My entire body began to shake involuntarily at hearing Mistress Madeline's news, but the chair's restraints held me virtually motionless. Moreover, Hilda was putting the finishing touches on my eye makeup, and the eyeliner pencil was, in itself, a powerful incentive to remain calm and still. And before I could begin to utter verbal protests, Mistress Madeline was holding a ball gag in plain view, just above me. "You know better than to start being abusive or ill-mannered, dear. It just upsets everyone when a girl misbehaves. Don't think only of yourself, sugar.
It was certainly no surprise being strapped into the salon chair. This had been the standard procedure since I had been brought here more than six months ago. And for the last three months, I have had regular bi- weekly beauty salon appointments. And I knew the salon chair was articulated, capable of putting me in an upright seated posture or, by pressing a pedal at the base, a reclining posture that had me lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. My beautician, Hilda, liked to use the reclining posture to do my makeup.
Without breaking eye contact she reached behind my head and unbuckled the gag, slowly she pulled the ball from my mouth and I was struck with a sudden awareness of an ache from having my mouth held in one position for so long.
‘now’ she whispered a wry smile on her full red lips, ‘what’s it to be, an earth shattering orgasm or you commit to serve me?’ she asked her voice barley a whisper but her words rang around my head every one hammering home its message,
‘please --- please let me --- let me serve you’ I blurted out hardly able to contain my excitement.
It is hard to believe that half the semester is already over. The days seem to fly by now, they are so filled with things I have so come to enjoy. I LOVE dancing. I can’t even believe how much; I never would have believed it if someone had told me that I would be dancing ballet a few short months ago…
The camera shutter clicked, the only sound I could hear, I moved ever so slightly, as much as my tight bonds would allow, luxuriating in the feel of being so helplessly tied, I had lost all track of time the blindfold preventing me from seeing and the ball gag stopping all but the occasional grunt the repetitive clicking of the camera was my only link with reality.
I walk to the Arts and Music building in complete shock. What had seemed like the perfect solution to begin with once again has me reeling. I guess it is not fully agreed to until I talk to Rosalyn, but I don’t think it would be good for me to tell Professor Finkel ‘no’ after she has gone to this much trouble. My only hope is that Rosalyn will not be agreeable after she meets with me…
My life had been dramatically transformed since that fateful day when Viv caught me wearing her clothes, and I had to accept that there was no going back. I was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. My body had undergone irreversible changes turning me into a shemale. And I hated it! Now Viv had indicated that she and Richard were going to find customers for me, customers who would subject my body to further indignities.
I sniffed back the anguish from JAVERT's accurate assessment of the situation. This was a costume of sorts. I had been masquerading...disguising myself...never fully at ease...never free from the torments...the markings on my body OR the nightmares. EVELYN was me OR I was EVELYN...it didn't really matter. There was no use trying to shed the part of me...that made up 'most' of me. Perhaps, before I went to sissy school...there may have been only half-Evelyn in me.
The next several days are a mix of narcotic sleep, tears, and near absolute depression. I am barely able to pull myself together enough to be civil to Selina and the others that come around. By the time the swelling has gone down enough for me to go back to work, I can barely convince myself to get up and face the day. At first, Selina ignores my funk—striking it up to ‘hormones’. But, as the days go on, she insists that I go back to see Marge.
Horrified! The stinging slap across my face jarred thousands of images in my head. It was like scrolling across a strip of images that I had hoped were long lost---buried deep on an erased hard drive, NEVER to be found again. Instead these images, all of them were moments of degradation and suffering from my days at sissy school, shot through my head in an instant. Each one registered a moment of pain in the nano-second that tabulated the stunned second of silence before I sobbed in reply:
My crotch was now flat with penis helplessly tethered between my legs---SECURED by a PADLOCK! The moment it was done I felt DEFLATED...the wind rushing out of my sails. I was beaten. My body was slumped in defeat as I waited for the form fitting shackles to be snapped onto my body. My forehead even pressed into the wall offering more of my neck up for the collar...that WAS NEXT, right?
Things settle into a sort of routine over the next week. I split my time between the salon and waitressing. Surprisingly, I do really well at making tips. Angie may be the ringleader of trouble at the Zone, but she is also a very good trainer when she wants to be, and she has decided to take me under her wing...
“Pamela-Jayne, thank Mistress Hypnos for helping you to accept what you’ve become, telling her exactly what you HAVE become. Tell her that you absolutely adore your body and tell her how much your body has changed.”
Although the truth was that I HATED what I’d become, HATED the way my body had been artificially modified and HATED my false girlie voice, I found myself obeying Viv’s command.
The car accelerated smoothly along the city streets until it reached a point where it could safely ascend into the air to join the local flyway. Having overcome my initial surprise of Rachael turning my peck on her cheek into a more intimate kiss, I responded with all the passion I could muster. My tongue explored her sweet mouth, entwining with hers.
“You fucking lesbians,” my husband exclaimed from his position on the floor. “Wait until you untie me. I’ll make you regret what you’ve done to me.”
I was shaking. The tip of my nose was pressed against the cool white plaster drywall of my loft apartment. My hands were on top of my head...and though she didn't ask me to lace my fingers together like they did on the cop show...I did it anyway. It hid the fact that my nails were still feminine. I had enjoyed keeping them short, but they were always buffed and polished---too well cared for to be the hands of a 'regular guy.' Had my hands betrayed me somehow? I shivered again with fear and my hands twitched atop my head.
As I listened to the demented woman on the other side laugh at how trapped I was, I couldn't help seeing the symmetry of things. SEVEN DEADBOLTS on the door....and my SEVEN YEARS of FREEDOM... Four of the Seven had been picked open, and she was steadily working on the last three. It was only a matter of time before the fitted collar was closed around my neck---taken from my EXACT measurements. Details of my life were in the hands of the school...not just my most intimate measurements...my most intimate fears. I had no secrets while at the school.
Slumped to the floor in a heap against the door...I took stock of what I was...a Satin-clad human doorstop. Erica Javert was a force of nature. Though our physical weights were close, I had seen her subdue large men before. It was part of the sick pageantry of being enrolled at Sissy school. If she put her hands on me, I was done. There was no use in calling for help. The benefit of this converted loft---privacy--now was a damning factor toward my potential capture. Police wouldn't help...JAVERT and her cronies had many of the law enforcement community on a pay-off system...
I was definitely UNSETTLED. My stomach was in knots at that early hour of the morning. Something was wrong. I felt it. Seven years ago, I had escaped from the madhouse that the Sissy school had ASSIGNED me to. The woman that they had placed me with was 'mostly' a monster. The part of her that wasn't...felt deep regret for her cruelty towards me.
I woke in a cold sweat. My chest was heaving as I gasped---gulped---huge swells of air. The satin nightgown that ended at my mid thigh was plastered to my body---stuck---like glue. Where was I? In my own bed? Yes...just another nightmare. I slumped back into a beaten pile of pillows and rolled the soggy sides underneath. My heart was still racing, but an awareness that I was alone...in my apartment...managed to control it somewhat. There was no use in staying in bed. Placing slippers on my feet I padded into the living room.
My husband’s secretary was still dressed as a schoolgirl while he was totally naked, both of them looking more and more embarrassed as I and my three former bridesmaids stood in his office looking at them. His embarrassment didn’t concern me at all, but I desperately wanted to eradicate his secretary’s embarrassment. After all, she was only eighteen, stunningly beautiful, and I wanted to get to know her better.
“What’s your name, my dear?” I asked her.
“Surely you didn’t come to work in those clothes?”
That first enema was excruciating! Both Viv and Richard must have had a sadistic streak running through them, since they kept me filled with the fluid from the enema bag for half an hour. It gave me the most horrific stomach cramps imaginable, and the relief was indescribable when I was finally allowed to evacuate my bowels. My relief was to be short lived as Viv decided to administer an additional two enemas, to ensure that her insides are thoroughly clean, she explained to Richard.
Christy starts by adding extensions to my hair and giving me a below-the-shoulder-length cut, along with adding some blond and red high and lowlights. When left down, it is decidedly feminine, feathered and layered—it is easily pulled into a ponytail, though, to hide the look.