The training intensified. I had him strapped into a leather harness, his arms pulled back, exposing his chest and cock to my whims. I spent the next hour teaching him the true meaning of pain and pleasure. I used my heels as weapons, stepping on his thighs, leaving red imprints in his skin that matched the rhythm of my demands. Every time he tried to maintain a shred of masculinity, I silenced him with a sharp slap or a crushing press of my heel into his balls.
“Do you like being my bitch?” I sneered, stepping onto his chest and putting my full weight on him. I could hear the air leave his lungs, his face flushing a deep red. I reached down and gripped his cock, squeezing it tight while my heel ground into his pelvic bone. The contrast was electric—the crushing weight of the leather and steel above and the tight grip of my hand below.
I forced him to lick the soles of my heels, making him taste the street grime and the scent of my sweat. He was sobbing now, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of the sensory overload. I watched his will crumble in real-time. The more I degraded him, the harder his cock grew. He was addicted to the humiliation. I leaned down, grinding my leather-clad thigh against his cheek. “That’s it, baby. Let go. Stop fighting it and just be the pathetic little slut I know you are.”
















Being a BBC Sissy trainer who loves making sissy’s dress up as hot sissy women is my passion. Going all out of course because that is what makes those BBCs get hard and ready to fuck. They love a hot sissy dressed to the 9s. The panties to start off, nice and silky. The kind that show off that ass and make it fuckable. A bra to make you look more feminine. The sexy lingerie that make those BBCs get all worked up. A wig? Sure. Makes you look more slutty. The makeup. The high heels and of course the stockings.


