Forced crossdressing : “Turning Him Into My Dirty Little Doll”

Forced crossdressingForced crossdressing : “Turning Him Into My Dirty Little Doll”

There’s something deliciously wicked about watching a man squirm as I slip silky lace up his thighs. The first time I made a man cross-dress for me, he protested—just a little. But the moment he felt my nails dragging up his inner leg and heard the snap of the garter clasping against his skin, he melted. That power? Addictive.

I don’t ask. I command. He wears what I choose. Lacy panties stretched over that eager bulge, fishnets hugging thighs he didn’t even know he had, and heels that force him to strut like he belongs in my world. And let’s not forget the lipstick—the deep, slutty red I smudge on his mouth before making him kiss my thigh like a good girl. He blushes. He stiffens. He obeys.

Forced crossdressing : “Turning Him Into My Dirty Little Doll”

This isn’t about emasculating—it’s about control. Erotic roleplaying and submission wrapped in satin and shame. I mold him into my personal plaything, my dirty little doll, and he begs for more with his eyes, even when his mouth mumbles something about “only doing it for me.”

Damn right he is.

Watching his body react while dressed like my filthy fantasy? That’s the thrill. His cock twitching under sheer lace, the look of confusion and arousal on his face—it’s intoxicating. He starts off playing along. Then he begs to be my toy every time.

Gentlemen, take notes: wearing panties for me isn’t weakness. It’s devotion.

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