Stephanie's Adventures in Amsterdam
Copyright© 2025 by Stephanie Legrand
Chapter 6: Tuesday: The Threshold
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 6: Tuesday: The Threshold - Stéphane leaves behind his structured Parisian life to spend a week in Amsterdam as Stéphanie—the soft, feminine self he’s longed to become. What begins as freedom slowly deepens into erotic surrender and tender regression. Drawn into rituals of obedience and control, she must decide: lose herself in another’s desires, or reclaim her voice and find a love that sees her truly—and lets her be.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Romantic Gay Lesbian CrossDressing TransGender Fiction MaleDom Humiliation Anal Sex Masturbation Small Breasts Infantilization
PREPARING TO BE CLAIMED
The hotel room was quiet when Stéphanie opened her eyes. Pale winter light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft lines across the sheets.
She lay still for a moment, the silence broken only by the faint creak of old wood and the distant echo of footsteps on cobblestones.
Today was the day.
The day she would go to Jan.
The day she might finally become something more—
Not just dressed, not just seen, but entered.
Held.
Made real.
She thought of Sophie in the pink room, her voice dreamy and sure:
“That’s how girls feel,” she’d said. “Warm. Wanted. Held from the inside.”
Stéphanie hadn’t felt that yet.
But today—
Today she would try.
To feel it.
To feel like a girl feels.
She slipped out of bed slowly, the chill of the floor meeting her bare feet. Her nightdress clung to her thighs, wrinkled from sleep.
Without rushing, she padded into the bathroom.
She undressed carefully, folding her nightdress over the edge of the sink. The diaper came next—still faintly warm, slightly damp. She peeled it away in silence, revealing the pink cage beneath.
Then she reached up to her hair.
The braids from yesterday were still tied with their little pink bows, flattened slightly from sleep. She touched one bow softly, feeling its satin loop between her fingers.
She hesitated.
Part of her wanted to leave them in—to stay small, to stay as he liked her. To stay his little girl.
But another part ... deeper, quieter ... wanted to see her hair fall free. To see who she was beneath the ribbons and bows.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she slipped off each bow, setting them neatly beside the sink. She undid the hair ties one by one, the braids loosening, unweaving themselves until her hair fell in two wavy sections down her shoulders.
She ran her hands through them gently, untwisting the last traces of the plaits. The strands felt soft and heavy, freed from their childish arrangement.
For a moment, she paused—looking at herself in the mirror. Hair tousled, untied, falling naturally around her shoulders. No bows. No braids.
For a moment, she saw not the little girl Jan liked to dress, but a young woman. Tired. Quiet. And real.
Her chest tightened softly. Would he still want her, like this?
She closed her eyes.
Then she stepped into the shower.
Hot water surged over her shoulders, her back, her chest—steam curling along the glass.
She closed her eyes beneath the spray, letting the warmth sink in.
Only then did she reach for the rose-scented gel she’d brought from Paris—Roger & Gallet, in its elegant pink bottle.
She poured a touch into her palm and worked it into a soft, fragrant lather. Her hands glided slowly—across her collarbones, down her stomach, between her thighs.
Around the smooth cage, she lingered, fingertips circling with quiet care. And behind her, where the skin curved and softened, she washed with slow, deliberate touch. Letting the warmth open her. The lather clinging like perfume.
She cleaned herself carefully there too, the warm water and her gentle fingers leaving her fresh, open, ready. A quiet ritual of preparation—intimate and unspoken.
She took her time.
Not just to be clean, but to be soft. Touchable.
Ready.
She wanted to be ready for him.
To be entered.
To be felt.
And yet, as she moved, a thread of tension wound itself around her ribs—subtle, but insistent.
She reached for her pink razor—small, curved, plastic, with a little rubber grip made for delicate hands. A lady razor. The kind meant for softness.
She shaved carefully—legs, underarms, bikini line, and the skin around the cage. Then lower, where her body curved behind.
Each motion slow. Practiced.
When she finished, she ran her fingers slowly over her skin—checking for smoothness.
Calves. Thighs. The crease beneath her cheeks.
Not with arousal, but with care. With purpose.
Smooth where she could be smooth.
Gentle where she could be gentle.
Preparing not just to be seen—but to be felt.
She turned off the water and stepped out, patting herself dry with the towel.
Then, moving with quiet intention, she reached for her moisturiser—a pale pink bottle with a faint rose scent.
She smoothed it carefully along her freshly shaved legs, her thighs, her hips. The lotion sank in quickly, leaving her skin warm and softly fragrant.
Then her arms, her chest.
Finally, lower—between her thighs, around the cage, and behind—she used a different cream. Unscented. Delicate. Meant for soft skin.
Her touch there felt almost reverent.
When she finished, her body felt softened.
Made smooth by her own hands.
Offered, even before she dressed.
She wrapped herself in a towel and reached for the dryer.
Her hair—still damp from the shower—fell heavily down her back. The new extensions, added just the day before, were longer and fuller than she was used to. As she dried them, she moved slowly, carefully, brushing in sections until the strands lay smooth and warm against her skin.
Then she brushed them into soft waves, pinning one side loosely behind her ear.
The extensions blended perfectly, framing her face with a softness she hadn’t known she was missing.
She tilted her head slightly in the mirror. Studied the effect.
It made her feel more feminine.
Not just styled, but shaped.
Like a version of herself she had only imagined before.
More delicate.
More complete.
More real.
Then she opened the drawer where everything had been laid out the night before.
She reached for the diaper automatically. Pale pink, folded neatly.
Then paused.
Her fingers hovered.
Should she wear panties instead?
The thought surprised her—and yet it stayed.
Would he be disappointed?
Would it matter?
Maybe the diaper was part of what he expected. What he wanted.
In the mirror, her reflection wasn’t exactly bare. The cage still hung between her legs—delicate, pale pink, locked in place like a secret. Present, weightless. Familiar.
Still, she looked at herself and felt ... undecorated. Unfinished. Undefined.
The diaper would make her feel small. Kept. Like she belonged in that soft, protected role he seemed to imagine. And yet—had it already gone too far?
She hesitated.
Then, gently, she laid the pink diaper open on the edge of the bed.
She sat. Slowly. The soft inner padding rose to cradle her, warm against her skin.
The outer plastic rustled faintly as she settled.
She lifted her hips—just slightly—enough to reach beneath herself.
Her hands moved carefully.
She took the cage and drew it back, tucking it low between her thighs.
The motion was practiced now. Precise. Intentional.
Then she settled again, letting the soft padding rise beneath her.
The lavender core pressed up gently, cradling everything.
And when she looked down—
She paused.
Her front was smooth.
Flat. Silent. Feminine.
The skin above the diaper was soft and bare, the tucked shape completely hidden. No line. No bulge.
Just stillness.
It looked ... delicate.
Almost childlike.
She wasn’t pretending to be a girl.
But something about the shape whispered it anyway.
A kind of innocence.
A kind of surrender.
She touched the skin just above the padding, fingertips grazing the place where she now looked the way she had always wished to feel.
He would like this.
Jan wanted her soft.
Tucked.
Small.
And here she was—everything drawn inward, made neat and silent. Wrapped by her own hands before he even touched her.
She felt her breath slow.
Not just hidden.
Aligned.
Ready.
Then, gently, she pulled the front of the diaper up across her body.
She smoothed it with care, adjusting the soft plastic against her skin.
Not to hide—
But to feel how it held her. Soft. Still. Right.
She aligned the sides carefully. Lower tapes first—left, then right.
They sealed with a quiet rip, snug at her hips.
Then the upper tapes—firm and neat, just enough to hold her gently in place.
Her hand pressed softly at the front. A natural gesture.
She stood.
The padding shifted with her. Crinkled softly.
She ran her palms down her front—checking the fit.
Flat. Smooth. Feminine.
She adjusted the tapes slightly—tightening one, softening the other.
Just right.
It made her feel ... complete.
Not just covered. Not just concealed.
But shaped. Finished. Offered.
She breathed in—quietly, fully.
Today, she was ready.
To be felt. To be held.
To be seen.
Next: the bra.
Not the usual one.
She chose the push-up she hadn’t worn in months—pale blush with lace-trimmed cups and a satin bow between them. Her most feminine. Her secret favorite.
She clipped the hooks in front, turned it around, and slipped the straps over her shoulders. The lace settled gently against her chest.
She adjusted the band. Then, with practiced care, she lifted the silicone breast forms into place—round, warm, reassuring. A touch of adhesive. Just enough to hold.
Her chest curved forward more than usual. A soft rise beneath the lace. Almost convincing. Almost hers.
She tilted her shoulders back. Studied the shape. It framed her gently, like a version of herself she was still learning to believe in.
She exhaled—slow, steady. Felt the bra’s embrace: taped, tucked, wrapped.
Next came the camisole—ivory and lightweight, edged with lace.
She pulled it over her head, smoothing it down across her chest and stomach. It quieted the bra, made everything seem more natural. Less constructed. More hers.
Then the tights.
Opaque white. Not sheer. Not glossy. Just soft, warm, and complete.
She gathered them carefully and stepped in—one foot, then the other. Drew them up slowly, easing the fabric over her ankles, her calves, her thighs. The softness gripped her legs like a second skin. Containing. Smoothing. Quieting the diaper’s faint crinkle with every inch.
She stood, pulled them into place, and adjusted the waistband just above her hips.
Her hands slid down her front—checking, adjusting. The tights made her look almost doll-like: flat, smooth, sealed. A softness both innocent and deliberate.
She reached behind her, tightened one tape slightly, loosened another. Just right.
Now she felt ... complete.
Not just covered. Not just hidden.
But shaped. Finished. Offered.
She turned slightly toward the mirror. A reflection. A form.
Beneath the lace, the camisole, the opaque white tights—there was no hardness. Just the quiet press of padding. The soft swell of her silicone chest. The smoothness of her front, invisible and remade.
She looked delicate.
She looked like herself.
And for once, she felt ready to be seen.
The tights hugged her fully now. The diaper showed through—not clearly, but the shape, the suggestion. A faint pattern of pink crowns and ribbons just barely visible beneath the fabric.
She ran her hands down her thighs. Then paused—one hand pressing softly between her legs. A subtle crinkle answered her.
Her reflection met her gaze.
Small. Decorated. Dressed with intention.
A girl made ready.
She touched her knees.
Then paused again.
On the chair by the window: the smock dress. Folded neatly. Its soft fabric and round collar radiated quiet submission. Beside it, the pink bloomer lay in a small folded square, its delicate white lace trim peeking out like a secret kept close.
She looked at them a long time. Not with shame. Not even regret. Just ... stillness.
Then turned away.
From the Costes bag, she drew the outfit she had chosen with Luna:
A blush-pink sweater. Long-sleeved. Soft. Unadorned.
A grey pleated skirt with fine pink checks.
She laid them beside the smock.
One outfit was given.
The other, chosen.
She sat on the bed. The diaper crinkled softly beneath her. The camisole clung to her waist. Her bra snug. Her posture calm.
For a moment, she remained there in the hush of the room, morning light pooling around her.
Then—decisively—she reached for the skirt.
She stepped into it, zipped it at the side, and smoothed it down.
Then the sweater—pulled carefully over her chest, soft on her arms, hugging just enough.
It stretched gently across her breasts, shaping her silhouette into something fuller. Softer. Realer.
She looked ... lovely.
The blush knit echoed the pink lines in her skirt. A quiet match.
Deliberate. Hers.
She glanced at the mirror again, just long enough to catch the curve of her chest beneath the fabric, the way the sleeves framed her shoulders.
A girl.
Composed. Chosen.
Her necklace lay waiting on the vanity—her name in delicate gold script, catching the morning light.
She touched it once.
Then let her fingers fall away.
Not today.
Today, she needed to feel it inside her.
Not show it to the world.
Her Mary Janes waited beneath the chair—black, polished, quietly childish.
She slipped them on. Buckled each strap.
At the vanity, she applied makeup slowly: sheer foundation, rose-pink blush, mascara, soft gloss.
Each gesture felt like a rehearsal—like tracing herself into the girl she wanted to be.
She dabbed blush along her cheekbones. Her fingertips grazed her skin the way his hands might later—curious, admiring, lingering.
The gloss shimmered like a promise.
She wasn’t just making herself pretty.
She was preparing to be seen.
To be touched.
She spritzed her perfume—Chloé. Powdery, with notes of rose and peony. Behind her ears. At her wrists.
Light. Floral. Clean.
Like the girl she wanted to be.
She reached for her cream-colored puffer coat. Left it open—letting the pleats of her skirt show with each step.
Her pink bag waited by the armchair. The one with the satin bow.
Holding it felt like reclaiming something gentle. A quiet promise.
She slung it over her shoulder.
Before leaving, she looked once more at the smock dress.
Still folded. Still waiting.
She left it behind.
The morning air outside was brisk but gentle. The canal unusually quiet for a weekday.
Stéphanie walked slowly, each step measured on the cobblestones, her skirt brushing softly against her tights. She didn’t need a map. She knew where she was going.
Café Singel 404. Just two bridges down from her hotel. Familiar now. Safe.
At the door, she paused—letting the stillness settle.
Then she stepped inside.
Warmth enveloped her: coffee, toasted bread, something faintly sweet in the air.
She loosened her coat and sat at the table by the window. Her skirt rustled softly as she crossed her legs. White tights brushing. Mary Janes catching the light.
Outside, the canal moved slowly.
Inside, all was calm.
She ordered what she’d had at the beach café:
Dutch pea soup with smoked sausage and carrot. Dark rye bread. A cup of mint tea.
The familiarity grounded her.
She hadn’t realized how much that moment had stayed with her.
How Jan had looked at her.
How she’d felt: small, wrapped, watched.
Not judged. Not even desired.
Chosen.
The soup arrived, steaming. She stirred it slowly.
Her thoughts curled inward.
Will I also feel like a girl?
Not pretend. Not perform.
But feel it—through his touch.
Through closeness.
To be made open. Quieted. Wanted.
That was what Sophie had tried to describe. What she’d glowed with.
Stéphanie had never felt that.
But maybe today she would come closer than she’d ever been.
To be opened.
To be wanted in a way that quieted the noise in her head.
That made her feel not just feminine—but real.
She took a slow spoonful. The soup was hot, thick, familiar.
Her body softened slightly as she swallowed.
She ate a little more—slow, steady bites. Bread. Soup. A sip of water.
She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she started.
The warmth spread through her chest, settling low in her belly.
When she finished, she folded her napkin, paid at the counter, and stepped back into the street.
Her coat was unbuttoned, the edges swaying with each step.
Her bag slung gently over her shoulder.
The air was colder now.
But inside, something had begun to warm.
CROSSING THE THRESHOLD
She walked toward the canal—toward him.
The early afternoon light along the Keizersgracht was pale and quiet. A thin mist clung to the water, softening the outlines of gables and bare winter trees.
Her footsteps slowed as she neared his building. The stillness of the neighborhood wrapped around her like a hush.
She felt composed, but not calm.
She had said yes.
To his invitation.
To entering his space.
To closeness.
To being held.
To the feeling of being entered—
of being a girl in his arms.
She liked Jan—how he looked at her, how he listened. How his attention made her feel real. Wanted.
But as she walked the final blocks, something quiet tightened in her chest.
A softness she wanted, edged with uncertainty.
She paused beneath the stone archway of his building and looked up at the second-floor windows, warm with afternoon light.
She pressed the buzzer.
A pause. Then the door clicked open.
Inside, the hallway was still and faintly scented with wood and old stone. Her shoes tapped lightly on the worn steps as she climbed to the second floor, one hand grazing the rail.
She reached his door. Adjusted her skirt. Smoothed her sleeves. Tucked her hair gently behind her ear.
Then raised her hand to knock.
But before she could—
The door opened.
“Stéphanie,” Jan said, his voice low with warmth. His eyes lit up when he saw her.
“You’re beautiful.”
Before she could reply, he stepped forward and wrapped her in a slow, deliberate hug.
She sank into it—his scent, his calm, his warmth. His hand came to cradle the back of her head, fingers brushing through the silky new waves of her hair.
His touch paused there, lingering longer than usual. She felt his fingers slip through the soft curls, searching for something that wasn’t there.
“This hair...” he murmured, his voice warm but quieter. “C’est parfait. It suits you so well.”
But beneath his words, she heard it: the faint edge of surprise. The silent note of expectation unmet.
He inhaled softly, just above her ear.
“And you smell lovely,” he added. “Like flowers ... and something sweet.”
She smiled shyly, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
As he pulled back, his eyes drifted over her hair again, lingering at the ends where little pink bows should have been. Then his gaze lowered, taking in the open coat, the soft sweater and skirt beneath.
“You’re not wearing the dress.”
Stéphanie looked down instinctively. “I ... wasn’t sure if it was the right moment. This felt more like me.”
He paused, silent. His eyes softened, but something in them dimmed—quiet, almost imperceptible.
Then he nodded slowly, his expression smoothing back into calm acceptance. “Of course. You look lovely. I just ... imagined you in it.”
He stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come in.”
She stepped inside, her chest tightening around the unspoken truth:
She had chosen herself today.
And he had noticed.
Without thinking, she set her pink bag on the hallway chair.
She slipped the coat from her shoulders. Jan took it gently and hung it by the door. His fingers brushed the fabric with quiet precision, his expression thoughtful.
For a moment, she wondered if he was disappointed. If he missed the pigtails. The dress. The doll he’d made of her.
Then he turned back to her, smiling again.
“Now,” he said, “let me show you around.”
The apartment was quiet and curated—soft amber light spilling through linen curtains, the scent of beeswax and lavender in the air. Shelves of books. Framed sketches. Half-burned candles and fresh-cut flowers in a small vase on the sill.
Somewhere in the background, soft piano music played—a faint, private melody.
He led her past the living room—a cozy space with a low couch, wool throw, and candles still faintly warm from earlier—and into a narrow hallway. Light filtered in from a frosted window at the far end, turning the air a pale gold.
“It’s not large,” he said, glancing back at her, “but it’s calm. It has everything I need.”
He stopped before a closed door near the end of the hallway.
At its center, just above eye level, Stéphanie noticed a small brass nail protruding from the wood—alone now, angled slightly, as if it had once held something. A nameplate, perhaps. The space around it was faintly lighter, untouched by time or polish.
She stared at it for a moment.
Waiting for a new name.
Then Jan turned the knob and opened the door with a quiet, practiced motion.
The room beyond was still.
Stéphanie stepped inside.
Soft pink walls. A narrow dressing table. A cream-colored armchair in the corner. Sheer curtains glowing faintly with the afternoon light.
Against the window stood a romantic bed—adult-sized, but styled like a child’s—with a white metal frame, gently curved, and a pale coverlet edged in frills and lace.
Everything quiet. Arranged. Curated.
And then, as her eyes adjusted—details emerged.
Rows of adult-sized diapers, neatly stacked on open shelving. Pastel adult size bibs folded in tidy piles. Baby bottles lined up like glass soldiers on a high shelf. Nothing was hidden. Nothing new.
Her feet moved without thinking.
She reached for one of the bibs. The edge was scalloped and soft. Embroidered in the center, in faded pink thread, was a single letter: S.
Her stomach twisted. How long had this been waiting? Was it made for her—or someone who came before?”
Her fingers withdrew, brushing instead against a folded pair of plastic pants—translucent, crinkling under her touch.
The trim was frilly white lace.
Just like the ones at Peter’s.
On a nearby hook, a flannel nightdress swayed gently in the air as she passed. Pale pink, child size 170. The collar worn smooth, the tag faded but intact.
She turned slowly. Her eyes landed on the far corner.
Tucked between the wardrobe and the radiator was a folded playpen—white-painted bars, padded lining in pastel green.
One wheel bent slightly. A sticker clung stubbornly to the frame: a cartoon duckling, scratched halfway off.
Her breath caught.
Beside the bed sat a plush lamb. One stitched eye sagged slightly. The ears were worn down, the ribbon around its neck yellowed at the edge.
It should have felt comforting.
Instead, a hollow opened in her chest.
This wasn’t made for me, she thought.
It was made for someone like me.
She took a step back.
He moved closer.
Without speaking, Jan slid his arms around her waist, drawing her back against him. She could feel the shape of him pressing behind her—firm, steady, unyielding. His hands rested just above her hips, then moved slowly over the front of her pink sweater, tracing a soft, circular motion across her stomach.
The touch was tender, but the pressure made her breath catch. Beneath the fabric, beneath the padded silence of the diaper, she felt every inch of the moment—how close he was, how exposed she suddenly felt.
“Do you like it?” he murmured near her ear. “Can you see yourself here?
Stéphanie hesitated. Her chest tightened. “It’s ... very sweet,” she said, carefully.
He kissed her neck, unhurried and warm, then leaned in closer, his breath in her hair.
His arms held her a little tighter. She didn’t pull away. But inside, she felt the shift—that quiet, pressing edge between care and control.
“Good,” he murmured. “It’s been waiting for you, my pretty little girl.”
Without thinking, she gave a small, polite nod.
The moment it left her, she regretted it.
A hollow settled behind her ribs—like she’d just agreed to something she didn’t fully understand.
Something clenched in her chest. The nursery didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like a plan.
Back in the living room, Jan poured tea into delicate porcelain cups. Stéphanie sat on a velvet loveseat, her cup untouched between her hands. The steam rose in quiet spirals.
Her heart was louder than the piano.
He sat beside her.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
Jan nodded. “Anything.”
She looked up. “What do you expect ... from someone like me?”
Jan set his cup down. He took her hand gently in his.
“I expect nothing you don’t give freely,” he said. “But I do know what I want.”
He stroked her fingers.
“I want someone soft. Someone I can care for. Someone who trusts me to choose what they wear. When they sleep. What they need.”
She felt her throat tighten. “And if I wanted to ... go further?”
He tilted his head. “Further?”
“Hormones. Becoming more feminine.”
“I’d like that,” he said. “The softness. Smooth skin. A small little breast. Hips I can hold.”
He reached for her hand.
“If hormones help you feel more like yourself—more at home in your body—I’d be proud to support you.”
Then his voice dropped, lower, more deliberate.
“But I need to be honest too.”
A pause.
“I’m not looking for a woman.”
His thumb traced slowly over her wrist.
“I’d love to see your body change. To feel it soften under my hands. To watch you become more delicate—more you.”
As he spoke, his hand drifted downward, resting lightly on her skirt.
Then—just one finger—pressed inward, low and precise, gently pointing to the soft space between her thighs.
“But what I want most...” he murmured, “is still right here. Between your legs.”
His eyes never left hers.
“That part of you—caged, tucked, quiet and warm. That’s what undoes me.”
Stéphanie’s breath caught.
“You don’t have to choose,” he said gently. “You can become softer, fuller, more you. As long as that part stays ... yours. And mine.”
His palm pressed just a little more—warm, calm, sure.
“That’s what I need. Not just the girl you show the world. But that part of you too. Not erased. Just kept.”
He reached up, tucked her hair behind her ear, his touch featherlight.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said.
“But I need you to give something back. To let me know this is what you want too.”
A pause.
“Do you understand?”
Stéphanie nodded, a whisper in her throat.
“I do.”
He smiled, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead—soft, sealing, like a promise.
But as she looked around—at the candles, the cups, the plush room waiting—something inside her stayed still.
She wasn’t sure she believed him.
He stood, then reached out his hand.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Let me show you what soft love feels like—what it feels like to be a girl in someone’s arms.”
She sat frozen for a moment.
Then slowly, she rose from the sofa.
Her hand found his—warm, steady, waiting.
Inside, Jan felt a quiet surge of satisfaction. She was coming with him. Soft, pliant, uncertain—but moving where he guided her. Exactly where he wanted her.
He gave a small squeeze, and together, they walked down the hall—not to the nursery, but to his bedroom.
It was darker here. Warmer. More private.
A single lamp glowed on the nightstand, its light gold against navy walls.
The bed was made in soft grey linens, the headboard simple wood. A quiet, masculine stillness filled the space.
Jan moved behind her.
“Sit,” he said gently, guiding her by the waist.
She nodded—then paused. Her body hesitated, but her mind had gone quiet. She wanted to know.
Jan guided her gently to the edge of the bed. The mattress gave under her weight, and her pleated skirt settled carefully over her thighs.
As she adjusted herself, the soft bulk beneath was still visible—a small, rounded rise where the diaper pressed gently against her tights.
Jan stepped back for a moment to look at her.
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