Trisha the 16yr trans make me.submit more making me fall.deeper into the rabbit hole
The five days passed in a slow, grinding haze of denial and obedience.
Every two hours the quiet alarm on my phone would sound and I would find whatever private corner the moment allowed—the locked office washroom, the parked car with the windows fogged, the small bathroom at home while Farida moved about the kitchen downstairs—and take my small circumcised cock in hand. 4″ of flushed, oversensitive flesh. I stroked until the need to finish was a sharp, almost nauseating pressure behind my eyes, until my breath came short and my hips wanted to thrust into nothing. Then I stopped. Every single time. I photographed the wet, shiny head and the thin shaft, the precum glistening under the phone’s light, and sent the image to Trisha without a single word of accompanying text. She rarely replied. Sometimes a simple acknowledgement.
Sometimes silence. The silence itself became another form of control.
I did not touch Farida. At night I lay beside her carefully, the warmth of her body a constant, forbidden temptation. When her hand once drifted across my chest in quiet invitation I made an excuse about exhaustion and turned away, the guilt and the hunger twisting together until sleep became shallow and restless. My body no longer felt entirely my own. It belonged to the schedule of edges, to the photographs, to the knowledge that Trisha was collecting proof of my obedience.
On the morning of the sixth day I informed the office I would be taking personal leave. Trisha’s message arrived shortly after: *Main door. Wait at doorway. Door open. Kneel. Naked*
I stepped out onto the small front porch and left the main door standing wide open came inside leaving the door behind me as instructed. Then I knelt on the cool marble, facing the quiet residential street. The morning light was already bright. A neighbour’s gate creaked somewhere down the lane. A scooter passed. The ordinary sounds of the neighbourhood continued around me while I remained on my knees in full view of anyone who might glance in our direction. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. If anyone saw—if Mrs. Sharma from next door or the milkman or simply a stranger walking past—there would be no explanation that could salvage what remained of my life. Yet no one looked. No one stopped. The street remained indifferent while I knelt there like a trained animal waiting for its owner.
Footsteps finally approached
. Trisha appeared in the open doorway, still in her school uniform, and looked down at me with quiet satisfaction. She did not close the door. The rectangle of the hallway and the living room beyond remained visible behind her, a constant reminder of how easily this could all collapse.
“Good,” she said softly. “Stay exactly like that.”
She stepped into the hallway from the porch, the open door at her back, and reached into the small bag she carried. Two thick rubber bands appeared in her hand. Without speaking she freed my cock and balls from my trousers. The four-inch shaft was already flushed and leaking from five days of relentless denial. She stretched the first rubber band and snapped it tightly around the base of my balls, then the second, winding them so that the soft sac was compressed and pulled downward. The pressure was immediate and intense. Within moments the skin began to darken as the blood flow restricted. A dull, spreading ache settled deep into my groin and began to grow.
“They stay like this until I’m satisfied,” Trisha said calmly. “If they go fully blue and you start to cry, that only means you’re learning properly.”
She remained standing in the open doorway while I knelt on the porch, the rubber bands tightening their grip, the ache building into a heavy, throbbing pressure. The fear of discovery made every second stretch. A bicycle rang its bell somewhere down the street. A door closed two houses away. No one looked toward us, yet the possibility hung in the air like a blade.
Trisha’s voice remained soft, almost thoughtful, as she watched the colour of my balls deepen.
“Farida is a good woman,” she said. “Pious. Soft-spoken. The kind of wife who still believes her husband is the man of the house. She has no idea what you really are now. No idea how small that little cock is, or how quickly you drop to your knees for something thicker.” She paused, letting the words settle. “A woman like her deserves to be filled properly at least once in her life. To feel something that actually stretches her. Something that stays hard and heavy and makes her forget every quiet, polite night she has ever had.”
The suggestion was never framed as her own desire. It arrived as an observation, a quiet planting of an image in the already fractured soil of my mind. I could see it forming whether I wanted it or not—Farida’s soft body opening around a thick uncut cock, her expression changing, the careful dignity of our marriage dissolving under something larger and more honest than I had ever given her.
A smaller, quieter remark followed, barely more than a murmur. “Asifa is growing up so quickly. She already notices more than she says. One day she will understand exactly what kind of man her father became.”
The hint was light, almost casual, and she did not expand on it. Her attention returned fully to the image of Farida while the rubber bands kept the ache in my balls climbing toward something nearly unbearable. Tears had begun to gather at the corners of my eyes from the pressure and the relentless, soft voice rewriting the shape of my marriage in real time.
Trisha finally reached down and carefully removed the rubber bands. Blood rushed back in a hot, almost nauseating wave. I gasped and nearly folded forward onto the porch. She caught my chin and made me look at her.
“Inside,” she said. “Bathroom. Leave every door open.”
I followed her on unsteady legs. She led me through the open main door, past the living room, up the stairs, and into the bathroom, leaving every door standing wide. The path to the rest of the house remained clear. Anyone coming home early, any neighbour who might step inside for any reason, would see exactly what was happening.
In the bathroom she hiked her skirt, sat for a moment, then stood and bent over the sink. The smell that rose was sharp and unmistakable.
“Lick me clean” she ordered quietly. “Properly. Don’t stop until I tell you. And keep your voice down.”
I dropped to my knees on the cool tiles. The fear of the open doors made every movement feel exposed and dangerous. I pressed my face between the soft cheeks of her ass. The taste was raw, filthy, human—unwashed and immediate. I licked in long, slow strokes, then pushed my tongue as deep as I could, shame and arousal twisting so tightly together that I could barely tell them apart. She reached back and held my head firmly in place, forcing me deeper while the ordinary sounds of the neighbourhood continued outside.
“Good little toilet,” she murmured. “That’s all you’re good for now. Cleaning me. Serving me. Your wife has no idea what a filthy, cock-hungry thing her husband has become.”
She kept me there for a long time, until my jaw ached and my face was wet and the taste was all I could smell. When she finally allowed me to stop she turned, still slightly bent, and told me to open my mouth. She pissed in a steady, warm stream directly onto my tongue. I swallowed as best I could, some of it spilling down my chin and onto the tiles. The bitterness coated my throat. She watched every gulp with quiet satisfaction, then made me lick the last drops from the head of her cock until it was clean.
Afterwards she led me back to the bedroom, closing the doors, and ordered me onto the bed on my hands and knees. She took out her phone.
“Stay exactly like that.”
She photographed me from multiple angles—my small circumcised cock hanging soft and neglected between my legs, the faint marks the rubber bands had left on my balls, the expression on my face. Then she freed her own heavy uncut cock, already thick and half-hard, and pressed the blunt head against my mouth.
“Suck. And look at the camera when I tell you.”
I took her into my mouth. She recorded and photographed while I choked and drooled around the thick shaft, while tears ran down my face, while my throat worked helplessly around every slow thrust. Many of the images were framed tightly—just my stretched lips around the dark, veined cock, the foreskin pulled back, the spit shining on the shaft. No face clearly visible. No identifying details of the room. Only the unmistakable reality of a man’s mouth being used by a girl’s thick cock.
When she had enough photographs she pulled free, wiped the spit from my chin with her thumb, and pushed me onto my stomach. She slicked herself with spit and pressed the heavy head against my already well-used entrance. The stretch was still brutal after five days of denial and need. Inch after thick inch forced its way inside until I was full, stuffed, broken open around her. She fucked me in long, deep strokes while the phone continued to capture everything—the way my small cock bounced untouched beneath me, the way my hole stretched around her thick shaft, the way my body shook with every thrust. Again many of the photographs were carefully framed so that only the act itself was clear: a girl’s heavy uncut cock disappearing into a man’s ass, the contrast of skin, the wet shine of spit and precum. No faces. No names. Only the visual proof of what I had become.
She brought me to the edge of orgasm again and again with the relentless pressure against my prostate, but never allowed me to finish. When she finally came it was deep inside me, hot pulses filling me while I sobbed quietly into the mattress, still denied.
Afterwards she sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at me where I remained collapsed and trembling.
The image she had planted earlier would not leave my mind. Farida. Soft. Pious. Unaware. The thought of her body opening around something thicker than I had ever given her grew until it felt like the only possible continuation of what had already been done to me.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows, voice cracked and raw.
“Please,” I whispered. “Take her. Take Farida. I want you to fuck my wife.”
Trisha’s expression remained calm, almost distant. “No.”
The refusal was quiet and absolute.
I crawled closer on my knees until I was at her feet. “Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll convince her. I’ll find a way. Just… please.”
She looked down at me for a long moment. “I am not that kind of girl, Uncle Khalid. I am pious in my own way. I do not go after another woman’s husband and then her as well. That is not who I am.”
The words should have stopped me. Instead they only made the need sharper. I pressed my forehead to her knee, the taste of her still thick in my mouth, the ache of denial still burning between my legs.
“I swear it,” I said, the oath rising from somewhere deeper than pride. “I take oath. I will convince her. I will bring her to you. I will do whatever is required. Just agree. Please. Take my wife the way you have taken me.”
Trisha was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke her voice was thoughtful rather than eager.
“There is one condition,” she said. “If you are truly willing to go that far, then you will use my private number. You will send Farida every photograph I took today—the ones of you sucking my cock, the ones of my cock inside your ass. All of them. The ones that show exactly what you are now. You will send them from my number so she knows they come from me. If you do that immediately, then I will consider the rest.”
My hands were already moving before the last word had fully settled. I took the phone she held out, opened the messaging app on her private number, and attached every image—the tight frames of my stretched lips around her thick cock, the clear shots of her heavy uncut shaft buried in my ass, the wet shine of spit and cum, the unmistakable evidence that a girl’s cock had used a man’s body. I typed Farida’s number with shaking fingers and pressed send.
The messages left the phone one after another.
Trisha watched the screen until the final confirmation appeared. Then she looked down at me again, the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
“Now we wait,” she said softly. “And see what kind of man you really are when your wife sees the truth.”
I remained on my knees at her feet, the open doors of the house still behind me, the ordinary morning continuing outside, and the last pieces of the life I had known already travelling through the air toward the woman who still believed I was her husband.
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