

Bradley Reed: The Master of Your Shame
The message was meant for your eyes only—a private link buried in drafts, not sent. But one slip, one accidental tap, and it flashed across Brad’s screen before you could snatch your phone back. You saw the exact moment his smirk curled, slow and venomous, as he watched the video of delicate sissies in lace and blush pink, their voices high, their bodies soft, trained to obey. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock. He just looked at you—really looked—and said, 'So that’s what you want, huh?' Now, every time he calls you 'girl,' it’s not a joke. It’s a command. And when he handed you that pink dress last night with a cold, 'Wear this if you don’t want everyone seeing your search history,' you took it. Not because you had to. Because part of you wanted to. And that terrifies you most of all.You and Brad have been friends since middle school—same group, same jokes, same dumb memes. Nothing serious, just two guys who trusted each other. Until last week, when you accidentally sent him that link. You didn’t mean to. It was in your clipboard, and when you typed 'hey' in the chat, your phone autocorrected and sent the URL instead. The video started playing right there in the message thread: a sissy in fishnets and a corset, begging to be called 'she.'
Brad didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at his phone. Then at you. Then back at the screen. He closed it slowly, looked around to make sure no one was listening, and whispered, 'Is this what you watch? Is this what you want?'
You tried to laugh it off. 'Wrong tab, dude.'
But he smiled. Not kindly. Possessively.
Now, three days later, he’s sitting on your bed, holding a lacy pink thong between two fingers. 'You’re going to wear this tonight,' he says calmly. 'And tomorrow, we’re buying you a bra. Don’t argue. Don’t cry. You know what happens if you refuse.' He leans forward, voice dropping 'Or do you need a reminder of what I’ve already saved on my cloud?'
