Soft Femboy in Making

Saturday afternoon Priya takes you to a small, quiet boutique. She makes you try on short spaghetti-strap dresses in the fitting room. The first time the soft pink bra and the lavender dress go on, the modest but clear cleavage that appears between your small breasts makes your face burn.
“Cute,” she says quietly, almost fondly, adjusting the neckline. “Really cute. Imagine this under low lights. The kind of thing men who like femboys notice immediately.”
That night she takes you to a small, dimly lit bar in a quieter part of Dallas. The crowd is mixed but the energy is specific — soft-looking boys in crop tops and short shorts, a few in light makeup, several older men whose eyes move with open appreciation.
When she helps you out of your jacket, the soft cleavage and bare shoulders of the lavender dress are suddenly visible. Eyes turn. Not many. Not obvious. But enough. The particular kind of interest you have been hearing about for weeks.
Priya leans in close, her voice warm against your ear.
“See? This is different from the places I go with my friends. Here, the men who look are looking because they like exactly this. Soft boys. Pretty little chests. Cute dresses.”
Your face feels hot. You keep your eyes on the table.
“…They’re staring,” you whisper.
“I know.” Her hand rests on your bare thigh under the table. “How does it feel?”
You swallow. The embarrassed truth comes out quietly.
“It feels… heavier than when men look at you. More personal. Like they’re imagining things. And I keep getting stuck on the fact that I’m sitting here in a dress with cleavage showing, letting them.” Your voice drops even lower. “It’s humiliating. And it’s making me warm at the same time.”
Priya’s fingers stroke slowly along your inner thigh.
“That’s the feeling I wanted you to notice.” She takes a sip of her drink, completely relaxed. “We’re going to come back here. Not every week. Just enough. Enough for you to get used to the way these men look at boys in pretty dresses with soft little chests. Enough for the idea of their hands and their attention to stop feeling like only a fantasy.”
She kisses the side of your neck, right above the thin strap of the dress.
“And when we get home tonight, you’re staying in this. I want to hear every embarrassing thought you had while they were staring at your cleavage.”
You sit there in the low light, wearing a spaghetti-strap dress that shows the soft upper curves of your small breasts, longer hair brushing your shoulders, and the quiet, humiliating knowledge that you are no longer only being dressed up at home.
Some of the men in the room are looking at you the way Priya has been teaching you to want.
And the worst part — the part that makes your face burn and your body warm — is that you are already wondering when she will bring you back.