by Tom Tame
Sophia, which he only now realized was dressed as sharply as him, short black skirt, dark hose, spaghetti-
strap top, leaned over and gave his ear a nibble. He'd been wearing long dangly earrings for weeks and now he
barely noticed the swing of them or the tickle of them on his cheek and neck. "Lydia says we should place our hands
in our laps like this."
He placed his hands primly in his lap and smiled at her dreamily. "Okay."
She grinned at him. It was the grin of the cat that had eaten the bird. "Good girl."
"Repeat after me," she whispered. "Hello, Sir, sexy maid Alyssa reporting for duty."
He giggled. He didn't really laugh anymore, not like he used to. "Hello, Sir, sexy maid Alyssa reporting for
duty." He popped his hand up to his forehead with a little salute.
Sophia laughed. "The salute is cute. Let's both do that. Hello, Sir, sexy maid Sophia reporting for duty." She
gave him a wink and a salute.
They giggled together and practiced.
He barely even noticed that he was calling himself "Alyssa" now.
"A" is for A-Cup
James was tall and wide and handsome in a way that drew the attention of women. With a strong jaw and a
heavy brow, he appeared slightly less evolved, yet his crisp British accent tampered the effect and suddenly he was a
man that sounded refined, yet brutally masculine. He greeted the car and was pleasantly surprised when the door
opened and a small, soft hand fell into his. He gazed down at Sophia, his eyes feasting on the soft white hills of her
bosom, then her dazzling blue eyes (in that order), and he knew at once this was a girl who knew what she was
doing. Her eyes had caught his staring straight down her top and they twinkled in response. Her cheeks blushed; her
hand-- swallowed by his--let him take control, drawing her to her feet from the cool, dark confines of the car.
She stood before him, presenting herself, all blushing smiles and sparkling eyes, just for his appreciation.
Their bodies engaged in silent conversation.
Caught you looking.
How could I not?
Did you like what you saw?
I did.
Do you want me?
I will have you.
We'll see.
And do you like what you see?
Yes. Yes. And yes.
I will have you.
He introduced himself and his voice was strong and bold and he might have added a little rolling bass to it,
because the other girl in the car was coming out and she was quite delectable as well. "Welcome to Le Ciel. My
name is James. I'll be your escort for your tour and your check-in."
James held out his hand and Mark slid his stockinged legs out of the car together as he'd been taught--knees
pressed firmly together--and placed both heels on the ground, just like he'd practiced. Lydia says a girl's panties
should remain a secret until the last possible moment. Good girls have lots of pretty secrets. Lydia says you're a
good girl now.
James folded his thumb over Mark's soft hand and helped him to his feet.
Mark shook his head and diverted his gaze. Did their tour guide have to be so rugged looking? Did he have
to be so masculine? Did his hand have to be so strong and gentle at the same time?
Their bodies engaged in a different conversation.
Please . . . don't--
Are you shy? That just makes me want to devour you whole.
No . . . I can't . . . I want to, some part of me wants to, but I--I can't--
If you run, I'll chase you and I'll catch you and I'll have you.
I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't feel like this.
Run, little bunny. The thrill of being hunted, of being caught, of being trapped and helpless is all I need to
turn you into a hot little squirming meal for my cock.
Please . . ..
Sophia cleared her throat, watching James's dark eyes penetrate Mark, watching Mark's cheeks grow
positively inflamed. She grinned. Her poor husband was out of his depths, and not even the suppressing tranquilizers
could stop his body from responding. "It's nice to meet you, James. I'm Sophia."
James returned his gaze to the pretty brunette with the magical blue eyes while Mark extracted his hand and
crossed his arms defensively over his chest. "Sophia." He spoke the word as if saying it allowed him to claim her as
his own.
"And," Sophia continued with a growing grin, "this is my husband."
James turned to the pretty girl with the short curly brown hair and the flashing green eyes and went into
shock. He searched for a man, but if there was one, he was nearly impossible to find. Then with a grin, James
laughed. "I see. She is outstanding. Miss Lydia will be very pleased."
James wasn't the only one in shock. Mark turned to his wife and was instantly overcome by a wave of hurt
and panic. She had just revealed him, exposed him. She had stripped him bare before this stranger. His eyes filled
with tears, but he managed to suppress them. Betrayal. He couldn't believe she would do such a thing.
"We're calling her Alyssa for this little adventure."
Mark stared at her with panic, and what did Sophia do? She grinned. She grinned with mischief as if it were
all a big joke. While he wanted to crawl into a hole and die, she grinned, and even worse her grin was disarming
him. He wanted to be upset, and he was, but somehow it only translated into a slightly soured dreamy sensation.
He couldn't process the feelings. He stared hard at the ground--not realizing how sexy the pout was that
appeared on his lips--and just went blank. He couldn't manage the anger, the hurt . . . and something else, no, please
. . . yes, arousal, hot cheeks, pressure between his legs. Without any sensation from his cock, day after day, his body
had begun to process arousal differently, spreading out into his body, his weak knees, his thighs, his lips and
especially his sensitive nipples which twinged with little spasms of pleasure, nipples Sophia kept stimulated with
constant rubbing and tickling while she whispered daily and nightly instructions into his ear.
James reached out and swept a lock of Mark's hair from his face, his fingers lightly grazing Mark's cheek.
Mark couldn't seem to gather the energy to move away. Maybe it was the pills, but his heels seemed glued in place
as James's hand moved to cup his chin, lifting his face even as Mark kept his gaze fixed to the ground. "She's
adorable." James let his thumb run lightly over Mark's lower lip, painted red and glossy. Mark felt his knees tremble.
"She'll do well."
Then, just like that, the harsh light of James's attention was gone. Mark sighed with relief, blinking his eyes,
swallowing, wanting to wipe the sweat from his brow, but knowing he couldn't because he'd smudge his makeup.
"So. . . ." James stared at Sophia, who smiled and blushed and giggled.
"Oh . . . um, right."
It wasn't often Mark saw his wife flustered, but she was now. His tummy turned. Was it because of James?
Did she find him attractive, irresistible? How could she not? Mark was still a boy inside, but even he felt the effect
James had on women.
Sophia bounced a little on her toes and stepped forward with a salute. "Sexy maid Sophia reporting for
duty, Sir."
James's grinned stretched across his face. "Nicely done."
Then their eyes landed on Mark. What could he do? He didn't want to, but somehow Lydia said he must.
Begrudgingly, he glanced at his wife and this broad shouldered, polished man and bounced a little, half-heart
edly,
and barely croaked out, "Sexy maid Alyssa reported--report--reporting for duty . . . Sir."
James's laugh was like a rolling barrel of stones and it did things to both of them. Sophia giggled, too,
which made Mark feel three inches high. Finally, she leapt forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, careful not to
smudge his lipstick, then took his hand in hers, dragging him after her as James led them into the resort.
An hour later, a woman with cold hands was wrapping a measuring tape around Mark's waist. Another
woman was measuring Sophia's substantial bosom. A third woman was writing down measurements.
Their heads were still swimming from the tour. The resort had unfolded before them, revealing layer after
layer of opulence and beauty like a glorious onion. "Le Ciel," James had explained, "means 'sky'. But it might also
mean 'heaven'."
It was heaven. If you were rich enough, you came here and gorged yourself on luxury. The dining rooms
were opulent; the gardens, lush. The apartments were open and spacious and filled with glorious amenities.
It hadn't taken long for them to see their first maid, a gorgeous delicate blonde girl with straight hair and
blunt bangs, dressed in a satiny black uniform with lace and a giant puff of petticoats beneath her skirt. She curtsied
and smiled and blushed before an older gentleman sitting in a chair before her, looking refined in his turtleneck and
jacket, but when she turned to leave, he grabbed her by the hips and dragged her back on to his lap. She squealed
and giggled, but once she was sat warmly on top of him, she turned and whispered to him intimately. They spoke
quietly for a few moments, and from the redness of the man's cheeks, it was a saucy conversation.
Then she extracted herself from his arms and sauntered away, petticoats bouncing. The old man's eyes
followed her, clearly focused on her legs, made slender and pretty by the white fishnet stockings.
A moment later, he followed her.
Scenes like this played out before them again and again as they were shown the resort.
The woman stretched the measuring cup around Mark's chest. "She's an A-cup. We can work with that.
Let's use the ingenue corset."
I'm an A-cup? Mark wondered. With Sophia constantly stimulating his nipples, it was no wonder they'd
swelled a little. All that blood rushing into them constantly had made them extraordinarily sensitive. Not only had
his areola grown darker, but they'd expanded in size as well. His nipples, once mere pimples, had swollen and never
seemed to go down anymore. Sophia rubbed them in the morning, then they got rubbed by whatever she chose to fill
into his bra, then she rubbed them again at bedtime. When did they have a chance to be free of stimulation? In fact,
the whole area around his breast had grown puffy and sensitive. Yes, he probably was an A-cup.
When they wrapped a pretty pink corset around his waist, he was asked to hold up the front while they drew
the laces tight. He felt himself being sealed up, his tummy and his ribs compressed. His chest felt like it was being
squeezed breathless in a vice. It started tight and only got tighter as they tied off the laces top to bottom, then started
over, tightening, squeezing until he was near faint with a swarm of black dots swimming before his eyes.
One of the women patted his bottom and whispered, "Breathe shallow, sweetie. It's just like wearing heels;
you don't take big steps, you take lots of little ones. You look divine. Believe us when we say it's worth the effort."
Mark disliked the little tone of whining that crept into his voice. "But--I--I can't--I can't function--like this."
"Beauty comes from suffering, sweetheart. Heels, corsets and love place their marks on us girls. It's what
attracts men, though they don't know it. That we suffer to be beautiful for them; that's what they secretly enjoy."
The corset did not have cups for his small puffy breasts. Instead the girls pulled and stretched on his skin,
drawing his soft flesh out of the restrictive confines of the garment until he was truly left with a small pair of breasts
resting on top, folding over slightly. On a whim, he arose and fell sharply on his heels and for the first time ever felt
his breasts jiggle. Men's breasts weren't supposed to jiggle!
One of them women began to rub an icy-hot ointment into his "breasts" then. His nipples began to burn
unbearably. He winced and inhaled sharply, the tight corset cutting off his breath.
He let out a little whine of complaint. "Ow. P-please wipe it off. It stings!"
The woman smiled at him and seemed to take great delight in rubbing the caustic ointment in even harder.
His skin colored red and to his horror his breasts seemed to slowly swell. "You'll get used to it," she told him. "It
increases blood flow and there's a deep penetrating sodium solution that will help retain fluid."
His breasts . . . breasts . . . he had breasts . . . his breasts were no longer little puffy things, swollen from too
much constant attention. They grew until he thought they wouldn't stop. They grew into healthy looking female
breasts, small, yes, but painfully present. He gazed down into his own cleavage. They hung like two small
pendulums and he became dedicated to remaining perfectly still. He didn't want to feel them move. He didn't want to
feel them jiggle. He had to get out of here! He had to run before they did something else to him, but Sophia was in
her glory.
She was also being squeezed into a corset, but the effect it had on her was devastating. No man on Earth
would be able to resist her. The corset propped up her bountiful bosom, slimmed down her waist to girlish
proportions and flared out her hips. She turned and looked at herself, breathless and flushed, in the mirror. "Oh, God,
why haven't I always worn one of these?"
She caught sight of her husband. He looked like a rabbit under the shadow of a hawk, ready to bolt. With a
smile she jiggled over to him, stood before him, gazed deep into his eyes and began to rub his swollen nipples with
her thumbs. Though his nipples still burned, the pleasure of her touch nearly overwhelmed him. He moaned quietly
and swooned, leaning into her heavily. "Oh . . . oh God, Sophie. . . ."
When he managed to return her gaze, Sophia whispered, "Lydia says good girls love their breasts. Good
girls keep their breasts soft with lotion. Good girls grow big beautiful breasts. Be a good girl for me and love your
breasts. Grow them nice and big for me, nice and big and soft."
By the time Mark could regain his senses, the women were already fitting a shimmering pink maid's
uniform on him. The way the built in shelf bra shaped his breasts, rounded them, lifted them, created a healthy
female cleavage with them, utterly erased any lingering maleness he might've had.
In the mirror, he realized he was losing himself. Mark was fading, becoming more and more a transparent
ghost. He couldn't see a sign of his old self anymore and that brought tears into his eyes. A pervasive, weak, weepy
feeling fell over him. It was as if a dear old friend of his was dying.
It was hard to mourn though, because the mirror also reflected the birth of a new being, a girl, eyes wide
like a frightened doe, uncertain, timid, innocent, her figure cute and sexy, her hair short and sassy. Throwing a sweet
girl like this into a pack of rich wolves would be a sin, but there was enough maleness left in Mark that he couldn't
deny wanting to witness it.
Somewhere in the mirror, in the conflicted desires whirling like a hurricane inside his f
eminized body,
"Alyssa" was slowly being born.
A girl popped her head into the room. "Miss Lydia wants to see them now."
There was a moment when time seemed to have stopped; all the women froze. Then the brewing storm
broke. They hurried and scurried to get their new maids ready. Sophia and Mark were painted, polished, spritzed,
heeled, hobbled and bound in sheer femininity, poured into the Le Ciel mold.
Pretty Things
Like two dolls, they had been primped for the occasion. Sophia, in her nest egg shimmering blue maid's
uniform, had been given a smoldering look with dark smoky eyes and glassy red lips. Mark, a.k.a. "Alyssa", was all
in pink, pink satin uniform, pretty pink eye shadow, glossy pink lipstick.
They both looked like Le Ciel maids, sexy, feminine and perfect.
Miss Lydia was an older woman, who frankly looked ageless. It was clear she was above forty, but how
above forty was a mystery. She was dressed in a sharp, skintight blouse and even tighter skirt with stiletto heels and
had a bundle of brown hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her hair was lined with long shocks of silver, which reminded
Mark a little of the Bride of Frankenstein, only Miss Lydia was gorgeous. High cheekbones, soulful brown eyes, she
had that bruised eye look of a Russian as if the only thing that truly made her happy was the one thing that depressed
her.
Her stilettos clicked on the floor as she moved, and when she moved it was like a Sergeant reviewing the
troops. Her gaze ran up and down them both, pausing only to study, analyze, then roving ever downward. They
could both see she was making mental notes, composing instructions to her staff.
Sophia had naturally fallen into an "at attention" stance, hands clasped behind her, shoulders back, head up,
eyes down. Mark saw this and emulated her.
"Sophia," Miss Lydia greeted. She aimed her gaze at Mark. "And is this your husband?"
Sophia suddenly dipped into a quick curtsy. "Yes, Miss Lydia."
Out of the corner of his eye, Mark could see her blink and raise her hand to her mouth as if in surprise. She
giggled and said, "Oh!" quietly.
Miss Lydia's burgundy lips stretched into a smile and she chuckled. "You'll get used to it, dear."