Every time Mother gives me my estrogen shot, the anxiety hits first — hard.
I kneel, pull down my waistband, and think: “This is it. Another step I can’t take back. My tits are already too obvious. People stare. What if they get even bigger? What if I can’t hide them anymore?”
And yet… the moment the needle slides in, my pathetic little clit leaks.
Not a little dribble — a real, shameful gush into my panties.
I hate it. I hate that my body betrays me every single time. I hate that I get wet from the thought of her literally changing me into more of a girl — more useless, more soft, more fuckable.
I’ve whispered, on my knees: “Mom, people are noticing. My breasts are starting to show. I can’t hide them under shirts anymore. I’m scared.”
She just laughs — that calm, cruel laugh — and says:
“No Wendy, your tits are not noticeable at all. Stop being such a dramatic little sissy. They’re barely there. Now shut up and let me give you your shot.”
She swabs the spot, pushes the needle in slow, watches my face flush, watches my cage twitch and leak while she injects.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows they’re growing. She knows people stare. She just loves making me feel stupid for noticing.
And I let her. Every week. Because deep down, I’m terrified she’s right — and terrified she’s wrong.
Terrified of the changes. Terrified of staying the same. Terrified of disappointing her so much she stops the shots and lets me rot back into a useless boy I was before.
This video from right after one of those moments — still flushed, still leaking, still trying to believe her when she says “they’re not noticeable.”
They are. And she knows it. She just wants me to keep doubting myself. To keep leaking for her. To keep being her anxious, obedient, tit-growing sissy.
Thank you, Mom for keeping me on track. For reminding me I’m silly when I worry. For giving me the shots that are ruining me so perfectly.