Some traps are preferable to freedom
Jennifer hadn’t come to the estate by choice, but she couldn’t remember how she arrived. There were flashes; rain, darkness, maybe a crash. A door opened. A whisper invited her in. Something deep inside urged her to rest… and forget.
She remembered she’d once been male. It felt important, once. Now, it was meaningless. The Sanctuary had seen to that. Soft voices wrapped around her mind when she first arrived.
"Let us take care of you," they purred. And he let them.
They led him to a boudoir soaked in blush and lavender. Velvet cushions. A canopied bed. He fell asleep, exhausted. When he woke, his old clothes were gone. The women were waiting.
They bathed him daily in rosewater and perfumed oils, their hands gliding over his skin, shaping him. He melted beneath their touch. No resistance. No fear. Just warm water, fragrant air, and delicate fingers massaging away every trace of boyhood.
"You don’t have to be strong here. Just lie back. Let it happen."
They powdered him, dressed him in silks and sheer lace. Each day, his body changed: curves blossoming, waist narrowing, lips swelling into a perfect pout. Hair spilled to his shoulders. His voice softened. His hands, once rough, now dainty and pale. The girls did everything. He was never alone. Never in need.
"It feels good to be pretty, doesn’t it? Better every day."
He only wore lingerie now. Barely-there things in blush, ivory, and pearl. He dined on sugared fruits and warm creams, pampered and perfumed until he couldn’t remember who he’d been. Between his thighs, the last pieces of the boy melted away. In his place bloomed a soft, aching woman.
Jennifer.
"Look in the mirror. Tell us you don’t love her."
She did. She adored her reflection, the fluttering lashes, the glossy lips, the soft thighs she crossed with teasing grace. That name, Jennifer, was all she knew now. The girls had whispered it into her, and it stuck like lipstick on a collar.
"You’re his now, little one. You belong to someone else."
She liked that. Belonging to someone, being owned. She imagined him often: strong, tall, a voice smooth and silk and powerful as thunder. Sometimes when she posed in the mirror, she imagined his hands claiming her waist. Her skin prickled at the thought and left her breathless.
The girls would catch her preening and laugh, then lean in close to tease or tempt her. In the bath, they'd kiss her shoulders and trace fingers between her thighs, pressing their soft curves against hers.
"He’s watching," they whispered. "He’s coming soon."
She wanted him. Needed him. Her body pulsed at the idea of being filled, claimed, and used. She would give herself completely, with no hesitation. Until then, she lived in bliss. A perfect pet in her sanctuary, growing lovelier by the day.
And she never wanted to leave.
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