The Final Insertion, the Moan, and the Moment Everything Changed

And then, with a small and almost imperceptible *pop*, the head went in.

The girls held their breath. Marcus did not move. His face was serene. The word "PRINCESS" on his forehead was undisturbed. His breathing continued its regular, deep rhythm.

"It's in," Kelsey said. "It's *in*."

"Keep going," Zoe whispered, filming. "Keep going, keep going."

Kelsey pushed further. The dildo slid in with the ease of something that had been adequately lubricated and was being inserted into a person who was, apparently, completely unaware of the process. Two inches. Three. Four. Five. Six. All the way to the base.

And Marcus *moaned*.

Not a grunt. Not a sigh. A *moan*. A soft, high, breathy, undeniably feminine moan that rose from somewhere deep in his chest and floated out of his glossed lips like a ghost leaving a haunted house. It was the kind of moan that, in a different context, would have made everyone in the room assume a woman was present. But no woman was present. Only Marcus Whitfield, twenty-five, asleep, wearing lingerie, with a dildo fully inserted into his rear end.

The four girls stared at each other with expressions that could only be described as *religious*.

"Did he just—" Madison started.

"He moaned," Kelsey said. "He *moaned like a girl*."

"Rewind it," Brianna said. "Zoe, rewind it, I need to see it again."

Zoe rewound the video on her phone. The four of them crowded around the small screen and watched in real time as a fully grown man in women's underwear, unconscious, had his rear end penetrated by a lavender-colored silicone object, and responded with a sound that belonged in a sleep ASMR video.

"Oh my god," Madison said. "Oh my *god*."

"Play it again."

They played it again. Marcus moaned again. His lips, slick with pink gloss, parted slightly on the exhale.

"Okay, new theory," Kelsey said, with the intensity of a scientist on the verge of a breakthrough. "He's not just a bottom. He's a *natural* bottom. That was an *instinctive* moan. You can't fake that. That was his body saying 'oh, hello, I've been waiting for this.'"

"He's never been touched," Zoe said. "That's what that moan means. That's a *virgin* moan."

"Wait," Brianna said. "Wait wait wait. Is he a virgin?"

The girls looked at each other.

"He has to be," Madison said.

"He's twenty-five and he invented a waifu," Kelsey said. "Of course he's a virgin."

"But we need *evidence*," Zoe said. "We can't just *assume*."

"How do we get evidence?" Brianna asked.

They thought about it.

"Well," Kelsey said slowly, "there's one way to find out."

She reached down and, very carefully, took hold of the dildo again. And she began to move it.

Slowly at first. In and out. A gentle, experimental rhythm. The kind of rhythm that was respectful of the fact that the person receiving it was unconscious and had not consented to any of this, but was going to have to deal with it anyway.

Marcus's response was immediate. His breathing changed. It deepened, then shallowed, then deepened again. His hips, which had been perfectly still, began to make small, subtle, involuntary movements — tiny rocking motions, like a boat on a gentle tide. And then, without waking up, without opening his eyes, without any apparent awareness that anything was happening, he pushed *back*.

"He's pushing back," Zoe whispered, filming furiously. "He's *pushing back into it*."

"That's an instinct," Kelsey said, breathless. "That's pure instinct. That's the instinct of a bottom who's been waiting his whole life for this."

"His whole life," Madison echoed.

"Involuntary," Kelsey repeated. "That means his body knows something his brain doesn't."

"His brain is asleep," Brianna pointed out.

"His brain is *asleep*," Kelsey agreed. "But his body is *woke*."

Marcus moaned again. Louder this time. A small, reedy, unmistakably feminine sound, followed by a tiny whimper. His toes, which were visible past the panties bunched at his ankles, curled. His fingers, which were resting on the couch cushion, twitched. His face, beneath the makeup, beneath the "PRINCESS" on his forehead, wore an expression of pure, uncomplicated bliss.

And then he spoke.

In his sleep. Quietly. A single word.

"Mmm... *yes*."

The girls lost it. Again. Silently, violently, hands clamped over mouths, tears streaming down their faces, shoulders shaking. Zoe had to lower her phone for a second because she was laughing too hard to hold it steady.

"He *spoke*," Madison whispered. "He spoke in his *sleep*."

"His first words were 'yes,'" Kelsey said. "And they were said to a *dildo*."

"To a dildo that *we* put in him," Zoe added.

"While he was asleep."

"While he was wearing our underwear."

"While he was drawn on with Sharpie."

"While he had 'PRINCESS' on his forehead."

"While he was measured at half an inch."

The four of them stood there, in the living room, at nearly 3 AM, looking down at the sleeping man who had been transformed — by their own hands, over the course of an hour — into a mascara'd, glossed, doodled, lingerie-clad, dildo-containing, moaning-in-his-sleep vision of total submission.

And then Brianna said the thing that would define the next several months of Marcus Whitfield's life.

"You know what this means, right?"

"What?" Madison asked.

"He's ours now," Brianna said. "The house has a *sissy*."

There was a pause while the other three considered this.

"The house has a sissy," Kelsey repeated. "The house has a sissy and we didn't even have to *do* anything to make him one. He did it to *himself*."

"He wore the lingerie on his own," Madison confirmed. "We just found him."

"He put the panties on his own body," Zoe said, still filming. "He measured himself at half an inch on his own thigh. He moaned like a girl on his own. He said 'yes' to a dildo on his own."

"We just *discovered* him," Brianna said. "We didn't *create* him. He was already like this. We just *found* him. And now that we've found him—"

"We're keeping him," Kelsey finished.

"Exactly."

They stood there for a moment, the four of them, looking down at their prize. And then, without discussion, without coordination, they began to clean up the scene — removing the dildo, pulling the panties back up (Madison's cheeky lace ones, the ones she'd thought she'd lost), wiping up the lube with a tissue. They left the makeup on. They left the Sharpie on. They left him in the lingerie. They wanted him to see.

And then, one by one, they tiptoed upstairs and went to bed, leaving Marcus Whitfield, twenty-five years old, a software engineer, a taxpayer, a Reddit-arguer about Star Wars, fast asleep on the couch with a cat-eye flick of eyeliner and the word "PRINCESS" written across his forehead.

## Act IV: The Morning After

Marcus woke up at 9:47 AM.

This was, by his standards, late. He usually woke up at 7:30 on weekends because his internal clock was a cruel and relentless machine. But he had stayed up until nearly midnight playing a farming sim and had then apparently fallen asleep on the couch, and now he was waking up at 9:47, which meant he'd slept for almost ten hours, which meant something was very, very wrong.

The first thing he noticed was that he was on the couch. Okay, fine, that happened sometimes. He remembered sitting down, remembered the Switch, remembered the popcorn, remembered the tea. The second thing he noticed was that his thighs felt weird. Not sore, exactly, but *weird*. Like something had happened to them that they hadn't been consulted about.

The third thing he noticed was the girls.

They were all in the kitchen. All four of them. Sitting at the table. Fully dressed. Eating breakfast. And they were all staring at him.

Not staring like "morning, Marcus." Staring like "the specimen has awakened."

"...Morning," Marcus said, sitting up. His voice was hoarse. His mouth tasted like tea and something else he couldn't identify.

"Morning, Princess," Brianna said.

Marcus blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," Brianna said. "Just morning."

Marcus swung his legs off the couch and stood up. And as he stood up, the panties — Madison's cheeky lace panties, which he had forgotten he was wearing — slid down his thighs, because the elastic had been stretched out by being dragged down and back up in the middle of the night.

He caught them with one hand. Held them