The Facility

From that night on, Bradley started spending almost every evening at my place. He would arrive straight from work, still in his button-down shirt and slacks, and the first thing he would do is ask how he could serve me. I loved watching the transformation. The respectable finance professional slowly disappearing in front of my eyes, replaced by something much more useful.

I started small but firm.

The very next morning after his first spanking, I had him in my kitchen while I filmed a casual vlog for my fans. I was standing by the marble counter in my favorite relaxed look — oversized soft light-grey hoodie draped loosely yet clinging just enough to my full breasts, slipping off one shoulder to reveal smooth medium-toned skin and the hint of my toned midriff, relaxed black cargo jogging pants sitting low on my hips and hugging my curvaceous thighs and ass. My intricate cornrow braids were pulled tight into that sleek high ponytail that swayed every time I moved, and the golden morning sunlight poured through the large windows, making my skin glow.

“Make me breakfast, Bradley,” I told him calmly, not even looking up from my phone as I recorded. “Eggs, avocado toast, and fresh orange juice. And do it properly.”

He hesitated only for a second before rolling up his sleeves and getting to work. I continued speaking to my camera, my voice smooth and confident, while he moved around my sleek open-concept kitchen behind me. Every so often I’d glance back and catch him stealing looks at my bare feet or the curve of my ass in those joggers. Each time our eyes met, his would drop instantly to the floor.

Over the following weeks, the rules became clearer and the punishments more regular.

If he was even five minutes late, he went straight over my knee. If he forgot how I liked my coffee — black, two sugars — the wooden hairbrush came out again. I made him strip completely naked for every spanking now — no more half-measures. I wanted him to feel completely exposed and vulnerable every single time, his pale body trembling over my lap while I lectured him in that calm, silky tone that always made him melt.

One afternoon I came home early from a long-haul flight and caught him in the act — kneeling on the floor, sniffing one of my worn work high heels while frantically stroking his cock. The look of pure terror on his face when he realized I was standing there was something I will treasure forever. That night I gave him the most brutal spanking he had ever received. I didn’t stop until he was a blubbering, incoherent mess, promising through tears that he would never touch himself again without permission.

The very next day, I introduced the pink chastity cage.

I made him kneel naked in front of me while I locked the small, pretty pink device around his cock and balls that shut with devastating finality. I slipped the key onto the thin gold chain between my breasts and told him it would stay there. Then I left for a three-day flight rotation, leaving him locked, denied, and desperate.

When I returned, the real conditioning began in earnest.

I started him on panties. Simple at first — soft white cotton with little bows. Then satin. Then lace. Soon he was wearing them every day under his work clothes. Dresses followed. At first modest ones, then shorter, frillier, more childish. High heels came next. He learned to walk in them, mincing around my condo while I watched with satisfaction. Eventually I moved him into full little-girl clothing — pastel pink party dresses with petticoats, white knee socks with ruffles, glossy Mary Jane heels, pigtails with bows.

I weaned him off my pussy completely. His mouth now existed only for my pleasure in the ways I preferred. He would spend long evenings on his knees, tongue buried deep in my asshole while I rode his face and used my vibrator to bring myself to orgasm after orgasm. I never once let him penetrate me. Why would I? His only purpose was worship and service.

I started calling him Brittney.

“You’re not Bradley anymore,” I told him one morning as he made my coffee, dressed in a frilly pink maid uniform. “You’re Brittney now. My pretty little housewife.”

The role reversal became total. He handled all the chores. He cooked. He cleaned. He massaged my feet after long flights. He slept on the floor at the foot of my bed. And about once a week, I would strap on my thick black cock and fuck him gently, tenderly, like we were an average married couple making love — first in his mouth, then deep in his ass.

When he was finally broken — when the last traces of the old Bradley had been stripped away and only Brittney remained — I knew it was time.

I drove him to Mistress Andrea’s Facility myself.

He was dressed in his favorite little-girl outfit: a short pink pinafore dress with white lace, rumba panties, white knee socks, and glossy pink I Mary Jane heels. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, ankles shackled with a short chain. His makeup was perfect, his hair tied with a big pink bow. He looked every bit the pretty, broken sissy he had become.

Andrea met us at the entrance. She smiled when she saw him.

“Beautiful work, Echo. She’s perfect.”

I handed over the key to his chastity cage and signed the final transfer papers. Brittney was now the property of the Facility — a full-time captive sissy in the sissy wing, available for any approved male client who wanted to use her holes.

I watched as the attendants led her away in her shackles. She glanced back at me once, eyes wide with fear and resignation, before they locked her into her small cell.

I smiled as the heavy steel door clanged shut behind her.

My work with Bradley was complete.

Brittney belonged to the Facility now.

And I already had my eye on the next one.

I ended up spending the night with Andrea, we needed to “celebrate” our latest conquest… and my word did we ever celebrate, several times!

Echo

Disclaimer: All text prompts going into A.I. systems to create some of the content of this story along with requests for A.I. images appearing in this story, clearly state that everyone involved is an ADULT, above the legal age of consent.