Whatever Happened to Rodney? (Slight Oversight)

 Original caption is here 

The young man exiting the interview room looked nothing short of professional. A dark grey suit paired nicely with a black tie and an expensive haircut – Rodney longed for the days when he could put himself together in such a way. The man glanced at his fellow job applicant approvingly and began to shuffle papers into a briefcase in a manner that oozed confidence and competency. Rodney sighed. It was going to have to be one of 'those' interviews. Blushing slightly, he unfastened the top two buttons of his striped blouse.

When Rodney had originally pulled on the bodysuit all those years ago, it was intended to be a treat, a one-off to get his urges out of his system – or so he had thought. Little had he known at the time that due to his own carelessness, it would be a transformation that would never be reversed. He did find the bodysuit's missing key eventually, It was folded into the second page of the product's welcome pack, but by then it far too late and Rodney's fate, and the bodysuit, were well and truly sealed. Needless to say, he did get the urges out of his system very quickly indeed

The bodysuit had come with some additional extras – character modifiers intended to give the wearer an experience akin to a beautiful yet somewhat airheaded woman. These changes had made Rodney's adaptation to his new existence even more difficult. Ideas seemed more complicated, words felt longer and he would often find himself staring off into space, his lips parted and his eyes vacant. He hated himself for it, but more and more he found himself having to rely on his sexuality to get what he needed. He perfected the art of flirting, flashing a but of skin when it would benefit him and, once the platform grew in notoriety, even selling the odd picture on OnlyFemmes.

Rodney survived through embracing his unwanted femininity but he still longed to create a life for himself that stood independently of a strategically chewed lip, or a perfectly timed pushup bra – a life that belonged to him and not the now permanent bodysuit.

Applying for the the Personal Assistant job had been a chore. The advert had been paragraphs of long words he had to put into a search engine – taking his time to ensure he got the spelling right – but the birth of AI had helped a lot with the process and he found himself squealing with joy when the email came through offering an interview. Still determined not to resort back to the tried and tested exploitation of his appearance, he dressed conservatively in a smart blouse and dark slacks, his eyeglasses perched professionally on his nose.

The young man finished packing his briefcase and smiled politely. He waved a silent fairwell and left the waiting area already on a phone call confidently telling someone how he had nailed the interview. Rodney hesitated before unfastening two more buttons on his blouse.

The Changing Seas Part 4

By the time AquaLure’s Deep Within campaign launched, the world had officially lost its mind over Eva. There were perfume ads, workout routines, even a cookbook called Eating Like a Mermaid. Miranda DeValle basked in it all like a CEO who believed she’d personally discovered Atlantis. The “grand reveal” was set for a live broadcast from the same beach where it all began. There’d be fireworks, holograms, drones—the works. Miranda promised “a message of truth from our muse herself.”

Backstage, Miranda checked her reflection one last time and hissed into her headset, “Is she mic’d up? I want sincerity but not too sincere.”

Evan stood a few feet away, wrapped in a towel, hair damp from the ocean. He tweaked his delicate features into a sweet smile. “Oh, don’t worry, Miranda. I’ll keep it real.”

When the lights came up, Miranda strutted onto the glass runway that jutted over the surf. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she beamed, “AquaLure’s spirit of purity, rebirth, and authenticity… Eva!” Eva stepped forward, calm and radiant. Cameras zoomed in, phones lifted, hashtags multiplied like algae blooms. “Eva,” Miranda said, voice syrupy, “tell the world what AquaLure means to you.”

Evan took the microphone, expression unreadable. The crowd hushed. “What does AquaLure mean to me?” he said slowly. “It means illusion. It means lighting tricks, camera angles, and silicone fins.” A ripple of confusion passed through the audience. Miranda’s smile froze. Evan held up a familiar object: the battered prototype fin, still patched with glue and sand from the storm. “This,” he said, “is your ‘mystical mermaid.’I designed it. I made it. I built her. And she was never real. Just a well engineered mascot!” The crowd gasped. Drones hovered uncertainly, unsure if they were filming a scandal or performance art. Miranda lunged for the mic, and Evan slipped away from her grasp and continued, louder now, voice clear and ringing. “But I was real. I got swept out to sea trying to save this thing. When I came back, everyone decided to believe the fantasy instead of the truth. Maybe that says more about marketing than magic.” Then he smiled, soft and genuine. “But here’s the funny part—I think the sea decided to keep me anyway.” With that, she dropped the fin, turned, and walked calmly into the water.

The crowd erupted—half outrage, half awe. Cameras flashed. Miranda stood soaked in spotlight and silence, her empire unraveling one viral clip at a time. Evan waded in until the waves reached his waist. There was a shimmer, a flicker of silver light, and then he was gone.

By morning, #AquaLureHoax was trending. Investors bailed. Miranda was last seen trying to spin the disaster as “a performance about truth in advertising.” Nobody bought it.

And the world kept spinning – the tides kept turning and within weeks the public had moved onto the next thing. Eva the Mermaid was forgotten – for the most part anyway. Local fishermen gossiped about an ethereal figure, little more than a silhouette really, sat on the rocks below the cliffs – always after a storm – a women's laughter carried on the breeze. Now and then, one of them would find a perfect seashell washed ashore – always etched with the same single line. “The sea is real enough for me.

 

The Changing Seas Part 3

 

Evan should have been dead, or at least missing, but by the time he dragged himself back to land, he was trending. #RealMermaid, #OceanAuthentic, and #AquaLureLives had flooded social media. The clips were everywhere: shaky phone footage of his half-human, half-tail form on the beach, saltwater glittering under sunlight. In every thumbnail, he looked like the perfect viral product shot.

Miranda greeted him at the beach with an army of marketing executives before he had even found dry clothes. “Darling, what a miracle!” she gushed. “You’ve transcended branding. You are the brand.” And that’s how Evan found himself back on an AquaLure set—this time not as the designer but as the object. Within a week, “Eva the Mermaid” was fronting a global campaign. There were billboards, interviews, photoshoots. He hadn’t agreed to any of it—but he also hadn’t said no, mostly because every time he tried to explain he used to be a man, people nodded sympathetically and said, “That’s so brave of you to share your journey.”

The first commercial shoot was at a private beach. Drones buzzed, makeup artists fussed, and Miranda circled like a shark in designer heels. “Darling, you glow,” she beamed. “The ocean has claimed you! You are AquaLure.”

Evan just stood there frozen in the surf wearing a magnificent sequinned dress that had been engineered to break away as he entered the water and his tail revealed itself. It was too much – the drones continued the hum as if inside his head, the excited chattering that surrounded him, dozens of expectant eyes, all on him... He raised his hands to his temples to clamp his growing headache. Everywhere he looked, there were versions of himself—billboards, mock-ups, even a foam cutout of his silhouette with a “SCAN FOR 10% OFF” QR code where his face should be...where her face should be. Miranda and AquaLure had seen him as nothing more than a tool to get what they wanted for years, and now that everything had changed, nothing had changed at all...

“I need a break!” He declared to an open-mouthed Miranda and glided away before she could point out they hadn't even started. He sat on a rock and wondered if it was the same one he'd sat on that fateful night he'd been washed out to sea. The sun reflected on the perfect skin of his arms as he tried to steady his breathing. The past few weeks had been a blur, but actually being 'Eva' had been the least of it. Being a mermaid was one thing, but being 'their' mermaid was another thing entirely. He had always been 'theirs', been Miranda's, but now she acted like she owned him.

Behind him he heard Miranda excitedly giving an interview. “She represents the power of nature and femininity,” Miranda purred. “Of course, she’s entirely real.”

'Entirely real,' Evan thought bitterly. No mention of how I created her...and then became her... It was then that Evan decided to show everyone just how real mermaids really were.

The Changing Seas Part 2

 

Evan woke to the sound of gulls arguing. His mouth tasted like seawater. The sky above him was a blinding sheet of white, and for one surreal moment, he thought he was in the office—until a crab scuttled over his wrist and pinched him. He sat up fast. The world tilted. The sand beneath him shimmered with salt crystals, and his legs—his legs felt wrong. Heavy. Fused. Cold.

He looked down. “Oh no. Oh no no no.” Where his khakis should’ve been was a long, iridescent tail. Not a costume. Not neoprene. Scales—real ones—glittered blue and green in the sunlight, flexing as if amused by his horror. He slapped it. It twitched back. “Ow!” He flopped backward, laughing and swearing at once. “Okay. Dream. Weird post-traumatic branding dream.”

He tried to crawl, dragging himself across the sand, leaving a shimmering trail like a giant sardine slug. The movement made the tail flash brighter, and far down the beach someone shouted, “Oh my GOD! It’s her!” A group of tourists sprinted closer, phones raised.“It’s the AquaLure mermaid!” one squealed. “They’re filming the new ad!”

“I’m not—” Evan started, then stopped. His voice was… different. Higher. Soft and musical, like it had been auto-tuned by Poseidon. He froze. Blinked. Patted his face. Smooth skin. Delicate jaw. Cheekbones sharp enough to slice sushi. Long hair, wet and gold, stuck to his shoulders. He looked down again. He—no, she—was topless, large perfect breasts buoyant on his chest. “Oh come on,” he groaned, his voice a melodic sigh as he leaned his head back and stared directly into the heavens..

The tourists were still filming. “Wave to the camera!” one yelled. Evan tried to cover himself with his hands and tail at once, which only made him look more like a calendar poster. Someone shouted, “She’s shy! So authentic!”

Panicking, he twisted toward the water— and with a sudden shimmer, his tail split, the scales rippling away like dissolving glitter. Legs. Real human legs. “What the—” He stood, immediately tripped, and landed face-first in the sand.

The crowd gasped, then applauded. “Method acting!” someone cheered.

Evan scrambled upright and bolted for the dunes, not stopping until the beach noise faded and only the crash of waves remained. He sank down beside a rock pool, trembling. His reflection stared back: luminous eyes, sunlit hair, an impossible face he’d seen on billboards for years. “The AquaLure mermaid,” he whispered. “I made you.” The reflection smiled back faintly, as though the sea itself was in on the joke. A low hum echoed through the water, a whispering sound that might have been waves—or laughter. Evan stared at the horizon, half-terrified, half-thrilled, and muttered, “Miranda’s gonna love this.”

The Changing Seas Part 1

 The was a series commissioned on DeviantArt

Evan never meant to become the “Mermaid Guy.” He’d gone to art school to design shoes. Somehow, ten years later, he was Senior Visual Concept Engineer at AquaLure, the global water brand that believed hydration required mythological undertones. Every bottle, billboard, and TV spot was graced with the same ethereal figure: a mermaid, half-shadowed, tail glinting like bottled starlight. “She embodies purity, mystery, and desire,” declared AquaLure’s CEO, Miranda DeValle, every Monday morning. “She is our soul.”

Evan usually muttered, “She’s mostly neoprene and glue.” He was the one who’d built her tail—an engineering marvel of silicone scales and fishing wire. The “mermaid silhouette” wasn’t a real person, just Evan zipped into his creation and lit from behind. The secret was in the curve: he’d sculpted it after studying how light refracted through plastic water bottles. The result? Instant mystique. And instant career trap. Now every meeting was about “channelling mermaid essence.” He’d been asked to “make the tail sexier” three times that week alone.

On Thursday, Miranda burst into the workshop waving a storyboard. “We’re shooting the new ‘Call of the Deep’ campaign tomorrow. Real waves, real beach, no filters. I want emotion. I want transcendence. I want commitment,” Miranda snapped at Evan. “Bring the prototype fin.”

So the next day, under blackening clouds, Evan stood ankle-deep in churning surf, holding a clipboard that was rapidly becoming papier-mâché and lounged on a rock while drones buzzed overhead.

“Can we get more sparkle on the tail?” Miranda yelled from the beach tent.

“It’s raining sideways!”

“That’s realism!”

The storm hit fast. The wind howled. The ocean surged up like a beast that had had enough of marketing metaphors. Evan shrieked as a wave slapped the rock he was on and he lunged forward, trying to grab a hand-hold before he and the expensive fin were washed away. The next moment, a swirl of grey-green foam and salt punched him in the chest and yanked him from the beach.

He glimpsed Miranda’s horrified face, the tail glimmering in midair, the drones spinning out of control. For one absurd instant, as he tumbled into the boiling sea, he thought: At least the lighting’s cinematic. Salt filled his mouth. Sound vanished. His clipboard twirled past like a surrendering flag.

The last thing he saw was a flash of turquoise beneath the waves—something smooth, sinuous, almost welcoming.

Then the ocean closed over him, and the campaign’s tagline drifted through his fading thoughts like a cruel joke: “AquaLure: Let the sea take you.”

My Girlfriend's Roommate

 8/25

“You told your parents I’m gay?!” Billy gaped incredulously at his girlfriend across the couch. “Are you kidding me?!” He and Amanda had been together a little more than six months and he had just moved permanently into her studio apartment.

“It’s the only way they would let you live here,” Amanda protested. “They still pay the rent, you know? A gay roommate is the perfect way to stop them asking questions. Besides, they are being nice,” She nodded to the half-open envelope in Billy’s hand. “They got you a gift.”

“Did you see what they got me?” He held up a Birthday card with a voucher poking out. “It is a Drag Queen pampering and photoshoot experience day. Looks expensive! I am not sure if I should be offended on behalf of my apparent gay alter-ego, or flattered they want to spend this kind of money on me. It’s almost a shame it is going to be wasted.”

“Oh, you’re doing the shoot!” Amanda frowned. “How else am I going to keep up that you are my roommate if they don’t see pictures? Come on, Billy…” she batted her eyelashes, “I will make it worth it!”

It was three weeks later and Billy had spent the last two hours in a makeup chair being transformed by a larger-than-life character named Josephine - staring into a huge mirror framed with old fashioned lightbulbs and postcards from someone called Isabella as the face that glared back was reshaped and sculpted with countless products. When Josephine was finished, he didn’t even recognise himself from beneath the soft pink lips, frosty eye makeup and curly blonde wig.

He tried to act relaxed as Josephine squeezed him into an enormous dress that looked like a wedding cake and fastened the corset at the back so excruciatingly tight that he could no longer bend enough to see his stilettoed feet. His whole body tingled from the fresh removal of its hair and his face was heavy and stiff, yet he determinedly attempted to adopt a carefree camp demeanour as the artist who had turned him from a scruffy boy in his early twenties into something akin to a Disney princess readied her camera. Billy stuck his hands on his hips and adopted what he thought was a bratty pout.

“Oh, relax, Sweetheart!” Josephine rolled her eyes. “Your acting skills are wasted on me… I know you aren’t gay!” Billy tried to breathe out but the corset continued to clamp his chest. “The Jacksons know you aren’t gay too!”

“Then why…” He blinked as she snapped a photo.

“Why the shoot?” Josephine shot another. “They do this with all Amanda’s boyfriends. I assume it is ammunition for if you ever do anything to hurt her – that or some kind of test. It’s fine by me . Repeat customers keep me in business.” She smiled – confusion looked so sweet on him when he was trussed up like a cupcake. “Okay, so this is his how this will go… They will see the photos and remark how wonderful you look – how vivacious…alive…etc…etc. And so, you will get another voucher at Christmas, or when you get a new job, or just because they are feeling ‘generous’. Trust me, we will be seeing a lot of each other if you want to continue seeing a lot of Amanda. Speaking of which, we still have a few hours of today left. Let’s try out some more looks. I have some shoes that will match your eyes perfectly…”

What the Hell Happened to Dominic? (Remodelling)

 Super happy with this one. Original caption is here

“Tell me how it feels!” His lips demanded. Dominic tried to ignore it but Sage was not about to relent. “You know what I want. Describe it for me. I want to know how that pink latex dress feels wrapped around our perky little tits.” Dominic tried to force the glossy red lips closed but they disobeyed him. “Tell me,” they sneered, “or we will go suck off that nice young photographer over there and you can tell me how it tastes instead.”

Six years had passed since Dominic had found a female bodysuit while sorting through the belongings of one of his former models who had recently died of an overdose. Thoughts of easy money had flooded his mind as he slipped the hyper-realistic synthetic material over his body. By the time he discovered that the bodysuit had been possessed by the spirit of Sage, the deceased model, it was far too late. She had already decided to take this unexpected opportunity to experience everything she had missed out on in her short life – and get a little revenge on the man responsible for pushing the fateful pills on her in the first place.

Unfortunately for Sage, things didn't go quite to plan either. Despite being able to fully control the suit with Dominic as its helpless passenger, she quickly realised that her she was without the senses of touch, taste and smell that would make her desired experiences worthwhile. Not to be put off, she pushed forward with them anyway, commanding that Dominic describe everything that she missed out on in vivid detail.

“It's tight,” Dominic groaned, “and hot...so hot. And when I...you...we put it on it rubbed horribly. I think we have burns on our ass. We should have used lubricant.” Through the fur-lined sunglasses he was wearing he saw the photographer tutting at him for continuously moving his mouth while he was supposed to be having pictures taken.

“It's always the lube with you isn't it?” Sage scoffed having retaken control of their mouth. “You said the exact same thing about that night we spent with Tyson. Only, if I remember correctly, it was him describing us as 'hot'...'tight' too actually. Oh, bless...I can feel you trying to shudder. You shuddered plenty that night too.”

“Can we not!” Dominic tried to scream. “I described the fucking dress already. Just leave me alone.” The photographer was scowling now, clearly annoyed as he searched his bag for a fresh memory card.

“Well, now you've done it.” Sage sighed. “Now were definitely going to have to suck him off. Just don't bitch about it this time. It's not not my fault I can't feel the back of your throat!”

Straight to DVD

 This is a commission I did for DeviantArt

Bryan’s plan had been simple: scare the college girls in the last house on the left during their Halloween movie marathon. A plastic machete, a knock on the window, a quick jump scare — harmless fun. He waited until the thunder rolled from their TV speakers, then scraped the blade across the glass and shouted, “Heeere’s—” Everything went black.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on a cold wooden floor beneath a chandelier that burned too brightly. The air smelled of candle wax and perfume. Long corridors stretched into white decorative walls, lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow him. “Okay,” Bryan muttered, sitting up. “This isn’t funny.” His voice — higher. Smooth, trembling. His hands — pale, slender. He looked down and froze. A floor-length black dress shimmered faintly in the flickering light. His hair spilled forward, long and brown. “What the hell…” A mirror hung nearby. The woman who stared back was beautiful in a tragic way — wide-eyed and open-mouthed like an exquisite deer in the headlights..

“Haley,” a man’s voice barked from the hallway. “We need to go — now!” A tall man appeared, tuxedo shirt torn, a fireplace poker gripped in his fist. His jawline looked carved from panic. “Haley, it’s back. The Phantom. We have to move.” Thunder cracked overhead. Somewhere in the mansion, slow footsteps echoed — deliberate, dragging metal against stone.

Bryan stumbled, the dress tangling around his legs. The shoes — impossibly tall stilettos — stabbed into the floor with every step. He tried to kick them off, but the straps bit into his ankles like wire. He bent over to fumble with the fastening and he felt his soft round butt bump an ornate moulder white door-frame.

The man turned. “Haley, what are you doing?” A figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the corridor: tall, masked, expressionless. The air seemed to tilt toward him. The sound — Bryan noticed now — was wrong. Too clean. Every heartbeat amplified, every breath echoing like a soundtrack.

“This is a movie,” Bryan whispered. “Oh my God. I’m in a movie.” A scream ripped through the hall, cutting him off. They ran. The mansion warped around them, halls looping, doors changing. Every time Bryan looked behind, the Phantom was closer — inevitable, cinematic. They burst into a grand ballroom, candles flickering in crystal holders. Bryan tripped, crashing against the piano. He grabbed a silver candlestick, swung, and the Phantom fell — not bleeding, but glitching, flickering like a damaged reel of film. Before Bryan could react, the man in the tuxedo grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into a long deep kiss.

When he finally freed himself, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and surveyed the room around him. A television sat on the ballroom floor, glowing faintly. On screen, the girls from the last house on the left leaned forward, popcorn spilling. “Oh my God,” one whispered. “That was awesome. Play the sequel?”

Beyond Wednesday

 This is a commission I did for DeviantArt

“Listen kid,” the girl behind the costume shop counter yawned with exasperation. “The way it works,” she gestured to the pod in the corner that looked like an enormous photo-booth, “is you get what you get. Mrs. Gump had it right.” She watched the confused expression form on Toby's face and rolled her eyes. “Look, they don't even sell these over here yet. They don't even make them in English. My uncle got this one shipped over from Bulgaria. Do you speak Bulgarian? Cause I sure as shit don't... I only know enough to select the gender and the date you want the costume to last until and it gives you a random Halloween costume.”

“A random Halloween costume?” Toby repeated. “For 200 bucks? The hell?! And what's with the expiry date? Surely you just take it off?”

“Hey,” the girl rolled her eyes again, “if you want to be cheap, there's always the discount rack.” She nodded to a rail of sad looking outfits of dated movie characters. The costume pod though, isn't just a costume. It is a cutting edge bodysuit autodresser designed to be 100% realistic and immersive. It isn't exactly fastened with velcro...”

“Right...” Toby groaned. No way could he afford a 200 dollar costume – not even for Jade's party. But wait, he watched as the girl was called into the storeroom to take a call and he was suddenly alone in the shop with the costume pod. Without hesitation, he ran over to the control panel and saw that it was entirely in Cyrillic. Hurriedly, he pressed the first option on the screen and was presented with what looked like a date picker. This must be the expiry date the girl mentioned. He only needed it long enough to impress Jade so he chose 11-1. Even if it came off at midnight, Jade would already have seen him and he could pop out of the bodysuit like an real-life jack-in-a-box. He made the selection and the pod opened and then closed around him. Inside was pitch black.

Needless to say, Toby didn't attend Jade's party. The hyper-realistic sexualised Wednesday Addams bodysuit put a stop to that. As he hid in his home and waited for midnight, he panicked about what he would say to the shop girl and her uncle. Would they get a good enough laugh out of him spending an evening with jiggling breasts, a bubble butt and silk stockings to let him off paying the 200...or worse? Finally, midnight came and...nothing happened. Toby stood frozen at the foot of his staircase. There was a knock at the door.

“Did you forget that thing was Bulgarian?” the girl on his doorstep wore an expression that was part fury and part amusement. “They use a different date format, idiot! You locked yourself into that costume until January 11^th. My uncle is going to kill me!” Her snarl twisted into a cruel smile. “But, you know, the company that makes these things is some kind of fetish-wear manufacturer. Their bodysuits all have remote aphrodisiac triggers and mobility overrides. Obviously, we keep these functions turned off for our customers...but you're not a customer...are you? Let's just say I am going to make sure you enjoy the next three months...”  

Sissy's Lot

 This is a commission I did for DeviantArt

Michael strutted onto the stage in the town hall with an unusual air of confidence for the occasion. The town's traditional annual Halloween costume auction was typically a bit of a crap-shoot for its volunteers, particularly the male ones. Every year, a selection of locals would sell their dignity to the highest bidder, who would give their bid to a worthy charity in exchange for choosing that year's Halloween costume for their lot. Finding volunteers had become increasingly tough after a few particularly brutal selections in recent years so anyone willing to put their neck, and the rest of their body, on the line would earn social currency within the community.

Social currency Michael badly needed after his recent divorce from local good-girl Sara – hence his agreement to volunteer for this year's auction. However, Michael had a plan. Michael had Roger, who had agreed to outbid any humiliating costume with something much more manly.

The auction started slowly – a buck to be Dracula, a couple to be Frankenstein. When a bid of eight nominated a cheerleading outfit, Michael nodded to his friend and Roger instantly bid ten dollars for him to be a biker. Michael rolled his eyes. Couldn't he have gone with something a bit less Village People...? The bids came in thick and fast after that – twenty to be a ballerina, thirty to be a belly dancer, fifty to be a princess. Sara and her friends had walked in directly from the bar next door and were drunkenly competing with each other to craft the most humiliating costume. Michael glanced to Roger in panic, but his friend had averted his eyes in despair – the going now far too rich for the small roll of bills in his pocket. The total spiralled upwards until finally Michael's fate was sealed with a winning bid of $200 from Sara's best friend, Steph, to spend Halloween dressed as a French Maid.

Needless to say, Michael didn't go trick or treating. When he arrived at Steph's house for his transformation, Sara and the rest of their friend group were already there. They took great pleasure dolling him up in a tiny maid's outfit and elbow length gloves. They waxed his body and painted his face with seemingly endless layers of makeup before putting a wig on his head that smelled suspiciously of glue. The rest of the evening became a shameless celebration in honor of Sara's divorce from him. He was made to crawl around on his hands and knees serving the women drinks and every so often Steph would draw everyone's attention and have an auction of her own. The friends would bid on giving him a spanking, having their toes sucked and even one particularly lucrative lot that resulted in him leaving a lipstick mark on Sara's bare ass cheek. The longer the party went, the drunker the women got and soon he was also answering the door to trick or treaters.

At some point around midnight, Sara gave him a long drunken look and smirked. “I never had this much fun with you when we were together. Fortunately, marriage can end, but blackmail evidence...now that's forever!”

Beholden

 This was a commission for DeviantArt

Who could possibly be here to perceive me as...this...still?! Elliot groaned with irritation. He was in the middle of the woods, miles from anyone and yet the long glossy hair...the boobs...the pouting lips all remained. The thigh-high boots and been hell to trek in through the brush and yet he was every inch the sexy witch he had been two hours ago. He was positive there was no-one around to see him like this, so why was his pert witchy ass still sweating into a pair of silk witchy panties?

Elliot had been blessed—or cursed—with a strange gift. Ever since a mysterious incident involving a fortune cookie, he appeared to others exactly as they perceived him. At first, it was wonderful. His coworkers thought he was confident and suave, and so he looked confident and suave: tall, broad-shouldered, jaw like a movie hero. He didn’t even need to hit the gym; other people’s admiration did the reps for him. But the gift was fickle. When his mother saw him, he shrank a little. “You look tired, dear,” she’d say, and he’d immediately sprout dark circles. When his boss imagined him as “a bit of a pushover,” his tie seemed to tighten like a leash. Still, most of the time, people thought he was some kind of Adonis. So he rolled with it.

Then came Halloween. Elliot, emboldened by beer and bravado, decided to attend the office party as a joke: “Sexy Witch.” He bought a wig, boots, hat and a black cape, the whole witchy nine yards, and the plan was to arrive in full drag, blow everyone’s minds, and leave before HR could react. The moment he entered the party, something shifted.

“Oh my God, Elliot,” said Lisa from accounting, “you actually make a really pretty woman.” And just like that, he felt a tingle. His reflection in the punch bowl showed softer features, longer lashes. The curse—always listening—had taken note. The more they admired, the more he changed. Hips rounded. Shoulders narrowed. His voice slipped an octave higher. By midnight, he was—quite literally—a stunning woman.

The next morning, he woke up expecting to find it all reversed. But the mirror showed the same reflection: smooth skin, cascading hair, and an alarming lack of stubble. Panicking, he called his best friend, followed by coworkers, old classmates, even his mother. Everyone remembered him as Ella. Apparently, the party photos had cemented it: a beautiful, confident woman who everyone swore had always been that way. No one remembered the old him. And because no one remembered, the curse had no other image to work with.

Weeks passed. Ella learned to walk in heels, because flats made her look like she was “trying too hard.” Every reflection showed what others believed—a flawless illusion she could never undo.

Hence the woods – the dark isolated corner of the woods perfectly befitting of a witch. No-one was around to see him as a mischievous sex-cauldron and yet here he was – beholden under the gaze of even Mother Nature. Elliot sighed and leaned back against a deadfall. Next Halloween he was totally going as Dracula... 

The Opportunist (Bimbo Note)

 7/25

The rest of my Bimbo Note captions are linked on my index

Azalea looked out from her lonely booth at the RompCon Adult Entertainment convention. The crowd before her was a pick’n’mix of chesty internet whores, cosplay camgirls and the usual neckbeards that hugged their shadows. There were six foot amazons clad in latex and chains, tattooed anime chicks with brightly coloured hair and even guys and girls dressed as that weird kawaii Aiko chick that had taken over the deviant side of the internet a few years ago. Yet, like countless other OnlyFemmes creators with booths at the convention, Azalea sat perched on a high-stool – avoided like a bad stench.

She scanned the bustle of jiggling flesh bitterly until her eyes stopped on a circle of excited chicks in platform heels huddled around a figure that she could not quite see. Their micro skirts rose up their backsides exposing a rainbow of neon g-strings as they leaned in excitedly. Stupid sycophants Azalea muttered to herself. Stupid faceless air-headed twats, she spat bitterly.

The huddle broke as one of the girls dragged the object of their affection over to an area set up for taking photographs with a background hanging from the ceiling above. Their quarry was a handsome man of about 30 and Azalea felt a pang of recognition. He was that guy from that show everyone was talking about – yet somehow she couldn’t quite place the name of the show or its star. Subconsciously, she reached to the table on her right and placed her hand on the Bimbo Note. Who the fuck is he?! She began to stroke the pages like a clitoris as she watched the giggling sluts snap selfies with the famous actor.

Oh, for fucks sake… she gasped under her breath suddenly realising how much she wanted him. She grew wet under her signature catsuit as he posed for photo after photo will his perfect smile and perfect hair. But the name wouldn’t come, and despite the warmth that was rapidly spreading between her thighs, neither could she.

Enough! Azalea snatched up the old book, left her booth and strode over to the impromptu photoshoot. Pushing between a girl with fake tits and a bunny outfit, and other dressed as some kind of angel, she opened the Bimbo Note to a clean page and conjured her sweetest smile.“May I have your autograph please, sir?” she pushed out her chest and batted her eyelids, and he duly obliged. Grinning coyly, she snapped the tome closed, shoved one of angel-girls' stupid wings out of the way and exited the crowd to let the magic happen.

Excitement rapidly turned to confusion as the group of fans simultaneously lost track of their fixation. Azalea smirked as they turned around like lost children. The famous actor they had been fawning over just moments before was nowhere to be seen, and one by one they walked away with matching looks of disappointment.

Only one figure remained – a fake looking blonde with huge breasts wearing little more than a string negligee and an empty expression. The thrum between Azalea’s legs was back and she felt if she didn’t come soon, she was going to lose her mind.

“Hey, hot stuff!” she winked at her creation. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. There is an exhibition area over there for us performers. What do you say we go and give people a real reason to take some pictures?!”

Whatever Happened to Donatello? (The Offering)

 Original Caption

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Memories (an Aiko story)

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Rare Treat (an Aiko Story)

 All my Aiko stories are on my index page in order

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sissy vs Sissy vs Sissy Part 4

 6/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever Happened to David? (Blind Ambition)

 Original Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever.

Meta-Morphosis Part 4 [COMMISSION]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Meta-Morphosis Part 3 [COMMISSION]

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samantha...

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

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.