Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction and intended for mature audiences only (18+). It contains explicit content, themes of erotic humiliation, identity transformation, and consensual power exchange. All characters are fictional and over the age of 18. Reader discretion is advised.
The Mirror Message
Ethan's head throbbed like it had been split open by a hammer.
His eyes cracked open to a faint blue glow spilling in from half-drawn curtains. It wasn’t his room. That realization hit first. This bed was too wide. The ceiling was too white. And he was—his heart froze—completely naked.
He shot up with a gasp, only to feel his stomach churn. The headache from hell collided with the nausea of a night blurred by alcohol.
Then he saw it.
Scrawled in red lipstick across the mirrored closet door:
WELCOME TO THE CLUB!
His chest tightened. "What the fuck?"
He grabbed the blanket and pulled it over his bare body, trying to recall what happened. Graduation party. House full of students. Booze. Shots. Maybe someone handed him something stronger.
He blinked again and noticed something on the floor. His clothes were nowhere to be seen. Whoever undressed him had been careful. And deliberate.
A whisper of fear curled in his gut.
He limped to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed water on his face. A fading hickey stained his neck. His lips were raw. His ass… he flinched. It felt sore. Too sore.
“No, no, no…”
He tried to recall—had he… had someone…?
Panic clawed at him as possibilities raced through his mind. Did someone take advantage of him?
Or worse… did he want it?
He wanted to go back to his home but he was naked! He started looking for clothes to his surprise......
He spotted a filthy boxer shorts under the bed it was 3 pant size shorter than his but he had no other option to wear it to go out.
He wore it tight, skinny he felt aroused but disgusted at the same time.
He borrowed the hoodie and wore it too, his nipples could be seen pumped from the tight hoodie and bulge from his shorts.
Later that day, he got tested. Every possible thing—HIV, STDs, anything. The clinic was quiet. No judgment. Just cold silence. His results came back: Negative.
He should’ve felt relieved. Instead, he felt hollow. Something about that night remained buried in his brain like a locked door. And someone else had the key.
That key would come soon.
---
The first message came three days later.
An anonymous number. No name. No context.
"Your little secret is with me, Sissy Boi 💋"
He stared at it, ice flowing through his veins.
Was it a prank? Someone from the party?
But then came the second message.
“You looked so pretty bent over. Should I send the video to your mom?”
He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He paced his dorm room, locked the door, sat in the dark. Over and over, he asked himself: Did I agree to it? Was I drugged?
The next morning, a package arrived at his doorstep.
No name. Just his room number.
Inside: a pink thong. A chastity cage. A handwritten note.
"Put them on. Take a photo. Send it. Or everyone finds out who Ethan really is."
He almost threw it away. Almost blocked the number.
But fear makes cowards of even the brightest minds.
And Ethan—brilliant, scholarship student, future tech analyst—put the thong on. Struggled with the cage. Snapped a trembling photo.
And sent it.
That was the first mistake.
Not the photo.
The obedience.
---
Narrator : “You obey someone,” the voice would later say, “and they make you more.”
More photos followed. More tasks. Ethan was made to wear panties under his jeans. To walk around campus in tight shirts. Sit in class, presenting his academic projects, knowing he had a plug inside him.
His body obeyed before his mind accepted it.
Somethings were changing in him or maybe something was changing him.
Now he used to stare at the bois, with the fear who is anonymous?
But to his surprise his eyes just locked out on their large bulge. He used to shake his head but again he found himself looking at the same spot.
Because deep down, something about it stirred… something. A desire he had spent years burying under straight-A grades and football jerseys.
The anonymous texts weren’t just exposing him.
They were stripping him.
Layer by layer. Until Ethan wasn’t sure who he was anymore.
And then came the live task.
Another package. This one heavier. A Bluetooth-controlled plug. A cheap webcam. A script.
The message read:
“Sissy Boi goes live tonight. Set it up. Read the script. And smile.”
He was trembling when he pressed “Record.” His voice cracked as he read. His thighs shook. But he did it. He performed, shame burning through him like acid.
He thought it was a private humiliation. A punishment.
He didn’t know someone else was already watching.
Recording.
Uploading.
Sharing.
---
For the rest of the year, Ethan was caught between two selves.
In class, he was still the shy topper. Glasses. Hoodies. Hardworking. Silent.
But alone, in his room, the texts shaped him. Bent him. Anonymous tasks turned into patterns. Rituals.
One day, he walked past a group of students laughing at a meme.
His heart stopped.
It was him.
Face blurred. Plug visible. Bent over. Moaning.
The caption: When the GPA hits, but so does the prostate.
But by then, it was too late.
Because the next message was waiting.
"You’re ready, Sissy Boi."
To be continued..
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