The best start, of the end.

He never forgot the first time.

Months later, in the quiet hours when the basement settled into its usual low sounds, your father still replayed it. The thick plug pushing past his resistance. The humiliating plop when it seated. The way the shame itself had made his hole throb. The helpless, full-body convulsions as he came inside the chastity cage with nothing but silicone buried in his ass and his own mortification feeding the orgasm. He hated the memory. He returned to it anyway. Late at night, locked in the kennel, small breasts rising and falling with every breath, he would feel the phantom stretch and the same dirty heat crawling up his spine. The recollection alone was sometimes enough to make his locked cock twitch uselessly and his hole clench around empty air.

You noticed.

So you made it routine.

At first he still resisted. When you tossed the cleaned plug through the bars he would stare at it like it was poison, higher voice cracking with leftover pride as he refused. You didn’t argue. You simply left it there and walked away. The denial, the hormones, the constant low-grade arousal of a body that no longer belonged to him eventually did the rest. Hours later you would return to find him on his knees, face burning, slowly working the toy inside himself because the alternative—staying empty and aching—had become worse than the humiliation. The first few times he still cursed through the entire process. By the third week the cursing shortened. By the second month he mostly just did it.

The pattern settled into something almost domestic in its cruelty.

You would unlock the kennel, set the plug and a packet of lube on the concrete, and wait. He would avoid your eyes, position himself on all fours or on his side, and begin the familiar struggle of stretching his own hole. Sometimes it still took him long minutes. Sometimes his hands shook. But he pushed until the widest part popped in and that same soft, defeated sound left his throat. Afterward he would stay there with the plug seated, breathing hard, while you inspected the chastity cage and the slowly continuing changes in his body—slimmer waist, fuller hips, the small breasts that had become permanent. Only when you were satisfied did you lock the door again and leave him with the toy inside.

Over the following months the resistance thinned into obedience.

He stopped needing the full threat every time. A simple order—“Plug up”—was enough. He would reach for the toy, prepare himself, and work it in with the same quiet, concentrated expression of someone performing a hated chore that had become necessary. The orgasms that followed were never clean. They were ruined, cage-bound, prostate-driven things that left him shaking and sticky inside the steel while cum leaked out around the lock. He still flushed scarlet every time. He still turned his face away. But he came, and the coming only deepened the pathway in his head that linked being filled with the only relief he was allowed.

The background of the basement never changed.

Your mother remained a free-use fixture, bent over or spread open whenever someone wanted her. Lily continued her weekly (and sometimes more frequent) visits, taking whatever combination of men and toys you directed at her. Emma stayed the collared pet, used on the stairs, on the floor, against the wall, always available. Their wet sounds and muffled voices became the constant soundtrack while your father learned, one plugged night after another, that his ass was now the only reliable route to orgasm.

Then the plug stopped being enough.

It happened gradually. The same size that once forced him over the edge began to leave him restless and only half-satisfied. He would finish inside the cage, wait for the aftershocks to fade, and still feel the empty, hungry ache that demanded more stretch, more pressure, more of the fullness that had been trained into him. You watched the shift with clinical interest. When he started rocking back on the plug in unconscious little motions after orgasm, chasing something it could no longer give, you knew the next step had arrived.

You began leaving larger toys.

He accepted them with the same reluctant obedience, working the thicker plugs into himself on command, chasing the stronger sensation that could still drag a climax out of his locked, diminished cock. Even those eventually dulled. The body that had once recoiled from any intrusion now needed deeper, harder filling before the prostate would surrender. The hormones, the long chastity, the repeated association of humiliation with release, and the steady rewriting of his nervous system had created a simple new rule: if he wanted to cum, something had to be inside him, and it had to be enough.

That was when you stopped relying on toys.

It started on a night he was already exhausted.

You waited until the basement had quieted and the others were either asleep or occupied elsewhere. Your father was in his kennel on his stomach, one knee drawn up, the latest plug still seated from earlier. His breathing had gone slow and even. The small breasts were compressed against the thin mat you allowed him. The chastity cage rested heavily between his legs. In sleep the last scraps of tension had left his face, leaving only the softened, altered features the months of estrogen had settled into place.

You unlocked the kennel without sound.

He didn’t stir when you removed the plug. The toy came free with a soft, wet sound and a faint clench of his hole as if it missed the stretch already. You slicked yourself, positioned your knees between his spread thighs, and looked down at the exposed, slightly open entrance that months of training had made ready. The body beneath you was no longer the broad, powerful frame that had once pinned Emma to the bed. It was slimmer, curvier, marked by the permanent changes you had forced into it—the waist that dipped inward, the hips that flared, the soft breasts pressed to the mat, the locked and reduced cock that could no longer perform the role it used to claim.

You lined up and pushed in.

Even in sleep his hole resisted for a second, then gave. The tight heat closed around the head of your cock and then the shaft as you sank deeper in one continuous thrust. A small, unconscious sound left him—high, soft, nothing like the voice he used to have. You kept going until you were fully buried, hips flush against his ass, the chastity cage trapped between his body and the mat. The sensation was intense: hot, gripping, trained by months of plugs to accept and hold exactly this kind of invasion.

You began to move.

Slow at first, letting him feel every inch even in sleep, then deeper and harder as his body instinctively adjusted. His hole fluttered and clenched around you in helpless little spasms. Soft, broken noises spilled out of him with every thrust—half-asleep moans pitched in that feminine register the hormones had locked into place. At one point his hips shifted backward as if seeking more. You took the invitation and fucked him harder, one hand braced on the mat beside his head, the other gripping the soft flesh of his hip where the new curves made it easy to hold him in place.

The kennel filled with the wet, steady sound of your cock driving into his ass. His small breasts swayed with the motion. The chastity cage scraped lightly against the mat every time you bottomed out. He never fully woke; the exhaustion and the long conditioning kept him in that hazy state where his body responded while his mind stayed under. You fucked him through it with deliberate, claiming strokes, watching the way his altered body took you—the slim waist, the rounded ass, the hole that gripped and yielded like it had been prepared for exactly this.

When you got close you leaned over him, chest against his back, and buried yourself to the hilt. The orgasm hit in thick, heavy pulses. You emptied into him in long spurts, grinding deep so every drop stayed inside the hole you had just taken. His body clenched around you in sleepy, involuntary spasms as he felt the heat filling him, a soft, confused sound leaving his throat while you finished.

You stayed inside him for a moment afterward, feeling the steady throb of your cock and the way his ass held you. Then you pulled out slowly, watched a trickle of cum follow, and locked the kennel door again without waking him fully.

He would feel it in the morning—the ache, the wetness, the unmistakable evidence that the plugs had only been preparation. The first time was done. The boundary that had still existed between toy and cock was gone.

From this night forward the kennel held more than a sissified, locked prisoner.

It held a hole you had decided to use.

And you intended to keep using it.

The Morning After

He woke up sore.

The first thing your father registered was the deep, unfamiliar ache in his ass—hot, stretched, and sticky. The second was the wetness. Something thick had leaked out of him during the night and dried in a tacky trail down the back of one thigh. His hole clenched instinctively and sent a sharp pulse of discomfort through his gut. The chastity cage was still locked, heavier than usual against his skin. His small breasts pressed into the thin mat as he shifted, nipples sensitive from the hormones and the cool air.

For a few seconds his sleep-fogged brain tried to invent an explanation that didn’t involve the obvious.

Then the memories of the previous months—plugs, forced orgasms, the steady rewriting of his body—lined up with the new, deeper soreness and the unmistakable feeling of having been filled while he was unconscious. His stomach turned. His face burned. A high, broken sound left his throat before he could stop it.

“No… no, you fucking didn’t—”

The kennel door was already open.

You were standing there watching him, arms crossed, expression flat and satisfied. You had waited for this exact moment: the confusion, the horrified inventory of his own body, the second he understood that the plugs had only been practice.

He scrambled back against the far bars as much as the small space allowed, legs closing, one arm coming up across the small breasts like he could still hide what the hormones had done. The movement made the ache in his ass flare. Fresh cum—yours—smeared against the mat. His higher voice cracked with pure rage and something closer to panic.

“You raped me. You fucking raped me in my sleep, you sick piece of shit. I’m your father—you don’t get to—you don’t fucking get to use me like some cheap hole—”

You stepped into the kennel without answering.

He tried to kick. The months of confinement, reduced muscle, and the lingering weakness from the hormones made it easy to catch his ankle and yank him flat onto his back. He hit the mat hard. The small breasts bounced with the impact. You were on him before he could roll, knees pinning his thighs open, one hand locking around both of his wrists and slamming them to the concrete above his head. The chastity cage sat uselessly between you, the shrunken cock inside it already twitching from the combination of fear, residual training, and the helpless exposure.

“Get the fuck off me!” His voice was pure venom and pure femininity now, the old deep register long gone. “I’ll kill you—I’ll fucking kill you when I get out of this—don’t you fucking touch me—”

You spit on your fingers, reached down, and shoved two of them straight into his still-loose, cum-slick hole.

The scream that tore out of him was high and raw. His back arched. The internal heat and the leftover mess from the night before made the intrusion filthy and easy. You pumped the fingers hard, curling them, dragging over the swollen prostate that months of plugs had made shamefully responsive. His hips jerked against his will. A fresh bead of clear fluid leaked from the tip of his locked cock and ran down the steel.

“Feel that?” you said, voice low and almost conversational while you finger-fucked him open again. “That’s last night. That’s my cum still inside your bitch ass. You slept through the first time. You don’t get to sleep through this one.”

“Fuck you—stop—take your fucking hand out of me—”

He thrashed hard enough that the kennel rattled. You answered by adding a third finger and driving them deeper. The stretch burned; you could see it on his face. The hatred in his eyes was absolute, but his hole still fluttered and clenched around the intrusion the way it had been trained to. The hormones, the denial, the repeated prostate milking, and the long conditioning had left him with a body that responded even while his mind spat pure loathing.

You pulled your fingers out, wiped them on his thigh, and freed your cock. It was already hard. The sight of him—softened, breasted, caged, and still dripping your load from the night before—had done that the moment he woke up swearing. You shoved his knees higher toward his chest, folding the slimmer, curvier body until his hole was completely exposed and lined up.

“Don’t—”

You thrust in to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

The sound he made was half scream, half broken sob. His hole clamped down in pure shock, then gave under the forced stretch. You didn’t wait for him to adjust. You started fucking him with deep, punishing strokes, the wet noise of your cock driving through the mess of last night’s cum filling the kennel. Every thrust dragged over his prostate and forced another high, unwilling sound out of his throat. The small breasts bounced with the impact. The chastity cage jerked and leaked between his legs as his locked cock tried and failed to respond properly.

“This is what you are now,” you told him through gritted teeth, hips slamming forward. “Not the man who took my wife. Not the asshole who stood over me and laughed. Just a soft, locked, hormone-fucked hole that gets used when I feel like it. Take it. Fucking take it.”

“I hate you—” The words came out in that ruined, girlish register between gasps. “I fucking hate you—pull out—please—it hurts—”

It did hurt. You made sure of it. You angled deeper, grinding against the sore, oversensitive walls, and watched the pain and the unwanted sparks of pleasure tear across his face at the same time. His body had been rewritten for this exact contradiction: the prostate that fired signals of release, the cage that denied every drop of real satisfaction, the hole that had learned to open even while he cursed. Tears streaked from the corners of his eyes. His wrists strained uselessly under your hand. The wet, filthy slap of your hips against his ass echoed off the concrete.

You leaned down closer, chest against the small breasts, and fucked him harder.

“You used to make me watch while you filled Emma. You used to call me soft. How’s it feel being the one with a cock in his ass at eight in the morning, locked up and leaking someone else’s load? How’s it feel knowing this is just the second time and I’m already deciding when the third happens?”

He tried to spit in your face. You turned your head and the attempt landed harmlessly on the mat. In answer you grabbed his jaw hard, forced his head still, and kept thrusting. The pace turned mean and relentless. His hole had loosened just enough from the night before and the months of plugs to take the pounding, but every stroke still forced a raw, broken sound out of him. The hatred never left his eyes. Neither did the helpless, chemical arousal that made his trapped cock pulse and drip inside the steel.

The rest of the basement existed only as distant noise—your mother being used again somewhere behind you, the occasional rattle of Lily’s kennel, Emma’s quiet movements on the stairs. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the tight, hot, resentful grip of his ass around your cock and the way his softened, altered body took the force you gave it.

You shifted angles, hooked one of his legs higher, and drove down into him so the head of your cock punched against his prostate on every thrust. His voice cracked into pure, high desperation.

“Stop—fuck—I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can,” you snarled. “You’ll take every fucking inch and you’ll feel it for the rest of the day. This is what you get for every time you smiled while you ruined my life. This is what that big alpha cock of yours turned into—a locked little clit and a hole that gets raped whenever I walk downstairs.”

His resistance started to fracture under the sheer physical overload. The forced stimulation of a prostate that had been trained for months, the deep ache of the second hard use in twelve hours, the complete exposure of a body that no longer looked or sounded like the man he still tried to be—all of it stacked on top of the pure hatred until the two sensations blurred. His hole clenched in erratic spasms. Fresh fluid leaked steadily from the chastity cage. The small breasts heaved with every choked breath. He was crying in earnest now, curses dissolving into raw, feminine sounds of overload while you kept fucking him without mercy.

You felt your own orgasm building in the base of your spine—hot, heavy, and mean. You didn’t slow down. You wanted him to feel the exact moment you filled him again. You wanted him to remember it every time he sat or moved for the next day. You leaned in, pinned both of his wrists harder, and slammed deep one last time as the climax tore through you.

Thick, heavy spurts flooded his ass. You ground against him through every pulse, forcing the cum as deep as it would go, using his body like a sleeve that existed only for this. His hole fluttered and milked you in helpless reflex. A broken, wordless cry left his throat as the heat of the load registered and the forced stimulation pushed him into another ruined, cage-bound climax of his own—weak, spastic, and completely dry of any real satisfaction, just the prostate firing into steel with nowhere for the feeling to go.

You stayed buried to the hilt until the last spurt finished, breathing hard against the side of his neck, feeling the frantic heartbeat under the softened skin. Then you pulled out in one slow motion. A thick trickle of cum followed, running down over the chastity cage and onto the mat between his legs. His hole stayed slightly open, red, and used, clenching on nothing.

He lay there shaking, wrists still pinned, legs still forced open, face wet with tears and pure loathing. The higher voice came out wrecked and quiet when he finally managed words.

“…I hope you die. I hope you fucking die for this.”

You released his wrists, sat back on your heels, and looked down at the mess you had made of him—the cum still leaking from his ass, the locked and dripping cage, the small breasts rising and falling with every uneven breath, the body that no longer had any claim to the man he used to be.

“You’ll live,” you said. “And every time I feel like it, I’ll come back down here and do it again. Get used to the feeling. That hole belongs to me now.”

You stood, locked the kennel door, and left him there on the mat with your cum still seeping out of him, the ache settling deep, and the absolute certainty that the night before had not been a one-time violation.

It was the new rule.

And the morning had only confirmed it.

The second time happened three days later, right after the weekly injection.

You locked the needle in the sharps container, still wearing the same flat expression you always wore when you handled him, and looked down at the body on the mat. The estrogen was already doing its quiet work—nipples darker and more sensitive, waist narrower, the small breasts sitting heavier on his chest. The chastity cage gleamed between his legs, the shrunken cock inside it soft and useless. He knew what the open kennel door and the look on your face meant. He tried to crab-walk backward anyway.

“Don’t you fucking dare. Not again. I’ll scream this whole goddamn house down—”

You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed an ankle, dragged him flat, and folded him open. The resistance was louder than the first morning but weaker in the body. Months of confinement and hormones had stolen the old strength. When you pushed inside him the scream still came out high and raw, pure hatred, but his hole took you with less fight than before. You fucked him through the cursing, through the threats, through the broken demands to stop, and came deep enough that he felt it for hours afterward. When you locked the kennel again he stayed curled on his side, cum leaking out of him, whispering every filthy promise of revenge he could still invent.

The third time he spat in your face.

The fourth time he tried to claw at your arms hard enough to leave marks.

The fifth time the clawing was half-hearted and the curses had started to thin.

You made a schedule of it without ever writing it down. Injection day almost always meant he got used. Sometimes you came down the next night as well, or two nights later, whenever the urge landed. Each session followed the same rough shape: he refused, you forced, he took it, you filled him, you left. The variables were only how long the refusal lasted and how much noise he made. Over the weeks the noise changed. The deep, masculine roar that used to shake the bars had been gone for months. What replaced it was a higher, thinner stream of profanity that cracked whenever you angled against his prostate and forced sensation through the loathing.

“You sick fucking bastard—pull out—I hate you—I fucking hate you—”

You learned the exact pitch of that voice when it broke. You chased it.

By the end of the second month of regular use the refusal had become almost ceremonial. He would still shove at your shoulders. He would still try to close his legs. He would still spit the same tired threats. But the moment you had him pinned and the head of your cock pressed against his hole, something in him had already started to yield. The body opened. The protests continued on top of the yielding like a recording that no longer matched the footage. You fucked him anyway, hard and deep, and made sure he felt every stroke. When you finished you stayed buried long enough to feel his pulse around you, then pulled out and watched your cum run out of the hole that no longer belonged to him in any way that mattered.

The corruption showed up first in the hours when you weren’t there.

Emma reported it with the same flat obedience she gave every observation. She had gone down to deliver water and found him on his knees facing the back of the kennel, one of the larger dildos you kept for the others buried halfway in his ass, hips working in short, frantic motions. The chastity cage was leaking. His free hand was braced against the bars. He froze when he realized he wasn’t alone, but he didn’t pull the toy out immediately. The look on his face was pure self-hatred layered over the same desperate need that had made him plug himself months earlier.

You started leaving the dildos inside the kennel on purpose.

He resisted using them for another week. Then the ache and the conditioning and the constant low-grade arousal of a locked, hormone-soaked body overrode the last of the pride. You would come down for the next injection and find the toy wet and the mat stained. Sometimes he was still going when the stairs creaked. Sometimes he had already finished in that ruined, cage-bound way and was only lying there with the dildo still seated, staring at nothing. The first time you walked in on him mid-stroke he tried to stop and cover himself. You made him keep going until he came again while you watched. After that he stopped bothering to hide it.

The hatred never disappeared. It just started sharing space with something greedier.

He still cursed when you unlocked the kennel and told him to present. He still called you every name he had left. But the moment you pushed inside him the resistance in the muscle was gone. His hole had learned the shape of your cock. It opened for it. On the worst nights—the nights the corruption had sunk deepest—he pushed back to meet the thrusts even while his mouth kept spilling venom. You never let that confusion save him from the roughness. If anything you used it. You fucked him harder when his body betrayed the words, made him feel the full contradiction of hating the man on top of him while his prostate sparked and his locked cock dripped.

“You can keep talking shit,” you told him once, buried to the hilt while he shook. “Your ass already knows who it belongs to. Listen to it fucking grip me. That’s not hate. That’s a cock sleeve doing its job.”

He told you to die. His voice cracked on the last word when you ground against the swollen gland and forced another helpless clench out of him.

The oral training started later, after the pattern of regular use was already solid.

You chose an injection day for the first attempt. He was already on his back, thighs open, the newest dose of estrogen settling under his skin, when you moved up his body instead of down. The head of your cock pressed against his lips. He turned his face away hard enough that his neck strained.

“Don’t you fucking put that in my mouth. I’m not sucking your cock. I’m not—”

You gripped his jaw, forced it open the way you had forced everything else, and pushed in. The first thrust made him gag and thrash. You held him there, one hand locked in his hair, and gave him the same choice you had given his ass months earlier: take it or choke on the attempt to refuse. He tried to bite. You slapped him hard enough to make the small breasts bounce and the threat clear. The second time he only gagged. By the fourth stroke he had stopped fighting the angle and started surviving it. You fucked his throat in short, mean thrusts until your balls rested against his chin and his eyes were streaming, then pulled back far enough for him to drag air in through his nose.

“Again,” you said.

He shook his head. You pushed back in anyway. The wet, choked sounds filled the kennel. Spit ran down his chin and onto the small breasts. You kept him there until the frantic resistance in his shoulders eased into the same exhausted, hateful endurance his ass had learned. When you finally pulled out completely a thick string of saliva followed. He turned his head and retched against the mat, voice ruined and higher than ever.

“I’ll never fucking forgive you for this.”

“You don’t have to forgive me,” you answered. “You just have to open your mouth when I tell you to.”

After that the face-fucking joined the rotation.

Some days you used only his ass. Some days you made him suck first until his jaw ached and his mascara—on the days you forced it on him—ran in black streaks, then turned him over and finished in the hole that had already been trained to take you. He never stopped hating it. The hatred simply stopped being enough to keep his lips closed or his hips from shifting when the stimulation crossed the line into unwanted pleasure. The dildos stayed in the kennel. He kept using them when you left him alone for too long. The body that had once belonged to the man who took your wife continued its slow, irreversible slide into something softer, needier, and permanently available.

By the time the fourth month of regular use had passed, the pattern was set.

Injection. Resistance that lasted less time than the time before. The wet sound of your cock forcing its way into a hole that no longer truly fought. The high, venomous stream of profanity that cracked whenever you hit the right spot. The eventual spill of your cum into him or across his tongue. The quiet afterward when he lay there leaking and shaking and still trying to hold on to the last scraps of the man he used to be. And underneath all of it, the steady private truth neither of you said out loud: the more you used him, the more his body learned to expect the use, and the more the expectation itself became another chain.

He was becoming a cock sleeve in the only way that mattered—through repetition, through force, through the slow replacement of every old boundary with the simple fact of your cock and his inability to keep it out.

And every time you came downstairs with the syringe in one hand and the key to the kennel in the other, the process ground one more millimeter forward.