Author’s Note:

This story is a work of erotic fiction featuring consenting adult characters. All characters are 18 years or older at the time the story takes place. It contains themes of dominance, submission, transformation, and intimacy. While elements of the story involve fantasy and magical changes, all acts are consensual, and all emotional and physical changes are accepted willingly by the characters involved.

This story is meant to explore personal kinks, identity, and evolving relationships in a safe, respectful, and imaginative space. Reader discretion is advised.

I woke up slow and soft, curled into his sheets, the scent of him still warm in the fabric. His parents were out of town, and we had the whole house to ourselves. I was in his bed—his space—and somehow that alone made me feel smaller, more obedient.

I’m 5'6", hazel-eyed, with brown curly hair that falls in soft bangs across my forehead. My build’s definitely twinky—lean, smooth, and just a little soft in the right places. Not skinny, but not bulky either. I’ve got that mix of casual, comfy, and a little slutty when I want to be—sporty shorts, crop tops, hoodies I like to disappear into. And right then, lying in his bed, stretched out in just a pair of sleep shorts, I felt completely ****. Completely his.

I stretched just slightly, still foggy from sleep, and that’s when I felt him behind me.

He’d fingered me the night before, slowly and deeply, whispering soft praises in that sweet, slightly high-pitched voice of his while I melted beneath him. He’d even fucked me a little before we fell asleep—just enough to loosen me, to keep me aching and open while I dozed in his arms. Over the past few days, he’d been using my ass more and more—first fingers, then his cock—taking control of me with this quiet, firm confidence that melted every last bit of resistance in me.

Because I didn’t used to be like this.

I used to be dominant—loud, in control, on top of things. But that all changed the moment we got to bed. With him, I was soft. Submissive. His. And I loved it.

His body curled behind mine—tall, lean, and deceptively strong. He looked like a twink with his soft features and playful energy, always making faces and being a little ridiculous, but there was still a jockish confidence in the way he moved. The perfect contradiction: expressive and light one minute, then grabbing my hips and stuffing me full the next.

One big hand gripped my hip.

And without a word, he slid inside me.

No build-up. No teasing. Just dominance. I was already slick, loose, and needy, and I let out a shaky, breathless sound as he buried himself fully. I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. I just let him take me—his cock stretching me open again, like it belonged there, like it had never left.

It was the kind of morning fuck that doesn’t ask permission. That just claims. His hand found my throat, not squeezing—just resting there. His rhythm was slow at first, steady and deep. I was already moaning into his sheets, **** and half-asleep, my body waking up only because his was using mine.

I whimpered something—I think it was his name, or maybe just a sound—and he leaned forward, lips brushing the back of my neck. "You're mine."

And then he came.

Deep inside. No pulling out. Just a low growl from his throat and a tight grip on my hips as he filled me. I felt it soak into me—his cum warm, thick, and claiming—and I lay there, legs parted, used and ruined before the sun was even high.

He kissed my cheek after, pulled me in closer, and wrapped his arm around me like I was something precious.

But I didn’t feel precious.

I felt owned.

The rest of the morning was quiet. Breakfast, lazy kisses, him lounging around in his hoodie and sweats, talking about cars and games like he hadn’t just filled me up an hour earlier. He didn’t walk around shirtless casually—but when he pulled it off later, stretching or changing, the sight of his pale chest and lean muscle always made me bite my lip.

I left around noon—my apartment was about 35 minutes away—but I was still dripping with him when I got home. I didn’t bother changing right away. I sat in my short shorts, still stretched out, still a little wrecked.

And I stayed that way most of the day.

I tried to distract myself, but the heat between my legs wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t stop thinking about his cock—how deep it reached, how full I’d felt. I kept imagining the sound of his voice when he moaned softly into my ear, the way his cum felt inside me, like it settled somewhere deep.

By late afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I got out my Hush 2.

It slid in easily—of course it did, after how he left me—and I spent the next hour lounging in those same tiny shorts, plugged up and warm, watching a Romeo Twink and Liam Leigh video just to push myself further. I was leaking before they even got to the good part. The vibrations were low, teasing, enough to make me arch a little every few minutes.

I felt like such a little toy.

Owned. Filled. Waiting.

I texted him, subtle at first. A picture of the plug in my shorts, barely visible. A flirty message. Then a more **** one.

When he said he was coming over, I squirmed.

I tried to pick out what to wear, but nothing felt right. I ended up still in those shorts when he walked in, hoodie on, hair messy, and towering over me like I was prey. The movie was barely on before I crawled into his lap. We kissed—slow, deep—and I rubbed up against him, **** for his touch.

I reached for his cock.

He was already hard.

And when he felt the plug still inside me, he groaned low and muttered, "Naughty."

That’s when he took control.

He grabbed the remote and turned the vibrations up. Not max—just enough to make me gasp and shudder against him while I kept stroking his cock. He didn’t let me stop. Even when I was squirming. Even when I was whining into his chest. I sucked him while my plug teased me into madness.

Eventually, he stood up, pulled the plug out without a word, and bent me over the edge of the couch.

And then he used me.

His pace was fast. Not brutal—yet—but steady. Firm. Each thrust shoved the air from my lungs, and I couldn’t think of anything but how full I was again. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging into the sides of my hips, keeping me in place like I was just a hole.

I moaned something—I don’t even remember what—and he didn’t respond with words. He just fucked harder.

Until I begged.

"Use me harder."

That broke him.

He slammed into me with a new intensity, stretching me open even more, my moans echoing off the walls. His hand wrapped around my cock and started stroking in rhythm with his thrusts—like he knew exactly how to tear me apart.

I came hard. Crying out, body clenching, brain empty. I think I said thank you.

He didn’t finish. He just pulled out slowly, wiped my cum from my stomach, and kissed me soft.

"You’re such a good little thing," he murmured, pressing his forehead to mine.

And I melted.

Now I’m laying here, still spread, still open, still feeling like his.

I didn’t need him to cum tonight.

He already owned me from the moment I woke up.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe he’ll use me again in the morning. Maybe he’ll make me wait. Maybe he’ll surprise me when I least expect it.

All I know is… I’ll be ready for whatever he wants.