At the door to my Femdom dungeon and forced feminization chamber, I push the heavy pink door. It swings inward on its hinges with a screech just loud enough to make a point. Believe it or not, I designed it to creak.
Once inside my dungeon, designed for a Femdom Goddess like me to ply the forced feminization trade. Every detail is deliberate—the scent of leather, the sharp tang of latex, the underlying sweetness of sweat, submission and supremacy, specifically the dominance only a woman like me can bring. The space is cathedral-big for a basement. I don’t even have to look back to know he’s trailing after me, equal parts terrified and eager. I turn and crook my finger to summon him; the same way I’d call a dog.
Look at him. Quivering, lost, desperate for someone to tell him what to do. My sissy will learn her place soon, just like my dog knows her place, knows how to sit, heel, and wait for my command. There’s dignity in obedience. Pride, even. But my sissy? Not yet. She’s not even a trainee, not even a pet. She’s nothing, still plunging through shame and longing, eyes as wide and hollow as a stray. She wants to be a pet, but she hasn’t earned even a collar. My dog has purpose—a place, a role, a bond built on discipline. My sissy is still just a project. Not above the animals, not even on their level. All she can do is watch and take notes. Even a dog can show her what absolute devotion looks like.
I take the same path I’ve taken a hundred times before, running my hand over the chains suspended from the ceiling, along the arms of the St. Andrew’s cross, past the familiar furniture bolted tight to the floor. I lead him to the wall of armoires: three massive pink cabinets with glass fronts, each one stuffed with cosplay outfits and pretty frilly little outfits, possibilities lined up like museum pieces.
I stop him with a fingertip to his chest. His cock twitches with arousal, pleased with submission.
“Pay attention. This is what you’ll become.” I open the first armoire. Inside, rows of dresses: ruffled and prim, lacey and velvet, some sissy, some strict, all hung up perfectly straight. Labels beneath each one spell out their roles: Princess, Maid, Schoolgirl, Nurse. I watch his face, the way his eyes flick from dress to dress, the way his lips tighten as he tries not to react. I can’t help but smirk.
A few steps down, I pause at the wigs: sleek domes on mannequin heads, I said, my hand resting on top of the ash-blonde bob, “I think you’ll look good in this one.”
Then I pull open a drawer. Inside: stockings, garters, panties. Each piece, delicate and dangerous, meant to control or to decorate. He doesn’t make a sound except for a shaky exhale. There’s a rhythm to it, the way he flips between awe and humiliation, ticking back and forth like a clock in a room where time doesn’t exist.
I close the drawer and look back at him over my shoulder. “You’re not speaking,” I said. “Princess.”
He fumbled for an answer. “Mistress, I don’t know what to say.”
“That,” I said, “is good. You’ll find there are advantages to not knowing who you’ll be at the end of this.”
I circled him, taking in the effect, hands at my lower back. “You are here to audition for your own humiliation. You understand?”
He didn’t smile, but he wanted to. I could tell from the way his mouth wouldn’t hold neutral; it twitched and reset, twitched and reset.
“Yes, Mistress. I understand that if I please you, I may get a permanent position as your slut.”
Note to readers: This is a seven-page Femdom Forced Feminization Erotica Short Story.
