This Is What You Are Ch. 01

Thanks for the feedback/comments on my first few attempts at writing on here. This is another story I've been working on. Let me know if you want me to continue the story! Enjoy!

(All characters are over 18)

*GEORGE*

George sat in the car, unmoving.

The engine was off, but the key remained in the ignition like a lifeline, a last tether to the world outside this moment. Faint blue light from the dashboard illuminated the dark interior, catching on his hands where they clenched the wheel -- white-knuckled, damp.

His phone sat face-down in the passenger seat, silent. He hadn't touched it in almost fifteen minutes. Not because he didn't want to -- he did. Desperately. But there was nothing left to check. No new messages. No missed calls. No last-minute excuse from fate. He had memorised the address. Halfway down the block. A plain black door with no markings. No signs. No windows. Just a row of brass numbers above it that glinted faintly under the streetlight. Ordinary. Forgettable.

It terrified him.

He stared at that door like it might open on its own. Like it might suddenly disappear and take the choice out of his hands. But it stayed closed. Still. Silent. Waiting.

His body was strung tight. His jaw ached from clenching. His thighs pressed together like a reflex; the muscles locked in place. He adjusted his sleeves again and again, a nervous tic that had returned with a vengeance. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling.

I can still leave.

The thought came fast. Loud. A flare in the dark. It wasn't the first time he'd had it. In fact, it had been circling him since he parked. Since before that. Since he hit "send." The temptation to abort felt like gravity, always pulling. He could start the engine, turn the wheel, drive back to... wherever. His apartment. A bar. A version of his life where he didn't need this.

But his body didn't move.

Because he knew he wouldn't leave. He wasn't lost. He wasn't confused. This wasn't an accident.

He had stumbled across her website late one night, after too many hours spent searching for something -- anything -- that might explain the gnawing ache inside him. He didn't know what he'd been typing into the search bar. Words he wouldn't dare say aloud. Things he didn't quite know how to name. And there it was. A black-and-white homepage. Spare. Elegant. Cool. The images were understated -- heels on bare skin, manicured nails gripping a leash, a closet of satin and lace with a banner that read: 'For Sissies Only.'

But it was the writing underneath that stopped him cold.

'I do not fuck. I own. I do not seduce. I command. I will unmake you, if you beg properly.'

He read it three times. The words curled around something raw in him and tightened.

He didn't even finish scrolling the page before opening his email. His hands shook as he typed. He didn't use his real name. He couldn't. That would make it too real, too exposed, too final. Instead, he created a new account, burned into existence for this one purpose. He chose the name "David." Not because it meant anything -- but because it didn't. Because it felt generic. Disposable. Safe.

He kept the message short. Terse. Emotionless on the surface. But each sentence had cost him something.

'Interested in sissification, humiliation. No experience. Need to feel small. Need to be told what I am.'

He hovered over the send button for a full minute before clicking it. He expected -- hoped -- for nothing. Maybe silence. Maybe rejection. Maybe a polite form letter telling him she was booked or didn't take first-timers. But she replied within the hour.

The email was blunt. Minimal.

'Arrive at the scheduled time. Knock once. Do not speak unless spoken to. You are not special.'

No "thank you." No greeting. Not even a signature. Just instructions. Command. And beneath it all, a tone that made his breath catch in his throat: cold, clinical, effortless.

He reread it again and again, trying to decipher what part of it made him feel like his ribs had been pulled open. Maybe it was the cruelty. Or the disinterest. Or the terrifying implication that she already knew what he needed better than he did.

He sent the deposit immediately. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Only the rush of adrenaline and a sick, breathless relief. Finally. Someone else was holding the wheel. All he had to do was show up.

And now he was here.

Parked on a quiet street in a part of the city he barely knew, dressed like himself but feeling like someone else. A stranger inside his own body.

His stomach churned.

The door was still closed.

His heart pounded in his chest, his ears. The pressure was unbearable. His thoughts looped in fevered circles. What if it was a scam? What if someone saw him? What if this was a mistake, a trap, a sign of some irreversible unravelling?

But deeper than all of that was something more humiliating.

What if it was exactly what he needed?

He didn't have the language to explain it. Not even to himself. Only the feeling. That hollow, echoing place inside him that had grown louder with every attempt to be something he wasn't. Every time he failed to want the right things. Every time he faked confidence, or dominance, or desire he didn't feel. Every time he looked in the mirror and didn't recognise the person staring back.

His breath hitched.

His hand moved to the car door handle.

He opened it.

The air outside was sharp -- biting cold against his cheeks, his nose. He barely noticed. The street was still deserted. Silent. Like it, too, was watching him. Judging. Approving. Waiting.

His steps were slow. Measured. Each one heavier than the last. His legs felt wrong beneath him, like they were moving without full permission. The door loomed larger with every breath.

There was still time to turn around.

Still time to pretend.

Still time to be someone else.

But George knew, with a sinking, terrifying certainty: this was the last moment he could ever lie to himself.

He reached the door.

Raised his hand.

Knocked once.

Just once.

*CASSANDRA*

The knock was soft. Barely there. A single, timid beat, like someone hoping the door wouldn't open.

Cassandra stood motionless.

She let the moment stretch, let the silence grow heavy. She imagined him on the other side -- nervous, sweating, heart pounding like a trapped animal. That silence was part of the ritual. It carved out space inside him, hollowing it, making room for her.

Then, without a word, she opened the door.

He stood exactly as she expected.

Too neat. Too zipped-up. He looked like he'd spent an hour trying not to look like he'd tried. His coat was tight to his chin, and his hands were stuffed into his pockets as if they might hide the tremble she could already see in his shoulders. His eyes flicked up -- brief, terrified contact -- then dropped instantly. Good. That told her everything.

"David," she said, letting the false name stretch into something shameful.

He twitched. Not just a flinch, but a crack. A little tear in the armour.

"You're late."

He wasn't. But she saw the panic register -- his lips parting, breath catching, an excuse about to form.

"Close the door," she snapped. "Follow. Don't speak unless I say so."

She turned without waiting, her heels echoing down the corridor like a metronome.

She didn't look back to see if he followed.

She already knew he would.

The room welcomed her like ceremony -- warm, low-lit, lined in velvet and shadow. It smelled faintly of jasmine, leather, and restraint. She stopped in the centre and turned.

He lingered at the doorway like a child too afraid to enter the classroom. Still zipped up. Still pretending.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

The command hit him like a slap. She saw it -- his chest froze mid-breath, the blood rising instantly to his cheeks. But his hands moved. He started with the coat. Then the sweater. The shirt. Each item folded, too carefully, like he thought presentation might earn him mercy.

It wouldn't.

When his fingers hovered at his belt, Cassandra stepped forward.

"All of it."

Her voice didn't change, but her presence did. She watched the tremor move through his hands. Watched the pink flush crawl up his neck. His shame had weight now.

The pants dropped. Then the boxers.

And there he was.

Naked.

Exposed.

He didn't cover himself -- but every line of his body tried to shrink. His arms stiff at his sides. His knees drawn inward. His jaw clenched tight as if bracing for judgment.

But there was no bracing for her.

She let her eyes drop.

And there it was.

His cock.

Hard.

Tiny.

It stood at attention like it hadn't gotten the memo. Thin. Delicate. Barely four inches. Red at the tip. Twitching.

"Oh my God," she said, voice rich with disgust.

And then she laughed.

A sharp, cruel sound -- low and unhurried.

"That's what you brought me?"

His eyes squeezed shut. His cock gave a pathetic, involuntary bounce.

"I knew it was going to be sad," she said, circling him like a predator, "but this? This is a fucking joke."

He opened his mouth -- words trembling at the edge.

"I -- I'm sorry -- "

She spun on him.

"Wrong."

His breath hitched.

She stepped in close, towering.

"Try again."

He swallowed.

"... I'm sorry, Mistress."

She let the title hang in the air like something sour.

Predictable. Expected. Weak.

She smiled -- slow, sharp.

"No," she said. "You don't get to call me that."

He blinked, confused.

She stepped in, close enough that he could feel the heat of her voice against his neck.

"You're not here to serve a goddess. You're here to be broken in."

She reached down and flicked his cock again. It bounced, useless, pathetic.

"You're here," she murmured, "to be told what you are."

Her hand moved to his chin, tilting his face up to meet hers.

"You'll call me Daddy."

His eyes widened.

She saw it -- something breaking deeper.

"Say it."

"... Yes, Daddy," he whispered.

Her smile widened.

"There's my little sissy."

She turned, eyes dragging over his naked body with theatrical disdain.

"Look at you," she said. "Blushing like a virgin. Standing there with your sad little dick"

She gestured to it.

"This is what gets you off? Being exposed? Being shamed?"

A pulse. A bead of precum. His cock responded before his mouth could.

Cassandra chuckled.

"You don't even deserve to be hard," she said. "That thing should be locked up, shoved between your legs while you beg me to pretend you're a girl."

She stepped closer.

"You're not a man. Don't even pretend. You're a fairy. A soft little sissy with a four-inch clit."

His face burned. His breath came faster.

"Oh, you like that," she said. "You like when Daddy calls you a sissy. That's what you are, right?"

He couldn't speak. His mouth worked around silence.

She laughed again, softer now.

"I bet you've been called that before," she murmured. "In school. In your head. Every time you failed to act like a man. Every time you looked at someone stronger and wished they'd just throw you down and use you."

He trembled.

"Go to the mirror," she said.

He obeyed instantly -- half-stumbling, red-faced, cock still leaking. He stood in front of the mirrored wall, hands behind his back, legs apart.

She followed slowly.

"Look at yourself."

He did.

"There's no hiding now."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"This is what arousal looks like for you. A blushing little sissy with a twitching clit who came crawling to Daddy because no real woman ever wanted him."

She walked behind him, eyes locked on his reflection.

"That's right. You're not just a loser. You're mine. A needy, soft, trembling sissy boy who gets off on being reminded of what he'll never be."

Her lips brushed his ear.

"Say it."

His voice broke.

"... I'm a sissy, Daddy."

"Louder."

"I'm a sissy, Daddy."

She smiled, slow and full.

"And now," she said, stepping back to admire the wreckage, "you're ready"

*GEORGE*

George was breathing too fast. He could feel it -- shallow, high in his chest, too rapid to hide. Each inhale seemed louder in the quiet room, like the sound alone might betray how far gone he already was. His hands were behind his back, just as she'd ordered, but they trembled slightly, fingers twitching with tension he couldn't contain. He wasn't sure if it was fear or arousal -- or both.

He had seen the photos on her website. Studied them. Obsessively. They hadn't prepared him.

She was towering. Devastating. Every line of her body radiated absolute control. She didn't need to speak to command the room -- her posture alone did it. She stood like someone who had never once been questioned, and would have laughed in the face of anyone who tried.

She looked like she belonged in a different world. A world with rules George couldn't begin to understand, let alone survive.

Her skin was golden brown and gleamed in the warm, amber lighting like oiled silk. Not a blemish, not a flaw. Smooth as power itself. Her shoulders were broad and bare, framed perfectly by the high tie of her black ponytail. It hung like a weapon behind her, long and thick, swaying subtly with every shift of her weight. She didn't move much. She didn't need to. The threat in her stillness was enough.

Her face was brutal in its beauty -- sharp cheekbones, full lips painted a severe red, and those eyes. Hazel, but not soft. Flecked with green and gold and something harder -- something dangerous. They locked onto him like she was reading his thoughts before he even had them.

She wore a black fishnet bodystocking that left nothing to the imagination. Her full breasts were framed perfectly by the webbing, nipples dark and tight through the fabric. The net hugged her body like it had been stitched to her skin -- flattening along her taut stomach, clinging to the wide flare of her hips, and curving over her thighs in a way that made George feel like he was sinking just looking at her. She was tall enough to make him feel small, even without the heels -- and the heels only added to the sense that the ground wasn't solid anymore. That the world now moved to her rhythm, not his.

And still -- his cock was hard.

Pathetically so.

He stood as she'd told him: legs apart, arms behind his back, naked and trembling under her gaze. His erection jutted forward like a mockery of itself -- small, thin, twitching. It looked pitiful, even to him. Especially to him. A four-inch flag of humiliation, standing tall for the woman who had already called it worthless.

She didn't say anything at first. Just stared.

He couldn't tell if her silence was judgment or disgust or curiosity. Or maybe worse -- maybe amusement. Her expression barely changed, but he felt stripped raw under it. She walked a slow circle around him, her heels clicking softly against the floor like punctuation.

And then she stopped in front of him again.

Her hand rose.

Smooth. Deliberate.

And then she grabbed it.

His cock pulsed in her grip.

She didn't even need her whole hand -- just her fingers. Her nails, immaculately painted, closed around it with disinterested ease, like she was inspecting something she already knew was broken.

"I can't fucking believe this thing," she said.

He flinched. Hard.

Her voice wasn't even loud. It didn't need to be. It was flat. Cold. Not angry -- just disappointed in a way that cut deeper than rage.

She gave it a lazy flick. It bounced pathetically.

"This is the saddest little cock I've ever seen."

Her fingers gave his cock a slow, casual stroke. It twitched helplessly, drooling more precum down his thigh.

He wanted to look away. Wanted to shrink, vanish, undo this.

Why the fuck was he here?

Why was he letting this happen?

Why was his cock so fucking hard?

She released him and he nearly stumbled from the sudden absence of touch.

Her hand had felt like judgment and approval all at once. And now that it was gone, he felt like a balloon cut from its string.

Cassandra walked another slow circle around him. Her heels moved like clockwork. Measured. Certain. The sound was terrifying in its calm.

Behind him now, her voice dropped.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

He hesitated. Swallowed.

"... A wife."

The air changed. Thickened.

She stepped back in front of him and stared as though she were only now seeing the full picture.

"A wife," she repeated. Her tone was light, amused, cruel. "Oh, sweetie."

She tilted her head, her ponytail slipping over her shoulder like a noose made of silk.

"And this is what she married?"

He burned.

"She doesn't know?" Cassandra continued, circling him again. "Or maybe she does. Maybe she sees how soft you are. How quiet. How desperate to please."

She leaned in.

"Does she know where you are right now?" she asked, voice like honey over a razor-blade. "Standing here naked in front of a woman you just met. With your pathetic little dick leaking like a fucking fairy."

He swallowed again. Couldn't speak.

She stepped in closer again. Close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin.

His cock twitched again, visibly, traitorously.

She leaned close, her breath warm against his face. She let her body close the space between them, her full breasts brushing faintly against his chest. Her scent wrapped around him -- leather, jasmine, and control. Everything about her overwhelmed. Her height. Her stare. Her body. Her voice.

George looked up at her -- eyes wide, mouth parted. He couldn't hide anything anymore.

And she smiled. Wide. Dark. Certain.

He had never felt so exposed.

So humiliated.

So right.

*CASSANDRA*

Cassandra stood behind him, arms folded, watching his trembling reflection in the mirror like a painter surveying an unfinished canvas. He was naked -- completely -- but it wasn't his body that captivated her. It was the shame. The way it clung to him like perfume. The way it pulsed beneath his skin and made every breath visible. His posture was obedient, hands pressed behind his back just as she'd commanded, but there was still that flicker of resistance in the way he avoided her gaze. His eyes darted down, then back up -- never settling. His cock was stiff and twitching, trapped between panic and desperate need, as if it didn't know whether to run or surrender.

She took a slow step forward, letting her heels click softly against the floor. Each step was a promise. A warning. The room felt charged with it. She moved around him with deliberate precision, her presence sinking into him like a drug, and she could see it -- the way his muscles tightened whenever she passed too close. His body was betraying him already. Her hand grazed the bare skin of his back, trailing lightly down his spine, and he shivered beneath her touch.

"You poor thing," she murmured, voice soft and low. There was almost pity there, almost sympathy -- but both were hollow. She smiled, dark and knowing. "You've spent your whole life pretending to be a man, haven't you?" Her tone sharpened.

She flicked his cock with a dismissive snap of her fingers

He gasped. His hips jerked forward involuntarily. She watched the shame flare behind his eyes. Perfect.

"You were never meant for a woman," she said, circling him again. "Not in any way that matters. You're not what they want. You're not what they need." She let her voice drop to a slower, darker cadence -- soothing, cruel. "But I knew what you were the moment I saw you. I've broken a hundred men in this room, and every one of them thought they could hide it as well."

Cassandra walked to the wardrobe with slow, reverent steps. Her fingers curled around the silver handle, and she opened it like unveiling a shrine. The garments inside shimmered in soft light -- slutty, sweet, humiliating. Black fishnet stockings. Sheer mesh crop tops. Lace panties that looked like they'd fall apart if you breathed too hard. Candy-pink pleather skirts and heels high enough to snap an ankle. She pulled out the first piece: a tiny black thong, lined with lace and a satin bow. She held it up, watching the colour drain from his face.

"You're not built to lead," she said, stepping toward him again. "You're built to serve. Built to please. Built to obey."

She crouched and held the thong at his feet. "Step in."

He hesitated -- but only for a heartbeat. Then one foot. Then the other. She slid the fabric up over his thighs, relishing the way his breath hitched. The thong barely concealed anything. His cock strained against it uselessly.

Cassandra chuckled softly. "Like a little boy playing dress-up in his mommy's panties," she said, circling him again. "You don't even fill them properly."

His cheeks turned crimson. His voice, when it came, was faint. "Yes, Daddy..."

She reached for the matching bra -- black lace, see-through, with tiny satin bows on each strap. No padding. No pretence. Just decoration. She fastened it around his chest, letting the cups lie empty against his flat skin. The image it made was delicious: a parody of femininity. A mockery of masculinity. She adjusted the straps, tightened them just enough to bite. Then she ran her hands down his arms and stepped back.

"Look in the mirror," she commanded.

He did -- and his mouth parted slightly, shame and wonder colliding behind his eyes.

"No muscle. No definition. Nothing manly about you," she said, her voice a whip wrapped in velvet. "You're already making a very convincing little girl."

From the bottom shelf of the wardrobe, she retrieved the black fishnet stockings and the garter belt -- thick, lacy, slutty. The kind of thing that screamed for attention. She took her time dressing him. The garter sat snug on his hips. The stockings rolled up his legs with a satisfying rasp. Her nails scraped lightly along his thighs as she clipped them in.

Next was a short, body-con mini-dress in blinding bubble-gum pink. Sleeveless. Tight. It clung to his torso like a second skin, barely long enough to cover his ass. She pulled it down over his head slowly, savouring every inch of the transformation. His cock pressed against the front, a pathetic bulge trapped beneath shiny synthetic femininity.

But she wasn't finished.

From a small box on the dresser, she retrieved the last two pieces: a platinum-blonde wig, styled in loose curls -- and a pair of pink heels. Five inches, platformed, with ankle straps and little black bows at the toes.

She crowned him with the wig first, smoothing the curls into place until they framed his flushed, uncertain face. Then the heels. She knelt, lifting each foot and buckling the straps carefully. When she stood back, she couldn't help but smile.

Now he was perfect.

"Walk," she said simply.

He blinked. Confused. Frightened.

"Strut, sissy," she barked. "You're not a man anymore. You're this. You were born to do this. I could tell the moment you walked in the door."

He took a step. Wobbled slightly. Another. The heels forced his hips to sway. Forced his legs to move with an exaggerated, delicate rhythm. He looked ridiculous. Beautiful. Humiliated.

"Again," she said, folding her arms.

He walked the length of the rug, ass swishing in the bodycon dress, heels clacking on the floor. She saw it -- the way each movement deepened the shame and also, impossibly, soothed it. His eyes glistened. He didn't dare speak.

"Pose for me," she said. "Hands on your hips. Stick out that ass."

He obeyed, cheeks flaming. The pose was absurd. A parody of a pinup girl. But Cassandra's smile widened.

"Good girl," she whispered.

Another pose. One knee bent. Hands behind his head. Wig bouncing as he shifted weight. He looked like every slutty doll he'd ever secretly wanted to be. And now he was one.

"You're already better than most of them," she said under her breath -- partly to him, partly to herself. "The ones who come here full of fake confidence, thinking they're topping from the bottom. They break easy, but they don't feel it. You do."

He froze, looking at her through the mirror.

She stepped toward him, gently ran a gloved hand down his cheek."You're mine now."

She leaned close to his ear.

"Now, what do I call you?" She thought for a moment, "I know... Candy"

The name landed like a collar clicking into place. His whole body jolted. His cock throbbed beneath the tight thong.

"Say it," she commanded.

He hesitated. Then: "I'm... Candy."

She grabbed his chin, forced him to look at himself.

"Yes," she whispered. "You are."

And as she stepped back and watched him stand there -- heels tall, legs trembling, dressed like a perfect little fuckdoll -- Cassandra felt something rare.

The thrill of discovery.

Candy wasn't a persona. Candy wasn't a phase.

Candy was a truth.

And now, she was ready.

*GEORGE*

George stood before the mirror, breath held, heart pounding, every inch of his body wrapped in a tension that felt more like reverence than fear. The girl staring back at him wasn't a fantasy anymore. She wasn't a lie. She was real. Shimmering under warm amber lights, she was soft, exposed, aching -- and she was him.

The dress clung to his frame like a confession, hugging every line of his form. The fabric stretched across his chest and clung to the curve of his waist, drawing down to his thighs and skimming just beneath his ass. It wasn't made to conceal. It framed him, amplified him, made every shift of his hips feel like a performance. The dress rode high enough to flash the garter belt clamped tightly around his waist, and each movement made the hem threaten to rise even higher, teasing with glimpses of the black lace thong beneath.

His cock pulsed like something lost and needy, desperate to be noticed, yet barely deserving of the attention. The fabric cupped it cruelly, pulling tight, shaping it into something helpless, humiliating, and unmistakably aroused.

His legs were trembling inside tight black fishnet stockings. The heels forced him to stand in a way that was foreign and intoxicating. Each step, each slight sway of his hips, made him feel delicate and performative. His movements were no longer his own. They belonged to the image in the mirror.

He turned slightly, watching his body move, watching the way the fabric pulled and shaped him.

He looked like something drawn from a fantasy too shameful to say aloud. He looked vulgar. Exposed. And it was everything he had ever wanted to be.

Behind him, Cassandra's reflection emerged in the mirror, silent at first. She crossed her arms and studied him, not like a person, but like an artist standing before her canvas, admiring her own brutal masterpiece. And then, with a smile so faint it barely curled her lips, she spoke.

"Good girl."

The words struck him like a spark down the spine. His stomach clenched. His cock jumped visibly in the soaked satin. Just two words -- and he could feel himself unravelling. He didn't have to be told he was hers. He already knew.

She crossed the room, each click of her heels a quiet command. She opened a drawer at the vanity and retrieved a tube of lipstick -- thick, glossy, obscene. The colour was red like sin. She uncapped it slowly and looked at him.

"Sit."

He moved instantly, folding down onto the velvet stool with his knees tight together and hands neatly folded in his lap. The dress clung tighter now, the hem sliding even higher. His thighs trembled from the heels, from nerves, from anticipation. Cassandra stepped in behind him, her fingers cool and steady as she lifted his chin and applied the lipstick. She didn't do it delicately. She didn't try to be precise. She dragged the pigment wide across his mouth, drawing just past his natural lip line, making him look ridiculous. Erotic. Like a fuckdoll meant to be ruined.

When she was finished, she turned the mirror slightly toward him.

"Look at you," she murmured. "Slutty little thing. This is what you were always meant to be."

He stared at himself, lips parted, glossy and red. He didn't even need to speak. He was made for this.

"On your knees."

Cassandra turned and moved to the wardrobe. When she returned, she was strapping into a harness -- thick black leather hugging her hips, chrome buckles shining in the light. The cock she mounted was long, curved, slick, already glistening.

When she turned to face him, it jutted out from her body like it belonged there, like it had always been there. It was enormous. Alive.

She stepped forward and rested the head of it against his lips.

"You know what to do."

He kissed it. Gently. Reverently.

Again.

Then he opened his mouth.

The cock slid in -- warm, thick, unrelenting. His lips stretched, the head dragging across his tongue. He moaned around it. It was too big. Too much. And exactly what he needed. He gagged, coughed, but didn't stop. His hands gripped her thighs for balance as he swallowed more.

"Oh, look at that," Cassandra murmured, her voice low and satisfied. "So eager. So desperate. Like your mouth's been aching for this your entire life."

He gagged again, drool spilling down his chin. The lipstick smeared instantly across the shaft. Red. Wet. Marked.

"Have you done this before, sissy?" she asked.

He shook his head, choking softly.

"No?" Her voice turned smug. "Then you're a natural. Just look at you. Look how well your mouth wraps around Daddy's cock."

He whimpered around her. His thighs pressed together. His cock pulsed against the wet fabric.

She didn't need to thrust. She let him do the work. Let him prove himself. And he did. Lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowing with effort, spit painting the base of the cock. He sucked until his jaw ached and his vision blurred.

When she finally pulled him off, his lipstick was ruined. His chin slick with spit. His eyes glassy.

"Bend over."

He climbed back onto the stool, leaned forward, pressed his face to the cushion, and raised his ass. The dress gathered around his waist. His thong slid down easily this time, leaving him completely bare.

Cassandra knelt behind him. Her hands ran over the soft skin of his ass, spreading him open. He felt the first touch of her fingers -- cool, slick -- circling his hole.

"Already leaking," she murmured.

He trembled.

She didn't rush. One finger slid in -- slow, teasing, stretching him gently. Then another. Her fingers curled, pressed deep, worked him open until his cock was dripping freely onto the velvet. He gasped with every twist, every nudge. It was unbearable. It was divine.

"You want my cock?" she whispered.

"Yes, Daddy -- please -- "

"You need it?"

"I need it -- I need to be filled -- please -- "

"Beg for it."

"Please fuck me -- please -- Daddy, I want to be your sissy -- I want to be your hole -- please, use me -- "

She rose behind him.

The tip of the cock pressed against his slick entrance.

Then she pushed.

The head forced its way inside, slow and steady. His hole stretched around it, protesting at first -- then swallowing. Deeper. Thicker. Wider than he thought he could take. His fingers clawed at the cushion. His thighs shook.

It was too much.

It was perfect.

She filled him inch by inch, not pausing until the entire length was buried inside him. He gasped, legs trembling, hole clenching around the fullness. It felt like she was still growing inside him, like she would never stop.

And then she started to move.

Slow at first -- testing. Watching.

Then harder.

And George broke.

George's face was flushed, his cheek pressed to the vanity cushion, breath coming in soft, shattered gasps. The dress had ridden up his waist completely now, exposing the full curve of his ass. His black lace thong was twisted around one ankle, soaked, forgotten. His cock -- small, aching, untouched -- dripped a slow, humiliating line of precum against the stool beneath him.

And Cassandra was still inside him.

She gripped his hips, firm and controlling, her strap-on buried deep in his slick, twitching hole. Her thrusts were slow and steady, deliberate, like she was carving her shape into him. Each time she pulled back, he felt empty. Each time she drove forward, he gasped -- his muscles clenching involuntarily, sucking her in deeper, needing more.

He watched himself in the mirror. Watched his mouth hang open, his lipstick ruined and smeared. The wig was slipping off his brow, curls bouncing with every thrust. He looked like a broken doll, fucked open and still begging for more.

And then she said it.

"Imagine if your wife could see you now."

The words hit like a slap. Shame surged through him -- hot, suffocating, unbearable.

But then his cock throbbed. A heavy pulse that betrayed him completely.

His breath caught.

He moaned.

She leaned over him, her body weight pressing against his back as she whispered right into his ear.

"She thought she married a man," Cassandra said, voice syrup-smooth and venom-sharp. "But I see what you really are."

He didn't answer.

She slammed her cock deeper.

"Say it."

"I..." He hesitated. Shame curled tight in his chest.

"Say what you are."

"I'm a... I'm a sissy," he whispered.

Cassandra's hand came down hard on his ass, the smack echoing through the room.

"Again. Louder"

"I'm a sissy!" he moaned.

"That's right. A little sissy fag. Bent over. Getting fucked like a whore while his wife is at home."

He sobbed into the cushion, torn between guilt and pure, helpless pleasure. It felt like something inside him had cracked open -- and Cassandra was fucking herself inside the hollow.

And then, without warning, she pulled out.

His hole clenched around the sudden emptiness. He gasped, dizzy.

Before he could fully process it, her hands grabbed him by the waist and lifted him off the stool.

"Get on the bed," she ordered.

He stumbled over, heels clicking softly across the floor, legs weak and shaking. He climbed onto the bed and lay on his back, spreading his legs automatically, shamelessly. The dress was still hitched up over his hips. His cock twitched against his stomach.

Cassandra climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs, the thick strap-on glistening between her legs.

He reached for his cock --

"Don't you dare touch yourself," she growled.

He froze.

She grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the mattress above his head. Her strength startled him. Her dominance overwhelmed him. She held him there, legs spread, cock exposed, completely vulnerable.

"I want you to cum," she said, lowering herself until the head of her strap-on pressed against his slick hole. "But not from that pathetic thing between your legs."

She pushed inside him -- slow, steady, devastating.

He whimpered, already shaking.

"Because that's what you are, isn't it? A little sissy hole."

She started to fuck him harder, riding him now. Her hips slammed into his thighs, the cock plunging deep with every thrust.

"You don't fuck. You get fucked."

"Yes -- yes, Daddy -- "

"You don't please women. You beg for cock."

"Yes -- yes -- please -- "

"You don't deserve a wife."

"I -- I know -- "

"You deserve this," she snarled. "To be on your back taking cock like a desperate little cumdump."

He was close. He could feel it. The pressure building in his gut. His cock ached, bobbing with every thrust, untouched and slick with his own need.

"You're going to cum," Cassandra said, her voice now low, wicked, triumphant. "And when you do, you'll know who you are. What you were made for."

"Please -- Daddy -- please -- "

"Say it. Say who you are."

"I'm a sissy -- I'm your sissy -- I was made to be fucked -- made to be used -- "

"Say it again."

"I'm a hole -- I'm your hole -- I'm nothing without your cock -- "

And then it happened.

His whole body arched off the bed. His toes curled in the heels. His mouth fell open in a silent scream. His cock jerked once, twice -- then erupted in a weak, shuddering orgasm. Thin, helpless streams of cum spilled across his stomach, twitching from the force of it.

And even as his body trembled in the aftermath, Cassandra didn't stop. She slowed -- just enough to let him feel the depth, the stretch, the burn of being filled -- and leaned down over him again.

She dragged her fingers through the mess on his belly.

And held it to his lips.

"Taste it."

He stared. Eyes wide.

She pressed her fingers in.

His lips parted. He tasted himself.

Salty. Warm. Wrong.

He'd never done that before.

Part of him wanted to resist.

Instead, he swallowed.

*CASSANDRA*

Stillness. That was always Cassandra's favourite part.

The moment after. After the moans had quieted. After the begging collapsed into breathless panting. After the body underneath her stopped writhing and simply was. The stillness of realisation. Of surrender. When the man lying there stopped pretending to be anything else.

He was no longer writhing. He lay sprawled on the bed beneath her, breath shallow, chest rising and falling in uneven little shudders. The dress was bunched high around his waist, clinging to his stomach in sticky folds of synthetic shine. His thighs trembled faintly, heels still perched awkwardly on his feet like a final piece of costume no one had bothered to remove. His tiny cock twitched once against the pale skin of his belly, resting in the aftermath of its humiliating release -- pathetic, untouched, yet somehow more honest than anything that had come before.

His face was flushed and stained. Red lipstick smeared wide around his mouth like a leftover kiss he hadn't earned. The platinum wig had shifted slightly, curls sticking to the sweat on his cheeks. He didn't look composed. He didn't look clean. He looked wrecked. Exposed. Beautiful.

Cassandra remained still above him, seated across his hips, gloved hands resting gently on his thighs. Her strap-on -- slick with lube, coated in the residue of his surrender -- was still buried inside him. She could feel the involuntary clench of his body around it, as if he didn't want to let go. As if some part of him had already decided she belonged there.

She didn't move. She didn't need to. She'd done this enough times to know what came next.

She could already see it begin.

The breathing slowed first. Not calm -- controlled. Measured. Then the tension crept back in. A subtle tightening of the shoulders. The soft retreat of his hands, drawing in toward his chest. His eyes stopped drifting in that post-orgasmic haze and began scanning the room -- searching for clothes, for distance, for something solid to cling to. But he never looked at her. They rarely did.

The silence stretched. And then, quietly, almost like he hoped she wouldn't hear: "I should, uh... I should probably get going."

Cassandra didn't blink. Of course he should. Of course he wanted to. It was what they all wanted, the first time. Not because they didn't enjoy it. Not because it hadn't meant anything. But because it had meant too much. Because it shook something loose that was never going back.

She nodded once, rising from his lap with unhurried grace. She didn't make a sound as she unbuckled the harness, letting the strap-on fall limp between them. The absence it left in him was immediate. She could see it in the way his breath caught, the faint twitch in his thighs, the hollow flicker in his expression. His body already missed her. But his mind had caught up. His mind was running.

He sat up slowly, carefully adjusting the dress back over his hips. His movements were stiff, cautious. Like he was afraid to touch anything too directly -- especially himself. His hands trembled slightly as he reached up to remove the wig. Cassandra watched the reverence in his fingers. He didn't throw it aside. He didn't glare at it. He set it down with quiet care, as though it might break, or worse -- reignite something if he held it too long.

Next came the heels, one at a time, then the stockings. He peeled the fishnets from his legs as if trying to erase their imprint. Then the bra. The black lace looked so empty in his hands. As if even it couldn't believe it was being taken off so soon. And the thong -- still damp, clinging. Cassandra didn't look away. She watched it all, her expression unreadable. Not cruel. Not angry. Maybe... just a little... disappointed.

He dressed in silence. The armour of boyhood went back on piece by piece -- boxers, jeans, belt, socks. Shirt. Jacket. With each layer, he seemed to shrink further. The sharp angles of guilt returned to his face. The stiffness of obligation to his posture. But it wasn't just that. Cassandra could feel something else in him. Something deeper than fear. Grief, perhaps. Longing. The awful awareness that something true had been touched tonight -- and was already being buried again.

She turned away, giving him space. At the vanity, she began to clean up. The lipstick tube went back into its drawer. The brush. The discarded garters and cuffs. The scent of sweat and sex still hung in the air, sweetened by the faint trace of jasmine. She didn't look at him, but she didn't need to. She could feel the shift in his energy. The same tight urgency. The polite exit. The instinct to flee before something real caught hold.

"Thanks for..." he said behind her. His voice was thin, brittle. "For everything."

She turned, just slightly, and met his eyes for the first time since he'd started dressing. She held the moment for what it was -- no illusion, no seduction. Just a look.

"You're welcome," she said.

Nothing more.

He nodded quickly -- too quickly -- and moved toward the bathroom. His hip clipped the edge of the stool, making it wobble slightly, but he didn't react. The door clicked closed behind him. The water began to run.

Cassandra exhaled softly, folding a pair of lace panties between her gloved fingers. She could picture it perfectly. George at the sink, hands braced on either side, staring into the mirror like it might save him. Scrubbing at his lips. Wiping the sweat from his brow. Trying to wash away the expression she'd dragged to the surface. They always did. As if water could undo what had been undone.

She didn't knock. She didn't pace. She waited. She'd seen this before. The first-timers. The ones who bloomed and recoiled all in the same breath. The ones who saw themselves too clearly in the mirror and panicked. She never chased them. Never comforted them. If they were meant to return, they would.

Eventually, the water stopped.

He emerged dressed. Dry. Collected.

"Bye," he said, quickly. Lightly. Like they were acquaintances after a drink. Like he hadn't been moaning her name ten minutes ago.

Then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him. Final. Not cruel -- just... afraid.

Cassandra stood alone in the stillness of the room. The warmth of his body still lingered on the sheets. The scent of him still clung to her thighs. But the silence wasn't sacred anymore. It was hollow. The kind of quiet that only comes after something real gets buried too soon.

She turned to the bed. The dress was crumpled on the edge, half inside-out, clinging to the shape of his hips. She smoothed it gently between her hands, folded it with care, and set it aside. The thong -- wet, thin, almost translucent now -- went into her laundry bag. She collected the garter belt and stockings, the wig, the heels. Each piece still held heat. A trace of him.

And that was when she saw it.

Half-tucked beneath the velvet cushion of the stool, forgotten in the quiet rush of retreat, lay a wallet.

She picked it up.

Plain. Real. Not staged. Not left on purpose.

She opened it without hesitation.

Driver's license. George Mason.

His birthdate. His photo. His address.

Cassandra's lips curled into a knowing smirk.

She turned the ID over in her gloved fingers, then slid the wallet into the top drawer of her vanity.

It wasn't over.

Not even close.