“You ever think about… trying things differently?” she asked, her voice casual but her eyes watching me intently.

“Differently how?” I mumbled, already half-asleep.

Her hand stilled. “Like… me taking control sometimes.”

I should have known then. Should have seen the hunger in her eyes. But I was clueless, just laughed it off. “Babe, you know I’m all about you taking charge. Just tell me what you want.”

What she wanted, I’d discover two weeks later, was to fuck me with a strapon.

It started innocently enough. A package arrived – discreet brown box, no return address. Inside was a sleek black harness and a surprisingly realistic silicone dildo. Not massive, but definitely bigger than anything I’d ever had inside me.

“I ordered us a new toy,” Sabrina announced, holding it up with this wicked grin that made my stomach flip. “For your ass.”

I must have looked like a fish out of water. “My what now?”

“Your ass,” she repeated, matter-of-factly. “I want to try pegging. Have you heard of it?”

Heard of it? I’d watched porn. I knew what pegging was – women fucking men with strapons. But that was something other people did. Kinky people. Not us. We were the couple who had sex on Saturdays, missionary with occasional doggy style if we were feeling adventurous.

“Sabrina, I don’t know…” I started, but she was already straddling me, the dildo pressing against my thigh through my pants.

“Just try it,” she whispered, grinding against me. “If you hate it, we never have to do it again. But I have this feeling…”

That feeling was apparently correct. Because when she finally had me face down, ass up, with lube dripping down my crack, I discovered parts of myself I never knew existed.

The first penetration burned. I won’t lie. Sabrina was patient though, working the silicone head in slowly, her free hand massaging my lower back. “Relax baby,” she murmured. “Let me in.”

And when she finally bottomed out, when her hips were flush against my ass and that dick was fully inside me – I saw stars. Not from pain, but from this overwhelming sensation of fullness, of being claimed in a way I’d never experienced.

She started moving then, slow shallow thrusts that had me gripping the sheets. Each stroke pressed against something inside me – my prostate, I’d learn later – that sent jolts of pleasure through my entire body.

“God, you’re tight,” Sabrina breathed, her hands gripping my hips. “So fucking tight around my cock.”

Her dirty talk surprised me. My sweet, usually quiet Sabrina was talking like a porn star, and it was turning me on like nothing else.

“You like this?” she asked, thrusting a little deeper. “You like me fucking your ass?”

I couldn’t speak, just moaned into the pillow. My own dick was rock hard, leaking onto the sheets despite not being touched at all.

“Answer me,” she demanded, smacking my ass. The sting made me clench around her.

“Yes!” I gasped. “Fuck, yes, I like it.”

“Good,” she said, picking up the pace. “Because I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted to see you take my dick. Wanted to fuck you until you can’t walk straight.”

That night changed everything. Not just our sex life, but our entire dynamic. Sabrina discovered this dominant side I’d never seen, and I discovered this submissive craving I never knew I had.

The next time, she bought a bigger dildo. Purple this time, thicker and longer. She laid out all our toys on the bed – the original black one, the new purple monster, a bottle of lube, and something new: a small butt plug.

“Training,” she said simply when I questioned it. “We need to work you up to this.” She tapped the purple dildo. “And eventually, even bigger.”

The plug was strange at first – cold metal, tapered shape. But once it was in, once I was walking around the house with this weight inside me, I started to understand. It was a constant reminder of what was coming later. A promise.

Sabrina made me wear it while we watched TV, while I cooked dinner. She’d randomly reach over and press on it through my jeans, watching me squirm.

“Feel that?” she’d whisper in my ear. “That’s my plug in your ass. Getting you ready for my cock.”

By bedtime, I was desperate. The plug had stretched me just enough, left me wanting more. When she finally pulled it out, I felt empty, needy.

“Please,” I begged, positioning myself on all fours. “Fuck me.”

She didn’t make me wait. The purple dildo slid in easier this time, the burn replaced by pure pleasure as it hit my prostate. Sabrina was more confident too, her thrusts harder, deeper.

“Look at you,” she grunted, fucking me in earnest now. “Taking my big dick. Such a good boy.”

The praise did something to me, made me want to be even better for her. I pushed back against her, taking her deeper.

“That’s it,” she encouraged. “Ride my cock. Show me how much you want it.”

I was lost in it then, in the sensation of being filled, of her hands on my hips, of her dirty words. When she reached around and started stroking my dick, I came almost immediately, painting the sheets with thick ropes of cum.

But Sabrina didn’t stop. She kept fucking me through my orgasm, prolonging the pleasure until I was a whimpering mess beneath her.

“Who owns this ass?” she demanded, slapping my cheek lightly.

“You do,” I gasped. “It’s yours.”

“Damn right,” she said, finally pulling out. I felt empty again, but in a good, satisfied way this time.

We fell into a routine after that. Pegging became our special thing, our secret. Sometimes it was gentle and loving, other times rough and demanding. Sabrina bought more toys – different sizes, shapes, textures. We discovered vibrating dildos, double-ended ones, even one that ejaculated fake cum.

My favorite was the glass dildo. Cold and heavy, with these beautiful blue swirls. Sabrina would warm it up with her hands first, then slide it in slowly. The rigidity of glass versus silicone was different – more intense somehow. She could angle it perfectly to hit my prostate, making me see stars.

“God, look how you take it,” she’d murmur, watching the glass disappear inside me. “So greedy for my dick.”

I was greedy. I’d started craving it during the day at work. Would find myself shifting in my seat, remembering the feeling of being stretched, filled. Sometimes I’d sneak off to the bathroom and finger myself, imagining it was her.

Sabrina knew, of course. She could read me too well.

“Thinking about it?” she’d ask when I came home, her eyes knowing.

I’d just nod, already hard.

“Good,” she’d say. “I bought something new for tonight.”

The new thing turned out to be a fucking machine. This mechanical contraption with a dildo attached to a thrusting arm. Sabrina set it up while I watched, equal parts nervous and excited.

“Ever used one of these?” she asked, adjusting the angle.

I shook my head.

“Me neither,” she admitted with a grin. “But I’ve always wanted to watch one fuck someone.”

That session was different. Less intimate maybe, but incredibly intense. Sabrina controlled the speed, the depth of thrusts. She started slow, watching the silicone disappear into me again and again.

“Such a pretty sight,” she murmured, her fingers busy between her own legs. “All that dick in your ass.”

She ramped up the speed gradually until the machine was pounding into me, relentless. I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but take it. My prostate was being stimulated constantly, pleasure building until I was begging to come.

“Please,” I gasped. “Sabrina, please…”

“Not yet,” she commanded. “Not until I say.”

She made me wait until she was close, until her own breathing was ragged. Then she gave permission, and I came harder than ever before, my body convulsing as the machine continued its assault.

Afterward, she cleaned me up gently, her touch soft despite the roughness of our play.

“You okay?” she asked, kissing my forehead.

“Better than okay,” I murmured, already half-asleep. “That was… intense.”

“In a good way?”

“In the best way.”

Our exploration continued. We tried different positions – me on my back with legs up, me riding her reverse cowgirl so I could watch, even standing with me bent over the kitchen counter once. Each position offered different sensations, different angles of pleasure.

My absolute favorite became when she’d fuck me while I was on my back. I could watch her face then, see the concentration and pleasure there. And she could stroke my dick while she fucked me, timing her thrusts with her hand movements.

“Look at me,” she’d demand when my eyes would drift closed. “Watch me fuck you.”

It was intimate and dirty all at once. Sometimes she’d lean down…

…and kiss me, her tongue in my mouth as her hips kept up their rhythm. It was overwhelming, being so completely filled and so completely loved at the same time.

“You’re mine,” she’d whisper against my lips. “This ass is mine to use whenever I want.”

And I was. I’d never felt more owned, more cherished, more completely myself than when I was under her, taking her dick. It was a paradox – the submission gave me a strange kind of power, the vulnerability made me feel stronger.

Our last big adventure was a weekend getaway. Sabrina booked us a fancy hotel room, telling me to pack only what she’d laid out. When I looked, I found a collection of butt plugs in various sizes, lube, and nothing else. No underwear, no regular clothes. Just a robe and the toys.

“Full immersion,” she said with a wink when I questioned it.

The entire weekend was a blur of pleasure. She kept me plugged constantly, only removing it to replace it with her strap-on. We fucked in every room of that suite – against the floor-to-ceiling windows with the city lights below, in the huge shower with water cascading over us, on the dining room table after room service.

The pinnacle was Sunday morning. She had me on my knees at the foot of the bed, my hands bound behind my back with a silk tie. She was using the biggest dildo yet, one that made me feel stretched to my limit.

“Last day,” she said, her voice low. “Want to make it memorable.”

She fucked me slowly, deliberately, her hands gripping my shoulders. Each thrust was deep, measured. I was lost in it, in the fullness, the pressure, the overwhelming pleasure.

“Come for me,” she commanded. “Come just from my dick in your ass.”

I didn’t think it was possible. But as she kept hitting that spot inside me, as she kept whispering dirty words, I felt it building. This different kind of orgasm, deeper, more intense.

When it hit, I screamed. My whole body convulsed, pleasure coursing through me unlike anything I’d ever felt. I came without my dick being touched at all, spurting onto the hotel carpet.

Sabrina held me through it, then gently pulled out. She untied my hands and guided me to the bed, where she cleaned me up and held me close.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft again.

“Better than okay,” I murmured, already planning our next adventure. “So much better than okay.”

The post My Wife’s Secret Power | Pegging Story first appeared on Fetish Stories.

It started innocently enough, or at least that’s what I tell myself. I was in my early twenties, fresh out of a string of vanilla relationships that left me bored and restless. Sex was fine—predictable, like checking off a list. But then I met him, not in some club or online forum, but at a mundane party where everyone was pretending to be normal. He wasn’t flashy; he didn’t need to be. There was just this quiet command in his eyes, the way he held space without saying a word. When he looked at me, it wasn’t a glance—it was possession. And god, that sparked something deep inside, a hunger I didn’t know I had.

Over time, it grew into this ritual we built together, layer by layer. It wasn’t about rushing into the bedroom; no, the anticipation was everything. He’d text me in the middle of the day: “Prepare.” Just that one word, and my body would respond before my mind caught up—a flush of heat, a tightening in my core, that delicious ache of surrender building like a storm on the horizon. I’d spend hours getting ready, not just physically but mentally. Shaving every inch until my skin was silk-smooth, choosing lingerie that whispered submission—black lace that hugged my curves, leaving me exposed in all the ways that made me vulnerable. I’d light candles, dim the lights, arrange the tools of our trade: soft leather cuffs for bondage, a silk blindfold that smelled faintly of his cologne from the last time, a crop that promised discipline without ever needing to explain itself.

The power dynamic was intoxicating. He was Master; I was his slave, not in some scripted role-play, but in the marrow of my bones. It wasn’t about pain for pain’s sake—though the sting of his hand or the bite of rope against my wrists had its own twisted allure. It was the control he wielded, the way he could make me wait on my knees, naked and trembling, just because he willed it. My mind would race in those moments: Why do I crave this? Why does the idea of being owned, disciplined, bent to his will make my pulse thunder and my mouth water? It’s the taste of it all—the psychological pull that turns desire into obsession. There’s a vulnerability in handing over the reins, in saying without words, “Take me, break me, rebuild me.” And he did, every time, with a precision that left me gasping.

I remember the first time he bound me properly, wrists tied above my head to the bedpost, ankles spread wide with those unforgiving straps. The room was cool, but my skin burned under his gaze. He didn’t touch me right away; oh no, he made me earn it. “Beg,” he’d say, his voice low and steady, like gravel underfoot. And I would, my words tumbling out in a rush of need, filthy and honest: “Please, Master, I need your control. Make me yours.” The anticipation was agony and ecstasy twisted together—my body arching toward him, every sense heightened. The scent of leather, the faint metallic tang of the buckles, the way his breath warmed my neck as he leaned in close, whispering promises of what was to come.

It’s the hunger that defines it for me, this insatiable craving for his dominance. Not just physical, but emotional—the way submission strips away the facade I wear for the world. In my daily life, I’m competent, independent, the woman who handles everything with a smile. But with him, I’m laid bare, my quiet obsession laid out like an offering. There’s pleasure in the surrender, in knowing that my body, my will, is his to command. The rituals became part of who I am: the way he’d collar me, the cool metal clicking shut around my throat like a vow, symbolizing the master/slave bond that runs deeper than skin. It’s erotic in its intimacy—the psychological dance where he anticipates my limits and pushes just enough to make me shatter, then gathers the pieces with a tenderness that only heightens the power imbalance.

Sometimes, in the quiet aftermath, when I’m curled at his feet, spent and marked by his discipline, I reflect on how this became my identity. It wasn’t a choice so much as a revelation. Growing up, I was taught to be strong, to never yield. But yielding to him? That’s where I found my true strength—in the vulnerability of trust, in the raw confession of my desires. It’s slightly dirty, isn’t it? This unapologetic want for his hand around my throat, not to harm but to remind me who holds the leash. The sensory impressions linger long after: the ache between my thighs from being denied release until he allows it, the taste of salt on my lips from tears of exquisite frustration, the way my skin tingles under the ghost of his touch.

I can’t stop wanting it. Even now, years later, with experience etched into every fantasy, the pull is there—a constant undercurrent. BDSM isn’t just play; it’s the thread that weaves through my soul, mixing pleasure with that quiet obsession. The control he exerts, the surrender I give—it’s intimate, indulgent, a confession I was never meant to share. But in my mind, I relive it all: the slow build of anticipation, the ritual of kneeling before him, the emotional depth of knowing I’m his. And in that knowing, I’m free. God, the hunger never fades; it only deepens, pulling me back into the shadows where I belong.

The post Maledom Story – Owned by the Master first appeared on Fetish Stories.

It started about a year ago. Emily and I had been married for five years, and while our relationship wasn’t perfect, I thought we were happy. I worked a mundane office job, and she was a rising star in her marketing firm, confident and ambitious. But over time, I noticed a shift. She grew distant, her eyes lingering on her phone, her laughter reserved for someone—or something—else. I brushed it off as stress, but deep down, I knew something was wrong.

One evening, after a particularly long day, I came home to find Emily sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand. She looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite place—part amusement, part determination. “Alex,” she said, her voice steady, “we need to talk.”

I sat down, my stomach twisting. “What’s wrong?” I asked, expecting the worst.

She leaned forward, her eyes locked on mine. “I’m not satisfied,” she said bluntly. “Not with our marriage, not with… you.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. I opened my mouth to protest, but she raised a hand to silence me. “I’ve met someone,” she continued. “His name is Ryan, and he gives me what you can’t.”

I felt the room spin. “What are you saying?” I stammered. “Are you leaving me?”

She smiled, a slow, almost predatory smile. “No, Alex. I’m not leaving you. But things are going to change. I want you to stay, but not as my husband. Not in the way you think.”

I was confused, hurt, and oddly curious. “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“I want you to be… different,” she said, standing up and walking toward me. “I want you to embrace a new role. You’re not the man I need, Alex, but you can be something else. Something better suited for us now.”

Over the next few weeks, Emily laid out her plan. She introduced me to the idea of being her “sissy cuckold,” a term I’d never heard before but quickly learned. She explained that Ryan was everything I wasn’t—confident, assertive, masculine. He fulfilled her in ways I never could, and she wanted me to accept that. More than that, she wanted me to embrace it, to find my own place in this new dynamic. At first, I resisted. The idea of another man with my wife made my stomach churn, and the thought of being feminized was absurd. But Emily had a way of getting what she wanted, and I was too weak to say no.

It started small. She bought me a pair of pink panties and insisted I wear them under my work clothes. “It’s just a little secret,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. I felt ridiculous, but the way she looked at me when I complied—proud, almost affectionate—made me want to please her. Soon, the panties became a daily requirement, and then came the stockings, hidden beneath my slacks. Each step pushed me further into this new role, and though I hated to admit it, there was a part of me that craved her approval.

One night, Emily invited Ryan over for dinner. I was a nervous wreck, but she was calm, almost gleeful. “You’re going to love him,” she said, adjusting my tie. I wasn’t wearing panties that night—she’d upgraded me to a full set of lingerie under my clothes, complete with a garter belt. I felt exposed, even though no one could see. When Ryan arrived, I was struck by his presence. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a commanding air that made me feel small. He shook my hand, his grip firm, and I mumbled a greeting, my face burning.

Dinner was surreal. Emily was radiant, laughing at Ryan’s jokes, touching his arm, while I sat quietly, picking at my food. After dessert, she turned to me with a smile. “Alex, why don’t you clear the table?” she said sweetly. “Ryan and I have some things to discuss.”

I obeyed, my hands trembling as I carried plates to the kitchen. From the living room, I could hear their laughter, their voices low and intimate. When I returned, Emily was sitting on Ryan’s lap, her arms around his neck. My heart sank, but I couldn’t look away. “Alex,” she said, her tone firm, “come here.”

I approached, my legs unsteady. She stood, taking my hand and leading me to the bedroom. Ryan followed, his presence looming behind me. In the bedroom, Emily opened a drawer and pulled out a dress—a short, frilly thing that looked like it belonged in a costume shop. “Put this on,” she said, handing it to me.

I froze. “Emily, please,” I whispered, glancing at Ryan, who was watching with a faint smirk.

“Do it,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “You want to make me happy, don’t you?”

I did. God help me, I did. So I took the dress, my hands shaking, and changed in the bathroom. When I emerged, I felt like I was in a dream—or a nightmare. The dress was tight, the fabric soft but alien against my skin. Emily clapped her hands, delighted. “Oh, Lexi,” she said, using the name for the first time. “You look perfect.”

Ryan chuckled, and I wanted to disappear. But Emily wasn’t done. She handed me a pair of heels and a wig, instructing me to put them on. By the time I was fully dressed, I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Emily stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders. “This is who you are now,” she whispered. “My sweet little Lexi.”

That night, I watched as Emily and Ryan disappeared into our bedroom, the door closing behind them. I was told to sleep on the couch, still in my dress, the sound of their laughter and murmurs keeping me awake. It was humiliating, but there was a strange thrill in it, a twisted sense of belonging. I was still part of her life, even if it was in this new, degrading role.

Over the next few months, my transformation deepened. Emily took me shopping for more clothes—skirts, blouses, even makeup. She taught me how to walk in heels, how to apply lipstick, how to style my wig. At home, I was Lexi all the time, my old clothes packed away. Ryan became a regular fixture, and I grew accustomed to his presence, though his teasing never stopped. He’d call me “princess” or “sweetheart,” his tone dripping with mockery, and I’d blush, unable to meet his eyes.

Emily reveled in my submission. She’d give me tasks—cleaning the house, cooking dinner, even painting her nails—while she and Ryan relaxed. Sometimes, she’d have me sit at their feet, my head bowed, as they talked or watched TV. The humiliation was constant, but so was her attention. She’d praise me when I did well, her words like a drug I couldn’t resist.

One evening, Emily decided it was time to take things further. “Lexi,” she said, her voice playful, “I think it’s time you showed Ryan how grateful you are for him.” My stomach dropped. I knew what she meant, but I couldn’t believe she was serious. Ryan leaned back in his chair, a smug grin on his face. “Go on, Lexi,” he said. “Show me.”

I hesitated, my heart pounding, but Emily’s eyes were unrelenting. “Do it,” she said, her voice soft but firm. And so I did. I knelt before him, my hands trembling as I followed her instructions. It was the most humiliating moment of my life, but Emily’s smile made it bearable. When it was over, she kissed my forehead, whispering, “Good girl.”

Life as Lexi became my new normal. I quit my job at Emily’s insistence, becoming a full-time “housewife” of sorts. I cooked, cleaned, and served, always dressed in my feminine attire. Ryan moved in, and I was relegated to a small guest room, my old life a distant memory. Yet, despite the shame, I found a strange peace in my role. Emily was happier than I’d ever seen her, and in some twisted way, that made it worth it.

One night, as I was serving dinner, Emily looked at me with a softness I hadn’t seen in a while. “Lexi,” she said, “you’ve done so well. I’m proud of you.” My heart swelled, and for a moment, I forgot the humiliation, the pain, the loss of who I used to be. I was hers, and that was enough.

As I write this, I’m sitting in my room, wearing a floral dress and a pair of delicate earrings Emily picked out for me. Ryan’s voice carries from the living room, deep and confident, followed by Emily’s laughter. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know my place. I’m Lexi, her sissy, her cuckold, and in this strange, twisted world, I’ve found a purpose.

The post My New Reality – Sissy Story first appeared on Fetish Stories.