1972, The Upper-East Side of Manhattan.

The cramped and badly lit basement of a secluded and under-frequented Manhattan coffee shop, was, in retrospect, the perfect place for a wide number of deals, arrangements or affairs. The sly meetup of secretary and employer; the spot for a quick exchanging of cash for hash; a place for communists, fascists, and ists of all varietals unpublishable in the States to hurriedly exchange ideas, orate pledges, and put word to other entirely unlikely scenarios. Here, however, crowded in narrow lanes between the hemp carrier bags, the plastic pouches of loose-leaf, and the truly incalculable collection of unwanted zines, sat the committee members of Pygmalion's Exes, a radical upper-middle-class feminist group with notions as radical as their inherited cardigans weren't. Named for the mythic 'sculptor of the feminine' in Greek antiquity, the group had seen a flourishing of popularity amongst all the various spaces of the academic study of feminine injustice; Bryn Mawr, Harvard, and the handful of other Ivies in which the immovable wall of masculine dominance had been slowly seceding to what would become a feminine ascension in the humanities and social sciences.

Cast amongst the crowd were the disparate daughters of high society; women of high station and ample opportunity, but all united in the moderate disadvantage the culture of that age had imposed upon them by the basis of their sex. Daughters of senators red and blue jostled impatiently for a seat before the 'stage', a propped-up collection of timber pallets; the girlfriends and sugar-babies of prominent businesspeople assuaged their conflicted egoes with tea, with song, and with subtly sapphic glances from across the hazy concourse.

In any case, the ringleader of this fine band eventually pushed through the lightly cannabis-tinted haze. "Ex-Partners of Pigmalion! Hear me now!" A light shuffling occurred around the room, as people abandoned their dutifully feigned interest in the horrendous trials suffered by the countless sisters abroad. "For too long, we have simply adopted our title and carried it with us; made snide references to the allusion, to the film. Well, I'm tired of snide subversion - of just mirroring the pattern, like Caliban in the glass! Now we must endeavour to partner our despised former lover in every deed. Where he shaped women in his own image...well, now too must we shape man in ours."

This statement, initially, was met with a mixture of callous murmuring and derision. Ella-Beth was just like this a lot of the time, when she didn't have some bright-eyed new co-ed dangling from her fringed collar. But those murmurs quickly turned to exclamations of shock, surprise, and disbelief, as the trolley containing myself was wheeled out by an attendant.

My crime, such as it was, had been to be lulled into the false belief that Ella-Beth could actually be interested in me for who I was, and not to twist into her own dress-up doll. I had played the part well all night; feigning an interest in her intensely specific takes about modern media and song, listening to her decry the archetypes present in Gone With The Wind. But it had all come to naught. Some pills in the drink, some quiet dances...blackness. Numbness. Wetness.

The next few weeks had passed by in a horrifying blur. But I knew of her plans for me all too well - I was to be her masterpiece, her twisted vision of a fully de-masculinised man. Not a trans woman, but instead a thing more feminine than the woman, even; a recepticle for the unfortunate inevitability of man's lust, such that the women could please their allies in the movement and focus their attention better without sullying their bodies. I had been plucked, Nair'd, thrusted into, put upon, and otherwise prepared as much as I could for the meeting to come without surgery or drugs.

Thus, the surprise of the women in attendance was understandable. My baby-smooth legs, clad in long black hosiery, shimmered in the dim lights. An over-decorated chastity cage, dressed up to the nines in ribbons and lace, was tied tightly to my nipples and around my neck. My lips, neatly decorated with cherry-red lip-stain, moaned and salivated around a giant gag - interrupted only occasionally by mild coughing, brought about by the devilishly tight corset crushing my ribs. Despite still carrying obviously male signs, I was so thoroughly helpless and corrupted that it made no real difference. The male allies in attendance present at the back shifted uncomfortably. Disapproval, or arousal; or both?

Ella-Beth stopped the trolley by her feet; and, smiling, produced a long syringe. Although unbenknownst to anyone else in the room, I knew full well that that syringe was to be the first in a long line of feminising hormone injections - not with the intent of making me transition, but with the design of further taking from me those male functions around which I'd assigned so much of my gender identity. "Watch my pale, darling Lilly squirm! They once had a different name, independent function; but now, now they shall be our masterpiece! Our collective creation. And our contribution to the movement as a whole; a vessel to excise our endless lusts, both our suppressed necessity to dominate man and man's historic desire to subjugate inferior men. Bring forward your suggestions for our darling flower. Tell me your plans, and at the end of tonight, one lucky darling will leave with them in a covert suitcase, and the distinct pleasure and privilege of bending them to fit the movement's needs!" Ella-Beth smiled, the disconnected grin of a true and fearsome sociopath, and angled the syringe forward towards the crowd, waiting patiently for the first volunteer. She didn't notice, or didn't comment, about how my fearful, caged cock had already begun quietly staining the floor beneath the trolley; my painted lashes widening in terror; my weakened arms writhing against the bonds. I looked around the room, praying for something approaching empathy. I was, as always, disappointed.

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Hello there! While this is a prompt very much in my usual ouevre (in terms of 'historical femboy-oriented roleplaying - see the many (still open!) posts on my profile for more), I admit this one's a little darker than normal. However, it fits well within a fantasy I've had for a long, long while, of being kidnapped and forcibly feminized/emotionally manipulated by a cabal of domineering women (and the occasional well-meaning male ally). In this case, I adore the period aesthetic of the 70's, and the fledgling birth of a movement like second-wave feminism provides just the right kind of ample breeding ground for exactly the right kind of unhinged, sociopathic socialite WASP-y women to step on me, tie me up, and corrupt my body and mind to the point that I can serve as a vessel to replace women's sacred passages as the de facto place for sexual relief. The idea, and topics, are pretty dark, and that's intentional! Please don't apply if the idea makes you uncomfortable. If you're interested in exploring this fertile (well, infertile, that's the whole point, but you know what I mean) field of roleplaying opportunity with me, feel free to send me a message describing your character to me (and include the phrase Gender Apathy for bonus points). Are they much like the usual girl I described; a prim and proper descendant of The Greatest Generation, sick and tired of discrimination in their industry and seeking a vessel to vent their frustrations into, or maybe use to satisfy their arranged husband's seemingly infinite lusts? Are they perhaps more of an alternative girl; an early punk rocker, who makes Lilly over in a similar style to advertise the 'stick it to the man' nature of their movement? Or are they one of the small cabal of male allies of this reclusive cult, chosen for their chiseled bodies and obedience to the women in their life, happily seizing upon the chance to form Lilly's many specified 'hours of tuition' on behalf of the woman who inherits my unfortunate character's ownership? (Note: TERFism luckily hasn't claimed the women's rights movement at this point - Pygmalion's Exes is very much trans-inclusive, and so am I!) Whatever your idea might be, please feel free to send it over.

As you might imagine, my primary kinks for this prompt are crossdressing/feminisation, public sex & exhibitionism, BDSM/bondage, caning/spanking, fashion emphasis (forcing Lilly to cultivate an ever-more scandalous wardrobe), teasing & performance (forcing Lilly to perform burlesques, strip routines, and pole dances), CBT, humiliation of all kinds, and specific descriptions of 70's interior design.

My limits are gore, bestiality, scat, underage characters and mentions of Germaine Greer.