Phase 1

Exactly one week later.

The room was dim except for the soft glow of the vanity bulbs and the light hum of the stimulator base nestled between Kieran’s cheeks. It was always quiet now. No phone, no background music. Just the gentle rhythm of the vibrator against his cage—soft, insistent, maddening—and the constant presence of Celeste, her voice a silk noose around his thoughts.

He sat with his knees together on the plush vanity stool, back straight, shoulders lightly rolled, his painted toes pointed neatly inside lavender slippers. He was wearing a pale blue satin chemise that clung to his softening frame—thin straps showing off his growing collarbones.

His skin smoother, flushed from daily exfoliants and softening oils. His thighs were rounder now, from vitamins and heels and clenched corsets. Even his wrists, once angular and boyish, now looked delicate—thin bracelets dangling quietly as his fingers rested on his knees.

The VR headset was snug against his face. Over-the-ear headphones cupped both ears, immersing him in Celeste’s curated playlist of male-dominant sissy content. The kind where the camera lingered on strong arms and deep voices, and Kiara—the passive, obedient, **** girl on screen—was always being praised for kneeling, for moaning, for taking it like a good, pretty thing.

The kind of content Kieran had once rolled his eyes at. Now… it was the only kind he was allowed to see.

Celeste stood behind him, arms folded, watching quietly as her sister moved through the assigned routine. Her expression was calm, professional even—but her eyes gleamed with delight. This was working.

Every night for a week now, Kieran had come into the room without needing to be reminded. Had stripped down to his lingerie. Had applied his lotion and lip gloss. Had taken the headset in both hands like it was sacred and obediently asked, “Which file tonight, Celeste?”

He never fought. Not anymore. Not after night three, when she denied him climax for failing to moan when instructed. He’d sobbed by night five, plugged and ****, hands shaking as he slowly pushed the vibrator against his cage under her calm direction.

He hadn’t even realized he’d started calling her ma’am until she paused the video and smiled, gently brushing his hair behind his ear. “Good girl,” she had said. “That’s how we build habits.”

Now, the habit was routine. Automatic. Trained.

Celeste checked her clipboard. “VR: activated. Volume: max. Plug setting… level three. Vibrator… pulse rhythm.”

Kieran nodded beneath the headset, lips slightly parted, glossy and trembling. His breathing was already faster. The plug throbbed inside him with a faint buzz, pulsing every five seconds—gentle, then firm, then fading—only to build again. The vibrator pressed against his cage pulsed in time. External denial. Internal chaos.

Celeste leaned in slightly. “Now, Kiara… you know what comes next.”

He nodded again. “Yes, ma'am,” he said quietly, the voice slipping out of his painted mouth without hesitation. Feminine. Soft. Measured. Every syllable touched with practiced poise. The kind of cadence you could pair with champagne and camera flashes.

“Tell me the rule.”

He swallowed. “Only arouse to male content. No girls. No straight porn. No imagination.”

“And?”

He breathed in slowly. “If I touch myself to anything else… if I try to cheat… my body won’t respond the next time.”

Celeste smiled, pleased. “Exactly. You won’t get hard. Your plug won’t hit right. You’ll struggle to even feel anything.” She leaned closer, brushing her fingers along his jaw. “And then I’ll know.”

Kieran shuddered visibly, not from fear—but from the gentle brush of her fingers and the subtle increase in the plug’s pulse.

“Phase one is breaking old patterns,” Celeste murmured. “Tonight, we’re reinforcing.” She tapped the remote in her hand, and the vibrator buzzed louder against his cage.

Kiara’s hips jerked slightly. His breath caught.

“Moan for him,” she whispered, watching the screen reflected faintly in the gloss of his headset. “That’s right. The one in the suit. You love how he talks. Deep. Confident. Say it.”

Kiara’s voice wavered. “I love his voice.”

“Why?”

“It’s… strong.” He inhaled sharply. “Makes me feel soft. Owned.”

Celeste smiled. “That’s better.”

She adjusted a dial on the remote, and Kiara whimpered.

The room smelled like lavender and blush powder, like moisturizers and perfume. Kieran’s body was soft, ****, open. Not just from the hormones or the shapewear or the cage. But from weeks of practiced femininity. From the mantra he repeated to himself every night.

I am Kiara Laurent. I am confident, graceful...

It wasn’t resistance anymore. It was habit.

Celeste stepped forward. “Use the wand. Setting two. No higher.”

Kieran’s manicured fingers reached slowly for the pink wand on the vanity—his posture flawless even in desperation. He positioned it against the cage, the plug still pulsing steadily. The stimulation was unbearable. Not pain. Not quite pleasure. Just saturation. His nerves were rewired now. Softened. His body didn’t want friction or fantasy. It wanted permission.

Celeste watched like a conductor. “Good girl. Now… what does his voice make you feel?”

Kieran moaned, barely audible. “Small.”

“And what do small girls do?”

“Obey.”

Celeste increased the plug again.

Kieran trembled. “Obey,” he whispered, again, a little louder.

She smiled. “That’s better. I want that voice trembling when he looks at you. I want your thighs clenched when he calls you beautiful. I want your body begging the moment he touches your lower back in public.”

Kieran whimpered.

“I want your shame to become arousal. And your arousal to belong to men.”

She paused.

“No more women. No more old memories. Only new ones. Only Kiara’s.”

His body was shaking now. Plug, wand, words—all blurring together.

“Do you want release?”

Kieran nodded furiously. “Yes—please, please, I’ll be good—”

Celeste leaned in close to his ear, her voice a breath of velvet. “Then prove it.”

And Kieran did. Right there, in front of her, soft whimpers slipping past his painted lips, thighs trembling, toes curling in his lavender slippers as the pressure in his body coiled and peaked and finally—finally—burst.

No hands. No cock. Just the cage, the plug, the rhythm, and the voice in his ears.

And when it hit, it wasn’t even Kieran who cried out.

It was Kiara.

The headset slid off moments later. The room returned—dim, warm, intimate. Kieran’s chest rose and fell, flushed, pink, trembling. The satin of his chemise clung damply to his stomach. The plug remained, buzzing low, like a lullaby. The vibrator clicked off with a quiet beep.

Celeste placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You came like a good girl.”

Kieran didn’t respond. Just nodded, dazed. His makeup had barely shifted. He hadn’t cried. Not this time. Just moaned. Soft. Feminine. Empty.

“You’ll sleep plugged tonight,” she said softly. “Level one. Just enough to keep you soft and trained.”

She picked up the headset, wiped it gently, and placed it back in its velvet box. “Tomorrow, we go again.”

Kieran finally found his voice. “Celeste…”

She paused, glancing back.

“…what happens after phase one?”

Celeste turned toward him, smiling softly as she walked back to the vanity and tilted his chin upward with two fingers.

“Phase two,” she said, voice warm, “is when you start craving it.”

Then she kissed his forehead and left him alone, plug still humming.

The door shut quietly.

And Kiara didn’t cry. She just exhaled.

Because deep inside, something new had taken root.

And for the first time, Kieran didn’t know how to tell where _he _ended and she began.

The room was quiet.

Not just silent—but hollow, the kind of stillness that made the walls feel farther away than they should be. The soft buzz of the plug was still there—level one, just like Celeste said. Barely noticeable now. Just a warm, ever-present pressure that refused to let him forget.

Kieran lay curled in bed on his side, the blue satin chemise wrinkled against his thighs, mascara clinging to lashes that fluttered with every slow blink. He hadn’t moved since she left. He hadn’t even pulled the covers up. Just lay there. Breathing. Staring.

And then, like a hairline crack in glass, the first sob slipped out.

It started small. Just a tremor in his chest. A twist of breath. But when it broke—when the tears finally pushed past the tightness in his throat—they came hard. Ugly. Quiet, but ragged.

His whole body shook.

A week ago, this was still funny. Or at least tolerable. Manageable. He’d figured out the system. Play Kiara by day. Swallow the shame. Say the right things in meetings, wear the right gloss. Come home, lock the door, and find a workaround. Yes, the cage was humiliating. But vibrators were mechanical. The prostate plug? A problem to be solved. Release was still release.

Back then, it had all felt like a game. Like roleplay with consequences.

Now… it was something else.

Kieran buried his face into the satin pillow, biting down against the sob that broke through his throat.

He had watched hours of sissy porn this week. Not just watched it—been immersed in it. VR headset locked on, Celeste’s voice in his ears, telling him how to moan. How to breathe. How to look at a man’s cock and call it beautiful. How to respond like a good girl when the “right kind of man” praised him.

He didn’t just go through the motions. He responded. His thighs clenched. His body ached. The cage throbbed, and the plug pulsed, and it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t performance.

And the worst part—the part that made the sobs hit deeper now—was that he begged. Not as an act. Not to play along.

He begged because he needed it.

His voice—soft and high and polished—had trembled when he pleaded for release. “Please, please, I’ll be good…” The words echoed in his skull, sticky and shameful.

He’d meant them.

Kieran gasped for breath and clutched the pillow tighter, his legs folding inward, curling his painted toes beneath the hem of the chemise. Even now, the scent of lavender lotion and blush clung to his skin—his skin, which no longer felt like it belonged to him.

He didn’t know when that had changed. Maybe day four. Or five. When Celeste had added the headphones. Or when she had paused the video to ask, “What makes you ache for him?” and Kieran had answered without thinking, “His voice.”

Where had that come from?

He used to hate that voice—the deep, smug alpha in those videos. It used to make him roll his eyes. It used to be funny. Cringey. Fake.

Now it made his stomach flip.

Kieran sat up slowly, wiping at his cheeks with the backs of his hands. His lashes were wet. He looked down at himself—the curve of his thighs, the narrow slope of his waist, the tiny swell of his chest beneath the chemise. The cage between his legs was hidden, invisible beneath layers of satin and lace and shame.

He looked like a girl.

He moved like a girl.

He moaned like a girl.

And in those moments—plugged and vibrating, Celeste watching, the headset on—he was a girl. Not because he believed it. Not because he wanted to be.

But because there was no space left for anything else.

The other day, in the shower, he’d noticed it—really noticed it. His skin wasn’t just smooth from shaving anymore; it was soft, supple, even in places he hadn’t touched with a razor. His chest, too—he’d dismissed the soreness and tenderness at first, told himself it was from the corsets or the posture correction or the constant hugging of shapewear.

But now, when he’d looked in the mirror, there had been more than soreness. There was shape. A barely-there curve beneath the nipple. Warm, sensitive tissue that hadn’t been there a month ago. And the moment he saw it—really saw it—his eyes had drifted toward the pastel pill planner on the vanity, monogrammed with a tiny E. Euphorica’s logo.

He didn’t even need to open it. He knew.

Euphorica had the best feminizing HRT on the planet. And he was on it.

Of course Euphorica would manufacture the best feminizing hormone blend on the planet. Of course Celeste had called them “vitamin packs.” Of course the packaging was sleek, elegant, medical-luxury. And the worst part?

He couldn’t even scream about it.

Because this—this was just more proof that his family was serious. That when they said he needed to be perfect, passable, unquestionably Kiara to the public—they meant anything. Anything reversible, of course. That was their line.

It was one more thing he hadn’t agreed to. One more piece of Kieran… gone.

Kieran slipped out of bed and moved to the mirror. His steps were light, delicate. Not because he was trying—but because his body defaulted that way now. Soft weight on the balls of his feet. Smooth hips. Back straight. Chin poised.

Kiara looked back at him.

Her lips were slightly parted. Her skin flawless. The winged eyeliner still intact.

And suddenly he didn’t recognize the person staring back.

He reached up, slowly, and touched the side of his own face. The cheekbone was smoother now. His fingers, manicured. His eyes looked larger somehow—framed by lashes he’d once glued on with shaking hands but now applied without thinking. His lips were full, glossy, ****.

He choked on a laugh.

“This isn’t me,” he whispered aloud.

But it sounded like a lie.

Kieran dropped to his knees in front of the mirror, the plug shifting subtly inside him with the movement. He let out a sharp gasp, hands reflexively pressing to his thighs, body quivering at the sensation.

It was barely anything.

And it still got a reaction.

He buried his face in his hands and cried—shoulders shaking, breaths shallow, the kind of sobbing that left no room for dignity. Because this wasn’t just humiliation anymore. This wasn’t punishment.

This was erasure.

And he didn’t know how to stop it.

Because tomorrow night, he’d sit back at the vanity. In his chemise. Plugged. Headset on. Glossed and moisturized and tucked. And he’d whisper, “Which file tonight, Celeste?” just like always.

Because the part of him that still said no… was fading.

The sobs finally began to slow. He stayed there, kneeling, long after the tears stopped. Quiet. Empty. He wasn’t even thinking anymore. Just watching the girl in the mirror. Studying her posture. Her silence.

Eventually, he stood. Straightened the chemise. Smoothed his hair.

And returned to bed.

No resistance. No final thought. Just quiet obedience.

Because whether he liked it or not…

Kiara was winning.