Dani [forced feminization, drugs, mental conditioning, blackmail]

Chapter 1: The Stain on the Lace

Daniel’s fingers trembled as he unclasped the lace bra. The bedroom air felt thick, every sound amplified—the rustle of fabric, the creak of the floorboards under his socked feet, the thud of his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. Carla wouldn’t be back for hours. She’d left for her book club, that sanctimonious coven of suburban wives who dissected self-help manuals like vultures picking at roadkill. He’d memorized her routine: Chardonnay by 7 PM, gossip until 8:30, home by 9. Plenty of time.

The bra was fresh from the hamper, the cups imprinted with the faint musk of her sweat. He slid the straps over his shoulders, the lace scratching his chest hair. His cock twitched in his boxers, half-hard, already betraying him. The mirror reflected a grotesque parody—a paunchy, balding man with sagging pecs swallowed by delicate black lace. He sucked in his gut, tilting his hips, trying to mimic the curve of a woman’s silhouette. Pathetic.

The front door slammed.

“Daniel?”

His guts turned to ice. Fuck. He scrambled to unhook the bra, but the clasp snagged, biting into his skin. Carla’s heels clicked up the stairs, deliberate, unhurried.

She stood in the doorway, her designer purse dangling from her wrist like a weapon. Her eyes raked over him—the bra digging into his flab, his cock straining against cotton briefs. For a heartbeat, he prayed for rage. A thrown vase. A scream. Anything but the slow, serpentine smile spreading across her face.

“Well,” she purred, stepping closer. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

He flinched as her manicured nail traced the lace. “Carla, I—I don’t know what—”

“Shhh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “You’re shaking. Poor thing. How long have you been fighting this?”

“Fighting what? It’s just a… a stupid mistake—”

“A mistake?” She laughed, low and honeyed. “You think God makes mistakes?” Her hand slid down his chest, pinching his nipple through the lace. He gasped, his cock jerking. “Look at you. You’ve always been her, haven’t you? Trapped in this… meat suit.” She spat the last words like they disgusted her.

Daniel’s throat tightened. Protestant guilt curdled in his stomach—his father’s sermons echoing (“Abomination!”), the weight of scripture crushing his lungs. Carla leaned in, her breath hot against his ear.

“You think He’d punish you for embracing the truth? ‘Male and female He created them’—but what if He mixed up the parts?” Her hand slipped into his boxers, squeezing his cock until he whimpered. “This doesn’t define you. I do.”

That night, she fucked him with methodical cruelty.

Daniel lay rigid on the mattress, her hips grinding against his, her nails carving half-moons into his shoulders. She rode him in silence, her eyes locked on his, until he came with a choked gasp. Then, as his body sagged into the post-orgasm haze, she struck.

“Listen closely,” she whispered, lips brushing his earlobe. Her voice slithered into his skull, syrupy and venomous. “Every time you touch silk… lace… satin… your cock will throb. Your mind will go blank. And you’ll need to obey me.” She punctuated each phrase with a bite to his neck. “Resist, and I’ll lock you out of this bedroom. Out of me.”

His stomach clenched. “Carla, please—this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” She yanked his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You want to be normal? Look at yourself.” She reached for her phone, flashing the photo she’d snapped earlier—him in the bra, face bloated with shame. “I could ruin you. Or…” Her voice softened, a predator playing tender. “I could save you. Wouldn’t that be better?”

He nodded, tears streaking his temples.

“Good boy.” She kissed his forehead, maternal and mocking. “Now, let’s get you dressed properly.”

She tossed his boxers into the fireplace. The flames licked at the cotton, devouring the last shred of his denial. In their place, she produced a pair of satin panties—pale pink, edged with lace.

“Arms up.”

He obeyed, shaking as she tugged the panties up his thighs. The fabric clung to his ass, his cock trapped in a humiliating bulge. Carla hummed approvingly.

“See? This is who you are.” She gripped his chin, her thumb smearing his tears. “Tomorrow, we’ll go shopping.”

Chapter 2: Chemical Skin

The coffee tasted bitter.

Daniel grimaced, setting down the mug. Carla watched him over the rim of her own cup, her eyes sharp as scalpels.

“Drink,” she said. “It’s just vitamins. For your… dysphoria.”

He forced a sip. The lie was flimsy, but resistance was costlier. Two weeks of “vitamins” had already softened his body. His nipples ached constantly, swollen into sensitive buds that chafed against his shirts. Worse, his hips felt looser, as if his bones were melting.

“I don’t feel right,” he muttered.

Carla’s spoon clinked against her saucer. “Of course you don’t. You’re finally aligning your body with your soul. Growing pains, darling.”

He wanted to scream. Instead, he drank.

The changes accelerated.

His chest, once flat and hairy, sproutеd tender mounds that jiggled when he walked. Carla bought him sports bras—“To hide your little secrets”—and made him model them in their walk-in closet.

“Look at those hips,” she cooed, swatting his ass. “Nature’s giving you a head start.”

Daniel stared at the mirror. A stranger stared back—softer, rounder, drowning in a floral blouse Carla had laid out. She’d replaced his entire wardrobe: pencil skirts that hugged his widening thighs, blouses that gaped around his budding tits.

“I can’t wear this to work,” he whispered.

Carla’s smile froze. “Why not? Afraid your coding buddies will notice how pretty you’ve become?” She stepped closer, her perfume suffocating. “Tell them you’re transitioning. They’ll throw you a fucking parade.”

She confiscated his phone, his laptop, his car keys. “Until you’re stable,” she said. Isolation became routine. Friends’ calls went unanswered. Family was dismissed with lies about “stress leave.”

At night, she made him journal as “Dani.”

Today, I accepted that my true self is female, he wrote, the words curdling in his gut. Carla says my resistance is internalized transphobia. I’m grateful for her guidance.

The Chad Incident.

Carla brought him home on a Thursday—thick-necked, gym-rat Chad from her office, biceps straining his polo shirt. Dani (not Daniel, never Daniel) sat rigid on the couch, her blouse unbuttoned to expose the lace camisole beneath.

“Chad’s been dying to meet you,” Carla said, her hand possessive on Dani’s thigh.

Chad’s gaze crawled over her tits, her hips, her trembling hands. “Damn, Dani. Carla wasn’t kidding. You’re, uh… filling out.”

Dani’s face burned. “Th-thanks.”

“Show him your nails,” Carla ordered.

She held out her hand—manicured, painted shell-pink. Chad whistled, grabbing her wrist. “Cute. Bet they’d look better wrapped around my—”

“Chad.” Carla’s voice was a whip-crack. “Behave.”

But her eyes glittered with approval as Chad leaned closer, his cologne reeking of entitlement. Dani shriveled into the cushions, her panties damp with traitorous arousal.

Later, after Chad left, Carla cupped Dani’s face. “You did so well. So natural.”

“He… he scared me.”

“Of course he did. Men are beasts.” Carla’s thumb brushed Dani’s lower lip. “But you’re not a man anymore, are you?”

The pills kept coming.

Carla crushed them into his oatmeal, stirred them into his wine. His skin grew smoother, his cock softer. Ejaculations dwindled to pathetic dribbles. One night, he woke to her kneading his chest, her nails digging into the sensitive flesh.

“They’re growing,” she murmured. “Soon, you’ll need proper bras.”

He whimpered.

“Shhh. It’s what you wanted.”

It’s not, he thought. But the thought dissolved as her hand slid into his panties, her fingers circling his limp cock.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “My beautiful girl.”

And when she touched him, he almost believed it.

Chapter 3: Rewiring the Nerve Endings

The laser hissed against Dani’s skin, its heat searing through the last dark stubble clinging to her jawline. Carla had booked the appointment under “mental health emergency,” smirking as she filled out the forms with Dani’s new legal name. Daniella Mercer. The technician, a bored woman with chipped nail polish, didn’t flinch at the trembling figure in the chair. “Relax, sweetie,” she muttered, pressing the cold gel into Dani’s throat. “You’ll look perfect when we’re done.” The smell of burnt hair clung to the air. Dani’s cock twitched pathetically in the lace panties Carla had locked onto her that morning, the tiny key dangling from her wife’s necklace.

“See?” Carla purred that night, tracing the raw, hairless skin of Dani’s cheeks. “No more hiding.” She’d replaced their bedroom mirror with a full-length antique frame, its edges carved into roses that seemed to claw at Dani’s reflection. The tramp stamp came next—Property of Carla in gothic script, the needle buzzing over her tailbone until the ink bled black and blue. Dani’s screams were muffled by the leather strap Carla had buckled between her teeth. “Shhh… good girls don’t fight their upgrades.”

The hormones had turned her nipples into swollen, aching knots. Carla twisted them nightly, her nails digging crescent moons into the tender flesh as Dani whimpered into the silk pillowcases. “Your tits are coming in nicely,” she’d say, squeezing until tears spilled down Dani’s cheeks. “But we need to accelerate the mental adjustments.” That’s when the films started.

Carla’s laptop glowed in the dark, the grainy footage of shemale porn casting flickering shadows. Men with thick, veined cocks rammed into sissy sluts whose own dicks hung limp, dribbling cum onto studio floors. “Watch closely,” Carla ordered, her hand fisted in Dani’s hair. “This is your future.” Dani’s micro-cock—shrunken to a numb nub from months of estrogen—leaked weakly as Carla jammed a vibrator against it. “You see how they beg for it?” she hissed, thrusting a dildo into Dani’s ass without warning. The stretch burned, but the vibrator’s buzz short-circuited her nerves. Pleasure and pain blurred. Dani’s back arched, a broken moan escaping as Carla laughed. “There she is. There’s my girl.”

Carla had been dissolving MDMA in Dani’s nightly glass of merlot—a bitter, chemical aftertaste she’d learned not to question. Carla called it “vitamin nectar.” The first dose hit during a vocal training session. The speech therapist, a gaunt woman with a crucifix necklace, made Dani repeat phrases like “I am complete when my hole is filled.” while Carla watched, legs crossed, from the corner. The drug slithered through Dani’s veins, melting the words into her brain as she trained her vocal cords into a breathy, feminine lilt. “Yesss,” Carla drawled. “Now you sound like a proper whore.”

But the real rewiring began in bed. Blindfolded, wrists cuffed to the headboard, Dani’s world narrowed to the cold drizzle of lube down her ass crack and Carla’s voice—sharp, surgical. “Your prostate’s your real cock now,” she said, pressing the silicone dildo to Dani’s hole. “Time to make it sing.” The initial thrust tore a scream from Dani’s throat, but the MDMA bloomed hot and sudden, transforming agony into electric ecstasy. Carla fucked her ruthlessly, the dildo’s ridges battering her insides. “Cum for me,” she snarled. “Cum like the bitch you are.” Dani’s body convulsed, her shriveled dick spurting nothing as her ass clenched around the toy. Sobs wracked her chest. Carla kissed them away. “Good girl. So good for me.”

Chad arrived on a Thursday. Dani recognized his cologne—musky, oppressive—from the night Carla had first paraded her in that low-cut blouse. His biceps strained against his tank top, a tribal tattoo snaking up his neck. “Damn, Dani,” he whistled, eyes raking her hairless legs. “You’re almost fuckable.” Carla’s trigger phrase slithered into Dani’s ear: “Bloom for me.”

The command unspooled her. Dani’s knees hit the carpet as Chad unbuckled his belt, his cock springing free—thick, uncut, the head glistening. Carla straddled Dani’s face, grinding her pussy into her mouth. “Suck,” she ordered, fingers tangled in Dani’s extensions. Chad’s hands clamped onto Dani’s hips, yanking her backward onto his dick. The stretch was brutal, the burn white-hot, but the MDMA and Carla’s tongue down her throat twisted the violation into something slick and addictive. Dani's tits bounced as Chad’s balls slapped against her ass, his veins scraping her prostate with every thrust. “Fucking take it,” he grunted, drilling into her until the room stank of sweat and lube. Dani’s vision blurred. Her micro-cock twitched, a pathetic dribble oozing onto the sheets as her ass milked Chad’s cock. “Look at her,” Carla laughed, her own hips jerking against Dani’s face. “She’s made for this.”

When Chad came, his cum flooding Dani’s guts, Carla finally let her breathe. Dani collapsed, her asshole throbbing, Chad’s spend leaking down her thighs. Carla cupped her chin. “You came, didn’t you?” Dani nodded, trembling. “Without even touching your little clit?” Another nod. Carla’s smile was a scalpel. “Progress.”

Chapter 4: The Final Cut

The cocktail dress was backless, the fabric so thin it clung to Dani’s sweat-slicked skin like a second layer of shame. Carla had zipped her into it an hour before the guests arrived, her fingers lingering on the tramp stamp. “Tonight,” she whispered, “Daniel dies.” The doorbell rang. Dani’s stomach churned.

The dining room buzzed with coworkers Carla had never invited before—men from her office, their wives’ eyes sharp with judgment. Chad slouched in the corner, smirking as Dani served hors d'oeuvres on trembling hands. “Everyone,” Carla announced, clinking her champagne flute, “meet Dani.” Glasses froze mid-sip. A woman dropped her fork. “She’s been transitioning,” Carla continued, draping an arm around Dani’s waist. “Let’s toast her bravery!” The guests’ applause was a slow, uncertain ripple. Chad’s was a bark of laughter.

Dani’s cheeks burned. The dress’s neckline plunged to her navel, her small tits barely contained by the lace. A man from Accounting—balding, breath reeking of gin—leered as she refilled his wine. “Didn’t know you had this in you, Dan,” he slurred, fingers brushing her ass. Carla nodded, serene. “She’s full of surprises.”

The party blurred. Laughter swelled. Someone turned up the music. Dani was fetching ice when Carla cornered her in the kitchen. “Chad wants dessert,” she said, nodding toward the stairs to the guest bedroom. Upstairs, Chad was already sprawled on the bed, cock in hand, stroking lazily. “Be a good girl and clean him up.”

Dani’s knees cracked against the hardwood. Chad’s stench—bourbon and arrogance—filled her nostrils as he shoved his dick past her lips. “Deepthroat that, tranny,” he grunted, fingers knotting in her hair. Carla watched from the doorway, phone recording. Dani gagged, tears smudging her mascara, but her nipples hardened traitorously. Chad’s cock hit her throat, his balls slapping her chin. “Look at her,” Carla cooed. “Born to suck.”

The guests trickled upstairs. One at a time—men Dani recognized from company picnics, their wedding rings glinting in the dim light. The first, a VP named Greg, fucked her doggystyle, his gut slapping against her sore ass. “Fuck, you’re tighter than my wife,” he panted, spanking Dani’s reddening cheeks. The second, a junior exec with a hipster beard, made her ride him, her tiny cock flapping against his abs. “You’re a fucking girl,” he sneered, pinching her nipples until she screamed.

Dani lost count. Bodies ran through the room like a train, their hands and cocks and tongues claiming every inch of her. A woman with acrylic nails shoved a vibrator into her ass while her husband face-fucked her. “Cum for us, Dani!” they chanted, her pleasure now a public spectacle. She came dry, her shriveled dick spasming, her ass clenching around the stranger’s fist inside her.

When the last guest left, Carla found her curled on the bathroom floor, mascara rivers staining the tiles. “Up,” she said, nudging Dani with her stiletto. “One last look.”

The mirror showed a stranger—smudged lipstick, hickeys blooming like bruises, cum crusted in her hair. Carla’s reflection loomed behind her, a hand possessively cupping her breast. “Who’s my perfect girl?” Dani’s mouth moved soundlessly. The words, when they came, were a wet, broken whisper:

“I am.”

Carla kissed her forehead. “Good girl.”

In the bedroom, the silence was suffocating. Dani’s asshole pulsed, raw and overstuffed. Her tits ached. Somewhere, in the wreckage of her mind, Daniel clawed at the walls. But Dani smiled. Smiled until her cheeks cramped, until the pills Carla fed her—pink, sweet—dragged her under.

The next morning, she woke to Carla’s lips on her ear: “Let’s go shopping. You need new lingerie.”

Dani obeyed.