by Victor Bruno
Delia seized his flaccid organ and gave it a painful tug. “It is lucky for you, slave,” she said, “that my orders do not include cutting this off. Making you a eunuch, in fact.” She ran the tip of the razor round the root of his organ and his scrotum and Paul’s blood froze. Half drowning in the succulence of her, he choked out an incoherent cry of mercy.
“But that would have been too easy,” continued Delia. “Quite rightly, I now realise, your mistress, Miss Gloria, wished to retain all your male faculties whilst yet, in effect, being a woman. That will be far more arduous for you to endure.”
With meticulous thoroughness Delia began to shave Paul’s pubic hairs, keeping a firm grip on his stretched penis. Despite the shock and humiliation, he found himself stiffening. Delia giggled and played with him with a kind of callous arrogance. “You are a randy bastard, aren’t you?” she said. “Well, there won’t be many more opportunities for this kind of self-expression, I can tell you!”
An even deeper despair filled Paul. He was aware, in some way, he was going to be virtually emasculated, but quite how he did not know.
Delia completed the close intimate shaving of the genitalia and then, after a final tiny little shiver of pleasure, slid her lush bottom off Paul’s face. Greedily he gulped in air. There had been moments when he thought the crushing female flesh would truly suffocate him as his mouth and tongue had worked incessantly. Yet he had dare not for a moment stop. “I’ll give you a sound caning if you do,” his young blonde mistress had promised, “and tender as you are, I know you wouldn’t like it one little bit.”
Paul had been well aware of the truth of her words.
Now, with breasts bouncing provocatively before him Delia completed her task by shaving his thighs and legs. “We’ve got to have you as smooth as a girl all the time,” she said with a sickly grin, “so I’ll be doing this regularly. How does that take your fancy, slave?”
“I . . . I . . . am in y-your hands . . . c-completely, mistress,” croaked Paul.
Delia nodded complacently. “That’s absolutely right,” she said.
*****
At last it was over and Delia surveyed Paul with considerable satisfaction. Then she sat on the edge of the wooden bench and began to play with him idly once more. Paul’s reaction was swift . . . the previous night’s debauch seeming to have made no difference.
“Do you realise, slave,” she said as she squeezed the solid root, “that when I have finished with you, you will not only be unable to have a woman again, but neither will you be able to play with yourself or even have an erection?”
Paul regarded her with disbelieving dismay, despite being aware of the pleasure she was giving him. “Oh n-no . . . no . . . mistress . . . “ he gasped. “You can’t mean it . . . “
“Oh yes,” replied Delia, “indeed I do. In view of that, for my own amusement and pleasure, I have decided that I shall be the last woman you will service.”
Paul’s nerves flared. With equal delight and pleasure it seemed. Could she really mean it?
“You’ve got a nice big cock on you,” she continued in that casual way of hers, “so I might as well make use of it while it’s still available.”
“M-Mistress . . . oohh . . . mistress . . .” croaked Paul, in almost childlike tones of wonder. The thought that he was actually going to be in a woman again (after what seemed a lifetime), was like wine in his veins. The horrors that might follow receded into the distance.
Grinning lustfully, Delia knelt and straddled him. She took his root and ran his knob along the wet-warm sex lips. “M-Mistress . . .” he croaked again , every nerve seemingly alight.
Delia sank down onto him with a soft sigh. “Don’t you dare come until I tell you,” she said. “Because I’ve got the cane ready for you if you do!”
Paul did not think he could recall a more ecstatic moment. After all the months of frustration at Gloria’s hands, to feel the clinging-melting softness of a luscious young woman again was almost unbearably wonderful. He shuddered groaning aloud, aware, through half closed eyes, of Delia’s quivering breasts just above his face. Already she had begun to rise and fall on his erect ramrod, with an easy, sinuous motion.
For a few moments, panic as well as pleasure gripped Paul. How could he endure such delight for long? For as long as Delia wanted? He gritted his teeth and groaned again, summoning all the added strength of will his experiences had given him. Delia moved faster, beginning to pant, and Paul realised that the crisis was at hand for him. He fought with every fibre of his being as Delia jerked convulsively in her first orgasm. How surprisingly quickly it had come, he thought, before remembering for how long he had been titillating her with his tongue.
Then, to his infinite relief, as Delia slowed again, sighing softly with content, Paul seemed to gain a new lease of life. Gradually he began to gain the kind of control which was translated into an erection which he knew he could maintain for quite a long time. It was then he became aware of what good stead his previous night’s debauch was standing him. Without those explosions of relief he would never have achieved such a measure of control.
That Delia was overjoyed with the massive solidity of male flesh he was presenting her with, there could be no doubt. You could see it by the lust on her pretty face and the jerking-juddering of her shapely haunches; you could hear it by the repeated gasps and whimpers that came happily from her.
A second orgasm . . .
And, not much later, a third. . .
Her wriggling passage was liquid-velvet hot as it gripped around Paul’s upward jerking organ. His brain . . . his whole being . . . seemed on fire with the fiercest sexual lust he could ever recall. Was that an illusion, caused by long abstinence? Maybe. But what did it matter? It was his experience that counted.
At one point he heard Delia panting in his ear. “I . . . I . . . wish I PERSONALLY . . . owned you . . . s-slave . . .” she said.
Paul ardently wished so too for there was no mistaking the implication of those remarks or the way she would make use of him if she had indeed been his owner. As it was, he was Gloria’s. Hers were the ultimate decisions. And it seemed that they had already been made.
“Now . . . NOW!” cried Delia exultantly at last . . . thrashing about like an eel, jerking up and down, breasts bouncing madly.
Literally sobbing, Paul unleashed himself . . . the liquid lava of his lust torrenting into Delia who collapsed in a quivering heap upon him. It would, he thought dazedly . . . his mind and being still reeling . . . have been a wonderful moment to die.
Unfortunately for Paul, no such simple escape was open to him. Other plans had been made and would be carried out!
*****
Then minutes later, refreshed by a shower, Delia was all brisk efficiency again. One could scarcely have realised the incident had occurred at all. Whilst for Paul it had been an unforgettable experience, he realised that for Delia it had been a momentary frolic. That was bitter to bear.
“Of course we won’t say anything about it, will we, slave?” smiled Delia flexing an unpleasantly thick rod menacingly.
“No . . . n-no . . . never, mistress . . .” promised Paul.
“Because I do not think Miss van Meer would much approve.”
She was right, he reflected. “I swear, mistress . . .” he said, most earnestly.
“Good . . . good,” nodded Delia. “For you, I mean. Because since you are going to remain in my immediate charge for some time yet, you would very much regret any indiscretion.” The cane whistled shrilly through the air. “Never forget that how many you get, and how hard, depends very much on me.” She smiled roguishly. “Understood?”
“Yes, mistress . . .” Paul understood only too well.
Delia now went to work on him again. First she massaged his whole body with oil explaining, rather as if she were a nurse, that this w
ould be done regularly to him to help keep his flesh more softly and womanly. Then came his first injection of female hormones. Another regular event to come. “You realise we intend to make you as near female-looking as possible, don’t you slave . . . even if not female-feeling? Why . . . soon you’ll have your own tits . . . with these hormones working away!”
Paul shuddered. He almost felt like weeping. The fate devised for him seemed almost intolerably cruel. A man imprisoned in a woman’s body. Yes . . . it was crueller than being made an actual eunuch.
“Meanwhile,” continued Delia, “we’re going to give you a false pair of tits. They’re very good, too. Take a look . . .”
Paul looked and was amazed. There were a pair of breasts seemingly made of real flesh . . . even though they must have been made of some special plastic filled with foam rubber. The tint of them even matched his own skin. The breasts, high, firm and round, were fastened on to a kind of sheet of skin which Delia placed over and around his chest. It adhered automatically, merging in with the natural skin. “There . . .” said Delia, looking down with amused satisfaction, “isn’t that just great?” She tweaked the pink-pert nipples. “Pity you can’t feel that,” she said. Looking along his chest from his prone position, Paul saw the twin hillocks and the cleft between. The realism of them was amazing. Oh my God, he whimpered inwardly, it’s really happening!
Next came the affixing of the cruel device to emasculate him. It was a kind of plastic, ‘cricketer’s box’ but with a slit underneath it. This too fastened on by means of the adhesive skin, Paul’s penis having first of all been pressed down between his balls and under him. What, in effect, was achieved, was a rather prominent mound of Venus, such as quite a number of women possess. “There’ll never be any need to take this off,” assured a smiling Delia, “but you’ll now have to sit down on the lavatory just like we real girls do!”
Paul felt something like panic as well as despair gripping him. The whole of his manhood was confined and crushed immutably. He had been rendered useless. Little wonder that tears began to mist his eyes.
But Delia had not quite finished. She now affixed over the mound, another piece of skin-plastic . . . this having lips which fitted round the slit of the ‘box’ underneath. “I hope none of the men here take a fancy to you,” she laughed, “or they’ll get a bit of a shock. No way in there, I’m afraid.”
The main process of Paul’s transformation had now been completed . . . but there were many fine details yet to be attended to. Delia was only too happy to oblige. She plucked his eyebrows, put false eyelashes on him, made up his face carefully and finally put a wig of soft brown hair over his shaven head. The hair was shoulder length. As a final touch she painted Paul’s finger and toe nails a bright crimson.
“We won’t be calling you Paul any more now,” said Delia as, at long last, she released him from the bench on which he had been spread-eagled. “It will have to be Pauline, take a look . . .”
Paul sat up stiffly. He was trembling with dread at what he must see. There, ahead of him in the wall mirror, was himself . . . yet not himself! Only dimly could he recognise something of the line of his features; the make-up, wig and so on had transformed him. If not exactly beautiful, there was no doubt about the sexy attraction. It was unbelievable. Uncanny. Frightening.
“Take a closer look,” urged Delia.
He swung off the bench, feeling the bounce of his false breasts, and moved unsteadily to the mirror. Yes . . . he really was a woman! Long hair, facial features, breasts, everything. With a moan Paul buried his face in his hands. Within moments he was sobbing openly. Never, never, had he felt such despair.
“Come, come, Pauline,” said Delia, giving him a half-playful slap on the bottom, “those hormones can’t be working all that fast, can they? We are not reduced to girlish tears so quickly, are we?”
Paul went on sobbing . . . until Delia brought him up sharply with three slashing cuts of the rod across his tender behind. “Now you’ll need to repair the ‘make-up’,” she rasped. “And, this time you’ll do it yourself. After all, you’ve got to get used to it. Sit there!”
Delia indicated to a dressing table. Paul sat and dazed in bewilderment at this unknown creature. Slowly he began to undo the unfamiliar jars of cream, rouge and lipstick. From now on, this is your life, he told himself. Perhaps, he thought pathetically as the lipstick coloured his lips deeper, when the hormones really begin to work it will be better. Then, possibly, whatever he looked like, he would feel more like a woman and less like a man.
Later in the day, Miss Mandy inspected Paul and congratulated Delia on her work. “There’s just one thing that needs to be remedied in my view,” she said, “and that is that she is too thick in the waist.” Paul felt the still-unfamiliar form of female address like a slap in the face. “I think we’ll have cincher-type corset on her - more or less permanently.”
“Sure thing, Miss Mandy,” replied Delia, hurrying off to make a selection. Paul miserably watched the bouncing swing of the lush hindquarters which had given him such joy. Deliberately - to intensify Paul’s hopelessness and impotence, of course - she had remained naked throughout the day. Constantly he was tormented by the sight of her, the nearness of her. But now their relationship was no longer one of mistress and male slave but of mistress and slave-girl. There was a subtle but definite difference. At one point, after Paul had completed re-lacquering Delia’s fingers and toenails, she announced, giggling, she now enjoyed lesbian practices as much as anything else. Accordingly, Paul had had to pleasure her just as a girl would have done . . . and, for the first time, he knew the cruel pain of the pressure induced by the device fastened on him. No matter how fierce his lust, it no longer had any possibility of male expression!
“Walk . . .” ordered Miss Mandy, eyeing him keenly. Delia had given Paul a pair of shoes with six inch heels to wear - nothing else as yet - and he still found great difficulty in mastering them. He stepped out, moving before the dusky beauty, half-stumbling.
“Not like that, you stupid bitch!” barked Miss Mandy. The slim leathern switch she carried slipped instantly from her waistband and slashed across Paul’s buttocks. “You swing your backside . . . you swivel . . . like a woman . . .”
Again the switch fell. “Like a woman . . . that’s what you are to all intents and purposes now!”
Paul stumbled and fell to his knees and Miss Mandy lashed him mercilessly. “Get up . . . get up . . . you clumsy bitch!”
Gasping with pain, Paul managed to stagger up and perform an exaggerated version of a woman’s hip-swinging walk. Before him his breasts bounced. Desperately he strove to keep his balance and not stumble. He was only saved from further savage cuts by the return of Delia.
“Halt!” cried Miss Mandy. Paul stopped thankfully, finding himself trembling weakly. As weakly as a woman might, he thought self-pityingly. “Pauline needs plenty of training in stance and deportment, Delia. See to it, please . . .”
“Certainly Miss Mandy,” smiled the blonde. “Shall I put the corset on now?”
“Yes. Do that. Put it on good and tight . . .”
Delia scarcely needed any urging. She fastened the black leather and whalebone corset about Paul’s waist. It was quite narrow, coming up to just under his false breasts and just down to where his flanks began to jut. Delia laced and tugged fiercely and, soon, a 35” waist was reduced to something more like 26”. Paul gasped breathlessly. It scarcely seemed possible that he would have to endure such restraint as a normal way of life!
“When Pauline is not required to be naked,” announced Miss Mandy, “her uniform will be that of a French maid. She will put it on now. Get something saucy in the way of bra and knickers, please Delia.”
Again Delia was happy to oblige and come up with a fetchingly brief set, with lacy edging . . . a mixture of nylon and net, basically black but with rose insets and tiny ribbons. Prior
to this, however, while the women watched, he had to put on black diamond-net stockings, fastening them to the slim suspenders that stretched long from the base of the corset. The dress he had to put on was of black satin, with white ruffed sleeve and collar. It was exceedingly short and exposed the smooth bare tops of his thighs. They seemed to him to have already acquired a very white, womanly quality. Finally he donned a little frilly white apron and cap and stepped back into his black patent high heels.
He saw glee on Delia’s face and satisfaction on Miss Mandy’s. “It would indeed be difficult to divine the truth,” said the latter.
“It would indeed,” agreed Delia.
Miss Mandy turned on her heel. “Don’t forget about that deportment,” she said, “that could be the betraying factor.”
“I won’t, Miss Mandy,” said Delia.
Miss Mandy’s final words made Paul feel even weaker at the knees. “You have my permission, Delia, to cane her as much as you like until you are satisfied. I don’t care how many times she has to take her knickers down to get it!”
The door slammed. Delia looked at Paul and licked her lips, like a cat about to lap the stolen cream. “Go and fetch me the cane, girl,” she said, “we will begin your lesson right away.”
*****
Within an hour, Paul had been reduced to a whimpering wreck . . . a grovelling creature that slobbered over Delia’s boots, sobbing and weeping. His hindquarters, which seemed to have a raging fire lit upon them, were so criss-crossed with weals that whenever Delia’s whip-lashing rod fell, one new stripe simply had to overlay another one. How many times in that hour had he had to kneel, nose to the floor . . . to lift the short skirt . . . to take the flimsy knickers down . . . and then squeal and squirm in agony? He had lost count. Five . . . six . . . seven times maybe. It was a nightmare of unrelieved, repetitive torment and he felt that if the cruel vixen laid but one more stroke across him he must surely die!