A Series of Big Sissy Short Stories:

Justice Is Served

By Amy Sadler © 2026

Trouble at the Bank

Simon Harper was a 20-year-old man, he was 6ft tall, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. He had a muscular body, and surprisingly, he was a bank manager. He worked for the Harper Collins Bank, which was a tall glass building, a skyscraper, 20feet tall, re-enforced concrete, built also with the toughest of iron girders, that money could buy. Simon walked out of a fancy office and into the lost and found room, which they had at the bank, he shook his head as to what he had found there, someone had handed in and had left placed atop of the lost and found desk, a pair of bright pink ballet slippers.

The ballet slippers were still warm from the last girl who wore them. Simon Harper wrinkled his nose as he tossed them into the lost-and-found bin, his lip curling at the faint scent of sweat and rosin. Harper Collins Bank was supposed to be orderly, efficient—not a daycare for forgetful children. Simon adjusted his cufflinks, his reflection in the polished marble floor flawless, just like the rest of the branch. No stray receipts, no fingerprints on the glass partitions. Just perfection and Simon liked it that way.

Many people came and went from the bank, a group of old ladies had come through the doors, Simon was unkind to them, and they had left feeling utterly disappointed, when one of them had the nerve to ask to see the bank manager. Simon had taken great in informing them that he was in fact the bank manager and then he had the old ladies tossed out.

There were other people who witnessed what had happened and they gave out cries of shocked gasps. But no one dared do anything against this cruel bank manager. A gaggle of girls in leotards and tights burst through the doors next, their chatter sharp and bright as shattered glass. Simon’s jaw tightened before they even reached the counter. The tallest one—maybe eighteen, with a messy bun—dug through her duffel bag frantically. "We need our emergency funds," she said, breathless. "We have to get home."

Simon didn’t even blink. "Account numbers." He asked in a harsh, yet an official tone of voice. The girl's fingers trembled as she recited the numbers, her voice cracking under Simon's ice-blue stare. Behind her, the other ballerinas huddled closer, their pink tights squeaking against the marble floor. Simon typed with deliberate slowness, letting the silence stretch until one of the younger girls sniffled. "Is there a problem?" Asked Simon, who didn't look up from the screen.

"It's just—" The tallest girl swallowed. "Miss Celeste said we could—" Simon did not give the girl a chance to finish off her sentence, as he now got up from behind the counter and loomed over her, like a giant. "Miss Celeste," Simon interrupted, "doesn't sign your withdrawal slips." He slid a form across the counter with a flick of his wrist. "Next time, come prepared. And your ballet clothes stinks, don’t dare come back here again unless you wear proper attire." Simon’s voice boomed through the glass that was in front of the counter, it rattled, frightening not only the girl at the desk, but also the other ballet girls too.

The girls’ faces crumpled in unison, tears streaking their stage makeup. One of the youngest—a tiny thing with glitter still stuck to her cheeks—let out a hiccupping sob that echoed through the vaulted ceilings. Simon exhaled through his nose and turned back to his terminal, but not before catching the horrified stares of three women near the loan desks. Their mouths hung open, their manicured fingers frozen around their coffees. One clutched her pearls. One of the ladies faced the others and said in a low whisper. “Did you see that? Now that was uncalled for and damn right mean, of the bank manager.”

Said the woman, the other ladies just simply nodded their heads, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.  The girls had dissolved into a teary huddle by the velvet ropes. The woman gathered the other two ladies around her, and she started whispering to them, Simon had not noticed them as was already walking away, his polished Oxfords clicking like a metronome against the marble. The woman who had spoken took the arms of the other ladies and took them out of the bank, making hurried frantic steps, as they did so.

He didn’t see the women just suddenly walk back into the bank, with a group of very muscular females at their sides and they went up to the counter that Simon had been working at. He certainly didn’t expect the bank’s glass doors to burst open an hour later, revealing six women built like refrigerators in spandex. The lead wrestler—a brunette with biceps thicker than Simon’s thighs—cracked her knuckles. "So," she said, her voice syrup-sweet, "you’re the guy who made a group of girls cry!"

That wasn’t even a question, it was an accusation and two of the female wrestlers had now moved to get behind the counter, as there was a way in to and from behind the counter.  Simon’s back hit the back of the wall before he could blink. The wrestlers moved like a well-oiled machine: one pinned his arms, another ripped his tie loose, a third unbuttoned his dress shirt with terrifying precision. His protests died in his throat when the brunette pressed a glittery pink little girl style tutu against his chest. "This," she said, "is going to fit *perfectly*." As the little girl style tutu, however, was somehow in Simon’s exact size.

Simon's breath hitched as the cold satin tutu scraped against his bare chest. The wrestlers worked with brutal efficiency—one yanked his arms behind his back while another secured the elastic straps over his shoulders, the fabric straining against his broad frame. The tutu flared out ridiculously around his waist, the layers of pink tulle bouncing with every ragged inhale. "Stop squirming," the brunette growled, slapping his hands away as he tried to cover himself. "You wanted to be a bully? Now you'll be the bank's new mascot." She said with a glare in her eyes and with a wicked grin to boot.

The ballet slippers came next. Simon's toes curled instinctively when the wrestlers forced his feet into the stiff pink satin, the pointed tips digging into his arches. "Size twelve," one of them mused, giving the slipper a vicious tug. "Just like Cinderella—except no fairy godmother's coming for you, sweetheart." Laughter rippled through the group as they stepped back to admire their handiwork. Simon's face burned hotter than a branding iron—his hair was then suddenly yanked into twin pigtails, tied up with pink silk ribbons fluttering with every tremble of his jaw.

The lobby had gone dead silent. Customers gaped from behind their phones, a few stifling giggles behind their palms. The wrestlers flanked Simon like an honour guard, their spandex-clad thighs brushing against his bare legs as they marched him toward the bank’s main doors. "Wave to your adoring public," the brunette whispered, digging her nails into his shoulder. Simon's arm rose mechanically, his fingers twitching in a pathetic approximation of a royal wave. A collective "aww" rose from the crowd—some mocking, others genuinely delighted by the spectacle.

Outside, the sunlight hit Simon like a spotlight. Pedestrians froze mid-stride, their coffee cups hovering in the air as they took in the sight of a grown man in a tutu standing stiffly by the bank's gold-plated sign. "Curtsy," the wrestlers commanded in unison. Simon's knees locked. "Now." Growled one of the female wrestlers, a sharp pinch to his flank sent him lurching forward, his legs bending into an awkward dip as his tutu poofed around him like a parachute. The sidewalk erupted in applause.

Simon’s humiliation burned hotter than the midday sun. The sidewalk crowd thickened—office workers on lunch breaks, delivery drivers pausing their routes, even a tour group with cameras clicking. His ears roared with their laughter, the sound tinny and distant, like a bad radio signal. One of the wrestlers—a redhead with neon-green nails—grabbed his chin, forcing his gaze upward. "Say hello properly," she purred. Simon’s lips parted, but all that came out was a strangled gasp as she tightened her grip. Just then, a cop walked by, he turned to look and see what everyone were all laughing at.

Simon Gets a Shock

The cop’s laughter cut through the noise first—deep, warm, and wholly unexpected. Simon’s head snapped toward the sound, his pigtails whipping against his cheeks. The cop was young, maybe late twenties, with a crooked smile and a tan that suggested more beach patrols than paperwork. His uniform clung to him in all the right places, and Simon hated how his traitorous pulse skipped at the sight. "Well, well, well," the officer drawled, sauntering closer. "What do we have here?"

The wrestlers exchanged glances. The brunette crossed her arms. "Justice," she said simply. The cop’s grin widened. He circled Simon slowly, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he took in every detail—the trembling thighs, the satin slippers, the way the ribbons in Simon’s hair caught the light. "Justice looks good on you," he murmured, stopping inches from Simon’s chest. His breath smelled like spearmint gum.

Simon flinched when the cop’s thumb brushed his lower lip. The touch was feather-light, almost teasing. Then, without warning, the officer leaned in and kissed him—full on the mouth, in front of everyone. Simon’s knees buckled. The crowd whooped. The wrestlers high-fived. And when the cop finally pulled away, he licked his lips like Simon was dessert. "Mm. Tastes like regret," he said, loud enough for the nearest spectators to hear. "And maybe a little desperation." He said with a sardonic smile on his face.

The kiss left Simon’s lips tingling—whether from humiliation or something else, he refused to consider. The officer’s grip on his wrist was firm but not unkind, his calloused thumb rubbing idle circles against Simon’s pulse point as he steered him toward the squad car. "You’re coming with me, princess," the cop murmured, his voice low enough that only Simon could hear. The crowd’s laughter swelled as Simon stumbled over the curb, his ballet slippers skidding on the asphalt. One of the wrestlers Wolf whistled, as the cop caught Simon in his arms and he somehow, was able to take Simon’s weight, as he leaned in to give Simon another mind-numbing kiss, before, standing him upright on his pink slipper-covered feet.

The crowd cheered as the two men kissed and then the police officer took hold of Simon’s arm and dragged him away over toward his squad car. Cheers and laughter rang out after Simon, as the cop opened the quad car’s side door and he pushed Simon’s head down, while settling him into the side door’s seat. The squad car smelled like pine air freshener and stale coffee. Simon clutched the tutu’s waistband with his free hand, his knuckles whitening as the officer buckled him in with exaggerated care.

"Safety first," the cop said, snapping the seatbelt with a click that echoed like a judge’s gavel. Simon stared straight ahead, his cheeks flaming as the car pulled away from the curb, past the gawking pedestrians and the wrestlers waving mock farewells with their pinkie fingers. "You got a name, sweetheart?" The officer glanced at him; his smirk reflected in the rearview mirror. Simon gritted his teeth. "Simon Harper." The cop hummed. "Pretty name for a pretty girl." Simon’s fingers dug into the tutu’s tulle. "I’m not a girl-Ah-ah." The officer had turned suddenly, and he then grabbed Simon sharply behind his ear and then he focused on the steering wheel. "You don’t get to talk back anymore. Not after the shit you pulled." The car turned onto a tree-lined street, Simon looked puzzled and then confused, as the officer was driving away from where the police station was at. “You’re heading the wrong way; the police station is back that way.”

 Said Simon in a timid tone of voice. “If you think that I was going to take you in for an arrest. Then you are sadly mistaken. Said the cop, whose name by the way: Officer Dan Maclain. “Then where are you taking me?” Asked Simon nervously. “You don’t get to ask questions.” Said Dan, in a menacing tone of voice. “But I have certain rights.” Said Simon, trying to sound brave, but to no avail. “After what you have done, you squandered any rights that you had. Now you’re mine, to do with as I please.” Said Dan in an evil kind of a chuckle, the squad car seemed to be heading toward a mansion, which loomed like smug spectators. Simon’s stomach lurched.

Simon’s Ordeal: The Frilly Panties

The house was pale brick with a wraparound porch—the kind of place that screamed suburban fantasy. The officer parked in the driveway and rounded the car before Simon could fumble with the seatbelt. "Let’s go." He hauled Simon out by the elbow, his touch firm enough to leave bruises. The front door swung open before they reached it, revealing a foyer decked in cream and gold. A frilly apron hung on a hook by the umbrella stand. Simon’s throat went dry.

The officer—Officer Dan, as Simon would soon learn—kicked the door shut with his boot, the sound reverberating through the foyer like a gunshot. Simon’s slippers slid on the polished hardwood as Dan dragged him past a staircase with a ribbon-wrapped banister. The house smelled like vanilla and something sharper, like acetone. Nail polish remover.

"Bathroom," Dan ordered, steering Simon toward a door adorned with a pink wreath. Inside, the tiles were spotless, the countertop cluttered with bottles of glittery polish and a hair dryer shaped like a unicorn. A frilly shower curtain fluttered in the AC breeze. Simon’s reflection in the mirror was a grotesque parody—his pigtails lopsided, his tutu sagging where the wrestlers had yanked it too tight. Dan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Strip."

Simon’s fingers trembled on the tutu’s waistband. "What?" Remarked Simon in sheer shock and disbelief. Dans’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. "You heard me." Said Dan in a forceful manner. Simon's breath hitched as his fingers fumbled with the elastic waistband of the tutu. The satin scraped against his hips as he pushed it down, the tulle layers collapsing around his ankles like a deflated balloon. The cold bathroom air prickled against his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his thighs. Dan didn't move from the doorway, his gaze trailing over Simon's trembling form with the clinical detachment of a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. "Keep going," he said, nodding toward the ballet slippers.

The slippers stuck to Simon's sweaty feet, peeling away with a wet sound that made his stomach turn. He kicked them off, watching as they skittered across the tile and came to rest against Dans' polished boots. The officer didn't blink. "All of it." Simon's hands hovered at the ribbons in his hair, the silk strands slipping through his fingers like live wires. The pigtails unravelled slowly, the ribbons fluttering to the floor like limp pink snakes.

Dan pushed off the doorframe and stepped forward, his boots echoing in the cramped space. He grabbed Simon's chin, tilting his face toward the light. "You're lucky," he murmured, dragging his thumb over Simon's bottom lip. "Most guys who pull that kind of shit get a night in lockup. But you?" His grin widened. "You get a makeover." Remarked Dan with a chuckle.

Dan opened the bathroom’s cupboard door and got out from it a pink coloured hair dryer that had on the side of it, a pure white unicorn. The unicorn hair dryer whirred to life without warning, its hot breath scorching Simon's scalp as Dan yanked him backward by the roots. Simon yelped, his knees hitting the edge of the bathtub as Dan forced his head under the nozzle. "Stay still," Dan ordered, his free hand rummaging through the basket of hair products. Simon squeezed his eyes shut as a glob of strawberry-scented conditioner splattered onto his forehead.

The conditioner slithered down Simon's temples like warm syrup, its cloying sweetness clogging his nostrils. Dan worked it through his hair with rough fingers, the tugging motions bordering on painful. "Silky smooth," he mused, twisting a blonde strand around his index finger. "Just like a real girl's head of hair." Said Dan with a wide grin on his face. Simon gritted his teeth, the ceramic edge of the tub digging into his thighs as Dan rinsed him off with a handheld showerhead—the water inexplicably frigid.

Towels came next—pink, fluffed ones that smelled like fabric softener. Dan rubbed Simon's hair dry with unnecessary vigour, the friction leaving his scalp tingling. "Eyes closed," he ordered before spritzing something citrusy and floral into Simon's face. The mist clung to his eyelashes, the scent so overpowering he nearly gagged. Dan chuckled, tossing him a tube of mascara. "Do your lower lashes first. And don't blink." Said Dan in a commanding tone of voice.

Simon did not dare to disobey, even though he did not have a clue on how to put mascara on to his eye lids. Simon's hands shook as he uncapped the wand. The tiny bristles scraped against his waterline, leaving behind inky clumps that made his eyes sting. Dan watched with folded arms, his smirk deepening with every clumsy stroke. "Christ, you're bad at this," he muttered, snatching the tube away. He crowded into Simon's space, one knee pressing between his thighs as he dragged the wand over Simon's lashes with practiced precision. Simon held his breath, his pulse hammering where Dans' belt buckle pressed against his bare stomach.

The makeup palette Dan produced next was alarming—a rainbow of pastels with names like "Cotton Candy Blush" and "Bubble gum Gloss." Simon recoiled when Dan dabbed a foam brush into something violently pink. "This'll brighten you up," Dan said, smearing it over Simon's cheekbones with his thumb. The cream blended warm against his skin, the pigment stubbornly clinging to his pores. Simon's reflection grew steadily more absurd—his lips glossed to a sticky sheen; his eyelids dusted with iridescent powder that caught the light like crushed pearls.

Simon’s reflection blinked back at him—a stranger with candy-floss cheeks and lashes so thick they cast shadows. Dan stepped back, admiring his work with the pride of a sculptor. "Almost there," he murmured, plucking a slim tube from the basket. Simon barely had time to register the words *Lip Plumper Extreme* before the cold gloss smeared across his mouth, tingling instantly like a swarm of ants. His lips throbbed, swelling under the formula’s cruel magic.

The final touch was the new hair style that Dan had now done to Simon's hair, it was even worse than having it put into pigtails, as Dan produced flourish—long, platinum curls that shimmered like spun sugar. Simon flinched as the silken strands of his hair slithered down his bare shoulders. "Better," Dan breathed, adjusting a ringlet with tender care. His fingers lingered at Simon’s jawline, tracing the face where he had already shaved any traces of stubble on Simon’s face, erasing any signs of masculinity.

Dan hauled him to his feet, steering him toward a full-length mirror framed by fairy lights. Simon’s knees threatened to buckle. The creature in the mirror was a fever-dream version of himself—a drag queen’s first draft. The curls bounced with every shallow breath, the blush clashing violently with his natural pallor. Only his eyes remained familiar, wide and blue and drowning in shimmering shadow. "Look at you," Dan whispered, pressing against Simon’s back. His breath scorched Simon’s neck. "Just begging to be shown off. And now for the fun part." Said Dan, as he went to fetch a few items from a few drawers and two items from a wardrobe. Simon looked on in shock, as to what he now saw, as Dan handed to him, for him to wear, a pair of frilly pink panties, a pair of white schoolgirl socks, a pair of pink Mary Jane's, a short pink crop top and a short frilly pink skirt. "Put them on." Ordered Dan in a menacing tone of voice.

Simon did not dare to disobey, as he put on the frilly pink panties, then the schoolgirl white socks, the pink Mary Janes, the short crop top and the short frilly pink skirt. "Perfect." Remarked Dan in a sinister tone of voice. "This now makes you be officially my Sissy Girlfriend, Said Dan. Simon's fingers twitched at his sides, the lace trim of the skirt brushing against his thighs like spiderwebs. Dan circled him slowly, his boots creaking against the hardwood floor as he adjusted the crop top’s neckline with a sharp tug. "You’re going to need a name," he mused, tucking a stray curl behind Simon’s ear. "Something sweet. Girly." Simon’s throat worked silently. "How about... Candi? With an ‘i’?" Dans’ grin was all teeth. "Yeah. The name suits you." Said Dan with relish.

The doorbell rang—a cheerful chime that sent Simon’s pulse skittering. Dan didn’t move. "Company," he said, watching Simon’s face crumple. "Neighbours wanted to meet my new Sissy Girlfriend." Said Dan grinning from ear to ear. Simon’s knees locked. "No— "Ah." Dan pressed a finger to Simon’s glossed lips. "Remember? You don’t get to say ‘no’ anymore." The doorbell chimed again, insistent.

Dans’ grip on Simon’s elbow was ironclad as he dragged him toward the foyer. Simon’s Mary Janes squeaked against the floor, the buckles digging into his insteps. Through the frosted glass, shadows shifted—multiple figures, their laughter muffled but unmistakable. Simon’s stomach dropped. The brunette wrestler’s voice floated through the door: "You better not be keeping her all to yourself, Danny!"

Only the female wrestlers were allowed to call Dan by his nick name of Danny, to everyone else, his name was Dan. The door swung open to reveal the wrestlers clustered on the porch, their spandex swapped for sundresses that strained at their shoulders. The brunette—Lena, Simon would learn—whistled low. "Damn, Harper. Cleaned up nice." Her manicured fingers pinched Simon’s skirt hem, flipping it playfully. Simon’s face burned hotter than the porch light. Behind Lena, the redhead wrestler smirked, her phone already raised. "Smile," she cooed. The flash blinded him.

The camera flash left spots in Simon's vision, but the redhead was already angling for another shot, her acrylic nails tapping against the screen. "Tilt your chin down, sweetie—yeah, just like that." Simon instinctively obeyed, the movement making his fake curls bounce against his collarbones. Lena whooped, grabbing his wrist and yanking him forward onto the porch. The sudden motion sent his Mary Janes skidding on the welcome mat, nearly toppling him into the redhead's ample chest.

Dan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with lazy amusement. "Play nice, girls," he drawled, though the glint in his eye suggested that he wouldn't intervene even if they didn't. Lena's grip tightened, her thumb pressing into Simon's pulse point like she was taking his vitals. "Oh, we will," she purred, dragging him down the steps toward a picnic table set up on the lawn. Simon's breath hitched—the table was draped in a pink gingham cloth, flanked by plates heaped with pastel cupcakes and a towering pitcher of pink lemonade.

A folding chair scraped against the patio stones as the wrestlers herded him into place. The seat was too low, forcing his skirt to ride up his thighs, the lace trim scratching at his skin. Lena plopped down beside him, her thigh hot against his. "So," she said, plucking a cupcake from the nearest platter, "how's your first day as a girl treating you?" Asked Lena. “Tell the pretty lady your new name princess.” Remarked Dan, but making it an order, not a request. Simon swallowed hard as he then said his name. “My name is Candi, Candi with an I.”

Said Simon in his usual masculine type of voice. “No, no, no. That won’t do at all. You are a Sissy girl now, speak louder and pitch your voice. “Remarked Dan with disapproval. Simon clenched his teeth, but he spoke again, louder, as requested and he did a silly high pitched girly voice, that made all-of the female wrestler’s squeal with giggles. “The frosting was neon blue, and she smeared a dollop onto Simon's nose before he could flinch away. The wrestlers erupted in laughter, their voices overlapping as they snapped more photos. “My name is Candi. Candi with an I.” said Simon, who looked as though he was going to cry. “Don’t you dare sweetheart; I won’t have you running the mascara that I painstakingly went through to put on you.” Said Dan in a harsh whisper that only Simon could hear.

Simon's fingers curled around the edge of the table, the wood biting into his palms. The redhead—Margo, according to her nameplate necklace—leaned in, her perfume cloying. "You're going to love what's next," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. Before Simon could react, Dan materialized behind him, draping a frilly apron over his shoulders. The straps dug into his neck as Dan tied them in a bow tight enough to constrict his breathing. "Time to earn your keep, princess," Dan said, nudging him toward a makeshift serving cart laden with tea sets.

The tea set clinked as Simon lifted the porcelain pot, his hands trembling under its delicate weight. Margo arched an eyebrow, tapping her manicured nails against her teacup. "Don't spill, Candi," she said in a singsong. The lemonade pitcher's condensation dripped onto Simon's apron, the pink fabric darkening in splotches as he poured. Lena snatched a cupcake mid-air when he offered the tray, her teeth sinking into the frosting with exaggerated relish. "Mmm, *almost* as sweet as you," she mumbled through a mouthful, crumbs dusting the tablecloth.

A sharp pinch on his backside made Simon jostle the tray—Dans' hand lingered just a second too long, his fingers tracing the elastic of Simon's panties through the skirt’s fabric. "Posture," he murmured, his breath hot against Simon's neck. Simon straightened instinctively, the Mary Janes pinching his toes as he teetered forward to refill Margo's cup. The wrestlers exchanged glances, their smirks widening when Dan nudged Simon's knees apart with his boot. "Better."

The redhead's phone beeped. She squinted at the screen, then grinned. "Viral already." She flipped it around—a video of Simon in the tutu, mid-curtsy, his face contorted in humiliation. The view count ticked upward in real time. Simon's stomach lurched; his reflection in the lemonade pitcher was a funhouse distortion of curls and gloss. Lena grabbed his wrist, twisting it to inspect his nails. "Ugh, bare. We can't have that." She pulled a glitter pen from her cleavage, uncapping it with her teeth before dragging the bristles over Simon's nails. The polish burned like liquid ice.

Dans' phone buzzed. He scanned the text, then chuckled. "Neighbourhood potlucks moved here. Apparently, everyone wants to meet my new Sissy Girlfriend." Simon's knees buckled; Dan caught him by the apron strings, yanking him upright. "Breathe, Candi." The command was a mockery of comfort. The front gate squeaked open—a stream of neighbours trickled in, their arms laden with casserole dishes and curious stares. An elderly woman in a sunhat cooed, patting Simon's cheek with papery fingers. "Such a *pretty* thing!" She said with a shrill of sheer delight.

The lemonade pitcher slipped from Simon’s grasp, shattering against the patio stones in a burst of pink shards and ice cubes. The crowd gasped—then laughed, the sound rippling through the yard like a wave. Dans' grip on Simon’s apron strings tightened, hauling him backward until his shoulder blades hit Dans' chest. "Clumsy," he murmured, his lips grazing Simon’s ear. "Guess you’ll have to clean that up on your hands and knees, huh?" The wrestlers cheered, their chairs scraping as they leaned-in for a better view.

Simon’s knees hit the concrete hard enough to bruise. The broken porcelain glittered under the sunlight, each fragment reflecting his distorted face—blush smeared, curls frizzing at the temples from the lemonade splash. He reached for a shard, but Margo’s stiletto pinned his wrist to the ground. "Use a napkin, sweetie," she said, tossing a lace-trimmed square at his head. It fluttered down, landing half in the puddle. Simon’s fingers trembled as he blotted the mess, the lace snagging on the rough concrete.

The potluck crowd swelled, their chatter rising above the jazz playlist someone had queued on a portable speaker. A man in a Hawaiian shirt whistled, nudging his wife. "That’s the Harper boy? Damn." Simon hunched lower, the apron’s ruffles drooping into the damp patch. Dans’ shadow loomed over him. "Stand up," he ordered, flicking Simon’s skirt hem with his boot tip. "Time to mingle." Simon staggered upright, his soaked Mary Janes squelching.

Lena seized his arm, dragging him toward a cluster of women arranging devilled eggs on a tiered stand. "Y’all," she announced, "this is Candi. She’s *learning* manners." The women tittered, their eyes raking over Simon’s outfit. One—a brunette with a pearl necklace—plucked an egg from the tray and held it to Simon’s lips. "Open wide," she trilled. Simon hesitated; the woman’s smile sharpened. "Unless you’d rather lick it off the lawn?" The egg’s paprika dusting tickled his tongue as he took a dutiful bite.

Simon choked down the egg, the yolk sticking to the roof of his mouth like paste. Pearl Hemmings-worth clapped her hands. "Good girl!" The women erupted in applause, their rings clicking like crickets. Across the lawn, Dan leaned against the lemonade cart—now replaced—sipping from a cup with "Daddy's Girl" printed in cursive. His smirk sent heat crawling up Simon's neck.

Margo materialized with a polaroid camera, the flash popping like a firecracker. "Say cheese, Candi!" Simon's forced smile made his cheeks ache. The photo ejected with a whir, Margo shaking it violently before tucking it into his apron pocket. "For your scrapbook," she winked. The crowd shifted as a new group arrived—a group of girls in ballet leotards, their eyes widening when they recognized Simon. One gasped, pointing. "That's the bank man—" Lena cut her off with a raised hand. "Nuh-uh. This is Candi. Say hi, Candi."

Simon's voice died in his throat. The ballerinas exchanged glances before the boldest one—a freckled redhead—stepped forward. She dipped into a perfect curtsy, mirroring Simon’s Curtsy'. "Hi, Candi." The backyard erupted in laughter. Simon's Mary Janes dug into his heels as he backed into the tea cart, rattling the cups.

Dan caught him by the waist, his fingers slipping under the crop top to pinch bare skin. "Careful, princess," he murmured, lips grazing Simon's ear. "Wouldn't want another *accident*." The ballerinas giggled, clustering around Simon like curious birds. The freckled girl tugged his skirt. "Can we do your makeup?" she asked, brandishing a glitter palette. Before Simon could refuse, Dan was steering him toward the garden bench. "Go wild, ladies." Said Dan with an evil chuckle and a grin.

All-of the girls had gathered around Simon now, cutting off any chance of him trying to flee, which was impossible in the shoes that he was wearing, as they were a bit tight on his feet. Let us see your panties." All-of the girls chimed. Dan came up to Simon. "You had better do as they ask Candi" said Dan with a devilish grin. Simon bent over to show off his frilly panties. "Bend over some more." The girls shouted, Simon grimaced as he did as what he was instructed to do. "Oh my! he's actually wearing a pair of frilly pink panties." All -of the girls screamed with sheer delight.

Simon’s ears burned hotter than the midday sun as the girls erupted into giggles, their fingers poking at the ruffled elastic of his panties. The freckled ballerina—Emily, according to her name embroidered on her leotard—snapped a photo with her phone, the shutter sound drowning in their squeals. "They even have *bows*!" she crowed, zooming in on the tiny satin rosettes sewn into the waistband. Simon’s thighs trembled, the Mary Janes wobbling on the uneven patio stones. Dans’ grip on his shoulder kept him from straightening. "Hold it," he ordered, low enough that only Simon could hear. The girls’ whispers prickled like static: “Does he wax? Look how smooth his legs are.”

The tea cart rattled again as Lena shoved a plate into Simon’s hands—a single cupcake with *SISSY* piped across it in looping pink frosting. "Eat up," she commanded, smirking when Simon’s fingers dented the cake’s dome. He took a mechanical bite, the sugar gritting against his teeth. The ballerinas watched with rapt attention; their noses scrunched as frosting smeared his upper lip. Emily reached out, swiping her thumb through the mess and licking it clean. "Sweet," she declared, grinning at her friends. They burst into fresh laughter, one girl doubling over so hard her bun came undone.

Dans’ phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen, then nudged Simon toward the now-repaired lemonade cart. "Change of plans," he announced, snagging a floppy sunhat from the back of a lawn chair. He plopped it onto Simon’s head, the wide brim casting a shadow over his flushed face. "We’re taking Candi on a walk." The wrestlers whooped, Margo already looping a leash around Simon’s wrist—pink, with a rhinestone-studded wrist-collar clip. Simon’s breath hitched. "You can’t—"

The leash yanked tight, cutting off his protest. "Try me," Dan said, his smile sharp as a blade. The crowd parted as they marched Simon down the driveway, the Mary Janes clipping against the asphalt. A passing cyclist nearly swerved into a hedge; his phone already raised to film. Simon kept his head down, the sunhat’s brim shielding him until Dan flicked it up with a finger. "Nuh-uh. Let the world see."

The leash bit into Simon's wrist, the rhinestones pressing tiny crescents into his skin as Dan steered him onto the sidewalk. Neighbours peeked through blinds, their muffled laughter trailing like exhaust fumes. The wrestlers fanned out around them, Lena twirling a parasol that matched Simon's sunhat with unsettling precision. A car honked—three quick bursts—and Margo blew kisses at the driver, her laughter bouncing off the pavement.

Simon's Mary Janes scraped against a crack in the concrete, sending him lurching into Dans' side. The cop caught him by the apron strings, his chuckle vibrating against Simon's back. "Watch your step, *Candi*." The name dripped like syrup. A group of teenagers on skateboards skidded to a halt, their phones already filming. One whistled. "Damn, dude got *demoted*." The wrestlers cackled, their spandex-clad hips bumping as they formed a mocking honour guard around Simon.

The leash jerked suddenly, dragging Simon toward a bustling farmer’s market at the end of the block. Tents bloomed in primary colours, their awnings fluttering like carnival flags. Dan leaned down, his breath hot against Simon’s ear. "Time to show off your *domestic skills*." Simon’s stomach dropped. The first vendor—a round-cheeked woman selling jam—gasped when their procession halted at her stand. "Oh my," she cooed, adjusting her glasses. "My-Aren’t you *precious*?" She said with a smile and a chuckle in her voice, when her gaze fell upon Simon, dressed as he was.

Lena shoved a wad of cash into Simon’s apron pocket. "Buy us strawberries." Her grin was all teeth. Simon’s fingers trembled as he plucked the bills free, the vendor’s expectant smile curdling into impatience. "Well?" she prompted, tapping her mason jars. Simon pointed mutely at a quart of berries, his throat closing when she dumped them into a paper sack and thrust it at him. "Here you go, *sweetheart*." The crowd tittered.

The strawberries' scent clung to Simon's fingers—cloying and ripe, the juice already seeping through the paper bag. Margo snatched it from him before he could adjust his grip, popping a berry into her mouth with a theatrical moan. "Mmm, *just* like Candi," she sighed, licking her fingers. The wrestlers howled, their laughter drawing stares from the other marketgoers. 

Dan steered Simon toward a flower stand, the leash chain jingling like a charm bracelet. "Pick something for me, princess," he murmured, nudging Simon toward buckets of roses. Simon's hand hovered over a cluster of pink blooms—their petals ruffled like his stupid apron—but Dan clicked his tongue. "Wrong colour." He guided Simon's wrist to the blood-red roses instead, plucking the thorniest stem and tucking it behind Simon's ear. A bead of welled where a thorn nicked his lobe, the metallic tang mixing with the flower's perfume.

The florist, a gaunt man with ink-stained fingers, didn't bother hiding his stare. "That'll be six-fifty," he said, eyeing Simon's trembling lower lip. Dan tossed a twenty on the counter. "Keep the change." He used the leash to yank Simon forward, the sudden motion making the rose's petals shower onto his shoulders like confetti. Across the aisle, the teenage skateboarders were now leaning against a juice bar counter, their phones still trained on Simon. One mimed a curtsy, his friends dissolving into snickers.

Lena materialized with a flimsy paper tiara—the kind meant for birthday parties—and jammed it onto Simon's head atop the sunhat. The combo was absurd, the tiara's glittered spikes poking through the straw brim. "Queen of the sissies," she announced, patting Simon's cheek hard enough to leave a blush mark. The wrestlers cheered, their voices drawing a patrol cop's attention from the next block over. Simon's pulse spiked—*maybe*, maybe this charade would end—but another cop who was there at the stalls, merely tipped his hat at Dan before winking at Simon. "Looking lovely today, pretty Sissy girl." said the officer as he then roared with laughter.

Simon’s Ordeal: The Ballet

The leash tugged Simon toward the juice bar, his Mary Janes sticking to spilled smoothie residue on the pavement. The skateboarders peeled away just as Dan shoved him onto a stool—its metal seat scorching through Simon’s thin panties. The bartender, a lanky kid with a lip ring, barely glanced up from his blender. "Uh. What’ll it be?" Dan leaned over Simon’s shoulder, his badge glinting. "Something *girly*." His thumb traced Simon’s jugular. "Extra whipped cream."

The blender roared to life, pulverizing strawberries into a frothy pink slurry. Simon flinched when the bartender slid the glass toward him, its rim crusted in sugar and a bendy straw shaped like a swan. "Enjoy," the kid muttered, already turning away. Lena snatched the drink first, taking a loud slurp before plopping it back in Simon’s hands. Simon took it, getting whip cream all over his painted pink lips, which made everyone all laugh at him. Simon could feel his masculinity slowly fading away, replaced by sissy and girlish things.

The whip cream clung to Simon’s upper lip like a grotesque moustache, the sugary weight threatening to drip onto his crop top. Margo’s phone flashed again—another photo, another humiliation preserved in pixels. Simon swiped at the mess with the back of his hand, but Dan caught his wrist. "Ah-ah," he chided, producing a napkin embroidered with *Kiss the Cook* in frilly script. "Ladies *dab*." He pressed the fabric to Simon’s mouth with exaggerated care, the lace edging scratching his chin. The wrestlers sighed in mock admiration.

A new voice cut through the market’s din—a familiar one. Simon turned just enough to see Mrs. Holloway, the bank’s oldest client, clutching her pearls as she took in the spectacle. Her jaw worked silently before she managed, "Mr. Harper?" The leash jerked taut as Dan spun Simon to face her fully, his grin widening at her horrified recognition. "Candi," he corrected smoothly, patting Simon’s flank like a prized show poodle. "She’s *retired* from banking."

Mrs. Holloway’s gaze dropped to Simon’s Mary Janes, then lower—to where his frilly panties peeked beneath the rucked-up skirt hem. Her lips pursed. "I see." The words were frostier than the melting whipped cream. Simon hunched, but Dan tightened his grip on the leash, forcing his shoulders back. "Candi’s learning proper femininity," he announced, loud enough for nearby shoppers to hear. "Today’s lesson? Grovelling." He kicked Simon’s ankles apart. "Apologize for overcharging her on wire fees." Dan commanded sharply.

The asphalt burned through Simon’s socks as he knelt, the leash chain pooling between his spread knees. Mrs. Holloway recoiled, her handbag clutched like a shield. "I—that’s hardly necessary—" Simon's knees pressed into the gritty pavement, the heat searing through the thin fabric of his socks. His throat tightened around the words Dan demanded—each syllable scraping like broken glass. "I'm... s-sorry," he whispered, the apology curdling in his mouth. Mrs. Holloway's nostrils flared, her orthopaedic shoes shifting backward as if contaminated by his proximity. The leash jingled as Dan gave it a satisfied tug. "Louder, Candi. And don't forget to curtsy." Said Dan with a wicked grin on his face.

The combined weight of the sunhat and tiara threatened to topple forward as Simon dipped his head, his trembling fingers pinching the skirt's ruffles in a mockery of grace. The wrestlers' phones whirred in unison, capturing every angle of his debasement. Mrs. Holloway's expression soured further. "Oh, how utterly delightful, a curtsy. You don’t see many girls these days doing that.” Said Mrs. Holloway with a cheerful tone in her voice.

Dan hauled Simon upright with a sharp yank, the rose thorns catching in Simon's curls. "Good girl," he cooed, thumbing a smudge of whipped cream from Simon's chin before licking it clean. The juice bar's patrons erupted into scattered applause, their laughter staccato against the market's murmur. Simon's reflection in the bar's mirrored backsplash was a fever dream—sunhat askew, gloss-smeared lips parted in silent distress.

A new commotion erupted at the market's entrance—a shrill voice cutting through the crowd. Simon's stomach lurched as the ballerinas spilled into the aisle, their leotards on display for all to see, crowds of people cooed and ah-ed when they saw a young girl wearing a pretty pink tutu, that almost resembled the one that Simon had been forced to wear by the female wrestlers. Emily, the freckled ringleader, zeroed in on Simon instantly. "There she is!" she crowed, dragging her giggling friends forward. They circled Simon like sharks, their fingers plucking at his apron strings. "Can we show off her pretty knickers to everyone?” She asked Dan, followed by. “I bet everyone would all like to see them.”

Everyone at the marketplace all nodded their heads, with a few cries of yay that came Simon’s way, who hung his head with shame, but Dan forced Simons head up with his hand. “Well then, show everyone your frilly panties.” Said Dan with a chuckle.

Emily’s grip on Simon’s curl tightened, yanking his head sideways with a sharp jerk that made his sunhat slide off. It landed upside down on the pavement like a discarded carnival prize. The other ballerinas erupted into giggles, their hands darting out to pinch Simon’s skirt hem or poke at his exposed midriff where the crop top had ridden up. One—a tiny brunette with braces, who was among a group of other young girls, squealed when she spotted the frilly panties as Simon bent over, lifting-up his skirt for everyone to see.  "Look! These panties have got *ruffles*!" said the little girl with sheer delight.

Dan made no move to intervene, his boot propped on the juice bar’s foot rail as he sipped Simon’s abandoned smoothie through the swan straw. The leash lay slack in his grip, its rhinestones glinting mockingly in the sunlight. Simon’s pulse hammered against Emily’s knuckles where they still twisted his hair. "We should take her to the ballet class with us.” Said Emily with a smile on her face. “What a very good idea.” Said Dan, his teeth gleaming with glee.

Across the aisle, Mrs. Holloway had paused near a produce stand, her shopping basket clutched white-knuckled as she watched the spectacle. Simon met her gaze for one fractured second—long enough to see her mouth the word *priceless* before turning away. "I have some very good news for you girls." Said Dan in a happy tone of voice. I have managed to get Candi here signed up to join you all in ballet class and she will wear that lovely pink tutu that you all got to see her wearing and now she will always wear it doing ballet with you." Said Dan with an evil chuckle, Simon’s stomach did a turn.

Simon's stomach lurched—ballet class? With *them*? All-of the girls roared with cheers and laughter. "First position by Tuesday, Candi," said Emily in a singsong tone. The other ballerinas erupted into chatter, their voices overlapping with plans for matching leotards and extra "practice sessions" in the studio's communal changing rooms.

Dans' boot scraped against pavement as he stood, the leash chain rattling like a tambourine. "Class starts at four," he said, yanking Simon upright so hard the tiara's plastic points jabbed his scalp. "Plenty of time for *prep*." The word dripped with implication. Lena wolf-whistled, snatching the sunhat off the ground and jamming it back onto Simon's head at a jaunty angle.

Mrs. Holloway watches Simon’s degradation with sheer delight. Mrs. Holloway's retreating figure vanished behind a pyramid of melons, her stiff-backed stride the last vestige of Simon's old life crumbling away. The skateboarders had migrated closer, their phones angled to capture Emily showing Simon how to do a pirouette “Gotta flex those toes too," she chirped, stomping on Simon's Mary Jane with her ballet flat. The buckle dug into his instep, pain flaring bright enough to water his eyes.

Dan checked his watch. "Two hours till curtain call," he announced, toppling Simon's world further with casual cruelty. The leash went taut as he dragged Simon toward the parking lot, the wrestlers falling into step behind them like a grotesque honour guard. Simon's knees threatened to buckle—but the sharp tug on his wrist kept him moving, the rhinestone collar clip sparkling under the afternoon sun like a brand.

The parking lot asphalt radiated heat through Simon’s thin soles as Dan marched him toward a waiting minivan—pink, with "Princess Mobile" decaled in glittering script across the sliding door. Lena yanked it open, revealing a backseat strewn with ballet bags and discarded hair ribbons. "Hop in, Candi," she crooned, patting the booster seat bolted between two plush car seats. The embroidered *Baby’s First Ride* pillow mocked him from the headrest.

Simon’s knees cracked against the minivan’s running board as Dan shoved him inside. The booster seat’s safety straps dug into his shoulders before he could squirm away, the buckle clicking shut beneath his frilly apron. Emily and her friends clambered in after, their giggles shrill as they pinned Simon between their jostling elbows. "Make room!" one squealed, plopping onto his lap without warning. The weight forced Simon’s skirt hem to ride up, exposing the ruffle-edged panties to the wrestlers still clustered outside.

Dan slid the door shut with a definitive *thunk*. Through the tinted window, Simon watched Margo press a sticky note to the glass—*Ballet or Bust! * In a loopy handwriting—before smacking the van’s side like a starting pistol. The engine growled to life, blasting Taylor Swift through speakers that vibrated the headrests. Emily seized Simon’s wrists, forcing his still-tacky nails to splay against the window as they pulled out of the lot. "Wave bye-bye to your dignity!" she trilled. Outside, the skateboarders gave him middle-fingered salutes.

The minivan lurched into traffic, its suspension bouncing Simon’s hips against the booster seat’s rigid plastic. Emily’s friend—the one with braces—dug through a Hello Kitty makeup case, producing a pink pair of clip-on earrings. "Every girl has got to have earrings." Said Emily with a giggle, as she placed each earring onto Simon's big ears.

The minivan's speakers throbbed with a saccharine pop ballad as the clip-on earrings pinched Simon’s lobes—tiny, dangling ballet slippers that swayed with every pothole. Emily clapped her hands. "Perfect!" she squealed, adjusting one so the rhinestones caught the light. Simon’s reflection in the window was a funhouse distortion: platinum curls, swollen lips, and now these ridiculous earrings bobbing like fishing lures. The girl with braces leaned in, her breath minty as she fastened a matching charm bracelet around Simon’s wrist. The tiny ballet slipper charms jingled mockingly.

Dan caught Simon’s eye in the rearview mirror, his smirk widening as he took a sharp turn that sent the ballerinas tumbling against Simon. One of them—a petite blonde—landed with her face inches from his, her giggles hot against his cheek. "Oopsie!" she chirped, not bothering to move. The van’s AC was cranked high, but Simon’s skin burned under the layers of tulle and lace.

The minivan screeched to a halt outside a strip mall, its garish neon sign declaring *Twinkle Toes Ballet Academy* in looping cursive. Simon’s stomach dropped. Through the window, he could see little girls in leotards flitting past the glass doors like pastel butterflies. Dan unbuckled with a click, reaching back to yank Simon’s booster seat straps loose. "Showtime, princess."

The parking lot asphalt scorched Simon’s socked feet the moment he stumbled out, the ballerinas swarming around him like hyperactive bees. Emily seized his wrist, her nails digging in. "Madame DuBois is *strict*," she warned, dragging him toward the entrance. Simon’s Mary Janes skidded on the polished studio floor as they burst inside—the scent of rosin and sweat thick in the air. The chatter of a dozen prepubescent ballerinas ceased abruptly as all eyes locked onto Simon.

Dan went to get Simon's tutu, ballet flats and of course two pink silk ribbons for his hair. Simon was made to undress and put on the tutu once more, along with everything else. Once he was ready, the girls flanked him either side and they all happily took him into the ballet class.

The studio mirrors reflected Simon's humiliation in merciless clarity—the pink tutu barely covering his muscular thighs, the ballet flats straining over his feet, and the silk ribbons in his hair fluttering with every flinch. Madame DuBois, a whip-thin woman with a steel-grey bun, tapped her cane against the hardwood floor. The sound cracked like a gunshot. "*Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça? *" Her accent was thick, her glare sharper.

Emily curtsied, her smirk visible even in profile. "Our new classmate, Madame. Candi." The name dripped with saccharine malice. Madame DuBois circled Simon, her cane prodding the back of his knees until they buckled into a wobbling demi-plié. "A project," she muttered, lifting his chin with the cane's tip. Simon's swollen lips trembled under her scrutiny. "We begin with basics. *First position*."

The ballerinas tittered as Simon struggled to rotate his feet outward, his thighs shaking. Dans lounged against the barre; phone raised to record. Madame snapped her fingers. "Hold!" She jabbed the cane between Simon's shoulder blades. "Posture. *Comme une ballerine*." Simon arched his back until his spine ached, the tutu's tulle scratching the underside of his arms.

Simon's thighs burned as Madame DuBois circled him like a vulture, her cane tapping against the hardwood in a slow, sadistic rhythm. The studio's fluorescent lights glinted off his swollen lip gloss, amplifying the flush creeping down his neck. "Now, *tendu*," she commanded, rapping his ankle when he hesitated. Simon's ballet slipper scraped forward—too slow. The cane cracked against his Achilles tendon. "*Non! * Like this!" Emily demonstrated with exaggerated grace, her leg extending like a compass needle.

The ballerinas' giggles were an echoing crescendo, as Simon wobbled mid-movement, his oversized tutu swaying precariously. Dan zoomed in with his phone, capturing the moment Simon's heel slipped—sending him crashing into the barre with a metallic clang. The brunette with braces gasped in delight. "Candi's doing *modern* dance!"

Madame DuBois' lips thinned. She seized Simon's wrist, yanking him upright before shoving a foam block between his knees. "*Souplesse*," she hissed. Simon clenched the block, the material squeaking under his sweat-slicked grip. The ballerinas paired off around him, their effortless pirouettes mocking his struggle. Emily twirled past, her elbow "accidentally" jabbing his ribs.

"Enough basics." Madame snapped her fingers toward the sound system. A tinny waltz poured from the speakers. "Partner work. *Candi*—with Emily." Simon's pulse throbbed in his ears as Emily sashayed toward him, her ballet slippers silent on the waxed floor. She stopped inches away, the peppermint scent of her gum clashing with the studio’s rosin tang. "Hold me *here*," she instructed, guiding his damp palms to her ribcage—just below the swell of her chest. The other ballerinas tittered, their whispers sharp as needles. Simon’s fingers twitched, terrified of gripping too hard.

Madame DuBois’ cane whacked the back of his knees. "*Soutenir! * Support her, you lumbering cow!" Emily’s weight tipped forward into his arms, her smirk widening when Simon staggered under her deliberate deadweight. The waltz swelled Emily spun out with a flick of her wrist, leaving Simon clutching air. His tutu flared absurdly as he windmilled to regain balance.

Dans’ laugh-boomed from the sidelines, his phone’s flash punctuating every stumble. "Watch your skirt, Candi!" he jeered as Simon’s frantic steps sent the tulle flying upward. The brunette with braces shrieked with laughter, pointing at the frilly panties now on full display. Emily pirouetted back into Simon’s space, her elbow "slipping" to jab his solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping—only for her to grab his pigtails and yank him upright. "No slouching!" she chirped, her smile saccharine.

Madame DuBois clapped once. "*En ligne! * Across the floor, *main tenant*!" The ballerinas formed a gleeful gauntlet, their pointed toes gleaming like weapons. Emily shoved Simon toward the line. "Chassé, *then* jeté," she ordered, mimicking the movements with mocking precision. Simon’s legs trembled as he attempted the slide-step—his ballet slipper caught the edge of his tutu, sending him careening sideways into the barre.

The barre shuddered under Simon’s weight, its metal groaning as he slid down to the floor in a heap of pink tulle and bruised dignity. His tutu flipped up over his waist, the ruffled panties now on full display for the entire class. The ballerinas erupted into shrieks of laughter, their pointed toes tapping against the hardwood like a deranged applause. Emily collapsed onto her knees beside him, tears of mirth streaking her blush. "Oh my *God*," she wheezed, snapping a photo with her phone. "Madame, can we add *clown* to the curriculum?"

Madame DuBois’ cane came down with a crack that silenced the room. She hooked it under Simon’s armpit, hauling him upright with surprising strength. "Again," she commanded, her voice brittle. The music restarted—a saccharine rendition of *Swan Lake* that made Simon’s stomach churn. Emily skipped back to her starting position, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.

Simon’s legs shook as he attempted the chassé, his oversized ballet slippers skidding on the polished floor. The ballerinas’ whispers followed him like a swarm of bees—"look at his thighs, he can’t even point his toes, what a joke.” Simon lurched into the jeté, his leap more of a panicked hop. Emily timed her own jeté to collide with him mid-air, her knee "accidentally" driving into his ribs. Simon hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.

Dans’ shadow fell over him, blocking the fluorescent lights. "Pathetic," he murmured, crouching to flick one of Simon’s dangling earrings. "But we’re just getting started." He hauled Simon up by the pigtails, dragging him toward the centre of the studio. Madame DuBois clapped her hands. "Final exercise. *Grand allegro. *" She said with a crisp sharp tone of voice. Simon's lungs burned as Madame DuBois raised her cane toward the ceiling. "*Preparez! *" The ballerinas snapped into fourth position, their spines straight as knives. Simon wobbled, his thighs quivering under the tutu's scratchy tulle. The studio lights glared off his smeared lip gloss, highlighting the sweat dripping down his temples.

Emily smirked from the front of the line, stretching her leg into a perfect développé. "*Don't* break anything, Candi," she said in a singsong tone of voice. The other girls tittered behind their hands. Madame's cane struck the floor. "*Allongé! *" She said, sounding annoyed at Simon’s poor performance. Simon lurched forward as the music swelled—some frenetic Tchaikovsky excerpt that made his pulse skitter. His grand jeté was less a leap and more a panicked flail, the tutu flapping like a wounded bird. Midair, Emily "accidentally" stuck out her pointed toe, catching Simon's ankle. He crashed onto the hardwood, his ballet slippers sliding out from under him in a grotesque split. The studio echoed with gasps and giggles as his frilly panties stretched taut.

Madame DuBois sighed through her nose. "*Comme un éléphant en tutu. *" She flicked her cane toward the barre. "Again." Roared Madame DuBois. Simon's thighs burned as he hauled himself up the barre, the sequins on his tutu catching the light like mocking winks. Emily twirled past, deliberately knocking his elbow—his grip slipped, sending him sprawling onto the floor again with a thud that reverberated through the studio. The ballerinas' laughter cracked into a crescendo their pointe shoes clicking like a swarm of locusts. Dans leaned against the mirror, lazily scrolling through his phone. "Four thousand views already," he mused, turning the screen to reveal Simon's earlier spill—now trending with hashtags like #Failed and #SwanFlop.

Madame DuBois' cane tapped Simon's trembling calf. "On your toes, *imbécile*." He wobbled upright, the ballet slippers' satin straining over his arches. The brunette with braces giggled, snapping a hairband around his wrist—pink, with a dangling plastic ballerina charm. "For luck," she stage-whispered, patting his biceps with condescending sweetness.

The music restarted—a frenzied can-can that made Simon's stomach drop. Emily seized his hand, yanking him into the centre of the floor. "Follow my lead," she commanded, her grip vise tight as she launched into a series of rapid chainé turns. Simon stumbled after her, his tutu flaring wildly with each misstep. The other ballerinas formed a taunting circle, clapping in time as Emily spun faster, deliberately whipping Simon off-balance. His vision blurred—the mirrors became a kaleidoscope of pink tulle and grinning faces.

A sharp tug sent him careening into the barre again, his ribs connecting with the metal hard enough to leave a bruise. Emily gasped theatrically. "Oops! Didn't know sissies were *that* clumsy." Madame DuBois sighed, massaging her temple. "*Assez. * We move to *pas de deux*." Said Madame DuBois. Simon's breath hitched as Emily's fingers tightened around his wrist, dragging him toward the centre of the studio where the other ballerinas had formed a loose circle. Madame DuBois snapped her cane against the hardwood. "*Silence! *" she barked, and the girls fell into hushed anticipation. "We will practice *promenade en-pointe*." Her gaze flicked to Simon's trembling legs. "*Candi* will be the *porteur*."

The studio erupted in gasps and stifled giggles. Emily's smirk deepened as she stepped onto Simon's thighs, her pointe shoe digging into his flesh as she balanced effortlessly. "Support me, *Candi*," she purred, pressing down until his knees threatened to buckle. Simon's arms shook as he gripped her waist, the sequins of her leotard biting into his fingertips. The ballerinas' whispers prickled like static—"look at his face, he's going to cry—” They all cried in unison.

Madame DuBois' cane cracked against Simon's calf. "*Plus haut! * Lift!" Emily's weight shifted, her toes pressing harder as Simon strained to hoist her higher. His biceps trembled, sweat beading along his hairline as the ribbons of his tutu tickled his thighs. Emily arched her back, extending one leg in a flawless arabesque—her heel "accidentally" grazing Simon's chin, leaving a smear of rosin.

The brunette with braces clapped. "Do a *fouetté*!" She spoke. Emily obliged, spinning suddenly in Simon's grip—her elbow jabbed his sternum, and his arms gave way. She dropped gracefully to the floor, while Simon collapsed onto his hands and knees, the ballet slippers sliding out from under him. The girls erupted in laughter, their pointe shoes tapping a mocking staccato around him.

Simon's vision swam as he knelt on the hardwood, the metallic taste of humiliation thick on his tongue. His tutu had ridden up again, the ruffled panties now clinging damply to his skin from sweat. Emily twirled a finger through one of his platinum curls, her voice saccharine. "Aww, did we wear out the whittle *porteur*?" She chimed in a singsong tone of voice. The ballerinas erupted into fresh giggles, their pointe shoes forming a glittering fence around him.

Madame DuBois sighed through her nose, tapping her cane against Simon's shoulder blade. "*Réessayer. * Again." She barked getting cross with Simon now. Simon's arms trembled as he pushed himself up, the ballet slippers slipping on the slick floor. Emily was already in position, her smirk sharp enough to draw blood. This time, she didn't wait for him to stabilize—she launched herself onto his thighs, her pointe shoes digging into his quadriceps like ice picks. Simon gritted his teeth, the strain radiating up his spine as he lifted her.

Dans' phone buzzed from the sidelines. "Five thousand likes," he announced, scrolling lazily. "They're asking for a *dip*." Said Dan doing a big belly laugh. Emily's eyes lit up. Before Simon could react, she threw her weight backward, her arms flailing dramatically. Simon staggered, his grip tightening instinctively—but she kept falling, her back arching toward the floor until he was bent over her at a precarious angle. The ballerinas gasped on cue, their hands flying to their mouths. Simon's biceps screamed as he fought to keep Emily from crashing, his tutu flipping up to expose the lace-trimmed panties to the entire room.

Simon’s arms trembled violently, the veins in his forearms standing out like ropes as Emily dangled inches above the floor, her smirk never faltering. His tutu had flipped up completely now; the ruffled panties soaked with sweat and clinging obscenely to his thighs. The ballerinas circled like vultures, their giggles punctuated by the sharp clicks of Dans’ phone camera.

"Hold it," Madame DuBois commanded, her cane tapping Simon’s quivering bicep. "A true *porteur* does not waver." Emily arched her back further, her ponytail brushing the floor as she stretched her arms overhead in a mocking swan pose. Simon’s breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming—until Emily suddenly hooked her ankle behind his knee and *yanked*.

The world tilted. Simon crashed to the floor with Emily sprawled atop him, her pointe shoe digging into his ribs. The studio erupted in laughter, the sound bouncing off the mirrors as Dans knelt to film Simon’s flushed face. "Perfect form, *Candi*," he drawled, zooming in on the sweat beading along Simon’s smeared lip gloss. *La douche*—then we address this… *posture*."  Said Madame DuBois. Simon barely had time to process the horror before Emily rolled off him with a giggle, dragging him up by his pigtails. "Don’t worry," she chirped. "We’ll help you.”

Simon's pigtails swung like nooses as Emily hauled him toward the changing rooms, her grip tight enough to yank strands from his scalp. The changing room reeked of floral body wash and sweet-scented leotards—a cloying assault that made his stomach churn. The ballerinas swarmed behind them, their giggles bouncing off the walls. The smoothness of Simon’s recently waxed legs was a reminder of the salon visit Dan had dragged him to that morning. The brunette giggled, snapping a photo of his waxed legs.

The girls needed to retie Simon’s pigtails, as they had come loose from all-of his trying to move about in his pretty pink tutu. The girls slightly washed him down, wiping his arms and his legs, even his arms had been waxed too. In fact, Dan made sure that Simon to be completely hairless, apart from the hairs on his eyebrows and the hair on his head. Which was just perfect for putting into to 2 cute pigtails. The girls all took a rest, they the rested in the changing room. They were there to rest, not to get changed.  "Time for the *special* part," Emily announced, producing a razor from her sequined gym bag—hot pink, with a heart-shaped handle. She flicked the cap off with her thumb, the blade gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Simon recoiled, but the circle of ballerinas tightened, their damp leotards pressing against his back as Emily pushed him onto a shower bench. "Shhh," she cooed, dragging the razor up his inner thigh with practiced ease. "Wouldn’t want *stubble* at the recital, would we?"

The blade caught on a patch the wax had missed, tugging the hair follicle with a sharp sting that made Simon’s breath hitch. Emily tutted, rinsing the razor under the spray before going in again, this time angling the stroke to leave his skin baby smooth. The brunette handed her a bottle of aloe vera gel—"For *after*"—but Emily squeezed it prematurely, the cold glob sliding down Simon’s perineum in a mocking mimicry of arousal. The girls howled, their laughter echoing off the tiles as Simon clenched his thighs instinctively.

The razor's final swipe left Simon's thighs stinging and hairless, the aloe vera gel cooling the irritation with a humiliating tenderness. Emily stepped back to admire her handiwork, her pointe shoe tapping against the wet tiles. "Much better," she purred, twirling the razor between her fingers before tossing it to the brunette. "Now for the *finishing touch*."

Simon barely had time to blink before Emily produced a small bottle from her bag—glitter body oil, the kind reserved for recital costumes. She uncapped it with her teeth, the scent of synthetic vanilla and plastic overwhelming the steamy air. "Hold still," she commanded, pouring an oil-based cream directly onto Simon's collarbones. The cream shimmered as it cascaded down his arms and his legs, catching the light and clinging to every muscle that he had on his manly body, which was a shame. As Emily tried to picture Cindi being a sweet petite slender looking thing of innocent beauty.

The ballerinas erupted into coos, their fingers darting out to spread the oil across Simon's shoulders, his arms, even the delicate hollows behind his knees. The brunette giggled as she traced the waistband of his panties with a glittered fingertip, leaving a sparkly demarcation between fabric and skin. "Oooh, *pretty*," she breathed, smearing another handful down his shins.

The ballerinas had pulled his hair so tight that his eyebrows lifted slightly, giving him a perpetually surprised expression. Emily's finger hooked under his chin, tilting his face side to side. "Needs blush," she declared. The brunette was already unscrewing a compact, the powder puff smeared with peach pigment. She dabbed it onto Simon's cheeks with exaggerated care, blending upward toward his temples like he was some doll in a makeup tutorial. The powder smelled like playdough and childhood birthday parties—cloying and artificial. Simon's nostrils flared as the puff dusted over his nose, his breath stirring the excess particles into the damp air.

Dans' boots scuffed against the tiles as he entered, his phone still recording. "Recitals in ninety," he announced, tapping the screen to show Simon the livestream comments scrolling by—*Queen of the Sissies! * and *Put her in pointe shoes! * Emily snatched the phone, grinning as she angled it to capture Simon's full-body glitter. "They want a twirl," she said, shoving him toward the centre of the changing room. Dan was also there, as he pocketed his phone with a satisfied hum and tossed a mesh laundry bag at Simon's chest. "Costume time."

Emily yanked the bag open with a flourish, revealing layers of chiffon in an eye-searing shade of pink, the same shade of pink as the tutu. "Recital piece is *Coppélia*," she announced, shaking out a bodysuit with built-in corsetry that laced up the front like a Victorian torture device. The ballerinas descended, their fingers cold against Simon's skin as they wrestled him into the garment. The boning dug into his ribcage immediately, forcing his posture into an unnatural arch that made his lower back twinge.

Madame DuBois appeared in the doorway just as they fastened the final hook-and-eye, her cane rapping approval against the doorframe. "*Bien. * Now the *Chausson. *" She said sharply. Simon's stomach dropped as Emily produced a pair of satin pointe shoes—dyed to match the bodysuit, with ribbons that shimmered under the fluorescent lights. The brunette knelt, grabbing Simon's ankle with the expertise of a farrier shoeing a skittish horse. "Hold still," she ordered, wedging his foot into the toe box without padding.

The pain was instant and blinding. Simon's toes curled instinctively, only to be crushed further by the rigid structure. The brunette wound the ribbons up his calf with sadistic precision, tying them off just below his kneecap in a perky bow. Emily did the other foot, her fingers lingering to pinch the tendon behind his ankle. "Don't want *sloppy* lines," she chirped, giving the ribbon an extra tug that made Simon's vision white out for a second.

Simon's knees buckled as they forced him upright, the pointe shoes' rigid shanks refusing to flex. Every step sent jagged pain shooting through his metatarsals—like walking on shattered champagne flutes wrapped in satin. Emily giggled, prodding his lower back with her toe. "Posture, *Candi*," she singsong-ed mimicking Madame DuBois' accent with vicious accuracy. The ballerinas had formed a gauntlet leading to the studio door, their arms crossed in unison.

Dan then took out his phone and started recording Simon in his tutu a tutu that had layer upon layer of tulle in the same shade of pink as the bodysuit with sequins that caught the light like shattered glass. "Costume complete," he announced, as Simon fumbled with the elastic waistband. The brunette snatched it away impatiently, yanking it up over his hips with a snap that left red welts. The tulle scratched against his oiled thighs, the glitter transferring onto the fabric in sticky constellations.

Madame DuBois’ cane cracked against the doorframe. "*Allez! *" The ballerinas surged forward, herding Simon toward the studio like show ponies. His pointe shoes slid on the polished hardwood, the ribbons already loosening from his frantic sweat. Emily shoved him toward the barre, where a row of parents’ smartphones glinted in the overhead lights—recording, livestreaming, immortalizing his unravelling.

"First position," Madame commanded. Simon’s legs trembled as he forced his heels together, toes splayed outward. The pain was immediate—his arches screamed; his blistered toes pulsed against the satin lining. Emily leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "Higher," she whispered, stomping on his instep until his knees hyperextended. Simon’s vision blurred at the edges, the studio lights fracturing into prismatic shards.

Simon's knees wobbled violently as Madame DuBois circled him, her cane prodding at the trembling muscles of his inner thighs. "Non, non—*this* is first position," she hissed, kicking his feet wider until his ligaments screamed. The sequins on his tutu scraped against his raw skin with every shaky breath. From the corner of his eye, Simon saw Dan lounging against the mirrored wall, lazily scrolling through the livestream comments—*Make her pirouette! * and *Where's the tiara?!* flashing across the screen.

Emily snatched Simon's wrist, yanking his arm into a grotesque parody of *port de bras*. Her fingernails dug into his pulse point as she forced his elbow into a dainty curve. "Soft hands, Candi," she cooed, pinching the webbing between his thumb and index finger until his fingers splayed in stiff, unnatural angles. The brunette crouched to adjust his ribbons, tightening them with a jerk that made Simon's anklebones grind together.

The piano's first notes startled Simon—a tinkling rendition of *The Dance of the Hours* that sent the ballerinas scurrying to their marks. Emily remained glued to his side, her grip shifting to the back of his corset. "Remember," she whispered, "it's *pas de deux* today." The realization hit Simon like a bucket of ice water—he wasn't just performing. He was *partnering*.

Madame's cane cracked against the floor. "*Commencez! *" The piano cascading into an audible loud crescendo as Emily spun into Simon’s arms, her pointe shoe stamping onto his instep mid-pirouette. Simon’s gasp was drowned out by the collective “Aww.” from the audience as Emily fluttered her lashes, her fingers digging into his corset laces for balance. "Lift me," she hissed through her smile, already springing upward before Simon could brace. His arms buckled under her weight, her tutu smacking his chin as they toppled into a tangled heap of tulle and glitter.

Madame DuBois’ cane halted the pianist with a single sharp rap. "*Quelle horreur! *" She loomed over them, her shadow swallowing Simon’s cowering form. Emily rolled off with an effortless grace, landing in a perfect fourth position while Simon’s limbs splayed like a gutted starfish. The livestream comments exploded—*LMFAO* and *Sissy DOWN! * Scrolling across Dans’ phone screen in a relentless tide.

Simon’s ribs ached where Emily’s elbow had jammed into them during the fall, the corset’s boning transferring every bruise directly to his spine. He barely had time to register the pain before Madame’s cane hooked under his armpit, hauling him upright with a strength that defied her age. "*Again*," she commanded, nodding to the pianist. The opening bars restarted before Simon’s heels could fully touch the ground.

This time, Emily gripped his shoulders like she was kneading dough, her thumbs pressing into his clavicles hard enough to leave crescents in the glitter. Simon’s trembling hands hovered at her waist—too terrified to touch, too petrified to withdraw. "Higher," she demanded, rising onto pointe until her satin-covered toes crushed his bare feet. Simon whimpered, his grip sliding to her hips as he attempted the lift. His biceps shook violently; not used to such, as the rigors of ballet.

Simon’s arms gave out halfway through the lift, Emily’s weight dragging him forward into a clumsy stumble that sent them both careening toward the mirrored wall. The collective gasp from the audience was punctuated by the sickening *thud* of Simon’s forehead striking the glass—his rhinestone tiara shattering on impact, sending plastic gems skittering across the floor like fleeing cockroaches. Emily landed neatly atop him, her tutu flaring like a parachute before settling over Simon’s face in a suffocating cloud of tulle.

Dans’ laughter boomed over the tittering crowd as he zoomed in on the livestream—Simon’s legs splayed in fourth position gone horribly wrong, one pointe shoe dangling precariously from his toes. Madame DuBois’ cane cracked against the floor beside his ear. "*Incroyable! *" she spat, her wrinkled lips curling around the word like it was a rancid olive pit. Emily rolled off with a gymnast’s precision, leaving Simon sprawled in a glittery heap as she curtsied to the applauding parents.

The brunette ballerina seized Simon’s remaining shoe, yanking it off with a flourish that sent his overstretched ribbons fluttering like distress signals. "Sloppy *and* slow," she announced to the room, waving the shoe like a trophy. Simon’s big toe throbbed where the satin had ripped off a blister, the raw skin gleaming under the studio lights like wet cranberry sauce.

Madame’s cane jabbed Simon’s ribs, herding him toward the centre of the room where Emily was already striking an arabesque. "Solo now," she decreed, her accent thickening with malice. Simon’s stomach dropped—no partner to blame, no shared weight to bear. Just him, the merciless mirrors, and thirty-two counts of *adagio* designed to break him.

Simon's pointe shoes had left bloody smears on the hardwood by the time the pianist reached the adagio's climax. His calves burned with the effort of maintaining relevé, every tendon in his ankles screaming as he wobbled through a pathetic attempt at an attitude turn. The studio lights reflected off his sweat-slicked chest, catching the glitter that now clung to his trembling thighs like infected wounds.

Emily's giggle cut through the music as Simon's balance failed mid-pirouette—his ankle rolling outward with an audible *pop* that sent him crashing into the barre. Madame DuBois sighed through her nose, tapping her cane against Simon's trembling calf. "*Encore. * From the top."  She shouted. The pianist began again before Simon could catch his breath. The brunette ballerina crouched beside him, her fingers digging into his ruined ankle as she adjusted the ribbons with mock concern. "Tsk, tsk," she whispered, twisting the satin tighter around the swelling. "A real ballerina would dance through the pain." Simon's vision blurred as she yanked the knot into place, his stomach lurching at the sight of pink-tinged satin.

Dan angled his phone for a close-up of Simon's face—mascara bleeding into the sweat trails on his cheeks, his swollen lips parted around ragged breaths. The livestream comments scrolled faster: *Pathetic! * and *Put her in the corps de crap! * Emily snatched the phone, grinning as she crouched beside Simon's crumpled form. "Say hi to your fans, Candi!" she chirped, forcing his head up by a fistful of curls. "Enough." Barked Madame DuBois. "Go home. We will pick up from whence we started." All-of the Ballerinas swarmed around Simon, laughing at him. "Poor Sissy. You, poor, poor Sissy. Never mind. One day you will improve." Said all-of the Ballerinas in unison.

Simon’s Ordeal: Becoming a Sissy Baby Girl

"Come on princess, it is time I take you home and put you to bed." Said Dan. As he took Simon by his hand and led him back to the minivan, where he got changed back into his crop top, short frilly skirt, the white schoolgirl socks and the pink Mary Jane's. The minivan's sliding door screeched open, revealing Simon's crumpled tutu pooled on the booster seat like a deflated puffball. Dan smirked as he shoved Simon inside, his grip lingering just long enough to tweak one of the remaining pieces of glitter glued to Simon's collarbone. "Tuck in, princess," he drawled, tossing a Hello Kitty blanket over Simon's trembling legs. The fabric smelled like strawberry lip gloss and sleepovers—a nauseating contrast to the sweat and rosin clinging to Simon's skin.

Emily clambered in beside him, her ballet flats deliberately stomping on Simon's throbbing toes as she settled in. "Oopsie," she chirped, not bothering to lift her foot. The van's speakers blared to life with some sugary pop anthem, the bass vibrating Simon's bruised ribs. He slumped against the window, watching his reflection warp with each passing streetlight—his smeared makeup, the frizzing remnants of his newly styled pigtails, now looking limp. The way his corset still forced his chest into shallow, painful breaths.

Dan took a sharp turn that sent Simon sliding into Emily's side. Her elbow jammed into his ribs with practiced precision. "Ewe, sweaty," she whined, shoving him back. The brunette ballerina—riding shotgun—twisted around to lob a powder puff at Simon's face. It hit his forehead with a *poof* of peach-scented dust. "Fix your blush, Candi," she giggled, already filming his humiliation on her phone. "You look *dead*."

The minivan lurched to a stop outside Dans' apartment complex. Simon's stomach clenched at the sight of Mrs. Holloway exiting the building next door, her grocery bags rustling as she froze mid-step. Her gaze travelled from Simon's bloody pointe shoes to his shredded stockings, her lips curling in unmistakable disgust. Dan seized the moment, throwing an arm around Simon's shoulders. "Evening, ma'am! Candi just had her first ballet recital!" He shook Simon like a maraca, making his tutu quiver. "Didn't you, sweetheart?"

Mrs. Holloway's nostrils flared as she took in Simon's dishevelled state—the torn socks, the smeared mascara, the way his corset laces had come undone during the drive home and now hung like limp spaghetti down his back. "Disgraceful," she muttered, adjusting her grip on her grocery bags. A head of lettuce tumbled out, rolling to a stop against Simon's bloody pointe. Simon ached in places that he dared not imagine.

The brunette ballerina giggled, zooming in on Simon's defeated expression. "Viral material," she whispered, showing Emily the footage—Simon's quivering chin, the tear cutting through his glitter foundation. Dan hauled Simon upright by his armpits, his fingers digging into the tender flesh where Emily's nails had left half-moon bruises earlier.

The apartment door groaned shut behind them, sealing Simon in the suffocating humidity of Dans cramped living room. Ballet slipper-shaped throw pillows littered the couch, their pink satin mocking his swollen feet. Dans shoved him toward the hallway with a boot to his sequined backside. "Bath. Now."

Simon staggered down the narrow corridor, his pointe shoes leaving smears of blood and glitter on the laminate. The bathroom light buzzed to life, revealing a clawfoot tub already filled with steaming water—and floating pink bath bombs fizzing like Alka-Seltzer. His reflection in the mirror made his stomach lurch: mascara streaked down his cheeks in inky tributaries, his corset's boning poking through torn satin like broken ribs.

Emily's laughter echoed from the doorway as she filmed his trembling fingers fumbling with the corset laces. "Need help, Candi?" she cooed, already advancing with her phone's flash on. Simon recoiled, his back hitting the cold tile as she grabbed the laces and yanked—once, twice, the threads snapping with a sound like popping knuckles. The corset fell away, revealing a latticework of red welts across his abdomen.

Dan appeared behind Emily, holding up a frilly pink shower cap. "Don't want to ruin your curls," he smirked, smacking it onto Simon's head with enough force to make his ears ring. Simon's tattered tutu pooled at his ankles as Dan turned the shower spray on full blast—ice-cold water hammering Simon's raw skin.

The cold water hit Simon like a thousand needles, his skin tightening instantly as goosebumps erupted across his glitter-streaked chest. He gasped—a mistake—as the spray filled his mouth, choking him with the cloying taste of bubble gum-scented shampoo runoff. Dan leaned against the sink, idly scrolling through his phone while Emily continued filming, her phone’s flash reflecting off the shower tiles like a strobe light.

"Scrub properly," Dan ordered without looking up. "Especially *there*." He gestured vaguely at Simon’s groin with his free hand. Simon’s fingers trembled as he reached for the loofah hanging from the faucet—pink, of course, with a plastic Disney princess embedded in the mesh. The moment it touched his skin, the loofah disintegrated into a cloud of synthetic fibres, leaving him clutching a handful of dissolving fluff. Emily’s laughter ricocheted off the tiles. "*Oops*," she singsong-ed, tossing him a replacement—this one studded with abrasive plastic beads that scraped his skin raw.

Simon’s legs shook as he attempted to wash, the pointe shoe wounds on his feet stinging under the water’s assault. The bathwater swirled pink with glitter, blood, and whatever chemical dye was leaking from the disintegrating bath bombs. Dans finally glanced up, his nostrils flaring at the sight. "Disgusting," he muttered, tossing a bottle of Hello Kitty body wash at Simon’s chest. It struck his sternum with a hollow *thunk*, then slid down his torso, leaving a trail of sticky pink gel.

Emily zoomed in on Simon’s hands as he fumbled with the bottle’s cap, his water-wrinkled fingers slipping repeatedly. "Need help, Candi?" she teased, stepping into the spray fully clothed. Her ballet flats squelched as she snatched the bottle from him, squeezing a glob directly onto his head. The gel oozed down his face, stinging his eyes and clinging to his eyelashes like synthetic sap. Simon blinked furiously, his vision blurring into a pink-tinged haze as Emily scrubbed his scalp with tender loving care.

The shower curtain rings screeched as Dan yanked it aside, his shadow swallowing Simon's hunched form. "Out," he ordered, snapping a pink towel against Simon's dripping thighs. Simon stumbled forward, his waterlogged ballet slippers squelching on the tile—only for Emily to stick out her foot, sending him sprawling face-first onto the bathmat. His nose smashed into the plush fabric, the embroidered *Princess Candi* logo imprinting itself onto his cheek.

Dan sighed, grabbing a fistful of Simon's wet curls to haul him upright. "Dry off properly," he muttered, shoving the towel into Simon's chest so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs. Simon's trembling fingers fumbled with the fabric, the terrycloth catching on every sequin still glued to his skin. Emily giggled, filming the way the towel wrapped around Simon like a little girl’s blanket.

The bedroom door creaked open to reveal a twin-sized canopy bed swathed in pink satin, its pillows arranged around a single item lying cantered on the mattress: a pacifier. Adult-sized, with a rhinestone-encrusted guard shaped like a tiara. Simon's throat tightened. Dan smirked, picking it up and twirling the plastic between his fingers. "For your thumb-sucking habit," he purred, tapping it against Simon's lips. "Open."

Simon's jaw ached as the pacifier's bulb stretched his mouth, the silicone taste flooding his tongue like artificial vanilla. Emily adjusted the straps on his matching bonnet, her fingers lingering to tug painfully at the baby hairs near his temples. "There," she cooed, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Now you look *properly* the perfect sissy baby girl." Dan entered with a thick fluffy cloth diaper with pink diaper pins, to which Daneil took great pleasure in diapering Simon, while Emily filmed the whole thing on her phone, smiling as she did so. Next, Dan went to go and fetch something, he came back with a pair of ruffled frilly pink plastic rumba panties, with a pair of pink mittens and pink booties to match and to complete the perfect picture of a Sissy Baby Girl.

The plastic panties crackled as Simon shifted on the bed, the crinkling sound amplifying in the silent room. Dan fastened the final mittens strap with unnecessary force, the Velcro catching the fine hairs on Simon’s wrist. "There," he murmured, patting Simon’s padded rear with a hollow *thwap*. "Now we can’t have you making a mess, can we?" Emily’s phone camera hovered inches from Simon’s face, capturing the way his lower lip quivered under the pacifier’s weight.

A sudden buzz from Dans’ pocket phone broke the tension. He pulled out his phone, scanning the screen before grinning. "Well, well. Madame DuBois just shared our livestream with the entire Twinkle Toes alumni network." He turned the screen toward Simon—hundreds of comments flooded in, dominated by laughing emojis and a looping clip of Simon’s disastrous grand jeté. The view count ticked past 50,000. "Looks like you’re internet famous, Candi."

Emily snatched the phone, scrolling with manicured nails. "Oooh, someone tagged the city ballet company!" She giggled, twisting the screen to show Simon the reply: *We’ll reserve a clown role for next season’s Nutcracker. * The notification pinged again—Mrs. Holloway had reacted with a thumb-down. Simon squeezed his eyes shut, but the damage was seared into his retinas: his own frilled, diapered reflection beneath the caption *Bank Manager to Baby Girl—The Ultimate Demotion. *

Dan yanked the pacifier from Simon’s mouth with a *pop*. "Nap time," he announced, producing a bottle of pink liquid from the nightstand. The nipple glistened with syrup when he tipped it—strawberry-flavoured, Simon guessed, from the nauseating artificial scent. "Open wide." Simon hesitated, earning a sharp pinch to his inner thigh from Emily. His jaw unclenched reluctantly, allowing the rubber nipple to slide between his teeth. The liquid hit his tongue like melted candy, that tingled Simon's throat.

Whatever was in the bottle made Simon fall fast to sleep. "She'll wake up wet and messy in the morning. Don't worry Emily, I actually-know how to change a diaper. I once used to baby sit, long before I became a cop, but I still have the skills within me for me to be able to change my Sissy Baby girl's diaper." Said Dan with the sound of joy in the tone of his voice. Emily left, happy with the video work that had captured everything. Simon, aka Candi, was going to now spend the rest of his life as a Sissy Baby Girl

The End.