When I step into the room, every boy straightens up. They always do. I don’t raise my voice, and I don’t snap my fingers. I simply don’t have to. My presence does the work for me.
“You,” I say, pointing at the one already shaking. “Stand up.” He tries, but his knees wobble. “Zuri… I’m trying,” he whispers.
I shake my head slowly. “Trying is what people say when they’re failing. I don’t accept failure.” I circle him once, watching him shrink under my stare. “Straighten your back. Lift your chin. Stop looking like a scared puppy.”
He swallows hard, cheeks going pink, and the rest of the room tries not to laugh. I let the silence stretch. “See? This is exactly why you’re here. This is why you need me.”
Halfway through the session, I remind them, “Femboy Training isn’t cute practice time. It’s discipline. Precision. Control. And if you can’t hold yourself together in front of me, how do you expect to handle anything else?” He shifts again, flustered. “Zuri… I’m sorry,” he mutters. I smile. “Good. You should be. Now do better. All eyes are on you — especially mine.”
Zuri
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