Pretty Girl

My hand in his hair is gentle, fingers dancing lightly over his scalp and down to his neck. He stares at me in confusion from his customary place at my feet; I almost laugh, knowing he must be wondering why I am being so "nice".

Why does he wonder? I am not a nice Domme. I demand absolute obedience and compliance. There are no ifs, ands, or buts when it comes to serving me. He has been with me long enough to learn this lesson and learn it well.

So when I finger his collar in this idle manner and smile at him, it makes him tense up, bracing for the inevitable blow that never falls. I have something in mind for this boy, something far worse than any beating he has endured thus far.

"Boy."

His head snaps up and he leans towards me eagerly, grateful for any attention I care to throw his way. His voice is pitched a little high, some would call it a 'girly voice', and it never fails to put all sorts of ideas into my head. "Yes Mistress?"

I glance down at him. Gray eyes stare hopefully back at me; he is almost quivering in anticipation of my orders, his slight form pressed against the side of my chair as close to me as he dares. Another smile. I see him relax a little, his thin shoulders losing some of their tensed hunch. "When was the last time you shaved?"

He answers very quickly, as if forestalling a reprimand for hesitation. I hate being made to wait. "Last night, Mistress. I shaved everywhere just like you showed me."

"Perfect." I stand and head towards the bedroom, hearing him scramble to follow on his hands and knees. Pulling him to his feet, I position him in front of my full-length mirror. He is clearly confused and stands meekly with his hands by his sides, watching my reflection as I move about the room collecting some things.

I hand them to him, letting go before he gets a firm grip. Clothing falls to the floor, with him immediately following on his knees, hands grabbing frantically at the things he dropped. Not fast enough. My kick catches him by surprise and he drops everything again. With a soft wail of very real fear, he flings himself at my feet, apologies blurting incoherently from his lips. I growl with annoyance, "Stupid little worm. You're such a fucking girl. I honestly don't know why I bother with you. Pick up those things and put them on NOW."

Crouching down, he picks up the nearest item with a trembling hand. Pink silk g-string. I see tiny furrows form on his brow for a brief instant as he looks at it, then all the color disappears from his face and he turns to me, mute appeal in his eyes. I stare back, implacable in my control. With a strangled whimper, he stands and puts them on quickly, the translucent material stretching snugly over his crotch, just barely covering his semi-hard cock.

I turn him towards the mirror, forcing him to meet my eyes over his right shoulder. He stands awkwardly, uncomfortable in the feminine underwear, his distress intensifying when I adjust them for him, pulling the string up tight between his asscheeks. In his misery, he watches as my reflection mouths the words "next" in the mirror.

Matching babydoll nightie. A single ribbon tie holds it together in front of his chest, the soft ruffled layers falling open over his stomach, framing the hard bulge in the g-string. His hands are trembling so much he has to struggle for a while before managing a proper bow and I see tears in his eyes when he is finally done.

I coo over his shoulder, "What a pretty girl." He flinches at my words as though they are a physical blow, as if he is trying to curl his body inward to hide. Marabou slippers complete the simple ensemble, the heels tripping him with every step. He stares at himself in the mirror, his boyishly slender body now draped with pretty pink silk, and starts to cry. Still, he knows better than to protest, letting his silent tears express to me his abject humiliation.

My reflection smiles approvingly at him. He looks back miserably, unsure if he is expected to say or do something. Before he can decide either way, I push him towards my dressing table, chuckling with amusement at the way he totters precariously on the high-heeled slippers. Just lipstick and eyeliner tonight; the reddest red and the blackest black. He is still crying, making it impossible for me to apply the eyeliner properly. I slap him. Funny, isn't it, slapping someone to make them stop crying.

With his face made up, lips a blood red gash, eyes darkly ringed with liner and fear, he makes a very pretty androgyne. It makes me wish that I had kept his hair long. Perhaps a wig next time. I know there will definitely be a next time.

Slowly and deliberately, I clip the leash to his collar. He makes a small, inarticulate sound, eyes full of questions. I smile and tug on the leash. "Come on, pretty girl, we're already late." I would have been disappointed had the look of panicked fear not returned immediately to his face.

Time to party.