Mother Wore Him

He Smiled When I Slipped In

The greenhouse walls blurred as he staggered forward — rain slipping through broken glass, mist curling around his boots, tugging him deeper.

He thought he saw cages overhead.
Shapes swinging gently in the wet air, draped in lace, trembling.
Figures with heavy breasts, soaked corsets, parted lips mouthing songs he couldn’t hear.

Or maybe he imagined them.
Maybe the storm bent the light.
Maybe the reflections were his own — stretched, softened, offered up.

The lace found him anyway.
Black and slick with rain, it kissed his skin like a lover claiming old vows.

His body softened too easily.
Breath shortened, hips widening, throat tightening under the slick pull of a collar he didn’t remember putting on.

And the song —
God, the song —
it filled his mouth before he realized he was singing.

No chains clinked.
No cries rang out.
Only the hush of breathless need echoing in the mist —
a choir stitched from choices he never made.

Somewhere — maybe in the glass, maybe in his chest —
her whisper bloomed soft and final:

"You were never free.
You only dreamed you were."

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TG transformation sequence of 55 pictures