Dollhouse Rules
I like men best when they hold still.
When they sit exactly where I tell them, chin lifted just enough for me to inspect my work. When they understand that today isn’t about what they want to wear—it’s about what I want to see.
I don’t rush it. Turning a man into something pretty takes patience. Fingertips smoothing fabric, a quiet correction when he fidgets, a soft but unmistakable reminder to keep his knees together. I choose the colors. I choose the textures. Satin over skin. Lace where he swore he’d never wear lace.
He watches himself in the mirror while I work, eyes wide, breath shallow. Not embarrassed—focused. Like he knows he’s being transformed into something deliberate. Something curated.
I fix his posture first. A straight back changes everything. Then come the details: the way stockings change how he stands, the way lipstick makes him aware of his mouth, the way a ribbon tied just right can turn a grown man into my personal doll.
I step back often, assessing. Adjusting. Sometimes I circle him slowly, heels clicking, making sure he remembers who’s directing this little makeover.
He doesn’t ask questions. He waits for instructions. That’s the rule in my dollhouse.
When I finally tell him he’s done, he glows. Prettier than he expected. Softer. Exactly as he should be. I tilt his chin up, smile approvingly, and let him feel that moment— the quiet pride of knowing he got it right.
Being my Barbie isn’t about humiliation. It’s about attention. Control. The delicious certainty of knowing he’s exactly what I wanted him to be.
If you’re curious what it feels like to be refined, dressed,
and corrected under my watchful eye,
you already know where to find me.
Visit Kitty here.
And tomorrow?
I might dress you all over again.