The man was clearly checking out my wife. I asked her if she found him attractive as well. She said:
“Do you want a show tonight? Want to watch me play? If so, go take a walk, and I’ll call him over.”
Fifteen minutes later, I got a text from her: “Come back, love.”
I came back to see him staring lustfully at my wife, while she was giving him the talk: “I am married, but fortunate for you, my husband loves watching me have fun.”
The bath is cooling. The candles have burned low. You are standing in Tamara's bedroom with a towel around your shoulders and the cage gleaming pink between your legs and the little heart above it, damp and trimmed and perfect.
She is dressed again. The white robe is gone. A peach slip, simple, the kind of thing a woman puts on after a bath when she wants to feel pretty.
She sits on the edge of the bed. She pats the mattress beside her.
"Sit, sweetie. We need to talk."
You sit. The towel is around your shoulders like a shawl. Your legs are bare and smooth. The cage is flat against you.
She looks at you the way she always looks at you — with warmth, with certainty, with the unhurried attention of a woman who has all the time in the world.
"I want to explain something," she says. "About panties."
Your face heats.
"When a man puts on panties — and I've known a few who have — he's trying to desexualize himself. He's taking his penis and wrapping it in something soft because he wants to not be a man. He wants to be pussy-free. He knows his penis isn't designed for sex."
Her hand finds your knee. Her fingers rest there, warm and light.
"But when a girl puts on panties, she's doing the opposite. She's sexualizing herself. She's making herself pretty. She's drawing attention to her pussy. To her sex. To her sexuality. She's choosing something lacy and soft and she's sliding it up her legs and she's feeling it against her pussy and she's thinking I can't wait for him to take these down."
Her fingers trace a small circle on your knee.
"You've been wearing panties like a man, sweetie. Hiding in them. Embarrassed by them. That's not what they're for."
She squeezes your knee.
"Tonight, we're going to fix that."
---
She dresses you. It takes an hour.
First the panties — not Heather's, not the stolen ones. New ones. White, soft, a tiny pink bow at the waist.
She kneels and slides them up your legs, and the cage fits inside flat and smooth, the vulva shape pressing against the cotton, and she adjusts the waistband and steps back and says, "Pretty."
Then the garter belt. Pink. She fastens it around your waist and clips the stockings — sheer, nude, reinforced toe — and the sensation is extraordinary.
The stockings slide up your freshly shaved legs and the garter clips grip the tops and the tension is gentle and constant, and you feel — you feel held. You feel wrapped. You feel like your legs are being looked after.
Then the bra. White, to match. She fastens it behind you and adjusts the straps and stuffs the cups with two breast forms, and the weight on your chest is slight but present, and when you look down you see the swell of something — small, soft, the suggestion of a girl's body beneath a man's ribcage.
She steps back. She looks at you.
"There," she says. "Now you're dressing like a girl. Now you're sexualizing yourself. Do you feel it?"
You feel something. The cage twitches. Your cock stirs in his home.
"Yes," you whisper.
"Good."
Then the blouse. Silk, pale blue, borrowed from somewhere. It buttons up the front and fits you loosely but the silk is soft against your skin and the bra shows through it, the way a bra shows through a girl's blouse when she doesn't care who notices.
Then the skirt. Black. A-line. It falls to your knees. The cage is hidden beneath it. The stockings disappear into it.
You look — you look like a woman. Not a convincing one. Not a woman who would fool anyone. But a woman in the way that matters — in the way you feel, in the way the fabric moves, in the way the air touches your stockinged calves.
Then the shoes. Heels, low, just an inch or two. She puts them on your feet and you wobble and she steadies you and she says, "You'll learn."
She walks you to the full-length mirror.
Fifty-seven years old. Smooth legs. Stockings. Garter belt hidden beneath a skirt. A bra beneath a silk blouse. The cage, secret, pressing against the cotton of your panties.
You look like a woman who is trying. A woman who is learning. A woman named —
"Sadie," Tamara says. She is standing beside you, her hand on your shoulder, looking at your reflection. "That's your name tonight. Sadie."
Sadie. The name lands in your chest the way girl landed in the bath, the way girlfriend landed in the bath, the way every word she gives you lands — softly, certainly, like a key turning in a lock.
"We're going out," she says. "A date. Just us girls."
---
The campus bar is called The Laurels. It is dark inside. The music is low. The booths are deep, the lighting amber, the kind of place where you can sit in shadows and no one sees you clearly.
Tamara leads you in. Her hand is on the small of your back. You are wobbling slightly in your heels and the skirt brushes your knees and the stockings whisper against each other and you feel — exposed. Seen. Like every person in the bar knows what you are, even though they don't.
A man is waiting in the back booth. He stands when he sees Tamara.
He is tall. Broad-shouldered. Handsome in the way that certain men are handsome — easily, without effort, the handsomeness of bone structure and good skin and the quiet confidence of someone who has never had to wonder whether he was enough.
"Malcolm," Tamara says. She kisses his cheek. "This is Sadie."
Malcolm looks at you. He smiles. It is a warm smile, a kind smile, the smile of a man who is pleased to meet you.
"Hi, Sadie," he says.
Your face burns. "Hi," you say. Your voice comes out soft, uncertain, the voice of a woman at the edge of a conversation she doesn't know how to join.
Tamara slides into the booth. She gestures. You slide in after her. Malcolm slides in after you.
You are in the middle. Malcolm on your left. Tamara on your right. The booth is deep and the lighting is low and the three of you are tucked into the shadows, and Tamara's hand finds your knee beneath the table and squeezes it.
"I'm so glad you could make it," Tamara says to Malcolm. She is leaning forward, looking past you, and her voice is warm and easy and she is talking to him the way she talks to you — with certainty, with familiarity, with the ease of a woman who has known a man and enjoyed him.
"Wouldn't miss it," Malcolm says. His voice is deep. His thigh is warm against yours.
Tamara's hand slides up from your knee to your thigh. She rests it there.
"I've been telling Sadie about you," she says.
"Oh?" Malcolm says. He is looking at you. His eyes are dark and kind.
"Mmm," Tamara says. "I've been telling her how gorgeous you are. How big your cock is." Her hand squeezes your thigh. "I thought she should see for herself."
Your breath catches. Her. She said her. She is talking about you to this man as though you are a woman, and the word settles over you like the silk blouse, like the stockings, like everything she has put on you tonight.
Malcolm smiles. He doesn't look surprised. He looks pleased.
"Is that right, Sadie?" he says.
You don't know what to say. Your mouth is dry. Tamara's hand is on your thigh. Malcolm's eyes are on your face.
Her hand slides across your lap — across the skirt, across the cage hidden beneath it — and her fingers find Malcolm's thigh.
She strokes him through his pants. You can feel her arm moving across your lap, the slight pressure of it, the way her elbow brushes your cage.
"His cock is so big, Sadie," she says. She is still talking past you, to him, about him. "Haven't I told you? I told you he was gorgeous."
She reaches across. Her hand finds the zip of Malcolm's pants. She pulls it down.
"Let me show you," she says.
She reaches in. She pulls him out.
His cock is — his cock is big. Not grotesquely. Not absurdly. But big in the way that your cock is not big. Thick. Long. The head fat, the shaft thick with veins. He is half-hard and already bigger than you have ever been.
Tamara wraps her hand around him. She strokes. Slowly. Her arm is across your lap, her shoulder against your chest, and she is stroking another man's cock three inches from your body.
"There," she says. "Isn't that gorgeous?"
Hhhnnn. A sound comes out of you. Your penis — your caged, locked, hidden penis — twitches in his home, and there is nowhere for him to go.
"Look, sweetie," Tamara says. Her voice is soft, coaxing, the voice she used in the bath, the voice she uses when she wants you to do something and knows you will. "Look at it."
You look down. Her hand is moving. His cock is hardening under her touch, growing, thickening, the head shiny with the first slick of pre-cum.
"Have you ever seen one this big?" she says.
You shake your head. You haven't. Not in person. Not this close.
"No," you whisper.
"No," she agrees. "Because yours isn't like this, is it? Yours is sweet and small and all tucked in his little home. But this — this is a real cock. This is what a real man has."
She strokes him. Her arm moves across your lap. The rhythm is slow and certain.
"Touch it, Sadie," she says.
Your hand is in your lap. Your fingers are trembling.
"Take your hand," she says, "and put it here. It's ok. I'll help. I know you're nervous."
She takes your wrist with her free hand. She guides your hand across your lap. She places your fingers on Malcolm's cock.
He is warm. He is hard. He is alive — you can feel the pulse of him, the thick vein running along the underside, the way his cock jumps slightly under your touch.
"There," Tamara says. She has both hands busy now — one on the base of his shaft, one guiding your hand. "Feel him. Feel how big he is. Feel how hard."
Your fingers close around him. Your hand looks small against his shaft. Your fingers don't quite meet.
"Good girl," Tamara whispers. "Good girl. Now move. Slowly. Up and down. Just like that."
You stroke him. Your hand moves. The sensation is strange — the heat of him, the skin sliding under your fingers, the way he throbs in your grip.
You have never touched another man's cock. You have never wanted to. But your hand is moving and Tamara is whispering and the booth is dark and the music is low and —
"Good," Tamara says. "That's so good, Sadie. Isn't she, Malcolm?"
"She's a natural," Malcolm says. His voice is low, warm, amused and pleased. His hand comes to rest on the back of your neck. His fingers are gentle.
Hhhnnn. Your penis twitches in the cage. Your asshole — your pussy, she called it, your girl pussy — clenches, and you remember the bath, and your finger inside yourself, and the way it felt.
"Here," Tamara says. She takes her hand away from his shaft. She leaves yours there. "You do it now. All by yourself. Show me what a good girl you are."
You stroke him. Your hand moves. Up and down. The rhythm is slow and uncertain and then it steadies, and you are jerking off another man in a dark booth while a woman whispers in your ear.
"That's it," Tamara says. "You're doing so well. You're making him feel so good."
Her hand slides up your thigh, under your skirt. Her fingers find the cage.
She traces the resin lips through your panties — the flat vulva shape, the locked-away penis — and she touches you the way she touched herself in the mirror.
"Your little guy is trying so hard," she whispers. "He wants to come out and play. But he can't. His babysitter says no."
Your hand moves on Malcolm's cock. Up and down. The pre-cum is slick under your fingers.
"But you don't need him," she says. "You have something better. You have your mouth."
Your hand stops.
"Tamara —"
"Shh," she says. "Shh, sweetie. It's okay. It's the most natural thing in the world. Girls use their mouths. That's what girls do. They don't use their little locked-up penises — they use their mouths. Their tongues. Their lips."
Her finger traces the cage. Her other hand finds the back of your head, gentle, guiding.
"Lean down," she says. "Lean down and give him a little kiss. Just a little one. See how it feels."
You hesitate. Malcolm's hand is on the back of your neck. Tamara's hand is on the back of your head. The booth is dark. The music covers everything.
"Sweetie," Tamara says. "You're my adorable cum licker. You already know how to do this. You just don't know you know."
Adorable cum licker. The phrase from the first day. The phrase she used when she held her palm to your face and told you to clean it.
You lean down.
Your lips touch the head of his cock. It is warm. It is slick. It tastes of salt and skin and something else, something male, something you have never tasted.
"Good girl," Tamara whispers. "Good girl. Now a little more. Take the head in your mouth. Just the head. That's it."
Your lips part. Your mouth opens. The head of Malcolm's cock slides in, and your tongue finds it — the smoothness, the heat, the way it fills your mouth, just the head of it, and your lips close around the shaft and you are —
You are sucking a man's cock in a dark booth in a campus bar while a woman whispers in your ear.
"There," Tamara says. "There you go. That's what girls do. When you dress like a girl, you do girl things. That's your girl mouth doing what girl mouths do."
Your head moves. Down a little. Up. Down a little further. The shaft slides between your lips.
Your tongue traces the underside. The taste is salt and warmth and the slick of pre-cum, and you are breathing through your nose, like the girls in the stories you are always reading, like the girls in the videos you are always watching. Like a girl.
"Good girl," Tamara says. "Take a little more. There you go. There you go."
Malcolm's hand tightens on the back of your neck. His hips shift. His cock pushes deeper — not roughly, not cruelly, just deeper — and you feel it at the back of your throat and you gag, just slightly, and Tamara says, "It's okay, sweetie. It's okay. Breathe. You'll learn. Girls learn. That's what girls do."
You pull back. You breathe. You go down again. This time you take more.
This time your nose touches the base and his cock is in your throat and you are breathing through your nose and the smell of him is everywhere — male, warm, the smell of a man's body — and your mouth is full and your penis is twitching in its cage and your pussy is clenching and you are —
You are a girl. You are Sadie. You are in a booth with a man's cock in your throat and a woman's hand on the back of your head and you are doing what girls do.
"That's it," Tamara says. "In and out. Just like your finger in the bath. Just like that. Find your rhythm. Find your girl rhythm."
Your head moves. Up and down. The rhythm steadies. Your tongue works. Your lips grip.
Malcolm's hand tightens and loosens and tightens, and you can feel him getting close — the way his cock thickens, the way his breath changes, the way his thighs tense under your free hand.
"He's going to come," Tamara whispers. "He's going to come in your mouth. And you're going to take it. You're going to swallow it. Because that's what girls do. That's what good girls do."
Hhhnnn — a sound from your throat, a whimper, a girl sound, and Malcolm's hips buck and his cock pulses and the first spurt hits the back of your throat — hot, thick, salt and musk — and you swallow, you swallow because she told you to, and the second spurt fills your mouth and you swallow again, and the third, and the fourth, and you are —
You are swallowing another man's cum in a dark booth while a woman whispers good girl in your ear.
Malcolm groans. His cock twitches in your mouth. The last pulse is small, a trickle, and you lick him clean the way she taught you to lick her palm, the way you licked your own mess from her hand that first day, and you pull back and your lips are slick and your mouth tastes of salt and musk and shame and you are breathing hard.
"Good girl," Tamara says. "Good girl. You took it all. You swallowed it all. You're my adorable cum licker. You're my good little cum licker."
Malcolm tucks himself away. He squeezes your shoulder. He stands.
"Nice to meet you, Sadie," he says. His voice is warm. He is smiling.
He leaves. The booth is empty except for you and Tamara.
She turns to you. Her hand finds your cheek. She looks at you the way she always looks at you — with warmth, with certainty, with the unhurried attention of a woman who has all the time in the world.
"Do you know what you are now?" she says.
You look at her. Your mouth tastes of Malcolm. Your lips are slick. Your penis is soft in its cage. Your pussy is clenching.
"A cocksucker," she says. "You're a cocksucker now, sweetie. And every time you hear someone say that word — in a movie, on the street, in a joke — you'll know. You'll know what you are. You'll know what you did tonight."
She pulls you close. She kisses your temple.
"Isn't that wonderful? But we're not done," she says. "Come with me. We're going back to my place. I have a surprise for you."
Your heart pounds. Your mind races. A surprise. She has something for you. After everything — the bath, the dressing, the bar, Malcolm, your mouth — she has something more.
You think: She's going to let me fuck her.
You think: She's going to unlock me. She's going to take the cage off. She's going to let me inside her.
You stand. You wobble in your heels. She steadies you.
"Come on, Sadie," she says. She takes your hand. "Let's go home."
This is the fourth installment in a series about a janitor, a dormitory coordinator, and the security camera that caught everything and will change his life.
Previously: Part I | Part II | Part III
Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.
As she watched the city grow dark through the window of the hotel room where she had just slept with her lover, your wife said to him, “I can’t keep doing this—having sex with you behind my husband’s back in a hotel, in secret. I have to tell him the truth. He’ll understand, and we can sleep together at my house. If any man is meant to be a consenting cuckold, it’s my husband.”
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