I am truly sorry, and please do not hate me for it, but I am breaking up with you.
Too many times you have teased me and tempted me into your dungeon, seduced me into slipping on my favourite pink collar, gotten my panties wet . . . and then splashed cold water in my face. Your books have such glorious set-ups, such breathtaking scenes of breaking, submission, and feminization that make me swoon against my restraints. I fall in love with the writing every time, but just when it starts to get really hot, you go and take a hard right turn into sadomasochism, degradation, and pain, leaving me behind, all wet, bothered, and frustrated.
Don't get me wrong, I am sure that is what most of your readers are looking for, and I am sure your authors are very good at what they do, it is just not for me.
Homage To Emma: The Sex Diary of a Male Submissive will be, I am afraid, my last selection from the Pink Flamingo shelf. It's a book that starts out with the perfect set up - a cheating husband flees the wrath of his wife, finds no solace in the arms of his mistress (small 'm'), and ends up beneath the heel of a proper Mistress (capital 'M'). I absolutely loved how quickly and easily she took control of him, ordering him around the house, forcing him to make dinner, and putting him in an apron before ordering him to strip naked and begin his feminization. There was so much potential there, but once again it was (to my tastes) wasted.There's a lot of domination and submission here, a lot of pain and humiliation, a lot of shame and degradation, but no eroticism. While I am sure it is precisely what regular readers have come to expect and appreciate, it just leaves me cold and frustrated. There's a scene about halfway through where the forcibly feminized Martin is given to a pair of men for the first time, spread wide and prepared to be penetrated at both ends. Just the thought of it had my panties absolutely drenched, my nipples hard as diamonds, and my own pretty little tush clenching in anticipation. Except, the scene is rushed through in about a page, with absolutely no detail of what Martin is thinking or feeling, and no sense that his Masters are enjoying it.
What could have been a scene to send me into dreamland with a pair of sticky panties became, instead, one that caused me to sigh, skip ahead 20 or so pages at a time, and confirm the story was never going to go where I wanted.
Don't get me wrong, it is a well-written book, and the lovely Ms. Ross clearly know how to dominate a man. For readers who crave the SM heavy BDSM experience, it is quite likely a very good read. Sadly, it is just not what I wanted.
♂↔♀
We work in a company that has fired or laid off half its staff in the past two years, and which has not turned a profit in over three years. Employees have not even seen a cost of living increase in four years, much less a performance increase, and expenses that used to considered 'reasonable' are being denied across the board. The only things filthier than the heating ducts above are the carpets below, and the only things emptier than our pockets are the dusty cubicles that stretch into the distance.
Oh, for those of you who are concerned about the fate of the very lovely Michel Tcherevkoff, I smuggled my Purses, Petals & Pumps daily planner out of the office last night. It may not be there to brighten my mornings, but at least I can still enjoy his breathtaking creations when I get home at night.
In a perfect world, I would be very well acquainted with the needle’s prick of hormones and the scalpel’s plastic surgery kiss. I would not only be on a first-name basis with both my electrologist and my hairdresser, but I would have the freedom to completely indulge in their arts. I would have a membership to a women’s only fitness club, a dancersize class, and an aerobics class . . . and I would use them all regularly.
It all starts with a solid (but subtle) feminine foundation, including a feminine antiperspirant (I love 
As for my nails, they are painted with a lovely French beige polish (always 
Next, of course, is lingerie. It has been nearly fifteen years since I last wore a pair of boy’s briefs, but I still luxuriate in the sensation of a nicely frilled pair of panties, and the feeling of an expensive pair of stockings caressing my legs is almost orgasmic. For those ‘casual’ days in the office, I will forego the stockings for a cute pair of ankle socks. On those days, I’ll slip on a toe-ring to help anchor myself, since I’m not so worried about snagging the material, and sometimes even match it to a pink ring if I’m feeling daring.
As for clothes, I have a creatively genderqueer (androgynous/unisex) wardrobe. Roughly half of my pants are women’s slacks, carefully selected to give me a little shape, but not to hug or tug too much in the places that would draw suspicious attention. The other half of my pants are men’s pants, all of them altered to accommodate my identity. In most cases that just means replacing the ugly brass buttons with something a bit more colourful or flashy, but I have gone so far as to have a few tailored in the hips and legs to provide a bit of flair. I always top them off with a plain women’s belt – as much as I love my pink and purple belts with the studs, it’s a plain black or (on my more daring days) a very dark violet in the office.
On those casual days I mentioned, a cute pair of capris does draw a bit of attention, but since I’ve established a long history in the office of not liking full-length pants, and since we’re only allowed to wear shorts in the summer months, they get passed off as more of an eccentricity on my part than a violation of the gender binary. I've even cheated a few times in the nice weather and worn my convertible capris, which look like full-length pants all day long (a bit tailored in the legs, perhaps), but with the cuffs that can be rolled up and tied off into capris the moment I'm ready to leave the office.
Up top, my ‘dress shirts’ are almost exclusively women’s blouses, once again carefully selected to avoid the obvious darts or suspiciously-placed seams that would give away the secret. Fortunately, the recent trend towards colourful pastels for men and women has significantly expanded my wardrobe over the past two years, and since people generally see what they expect to see, only a very small handful of coworkers have ever noticed that the buttons fasten on (to them, at least) the ‘wrong’ side.
My hair has always been an issue, which (in the grand scheme of things) actually works in my favour. People devote so much attention to the length, questioning when I’ll cut it or why I’ve let it get so long, that they fixate on it to the exclusion of everything else. I keep it trimmed to about the middle of my shoulder-blades, making it just long enough to look acceptable in an office ponytail, while providing enough wavy length to style loose and free. So long as I stay away from bright colours, I can even get away with a cute scrunchie to hold it all in place.
At the end of the day, if somebody was to look at the tags and scrutinize me up-close, they’d realise just how feminine my expression is, but casual acquaintances rarely devote that much attention to one another. I do get the occasional odd look or quizzical expression, especially if they catch me putting on flavoured