January means performance reviews. The forms have been in everyone's inboxes since the second week of the month - self-evaluations, peer feedback requests, the annual accounting of what you did and what it was worth. I've been filling mine out in the gaps between client work, in the gaps between other things.

Dave stares too long over the cubicle partition at nine-fifteen.

Late November. They've known the date for three weeks - Jenny scheduling the induction for a Tuesday morning, the bag packed and in the car since the week before. We get to the hospital at six. Emily is checked in, changed into the gown, the IV in by six-thirty. The monitor strapped around her abdomen, the baby's heartbeat on the screen - the same fast percussion as the ultrasound in May, steady, constant.

The boutique on Merchant Street is narrow and well-lit, the kind of place that knows what it's doing without announcing it. I hold the door for Emily. We go in.

A woman looks up from behind the counter - fifties, unhurried, the competence of someone who has been doing this for a long time. Name tag says Maria. She looks at me the way Carol at Target looked at me - the brief professional read, taking in the situation, filing it.

"Mike?" she says.

"Yeah," I say.

"Come on back."

---

October. The light through the bedroom window is different from the summer light - lower, more amber, the trees along the street turning. I've been watching this from this window for six years. First autumn in this body.

I sit in the Target parking lot for four minutes before I go in.

The calculation happens here, in the car, engine off. I'm going to walk into the store and go to the women's section and stand in front of a wall of sports bras and buy one. More than one, ideally. I know what I'm looking for in general terms. I don't know my chest measurement. I know I take a large men's shirt. I don't know if that translates to anything in the women's activewear section of a Target.

---

The pool is busier at seven than it would have been in the afternoon - the family rush, kids in from a day of sightseeing, a few couples, a group of men at the far end who've brought drinks from the bar. The air thick with chlorine and sunscreen and the noise of an enclosed pool space, shrieks bouncing off the tile.

I'm in the trunks I've owned for years. They fit differently now - the waistband sitting on hips that have moved, the fabric pulling across the seat, the legs gapping at the inner thighs where the crotch expects geometry that's no longer there.

The walk happens the way weekend walks happen - without planning, Emily suggesting it over coffee, the two of us ending up on the path along the reservoir without having formally decided to go there.

It's a good morning for it. The spring air still cool enough to need a light layer, the trees along the path in the green of early May that doesn't last, the reservoir flat and grey-blue in the morning light. Emily walks beside me with her coffee in a travel mug and I walk beside her and we don't talk much, which is the right amount.

The next day comes with a heaviness I don't recognize at first - not the cramping, which has mostly eased, but something underneath it. Behind the sternum. In the legs when I stand. I eat breakfast and drink coffee and it doesn't lift the way tiredness lifts with caffeine. Just sits there, systemic, the whole body running slightly below its usual output.

---

I wake to the ache still there, low in the back, radiating forward. Emily's side of the bed is empty and cool - she's been getting up before me lately. I lie there for a moment with my hand on my lower abdomen before I've decided to be awake.

Then the intestines register - a liquid looseness, insistent, making its announcement before I'm ready for it. I get up. Bathroom. Now.

Then the routine. Sit, wipe, flush. Nothing unusual on the tissue. The dark boxer briefs feel slightly damper than normal when I pull them up, the baseline returning after the dry spell. I move on.

I wake before the alarm. The room is grey. I lie there taking stock - the burn is still there, but noticeably less. The itch is mostly gone. But there's something in the boxer briefs again, the same thick dampness against the labia as when I woke in the night.

I get up carefully, not waking Emily.

I pull open the waistband and check the boxer briefs in the bathroom. A white discharge in the crotch - different from last night, no sour smell, something milder. I drop the underwear to the floor and turn on the shower.

The gym's fluorescent lights are unforgiving. I take a stall to change, shucking my jeans. My usual workout shorts go on and I understand the problem immediately: the fabric pulls tight across a rear that's rounder and fuller than two days ago, the seat straining in a way that has nothing to do with fit. I have less muscle in my thighs and the mass sits differently - softer at the inner thigh, fuller at the seat, less dense at the outer quad. The shorts follow a silhouette I don't recognize. I dig out my sweatpants and put those on instead.

The elevator opens and I step into the office. My shoes squeak against the linoleum, too loose, and my hips move with each step in a rhythm I'm not choosing. The receptionist gives me her usual nod.

Outside the window the light is flat and grey, the kind of March morning that hasn't decided what it wants to do yet. I kick the sheets off. The air in the bedroom is cool but my thighs feel damp, sticky almost, the boxers bunching up between my legs like they're caught on something. I press my palms into the mattress and push myself up, legs swinging over the edge - except my balance is wrong. Not dizzy. Just off, like my center of gravity shifted an inch or two south while I was sleeping.

This is the first of a multipart story set in my DominaTech universe. If you want to read the others, or any of the trove of stories and caps I’ve created, you can find them here:

https://www.patreon.com/c/SissyGirlSammi

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The next few days passed like the last few. He had me on my knees at his beck and call. It was usually twice a day. Always with the plug buzzing away. God, it made me horney. A few times, he played with me after or before he blew his load, but I could never be sure. I was getting frustrated.

My wife, Sharon, had just brought up an idea for how we can spice things up in the bedroom. She was talking about chastity play, where my dick is locked up and she is the keyholder. Now, I was a little skeptical of this at first; I mean, wouldn’t this technically be less sex for us? But she argued that it would build up horniness for me, leading to more passionate sex whenever I’m unlocked. So I agreed to trying it out, and she was ecstatic.

During a game of “Truth or Dare”, my friends dared me to dress up in my girlfriend’s clothes and ride her dildo. Now, you would think that this would be a little too extreme, but not for our friend group. Every game we played had something that most people would never do, especially with their friends. Anyways, since I wasn’t a coward, I accepted the dare.

Sunday Morning Pantyhose XXXIII

By

Tracy Davis

This is a true story of how my Mom feminized me as a teenager. She had caught me wearing her pantyhose the summer before seventh grade. I got the surprise of my life the first Sunday of junior high, when she bought me pantyhose and started encouraging me to wear them, and then it was all downhill from there. -- Tracy

Feminist Genie in the Lamp

Glamour Photoshoot Transformation