The preparation was a ritual that set my senses ablaze. First, the shave—a fresh Wilkinson blade glided with precision over my legs, arms, and intimate areas. The warm water in the shower, scented with eucalyptus, left my skin soft and receptive. Each stroke of the blade felt like a step closer to transformation, a sensual prelude. Then came the intimate preparation: a cleansing enema, not just for practicality but as a deliberate act that sent my imagination into dark, forbidden corners. I closed my eyes as the warm water did its work, my pulse quickening.
Back in the bedroom, I slipped into opaque black stockings with an open crotch, a whisper of decadence. The pads at my hips and buttocks, crafted from thin foam and meticulously glued, reshaped my silhouette. In the mirror, I saw my hips curve, my backside take on a full, seductive form. I turned slightly, my hands gliding over the contours—“sinful” was an understatement. The stockings clung to my legs, glossy and smooth, accentuating every movement.
Next, the breasts. I had chosen an elegant Triumph 95C bra, simple, with seamless, velvety cups that molded perfectly around my creations. My homemade breasts were a work of art: water-filled condoms with hazelnuts as nipples, secured with black thread. A cup of hot water, mixed with a pinch of instant coffee for a warm, skin-like tone, was carefully poured in. I tied them airtight, trimmed the excess latex, and placed them in a bowl of hot water until they reached body temperature. As I nestled them into the bra, they felt heavy, soft, and lifelike, bouncing slightly with each movement, the nipples pressing pertly through the fabric. I couldn’t resist touching them gently, a shiver running down my spine.
Now came the riskiest part: the Lovense Hush. In crossdressing forums like “CrossdressWorld” and “FemmeFever,” I had prepared anonymous posts, set to release access codes for the plug at timed intervals. Each code would grant five minutes of control over its vibrations—a dangerous, intoxicating idea. I started with a smaller plug to prepare my body, easing into the sensation. The Hush itself was a sleek, black silicone marvel, its app-controlled technology humming with potential. As I inserted it, a burning sensation gave way to a warm, pulsating feeling. The tiny bells at its base jingled softly with each step, a constant reminder of my audacity. I connected the plug to my smartphone, tested the link, and gasped as a brief, intense vibration coursed through me. The posts were scheduled, the first set to go live at 8:30 p.m.—right when I’d be out in the old town.
The clothing was the next act. A sheer, sleeveless gray viscose top with a high collar hugged my skin like a whisper, hinting at the curve of my breasts. Over it, I laced a black corset, pulling the strings tight until it cinched my waist by four inches. The pressure was both sweet and agonizing, forcing me to stand taller and creating an hourglass silhouette that took my breath away. The pièce de résistance was a glossy black leather-look miniskirt, so short it barely covered the tip of my exposed anatomy. No underwear—my masculine endowment was too prominent to conceal, and the thought that a single step could reveal everything was electrifying. The cool air against my skin was a constant reminder of my vulnerability.
The boots completed the look: knee-high black leather with eight-centimeter heels that made my legs appear endless. Each step forced my hips to sway, my movements smaller and more feminine. The sharp, rhythmic click of the heels on the hardwood floor was like a siren’s call. I sat on the bed’s edge, pulling the boots on, feeling them encase my calves like a second skin.
The makeup was the final touch. I applied Chanel’s deep red lipstick, making my lips full and sensual, drew precise kohl lines to give my eyes a feline intensity, and shaped my eyebrows into soft arches. The wig—long, black, silky synthetic hair—fell in gentle waves over my shoulders, tickling my skin. I tossed my head back, letting the strands dance, and for a moment, I felt like someone else.
But the mirror was unforgiving. My jaw was too strong, my shoulders too broad, the shadow of stubble faintly visible despite concealer. No goddess stared back, just me in a daring disguise. Yet the night beckoned, and the codes were live. There was no turning back.
Outside, the air was crisp, scented with autumn leaves and distant chimney smoke. Freiburg’s streets were quiet, the old town a half-hour drive away. I slipped on a tailored black velvet jacket with gold buttons, left open to accentuate my silhouette. My leather clutch held only essentials: car keys, some cash, lipstick—and my smartphone, linked to the Hush. I stepped out, the click of my heels echoing through the silent street of my residential area.
My destination was Freiburg’s Altstadt, a labyrinth of cobblestone alleys where street lamps cast a warm glow. My plan: park near the Münster cathedral, walk through the churchyard to Gerberau, stroll past boutiques and cafés, and return via Augustinerstraße. A kilometer to test my courage—and my composure. The codes would let strangers control the plug, and I had no idea when or how intensely the vibrations would strike.
The drive was a challenge. I had mastered driving in heels, but the Hush made every turn excruciating. Just outside the city, I pulled over at a rest stop, adjusted my skirt, and strapped on a tight harness to prevent any untimely reactions. My heart raced as I stepped out, the cool night air brushing my legs, and practiced a few steps. Click-jingle-tap. The rhythm of my heels and the soft jingle of the bells steadied me.
In the Altstadt, I drove slowly through narrow streets, past the Bächle that make Freiburg so charming. The street lamps cast long shadows, my silhouette dancing on the cobblestones. It was 8:25 p.m.—the first codes were about to go live. I couldn’t find a parking spot by the Münster, so I drove up Herrenstraße, near the Augustiner Museum, where a small supermarket was still open. I parked, waited for the car’s interior light to fade, and stepped out. I tugged at the skirt, which had ridden up almost to my hips, and locked the door. Click-jingle-tap. I headed toward the churchyard, clutching my purse.
At exactly 8:30 p.m., a deep, pulsating vibration hit. The Hush came to life, controlled by a stranger somewhere online. I gasped, my knees buckling, and grabbed a lamppost for support. The vibrations were relentless, a slow, rhythmic throb that coursed through my body. I bit my lip, trying to walk normally, but each step was a torment of pleasure and panic. The Münsterplatz was quiet, the cathedral towering like a dark giant. A delivery van was parked nearby, perhaps a late-night worker. I crept across the grass to muffle my heels, but the jingling bells betrayed me. The vibrations shifted between intense pulses and gentle waves, as if someone were toying with me.
The churchyard was dark, the paths uneven. I nearly tripped as a new wave of vibrations hit, stronger this time, the bells jingling mockingly. My legs burned, the corset constricted my waist, and a toe began to chafe in my right boot. But the thrill drove me forward, a dangerous dance between control and surrender.
At the corner of Gerberau, I paused. The main street was livelier, with a few passersby strolling past shop windows. Suddenly, a woman approached—mid-thirties, in an elegant coat. At the same moment, a new vibration struck, wild and erratic, as if someone had cranked the controls to maximum. I gasped, turned, and pretended to be lost, retreating down Augustinerstraße. My steps were unsteady, the click of my heels irregular as the vibrations rocked my body. Her footsteps drew closer, then I heard a car door slam. I glanced back—she had gotten into a car and driven off. It had nothing to do with me. But the vibrations didn’t stop, and I felt my composure slipping.
I hurried back through the dark churchyard, nearly tripping over a root as the vibrations shifted to a slow, torturous rhythm. When I reached Herrenstraße, I saw a man with a dog walking toward me. No escape. I crossed the street, walking faster, the click-jingle-tap of my heels like a drumroll. A fresh wave of vibrations hit, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan. He glanced at me briefly, then back at his dog—no frown, no curiosity. To him, I was just a woman passing by in the night.
I collapsed into the driver’s seat, gasping in pain and relief as a final vibration surged through me. The drive home was agony, but also a triumph. I had conquered the night—and the strangers online had conquered me.
