by Various
By the time Samantha returned, Denis had stepped from the shower and was drying himself. His mother-in-law’s entrance was announced by the now familiar click of heels, but as he stood with his back to her on the edge of a cloud of damp steam, he didn’t actually see her enter the room.
‘Good!’ she snapped. ‘You’re showing a bit of initiative – who would have thought it was possible.’
He turned and a helpless gasp of astonishment escaped his lips, for she had removed the jacket and dress and was now standing before him in a stunning black satin panelled basque, black stockings and high heels, her marvellous figure displayed in all its mature but undeniably shapely glory. Her eyes burned with a black comic cruelty and her wicked smile broadened as his own eyes widened with shock and desire.
‘Is there anything wrong, Denis?’ she teased. ‘I thought I’d slip out of those rather stuffy clothes. I’m sure you don’t mind. After all, we’re just two girls together.’
He nodded, dumbstruck, his arousal once again embarrassingly obvious. She marched past him to the washbasin and took a tin of talcum powder and a slender bottle of body spray from the toiletries bag. She quickly covered his already scented body in the pungent powder and then added to this a cloud of the powerfully scented feminine spray, concentrating on his armpits, chest and genitals. Soaped, powdered, perfumed, he struggled against the overwhelming odours of femininity and the fierce excitement inspired by the intimate presence of Samantha’s luscious, semi-clad form.
She insisted he dry his hair more thoroughly. He obeyed with evident ill temper. When finally satisfied, she led him from the bathroom back to the bedroom. Here, the first thing he noticed was that the leather bag had disappeared and in its place on the bed was a startling array of feminine undergarments, together with a beautiful pink dress. The dress was incredibly intricate. Made from satin, it had a high, white lace-frilled neck, long, lace-frilled sleeves and, around its short hem, layers of thick lace petticoating. A dress for a little girl, a deliberately babyish but also incredibly sexy garment made for only one purpose: his humiliating feminisation.
He found himself staring at the lovely, delicate dress with something approaching desire. Yet not just a desire born out of an attraction to a sexually arousing garment: deep down he knew this was a desire to wear the garment, a sudden, shocking need that was quickly cast out of his mind by what remained of his masculine identity, a defence mechanism created by years of careful, but not entirely successful socialisation.
Denis was intensely aware of Samantha watching his reaction to the dress.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ she said quietly, casually.
‘Yes,’ he murmured in reply. ‘Very.’
‘It’ll look great on you.’
These words clawed him back from the brink: his eyes widened in humiliated disbelief and he stepped away from the bed.
‘There’s no point in resisting it, Denise. I know you can’t wait to put it on.’
‘That’s not true!’ he exclaimed. ‘You know I’ve got no choice!’
She laughed bitterly, stepped closer to the bed and took up a white pantie-girdle, an ornately decorated, thick elastane panelled undergarment with a very high waist. ‘Put this on first – it will cover your so-called manhood.’
His eyes filled with a mixture of anger and uncertainty. His face beetroot red with embarrassment, he took the garment from her and stared at it in total disbelief.
‘Come on!’ she snapped. ‘I haven’t got all day – there’s work to be done!’
So he stepped into the soft, thick pantie-girdle, pulled it up his smooth legs and over his shapely thighs. After a few minutes of wiggling (which clearly amused Samantha), he managed to pull the undergarment up over his genitals and position its sturdy, rubber-reinforced waist section around his stomach. The girdle was a perfect fit, gripping his waist snugly and completely enveloping his genitals and lower torso in taut, smooth elastane. He stared down at this fetishistic smothering and sighed with defeat, his face coated with a film of humiliation.
‘It’s you, Denise,’ Samantha joked. ‘Now stand still while I add the corset.’
He watched with some trepidation as his lovely tormentress took up a black, lace-trimmed garment from the bed and held it before him. It was a mini-corset made from satin and leather, with a series of silver hooks and eyes sewn into its curved back panels. Samantha made him raise his arms above his head and then wrapped the corset around his waist. He gasped as she pulled the two ends together in the middle of his back, forcing the air from his lungs and pushing his already insignificant stomach even further inwards. This had the effect of exaggerating the width of his chest and forcing him to stand more upright. Suddenly the lazy slouch which had characterised his helpless submission to fear and anxiety was gone. He stood tall, braced and stiffened, a new ‘man’.
‘Now that’s much better,’ Samantha exclaimed. ‘A vast improvement in your posture. I should have done this months ago.’
He felt the combined restraining power of the girdle and the corset overwhelm his weak, under-exercised body and tried once again to repress a sense of disturbing excitement. Samantha’s accusations spun in his mind as the arousal caused by this restraint increased. Perhaps she’s right, he thought.
‘I chose the tights especially: the most feminine pair I could find.’
She was holding a pair of white, patterned tights before him now, gossamer thin, yet firm enough to hold an intricate design of beautiful white roses. Tights designed to add to the theme of this dressing, the theme she had teased him with on more than one occasion, and which had been much more than hinted at during the preparations for this transformation: the sissy girl, the ultra-feminine, dainty, yet appallingly sexy adult baby boy-girl; a strange mixture of submissiveness and sweet, helpless femininity.
He took the tights from her. He took them and was immediately returned to those lonely afternoons spent secretly dipping into Helen’s clothing drawers, caressing pair after pair of sheer black nylon hose and remembering how wonderful they had felt against her warm, firm, willing skin. A sickening, ecstatic fetishism, a fetishism he thought was rooted in his wife’s absence, but now –
‘Sit on the bed if you find it difficult. Roll them up and slip in one foot at a time, then draw the tights up your legs. Quickly, Denise – don’t just stand there like a half-wit!’
He sat on the bed, feeling the corset and pantie-girdle tighten around his body as his backside sank into the soft mattress and silky sheets, a far from unpleasant sensation. He rolled the delicate legs of the tights into two soft, white nylon bowls and placed a foot in each one. Then he nervously drew the tights over his feet and ankles, one leg at a time. The feel of the sheer, ultra-soft fabric against his freshly shaven skin was almost overwhelming. He fought an audible gasp of pleasure as he guided the hose up over his shins and knees; he was plunged into an erotic realm of feminine softness and beauty and could not believe the intensity of the arousal this film of delicate, gentle nylon inspired. As he drew the tights over his thighs, he felt his sex strain desperately against its pantie-girdle imprisonment. Any doubts he might have had about his reaction to this feminisation disintegrated under the startling pleasure imparted by the heavenly caress of this gorgeous fabric.
‘It’s rather – nice,’ he mumbled.
Samantha laughed. ‘Yes, no doubt. But it’s rather nice, what?’
He looked up at her as he stretched the tights over his upper thighs and pantie-girdled torso. ‘It’s rather nice, Mummy,’ he said hesitantly, yet without resistance, without the embarrassment this word, this confession of utter submission, had previously inspired.
He positioned the tights around his waist and rose from the bed to examine his legs in more detail. The tights were a perfect fit. They also revealed the surprisingly shapely lines of his long legs to perfection.
‘Well,’ Samantha teased, ‘you seem to have a very feminine pair of legs. Most women would envy you.’
; He blushed, but, to his amazement, it was more out of pride than embarrassment. He ran his hands over the sheer fabric enveloping his shaven skin. It felt wonderful! There was no escaping this simple fact.
‘And I thought this was going to be difficult,’ Samantha said, taking a pair of spectacularly frilly lace and silk knickers from the bed. ‘But I should have realised, Denise: you’re a born she-male. This is you, what you really are. You’ve just been waiting for the right person, and it seems I’m the right person.’
She handed him the knickers. Without command or instruction, he drew them over his beautifully hosed legs and positioned them around his waist expertly. There followed a moment of exquisite hesitation as Samantha kneeled down and took from beneath the bed a pair of gleaming, red patent-leather court shoes with mountainous five-inch heels and a lovely diamond butterfly positioned on each sharply pointed leather toe.
‘The pièce de résistance as far as those splendid legs are concerned, I think.’
She placed the shoes at his feet. He stared at them in utter wonderment. How often had he watched Helen slip into heeled shoes and admired the erotically enhancing effect on her own superb legs? And, maybe not so subconsciously, how often had he secretly envied her the pleasure of this enhancement?
He stepped forward and, with a feminine tentativeness, placed his right foot into the corresponding shoe. The second followed quickly. Like everything else Samantha had prepared, the shoes were a perfect fit. He felt exquisitely elevated, made obviously taller, but also more graceful, more of himself and the world, more complete. Yet this was his first time in heels and his untrained balance produced a few precarious wobbles. He gasped, reached out instinctively for support. Samantha grabbed his arms and steadied him.
‘Just relax,’ she whispered. ‘Find your centre of gravity and calm down. Let the shoes become part of you.’
He followed her advice and tried to dispel the natural trepidation the heels produced. It was difficult, but he felt that was part of the pleasure. A look of fearful concentration lighting up his face, he took a tentative step forward. Then another. Then he was walking in the heels, or rather carefully mincing, as the shoes seemed to demand. Samantha watched each step, a smile on her full, red lips, a knowing sparkle in her golden-brown eyes. And as he minced before her, he found himself becoming even more aroused by the idea of parading in such a carefully feminised state before this beautiful, dominant woman. Now Denis realised how intensely attracted he was to Samantha, how he had always been attracted to her, even during the darkest moments of mockery and contempt. And with this realisation came a strangely unreal guilt, a feeling of betrayal, an automatic response, a programmed reaction. Yet he felt it wasn’t so bad to desire this woman, his mother-in-law, and that this desire was itself part of her plan for him, therefore surely acceptable to his equally beautiful wife!
Once he had demonstrated an ability to walk in the heels, Samantha led him to Helen’s dressing table.
He stared at his reflection, especially at his naked, shaven chest and the corset which so effectively imprisoned his stomach.
‘First, we’ll need to fix your hair,’ Samantha said, her voice cooler, more businesslike.
Taking one of Helen’s hairbrushes from the table, she worked quickly, with a combination of grace and speed, needing only a few minutes to transform his hair into a carefully shaped ornament of blond curls that highlighted the naturally feminine curves of his face.
‘Not perfect, by any means,’ she said, ‘but it’ll do until we can get you to a good hairdresser.’
He found her self-criticism harsh, and was about to tell her so when she produced a pot of foundation cream and poured a little of the light tan liquid on to her elegant fingers. ‘Now, keep very still while I apply this.’
She covered the whole of his face and upper neck in the lightly scented cream, her fingers cool, careful, gentle. He watched the few masculine lines of his facial structure disappear. His face was softened, toned down, made even more effeminate. Soon he could see what she was seeing: the beginnings of a rather pretty girl.
After the foundation cream came the wonderful experience of Samantha applying a blood-red lipstick to his lips. As she guided the soft red tip of the stick over these once embarrassingly feminine lips, her own face was only an inch or so from his. He fought the urge to reach out and touch her.
The lipstick was followed by a peach eyeshadow, black eyebrow and eyelash highlighter and the slightest touch of peach blusher. Then Samantha stood back to study her work and Denis found himself facing someone else: an attractive woman.
Samantha’s initial smile of satisfaction seemed to have changed to a smile of surprise. She was taken aback by the success of this crucial part of Denis’s feminisation. But not as much as Denis! For him, this lovely creature was a fundamental challenge to his already badly dented sense of masculinity. Suddenly, the thing deep within him, the thing that had always secretly worried and, at some unconscious level, excited him, was fully exposed; the thing that Samantha had seen so clearly in his breakdown and subsequent descent into utter neurotic apathy: the woman in him.
‘You look very convincing,’ Samantha whispered. ‘I’m very impressed. This is far more –’
Her voice trailed off. She told him to get up and come back to the bedside. He carefully raised himself to his high-heeled feet, grabbed one last look at ‘his’ new face, and then carefully minced over to the bed.
He found it difficult to walk in the heels without swinging his hips. His steps were short, dainty, as Samantha had instructed, but they were also helplessly provocative. At first this made him feel vaguely ridiculous, but then he thought of the pretty face in the mirror, the she-male he had so easily become, and embarrassment faded into a strange pleasure in his own natural femininity.
He stood before his mistress, his mother-in-law, his ‘Mummy’, his head lowered in a fetching imitation of feminine modesty, his penis straining against the tight layers of nylon, satin and elastane, a rock-hard manifestation of a distinctly ambivalent masculinity.
Samantha took up the splendid pink satin dress. She held it out before him, displaying it, revealing pearl button fastenings that stretched from the bottom of the full skirt right up the very tip of the high, lace befrilled neck. She held the dress out and smiled encouragingly. He swallowed hard, gripped by fear and apprehension, heart pounding, and then stepped into it, willingly plunging himself into the inescapable embrace of true femininity. As Samantha drew the dress over his scented, powdered, corseted body, Denis was truly lost and Denise was most certainly found.
Samantha carefully positioned the dress around his girlish form and began to button up the back. The dress was a perfect fit, its bodice section grasping his already corseted waist snugly and adding another layer of restriction. The layers of petticoating sewn into the skirt made it impossible for him to see either his hosed legs or the high heels.
When the dress was secured, Samantha took a large, lace-trimmed pinafore of white silk from the bed. This she carefully slid over his head and around his waist, tying it in place with a fat bow at the base of his spine. Then she stepped back to take further stock of her creation, her smile now almost envious. Then she was back by the bed, taking up a long length of pink silk ribbon. This she wrapped beneath his long, curled hair and drew up to just above his forehead, securing it with another large bow at the front of his hair.
‘Gorgeous,’ she whispered, her voice thick with what could only be described as arousal.
She took his hand and led him to the wardrobe mirror, the same mirror that, only a few hours before, his wife had stood before. Now ‘he’ was presented to himself. Revealed. Denise, in all her glory, unveiled to Denis.
He could say nothing, he couldn’t even move. His breathing was constricted, his heart hammering with surprise and pride, his hosed legs weak. Before him was a truly beautiful, ultra-feminine girl, a pretty, sexy, baby maid, a sensuous blonde she-male indistinguishable from a real girl
. A startling transformation. He was so aroused by the sight that he nearly passed out. Denise. Sweet Denise. So innocent in the intricate pink dress, yet also so erotic. Her long, shapely legs superbly complemented by the lovely patterned tights and dainty high heels, her expertly painted face framed by the pretty pink ribbon, her slender body perfectly enhanced by the tight folds of the wonderful dress.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he mumbled, transfixed by this beautiful image, this feminine creature who had suddenly been revealed to the world.
‘No. I’ve never truly realised just how feminine you are,’ Samantha whispered.
Her words echoed in his head. He felt as if every drop of his masculinity had evaporated in the intense heat of a powerfully luminous feminine persona. My self is trickling away, he found himself thinking. But there was no fear, no horror. For this was the loss of a hated self, a despised, weak, helpless, anxious self that had left him a nervous wreck, useless to himself, to his wife, to life. Now, out of the initial inertia of amazement, he felt a new energy begin to flow within him, her energy, her vitality, the power that he had spent all his masculine energy trying to suppress.
‘I feel alive. I feel awake. For the first time in ages.’
‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘That’s exactly it. Rebirth. But this is only the beginning, Denise: there’s still a great deal of work to be done.’
He turned to her, smiled a sweet, sexy smile and nodded. ‘Yes. I understand, Mummy.’
SLAVE ACTS
Jennifer Jane Pope
About the Author
Jennifer Jane Pope is a very popular woman, with a following here and in the USA. In Jenny’s books, erotic fiction melds with science fiction. Set on a remote Scottish isle, the Slave series tells the story of the mysterious Healthglow Corporation, whose activities take human equestrianism well beyond the confines of formula, to include genetic re-engineering! The following extract features the voice of Sassie, a particularly alluring and demure pony girl, expounding on her interests …