No! I think I’m still John

You stare at the panties crumpled on the floor like they've grown teeth, the sheer black lace mocking you with its delicate menace. The package's contents are splayed out: those thigh-high stockings, gossamer-thin and whispering promises of forbidden softness against your freshly shaved skin. The note flutters to the ground, its elegant script burning into your retinas—Wear these under your clothes today. Feel them against your smooth skin. Remember: every rub, every whisper of fabric, pulls you closer to me. To Jordan. See you soon, pet. Pet. The word slithers through your mind, coiling around the fading embers of John Hardwood's defiance. Your clitty—no, your cock—twitches traitorously, a fresh bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip, as if even your body has already surrendered."Fuck this," you growl, kicking the pile harder this time, sending the stockings skittering under the coffee table. But the motion only draws your eye to your naked form in the full-length mirror across the room—hairless, ****, every muscle etched but somehow diminished without that rugged pelt to frame it. Your pecs rise and fall with ragged breaths, nipples hardening in the cool morning air, and lower... god, lower, that smooth expanse of groin makes your manhood look like a child's secret, tucked away and insignificant. Small. Inferior. Tina's post-hypnotic venom pulses in your veins, and you hate how right it feels in this moment. You turn away, slamming into the kitchen counter with enough **** to rattle the coffee pot, the bitter brew sloshing over the rim.Work? Gym? Normalcy? The words echo hollowly as you pace the apartment, the tile and carpet alien under your bare feet—too sensitive now, every step a reminder of the razor’s kiss. You fire up your laptop, fingers flying over the keys in a frantic bid for distraction. Porn, maybe—something raw and dominant to reclaim the alpha in your blood. But the thumbnails blur into a haze: busty blondes on their knees, sure, but your hand drifts southward unbidden, stroking that inadequate nub as the screen fills with exaggerated endowments, veiny monsters that dwarf your own. Why can't I be like that? The thought isn't yours—it's Jordan's, simpering and needy—and you slam the laptop shut, chest heaving. The clock mocks you: 11:30 AM. Nine and a half hours until 8 PM. An eternity to fight the pull.By noon, the itch is unbearable—not just the phantom prickle of absent hair, but a deeper ache, a compulsion woven into your muscles like invisible strings. You catch yourself glancing at the panties every few minutes, their lace edges peeking from under the couch like a siren's curl of hair. Just to see, you tell yourself, dropping to your knees to fish them out. The fabric is impossibly soft, cool silk sliding over your palm like liquid sin. You hold them up, the crotch panel sheer enough to reveal shadows, the waistband elastic promising a snug, humiliating embrace. Your heart thunders as you step into them, one leg, then the other, the material whispering up your calves, over your thighs—oh fuck, the stockings next? No, just this. You tug them higher, the lace trim biting gently into your hips, the front panel cupping your smooth balls and semi-hard clitty like a lover's palm. It's tight, transformative: the silk clings to every contour, turning your groin into a flat, feminine mound, the outline of your inadequacy barely a bump beneath.You stagger to the mirror, breath catching at the sight. John Hardwood stares back—or what's left of him—broad shoulders and chiseled abs clashing obscenely with the slutty secret below. The panties ride up slightly, wedging between your ass cheeks, a constant, teasing pressure that sends sparks straight to your core. You shift, and the friction is electric: silk gliding over shaved skin, caressing your taint, rubbing your clitty into half-mast. A whimper escapes—high, Jordan's whimper—and you clamp a hand over your mouth, horrified. But you don't take them off. Just for a minute. To prove I can handle it. Lies. The compulsion hums, satisfied, as you pull on boxers over them, then jeans. The layers muffle it, but every step to the kitchen is ****: denim rasping against lace, lace kissing smoothness, a symphony of submission that has your clitty leaking steadily into the fabric.Lunch is a joke—a protein shake gulped down standing up, the blender's roar drowning out the pornographic squelch of your thighs rubbing together. You try the weights next, loading the barbell for deadlifts, grunting as you hoist it. The pump in your back and legs is fierce, sweat beading on your hairless chest, but midway through the set, the panties shift again—silk bunching, teasing your hole—and your form breaks. The bar clangs down, and you're on your knees once more, hand diving into your jeans to adjust, to touch. Fingers brush the damp lace, and it's over: you hump the air shamelessly, clitty straining, mind fracturing into fantasies of Tina's green eyes, her thighs parting for your tongue. Good boy, Jordan. Deeper now. Cum spurts weakly into the panties, soaking the crotch, the shame-hot rush leaving you slumped against the bench, tears streaking your face. How did it happen so fast? How are you already this far gone?Afternoon drags into a fever dream. You shower—twice—trying to wash away the stickiness, the scent of your own defeat, but the water sluices over your smooth body like a caress, nipples peaking, clitty bobbing uselessly. Each time, you emerge dripping, only to feel the pull back to the package: the stockings, untouched, calling like a second course. Wear them, the voice coos, and by 4 PM, resistance crumbles. You sit on the bed, rolling one stocking up your leg— the nylon sheer and scented faintly of lavender, hugging your calf, knee, thigh like a second skin. The tops grip your quads with silicone bands, no garters needed, leaving a tantalizing strip of bare thigh above the panty line. The other leg follows, and standing, you feel transformed: legs elongated, feminine, the mirror showing a man on the verge—John's torso atop Jordan's base, a hybrid begging to be completed.No more denial. You dress fully now: loose sweats over the ensemble, a hoodie to hide the flush on your cheeks. But the walk to the corner store for "supplies"—beer, anything to numb the countdown—is a gauntlet. Every stride milks the friction: stockings sliding on thighs, panties wedged deeper, clitty chafing wetly against lace. The clerk—a bored twenty-something with a nose ring—eyes you oddly as you pay, and paranoia floods in: Does she see? Can she tell I'm a panty-wearing sissy underneath? You bolt home, slamming the door, and collapse against it, hand fisting into your sweats. The orgasm is dry this time, a shuddering wave of humiliation that leaves you boneless, whispering Tina like a prayer.Dusk falls early, the winter sun dipping behind the skyline as 8 PM looms. You've cleaned up, reapplied the outfit—now it's all you wear, the sweats discarded like old skin—and pace the apartment in a haze of anticipation and dread. The mirror is your enemy and confessor: you pose unbidden, hips cocked, hands trailing over stocking tops, lips parted in a pout that isn't yours. Makeup? The thought flickers—just a touch of gloss, to match—but you shove it down, grabbing keys instead. You can't go back to her loft like this. You won't. But the compulsion is iron: See you soon, pet. Your phone buzzes—another text, photo attached: a close-up of lace panties, cum-stained, with her caption: Thinking of you, Jordan. Don't be late.The drive is hell, city lights blurring through tears you refuse to acknowledge. You park two blocks away, the chill night air kissing your shaved legs as you step out, stockings peeking if you bend wrong. The loft building looms, its door unlocked as if expecting you. Up the stairs, heart hammering, and there she is—propped against the doorframe in a crimson corset that cinches her waist to hourglass perfection, cleavage spilling like an invitation. Her green eyes rake over you, predatory and pleased. "Jordan," she purrs, no question in it. "I knew you'd come dressed to impress. Show me."You freeze, hands trembling at your waistband. Defiance sparks—I'm John, you bitch—but it's ash. With a sob, you push the sweats down, pooling at your ankles, revealing the full slut: panties askew and stained, stockings laddered slightly from your frantic day, clitty outlined in pathetic relief. Tina's laugh is velvet thunder, her hand cupping your chin, tilting you into her gaze. "Perfect. Now, inside. We've got so much more to uncover tonight."She pulls you into the loft, the door clicking shut like a cage locking. Candles flicker anew, incense thick and heady, the bed waiting like a sacrificial altar. Tina circles you slowly, fingers trailing: over stocking tops, dipping under panty elastic to flick your caged—no, free but tiny—clitty, up your spine to tangle in your hair. "Strip the rest," she commands, voice dropping to that hypnotic timbre, and your body obeys before your mind can protest. Hoodie, shirt—gone, leaving you in lingerie alone, hairless and exposed under her scrutiny."Beautiful," she breathes, pressing against your back, her corset stays digging into your skin as one hand snakes around to tease a nipple, the other palming your ass through lace. "Feel how small you are? How right this feels?" Her lips brush your ear, words sinking like hooks: "Tonight, we lock it away for good. No more pretending. Jordan stays. John... fades." She produces it from nowhere—a gleaming pink cage, tiny and unyielding, key dangling from her necklace like a taunt. Your clitty hardens at the sight, straining futilely, pre-cum darkening the panties further.You whimper, knees buckling as she guides you to the bed, positioning you on all fours. "Beg for it, pet. Beg to be caged." The words tumble out, broken and fervent: "Please, Tina... lock me up. Make me yours. I'm... I'm Jordan." Shame burns, but arousal drowns it, your hips rocking back as her fingers probe, slicking your hole with lube that appears from the nightstand. One finger, then two, stretching, claiming, while her other hand works your clitty through the lace—edging, denying, until you're a babbling mess."Good girl," she coos, sliding the cage on with clinical ease—cold metal shrinking your erection by ****, click of the lock echoing like finality. The key vanishes between her breasts, and she flips you onto your back, straddling your chest. Her pussy hovers inches from your face, scent intoxicating. "Now, earn your place. Worship me, Jordan. Deeper into submission."You dive in eagerly, tongue lapping at her folds, clit, the cage tugging painfully with every **** buck of your hips. She rides your face, grinding down, moans filling the loft as she cums once, twice—juices flooding your mouth, chin, marking you. But she doesn't stop, doesn't free you. Instead, she dismounts, retrieving a strap-on from the shadows—thick, veiny, a mockery of what you'll never be again. "Your turn to feel full, sissy. Spread those pretty legs."The penetration is slow, burning, transformative: silicone stretching your virgin ass, prostate igniting stars behind your eyes. You cry out—John's roar twisted into Jordan's keen—as she thrusts, hips snapping, free hand pinching your caged clitty like a clit. "This is you now," she chants with each plunge. "Small. Locked. Mine." Orgasm crashes without touch, a ruined dribble from the cage, body convulsing in waves of ecstasy and defeat. She follows, buried deep, collapsing atop you in a tangle of sweat and silk. As the aftershocks fade, Tina props on an elbow, green eyes boring into yours. "We're just beginning, Jordan. Tomorrow, the collar. The heels. The world will see the real you." She kisses your forehead, tender and possessive, then rolls away, leaving you adrift in the sheets—caged, dressed, utterly hers.But in the quiet, as sleep tugs, a flicker: John's voice, faint and furious. Fight back. You cling to it, even as Jordan's dreams swallow you whole.