Shoes first, forcing him to kneel and untie each lace with trembling fingers. Socks next, peeling them down inch by inch, naked toes curling on the floor. I insisted he watch each step in the mirror. I want him to see the flush of shame on his face as the evidence of arousal showed. Should my humiliating ordeal not produce an embarrassing arousal, then they fail and are sent home. So far, I see that he’s a good candidate.
When the shirt comes off, I tell him to fold it and present it to me, hands shaking, breath shallow. When it was time to remove his pants, I stood behind him and whispered, “Don’t rush.” Then, as he unbuttoned his pants, I circled him, making sure my stiletto heels clicked like a predator stalking its prey—cold, deliberate, echoing through the room like a judge’s gavel.
I trailed the leather tip of my riding crop along his trembling flesh, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. “I want to savor the exact moment your pathetic male ego shatters—when you finally understand your only purpose is to serve me as the pretty little sissy, I always meant you to be.”
Once naked, I made him stare in the mirror, watching how exposed he was. I waited till he tried to cover himself, then ordered him to put his hands at his sides. I circled him for twenty minutes, saying nothing, letting the silence do her work. I practiced this act to be sure the sound is unmistakable: commanding, crisp, a staccato stiletto-anthem that proclaims my authority. With every heel-strike, the click slices through his nerves, a promise of control and transformation, leaving anticipation and dread trembling in the air. I brushed his cheek with my thumb or ran my riding crop along his thigh until his arousal stood straight and tall, and shame catalogued and filed away. Like Frankenstein, I was a mad scientist creating femininity from masculinity, piecing together my exquisite monster from the stubborn scraps of discarded masculinity.
Today’s prospect stands before me, naked as the day he was born, trembling, caught somewhere between defending himself and offering himself up. His arms hang at his sides, uncertain, as if he can’t decide which would be worse: hiding or being seen. There’s a faint pink flush rising on his chest, a rash of goosebumps along his thighs—even though the room is comfortably warm. Every muscle is drawn tight, his spine too straight, chin lifted in a parody of composure. He won’t meet my eyes. He keeps glancing at the floor, then the ceiling, then back down, his breath coming in shallow, quick gasps that barely move his chest.
I know exactly what’s going on in his head. That nauseating cocktail of anticipation and dread. The humiliation of being exposed like this, the little voice screaming: What am I doing here? The shame that burns through him, even as his cock betrays him by twitching and swelling, no matter how much he wills it to behave. He can’t stop fidgeting. One hand worries the knuckles of the other, fingers twitching helplessly. I see the pride he’s about to lose, the fragile masculinity he’s still clutching, fighting to keep some dignity, even as another, deeper part of him aches to give in. Desperate to resist, desperate to surrender. Raw nerves radiate off him in waves, making the air between us thick, electric.
Johnny, a college freshman, is trapped between his wealthy father’s expectations and his taboo desires. Under the watchful eye of his father’s model son, Johnny’s brother, Johnny feels trapped. He longs to embrace his hidden passion: embracing his feminine side.
Read: Enforcing Feminization
He’s terrified of what comes next, but even more frightened of how much he wants it. That’s the part I savor. Not because I’m cruel, not exactly, but because this is when everything is real. No pretending, no bravado. Just honesty, naked and trembling. He stands there, a man on the knife-edge of surrender, knowing that whatever happens next, his manhood will be locked away or stripped from him entirely, and one key will dangle around my neck, the other on the wall, a commitment to me and a threat to him. The threat simple: obey or never experience pleasure again. Our eyes meet. He’s pleading with me, silently, still hoping for mercy even as he’s already halfway lost.
Finally, I speak, “Are you ready, Princess?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I gesture for him to follow me and said, “Did you buy what I asked?”
“Yes, Mistress. It’s here.” He holds up the bag that contains the final test of his submission.
Note to readers: This is a seven-page Femdom Forced Feminization Erotica Short Story.
