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A 25-year-old virgin engaged to his pretty fiancée, Warren has a secret: since age eleven, he’s been dressing in stolen stockings and heels, calling his femme side Willow. A late-night ride from silver-haired David Sterling ends in a Soho penthouse, where a wardrobe of wigs and wet-look lycra awaits. David sees Warren’s potential, and he intends to make him his live-in plaything.
Warren stands in David's penthouse doorway, the city lights glowing behind floor-to-ceiling windows, and sees a rolling rack of wet-look lycra, silk robes, and a blonde wig on a stand. David gestures
Warren stands in the black latex dress as David guides him to the vanity, where the stockings, breastplate, corset, and makeup wait in a gleaming row. David's hands move with quiet authority, rolling
Warren wakes to gray light and the absence of David's weight, the collar still locked around his throat, the cage a dull ache between his thighs. On the pillow beside him lies a single key on a silver
Willow stands in the dining room doorway, the ruby collar catching the light, and sees Claire's green eyes widen with recognition. David's hand is a steady pressure on her back as he guides her to the
Willow stands in the foyer at 8:45 a.m., dressed in Warren's jeans and a plain sweater, the ruby collar hidden under a high collar, her cage a cold secret beneath the fabric. David's driver waits outs