He wasn’t just dressing up. No, this was worship, the slow unveiling of the art of femme itself. Stockings slid up his thighs with a soft snap, garters clipped into place like shackles of pleasure. His chest rose and fell faster as he painted his lips, his hand shaking but sure, writing the word feminine in crimson.
He twirled once before the mirror, watching the boy dissolve. Each touch of mascara erased him further, each wiggle of hips drowned the past. He didn’t need to be told, he was her now.
The art of feminization wasn’t something he put on. It was something that had always been inside, waiting, purring, begging to be touched. And tonight, he finally listened.
