I picture how my virgin sissy will look once I’m done with him. If, and that’s a big if, I accept him into my sissy harem. I’ll know in a few short hours after I complete the final stage of my ‘Femdom interview process.’ I only accept the best. The ones deserving of my special skills. The ones that will embrace my power. My presence.
This one’s sissy training didn’t start here in my home or my dungeon. It started before, always. I meet them first—a public place, neutral ground. An interview, a test, a screening of sorts. During that first face-to-face meeting, I watch; I listen. I can tell from the first word if a man is weak, submissive, and effeminate…. If they’re already too effeminate, I excuse myself and leave. It’s not the look. I mean nothing wrong with a twink body, but it’s more about an attitude. A sissy attitude, that’s not what I want. No, I don’t want a man too far into his transformation. I want a man who’s clinging to his machismo with all his might. Maybe even one that cherishes it. A man who outwardly prances around like a peacock. Why? Because it’s more fun for me when they resist, hold out, fight the feminization I have planned for them. How can you enjoy forced feminization if they don’t fight it? So, I look for the ones that think the secret sissy inside them can’t be reached. The ones with pride. I want to see what happens when they realize they’re wrong.
This one, standing before me naked, passed the first Femdom interview. The first one. This is the second interview. When he entered, he knew what I expected of him. I had a chair in the middle of my initiation room, a riding crop in my lap. I ordered him to stand before me. Strategically placed on the wall behind me, framed photographs of before and after photos of the sissies granted permission to serve me.
I said, “A little to the right,” making sure he was directly in front of the mirror, forcing him to watch himself strip. Above the mirror, a pink glitter-laden sign, “Future slut of Mistress Katarina.” Situated properly, I let him stew for several minutes, testing to see if he’d obey my command to be silent. A wicked smile played at the corners of my mouth as I watched and waited.
When Mistress Bond said, “I will punish you for your disobedience.” Her words didn’t scare me. I wanted to break more of her rules.
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Ironically, the ones who remain silent always fail my little test. I enjoy punishing my initiates—it’s part of the thrill. This one was fascinating. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eventually breaking his silence as I knew he would.
“I want this,” he stammered, his voice a delicious mixture of sexual hunger for the taboo he was here for blended with equal amounts of fear for the same naughty rituals I expected of my initiates. “I’ve thought about it for so long, but now that I’m here…” He swallowed hard, eyes averting my intense gaze. “I’m not sure if this is what I expected.”
I raised an eyebrow, pleased by his honesty if not his disobedience. The conflicted ones were always the most satisfying to break. Satisfied, this one earned a chance to enter my little Femdom kingdom. I stood, arms folded, gaze cold and unblinking. I didn’t bark my order—my silence sharper, more unsettling. “Slowly,” I commanded, my voice low and edged with amusement. “Strip. Do not remove one piece of clothing until I command it.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Damn it. I wanted to punish him. Maybe he’s too obedient for me.
Note to readers: This is a seven-page Femdom Forced Feminization Erotica Short Story.