Whatever Happened to Donatello? (The Offering)

 Original Caption

Donatello was still fastened snugly into his wedding gown as he contemplated the vagaries of his future sitting on the terrace below his bridal suite. He craved a cigarette and even in his turmoil he could appreciate the cliché of it. The incense still wafted from the nearby cathedral like an unwanted reminder working in tandem with the lace of his elegant gown that both hugged and scratched his back. At daybreak he had squeezed into it as a sacrifice..,as a ruler, and in spite of everything that had since come to pass, had that changed?

In the suite above, the bed loomed, vast and ceremonial. On it lay the Padre, slack-jawed and purpled, undone not by poison or dagger but by his own desire. For years Donatello had lived in fear of this man. The Padre had decreed that no men might live within his walls. A mother’s love had hidden him from that decree: he had grown in shadows, schooled in silence, told always that escape would come. Yet when the day arrived his mother bound him into silk and offered him in place of bread and fruit.

Even his own greed driven mother could not have foreseen how well she had feminised her son. For the Padre after claiming the offering from the humble townswoman, quickly came to desire the girl she had crafted from Donatello. Desire became lust, and when Donatello rejected the Padre's advances to protect his Catholic chaste, lust became an urgent mission to marry the beautiful young offering so he may bed her.

The Padre had demanded Donatello as his wife, and Femini had demanded him as their queen. Knowing that rejecting the town's leader outright was not option for the well-being of both himself and the locals, Donatello delayed the inevitable as long as he could but the day eventually came. He had hidden his sex expertly as a team of handmaids painted and pampered him before sewing him into the exquisite wedding gown he still wore.

He had walked the aisle as a daughter, heard the cheers of the women, seen them weep as though salvation had come. He had felt the Padre’s eyes burn through the veil, had heard the vows spoken over him, had felt the ring bite cold around his finger. And in the bedchamber he had no more cards to play. He had started to slowly undress. Yet it had driven the Padre into frenzy, into wheezing ecstasy, until his heart burst and left him sprawled across the marriage bed.

Donatello sat with only silence for company. Each of the town's windows sheltering women who still believed their master lived. They did not know the tyrant’s corpse was cooling only a few steps away. They did not know that their freedom—if freedom it was—now rested in the painted hands of his bride. Widow, he thought. Heiress. Prisoner. If he stripped away the gown, if he shouted the truth, he would lose everything—perhaps his life. But if he remained her, the widow of the Padre, the house and wealth and throne would be his. And what of the women of Femini? To free them, he must remain bound. To lead them, he must remain a lie. He pushed his ring tightly onto his finger and once more wished for a cigarette.

Sweet Memories (an Aiko story)

 

Liza was sitting on the edge of Aiko's bed and swinging her feet side to side in a very deliberate fashion. Her friend was sitting at the dresser brushing her hair carefully and Liza watched on intently as if waiting for the perfect moment to broach a subject. Finally it came when Aiko set down the heavy looking brush and began fastening a clip.

“So, I saw Joshua this week walking Jill's dog,” Liza started. “I think everyone did. He was dressed like something from the Nutcracker.” Aiko paused what she doing and turned to face her. “I had no idea he was on our radar.”

“They looked just perfect together didn't they?” Aiko smiled. “Cocoa with that little ruffled collar...Joshy in that tutu – a couple of cutie-pies. I had such fun getting them ready.”

“Without me?” Liza replied a little too quickly. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. “I'm sorry... I just mean, I thought we were doing this together...that you were teaching me...showing me the ropes...”

“Oh, Lizy...” Aiko beamed so widely that dimples formed on her cheeks. “You are my apprentice. We are a team. It's just sometimes...” She trailed off. “Wait, let me show you something.” Aiko removed the lid from an ornate jewellery box and removed what looked like a pile of Polaroid photographs. “This was the last time I worked by myself.”

“Show me!” Liza took the photos. In them an ultra kawaii figure posed next to a guitar. Tumbles of locks from what was presumably a wig buried their face and their body was covered in a heavy looking dress and thick pantyhose. “Who is it?”

“Many years ago I came here on a student exchange,” Aiko grinned sadly. “When it was time for me to go home, my friends and I had this kind of talent show where we got all the boys in the dorm dressed up and made them perform. The big finale was two of my favourite sweeties dancing to Babymetal while this tough guy played along on guitar. “Doesn't look so tough there, does he?” Aiko tapped one of the pictures. “He was my last project before I went home... My last project before you came along...” She sighed. “I am sorry for leaving you out Lizy. But, sometimes I miss having a sissy that is just for me.”

“I understand, “ Liza nodded meeting her friend's eye. “I get it! If I had something special like this...” She trailed off. “I guess some things are not for sharing. Some special things, special projects...special boys, are only really special when it's just for yourself.” She nodded to Aiko and placed the photos in her hands. “If I had someone like this, I would want to keep them for myself too.”

A Rare Treat (an Aiko Story)

 All my Aiko stories are on my index page in order

“Isn't this wonderful?” Aiko clapped her fingertips together giddily. “I adore my wonderful new friend Liza. She is truly my apprentice – the candy apple of my eye – but I do miss having my own 'projects.” She gazed happily at the feminine figure mid-curtsey on the other side of her bedroom. “Don't you just simply have to agree, my sweet?”

Needless to say, Joshua didn't agree. In that moment, the only thing more unsettling to him than his current predicament was the relentless itch that seemed to be coming from the inside of his stomach. It tickled and growled all at once, demanding that he sooth it with more of that candy from the strange Japanese girl at whatever cost. He diverted his gaze in shame from his captor and only succeeding in landing his eyes on an ornamental cake on the dresser – one more unwanted reminder that he needed to ease his cravings soon – regardless of the cost.

“Don't you look so much better now than in those silly boy clothes?” Aiko cooed. “Say, do you think those brutish things contributed to how you behaved earlier today? If they did, I really hope you stay this pretty forever. You really were quite mean to that dear puppy. My friend Jill was quite upset!”

“Puppy?” Joshua's mind swam. He was struggling to focus now. All he could think of getting...what was it? Memories danced in his mind like ballerinas. A dog...running...him throwing something at it...water balloons? Then the girl/ This girl. A toffee apple in each hand...offering him one. “Please!” He looked up her. “Please give me more!” The throbbing had escaped his stomach now and was spreading throughout his body. A glow pulsed down his nylon covered legs and into the ballet pumps tied with ribbons all up his legs. His body thrummed against the tight material of the dress and his face flushed under the layers of makeup. Aiko had insisted he dress himself in all of it – inspecting him at every turn like a food critic judging a fancy dessert. “Please!” He was getting desperate. “More!”

“Oh, sweetie,” Aiko sighed. “I don't know what more there is to do. You already look perfect. If you want another treat, you need to earn it, but how?” She looked at the feminised boy thoughtfully. He looked completely at home in her bedroom – just another pretty thing amongst her meticulously curated collection of delicate objects. 

“Please...” he uttered once more, sweat forming under his heavy wig.

“I know!” Aiko's eyes lit up. “I know how you can earn a treat! It really is quite perfect. I am sure that poor puppy you terrorised will agree too. I will give you the candy, but it exchange you can walk the puppy to make amends. Dressed like this, of course!You are going to look so sweet together. I will call Jill right away. Let's start with a week and see how you are getting on...”

Sissy vs Sissy vs Sissy Part 4

 6/25

“Why don’t you have to wear heels?” Jared sulked, shuffling uncomfortably in his patent leather four inch shoes. Despite him being measured for them, the stiff material rubbed painfully through the thin silk of his stockings. Soft as they were, they still bit at his thighs and gave him pins and needles in his toes. “It isn’t fair!”

“Not fair?!” Rory fell back onto the settee behind him in apparent shock of his former friend and fellow sissy’s nerve. He winced, realising his mistake too late as the impact on the seat gave his still freshly tattooed arse a swat. “It was four days before Aunt Clarissa unlocked those stupid stilettos – six days before she took the corset off. She still hasn’t taken off my…” His head dropped to his caged crotch in shame. “Besides…” He moved his own feet side to side. “These have a bit of heel too. I have heard low heels can be harder to walk in than high!”

“Heard from who?!” scoffed Jared. “Stop with the pity party. I have one of those stupid butt plugs now too. I probably wouldn’t have if you hadn’t thought it a wonderful idea to stuff one in your ass to steal her money.” He instantly regreted mentioning the toy in his backside. The anime style maids’ uniforms that Clarissa had chosen to stuff them into today were far too short and it was clearly visible through the black satin of his panties. He couldn’t help feel exposed.

Both boys fell silent. This had been their lives now for the last three weeks. Aunt Clarissa and occasionally Anna kept them, painted them, used them… They were prissy dolls to stuff into whatever ridiculous outfit had been chosen for that day – then torment, humiliate and, if they were lucky, on a day such as today, left to do chores around the very much alive Aunt Clarissa’s house. Each was a prisoner – one to locks and keys, the other to a contract.

“How do we get out of this?” Jared said quietly while fidgeting with the itchy lace around one of his gloves.

“Well, for a start you need to get that contract back,” Rory replied. “Even ignoring the fact she legally owns you, she could use it to get you done for fraud if she wanted. Guys in prison will make Clarissa seem gentle by comparison. Me? No way am I leaving here with this still on!” He nodded at the tiny locked cage imprisoning his cock.

“We’re screwed, aren’t we?” Jared groaned.

“Not yet…” Rory sighed, looking over his shoulder to where Aunt Clarissa has just entered the room with Anna in tow – a big red dildo in one hand, and a big blue dildo in the other. “But soon...”

Whatever Happened to David? (Blind Ambition)

 Original Story

The office smelled of fresh paint and new carpet — a smell David had grown to associate with suffocating permanence. On the sleek modern table lay a contract thicker than a phone book, stamped and notarized. He’d just signed the last page. His hand trembled, the manicured nails catching the light as he set the pen down.

“Congratulations,” the lawyer beamed. “You’ve officially locked in the renewal on the Snow account. They’re thrilled to have you on for another five years.”

He smiled politely, lips pursed just so, head tilted in that condescendingly confident way he’d practiced in mirrors until it was second nature. Because for the Snow account, there was no him. The partially sighted client, Ms Snow, still gushed every visit about “that sharp young lady” who reminded her so much of her late daughter. He’d thought it was a three-month renovation job. Then it stretched to six. Then a year. And now the client had tied her estate and long-term trust to the deal, practically guaranteeing his “boss” had to stay in charge. Forever.

After the meeting, he ducked into the restroom and leaned against the sink. The makeup, the clothes, the breast-plate — once it had felt like a costume. Now it was a uniform, indistinguishable from skin. He touched his cheek. Smooth. Always smooth.

Somewhere, his boss and owner of Hot Properties was sipping Martinis in Costa Rica, cashing out early, blissfully unaware of just how far her protégé had gone to land and keep the Snow account – a contract she didn't even know existed despite it partially funding her early retirement..

And here he was — stuck in heels, bound by contracts thicker than chains, smiling a stranger’s smile for a client apparently determined to live forever, and who would never know the truth.

The knock at the door startled him. A secretary’s voice floated in: “Mrs. Snow is here for your luncheon appointment. She insists on you personally.”

David looked at himself one last time in the mirror. The blouse was perfect. The lipstick flawless. The disguise airtight. He could pass as professional. He could pass as welcoming. He could pass as the owner of the Snow Account, He could pass as a young woman on a lunch date. The only thing he could not pass as was himself.

He straightened, reapplied a thin layer of lipstick, adjusted his glasses, smoothed his skirt, and stepped back into the role.

Forever.

Meta-Morphosis Part 4 [COMMISSION]

Sam stopped checking his email for a few days. The stories had grown too close, too invasive, like handwriting that kept appearing in the margins of his life. But when he finally opened his laptop again, a new message was already waiting — unread, inevitable. Part Four – The Reflection. He hovered over it for a long time. The room around him felt still, unfamiliar. There were traces of his old life everywhere — clothes folded in drawers, mugs by the sink — but they seemed to belong to someone else. Even his handwriting on a Post-it looked like imitation.

When he spoke aloud, testing his voice, the sound startled him again. Softer, lighter, with an absent musicality he hadn’t learned. He told himself it was stress, just stress. But even that word felt strange now — distant, something that happened to other people.

He finally opened the story. The first sentence read: She had forgotten when exactly she stopped pretending. The line hit him like a memory. Each paragraph that followed described her thoughts — or his — as if transcribed directly from his mind. It told of her confusion melting away, replaced not by fear but by a calm, effortless cheerfulness. A simplification. A quiet erasure of all that used to trouble her. He tried to read critically, to distance himself, but the words refused to stay on the screen. They slipped loose, seeping into his thoughts. They sounded like his own voice narrating his own day.

Samantha went to make tea and forgot what she was doing halfway through. She caught himself humming tunelessly, something bright and trivial, though she didn’t know where she’d heard it. Her mind felt light — not empty, just… rearranged. The author’s phrasing had changed, too. Shorter sentences, simpler words. She liked her hair. She liked her smile. She didn’t worry so much anymore.

She had resisted, mouthing counter-thoughts — his real name, his memories, the logic of what had happened — but the effort only made her dizzy. The details of her old life drifted out of reach: the flat she’d rented, the job title, even the reason she’d started this commission in the first place. She found herself laughing, then forgetting why.

Later, standing before the mirror, she admired her outfit. She counldn't quite recall buying it but she must have – it squeezed her breasts just right making them appear as ripe fruit in the lace-up corset. No way was something so perfect an accident. She noticed the way the light caught her hair and felt a sudden fondness for it. It shimmered so softly. She didn't remember deciding but going blonde was the right choice. She glanced at the laptop, where the final line of the story had appeared:
When the story was finished, she smiled, and in that smile was nothing missing at all.

She read it twice, trying to feel what was wrong with it, but couldn’t. The words felt right. Complete. She closed the laptop and caught her reflection one last time. The woman in the glass smiled back easily, without searching. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, thinking how perfectly it matched the story...her story. And yet, she didn’t feel like a character in anyone’s story at all. She simply was.

 

Meta-Morphosis Part 3 [COMMISSION]

 

Sam slept badly again. Dreams came in fragments — a mirror that kept fogging over, a voice counting softly, the faint smell of hair dye. When he woke, the morning light felt different somehow, brighter and flatter, as if the air had been bleached.

He noticed the first change while brushing his teeth. The reflection that looked back at him seemed… blurred, as though his features had been softly retouched. His jawline appeared gentler, the planes of his face slightly altered. He leaned in closer, blinking, but every movement made the image shift, refusing to settle. He told himself it was exhaustion. The stress of the stories, the strange coincidence with the outfit — it had all put him on edge. Still, he couldn't ignore it when he ran a hand through his hair, newly and inexplicably golden.

He spent the day trying to ignore it. He avoided mirrors, focused on work, told himself the mind could make anything real if it wanted to. But each reflection — in a window, a black screen, a spoon — hinted at something softly rearranging beneath the surface.

That evening, the third story arrived. He hesitated before opening it. The message line read simply: Part Three – Becoming.

The prose was gentler this time, almost soothing. It described a woman in quiet transition — her body adapting, finding harmony, each new detail arriving without resistance or pain. The writing felt like a lullaby, a reassurance that everything was unfolding as it should. Halfway through, he stopped reading. His heart was thudding again. The descriptions were too specific, too exact. The curve of the collarbone. The color of the hair. The softness of the voice that “no longer stumbled over its own uncertainty.”

He stood and crossed to the mirror. The light caught his face. It was no longer just imagination. His features had settled into something delicate, unfamiliar. His hair — longer now, undeniably blonde — brushed his shoulders. His skin was clear, almost luminous, as though the story had polished away everything that didn’t fit. He touched his cheek and felt warmth, real and alive. He whispered his own name, but the sound came out lighter, higher. It startled him so much he covered his mouth.

Samantha...

For a long time, he rested against the sideboard next to the mirror, trembling, listening to his heartbeat as it pounded through the tea dress he didn't remember putting on, or even buying.. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was more like the slow recognition that something inside him had already accepted the change before he had noticed it. That night he didn’t read the rest of the story. He couldn’t bear to. But the next morning, when he caught his reflection again, he smiled without thinking — and for a moment, it felt natural.