Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

A message pings on my screen. “Hi, I’m Tim. I’ve never done this before. Can I pay you to tell me what to do?” His profile was bland. Just a blurry photo of a shaggy-haired man in a wrinkled shirt. Beta. The kind who needs a leash. Perfect. Findom is a game of hunger and humiliation, and I play it well.

He arrives at my door, nervous, clutching a duffel bag like a shield. “I-I just wanted to help,” he stammers, handing me a thick envelope of cash. I smirk. “Strip,” I order. He hesitates for a moment, then peels off his clothes layer by layer, revealing a wiry frame.

I’ve never done this before. Can I pay you to tell me what to do?

“Kneel,” I say, tossing him a red dress from my collection. His eyes widen. “What? I…I can’t…” “Can’t? Or won’t?” I step closer, so he can hear the sound of my boots echoing. “That cash you brought? It’s not enough unless you earn it.” He sweats, glancing at the dress. “P-Please…slower?” Ah. A sissy. My pulse quickens. The best kind.

I snap my fingers. “Your turn.” He trembles as I force him into the dress. The silk hugs his small frame like a second skin. His face flushes, but I hold his chin up. “Look at me. Own it.”

“No one will know,” I lie, because he’s begging to be seen. I fasten a pair of heels to his feet, then paint his lips scarlet. The transformation is stark. “Say it,” I demand. He sobs, but it’s not from pain…it’s release. The truth spills out. “I always hated jeans. My dad called me a faggot. I tried so hard not to be a faggot, I really did! But he was right.” He grips the floor. “Make me stay this way. Make a girl. I really want to be a good girl for you, Miss. Stella!”

Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322

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