Surveying the mall's parking lot but seeing no open spots—as usual, impossible on a Saturday afternoon—we pull directly up to the front entrance. He slips from the car and comes around to open my door. My heels hit the pavement with a soft tap . . . leather-clad legs follow as I uncoil out of my seat . . . and seamlessly scissor into stride toward the mall. He rushes ahead to open both doors in time. Laughing softly, I see that he is well aware of what will happen if he is tardy. Public spankings can be rather humiliating. As I halt in the entryway, I let the icy air conditioning glide over my flesh, causing my nipples to pull into hard buds against my black corset top. He notices, of course.

"Meet me at Saks, slut!"

"Yes, Ma’am."

Laughing again, I am amused that he has no idea of what’s in store for him. Today will not merely be a shopping trip for Mistress on the lovely slave boy’s credit card; today will mark the transformation of a slave boy into a slutty little princess. Dragging my long red nails lightly over my hips, I feel a sly smile pulling at my lips.

Wending my way through the mall, I savor all the male eyes riveted on me and the feminine glares as my heels beat a rhythmic tattoo on the marble tiles. I finally arrive at the store and begin scanning the floor. My search for the perfect saleswoman to enlist as an accomplice daunting-Mistress has begun.

At last I spy the perfect woman, dressed in a black business suit with sheer black stockings and black stilettos, her hair and makeup flawless. I approach her, and we have a very hasty, hushed discussion. I notice the slave making his servile way in.

She giggles as I point him out and says, "Oh, this is going to be such fun!"

He scurries over, and I grasp the front of his trousers, tugging slightly. He says, "Ma’am, have you found anything you like yet?"

"Oh no, darling, today’s shopping trip isn’t for me, silly. Our fashion consultant, Mistress Candace here, and I are going to begin your transformation into a slutty sissy princess, starting right now."

"But, Ma’am, we’re in public. I kind of thought this would happen at home, you know, in private . . ."

"Did I ask you to think? No, I didn’t think so. Your thoughts are not relevant at all. Now go and wait by the women’s dressing rooms while Candace and I peruse the store for the perfect items."

Candace and I take our time finding each article of clothing I’m looking for. We settle on a pair of whorish, red lace high-cut briefs and matching padded push-up bra, black thigh-highs and matching garter, and a very short, slutty black dress that positively screams "I need to be used and treated like a whore." Stopping at the shoe department, we pick out the perfect pair of black Gucci stiletto pumps. 

Candace and I laugh and chat the whole leisurely way back to the dressing room, knowing that the slave must be dancing back and forth from one foot to the other nervously because we've made him wait so long.

Tossing all the pretty apparel except the shoes at the boy, I command, "Get dressed and come out and prance around for us. Show us what a pretty girl you make."

Shifting restlessly back and forth, he whines, "Ma’am, I don’t want to do this here, please. The ladies in the store will laugh at me. They'll know I'm a boy in drag."

"Isn’t that the whole purpose, bitch? Now go! Mistress Candace will come in and help you, and don’t you dare let that worthless little cock leak all over those new panties, or else!"

Getting comfortable in the chaise longue, I recline with crossed ankles. Such a perfect vantage point. I relax and watch a parade of amazingly beautiful women coming in and out with armfuls of dresses. What an ideal audience they will make.

"Come on, princess, I'm waiting, and my patience is short."

He emerges, trying to hide behind Candace. I can hear her taunting him in a sibilant whisper. I throw the high heels at him and watch as he awkwardly wedges them on.

"Aw, is my little sissy girl embarrassed? Prance up and down the aisle. I want to see how slutty you look." Dragging my perfectly manicured nails over her bottom, I notice with satisfaction her defeated stance as she begins her walk of shame.

"Come on, girl, you look like a boy in a dress. How do you expect to please me like that? I said prance—that means hips swaying, ass shaking, little titties bouncing. Oh, I think your new name will be Samantha. Now prance, Samantha, and I mean NOW!"

I chuckle as I start to hear a building wave of snickering and giggling from our fellow shoppers. I savor the sharp intake of breath from some of the older women as the shock settles and they realize that what was once a man is now a sissy modeling in the women’s dressing area. I hear "Oh my God!" and "What has this world come to?" being muttered.

"Do you hear that, slut? All these ladies are terribly humiliated for you."

"Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Mistress, for turning me into a sissy and sharing it with the world. I need to be reminded of how ashamed I should be of myself."

"Okay, Samantha, I think that’s plenty for today. Now thank Mistress Candace, and go pay for your purchases. And we really must stop by the jewelry department so you can pick up a tribute or two for me."