This is a gender bent version of the Story of O. O is now a submissive sissy, and the chateau is now a place where dominant women use both women and submissive feminized boys for their pleasure.

His mistress one day takes O for a walk in a section of the city where they never go -- Montsouris Park. After they have taken a leisurely stroll and sat together on the edge of a lawn, they notice, at a corner of the park, an intersection where there are never any taxis, a car that, because of its meter, resembles a rideshare.

"Get in," Camille says, her voice firm and commanding.

O obeys without hesitation, sliding into the backseat. It is autumn, and dusk is approaching. He is dressed in a sleek, modern outfit: a fitted dress that hugs his figure, a light tailored jacket, and high heels that click softly against the pavement. Long gloves cover his arms, reaching up over the sleeves of his jacket, and in his leather handbag, he carries his identification, a compact, lipstick, and his phone.

The car moves off slowly, Camille still not having said a word to the driver. But she pulls down the shades on the windows, darkening the interior. O removes his gloves, thinking Camille might want to touch him or demand a caress. Instead, Camille says:

"Your bag's in the way. Hand it to me."

O complies, passing the bag to Camille, who places it out of reach. Then Camille adds:

"You're wearing too much, my dear. Unfasten your stockings and roll them down to just above your knees. Here are some garters."

By now, the car has picked up speed, and O fumbles slightly, struggling to manage the task while the vehicle moves. He’s also acutely aware of the driver, though he dares not glance forward. Finally, the stockings are rolled down, and O feels a flush of embarrassment as his legs are exposed beneath the silk slip. The loose garter straps sway with the motion of the car.

"Unfasten your garter belt," Camille commands, "and remove your panties, sweet girl."

This is easier. O slips his hands behind his back, lifting slightly to slide the delicate fabric down. Camille takes the garter belt and panties, tucking them into O's bag before closing it firmly. Then, from her own bag, Camille produces a small, delicate chastity device.

"Lift your dress, darling," she orders, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

O obeys, raising the hem of the dress to expose himself fully. Camille works quickly and efficiently, securing the device in place with a soft click of the lock. The cold metal against O's skin is a stark reminder of his submission, a physical manifestation of Camille's control.

"You shouldn’t sit on your slip and dress, my pet," Camille says. "Pull them up behind you and sit directly on the seat."

The seat is made of smooth, modern upholstery, and the sensation of it sticking to O's bare thighs is both strange and thrilling. Camille watches intently as O adjusts himself, then adds:

"Now put your gloves back on, sweetheart."

The car continues to move swiftly, and O sits perfectly still, gloved hands resting on either side of the seat. He doesn’t dare cross his legs or press them together, too aware of his exposed state and the chastity device that keeps him restrained. Camille remains silent, her presence commanding and unreadable. O wonders what this all means—why he is here, stripped and gloved, in a darkened car moving toward an unknown destination.

"Here we are," Camille says abruptly, as the car comes to a stop on a quiet avenue beneath a plane tree. The vehicle idles in front of a small, private home nestled between a courtyard and a garden, the kind of elegant dwelling found along the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The street lamps are distant, and the interior of the car remains shadowed. Outside, a light rain falls.

"Don’t move, my dear," Camille instructs. "Sit perfectly still."

Her hand moves to the collar of O’s dress, untying the bow at the neckline and undoing the top buttons. O leans forward slightly, expecting Camille to touch him, but instead, Camille reaches for the shoulder straps of his brassiere, snipping them with a small pair of scissors. She removes the garment, leaving O’s chest bare beneath the dress, which he buttons back up. From waist to knee, O is entirely exposed.

"Listen, darling," Camille says, her voice low and steady. "Now you're ready. This is where I leave you. You’re to get out and ring the doorbell. Follow whoever opens the door, and do exactly as you’re told. If you hesitate, they’ll come and take you in. If you don’t obey immediately, they’ll force you. Your bag? No, you won’t be needing it. And your phone—" she pauses, holding up the device before slipping it into her own pocket—"you won’t be needing that, either. You’re merely the sissy I’m furnishing. Yes, I’ll be there. Now go."

O hesitates for only a moment, his heart racing, before stepping out of the car into the cool, damp evening. The rain kisses his skin as he walks toward the door, every step a surrender to the unknown.

Another version of the same beginning was simpler and more direct: the young sissy, dressed in the same way, was driven by Camille and an unknown companion. The stranger was driving, Camille was seated next to O, and it was the unknown companion who explained to O that Camille had been entrusted with the task of getting him ready, that she was going to tie his hands behind his back, unfasten his stockings and roll them down, remove his garter belt, his panties, and his brassiere, and blindfold him. That he would then be turned over to the château, where in due course he would be instructed as to what he should do.

And, in fact, as soon as he had been thus undressed and bound, they helped him to alight from the car after a trip that lasted half an hour, guided him up a few steps and, with his blindfold still on, through one or two doors. Then, when his blindfold was removed, he found himself standing alone in a dark room, where they left him for what felt like an eternity—half an hour, or an hour, or two hours, he couldn’t be sure.

When at last the door was opened and the light turned on, O could see that he had been waiting in a very conventional, comfortable, yet distinctive room: there was a thick rug on the floor, but not a stick of furniture, and all four walls were lined with closets. The door had been opened by two figures—a woman and a sissy, both young and beautiful, dressed in the garb of elegant modern servants. The woman wore a sleek, form-fitting dress with a high collar and lace details, while the sissy was adorned in a similar outfit, though with a slightly more submissive flair: a shorter skirt, a tighter bodice, and a delicate lace choker. Both wore makeup—subtle eyeshadow and bold lipstick—and their wrists were adorned with tight, gleaming bracelets.

It was at this point that they freed O's hands, which were still tied behind his back, and told him to get undressed; they were going to bathe him and prepare him. They proceeded to strip him until he hadn’t a stitch of clothing left, then put his clothes away neatly in one of the closets. He was not allowed to bathe himself. Instead, they guided him to a large, modern vanity chair, the kind that tilts back for hair washing and straightens up for styling.

O was made to sit in the chair, naked, while they worked on him. The woman and the sissy were meticulous, washing his hair, applying treatments, and setting it with care. Throughout the process, they ensured he remained exposed, his legs uncrossed and slightly parted. The wall in front of him was covered from floor to ceiling with a large, unbroken mirror, and every time his gaze strayed to it, he could see himself—vulnerable, open, and utterly under their control.

When he was properly prepared -- his eyelids lightly penciled, his lips painted a bright red, the tips of his nipples highlighted with a soft pink, the edges of his caged clitty delicately rouged, his feet slipped into a pair of red heels, his armpits and pubis generously perfumed, and perfume also applied to the furrow between his thighs, and to the hollows of his hands -- they led him into another room. Here, a three-sided mirror and another mirror behind it allowed him to examine himself closely. He was told to sit on an ottoman covered in black fur, which pricked his skin slightly, and wait. The rug beneath him was black, the walls a deep crimson, and he was given red mules to wear.

Set into one of the walls of the small bedroom was a large window, which looked out onto a dark, serene park. The rain had stopped, and the trees swayed gently in the wind. The moon raced high among the clouds, casting a pale light over the scene. O sat quietly, his heart pounding, as he waited for what would come next.