More Ramblings

I can understand Bea’s feelings regarding a lack of response and it must be frustrating when you put a lot of yourself (stories as well as life experiences) out there and get little feedback but the numbers reading the blog must give a great deal of encouragement.  I’m sure there are many reasons why people don’t post comments. I was a bit reticent  at first and was (still am) in awe of people like Belinda, Monica Graz  whose experiences are for me truly amazing so I felt I may not have much to contribute. But Bea’s idea is that we all have something to contribute and if that helps, excites, informs, entertains, whatever, then so much the better. Plus it will keep him happy and God knows it’s hard to keep him happy.

Don’t know about the rest of you but Marie’s comments about therapy were enlightening for me, as I’ve never been to a therapist, the thought of telling another person of my CD tendencies would scare the shit out of me, client/patient confidentiality notwithstanding. None of us are professional therapists  (if any are please feel free to chip in anytime) but perhaps  our collective experiences should be shared to support  Marie and maybe many like her. Marie said her  previous therapists may not have helped, saying what she was doing was not wrong  but fundamentally  I feel they are right. As Bea said if this new guy works for you then stick with it but  when all is said and done you cannot get rid of it no more than any of us can and if your new guy says you can he’s a charlatan. The fountain of all knowledge aka Bea (he loves that) is right when he said accept your desires you’re not doing any harm to anyone including you I may add. Look at it this way if you went to the doctor and he told you, you or a member of your family had a few months to live, you’d have bigger problems. Not only accept it, embrace it, learn to enjoy it you’re in your mid 50’s, it’s later than you think.

    While my leanings caused me the usual confusion and bouts of shame, I didn’t think about it too much when I wasn’t dressing, so maybe that helped (I  began dressing  in my late teens ) plus I didn’t have many opportunities to dress and I had a lot going on in my life as you do in your 20’s. When I did begin dressing seriously in my 30’s I could rationalise it to myself and accepted it was part of me and I could no more deny it then deny the colour of my eyes. I got very good at compartmentalising.  Probably should mention I was married in my mid 20’s and never told my wife, she only found out about 8 years ago in less than ideal circumstances, probably every CD’s worst case scenario. Too long a story to tell today, maybe some other time. Could have done with your therapist that night Marie as a bottle of vodka was a poor substitute.

In Belinda’s comment to my first post she also only revealed her fantasies to her second wife in her late 50’s. Perhaps I should mention here that while my wife now knows I crossdress she has no idea of my sub, forced fem fantasies. Belinda’s point about meeting other like minded people to help fulfil both ours and their fantasies is well made and the key word she used for me was courage. For me her other point about location is even more relevant. Unless you are very lucky I think  a major urban centre is required for people who are still in the closet to engage in role playing as wonderfully described by Belinda. When I go to  a bar for a few beers to watch a football game  last thing I want to see is the sissy or domme  sitting at the bar smirking at me. So for me the  anonymity of a large urban centre would be vital. Belinda is right when she says social standards are changing but I think that for the foreseeable future large cities will be the only places where CD,TV,TS can engage in such role playing without the fears we(well me anyway) hold regarding exposure.

I really like the story Belinda has going and am intrigued as to where it’s going, it’s a great idea and I hope it’s well supported. Please keep it going for as long as you can.

Carrie

Carrie

Kammi's Serial

What if? Part 6

Previous

I was ready to obey any order given to me, no matter what it was and by whomever gave it. Any one of the day in day out routines would have broken the best of us but combining the pain and humiliation of the floggings, the walking about rough streets, being raped repeatedly, and all this without wearing a piece of clothing nor being able to wash for such an extended period rendered us pathetic globs of nothing. My spirit had left me.

“You asked me about my branding when you were making love to me and I thank you for not pursuing this then. I was still so ashamed of how it happened, actually blaming myself for allowing it. Now you know.”

Lin Lu got up and hugged Rose tightly before getting on her knees and softly kissing the brandings on each thigh. She had tears running down her cheeks when she got up.

“That bastard will pay dearly for everything he did to you” Lin Lu promised Rose. “We Chinese have exquisite torture methods.”

“Thank you, my sweet, but I have some other ideas to punish my brother that I believe may be far worse than any torture you administered. You’ll see.”

“So, what happened next?”

Rose continued her story. We were left pretty much alone for a few days after our branding. I was delirious. Both my mind and body shut down. I would have gladly jumped into the boiling laundry vat to end my life. But my captors had too much invested in me to allow this to happen. Fatima, as I learned was the name of my “old woman” came in twice a day to put ointment on my burns. She very gently spread it around the tops on my thighs and beyond. Hard to believe, I welcomed her probing of my pussy, so far was I removed from even the slightest show of affection from anybody. And I climaxed, I am ashamed to say. Not just once, but each time she came to see me. I began to crave her visits. A few days later we were all assembled once more behind the building, certain we were in for some new, or old, form of punishment. Instead, we were thoroughly hosed down with warm water. Next, we were put back on the same old truck, still naked, for a very long ride to who knows where. Each of us was as crazy as the other, totally incoherent but hugging one another for comfort. It was night when we stopped. We were given burkass to wear and you would think we had been given silk gowns, so happy were we to finally wear clothing again. We shuffled into a large house. We were roughly examined by a nurse, at least she was dressed as one. Though none of us would have given a damn at this point, I saw that she wore rubber gloves. She was none to gentle when she did her vaginal and anal checks. Notes were taken by another woman. Our brands, which were in Arabic, were closely checked and called out by the nurse and recorded by the woman. A strap, like you get in a hospital, was attached to our wrists with more Arabic symbols on them. We were given some food and drink and told we could sleep on the carpeted floor. It was the last time we saw each other. Undoubtedly the drink contained a sedative as I remember falling asleep as soon as I lay down. I had a nightmare about being stabbed in my ass but in fact, I had been given a powerful shot that kept me out for several days. I awoke on a cot in a small, clean room. My head was spinning. I was no longer wearing the chador but instead had a floor length satin garment covering me. I felt very strange but soon discovered I had been bathed with some sweet smelling soap and my hair had been washed. My first thought was that I had died and was now being prepared for burial. I screamed.  Right away a young girl entered the room, clearly concerned about my condition. She hugged me and stroked my hair until I stopped shivering. She spoke to me in English and assured me that I was going to be all right. My mind was still swirling and I reacted to her kindness by kissing her on her lips. She did not resist and responded in kind.

“Umm, that was nice. I will be looking forward to more of this, but first we have to get you prepared.”

By then, I knew I was not dead, much to my relief. My head started to clear.

“Prepared? Prepared for what?” I asked

“To meet your husband, my dear. He is very anxious to see you, but we have many days to go before you can do that. Are you hungry?”

“Yes” was my simple answer, having no idea when I had eaten last, nor when I would ever eat again. But what the hell was this about a husband? Was I so far gone that I could have been married without even knowing it? Who was he? What was he like? Would he beat me? I began to examine my body but could not find any place that hurt. I did discover that my legs and armpits had been shaved. Also, I was wearing a tampon, as best as I could tell. Hell, didn’t I just have my period a few days ago at the camp from hell?

The girl returned with a tray of wonderful smelling food that made me wonder again if I had indeed died and had somehow, despite all my sins, got into heaven.

“I am Fazia. Sit up, I will feed you. Maybe when you are done, you will kiss me again. Yes?”

Oh my gosh, what had I done? Kissed a total stranger when I might be in a place that chopped your head off for such a thing. But she was smiling.

“I am so sorry, I did not know what I was doing. Please forgive me. Will I be punished?”

“No, you will not be punished, at least not for that. Other things, maybe. You are not in England any more. Woman’s rights do not exist here. Please remember that. Here, take some of this but go slowly, you have been fed intravenously since you came so you need to let your system adjust.”

I opened my mouth and let her put a spoonful of the most exquisite food I had ever had. It was soft and easy to chew. Next, she held up a chalice like cup to my lips and I sipped something I had no idea what it was, but it was delicious. Soon, I was finished and again I began to think all these wonderful things happening to me could only be in heaven. I did not think I would be whipped and raped in heaven so let myself peacefully fall asleep, happy that I no longer had to endure the hell I had been through. It was nice to be dead.

I was wakened by Fazia shaking me. I looked up at her and decided she must be an angel. A smiling angel that was leaning down to kiss me. It lasted much longer than before and she even put her tongue in my mouth. I responded in kind. Yes indeed, heaven was terrific. I was going to like it here.

“You are a naughty girl, Abal” she said with a smile and kissed me on my forehead. “ If Bathsheba ever caught us doing this we would be given laundry duty for a month, after we had received twenty lashes.”

Maybe I wasn’t in heaven after all.

“You called me Abal, What does that mean and why are you calling me that?”

“The sultan, your husband, gave you that name when he bought you. It means, ah, something like ‘wild rose’. She giggled and asked “Do you have thorns?”

More and more the idea that I was dead and gone to heaven seemed less likely. I had been bought? And given an Arabic name close to my own? And then there was the threat of twenty lashes. And who the hell was Bathsheba? She didn’t sound very nice. I began to shiver again, recalling the horrible laundry I had been forced to labor in. Was it possible I would be sent back there. I began to cry uncontrollably at the thought, and all that went with it.

Fazia hugged me again and whispered things in my ear, things I had no idea what she was saying until she finally said, in English, “What is the matter, Abal dear?”

Now frightened to death that I might not have escaped the pains of hell after all, I began to babble about being forced to work in the so called laundry with my fellow captives and describing the medieval methods used that made me want to kill myself .

Fazia kissed me again, softly, like a mother kisses a child.

“Hush, you are not making any sense. You must be hallucinating. We don’t use boiling vats to clean our clothes. I know you westerners think of us Arabs as very backward, but we have been using washers and dryers for many years, and I have never seen an iron that heats on a stove, though the servants do all the ironing here, and laundry too, except when I am being punished.”

“Am I a servant?”

“Oh no, my sweet, you are the sultan’s wife, number five if I am counting correctly. However, until Bathsheba decides, you will act as her servant. ”

“Who is Bathsheba?”

“She is the number one wife and she runs the harem. You do not want to cross her. Obey every one of her orders or you will suffer the lash, or worse. As the newest w1fe, you are at the bottom of the pile, and I hate to tell you, being there is not pleasant.

My head began to spin as all sorts of conflicting thoughts and images flashed through my mind and I fainted. Once more, I awoke to Fazia’s gentle stroking of my body. So what was it, I wondered, am I in heaven or hell, or someplace in between? The latter proved to be true.

Over the next few days, I was pampered beyond belief. Daily massages, soaking in perfumed tubs, manicures and pedicures, and getting my hair brushed several times a day until it had a lustrous shine. I even had someone change my tampons as needed. And I met the dreaded Bathsheba. She snapped out orders and everyone jumped to carry them out. Whatever the place I was in certainly ran efficiently. She ignored me at first, which I was quite happy about. But I did see her regularly slap the face of a girl not performing to her standards. All the time she was around, I was reminded of the “twenty lashes” Fazia had mentioned. On the second day of my recovery, she was waiting for me when I got out of the tub. I felt totally humiliated as I stood before her naked while she ran her eyes up and down my body. Then it was her hands running up and down my body, lingering on my breasts and ass. She did not say a word until she pointed her finger at my pussy.

“Still unclean, I see. When will it end?”

At first I had no idea what she was talking about thinking how the hell I was “unclean” after soaking in the tub for an hour as servants washed me all over. I did not know how to respond.

“I am talking about this” she snapped and pulled the white string hanging from my pussy.

“Sorry, I did not know what you meant. I think I am in my last day” I answered, hoping I was on the right track and wondering why she cared when my period was finished.

“Then I will schedule your meeting with the sultan for the day after tomorrow. Carry on” she said and left the room.

I talked to Fazia later about what happened and dared to ask her again where I was and what was to happen to me. She had refused to answer me before, obviously very frightened. But since my meeting with the sultan was now scheduled, she felt free to speak to me, for whatever reason. I found out that it had been over nine months since I had been kidnapped. I had been brought here about a week ago so I had been unconscious for a long time since I had left the camp, where I had actually spent over eight months. Eight months of living hell. As unhygienic as I believed the camp to be, it was actually carefully monitored to make sure none of us contracted any disease. Even the “gentlemen” that anally raped us every evening were inspected regularly to make sure they were free of any STD’s. Foremost was that we remained virgins, since our value decreased considerably if we were not. I was lucky, she said, that I had been bought by the sultan. She said he was a good man and had some respect for women, though in this world, “some” was a very relative term. Beating of women was limited to no more than twenty lashes a week. Torture was forbidden, except for very serious offenses, like trying to escape the harem. I laughed at this.

“So this is a harem? Where are the eunuchs?”

“Don’t be so stupid, Abal. The sultan does not like stupid women. Eunuchs are obsolete in most harems, at least the progressive ones.”

I had to stifle my laugh at this oxymoron of a harem being progressive.

“Why would you waste a productive man hanging around a bunch of women all day? Today, it is not an honor to be castrated. Those that are, are sold as servants, doing the most menial labor, like scrubbing floor and cleaning toilets. The best they can ever hope for is to rise to the position of laundry servants, washing and ironing clothes all day long.”

“Why would a man be castrated?”

“Several reasons. Sometimes, just because he has displeased his master, or mistress. The latter is fare more likely. He can also be sentenced to be castrated by the court for a variety of offenses, the most common one is trying to see under a woman’s veil.”

“You can get your balls cut off for trying to sneak a peak at a woman’s face? What if he tried to see more, like her boobs?”

“In that case, he would be beheaded” she answered casually.

“So when was I married?”

“I don’t know exactly, but probably a day or two after the sultan has taken delivery of you.”

“But I was unconscious then!”

“No matter, you don’t have to be present. The sultan signs a few papers agreeing to be responsible for you and the imam pronounces you man and wife. Simple as that. Like I said, you ain’t in England anymore.”

“What happens next?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“You have your meeting with the sultan, he consummates the marriage, and you are a virgin no more. Just be glad he is a righteous man and doesn’t demand strange things. And he is gentle, he even uses a lubricant when he does you in your bottom.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Silly, I am his fourth wife.”

So, two days later after being coiffed in an elaborate hairdo and dressed in the finest silk robes, I was no longer a virgin. It was fast and sweet. About ten minutes after entering his chamber, I was carrying his seed in my body and I was dismissed. As was the usual practice, the newest wife was summoned regularly for the first month or so and then it was back to the status quo, where number one wife spent the most time with him. The other wives were used mainly when number one was having her period or “had a headache”.

Compared to the camp, my life in the harem was wonderful. I had been trained to be obedient and submissive. So being a servant to Bathsheba was not a problem. As long as I could stay clean, eat, and avoid the lash I was happy. She had her own private quarters, unlike the rest of the wives who had small bedrooms in a dorm type arrangement. They generally spent the day in a sheer, flowing gown. Bathsheba dressed more formally, oftentimes in Western style clothes, but she was not averse to go around her flat naked. I, on the other hand, had to be completely naked while I was there. For several months, I literally waited on her from head to toe. Brushing and arranging her hair, often several times a day, bathing her every day while she lay back in her perfumed bath. After the first time, when I was nervous as hell, I found out she liked me to spend plenty of time on her breasts and between her legs. I did her nails, shaved her legs and armpits, wiped her after she used the toilet, and, of course, took care of her needs during “that time of the month”. I dressed her and did all her laundry and ironing. Compared to the camp, this was a breeze. Standing over an ironing board using a new Rowenta iron was actually a pleasure, in more ways than one. For some reason, Bathsheba liked to watch me iron her silks and satins and would stand behind me, pressed against my back as she fondled my body. It took all my concentration to keep from scorching a garment, a crime Fazia warned me would certainly bring out the lash. Still, I welcomed her presence and pressed my body back against hers. Being the slut I had become, I got very wet from her attention, to the point that I climaxed when she put her finger inside me. My penance for that was to be led back by the hand to her bedroom where I satisfied her with my tongue.  This became a daily routine for all the time I was there. In my state of mind during that period, I would have been happy to spend the rest of my life in the harem, pleasuring both the sultan and Bathsheba in any way they wished.

But my downfall, which turned out to be my release, was being called on by the sultan far beyond the first month. The sultan did enjoy a slow blow-job which I was more than happy to provide with the remembrance of the camp from hell so fresh in my mind. I would often spend hours on my knees with his cock in my mouth as he read the paper, watched television (he was nuts about football), or conducted business on the phone. Eventually he would decide that he was “done” and would cum in my mouth a minute later. I was shocked, and frightened to death, when one day, with me in my normal position sucking him, when Bathsheba walked into his office. I immediately pulled back but she, very casually told me to continue. She stood beside me and discussed budget items with him, running her fingers through my hair. Can you believe that? Beyond the sex, I discovered the sultan’s next passion, beside football, which turned out to be my ticket out of there. In truth, if I had been asked if I wanted to leave, I would have refused. My life was perfect, or so I thought in my demented state. The sultan loved to play chess. Ironically, I had learned to play from my brother, and gave the sultan a challenge, which he liked. We discussed many things as we played and he respected my intelligence. Wife number one was not happy, and I suffered for that. On the same day that we got each other off she was just as likely to beat me, sometimes over her knee with a hairbrush or when she was very mad, using the lash on my back and breasts. I willing submitted to this treatment so that I was not dismissed from the harem, and Bathsheba’s attention, good and bad. I actually came to love her.

Well, the rest is history. As I told you before, the sultan saved me from prison or even death by getting me out of the country. I did not leave willingly but Fazia warned me what a woman faced in an Arab prison prior to having her head cut off. Once more, I was disguised and subjected to long and roundabout travels to my destination, but this time it was back to England, a year and eight months after my kidnapping.

“Thank you far sharing that with me, Rose my dear” Lin Lu said and placed her head between Rose’s legs. She gently licked the soft lips until she felt Rose relax. She did not expect her to orgasm after just emptying her soul for the very first time.

“Please, my dear, let me go kill him now. I will take my time – cut his balls off one by one, chop his prick into several pieces, then stuff it all down his throat and let him choke on his own genitals. Pretty please” Lin Lu pleaded.

“No, sweetheart, I have a better plan, one that will slowly kill him for years to come. And we will benefit from it too, I promise. Not get back down there and finish what you started, bitch.”

My Goodness!

Must admit to recently losing enchantment with my blog. I'd established it as a commercial-free sort of round table where Transvestites and Cross Dressers could speak their minds without shame or embarrassment.  Where we could let our hair (or wigs) down freely.
But after eighteen months,  I was starting to get the idea that most of us were still deeply entrenched in our closets and didn't want to come out. I was getting readership in larger quantities than I ever expected, but at the same time was hardly getting any participation at all.
Now?  I have to thank Belinda for what she has accomplished single handed - well almost, considering she is reliant on input from others.  Who'd have thunk it?  A story by committee?  Bloody wonderful Belinda.  Thank you.
Mind you?  I'm curious.  Like I said recently, I think that a story needs a rough ending before you ever start. Secondly? I feel that a story must have some 'conflict'.  It's not necessary that the conflict be started baldly - but the its resolution should be the end.  Like I say?  I'm curious.
Saw Man of La Mancha last week.  Believe it or don't, neither my wife nor I had ever seen it performed in any media.  Enjoyed the hell out of it.
Apart from walking my dog early yesterday, we spent practically the whole day watching the Olympics.  Must admit that I was impressed - and quite emotional at times.  It just seems to me that it has become truly commercial. I actually attended the Olympics in Sydney. Thought the opening fantastic.  Nowadays?  Just bloody spectacular.  Something for the media to bloat themselves on.
Know damn well that we'll go back to watching, but after yesterday, we decided to shut the TV off until evening today.  One of those days?  I sort of wish they'd have the actual athletes perform more in the opening ceremonies. - but that's wishful thinking.  Would have to be better than having them do nothing but walk around a track.
I haven't given any of Rosie's 'Bits' in the last few weeks - but thought I'd give a few more today, as well as the next episode in my current serial.
Again you guys (Gals?  Sissies?) -  participate!

A Pretty Girl is Like a Malady

Begining of Part 3

"Great!"  Suzie said.  "Comfortable Cecilia?"

I was embarrassed, but comfortable, so nodded.  She then proceeded to take special care in making tiny marks around the top curve of the breast forms, but on my skin.  Then she had me put my hands between the breasts and the bra material and warned me not to let them move, while she took the bra off.  Then she took her marker and made some more marks around the bottom curve.

Then, as I said, we spent hours trying different bras on me.  I actually had lunch (they sent out for a pizza) in my boysenberry 'discreet' model bra – the one with the low décolletage and lace embroidery, while Suzie served some customers.  When I went into the car wearing one of my new purchases, it felt almost normal. Carole started speaking almost immediately.

"You'll be meeting her tonight, but I'd like you to meet a friend of mine – Shannon - in her professional capacity.  She's really nice and a good friend of mine. I'll expect you to behave now, she's very good looking and kinda flirty – but I don't want I don't want you flirting back now!"

Flattered by this reference to my masculinity I said "Sure! What's on tonight?"

"Just bringing a few friends of mine over that I especially want you to meet.  Nothing formal."

"That'll be nice.  I hope you're not going to any trouble.?" I said.

"You better make damn sure that I'm not put to any trouble!" she said ominously.  Then her charming smile came back. "I'm sorry! I do get so bossy!  You don't mind, do you?"

"Never!" I replied.  "I think you're wonderful.  Can do no wrong in MY eyes!"

She smiled. "You're such a sweet little sissy – I'm sorry, if I'm calling you Cecilia now, you must be a girl, mustn't you?"

"I guess so, Carole,"  I agreed abjectly, staring down at the floorboards. Right at that point, I remembered something.  Sighed a big sigh of relief, because I was beginning to have an idea of what happened if I did something wrong around my young niece.

"Carole?" I spoke meekly. "I'm  very very sorry.  But I almost forgot something.  Please forgive me?"

"Of course dear Cecilia. Not when you ask me like that! What was it?"

"I had to remind you about a paddle?"

"Oh!  You ARE a good little girl!  Mmmm! Could give you a big hug!  Your timing is perfect!  You're forgiven!"

I'd no idea where we were.  In our travels that morning we'd covered a fair distance and I knew we were well out of Felton.  Was somewhat surprised when we drove into a large modern mall. Carole let out a whoop of pleasure as she found a parking spot right outside Nordstroms.  "There's something that doesn't happen every day!" she crowed.

I joined her in walking into the store. Like most stores of this kind, the cosmetics section was right there as we walked in.  She immediately made a bee-line for  one of the sections. "Yo Shannon!" she called to a pretty auburn haired girl standing behind the counter.

 She was a pert little thing, very much the typical cosmetic sales clerk.  Rather heavy on the makeup with some freckles just showing under the makeup.  She recognized Carole immediately, flashed a big smile and waved. "Yo yourself!  Is this the famous uncle Ron?"

"Well, kinda." Carole said, then added to my everlasting shame. "But I prefer that she be called Cecilia now.  I'm teaching him how to be a girl."

Shannon giggled. "Hi Cecilia! Nice to meet you. You know?  In my professional opinion?  You'd make quite a nice looking girl. But no offense, I'd say 'woman' more than 'girl'"

"Her professional opinion?" Carole sneered happily.  "Works part time here for three months, and thinks she's a hotshot!"

"Aw shut up!" Shannon retorted. "Cecilia?  Is there anything I can do for you?"

Before I could stutter an answer, Carole spoke up.  "Maybe! He's wearing a pair of mom's panties, and we've just been out getting him fitted for bras,"  she said casually. "Here Cecilia!  Open up your shirt a little at the front.  Let Shannon see your pretty bustier!"

Shamefaced, I quickly obeyed by facing Shannon across the counter and undoing one of my shirt buttons and spreading the shirt wider to reveal the material of the bustier.

"That's not enough Cecilia!  A little more please!"  Carole said behind me.

From the tone of her voice I knew that I'd better be quick, so widened the shirtfront gap by following her orders.

"Obedient little thing, isn't she?" Shannon said mockingly, poking a finger with a long fingernail done in a garish copper into the opening of my shirt then, Teal!  How nice! And the lace is lovely!   You have such nice taste Cecilia!"

"Yes she does.  Picked that out all by herself.  Right Cecilia?"  Carole said.  Then she added. "Know what Shannon?  She IS obedient. Just reminded me that I should go and buy her a proper paddle – a spanking paddle.  You don't look too busy.  Want to experiment on her while I go look?  I'll only be about ten minutes tops.  Wouldn't that be nice Cecilia?"

I wasn't quite understanding what she was talking about, but nodded my head rapidly.

"Bloody marvelous!" Shannon said. "Estee Lauder has this presentation for some of their skin care products – but I've been looking for an older type lady to agree with being my model.  But I'll need her for fifteen minutes.  Okay Carole?"

"Her time is your time," Carole responded laughing.  "Cecilia?  I'll expect you over in the lingerie section as soon as she's finished with you."  With that she gave me a tiny wave, and took off.

"Okay Cecilia?" Shannon was saying.  "Hoist your bum up onto that chair there would you?  It has a swivel.  Then swivel it around so that you're facing me.  Then move it forward, so that I can reach your face without stretching.  I'm a short ass and don't want to be breaking my back reaching across This counter to get to you."

"What's this all about Shannon?" I asked nervously.

She was bustling about and pulling stuff up onto the counter, so was only paying me about half of her attention.

"Easy.  Don't worry.  I'll have you looking nice in no time. Though I want to pluck a few of your eyebrows. Would that be okay?"

"Pluck some of my eyebrows?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yes.  It won't hurt – maybe just a little.  Then I'm going to make you up.  As you'll be my first model for this stuff, I'll be giving you a mess of freebies.  So lets get started.  Would you lean forward please Cecilia?"

While she'd been bustling around I'd refastened my shirt and had actually started to recover some of my composure. It may sound strange, but the idea that I was about to be made up in a major department store with ladies walking all about had taken a long time to soak in.  It did now, though and I stared at her in terror.

She read my mind I think. A kind expression softened her face. "How long you been with Carole now Ron?  A day?"

"Just about." I replied.

She sighed. "I don't want to do this if you're unwilling.  But if you're not?  I'd suggest you run away, somewhere far, and hide.  Carole can be very tough to get along with if you get on her bad side."

She leaned forward and spoke confidentially. "Ron?  She's going to have you wearing dresses pretty soon.  Do you know that?"

"Yes." I said simply, and stuck my face forward.

She patted my shoulders. "That's a girl Cecilia.  Just wait!  You're going to love this!"

As she demonstrated a new eyebrow removal technique involving some sort of electronic wand, she started raising her voice a little describing what was going, which started drawing the interest of some spectators, who started crowding in a little closer, asking questions.  She actually made some sales I think.

I must admit that it was relatively painless, though I did let out the occasional 'ouch', which drew some scornful remarks from one young woman about what babies men were, which was followed by a rejoinder from her friend that I wasn't much of a man as far as she could see.

This was embarrassing enough, but when I saw the shape she had structured my eyebrows in, I was aghast.  It wasn't the perfect arc that a lot of women have.  It was more like a fine arc going across the bone behind it, then flaring up a little towards the temple.  She had totally removed all of the eyebrows close to the ridge of my nose.  This had been bad enough, but the true humiliation began when she started in on the actual cosmetics.

The onlookers had been puzzled by the fact that I was getting my eyebrows plucked, but left it at that.  When they saw the foundation being applied, then followed by blush, then powder – all followed by eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara – a few mocking comments started, though as my face became more and more female, new attendees probably thought I was a girl – even asking me questions as I progressed.  Unfortunately, my voice gave me away.  You'd have thought that this would entail more mockery but, if anything, it went the opposite way – with a growing audience coming to see the 'guy getting a makeover'.  The questions were now more like.  "See!  How do YOU feel having to go through all this bother, to make yourself attractive, huh?"  But there wasn't any spite in them now – more jocularity than anything else.

Shannon was very careful with my lips. "I'm going to suggest some collagen for you dearie. Your lips are kinda pinched. Plump them up a little?  You'll have a gorgeous mouth!"  She used a fine pencil to outline the form she wanted my lips to take, then a brush to paint in between the lines.  I shuddered at the dark shade she was applying but was too scared to comment.  She then went over my mouth with a sort of wax that put a high gloss on them.

The face that stared back from the mirror she held in front of me was a girl – but the hair wasn't- nor were the clothes. She was finished with me now, and gave me a complimentary travel case with a lot of Estee Lauder products in it. "Thanks a lot Cecilia" she said.  "Got to take care of those customers now.  See you tonight?"

"I guess so.  Thanks Shannon," I said, and headed for the lingerie department where I could see Carole had just arrived.

She was delighted at my new appearance, but showed a great deal of concern for my feelings. "You must feel awkward dear.  You're starting to look like a woman in men's clothes.  Want to go home?"

"Oh yes Carole.  Please?"

She smiled and gave me a little hug. "Maybe in a little while?  If you're good?"

The little while encompassed me having to go and buy a wig – woman's naturally.  Actually?  The stand where she took me was outside Nordstroms in the mall proper.  So once again, I'm having to sit while various styles and colors were tried on me. The girl and Carole having a great time.  Again, it was strange.  With my cosmetics being the way they were, if I was wearing a wig, the shoppers past by without a second look – I was simply another girl trying on wigs.  If, however, I was between try ons, I was a made up young male, trying on women's wigs – which drew more than my share of stares and sniggers.  Naturally, I began preferring to be wearing a wig and was quite pleased when Carole picked a fairly conservative ash blonde, wavy style, with just a touch of a flip at the back.  She also picked a flashier blonde style, slightly longer than shoulder length – but put that in her bag.

Once I was fitted, I felt more comfortable.  Sure, I was still in men's clothes, but apart from my shoes, I looked better than a lot of the real women who shopped in the mall.  And the shoes were next. I got rid of my socks at Carole's 'suggestion' and replaced them with a pair of knee-highs – and bought two pair of flats – one tan and the other white. While there, she bought me a cheap handbag. My wallet, cards, photos, and cash were put in it and my wallet discarded. After my male shoes were discarded in a trash bin, I was almost totally assimilated into the female customers that surrounded me in the mall.

The lingerie purchases were a breeze after that.  I even got up enough confidence to question Carole as to why we hadn't bought all of the panties, slips, garter belts, camisoles and suchlike at Suzanne's.  She looked at me as if I was crazy. "I knew you needed a custom fit for your bras dear – but you must think I'm stupid if you think I'd pay her prices for this kind of stuff.  Plus? I thought you'd been embarrassed enough there.  Wasn't that nice of me dear?"

I was stunned by the illogic in her last comment, but had enough sense to agree enthusiastically, even while she looked at me with quietly mocking eyes.

We walked back through Nordstroms on our way back to the car, waving to Shannon as we passed.  She smiled, but was busy with a customer, so we just climbed into the car when we got there and took off.

Then, I'll be damned if Carole didn't confound me again.  I was truly exhausted.  The day seemed like it had lasted for ever – and I guess that the emotional roller coaster I'd been on was a large factor as well.  I was looking forward to getting home.  I knew there was some kind of party thing with her friends that evening, but figured I'd have time for a nap.  The next thing I know, she's driving into a gas station and stopping at the rest rooms.  And staring at me again!  Her voice as cold as ice.

"Honest to god Ron! Do you realize what you look like?  Damned pansy, that's what!  Suppose some of my friends are at the house, waiting for us?  What are they going to think?  Covered in makeup!  Wearing women's undergarments!  Wearing a goddam wig!  Go in to that restroom and see if you can possibly come back looking like a man!"

I know that my mouth unhinged enough that I heard a crick noise in my jaw. What was she up to!  It was almost as if she'd totally forgotten who was actually responsible for my appearance!  But there again, wasn't there always the possibility that my nightmare had ended?  Maybe she had two separate characters who didn't know what the other one did?   Maybe I was off the hook?

Afraid that she was going to punish me for taking her up on her offer, or worse yet, rescind it, I slowly worked my way out of the car.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?" I asked before I exited the car completely.  She just waved her hand at me in dismissal.

It took a bit of work until I remembered that I still had the travel bag that Shannon had given me in my pocket.  Was there some cleansing cream in it?  Yesss!  I used it liberally, then washed thoroughly with soap and water, and soon I was back to normal.  My eyebrows were definitely on the feminine side, but I found an eyebrow pencil in the travel bag as well and rubbed a little bit on the end of my forefinger. Smudging it gently over my remaining eyebrows gently seemed to do the trick.  I let out a sigh of relief.  I was looking almost like my old self again!

Yet?  At the same time there was a certain amount of regret?  I was going to take the bustier off, but figured it was too much trouble getting those little fasteners undone.  I could struggle with it better back at the house.  There was even a little regret at the thought of giving it up – for some reason, I'd started to enjoy the restricted feeling it imparted.  I gave myself one last look in the mirror, squared my shoulder and rejoined Carole.

"Hi uncle Ron!" she greeted me. Big smile just like before.

We drove along and I started getting to recognize some of the area and knew we couldn't be too far from the house.  All of a sudden, she stopped and did a quick 'U' turn then drove into a sort of open courtyard.

"This is  where my trustees office is," she explained. "I saw Miss Manter's car parked, so think it might be a good idea to go in and introduce yourself.  Maybe make an appointment to meet with them all?  And bring up the point that maybe we shouldn't have to meet with them weekly?"

"Okay Carole.  I'll try" I said enthusiastically ( Was that a flash of the ice lady I saw in her eyes for a second?  But I must have been wrong, because she smiled happily and thanked me).

"Aren't you coming in? I asked.

"No uncle.  It's probably better if I don't" she said.

I shrugged and went in.

Only Miss Manter of the law firm was there working with her secretary. A very pleasant, attractive  lady in her late thirties, early forties, she greeted me warmly after I introduced myself, and we chatted for a short time, her asking me about my trip and what I thought of Felton.  Getting a little nervous about leaving Carole in the car for too long, I asked for an appointment and was delighted to find that there was time available for me two days later.

I also brought up the point of the necessity for the weekly meetings now that I was available.  She smilingly agreed that they were probably not mandatory now that an adult male was available.  "You know? "  she said. "I don't want to sound like a sexist or that I'm against the young or anything like that.   But dealing with an adult male will make me, and my partners much happier.  Carole is as smart as a whip, very level headed for her age."  She smiled.  "But young girls can be so scatterbrained at times" she said,  "And we were just truly wanting weekly meetings to keep a tight rein on her.  Now that you're here?" 

She was smiling warmly, and  I got the feeling that she was coming on to me.  I was quite flattered. Maybe, I thought,  I could approach her for a date when I met with her and her partners  two days hence.  Smiling and shaking her hand, I thanked her and left.  Went back out to the car and preened a little bit when I described how I'd won the lady over.  Carole was effusive in her thanks, saying a number of times how secure she felt with a male around the house. I felt as if the previous embarrassments and humiliations had all been nothing but a dream.

With a sigh of relief I recognized some buildings I knew were close to the house, then we were on the street. Suddenly Carole let out an excited squeal. "There's Sandy!"  She squealed, sounding like a little girl.  "You'll have to meet her!"  With that, she drove up close to a woman and stopped.  Lowered the window and shouted out "Sandy! Sandy! Come and meet my uncle Ron!"

Sandy turned out to be a neighbor.  A very attractive blonde of medium build and a very pleasant demeanor. Her hair was short, almost like a cap.  I saw the tan that indicated more than just a little outside activity and the very fine lines around the corners of her eyes that indicated she was older than the mid twenties I'd originally thought.

What amazed me more than anything else was the quiet authority she exuded.  Wasn't forceful or anything, but Carole obviously adored her and acted almost like a little girl.  Sandy took this adoration calmly, and talked to Carole like an affectionate aunt. When she discovered that I'd just arrived the previous day, she warned me.

"Watch out for this one.  She can be a holy terror if you give her half a chance.  Her mother spoiled her.  She definitely needs a male presence and a little discipline."  She grinned a delectable grin. "Maybe more than a little?"

I laughed at this as if I thought it idle chitchat – and we talked for another few minutes before she excused herself – but not before Carole invited her to the house that night – about eight.  She smiled and accepted, but only on the condition that we attended a small dinner party she was giving the following week end.

Carole was so nice after we left Sandy.  Saw how sleepy I was and insisted I take a nap – she'd make dinner!  I gladly agreed, but only on the condition that I do the clean up and the dishes afterward. She gave me a large happy kiss for being so nice.  "I hate clean up!" she said.

I went to lie down. But couldn't get the bustier unfastened.  Finally, aggravated beyond endurance, I went and asked her if she'd release me. She laughed and threatened that she'd keep me prisoner in it if I didn't promise to behave.  I gladly agreed, and she set me free – but only after a struggle.  She did comment in a bemused way that the color really suited me, and I blushed for some reason.

I set the clock for an hour and was well refreshed when I awoke. Went and showered and shaved. (I didn't really need to, as I have a very light growth, and am practically hairless on my arms, body, and legs). Nonetheless I felt wonderful!  After I dried myself, I went to put on underpants, but on a sudden impulse went and picked a pair of satin teal-colored panties. They felt so wonderful on! I thought for a minute, then decided that as nobody would see them?  What difference did it make?  Put on my best pair of tan slacks and a good yellow sports shirt. Tan socks, nicely shined brogues, my best watch, and I was ready for whatever the evening would bring.  Whistling cheerfully, I went downstairs

And now for another few of Rosie's 'Bits'. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX#55

“Oh, do take your apron off,” Sylvie said, “It’s not so often that your mother comes to visit.”

“I’d rather not, honey,” I said.

“How about that,” Sylvie, my wife, turned to my mother, “To think I couldn’t get him to wear one for the life of me only months ago. Look at him now, just won’t take it off.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Jake, I know you’re a very helpful husband even if you don’t wear your apron all the time,” my mom said, “You don’t have to prove yourself all the time.”

My mind floated to my mother’s last visit and the same I felt when I had to wear that very same apron. Wearing it for Sylvie was one thing, but I was too ashamed to wear this feminine piece of clothing – no matter how practical I was told it was – in front of my mother. It looked just like a dress, I argued, with its full skirt that reached below my knees, with its full bib, lacy collar and even short, lace-trimmed sleeves. Funny, but I had to be threatened with a spanking to put it on whereas now, keeping it on was protecting me from further humiliation.

“No, it’s okay,” I said, feeling myself blush “I rather like it.”

“But you look all flushed,” my mom said, “How can you possibly say you aren’t hot under it?”

“He insisted on wearing this one specifically,” Sylvie replied, then turned to me again, “If you’re so insistent on wearing an apron, why don’t you at least put on that small one, the one my mother gave you last week?”

Generally, I’d love to put on that minimal, hostess type apron instead of the full one I was wearing as it was in fact getting hot, but I preferred to remain covered. Sadly, it was not to be.

“Martha gave you an apron?” my mom cooed, “Oh, I’d just love to see it.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Sylvie said.

“No, but…” I tried to protest, but she was already off to the kitchen.

“Just stop being silly for a second,” mom said and reached behind my back to untie the bow of my apron. I squealed and stepped back, though she did manage to grab a hold of my apron strings and it started to unfold. I succeeded in stopping it from coming undone and was halfway through retying it again when I realized I was only postponing the unavoidable and prolonging my agony. Hastily, I pulled it over my neck, bunched it up and threw it on the floor beside my bewildered mother.

“There, it’s off,” I said dryly.

“Dear God, Jake,” she said, eyes open in surprise, “Is that a skirt you’re wearing?”

“Yes, mom, it is,” I replied, “I’m wearing a skirt.”

“But why on Earth…” her voice trailed off.

I was beginning to loose my temper. I would even have preferred if she openly mocked me for wearing a skirt under my apron.

“Oh, for crying out loud, don’t act so surprised,” I said, “As if you hadn’t any idea.”

“But it was hidden by your apron,” she said, as if she was apologizing.

“Yeah, but my apron didn’t hide my nylons, did it? Or these high heeled shoes? The sleeves of my blouse?”

She kept staring at me without a word.

”Jesus, mom, look at me. I’m even wearing makeup. How come you’re so surprised to find me wearing a skirt along all that?” I asked.

“I assumed you had some sort of shorts on,” she said, “I mean, it would explain why you’re wearing pantyhose. I thought maybe a pair of shorts would be more comfortable for housework than full length pants.”

“Oh, this skirt is comfortable enough, I’m not complaining,” I said, “Though what about the shoes? The blouse? And the makeup?”

“I did wonder about the shoes,” she said, “And the blouse does seem a bit dressy just for housework, but excuse me for assuming you were just trying to look nice for your mother. The makeup goes with the territory, I guess, when you’re stuck with wearing your wife’s old clothes.”

“My old clothes?” Sylvie laughed in astonishment, “You mean you haven’t told her?”

“Told me what?” mother asked.

“I’ve been buying him new clothes for almost three months now,” Sylvie replied, “I thought he’d have mentioned something.”

“But if you have your own clothes, why aren’t you wearing them?” my mother turned to me.

Shamefully, I dropped my gaze to the floor.

“I am,” I said.

“But then why…” my mother’s voice trailed off.

“Everything your son is wearing, Jane,” Sylvie chirped, “His own. Or, better said – her own.”

“Her?” my mother repeated.

“Well I can’t really keep on referring to her as ‘him’ when he’s wearing skirts, can I? Turns too many heads,” my wife said.

My mother stared at us in astonishment for another moment.

“I’m sorry, but just what on earth is going on here?” she said finally.

“Oh come on, Jane, I’d expect you to be the least surprised of all the people,” Sylvie said, “It was your idea after all, to sell Jake’s clothes when he lost his job. Seeing how he only wore pricy designer stuff, we made quite a hefty sum on eBay. And remember how it turned out that we could sell almost every item of clothing he owned? I offered to get some cheaper outfits off eBay to replace the ones we sold, but it was you that persuaded me to give him my old stuff.”

“Old jeans and sweaters. I meant unisex clothes,” my mom interjected, then pointed her palm at my direction, “Not this.”

“Last time you saw Jake, he was wearing a pair of my pants that zipped up at the back, a blue silk blouse, nylons and mid heeled open toed shoes,” Sylvie retorted, “and I don’t remember you complaining much. If anything, you complimented his full apron.”

“I assumed he was just trying to look nice for my visit,” mom defended herself, “Given the fact he had only your clothes to choose from, I thought he did a rather good job. As far as the apron is concerned – it was very practical of him to wear one. Of course it did look feminine, but the fuller an apron is, the better it protects the clothes.”

“Of course it does,” Sylvie said, “

XXXXXXXXXXXX#56

The transition was gradual and with the fashion nowadays, how could I really tell if my son was actually wearing women’s clothing or just following the latest trends. Only when I recognized the hound’s tooth pattern of the material showing under his jacket sleeve did I realize he was in fact wearing his wife’s blouse. The pantyhose was another puzzling discovery, but like before, I didn’t raise the issue. Times are changing, I suppose, and if men are waxing their bodies now, well, what’s another small step in the feminine? To tell the truth, at first I thought he was just wearing ankle socks made of a different material, and never paid no mind, really. I did wonder about the colors but you know – who am I to judge. I never caught more than a glimpse between his pants and his shoes, but these glimpses seemed to rise higher and higher up his leg until one day I got a very good view of his nylon shod knee popping out between his soft leather boot and his gray checkered shorts. Not even knee highs would have reached that high up his legs. I was surprised, of course, but at the same time, it seemed awkward to comment after having passed so many opportunities by then.

What would I say, anyway? ‘Are you wearing pantyhose?’ when it was patently obvious that he was, and had been for some time, though at the same time he seemed to be very discreet about it. As I said, only glimpses of nylon. But then again – wasn’t I being rude? My son was beginning to become dressed more nicely than he ever had been before and I never as much as said a single word to let him know that I at least acknowledged the change in his looks? I didn’t want him to think I didn’t care about that at all – something I started worrying about when I realized I had ignored the fact he was wearing a blouse I praised so highly when I had seen it on his wife not a month ago.

As if sensing my predicament, my son made it very easy for me when I visited them next time. This time I could catch more than a glimpse of his flower-patterned pantyhose between his loafers and his blue silk capris.

Not only did I commend him on his choice of pantyhose, but I also said I liked his bracelet and his necklace. I probably should have stopped at that point as I could see him grow uncomfortable but I though he was just being modest, so commended his capris and his white sleeveless blouse too. He blushed and when his wife came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, almost jumped with fear.

Trying to diffuse the awkward situation, I made what I believed was a humorous observation. Seeing how his wife – in her black leggings and black high heeled boots, wearing a black wide-necked sweater that exposed her broad shoulders – loomed above him, I jokingly suggested that he too should wear high heels, to catch up with his wife. My son was used to my sense of humor and chuckled with me, albeit nervously, whereas his wife took me seriously.

“Go on,” she merely nodded after our laughter subsided.

I watched in astonishment as my son scurried off and returned a minute later, now three inches taller on account of his white court shoes. At that point I sensed that something was amiss, but not wanting to put my son in any more embarrassing situations, I didn’t know how to approach the subject.

After that, I was more reserved at commenting his looks, though he seemed to be quite comfortable in his wife’s blouses and pants. I did still say if he was wearing something I found becoming – especially if I had remember commending it when worn by his wife – but tried not to be too indiscreet about it. Even though I could see the ruffles below his neck, I wouldn’t comment on his blouse until he took of his jacket. Or no matter how diaphanous his blouse was, I didn’t comment on the lacy camisole he was wearing underneath.

My daughter who had come to visit after a lengthy absence had pointed out that her brother had become quite the feminine creature, though at that time, I felt as if she was just teasing him. I became so used to his new image it didn’t strike me the least odd to see him drop his handbag on the couch then sit down crossing his legs and display his high heeled shoes to me. Then again, you probably don’t see many men wearing pantyhose and polka dot blouses.

Still, I can’t say I was prepared for my birthday dinner. It was a small event, I had only invited my daughter and my son and his wife. I think I’m not exaggerating if I say that my daughter didn’t recognize her own brother – nor would have I if his wife hadn’t led him through my door. His brown hair had been painted jet black, his eyebrows that had always been on the delicate side were now twin sharply pronounced thin arches. His cheeks were reddened, his eyelashes thick with mascara, his lips glistening red. The thing that surprised me the most – though it really shouldn’t have, as his sister pointed out – is that he was wearing a dress. A very pretty one too, a strapless black silk creation with a long, pleated full skirt that spread around him prettily when he sat down.

I really was at loss of words and when I commended my son on his pretty dress, remarking that I don’t remember seeing his wife wear it before, she replied that the dress was my son’s own. It was a tumultuous evening for all of us. My daughter accused my son of being a sissy. When – upon being asked, how his workmates looked at him wear women’s clothing – he confessed he quit his job in order to stay at home, she became really angry with him for squandering the college education she was deprived of. As for me – I certainly didn’t appreciate him ruining my birthday party with this little surprise of his, no matter how pretty his dress was. It was only at that point that someone came to his defense, when his wife explained that he didn’t have much say in the matter.

However our passions cooled down eventually and the evening ended very pleasantly. The very next day, my son appeared at the door again, dressed in a cute red tartan skirt and a red short sleeved sweater and without much further ado started cleaning up my house. This was his – or better put, his wife’s present to me. Not that he would just clean my house once, but each week from that day on. I could tell he was struggling at first but after two months he became proficient enough and extended his services to his sister who moved back to town. She wasn’t too comfortable with her brother swishing around her in skirts and dresses but with his homemaking skills at her disposal, she soon gotten used to it and even donated a bunch of her old clothes to his wardrobe.

Interactive Story 2

There was a good response to my interactive story questions, so I have written the first part of the story consistent with your answers. It was almost evenly divided between those who wanted Miss Hancock Mid 50's, dressed in a long black dress and hair in a bun and those who preferred Stylish in a tight sexy dress not like a maid at all so I Miss Hancock will sometime wear her uniform dress, and sometimes let her hair down. The overwhelming choice for Robert's new name was Jennifer. The most popular answer for how the outcome of the spanking was The young maid Marsha enters, laughing surprised at the ridiculous sight which was chosen by 35% while She caresses his sore bottom.. "Oh did I spank you too hard?" referring to Miss Hancock was preferred by 31%, so once again I have tried to accommodate both answers in the story. So here is the first installment. I hope the writing isn't too clunky, and the story is fun. After the story comes a new set of questions, and the second installment will be written based upon your choices.

ROBERT MEETS THE MAIDSTAFF --PART ONE

We start in the middle.   Robert has been left in the house of his fiance's mother a large mansion with maid servants for a few days while the Ladies visit an old friend.   He had been looking forward to the run of the house, but a series of events have left him confused and overwhelmed.   He finds himself pantied and put in a skirt by the Head Maid,  Miss Hancock, and just recently completed a task that is certainly a maid's task! cleaning the downstairs bathroom.  He sits in the hall in a daze, wondering how this has happened to him so quickly. 

He could hardly believe what was happening. Hadn't he just two days ago wished his fiance Donna a pleasant trip along with Her Mother, and Sister, and anticipated a jolly time in the fine house. ….

But events or fate or plain bad luck had intervened.   The Ladies were only a few hours gone.   I had been exploring looking in Mrs Garner’s room.  She had closets full of clothes and drawers full of lingerie.  Frankly I   was mesmerized.  Since I was a child  fine lingerie could do that to me.   I  didn’t even notice Miss Hancock entering,  watching, smiling the way a cat might smile, the first time it noticed a fat juicy mouse on the porch.   She must have quietly come up behind me.  I was admiring the silkiness of a pair of exquisite white satin panties with delicate lace trim, feeling it against my cheek, when I felt a hand on my waist, and practically jumped, but now two strong hands held me firmly about the waist.

“Those panties are lovely, aren’t they?  Mistress has the most beautiful lingerie don’t you think?”

As She pressed upon my waist to turn me around so I faced her.   I was pink with embarrassment of course, but also there was a certain excitement in the room.  Miss Hancock, who Donna called Amelia had been in the house for many years.  As other times that I had met her,  she wore a long black skirt and an white silk blouse.  Her hair was raven black, and looked to be long, though She kept it pinned up in a rather severe style.  She stood so close to me, a woman of 45, a beautiful woman, who held me now tightly about the waist, and was smiling at me in a way that should have worried me.  I however was taken with the proximity, the smell, the presence of this physically powerful woman, with perfect skin and makeup.

Umm..  I just noticed this underwear… it must have slipped off the bed.. I was just retrieving it”

“Don’t lie to me Robert.  It is not nice to lie.”   She warned quietly,

 Now taking the same white satin panties… and touching my cheek through them..caressing it.

“But these are Mistress’s panties,  they are not for you.   Come with me.”.

and like that She took me down the hall to her own room. 

 I should have resisted… I..  well… I can’t explain it.. She was such a presence! And I have never been able to resist the power of raven haired beauties.

  

It was as if Miss Hancock  had hypnotized me.  Before I knew it, I was wearing a pair of black silk panties.   Her panties!  She told me they were a gift, but that I needed to return the  favor.   Before I knew it, my excitement obvious and shameful, I was wearing a plain navy blue pleated skirt and a somewhat feminine looking light blue sweater.  She was began calling me Jennifer as soon as She pantied me, and told me that I could repay the gift of panties, by relieving the maids’ of a little work so that could have a nice easy day.  I was instructed to go down and clean the downstairs bathroom off the hall. 

“A small matter Jennifer.   A token of your respect.  The Mistress isn’t back for 3 days.   I think you and I may have some fun this weekend.”   And She smiled.. that same smile I would come to know so well.  

 And so I started to clean the bathroom.   I however did a very quick job,  I mean,  standing in the bathroom myself with the cleaning supplies She had given me, in a skirt and panties,  I felt ridiculous.   Out of her presence, it was as if a spell was wearing off.  I needed to speak with her.   To explain that she had made some mistake about me.  I was Donna’s fiancé,   an important guest.   She needed to be more respectful.

 I was sitting  in the upstairs hallway thinking of how I needed to straighten things out when my revery was interrupted by the dong of a handbell, and Her voice  “Jennifer,  Come Here Now”  loudly declaimed.   And despite myself, my resolve I  felt a tingle of fear.  Was she angry but why..  maybe I should do as she asks, make sure there isn’t any misunderstanding. 

I hurried down heading toward the parlor from which it appeared the summons was from.  Just outside the parlor door I ran into Alice, one of the maid’s under Miss Hancock’s superivison.  I was embarrassed and flustered, and I practically knocked her down in my haste, and then realized that she was starring not at me, but at my skirt.   I blushed, but she seemed to ignore it, only saying.

“Miss Hancock is quite cross, you better get in there!”

And so it was a moment later that I found myself standing in front of Miss Hancock who was seated in a large stuffed chair.  She looked as I had never seen her before.   A tight stylish blue silk dress that just barely reached her knees as She was seated there, sheer silky stockings, and heels.   Her dark tresses were indeed long enough to cover her neck fully.  Her ample breasts pushed at the silky dress.  She was lovely, but her face clearly showed aggravation.

Well, She exclaimed,  Marsha  (the youngest maid, a girl of 18)  has examined the bathroom., and tells me it is filthy, the tub unscrubed, filth behind the toilet, the towels every which way.   A disgrace!  We had an agreement, and you have failed to fulfill it with a task than any 18 year old maid servant can perform.  Disgraceful!” 

 She looked at me standing in front of her with such disdain that my legs were trembling.  All thoughts, all resolve seemed to leave me.

“Over my knee now!”

 I came to in confusion as she lowered me over her silken lap  She didn’t say a word just roughly lifted the  skirt and began to spank me hard on my pantied bottom over and over while I begged. 

“Please don’t do this.  Don’t spank me like a child!”

“I shall you little sissy.  I shall!”  And she only began to spank me harder. 

Oh it was too much!  I began to kick a bit in frustration.  Her one arm held me strongly.   Too my greater humiliation, I could feel Her firm thighs beneath me, and knew I was excited.  I only hoped that she could not tell. 

“I began to complain on the verge of tears,  don’t please I am sorry.. I will do better ..It hurts!”

At that moment,  I heard the parlor door open, and turning my head to look saw the young maid Marsha come into the room.   Her mouth opened in a wide O of astonishment, and then she began to giggle girlishly. 

“I reddened anew with shame.”

Continuing to spank me.. Miss Hancock,  looked up.  

“Don’t be alarmed girl.  I am only performing some correction to  jennifer’s bottom.   Have you cleaned the bathroom?

Barely able to conceal her mirth, the maid replied.   “ Yes Maam”. 

Giving me a few last stinging spanks,  Miss Hancock pulled me off her lap, where I stumbled, anxious to cover my tenting panties with my skirt. 

Now I faced the young maid, who looked at me, as if she had never seen anything like me. 

“Now apologize to Marsha,  Jennifer for causing her to have to correct your sloppy work”  

“I am sorry Marsha.. I am.  I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”

I don’t think a spanked sissy boy should be so familiar.  Now apologize to MISS MARSHA again.  Miss Hancock said as she gave my bum another swat!

“OH!”  I am sorry Miss Marsha… I am truly sorry… I yelped.

That ‘s alright  Jennifer  She lilted as she burst into laughter…  and then reddened with embarrassment herself. 

I stood there with my eyes downcast,  absent mindedly rubbing my sore bottom, all thoughts of clearing up misunderstandings chased from my head by the events, events that strangely compelled me. 

As I stood there, Miss Hancock stood up, and touched my hand, while rubbing my sore bottom in a soothing fashion. 

“Did I spank you too hard?   She said aloud, but then whispered in my ear. 

“I felt you sissy, and I saw your tenting panties.  There better not be a mess in MY PANTIES sweety.   But you are going to be a good girl these next few days so we don’t need to spank you day and night.” 

“Yes Maam” 

I whispered in return.    

END OF PART ONE

How shall we proceed with the story?