Because We Can: Feminization Without a Happy Ending

Most of the time when you read something from Candy Apple Press, there’s somewhat of a happy ending, or the realization that the guy that got feminized deserved it or at least enjoyed it. But sometimes…sometimes the feminization is strictly for the Domme (or the Alpha female–in a few cases in these stories the Domineering Wife) and her amusement. Sure, the guy goes along with it because he loves her or because, he has no other choice. These tales are stricter FemDom, combined with the Feminization styling you’re used to.

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I never asked for any of this. My name is Keith Ramsey, and at forty-two years old I figured I’d paid my dues working security at The Midnight Mirage. Five nights a week I stood at the doors, patted down drunks, broke up catfights in the dressing room, and kept the girls safe while they shook their asses for cash. It was a job. Nothing more. I didn’t chase the dancers, didn’t steal tips, didn’t cause trouble. I just wanted to clock out, go home, and forget the smell of cheap perfume and spilled beer.

Then there was Gloria Harrington.

She was forty-six, the house mom, and she ran the place like a queen who’d never quite stepped off the stage. Back in her stripping days she’d gone by Goddess Glo, and the nickname still fit. She was tall, thick through the hips and thighs, with a chest that had to be double-H and still looked obscene in the low-cut black blouses she wore every night. Her dark hair was always pinned up in a messy knot that somehow looked expensive, and her mouth was painted the same blood-red every shift. She didn’t smile much. When she did, it was the kind of smile that made you check your exits.

I’d never crossed her. I’d never even flirted. So when she cornered me in the back hallway after last call on a dead Tuesday, I had no warning.

“Keith. Office. Now.”

Her voice was flat, almost bored. I followed because saying no to Gloria wasn’t a real option. The owner owed her favors that went back fifteen years. One word from her and I’d be unemployed by sunrise with a reputation that would keep me from every other club in town.

Her office smelled like aqua net hairspray and stale cigarette smoke. She shut the door, locked it, and sat behind her desk like a judge. For a long minute she just stared at me, eyes cold and calculating.

“I’ve decided something,” she said finally. “You’re going to become my little project. I’m going to dress you up, tuck you away, and turn you into the prettiest, most pathetic sissy bitch this club has ever seen. And you’re going to let me. Because I can.”

I laughed once, nervous. “Come on, Gloria,”