Nun of That

The rejection had been clear. That night in the bathroom, after the shame-fueled orgasm over the forums, Tawny had stood in the doorway with the pink lace panties dangling from her finger and a wicked smile. You had looked at them, felt the full weight of the captions and transformation threads still burning in your head, and drawn the line.

“Wait, Tawny. It’s not… I’m not turned on by becoming a sissy or any of that stuff I was reading. I was just… it was the idea of you teasing me. Like the wives in those stories. The humiliation from you. Not me actually turning into that. Please, I don’t want to wear panties or any of that. It was just fantasy fuel for us.”

She had lowered the panties slowly, expression shifting from playful dominance to something sharper and more calculating. Then she had tested the theory the next day by taking you to the adult boutique, having the saleswoman measure your soft button in the fitting room, and locking you into the smallest pink micro-cage they stocked. The click of the lock had been final. From that moment the game changed.

No panties. No maid uniforms. No forced feminization. Instead Tawny owned your size completely through denial, measurement, and relentless verbal destruction. The cage stayed on almost full-time. She measured you weekly with the little notebook and the set of small rulers, celebrating every fraction of shrinkage from constant denial. She made you watch her shower, then edged herself on the bed while describing how useless the locked clitty was. Afternoons she wore revealing outfits, bent over so you could see everything, then masturbated to porn of well-hung men while you sat locked and leaking. Evenings she performed long shows with toys thicker than your entire erection, narrating every stretch and every comparison.

“This is what a real cock feels like, baby. Thick. Long. Stretching me properly. Not like your little button that just tickles the entrance.”

Public teasing stayed deniable but constant. Whispered comments at restaurants. Casual brushes of her hand over the cage in stores. A soft giggle after comparing you to a travel-size lotion bottle in a dressing room. You never wore the panties, but you became her perfect small-dick toy anyway. Every orgasm she allowed was ruined, supervised, and accompanied by heavy mockery of how fast and how weakly you came. The resistance to full sissification had only led to a deeper, more intimate form of submission centered entirely on your lack of size.

Then October arrived, and Tawny decided the season needed new entertainment.

She announced it one evening while you knelt beside the bed, still locked, watching her fuck herself with a thick silicone cock that made wet sounds with every thrust. “Halloween is coming, little one. I’ve been thinking about costumes.” She scrolled on her phone with one hand and idly tapped the tip of your cage with the other. “You’re already living with this constant reminder between your legs. Might as well make the holiday work for us. Something that shows off how small you really are without needing lace or makeup.”

She spent the next several nights making you research options while locked and denied. Witch. Nurse. Schoolgirl. Spider-suit. Classic French maid. Each suggestion came with detailed commentary on how the fabric would sit over the cage, how the heels would change your walk, how people at a party would look at the soft curves of your body while having no idea what was locked underneath. She made you read the product descriptions aloud while she edged herself, stopping every time your hips twitched uselessly in the cage. Every time she laughed and told you the arousal was proof the costume would hit harder than any panty ever could.

You expected her to pick one of the obvious, short-skirt options. Instead she closed the laptop one night, cupped your chin, and said, “None of those. Too expected. I want contrast. I want something that looks holy while my locked little husband is anything but. Something that makes the discovery land harder.”

The package arrived three days later. A modest black habit, white wimple, rosary beads, long skirt that still sat high enough on the calf to show the shape of your legs in black stockings. She had ordered the usual extras for the effect she wanted: a stronger gaff to compress the cage completely flat, soft breast forms sized to look natural under the loose fabric, makeup that would soften your jaw under the wimple, simple black shoes. She laid everything out on the bed and made you stand naked except for the cage while she inspected each piece.

“Lower visibility,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Higher contrast when someone figures it out. Perfect. And no panties required. Just the cage and the truth.”

Preparation took an entire Saturday afternoon. She shaved you herself—legs, chest, underarms, the smooth mound around the cage—until every inch of skin was soft. The gaff went on first, pressing the locked clitty flat and back until the front of your body was completely smooth. Breast forms next, secured with adhesive and a tight sports bra underneath the habit so they sat with just enough weight and shape. Makeup was lighter than anything theatrical: soft foundation, a little contour to round the face, mascara, tinted lip balm. The wimple framed everything and hid what was left of your hair. When she finished and turned you toward the full-length mirror, the effect was quietly convincing. A slightly too-pretty nun who had decided to attend a costume party. Your cage strained uselessly inside the gaff from the sheer contradiction.

“Look at my little nun,” Tawny said, standing behind you in a form-fitting black dress that left almost nothing to the imagination. She rested her hands on your padded chest and squeezed. “No one will expect what’s under the skirt. That’s the point. And when they find out, they’ll see exactly how small the man in the holy clothes really is.”

The party was at a large rented house belonging to one of her friends from yoga—mixed crowd, fog machines, colored lights, the usual Halloween chaos of elaborate and half-assed costumes. Tawny drove. You sat in the passenger seat with the rosary heavy against your chest and the long black skirt carefully arranged so it wouldn’t ride up. The gaff kept the cage compressed and aching. Every bump in the road made the plug she had insisted on shift inside you. She glanced over once, smiled, and said, “Remember the rules. Soft voice. Keep your eyes down when someone looks too long. And if anyone gets curious, you let them. I want to see how far the costume takes you before the truth comes out. No sissy clothes needed. Just pure size exposure.”

You walked in together. The nun outfit drew smiles and a few raised eyebrows, but far less immediate hunger than the short dresses and low necklines around you. People treated it as funny more than seductive at first. Tawny circulated easily, laughing, accepting compliments on her own costume, occasionally resting a possessive hand at the small of your back. You accepted a drink, kept your voice soft, and moved through the rooms the way she had trained you during the weeks of pure size play—small steps, slight sway of the hips from the heels and the plug.

The attention built slowly.

A woman in a devil costume told you the look was unexpectedly hot and touched the rosary for a second, fingers brushing the padded chest. A man in a priest outfit tried a few confession jokes and moved on when you only smiled. You started to relax into the relative safety of the longer skirt and covered hair. Your clitty stayed half-hard inside the cage and gaff, aware of every step, the modest length and girth reduced to a constant secret pressure.

He found you near the back of the house where the lights were lower and the music muffled. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed as a classic vampire with an open shirt and a cheap cape. He looked at the habit for a long moment and then smiled in a way that was more interested than amused.

“Nun at a party like this. Bold choice.” His voice was low. “Most people go the other direction.”

You gave the small shrug and soft reply Tawny had practiced with you. He stayed. Conversation started with the usual Halloween noise and then narrowed. He stood closer than necessary. His eyes moved over the black fabric, the white wimple, the way the skirt fell. When he laughed at something his hand brushed your arm and then settled lightly at your waist.

Tawny was watching from across the room. You felt her eyes. She did not intervene.

His hand stayed at your waist while he talked. Then it slid a little lower, resting on the curve of your hip through the habit. The heat of his palm and the quiet assumption behind it made your locked clitty throb harder inside the cage. You told yourself to step away and instead stayed exactly where you were. He took the lack of resistance as permission.

He shifted so his body blocked you from the main room. The hallway was dim. Music covered most sound. His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, then lower, cupping your ass through the black skirt and giving a slow, testing squeeze. You made a quiet sound. He smiled and did it again, firmer.

“No one expects the nun to be this soft,” he murmured. His other hand rose and rested against the side of your chest, feeling the shape of the breast form through the fabric. He kneaded once, then again. “Really soft.”

Your clitty was fully hard now inside its cage and gaff, the tiny length pressed flat and aching. The contradiction between the holy costume and the open groping sharpened everything. He kept exploring with slow confidence. One hand stayed on your ass, lifting the skirt just enough to slide underneath and run his palm up the back of your thigh over the stockings. The other hand continued to map the front of the habit, squeezing the breast forms, then drifting lower across your stomach.

When his hand reached the front of the skirt and pressed inward he expected soft curves and empty space. What he found instead was the firm, tucked shape of your caged clitty under the gaff.

He froze.

For a second his hand stayed exactly where it was, palm flat against the evidence. Then he pulled back as if burned. His face changed fast. Confusion first, then sharp realization, then anger.

“What the fuck?” His voice was louder than before. “You’re a guy?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing useful came out. The wimple suddenly felt tight. Your locked clitty was still straining inside the cage and gaff, throbbing against the exact place his hand just left.

He stared at the smooth front of the skirt, then at your face under the wimple, then back down. The anger settled into something hotter and uglier.

“You let me touch you like that. Standing here in the nun outfit letting me grab your ass and your chest and the whole time you’ve got a dick tucked under the skirt.” He stepped closer again, not with the earlier interest but with a rough, pissed-off intensity. “What is this, some kind of joke? You get off on guys feeling you up thinking you’re a girl?”

Your face burned. Embarrassment crashed through the arousal so hard it made your stomach twist. You tried to step back and he followed, keeping you in the dim hallway.

“Answer me.” His voice was low and sharp. “You hard right now? That little thing got hard while I was groping what I thought was a nun?”

The accuracy of the question landed like another hand. You were hard—or as hard as the cage allowed. The tiny shaft strained against the plastic and the gaff, wet at the tip, the entire situation feeding it even as shame flooded your face and chest. You managed a tight, wordless nod because lying felt impossible under the weight of his stare.

He let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Unbelievable.” His eyes dropped to the front of the habit again. “Show me.”

You hesitated. The anger in his face made the demand feel dangerous, but the same anger was mixed with a heat that kept your caged clitty throbbing. Slowly, hands shaking, you lifted the front of the black skirt and eased the gaff aside just enough. The pink micro-cage came into view, locked tight around your pathetic length, the head flushed and leaking through the slits, smaller than average and unmistakably male and useless.

He stared at it for a long second. The anger did not leave his face, but something else joined it.

“That’s it? That’s what you were hiding under the holy clothes while I had my hands all over you?” He reached out before you could move and wrapped his fingers around the cage, not gently. The sudden contact made your hips jerk. “Little locked dick got all worked up being mistaken for a girl. Letting a guy squeeze your ass and play with the fake tits.”

He gave the cage a rough tug, then another. The metal and plastic shifted against your skin. You made a broken sound that was half protest and half something else. Embarrassment burned hotter. So did the arousal. Clear fluid leaked over his fingers even as you wanted the floor to open.

“You should have said something the second I touched you,” he said, voice still tight with anger. “Instead you stood there and took it. Got hard from it.” He worked the cage with short, almost punishing movements while he talked, the anger and the residual heat from the earlier groping tangled together. “Does that little locked thing always get like this when someone thinks you’re a girl and puts their hands on you?”

You could not find a clean answer. The hallway felt too small. The music from the main party felt too far away. His fist kept moving on the cage with short pulls while he talked. You were dizzy with the mix of shame, fear of how loud this might get, and the raw fact that your body was responding hard to every rough word and every tug.

Tawny appeared at the end of the hallway as if she had been waiting for exactly this moment. She took in the scene—your lifted skirt, the exposed cage in his hand, the flushed anger on his face—and her expression settled into dark, satisfied amusement.

“Everything all right back here?” she asked, voice calm and carrying just enough authority to cut through his anger.

He looked at her, then at you, then back at the cage still in his grip. “Your… friend here is a guy. In a nun costume. Letting me feel him up.”

Tawny stepped closer, heels clicking. She rested a hand on your shoulder in a way that looked supportive and felt like ownership. “My husband, actually. And yes. He’s a guy. A very small one. Locked for my convenience.” She glanced down at the cage with open fondness. “I dressed him tonight. I told him to let people explore if they wanted. Looks like he followed instructions. No panties, no sissy clothes. Just pure size. That’s the game we play.”

The vampire’s grip loosened but did not release. Confusion warred with the earlier heat. “You’re okay with this?”

“I’m the one who locked that little clitty months ago after he told me he only liked the teasing, not the full transformation. I’m the one who decided Halloween was the perfect night to see how far the contrast would go.” She reached out and casually adjusted the rosary against your padded chest. “He’s my locked little husband. The costume was just seasonal. If you’re angry, I understand. If you’re still interested… well. He’s already hard and leaking from being discovered. That doesn’t happen by accident. And that cage is the smallest they make for a reason.”

The hallway air felt charged. The man looked from her calm face to the cage in his hand to your flushed, wimple-framed face. The anger was still there, but it had shifted into something sharper and more complicated. He gave the cage one more deliberate squeeze, watching your hips twitch, then slowly let go.

“Unbelievable,” he said again, quieter this time. “You two are something else.”

Tawny smiled. “We are. And my little nun still has the rest of the night to finish. If you’d like to continue this conversation somewhere more private later, I’m sure we can arrange it. For now…” She smoothed the front of your skirt back down, tucking the cage and gaff out of sight with practiced ease. “He needs to circulate. Don’t you, Sister?”

You nodded, soft voice barely working. The man stepped back, still staring, still visibly processing the mix of anger and residual arousal. Tawny guided you away with a hand at the small of your back, proprietary and unhurried. As you re-entered the main party the music and lights felt too bright, too loud. Your clitty ached inside its prison. The memory of his hands before he knew and the rough handling after looped without mercy.

Tawny leaned in close enough that only you could hear. “That went better than I hoped. Elevated heart rate, mixed shame and anger, sustained arousal the entire time he had his hands on you. Perfect. No panties required. Just the cage and the truth of how small you are.” She squeezed your ass through the habit once, hard enough to make the plug shift. “We’re staying another hour. You’re going to walk around knowing exactly how close you came to being exposed in front of everyone. And when we get home, that cage comes off for a supervised milking while you tell me every detail of how it felt to be mistaken for a girl and then shown as the tiny locked husband you are. Then it goes right back on. Clear?”

“Yes, Tawny,” you whispered.

The rest of the party passed in a haze of polite smiles, soft answers, and the constant, throbbing awareness of the cage and the wetness trapped against your skin. A few more people made nun jokes. One woman complimented the authenticity of the costume. No one else discovered the truth. Tawny kept you close enough to watch, far enough to let the earlier encounter simmer.

By the time she finally led you out into the cold night air, your locked clitty was desperately sensitive and your mind was full of the vampire’s voice, his hands, the moment of discovery, and the calm way Tawny had claimed every part of it as pure size play. The habit stayed on for the drive home. She made you recount the hallway in detail while her free hand rested high on your thigh under the skirt, fingers occasionally pressing against the gaff.

At home she stripped the costume from you piece by piece in the living room—wimple, rosary, habit, stockings, gaff—until you stood in only the locked cage, breast forms still adhered, makeup smeared. She unlocked you, edged you for a long time with the same gentle circles she had taught you during the pure size-mockery weeks, and finally allowed a weak, ruined orgasm that left you whimpering and empty while she narrated how little the spurts were. Then the cage clicked shut again.

“Halloween was a success,” she said, stroking your hair while you knelt. “Next year we’ll try something shorter. Or maybe we’ll invite that vampire over properly so he can see the measurements up close. For now… bed. Tomorrow you watch me fuck myself with the biggest toy while I describe exactly how that hallway felt for you. No panties. No sissy games. Just this.” She tapped the cage. “Your size. My control.”

You climbed into bed as ordered, cage already heavy again. Sleep came slowly. The memory of the dim hallway, the rough hand on your locked clitty, and Tawny’s calm ownership of the entire predicament stayed with you long after the house went quiet.

She had never needed the panties. She drove the predicament now through pure size, denial, and the perfect contrast of a holy costume over a locked micro-clit. And you, her locked little nun for one night, could only leak and obey.