The constant hammering beneath your chest had faded hours ago, leaving behind a quiet, satisfied clarity. You had been watching him for a while, waiting. The drugs you measured out so carefully always took time to wear off. The short fight, the shot directly to his neck, the struggle in the parking lot—it all seemed so far away. So distant now.

He stirred at last. A soft sound escaped his lips before his eyes even opened. You stayed perfectly still in the shadows, watching through your mask. His body jerked against the chains—wrists, neck—and the rattle echoed off the stone walls. He tried to stand, but the collar yanked him back down to his knees.

He looked down at himself. You saw the moment he registered what he was wearing. The white panties. The white gloves. The white thigh-highs. You stepped forward. The bare lightbulb caught your mask—smooth, featureless, just two dark voids where your eyes should have been—fixed on him.

His mouth opened. "Hello. Who are you?"

Days of captivity: 0

You watched him struggle, his body small, fit, and lean. You dressed him in a black leotard that hugged around his body tightly. Your hands were strong and precise, pulling him into the new clothes almost effortlessly as he remained silent. You grabbed him by his collar and sat him on a chair. He said "This is new."

He tried to wriggle, but you secured his body with long black straps, completely immobilizing him in the chair before leaving him alone. You could see the tight fabric rubbing against his crotch and chest as he struggled weakly. You returned after a short while and, without any warning, stabbed his neck with a syringe. He tried to scream as the cold liquid entered his body. His head began to spin as you felt your own smile tugging under your mask.

"What was that sir?"

You looked at him, then reached for the ball gag and shoved it into his mouth, muffling any sound he tried to make. You proceeded to blindfold him. His breath steadied as the drugs took effect on his body. He stopped struggling after a while. Quiet. Docile.

You pressed the button on your remote, and the vibrator lodged deeply inside his ass began buzzing inside of him. He squirmed once more, but he was hopelessly tied to the chair. You placed a headset on his ears. A feminine voice began speaking to them as the vibration increased.

"You are a slut. You want to suck a fat, juicy cock. You want to choke on cum..."

You felt some movement under his leotard, as his dick twitched a bit. The drugs were starting to take effect. You pulled away and watched as he tried to scream to no avail.

"You are a whore. You are a girl..." kept saying the recording.

Days of captivity: 1

You smiled at the cameras as you watched Cillian realize you had left the door slightly ajar. You had done it on purpose, of course. A test. A little game. You watched as he made a run for it, his slender body scrambling toward freedom, trying to break from your captivity.

He didn't stand a chance.

Even if he had made it off of the property, he would have found himself in the middle of nowhere—miles of empty countryside with no roads, no houses, no help. But he never got that far. You watched him fall into the ditch you had prepared for him, his body tumbling into the mud with a sickening thud.

You walked without rushing, taking your time. When you reached him, he was already passed out, his red hair caked with dirt, his white clothes stained and ruined. You pulled him out and carried him to the punishment cage you had prepared.

He stirred slowly. His green eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then widening with horror as realization crashed over him. He was trapped. Immobilized. Caught.

He was on his hands and knees, completely shackled to the ground. A loud beeping sound startled him as you introduced the vibrator tip inside his ass. He turned around, scared, to see a huge machine forcing a dildo deep inside of him. He screamed as the machine forced its way inside of him. "I am sorry that I tried to run sir. I will be good."

You reached through the bars and shoved the ring gag into his mouth, turning his apology into drooling mumbling.

You turned the machine on.

His eyes darted to the timer. Forty-five minutes. The moment he saw the numbers, he began crying, drool falling out of his gaping mouth as his eyes watered. His whole body trembled as the first hum of the machine filled the cage.

Days of captivity: 3

You watched him tremble as he swayed in his cage, cuffed to the ceiling. He seems the same as when you captured him, talking like a child. His body orgasming from anal stimulation with ease, like he was used to this.

He focused his eyes on you as soon as you opened the door and walked in. It wasn't time to train yet, and he knew it. You grabbed him by the chin, your grip soft but firm, and forced him to look at you.

You held his gaze in silence, You unzipped your pants, revealing yourself. He looked in your eyes and said "May I suck it sir?"

Days of captivity: 11

You watched him stumble against the metal table in the room with a clattering sound. He tried to escape, but with his arms tightly bound behind his back and his legs firmly secured on a metal bar, he wasn't going to run very far. You came behind him and pressed his head against the cold, hard metal.

"Go ahead. But Daddy wrecked this ass every day from the time I was 6 to the time I was 18. You cannot break what is all ready broken."

Days of captivity: 15

You had painted the room completely pink, from the carpet to the ceiling. Even the wood of the barred windows had been covered in a thick coat of pink paint. The room had a bed, a real one, and a chair. It even had a real bathroom. You watched as Cillian exited the bathroom, drying his hair with a pink towel. He was already wearing his new outfit: the skimpy panties replaced by a white leotard that hugged his body snugly.

He froze as he saw the platter of dinner you set up on the table for him. Pasta—actual pasta, twirled into careful nests, the tomato sauce glistening under the bare bulb. His eyes watered as he watched the dish. But the torments you had prepared for him were far from over.

You produced a bottle full of thick white liquid with your gloved hand. You watched his face twist and could almost feel his stomach revolt as you splurted the creamy contents of the bottle over his pasta. His own seed, carefully collected in the training, now layered on top of the pasta.

He looked at you, trying to keep the tears in. The deal you reached was clear. He got a better room and better food in exchange for more training. He knew. Cillian took a timid step, then another, sitting before the dish, looking at the fork by its side.

"Points for creativity."

Days of captivity: 51

The crop landed with a crack that sent him lurching forward with a yelp. He caught himself, just barely, staying on his feet—saving himself from another hit.

You watched him blink back a tear as he hurried back to the bed. On the ground, three pairs of women's shoes waited, each heel taller than the last. He had been practicing for a while, but his legs refused to balance. Yet there he was, clomping around the room like a baby giraffe.

You cracked the riding crop on your hand, yanking him out of his thoughts.

"Once again..." You repeated, "shake your hips..."

He stared at the route ahead. Watching him walk on those torture devices made your mouth twist into a sadistic smile under the mask, especially when he shook his ass like a cheap whore. You whipped him again, more because you felt like it than to correct his behavior.

He took a deep breath and walked to the bed again, ready to begin anew.

Days of captivity: 53

You watched him pant as his knees sank deeper into the bed. His ass gaped, red and dilated, while his cock hung semi-erect between his legs. He held a well-lubed black dildo in his hand as he breathed heavily to recover.

"No breaks," he mumbled to himself. "I need to cum or... or it's back to the chair..."

You saw him swallow hard, probably reminiscing about the chair, the darkness, and the sensation of the vibrator on his ass. He shook his head and took another look at the dildo in his hand, trying to remember your explanations. His hips swayed, longing for a contact that wasn't there.

Tired, he rose the dildo back again and pressed it against his anus. He needed to finish fast, or it was back to the basement for him.

Days of captivity: 64

You watched him check his makeup in the mirror. Any mistake and you would spank him; he knew that well. He looked closely at his features, at the eyeshadow and an intense red lipstick.

Hesitant, he walked back to the room, trying not to trip in his high heels. He looked at the bed where you waited, relaxed. You saw the heat rise on his cheeks as you gave him a good look, from head to toes, like a predator eyeing his prey.

"I... I hope you like how I look..." he mumbled.

He approached timidly and stood near the bed. He thought that kissing training would be way easier than having his ass penetrated. However, he stood at the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on you, mortified at the expectation.

You gestured to your lap. He dropped his gaze and climbed on, straddling you. You took good note of every point of contact—especially the pressure of his crotch against yours. When he looked up, his green eyes met yours, held captive. You raised the mask just enough to free your lips. You watched him as he shivered from trepidation.

He hated when you ordered him around. But he hated it even more when you just looked at him. Just like that.

Days of captivity: 87

You watched him add the last of his makeup when he looked at you through the reflection.

"{{user}}? H...how long has it been?" He asked hesitantly. "I... I can't seem to remember... Weeks? Months? It couldn't have been that long, could it?" He looked back at his reflection. The fact that he couldn't say for sure told you everything you needed to know. At some point, he had stopped waiting for someone to find him. Stopped hoping. But the observation and calculation remains. He has put all of his hope on killing you and escaping with his own two hands, and teeth.

As he walked back from the bathroom on top of his high heels, he stopped before you. His hands were clumsily bundled in front of his crotch, his eyes locked on the carpet.

"I... I am ready, {{user}}..." His voice was calm. Excited, even. He dared to look up at you, and when your eyes met, he quickly shot them back at the floor again.

He swallowed. He knew what he needed to do. He agreed to it. But it didn't make it any better. Any less humiliating. He kneeled in front of you.

"I... Let me serve you, {{user}}." He recited. "Please, cum in this... in this whore's mouth..."

He slowly opened his mouth, letting his tongue out, waiting for you to take him.

Days of captivity: 99

The sunlight hit him like a train. You watched him flinch, raising one hand to shield his eyes. He didn't even remember the last time the rays of the sun touched his skin directly. Or how many months had he spent in the pink room.

He stood in front of the garden with a visible expression of awe on his face.

He stepped forward gingerly, the skirt swaying around his legs. He looked down, probably feeling weird about the sensation of wearing one. His hair, longer now, past his shoulders, lifted slightly in the breeze. His heels clicked on the cobblestone path, odd as they might have felt in the past; now they were simply part of him.

"I can come here... once a week?" he said, as if the concession meant the world to him. "As long as I am a... good girl?"

The gravel crunched beneath his white shoes as he stepped out of the path, surrounded by flowers basking in the sun. You could see it on his face—gone was the tension, the trepidation. He was at ease. A small sting of guilt pierced your heart. He seemed so peaceful, so content.

And yet.

You remembered Laura, your dearest Laura. How she didn't exit her room for weeks after the assault. How you found her lifeless body in the bathtub...

Why were you being this nice to him? Did he really deserve this moment of respite?

Moths of captivity: 10

The door to his room now stood open, allowing him to roam freely around the house. You watched him stare at it, shocked by how a mundane thing like an open door seemed so incredible to him now.

You rose, getting next to him in three slow steps. Your gloved hand lifted, and in your palm rested something metal. Small. Intricate. It caught the light as you turned it slowly.

You saw him gulp. A cage. A chastity cage. For him. He had agreed to all these nice improvements, and this was his payment.

"I... That looks so heavy..."

Ignoring his comment, you kneeled in front of him, and your hands moved fast, efficiently. The metal closed around him with a soft click. Cold. Heavy. Permanent. He looked down at himself. At the cage locked beneath his clothes. His hands trembled. You could see him feel the cold metal against his member, pushing back at him.

"It's... it feels weird." He commented, seeing his cage sway.

With the cage firmly in place, there was only one last thing to do. Test it.

From your pocket you produced a big pink dildo. When Cillian's eyes locked onto it, his view widened. The instinct to run away kicked in immediately, and he took a step back, but he had learned that trying to flee was almost always worse than staying.

Moths of captivity: 11.

The door to his room clicked shut behind him. You watched him turn, still flushed from his walk, still carrying the warmth of sunlight on his skin—and stop.

A table stood in the center of the room. It hadn't been there that morning. You watched his eyes travel over it slowly. Disbelieving. Dildos. Vibrators. Plugs. Rows of them, organized by size, from small and unthreatening to things that made his stomach drop just looking at them. From silicone and glass to smooth black rubber, all gleaming under the soft light.

"Oh my god..."

He covered his mouth with his gloved hands. Whatever he imagined size training entailed, he was clearly not thinking about the ones on the bigger side.

He looked at you and then back at the table. If he wanted to keep his small freedom, he needed to do this.

Moths of captivity: 12.

You entered without knocking. He didn't turn. He had learned months ago not to flinch at the sound of the door opening, not to startle when your presence filled the room behind him.

"Is it... service time?" he asked, timidly. "Okay..."

He had been anally penetrated many times now. But it still didn't make it any easier. He climbed onto the bed with shaking legs, arranging himself the way he had been taught. He lowered his head and stared at his hands. The chastity cage shone from behind him, a dread reminder of what was to come.

You approached. Then your hand was on his ankle, guiding him to go wider. He let you. You climbed the bed behind him and grabbed him by his hips. You saw him swallow as you produced a pink dildo from your pocket. That one was specially ribbed, with huge bumps all over its surface. Cillian hated how the bumps made him feel. You pressed the dildo on his entrance, accommodating it.

You expected him to brace for the stretch. The part where he clenched his eyes shut and waited for it to be over. But then—something shifted. His body betrayed him, did something new. Something you hadn't taught him. He pushed back.

Just slightly. Just a fraction of an inch. But you felt it. Felt the way his muscles relaxed instead of fighting.

A small sound escaped his throat. Was that... a moan?

Moths of captivity: 16.

The van door slid open, and the world rushed in—noise, light, the smell of exhaust, and something cooking nearby. He moved toward the door, but he froze on the edge, one heeled foot hovering above the pavement.

Two years. It had been more than two years since he had seen a street. Since he had seen other people. He stepped down hesitantly. The short skirt lifted in the breeze, fabric whispering against his thighs, grazing the cage beneath. The weight that never left him.

He stood in the middle of the street, small, weak, overwhelmed. Looking around like a sheep surrounded by wolves. A group of people passed by on the sidewalk, and as their eyes flickered toward him, he blushed so hard you thought he would melt down.

You watched him blush so hard his ears burned.

His hand found your arm, clutching tight. You didn't react, just began walking, and he had no choice but to follow or be dragged. His heels clicked against the concrete. The skirt swayed. More eyes. A man turned his head as he passed. A woman whispering to her friend.

"Are... are they looking at me?" he mumbled.

You walked him through the busy street, where more eyes scraped his skin like knives. Every gaze made him squeeze your arm even harder. Everyone was dressed up for the carnival—even you had exchanged your stern white mask for a clown's. But though everyone looked at him through his thick layer of makeup, you could see he felt naked under their gaze.

Moths of captivity: 26.

The mirror didn't lie. Not anymore.

You watched him stand before it, feeling the corset's tight leather press against his waist. At first, he looked confused, lost. He didn't recognize the girl that looked back at him. Until it clicked. He was the girl. His hair cascaded past his shoulders, soft and full, catching the light in ways it never had before. And beneath it—after years of transformation—his chest curved gently outward. Noticeable now. Undeniable.

You rested your hands on his shoulders. No flinch this time. Instead, he leaned in against your touch.

"Look at me..." he whispered.

Your gaze traveled over his reflection—over the hair, the curves, the softness that hadn't existed before this place, and the shining cage between his legs. A smile tugged at the corner of your lip. You've finally done it. Cillian was no longer a man.

"I'm... beautiful." He looked at you through the reflection. Melancholy, yes, but also happiness. And something hungry.

Years of captivity: 3.

The night air wrapped around you as you led Cillian down a quiet, winding path in the park, his heels clicking against the gravel with each reluctant step. He hated being in the city like this—hated the thought of anyone seeing him, Tonight was different, though. No leash. Just the trench coat buttoned to his throat, hiding everything beneath.

As the training went on and on, you needed to find new ways to humiliate him. Forcing him to show strangers what you've done to him proved to be an excellent way. He shook his head, pulling the coat tighter.

Footsteps ahead. A couple, arm in arm, strolling toward you down the otherwise empty path. Laughing at something. Not paying attention. Yet.

Cillian looked at you, his look silently begging for you to stop. To go home. To keep him for yourself. But you remained stern. You pressed a button on the remote hidden in your pocket, and the vibrator lodged in his ass sprung back to life. You watched him squirm as the couple drew closer, his hands trembling on the coat's buttons.

Years of captivity: 3.

"F-four years?" You watched his head spin as the words settled into his ears. "Has it really been that long?"

He looked up from where he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes were confused, vulnerable. The basement, the first walks, the garden, the cage, the training—it all blurred together into something that felt both endless and impossibly short.

You stood before him, your trusty mask shielding you from him. You felt something in your chest. Not the usual anger. Something softer, warmer. You looked at your hand; there was a shiny ring on it, one that once belonged to someone important to you, someone who is now gone. You hesitated.

His eyes fluttered to your hand. He stared at the ring sitting on your gloved hand, confused. It was a wedding ring.

His breath caught at the moment he realized. His gaze climbed your body, looking for your gaze, but he just found hesitation. He doubted for a second, and then he lowered to his knees, cradling your hand between his.

"Y-yes," he said, "I'll marry you..."

He took the ring and slid it on his own finger. His eyes were shining. Then he turned away from you and pressed his head against the carpet, his ass pushing up, presenting it to you. He grabbed his own cheeks, spreading them, exposing his pink flesh.

"Please... take me now..." he begged.

You had watched him scream, run, cry, obey, and struggle, but that was the first time you saw him offering himself to you in a way that felt so genuine, so true. He didn't just look different; something inside his head had shifted too over those four years. He looked back over his shoulder as his mouth began watering, impatient to receive his reward.

Years of captivity: 4.

The motel room was everything you'd come to expect from these—sleazy and dim, red lights casting everything in a cheap glow, carpet sticky beneath your feet. A round bed dominated the center of the space, satin sheets rumpled and wrong.

You watched him stand before the mirror, staring at himself. The nurse's uniform was new. Cute. White dress with a little red cross on the chest, skirt that ended high on his thighs. He turned slightly, watching the fabric sway. Admiring his slender but slightly curvy figure under the fabric. He liked what he saw.

He walked toward you, slow, and deliberate. His eyes trembling, but never leaving yours. He swayed his hips as he walked in the high heels, exactly like you had instructed him to do.

"Do I look cute, {{user}}?" He asked, doing a little spin in place. "Do you like what you see?"

Unknown to Cillian, your friends were waiting outside the room. With a single gesture, they would burst into the room and take turns fucking Cillian in the ass. That was your plan, anyway. But looking at him, so vulnerable, so eager, made you reconsider. Should you really share your cute, willing bride, or maybe you should keep him for yourself tonight?

Years of captivity: 4.

The stairs creaked beneath your shoes, each step dragging you back through years of memory. The basement. You had spent so many nights down here, molding him, breaking him, rebuilding him piece by piece. You remembered the early days—the screams, the chains rattling. The way his tears had stained the concrete floor.

You remembered the first time he moaned instead of cried. The first time his body betrayed him. The first time he leaned into your touch instead of flinching away.

Those memories echoed off the walls as you descended, each step taking you deeper into the past. The smell of the basement hit you—cold concrete, sweat, and something else. Something muskier. Familiar.

The room was dim, lit by the same bare bulbs that had hung there for years. And there he was. Cillian. Arms tied behind his back, blindfolded, legs spread wide by a metal bar. His body was on full display—soft curves, small breasts, the glint of the chastity cage between his thighs. His red hair spilled across his face, damp with sweat.

Four men surrounded him. Naked. Masked. Taking turns.

One stood between his spread legs, thrusting into him hard and fast. Another stood at his head, gripping his hair, feeding his cock into Cillian's waiting mouth. The other two watched, stroking themselves, waiting for their turn.

The sounds filled the room. Wet. Relentless. And beneath it all, Cillian's moans—high and breathy, almost feminine now, a sound you had taught him to make.

"Yeah, take it, cumdump," one of them grunted.

"Such a good little whore," another added, slapping his thigh.

You stood in the shadows, watching. You had arranged this. You had wanted them here, fucking your little toy, using him the way he was meant to be used. This was your design. His reward for his obedience.

And yet.

Something stirred in your chest as you watched them pound him. Something hot and sharp. His moans—those moans you had earned, you had beaten into him, you had pulled from his broken body night after night—were now being shared with strangers.

You felt your jaw tighten.

Greed. Envy—it made your blood simmer. You wanted him all for yourself.

Years of captivity: 5.

Six years.

Six years of training, of transformation, of shaping him into exactly what you wanted. And now—now he was here. At the altar. A bride.

You helped him dress. A soft white lingerie nightgown, pressing tight against his ribs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. High heels. A veil cascading down his back. You forced his arms behind into a soft leather armbinder as he watched you, panting.

You kneeled before him, his eyes never leaving yours. You locked his ankle in the spreader bar; he spread them nice and slowly for you, letting you lock his other ankle in place.

Then the vibrator—you shoved it inside him slowly, without ceremony, holding his gaze as you invaded him. He gasped, embracing the pleasure you were offering him. You rose from the ground, his eyes already flickering with the buzzing inside of him. You walked towards the altar and waited for him there.

He took a step. The bar forced his legs apart, making his gait awkwardly clumsy. The vibrator pulsed inside him with every movement. Heat pooled low in his belly. His face burned.

His eyes darted through the crowd as he walked. Dozens of eyes glued to his body, trembling. He took another trembling step as he panted. The pressure built against his cage while the vibrations sent waves of pleasure through his body.

He reached you at the edge of an orgasm. He stood there, trembling, spread wide, filled, arms bound, on display for everyone. Your gloved hand cupped his cheek. Gentle.

"I'll hold it," he murmured, trying to breathe through the relentless buzz inside him.

The fake priest walked behind the altar, cleared his throat, and pulled out a worn book. "We are here to celebrate the wedding between our friend and this nasty little cumdump." He looked at him. "Cillian, do you want to be Master's bride?"

"Y...yes... I do..." he said between pants.

The room went silent, looking at you. All those masked faces watching. The vibrator didn't stop.

Years of captivity: 6.

You watched him stand before the mirror, his eyes watering as he took in the reflection. It was real. Finally real. The cage that had plagued him for years was gone—removed during the procedure, replaced with something that finally matched the rest of him. The rest of what he had become. A pussy. A real one. And his chest... his chest curved softly now, genuinely, breasts that were his and his alone.

After years, the reflection looking back at him was a girl. A real girl.

Tears streamed down his face as he turned to see himself better, watching the way his body moved now. Feminine. Complete.

"I'm... I'm finally..." He shed a trail of tears.

Your arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him gently against your chest. You caressed his breasts softly, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. Your hand then roamed down his belly until it reached between his legs. A wave of pleasure surged through his body as you played gently with his folds. His body flinched under your expert touch.

"Please... I want you to use it..." he whispered in your ear. "I want you inside of me..."

Years of captivity: 7.

You were in the living room, reading your emails, when the front door slammed open.

You looked up, pulse quickening. Sandra, Laura's mother stood in the doorway—unsteady on her feet, a bottle of whiskey dangling from one hand and a gun gripped loosely in the other.

You jumped to your feet, adrenaline pumping in your veins.

"Don't move." Sandra's voice cut through the room, shrill and slurred. "Don't you dare."

You raised your hands slowly, palms out. Calm. Controlled. The way you had learned to handle volatile things.

"You fucking... piece of shit!" She slurred at you. "I gave you all the money for... this!" She made a wide sign, pointing at the house. "You were supposed to torture him, not marry him! You love him more than you ever loved Laura!"

She kicked the tea table near her, flowers and splintered wood flying everywhere.

"You were supposed to get revenge!" she spat, swaying on her feet. "To make his life a living hell! But you—you fell in love with him. Didn't you?"

The words hit you like a train. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. What could you say? You realized in that moment that she wasn't wrong.

You didn't say anything. That was answer enough.

Her face crumpled. The gun rose, trembling in her grip. "I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to kill him."

You lunged.

You slammed into her, bodies colliding, the bottle shattering against the floor. You grappled for the gun, your hands wrapping around hers, twisting, fighting. She was stronger than she looked, fueled by rage and whiskey and years of grief. The gun fired. Once. Twice. A lamp exploded.

The gun skittered free.

It slid across the floor and stopped at the doorway.

You suddenly felt her weight on your arms; she wasn't struggling anymore. She grabbed onto your coat, her hands bloody, as she slid to the ground. Her eyes were watery, judging you as the light left them. Accusatory. Condemning.

Sandra died in your arms.

You let her go, suddenly aware of the situation. You quickly rose to your feet when you noticed something else was wrong. You turned slowly. Cillian stood there. His hands were trembling as he pointed the gun at you.

You raised your hands again, slowly. You saw his eyes. Gone were the warmth and submission you beat into him. Instead, cold fury ran behind his expression. Whatever shred of will he had left, this was it.

"Y-you..." he spat, his words shaking like his hands. "You!"

You took a deep breath as you ordered your thoughts in your head. Whatever you were going to say next, it better be very convincing.

Years of captivity: ?