Chapter 6

I settled into this new routine over the next few weeks, my days blurring into a haze of submission in our Mid-Levels apartment overlooking the glittering harbor. When I got home from sales meetings in Central, dodging the MTR crowds, I fired up my laptop and studied makeup tutorials on YouTube—learning to blend foundation like those Mong Kok beauty vloggers, perfect smoky eyes, and glossy lips that made my androgynous face look even prettier. Van picked out my outfits each morning from her overflowing closet: sheer bras that cupped my puffy gynecomastia tits, lacy garter belts snapping against my smooth thighs, seamed stockings rolling up my waxed legs, and frilly panties that barely contained my shriveled cocklette. She had bought a new wig online from a Tsim Sha Tsui shop, a sleek black bob that fit my head perfectly and mimicked my natural hair, framing my softened features without the itch of the blonde one. ‘Much better, sissy,’ she said one evening, adjusting it on me after I vacuumed the marble floors. ‘Now you look like a proper Causeway Bay tai tai, not some drag queen reject.’

She stopped cleaning and cooking entirely, her doctor’s shifts at Queen Mary Hospital leaving her too ‘exhausted’ for domestic bullshit. Instead, she made me handle it all in full women’s clothing—the apron over my maid dress as I scrubbed the kitchen counters, heels clicking on the tiles while I stir-fried char siu in the wok for her dinner. If I fucked up, like burning the rice or leaving streaks on the Peak-view windows, she forced me to repeat the chores from scratch. ‘Lai, do it again, nei zyu hai m̀h hai sissy pig?’ she’d snap in Cantonese, arms crossed in her silk blouse, watching me bend over in stockings to mop the floors a second time, my ass cheeks peeking from under the skirt, tiny dicklette twitching in humiliation. She even dug out a pair of indoor high heels—strappy black pumps from a Lane Crawford sale—and made me wear them around the apartment nonstop. My calves burned after hours teetering on three-inch stilettos while dusting her Harbour City handbags or folding her laundry, but the constant wobble forced my hips to sway like a real woman, deepening my emasculation with every step.

One humid evening, after a long day dodging typhoon warnings and hawker stalls in Sham Shui Po for fresh produce, Van burst through the door in her scrubs, eyes sharp with that sadistic gleam. ‘Oi, sissy, bring a chair to the bedroom—now,’ she ordered, kicking off her Crocs. My heart raced as I dragged a wooden dining chair from the living room, the heels making me mince awkwardly across the hardwood. In the bedroom, with the city lights twinkling like a Wan Chai neon sign outside, she commanded me to strip down to just the bra, garter belt, and stockings—no panties, no dress. My hands shook peeling off the layers, exposing my feminized body: soft belly from her controlled diet, puffy nipples straining the lace cups, smooth groin with that pathetic two-inch cocklette already half-hard and leaking, tucked between my hairless balls. She smirked, circling me like a Repulse Bay shark, then grabbed a thick vibrating buttplug from her nightstand drawer—the one with the flared base and remote control, slicked with lube that smelled like those Sasa store gels.

‘Bend over the bed, ass up,’ she said, and I obeyed, cheeks spreading as she pressed the cold tip against my puckered hole. It popped in with a stretch that made me gasp, the vibrations humming low at first, buzzing my prostate and sending jolts straight to my tiny dicklette. I was very aroused, pre-cum dribbling in a steady string onto the sheets, my stockinged thighs quivering as she twisted it deeper, seating it fully so the base nestled between my garter straps. ‘Good girl, feel that? That’s your new best friend.’ She shoved me into the chair, my plugged ass squelching against the wood seat, vibrations intensifying as the pressure drove it mercilessly into my guts. Before I could moan, she snapped cold steel handcuffs around my wrists, chaining them tight to the armrests, then cuffed my ankles to the front chair legs, splaying my thighs wide. The position arched my back, bra thrusting out my tits, stockings taut, heels dangling off the floor—utterly helpless, exposed like a K11 art exhibit gone wrong.

Finally, she dangled the red ball gag in front of my made-up face, the rubber sphere gleaming wet from her spit. ‘Open wide, bitch—no noise from you tonight.’ I parted my crimson lips, and she jammed it in, buckling it behind my head so tight drool immediately pooled and spilled from the corners of my mouth, trickling down my chin onto my bra cups. Muffled whimpers escaped around it as she cranked the buttplug remote to high, the relentless buzz making my hole clench and spasm, cocklette throbbing untouched, balls tightening in futile need. She stepped back, admiring her work, her fingers trailing over my bound body while I drooled helplessly, arousal and shame burning hotter than a Kowloon summer night.

Van stepped back from me with a wicked grin, her fingers lingering on the remote as the buttplug thrummed relentlessly inside my ass, making my tiny cocklette pulse with denied need. She peeled off her scrubs slowly, revealing her toned body—perky tits from all those Queen Mary Hospital gym sessions, flat stomach, and shaved pussy glistening already. She sat at her vanity, the one overlooking the Victoria Harbour lights, and applied sexy makeup: thick black eyeliner like those Lan Kwai Fong club girls, blood-red lipstick, and smoky shadows that made her eyes smolder. Then she slipped into sexy lingerie—a black lace push-up bra that hoisted her breasts high, matching thong that rode up her crack, and sheer stockings clipped to a garter belt. She looked like a goddess, far hotter than any Wan Chai hostess, and my drool-slicked mouth watered around the gag just watching her.

The doorbell rang sharp through the apartment, cutting the air like a Causeway Bay street vendor’s bell. A delivery? Amazon from those Tsim Sha Tsui orders? Van grabbed her silk bathrobe—short, crimson, from Joyce boutique—and tied it loosely around her waist, the fabric whispering against her lingerie as she sauntered out to the living room. I sat there stuck in the chair, buttplug buzzing deep, vibrations grinding my prostate while pre-cum oozed from my pathetic two-inch nub onto the floor between my spread stockinged thighs. The door clicked shut, and I waited eagerly for her return, heart pounding in my lace-cupped tits.

Then I heard chatting—low, playful voices. Laughter bubbled up, feminine and deep. I froze, a chill racing down my waxed spine. A man’s voice cut in, familiar and joking, with that easy confidence: Charles. More laughter echoed off the marble floors, then low murmurs. Glasses clinked—her crystal ones from the Peak dinner set. More laughter, more hushed talking. Anxiety clawed at me like Mong Kok market crowds. When would he leave? Why had he come over this late? Why was Van taking so damn long? Sweat beaded under my wig, makeup smearing slightly as I tugged at the cuffs.