This is what I love about Femdom. I become a blunt instrument of power, and wielding that power becomes an art form. To strip a man of what comes natural to him requires me to become a monument of dominance. I become an artist, and my potential sissy becomes a mound of clay, and I can mold him into whatever I want.
“You think you deserve a place at my feet? Earn it. Right now, you’re not even worthy of my collar.”
“Please, Mistress, I beg of you.”
I love these moments; my presence doesn’t beg. It doesn’t sidle up, soft and questioning, or wait for a quiet nod of approval. No. When I enter a room, what I am is a force of nature—uncompromising, inescapable. I find the rawest parts of men, the quiet, aching vulnerabilities they try to hide, and I pull. Hard. Until I have exposed those secret, forbidden thoughts and unthinkable desires.
“Understand then when I speak, it isn’t an offer. It’s not a suggestion or a passing thought to consider. My word is law, clean and absolute. Understand, you will become nothing more than one of my projects, like the ones before you who once were men; they have become my dolls, and they don’t just follow. They change, or else. There’s no acting involved in what I do, no weekend games, no masks to leave at the door. Ownership, for me, involves rituals and is permanent. What you see before you isn’t just a costume. What you are about to become is a sentence I will carve into your flesh and mind.”
“Yes, Mistress. I understand.”
I continued my speech, letting his arousal bob, swell, twitch, and leak humiliation, “A man, if you can call them that, who belongs to me isn’t simply playing along. I will remake you, molecule by molecule, until your old self is just a whisper, a memory you can barely remember. This isn’t something you can laugh off over brunch or secretly live in the safety of some anonymous chat. No. What I give you will get under your skin. My voice, my demands, my wants, my needs, and my sheer raw dominance over you will gnaw at your bones, leaving grooves in your thoughts. Every waking moment. Every dream. My dominance is the air you will live on, the water you can’t help but drink, even when it chokes you and when you’re clinging to that last, stubborn piece of masculinity.”
I removed a pink, studded leather paddle from the wall and held it up to my auditioning sissy lips, “I’ll paddle it out of you. One heartbreaking swipe at a time. Now, show respect to the paddle that’s going to discipline the man out of you.”
Sissy pecked at it, like you’d kiss a stranger.
“Not like that! Do you want to be mine?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Then I want to see you worship it, sissy. I want you to worship it like you love what it does to you.”
The sound sissy made wasn’t a whimper; it was the intake of breath you might hear from a child before having to swallow a pill or a drowning man surfacing for air. I pressed the paddle to his lips again, a little firmer, until he smudged it with the quivering moistness of his drooling mouth.
“Properly,” I said, crisp as a judge, and he understood. He took the leather between his lips, suckling the paddle’s edge with reverence, pink tongue flicking out to graze the line of silver studs. He closed his eyes and shivered once, as if expecting the paddle to bite him, and I let him hold it there, the bridle and bit of a new life.
Sissy didn’t just kiss it, he tasted the paddle, wetting it. Spit beaded along the seam, then ran down to the paddle’s stem and onto my hand. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and sucked again, harder this time, so the leather popped gently when I tugged it free. His face was bright with shame. Reddened cheeks, slick lips, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, even though he hadn’t moved from the spot.
“Do you know what this is for?” I rubbed the paddle teasingly over his bare ass. Then let it rest, cold and heavy.
He nodded, “To… correct me, Mistress. For discipline. For making me better—for you, Mistress.”
“Better?” I made a show of weighing the word. I traced the paddle across both ass cheeks, around his hips, landing on his throbbing, erect cock. I pushed gently, but firmly, looked into his face, masking his fear. “The feminization of your worthless pile of male flesh isn’t a quick hour of roleplay—it’s constant. It’s not a kink for me, not a checklist to work through, but a fate. A total, irreversible change.”
I used my softest, most tempting voice, “You’ll resist at first, and let me tell you I’ll love it.”
I do, I love to see the sweet panic in their eyes, the way he tries to double down, to act even more sure of himself, and how his hands shake when he realizes he wants me to win. I have latex, leather, ropes, and a closet full of tailored humiliations. Still, my favorite tools aren’t things you can buy; they are patience, curiosity, and a stubborn refusal to accept anything less than complete surrender. Collars are for dogs. I’d rather leash a man with his secret desires.
“Mistress… I…”
I pressed the paddle into his cock and balls further; he cringed and buckled over. “Stand up straight.”
Even as he tried to obey, I pressed the paddle harder, making standing straight a chore.
“You’ll learn that scenes with me, if that’s what you want to call them, begin long before you enter my dungeon. You will not be chosen if you whine, beg, or break instantly. I want you to resist until I shatter your masculinity. I choose the ones with pride, the ones who think I cannot break them because I love more than anything to smash their masculinity.”
Note to readers: This is a seven-page Femdom Forced Feminization Erotica Short Story.
