Greg stood before the mirror, his long-bleached hair falling in soft waves over his padded chest, a tiny pink satin dress trimmed in fluffy feathers clinging to his slimmed, feminized frame, the towering white lace-up boots giving him an exaggerated, almost doll-like posture. I had done this to him—on purpose, with a plan in mind. Greg had always been too cocky, too sure of his manhood, strutting around like the world revolved around him, taking my love and my body for granted. He was a good husband, sure, but he never truly saw me as the one in control, the one who could break him if I wanted. And one day, I decided I would. I wanted to own him, to humiliate him, to make sure he could never hold power over me again. Stripping away his manhood was my revenge and my thrill, reshaping him into my obedient little sissy who cooed and pouted for my attention.
Once, he could take me with the kind of hunger that made my body ache for more; now, he giggled about his “pussy” and begged me to use the strap-on, his castrated, chemically softened body incapable of ever making me feel like a woman again. He twirled for me, phone in hand, snapping another selfie in the same breathless, self-absorbed tone he’d adopted since the hormones had taken hold. “You love it when I’m your pretty little slut, don’t you, Mandy?” he said, voice pitched higher, trying to sound seductive. But all I felt was a dull, ugly resentment coiling in my stomach. I had ruined him-no, I had ruined us, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop the act, not tonight, not while he was prancing around in the fantasy I had built for him. What he didn’t know, what I kept locked deep inside, was that I craved the heat of a real man’s touch again, the kind of passion no amount of pink satin or fake moans could ever give me. Maybe, its time he experiences a real man’s touch as well.
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