Sissy

You’re nervous when you arrive. I can see it in the way you hesitate at the door, the way your eyes search my face for permission and approval.

You don’t need to ask. You already have it.

This room is made for this version of you. For softness. For play. For the parts of you that don’t get daylight very often.

You bring a bag, carefully packed. I love that moment, I think of it as the quiet reveal. Each item folded with intention, each choice a small act of courage. Dressing up isn’t frivolous. It’s intimate. It’s brave. It’s you offering me something tender.

I don’t rush you. I never mock. I guide.

Before clothes, we start with your face. You sit where I place you, chin tilted just slightly as I look at you properly. There’s already a shift happening, your body is responding to being positioned, attended to.

I apply your makeup slowly, deliberately. Foundation first, smoothing, evening, softening. You watch my hands in the mirror, your breathing changing as my focus stays entirely on you. Eye makeup next. lets get your lashes darker, eyes wider and more open. Lips last, chosen carefully. Glossy. Kissable. A little bit slutty.

You look different now. Not disguised but revealed.

Then we choose her name.

Not your everyday name. Not the one you answer to out there. This name is lighter, dirtier and more playful. A name that belongs to someone who doesn’t need to be serious or strong or sensible. I say it out loud once, just to see how it lands.

You melt.

Getting dressed comes next. Fabric against newly sensitised skin feels sharper now, more charged. I help where you need help with adjusting straps, smoothing seams and making sure everything sits just right. You start moving differently without realising it. Smaller steps. Softer hands. A little sway in your hips.

Then finally, the heels. Sliding them on feels like a secret ignition. They aren’t just shoes they are an invitation. A small, wicked thrill that whispers, ‘I’m ready for you.’

And then I tell you to stand up properly.

I step back and look at you, really look. I don’t rush my appraisal. I let the silence stretch just long enough for you to start wondering what I’m thinking.

Then I smile.

It’s time for you to walk for me.

I gesture to the length of the room like it’s a runway. I show you posture, pace and the way your hips should move. When you take your first steps, you’re tentative and a little self-conscious. I correct you gently. Slower. Head up. Let yourself be seen.

You strut back and forth while I watch. While I judge. While I enjoy.

Each pass gets better. Your confidence grows. You start to enjoy the feeling of being observed, of being styled and shaped and appreciated in this way. You feel how your body responds when you move like this and you allow yourself to be decorative, performative, delicious.

By the time I say your name again, her name, you answer without hesitation.

What happens in this space isn’t about humiliation or parody. It’s about containment. About being held inside a role that makes sense to your body, even if your mind has spent years arguing with it.

When I finally invite you to look at yourself again, you’re not searching for flaws.

You’re searching for confirmation.

And here, she is not only allowed, she is admired.