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.

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.