The Silicone Sissy Project

I have the craft guidance I need. Here is the teaser.

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The first thing she took from me was my own reflection, and I let her, which is the part I still cannot explain.

Mistress Vane stood behind me in the long mirror and I did not look like a man anymore. I looked like something she was building. The corset had my waist pulled in so tight that every breath came shallow and careful, and the white satin of it caught the light like wet paint. Below that, where I used to be a person with a cock and a temper and a job that mattered, there was only the smooth front of the chastity cage and over it the thick padded white she had buckled on me an hour ago, snug and crinkling and humiliating, and over all of it a short stiff skirt that did nothing to hide any of it.

“Stand straight, Bella,” she said.

That name was hers, not mine. My name is Marcus. Was. I kept the old one folded up somewhere behind my teeth like a coin I might need later.

I straightened. My thighs were bare above the white stockings and they trembled and I hated that they trembled. She circled me slow, heels clicking on the tile, a tall woman in black with her dark hair scraped back so severe it pulled at her eyes. She held a small jar in one hand. She had not told me what was in it. She never told me things in advance. That was the whole machine of her, the not-knowing, the waiting for the next thing she decided I would become.

“Look at you,” she said. Not a question. She never asked. “Three weeks ago you sat in my office in a four hundred dollar shirt and told me you ran forty people. And now you crinkle when you walk.”

My face went hot. I stared at the floor.

“Eyes up. Dolls don’t look at the floor. Dolls look pretty and wait.”

I brought my eyes up to the mirror and there it was, the thing my body did before my mind had any vote at all. Heat, low and immediate, pooling behind the cage so that the metal pinched and there was nowhere for any of it to go. I shifted my weight and the padding pressed against me and that was worse, the soft thick give of it, the way it held me. A sound came out of me that I did not authorize.

Do not let her hear that you like the diaper. That was the thought, fast and ugly, scrabbling up from the back of my skull. Anything but that. Let her break the rest, but not that.

She heard it. Of course she heard it. The corner of her mouth moved.

“There she is,” Vane said softly. “I wondered how long the man would last.”

She set the jar on the vanity and unscrewed the lid. Inside it was clear and thick, a gel, faintly blue. She dipped two fingers and held them up so it ran slow off her nails.

“Silicone primer,” she said. “Today you stop being skin. Today you start being finish.”

I did not understand and then I understood too much. My breath snagged in the corset. “Mistress, I don’t think I can,”

“You don’t think. That privilege is suspended.” She stepped close. The smell of her, clean and cold, some perfume that made me think of operating rooms. “You signed for this. You read every line and you signed and then you asked me, very politely, on your knees, to make you into something that gets put on a shelf. Do you remember asking?”

I remembered. God help me, I remembered the relief of it, the floor under my knees, the way the asking had emptied me out like a drain.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Yes what.”

“Yes, I asked to be made pretty.”

“You asked to be made permanent,” she said, and pressed the cold gel to the side of my throat.

It went on like a second skin, slick and tightening as it dried, and she worked it down with both hands, over my collarbone, along the line of my shoulder, and everywhere her fingers passed my skin went tight and shining and not-mine. I watched it happen in the mirror. The man’s neck disappeared under a gloss that caught the lamp in a hard white streak. I tried to hold still the way good furniture holds still. Inside the cage I was straining against metal that did not care.

“You’re leaking,” she observed, glancing down. A bead of it had welled at the tip of the cage, clear, helpless. “Three weeks locked and we’ve barely begun and you’re already leaking through the bars. What does that tell us about Bella?”

“That she,”

“Say I.”

The word stuck. She waited. She was very good at waiting.

“That I’m,” my voice cracked, “that I’m desperate.”

“Louder. The room should know.”

“That I’m desperate,” I said, and the shame of saying it out loud lit me up worse than her hands had, a hot crawling thing under the silicone, and the worst of it, the part I will be ashamed of for the rest of my life, is that the cage got tighter while I said it. My body answered the humiliation like a hand answers a bell.

Vane smiled then, full, and it was the smile of a woman who has just been proven right about something she already knew.

She moved behind me. Her gelled fingers found the small of my back, slid up my spine one vertebra at a time, painting me, sealing me, and she put her mouth close to my ear so I could feel the warmth of her against all that cold drying gloss.

“When you’re cured,” she breathed, “you go in the case by the window. Glass on four sides. You’ll stand on your little stand with your skirt and your padding and your locked nothing, and you’ll watch the street watch you. Mrs. Aldous from the brownstone walks her dog at eight. She’ll see you. The delivery men will see you. They’ll all see exactly what the big important man asked to be turned into.”

My knees nearly went. I caught the edge of the vanity. The picture of it, the glass, the eyes, the being seen, ran down through me like the gel did, slick and cold and then somehow burning, and the cage was agony now, full and aching with nowhere to spill, and I pushed my hips forward into nothing at all like an animal that has forgotten it is trapped.

“Mistress,” I said, and it came out wrecked. “Please. Please, I need,”

“Need what.” She reached around me. Her hand spread flat and warm over the thick front of the padding, pressing, holding me through it, and the pressure went straight to the locked ache behind it so that my whole body jerked. “Use the words I gave you. Doll words. What does Bella need.”

“I need you to let me out,” I gasped. “Please let me out of the cage, please, I’ll be good, I’ll stand in the glass, I’ll let them all look, just please,”

“Beg the way I taught you.”

I sank. There was no decision in it. My knees hit the tile in front of the mirror and the padding bunched under me thick and obscene and I looked up at her past the gloss of my own new throat, my own painted shoulders, the man entirely gone now and only this wet shining thing left kneeling in white satin, and I heard my own voice come out high and broken and not at all like the man who ran forty people.

“Please, Mistress Vane, please let your doll come, I’ll thank you for it, I’ll count it out loud, I’ll stand in the window and crinkle for the whole street, just please touch me, please, I can’t,”

She crouched down to my level. She took my chin in two fingers still slick with the stuff that was turning me to plastic, and she turned my face to the mirror so I had to watch myself ask.

“Good girl,” she said. “That was very nicely done.”

And she reached for the small silver key on the chain at her throat.