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “I’m nothing.”

They laughed, Alisha’s giggle cutting deepest. Ryan stopped the camera and patted my cheek. “Good girl. Now go make us dinner.”

I stumbled to the kitchen, my heels unsteady, the cage a constant agony. As I chopped vegetables for their meal, I heard them planning the next phase—more babies, more videos, a life where I was nothing but a feminized servant, watching from the sidelines as Ryan built his legacy inside my wife. The peephole was no longer enough; they’d made me part of the show, and I hated how much I craved it.