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...