You knocked on his door to tell him to keep it down. That’s all you remember.
You wake up in your computer chair naked, body shaved and your own jism drying on your stomach. Your net browser has tab after tab open of naked men, erect and ready. You feel disgusted, violated, and frightened. For the next few weeks you desperately try to jerk off to the normal porn you used to love, but you can’t cum. You can barely even get hard to it.
He still plays his music loud, but you don’t dare go back over. You’re afraid of him, you tell yourself, but really you’re afraid of you. Afraid of the naughty thoughts that drift in your head when you hear his music thudding. One time he spent the whole day on his porch, and you called in sick to work. You hid, peeking through blinds to see him talking and drinking with friends.
But eventually your luck runs out. On that day he catches you on your way home from work. Suddenly he’s in front of you. “Slow down, Princess,” he chuckles, “I have something for you.” Your pants reflexively tent when he speaks to you. It’s the first time you’ve been truly hard in months, and that fact makes you want to puke. He grins knowingly, handing you a burned CD with PRINCESS written on it in sharpie. Then he walks you to your front door, his arm firmly guiding your shoulder. “You’re looking good,” he tells you as you walk into your front door, and you realize only then how thin you’ve become. You are supposed to hate this, but you feel delicate and treasured. Protected. And then he’s gone. You want to throw the CD away and move to another city, but instead you slip it into your computer. For hours in a haze you are listening to strange audio files, watching video after video of makeup and dress up tutorials for transvestites. You don’t remember most of what you do that night, but a week later as packages arrive it’s obvious. After that every free moment at home is spent dressing up, practicing, perfecting.
When he finally does knock, you answer the door already prissed out and done up to the tranny nines, ready to go. “It’s time,” he tells you, and you giggle like a ditzy faggot should. You spend the car ride playing with the strands of your blonde wig and staring at his crotch. You hate yourself right now, but his cock is so close and it’s all you can think about. He parks at a warehouse. The parking lot is full of cars and you can hear music pounding inside. He leads you past the leering bouncer and through double doors where you are greeted by the sight of vending booths full of naughty things, dance floors, all kinds of men, and lots of feminized bimbos like you. “Cock hungry,” he whispers into your ear, and you are overwhelmed by need. The desires you felt in the car ride now seem like a joke compared to this.
You wrap your arm around his bicep and point to lingerie vendor. “Buy me something pretty, baby,” you whimper out in a forced falsetto. He does, it’s lacey and white and you love it. You put it on immediately. A passing sissy dressed in all pink tells you it’s super cute. You look to your man. You owe him now. You drag him to a nearby couch and the crowds pass as you snap open his pants and watch his dick flop out. For a while you just stare at it, trying desperately to stop yourself, but your mind and your body insist. You are a cocksucker. You’re starting to drool just staring at it. You take this final moment to touch-up your lip gloss.
The taste is everything you hoped it would be. The saltiness of lingering sweat, that masculine stench that permeates your mouth, the hint of bitter precum. His cock slides deeper in, filling up your mouth. You glance up into his eyes. “Good girl,” he assures you. You feel the thick makeup on your face, the bleach blond hair down your back, the sheer encasing your legs, his manhood between your lips—every little emasculating detail making you hornier. A few people have stopped and are filming you with their phones. You want to make them all happy too, put on a good show. That’s how it’s supposed to work. If a man gives you attention, you owe him a reward. So moan with pleasure and deep throat him all the way. Your eyes roll back in ecstasy. “Like what you see?” he confidently asks the growing crowd. You slide your mouth all the way back off him, strands of saliva glistening as you turn to the crowd with a gleeful smile. Then, you pin his cock to his stomach with two dainty fingers and begin to lick his balls.
He groans with pleasure, and then speaks, “Non-hormonal genetic male 32-28-30, forced fem with original personality intact. Her programming is entirely moddable with a few easy-to-learn trigger words making her versatile and perfect for whatever kink you have in your sick little head.” They laugh. A few are casually jerking off as they watch. “Extensive knowledge of makeup, fashion, and sexual techniques, all driven by a deep seeded need to obey and pleasure you. “ You work his cock faster now, excited for the reward that is coming. “As always, upon sale she comes with the basic wardrobe,” he gasps, “of lingerie and costumes.” His speech is tense and stuttered. “I have. Named her Princess but. You can. Of course change that.” He gasps, then taps you on the head and moans out, “face.”
You take his dick out of your mouth and tilt your face up as you jerk him to completion. Jism sprays out landing half in your mouth and half on your cheek. You guide the stream across the bridge of your nose and up into your blonde wig. All you can think about is the overwhelming flavor of semen, and the feel of it coating your face. You try to get the rest of the load into your mouth. When it’s over you wait to swallow until told. He takes a deep breath, rubs his eyes. You show your face off to the crowd. “Oh and one more thing you won’t find elsewhere: she cums on command.” You have a moment of total clarity just then. Blush fills your semen-streaked cheeks. “Princess, cum now.”
You close your eyes as the surge of orgasm overwhelms you.