Convincing Him to Say: “Miss Autumn, Please Turn My Gay Boyfriend Into Your Slut”

by Miss Autumn

Sometimes, it is not the women who come to me. asking me to break their boyfriend. Sometimes, it’s men.

“Miss Autumn,” he whispers, eyes glittering with mischief and desperation, “please turn my boyfriend into your slut.”

And oh, how I love those requests.

There is a special thrill in dominating men who believe they are untouchable by female hands. Gay men, so confident that no woman could ever crack their armor, no cunt could ever command their cock.

They are wrong.

I make sure of it.

It always begins the same way: both men arrive. He, my eager conspirator. His boyfriend or husband, wary but intrigued, sometimes openly skeptical. I smile, knowing how little that skepticism will protect him.

I bind him first, of course. Hands above his head, legs spread wide, cock exposed and vulnerable. I make him watch as I strip slowly, taunting him with my body, making lewd jokes about “getting him curious.”

Then the punishment-fucking begins.

I take his partner — hard, rough, relentless — right in front of him. His lover is bent over, moaning, begging, as I fuck him with my strap-on, pounding into him without mercy. The bound one watches, helpless, furious… and, inevitably, hardening.

Because deep down, there is no “straight” or “gay” when faced with the reality of raw domination. There is only power.

When I see his cock twitch, I grin wickedly.

“Oh,” I coo, “getting hard for me already? Maybe you’re not as gay as you thought.”

The humiliation sears into him. His partner laughs breathlessly, egging it on, calling him “Miss Autumn’s little straight-boy-in-training.”

I do not stop there.

I ride his boyfriend’s cock shamelessly, forcing the bound man to watch every thrust, every gasp, every filthy sound. I moan exaggeratedly, mocking his helpless arousal.

“This could have been you,” I taunt, grinding down harder, riding until his boyfriend screams into the sheets. “But don’t worry…”

I climb off, slick with his partner’s cum, and strut over to the bound man.

“It’s your turn now, sweet boy.”

I straddle him and impale myself on his cock without hesitation, laughing as he gasps and squirms. His body betrays him gloriously, despite the horror in his wide, shamed eyes.

“Oh yes,” I whisper against his ear, grinding down mercilessly. “You’re mine now.”

I ride him brutally, no softness, no romance. Only domination. I slap his face, choke him lightly, spit into his mouth, all while his lover watches, laughing, cheering me on.

Sometimes I make them worship each other after I am finished with them. One licking the other’s body clean while I oversee it, barking commands, doling out punishment for hesitation.

Other times, I blindfold the original conspirator and force him to guess which one of us is using his mouth or ass.

Pain, humiliation, degradation — these are not accidents in my sessions. They are tools. Instruments of conversion.

I force them into positions that expose everything — ass, cock, mouth — and take photos to memorialize their fall. Photos they will beg for later, to relive the moment they both lost the illusion of control.

I teach them that submission is not about gender. It is about surrender. It is about serving the one who makes you serve.

By the end, the boyfriend who once scoffed is kneeling, cum-dripping, red-faced, whispering broken prayers of obedience into my thigh.

And the man who brought him here — the mastermind — is smiling, glowing with pride and wicked satisfaction, murmuring the words that I live to hear:

“Miss Autumn, please turn my boyfriend into your slut…again.”