Raw Sissy Forge
In the dim haze of a rainy afternoon, Jordan stepped off the rattling commuter train at the edge of the misty coastal cliffs. The air hung heavy with salt and pine, a sharp tang that clawed at his throat. Vanessa’s voice had echoed through his phone earlier that day, low and commanding: “If you’re serious about serving me, Jordan, show up ready to be reshaped. Rule Seven demands total domestic surrender. Head to the cliffside retreat—I’ve arranged your transformation.”
Rule Seven. The sissy code burned in his mind like a fresh brand. No more half-measures. He clutched his duffel, heart pounding against ribs that felt too fragile for what lay ahead. The retreat loomed ahead, a sprawling Victorian manor converted into a private wellness haven for the elite perverts of society. No neon signs, just wrought-iron gates whispering promises of exquisite torment.
Jump to Chapter 2 | Jump to Chapter 3 | Jump to Chapter 4 | Jump to Chapter 5 | Jump to Chapter 6
Chapter 1: The Cliffside Summons 🔥
Jordan’s boots crunched over gravel slick with drizzle as he approached the manor’s arched entrance. Wind whipped his jacket, carrying faint moans from somewhere deep inside—ghostly echoes that twisted his gut. He buzzed the intercom, voice cracking slightly. “Jordan. For… Vanessa’s session.”
The gate creaked open. Inside, the foyer reeked of lavender oil laced with something muskier, primal. A tall woman with raven hair cascading like spilled ink and curves poured into a latex nurse’s uniform greeted him. Isabella, her name tag read, her olive skin glowing under amber lights, lips painted blood-red. “Mistress Vanessa’s pet,” she purred, eyes raking him like he was meat on a hook. “Strip to your lace. Now.”
His fingers fumbled with buttons, cheeks burning. No privacy curtain here, just her stare devouring every inch as his jeans pooled at his ankles, revealing the sheer pink thong she’d forced him into weeks ago. His cock twitched traitorously, half-hard already. Isabella circled him, nails grazing his bare thigh, sending shivers racing up his spine. “Good start. But for the corset ritual, we need you raw—exposed, no barriers.”
Raw. The word hit like a slap, echoing Vanessa’s texts. He nodded, throat dry, tasting the metallic edge of fear on his tongue.
She led him down a corridor lined with mirrors, each reflecting his humiliation back a hundredfold. Whips hung like art pieces, their leather scent thick. A door at the end opened to a chamber straight out of a fever dream: polished oak table with restraint rings, spotlights humming softly, a camera rig pointed like an accusatory eye. The air hummed with heat, heavy and expectant.
“On the slab,” Isabella ordered, shoving lightly between his shoulder blades. The wood was cool against his naked back, but soon straps bit into ankles, wrists, a broad belt cinching his waist until breath came shallow. She cranked a hidden mechanism; the table tilted horizontal, then locked. Immobile. Helpless. The camera’s red light blinked on.
“Why… all this?” Jordan gasped, muscles straining futilely against leather.
Isabella leaned close, her breath hot on his ear, spiced with cinnamon gum. “Sissies don’t question. They yield.” Her hands—gloved in black nitrile—descended on his chest, thumbs circling nipples until they pebbled. He arched involuntarily, a whimper escaping.
Chapter 2: Threads of Torment
Pain bloomed first, sharp and electric, as Isabella’s fingers clamped down. Jordan’s nipples throbbed under her twist, the raw ache spreading like wildfire through his core. “Feel that? That’s surrender starting,” she murmured, voice velvet over gravel.
He bit his lip, tasting blood, but she pinched harder, yanking until tears blurred the lights overhead. The room’s hum vibrated through the table into his bones. “Speak your truth, pet. Beg for the corset.”
Raw nerves screamed, but obedience overrode pride. “Please… I need the corset. For Mistress Vanessa. To serve her, clean, submit… as her perfect maid.”
She eased off, smirking. “Deeper. Convince me.” Her palms kneaded his pecs now, rough circles that mixed agony with unwelcome sparks of heat. His cock strained against the thong, a damp spot blooming. Isabella noticed, chuckling low. “Such a eager clitty. But maids need curves—tits to spill over lace, to taunt guests.”
Jordan’s mind reeled, flashbacks to the fetish expo months back where Vanessa had snared him, her heels grinding his resistance to dust. Now this: strapped, groped, on film. He shook his head minutely—no—and regretted it instantly. Fingers vise-gripped again.
“Yes!” he yelped. “Tits… I want them lifted, bulging, bouncing as I scrub her floors.”
“More,” she demanded, rolling the buds between knuckles slick with some numbing gel that burned going on, soothed after. Its menthol sting filled his nostrils, sharp as pine sap.
“Make me a bimbo slut-maid! Tits for everyone to grope, stare at, cum on!” The words tumbled out, degrading, real. The camera captured every quiver, every flush creeping up his neck.
Satisfied, Isabella released him. His nipples pulsed, swollen sentinels of his defeat. But relief was fleeting; she adjusted the table, dropping his head lower, blood rushing dizzyingly. Then, skirts hiking, she straddled his face—thighs like warm vices clamping his ears, shutting out the world save her scent: raw musk, sweat-salted arousal flooding his senses.
Chapter 3: Suffocated Surrender 💋
Darkness enveloped Jordan as Isabella lowered fully, her panty-clad heat smothering nose and mouth. Fabric ground against lips, already damp, tasting faintly of salt. He gasped, inhaling her essence—raw, animal, intoxicating. Thighs squeezed, muffling her phone chatter to Mistress Vanessa: “…wants the full pump… extra for the stay?”
Words fragmented, but the implication sank in. Overnight. Service. His tongue darted out instinctively, lapping the crotch, fabric yielding to her swelling folds. She rocked, grinding deliberate, clit pressing through silk. Air came in stolen snatches; when he faltered, nails flicked nipples—zap!—forcing fervor.
Minutes stretched eternal. Her weight shifted, ass cheeks parting slightly, nose delving into the crease. The thong wedged, skin-on-skin now, raw friction igniting his shame-laced lust. Pussy juice seeped, coating chin, cheeks, nostrils burning with her flavor—tart, alive.
She trembled above, thighs quaking. A flood gushed, soaking him utterly. Muffled moans vibrated through her body into his. Orgasm claimed her; she rode the waves, flooding his world in wet heat. Finally, rising, she beamed down. “Sloppy eater, but promising. Face reeks of me now. Perfect.”
Jordan panted, slick and spent, cock throbbing untouched, a pearl of precum tenting lace. Arousal warred with exhaustion, his body a live wire. Isabella adjusted herself casually, skirt falling pristine, while he lay defiled, unable to wipe away the evidence.
“Pumps next, slut. Dream tits await.” Gloves snapped on. Terror spiked anew.
“Pumps? Overnight? I… can’t—”
Gloved hand yanked a nipple skyward. Scream tore free. Lesson learned: silence.
Chapter 4: The Vacuum Crucible
Cream first—icy-hot sludge from a clinical tube, smeared in broad strokes across chest. Menthol haze thickened the air, tingling nerves to raw alertness. Isabella massaged deep, fingers probing pecs like dough, nipples dragged through the slick mess until they screamed silently.
Table inverted fully; world flipped. Blood pounded temples, vision spotting. Upside-down, her skirt loomed again, that dark promise. Arousal surged unbidden—cock rigid, pulsing visibly at her eye level. “Look at that clitty beg,” she taunted. “Tits’ll make you whore for real cocks soon.”
She perched on a stool, plastic domes appearing: large, translucent cups with hoses, bulb for suction. Kneading left pec—slippery, hairless from rule two—then seal, pump. Suction gripped like a lover’s mouth, flesh yielding inward, stretching. Uncomfortable pull, borders of pain.
Right followed, cups kissing at center. Adjustments: more flesh shoved in, extra pumps until matched. “Even bimbo racks need balance.”
Flipped upright, he stared down: mounds ballooning unnaturally, gravity tugging them pendulous. Shame burned, but so did desire—raw, unfiltered hunger to be seen, used this way.
Straps loosened; arms free. Isabella vanished, door ajar. A burly guest strode past—delivery man?—eyes bulging at panty-clad sissy with fake tits on display. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, lingering. Jordan scrambled, cups swinging cumbersome, hindering every bend for leg straps. Finally free, pants zipped over the bulge—awkward tent—but shirt? Buttons gaped open, cleavage mocking him.
Humiliation fueled a dark thrill. This was just beginning.
Chapter 5: Night of Bound Service
Isabella returned with a garment bag: corset, black satin laced with steel boning, cups molded for DDs. But first, “Serve to earn your stay.” The retreat buzzed Saturday night—elite clients demanding “extras.”
First: a leather-clad domme in the lounge, wine glass empty. Jordan, cups still suctioned, thong peeking, poured trembling. Her hand shot out, groping a dome. “Softening already? Pathetic. Lick my boot clean.”
Tongue to leather, tasting polish and floor grit. Raw submission choked him, cock leaking as she ground heel into his palm.
Next chamber: couple, mid-thirties, sculpted bodies glistening post-“massage.” Man lounged; woman straddled him lazily. “Sissy—fluff him,” she snapped.
Jordan knelt, cups dragging carpet, lips parting around thick shaft. Salty precum coated tongue; he sucked sloppy, gagging as she watched, fingers in his hair. “Deeper, bitch.” Man groaned, hips bucking. The raw stretch of throat, scent of their sweat mingling—it broke something in him, pleasure spiking illicit.
She joined, pussy grinding his plugged face while he bobbed. Double assault: mouth full, cups yanking with each heave. They climaxed—hot spurts down throat, her squirt glazing cheeks. Aftermath: spent, they patted his head like a pet. Vulnerability crashed; he curled briefly, trembling, before next call.
Midnight: Isabella checked progress. Cups hummed faintly, vacuum relentless. “Tits swelling nice. Raw edges forming—real growth soon.” Peel test: flesh pink, tender, reluctant to release. She pumped anew, agony-laced ecstasy.
Vanessa called via webcam. “My maid blooms. Tomorrow, house duties in full corset. Edge yourself—no cum.”
Jordan obeyed, hand stroking thong-trapped length to brink, denial aching deep.
Chapter 6: Dawn of the Reshaped
Sun pierced salt-fogged windows as Isabella finally pried cups free. Skin screamed raw—red welts, nipples hypersensitive, pecs puffy, budding. Cream reapplied, stinging fresh. Corset next: cool satin kissed heated flesh, laces yanked mercilessly by her strong hands.
“Breathe out.” Cinch. Ribs compressed; waist shrank to waspish curve. Cups cradled new swells, pushing them high, cleavage spilling obscene. Mirror revealed: slutty hourglass, thong barely containing dripping clitty.
“Practice pose.” He minced in heels she’d strapped on—ankles wobbling, tits jiggling hypnotic. Raw friction of lace on tender skin kept him edged, mind fogged with need.
Last service: Isabella herself, bent over counter. “Earn release.” Tongue plunged into her ass—musky, clenching—while fingers worked clit. She came shuddering, rewarding with a single pump on each cup before removal.
Dressed—corset hidden under loose shirt, but bulges hinted—Jordan stumbled to train platform. Body hummed altered: breaths shallow, every step a reminder of swells shifting, nipples rasping fabric raw.
Vanessa’s limo waited at home station. Door opened; she inspected coolly. “Perfect. Now, maid duties await. Serve raw, unbroken.”
He knelt at her feet, lips to heel, heart surrendering fully. The raw sissy had forged—crude, craving, complete. Inside the manor, feather duster in hand, curves on display for her guests, nights blurred into service: bent over sinks, mouth servicing cocks while scrubbing, tits milked for amusement.
Weeks on, the pumps proved no joke—flesh grew, hormones from cream sealing fate. Jordan’s world shrank to lace, lust, labor. Vanessa’s raw pet, eternally bound.
But in quiet moments, polishing silver amid moans from the parlor, a twisted peace settled. This raw hunger? It fit. Perfectly.
