by Various
‘Or what?’ he repeated.
There was no reply. Helen wiped her eyes and rose from the seat. He stared at her perfect back as she rushed to the wardrobe and pulled out her blue nurse’s uniform. Helen Mann, his lovely wife, a senior ward sister. She hurriedly stepped into the uniform, zipping up the back with a single impatient gesture, and then slipped on her sensible black leather shoes. In less than a minute, she had pinned back her thick, black hair, grabbed her overcoat and rushed from the room. As she did so, he pulled himself off the bed and followed her out on to the landing, shouting that same question ‘Or what?’ over and over. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she turned to face him, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘I tried, Denis, I really bloody tried with you. But there’s nothing I can do now. You’ve brought this on yourself. You’ve got nobody else to blame. Remember that!’
With this, she swept her handbag from the hall table and rushed out of the front door, slamming it loudly and leaving him staring into a familiar but now slightly altered abyss.
He descended the stairs wearily, walked into the living room and found himself staring at his pathetic reflection in the blank screen of the television set. He felt tears well up in his own sad, defeated eyes. He tried not to listen to the sound of Helen’s car pulling out of the driveway. It was just after 1.30 p.m.: she would be out until at least eleven, maybe later. Until then he had only his dark, oppressive thoughts and the television to keep him company.
At first Helen had been wonderful: caring, sympathetic, a professional helper doing her bit to relieve another’s suffering. After the breakdown, she had encouraged him to resign, to seek a new life. She often worked extra hours at the hospital and he had agreed to help out more at home until he found something else, something less stressful. But even her patience had been stretched and eventually snapped by the enthusiasm with which he had rolled up into a ball and blocked out the world. And as her understanding had disintegrated, the presence of Helen’s mother became increasingly apparent. Samantha, as beautiful in her way as her daughter, another tall, statuesque brunette, a woman who had never liked Denis. His mental collapse had confirmed all her jibes about his weakness, his inability to cope and, worst of all, his effeminacy.
Now, facing this grim, blank screen, he felt the familiar knot of humiliation as Samantha’s acidic comments were recalled. She had even begun to call him ‘Denise’, to tease him about his ‘utter failure as a man’, and to suggest the possibility of ‘a change of gender’. The last time she had visited, she unleashed a series of brutal remarks about buying him a dress! But Helen had intervened and Samantha retreated. Yet in this humiliation there had been something else, something less unpleasant, something he still refused to think about. But even as he fought this ambivalent emotion, he found himself remembering the lovely Samantha, her long black hair, her body in superb condition for her 44 years. He remembered her in this very room less than a fortnight ago, in a trim blue suit, black sweater, black hose and high heels, her long legs crossed as she reclined in the leather armchair. He remembered trying to avoid staring at her impressive form, particularly her legs and the gleaming patent leather stilettos to which they led.
‘A nice pink number, I think,’ she had teased, her eyes filled with contempt. ‘Yes. Very you. Pink with plenty of frills. Short as well, so we can see those shapely legs of yours. White tights for those legs. White tights and red high heels.’
He tried to cast the strange feelings inspired by this memory out of his mind. He walked to the living-room window and stared out at the world he so deeply feared. Almost the first thing he saw was the lovely Wendy – Wendy Parsons, the eighteen-year-old only daughter of Mrs Adele Parsons, their attractive if somewhat haughty next-door neighbour, a cool-eyed widow who had recently arrived in the close after returning from a long period in the United States, and whose contempt for Denis now matched that of Samantha’s. Yet Wendy, in her beautiful, fresh, almost naive manner, had only a mildly curious, polite smile for the unfortunate Denis Mann, her gorgeous eyes forgiving, understanding, helplessly girlish. And now, as usual, his eyes drank her up with greedy, gulping looks of desire. She was simply stunning, a tall, athletic blonde brought up since her early teens in America and now with a very American outlook. A champion swimmer, whose firm, subtle body was today encased in a tight black sweater, a very short, pleated tartan skirt, very sheer black tights and a pair of provocatively high-heeled shoes. A young woman returning to her sixth-form college after lunch at home.
He watched as she disappeared out of the close, then found himself staring into the oblivion of his frustrations and inertia. He took up the TV remote control, pointed it at the empty square of green glass and pressed the ‘on’ button. At the exact moment the ugly face of a well-known comedian filled the screen, the doorbell rang.
He sighed, flicked off the TV and walked sluggishly out into the hallway. The bell rang again, longer, impatiently. He mumbled an angry ‘all right, I’m coming’. As he approached the door he could make out the figure of a woman through the frosted glass, a vaguely familiar figure. He opened the door. Before him was Samantha, a dark smile lighting up her beautiful face, a large leather travel bag at her side. He gasped in surprise.
‘You look shocked, Denise,’ she sneered, strolling past him into the house, a fog of powerful perfume engulfing his reddening face.
Taken off guard, he could only close the door and follow her into the living room, a sense of deep unease spreading over him.
‘Well,’ she exclaimed, turning to face her son-in-law while placing the large bag on the carpet, ‘doing nothing, I see. How unusual.’
‘What do you want?’ he snapped back, trying to sound contemptuous, but only managing worried and uncertain. Her lovely brown eyes lit up, the cruel smile broadened. He found it difficult to hold her fierce, merciless gaze.
‘A little chat to begin with,’ she replied.
He was angered by his utter sense of helplessness before this beautiful woman, an anger made worse by the physical attraction that stirred within him every time she appeared.
She lowered herself on to the sofa next to his well-worn armchair, adjusting her short skirt around her knees, her eyes never leaving his. She was dressed in a short, tight but perfectly tailored red suit with a crisp white blouse, plus black hose and heeled shoes. His eyes wandered over this gorgeous display and rested on the shoes, stunning black patent-leather stilettos with five-inch heels, sado-erotic footwear for the dominant female. She crossed her legs, causing the skirt to ride up her marvellous thighs. He swallowed hard, but didn’t move an inch. He was a rabbit trapped in the hypnotic powers of this woman’s exquisite, sex snake form, a particularly frustrated rabbit.
‘Like the shoes?’ she teased, stretching out her lovely, nylon-sheathed legs. ‘They do great things for my legs. Don’t you agree?’
His gulping, high-pitched ‘yes’ broadened her bitter smile.
‘Sit down, Denise. I really do need to talk to you.’
He moved towards the armchair, but she gestured for him to sit by her, on the sofa. He obeyed, never taking his eyes off her legs, riddled with desire and the fear of facing those splendid eyes. Suddenly they were inches apart, her sweet perfume washing over him, the rosy smell of her hair teasing his nostrils. He was overwhelmed by an intense sexual arousal, and no amount of fear or distrust could save him now.
‘You know how I feel about you,’ she continued. ‘And I know how you feel about me. There’s no getting away from the fact that we don’t get on. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re my son-in-law, that you’re married to my daughter, and that your current behaviour is making both her and myself very unhappy. You’ve turned poor Helen’s life into a nightmare, Denise. You’ve ruined her whole existence with your silly anxieties. We’ve tried to help you, but you seem to be beyond normal help. You just don’t seem to be up to the role required of you; you can’t behave like a man. So maybe we have to stop treating you like
one.’
His eyes finally met hers. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Look. If it weren’t for me, you’d be out on your backside. I pay the mortgage, the bills. I keep you in trousers, trousers I don’t think you deserve, or, more accurately, feel comfortable with. I’ve put up with you because Helen says she loves you. Well, now Helen has finally seen sense. This morning she phoned and told me to go ahead with a little plan, a plan we should have implemented ages ago, a plan designed to shake you up a bit, to give you a role that you’ll feel more comfortable with, and which will hopefully result in you behaving more like an active human being.’
‘Look, never mind the lecture, just tell me the bad news. You want me out. And now Helen’s finally had enough and she agrees. OK. I understand. But where can I go, you just –’
‘No, no. We don’t want you out. We want you in. In skirts, to be precise.’
The last sentence took a few seconds to sink in. ‘In skirts! What the –’
The slap to his face was hard and fast. Stunned, amazed, he felt a burning spread over his right cheek and tears fill his startled eyes.
‘Shut up, Denise!’ Samantha snapped. ‘I’m talking. You’re listening. Do you understand?’
The ironic tone had gone, replaced by a cool, brutal authority. He was speechless, yet outraged, appalled. But still he could only nod, rubbing his cheek, trying not to cry.
‘If you can’t behave like a man, then it’s time you started to behave like the sissy you seem to be, a particularly submissive and extremely girlish type of sissy. Put simply, we’ve decided to feminise you. A complete transformation. And if you don’t agree, then you are indeed welcome to leave. But as you will have nothing except what I’ve bought for you, including your now redundant underpants, I think this latter option may prove difficult.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ he blubbered, feeling the tears begin to trickle from his eyes and the humiliation burn into him like an inescapable, all consuming fire.
‘Of course I am! Deadly serious. I’ve watched you, Denise. Watched you roll up into a ball of self-pity and surrender to the void of fear and neurosis. And I know what your problem is: you can’t stand being a man, you can’t live with the pressures that rest so uneasily on most of your sex. Deep down, you want to be a more feminine being. You want to be controlled, dominated, overwhelmed. You want to be a slave, to have all decisions taken for you. And they will be – completely. You’ll become Helen’s personal housemaid and general servant. On the surface utterly unrecognisable as a man, but beneath your panties still biologically male.’
There were no words left to protest with. He suddenly knew he was doomed to whatever fate Samantha had dreamed up for him. To leave, to walk out on Helen and face the real world, with all its awful threats, was too much to ask. His only option was no option at all: tearful acceptance. So he burst into tears.
‘You cry very convincingly,’ Samantha continued, her voice full of teasing sarcasm. ‘Just like a little girl. Can I assume from this typically pathetic outburst that you assent to your new role?’
Amazed at himself, wiping the flood of tears from his burning cheeks, he nodded.
‘Right. Let’s get on with it. Helen will try to be back by eleven. That gives us eight hours to get you dolled up and the house spotlessly clean. On your feet and follow me.’
He obeyed her without hesitation, amazed by the ease with which he was accepting this bizarre turn of events. Yes, it was all too simple. Secretly, he knew why. Samantha smiled: he could see she was pleased, even surprised, by his speedy capitulation. She grabbed the leather bag and led him out of the lounge, up the stairs and into the main bedroom. He followed her shakily, unable to keep his tear-stained eyes off her shapely, black nylon-sheathed calves and thighs, his sex rock hard and leading him almost as surely as his beautiful mother-in-law to a strange, new life.
Once in the bedroom, Samantha put the bag on the floor and faced him. ‘First things first. From now on you call me Mummy. No other form of address will be acceptable. Helen will be addressed at all times as either Mistress Helen or Mistress. And you, of course, will be Denise. Understand?’
He nodded, on the surface quite appalled, but deeper down there was something else, a much more ambivalent feeling. Samantha stepped forward and slapped him again.
‘When I ask you a question, Denise, I expect an answer! Now, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ he mumbled, feeling his face burn the darkest crimson imaginable. He was so embarrassed, so utterly humiliated, yet far too frightened to resist.
She nodded, satisfied. ‘Now the names are sorted out, it’s time for you to undress.’
His hesitation inspired another hard slap. ‘Get on with it!’ Samantha shouted.
So he undressed, struggling out of his jumper, nervously unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his particularly unimpressive chest, peeling off the shirt and placing it, together with the jumper, on the bed.
‘And the trousers,’ Samantha insisted, ‘and the underpants. Everything!’
Her words cut into him. The tears returned. Sobbing helplessly, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped the grey slacks. As they dropped around his ankles, he begged the room to swallow him. But worse was to come: after stepping out of the trousers and feebly removing his socks, he was faced with the appalling prospect of his underpants.
Samantha’s beautiful, dark-brown eyes bored into him as he fiddled with the elastic waistband.
‘And the underpants, Denise. Now!’
With one swift, desperate tug, he obeyed, pulling the underpants down over his shaking knees and virtually staggering out of them. Then he faced her, hands instinctively covering his genitals, utterly defeated, his face a deep cherry-red. She laughed, her lovely eyes full of sadistic malice. She leaned forward and unzipped the leather bag. From inside, she took a pink toiletries bag. She then ordered him to follow her into the bathroom.
Her heels clicked viciously against the tiled floor of the bathroom, percussive whip cracks that sent new flinches of fear and worry through Denis’s exposed body. She placed the bulging toiletries bag in the wash basin situated beneath the mirrored medicine cabinet. From the bag she retrieved a silver razor and a can of shaving cream.
‘Luckily, you’re not very hairy,’ she sneered. ‘But even the slightest speck of body hair is unsightly on a young lady.’
She shook the can vigorously. ‘Hands behind your back and feet apart,’ she snapped, approaching him, the can aimed revolver-like at his chest. ‘Don’t move an inch.’
He obeyed and cringed as a jet of thick white foam struck his chest and upper stomach. Samantha used her free hand to rub the foam into a thick lather spreading from his neck down to the tips of his pubic hair. Then, to his horror, she proceeded to squirt a fresh dollop over his entire pubic region. Smiling cruelly, she repeated the energetic massage around his genitals, covering his pubic hair and thighs in a thick, white slick of foam. Eyes closed tightly, he fought a losing battle against the inevitable arousal her hands inspired, an arousal which soon resulted in a blatant visual testament.
‘Well,’ she jeered, ‘at least that part of you is working.’
Within a few minutes, she had covered his torso, arms and legs in the foam. He was shrouded in a soft, damp suit of white lather, and, thanks to her teasing application, very excited. Suddenly, all thought of humiliation had disappeared, as had the tears of despair. In their place was desire, desire fuelled by the strangest, darkest thoughts about this beautiful woman. His eyes travelled over the generous curves of her body, paying particular attention to the exquisitely streamlined shape of her breasts as they pressed against the tight material of the jacket and the splendidly erotic lines of her legs sealed in the sensual embrace of sheer black nylon.
Samantha ran the razor across his chest, leaving a trail of pale, perfectly smooth skin. Using the shower to rinse the razor, she set to work with expert
precision, quickly removing the hair on his chest and stomach. His arms followed. Then, inevitably, his pubic region. He gasped with a tantalising mixture of fear and excitement as she quickly whipped off the thick, black hair around his genitals and thighs, then stripped the finer, lighter hair from the rest of his legs.
Within thirty minutes of walking into the bathroom, Samantha managed to remove every visible hair on his body, leaving him feeling more naked and vulnerable than at any other point in his adult life. His skin tingled fiercely yet not unpleasantly. It was as if he had been sealed in a stocking of the finest silk imaginable. He looked down at his body and was amazed. What he saw was the body of a baby, a grown mutant baby, a man plunged into a helpless babified state by a beautiful, dominant and utterly merciless woman.
Samantha, this dark angel who had now taken over his life, stood back and admired her handiwork, a satisfied smile on her face. As he studied his smooth, vaguely feminine body, she returned to the washbasin and produced a bar of pink soap.
‘Use this to give yourself a thorough wash,’ she commanded. ‘And use Helen’s shampoo to do your hair. You’ve got fifteen minutes.’
With this sharp command, she walked out of the bathroom. As the sharp click of her heels echoed around him, he walked to the shower. Once satisfied the water was predictably warm, he stepped under the mild, refreshing spray and allowed it to soak his freshly shaven body. The physical experience of warm water on smooth skin was quite startling. It was like feeling for the first time, as if his sense of touch had suddenly been returned to a long denied level of intensity. Initially this was unsettling, but gradually the soft caress of water against his pink, exposed skin became rather pleasant. He found himself soaping his body with a new curiosity, examining each shaven section and pondering how just the removal of a few pieces of hair could make a male body seem so distinctly feminine.
He washed himself thoroughly, as ordered. The scent of the soap was a delicate rose and his body was quickly engulfed in this sweet, girlish aroma, an aroma that remained strong even after he had rinsed himself with an equal precision and set to work washing his thick, blond hair with his wife’s shampoo.