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sissybabycucksophia · 13 days ago

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The Adult Baby Adoption Part 15

(This story is complete fiction and although i may desperately wish it isn’t, there is no fact or real world experience behind this story, and themes reflected in the story may be triggering, these themes are not my actual beliefs and are only part of a fantasy kink scenario. ALSO! James is a 24 year old adult and as is the woman he has been turned into, these AI generated pictures depict a 24 year old jade.)

Even through the thick sleep mask and the padded bonnet tied beneath my chin, I could tell we weren’t at the hotel anymore. The air felt different—cooler, stiller. There was no clatter of brunch plates, no murmured laughter. Just the soft mechanical click of Daddy unlocking the front door, followed by the faint creak of it swinging open. Then came the shift. His arm adjusted under my thighs. My body bounced once, gently, cradled in the crook of his shoulder as if I weighed nothing at all. Carried like a bag of laundry. My sleepsack creaked softly with every step he took.

I whimpered behind the pacifier, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled squeak. “Shhh,” he murmured. “You’re home now.” He stepped through the threshold and into the house, the sound of his loafers changing from pavement to polished hardwood. The air smelled like leather and lavender and something else I couldn’t place—something clean and expensive.

I could hear the faint hum of ventilation. The soft shuffle of him moving through the foyer. He didn’t talk. He didn’t announce anything. He just carried me like I was his responsibility—his burden. His thing. A moment later, I felt him pause. Then the shift of his shoulder as he turned, leaned down, and lowered me onto something plush and soft—my bed. The mattress dipped beneath me. The restraints tugged faintly as I settled.

He pressed a hand to my padded chest, smoothing it once. Then his voice again—low, satisfied. “Not a word. Not a twitch. Not until morning.” A gentle tug at the corner of my bonnet. A small adjustment to the sleep mask. And then silence. No unzipping. No release. No kiss goodnight. He left me like that—bound, blinded, pacified and padded from neck to toe—entirely dependent and entirely unseen. The door shut with a muted click behind him. And I lay there in the dark, helpless in my own nursery.

I didn’t hear the door open. I only noticed the light change—softer, golden, brushing the insides of my eyelids like silk. Then the sound of someone’s heels—no, sneakers—crossing the hardwood floor. And a voice I hadn’t heard all weekend. “Oh, sweetheart…” Cynthia. I blinked beneath the sleep mask as gentle fingers undid the bow beneath my chin and eased the fleece blindfold off my face. Her expression was soft. Pitying. But not surprised.

She’d seen me like this before. But not like this. Not since the wedding started. “You poor thing,” she murmured, brushing a few strands of platinum hair off my cheek. “Daddy said you’d been such a brave little girl.” I tried to speak, but the pacifier still strapped behind my head muffled anything I could say into a helpless whimper. “Hush now,” she said, placing a hand on my chest. “Let’s get you out of your cocoon, baby girl.” She moved with practiced care, unbuckling each strap of the sleepsack with soft, efficient clicks. Chest. Waist. Ankles. Then the zipper came down, slow and smooth.

The cold air hit first. Then the smell—faint, sweet, shameful. “Oh, honey…” Cynthia sighed as she helped me sit up. “Looks like someone was soggy all night, hmm?” My cheeks burned. She unfastened the mittens, gently massaging my hands as circulation returned, then stood and took me by the wrists like a child. “Come on. On the mat. Let Mommy—” She stopped herself, smiled tightly. “Let Cynthia get you cleaned up.”

I waddled to the edge of the bed, the wet diaper sagging between my legs. Cynthia had already laid out a pink changing mat and a fresh pull-up waiting atop a towel. It was baby pink and sparkly—decorated with little cartoon princesses and a satin waistband. I lay back without a word. The process was humiliatingly routine now. She untaped the diaper, wiped me down carefully, folded it up with a sigh, and slid the pull-up up my legs with both hands. “These are thinner than what Daddy usually puts you in,” she explained. “Much easier to hide under your outfit. You’re going to look so polished for the clinic today. Nobody needs to know what you’re wearing underneath—unless you give them reason to check.” I nodded silently, too ashamed to even thank her.

She stood and opened the nearby wardrobe. The outfit was already laid out—neatly pressed and waiting: a cream off-shoulder blouse with flouncy ruffle sleeves, and a soft pink velvet skirt that hugged modestly below the knee. Cynthia returned with a brush in one hand and two matching ribbons in the other.

“Let’s do your hair first.” She brushed in silence, pulling my platinum hair into two low curled pigtails and tying each with a pink satin bow. Then came the makeup—gentle foundation, a touch of blush, pink gloss, and feathered lashes. “You look so sweet like this,” she said softly, dabbing at the inner corner of my eyes. “So soft. That’s what they’ll want to see today—soft, sincere, harmless.”

Once my face was done, she dressed me slowly—blouse first, then skirt, smoothing every fold like she was dressing a doll. She helped me step into white lace socks, then pink patent ankle boots, tying the bows tight. She stepped back, examining her work. Then she smiled—and for the first time all morning, it felt like it reached her eyes. “There she is.”I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, hair curled, lips glossed, thickly padded beneath my velvet skirt, and prayed no one would ask me who I really was. Because I wasn’t sure I knew anymore.

Just as Cynthia tied the second bow into my curls, the door opened behind us. Daddy entered, calm and unreadable as ever, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying something folded over his arm. My heart sank. It was a coat—soft pink, thick, and long. A full-length puffer with a high collar and wide, childish proportions. It looked more like something a mother might wrap around her shy teenage daughter than anything worn by someone my age.

Daddy held it out without a word. Cynthia stepped aside. “Arms out,” he said simply. I obeyed, letting him thread the sleeves one by one. The coat was heavier than it looked. As he tied the belt tight at the waist and smoothed the high collar over my chest, I felt swallowed—disguised and displayed at the same time. It covered everything. My blouse. My bow. Even the shape of my skirt. But somehow, it made the entire outfit feel even younger. Like I’d been bundled for a school picture I didn’t remember agreeing to. Then, as he straightened the hood over my shoulders, I found my voice. “D-Daddy…?” I mumbled, lips trembling. He didn’t answer.

“Wh-what ith Cynthia t-talking about…?” I asked, the lisp clinging to every syllable. “Wh-where’re we g-goin’…? W-who n-needth to believe J-Jade ith a… a girl?” He gave the coat a final tug, then stepped back to look me over. “You’ll find out soon,” he said coolly. “But don’t worry—your job’s simple.” I swallowed. “You’re going to smile, nod, and lie to strangers,” he added. “Convince them you’re a girl who desperately wants to be more of one.” He turned toward the door without waiting for a reply.

He gave the coat a final tug, then stepped back, his eyes lingering just long enough to make my knees shake. “You’ll find out soon,” he said, voice even. I nodded slowly, my lips trembling. “B-but… what if… wh-what if J-Jade can’t—can’t convvince them…” I asked, the words melting into lisps and fear. “Wh-what if they d-don’t believe me…?” He didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at me—dressed, polished, helpless—and let out a soft chuckle. Then his voice dropped. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to make some calls,” he said. “Jack’s always asking if I’ve got any soft little housemaids who need… discipline.”

I blinked, frozen. “He’s got a cage in his basement, a weekly poker night, and a nasty habit of breaking things that don’t follow orders.”His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe if you fail, you’ll finally understand what it really means to be a big girl sissy. And just how protected you’ve been under Daddy’s rules.” My stomach flipped. He leaned in, adjusting the collar of my puffer jacket like he was tucking in a child for picture day. “So go in there and lie like your life depends on it.” Because now—I knew it did.

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open on the penthouse floor.

Daddy placed one hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward with quiet control. Cynthia followed close behind, carrying a slim folder clutched neatly in both hands—my “clinic file.” She looked like someone walking into a boardroom, not escorting a trembling sissy boy in pink boots and curls.

My soft pink puffer coat rustled faintly as I walked, the plush fabric brushing against my velvet skirt with each careful step. The princess pull-up between my legs made every movement feel deliberate, exaggerated, humiliating.

Daddy spoke as we stepped into the elevator, his tone light. Almost pleasant. “We’re headed to the TrueYou Clinic,” he said, as if reading from an appointment reminder. “Private. Fully licensed. Specializes in feminizing care—early hormone therapy, voice training, legal name changes, all the things a good little girl like you should want.” The doors closed behind us, and the elevator began its slow descent.

Cynthia didn’t look at me. Just smoothed the edge of the folder with one finger as she added, “You’ve already been dressing full-time. You’ve been on blockers for three months—your previous provider moved away. You’ve been waiting for a new clinic that would take you seriously.” My throat tightened. Daddy continued, voice a shade colder now. “They’ll ask you when you knew. You’ll say ‘as long as I can remember.’ When they ask if you’re being pressured, you’ll say ‘no, this is who I am.’ You’ll smile. You’ll be polite.”

I swallowed hard, staring at my bare hands clutching the hem of my coat. My fingers were trembling. The elevator slowed. Stopped. “Ready, sweetheart?” Cynthia asked brightly. I didn’t answer. I just nodded. The doors opened directly into the underground parking bay. Daddy’s car was already waiting, sleek and silent. The air smelled like concrete and engine oil—cold and sterile compared to the scented control of the penthouse.

Cynthia walked ahead and opened the rear passenger door. Daddy turned to me. “Get in, princess.” I climbed in carefully, cheeks flushed. The thick padding of my pull-up shifted beneath me as I sat, and I instinctively pulled my coat tighter, even though it already covered everything. Daddy reached in and buckled me in himself, tugging the belt a little too snug across my chest. Then he leaned down, his mouth near my ear.

“If you so much as stammer…” he whispered, “you’ll be spending the weekend tied to Jack’s kitchen counter in a plug, a wig, and a frilly apron, begging for his friends to take turns.” I whimpered. He smiled. “And don’t think I won’t watch.” Click. The door shut. Cynthia took the front passenger seat. Daddy slipped into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and started the engine. And just like that—we were on our way. They didn’t pull into the front of the building.

Instead, Daddy turned down a narrow side road—an alley of gravel and shadow tucked alongside the clinic. The main entrance was just around the corner, but from here… they couldn’t see me. He killed the engine in silence. Cynthia turned in her seat and gently placed something in my lap: a structured pastel pink purse, stiff and sweetly ridiculous, with a giant ribbon bow and tiny angel wings stitched to the sides.

“Here’s your bag,” she said. “The folder’s inside. Just give it to reception when they ask.” I nodded, fingers curling around the short handles as the door opened beside me. Cold air licked at my ankles as I stepped out onto the gravel. My puffer coat, belted snug at the waist, brushed against my knees. The purse dangled in my hand—light, but crushing.

Daddy’s voice came from behind the door. “You know what to do.” The door shut. And I was alone. Thirty feet ahead: a glass front door with the words TrueYou Gender Wellness Center in quiet white letters. The building looked modern, sharp-edged, and utterly indifferent. I started walking. Then I stopped. I glanced back—slowly, cautiously. The car was hidden behind the curve of the building. No windows. No line of sight. I could run. For the first time in days, the thought hit me like a clean breath. I could just turn and go—run down the block, disappear into the streets. No one would see me.

But…

I had no phone. No wallet. No ID. Just this stupid doll purse and the soft rustle of a pull-up with every step. I couldn’t go anywhere dressed like this. I couldn’t even pee without humiliating myself. And Daddy would find me. Eventually, he always did.

If I ran, he’d hand me off to Jack. No protections. No rules. No safewords. Just a weekend of being used, restrained, and broken like a toy someone forgot to price. My knees weakened. I clutched the bag tighter, knuckles pale against the soft pink leather. If I went inside… I gave up something else. But if I didn’t… I gave up everything. So I turned back to the doors. And I walked. The glass door swung shut behind me with a soft, echoing click.

The inside of the TrueYou Clinic was everything I expected it to be—and worse. Polished tile floors. Pastel walls in soft green and blue. Framed photos of smiling, natural-looking women mid-transition. It was too clean. Too kind. Like the space had already decided I didn’t belong in it.

At the front desk sat a woman with warm ginger curls, pinned in a loose bun. She had that effortless, symmetrical beauty that didn’t need effort—clear skin, a soft pink lip, crisp eyeliner that curved like it had been drawn with a ruler. Her pale pink scrubs matched the logo embroidered on her chest: TrueYou. She looked up, smiled gently. I stopped three feet short of the counter, frozen. Her smile widened politely. “Hi there, can I help you?” I stood there, clutching my purse like a shield.

My heart thundered in my ears. My face burned. I wanted to sink through the floor. But I remembered Daddy’s voice:

“Smile. Nod. Lie like your life depends on it.”

So I smiled. Just a little. And I lied. “um… h-hhi…” I stammered, the lisp catching instantly in my throat. “M-my name ith… J-Jade. J-Jade U-Ulythes C-Cawmichael…” I hated the way it sounded—like every word was softened, smeared, rehearsed. The receptionist’s expression didn’t change. If anything, her smile warmed.

“Hi, Jade,” she said, tapping her keyboard. “You’re here for an intake consultation, right?” I nodded quickly, almost too fast. She glanced at the purse in my hands. “Do you have your documentation packet with you?” I fumbled to open the clasp and pulled out the folder. My hands were shaking. I passed it over. “Thank you, sweetie.” She opened it and began scanning the contents with quiet efficiency. “Okay, so you’re just meeting with Dr. Meyer today. She’s wonderful—really gentle, and she takes her time.”

I nodded again, silent this time. “She’ll go over your goals, talk through your history, answer any questions. Then she’ll either give you your prescription today or refer you for a secondary consult if she thinks it’s needed.” Prescription. The word hit me like a slap. I swallowed hard. The receptionist closed the folder and tucked it beneath the counter. “You’re all checked in, Jade. Just take a seat and she’ll call you shortly.” I turned slowly, purse tight to my chest, and walked toward the waiting chairs—knees trembling, heels clicking quietly against the floor.

The chair was stiff. Not uncomfortable—just stiff. The kind of stiffness you noticed when your body didn’t know how to sit anymore. I kept my legs pressed together, heels tucked beneath my coat, pink purse resting in my lap like a permission slip I wasn’t sure I deserved. No one stared at me. That was the worst part. No shocked glances. No double-takes. No furrowed brows wondering what I was.

Just silence. To my left sat a thin teenager in a hoodie with chipped black nails, scrolling her phone. To my right, a woman in her thirties with short blond hair and kind eyes, reading a pamphlet about hormone safety. No one batted an eye at me. And that’s when the humiliation began to sink in.

I didn’t look out of place. The blush, the pigtails, the coat cinched at the waist. The pink tights. The angel-winged purse. The quiet posture. I belonged here. At least, to them. No one saw the soaked humiliation hiding under the skirt. No one saw the trembling boy locked in plastic, forced to lisp and memorize a lie. They just saw another girl waiting for her turn. Another Jade.

I shifted slightly, the thick padding of the pull-up brushing against the chair with the faintest crinkle—inaudible to anyone else, deafening to me. I wanted someone to say it. To see it. To pull me out of this. But they didn’t. They smiled. Or looked away. Or nodded politely, as if I were real. And that was the most humiliating thing of all.

“Jade Carmichael?” The voice was calm. Clear. Professional. I looked up. A woman stood in the hallway, holding a tablet against her hip. Late thirties, maybe. Red-framed glasses. A charcoal blouse under a soft blazer. She smiled when our eyes met—not too big, not too clinical. The kind of smile meant to disarm. I stood slowly, smoothing the front of my puffer coat. My purse dangled from one hand, and my knees wobbled ever so slightly as I walked toward her. “I’m Dr. Meyer,” she said gently. “Come on back with me, sweetheart.” I nodded, unable to speak. My mouth was dry. We walked down a quiet, carpeted hallway lined with closed doors and muted lighting. She stopped at the second one on the right, pushed it open, and stepped aside to let me enter first.

The room was softly lit and homey—two padded chairs across from each other, a circular rug on the floor, and a wall of certificates in tastefully neutral frames. “Feel free to take off your coat,” she said, setting the tablet down on a small side table. “You can hang it right there if you’d like.” I hesitated, then slipped it off. The sleeves dragged against the puffed fabric, and for a moment I struggled to untie the belt one-handed. She didn’t offer to help. Just waited patiently.

I finally managed it and hung the coat on the brass hook by the door. Now I was exposed. Velvet skirt, cream blouse with the big pink bow. Legs covered in pink tights. The pigtails still framed my face—childish, obvious, stupid. The silence felt heavier now. “Go ahead and sit,” she said warmly. I did. Perched carefully on the edge of the upholstered chair, I set the purse in my lap and folded my hands on top of it. Every movement was deliberate. Studied. Nothing natural remained.

Dr. Meyer sat opposite me, crossed one leg over the other, and tapped the tablet awake. “Well,” she said, voice light but anchored, “I’m very glad you’re here, Jade.” I nodded slightly.

Dr. Meyer smiled gently as she tapped her screen. “Okay, Jade. I’m just going to start with some basics. There’s no pressure—just answer honestly, in your own words.” I nodded once, pressing my thighs together. My hands were locked around the purse in my lap. She looked up. “When did you first realize you were transgender?” I swallowed. Then came the lie:

“W-when I wath a wittle girl,” I said softly, smiling like it hurt. “I u-used to thteal my mommy’th lipthtick and pretend I wath a pwincess…” Lie. I was twenty-three. And it was Darla’s lipstick. And it was a joke. Wasn’t it? Dr. Meyer typed briefly, then looked back at me. “And when did you start living full-time as Jade?” I blinked. Then leaned into the next falsehood.

“L-latht year… when I got out of a… vewy m-mathkewin wewashionship,” I said, voice trembling for effect. “I’d been hiding who I w-wath for a long time…”Lie. That “relationship” was Darla. She didn’t dump me because I was hiding anything—she dumped me because I was weak. And then she made sure I never stopped paying for it. “I see,” Dr. Meyer said, jotting something down. “And how long have you been on hormones?” I froze—but only for half a second.

“Uh… thix monthth. I thtarted online at firtht, but now I wanna do it proper…” Lie. I haven’t taken anything. No estrogen. No blockers. Just threats. Threats and pull-ups and pink things and rules. She nodded thoughtfully. “And how do your friends and family feel about your transition?” A stab of nausea hit my gut.

“Oh, um…” I smiled again, trying to look bashful. “Vewy thupportive. My godparents… they thet me up with you guyth.” Lie. They set me up to fail or become their doll. Whichever came first. And if I mess this up, I get handed off to a creep named Jack for a weekend of ‘lessons.’ Dr. Meyer looked up again, eyes kind. “That’s wonderful to hear. A lot of people don’t have that kind of support.” I nodded quickly, almost apologetically. “Y-yeth. I’m… w-weally lucky.” Lie. No. I’m cornered.

She took a moment, scanning the tablet, then set it aside. “Can I ask—what are your current goals? Where would you like this process to take you, ideally?” I hesitated, the air sharp in my lungs. And then I said it: “I juth wanna be… compwetely, fuwwy… a giwl. I don’t wanna wive ath a boy evew again…” Lie. Lie. Lie. I don’t even know what I am. I just know I’m not allowed to be James anymore.

Dr. Meyer leaned forward slightly, folding her hands over her knee. “Well, thank you for sharing that, Jade. You’re being very brave.” I nodded, too quickly. She continued, voice soft. “Now, I want to be upfront. Based on what you’ve told me—and considering you’re just starting clinical care—I’d recommend beginning with a low-dose estrogen plan, just to monitor how your body responds. We’ll pair it with a light anti-androgen and… if all goes well, we can adjust upward over time.” My mouth went dry. Low dose. No. No no no.

Daddy would find out. He’d check. Cynthia would report it. And when they learned I didn’t push for the strongest possible cocktail— Jack. The name punched through me like a slap. I saw his face. His breath. The crooked smirk, the belt around my wrists, the sick delight as he promised to “treat me like a real girl.”

I shook my head suddenly, voice cracking. “P-pweathe…” Dr. Meyer blinked. “What is it, sweetheart?” I bit my lip hard—too hard—until I tasted blood. “I—I c-can’t… I can’t d-do thith thwowwy. I—I need mowe. I n-need the thtwongest d-dose you can give me—p-pweathe…”

Tears spilled over before I could stop them. “I c-can’t wive ath a boy! I-I twy… but it huwtth! E-evewy mowning I wake up and—” I cut myself off with a sob, shaking all over. “I—I hate whath down thewe, I hate my voithe, I—I need thith. I need it now, I-I d-don’t care if it hurtth, I—I just—” I broke off again, shoulders trembling. nside my head, I was screaming.

Daddy’s going to find out. Daddy’s going to know if I didn’t push hard enough. He’ll send me away. He’ll give me to Jack. I can’t go to Jack. I can’t—Dr. Meyer reached for a tissue box and handed it to me gently. “Oh, honey…” Her eyes were warm. Wet with empathy.“This is very real for you, isn’t it?” I sniffled and nodded hard.

No.

It’s punishment.

It’s blackmail.

It’s not real.

But all she saw was a girl begging to be herself. Dr. Meyer sat back slightly, her expression no longer clinical. Soft. Thoughtful. A kind of gentle sorrow. She folded her arms loosely across her lap and tilted her head. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Thank you for being honest with me, Jade.” I wiped my eyes with a tissue, trying to keep my lip from trembling. My pigtails shook with every breath. I felt small. Cornered. On fire. She picked up her tablet and began tapping.

“I’m going to recommend the full-dose feminizing protocol,” she said calmly. “Estrogen valerate injections paired with a maximum daily dose of cyproterone acetate. We’ll also add oral progesterone starting next week to support breast development.” My stomach dropped. She didn’t hesitate.

“Now,” she continued, “this is a significant medical commitment. There will be side effects—fatigue, mood shifts, breast tenderness, potential infertility within months—”

“I d-don’t care…” I whispered, automatically. Lie. I cared. I cared so much. But Daddy wanted results. Cynthia expected them. If I showed up still ‘James’ in three months, I’d be gagged and packed off in a duffel bag to Jack’s house. Dr. Meyer smiled gently.“I’m proud of you. I know this has been hard. But you showed up. You spoke your truth. That matters.”

I nodded again, swallowing the knot in my throat. She stood, walked over to her desk, and pulled out a pre-printed consent form. “We’ll get these signed today, and I’ll send the prescriptions over immediately. I’d like to see you back in six weeks to monitor your bloodwork and check how things are progressing.” I stared at the line where my name was supposed to go. Jade Ulysses Carmichael. Not James. Never again. I picked up the pen. And signed.

Dr. Meyer handed me the white slip of paper and smiled again. “There we are,” she said softly. “Your first step.” I nodded as I took it with both hands. The paper trembled. It had my name on it. Not James. Jade. I slid it carefully into the angel-winged purse and turned to collect my puffer coat. The motion of slipping it on—threading my arms through those padded sleeves—felt eerily routine now. Automatic. A practiced performance I hadn’t rehearsed, but still knew by heart.

“Take care of yourself, Jade,” Dr. Meyer said kindly from behind me. “We’ll talk again soon.” I didn’t respond. The door closed quietly behind me. The waiting room was quieter now. Fewer people. No one looked up as I passed—just one more pink blur heading for the exit.

Outside, the sun was muted behind a haze of clouds. The pavement felt colder than it should. I stood under the overhang, soft purse clutched in both hands, the air slightly damp around my cheeks. I didn’t move. No Cynthia. No Daddy. They weren’t waiting at the curb. I turned my head and looked down the street. Alone. A spark lit somewhere deep in my stomach.

I could run. My pulse quickened. They had parked around the side. They wouldn’t see me from here. I had minutes. No phone. No cards. But the coat was warm. I could walk. Get to the high street. Find help. Play dumb. Pretend I was mugged. Maybe someone would lend me money or call a cab. I’d figure it out later.

My fingers clutched the purse tighter. The chastity cage between my legs throbbed with its stupid presence. The skirt felt obscene. But I looked the part. That was the problem. I couldn’t ditch the clothes until I could buy new ones. And I couldn’t buy new ones until—It’ll take too long. What if he finds me first? What if Jack finds me instead? What if— I inhaled sharply. Just walk. One foot. Then another. Go.

And then— A low hum of tires on tarmac. The black car swung around the corner and glided to a stop directly in front of me. Tinted windows. Driver side down. Daddy’s face. Calm. Relaxed. Watchful.“Hop in, princess.” Just two words. Nothing more. And that tiny flicker of rebellion inside me? Snuffed out like a match. I walked to the car and opened the door. My escape window had closed—again.

The car door closed with a muffled thunk, sealing the world out. I pulled the seatbelt over my coat, the thick pink fabric rustling with every shaky breath I took. The prescription weighed down the purse in my lap, like a lead anchor dressed in satin wings. Cynthia turned in her seat.

“Bag,” she said softly, holding out her hand. I didn’t argue. I passed it over like a child offering up a misbehaved toy. She unzipped the front flap delicately, reaching inside with manicured fingers until she pulled the folded sheet from its place between the folder tabs. Her eyes scanned it briefly, and her lips curved into a smile.“Well, well…” she said, handing it over to Daddy. “Full-dose estradiol. Maximum anti-androgens. And progesterone on top. She even signed consent.”

I sank lower into my seat. Daddy chuckled. Not a warm chuckle.Not proud. Amused. “Wow,” he said, glancing over the paper with a smirk. “You really went in there and convinced that woman you’re actually transgender?” He looked at me, that silver chain bracelet of his glinting in the light as he passed the prescription back to Cynthia.

“My little con artist in curls…” I blinked fast. Once. Twice. “I—I had to,” I whispered. “Oh, I know you did, princess,” Daddy grinned wider, voice cruel and sweet all at once. “Because if you hadn’t, you’d be spending the weekend on your knees at Jack’s place right now—spat on, gagged, and face-down in a frilly little maid dress.”

Cynthia gave a small, amused hum. I swallowed again, too tight to breathe.“But this…” Daddy said, gesturing vaguely toward my purse. “This is impressive.” He leaned back in his seat, gaze still fixed on me. “You lied so well that a medical professional actually thought you were a girl. And not just any girl—a desperate, sobbing, can’t-wait-to-grow-tits kind of girl.”

He laughed again, cold and sharp. “And too think,” he added, “it’s because of weak little liars like you that real trans people don’t get the attention they actually need.” That last line punched me in the stomach harder than Jack ever could. I turned my head toward the window and stared out at the buildings as they passed. Inside, everything burned. Outside, the city didn’t care.

The silence in the car stretched for a minute. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, my cheek resting against the cold glass. Daddy’s laughter still echoed somewhere in the back of my head. The purse felt heavier again.

But Cynthia, of course, broke the quiet first. “Well,” she said brightly, brushing a speck of lint off her sleeve, “since Jade’s made such a pretty little impression today, I think it’s only fair she gets a reward.” I stiffened. Daddy raised an eyebrow from the driver’s seat. “Oh?” Cynthia leaned over to pat my thigh through the coat, her tone warm and motherly in the most suffocating way.

“I think she and I should go bra shopping.” My head snapped toward her. “W-what?” She beamed. “Sweetheart, if you’re going to be on progesterone and estrogen, we have to get you fitted sooner rather than later. Your little buds will be in before the month’s out, and nothing looks worse than a stretched-out blouse with no support underneath.”

“I—n-no, I—I don’t need—” Cynthia waved off the protest gently, like I was throwing a tantrum over vegetables. “You’re dressed perfectly passable right now. Hair’s done, makeup’s soft, and that coat covers the hips just enough. If there’s ever a time to take you out for your first real fitting, it’s today.”

Daddy let out a short laugh. “Well damn. Guess the estrogen’s barely entered her system and she’s already getting dragged into girls’ day.” Cynthia turned to him with a smirk. “Go drop off the prescription. We’ll hit the boutique across from the pharmacy. You can pick us up after.” He nodded without hesitation. “Fine. Let the girls have their moment.”

I stared between them, mouth dry. Cynthia was already grabbing her purse.“I’ll help her out of the coat,” she added cheerfully. “No sense hiding those adorable curves when she’ll be standing in front of the mirror with a fitter in five minutes.” My fingers clenched at the seatbelt. Cynthia unbuckled it for me. “Come along, Jade,” she said, brushing a bit of lint off my shoulder. “Every good girl remembers her first proper bra fitting.”

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