Some boys want a girlfriend.

Some boys want a goddess.

And then there are the special ones… the ones who show up with nervous hands, wide eyes, and that hopeless little expression that says, “Please… tell me what to do.”

That’s my favorite type.

I call him my doll.

Not because he’s helpless—oh no. He could leave whenever he wants. But he never does. Not once I tilt my head, let my smile turn mean-sweet, and tap my finger against my vanity like I’m deciding what to unwrap first.

“Stand right there,” I tell him.

And he does.

He watches me open drawers like they’re treasure chests. Stockings. Lace. Pretty little bows. A ribbon choker with a tiny charm that glitters like trouble. And the whole time, he swallows hard like he’s starving.

I don’t rush. I never rush.

I make him earn every inch of it.

“Hands behind your back,” I say, and his shoulders straighten like he’s just been given orders he’s waited his whole life to follow.

Good boy.

I circle him slow, my heels clicking like a countdown, inspecting him with that look that makes his face burn. Like I’m not seeing a man at all—just a package with a ribbon waiting to be tied.

“You’re going to be so pretty,” I murmur, and the way his breath stutters makes me grin.

I start with the stockings. I always start with the stockings.

He trembles when I slide them up, careful and cruel, smoothing them over his skin like I’m sealing him into his new role. My fingertips linger just enough to remind him who’s in charge… then pull away before he can beg.

He does beg anyway, of course.

Not with words. Not yet.

He begs with his eyes. With his posture. With that obedient stillness that screams, “Please, Kitty… don’t stop.”

Next comes the lace.

A pretty little set I picked out just for him—soft pink, delicate, humiliating in the sweetest way. I hold it up in front of his chest and tilt my head, pretending to consider.

“Think you can behave in something like this?” I ask.

He nods too fast.

I laugh under my breath. “That wasn’t the question.”

I step closer. Close enough that he can smell my perfume. Close enough that he feels the heat of me without getting what he wants.

“Try again,” I whisper.

His voice comes out small. “Yes, Kitty.”

There it is.

I dress him slowly. Carefully. Like I’m building something. Like I’m assembling a perfect little toy that belongs to me.

And when it’s all on—lace straps, satin bow, the full sweet disaster of it—I take a step back and admire my work.

He looks ruined.

Blushing, gorgeous, and trying so hard not to squirm like he’s already overwhelmed by how much he loves it.

“Turn around,” I order.

He does.

“Slowly.”

Even better.

I make him practice. I make him walk. I make him pose. I make him hold still while I adjust every little detail, like his body is my canvas and my patience is the sharpest tool in the room.

Then comes the makeup.

Glossy lips. A touch of blush. Lashes that make his eyes look softer… sweeter… more breakable.

He’s mesmerized by himself in the mirror—half horrified, half thrilled, all caught in that delicious moment where reality turns into fantasy.

“Kitty…” he whispers.

I lean in behind him, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders. “What are you?”

He swallows. His cheeks go pinker.

“I’m… your good boy,” he says.

I smile. “No.”

He freezes.

I press my mouth close to his ear, voice soft like velvet and sharp like a threat. “You’re my pretty boy. My doll. My dress-up toy.”

His entire body shivers like I struck a match inside him.

And then—because I’m not kind, not really—I make him ask for the next part.

I make him stand there, dressed up and perfect, knowing he’s been made for my entertainment… and still wanting more.

“Please,” he finally breathes, voice wrecked and needy.

I tilt my head. “Please what?”

He squeezes his thighs together like he’s trying not to fall apart.

“Please… let me be yours,” he says.

And I beam like I’ve just won a prize.

“That’s better.”

I guide him down onto the edge of my bed, sitting him up straight like a doll on a shelf. I tap his chin, making him look at me.

“Here are the rules,” I say, sweet as candy. “You don’t touch. You don’t whine. You don’t rush me. And you never forget that I made you like this.”

He nods, desperate.

“Use your words,” I remind him.

“Yes, Kitty,” he whispers.

Good.

I give him what I always give my dolls:

attention… just barely.

Teasing touches. A slow once-over that keeps him aching. A few compliments delivered like discipline. A smile that promises nothing and everything at the same time.

Because the truth is…

I don’t need to do much.

He’s already mine.

All dressed up. All obedient. All sweet and needy and waiting for Kitty to decide what he deserves.

And I always decide.

Call me when you’re ready to be my pretty little doll.