Sissy Training With Traci: From Wimpy Boy to Pretty Problem
Sissy training starts the moment a wimpy little effeminate man stops pretending the lipstick on his collar was an accident. He showed up at my door already soft in the shoulders, already talking too high when he got nervous. I did not invite a boyfriend. I invited a project. Sissification was the syllabus. Phone sex is how I drill the homework after he leaves in my spare panties.
“Sit pretty for me, darling,” I said, the same way I say it on the line. He perched on the ottoman like the furniture might reject him. I circled. Pinup posture. Stockings. No smile yet. Sissy training does not begin with comfort. It begins with inventory. Soft hands. Narrow chest. A cock that already looked embarrassed to be invited.
Lesson one: you do not get to keep boy clothes in my house. Lesson two: if you argue, the panties go on tighter.
I tossed him a pair of mine — black, worn, still shaped like me — and watched him step into them with those hesitant, girlish knees. Sissification loves a man who already walks like he is apologizing. I hooked a cheap bra around his ribs and stuffed it just enough to mock him. Then I put lipstick on his mouth myself. He tried to talk. I told him sissy training is quieter when the student is busy being pretty.
He looked in the mirror and made a face. I made him look longer. Forced feminization is just a long look with rules attached. I had him thank me for each item. Panties. Bra. Gloss. A clip in his hair that would not stay put, which I enjoyed. Phone sex would later replay the list so he could dress himself on command. That afternoon I had the live clumsiness, the pink ears, the twitch in the front of my panties that he could not hide.
I sat in the chair and opened my knees. “Show me you understand sissy training. On the floor. Mouth useful.” He crawled. Of course he crawled. Wimpy boys do not need a map to the carpet. I held his hair and used his face while I talked him through what he was becoming — not a boyfriend, not a secret, a sissy with a wet chin and a locked future if he kept behaving.
When he reached for himself I laughed. Chastity can wait for a cage. For now my voice was the cage. Cock control. Humiliation. Obedience drills. Supporting kinks laid out like jewelry on a vanity. I told him sissification means he comes last, if at all, and only after he admits what he is in a voice I would allow on phone sex later — high, sweet, ruined.
I made him stand in the panties and stroke the little shape there with two fingers, counting. Every time he sped up I said stop. Tease and denial in satin is still tease and denial. He begged in that thin register I had been pulling out of him since the lipstick. I let him get close enough to shake and then I took the permission away. Sissy training that ends in a neat orgasm is just a costume party. Mine ends with an ache and a new name.
I sent him home in the panties under his slacks and told him to call when he was locked in his bathroom. That is the other half. Phone sex keeps the sissification from wearing off. I walk him through the posture, the voice, the thank-you, the no. If you want to be the next wimpy boy I dress and unmake, you already know the door. Sit pretty. I’ll do the rest.
— Traci
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