Veronica Vol. 01: The Table

Veronica Vol. 1: The Table

A caged sissy is invited to serve ten men under the watchful eye of Beverly, the woman who remade her. Powdered. Plugged. Presented. And perfectly polite.

by Miles Vane

This story is told from Veronica's perspective. If she speaks to you -- if you want more of her, her world, and her weekend -- look out for future stories in this arc. You can call her Veronica Vane. She likes that.

Leave a comment, send a message... she'll be listening.

Some of this is fantasy. Don't take Viagra in a chastity cage unless you want a real emergency. Stay filthy -- but stay safe.

All characters are 18 years of age or older.

***

The Makeover

You are fit and strong. She saw you in the gym.

Broad-shouldered. Hairy on the legs and chest. Quiet in the way men are taught to be. Afterward you wore athletic jeans. Heavy boots. You carried yourself like someone who didn't need to be seen.

But she saw you.

And she asked one thing:

"Will you let me dress you?"

***

A few days later, you arrive at the house just before dusk.

The driver drops you at the base of the steps and disappears. The mansion looms -- stone, ivy, tall windows glowing gold. You breathe. Adjust the collar of your shirt. Try not to second-guess what's about to happen.

The door opens before you knock.

She stands there, waiting -- now you know her name: Beverly.

Early thirties. Slim. Elegant. Perfectly composed. A silk robe -- black, cinched. Her red hair pinned up. Bare feet on marble. Dark red nail polish.

She smiles like she already owns you.

"Right on time, Veronica."

She gave you that name.

***

The entrance is warm. Candles lit. Something floral in the air.

Her husband, Julian, stands beside a decanter, pouring drinks. Mid-forties, grey temples, timeless eyes. He raises a glass to you, but doesn't speak. Not yet. Not until you've been prepared.

She leads you through the house, hand light on your back, into a private wing. A dressing suite -- soft lighting, full mirrors, racks of clothing. Powder. Lace. Glitter. Toys.

"You'll shower," she says, simply.

"And when you come out, you'll be mine."

***

You do as you're told.

You step into the shower and begin the ritual.

Your body is already bare -- waxed professionally yesterday, every inch smoothed, your skin trained to stay soft for longer now. But still... you soap yourself slowly. Neck. Chest. Thighs. Around your cock. Between your cheeks, where the plug will sit.

You check yourself -- not out of vanity, but duty. No stubble. No scent. No roughness. Just clean. Just presentable.

You're fasted and porn star clean inside.

When you step out, towel wrapped low, she's waiting.

Seated. Legs crossed. Perfume subtle but intoxicating.

She looks you over.

And then she works.

***

You're offered a little blue pill. A Viagra.

Then she starts with lotion. Powder. A delicate plug, pink and heart-shaped at the base, coated in lube, pressed inside you with slow, patient fingers. She doesn't ask. Just watches your face as you part around it.

It slips in with a gentle resistance -- not pain, but pressure. A claim.

You gasp softly as it seats itself, cool and snug inside you. Your cheeks flush. Your body trembles -- from being filled. Marked. Held open. Feminine.

Then the cage.

Pink. Plastic. Petite. It feels like a toy -- but the moment she locks it in place with a soft, decisive click, it becomes something else entirely. Final. Inevitable.

Your cock tries to stir -- the pill still twenty to forty minutes from kicking in -- you're just excited. But it can't. Not now. Not anymore. The pressure builds behind the cage, swelling helplessly against the barrier, making you whimper just slightly.

She smiles, not cruelly -- but knowingly.

"You'll stay soft, sweet girl. You don't need that anymore."

A wave of humiliation rises in you -- sharp, hot, and weirdly beautiful.

You're trapped. Plugged. Caged. Bare.

And you feel... perfect.

Then it starts.

She paints your face herself.

Foundation to soften you. Blush high and pink. Lips overlined, shimmering like candy. Your lashes are false, long, and flirty -- the kind that flutter when you lower your gaze.

And all the while, she speaks. Quietly. Calmly. Like she's reminding you of something you already agreed to long ago.

"There are eight men coming tonight," she whispers, brushing your cheekbone. "All of them saving it. For days. Some even asked permission from their wives -- not to come, of course. Just to travel."

She smirks.

"Most are in marriages that don't touch anymore. Cold hands. Dead bedrooms. But they'll be warm tonight, won't they?"

She traces gloss across your lips, slow and perfect.

"You'll drink every drop they give you, Veronica. One by one. Including my husband, nine different tastes. Maybe more, if they can manage."

Your heart pounds.

The pill -- that little blue thing she placed on your tongue without ceremony -- begins to stir inside you. Like something waking. Not fast. Not all at once. But present. A heat. A pressure. Something male and stubborn pushing against the plastic, trying to rise, trying to remember what it once was.

It can't.

You moan -- just once, soft and helpless -- and clench gently around the plug instead. Needing something to hold onto as the ache blooms behind the cage. Your hips twitch. Your breath hitches. You feel your body reacting to what it already knows is coming.

She leans closer, voice lower.

"One of them's not like the others. You'll know who. He won't need coaxing. He's not married. He'll just... ach for you."

You don't speak.

You can't.

You just sit there -- plugged, caged, flushed and trembling -- the little cage pressing harder now as the blue fire builds. Your hole still wrapped full and tight. And you let her make you beautiful.

Prepared. Pretty. Empty-mouthed... for now.

***

The outfit is ridiculous.

Pink chiffon. Off-the-shoulder. Corseted so tight you whimper. The skirt flares out in layers of tulle, petticoats rustling with every movement. White thigh-high socks hug your legs, ending just below the soft, bare curve of your thighs -- freshly waxed, skin like glass.

No panties.

Just the cage -- pink, plastic, obscene -- peeking beneath your skirt when you move wrong... or maybe right. You feel it constantly. Pressing. Hugging. Plastic edges nestled tight around your balls, holding them like a toy that belongs to someone else now.

It's your first time wearing one.

You feel held.

Trapped.

Turned on in a way that makes no sense.

The chiffon sways against your arse as you walk -- light, teasing, cool -- brushing the cheeks she made smooth just for this. Somehow, without the hair, everything feels more exposed. More sensitive. You flinch at the sensation, at how it tickles your cleft and reminds you what's tucked inside.

A bell collar rests at your throat, delicate and silver, with your name -- Veronica -- etched in tiny cursive letters.

Your heels are five inches. Patent pink leather. You wobble.

And the final touch: the wig. Auburn. Long and thick, with gentle curls that brush your collarbones and shoulders. Almost red enough to match Beverly's. Feminine. Bouncy. It changes the way you feel the air on your neck. The way you move. It frames your face like a character being written.

Then -- a little satin bow. Clipped neatly to your cage, feminine and teasing, just visible if you curtsy low enough.

She steps back. Takes a slow photo. Her expression unreadable. Proud. Possessive.

You feel humiliated.

You feel beautiful.

You feel seen.

***

Then the doorbell rings.

She leaves you standing in front of the mirror -- flushed, trembling, every inch of you powdered and prepped -- while she goes to answer.

You hear voices. Laughter. Shoes on marble. Eight in total -- men. Well-dressed. Calm. Comfortable. The kind of men who don't chase, because they know things come to them.

And now... you're one of those things.

She returns, eyes dancing.

"They're here," she says softly, lifting your chin.

"You'll greet each of them, Veronica. And you will curtsy."

You nod.

Your mouth is dry. Your heart's in your throat. You feel the plug shift with every step, the cage throbbing gently now -- the little blue pill fully awake inside you, pulsing like a second heart. Your mind swims. You're not even sure what you're doing anymore. You just know you're doing it right.

You're walked into the salon like a prize.

The men hush.

She announces you like a hostess unveiling a dish.

"This is Veronica. She's been... remade for your pleasure."

You curtsy. Deep. Your plug shifts.

You smile. You have to smile. It's all you can do to keep from falling apart.

The room answers with murmurs.

"Stunning."

"Delicious."

"Look at her..."

You don't catch all their names. You couldn't if you tried. Your head is spinning -- with nerves, with heat, with need.

There are nine men in total, including her husband, Julian.

All of them different. All of them hungry.

You can't remember all their names -- you never really had a chance -- so in your head, you start giving them nicknames. It helps. It centres you. It reminds you what you're for.

Old Man -- tall and stooped, late sixties, with silver hair and leather gloves he hasn't removed yet. His gaze is distant but deliberate. You already know he won't rush. Fat Man -- heavyset, early sixties. Flushed just from standing, hands clasped over his belly. He licks his lips when he sees you curtsy. The hunger in his eyes is decades old. Wine Dad -- ruddy-faced, mid-fifties. Broad and red-cheeked, smells like expensive aftershave and cheaper Merlot. Smirks like he's not used to waiting his turn. Sergeant -- medium hight, wiry, late forties. Ex-military, you'd bet on it. Sharp haircut. Starched cuffs. Nods crisply but his fingers linger on your arm a second too long. He'll be rough. Professor -- lean, bookish, early fifties. Tie clip, horn-rimmed glasses, cock already outlined in his slacks. Polite. Quiet. Probably the type to ask questions after he cums. Romeo -- Mediterranean, early forties. Olive skin, thick lashes, speaks softly. Compliments your earrings as his hand brushes your arse. Charming in a way that hurts. BBC (I hope) -- big, Black, beautiful. Mid-forties. Wide shoulders. Clean-cut beard. Hands like paddles. Doesn't say a word when you're introduced -- just looks at you. You feel it in your tummy. You hope he's exactly what his body promises. You need him to be. Shy Boy -- early twenties. Soft jaw. Floppy brown hair. Kind, startled eyes. He stares like he's in love, like he wants to hold you. You think, just maybe... he'd make a beautiful sissy one day. Julian -- Beverly's husband. Mid-forties. Calm. Grey temples. A man who doesn't need to speak to be obeyed. You don't give him a nickname. He already owns you, in his way.

They look like gentlemen.

Clean. Polished. Married, most of them.

Bored. Starved.

Some are polite.

Some are feely.

A hand brushes your lower back. Another lingers too long on your arm. One leans in to smell your neck.

You stand there, smiling.

Caged. Plugged. Flushed.

Your cock aches behind the plastic -- a real, urgent pressure, trying to rise, trying to resist, and failing.

You clench gently around the plug instead, needing it -- hugging it inside you like it's the only thing keeping you whole.

You're not attracted to them in the usual sense.

But this isn't about attraction.

It's about being available.

You're overwhelmed.

Horny.

Floating in a pink bubble of shame, heat, and surreal pleasure.

You don't know how you got here.

But you're here.

And you're theirs.

They haven't even sat down to dinner yet.

Under the Table

Beverly is dressed now.

Not the silk robe from earlier -- this is evening Beverly. Her hair pinned higher. Black halter dress. Diamond earrings. Red lips. She's elegant, severe, and untouchable. Her heels click as she walks -- sharp little declarations of control.

"You'll wait under the table," she says softly, brushing a curl of your auburn wig off your cheek. "Like dessert. Let them eat and drink. And enjoy you. You'll know when it's your turn."

You nod.

She lifts the long linen tablecloth.

You crawl under.

It's warm beneath -- fabric-draped, candle-lit from above, soft carpet under your knees. The plug shifts as you move, and you whimper, barely. Your cage is throbbing now -- swollen behind its plastic walls, helpless, needy.

You're alone for a few minutes.

Just you and the hum of ambient music from the salon. The flicker of candlelight filtering through the cloth. And your own thoughts -- wild, messy, aroused. You can hear her heels again, pacing above. Setting the table. Pouring wine. Laughing.

Then voices.

Low, male.

They arrive in groups -- two, then four, then three more. Shoes scuff. Chairs slide. Jackets come off. Ice clinks. Glasses are lifted.

You listen.

They chat like businessmen -- casual, comfortable. Their words a soft buzz above your head. You hear someone laugh. Someone cough. Someone say, "So who got number one?"

Another voice answers, "You lucky bastard."

A chair creaks.

You go still.

The men are settling in. Ten chairs around the table, Beverly obvious from this viewpoint. You can smell the cologne. The wine. Something faintly soapy -- a hand recently washed. They don't talk about you yet. Not directly. But you can feel the tension circling, growing under their voices like static.

Then a rustle.

Trousers. A belt.

You turn -- slowly, reverently -- and see a pair of legs shifting just ahead of you.

Dark socks. Older knees. A hand lowering a zipper.

***

Load 1: Old Man

He doesn't speak.

Doesn't need to.

He just shifts in his chair, pushes his trousers further down, and opens his knees wider.

You shuffle forward, careful and slow, arms bent, fingers trembling. The candlelight from above gives the underside of the table a strange glow -- faint amber through white linen. You smell his skin first -- warm, clean, slightly musky. A man who washed just for this.

Your hands settle on his thighs. Soft, veined, slack with age -- but strong. Grounded. You lean in closer. Your collar bell jingles again.

Your lips brush his cock.

It's half-hard, drooping slightly, and heavy in a way that surprises you. You kiss the tip. Then the shaft. He exhales above you -- a quiet, almost reverent sound -- like a man stepping into hot water.

You open your mouth.

Take him in.

Feel the soft press of his cock on your tongue, the skin a little loose, tasting faintly of soap and salt and something older.

He thickens inside you. Slowly. Gradually. Like he's remembering what to do.

You hold the base with one hand, the other drifting to cup his balls -- long, low-hanging, heavy. You cradle them gently, almost tenderly, like you want this to last.

He shifts.

You adjust your angle. Let your lips glide down further. Take more.

Your tongue works beneath him now -- slow swirls, soft pressure. You feel him pulse, just slightly. He's not quick. He's deliberate. He's been waiting for this.

You close your eyes.

You suck.

The sounds above the table fade into background texture -- murmured conversation, wine being poured, a fork gently tapping china. You're under the cloth. Under the surface. Forgotten by everything except the man in front of you.

He breathes deeper. His thighs tighten under your hands.

You suck a little harder now -- building pressure with your lips, flicking your tongue with more confidence. You feel the cage press hard against your cock. The plug shifts again inside you. But you don't moan.

Not yet.

Then -- a twitch.

A pause.

He exhales slowly.

You feel it pulse first -- deep in your mouth.

Then taste it.

Hot. Salty. Slow.

The first rope slides across your tongue, thick and metallic. Then another. And another. He holds your head. Not tight -- just present. You swallow him down without pulling back, without flinching.

You don't stop sucking.

Not even as he softens.

You feel him deflate between your lips. Feel the heat in your throat.

Load one.

Your first.

You're full.

Your mouth is wet.

Your cage aches.

Your plug rests still -- for now.

You wipe your lips on the back of your hand and wait.

Above, someone murmurs:

"Number two."

Another chair shifts.

You crawl toward the sound.

Load 2: Fat Man

You barely get time to breathe.

A chair slides. Another pair of legs shifts open. This one slower. Heavier. You shuffle toward the sound, your petticoats swishing over the carpet, thighs still tingling from the aftertaste of Old Man's load.

You reach him.

You don't need to see his face to know who it is.

Fat Man.

His trousers are barely undone. Belly soft and full, drooping slightly over his waistband. You press your hands to his thighs -- they're wide and warm and gently trembling. He spreads his legs with effort, groaning slightly as he shifts.

And then you see it.

Short. Fat. Five inches at most, but thick -- almost chubby, pink, with a ridge that bulges oddly at the base. His balls sit strangely close to his body, tight and high, like they're hiding. The whole thing looks awkward. Ungainly. But hard.

You lean in anyway.

His belly brushes your wig.

His scent is heavier -- not dirty, but damp. Lived in.

You push forward, lips parted, and take him inside.

He exhales. Loudly.

You begin to work him -- not with elegance, but with determination. Your lips stretch wide around the girth. He doesn't slide deep -- he can't -- but the stretch at your lips makes you drool. You use your hands to stroke the base. One palm cupping his odd, tense balls.

And then, without thinking -- you shift lower.

You lick them.

Long, deliberate laps with your tongue, trying to coax them to loosen. You press your lips to them, suck them into your mouth, one at a time. He grunts. Above, the table creaks.

And then -- it happens.

A low, sharp buzz inside you.

The plug.

You yelp -- just a little -- surprised by the sudden vibration deep in your hole. You moan around his fat cock, involuntarily, your voice muffled and wet.

There's laughter above the table.

Low chuckles. One of them says, "That's number two, then."

A few of them murmur approvingly. You even hear Beverly let out a soft laugh, amused.

Then her voice cuts through -- smooth and clean.

"Gently, gentlemen. A Dom should be kind to his sub."

A pause. Then she adds,

"She's not a chew toy. Let her float. Let the buzz be soft -- background, not punishment."

You feel the vibration ease -- from sharp to warm. It purrs now, not stings. And you moan again, this time softly, gratefully. You clench around it. It pulses back.

The room settles.

Fat Man shifts again. You rise up and suck him deeper -- if not in length, then in devotion. You bob gently, cheeks flushed, petticoats rustling. His belly presses to your face now, making it harder to breathe, harder to move.

You let it.

You go slower. He throbs in your mouth. His thighs shake.

And then -- with no warning -- he grunts.

His hand grabs the back of your head, not harsh, just firm.

You taste him.

Thick. Sticky. Strange.

He cums hard and fast. Barely a pulse -- just a flood of heat, flat and salty. You swallow out of instinct. He holds you there until he twitches, softens, pulls back.

You sit back on your heels.

Two loads.

One buzzing plug.

Seven cocks left.

You don't wipe your mouth this time.

You crawl to the next set of legs.

Load 3: BBC (I hope)

You wait.

You hear the next ticket called above -- "Number three." A shuffle. A chair creaks.

You crawl toward the sound.

The vibrations have stopped.

No buzz.

No hum inside you.

Just silence. Stillness. Your plug sits dormant, barely pressing, barely present. You breathe through it -- lips parted, cage throbbing, drool still faintly cooling on your chin.

You clench.

Nothing.

Your hole hugs around the plug instinctively, like it's trying to summon the feeling. Like your body has started to need the vibration as much as the cock. But still -- nothing.

You moan softly.

You're wet. Hungry. Frustrated.

Then -- legs shift.

Wide. Dark skin. Thighs thick as tree trunks.

He spreads slowly. Intentionally.

He takes his time.

Your breath catches.

Please, let it be.

Please.

He unzips.

Trousers slide.

And then you see it.

Yes.

It is.

BBC (I hoped -- and now know).

Thick. Long. Dark. Gorgeous. Resting across his thigh like a forearm. It isn't fully hard yet, but it's already enough to make your heart skip. Your cage tightens painfully. Your mouth waters.

You kneel between his feet.

Hands on his thighs -- smooth, strong, solid. You lean in, lips trembling, and begin with a kiss just behind the head. His cock twitches. You lick along the underside -- long, reverent strokes. Worshipful.

Still no buzz.

You miss it more with every passing second.

You suck the head into your mouth -- tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing -- and he starts to grow. Fast. Fully. Beautifully. His cock swells between your lips like a secret unfolding.

He doesn't moan.

He breathes -- low and deep. Powerful.

You bob gently, letting his cock slide across your tongue.

He grows thicker. Harder. You reach up with one hand and feel his length -- the way your fingers can't meet around the base. Your other hand cups his balls, warm and full.

Still no buzz.

You're drooling now. Not just spit -- need. Your plug is still. Too still. The absence of sensation becomes a kind of pain. You clench again around it, trying to milk the feeling back into yourself.

Above the table, conversation continues. I can hear the soft clink of cutlery, plates being set down. The smell of roasted meat and buttery vegetables drifts through the linen like a tease, the flicker of candlelight filtering through the cloth... Someone else laughs, but it's hushed now. Almost respectful.

You suck harder. You're so far down his cock now but your nose is still inches away from his body, lips stretched wide. Your face aches. Your hole aches. Your pride died an hour ago.

His cock twitches in your throat.

You brace -- lips sealed, eyes wide -- and then it hits you.

Cum.

Hot. Strong. Thick -- deliberate, almost creamy. You feel it pulse against your tongue, warm and heavy like melted skin lotion. It doesn't shoot so much as pour, flooding your mouth with slow, sticky heat.

You don't swallow.

Not right away.

You hold it there.

You pull back just slightly, until only the head rests on your tongue -- cock still twitching, a final bead of fluid glistening at the tip. You tilt your head, close your lips, and let the load settle inside you like a fine wine.

Taste.

Salty, but not harsh.

Earthy. Slightly bitter.

But with something rich beneath it -- almost sweet. Like sweat. Or iron. Or shame.

It coats the roof of your mouth. Slides between your teeth. Pools under your tongue. You swirl it gently, eyes closed, moaning faintly -- not for his benefit, but yours.

You're tasting a man.

His need. His age. His power.

You're keeping it.

For a moment, it's yours.

Then -- and only then -- you swallow.

Slowly.

One thick gulp.

Then another.

You feel it slide down your throat like a secret.

You breathe out.

Wipe your lips.

And crawl forward, empty again -- but glowing.

Three loads.

No buzz.

But your hole clenches for it anyway.

Load 4: Sergeant

You're deeper into the evening now.

Your knees ache softly. Your lips are slick. Your plug has been quiet again -- off since the last cock -- but your body remembers. You clench for it sometimes without meaning to. The cage presses. Your whole body feels buzzy even when the plug is silent.

You move toward the next man.

Boots. Clean trousers. Legs a little wider apart than the others.

Sergeant.

You know it's him before he moves.

There's something measured in his posture. Grounded. Like he's used to waiting, watching. A man who doesn't rush.

When he parts his trousers, it's with quiet confidence.

His cock springs out -- seven inches, thick and very hard. Not decorative. Not vain. Just solid. Pale with a soft pink head. A clean vein. Pubes trimmed -- natural and masculine and real.

You reach for his thighs -- but this time, he finds your hands first.

His fingers close around yours gently. Warm. Firm. Not possessive -- acknowledging.

He squeezes.

And for a second...

You forget the collar bell.

You forget the room.

You're just kneeling between a man's knees, his cock waiting, his hands on yours.

He lets go.

You lower your head.

You start by kissing the tip.

Then under the ridge.

Then a slow, open-mouthed lick from base to head -- soft moan in your throat, the bell just faintly jingling beneath your chin.

He exhales.

His cock pulses slightly -- not in warning, but in pleasure. He's already hot. Already there.

You open your mouth.

You take him.

He slides in perfectly. Smooth. Thick. Your lips stretch around the shaft, but it doesn't feel cruel. It feels right. Like your mouth was made to shape around him. You begin to bob slowly, gently, letting him glide back and forth across your tongue.

He's clean. But not freshly.

There's been time. A faint, warm musk. Not dirty -- just lived-in. A little sweat. A little fabric. Male. It hits you at the back of your nose and your clit pulses uselessly behind the cage.

You reach to cup his balls.

He lets you.

His hand stays on yours, soft and still. No command. Just contact. You moan around him. The plug shifts.

And then -- buzz.

Soft. Sudden.

Your whole body twitches.

You moan again -- louder this time, around his cock. Your hips squirm. The vibration isn't sharp like before -- it's perfect. Just enough to wake your insides. Just enough to make your cage press harder, crueler.

He strokes your knuckles.

Not to praise. Not to control.

To let you know: he's there.

You love this one.

You like his smell. His touch. The weight of his cock. You imagine -- just for a second -- how he'd feel in your ass. Not brutal. Not careless. Just deep. Right. Complete.

He pulses.

You suck harder, deeper.

And when he cums, he doesn't grip your head. He doesn't force it. He just leans forward slightly and lets go -- soft grunts above, warm jets in your mouth.

You hold him there.

Swallow.

Slow. Grateful.

He strokes your hand once more.

And tucks himself away without a word.

Four loads.

And now you're dripping with heat. Buzzing from the inside. A little dizzy. A little wet-eyed. Loving it too much.

And Beverly knows it.

***

"Come out now, Veronica."

Beverly's voice cuts through the quiet -- firm, composed, warm like silk just out the drawer.

You blink beneath the tablecloth, dazed, hot, wet-lipped, your plug still tingling with ghost-sensation. Your knees ache. Your face is flushed. Your mind soft.

You crawl slowly. Out from under. Into view.

The light feels too bright. It is cooler out here than under the table.

The room smells of food, wine, cologne... and cum.

You stand beside her chair, not quite knowing where to look, happy to straighten your legs, you're a little wobbly. Grateful Beverly is here to mother you.

Your wig is wonky, one curl stuck to your cheek with spit and something more. There's cum on your dress -- a pearly smear across the pink chiffon near your chest that you hadn't noticed. A little glisten near the hem too. And some in your wig, matted just at the fringe. You feel it now. You're embarrassed -- not from guilt, but from sloppiness. You thought you got it all down. You wanted to get it all down.

Beverly sees.

She hums softly -- not annoyed. Just amused. Proud.

She brushes your fringe back with one hand, fingers tender, tucking the sticky strands behind your ear. Then she bends and wipes a fingertip through the smear on your chest -- the white line across the pink.

Without breaking eye contact, she brings it to your lips.

You open.

You suck.

She smiles.

"You're doing so well," she whispers. "They're watching. And they're pleased."

You feel it then -- the eyes.

All nine men are watching. Each one quiet now. Surveying. Assessing.

You glance at them, finally.

The ones who've already cum -- Old Man, Fat Man, BBC ( I hope ), Sergeant Nice Cock -- they look at you like a conquest. Like a dish scraped clean. Admiring, but settled. They've 'tasted' you. They've used you. They're done... for now.

But the ones who haven't?

They're starving.

Eyes locked to your lips. Your chest. Your ruined skirt. One grips the base of his glass too tight. Another licks his teeth without meaning to. Their desire is raw. Present. Unchecked.

You look across them, slowly, feeling like prey in perfume.

And then -- you find Sergeant Nice Cock.

He meets your gaze. Calm. Collected. Still. He holds it.

He knows how to wait.

There's something in it -- tension, heat, unspoken promise. It makes your plug feel full again, even without the buzz.

Then you search for Shy Boy.

You find him near the end of the table, smaller than the others, eyes glassy. His cheeks are burning red. He's trying not to look. Failing.

The second you lock eyes, he panics -- looks down.

His throat works. His fists clench.

He doesn't know how to hold tension.

Not yet.

But oh, he wants to.

Beverly straightens your wig one last time. Adjusts your skirt. Lifts your chin.

"Let them see what they've made," she says quietly, with pride.

You sit there, exposed and honoured.

Four loads down.

Five more cocks aching.

Beverly rises from her chair.

She adjusts the fall of her black dress, smooths her hair back into place, and steps forward into the centre of the room -- calm, poised, every inch the hostess and the handler.

She clinks her glass gently with a fingernail.

"Gentlemen," she says, voice clear and level. "Ease springs. Whisky and cigars in the smoking room."

A beat.

"Reconvene in thirty minutes."

There's a ripple of motion. Chairs scrape. Jackets are retrieved. Belts fastened. A low murmur of male voices begins -- polite, relaxed, quietly relieved. Several make their way toward the hall with purpose. You know where they're going.

The plug is still.

Your lips are sticky. Your dress, stained. Your body, trembling.

Beverly turns to you and tilts your chin up with one finger.

"Well done, Veronica," she says, eyes gleaming. "That was the easy part."

The New Dress

Beverly leads you from the dining room -- quiet now, the men gone to smoke and piss and talk about you -- into the private wing again. Her heels click softly beside you. One arm around your waist. Protective. Proud.

"You were beautiful," she murmurs. "But we're not finished yet."

The door closes. Candlelight again. Your own reflection meets you in the mirror -- smeared makeup, mascara run, stained chiffon, crust drying on your cheek. You look wrecked. And gorgeous.

"Shower," she says, peeling the ruined dress from your shoulders.

You obey. Again.

This time, the water is cooler. Grounding. Your plug comes out, still clean. Your cage stays on. She told you not to touch it. So you don't. You rinse the cum from your mouth, the sweat from your back, the stickiness from your thighs -- but not your purpose.

You towel off. Skin fresh. Hole reclaimed.

She chooses your next look.

The wig is first -- that one.

Candy pink. Long. Flowing. A waterfall of synthetic femininity that dares you to try hiding. You don't. You lean into it. When she fits it snug on your scalp, it changes you -- your posture, your breath, the way you turn your head.

Your makeup is sharper now -- pinks and peaches, glitter and gloss. High glam, unapologetic. Your cheekbones pop. Your lashes return, bigger. You're a doll. A walking act of submission and defiance.

Then the dress.

Off the shoulders. Plunging at the chest. It clings to your torso like it was painted on -- sculpted to your waist, stretched tight across your pecs, hugging every line of your sissy frame.

The colour is outrageous: dark wine or deep raspberry pink, threaded with gold. It glimmers when you move -- bold, sultry, divine. It doesn't try to hide you. It celebrates you.

But it's short.

Shockingly short.

It barely covers your arse when you first slip it on. And already, just from moving, it's started to ride up. The curve of your cheeks peeks beneath the hem now -- smooth, waxed, faintly trembling.

Beverly kneels briefly to adjust it -- not to hide you, but to frame you.

She smooths the fabric at the hips, then presses it up instead of down, until it hugs the underside of your bum, making it clear:

"If the dress rides up..." she murmurs, still crouched, still brushing her fingers along your thigh,

"Let it."

She stands. Meets your eyes at last. Smiling -- calm, reverent, proud.

"You are the prize.

Not the wrapping."

You don't even nod. You just feel it.

The plug.

The cage.

The wig.

The weight of being seen.

And the room's about to see you again.

You nod. The cage tightens again just from the tone of her voice.

Heels next -- strappy stilettos, five-inch, metallic pink to match your wig. They leave your red-painted toes fully on display. You wobble slightly at first. She doesn't help. You correct yourself.

No stockings -- she vetoed them. She was right. Your waxed legs are art.

She steps back.

You're radiant.

You're obscene.

You're not a woman.

You're Veronica.

Load 5: Beverly (???)

Beverly circles you slowly.

One hand at your chin.

Another trailing down your hip, dragging the hem of your dress -- to savour the way it rides up again on its own. The curve of your cheeks. The gleam of your thighs.

But then --

something changes.

Her eyes pause at your chest -- where the fabric dips low, showing the top of your pecs, the shimmer of your skin under powder and perfume. She lingers on your thighs. On the wig. On the cage.

On the contradiction you've become.

And in that moment --

her face shifts.

Just for a second.

Something breaks script.

Her nostrils flare. Her lips part. Not a lot. Just enough to show she's not entirely immune.

She's not supposed to want this.

She built it.

But now she sees you...

And wants to taste what she made.

Quietly, her voice drops.

"You've had four loads, Veronica.

But you're not full yet."

You blink.

Confused. Caged.

Then she kneels.

But not like before.

This isn't protocol.

This isn't ceremony.

This is impulse.

She unlocks the cage with one soft click.

Your cock spills forward -- flushed, helpless, almost too hard to bear.

She doesn't speak again.

She opens her mouth...

And drinks you like a prize.

She's efficient -- clinical, elegant, purposeful.

Your heels wobble. You grip her shoulders, trying to steady yourself, to hold onto something, anything.

And then she does it.

Her finger slips behind you, and with perfect timing, she begins to flick the base of your plug -- not hard, just enough to make it bounce inside you. A soft percussion. In sync with her mouth.

Flick. Suck. Flick. Suck.

The rhythm undoes you.

You try to hold on -- to savour it -- but she knows your body better than you do now. Her tongue swirls with surgical precision. Her cheeks hollow. Her lips glide like she's been rehearsing this for weeks.

The vibration behind your eyes builds faster than you can brace for it.

You break.

You moan -- loud, guttural.

Your thighs tense.

Your cock twitches helplessly between her lips as you cum -- hard, almost painfully -- your body curling forward.

She never stops.

She takes every drop.

Doesn't flinch.

Doesn't swallow.

She just holds your load in her mouth.

Then she rises.

Steps forward.

Cradles your face with both hands, smiling softly.

She feeds it to you -- your own cum flooding your tongue, swirling into your mouth as her lips move against yours. It's messy, warm, dizzying.

And familiar -- thick, almost creamy, with a clean, alkaline tang.

You taste the sharpness of zinc, a faint echo of fruit, and something almost sweet underneath -- like a body that's been well-kept, denied, and finally allowed to let go.

She moans into the kiss like she's sharing a secret.

You swallow instinctively. Reflexively. Barely able to breathe.

When she pulls away, your mouth is wet.

Your lips, glossy.

The taste still blooming in the back of your throat.

She locks the cage back on without comment.

Then strokes your cheek.

"That one was mine," she whispers.

"Now go make the rest of them jealous."

Scene: The Smoking Room

You walk in -- heels clicking on polished floor, hem already high. No panties.

Well... the plug and cage count, for a sissy.

Every eye turns to watch. It's been more than thirty minutes.

Maybe an hour.

But you don't apologise.

That's a femme flex.

Beverly doesn't follow you this time.

She sends you.

Your plug is quiet now.

Your cage still snug -- but the pain has gone.

Replaced by something else.

Post-nut clarity. Post-nut ache. Post-nut emptiness.

The orgasm she took from you -- intense, blinding, involuntary -- has left you slow.

Not dreamy. Not wet.

Just hollow.

Like the wanting's been reset.

You're not here because you crave cock.

Not right now.

You're here because you said you would be.

And they're all waiting.

The smoking room is low-lit and warm -- leather chairs, heavy drapes, tall glasses with single clear cubes. A haze of cigar smoke curls through the air, rich and comforting. The scent hits you immediately.

You like it.

You didn't think you would.

But you do.

Something about it feels grounded.

Masculine. Real.

You're the only softness in the room now -- all shimmer and gloss and bare thighs.

They don't speak at first.

The men glance over their glasses.

Some smile faintly.

Wine Dad leans forward slightly in his chair.

Romeo exhales smoke in a slow stream, watching you through it.

They're dressed -- more relaxed now. Jackets open. Ties loosened. Shoes still polished.

But not one of them has showered.

You have.

You feel it in the contrast.

You are powdered. Mint-fresh. Lipstick re-done.

They are skin and sweat and soap-smoke and whisky.

You don't belong here.

And that's exactly why you're here.

Loads 6 and 7: Wine Dad & Romeo

They stand.

Wine Dad first -- red-faced, already unbuttoning his shirt, belly pushing out.

Then Romeo -- calm, quiet, eyes locked to yours as he slides his jacket off his shoulders.

You realise what's happening before anyone says a word.

They've conspired.

Both know their ticket numbers.

Both holding onto their loads for far too long.

Both very, very ready.

And now -- they want you together.

Wine Dad's shirt hits the floor. He's stocky. Hairy. Skin flushed and shiny, like he's already sweating. His cock is thick and curved, veiny, half-hard already just from anticipation.

Romeo takes longer -- not out of hesitation, but theatre. His tie slides free. His cuffs are undone slowly. His body is lean, olive-toned, lightly furred -- defined without being showy. His cock is beautiful: long, uncut, soft at first, but you feel its promise the moment he steps closer.

And then you see it.

The remote.

In Romeo's hand -- small, sleek, black.

You'd missed it earlier.

Now you can't.

He lifts it slightly -- just enough for you to see -- and presses a button.

Buzz.

Soft. Deep.

You gasp.

Your hole clenches.

Wine Dad grins, sweaty and flushed.

Romeo smiles, clean and cruel.

They've planned this.

They're going to share you.

And they're going to do it while your plug hums like a secret only they control.

They sit back onto the leather sofa like it's theirs -- like you're theirs.

Romeo in the centre, legs spread, remote in hand. Wine Dad beside him, belly pushed forward, cock already stiffening in his lap.

You kneel between them, your heels clicking softly on the polished floor, then sinking into the rug.

They don't speak.

They just wait.

You start with Wine Dad.

He smells different up close now -- not foul, but real.

Heavy aftershave mixed with sweat, with fabric, with something that might be piss. Not fresh. Lingering. A man who dribbled, didn't wipe, pulled up his pants after a leak and didn't think twice.

Your nose twitches. Your lips part anyway.

You suck.

His cock is thick, blunt, already leaking at the slit. Salty. Damp. The kind of cock that's never had to impress -- just exist. You take him in. You taste everything -- wine, sweat, skin, piss, age.

Your cage throbs again.

You reach out blindly with one hand and find Romeo's cock.

It's warm. Soft at first, but thickening as your fingers wrap around him.

You stroke him slowly, reverently. Your cheek presses to Wine Dad's thigh. Your head bobs.

And all the while, you can feel it -- hands on your arse.

Palming. Spreading. Testing.

Romeo.

He's watching you suck another man.

And he's playing with the remote.

Buzz.

A little more.

Your plug wakes up.

Deeper now.

Warmer.

You whimper around Wine Dad's cock.

No one's guiding you. No one's watching over you.

Beverly is not here.

You realise that. You feel it.

She sent you in -- but she's not hovering.

If they cross a line...

If they go too far...

You'd be on your own.

Your thighs tremble.

Wine Dad's cock pulses in your mouth, thick and sour and soaked in taste.

Romeo's hand grips your hip now -- firm, elegant.

You keep stroking him.

The air is cigar smoke and body heat.

You're alone.

And you're surrounded.

Wine Dad grunts.

You feel it coming before he says a word -- his thighs twitch, his belly shifts, his cock thickens between your lips. The taste gets stronger. Saltier. Like the sweat has ripened. Like the piss has settled in.

You don't stop.

You stay there, obedient, mouth full, one hand still stroking Romeo's length like a ritual.

Wine Dad's hand lands on the back of your head -- not hard, not tender. Just firm.

A push.

A warning.

Then he cums.

It's thick.

Hot.

Flat -- no spice, no sweetness, just male. A middle-aged, wine-stained load that tastes like it's been building since Thursday.

You gulp it down.

Not because it's erotic now.

Because it's the job.

Because this is what you were sent to do.

He deflates with a grunt, cock slipping from your lips, wet and sloppy.

You wipe your chin.

Then turn to Romeo.

He's beautiful.

Clean-lined. Olive skin. Dark eyes. Still holding the remote -- but now his other hand is stroking your lower back, circling your plug, watching your mouth like he's about to kiss it.

You lower your head.

His cock is hard now.

Warmer. Smoother.

It smells better -- fresher -- but as your lips touch the head and your tongue swirls around the foreskin, you catch it.

Piss.

Not strong. Just... there. Lingering. Subtle.

Like he pissed just before undressing. Like he didn't shake. Like he knows you'll clean it.

You do.

You take him in slowly. Feel the ridges. The twitch. The smoothness.

You suck him with care -- long, deep strokes. Your hand returns to his balls, cradling. Worshipping.

He groans.

Softly.

Then again.

You think he'll take longer.

You expect a tease.

But no.

He cums fast.

Barely two minutes.

A quiet hiss of breath through clenched teeth. A gentle buck of his hips. His cock pulses, and then your tongue is coated in something lighter, slicker, more fragrant than Wine Dad's -- but still bitter. Still real.

You drink it.

You don't even pretend it's for you.

You do it because that's what sissies do.

He exhales. Touches your cheek. Hands you the remote.

For now.

Seven loads.

Your jaw aches.

Your hole buzzes.

And you're starting to feel something awaken again behind the cage.

Loads 8 & 9: The Professor and Julian

You're still on your knees.

Lips glossy with Romeo's cum.

Chin sticky from Wine Dad.

The plug is still buzzing -- faint now, like a low purr under your spine.

And then--click. click. click.

Heels.

Beverly enters the smoking room like it's hers.

She stops just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the scene.

You see her clock everything in an instant:

Your skirt.

Riding high.

Your makeup.

Smudged.

Your thighs.

Spread.

Your mouth.

Ruined.

She says nothing for a moment.

Then -- calm, clear:

"Veronica.

You came in here half-naked."

A pause.

"How very male of you."

The men chuckle -- not cruelly, just knowingly.

Beverly doesn't smile.

She crosses to you. Pulls something from her clutch.

A choker.

Pink. Leather. Buckled tight.

At the front, a metal tag.

Applied letters:

CUM DUMP.

She fastens it around your throat without a word. Tight. Close. Possessive.

Then runs a finger slowly across your lips -- smearing what's left of Romeo onto your cheek like war paint.

You don't flinch.

You just kneel.

She's back in charge.

"Professor," she says smoothly.

"You're next."

The Professor rises. Adjusts his tie. His glasses. Still dressed. Still restrained.

He approaches like he's presenting a thesis.

Julian follows behind -- quiet, dark, watching.

You're led to the centre of the room.

The men gather loosely around. Some sitting. Some standing now. The air is rich with cigar smoke, lust, and something beginning again.

Load 8: The Professor.

He unzips slowly.

His cock is long, slender, flushed dark.

He holds it like a pointer. Analytical. Respectful.

You go down on him in silence.

He doesn't touch you.

He lets you do the work.

His taste is complex -- not foul, not sweet -- just intellectual.

He moans softly. Fidgets. Adjusts his glasses again.

You finish him in five minutes.

You feel him tense.

Just slightly.

No grunt. No warning.

Then it arrives --

Warm. Measured. Thoughtful.

His cum doesn't flood your mouth -- it slides in, slow and deliberate.

A first bead.

Then a second.

Then a slow ribbon, coating your tongue like warm milk and ink. You taste it before you even register the weight. It's not sweet. Not sharp.

It's... earthy.

Subtle bitterness, like black tea steeped too long. A faint metallic echo, like old coins pressed to your tongue.

It's polite cum.

But still male. Still real.

You don't gag. You don't rush.

You swirl it gently, just for a moment -- tasting his age, his restraint, his quiet hunger.

And then you swallow. Slow. Respectful. He says thank you.

Load 9: Julian.

Julian steps forward.

Unzips.

He just lowers his trousers -- slow, unhurried -- revealing a cock that's already hard, already curved upward like it's been waiting for you.

He doesn't ask.

You open your mouth.

And he takes it.

Standing.

One hand in your wig, the other on the back of your skull.

He begins to fuck your throat like he's done it before -- like he owns it.

Beverly watches, arms folded, calm as ever.

"He's the only one I allow to do that," she says evenly.

"It's not about cock. It's about right."

Julian thrusts again.

You gag -- a sharp, involuntary choke.

Your eyes water.

Your throat tightens.

He doesn't stop.

He fucks your mouth for five full minutes -- measured, quiet, relentless.

No dirty talk.

No praise.

Just the sound of your wet gagging and his low, rhythmic breaths.

When he cums --

He buries himself deep. Your nose on his pubic bone, smelling him.

No pullout.

No mercy.

You feel it burst at the back of your throat -- thick and sudden, like hot rope. It splashes, not spurts. The first pump hits too far back to taste, but the rest spills forward onto your tongue as he withdraws:

It's heavier than the others.

Dense. Creamy. Salty.

Like egg yolk stirred into warm oil.

A little bitter. A little sweet, weirdly -- not like sugar, but like skin that's been kissed too long.

There's power in it.

Gravity.

His cum stays in your mouth, like it refuses to be ignored.

You swallow.

Twice.

It lingers anyway.

You're breathless -- spit trailing down your chin. Glossy-eyed. Fucked.

Beverly steps behind you. Tightens the choker. "That's nine," she says.

Load 10: Shy Boy

You rise, weak but present.

You scan the room.

Shy Boy.

He's staring.

Flushed. Fists clenched. His cock is straining behind his trousers. He looks tortured. Desperate. Beautiful.

You glance around.

The others are watching too.

Sergeant Nice Cock holds your gaze like he's still waiting to claim something.

BBC ( I hope ), just watches. Calm. Reserved. But hard again.

Then Beverly speaks.

"Wes."

A name.

She says it like she's giving it to you.

He startles. Stands.

"Come here."

He walks slowly, nervously.

Stands in front of you.

Beverly steps between you both.

"Hold her gaze."

"Don't look away."

"This will do you good."

He stares. His chest rising and falling.

Your eyes meet. Lock.

"Prolonged eye contact," Beverly explains, circling you both,

"helps the sissy form emotional attachment.

It makes the mind hungry for connection.

It allows feelings to grow."

But as you look at him...

You know.

It won't be you who falls.

It'll be him.

You see it in his eyes -- the way his lips part.

The blush.

The trembling.

He's seeing not a doll, not a toy -- but a girl.

He's falling already.

Then Beverly leans in. Close. A whisper just for you.

But he hears it.

"This is the first time he's kissed a girl."

You smile.

Then you kiss him.

Soft. Slow. Sticky-lipped.

His hands hover -- unsure. Then touch your waist. Lightly.

You feel him melt.

And for a moment... you do too.

***

The kiss is short and breaks naturally.

"Now, darling -- let's thank the room properly."

You turn to face them.

Some are smoking again. Some sipping whisky.

Some just watching -- half-hard, half-spent, fully invested.

You smile.

Curtsy low. The hem climbs high. The plug shifts.

"Good night, gentlemen," you say sweetly.

"Thank you for your attention."

A low ripple of laughter and polite applause follows you as Beverly takes your arm.

She guides you across the marble.

And behind you -- the men remain.

Still drinking. Still chatting. Still glowing.

As if they'd just enjoyed fine theatre.

As you pass through the archway, you hear a few voices:

"Goodnight, sweetheart," says Wine Dad, lighting another cigar.

"Same time tomorrow?" someone else chuckles.

"Sleep well, Veronica," murmurs The Professor, already sipping again.

Then -- a deeper voice. Calm. Measured.

Sergeant Nice Cock.

"See you tomorrow," he says simply.

Like a promise.

Like a plan.

You don't look back.

But the plug clenches.

And so does something in your chest.

***

Your Room

She opens the door for you and Wes.

He follows quietly -- flushed, breath hitching -- still not believing where he is.

The room is... a fantasy.

Walls in soft pink. Fairy lights over the vanity mirror. Plush carpet.

A bed with a pink ruffled comforter.

Stuffed animals on the pillow.

Makeup brushes. Perfume bottles. Panties folded in open drawers.

A real sissy's room.

Over the top. Perfectly curated. Yours.

Beverly turns to Wes.

"Make sure you cum in her mouth the first time," she says sweetly.

"It's for her benefit.

She's only had nine loads in her tummy today."

Then, to you both:

"And practice.

Fuck her.

Not once -- well.

She deserves that."

She heads for the door. Pauses.

"Veronica..."

"Wes..."

"Do try to get some sleep, won't you?

We've got the whole weekend to get through yet."

She leaves.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

Wes stands across the room, gazing at you. Still nervous... but something's shifted. He's more centred now. His eyes find yours and hold them.

He's learning.

Fast.

You feel it too -- a flicker.

Just a flicker.

Maybe that eye contact thing worked after all.

You step closer.

He doesn't back away.

He leans in.

And kisses you.

Soft. Nervous. Real.

Your eyes flutter closed.

You're not here because you crave cock. You're here because someone saw you.

And now... he does too.

Fade to black.

To be continued...