Madame Solange Transformed Me Without My Realizing It

For weeks, I thought they were only dreams. Vivid, yes, far too clear for my liking, but dreams all the same. Every night, after Carla kissed my forehead and told me «good night, princess,» I would fall into a world where I stopped being myself. And every morning I woke with a strange body, skin far too soft, nipples so sensitive that the brush of the sheet sent a shiver through me, hardening my little tits until they hurt.

I blamed stress. Working from home, the long nights, whatever I could cling to so I wouldn’t have to face what was happening.

The same place always appeared in the dreams: a dimly lit parlor smelling of incense, with tables occupied by elegant women who watched me the way one watches prey. And at the center, her. Madame Solange, in her black latex dress, a crystal hanging between her breasts and swaying slowly, hypnotically, while her voice enveloped me.

Your mind surrenders. It longs for what you denied yourself the desire to want. Soon you’ll do it while awake.

***

The transformation had been slow, almost invisible. It had started months earlier, when Carla suggested we «play» at dressing me up. At first it was only lingerie, a lace piece she tied around me herself while laughing. Then came the makeup, the heels, the long sessions in which she dominated me with a calm I had never known in her.

—Trust me —she would say—. Let yourself go.

And I let myself go. I took the «vitamins» she left for me in the bathroom without asking questions. I noticed the changes in the mirror: less body hair, hips a little rounder, emotions close to the surface, my cock smaller and lazier between my thighs, as if it too were surrendering. I cried over a song, blushed at a word. I blamed exhaustion. There was always some excuse more comfortable than the truth.

I remember one afternoon, standing before the bedroom mirror, when I spent longer looking at myself than I should have. Carla had carefully applied my makeup, lining each eyelid, and when I saw myself finished, I felt something I didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t only shame. There was a dark curiosity too, a desire to keep looking, to find out how far that woman staring back at me from the glass went.

—You like it —she said behind me, not as a question. Her hand slid down my chest, pinched a nipple swollen above the lace, and slowly twisted it until a sharp gasp escaped me. Her other hand slipped beneath my skirt and found the plug lodged in my ass. She barely moved it, a quarter turn, and my whole body jerked—. Look at your little face when I touch you there. Your cock doesn’t even get hard anymore, do you notice? Now your ass is what gets you hot, princess. That’s your hole now.

I didn’t answer. There was no need. My silence was the answer she wanted, and the smile I saw reflected in the mirror told me every piece of the plan was advancing exactly as intended. I felt a thread of saliva escape my mouth while the plug turned inside me, and I closed my eyes in defeat, breathing in broken gasps, the fake little pussy begging her for more while I could no longer control it.

The plugs arrived without my remembering exactly when. They grew larger and larger, until wearing them for hours became routine. Carla fucked me with a harness every night, whispering in my ear that I was good, that I learned quickly, that I would soon be ready. She mounted me face down, gripping my hips, and drove the silicone cock all the way inside while I bit the pillow to keep from screaming. «Open that little ass wide, it’s mine,» she would tell me, speeding up and smacking her thighs against my buttocks with a wet slap. I came without touching my cock, spitting a thin, sad stream onto the sheets, my prostate knotted with pleasure, my mouth drooling the new name she had begun whispering in my ear. Ready for what? I asked myself when I woke. The answer dissolved like fog.

***

On Friday, Carla suggested we return to Madame Solange’s parlor.

—It’ll be the last time for a while —she said, and there was a gleam in her eyes that should have alarmed me.

It didn’t. I dressed the way she wanted—dress, stockings, my lips painted a red I barely recognized as mine—and we left. The parlor was identical to the one in my dreams, and that coincidence should have been the first crack in my denial. The same tables, the same women, the same heavy scent that loosened my muscles the moment I crossed the door.

We sat near the stage. Madame Solange appeared amid the applause, more imposing than ever. The latex gleamed beneath the spotlights; the dress’s side slit revealed dark stockings and heels that struck the platform like a metronome.

—Good evening, ladies —she said, sweeping her gaze across the room—. And good evening, princess.

She fixed her eyes on me. A chill ran down my back. Princess? How did she know?

She gave me no time to think. Her fingers brushed the crystal hanging between her breasts, and she swung it slowly while her voice dropped to a murmur that seemed meant only for me.

—Relax, Mariano. It’s time to go a little deeper.

The world dissolved into a dark whirlpool. As so many times before, I fell into what I thought was another dream.

***

But this time was different. Sharper. Too real.

I was standing at the center of the stage. Not as I knew myself. My body felt alien and yet my own: the weight of breasts pressing against a lace bra, hips cinched by a corset that forced me to breathe slowly. A short dress brushed my thighs, sheathed in black stockings. The heels forced me to hold myself with a grace I had never possessed.

I touched my lips and felt the thickness of the lipstick. My eyelids felt heavy beneath the false eyelashes. A dark, wavy wig fell over my shoulders. Someone held a mirror in front of me, and what it showed me wasn’t myself. It was a woman. Complete. Beautiful, even.

And then I understood that I wasn’t dreaming.

I felt the cool air on my skin, the rough brush of the stockings, the real weight of that body I no longer knew whether it was a mask or what had always been underneath. Madame Solange approached, and her voice echoed inside my head like an order impossible to disobey.

—Wake up completely, princess. The moment of truth has arrived.

I blinked. The dream did not fade. I looked down: the dress, the heels, the makeup. Everything was real. And suddenly, the memories fell into place like pieces that had been loose for months. The nights when Carla «dressed me up to play.» The «naps» during the earlier shows. The dreams in which they shaped me step by step.

They weren’t dreams. They were hypnosis sessions. Suggestions sinking into me while my consciousness slept, erasing every trace. The hair removal, the stockings, the plugs, the hormones disguised as vitamins. Everything orchestrated. Everything directed, slowly and inexorably, toward this.

—What… what have they done to me? —I stammered, and my own voice startled me, higher, softer, shaped by months of suggestion.

***

Carla rose from her table. She was smiling triumphantly, flanked by three of her friends. Harnesses could be made out beneath their skirts, prostheses jutting out brazenly, thick, veined, glistening with lubricant that anticipated what was coming. Behind them, the group of elegant women I had seen so many times finally revealed themselves: tall, dominant trans women with perfect curves and real cocks hanging between their thighs, long and heavy, envying nothing in the artificial ones.

—Welcome to the club, Mariana —Carla said, climbing onto the stage.

The name struck me. Mariana. As if it had always been mine.

I tried to resist. I wanted to climb down from the platform, tear off the wig, scream. But Madame Solange murmured a single word—«submit»—and something inside me gave way. My knees weakened. My body relaxed, traitorous, obedient, trained to respond to that voice.

Carla took me by the waist with a tenderness that contrasted with everything else.

—Easy, love. All of this has been real. Your dreams were memories you had repressed yourself. Now you’re going to accept it.

She bent me over a low table in the center of the parlor, just as in my visions. I felt her hands lifting my skirt, revealing the plug I had been wearing without remembering when it had been put in. She pulled it out slowly, and the emptiness it left behind was a longing I recognized at once, planted in me over months. I heard the plug hit the wood, still shining with the lubricant clinging to it, and felt my ass open on its own, dilated and hungry, pulsing in the cool air of the parlor.

—Look at that well-trained little hole —Carla said, sliding two fingers inside without resistance. She crooked them and tore a moan from me that I didn’t recognize as my own—. Months of work. It opens all by itself. It doesn’t even need forcing. See how it’s trembling, girls? It’s asking for it.

I gripped the edge of the table with both hands, my tits pressed against the wood, the wig falling over my face. Her fingers moved in and out with a wet slap, a whorish little sound that made me boil with shame and desire at once.

—You’ve been such a good girl —she whispered, settling herself against me. I felt the thick tip of the prosthesis press against my asshole, rounding the ring, searching for the entrance.

It went in with a single thrust, deep and possessive, until her hips collided with my buttocks. I moaned, and it wasn’t from pain. It was something darker, a surrender that horrified me and aroused me at the same time. The silicone cock filled me to the hilt, touching a place I had spent months learning to recognize, and my whole body shuddered in a long spasm. My tiny little cock, trapped beneath my soaked panties, didn’t even try to harden. It came on its own, in a thin, transparent stream that stained the lace without my doing anything to prevent it.

—Oh, princess, she’s already come and I haven’t even started —Carla laughed, grabbing my hips and beginning to pump in earnest—. This is a pussy, not a cock. A slut’s pussy that comes when it’s fucked. Say it.

—It’s… it’s my little pussy —I stammered, my face crushed against the table.

—Again. Louder.

—It’s my little pussy, ma’am, it’s my slut’s little pussy —I moaned, and the entire room laughed with a deep, approving murmur.

Part of me was still screaming that this was madness, that I had to get up and run. But that voice sounded farther and farther away, buried beneath months of suggestions that had carved a deep groove in my desire. My body responded on its own, arching to take her better, searching for the rhythm she imposed. And the most terrifying thing was realizing that I wasn’t pretending to enjoy it. Every thrust drew a higher, more feminine, more surrendered moan from me. My ass throbbed around the cock, squeezing it, milking it as if it had a memory of its own.

Her friends came closer. One grabbed me by the wig, lifted my head, and shoved her prosthesis into my mouth without warning. I gagged, my eyes filling with tears, my makeup beginning to run. She set the pace with one hand at the back of my neck, plunging it down my throat, patiently teaching me to breathe through my nose, relax my jaw, and swallow. «That’s it, princess, stick out your tongue, be sweet to it,» she said, and I obeyed, licking it from base to tip, sucking it hungrily, a thick strand of saliva hanging from my chin to my chest. Another mocked my new body in a low voice, how well all of this suited me, and pinched my nipples through the dress until I howled around the cock in my mouth.

The trans women advanced through the dimness, their hot, throbbing cocks replacing the artificial ones, and I understood that there was no longer any boundary between play and reality. One of them took Carla’s place, gripping my hips with a different strength, more eager. Her cock, thick and long, with a swollen purple glans, sank into my soaked ass and tore a muffled cry from me.

—Look how well you take it —Carla said, changing position to slip beneath me, lying on her back on the table and pulling my panties aside to suck my shrunken little cock as if it were a clitoris—. This is what you always wanted, even if you didn’t know it.

Her hot tongue licked my swollen little thing, wrapped around it, sucked it, while the trans woman pounded me from behind and another fucked my mouth from the front. I was a channel, a body opened through all three holes, held by other hands, pushed back and forth like a doll. Lubricant and saliva streamed down my thighs. The wig stuck to my sweaty face.

The trans woman growled behind me, quickened her pace, dug her fingers into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and suddenly I felt the first hot release deep inside my ass. A thick, lengthy gush that filled me from within and made me moan around the cock in my mouth. She pulled out still spitting semen over my buttocks and lower back, and another took her place without giving me time to do anything. She plunged into my ass, already soaked with the previous semen, slippery, noisy, splashing with every thrust.

The one fucking my mouth came too, pressing the back of my head against her and forcing me to swallow. I felt the thick, salty fluid run down my throat, choking me, staining my lips and chin. When she pulled out, a thread of milk hanging from the corner of my mouth, another was already waiting, cock in hand, pointing it at my face.

I lost count. I lost my name. I lost the boundary between one cock and the next. The parlor filled with moans—mine above all, higher, more broken, more whorish with every one. Submissive at the center, surrounded and attended to in turn, I felt the last of my old resistance vanish with every load I swallowed, every stream that filled my ass, every hand squeezing my tits or pulling my wig. Carla never stopped sucking my shrunken little cock from below, and I came again, almost dry, in a long spasm that shook my whole body while one cock emptied inside me and another filled my mouth at the same time.

Madame Solange watched from one side, the crystal swaying slowly, reinforcing every suggestion.

—This is your new reality, princess —she said—. Feminine. Submissive. Forever.

***

When they were finished, I lay exhausted across the table, makeup running in black tracks down my cheeks, my dress pulled up to my waist, stockings torn, semen streaming down my thighs and dripping from my half-open mouth. My body continued to tremble, my ass open and throbbing, unable to close completely. Someone pulled my panties back over the mess to keep inside what they had left me, and I shuddered with pleasure when I felt the lace cling, soaked, to my swollen flesh.

Carla helped me sit up with almost loving care, brushed a sweaty lock from my face, and kissed me on the lips, slowly, savoring the taste of someone else’s semen still on me, as though sealing a pact.

—Now you’re completely mine —she murmured.

I wanted to answer. I wanted to say no, that this couldn’t be me, that somewhere inside there was still the man who had walked through that door. But when I searched for him within myself, I couldn’t find him. There was only Mariana, with red, swollen lips, her stained chin, her heart beating fast, looking at herself in the mirror someone was holding up again.

And the most disturbing thing wasn’t discovering what they had done to me. It was realizing, as I smoothed my dress with hands that already felt like mine and squeezed my thighs to keep the last load inside, that I didn’t want to go back.