Femboy And His Mistress

A Mistress and Her Femboy

From the moment he first knelt before me, eyes lowered and breathing unsteady, I knew he was ready. The quiet tremble in his body told me he craved surrender more than he could admit. This was the beginning of his gentle transformation into my pretty femboy. I started by undressing him slowly, letting my fingers linger on his skin. Then I dressed him myself.

I slid a very delicate lace panties up his freshly shaved and oiled legs, fastening a silky camisole that clung softly to his chest. The flush that spread across his body as the feminine fabrics touched him was breathtaking. He stood there exposed, vulnerable, heart racing, his body gave him away no matter how still he tried to stand. I circled him slowly, tracing my nails lightly down his back, whispering how beautiful he looked when he stopped pretending to be strong.

Becoming my Femboy quickly became an intimate ritual.

I taught him to move with grace. Smaller steps, a gentle sway of the hips, eyes cast downward in sweet submission. I sat close, thigh pressed against his, while I applied his makeup. The soft brush on his cheeks, slowly gliding gloss across his trembling lips… the room went quiet except for his breathing. He struggled to stay still as I murmured praise: “Such a pretty girl for me.” Every compliment made him throb visibly beneath the lace.

Some evenings, I pushed him deeper. I had him kneel in a short, silky outfit and thigh-high stockings, hands resting obediently on his thighs. With my voice low and commanding, I guided him through long, slow edging, controlling the pace completely while making him stroke with feather-light touches and stop just as the pleasure built. He struggled to keep his rhythm steady, breath breaking, hands trembling as he waited for my next command. His eyes, glassy with desperation, never left my face as I controlled every twitch of his fingers. “Good femboy,” I whispered, regarding his obedience with the faintest brush of my fingertips along his straining lace-covered length. The shudder that ran through him was exquisite.

I introduced him to heels.

At first, low and steady, so he could practice that sway I loved so much. I’d sit on the edge of the bed, wine in hand, watching him take careful steps across the room. Every time his ankles wobbled, I corrected him with a sharp but affectionate tap of my crop against his thigh. “Chin up, shoulders back, hips forward. Let them see how pretty you are.” The blush that followed those words never failed to make him hard again.

One of my favorite rituals became our “mirror time.” I’d stand behind him, both of us facing the full-length mirror, my body pressed to his back. While one hand teased his nipples through the camisole, the other would slide down to cup him possessively. “Look at my sweet femboy.” I made him repeat affirmations until they came naturally. “I am hers, I am pretty, I exist to please her.” By the third repetition, his voice lost it’s hesitiation. By the fifth, he didn’t need prompting.

On special evenings, I’d push him further.

Starting with Beta Training, I’d dress him in a sheer babydoll that barely covers the curve of his ass, then guide him onto all fours. With slow, deliberate movements, I train him to take my strap, praising every gasp and moan as he learns to push back for me. The sight of him – stockings stretched tight, back arched, lips parted in a helpless pleasure – is addictive. But I love the way his voice climbs higher and sweeter as I control the rhythm and depth.

He is no longer pretending. Because now, he is my pretty femboy, and every tremble, every whispered, “thank you, mistress,” reminds me why I cherish breaking him so gently.

xoxo, Zoey

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