Alex Amily Emily Become Complete

I woke in bed, satin babydoll gliding across my skin, its cool, slick fabric a whisper against my flushed body.

My cock, half-hard, leaked precum into the tight tanga panties, the damp lace clinging to my tucked groin, a teasing ache pulsing low.

Nipples tingled, sharp and sensitive under the adhesive patches Erick handed me months ago to mask their prominence in lacy, tight fitting outfits.

"They're so visible, use these to cover them," he'd said, tossing me a box with a smirk.

Eleven months since I shook on his deal, and I'm drowning in it, practicing every day, molding myself into some flawless housewife for his cash.

His ancestral family mansion surrounds me, gardens, swimming pools, stone-adorned walls, heavy oak beams, leather furniture reeking of old money, too rich, too suffocating.

Eleven months of this mandatory cross dressing, and Erick's buried me in women's clothes, boxes, bags, an avalanche of silk, lace, velvet, piling up like I'm his personal stay-at-home wife, primped and polished to his whim.

Dresses spill from closets, lingerie overflows drawers, each piece a thread tying me tighter to this feminine cage.

I'm 25, broke as a shattered plate on rock, and Erick was my lifeline. Dinners paid, rent-free luxury, no need to ever work, an easy life, it keeps me here, chained to his wealth.

But damn, it was a grind: heels clicking, skirts swishing, makeup caking, voice softening, workouts sculpting, diets starving, all of it seeping into my skin like a slow, sticky burn, reshaping me inside and out.

Eleven months ago, I was raw, clueless, spoiled brat, sprawled in my bed, the first week a chaotic blur.

Emily, my mom, had passed ten days before, her absence a raw wound in my chest.

Erick stormed into my room, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud."Rise and shine, cute princess," he said, voice loud, edged with threat.

"Time to pay for your stay, or get ready to hit the road. It's you, or I'll find another to serve me. You get priority because I loved your mother, and she can relive through you." Erick said with firm voice.

Erick, my stepdad, was Emily's "sugar daddy," as she'd teased, her voice fond but sharp.

I opened my eyes, squinting against sunlight streaming through towering windows, the glare blinding. "What the fuck do you want me to do?" I rasped, voice thick with sleep and grief.

"First, no curses when you talk to me," he snapped, eyes narrowing.

"Watch your mouth. Second, from now on you call me sweetheart. Third, the house needs cleaning, cooking, care. I need company. You for the sake of your mom lived here free for ten years. You owe me care for the house, my needs, or leave."His words landed like a punch.

I was at my lowest, broke, a college dropout, a brat, no savings, utterly dependent on Erick's wealth for a decade, living in his sprawling estate, fed by his money. I'd forgotten what life outside felt like, hooked on the ease, the luxury, the safety.

"I'm in,Whatever you want, I'll do. I promise." I said, no thought, voice low.

Maybe exactly what he expected, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.

He held up a pair of black stilettos, a red pencil skirt, and a white blouse from Emily's wardrobe, the fabrics gleaming in the morning light.

"You'll do chores in these," he said, voice firm. "Walk in heels, talk like a decent girl, call me sweetheart. I think it won't be new to you."

He paused, eyes glinting.

He continued "Emily always complained about you cross-dressing in her clothes, spoiling her lingerie with your cum. That puts you more in my debt, the money I spent renewing her wardrobe you used for your naughty kink."

Shock slammed me, heart pounding like a drum. He knew. Emily swore she'd never tell. I'd been cross-dressing since my teens, sparked by my manboobs, soft, rounded, feminine in her lace bras.

It started small: bras, then panties, stockings, dresses, heels, lying in bed, stroking myself before a full-body mirror, lost in the reflection.

It was our secret, mine and Emily's. She'd find cum stains on her panties, bras stretched, but never stopped me, thinking it was insecurity about my masculinity, a phase that'd fade.

But Erick knew, had known all along. My pulse raced, but I wasn't leaving this wealth, this easy life. Cross-dressing for chores? Fair price, no harm.I snatched the blouse, skirt, heels, and headed for the shower, the bundle light but heavy with meaning.

Emily's taste was skinny, skimpy, fabrics wrinkled as I squeezed into them, the blouse clinging to my chest, skirt gripping my thighs, heels wobbling under my unsteady legs, sweat beading down my spine.I stepped out, awkward, the outfit too tight, too revealing.

Erick looked me over, head to toe, his gaze clinical. "Not good enough,Your arms and legs are hairy. The bulge in your skirt has to go, somehow." he said, voice flat.

I retreated to Emily's bathroom, a dusty shrine to her glamour, shelves stocked with creams, razors, powders. Shaving, tucking, walking in heels, talking girly,nothing much, a cheap price to keep this life, I told myself, hands shaking as I opened her shaving kit.

Maisie, our housekeeper, followed me, sent by Erick to mold me into his vision. Her French maid outfit hung baggy, dark curls bouncing, a smirk playing on her lips. "Let's get you smooth, Alex," she said, voice low, teasing, hauling me to the bathroom, marble cold under my bare feet, razor gleaming in her hand.

"Legs first," she said, shaking a can of floral-scented foam. I groaned, stripping naked, thick thighs rubbing, dick dangling free, exposed. Foam hit my calves, cool and wet, sliding up slow, coating every inch to my knees, then higher, brushing my inner thighs, a shiver racing through me.

The razor dragged--long, deliberate strokes, peeling hair away, leaving skin bare, glistening, unnervingly soft. "Fuck, this is weird," I muttered, shifting as she worked, the air kissing my legs, smooth, exposed, tingling like hell, a sensation both alien and electric.

Chest next, she lathered my manboobs, too big for my thin, petite frame, never touched by sports, soft flesh quivering under her touch.

The razor nicked sparse hairs, left me raw, nipples hardening in the chill, sharp and sensitive, a low hum of arousal I couldn't shake.

Then my junk. "Tuck it," she said, eyes glinting, kneeling close, her breath warm near my crotch, intimate, unsettling.

She showed me moves I'd practiced secretly, pushing my dick back, balls behind, tight and flat, a slow ache blooming as I hissed, "This fucking chills."

She handed me black lace panties, delicate, stretchy, watching as I tugged them on. The fabric bit into my hips, then settled, cool and slick, hugging my ass, flattening my tucked groin into a seamless curve.

"Keeps it sleek," she purred, voice husky. I glared, but the lace whispered against my skin--tight, wrong, but sliding soft in ways I didn't expect, stirring something deep.

Heels came next, black leather two-inchers, sleek and cruel, pinching my toes. I stumbled out, ankles wobbling, crashing into the wall, the sharp click echoing on hardwood. "Jesus," I growled, frustration hot in my chest. Maisie steadied me, hands firm on my waist.

"Small steps, hips loose," she said, guiding me slow, her touch grounding.I stomped, clumsy, loud, heels biting, then softened, sinking into a rhythm, clicks teasing across the floor.

Day two, I hit ten steps; day five, a full lap, thighs brushing under the red skirt, calves flexing, leather gripping my feet snug, warm, a pulse I couldn't shake. "Getting it," Maisie said, nodding. I muttered, "Still sucks," but my hips swayed, pantyhose smoothing the motion, legs stretching long, clicks hypnotic.

Day four, Maisie plopped a recorder on the counter, smirking. "time you talk like a girl, this is your script," she said. "Soft, high--go."

I tried--"Hi, I'm Am..."--gruff, low, my usual growl. She laughed, sharp. "Nope--lift it, Alex, throat up."

"screw this," I snapped, but tried again--"Hi, I'm Ami..."--voice cracking, strained, a choked cat. Pathetic. She leaned in, fingers brushing my neck, warm, guiding. "Relax your jaw, breathe light," she said, her touch lingering.

Day six, I hit it--"Hi, I'm Ami..."--higher, softer, a lilting tease, almost seductive. Recorded it, played it back. "I sound stupid," I muttered, but it stuck, smooth, girly, too right, sinking deep. Week two, I practiced solo, mirror glaring, "Hi, I'm Amy", voice purring, silky, sexy, not me, but... not bad, a shiver of pride mixing with shame.

With Underwear, Erick went overboard. Since day two, boxes spilled across the couch, lace thongs, satin bikinis, cotton briefs, red, black, ivory, every cut imaginable, Emily's wardrobe a sea of fabric screaming wear me.

"Figure it out, fresh changes for daily chores," he said, smirking, arms crossed.I dug in, red lace thong first, thin straps cutting my hips, ass spilling out, barely holding my tuck, too tight, too raw.

"not this," I tossed it, the lace a crumpled heap. Navy cotton briefs, soft, stretchy, but bunching under skirts, chafing my thighs. "Nope," I growled, discarding them.

Black satin tanga landed, smooth as hell, cool against my skin, sliding over tucked junk, hugging my ass like a glove, flat, sleek, a whisper of fabric clinging too close.

"Fine," I muttered, adjusting the waistband, satin brushing my hips--wrong, ohh yeah, but slick, easy, sticking in my head, a secret thrill I couldn't name.

Corsets and stockings came next, fuck, they owned me. Maisie laced me daily, that black boned beast, satin gleaming, wrapping my middle like a vice, unyielding. "Arms up," she'd say, her voice a command. I'd grunt, her fingers tugging laces, tight, tighter, ribs creaking, waist pinching slow, breath catching in sharp gasps."damn, I'm dying," I gasped, hands braced on the sink,

The mirror showing my flushed face, eyes wide. She tied it off--sharp, final--hips flaring wide, ass popping, manboobs lifting under the bra, a silhouette too feminine, too curated.

Skin flushed, satin cool, sliding against me, a tight, secret grip I couldn't shake, molding me into something new.

Week two, I laced it myself, mirror watching, fingers trembling, bones digging, fabric kissing my sides. Hurt, it did, but a routine now, almost easy, my shape curving too right, a twisted pride blooming.

Clothes, Erick's obsession hit hard. Emily's wardrobe was a jungle: skirts, dresses, tops, silk, velvet, cotton, piling up like I'm some Stepford housewife, ready to serve.

Week two, I tried a gray wool pencil skirt, scratchy, stiff, clinging to thighs covered in stockings held by garters, gray as a storm cloud, too tight to stride."this is shit," I peeled it off, wool itching my skin, leaving red marks.

Yellow cotton sundress, light, swishing loud, butter-yellow folds brushing my knees, too frilly, too innocent. "Not a goddamn picnic," I snarled, ditching it fast, the fabric a heap on the floor.

Blue denim skirt, short, rough, faded wash chafing my ass, stiff against my tucked groin. "Hell no," I muttered, tossing it.

That red cotton-spandex stayed, knee-length, stretchy, blood-red, hugging my corset curves, sliding soft over my thighs--tight, movable, a slow tease when I walked, fabric whispering with every step.

Tops, the white silk blouse stuck, sheer sleeves fluttering, cool against my arms, buttons straining over the bra, hinting at cleavage.

I tested more: black cashmere sweater, soft, jet-black, warm, clinging to my chest, itching my neck, "Too damn hot," I growled, pulling it off.

Purple chiffon tank, slippery, sheer, violet haze showing lace underneath, too revealing. "Too slutty," I muttered, tossing it aside.

Erick kept it coming, green velvet dress, deep emerald, heavy as hell, clinging tight to my hips, sliding slow when I moved, a decadent weight.

A pink linen skirt, crisp rose blush, stiff against my legs, rustling loud.

Wore them, cursed them, felt them sink in. Fabrics brushed me, silk whispering secrets, velvet stroking like a lover, cotton grazing with familiarity, wrong, it's wrong, but not hurting, not always, sticking too close, weaving into my skin, my mind.

Makeup was part of the deal, and Maisie's crash course fucked me up.

Day ten, she plopped me on a stool, handed me foundation, the sponge cool in my grip. "Smooth it," she said, voice firm, watching like a hawk.

I smeared, clumpy, streaky, a mess. "damn, I'm a corpse," I growled, staring at the mirror, my freckled face blotchy.

She guided my hand--slow drags, creamy slick blending freckles out, skin glowing too soft, too even, unnatural yet striking.

Eyes, week two, I stabbed myself with mascara, the wand sharp against my lid. "Son of a bitch," I yelled, black rivers streaming down my face, stinging my eyes.

Week three, I nailed it, taupe shadow dusting lids, gold flick at the edges, sultry, warm; liner dragged tight, sharp, cold, eyes popping big; mascara curled, lashes brushing cheeks, too much, sticking deep.

Lipstick, red, slick, painting slow, sticky as hell, coating my lips in a bold, wet sheen. "Too loud," I muttered, but Maisie smirked, "Bold's your vibe." By week two, I ran it solo, mirror glaring, skin even, eyes sultry, full "fuck me" lips glistening, too much, but not ugly, sinking too deep, a face I barely recognized staring back.

Four months flew, shaving every curve, tucking tight, balls pressed behind, heels clicking sexy, voice purring high, corsets molding me, clothes draping, makeup painting.

Erick's drills sank in, "Hi, I'm Amy," I'd say, the name close to Emily, too close, a shadow I couldn't escape.

Cash kept me tethered, luxury, games, vacations, an easy life I'd kill to keep. That's it, I told myself, I'll have it all, no matter the cost, no matter the mirror's truth.

Six months in, cross-dressing and makeup were permanent, woven into my bones. I slept in lingerie, babydolls, silk nightdresses, the fabrics cool and teasing against my skin. Walked the house in panties,

French maid lingerie for chores, the black lace and ruffles a humiliating thrill, my body on display.

My manboobs grew, heavy, undeniable, and Erick brought nipple patches to hide their outline. Tingling in my breasts was constant, a low buzz, and strangely, they kept growing, B-cups, soft, round, full, swaying slightly when I moved.

One day, to my horror, my nipples lactated, a warm, shocking drip that stopped me cold.

That night, alone in my room, I jerked off in my favorite pink lingerie, satin thong tight against my tucked cock. I squeezed milk from my boobs, the sensation wild, new, a mix of shame and exhilaration.

White droplets beaded on my nipples, warm, sweet, my fingers slick as I tasted it, heart racing.

I couldn't sleep, tears stinging my eyes, confusion swirling, how much I loved cross-dressing, my changing body, growing boobs, the milk, the femme allure sinking deeper.

It wasn't just Erick's deal anymore; it was me, wanting this, needing it, a truth I couldn't face.

I padded to the master bedroom, lace nightdress whispering against my thighs. Erick was awake, TV flickering with late-night news, his broad frame relaxed against the headboard.

"Come here," he said, voice kind, warm, no trace of his earlier sharpness.I climbed into bed, his arm curling around my back, strong, grounding. I cried, sobs shaking me, grief for Emily mixing with fear of myself.

He hugged me deep, chest warm against my cheek, his cologne woody, familiar.

We talked, my body, the milk, the changes.

He reassured me, voice steady, saying it was all okay, natural, beautiful.

We hugged tighter, my cock betraying me, standing hard, a mountain visible through the sheer lace lingerie, pulsing with need.

He leaned to touch it, fingers brushing the lace, a spark shooting through me. I didn't say no. I craved intimacy beyond my own hand, someone to see me, want me.

Erick, always kind despite his demands, was the perfect candidate, his touch a promise of connection.

His hand on my cock was electric, stroking with expert rhythm, confident, knowing.

I moaned, body shaking, orgasms crashing one after another, ultimate bliss, my mind blank with pleasure. Cum coated his hand, sticky, warm, and he asked me to lick it clean. I did, no hesitation, tasting myself, salt and shame mingling on my tongue.

I reached for his cock, erect, massive through stretched boxers, three times bigger than my own, thick and heavy. He groaned softly as I stroked, his pleasure fueling mine, a shared rhythm.

When he neared climax, I took him in my mouth, lips stretching, sucking like a slut, swallowing every drop, his taste bitter, warm, grounding. He smiled, eyes soft, and we cuddled, his hands cupping my boobs, my balls, drowning me in his embrace, safe, wanted.

Our late-night meetings in his bed became regular, almost daily, a ritual of mutual pleasure, exploration. We'd please each other, hands and mouths greedy.

But one night, in a silk nightdress, both tipsy from too much wine at dinner, the hugs turned intense, desperate.

My thong slipped, revealing my swollen asshole, I had played with it secretly for years, even before Erick's deal, training always with bigger dildos, stretching myself in private, a guilty obsession.

He fingered me, his thick fingers sliding in effortlessly, slick, my ass eager, trained. He stroked my cock; I came like a fountain, cum splattering my thighs, the silk, a release that left me trembling.

His turn. He laid me on my back, missionary, legs wildly open, vulnerable, aching. He pushed his cock inside, thick, stretching me better than any toy, a sweet burn that made me moan, loud, raw.

He pumped gently, lips suckling my erect nipples, lapping at the milk, savoring every inch of my body, his eyes dark with hunger.

An anal orgasm hit, my body shuddering, nails digging into his back, legs locking around him by reflex, holding him deep inside. His thrusts grew stronger, deeper, rhythmic, each one a claim, a connection. He groaned like a lion, cumming hard, filling me with warm seed, a flood that spilled as we collapsed.

We cuddled, slept, my ass leaking, sticky against the sheets. "Rest, my love," he whispered, voice soft, before I blacked out, lost in his warmth, our bond sealed in sweat and seed.

Now, eleven months later, it's a month before New York, the grand opening of Erick's grandfather's will creeping closer, a looming shadow.

Erick's made it clear: I must attend as Amy, flawless, convincing, his perfect wife.

He's home early, pacing the living room, all 6'3" of him sharp, blazer hugging gym-toned shoulders, muscles flexing under his crisp shirt, his presence commanding, magnetic.

I'm sprawled on the couch, cotton tanga panties loose, cock out, dodging the routine, not ready for the spotlight he's thrusting me into.

He stops, hands in pockets, eyes dark, raking me slow, a predator sizing up prey. "Dear Amy," he says, voice low, husky, dripping with intent, "we're going out."

"Out?" I sit up, gut twisting, heat prickling my neck, a flush creeping up my chest. "Like, out there, in the world?" I asked.

"Yeah," he says, lips curling slow, a wicked half-smile. "As a girl, fancy restaurant, date night. A test run before the will opening, to make sure you're ready."

"No way," I snap, standing fast, tanga slipping low, bare thighs brushing, the air cool against my exposed skin. "I'm not strutting around the city like some chick, Erick."

"Amy," he says, stepping close, too close, his cologne sharp, woodsy, filling my lungs. "You've been at this for eleven goddamn months. You're damn good. We need to see it live, in public."

"Live?" I laugh, sharp, pacing, skin prickling under his stare, my nipples hard against the patches. "I can barely handle this house, Erick. Out there? No, no, no, I'll crash and burn."