The lock clicked behind them, and Willow felt the sound in her chest—final, deliberate, the way David did everything. The living room was dim, the curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun, and he stood in the center of it with his arms crossed, a dark silhouette against the fading light. She stood in the doorway in her gray suit, her briefcase still in her hand, her stockings whispering against each other as she shifted her weight from one heel to the other.

"Take it off," he said. Not a question. Not a suggestion. The command settled over her like a hand on the back of her neck.

She set the briefcase down. Her fingers found the top button of her jacket, and she worked it free, then the next, then the next, her movements slow, deliberate, the way she'd practiced in the mirror a thousand times. The jacket fell from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, and she stepped out of it, leaving it crumpled on the hardwood floor.

"The shirt," he said.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the buttons. The white cotton was damp at her collar, clinging to her skin, and she could feel the heat of him watching her, measuring her, cataloging every hesitation. She undid the buttons one by one, and when she shrugged the shirt off, the black lace of her bra caught the light—a stark, hungry contrast against her pale skin.

"You've been wearing this all day," he said, stepping closer. His voice was low, almost gentle, but there was steel beneath it. "Sitting at your desk. Typing numbers. Leaking into your panties, knowing I was watching."

She nodded, her throat too tight for words.

"Say it."

"Yes, Daddy." Her voice came out thin, breathy, not quite her own. "I was wet all day. I couldn't stop thinking about you."

He circled her, slow, deliberate, and she felt his gaze on her back, on the straps of her bra, on the waistband of her panties visible above her pencil skirt. His finger traced the line of her spine through the lace, and she shivered, her clitty twitching against the wet fabric of her panties.

"This is the last time I see you in this suit," he said. "Tomorrow you start as Willow. The office can have Warren's resignation in the morning."

Her breath caught. "Tomorrow?"

"You're done being him." He stopped in front of her, his dark eyes holding hers. "You've been practicing. You've been leaking. You've been dreaming of this. Don't pretend you're surprised."

She wasn't. She'd known it was coming—had felt it building in her like a pressure behind her sternum, the way Warren had been dissolving day by day, hour by hour, until there was barely anything left of him but a suit and a name and a fading memory of a man who'd never quite fit. She looked down at her hands, at the French nails that matched her lip gloss, and she felt the truth of it settle into her bones.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

"I know." His hand came up, cupped her chin, tilted her face toward his. "That's why you need me."

He took her hand—his palm warm and dry, his fingers closing around hers with a certainty that made her knees weak—and he led her out of the living room, down the hall, into the bedroom. The curtains were drawn here too, the room cool and dim, and on the bed lay the catsuit: a diaphanous, nearly transparent white shiny thing with long sleeves and an open back that dipped low, low, low, almost to the top of her buns. Beside it sat a pair of lucite white mules with eight-inch heels and two-inch platforms, and the collar—her silver collar, engraved with her name and his—waited on the pillow like a promise.

She stared at it, her heart hammering. "Is that—"

"That's yours," he said. "For tonight. For tomorrow. For every day after."

She reached out, her fingers brushing the slick surface of the catsuit, and the feel of it—cool and smooth and impossibly soft—sent a jolt through her. She'd worn things like this before, in secret, in the dark, but never like this. Never owned. Never claimed.

"David," she said, and her voice broke on his name.

"What is it, baby?"

She turned to face him, her eyes wet, her lips parted. "The first time I felt truly feminine—" She stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I was twenty-two. College. I was wearing these really short white shorts, too short and too tight, but I didn't know. I didn't care. I was too innocent to understand what I was doing."

He didn't speak. He just watched her, patient, waiting.

"I was leaving a bar on campus. It must have been midnight. This man—he approached me. He complimented me. He looked at me like he was undressing me with his eyes, and I—" She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. "He asked if I was gay. It was the first time anyone had ever asked me that. The first time I'd ever had to answer."

"What did you say?"

"I said no." She laughed, a small, broken sound. "But it wasn't true. It was never true. I just didn't have the words yet."

He moved closer, his hand finding her hip, his thumb tracing the waistband of her panties. "And after that?"

"Graduate school. MBA. I was walking home late one night, and a car stopped. A middle-aged man, ruggedly handsome, clean-shaven. He offered me a ride. I got in." She shivered at the memory. "He asked my name. Asked about my studies. Told me he wanted to invite me to his condo, to watch movies, to have coffee, dinner. He asked for my number, and he called. Once. Twice. Three times. He knew, David. He sensed it. It was so obvious, and I was so blind."

"You weren't blind," David said. "You were hiding."

"Yes." The word came out on a sob. "And then—my neighbor. She asked me to house-sit for her while she was away. I found her catsuit in her lingerie drawer. White, semi-sheer, not nearly as sexy as the one on your bed, but—" She closed her eyes, remembering. "It was soft. Shiny. Silky. I'd never felt anything like it. I held it in my hands, and I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't stop myself. I put it on. It fit like a glove. Like a second skin."

"And?"

"The arousal was electric. Automatic. I kept it. I never returned it. I wore it in secret, alone in the dark, and I hoped—" She opened her eyes, met his gaze. "I dreamed. I wished. That someone would see me. Discover me. Admire me. Humiliate me."

David's hand slid lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. "And now?"

"Now I have you."

He pulled her panties down, slow, deliberate, and she stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but her black lace bra, her stockings, her garter belt. Her clitty was a soft, wet stain against her inner thigh, leaking, aching, and she could feel his gaze on it, on her, on the evidence of her need.

"This was never a game," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "It was always real. I just didn't know how to say it."

"You don't have to say it anymore." He turned her, gently, his hands on her shoulders, and he guided her toward the bed. "You just have to feel it."

He bent her over the edge of the mattress, her cheek against the cool duvet, her ass in the air, her stockings stretched taut over her thighs. She felt his hands on her hips, spreading her, and then his thumbs parted her cheeks, and she gasped at the exposure, at the cool air on her most private places.

"So pretty," he murmured. "So pink. So ready."

She felt his breath on her, warm and close, and then his tongue—flat and hot and wet—dragged up the length of her crack, from her clitty to her hole, and she cried out, her fingers clawing at the duvet. He did it again, slower, savoring, and she felt herself dripping, her sissy hole clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please, Daddy."

"Please what?" His voice was a low rumble against her skin.

"Please eat me. Please fuck me. Please—" She couldn't finish. The words dissolved into a moan as his tongue circled her hole, teasing, tasting, and then he pressed inside her, and she felt the wet, insistent muscle of his tongue pushing into her, fucking her, and she came apart.

She felt his fingers join his tongue, one, then two, sliding into her slick, clenching hole, curling, pressing, finding the spot that made her see stars. He ate her like she was a meal, like she was his, like there was nothing in the world he'd rather be doing, and she sobbed into the duvet, her hips rocking back against his face, begging without words.

"That's it," he said, pulling back just long enough to speak. "That's my good girl. You're so wet for me, baby. So open. So mine."

She was dripping down her thighs, her clitty leaking against the mattress, her hole clenching around his fingers as he fucked her with them, slow and deep, stretching her, preparing her. She felt the heat building in her belly, the familiar, unbearable pressure, and she knew she was close, so close, but she couldn't come—couldn't, not without him—and she whimpered, desperate, pleading.

"Not yet," he said, pulling his fingers out, and she cried out at the loss. "Not until I'm inside you."

She heard him unzip his trousers, heard the rustle of fabric, and then she felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against her slick, open hole, and she pushed back against it, greedy, hungry, needing him so badly she could taste it.

"Please," she begged. "Please, Daddy. I need your cock. Please fuck me."

He pushed inside her, slow, inch by inch, and she felt herself stretch around him, felt the thick, hot length of him filling her, and she moaned, long and low, her eyes rolling back. He bottomed out inside her, his hips flush against her ass, and he held still, letting her feel every inch of him, letting her adjust, letting her ache.

"Look at you," he breathed. "So tight. So perfect. You were made for this, Willow. Made for my cock."

She couldn't answer. She could only feel—the stretch of him inside her, the weight of him, the heat. He pulled out, slow, until only the head remained, and then he pushed back in, deeper, harder, and she cried out, her body rocking forward against the mattress.

He fucked her slow and deep, each thrust a long, deliberate push that filled her completely, that pressed against every sensitive spot inside her, that made her see white. She felt his hands on her hips, gripping her, guiding her, and she matched his rhythm, rocking back against him, taking him deeper, wanting more, always more.

"That's it," he grunted. "Take it. Take all of it."

She was sobbing now, tears streaming down her cheeks, her body trembling with the effort of holding back her orgasm. She could feel it building, the pressure coiling in her belly, the heat spreading through her limbs, and she knew she was close, so close, but she couldn't come—not without his permission—and she whimpered, desperate, her fingers clawing at the duvet.

"Please," she begged. "Please let me come. Please, Daddy. I need it. I need—"

"Come," he said, and the word was a command, a gift, a release. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you."

She shattered. Her body convulsed around him, her sissy hole clenching and fluttering, her clitty spurting against the mattress, and she cried out his name, over and over, as the orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave, until she was limp and trembling, sobbing into the duvet.

He kept fucking her through it, slow and steady, drawing it out, and she felt his rhythm quicken, felt his grip tighten on her hips, and then he groaned, deep and guttural, and she felt him come inside her, hot and thick, filling her, claiming her.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, his breath ragged against her back, and then he pulled out, slow, and she felt his cum leak out of her, dripping down her thigh. She collapsed onto the mattress, her body spent, her mind empty, and she felt him move beside her, felt his hand on her back, stroking her, soothing her.

"Good girl," he murmured. "My good girl."

She turned her head, her cheek against the duvet, and looked at him. His dark eyes were soft now, almost tender, and he leaned down and kissed her forehead, a gesture so gentle it made her heart ache.

"Tomorrow," he said, "you become Willow. Forever. No more Warren. No more hiding. Just you, and me, and the life I'm going to give you."

She nodded, her throat too tight for words. She felt the weight of it—the finality, the freedom, the terror—and she knew, with a certainty that went bone-deep, that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

"I'm ready," she whispered. "I'm yours."

She felt the warm trickle of him still inside her, the slow leak of his cum sliding down her inner thigh, and she reached down without thinking, her fingers finding the slick, shiny mess. She brought them to her mouth and tasted him—salty, thick, unmistakably his—and she held his gaze as she sucked her own fingers clean, one by one, her lips parting around them, her tongue curling to catch every last drop. The stickiness clung to her skin, and she licked her palm, her wrist, chasing the taste of him, the evidence of what he'd done to her, what he'd filled her with.

"Good girl," he said, watching her, his voice low and rough with satisfaction.

She slid off the bed, her legs unsteady, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror showed her everything—the flush on her cheeks, the smudged perfection of her makeup, the way her body still trembled with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She turned on the tap and wet a cloth, then pressed it between her thighs, cleaning away the rest of him, the proof of his claim. The fabric came away streaked, and she wrung it out, watching the water run pink and cloudy.

She looked at herself in the mirror and reached for her makeup bag.

The eyeliner came first—black, precise, the wing sharp enough to cut. She drew it on with a steady hand, the tip tracing the curve of her lash line, and then the smoky shadow, blended up toward her brow, deepening the hollow of her eye. She added another coat of mascara, then a third, until her lashes were thick and dark, like small fans against her skin. The blush came next—a radiant pink, swept high on her cheekbones, making her look flushed, alive, like she'd just been thoroughly and completely fucked. She powdered her nose, her forehead, the shine at her temples, and then she reached for the gloss.

The lip plumper stung at first, a warm tingle that spread across her lips, making them swell, making them look fuller, softer, more obscene. She waited for it to settle, watching herself in the mirror, and then she applied the gloss—a wet, shiny layer that caught the light, that made her lips look like they'd been kissed, sucked, worshipped. She took the lip liner and traced the edge of her mouth, a shade darker than the gloss, defining the shape of her lips, making them look like pillows, like the kind of lips that were made to wrap around a cock.

She turned her face to one side, then the other, studying herself. She tilted her chin down, looked up through her lashes. She ran her tongue over her lips, watching the gloss shine, and she trembled—not from cold, not from fear, but from the sheer, dizzying thrill of seeing herself like this, of knowing she was beautiful, knowing she was his.

She stepped back into the bedroom. The catsuit lay on the bed where he'd left it, a shimmering white promise, and she reached for it with both hands. The fabric was cool and slick, impossibly soft, and as she stepped into it, pulling it up over her hips, she felt the built-in corset begin to work its magic—cinching her waist, lifting her chest, shaping her body into something impossible. The long sleeves slid over her arms, and she felt the material cling to her skin, every curve, every line, as if it had been made for her. The open back dipped low, almost to the top of her buns, and the neckline plunged, showing off the swell of her chest, the pale, smooth skin of her collarbones.

She turned to the full-length mirror and gasped.

The woman looking back at her was not Warren. She was not even the Willow she'd been before. She was something new—something sculpted, something perfect. The catsuit hugged her like a second skin, the corset cinching her waist into an hourglass, the fabric gleaming under the light, every inch of her smooth and shiny and impossibly feminine. She reached for the lucite mules, stepping into them, feeling the eight-inch heels lift her, tilt her, change the entire geometry of her body. Her ass pushed out, her chest lifted, her spine arched, and she stood there, trembling, feeling the sinful thrill rush back through her like a current.

She was beautiful. She was obscene. She was everything she'd ever dreamed of being.

"David," she breathed, turning to face him.

He was watching her with that dark, appraising gaze, and he crossed the room in three steps, his hands finding her hips, his fingers splaying over the slick fabric of the catsuit. He traced the curve of her ass, the small of her back, the dip of her waist, and she arched into his touch, her hips pushing forward, her body responding to him before her mind could catch up. He tilted her chin up and kissed her—deep, hungry, his tongue sliding into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her—and she felt the need begin to build again, even before she'd come back down from the last time.

"Let's go, Willow," he said, pulling back, his voice rough. "The driver's waiting. I'm taking you to a fetish shop with private rooms in the back. A glory hole. So you can be seen. So you can model some of the fetish wear for me."

Her breath caught. "A glory hole?"

"You heard me." He took her hand, his fingers closing around hers, and led her out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door. The elevator ride was silent, charged, and she could feel his eyes on her the whole way down, cataloging her, measuring her, already imagining what he was going to do to her.

The car was a black sedan, sleek and anonymous, and the driver—a large man in a dark suit—held the door open without looking at her. She slid into the back seat, the catsuit whispering against the leather, and David followed, his thigh pressing against hers, his hand resting on her knee, high, possessive.

The city slid past the tinted windows, the late afternoon light turning gold, and she watched the buildings blur by, her heart hammering in her chest. She could feel herself getting wet again, the slick heat between her thighs, the ache of him still inside her, the memory of his cock filling her. She pressed her thighs together, trying to contain it, but it only made it worse.

"You're leaking," David said, not looking at her, his voice flat and knowing.

She flushed. "I know."

"Good."

The car pulled up in front of a storefront she'd never seen before—a narrow, unmarked door between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor. A single red neon sign in the window read "FETISH" in looping script, and the windows were blacked out, revealing nothing. David got out first, then offered her his hand, and she took it, stepping out onto the sidewalk in her eight-inch heels, the catsuit gleaming under the streetlights.

The door buzzed as he pushed it open, and she stepped inside.

The shop was dim and cluttered, lined with racks of latex and leather, corsets and harnesses, collars and cuffs. The air smelled of rubber and leather and something faintly floral, and the man behind the counter—a wiry, tattooed figure with a pierced eyebrow—looked up as they entered, his eyes flicking over her, appraising her, lingering on the plunge of her neckline, the dip of her open back.

"David," the man said, nodding. "She's new."

"She is," David said. "I'm breaking her in."

The man grinned, a flash of gold tooth. "Rooms are in the back. You know the code."

David led her past the counter, through a beaded curtain, and down a narrow hallway lined with doors. He stopped at the last one, pulled a key from his pocket, and unlocked it. The door swung open onto a small, dimly lit room—a bench against the wall, a mirror, a shelf of toys, and on the far wall, a partition with a single, waist-high hole.

The glory hole.

She stared at it, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. She could feel herself trembling, the thrill and the terror mixing in her belly, making her knees weak.

"Strip," David said, closing the door behind them.

She turned to face him, her hands finding the zipper of the catsuit, and she pulled it down, slow, deliberate, letting the fabric fall away from her shoulders, her chest, her hips. She stepped out of it, the mules still on her feet, and stood before him in nothing but her lace panties, her stockings, her garter belt—her body still humming with the memory of what he'd done to her, still slick and open and aching for more.

"Good girl," he said, his voice low. "Now kneel."

She sank to her knees on the cold floor, her eyes on his, her lips parted, her heart in her throat. He reached down and unzipped his trousers, and she watched him free his cock—already hard, already leaking, thick and heavy in his hand—and he guided it to the glory hole, pushing the head through, so that it jutted out into the room beyond.

"Wait," he said. "Someone's coming."

She heard footsteps in the hallway, a muffled voice, and then a shadow fell across the partition. A hand appeared through the hole, wrapping around his cock, and she heard a low, appreciative groan from the other side. She watched, transfixed, as the hand began to move, stroking him, and she felt her own cunt clench, her own mouth water, desperate to be the one touching him, tasting him.

"You see?" David said, his voice strained. "This is what you want. This is what you are. A hole for me to use, a mouth for me to fill, a body for me to share."

She nodded, her throat too tight for words, and she crawled forward, her hands finding his hips, her mouth finding the base of his cock, where it disappeared through the hole. She licked him there, tasted the salt of him, and she heard him groan, felt his hand in her hair, gripping her, guiding her.

"That's it," he breathed. "Show them what you are."

She opened her mouth and took him, as deep as she could, feeling him slide past her lips, her tongue, into the back of her throat. She heard the stranger's groan from the other side, felt the hand on his cock tighten, and she understood—she was the display, the offering, the thing they were both using. And she loved it. She loved every second of it.

She sucked him, slow and deep, her lips stretched around him, her eyes watering, her makeup smearing as she worked him. She felt him swell in her mouth, felt his rhythm quicken, and she knew he was close, knew he was going to come—and she wanted it, wanted to taste him, wanted to swallow every drop.

"Open," he commanded, pulling out of the hole and turning to face her. "Open your mouth."

She obeyed, her mouth wide, her tongue out, and she watched him stroke himself, his eyes locked on hers, his jaw tight. She saw the first spurt of his cum, thick and white, and she caught it on her tongue, then the next, and the next, until he was painting her lips, her cheeks, her chin, his cum dripping down her face, sticky and warm and utterly his.

"Swallow," he said.

She closed her mouth and swallowed, tasting him, feeling him slide down her throat, and she looked up at him, her eyes wet, her makeup ruined, her face covered in his cum, and she smiled.

"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered.

He reached down and pulled her to her feet, his thumb wiping a smear of cum from her cheek, and he kissed her, deep and possessive, tasting himself on her lips.

"Now," he said, pulling back. "Let's find you something to wear."

They stepped through the beaded curtain and into the main floor of the shop, and Willow felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes land on her at once.

The couple was near the front—a man in his forties with a silvering beard, his arm around a younger woman in a leather harness over a sheer black bodysuit. They both looked up as Willow passed, the woman's gaze dropping to the catsuit, to the dip of the open back, to the way the sheer lycra clung to every curve. The three single men were scattered through the racks—one by the corsets, one examining a display of latex hoods, one lingering near the shoe wall, his hand resting on a pair of thigh-high PVC boots. The two women, both in their thirties, stood together by a rack of spandex dresses, one of them holding a sheer body stocking up to her chest, laughing at something her friend had said. She stopped laughing when Willow walked past.

Willow's cheeks burned. She could feel the catsuit on her skin, the cool slick of the lycra, the built-in corset cinching her waist, the way the fabric left nothing to the imagination. Her breasts—the full C-cup silicone plate, the nipples hard and erect beneath the sheer white—were on full display, the plunging neckline showing the swell of them, the pale skin of her collarbones. She crossed her arms over her chest, a reflex, and David's hand found her wrist, pulling them down.

"Don't hide," he said, low enough that only she could hear. "You're the best thing in this shop."

She let her arms fall to her sides. She felt her clitty twitch against her inner thigh, wet and soft and leaking, the way it always did when she was exposed, when she was seen. Her ass—her tight, smooth, hairless sissy ass, barely covered by the sheer fabric, the open back dipping almost to the top of her buns—was a target she couldn't defend against, a display she couldn't hide. Every step she took in the eight-inch lucite mules made her hips sway, made her ass push out, made the catsuit ride up just slightly, showing more of her thighs, more of her.

"Where's the dressing room?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

David shook his head. He didn't answer. He just took her hand and led her forward, deeper into the shop, past the racks of latex and leather, past the shelves of collars and cuffs, past the display of glass dildos and chrome butt plugs and leather floggers. She felt the eyes on her the whole way—the couple's, the single men's, the women's—and she felt herself getting wetter, the slick heat between her thighs spreading, the ache in her clitty growing with every step.

"David," she whispered, tugging at his hand. "People are watching."

"I know." He didn't slow down. "Let them."

He stopped in front of a rack of latex dresses—short, shiny, obscene, in every color from black to electric blue to a red so deep it looked wet. He ran his fingers along the hangers, considering, and then he pulled out a dress in white, the same shade as her catsuit, with a high neck and a hem that would barely cover her ass.

"This one," he said, holding it up. "Try it on."

She took it from him, her fingers brushing the slick latex, and she felt a jolt of heat shoot through her. The dress was impossibly soft, impossibly shiny, and she could already imagine how it would feel on her skin, how it would cling to her, how it would show every line of her body.

"Where—" She looked around, searching for a curtain, a door, a sign. "Where do I—"

"Here," David said.

She stared at him. "Here?"

"Here." He crossed his arms, his dark eyes steady on hers. "You're not Warren anymore. You don't get to hide in a dressing room. You're Willow. And Willow changes wherever I tell her to."

Her heart hammered. She could feel the flush spreading across her chest, up her neck, into her cheeks. The shop was warm, the air thick with the smell of rubber and leather, and she could feel the eyes on her, all seven of them, watching, waiting.

"David," she breathed, a plea and a protest and a surrender all at once.

"Take it off," he said. "Show them what you are."

She looked around the shop. The couple had turned to watch, the woman's hand frozen on the man's arm. The three single men had drifted closer, pretending to browse, their eyes tracking her. The two women had stopped laughing entirely, staring openly, one of them biting her lip.

And Willow—Willow felt the thrill of it, the terror and the hunger and the shame, all tangled together in her belly, making her clitty throb, making her knees weak. She reached for the zipper of the catsuit, slow, deliberate, her fingers trembling, and she pulled it down.

The sound of it—the long, hissing rasp of the zipper—seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet shop. She shrugged the catsuit off her shoulders, and it slid down her body, pooling at her feet, and she stood there in her lace panties, her stockings, her garter belt, her breasts bare and full and perfect, her nipples hard and erect, her clitty a soft, wet stain against her inner thigh.

The man with the silvering beard let out a low whistle. The younger woman laughed, a bright, sharp sound. One of the single men—the one by the shoe wall—took a step closer, his eyes fixed on her.

"She's gorgeous," the woman said, her voice carrying across the shop. "Where'd you find her?"

"She found me," David said. "Didn't you, Willow?"

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Louder."

She swallowed. "Yes, Daddy." Her voice was stronger this time, steadier, and she felt a strange, dizzying pride in it—in the words, in the truth of them, in the way she said them without flinching.

The women exchanged a look. The one who had spoken—the one holding the body stocking—took a step forward, her eyes running over Willow's body, taking in the breasts, the waist, the hips, the stockings, the heels.

"Can I touch her?" she asked David.

David looked at Willow. "Can she touch you?"

Willow's breath caught. She looked at the woman—her dark hair, her sharp eyes, her red lips curved into a knowing smile—and she felt the heat building between her thighs, the ache of being seen, being wanted, being touched.

"Yes," she breathed. "Please."

The woman stepped closer, her hand reaching out, and her fingers brushed the swell of Willow's breast, light and curious. Willow shivered, her nipple tightening under the touch, and she heard herself whimper, a small, helpless sound.

"She's so soft," the woman murmured, her fingers trailing down Willow's stomach, over the waistband of her panties. "So smooth. Is she real?"

"She's real," David said. "Realer than most women."

The woman's fingers found the edge of Willow's panties, and she looked at David, a question in her eyes. David nodded, once, and the woman slid her hand inside, her fingers brushing the wet, soft length of Willow's clitty.

Willow gasped, her hips jerking forward, her hands flying to the woman's shoulders to steady herself. The woman's fingers curled around her clitty, stroking it, and Willow felt the heat building, the unbearable pressure, the desperate, aching need.

"She's not a woman," the woman said, her voice low and amused. "She's a sissy."

"She's my sissy," David said.

The woman laughed, a warm, wicked sound, and she pulled her hand out of Willow's panties, bringing her fingers to her lips. She tasted them, her eyes on Willow's, and she smiled.

"You're a lucky girl," she said. "He's going to ruin you."

Willow couldn't answer. She could only stand there, trembling, her clitty aching, her heart pounding, her body burning with the shame and the thrill of being seen, being touched, being owned.

"Try the dress," David said, holding it out to her.

She took it, her fingers fumbling with the slick latex, and she stepped into it, pulling it up over her hips. The fabric was cool and tight, clinging to her like a second skin, and the high neck framed her face, the hem barely covering her ass. She turned to the mirror—a full-length one, propped against the wall—and she gasped.

The dress was obscene. It was perfect. It showed everything—the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the hard points of her nipples pressing against the latex. It made her look like a doll, a toy, a thing made to be touched and used and displayed.

"I love it," she whispered.

"I know," David said. He stepped behind her, his hands finding her hips, his fingers splaying over the slick fabric. "You're going to wear it tonight. For me. For anyone I decide to share you with."

She met his eyes in the mirror, her own dark with want. "Yes, Daddy."

The woman with the dark hair had drifted back to her friend, but she was still watching, still smiling. The couple had moved on, the man's arm around the woman's waist, but his eyes lingered on Willow. The three single men were still scattered through the racks, pretending to browse, but their attention was fixed on her, on the dress, on the body beneath it.

Willow stood in the middle of the shop, in her eight-inch mules and her white latex dress, and she felt the weight of their gazes like a physical thing. She felt her clitty leaking against her inner thigh, the slick heat between her legs, the ache of being empty, being open, being his.

"Now," David said, his voice low in her ear. "Let's find you some shoes."

The shoe wall was a cathedral of impossible things. Rows upon rows of heels—patent leather, PVC, clear lucite, glittering silver—each one perched on its spindly pedestal like an offering. Willow's breath caught as David led her toward it, his hand warm and possessive at the small of her back, the latex of her dress whispering against her thighs with every step.

"What's your size?" David asked, his voice casual, as if they were picking out groceries.

"Seven," she said, her voice thin. "In women's."

He nodded, releasing her, and began to scan the shelves. The single man by the corsets had drifted closer, close enough that Willow could smell his cologne—something sharp and expensive. He wasn't pretending to browse anymore. He was watching her, openly, his gaze running down the front of her dress, lingering on the hard points of her nipples.

She should have felt afraid. She felt the opposite—a hot, liquid thrill that made her clitty throb against her inner thigh, made her knees press together under the hem of the dress.

David pulled a pair from the shelf. Black patent leather, six-inch stilettos, ankle straps with a silver buckle. He held them out to her, and she took them, her fingers trembling slightly as she turned them over in her hands.

"Try them on," he said.

She looked around. There was a small bench near the mirror, the same full-length one she'd used for the dress. She started toward it, and David's hand closed on her wrist, stopping her.

"Here," he said.

Her heart stuttered. "David—"

"Here." His voice was quiet, implacable. "You don't need a bench. Kneel."

The word landed in her belly like a stone in still water. She looked at him—his dark eyes, his immaculate suit, the slight curve of his mouth—and she felt the heat building, the shame and the hunger tangled together so tightly she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

She knelt.

The floor was cool under her knees, the tile hard and unforgiving. She set the shoes down beside her, her hands fumbling with the buckles, and she heard the shop go quiet around her. Not silent—the soft rustle of fabric, the distant hum of a fluorescent light—but the attention shifted, focused, a dozen eyes on the girl in the white latex dress kneeling at the feet of a man in a black suit.

She slipped her foot into the first shoe. The patent leather was cool and slick against her stocking, the heel forcing her arch into a perfect curve. She buckled the ankle strap, her fingers clumsy, and reached for the second.

"She's good at that," the woman with the dark hair said, her voice carrying across the shop. "Practiced."

Willow's cheeks burned. She finished the second shoe, the buckle clicking into place, and she looked up at David, waiting.

"Stand," he said.

She stood. The heels made her taller, made her hips tilt forward, made her ass push out against the hem of the dress. She took a tentative step, then another, and the shoes felt like they had been made for her—the arch, the balance, the way they made her walk, small and careful and impossibly feminine.

"Walk to the end of the aisle and back," David said.

She did. She walked past the couple, past the two women, past the three single men, her hips swaying, her ass pushing against the latex, her breasts bouncing gently with each step. She could feel their eyes on her, could feel the weight of their wanting, and she felt herself getting wetter, the slick heat between her thighs spreading, her clitty leaking against her stocking.

She reached the end of the aisle, turned, and walked back. David was watching her, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. She stopped in front of him, her chest rising and falling, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

"Good girl," he said.

The praise landed in her chest like a hand closing around her heart. She wanted to preen, to press herself against him, to feel his fingers in her hair. Instead she stood still, her hands clasped in front of her, the black patent leather gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and waited for his next command.

"Turn around," he said.

She turned. The mirror caught her full length—the white latex dress, the black heels, the platinum wig spilling over her shoulders. Behind her reflection, she could see the shop: the couple watching, the two women whispering behind their hands, the three single men no longer pretending to browse. One of them, the one who had drifted close enough to smell, was openly stroking himself through his trousers.

"You see them?" David's voice came from just behind her ear. "You see what you do to them?"

She nodded, her throat tight.

"Tell me what you see."

She swallowed. "They want me."

"They want to fuck you," David corrected, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "They want to bend you over that rack of corsets and push your dress up around your waist. They want to feel how tight you are. How wet." His hand settled on her hip, his thumb tracing the seam of the latex. "And you want them to."

She couldn't deny it. The truth of it was a live wire in her belly, humming, burning. "Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl." He turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. "Now. The dress stays. The heels stay. But there's one thing missing."

He led her past the racks of latex and leather, past the shelves of collars and cuffs, to a wall of accessories. Whips hung like dead snakes from brass hooks. Paddles in leather and wood and clear acrylic. A display case of chrome butt plugs, graduated in size, gleaming under the lights. And beside it, a rack of collars—leather, rubber, metal, studded, plain, some with rings, some with locks.

Willow's breath caught. Her hand drifted to her throat, where the silver collar David had buckled around her neck was hidden under the high neck of the latex dress.

"You already have one," David said, watching her. "But I want to see it."

He reached for the zipper at the back of the dress and pulled it down, just enough. The high neck fell away, and the silver collar caught the light, the engraved plate winking: Willow — owned by David.

"There she is," David murmured. He ran his finger along the edge of the collar, and Willow shivered, her clitty throbbing against her inner thigh. "My sissy. My doll. My pretty little thing."

"Yours," she whispered.

"That's right." He zipped the dress back up, his hands lingering at her neck. "Now. Let's finish the outfit."

He led her to a display of thigh-high stockings—sheer, opaque, fishnet, lace-topped, in every color. He chose a pair in black, with a wide lace band at the top, and handed them to her.

"These go over the dress," he said. "Under the hem. So everyone can see the lace."

She took them, her fingers trembling. "Here?"

"Here." He crossed his arms. "You know the rules by now, Willow. You don't hide."

She looked around. The man by the shoe wall had moved closer still, close enough that she could see the tent in his trousers, the dark stain of his arousal. The two women had abandoned their browsing entirely, watching with open fascination. The couple had drifted toward the back of the shop, but the man's eyes were still on her, his hand resting low on his companion's hip.

She lifted the first stocking, the lace band cool between her fingers, and she looked at David once more—a final, silent question. He answered with nothing, only the patient weight of his gaze, and she understood. There would be no curtain, no corner, no privacy. The shop was her stage, and these seven strangers were her audience.

She bent at the waist, the latex dress riding up over her ass, and she felt the cool air on her bare cheeks, felt the eyes on her, all of them, the weight of their wanting like a hand on her skin. She rolled the stocking up her leg, slow, deliberate, the sheer black fabric sliding over her stockinged calf, her knee, her thigh, and she heard the man by the shoe wall draw a sharp breath. She straightened, her cheeks burning, and reached for the second.

The woman with the dark hair had moved closer, her friend a step behind her. "Can I help?" she asked, her voice soft, almost reverent.

Willow looked at David. He nodded, once.

"Yes," Willow breathed. "Please."

The woman knelt beside her, her fingers taking the stocking from Willow's trembling hands, and she rolled it up Willow's leg herself, her touch light and careful, her eyes never leaving Willow's face. The intimacy of it—a stranger's hands on her thighs, in this shop full of strangers—made Willow's clitty throb, made the slick heat between her legs spread, and she heard herself whimper, a small, helpless sound.

"There," the woman murmured, smoothing the lace band against Willow's thigh. "Perfect."

Willow stood, the stockings in place, the lace bands visible under the hem of the dress, just as David had commanded. She felt the eyes on her—the couple, the single men, the two women—and she felt herself getting wetter, the ache in her clitty growing, the desperate, empty need building in her belly.

"Now," David said, his voice low and steady. "The shoes."

He led her back to the wall of heels, his hand at the small of her back, and he scanned the shelves with the same casual deliberation as before. He pulled down a pair of thigh-high boots—black patent leather, six-inch stiletto heels, a zipper running all the way up the back. He held them out to her, and she took them, her fingers trembling.

"These," he said. "With the stockings."

She looked at the boots, then at the dress, then at him. "David—"

"Try them."

She knelt again, the tile hard under her knees, and she worked the first boot up her leg, the patent leather cool and slick against her stocking, the heel forcing her arch into a perfect curve. The zipper rasped as she pulled it closed, and she felt the boot grip her calf, her thigh, holding her, shaping her. She reached for the second, and the woman with the dark hair knelt beside her again, helping, her fingers guiding the boot over Willow's foot, up her leg, the two of them working together like they had done this a hundred times.

Willow stood, and the boots made her taller still, made her legs look impossibly long, made her hips tilt forward, made her ass push out against the hem of the dress. She took a step, and the patent leather gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and she felt the power of it, the beauty of it, the sheer, obscene femininity of it.

"Walk," David said.

She walked. Past the couple, past the single men, past the two women, her hips swaying, her ass pushing against the latex, her breasts bouncing gently with each step. The boots made a sound on the tile—a sharp, rhythmic click—and she felt the sound in her bones, felt it in the ache between her legs, felt it in the way her clitty leaked against her stocking.

"Good girl," he said.

"Turn around," he said.

She turned to face them fully.

The man by the shoe wall had stopped pretending. His hand was wrapped around the shape of himself through his trousers, stroking slow and deliberate, his eyes fixed on the V of latex where her thighs met. The two women had drawn close enough that she could smell their perfume—something floral, expensive—and the one with dark hair was looking at her like she was a painting in a gallery.

Willow felt the heat of their attention like a spotlight. Every pair of eyes was a hand on her skin. Her clitty throbbed against her inner thigh, leaking, swollen, the ache so sharp it was almost pain. She felt herself getting wetter, the slick heat between her legs spreading, and she knew—she knew—that if anyone looked closely enough they would see the dark stain blooming on the white latex, the evidence of how much she wanted this.

That was the humiliation of it. The exhilaration. They didn't know she was a man in a dress. They saw a woman, a beautiful woman, a thing to be wanted—and the wanting in their eyes made her feel more like Willow than any mirror ever had.

"You're enjoying this," David said, low enough that only she could hear.

She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat was too tight, her breath too shallow.

"Say it."

"Yes," she whispered. "Daddy. I'm enjoying it."

"Good girl." His hand found the small of her back, a warm, claiming weight. "Now we go home."

The car was waiting outside, black and sleek, the driver holding the door before David even reached it. Willow slid into the back seat, the latex dress whispering against the leather, and David followed, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers. The partition slid up, and the car pulled away from the curb, the shop shrinking in the window until it was gone.

Neither of them spoke. The silence was full, charged, the air thick with what had happened in that shop—the strangers' eyes, the woman's hands on her thighs, the shameful, thrilling knowledge that she had been seen, wanted, displayed.

The hotel rose ahead of them, all glass and gold light, and Willow felt her chest tighten. This was where she belonged. This room, this man, this life. But David had said the words in the shop—home—and she had felt them land somewhere deep, a key turning in a lock she hadn't known was there.

The elevator was empty. David pressed the button for his floor, and they rode up in silence, Willow's reflection ghosting in the polished steel—blonde, beautiful, a stranger she had become. She watched herself blink, tilt her head, and she thought: This is who I am now. The thought made her clitty pulse, made her thighs press together.

The door to the suite opened onto darkness. David stepped in first, and she followed, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound that felt final.

"Strip," he said.

She obeyed. The dress unzipped at the back, sliding down her body in a whisper of latex, pooling at her feet. The stockings followed, rolled down her legs one at a time, and the boots—she had to sit to work the zippers, had to pull them off with a soft grunt of effort, and when she stood again she was naked but for the silver collar at her throat and the lace panties David had made her wear, soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin.

He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes traveling her body with the same casual ownership he had shown in the shop. Then he reached out and hooked his finger under the waistband of the panties, pulling them down. The fabric slid over her slick thighs, and she stepped out of them, standing bare before him, her clitty small and soft and leaking against her inner thigh, the way it always was now.

"Good girl," he said. He turned and walked to the bathroom, leaving her standing in the middle of the room. "Shower. Then bed."

She showered slowly, the hot water washing away the latex and the perfume and the eyes, and when she came out wrapped in a towel, David was sitting on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, his phone in his hand.

"Come here."

She went to him, and he pulled her down onto his lap, her legs straddling his thighs, the towel falling open. His hand found her clitty, cupping it, and she gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice low, "you become Warren again."

The words landed like a blow. She felt the heat drain from her face, felt the ache in her clitty sharpen into something else—a hollow, cold dread.

"I can't," she whispered. "David, I can't—"

"You can. You will." His thumb traced the soft, swollen head of her clitty, and she whimpered, her body betraying her, responding to his touch even as her mind recoiled. "One week, Willow. One week of being dull, boring Warren. The accountant. The husband. And then you come back to me, and you never have to be him again."

"But what if—"

"No." His hand tightened, a gentle, implacable pressure. "You don't get to be afraid. You get to obey. You get to be a good girl for me, and you get to come back." He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "And when you come back, I'm going to take you apart. I'm going to make you forget Warren ever existed. You understand?"

She nodded, her throat tight.

"Say it."

"Yes, Daddy." Her voice cracked. "I understand."

He kissed her then, hard and claiming, and she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body pressing against his. She wanted him to take her, to fuck her, to fill the hollow ache in her belly with his cock until she couldn't think, couldn't feel anything but him.

But he pulled back, his hands settling on her hips, holding her at arm's length.

"Not tonight," he said. "Tonight you sleep. You need your rest for tomorrow."

"Please—"

"No." The word was final. "You'll be a good girl and you'll sleep, and in the morning I'll tell you what to wear." He guided her off his lap, onto the bed, and she lay there, watching him undress in the dark, the broad shape of his shoulders, the flat planes of his chest. He climbed in beside her and pulled her against him, her back to his chest, his arm heavy around her waist.

"Sleep," he murmured against her hair.

She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come. She lay awake in the dark, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing, feeling the collar at her throat, feeling the hollow ache in her belly that only he could fill. And she thought about tomorrow—about the suit, the tie, the dull gray subway, the office full of people who saw a man named Warren Sable.

She thought about how much she hated him.

The morning came too fast. She woke to the sound of David's voice, already dressed, already moving, his phone in his hand.

"Wake up," he said. "You have a message."

She blinked, groggy, and he handed her the phone. The screen was bright in the dim room, and she read the words slowly, her stomach clenching.

Attire for today: gray suit, white shirt, black tie. The charcoal briefs. The gray socks. The black lace panties from the second drawer—the ones with the bow. The sheer stockings. The white camisole under the shirt. You will wear the collar, but you will hide it. You will go to work, and you will be Warren, and you will remember that every time you feel the lace against your skin, every time you feel the stockings against your legs, you are mine.

She read it twice, her throat tight. Then she looked at David, and he was watching her, his dark eyes unreadable.

"I don't want to," she whispered.

"I know." His voice was soft, almost kind. "But you will. Because you're a good girl, and good girls obey." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Now shower. Get dressed. I'll have the car take you to the subway."

The shower was hot, too hot, and she stood under it for a long time, letting the water beat against her skin. When she finally stepped out, she didn't look at the mirror. She didn't want to see herself.

She dressed in the order he had commanded. The black lace panties first, the bow sitting high on her hip, the fabric cool and delicate against her skin. The sheer stockings, rolled up her legs, the lace tops pressing into her thighs. The white camisole, silky and thin, the outline of her small, soft chest visible through the fabric. The charcoal briefs over the stockings—a strange, layered feeling, the wool rough against the silk. The gray suit, the white shirt, the black tie.

She stood in front of the mirror, and Warren looked back at her.

He was pale, soft, delicate. His face was smooth, his eyes tired. He looked like a man who hadn't slept, who had been crying, who was holding himself together by a thread. But under the suit, under the shirt, she could feel the lace, the silk, the stockings, and she knew—she knew—that Warren was just a costume now. A shell. A lie.

David came up behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. "There he is," he said. "Dull, boring Warren." His eyes met hers in the mirror. "But you know better, don't you, Willow?"

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

"Good. Now go. The car's waiting."

The subway was worse than she remembered.

The car dropped her at the station, and she descended the stairs, her heels—no, her shoes, flat, practical, Warren's shoes—clicking on the concrete. The platform was crowded, bodies pressed together, and she felt the lace against her skin with every step, the stockings whispering against her thighs, the camisole soft against her chest.

She found a seat by the door, her briefcase on her lap, and she stared at her reflection in the dark window—a pale man in a gray suit, ordinary, forgettable. She tried to be him. She tried to slump, to broaden her shoulders, to make herself take up space.

But her hips swayed when she walked. Her hands rested on her thighs, palm-up, delicate. She crossed her legs at the knee, not the ankle, and she caught a man across the aisle looking at her—not at her face, but at her legs.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Felt the clitty throb against her panties, leaking, aching. She pressed her thighs together, trying to stop it, but that only made it worse, the pressure of the stockings against her skin, the knowledge of what she was wearing under the dull gray suit.

The man looked away. But another one didn't. A younger man, in a hoodie and jeans, his eyes tracking her as she shifted in her seat. She saw his gaze drop to her lap, to her hands, to her crossed legs.

She should have been disgusted. She should have felt sick, violated.

Instead, she felt the heat spread through her belly, felt her clitty pulse, felt herself getting wetter, the lace panties soaking through. She thought of David's words— you will remember that every time you feel the lace against your skin, you are mine —and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

The train stopped. The doors opened. She stood, her briefcase in her hand, and she walked out onto the platform, her hips swaying just a little, just enough.

She felt the eyes on her as she walked. Felt them like a hand on her skin.

And she hated herself for how much she loved it.

The office was the same as always—gray, fluorescent, humming with the sound of keyboards and phones. She walked to her desk, her sensible shoes clicking on the carpet, and she sat down, her briefcase on the floor, her computer humming to life.

"Morning, Warren."

She looked up. It was Linda, from accounting, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a perpetual smile. She was holding a mug of coffee, and she was looking at Warren with an expression that made Willow's stomach clench.

"Morning," she said, and her voice came out softer than she meant it to, higher, smoother.

Linda tilted her head. "You look different," she said. "Did you lose weight?"

Willow felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "I—yes. A little."

"Well, it suits you." Linda smiled and moved on, and Willow sat frozen at her desk, her heart pounding, her clitty throbbing against the lace.

She opened her email. There was a message from David, subject line: Good morning, Willow.

I watched you on the subway. You were a good girl. The way you crossed your legs. The way you walked. You're learning.

Remember what you're wearing. Remember who you belong to.

I'll be watching.

She closed the email, her hands trembling. She looked around the office—the gray cubicles, the humming computers, the people who saw a man named Warren Sable. None of them knew. None of them could see the lace, the silk, the stockings, the collar hidden under the white shirt.

But she could feel them. Every moment. Every step.

And she knew, with a certainty that ached, that she was never going to be Warren again.