Join him and tell him your a bottom

You said nothing. The words were trapped behind a wall of shame, but your body, the traitor, made the decision for you. You stood up from the armchair, the cheap suit suddenly feeling like a cage, and walked on unsteady legs to the couch. You sat down, a careful foot of space between you and him.

Ricky laughed, a low, guttural sound. "Knew it. I can always tell. A real gooner knows when to stop thinking and start feeling."

The porno on the screen continued, a dizzying montage of flesh and fantasy. You couldn't look away. Your gaze was fixed, but your mind was screaming. This was wrong. This was the nightmare scenario. But the pressure in your groin was undeniable, a biological imperative that cared nothing for dignity.

"So, what's your poison?" Ricky grunted, still stroking himself. "You wanna be the one fucking? Or do you wanna be the one getting fucked?"

The question hung in the air, thick with implication. All those hours watching femboys, their tight holes stretched and ruined, their faces contorted in a mixture of pain and ecstasy… it was never just a passing interest. It was a longing. You knew what you wanted, but the words wouldn't come. You just gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head.

Ricky's grin widened. "I get it. You don't have to say it. Actions speak louder."

He stopped stroking, much to your confused cock's protest. He stood up, his own erection jutting out obscenely, and walked back to the duffel bag. He rifled through the lacy pile, his movements deliberate. "We can't have you gooning in a stuffy old suit, can we?" he said, his back to you.

You watch, paralyzed, as he returns. In his hands, he holds a matching set. A black, push-up bra with delicate little straps, and the thong you had just been holding. He holds them out to you.

"Time for your costume change, pop star," he says, the nickname sending a fresh, humiliating jolt through you. "Let's see how you look in Sabrina's clothes."

Something breaks inside you. A final, flimsy dam of resistance. You don't fight. You don't argue. You just stand up, your movements wooden, your eyes fixed on the middle distance. Ricky's fingers, surprisingly deft, fumble with the knot of your silk tie. He unbuttons your crisp white shirt, peeling it off your shoulders. The expensive fabric pools on the floor. He tugs at your suit trousers, and they fall around your ankles, followed by your boxers. You stand there, naked and exposed, the cool hotel air raising goosebumps on your skin.

He holds up the bra. "Arms out."

You obey. He slides the straps over your shoulders. It feels alien, the tight band around your chest, the slight pressure of the empty cups. Then comes the panties. You have to lift each foot, and he slides the thin strip of black lace up your legs. It settles into place, the string disappearing between your ass cheeks, the front pouch barely containing your hardened cock.

Ricky steps back to admire his handiwork, stroking himself again as he looks you up and down. "Fuck yeah," he breathes. "That's it. My little pop star. Now get on your knees."

You drop to the floor, the plush carpet a small mercy. You're at eye level with his cock now. He stare down at your backside, at your pouty little mouth, and then he stare you into your eyes.

https://www.patreon.com/JasonMaster