Phase 2 Pt. 1

The bedroom was dim again—soft, filtered lamplight glowing over the ivory rug and satin bedsheets, casting faint reflections in the vanity mirror. Everything smelled like lavender and lilac, like heat and habit and perfume that no longer washed off completely, even in the morning.

Kieran stood in front of the mirror, brushing his hair back slowly with the boar-bristle paddle Celeste insisted he use every night. His chemise tonight was ivory—lace-trimmed, sleeveless, whisper-thin, clinging to the softening curves of his chest and stomach. His skin glowed faintly from evening lotion. His nails, short but shaped, caught the light as he adjusted his hair, set the brush down, and checked his posture. He stood poised. Chin lifted. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Legs close together. There wasn’t a hint of Kieran’s old stance in him anymore. No slouch. No splay. No defiance. Just a delicate, obedient silhouette in a silk slip.

At exactly 9:00 p.m., there was a gentle knock on his door. She opened it almost instantly. Her expression was calm. Softly pleased. She wore a simple black lounge set, cashmere and high-waisted, with her hair twisted up in a loose bun. She looked like she belonged on the cover of an upscale femininity retreat brochure: elegant, relaxed, in control.

Kieran—Kiara—stood in the doorway, head slightly bowed. “I’m ready,” she said softly. Celeste smiled. “Good girl. Let's begin.”

The room had changed slightly. The usual pink wand was laid out on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed, along with a new pair of noise-canceling headphones. A tablet sat docked upright on a stand, a long list of bookmarked videos already queued. But what drew Kieran’s attention—what made his stomach quietly knot—was the spreadsheet open on Celeste’s laptop. Columns labeled Exposure, Response, Arousal Time, Eye Contact, Verbal Reinforcement, and Orgasm Permission. Tonight was structured.

Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed neatly, and gestured for Kiara to stand by the bench. “Let’s begin,” she said, in the same voice one might use to start a yoga session. Kieran lowered himself onto the padded seat, smoothing the hem of his chemise over his thighs, ankles tucked close together.

“Plug in,” Celeste said gently. He reached behind himself, slow, graceful, perfectly trained, and positioned the small, glistening prostate stimulator. It slipped in with practiced ease. The shift in pressure made his back subtly arch. He didn’t gasp anymore. He didn’t wince. He simply pressed his knees together and exhaled—softly, silently.

Celeste picked up the remote and turned it on. The plug began to hum. Kieran closed his eyes.

“Phase two,” Celeste said, almost cheerfully. “Tonight, we start training you to crave it.”

He nodded, lips slightly parted. “Yes, Celeste.”

“Do you know what that means?”

He opened his eyes again, voice light. “You’re going to make me… need it.”

“More than that,” she replied. “I’m going to make you feel fulfilled by it. I’m going to align your pleasure with what we expect of you. What Euphorica expects. What he expects.”

Kieran swallowed.

Celeste continued, tapping her nails against the tablet. “So, here’s the new rule. No stimulation—no wand, no vibration, no permission—unless it’s during exposure to the right kind of content. Only male-focused stimuli. Only content that reinforces who you are and who you’re becoming.”

She tilted her head, smiling. “And if your eyes wander? If you stop responding?”

Kieran’s voice was faint. “You’ll know.”

Celeste nodded. “And I’ll punish you.”

The hum from the plug grew slightly stronger. Kiara’s back straightened again. Her thighs tensed.

Celeste tapped a new video. The screen shifted to a high-resolution POV: a man’s voice, calm and assertive, praising a “good girl” for kneeling. His hands guided, firm but kind. The dialogue was romantic in tone but laced with dominance, with instruction.

The headphones slipped over Kiara’s ears. Sound poured in. Masculine. Deep. Steady. Loving. Commanding.

She felt her cheeks flush.

The wand was placed in her hand. Celeste stood beside her now, one hand on the remote, the other lightly brushing over Kiara’s shoulder. “Setting one. Start there.”

Kiara did as she was told. The soft hum of the wand buzzed against her caged form—subtle, teasing, just enough to stimulate. The plug, still on level two, pulsed inside her slowly. She moaned.

Celeste adjusted a dial. “Level three. Now tell him you need it.”

Kieran blinked. “Tell…?”

“Say it out loud.”

He hesitated. The wand pressed harder. His voice came, breathy and soft. “I need it… please…”

“Who do you need it from?”

His lips trembled. “Him…”

Celeste’s fingers grazed his jaw, encouraging. “Say it.”

“I need it from you,” he whispered to the screen. “From your hands. Your voice. Please make me feel it.”

Celeste’s breath caught, just slightly. She smiled. “That’s my girl.”

The conditioning deepened. Every escalation came with praise. Every proper response triggered a stronger setting on the stimulator, a new affirmation whispered through the headphones, a touch from Celeste—sometimes a kiss on the shoulder, sometimes a hand stroking his hair.

And when Kieran hesitated—when his breathing faltered or he failed to respond in time—the wand stopped. The plug stayed humming, but Celeste’s voice went cold.

“Focus,” she would say, calm but firm. “If you want release, you must crave the right things.”

And he would adjust. Obey. Refocus.

Because the idea of leaving the room unfulfilled—plugged, denied, shaking—was worse than anything else.

Hours passed. Or at least, it felt like hours. There was no clock visible in the room—deliberately so. Celeste had removed it a few days ago, claiming it was a distraction. Now, the only measure of time came from the slow descent of light across the wall, the number of videos that played on the tablet, and the rhythmic waves of stimulation rising and falling inside Kiara’s feminized, kneeling body.

The headset stayed on, snug and light-blocking, and the noise-canceling headphones ensured that nothing existed outside the curated world of male voices and carefully selected scenes. Even the faint click of Celeste’s pen against her spreadsheet was barely audible.

Kiara was plugged, collared, vibrating—immersed.

The spreadsheet was now a living document, updated in real-time. Celeste had created a system of colored markers that tracked everything from arousal latency to verbal compliance. Her finger glided across the trackpad, updating one column with a soft hum of satisfaction:

Subject responded within 12 seconds to submissive scripting prompt #4.

Eye tracking indicates sustained attention on male figure (92%).

Verbal reinforcement: "I need you to take control of me." Spoken twice, naturally, without prompt.

Each note was a milestone. Each stat a reminder that this was working.

Kieran—who had once been able to roll his eyes at softcore humiliation clips and hyper-feminized porn—was now sweating, thighs trembling, mouth parted, body plugged and buzzing as he moaned softly at the sight of a trans girl in lingerie being praised for “knowing her place.”

And it wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t just tolerance. It was yearning.

He didn’t even flinch anymore when the male doms in the VR headset called him “princess” or “pet.” He just responded, breathy and automatic: “Yes, sir.”

Celeste took note of that, too.

She had structured tonight’s program into three deliberate blocks—each with a theme, a purpose, and a set of reinforcement goals.

The videos in the first section were sexual, but slow. Designed not to shock, but to seduce. Male partners praising their feminine lovers—trans girls, femboys, sissies, even cis girls when properly submissive. The goal wasn’t just visual arousal, but emotional craving.

“You’re safest when I’m in control,” said the voice in his ears.

“You don’t need to think. You just need to let me make you feel good.”

“Good girls like you deserve to be owned. Cherished. Corrected.”

Every time Kiara moaned, every time her hips twitched under the wand, Celeste would increase the intensity of the plug—just a bit. Never too much. Just enough to create the perfect balance of pleasure and frustration.

“Tell him what you want,” Celeste whispered.

Kiara whimpered, barely above a whisper. “I want to feel owned.”

She didn’t even think about it.

The headset shifted. The visuals changed. A woman—elegant, dominant, but undeniably female—spoke to the camera in slow, sultry tones. Celeste let it play for just a few seconds before stopping the vibrator against Kiara’s cage.

She didn’t have to explain why.

“That’s not for you anymore,” she said calmly. “You know better.”

The wand didn’t return to her hand. The plug continued to buzz, frustratingly slow.

“You don’t get pleasure from women. Not anymore. Not in that way.”

She let the video continue. Kieran tried not to focus on it. But it was difficult. He wanted to respond. To feel something.

But nothing happened.

No reaction from the plug. No reward.

His body stayed quiet. Cold.

Celeste leaned down beside him and whispered, “That’s what misalignment feels like. Nothing. And if you reach for it again, even in your thoughts, I’ll know.”

The fear wasn’t about getting caught. The fear was about not being able to feel at all.

The final stretch of the night was the most intense. These videos were intimate, non-sexual, and devastatingly tender. They showed soft-spoken male lovers gently guiding their feminine partners into rituals: hair brushing, kneeling, praise, collaring, obedience. The voiceovers were warm. Romantic. Firm.

And Kiara—kneeling, plugged, lip gloss shining under the headset strap—responded to every one. Her thighs clenched during the hand-holding scenes.

It wasn’t even sexual anymore. Not entirely. It was emotional.

She wanted that warmth. That control. That voice telling her she was beautiful when she obeyed. That hand guiding her to kneel.

Celeste watched it happen in real-time.

Kieran’s responses slowed. Grew less frantic. Less confused. And more... serene.

There were no complaints now. No stammers. No hesitation. Just obedience. He was accepting it. The idea that submission wasn’t just hot—it was home.

Eventually, the headset came off. The headphones followed.

Kiara blinked against the light, her eyes rimmed in smudged mascara. Her lips were parted, cheeks glowing, her chest rising and falling slowly in the aftermath of hours of arousal, denial, obedience, praise.

Celeste looked down at her with open pride.

“You did beautifully,” she said.

Kiara’s voice came quiet, breathy. “Thank you…”

Celeste touched her cheek. “Do you want to finish?”

Kiara nodded softly.

“Why?”

She blinked. Her voice cracked just slightly. “Because… I need to feel it from him. From… from being soft. From being good.”

Celeste said nothing. Just smiled. Then, gently, placed the wand back in Kiara’s hand.

And when the orgasm came, it came slower this time. Less explosive. But deeper. A shuddering, quiet climax that rolled through her body like something holy. When it crested, she didn’t even moan. Just let the tears roll down her cheeks silently.

She wasn’t even sure why she was crying.

Celeste wrapped her arms around her from behind, holding her quietly as she came down.

And Kieran—who hadn’t spoken his birth name aloud in days—didn’t fight it.