Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

“I need a proper master,” he said, with his voice cracking. I smirked. Beta males like him are easy. They’re predictable. They think submission is a shortcut to feeling alive. I named my price and he handed over his wallet without hesitation.

He called himself “Luke.” I told him to drop the name. “You’re Luce now,” I said, savoring the way his breath hitched. I made him kneel, of course, then crawl to fetch my boots. He obeyed, but there was something off. His hands trembled not from fear, but from eagerness.

“I need a proper master”

The first time I made him cry, he moaned. That’s when I noticed he liked it. “More,” he whispered. I tilted his chin up. “You’re pathetic,” I told him, and he gasped as if I’d given him a compliment. So I pushed further. Stripped him bare and made him beg for scraps of attention. But when I unbuttoned his shirt, he froze. “No, no, the corset,” he pleaded. “I’m not a girl!” New clients usually beg for chains, not lace. Curiously, I tossed him a pink silk corset. He shivered as he put it on.

He wore it for a month. By the end, he’d stopped arguing when I swapped his pantalons for a skirt. Now, he sits outside my door every week, clutching his wallet, ready to kneel. I let him call me “ma’am” again. I think he’s found a sanctuary in shame.

Tonight, I painted his nails. He didn’t flinch when I dipped the brush in red polish. In fact, he relished it. Squealed with delight when the polish dried and started photographing his hand. I asked if he was planning to post them and he smirked. “No. Never.” He just wanted a keepsake. They all do the same thing when I crack the code and turn them into a girl.

The corset was never a punishment. It was a graduation.

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