After the intensity of our last session and my agreement, Kimmie arranged for us to meet Dr. Feiler the next Friday at the bar of a downtown hotel—drinks first, and then… whatever the night and her impulses let it devolve into.
When I got home from work around four, Kimmie was already waiting at the door, as if she’d been listening for my car. She didn’t kiss me hello. Didn’t smile. She just looked me over and told me to get out of my work clothes, take a shower, shave and then she’d help me dress appropriately.
On my way through our bedroom to the shower, I glanced at the bed and slowed.
Everything was laid out with meticulous care on the bed—the dress smoothed flat, stockings displayed, garter belt centered, the frilly bra and crotch-less panties arranged like pieces of a uniform rather than lingerie. My red wig sat on her dressing table, brushed and waiting. The six-inch heels stood neatly beneath it.
It didn’t feel playful.
It felt prepared.
My eyes searched the room out of habit, counting the pieces.
Then my stomach tightened.
One thing was missing.
My clitty cage.
She always put it on top of the panties.
After showering and shaving as thoroughly as I could, I was still toweling off when the bathroom door opened without a knock.
Kimmie stepped inside to inspect me.
She didn’t say anything at first—just circled slowly, eyes tracing over my skin like a quality check. Clinical. Appraising. I felt less like a partner and more like something being prepared.
“Turn around,” she said.
I did.
“Bend.”
The word was calm, matter-of-fact.
I obeyed, heat creeping up my neck as the cold air hit my damp skin. She crouched behind me, close enough that I could feel her breath. Her fingers guided over my skin, pressed here and there, tilting me, adjusting me as if I were a mannequin that needed straightening.
A faint tsk.
“You missed some spots,” she murmured.
I heard the soft scrape of the razor being picked up.
“Be still,” she said, steady and absolute. “I’ll take care of it.”
The tone wasn’t teasing.
It was ownership.
Her hands lifted my balls and did a couple of swipes then spread my cheeks for some of the same without hesitation, adjusting me the way someone might straighten a collar or smooth a wrinkle. Efficient. Practical. As if my body were simply another thing to prepare. The faint rasp of the razor, the warmth of her touch, the quiet focus in her breathing—it all felt less intimate than procedural.
When she finished, she stepped back to admire her work.
“There,” she said lightly. “Now you’re ready to get dressed for our date.”
The words should have sounded reassuring. Instead, they made my stomach tighten.
“Wait,” I said, turning toward her. “We’re going out? With me dressed?”
It suddenly felt very small, that bathroom. Very bright.
“I’ve never gone out in public like this.”
She smiled, slow and certain, like this had always been the plan.
“Well, honey,” she said, brushing her fingers under my chin, lifting my face so I couldn’t look away, “there’s always a first.”
Her eyes held mine.
“And tonight is yours.”
Returning to the bedroom, I slowed in the doorway.
Her clothes were already laid out, too.
The mini black dress—short, sequined, catching the light like scattered glass. Black stockings beside the garter belt placed with deliberate care. Her six-inch patent leather stilettos waited on the floor, toes pointed toward the bed as if they already knew where she’d be standing. No bra or panties were seen.
My breath caught.
That outfit wasn’t casual. It wasn’t spontaneous.
She only wore it on special occasions—anniversaries, private celebrations, nights she planned down to the smallest detail.
Which meant this… however tonight would turn out… had been decided long before I got home.
Before I’d even agreed. Oh, yes, I had agreed to whatever she wanted for this night.
And suddenly it knew it wasn’t a date. It was more like we were dinner and dessert, and I was being prepared as one of them.
Kimmie returned a moment later, holding something delicate between her fingers.
A piece of clear plastic, two narrow, oblong loops—one nested inside the other. She held it up like a jewel, letting the light play across its smooth curves.
“What is that?” I asked, my voice catching slightly.
“It’s called a Fufu clip,” she said, her tone soft but certain.
She stepped closer, tilting her head, her eyes locking on mine. “You’re wearing this tonight instead of your cage.”
Instead.
My pulse quickened.
“It’ll make you look more like a woman down there,” she whispered, her fingertip brushing lightly along my hip and skimming over my freshly shaven genitals as she spoke. The touch was fleeting, teasing—but enough to make my breath hitch.
There was no force, no command—only the quiet power of someone who already knew exactly what she wanted, and the knowledge that I wanted it too, even if only a little.
I stared at the clip, imagining what it would do… how it would transform me. And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t just being dressed. I was being remade—reshaped to be as feminine as possible, from the ground up.
“How do I put it on?” I asked, holding the clip uncertainly.
“Watch this video,” Kimmie said, her voice calm, certain. “It’ll show you exactly how to wear it.”
I stared at the screen for a few moments, fumbling at first, trying to make sense of it. Then, slowly, I got the hang of it.
And when it was in place… I froze.
I was amazed. My equipment was gone, replaced by a perfectly smooth, feminine contour. I ran a hand over myself, marveling at the transformation.
The look, the feel, the subtle shift—it thrilled me, made me shiver with a mix of awe and desire. I loved it. I loved how entirely different I could be… and how completely Kimmie had guided me here.
Kimmie stepped closer, her eyes roaming over me with approval, a slow, deliberate smile curling her lips. “Good,” she murmured. “Now let’s finish the transformation.”
First came the stockings. She knelt before me, slipping each leg into the sheer black silk, pulling them up with careful precision until they hugged my thighs. The garter belt followed, clipped snugly, adding the finishing touch of elegance—and a little wickedness.
When she handed me the matching bra and panties, she leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. “Every piece matters,” she whispered. “Every detail makes you… irresistible.”
Guiding me toward the bed, where my dress waited, her fingers grazed my arm as she helped me lift it over my shoulders, tugging gently to smooth it against my curves. The fabric felt impossibly soft, shimmering under the room’s light, molding perfectly to my body.
And then the heels. Six-inch stilettos, sharp and commanding, waiting to elevate me not just physically, but in presence. Kimmie steadied me as I stepped in, her hands brushing lightly against my hips, guiding me to balance.
I looked in the mirror, catching the reflection of myself fully transformed: the dress glittering, the stockings and garters perfect, the clip in place repressing what little manhood I had. I hardly recognized the person staring back. I shivered—not from cold, but from the thrill of the metamorphosis, the way Kimmie had made me someone new, someone undeniably feminine, someone entirely hers.
She stepped behind me, hands brushing over my shoulders, drawing me into a quiet, intimate embrace. “Beautiful,” she whispered. “Exactly how you should be.”
And in that moment, I knew the night had only just begun.
The hotel lobby was softly lit, the kind of warm glow that made shadows cling to corners and reflections shimmer on polished surfaces. Kimmie led me through it, her hand resting lightly but possessively on my lower back. Every step in my heels felt amplified, each click echoing faintly, a reminder of the transformation I had undergone.
We reached the bar. Dr. Feiler was already there, seated in a corner booth, watching us with that calm, appraising gaze that made my skin prickle. Kimmie released my back just enough to let me step closer to him, but her eyes never left mine.
“Hello,” she said softly, brushing a finger over my shoulder, then turning toward him. “We’re here.”
I felt the heat rise in my chest as I took my seat beside him. The dress clung to my curves, the stockings and heels giving me a posture that was both new and unsettlingly natural. Every glance—his, hers, even the occasional passerby—made me conscious of every line of my body, every detail Kimmie had orchestrated.
Dr. Feiler’s eyes lingered on me for a moment, then shifted to Kimmie.
“Impressive, Patty,” he said, voice low, almost approving. “Damn, there is no way I would have recognized you from the person who was in my office last week.”
Kimmie leaned in close to whisper in my ear, letting her lips brush my hair. “See? You’re exactly how I wanted you tonight. Every detail, perfect.”
My pulse raced. It wasn’t just the outfits, the clip, the heels—it was the way she had shaped me, guided me, made me hers before we even left the bedroom. And now, sitting here in public, fully transformed, I understood the depth of it.
The drinks arrived, their warmth a soft counterpoint to the electric tension coiling in my stomach. Kimmie’s hand found mine under the table, her fingers threading with mine, grounding me—but also reminding me that she had orchestrated this entire evening. Every glance, every whisper, every small shiver was hers to elicit, and mine to surrender to.
I took a slow breath, realizing with a thrill-tinged fear that I was no longer just me. I was the version of myself she had remade… and she intended for the world to see it.
We sat for a moment, sipping our drinks. The bar hummed around us—soft conversations, the clink of glasses—but all I could hear was the quick rhythm of my own pulse and the faint scrape of my heels against the floor.
Kimmie’s hand remained entwined with mine beneath the table. Her thumb traced lazy circles over the back of my hand, a quiet but unmistakable reminder of her presence—and her control. I felt small, exposed, yet unaccountably alive, every nerve sharpened by the thrill of being transformed and on display.
Dr. Feiler leaned back, studying me like one might examine a rare specimen. His eyes lingered just long enough to make me conscious of the dress riding slightly higher than it had a moment ago, the heels forcing my posture into a subtle sway, the clip hidden beneath the fabric, doing its work silently.
“You’ve outdone yourself tonight,” he said to Kimmie, voice calm but approving. “She looks… remarkable.”
Kimmie’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. “I told you she’d love it,” she murmured, glancing at me, her gaze sharp and intimate all at once. “And she’s learning quickly. Don’t you agree?”
I swallowed hard, cheeks warming, heart pounding. The heat in my chest wasn’t just embarrassment—it was anticipation, the thrill of being caught in this transformation, of being made visible in a way that left me both nervous and exhilarated.
A waitress passed nearby, her eyes flicking briefly to me. I caught the glance, then realized with a jolt that I didn’t shrink away. I didn’t try to hide. I couldn’t. I was fully aware of how I looked, how I felt, and how completely Kimmie had guided me into this—into being seen.
Her hand squeezed mine, lightly but deliberately. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Own it. Feel it. Let them see you as you really were meant to be seen.”
And I did.
Every subtle shift of my hips in the heels, every curve accentuated by the silky dress, every glimmer of the clip’s effect hidden beneath the fabric—I let it be noticed, let it exist. I was hers, shaped by her hands and her intent, displayed perfectly under the muted light of the bar.
The night was far from over. And I had a feeling that what came next would push the thrill—and my transformation—even further.
“Dr. Feiler, did you get a room for tonight?” Kimmie asked, her tone casual, but the faint lift of her brow betrayed a glimmer of mischief.
“Let’s be informal,” he said smoothly, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “You can call me Dick. And yes,” he added, producing the room key from his shirt pocket, “I have a room for us.”
He flipped the card between his fingers like a magician revealing a trick, and my pulse spiked. My eyes flicked to Kimmie, who merely tilted her head, a quiet, knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
The thought of where we were headed made the hairs on my neck prickle. The hotel room, the two of them, the way I was dressed… I was acutely aware of every curve, every detail, every sensation the outfit, the heels, the clip had sharpened.
Kimmie’s fingers brushed my hand under the table, then slid lightly up my stocking-covered leg—a grounding touch and a claim all at once. Her eyes stayed fixed on me, scanning, appraising, already planning. She wanted me ready. Perfect. Mine to guide. Theirs to notice.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing heartbeat. This night was no longer about drinks or casual conversation. It was about me. About what they both wanted. About how far I was willing—or allowed—to let this transformation carry me.
We left the bar, Kimmie’s hand still resting lightly on my back, guiding me through the lobby. Every step in my heels felt amplified, each click against the marble floor echoing in my ears. I was painfully aware of the dress clinging to me, the stockings and garter belt shaping every line, the clip silently maintaining my transformation.
Dr. Feiler followed closely behind, his presence calm but undeniable, like an observer who already knew the script. “You girls look simply delicious from this view,” he said with a chuckle.
My stomach fluttered with anticipation—and something darker—knowing the night was no longer mine to control.
The elevator ride was quiet except for the faint hum of the machinery and the soft brush of Kimmie’s fingertips along my hip. I kept my posture straight, swaying just enough in the heels, feeling the subtle thrill of being displayed, appraised, and entirely hers.
When the doors opened on our floor, the hallway felt impossibly long, each step toward the room a deliberate buildup of tension. Kimmie pressed the key card into the lock, her fingers brushing mine in a silent, possessive gesture. The door clicked open, and the room beyond seemed suddenly intimate, a private stage for what was to come.
She slipped inside first, turning to give me a slow, approving smile. “Perfect,” she said, her voice low. “Now you’re truly ready.”
I stepped in after her, the air warmer, the space smaller, more immediate. Dr. Feiler followed, closing the door behind him. The subtle shift from public to private made my heart race faster.
Kimmie guided me to the center of the room, her hands on my shoulders, letting me feel her control as she slowly turned me this way and that. Every curve, every line, every detail of my transformation was under her scrutiny—and I felt a delicious, nerve-wracking vulnerability in the awareness that I was completely exposed to her gaze, and soon, to his.
“This is what I wanted,” she whispered, her lips brushing my ear, her breath warm and electric. “You look exactly like I envisioned.”
I shivered—not from cold, but from the dizzying thrill of being completely remade, fully seen, and entirely hers.
Her hands slid down my arms, slow and deliberate, guiding rather than forcing. Always guiding.
“Honey,” she said softly, turning me toward a chair near the corner of the room, “sit.”
The single word carried more weight than any command.
I obeyed, the heels clicking as I crossed the carpet, lowering myself carefully, smoothing the dress over my thighs like she’d taught me and I’d practiced. The motion felt strangely natural, instinctive—another piece of me she’d reshaped without my noticing.
She tilted my chin up with one finger, making sure my eyes stayed on hers.
“Sit there,” she murmured, almost tenderly. “And watch as Dr. Feiler shows you how a man treats a real woman.”
The words sent a confusing rush through me—heat and nerves tangling together.
Not humiliation.
Not quite jealousy.
Something stranger.
Instruction.
As if this, too, was part of my education.
Across the room, Dr. Feiler loosened his jacket, calm and unhurried, like a professor preparing a demonstration. And suddenly I didn’t feel like a participant anymore.
I felt like a student.
Or maybe something being trained.
My pulse throbbed in my throat as Kimmie’s hand rested possessively on my shoulder.
“Pay attention,” she whispered.
Dr. Feiler stepped close behind Kimmie, his body pressed hard against hers. I’m sure she could feel his cock nestled in the small of her back. He leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of her neck. His hands slid over her shoulders, tracing down to her hips with a surgical confidence, then moved around to the front of her dress, gliding upward over the sequined fabric and coming to rest on her tits.
I watched, frozen in the chair, every movement magnified by the way Kimmie had prepared me—dressed, poised, and utterly aware of their attention. The warmth of their proximity, the subtle sway of her body beneath his hands, the way she pushed her hips into his crotch, made my pulse quicken.
It wasn’t just desire on their part.
It was instruction for my benefit.
Each glance, each touch, each breath was teaching me something about presence, about power, about what it meant to be fully seen, fully feminine, and fully exposed under their gaze. I felt my clitty begin to leak as I squirmed in the chair.
Kimmie shivered slightly under his hands, but her eyes never left mine. There was a quiet satisfaction in that look, a message I couldn’t misread: watch. Learn. Become.
And I did, every nerve taut with anticipation, every part of me alive to the lesson unfolding right in front of me.
Dr. Feiler leaned in closer, his kisses tracing the sides of Kimmie’s neck and shoulders with deliberate, slow intensity. His hands moved over her dress, easing straps down her arms, letting the sequined fabric slip to the floor in a whisper of sound.
She stood there tits exposed, nipples stiff and erect, begging for relief. Pussy in full view, looking so sexy in her stockings and garter.
A low, breathy sound escaped her lips—a moan, part pleasure, part command. I watched from my chair, every nerve alert, my clitty making a wet spot on my dress. The sight of her completely unguarded yet entirely in control, completely confident yet utterly responsive, made my pulse spike.
At that moment, I wished, more than anything, that I could embody even a fraction of that manly power, that forceful presence, that sexual mastery over women or the sexiness my wife was displaying. I was afraid I could do neither.
Kimmie’s eyes flicked toward mine, a subtle smile touching her lips. The message was clear: watch, learn, feel. Every movement, every shiver, every whispered sound was part of the lesson. And I felt it—heat, anticipation, the electric thrill of being fully transformed, fully seen, and fully hers. I would do anything for my Kimmie.
Kimmie shivered beneath his touch, tilting her head back to his shoulder. Her fingers threaded through his hair, guiding him closer, while his hands traced the curves of her waist and hips, slipping his fingers between her legs, exploring and claiming with careful, possessive attention. Her hips reacting, pushing more of him inside her.
Dr. Feiler turned Kimmie around and like two magnets their lips joined together. Her hands racing through his hair, their tongues dancing in each other’s mouth, licking her juices off his fingers then tracing the curves of her shoulders and back, their flesh pressed tightly together, moving in sync, and the intensity of their closeness made my chest tighten.
Kimmie dropped to her knees, fumbling with his belt and zipper, but soon released him from his confines. She kissed the throbbing manhood filling his underwear. Her fingers lingered on him, teasing and testing, her focus entirely on the connection to his rock-hard cock.
I watched, every nerve alert, every sense alive. The intensity of her attention, the confidence in her movements, made my chest tighten and my heart race. This wasn’t just desire—it was a lesson, a display of control and presence. I wanted to be her.
He shifted slightly, the tension in his body evident even beneath what remained of his clothing. Pulling his silk underwear down, his cock sprung out like mainspring of Big Ben – stiff, rigid, throbbing for its own relief. My wife took hold of it like it was Excalibur and was the answer to her every need and desire.
“Patty, come here beside me,” she ordered, her voice soft but unmistakably commanding.
I leaped from the chair, heart racing, and slid into position next to her. The heat from her body radiated against mine, and even just kneeling there, pressed close, I felt every line of my transformation—the dress, the heels, the way the clip had reshaped me—magnified under her gaze.
Being beside her wasn’t just about proximity. It was about presence, about learning, about surrender. And I could feel it, thrilling and terrifying all at once, as the room seemed to narrow around me.
“Look at it,” Kimmie whispered, her voice low and commanding. “Touch it. Kiss it. Worship it. This time, you’re truly Patty—not Patty in boys’ clothes.”
I froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the weight of her words. The warmth of her presence pressed against me, the closeness, the subtle guidance of her hand, made every nerve in my body hum.
She guided my fingers over its surface- so smooth. She led me to experience that seven-inch connection in ways that were electric without needing words to describe it. She was showing me what it meant to surrender fully, to be the sexy feminine creature a man desired, to inhabit this version of myself completely.
The sensation was both startling and thrilling, a reminder that I was not just dressed as Patty—I was becoming her. Every touch, every gaze, every whispered command cemented the transformation. I felt small, alive, and utterly commanded by her.
His tip glistened with precum. Kimmie rubbed the tip on my lips. Dr. Feiler moaned. My heart raced. My clitty leaked. I had never wanted a cock more. The air between us felt thick, electric.
“Suck it for me,” she purred. “Get him nice and wet for me.”
Licking the tip caused it to bounce. I knew I was exciting him. My mouth opened and I took him in slowly, needfully, as drool ran from the corner of my lips.
“Look at you,” she murmured, voice low and satisfied. “So ready… so beautiful.”
I wasn’t thinking like I used to. I wasn’t watching from a distance anymore. I felt pulled into it, guided by her voice, her hands, her expectations. Her instructions felt less like commands and more like gravity.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Be her. Don’t hold back.”
It seemed that I had only been tasting him for a few seconds when Kimmie ordered, “Now, I want you to put him in me.”
Kimmie reclined her butt near the edge, legs spread, pussy wet and eager, every line of her posture radiating confidence.
As I held Dr. Feiler’s cock, she reached for me her fingers curling into my wrist, guiding my hand as though I were part of the moment, not merely watching it.
“Watch it go in,” she insisted. “You need to see it go in; see it fill me up and watch it fuck me like the sexy bitch I am.”
Trembling as I saw his tip touch then part her lips further, he pushed and the head disappeared inside my wife’s sacred space and soon all seven inches were nestled warmly inside her. He didn’t move. He just kept it buried in her wetness.
Kimmie’s head fell back, lips parting as a deep, raw sound escaped her chest—something primal, animalistic, glutaral that I had never heard before in our ten years of dating and marriage. Definitely, not the soft sounds she made at home. This was older. Hungrier.
Kimmie began screaming, “Fuck me for god’s sake. I need you to fuck me. Fuck me!”
Dr. Feiler smiled knowing that he was in control at the moment. He pulled it out slowly, and I could see my wife’s excitement dripping from his manhood.
He began with slow deliberate strokes then increased the pace. Her hands gripped his hips tightly, pulling him deeper, demanding more with every breath.
She wasn’t shy.
She wasn’t restrained.
She was powerful. She never talked like that with me.
And through it all, her eyes kept finding mine.
“Watch,” she panted. “Feel what I feel.”
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I wasn’t jealous. I wasn’t separate.
I was dissolving.
The old version of me—the hesitant, awkward, half-pretending self—felt miles away.
All that remained was Patty.
Kneeling.
Breathing.
Wanting.
Wanting to please her. Wanting to be shaped by her hands. Wanting to belong exactly where she placed me.
And when she reached for me again, pulling me closer to the bed, her touch wasn’t gentle.
It was certain.
“Good girl,” she murmured.
Those two words melted whatever resistance I had left.
Dr. Feiler came with loud grunt and several deep thrusts.
Her fingers slid into my hair, guiding me closer, her touch both tender and commanding. “Take care of me,” she whispered, voice thick and warm against my ear. “Then take care of him. Show me your devotion. If you’re good, I’ll let him fuck you.”
I surrendered with pride. Like she was trusting me with something intimate. Like this was a role only I could fill.
A test.
The privilege.
As my tongue began slurping up his remnants, her cum-coated thumb traced my cheek. “My good girl,” she murmured.
Those words hit harder than anything else in the room, but made me more insistent to make her proud of me.
Heat rushed through me, knees weak, heart racing. I didn’t feel like the person I used to be anymore. That version of me — uncertain, pretending — had dissolved hours ago.
There was only this:
Her hand in my hair.
Her voice in my ear.
Her shaping me into exactly what she wanted, and the overwhelming need to please her.
To be perfect for her.
To belong completely to her.
