“See?” Natalie murmured. “It’s not a trap. It’s a question.”
Natalie Mars moved like a secret. Smaller than Damazonia, but no less potent. Where Damazonia was the storm, Natalie was the eye. Petite, impossibly smooth, with platinum hair piled into a careless cloud. She wore a corset of blush-pink satin and not much else. Her lips, glossed and full, curled into a smile that promised salvation via exquisite ruin. -Feminized- Natalie Mars- Mistress Damazonia - ...
“You are afraid of small spaces,” Damazonia stated. It was not a question. A datapad hovered beside her throne, displaying his psych profile in glowing blue script. “And you are afraid of silk.” “See
The feminine had won. It always did.
Damazonia gestured with a single, lacquered nail toward Marcus. “He believes his masculinity is a fortress. Show him it is merely a costume. And that he looks far better in yours.” Smaller than Damazonia, but no less potent
As the doors of the Velvet Gulag closed behind him, Marcus—now wearing Natalie’s lipstick like a medal—walked into the rain. He didn’t feel less like a man. He felt like more of a person . And somewhere in the shadows of the Gulag, Mistress Damazonia poured two glasses of champagne while Natalie Mars curled into her lap, victorious.
One by one, she dressed him. Not in drag, but in her . A pair of her own sheer panties—warm from her body—slid up his legs. A satin bralette, barely there, cupped his chest. She applied lipstick to his mouth not with a tube, but with her own lips, pressing a perfect, sticky kiss onto his.