It was time. He’d made it this far; now it was time for the final step. I dressed him in a pink dress so deliberately short and frilly that it served as more of an insult than a dress. I supervised his makeup application—sometimes standing beside him at the mirror, sometimes leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, my head tilted with calculated amusement.
When his cock swelled to epic throbbing, dripping proportions, I looked at him with fake confusion and said, “Girls don’t have cocks now, do they. What shall we do about it?”
I watched sissy lock at his image in the mirror, caught, impaled on my favorite weapons: humiliation and raw, helpless hunger for surrender. When done, I made him look at himself. The silly makeup job. He’d learn how to do it right in time. For now, humiliation was the goal. The mirror betrayed his submission: face smeared with foolish foundation and eyeshadow, lips painted too red, he looked like a comic drag queen. The dress was baby pink, so short it barely covered his cock, which jutted—stiff, sore, and useless—against the frilly hemline like the last, dying statement of his masculinity. It looked unsightly, even humorous, but in the reflection, it was also… true. Truer, almost, than anything he was before he walked into my life.
I stood behind him, arms crossed, my gaze a scalpel. “You see it now, don’t you?” I said. “That’s who you are. And there is no going back.”
I saw it in his eyes; he wanted to beg, or at least say something clever, some little joke to fracture the tension, but all he could do was stare at the ruinous man, not quite a girl, in the mirror. It would take hours of practice to become the girl, the slut, the sissy I desired. He tried to look at me in the mirror—my lips curved in the barest, most satisfied slice of a smile. He wanted to please me so badly, but his body betrayed him, shivering and clumsy, knees bent, shoulders hunched in shame. He looked at his hands, useless at his sides, fingers twitching, as if they might reach up and tear off the wig, the makeup, the entire construct of femininity that my will and his need had forced onto him.
He spoke, but the words splintered and caught in his throat. All he could manage was, “Mistress, I—” before the rest withered in the open air. His voice sounded wrong, too thin, too weak, the voice of a doll or a child who’d been scolded too many times.
I waited, letting the silence do the work. I let it stretch out, an endless, almost unbearable pause that left sissy’s mind racing with all the things he should say but couldn’t as his cock throbbed in open defiance of his slipping masculinity, and this only made the shame worse, as if his body was the last enemy refusing to submit.
I wonder if he was recalling what I’d said about pride and about earning his place: that the ones who fought hardest were the most satisfying to break, and that every minute he spent resisting was another minute I’d savor the inevitable. I pictured him running, tearing off the wig, the dress, the shame, getting in his car and driving until he forgot what shameful act he’d performed. I knew in that moment that he’d never leave. The pain of walking out a half-made sissy was deeper than anything I could inflict on him.
His eyes dropped to the plastic bag. The final test. I watched in the mirror, “Say it, before you lock it. Tell me what it means. Say the words.”
He fumbled with the bag, hands shaking so hard the box spilled out, and then he was holding the device in his palm: the plastic pink cage, so small, so tiny, and the cold, mocking key. His cock throbbed in anticipation and terror as he looked at the wall with images of my other five sissies. A hook above each image holding their key, and above that, the days of confinement. Numbers ranging from 328 days down to 21 days.
“Yours will be here.” I pointed to a hook above a blank spot on the wall. “The only way to prove your devotion to me is to lock it up, hand me the key, and then you become mine, and you may leave till I summon you.”
He tried to speak, to find a voice that was not ruined by arousal or the fear that comes with submitting totally. “I’m yours,” he said. The words came out in a whisper. “I’m nothing. I’m a sissy, a slut, a pretty little doll.”
Note to readers: This is a seven-page Femdom Forced Feminization Erotica Short Story.
