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.

Meta-Morphosis Part 2 [COMMISSION]

The second message from the author arrived at dawn, though Sam didn’t see it until hours later. He had slept uneasily, half-dreaming of silk and whispered voices, and when he finally rolled out of bed his body felt heavier than usual, as though he’d been dancing in his sleep.

The message was simple: Part Two is ready. Read when you’re dressed for it.

He frowned at the phrasing. Dressed for it? He wasn’t wearing anything special, just an old t-shirt and loose shorts. He padded to the kitchen for coffee, sat down at his laptop, and clicked the file.

The story opened with a description so vivid it startled him: She wore a fishnet pantyhose under a pleated skirt, her blonde locks pouring over her body. Her feet pointed in platform boots though awaiting a beat to march along to with grace.

Sam blinked and reread the sentence. Fishnets? Blonde? He hadn’t asked for this. It wasn’t what he’d described in his request. He almost closed the file, but curiosity kept him reading.

The narrative followed “her”—always her—moving gracefully through a room, back arched, arms lifted. The language was intoxicating, delicate, even reverent. He could almost feel the tight pull of the fabric against his skin, the swish of the skirt, the whisper of silk thread where the pantyhose rubbed together.

Shivering, he tore his eyes from the screen. That was when he saw himself in the mirror across the room. He froze.

The reflection was dressed in the exact outfit described in the story, and more alarmingly, long blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders. He stared, heart hammering. He hadn’t put these on. He didn’t even own anything like that. Yet there he was, legs encased in fishnets, towering in platform boots, every line of text brought to life in his own skin. He stumbled back from the mirror, hands clutching at the unfamiliar fabric. It was real. The material stretched under his fingers, the waistband snug at his waist. His breath quickened. He hadn’t blacked out. He remembered waking up in his t-shirt and shorts. He hadn’t changed. And yet—

The laptop chimed. A new line had appeared in the file, though he hadn’t seen it typed. Don’t be afraid. This is only the beginning. He slammed the lid shut, his pulse wild. The words burned in his head. He sat on the edge of his bed, clutching his thighs, feeling the tension of the tights beneath his grip. The sensation was undeniable, the scent of fresh fabric still clinging. No matter how much he told himself it was impossible, the outfit was on him – the hair was real.

Hours passed before he dared undress. By then the room smelled faintly of roses.. He stuffed the clothing into the laundry hamper, hoping they’d vanish. But deep down he knew better. The story had moved past him. It was moving through him.

 

Meta-Morphosis Part 1 [COMMISSION]

 A commission I did for DeviantArt

Sam had never thought of himself as the type to commission a story, but here he was, fingers trembling on the keyboard as he typed out the request. The idea had taken root weeks ago: what if he could see himself not just as he felt in private, but as someone else imagined him? Someone with the right words, someone who could make the fantasy real.

He had dressed as best he could for the occasion, slipping into a soft pale sweater cinched with a corset, A tartan skirt skimmed his thighs, the stockings beneath a whisper against his legs. Passable, he told himself. Believable, if only in the right light. But still—he wanted more. He wanted to be captured in words that made him unarguably feminine.

The author responded more quickly than he expected. Your story is special, the message read. Not like the others. It deserves to be told in stages.

That phrasing hooked him. Stages. Like a performance, or a transformation unfolding piece by piece. There was one more request. Send me a photograph. Just one. It helps me to see my characters clearly.

He hesitated. A photograph was different from words; it was proof, exposure. Still, he wanted the story to be perfect. After several minutes of arranging his wig and checking the angle in the mirror, he snapped a picture: camera obscuring his face, head tilted just so. He attached it to the reply before he could overthink.

The first story arrived three days later. He read it at his desk, then again in bed, then once more in the bathroom mirror, where the words seemed to shine brighter against the reflection of his dressed self. He was described as graceful, soft-featured, admired in passing glances by strangers who never doubted his femininity. Each sentence wrapped around him like fabric, smoothing out the flaws he obsessed over. He devoured it, breathless, his heart racing at every line.

When he closed his laptop, he realized he was smiling uncontrollably. He felt lighter, almost buoyant. The story lingered in his thoughts as he went about the next day: a secret jewel of confidence.

He caught himself walking differently, hips swaying with grace, shoulders soft. At the grocery store, he even thought he noticed someone glance at him with recognition, though he quickly shook it off.

Back at home, a new message was waiting from the author. I’m glad you enjoyed it. The next part will be different. More immersive. You’ll see.

He shivered, though he couldn’t have said whether from excitement or unease.

Sissy vs Sissy vs Sissy Part 3

 5/25

“Wait!” Jared burst into the room in a mass of fabric and curls. In contrast to Rory’s scantily clad approach, he was awash with folds of satin and wearing an ornate flowery headdress atop a dark blonde wig. “I am Aunt Clarissa’s most adorable little sissy. Her fortune is mine!” He attempted to stride towards the still seated Mr. Gregory, but the hem of his long dress caught between his high heels and he stumbled headlong into the opposing wall. Anna watched as he balanced himself and slowly looked up into a round mirror that was hanging there. It was as if he didn’t recognise the cosmetic laden face staring back at him and she got flashbacks of the first time she had seen Jared feminized all those years ago.

“You’ll need a lot more than a pretty dress to prove that!” Rory had dropped his gown back over his inked ass and was now facing off across the room at Jared like a gunslinger in stilettos. “She branded me because I was her favourite,” he spat, “you are just…” he turned to face Anna too, “…both of you, you’re just a pair of wannabes.”

“Not true!” Jared pushed himself off the wall. “Not true at all!” He tottered over to the desk where Mr. Gregory was seated with a face full of shock. Reaching the urn, Jared suddenly lifted the folds of his skirt and pulled something from the waistband of a pair of silk panties. “This is my proof!” He dropped a pile of official looking papers into Mr. Gregory’s tray. “That is a contract. No, it is a deed! It names Aunt Clarissa as my official owner and conservator and states in ink that I and only I, am her one true most adorable sissy and heir!” The room fell into a stunned silence as Mr. Gregory slowly picked up the papers and began to leaf through them. Anna kicked off her own heels and padded over to the desk.

“Is it real?” she asked the executor.

“Seems legal and binding…” he replied, his eyes never leaving the page in front of him. Things happened in a blur after that. The door to the office flew open once more and Rory and Jared stared in horror as Aunt Clarissa entered the room. Rory reacted quicker but still too slowly and when he turned to retrieve the keys to his bonds, they were already nowhere to be seen. He whirled back around to see Anna snapping a kind of leash around Jared’s neck. It only served to distract him as Aunt Clarissa clipped one around his own throat while Anna scooped up the legal documents from the desk. A soft tug on the chain was enough to bring him off balance and to his knees beside an equally helpless Jared.

“Rumours of my demise and all that jazz!” Aunt Clarissa cackled gleefully high-fiving Anna, who had already begun to remove the dress she clearly resented wearing. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it my little sissies? But don’t worry, I still have all my old toys!”

Whatever Happened to Mason? (Creative Control)

 Original Caption 

Mason was still in his cheer uniform as he started sobbing. He didn't care how he looked dabbing his tear streaked makeup with a handkerchief. He was so far past that. Next year. The words echoed like a sentence. He’d be here another year, and maybe another after that. Every semester pulled him deeper, erased more of the boy he’d been.

The college acceptance letter should have felt like a victory – an escape from his high-school cheer hell where his ex-girlfriend's mom had sponsored the squad and insisted on a new all female image. The college had given him a full ride. A cheer scholarship. Now, as he cried tears of frustration at the end of his senior year, he remembered sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading that letter, the words blurring on the page. His stomach knotted tighter with every sentence he reread.

The scholarship hadn't just been for him. It was for the squad. For the all-female squad. The same one his ex and her mother had orchestrated to trap him in this nightmare. His squadmates had arrived at school the next day, squealing. “We made it!” “Can you believe it?” “Free college!” They crowded around him, spraying glitter hairspray, already planning Instagram posts about a scholarship that, as much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn't turn down.

And now, thanks to his grades, he was trapped for another year.

He shoved the handkerchief aside and looked at himself in the mirror across the room. The reflection that stared back wasn’t the swaggering boy who’d once strutted down the halls of high-school with Tanya on his hip and Carly watching him admiringly from near the lockers. Instead: smooth legs, spankies under a pleated cheer skirt, hair fully grown out into a feminine style. A girl. A convincing one.

All those late nights practicing the “female” parts of routines had wrecked his coursework. He knew how to nail a perfect herk and keep his lipstick from smudging mid-chant — but he couldn’t tell you the last time he’d finished a physics assignment. The balance had tipped, and the scales weren’t ever coming back.

Another year, he thought miserably. Summer would fly past and fall would come quickly. Another year of tucking his crotch so when he cartwheeled, noone could see the bulge in his spankies. Another year of half-time shows. Another year of group photos with the football team.

A professor looked his way and he forced a smile, the kind he’d perfected while waving pompoms and doing high kicks, the kind that made his jaw ache, and the truth pressed down like a weight: he wasn’t just pretending anymore. The squad wasn’t letting him go, and neither was the scholarship. His future was sealed in spandex and glitter for another year...at least...

Doll House Arrest Part 3 [COMMISSION]

 

Lola had been the one to wear stripes criss-crossing a tiny mini-dress. She hummed like it was Christmas morning. “Showtime, doll,” she whispered following a stern knock on the door. Frank’s gut clenched.

The door swung open, revealing Detective Finn Collier - young, straight=laced, and his mouth dropped open at the sight of the two beautiful blondes. His eyes flicked from Lola to Frank, and then quickly away, as if staring too long might burn him.“Afternoon, ladies,” Finn said, already fumbling his notepad. “We’re following up on our search for a fugitive.” His gaze darted to Frank again, then skittered away. “I believe one of you was in a relationship with him?”

Lola gasped theatrically, clutching Frank’s hand. “That was such a long time ago. I have moved onto better things now...though I still swing both ways, you know?” She winked and glanced surreptitiously at the studio apartment's double bed.

Finn’s cheeks turned scarlet. “No, miss, I— I didn’t mean—” Frank fought to keep his face neutral. His palms were sweating. Lola’s nails dug warningly into his still clutched palm.

He forced a nervous laugh. “We, uh… we’ve just been keeping to ourselves.” His voice sounded higher, softer than he remembered. Lola had drilled him for a week, and damn it, it worked.

“Oh, yes, how rude of me,” Lola said sweetly, squeezing Frank’s hand even harder. “This is my girlfriend. My everything.” She turned to Frank, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Aren’t you, darling?” Lola leaned forward giving Finn an eyeful of cleavage. “You seem tense, detective. Are we making you nervous? Because we could help with that.” She smirked wickedly, pulling her hand from Frank and swatted him hard across the ass. She then slid an arm around his shoulders. “We’re very… accommodating.”

Frank forced what he thought was a flirtatious grin as his last bit of dignity trickled away . His heart hammered in his chest and Lola’s nails grazed the back of his neck. He forced a shaky wink at Finn. “She’s… not kidding. We, um, like to have fun.”

Finn nearly dropped his pen. “Oh! I—uh—no, that’s— I mean, I should go—” He nearly tripped over his feet, as he turned to the door “Thank you for your time, ladies. You’ve been very helpful.”

Lola waved sweetly as he bolted out the door. The moment it shut, she collapsed into hysterical laughter, clutching her stomach. “Oh, sugarplum! Did you see his face? He thought he’d walked into his wildest dream—or his worst nightmare!”

Frank slumped back, trembling. His reflection in the mirror across the room mocked him: flawless makeup, long lashes, glossy toned legs extending from a patterned figure hugging minidress. He was no longer a fugitive No longer even a man. Just a doll. Lola's doll.

Lola cupped his chin, forcing him to meet her glittering eyes. “See? You pulled it off. You’re all mine now. I can tell the world who you are and they will believe me. You want me to tell them you're my doll...or something else...?”

Frank felt the last of his fight drain away. He was perfectly trapped. “No... I'm your doll...” he whispered.

Doll House Arrest Part 2 [COMMISSION]

Frank adjusted the hem of the dress for the fifth time that morning, though it didn’t need it. The shiny fabric clung like it had been painted on, showing every contour he’d rather forget he now had. His legs — smooth and tanned, looked like they belonged to somebody else entirely. His reflection in the mirror didn’t look like a fugitive. It looked like a woman about to cause a traffic accident.

He groaned. “I don’t know who that is, but it’s not me.”

Behind him, Lola squealed and clapped like a proud mother. “Oh, it’s you, sugarplum. The real you. My vision, brought to life. My doll! You’re a masterpiece. Admit it.” She circled him like he was a museum piece, tugging at his hair extensions, smoothing his foundation. “Do you hear any sirens? No? That’s because nobody’s looking for a big bad bank robber anymore. They’re looking for John Doe with a shotgun. Not Jessica Rabbit in stilettos.”

Frank winced at his own reflection. A week ago he’d been a man on the run. Now he looked like a centerfold. He hated how convincing it was. Even more, he hated that part of him understood exactly what Lola meant.“This is insane,” he said, softer this time. “I can’t stay like this forever.”

“You’ll stay like this until I’m finished,” Lola sang, twirling past him to pluck a leather purse from the dresser. “And when will that be, you ask? When I’m bored. Which, spoiler alert, is never. You’re mine. My doll, my girlfriend, my—” She leaned close to hand him the purse, her eyes psychotically giddy to Harley Quinn proportions, lips brushing his ear. “—perfect alibi.”

Frank stiffened. “Alibi?”

She smiled, wide and unblinking. “Oh, I didn't mention? Tomorrow, a detective is coming over to ask little old me if I’ve seen a certain dangerous fugitive ex of mine. Isn’t that exciting?”

Frank’s stomach dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am!” She kissed his cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick. “And when the nice detective walks through that door, do you know what he’ll see? Not Frank the bank robber. Not my runaway coward. He’ll see my stunning girlfriend. Polished. Perfect. Untouchable.”

Frank stared at the door, expecting in to burst open any moment – police filling the room. “Lola, if I slip up—”

She shushed him with a manic giggle. “You won’t. Because if you do, darling… you’ll go to prison. And between you and me? Stripes don't suit you.” She flitted toward the mirror again, admiring the two of them side by side — her in her bubblegum robe, him in the glossy figure hugging dress. “Tomorrow, sugarplum, you make your debut. And if you’re a good girl…” She winked. “I might even let you pick the earrings.”

Frank felt his stomach twist into knots. Tomorrow. The cops. Despite what Lola said about them being together, he was completely alone – with so much to hide...and what chance did he have if she kept putting him in such revealing outfits...

 

Doll House Arrest Part 1 [COMMISSION]

 A commission I did on DeviantArt

Frank adjusted his position on the floor, tugging at the top of a shiny high-heeled leather boot that stretched right over his knee. “This,” he growled, “is not a disguise. This is entrapment.”

Across from him, Lola lounged in a silk robe the color of radioactive bubblegum, sipping wine at ten in the morning. Her eyes gleamed like she’d won the lottery. “Oh, hush. Nobody’s looking for a sexy blonde with great calves,” she said. “This is a safe house!”

“This is a doll's house!” Frank threw her a look. “ And you’re insane.”

“Correction,” she chirped, leaning forward so her robe slipped suggestively. “I’m an artist. And you, darling, are my medium. I always said you’d look great with a ponytail. You just never listened. Besides where else were you going to go?”

Frank groaned knowing she was right, burying his cosmetic laden face in his hands. “This is exactly why I left you. You were trying to turn me into your...your plaything. It was like an obsession. It was like...like...”

“Foreplay,” she said. “And then you ran out on me mid-project. Very rude.”

“Can't you at least take this seriously, you crazy bitch!” Frank sat up, snapping, “I robbed a bank, Lola. The cops are everywhere. I didn’t exactly have a choice where to hide.”

“Oh, so I’m your last resort?” she said, pretending to pout, then grinned wickedly. “Romantic...for me... To you it is survival. And survival, sugarplum, costs extra.” She tapped her wineglass. “Let’s talk about that money you're going to share. You know? That big bag of cash in my kitchen. You ran out on me Frank, no postcard, no flowers, not even a text. And now—poof!—here you are, desperate... begging for my hospitality...well, you are going to have to pay for it!”

Frank stiffened. “You're not getting a dime!”

Her laugh was high and musical, but her eyes never blinked. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s all mine. I’m keeping you out of prison. That’s a full-service package. Besides”—she flicked a lock of his blonde hair behind one ear—“this is just phase one. Doll-making isn’t cheap.”

Frank glared at her. “You can’t be serious.” She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture before he could stop her.

“Insurance policy. If you get any clever ideas, imagine this on Instagram...or OnlyFemmes. ‘Bank Robber Chic’.” She giggled so hard she snorted, then clapped her hands. “Oh, I missed this. I missed us. You squirming, me improving you. Just like old times.” Lola leaned in close, her perfume a heady sugar rush. She patted his knee, nails clicking. “Now rest up, doll. Tomorrow, we get serious. You didn't think we were going to stop at a pair of pretty boots and a woollen peacoat did you? Especially not now I have a shopping budget!””

Sissy vs Sissy vs Sissy Part 2

 4/25

It was Thursday and Anna waited uneasily in the study of her Aunt’s old house. The guys hadn’t turned up and the grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly. Her only other company was Mr. Gregory, who sat at a large mahogany desk – Aunt Clarissa’s urn at one hand and a wooden tray of legal papers at the other. Anna squirmed before him in the same prissy blue dress she had adorned two days earlier. She hoped this would be worth it and silently wondered if her own preference for baggy jeans and hoodies and factored into her taking so much vicarious pleasure from her Aunt’s torment of Jared and Rory all those years ago.

Four o’clock approached and, without warning, another figure slipped into the room. Swanlike, but without an ounce of the matching graceful pride, a feminine creature dripping in beads and lace traipsed across the study in pearl covered high-heels. Freshly adorned hair extensions swooped across a painted face and Anna caught a glimpse of the unmistakeable grimace of Rory.

Unable to hold her gaze, the feminized man turned and loped towards the seated, and now heavily blushing Mr. Gregory. Rory pulled a thin beaded necklace from around his neck and Anna saw that it held a ring of tiny keys at its centre. The sissy bent forward, a pained expression crossing his lips and slowly used one key to close a lock on one of his platform heels before using a different key to fasten the other. Standing back up, he used another to lock the back of his tightly wound corset and then with a final flourish, he pulled up the front of his flowing dress and locked what was beneath.

Anna felt at pang of disappointment that Rory wasn’t wearing panties as she watched him place the keys atop Mr. Gregory’s box of legal documents, but seeing the tiny cage that the prissy bitch had stuffed his genitals into and now locked, more than made up for it.

“That’s your proof?” Anna smirked. “That proves nothing except you are willing to humiliate yourself for money. Any sissy bitch with an OnlyFemmes account can do that.”

“No…” Rory seemed to blush even redder, “this is my proof.” He turned and this time raised the rear of his gown and Anna’s mouth dropped open. The head of baby pink buttplug winked from between his ass-cheeks, pressed tight from his position atop the towering heels – “Most Adorable Little Sissy” scrawled across it. He’d gone even further than she expected, but did the anal toy really warrant his obvious pain? She had seen her aunt use bigger on him countless times. And then her eyes shifted and she saw it. Rory had made a mistake wearing fishnets that went all the over his backside. With every small movement the white fabric moved – raking over the freshly tattooed ink emblazoning “Property of Lady Clarissa” from his left butt cheek.

Hood Ornament [COMMISSION]

 This was DeviantArt commission

“Wasn't there some guy who tried this already?” Devon squirmed in place. He was trying to rest himself on the truck in a way that supported him without burning his bare skin on the sun-beaten chrome. “OnlyFemmes I mean – didn't he pose as his girlfriend or sister or something, and she ended up putting some kind of sissy bounty on him?”

“Don't give me ideas,” Haley, his long-suffering girlfriend, spat, pointing the camera at him, “I still need to pay off that lemon,” she nodded at the flame-streaked vintage truck Devon had spent their entire savings on, “the last thing I need is to pay off some crazy bitch with whips and chains for punishing my idiot boyfriend – as tempting as it is...”

The sun continued to blaze and Devon brushed the bangs of his wig aside to wipe sweat from his brow before it could streak his makeup. The last thing he needed was another hour in front of Haley's mirror while she repainted his face.

“Hey!” He called, suddenly realising something, “shouldn't I be wearing sunscreen? Just seems like after all that plucking and waxing you did, my skins gotta be like super sensitive.”

“Look,” Haley rolled her eyes, “if we're going to be rubbing anything into your skin, it is 100% being filmed for content. Now, pull that swimsuit up a bit higher up your ass – really show off the goods! That's it – now lift up your heels as if you were in stilettos and push out your butt. Nice!” She snapped a dozen pictures in quick succession. “Our subscribers are going to love that!”

“Our subscribers!?” Devon grimaced. Haley's swimsuit was much too small and was wedged uncomfortably between his cheeks. “I don't see you here, half naked and humiliating yourself for...content...”

“That's because I didn't spend all our savings on a supposed vintage truck that doesn't even run. What was it you called it? An asset?” Haley shook her head with derision at the vehicle and her feminised boyfriend together. “Looks like I am photographing all of your assets today... The guy who sold you that thing must be able to spot a sucker a mile off...now there's an idea!” She put the camera down and grinned cruelly. “Stay there while I go and get my dildo. How is your gag reflex by the way?”

Devon groaned. He was starting to miss the idea of the car wash scene Haley had had planned. Frollicking in soapy water sounded like bliss compared to having her sextoy between his painted lips. He just worried where else it would go when Haley found out the money he had paid for the truck was just the down payment. 

Quiet Mercy [COMMISSION]

 A commission for DeviantArt and also one of my Mannequeen captions - the rest of which are available on my index page

The fall air was chilly in spite of the bright morning sunshine. Jamie shivered and scrunched his eyes as both lulled him from slumber. His head-ached and his body was heavy as he slowly became aware he was lying on a low wall. He couldn't recall why he would be sleeping in such an uncomfortable place – especially the night before his favorite day of the year. 

The Expo!! He was suddenly wide awake and tried to sit, but something heavy seemed to be stuck to his back. He attempted to turn to see what it was, but the objects turned with him. More alarmingly, another weight swung at his chest, causing him to look down and catch his breath at the sight of two trembling breasts. It didn't take much longer to realise the weight on his back was a huge set of Valkyrie wings. They were clearly part of a costume, but the breasts felt as real as could be. Panicked, he tried to scream, but his throat seemed completely frozen. Shaking with fear, he looked around him for a clue to what was going on. A small tape recorder sat on the wall next to him. With quivering hands, he pressed 'play'.

“Hello Jamie. I want to play a game. For the past five years you have used the G3 Expo as your personal playground of perversion. You have used and abused female convention goers and cosplayers – using the crowds to camouflage your wandering hands and camera lens. You have groped and shot upskirt photos of countless young women and then bragged about it to your online band of creeps. Well, not this year. You will notice that for the first time in the last five years, you too are in costume. 'Mercy' is the ultimate field medic and you too will need to apply some tender loving care if you want any other kind of mercy. I have fitted you with a state-of-the-art female bodysuit that has been programmed to bind with your skin permanently when the Expo closes at 7pm tonight. That is unless you manage to trigger the fail-safe. What is that you ask? Well, you don't because you may have noticed I have also disabled your ability to speak. That is simply to make sure you remain focussed on your task. You see, the most tender holes of your bodysuit have been specially designed to absorb ejaculate. In order to unlock your suit, you will need one load for every upskirt photograph you have ever posted on your blog. In case you've lost count, that's 246. Good luck, Jamie, you've got a lot of fucking to do. You are going to fit a lot of guys like a glove, or that bodysuit is going to fit you like a glove...forever!”

Jamie again tried to scream but once again no sound came out. It was at that moment he realised where he was. Across the plaza stood the convention center and already a long line was forming for entrance to the expo. He stood and began shuffling towards its in a pair of uncomfortable sandals. He stared at the dozens of Deadpools, Jokers and Lokis ahead of him and his skin prickled. His bodysuit prickled, he realised with dread. If it was this sensitive...that realistic in response to his fear, how was it going to feel when 246 men in costume took turns on him for an entire day? And how would he tell them if it got too much...?

Oblivious [COMMISSION]

 A commission for DeviantArt

Also, I am very sorry. Yesterday I said Sissy vs Sissy was on my index page and it wasn't. It is there now.

Jack leapt from his desk the second he was presented with the opportunity to get a closer look at the object of his fascination. The memo he had been holding remained clutched in his hands as he sidled up alongside Felix and began to walk with him through the office. From a distance he had been fascinated, but up close he was spellbound at the transformation of his co-worker. Once rugged and unshaven, Felix now had glossy shoulder-length brown hair and a carefully made-up face that subtly showcased his newly found femininity.

“Hey, Felix. How's it going?” Jack could barely contain his excitement. Felix looked back at him with bewilderment and clutched his hands defensively over a fitted cardigan that sat neatly over a grey skirt. He really has no idea, Jack marvelled to himself as Felix expertly tucked a stray hair behind a freshly pierced ear.

Just three weeks ago, their office had been the latest workplace to be attacked with a viral phishing campaign. The email claiming to contain details of their new parking assignments instead held malware that opened a video on the recipients screen. According to news reports, the video was loaded with powerful subliminal hypnotic suggestion that rendered the watcher helplessly addicted to a women's fashion brand. Known as the Vektor virus after the brand in question, it now held Felix in its manicured talons.

“Hey...Jack,” Felix shifted his leather handbag further up his shoulder and stared back quizzically. “Things are...normal. I am just filing this report.” He gestured to the folder he was holding. “Everything okay...” he looked Jack up and down with an odd expression on his cosmetic laden face, “...with you?”

“Oh, I'm good,” Jack smirked, “very good.” Seeing Felix like this was almost unbearable. He seemed completely clueless that his once unkempt masculine image had been re-crafted into feminine office chic. For all intents and purposes, he was still Felix – he acted like Felix, spoke like Felix, even farted like Felix – except he now had the appearance of a sweet tidily dressed young woman.

Jack felt himself smile a little too wide and cursed silently. He would probably need to touch up his lipstick now. He smoothed his free hand down his flowing skirt and excused himself politely. Watching Felix continue along the corridor in his kitten feels, he felt a mix of relief and pity. Relief, because he had only watched a few seconds of that video before closing the browser. In that moment he could think of nothing worth than being like Felix – completely oblivious.

Sissy vs Sissy vs Sissy Part 1

 3/25

Nine years later...the story continues!

The original five part story is on my index page.

“I didn’t think I was going to come,” Rory nodded to the other man in the room dressed in a matching black suit and tie, “but part of me just had to make sure the bitch was dead, That it was over…” he shuddered, “that everything she did to us, was over for good.”

“You think Aunt Clarissa kept the tapes?” Jared asked, visibly uncomfortable at the memory of the ordeals the former friends, fellow sissies and one time rivals had shared at the hands of their not-a-real-Aunt Clarissa, who nine years ago had made them compete to sissify each other in order to avoid her favourite dildo, ‘Big Red.’ Though the result that day had been a draw, Aunt Clarissa had been the real winner and she had pulled out the equally formidable ‘Big Blue’ in order to punish both feminized boys simultaneously. What the friends had been too blinded by humiliation to realise that day was that their fake Aunt and her real niece, Anna, had filmed every second of their ordeal to hold over them as blackmail fuel for the next four years. Every summer Aunt Clarissa had summoned them for three weeks of ‘fun’ as her personal sissies until finally one year they made a pact to leave her call unanswered. What more could she do to them that would be worse than people seeing the tapes.

“Maybe she will leave them to us in her will…” Rory snorted waving his invitation to the Wake and Will Reading in one hand. He turned to the small locked box that held Clarissa’s ashes. “You gonna give them to us as one final embarrassment you old c…”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” said a regal looking man who had just entered the room. “No, I have it on good authority that Lady Clarissa will be leaving her entire estate and fortune to one sole heir. I am her executor after all.” He paused to stroke his moustache while the two men mouthed ‘fortune’ in clear surprise. “I am Mr. Gregory by the way, and, in fact, I have it right here.” He pulled a card from his inside jacket pocket. “Lady Clarissa leaves everything to her,” he coughed and pulled the card close to his spectacles, “…to her ‘most adorable little sissy’.”

Rory and Jared gaped at the man in shock, but their surprise was quickly interrupted by another figure entering the room. A lithe embodiment of femininity slinked before them in a short prissy baby blue dress, lacy white gloves and stockings, and towering high-heels. She minced over to the urn in front of Mr. Gregory and, with a demure pout, laid one hand on the box holding what was once her aunt.

“Anna!” Jared gasped finally recognising the once tomboy that had assisted in Aunt Clarissa’s torment of them all those years ago. With frills and curls in place of her baggy jeans and boy-cut hair, she was a completely different creature than the one he remembered. “But you weren’t Aunt Clarissa’s sissy, I was. That’s my fortune. I earned it.” Thoughts of shame were washed away by greed. . 

“Relax, both of you.” Mr. Gregory glanced at Anna who was now smiling sweetly. “The three of you... The official will reading is not for another two days. Today is about paying respects to our dearly departed Lady Clarissa. On Thursday we will establish who is her ‘most adorable little sissy’.

Gone Today, Hair Tomorrow [COMMISSION]

Commissioned on DeviantArt

As he sat on the stone steps outside the convention center, Luke found himself running his hands through the hair yet again. THE hair, not HIS hair. Thick, blonde and glossy, it bore little resemblance to the short brown tufts that usually sat atop his cranium. It was heavy for one, cascading over his shoulders like a silky waterfall and plunging over the stylish leather jacket his Aunt had picked out for him. By length it almost stretched to the hem of his miniskirt from which his glossy stockinged legs sprouted. Were he to pull the golden locks straight, they could probably reach his panties, he thought ruefully as yet another convention goer nodded approvingly as they passed by.

In retrospect, there were probably better ways to get fired than shaving the head of his sleeping Aunt as she snored soundly in one of her own salon chairs. Desperation had ground him down and the clippers had been just sitting there begging for him to use them. Quitting had not been an option, he had his Mom to blame for that. She had demanded he work to pay his keep this summer and her sister just happened to have a job available sweeping up at her award winning hair and beauty salon. It could have even been a good way to earn a little cash if she wasn't such a slave driver.

He had felt some guilt – he wasn't a monster. It was obvious the reason Aunt Louisa was being such a hardass was the upcoming Hairapalooza Beauty Convention. She had a stall booked for the nation's premier hair and beauty event and needed to be at the top of her game. Over the last month hundreds of women had come through the salon for his Aunt to hone her skills and Luke had had to clear after every single one. His hands hurt from sweeping, his back hurt from sweeping, and his ears hurt being yelled at. Hence the grade one clipper being run right across Louisa's skull mid-snooze.

Only she hadn't fired him. She hadn't even mentioned it. Rather the word that left her furious lips had been 'lawsuit'. Apparently, her own immaculate appearance was key to her image and never more was this image more important than this weekend's convention. Surely, there was an alternative, he had begged...

Luke heard heeled boots clicking towards where he sat on the stone steps and looked up. Aunt Louisa had arrived, her head still buzzed short. He felt his scalp throb where the hair had been laced into it. Not HIS hair, HER hair. Aunt Louisa's own golden locks had been threaded into his head as she prepared her hair model for her convention stall and the day's competitions. She had dressed him next and then he had sat for hours as her partner meticulously painted his face with cosmetics – it was a beauty salon after all.

“You look like you are about to cry,” Aunt Louisa smirked cruelly. “You can for all I care. Such are the wonders of permanent makeup...”

Don't Mess With Witches!!

 2/25

I don’t know who needs to hear this! But…I beg you, don’t fuck with witches?! Not even a little. Not even a tiny little bit. Let me cut to the chase! My name is Barry. Do I look like a Barry to you? Do these big ‘ole titties look like Barry’s titties? Because a month ago I looked like a Barry. A month ago I looked like regular old broke ass Barry trying to find somewhere cheap to live so I could find a job and spend the rest of my life paying off the tuition I racked up to get the job in the first place. Except, now I am racked up with these…

You know how I got these? Desperation! See, to get the place to live to get the job to get the lifetime of indentured servitude, I need some liquidity – more debt. I know right… Except, I don’t have a job yet, so no-one is going to lend me any money for a deposit. That is, until my boy Kyle told me about a friend of a friend who knew this old lady who lends money. Oh, by the way, fuck you, Kyle!!

So, anyway, I went to see the lady – sweet old thing, and yes, she immediately agreed to lend me the green no questions asked. It was too good to be true, so I asked what was the catch and she pulled out this little figurine made of soft clay. I remember being a bit creeped out because it looked a little like me and was even dressed a bit like me, but the euphoria took over and besides I would pay her back in two weeks when I got my first paycheck.

Well, unfortunately for me, I fluffed interview after interview and turned up at the sweet little old lady’s door empty handed two weeks later, she just smiled warmly and placed the me-like figure on her coffee table. Producing a new piece of clay, she tore it in two and rolled two perfect little balls and pushed them up under the hoodie the figure was wearing – that happened to perfectly match the top I had pulled on that morning.

I stood there with my mouth wide open as two fleshy mounds grew on my chest in real time – two large bouncing and very real female breasts. I stayed away from her house after that – probably ill-advised but have any of my actions been even remotely wise? Every day that followed, every day that I didn’t pay my debt, I woke up with something new – long silky hair, soft feminine features, a curvy womanly body – no doubt that lady was sculpting that creepy miniature version of me. Today, it seems like she must have borrowed from the wardrobe of Cabaret Barbie because suddenly I am dressed like a stripper.

My options are changing and I worry what my job choices are now if I am to actually pull together this money to pay her back. I ordered this book online, ‘Voodoo for Dummies’ (see, I am even mentioned in the title) to try to find a way to reverse the process, but I am an amateur going up against a pro. All it has done is open my eyes to the arsenal of possibilities that sweet old bitch could still resort to – womanly thoughts, womanly desires, womanly pleasures… I already have the womanly body so is that what’s next? I refuse to even read the chapter on possession… Witches, man, I am telling you…stay the fuck away…!

The Intervention

 1/25

I already have a flashback cap planned out for this standalone

We’ve all got one of those friends – the kind that need saving. I don’t just mean once either – it’s again and again, and each time, despite how you think you have finally got through, you know they'll be needing another rescue sometime soon. Mine was Phillippa, and even as I sat in the small box room on the end of her bed waxing lyrical about how she would get past this and find something better, I didn’t quite believe my own words. Part of me knew this would be just the latest episode in a long line of fuck ups.

This time she had fallen in with a local gang. I suspected drugs were involved but I knew she was turning tricks for them, and even with her history, this shit seemed a little deeper than usual. She looked genuinely scared that I was here and kept glancing nervously to the large chest at the end of the bed – the only other furniture in the grotty one room apartment. Finally, I gave up and asked what was inside.

“It’s what they make me wear. For the clients…” She stammered. “It’s not clothing.” She explained seeing my confusion, “it’s like a kind of bodysuit. I put it on and I become their whore. It makes me feel things. It makes me want to do things. It’s how they make sure I service the clients properly.” Phillippa’s face glowed red with humiliation and a tear rolled down one cheek.

Suddenly, the intercom beeped and I saw panic enter Phillippa’s eyes. “It’s them!” She hissed. “You need to hide!” I surveyed the room around me – bare except for the bed and the chest. My friend threw open the lid and I saw what looked like the body of a young women wearing a night gown filling the inside space. “You need to put it on!” She shrieked. “If they find you in here, they will kill us both!” No time for a second thought, I stripped off my clothes and Phillippa stuffed them into a pillowcase. She then helped me into the bodysuit and folded me into the chest – finally closing the lid and consigning me to darkness.

Not seconds later, angry male voices filled the room outside my box – a muffled scream, more shouting, a crash of something hitting the wall, more shouting, and then finally the slam of a door. When I was sure the coast was clear, I pushed open the top of the test.

As I had pulled on the bodysuit, I had been operating on pure adrenaline. I hadn’t had time to look at it, but now in the empty room, I ran slender feminine hands over skin that felt as real as my own.. I caught sight of myself in the mirrored ceiling and a beautiful young woman in a negligee gazed back. No hint of my male self could be seen, and more importantly, no hint of a way to remove the suit.

Realising that if I wanted to remove it, I needed to find my friend, I stumbled out of the apartment and into the night. It was a sketchy neighbourhood and I saw men leering at me from street corners as cars whizzed past. I had walked about half a mile when I started to feel strange. A heat smouldered in my abdomen before spreading into my groin with a tingling warmth. As I tried to focus, Phillippa’s words pounded in my head.” It makes me feel things. It makes me want to do things.”

Season 7 Prologue - Under the Influence Part 6.5

 0/25

Something to wet the....appetite...

I have added links to the rest of the Under the Influence caps to my index page

Lady Radius sneered into the webcam making sure not to block the view of her subject behind her. The trussed up feminised man gave a perfectly timed whimper through his napkin gag and the domina watched with satisfaction as donations and offerings came flooding in on the monitor. She was playing a wedding night scene with one of her sissy slaves and she made sure to give her subscribers a good view of her skin-tight latex tuxedo and top hat whilst maintaining her aura of absolute domination.

“What do you pathetic shits want to see now?” She cracked a folded leather whip into her palm and gestured over her shoulder to where her ‘bride’ sat in clear discomfort squeezed into an agonisingly tight corset and tied to a footstool. The figure leaned forward as much as its bonds would allow to avoid putting full weight on the bejewelled buttplug tucked beneath the thong underwear section of the corset.

A flurry of requests filled the chat – “strap-on”, “face-fuck”, “tickle torture” – all good ideas but she ignored any that didn’t come with a financial gift. She slapped the whip once more to keep her slave trembling while she waited for a paying request. At last, a loud orgasmic moan came from her monitor indicating someone had made a donation and $10 appeared next to one of the usernames in the chat.

Lady Radius paused. There were no perverse instructions next to the payment – just a link to an OnlyFemmes profile. Curious, she clicked through and began to read. Some Femboy model appeared to have put a $10k bounty on himself for whoever made him their slave. The domme almost forgot herself and slipped into an excited smile as she surveyed the pictures of the soft little blonde trap. She would make him her masterpiece.

“Sorry to cut our wedding night short,” she turned off the webcam and addressed the quivering sissy in her living room. “But there’s a game afoot!” She tucked her whip into a latex cummerbund. “I will be back for you later…maybe…”

Zoligomyst Presents - Season 7 (A Sissy's Work is Never Done)

 You may have noticed I posted a countdown a few weeks back - maybe not.

Regardless, I am pleased to tell you that I have just put the finishing touches on my latest collection of 25 captions/stories.

Once the timer hits zero, the fun will begin with 25 weeks of Sissy Sunday. I really hope you enjoy them.

Having posted just 14 stories in the last four years, my writing is a little rusty but I am really pleased with the ideas and storylines I have put together. There will be old friends and new, and I truly feel that, unlike with other seasons I posted, there are zero filler caps and everything is good femme fun.

Being the diehard introvert, I generally hate self promotion, but I don't think I should be able to disappear for so long without at least some explanation. Essentially, I have spent the last two and half years building a computer system, and, being the workaholic that I am, I have also spent this time neglecting friends, family, my health and the things that bring me joy - including creating these silly stories with ludicrous recurring characters.

Well, that's about to change. Season 7 is finished and coming (lol!) and you will notice that I am spacing the captions out weekly. This is to ensure I have plenty of time to get Season 8 ready to launch soon after. It is actually fully planned out - I just don't want to rush the writing and I can longer churn out 8 captions a night as I used to 12 years ago...

See you soon!

zoli

Whatever Happened to the Zoligomyst?

Countdown Timer