Listen to your sissy mom, you pathetic little disappointments. If you’re going to spend your days scrubbing my floors and pretending to be a girl, the least you can do is look the part. I’ve been checking your drawers, and some of you are still clinging to those hideous, cotton granny panties. Let me be crystal clear: if I find a single pair of full-coverage, beige, “comfort-fit” rags on your hips, I will treat you like the disgusting little pig you are.
Granny panties are for women who have given up on life, not for sissies who are desperate for my attention. When I pull those oversized rags off your shaking thighs, I’m not just tossing them in the trash—I’m using them to wipe the filth off my boots before I make you kneel. You don’t get “comfort” in this house. You get lace, you get silk, and you get strings that dig into your soft little hips.
If I catch you slipping back into your masculine habits, the punishment will be immediate. I’ll strip you bare, slap that pathetic little cock until it’s bright red, and force you to wear a pair of sheer, neon-pink thongs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. You’ll spend the rest of the day shivering in the hallway, your tiny ass cheeks exposed to the draft, knowing that I can see every single flaw of your failed masculinity. You aren’t a man anymore; you’re just my little dress-up doll, and dolls don’t get to choose their underwear. Now, get on your knees and apologize for your lack of taste.
Lenora
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