Sunday: Tried again. Still can't post!

Chrome has taken over - and I CAN'T Post!

Happy Easter to All of You - and the last episode of Judas Goat.

A wee bit later today as I was messing around with some new irrigation. On top of that the U.S.  Masters is on TV - and my wife and I are both avid watchers of the major golf tournaments.  I can't play any more but she's a fervent golfer.  On top of all that?  Phil Mickelson is a major favorite of ours as he lives fairly close to us - and seems to be a genuinely nice person - so for those of you who follow this tournament, you have to know that it's been fantastic and we surely want to watch the finish.

It's also the last episode of Judas Goat.  I hope that you enjoyed it.  Any of you have recommendations for what I should serialize next?

But gonna get on with it.  But I do wish all of you a Happy Easter.

Rosie's 'Bits' will follow, as usual.

Start of Part 6.  End of Judas Goat.

Over the next few weeks I discovered what was on Samantha's mind.  She was determined that I was to have no sexual enjoyment whatsoever, and I was put through the 'milking' every day – sometimes twice.  After just a few days, I wept – pleaded with her not to do this horrible thing to me, but she was adamant.

I'd been ashamed at my submission to the women when I'd been used as their sex toy – but oh, how I wished for a return to that!  This mindless milking. without any emotion whatsoever was hateful to me. I HATED it!  Then, one night about a week later, Samantha gave me a choice.

"Fatima?  Quite a few of the girls would like to have you for a sex partner again.  Would you like that?"

My heart leapt within my body!  But I kept me demeanor quietly respectful and ladylike.  Nodded and looked down at the carpet shyly.

"Only one thing dear?  Seeing that you dress the way you do now?  Act the way you do?"

She paused, and I looked up.  She smiled gently and lovingly at me. "They want YOU to be the girl now.  Know what I mean?"

Befuddled, I looked up again. "Fatima doesn't understand Cheryl.  Why don't you show her?" Samantha said.

Cheryl nodded.  For some reason, she looked a little embarrassed, but started to open up the front of her robe.  I stared in horror at the huge dildo that jutted up and out from her.

"Want to be her girl?" Samantha continued.  "All you have to do?  Go and give her a nice blow job.  Then we'll take your chastity belt off and  she'll take you to bed.  Expand your horizons with that huge dildo of hers!  I know it will be uncomfortable for you the first time – but you'll soon learn to love it.  Now.  Want to be Cheryl's girl?"

I shuddered violently and shook my head.  "No!  Never!" I said vehemently. "You can maybe force me into doing something like that.  But I'll never do it voluntarily!"

Samantha nodded her head admiringly and looked around the room.  "Finally?  A little spunk from our little dancing girl?  Okay Fatima. We'll check you out now and then, just to make sure you don't change your mind."

I actually felt my lip curl with scorn.  That's one thing I'll NEVER do!" I repeated.

Weeks went by and, true to her word, Samantha 'milked' me regularly, then paraded various girls past me – all wielding huge dildos.  But I held firm, even though I was becoming more and more desperate for some sort of sexual release – any kind!

*        *        *

Then, finally, the big day of the meeting came.  Samantha had warned me in advance not to give any indications of what was going on as on more than one occasion, one of the heads would call with some innocuous question and might have been suspicious if neither Mr. One nor myself had answered. 

I was told to put on my best uniform that day, then Josephine, and two of the less senior girls (who were also decked out as maids) were at the main door when three limos drew up in the driveway.  I was amazed to see who got out of the first.  Mistress Samantha, The Don – and Mr. One - njust as he appeared in the old days!  Abrazzi  and Asti of the Chicago and Nevada families came out of the second, while Mancini of Florida and Gotti of the Northwest States fell in behind them as they walked into the house.

Nobody recognized me, for which I was immensely grateful.  Mr. One looked different somehow, and then it dawned on me.  It wasn't so much his appearance as his behavior.  I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but then I saw it.  Any time he went to speak, he would give Samantha a glance – almost as if he was asking her permission to do so!  She'd make a small signal, and then he'd speak.  The other guys hadn't seen or spoken to him in a long time, so didn't catch on, but I could see it, clear as day.  He was acting to the mistress in exactly the same subservient way that I now did myself!

They were only in the hallway for a few minutes at best, as me and the other girls curtseyed and took the gentlemen's coats and hats from them, but it was just enough time for me to figure out that the relationship between the mistress and Mr. One hadn't changed since the last time I'd seen him.  I made sure that I stayed as far away from him as possible and averted my face as much as possible, but I was wearing a short blonde wig that day and, being a lot more familiar with  feminine posture and demeanor was now almost impossible to take for a male.  I still breathed a huge sigh of relief as the mistress led them into the house proper, where Angela greeted them – and introduced them to their 'companions' for the afternoon – and  evening:   "Gentlemen?  I'd like you to meet -  Rose;  Dorothy; Melissa; Lori; and Cheryl – all supplied by your host – Mr. One!"

The girls looked exactly the way I'd described them – blonde bimbo's – but DYNAMITE blonde bimbo's!  All in flashy clothes, teetering high heels – giggling, preening, voluptuous  - everything any gangster ever dreamed of!  The guys all relaxed immediately and paired off with a girl and headed for the living room.  Me and the other girls had to rush in behind them and help get drinks poured and served, before we went back and got their overnight luggage and took it up to their rooms.  Angela supervised us until we got the cases upstairs. Then she surprised me "Girls?  Just dump the suitcases on the beds.  Don't think they'll need them..  Do unpack their toiletry cases though. They may want to clean up before dinner – but the way they're hitting on that booze?  I doubt it."

"But they ARE staying the night, are they not, miss Angela? " I asked, curtseying.

She looked at me, as if being surprised at being questioned by a maid.  then she remembered who I was – or at least who I had been.  "That's up for grabs Fatima" she said quietly.  "Don't worry about it. If any of the men question you girls about not unpacking?  Just say that I wanted to make absolutely SURE that the rooms were to their liking before unpacking their things.  Okay?"

We all curtseyed in unison, smiling.  "Yes, miss Angela!"

She smiled nicely.  "That's fine girls.  Thank you. Now all of you get back down to help serve drinks.  But Fatima?  Talk to me for a moment please?"

I was suddenly nervous at being singled out, but waited as the other girls left the area.  Angela came and took a hold of my arm in a friendly way.  "Dear?  I think it's about time you went and changed.  Bathe and put on your harem girl outfit – the scarlet one I think.  Take your time with your makeup.  Use the long – very dark wig.  You know the one I mean?  Report to me in the library about seven o'clock.  It might be an idea  . .?" she paused.  "No.  I'll do it.  Have something brought to your room to eat.  I'd strongly suggest that you do so.  It may be a long night for you."

"What am I to do tonight Miss Angela?" I asked her nervously.

"Whatever you're told to do dear."  She said calmly.  "Easy as that!  Now?  Off you go!  Scat!" and she gave me a light pat on my posterior as I hurried away.  A few minutes later Cynthia appeared with the key to my chastity belt, and readied me for my bath.  (Samantha ensured that I got no sexual release by always  having someone attend me while I bathed.  It wasn't the same girl all the time, but I always sensed something when it was Cynthia – she always had a sort of hungry look in her eye when she looked at me)

Angela was as good as her word. When I came out of my bathroom after a good long soak in perfumed bubbles, I smelled the plate of food that had been brought up to my room, long before I ever saw it.  Cynthia sat alongside and watched me eat. I wasn't too hungry – rather nervous I guess – but managed to eat most of it.  Then, I went and brushed my teeth and washed my mouth out with a pleasant mouthwash before I started applying my makeup. 

From constant practice, I had become quite adept at applying cosmetics.  For my 'harem girl' duties, the emphasis was on dark, sultry eyes and very heavily applied wet lipstick.  When working as a maid, however, the opposite was true. There, I had to strive for anonymity – a sort of featureless look.  I had to be very careful with perfumes as well, using heavier musk based products for Fatima and light florals – if any – as the maid.

I was also very concerned about my appearance that night for another reason.  So far, Mr. One hadn't recognized me and I wanted it kept that way.  He was aware that it was me that had betrayed him, but as long as he didn't know for sure 'who' I had become, I felt fairly safe.  If he ever found out – I was a dead man – or girl.  Whatever.

To my surprise, Cynthia seemed to have forgotten about my chastity belt.  Then, when I reminded her of this, she just smiled and said she was acting on Samantha's orders. It felt strange getting my clothes on without it, but Cynthia kept me company the whole time, so I had no chance to take any kind of advantage of the situation. I even felt stirrings of an erection once or twice, but think that it had been so long since one had been allowed that I might have forgotten how.   Somehow I doubted that and grinned to myself, enjoying the unusual freedom.

When we got back downstairs, I was surprised to see that the girls were all gone.  From the mess in the dining room I could see that dinner had been eaten – Josephine and the other maids were already starting to tidy up. Cynthia escorted me to the library where Miss Angela was standing, then left me.  Angela checked me out carefully, laughing at my expression when a few of the men were making lewd noises.  She laughed confidently at them though. "Stop it you guys!  You're scaring poor Fatima here.  She belongs to Sam!"  She paused, distracted by a small commotion at the doorway, then laughed.  "Any way?  Here come your dates for the night!"

And, sure enough, here came the girls – done in identical costumes – prancing into the room!  The guys let out yells of delight – because the girls were done up as New York cops! – At least a stage version of same.  The flat-topped caps with the visors and the tunic jackets buttoned all the way to the neck looked fairly authentic.  As did  the truncheons they carried attached to their belts.  From the hem of their tunics down though, there was no resemblance.  Each wore black net stockings and high heeled black patent leather shoes.  The way their caps were pinned to the mass of blonde hair they all sported also added to the striking picture they made.

Music started up as they strutted in and, in perfect time, they launched into a dance routine that had the place rocking!  "Arrest me officer!" one of the guys yelled. "I'll come quietly!"  Then another yelled "No!  arrest ME!"

Everybody was applauding lustily as the girls finished their routine by pulling flimsy looking, toy handcuffs out and twirling them seductively, then marching up behind their respective dates and yelling out, in high girlish voices "Take the position suckah!"

Laughing aloud, all of the men bent over and put their hands behind their backs, squealing playfully about getting lawyers and how they'd never talk, as the cuffs were snapped into place.  That kind of thing.  Then a note of puzzlement started creeping into their voices.  They couldn't get these little 'toy's off!  They were indeed handcuffed!

The music stopped and the hilarity disappeared. Abrazzi was the first to pick up that everything wasn't what he'd thought it was.  "Get these things off me you ditsy bitches!  Gonna get your asses kicked if you're not careful!"

This was followed by a chorus of threats and imprecations from the others.  A few of them even joked about what they were going to do to 'these broads'.  This stopped when Samantha called out "Ladies?  Why don't you take your escorts for a little stroll, huh?"

In all of the confusion, I hadn't seen how it was done – but Mr. One was now handcuffed like the others and was attended by Angela herself.  I couldn't understand then, why he had been included into the group – after all, he'd already been made over.  Why do it again?

But all of the men were making different noises now.  More pain and indignation as each girl took a hold of the handcuffs and pulled them up, forcing the men to stoop.  They were then led about the room for a few seconds.

To my amazement and disbelief, each man was then pushed into a chair.  His shoes, socks, pants and undershorts were removed.  Their clothes that couldn't be removed because of the handcuffs were simply cut off their bodies.  Finally, they sat – totally nude.  Quiet now.  Some fear starting to show.  The Don finally spoke.

"Samantha?  Okay.  You've got us.  I'm in no position to make threats, but I can make promises.  Tell me what you want.  If it's at all reasonable?  You got it.  You'll also have my promise that this whole thing will be forgotten.  No repercussions at all. Ask anybody.  My word is good.  How does that sound?"

His voice was low, and despite the conditions, supremely confident.  Samantha was nodding agreeably all the time he spoke.

"First Don?  I'd like you to address me as Mistress.  Is that okay?"

His eyes shot out ice.  "Bullshit!  Talk  sense!  I ain't . ."  his voice was losing its calmness.

She interrupted.  "Rose?  Do something, would you?"

Everybody gaped as Rose simply hauled him, spluttering and cursing out of his chair, then sat down and pulled him over her knees.  She made a motion to Josephine, who hurried over and gave her a fairly large piece of wood. Seconds later, she was spanking the head man of all the mafia in the United States!

He squalled and yelled curses at first but then whimpered as the beating continued. Then simply lay still over her knees when she stopped.  Samantha called out "Don?"

No answer.

Rose whacked him again.

Samantha called out again.

No answer.

Rose whacked him again.

About the fifth or sixth time, the Don responded "Yes mistress" to Samantha.

"Very nice Donna. See?  If you'd just said that at the beginning?  Could have avoided all of that.  Couldn't you?"  There was a slight pause.  "Answer me please, Donna?"

"Yes mistress."

Samantha spoke to the maids standing beside Josephine.  "Rose?  I think you can let Donna sit upright now.  Girls?  Donna must be chilly.  Get some clothes on her, will you?"

I had to fight from giggling myself as the girls proceeded to dress him – a strapless bra, panties, garter belt and net stockings, then pulled a teddie up over his legs and into position, then fastened the straps over his shoulders and between his legs.  All of his undies in splashy yellow satin.  Then a shocking, peroxide blonde wig was placed on his head, his bra was stuffed with tissues, and strappy high heeled shoes put on his feet.  All of a sudden, any dignity the man had had was stripped away from him.  He looked like a travesty of a woman – a cheap whore!

Samantha turned her attention to me.  Fatima?  Come and sit on my lap please?

I hurried over to her and she settled me in her lap.  Then, her arm around my shoulders spoke to Abrazzi.

"Mr.  Abrazzi?  You were saying something about 'Ditsy broads?  Ass kickings ' I believe?"

His eyes shifted around. "Well?" he shrugged his shoulders as well as he could.  "I was just jokin' around.  Kiddin' with the fellas.  Y'now?"  He tried for a confident grin, but it failed miserably.

"Do you have a problem in addressing me as mistress, Mr. Abrazzi?" she asked calmly.

"Well – now – y'know?  It's kinda hard for us Americans.  Not that we're against you limeys – English I mean . . ."

"Just say.  No, I don't have any problems calling you mistress Samantha." She said  "That's all that's needed.  Not too hard I trust?"

He looked at the guys close to him.  They looked away.  He shrugged again.  "Nah.  I don't have a problem."

"Melissa?  Will you do the honors?" Samantha said quietly.

And seconds later, Abrazzi was being spanked soundly – squalling and kicking out in a furious rage, until he too admitted that mistress Samantha deserved that title.  He was also dressed in bright satiny undies – black fishnet stockings and high heels, just like the Don – the only difference being that his undies were scarlet with black lace trim.  Then Melissa perched him on her knees and started to fondle him.  His new name was Alice.

Rose saw this, and with a giggle, took the Don into her lap and treated him in similar fashion.  He started to object, but was quickly upended over Rose's knees and given a few sharp spanks with her bare hand.  He was quiet when she allowed him to sit upright again. Slid quietly into her embrace.  Laid there in docile fashion.

"Mr. Mancini?"  Samantha asked.  "You?"

"No problems mistress Samantha." He said meekly.

"Very good!  Mr One?"

"It's all right by me, mistress."   My ex-boss said.

Asti and Grotti – once they saw the way the wind was blowing were just as quick to call her mistress.

 You should have heard the indignant squeals when they were all then upturned, spanked and dressed like their predecessors. "It wouldn't be fair if I didn't treat you all the same way as the others, don't you think?" Samantha asked with a grin, surveying her group of six men all dressed on contrasting, bright, flashy, satin lingerie – and all with peroxide blonde wigs descending to their shoulders.

"But girls!  GIRLS!  What have I been dreaming of?" she gloated some minutes later.  Don't you want to be pretty?  Look as nice as you can?  Get  some nice makeup on?  Be all sexy?"

They all looked blankly at her, until a few more spankings had been applied to their satiny backsides, then they all finally got enthusiastic about this idea. (I noticed that although the blows to their backsides weren't any less powerful, their yells and swearing had subsided.  They just laid there – more accepting  of the women's dominance over them now).  Some of them even managed to sit quite prettily as their partners descended on them with makeup.

While they were being transformed, Samantha spoke to me quietly.

"Fatima?  I've been thinking?"

"Yes miss?" I whispered.

"I've been very cruel.  I've been leaving a decision up to you – and I'm well aware that sissies have a terrible time making decisions.  So?  I thought I'd ask you one more time.  Do you want to be my dancing girl – or a girlfriend to the ladies that want you?"

"Mistress.  I think . ." I started.

"Hush!  If you say "no" to me this time?  You'll be Fatima for the rest of your life.  The only sex you'll ever get?  Is the kind you've been getting."

"Mistress?  I . ."

She put a finger to my lips.-, then to my shock, her hand descended and started fondling my genitals under the flimsy materials I was wearing.  I became instantly erect.

"Dear?" she said.  "Just hush!  Let me finish.  Mr One doesn't like you.  The others don't know yet it was you that got them into this mess, but they're going to find out..  When they get back to the States? I'm sure they'll want to pay you back?  And?  if you stay with me?  I'll protect you as well as I can, but these are really vicious men – and I'd bet that they'll try and get to you.  Kill you?"

"They'll find me anyway." I said pitifully.

"Fatima?  I don't like you.  I don't like traitors of any sort.  I want you to suffer.  But if you accept being a girl – tonight?  I promise you that you'll get plastic surgery – give you breasts, hips – big luscious lips?  No one but me will ever know who you are.  And I give you my word that I'll never tell!  Now, if you DON'T want to give me this satisfaction? "  She smiled cruelly.  "You'll be my little ice maiden for the rest of your life – and THAT'S a promise!"

"I don't want to lose my penis.  I'm frightened!" I said tearfully.

"Did I say anything about that?" she said argumentatively. "You can keep that little thing you're so proud of.  Some of my ladies like sissies with it.  I certainly don't care!"

My judgment was starting to desert me as her hand gently caressed me. "What do I have to do?" I asked.

"Whatever you're told!  It will be humiliating, I promise. But you'll never have to wear your chastity belt again.  No more ice against you.  What's it going to be?"

"Be a girl." I whispered, trying to rub up against her hand.

"Suck cock?  Take it up the ass?"

"Not from a man. Please?" I said helplessly.

"No.  I won't ever ask you to do that."  she said honestly. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes." I said.

"Just one contingency." She said.  "You ever, ever, tell anyone outside of this room what went on here tonight?  All bets are off.  In fact, if I find out that you did?  I'll deliver you to your friends myself.  Is that understood?"

"Yes mistress." I said.

She took my weak soft hand in hers and shook it.  "Deal!" she said.

While we'd been talking, the men had been having makeup applied – smeared was a more appropriate term. Bright red lipstick, blush to match.  False eyelashes – black, lustrous, and obviously phony.  Sparkling eyeshadow.  By this time though, they were cowed.  No threats, no arguments.  Quietly, they sat as their female escorts taunted and degraded them – a few wept – which generated more jeers.

But, some video had been put on the TV which seemed to have drawn their attention.  One of the ladies turned the sound up, and I thought I recognized a voice – which turned out to be mine!

"Go, and have a look." Samantha urged me.  "Go on."

And, surrounded by growing indignation from my male companions, I saw vignettes of me – in reverse.  As I was at that moment, the gradually working the way back – all the way to where my original interview with Samantha had taken place!  My betrayals of Mr. One – and the organization made clear to the audience! 

The whorelike countenances around me were almost diabolical in their rage as they identified the originator of their current difficulties.

"Girls!  GIRLS!"  Samantha barked.  "I had this little video clip made so that you would know who you owed all of this fun to.  Now?  Let me tell you what is going to happen."

She paused and surveyed her rapt audience.

"Videos have been made of all you girls.  Being spanked, and dressed – and made up.  Now?  Anyone can tell that none of you did this voluntarily.  Right?  But what do you think your underlings would think if they saw what you'd been up to?  Even if the knew that force had been used?  Think they'd understand?  SURE they would!"

She sighed a happy sigh.  "Tomorrow? All of you will be allowed to fly back to the States.  Only thing?  You'll take your new girlfriends – Rose, Melissa – and the others with you.  From here on in?  You report to them every week.  Do anything that's not allowed?  Certain videotapes will be flooding the market.  I'm sure that all of your gangster friends will just  LOVE them!  Fancy that idea girls?"

No words were understandable, but the hatred from the men was palpable. She continued.  "But here girls?  We're going to break with tradition a little bit.  Fatima here is going to demonstrate how you should give your new mistresses a blow job.  But don't get all jealous now!  You'll all get  to do it.  This time?  Without your handcuffs.  A sort of voluntary thing, you know.  Though, if you give us any trouble?  Spankings galore!  Fatima?  Go and take Donna's handcuffs off her.  Go on now.  Donna won't hurt you!"

I went to where the Don sat on Rose's knees. She handed me the key, then whispered in his ear.  "Donna?  Going to be a good girl now?  Not show Rose up?"

He nodded, and I unlocked his handcuffs and took them off.

I was half expecting him to attack me, but he was as meek as a little lamb.  But then someone tapped me on the shoulder,  I turned around and it was Cynthia.  I hadn't seen her approach.

"Hi sweetie!" she cooed.  "Finally!  Going to be Cynthia's girl, huh?    Just look what I've got for you!  Here, let me sit on this chair beside Rose"

As she sat, I noticed that Rose had somehow acquired a dildo and was sitting in the chair with it pointing upwards.  Then Cynthia pulled up her skirt to reveal an even bigger – MUCH bigger dildo, pointing up at me.    "Come on then dear.  Show Donna how to do this properly.  Come on now!  Kneel down,  That's a girl!"

I had knelt down about six inches away from her.  She took both hands and put them on my shoulders, then gently pulled my head down.  I saw the end of the thing come closer and closer.

"Open up now!  That's a girl" she cooed, her right hand at the back of my head, forcing it down. 

There was nothing for me to do, but open my mouth.  "Just your lips now, sweetie!  There!" and she leaned back a little and took me with her. "Now  dearie?  Let's see that pretty head of yours bob up and down.  Oh!  You're SO good at this!"

I didn't see what was happening at the side, but heard Donna get her command to do the same as me, and then I felt her get into sync with me.  Then we were told to slow down, and I heard more chairs being pulled into line.  With this, I was able to glance to the side a few times. The men were so subdued now, that even when they were freed of the handcuffs they approached their appropriate mistress meekly, then knelt - and soon we were all on our knees, our heads bobbing up and down, mine the only brown one in a line of peroxide. Above us, our mistresses laughingly taunted and mocked us for our lack of masculinity as we performed what had always been to my mind – a peculiarly feminine task.  And from some of the sobs coming from my left and right, some of my companions felt the same way.

It had to have been a pre-arranged signal, because all at once I felt something like a cream – at body temperature, being injected into my mouth from the dildo.  As I let out a disgusted squawk, I heard all of my cohorts make equally disgusted sounds. But Cynthia was holding my head down firmly, so that I couldn't raise it. "Swallow dear!  It won't hurt you!" she said.  Gagging, I did as she suggested.  Again, similar noises echoed up and down the line of us subjugated males.

"Okay girls!"  Samantha giggled.  "Well done!  For beginners you did remarkably well!  Now ladies, if you'll get up and give the girls your chairs?"

Laughing and chattering, the dommes relinquished their  seats, and the males – all avoiding each other's eyes took their places.   Cynthia leaned over me and whispered.  "Almost done sweetie.  As soon as you're finished, let's you and I take a little walk upstairs.  I'm keeping my dildo on – just for you, so don't be wasting any time now."  Then she stood back.

As she did, Josephine and the other two girls came and handed all of the seated males a lipstick tube.  Samantha stood in front of us now, larger than life, dominating the sagging line of feminine  males in front of her.  Walked down the line, caressing a breast here, patting a thigh there.

"Last thing girls?  Your lipsticks are all smeared.  I think it would be a good idea for you to take a few minutes to freshen up?  But while you're doing it?  Look at the screen – and sing the words – I'm sure you'll do the song justice, won't you?"

As she spoke, music filled the room.  An old song, but I knew it.  Just couldn't remember the title.  As I took the cap from my lipstick, the TV screen lit up and the lyrics were displayed.  In unison then, we all started singing as we applied our lipsticks – the old Rodgers and Hammerstein song –  " I enjoy being a girl"

It wasn't a very good rendition I'm afraid, but our mistresses all seemed to enjoy it.

The end

 And now for Rosie!

HATE TO SAY THIS - BUT I SEEM TO HAVE RUN OUT OF ROOM.  I'LL TRY AND POST ROSIE'S STUFF THIS WEEK.  SORRY!

Sunday, Sunday!

Hi Fellow Sissies!  Hope that you're all well on April Fools day!  Any of you dress up prettily for your girl friends then say "April Fool?"  Never had that kind of courage myself - but figure that some might.  Just checking.  Let me know, huh?

We live about 50 miles from San Diego and have a subscription to a theatre (YES!  The Theatuh Darling!) group and go to about eight or nine times a year.  Heading down there today for a musical- "Parade" I think it's called.  Seems to have decent reviews but I don't know a thing about it.

Well - here's the next part of my serial - with a few 'Bits' from Rosie.

Start of Part 5

I didn't know what she was talking about, but the ladies seemed to understand what she had said as there was a murmur of appreciative laughter from all around me.  "Milk him too?" I recognized Cynthia's voice.

"Definitely!" Samantha said.  "But through the back passage only.  If any of you ladies need training in that aspect?  I might give you that assignment as a reward."

Then, without warning, a sharp spank landed on my backside. Then another, then another!  Until she had applied about six blows.  Then she caressed me through the panty material, occasionally snapping the panty elastic against my legs or waist.  I was seriously crying by this time, but the gentle caresses were so soothing that I relaxed.  Then she started again.  Gave me another six

She stopped then and said something to the women, but I could not hear what she said because of the noise of my own crying.  Then I felt a leg of my panties being opened up, and the finger was back inside me again. – a lot deeper this time.  She found my prostate – then started to massage it.  It was a highly unpleasant feeling and I tried to buck again, but had absolutely no luck.

I sighed with relief when she stopped, but only for a second.  Again, the blows started landing on my backside.  This time with considerable force!  I was really crying in earnest now, breathing in with huge gulps, squealing, writhing, doing anything to escape the force of the hard hand landing on my rear end that only had  panties to protect it.   Finally, she stopped once more.  Again the soft caressing of my backside followed, her palm slowly circling the area that seconds ago it had been lambasting.

"Fatima?"  she asked.

"Y. Y. Yes   M.M.  Mistress"  I sobbed.

"You like this, don't you?"  And, once more, her finger was probing its way up my back passage.

"Yes Mistress!"  I said, striving for sincerity.

"Honest?"

"Oh Yes!  It's lovely!" I enthused, tears starting to dry..

"You?  A gangster?  Over a 'BROAD's' knees?  Getting fingered by a woman? Almost as if YOU were a woman?  That's awfully hard to believe!  Can't stand people who LIE to me!"

And I was hit again – the hardest blow yet!

"Ow!  Ow! Ow!  Mistress?  Please don't.  Please?"  Then I had a stroke of genius. "Please put your finger in me again?  Please?"

"Fatima likes it?"

Fatima LOVES it mistress!  See?"   And I spread my legs invitingly.

Once again she was inside me, slowly working her finger in and out of me.  Having no intention of incurring her wrath again, I writhed and undulated, making happy sighs and moans.  Again, her finger found my prostate, but this time the contact was firmer, and she started to massage it in earnest. Weeping with shame and embarrassment I gradually realized that I WAS enjoying what she was doing.   Gradually, I felt a tension build up inside me then, undulating up and down, totally under the control of her finger – I felt myself explode inside the condom.  She must have felt my body relax, because this time  she gave me a chance to recuperate.

"Fatima?  Is your backside sore?  Tell the truth now.!"

I whimpered, than admitted tearfully that it was.

"It feels awfully hot.  Is it?"

"Yes." I snuffled, taken aback by the tone of sympathy in her voice.

"Oh, you poor dear!  Samantha is sorry!   Here? Maybe this might help?"  As she said this, she pulled my panties down again.

While I had been spanked, I'd heard what I took to be a drink getting brought to Samantha.  She hadn't taken any I thought, because she stretched and seemed to put it on a table close to her.  I had heard what sounded like the tinkle of ice cubes.  Now, suddenly, she was rubbing my backside with something icy cold - an ice cube!  I let out a surprised squeal, much to the merriment of the onlookers. 

"Now ladies – especially you trainee girls?  Here is another tool for humiliating a customer.  You can come closer to see what I'm doing if you wish.  Just one thing that is very important?  Make sure that the ice is melted somewhat before doing this."  And, as she finished speaking, she inserted an ice cube up into my backside!  I shrieked with the shock, and tried again to get away from her – but was just as successful as I had been in the previous attempts. "See ladies?" she continued.  "So long as the ice isn't dry? There's no tissue damage.  Now let's load Fatima up, shall we?  She's such a hot little number!"

How many cubes she inserted in me, I don't know – but I had a frozen posterior before she had finished. "And girls?" she continued. "This is good if you have a customer where you feel that infantilism may be a viable training method? Ice cubes melt – and when he stands up?  Wetness of course.  Maybe time to put the little dear in nappies – or diapers – as our American friends call them."

I think I must have been disassociating myself from what was being done to me.  I don't truly know how long it was, but out of a mental fog of my own making, I heard her speak softly to me.  "Fatima?  Fatima?  You there?"

Sluggishly,  I felt my head rise.  "Yes Mistress?" I said.

"You want to be my little harem girl?  Dance for me?"

"Oh yes mistress.  Of course."

"But?  Don't you want to be pretty for me as well?  Be a pretty girl?  Just for me?"

"Yes mistress.  I want to be your pretty girl."

"Want to wear makeup?  Sexy undies?  Pretty clothes?  Nicer ones than this old plain skirt?"

"Yes mistress."

As if from a far distance, I heard her speak again.  "Gooooood  Fatima!   Thassagirl!  Now why don't you go off with  Rose.  I'm sure she'll be glad to help you get dressed properly and make you pretty.  And?  Cynthia and Melissa?  Why don't you give Rose a helping hand?"  As she was saying this, she pulled my panties back into position, then raised me up from over her  knees.  "There!  Now off with you!" she said, patting me on the ass.

"Oh!  Look at Fatima!" I heard someone say mockingly.  "She's so excited, she's wetting herself!"

"Well done Lori!"  Samantha said. "Do you younger ladies see how she added a touch of humiliation to the situation?  Never miss a chance to humiliate the poor little darlings!  They just LOVE it so!"

Dazed, I was led out of the room by my three new taskmasters: Rose, Cynthia, and Melissa, trickles of water running down both legs.

The ladies weren't unkind to me.  Just dexterous and efficient in what they were  doing.  All of my clothes were removed, then a depilatory spray was applied to my body.  My underarms were shaved, as was the area around my genitals.  Then I was told to shower. 

When I emerged, I was quickly dried and powdered, then led back into the bedroom.  I was given a bra and panties to put on. Then malleable breast forms were placed inside my bra and small marks were made around the periphery of the breasts.  Then the bra was removed and, using the marks that had just been made to position them, the forms were adhered to my chest – all the girls exclaiming  about what a perfect match the skin tones were.  Then I was allowed to put my bra on again.

I was getting quite cold, but was scared to complain, so gave Rose a shy smile of thanks when she handed me a floral silk wrap to wear while various wigs were tried on me.  Nothing blonde, all darker shades, they finally chose one that fell in soft waves about my face and down slightly past my shoulders.  Then they took my own hair and put it into a tight fitting nylon cap before adjusting the wig permanently.

Cynthia then surprised me.  Sat down and pulled me into her lap.  "Fatima?"

"Yes Cynthia?"

"We're going to dress you in your harem girl costume now.  Are you going to fuss.  Make a scene?"

"No Cynthia."

"You are NOT going to cry, are you?"

"Don't think so, Cynthia." I snuffled as I answered this question.

"Well if you are?  I'd suggest you do it now – before we put your makeup on.  Cry after that?  I'm gonna spank you and, trust me, it'll be a LOT worse than what Samantha gave you a little while ago. Understand?"

"Yes Cynthia."

"Gonna be a good girl then?"

"Yes Cynthia."

I was dressed in my costume very quickly.  Sheer pantaloons that cuffed tightly just above my ankles but ballooned out about my legs, then a short silk skirt – bright red in color -  that pulled up over the pants, but only came down to about the middle of my thighs.  A halter top, again diaphanous, clearly showing my bra and having bloused sleeves that  ballooned out over my arms and cuffed tightly at the wrists.  A sheer chiffon tunic that did little to conceal my otherwise bare midriff was next.

Melissa was the makeup expert I guess, because she sat me down, removed my wig and then proceeded to apply the cosmetics.   "You'll need your eyebrows plucked, but not at the moment.  Remind me later and I'll do them for you tonight when I pierce your ears. Okay?"

"Pierce my ears?" I asked nervously.

"Of course!  After dinner, come up to my room.  Don't forget!"

"I won't forget, Melissa." I said meekly.

"Good!  Now shut up and quit moving about!" she said sharply.  "I'll do your nails and give you a pedicure then as well, so don't be worrying about them."

My nails had been the least of my worries to that point I thought, but made no answer as she busied herself at making me over.  She seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time working on my eyes I thought but, as I'd never been made up like that before, didn't say anything.  She finally finished there then, spent a fair amount of time in doing my lips.  As I was faced away from the mirror, I didn't see the results of her handiwork until she had replaced my wig, then carefully – very carefully – attached a flowing veil she stretched across my face, right under my eyes and attached to my hair close to my ears.  Then a lightweight cap type of thing  - something like a snood - was placed over my head and draped down my back.  It had little coin-like things attached that hung down over my brow.

She stepped back to survey the final results, and Rose let out a "Whew!  Wow!  Samantha's going to be quite taken with this one, I think!"

As Melissa put little silk anklets on my feet, prior to a pair of low-heeled scarlet slippers, I finally got to see what I looked like in the mirror.

I was so different in appearance that I didn't react for a second.  It was by no means a 'pretty' woman who stared back from the mirror, but she WAS a woman! .  Her eyes were dark, smoky, and sultry, peering out from over her veil and scarlet wet looking lips pouted seductively underneath it.  She turned her head, a disbelieving expression on her face, and I not only felt the coins move across my brow, I heard a slight 'tinkle' as they did so. It was that more than anything else that made me realize that the woman staring back from the mirror was ME!

My body shape was decidedly feminine as well.  What appeared to be swelling breasts nestled comfortably in a lacy bra, visible under the opaque material that covered them. The fullness of the sleeves of the halter top and legs of the pantaloons gave the impression of fullness of upper and lower segments of my body – emphasizing my 'waist' configuration.  The transparency of the sleeves of my top disclosed soft, white, feminine arms.

I started to take another look, but Cynthia took hold of my upper arm. "C'mon Fatima.  Samantha will want to see this!"  And herded between the three women, I was taken back to the room we'd left not that long before.

Samantha was engaged in a conversation with Angela as we entered, but the hush from the other women when they took in my appearance, got her attention.  As soon as she saw me, she beamed.  "TOLD you!" she said to nobody in particular, and advanced to stand right in front of me, examining me most closely.

"Yes!  Yes!  Yes!" she said happily.  "This is more like it!  Come with me darling!"  With that, she pulled me into her bathroom and closed the door behind us.

Crooning a happy little song, she searched out a small black leather case and opened it up.  Carefully, removed a ovoid shaped object.  I couldn't see it too clearly but it seemed to be about three inches long and about an inch and a half at its widest circumference.  She then got a jar and took the lid off.  took it with her as she went and sat on the toilet seat.  "Here Fatima!  Come and see what mistress Samantha  has for you!"

Warily, I approached her, but all my caution did me little good.  Reluctant as I was, I couldn't help but get within her reach.  Smiling confidently, she took a hold of my arm and pulled me gently into her, then laid me slowly over her knees.  She pulled my harem pants and panties down.  Gently lubricated me.  "Relax dear.  Don't fight it.  Just relax.  It'll be fine.  Trust me." she said, and I felt her inserting something inside me.

I squirmed and made little protesting noises and fought it for a second, but mindful of her soft insistent commands, I relaxed – and SWALLOWED something with my backside!  It felt SO big for one second – then totally ingested the next!

She patted me gently on the buttocks and pulled my clothes back up into position. "There's a girl!" she said softly.  "Now dear?  Will you just stand up for mommy?"

I nodded and stood.  She reached into the same small leather bag and found a small black plastic thing with a couple of buttons on it.  Smiled at me, placed her thumb over one of the buttons.  Smiled a little more.  Pressed the button.  And my insides turned to quivering JELLO!

Wide eyed, I turned to her, an erection fully visible underneath my flimsy pantaloons, my knees almost buckling.  "What!   What was THAT???" I managed hoarsely.

She laughed. "Ah the romance of modern technology!  Isn't this great?"  And, with that, she raised her eyebrow and pressed the button again!

This time, forewarned, I was able to lock my knees, but the vibration seemed to be touching my prostate and, though it was highly uncomfortable, it was also charged sexually.  "Please don't Sama – mistress?"  I said softly.

She inhaled noisily through her nostrils and slid the control unit into her pocket.  Looked at me coldly.

"I don't like you."  She said. "You little traitor.  You belong to me now, body and soul.  Until I say so?  You will never know the joy of sex without my permission.  I know that you look down on Josephine, but you'll be measured this morning for a few items – amongst which will be maids uniforms.  So?  When I'm in the mood for a harem girl?  That'll be you.  When I want a junior maid?  That'll be you as well.  Now go back into the room.  Ask Lori if she can start giving you dancing lessons.  Get out of my sight!"

Totally subjugated and ashamed by her scorn and dislike I did as I was told and started my new life.

One indignity after another was heaped on me.  The measuring took place even before my first dancing lesson.  There was a great deal more measuring, especially around my hips and genitals, than I'd ever have thought necessary for the simple expedient of making dresses to fit me.  As always, my assumptions were disproved quickly.

Yes, I was supplied with uniforms – dresses, underclothes, caps, aprons – all the appurtenances of maidenly employment – but I was also given a metal, awful, chastity belt.  It was lightweight and, oddly comfortable enough, but it had a peculiar structure at the front. A sort of sheath took my penis, and it didn't take me long to discover that it was impossible for me to get an erection while wearing the device.

It also had a kind of 'pouch' at the front, that hung loosely down over my genital area.  I thought at first that it had to do with needing urination, but discovered fairly quickly that it wasn't, because I could urinate – but had to sit down to do so because of the belt construction.  The night I wore it for the first time, I was made to demonstrate my new dancing prowess in front of the ladies in the lounge. 

I really was pretty bad, but everyone applauded loudly, commenting how much better a dancer I was than my predecessor (Mr. One).  Then, Samantha said  "Ice cream anyone?" and everyone paused for a second, then burst out laughing.  "Come here Fatima.  Milking time." She continued, crooking her finger at me and grinning. 

When I got to just in front of her, she undid the waistband of my pantaloons and gently pulled them down to about my knees. To my surprise, she fitted a condom over the top of the sheath. I didn't have much time to ponder on this because she then opened up the strange pouch at my front.  There was a medium sized bowl sitting on a table beside her.  It was covered, but she took the top off to reveal that the bowl was filled with crushed ice.  Beside the bowl was a small ladle.  This she dipped into the bowl, got some ice – and ladled it into the pouch!

The girls were giggling away, but frankly I couldn't see much sense in what she was doing.  Sure, it was humiliating, but it didn't hurt and at the beginning I could barely feel the cold coming through the bag material.  This changed as she filled the pouch though, and it did start to get uncomfortable.  It wasn't until she'd finished putting the ice into the pouch, then sealed the top that I started to get an inkling of what the next step was.

There were two leather laces at the bottom of the pouch.  These were run between my legs, then used to pull the pouch up hard against my genitals, then tied to the back of the chastity belt, to keep the pouch in place.  I started to feel rather numb in the groin. Again, it wasn't pleasant, but certainly not painful.  She pulled my waistband up again and proceeded to fasten it about me again.

"Is that pouch cold on you Fatima?" mistress asked.

"Yes ma'am" I said, grateful for her concern.

"I think – maybe you should dance a little more for us?  Might just keep you warm?"  she added.  "Dorothy?  Put Fatima's music on, would you dear?"

Totally confused, I started weaving and gliding to the music as Lori had been teaching me.  Then I saw that mistress had the remote control in her hand.  Saw her press the button!  And very little happened! Then, she pressed the button again.  For a longer period this time.  And I felt 'something' stir inside me.  I couldn't help myself.  Stopped all motion, trying to figure what was happening.  She smiled – and held the button down for an appreciably longer time.

It was as if something had imploded inside me.  Not painful.  Not pleasurable.  Not anything.  But whatever it was?  It left me with a feeling of loss.  As if something had been extracted from me.  I was standing stock still by this time.  Strangely enough, my audience weren't yelling at me to do anything.  Just gazing at me, a sort of curious expectancy on their faces.

"I think she's done,"  somebody said, turning off the music.

"Fatima? That condom I put on you?" Samantha said. "Go into the bathroom and check it please.  Take it off and dispose of it if you've used it.  Empty the pouch of ice while you're at it."

This made absolutely no sense to me and I almost remonstrated that surely I would know if I'd ejaculated, but thought better of it.  In the bathroom, however, I discovered that the condom reservoir DID have discharge in it.  Shocked, I took the slimy thing off and flushed it down the toilet.  I then reached behind me and undid the laces that held the pouch in place.  I then emptied the ice out of it.

Over the next few weeks I discovered what was on Samantha's mind.  She was determined that I was to have no sexual enjoyment whatsoever, and I was put through the 'milking' every day – sometimes twice.  After just a few days, I wept – pleaded with her not to do this horrible thing to me, but she was adamant.

End of Part 5

Now for Rosie!

#32 

The doors opened and an elegantly dressed lady came in, a young man followed reluctantly behind her.

“Bill, please, you promised you’d go through this,” she pleaded.

“Oh, come mom, this counseling business is bullshit and you know it,” he arrogantly replied.

“May I help you?” I said from my desk.

“We’re here to see Mrs. Ripley,” the lady said.

“If you’ll be so kind to wait a minute,” I said, rising from my desk, “I’ll go and announce you.”

“Sure,” the lady replied.

Even though my taffeta skirt rustled quite loudly as I got off the chair, the snigger Bill made was still audible to my ears.

“Whoo-wee!” he laughed, looking at me.

“Bill!” the lady hissed.

His comments were understandable, to some extent at least. Joanna had me wearing a very full gold taffeta skirt that came to mid thigh, a crisp black silk blouse with wide, billowy sleeves and ridiculously wide cuffs and collar. I also had to wear four inch heels to match my skirt. Normally, I was allowed more modest outfits, but today, as Joanna put it, I was dressed for demonstrational effect.

“Mrs. Kitman’s here,” I said to Joanna, “Should I let them in?”

“Sure,” Joanna replied.

I walked out of her office back to the reception area.

“Mrs. Ripley will se you now,” I announced.

“Well, Mrs. Kitman?” Joanna said as the pair sat down in her office, “Is this the young boy we had talked about? Made your decision yet?”

“To tell you the truth, I have doubts you’ll have any success with him,” Mrs. Kitman said, “I do realize you have had success with petticoat punishment, but I simply don’t see how you will get him in girls’ clothes to begin with.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bill yelled, “You said we were here for counseling!”

“Bill!” Joanna hissed, “Shut up this instant!”

The tone she used was enough to turn my blood to ice, even though I knew it wasn’t me that was in trouble. It had the same effect on Bill as well. By Mrs. Kitman’s expression I could see that she was impressed.

“Leave that to me,” Joanna said, “Now if you still have further doubts…”

She turned to me, “Melissa, won’t you be so kind and introduce yourself to Mrs. Kitman?”

Nervously, I cleared my throat.

“My name is Melissa Priscilla Ripley,” I said in the most masculine voice I could still muster, “Though before that my name used to be Mark Peter Bernard. I changed my name when I married Mrs. Ripley.”

“You’re… her husband?” Mrs. Kitman asked.

“Oh, he, I mean, she’s not anyone’s husband,” Joanna replied, “She’s my wife and secretary, plain and simple.”

Mrs. Kitman opened her purse and took out her checkbook.

“When can you start?” she asked, already writing the check.

#33

I slid the pale blue soft wool pants over my hips and zipped them up at the back.

“See how much better they fit you than yours?” Sherry said.

“Look, I said I was sorry,” I pleaded, “I’ll take the corset back, I’ll never ask you to wear anything again, just please stop this.”

“A-a, sweetie,” she said, “A deal’s a deal.”

I made the mistake of buying my wife a corset. I had always bought her lingerie and though it was not always as much to her tastes as mine, she’d wear it gratefully, without complaints. However, when I bought her a corset, she reacted in a completely different manner.

“You think it’s fun to wear something like this?” she exploded, waving the satin foundation garment at my face, “What am I, some kind of a plaything to you?”

I apologized and explained that I just thought she’d look sexy in the corset, nothing else. I hadn’t meant to demean her. But my apologies and explanations would not satisfy her. She made me a deal: she’d wear the corset in the evening only if I wore it though the day.

“That way you’ll know what you’re asking me to go through,” she said, “You wouldn’t want me to put up with anything you’d find uncomfortable, would you?”

Of course I had pointed out that the corset was designed for the female body, with female proportions in mind.

“The corset is designed to shape the body,” she hissed in my ear as she was lacing it up at my back, “Male or female!”

I gasped for air as she squeezed my waist. I wanted to ask her to reconsider the tightness but her angry glances told me to better accept my fate. After she was done and I had accustomed to taking shallower and more frequent breaths, things weren’t so bad as they had seemed. After all, my shirt and jacked would completely cover the feminine garment and apart for my slightly stiffer posture, it wouldn’t be apparent at all. How wrong I was.

“You can’t wear these,” she said as I reached for my shorts, “I mean, how would you like it if I wore your jockeys with the corset?”

“But Sherry,” I said, then shut up instantly as she glared at me again. With the corset strapped across my belly, I somehow found myself unable to go against her demands. She rummaged through her lingerie drawer and handed me a pair of her black satin panties that matched the corset. Wordlessly, I put them on. Granted, putting on lacy women’s panties in front of my wife was a blow to my ego, though again, the same reasoning applied as it did to the corset – no one would know.

“I don’t think these are a good idea either,” she said when I started putting on my pants.

“What do you mean?” I asked, “The deal was just the corset.”

“Sure,” she said, “But did you happen to notice what the corset has done with your waist? Think your pants will stay up at all?”

They didn’t, either. Even before the corseting, I used to buckle my belt at one of the last holes. Now, with my waist cinched, even at the last hole my pants kept sliding down to my hips, revealing my black satin lingerie as they did so.

“Do you have any belts I could borrow?” I asked desperately.

“How about this one?” she said, showing me a wide pink belt with a glass bead encrusted buckle.

“Sherry, please,” I said.

“Maybe you should try my pants instead,” she said, “The way your body is now shaped, my stuff will fit you better than yours.”

Of course along with the pants, I had to wear the matching tailored jacket with a flared bottom part that not only didn’t do anything to hide my feminized silhouette but even pronounced it! I could have worn the jacket unbuttoned, were it not for the gauzy floral blouse she had me put on.

“These pants are kinda long, aren’t they?” she said.

A glimmer of hope sparked in me.

“Yeah, now that you mention it, I guess they are,” I said, hoping she’d let me take them off, take off everything I had on and put on my own clothes.

She gave me a pair of her black court shoes with a two inch heel, and a pair of tan nylon knee highs.

“These should give you the extra height,” she said.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I burst to tears, blubbered, begged her to stop, but still obeying her, putting on the nylons and the shoes.

“Please, Sherry, I can’t go to work like this,” I cried as I paced around the room for her to see how I handled the heels.

“Then don’t,” she said.

“Really?” I sniffled.

“Sure,” she said.

“Oh thank you,” I burst into tears again, then started to undo my jacket.

“Hold on, what do you think you’re doing?” she said sternly.

“But I thought you said…” I began.

“I said you didn’t have to go to work if you’re shy about being seen wearing my clothes,” she said, “I didn’t say you could take them off.”

I stared her in horror.

“If you don’t want to go to the office, just don’t,” she continued, “But let me make this clear, either you go to work today or you don’t go anymore at all.”

As if hit by a bullet, I dropped down on the bed. We had had this conversation many times before, when Sherry pressed me to leave my job and that way free up more time for housework. So far we had both shared the chores but Sherry wasn’t satisfied by that anymore.

“Your call,” she said.

She had been gone for quite a while before I stopped crying. I cried for many reasons, the humiliation my wife had put me through, the loss of my status of an equivalent partner in our marriage, the loss of my financial independence. But the worst of all was the ease at which I had let this happen, how little of a fight I had put up. Angry with myself, I felt as if I deserved to be treated the way I was.

I got off the bed, rinsed my face with cool water, then phoned in my resignation.

I was tired and my feet were sore by the time Sherry came back. I hadn’t been lazing around but it was a big house and it took me the better part of the day just to do the vacuuming.

“Hello, sweetie,” she said, “Feels more appropriate, doesn’t it?”

Not responding to her question, I silently took her jacket and handbag.

“I said ‘Doesn’t it feel more appropriate?’” she hissed.

“Well, no, actually,” I said, albeit quietly, fearfully.

“Really?” she said, mocking compassion, “What doesn’t feel proper, then?”
”The clothes, for a start,” I said.

“You’ve got a point there,” she said, “To tell you the truth, I don’t find them right for you any more.”

Thank heavens, I though, at least she’ll let me dress normally, now that the new power balance had been established.

I helped her carry the shopping bags to the bedroom, then, as she instructed, emptied them onto the bed. There were blouses, skirts, dresses, three pairs of ladies shoes, all high heeled, couple of lingerie sets, a heap of nylon stockings and to top it all, three corsets.

“I don’t understand,” I said, “I thought you said you’d brought something for me.”

“Silly,” she laughed, “All of this is for you.”

“But… but…” I began, fighting tears again, “But I thought you said…”

I broke to tears, again.

“That you weren’t properly dressed?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Of course, honey,” she explained, “When I gave you this pantsuit this morning, I thought you were going to the office. It’s just too formal and unpractical to wear when you’re cleaning the house. Honestly, I thought you’d change into something else when you decided to stay at home.”

“You said I couldn’t take the clothes off,” I sniffled.

“Oh, right, I did, didn’t I?” she laughed softly, “Well, you can take them off now if you want to. In fact, why don’t I help you take them off? Run you a nice bath? Then put on some proper clothes on you?”

An hour later I was back in our living room, scented, hairless and smooth allover my body, wearing one of my new dresses over my buttercup yellow lingerie and the unavoidable corset.

“Is this really necessary, Sherry,” I asked, plucking at the skirts of my dress.

“Oh, this is just my way of expressing my gratitude for choosing to be my housewife,” she said, “If you’re a good girl, I’ll buy you many more pretty clothes like these.”

“Girl?” I weakly repeated.

“Though I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” she said, seemingly ignoring my question, “You can still borrow my clothes if you want.”

“I… I don’t understand…”

“What’s there not to understand, Melissa?” she said.

“Melissa?”

“I don’t think Jack is a name fit for a housewife, is it?” she replied.

“Okay, stop!” I said, “This has gone far enough. Even though I left my job because you wanted me to, that doesn’t mean I’m not your husband anymore. Enough with the dresses and the corsets and calling me Melissa.”

Her face darkened and I immediately knew I was in trouble, though I still stood behind what I’d said.

“Alright, come here,” she said, leading me to a mirror in the hallway.

“Does this look like a husband to you?” she said, pointing at my reflection, “Do husbands wear pretty dresses? High heels?”

I felt my resolve starting to crumble.

“Think husbands wear lipstick?” she pressed on, “Think husbands let their wives put them in corsets and pretty panties? Think husbands let their wives make them stay at home and do the housework?”

She led me back to the living room. I was crying again.

“I’m the breadwinner, you’re the housewife, Melissa,” she said, “The sooner you get this through, the better.”

“Don’t you owe me at least some explanation?” I asked through my tears.

“Owe?” she said, “Here’s what I owe you!”

She sat down and smoothed her black and white print chiffon skirt over her thighs.

“Over my knees, Melissa!” she hissed.

“No!” I cried, though at the same time placing myself across her lap.

I felt her raise my skirts. As her hand started smacking my panty clad behind, the first lesson of my new life began to sink in.