The story continues of Rahul .
Rahul has conveyed to master ANSH that he is irked by the idea of cd and wants to try read what happens and how the story unfolds.
The key turned in the lock, its metallic click echoing through the silent apartment like a starting pistol. Rahul’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the delicate silk encasing his chest. He stood frozen in the center of the living room, every nerve ending screaming. The black lace of the baby doll chemise felt shockingly light against his skin, a whisper where he was used to weight. The matching panties, a flimsy scrap of satin and lace, hugged his hips, the unfamiliar constriction a constant, thrilling reminder of his audacity.
He heard the familiar thud of Ansh’s leather bag hitting the floor, the rustle of his jacket. Footsteps, firm and assured, moved from the foyer toward the kitchen. Rahul held his breath. This was it. The point of no return.
The footsteps stopped. A beat of silence, heavier than any sound. Then, they resumed, slower this time, deliberate, coming straight for the arched doorway of the living room.
Ansh appeared in the frame, his tall, commanding form silhouetted against the hallway light. His sharp eyes, usually so focused and analytical, scanned the room and landed on Rahul. They widened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock, before his expression smoothed into an unreadable mask. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He simply… assessed.
Rahul felt his face burn. He wanted to cover himself, to run, to dissolve into the floorboards. But he forced himself to stand still, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.
Ansh took three slow steps into the room, the sound of his leather shoes on the hardwood measured and calm. He stopped an arm’s length away. The air crackled with tension. Rahul could smell his cologne, something dark and woody, and it made his head feel light.
“Well,” Ansh’s voice was a low, controlled baritone that vibrated right through Rahul. “This is a development.”
Rahul swallowed, his throat dry. “Master Ansh, I…”
“Look at me when you address me, Rahul.”
The command was soft but absolute. Rahul’s eyes snapped up, meeting Ansh’s dark, penetrating gaze. He saw curiosity there, and something else… a glint of intense, predatory interest.
“I see you’ve been exploring the contents of my bedroom,” Ansh said, his eyes trailing down Rahul’s body with a searing heat that felt more intimate than any touch. “This is one of my favorites. The lace is Belgian. It looks… different on you.”
“I… I wanted…” Rahul stammered, his courage fracturing under the intensity of that look.
“Use your words. Clearly. What did you want?”
Rahul took a shaky breath, the lace on his chest straining. “I wanted you to see me. Not… not like I usually am. I want to be… pretty. For you. I want to be your sissy.”
The word hung in the air between them, shocking in its stark vulnerability. Ansh’s expression remained impassive, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
“A sissy,” he repeated, letting the term settle. “That’s a significant desire. It requires more than just wearing pretty underwear. It requires complete submission. An erasure of the ego you’ve known your whole life. Are you prepared for that?”
“Yes, Master,” Rahul whispered, the title feeling more natural than his own name in this moment.
“We’ll see.” A slow, knowing smile finally touched Ansh’s lips. “Your first test. A simple one. Turn around. Slowly. Let me see all of you.”
A fresh wave of heat flooded Rahul’s body. This was it. The moment of total exposure. He obeyed, turning on the spot, his movements stiff with a mixture of terror and raw excitement. The chemise fluttered around his thighs. He felt the cool air of the room on the backs of his legs, on the swell of his ass barely covered by the satin panties. He could feel Ansh’s eyes on him, roving over every inch, cataloging his form, his submission.
“Good,” Ansh murmured, the sound right behind him now. Rahul hadn’t even heard him move. A gasp escaped his lips as Ansh’s fingers, strong and sure, traced the line of lace that ran over his hip bone. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that made his knees weak. Oh god.
“Such sensitive skin,” Ansh observed, his voice a husky whisper near Rahul’s ear. His other hand came up, not to touch, but to hover just over Rahul’s chest, the heat from his palm radiating through the thin silk. “You’re trembling. Are you frightened?”
“N-no, Master,” Rahul lied, his voice breathy.
“Liar.” Ansh’s chuckle was a dark, delicious sound. “But that’s alright. Fear and desire are old friends.” His hovering hand finally made contact, his palm flattening against Rahul’s sternum, feeling the frantic rabbit-beat of his heart. “They dance together so well.”
His other hand slid from the hip, smoothing down over the curve of Rahul’s ass, palming it through the satin. Rahul moaned, a soft, involuntary sound he didn’t recognize as his own. His cock, which had been half-hard with nervous anticipation, swelled to full, aching life, straining violently against the confining lace of the panties.
“And what do we have here?” Ansh purred, his hand cupping Rahul’s erection, applying the faintest, most torturous pressure. “This doesn’t seem very sissy-like. This seems… demanding.”
“I… I can’t help it,” Rahul breathed, pushing his hips back against that glorious hand.
“You will learn to,” Ansh said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He increased the pressure, a firm, possessive squeeze that made stars burst behind Rahul’s eyelids. “Your pleasure belongs to me now. It is mine to give, and mine to deny. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Rahul groaned, his head falling back against Ansh’s broad shoulder. He was melting, every ounce of resistance dissolving under the mastery of Ansh’s touch.
“On your knees.”
The command was a shock of cold water and a wave of heat all at once. Rahul sank to the floor, the rough texture of the rug a stark contrast to the smooth silk on his skin. He looked up at Ansh, who loomed over him, his expression a mixture of absolute authority and dark desire.
Ansh unbuckled his belt, the slick sound of leather sliding through loops deafening in the quiet room. He unzipped his trousers, and the musky, masculine scent of him washed over Rahul, intoxicating and primal. His cock sprang free, thick and impressively hard, and he fisted it slowly, his eyes locked on Rahul’s.
“Your second test,” Ansh said, his voice thick with want. “Show me how much you want this. Show me how pretty you can be.”
Rahul didn’t need to be told twice. A deep, submissive need surged up from within him, overwhelming every last shred of hesitation. He leaned forward, his lips parting, his tongue darting out to wet them. He looked up through his lashes, aiming for pretty, aiming for perfect.
He took the head of Ansh’s cock into his mouth. The taste was salty, uniquely male, and it sent a thrill of absolute rightness through him. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive tip, earning a sharp, hissing intake of breath from above.
“Yes… just like that,” Ansh growled, his hand coming to rest on the back of Rahul’s head, not pushing, just guiding. “Use that pretty mouth. Show me your dedication.”
Rahul obeyed, sinking deeper, taking more of him, learning the shape and weight of him. He focused on the sensations—the smooth velvety skin, the pulsing heat, the way Ansh’s thigh muscles tensed under his hands. He lost himself in the rhythm, in the act of service, the lace of his chemise rubbing against his own aching hardness with every bob of his head. The world narrowed to this: the taste, the scent, the sound of Ansh’s ragged breathing, and the overwhelming feeling of belonging.
Ansh’s fingers tightened in his hair. “You’re a natural, my beautiful sissy. But now… I want to feel you properly.” He gently pulled Rahul off his cock, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment. “On the couch. On your hands and knees. I’m going to claim what’s mine.”
