by Victor Bruno
“M-Mercy . . . mercy . . . o-oh . . . o-ohh . . . for God’s sake h-have m-mercy . . .” he blubbered. He was right at the end of his tether. Even in Gloria’s hands he could scarcely remember such an extremity of agony.
“Get up, Pauline,” ordered Delia relentlessly.
Somehow . . . he knew not how . . . Paul found strength to obey. He staggered, swaying, the room reeling about him.
“Pull up your knickers, girl . . .”
Gasping, he did so. Already he had ripped one pair and was now wearing a replacement. He had got an extra caning for that. Would the ordeal never, never cease? He saw the lovely young face, the shapely body, through a haze of tears.
“Walk . . .”
He walked. Mincingly, hip-swivelling, seductively . . . as he must . . . from one end of the room to the other. Again . . . and yet again . . . whilst Delia stood watching, still flexing the cane menacingly.
“Halt!”
Paul almost burst into tears. Not again . . . oh God . . . no . . . not again!
“That will do for today,” said Delia coolly. Such was the flood of relief through Paul that he buried his face in his hands and sobbed unashamedly. “We will have another session tomorrow. I hope, for your sake, Pauline, you maintain your improvement!”
“Y-Yes . . . Miss . . . mmmff . . . mmmff . . . oh y-yes . . . Miss . . . mmmfff . . . mmmfff . . .” sobbed Paul. He felt as he truly was no longer a man, so why should not his tears flow freely?
“You will now report to the Punishment Room annexe,” said Delia. “There one of the Duty Guards will apply some healing ointment and then allocate you to a cell. Off you go now . . .”
Delia tossed away the cane and smilingly watched as Paul went mincing from the room.
*****
Ten minutes later, naked again but for his cincher-belt and high-heeled shoes, Paul was having his lacerated rump plastered with some kind of ointment-paste that initially stung and then quickly cooled. The guard, in her forties, was a hefty woman who looked like something out of a concentration camp. Around her waist jingled a mass of keys, all latched onto a chain. She was none too gentle with her charge who was one of a number of girls queuing up for similar treatment. Paul squealed and moaned just like the rest of them. Then sighed too, as the relieving ointment began its quick-healing action. A hearty slap on Paul’s bottom announced that he was finished with. He slid off the bench and lined up with the girls who had preceded him. They regarded him without curiosity or surprise. To them he was just another slave-girl.
He had, at last, truly become one of them!
*****
Paul was allocated a cell by the chatelaine-guard, but it was of a different kind to the one he had originally been locked up in with young Karen. It was a multiple cell (known as Holding Compound at Bel Air) where the slave-girls were kept whilst still on duty but not being actually required for service. It was not till they actually came off duty later at night that they were chained in pairs in the smaller cells.
The Holding Compound was large . . . an echoing stone chamber in which stood three iron cages, in a line, some five yards apart. Paul saw that two of the cages were full - very full - and it was towards the third cage he was herded with other girls all around him. This cage was partially filled and the chatelaine-guard unlocked the barred door and motioned her charges in. Rapidly the cage filled, with naked body crushing to naked body . . . Paul finding himself in the middle of this mass of female flesh. Warm, soft, scented . . . heavy-breathing, whimpering, sobbing. Breasts and buttocks and thighs crushed to him. He could feel as he wished and nobody cared; he was just another one of the massed slave-girls. The heat of lust was like a burning brand within him; the pressure on his cruel restrainer was agonising. How could he endure such mingled fire and frustration? He groaned aloud in his torment, and was unheeded. There were groans of one kind and another everywhere. Crushed and helpless, he stood there, sweating amidst the plenitude of female bodies . . . his mind and body a torment of desire and denial.
*****
For a further two weeks, Paul was kept in the slave quarters of Bel Air . . . treated like the slave-girls, working alongside them, living alongside them, sharing their wretched servitude and daily torments. Never in his whole life had he been in such close and constant contact with so much superb female flesh; yet never had been able to do so little about it. Admittedly, he could feel and fondle this flesh - as a lesbian might - but that only added to the agonies of his enforced frustration. In fact, such was the success of his ‘transformation’ he was regarded by the other slave-girls as a genuine butch lesbian!
The only difference in his regime was his daily sessions with Delia . . . when he would receive his female hormone injections, be shaved and creamed, and generally be put through his paces as a woman. His slave mistress was well satisfied with his progress, but she rarely showed it. His walking on stilt-like high heels was perfected within a day or so but there was still much to be learnt. He had to learn to stand provocatively like a woman . . . to learn the mannerisms of a woman, the gestures of a woman. Even how to sit and cross his legs like a woman. Daily he felt the bite of Delia’s rod for he had to satisfy her completely and she was the hardest of task-mistresses. Daily she would make his dress and undress in a bewildering variety of woman’s clothes. Daily he had to slake her as Pauline, her lesbian slave.
After a week Paul found himself not only acting more and more like a woman but actually feeling like one. He had moments of panic-terror at this erosion of his manhood but, after another week, these became less frequent as he became more and more resigned to his new role. Under his false breasts he could feel his new ‘real’ breasts beginning to swell and develop; his skin was becoming much less hairy and was far smoother, too; there was also an added curvy plumpness about him. Even his voice was less deep; more of a contralto. He realised how well those female hormones were doing their work!
Finally one day, as he knelt with his knickers down - having had a five stroke caning for some trivial offence - Delia informed him that within a few days he was going to be assigned to his original mistress, Gloria van Meer, as a personal slave-maid. Paul’s heart leapt and thudded; he felt both dread and a strange kind of exultation at this prospect of once again serving his goddess.
“Get up, Pauline, and pull your knickers up,” ordered Delia. Paul did so, in the lady-like fashion required of him. Delia was smiling wickedly at him, sensing his reactions by the pinkness of his cheeks. “Since she asked for another girl,” she said, “you seemed the obvious choice. Are you not fortunate?”
“Yes . . . oh . . . yes, Miss . . . I am indeed fortunate,” agreed Paul. And, in some strange sense, he actually considered he was …
*****
“This is Pauline, your new maid, Miss van Meer,” it was Miss Mandy who spoke, having led Paul into Gloria’s magnificent apartment. He curtsied, heart pounding, now that he was once again confronted by the supreme beauty of the woman who dominated his life so utterly. Gloria, naked but for suspender belt, was having her stockings put on by another maid.
“Thank you, Miss Mandy,” she said, indicating that the overseer might depart. She gave Paul the most cursory of glances. The door closed behind Miss Mandy . . . and Paul stood, silent and humbly waiting, dressed in the traditional French maid’s outfit of black with frilly white accessories. With a slap on the face, the other maid was dismissed from the room and Gloria beckoned to Paul to advance. He came mincing, hip-swivelling, curtseying again with bouncing breasts under the tight black chiffon.
“Pauline . . .” mused Gloria. The shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “I once had a male slave called Paul. So it’s appropriate . . .”
It must have been something about the look on Paul’s feminised features . . . or maybe in his eyes . . . that made Gloria step forward and look at him more closely. There was a puzzled look on her fa
ce. It changed to a look of interest . . . and then of fascination.
“Pauline?” she queried incredulously.
“In truth . . . Paul . . . Mistress . . .” said Paul in his newly acquired contralto. “But now your maid . . . P-Pauline . . .”
Gloria burst into a peal of laughter. She slapped her thigh . . . and went on laughing. It seemed to her that this was the greatest joke ever perpetrated! She rushed to the house-phone and was soon loud in her praised to Mrs Dupont. “Miss Mandy and Delia are to be profoundly congratulated,” she said. “It’s miraculous. Are you sure he hasn’t been castrated? That under all this he’s still got a cock on him?”
She was obviously reassured and soon returned to examine Paul in more detail. Before long he was naked except for his high heels and corset cincher belt. He walked, he postured, he played the woman to perfection . . . whilst Gloria looked on rapturously.
At last she got up and left the room. I am a woman . . . a woman . . . Paul kept saying to himself. I am Pauline, Miss Gloria van Meer’s maid.
*****
“Of course,” Gloria van Meer was saying to her hostess, Amelia Dupont, “I shall keep him . . . or perhaps I should say her . . . for the time being. It really is most amusing. A quiet incredible transformation.”
“I certainly think Miss Mandy and Delia are to be congratulated,” smiled Mrs Dupont. “They’ve taken a lot of trouble over it.”
“In a way, though,” went on Gloria, “it’s rather the end of the line as far as Paul is concerned. I mean he’s reached rock bottom. Difficult to see how to subjugate him further. As a man.”
“True,” nodded Amelia, “but, as you say, he is amusing and can continue to be so. Also he might act as a rather telling example of what can happen when you start building up your squad.”
“That’s a point,” smiled Gloria. “He’ll really shake them. I’ve already made some plans about my squad. The idea is to get young, husky brutes. Not masochists. They’ll all have to be tamed from scratch. My God . . . I’m going to enjoy whipping them into shape.”
“I can understand your feelings,” said Amelia. “Provided I think of whipping some arrogant young girl into shape.”
They brooded in silence for a while, their minds full of pleasures of power and ownership.
“When do you expect the first of them to arrive?” asked Amelia at length.
“In a couple of weeks,” answered Gloria.
“Good,” said Amelia. “The temporary camp accommodation should be finished by then. I’ve got teams of girls working on it every day.”
“Oh that’s very good of you,” exclaimed Gloria. “You shouldn’t have bothered. They could have stayed chained in the open until they built their own camp.
“No bother,” grinned Amelia Dupont, “keeps the girls busy . . .”
“I can imagine,” said Gloria. “Yes . . . that’s a thought. I’ll release Paul from his maid’s duties and he can join one of the teams.”
“Good idea,” said Amelia. “I’ll have a word with Mandy. She’ll give you a replacement for him. You getting good service, by the way?”
“Couldn’t be better,” nodded Gloria.
Amelia Dupont nodded smugly. “We aim to please,” she said.
Gloria stretched. “Time for beddy-byes,” she said. “Goodnight, Amelia. Sweet dreams.”
“You, too, dear,” answered her hostess.
*****
Paul curtsied as Gloria entered her private quarters. He was, of course, standing ready awaiting her return . . . as a lady’s maid should.
“Fetch me a Campari and Soda, Pauline,” ordered Gloria crisply.
“Yes, Ma’am, at once,” said Paul. This was his new form of address to his mistress. He wiggled his way across the room on his high heels. He was quite used to them by now. Quite used to walking like a woman too, it had become second nature. The daily hormone injection had smoothed his skin so that it was just like a woman’s . . . and his breasts had developed so much that he no longer needed to wear the false plastic ones which Delia had put on him. It was only necessary to wear the false ‘vagina’ underneath which his genitalia were permanently crushed.
Paul felt the tightness of his cincher belt. Felt the stretch of the suspenders to his stocking tops. Felt the cling of the pretty little panties he wore. Gloria had forbidden him to wear a brassiere as a general rule, saying she didn’t consider him sufficiently developed. Even so, his breasts had become as fulsome as many a young girl of sixteen and he was constantly aware of the bounce and quiver of them as he moved about.
“I’m thinking of letting a man have you,” said Gloria out of the blue.
Paul shuddered. It was the one thing that he had always secretly dreaded.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said weakly.
“You like the idea, of course?” she said.
Paul was on a cleft stick, as so often with Gloria. Was the right answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’?
“I am your slave, Ma’am,” he said, “it is not for me to have likes or dislikes …”
“True . . . true . . . Pauline . . . but I guess you would like it all the same. That’s why I might keep you waiting a little longer.”
“When I do give you to someone,” Gloria was saying, “I shall make sure it is to a man who actually thinks you are a girl. But a man who doesn’t like sex with women in the normal way. A man who likes to bugger women. I find that idea rather amusing.”
Paul said nothing. What was there for him to say? Anything would be dangerous.
Gloria stood up. “Undress me, girl.”
Paul moved forward and began a most familiar - yet ever nerve racking task.
As item by item was removed with intimate care, the splendours of his mistress’s body was revealed. Always it gave Paul a sense of awe. No matter what she had done to him, he idolised this woman. To have been given the order just to kiss the tip of one toe would have delighted him.
Naked, Gloria moved slowly and gracefully to her dressing table. There, while she removed her make up, he brushed her rich dark hair. Long and lustrous. This was another delight to Paul. It is a long time, he thought since she beat me. Indeed, the new smoothness of his bottom was unmarked. Perhaps there is no longer any need . . . because I am the perfect slave who satisfies all her wants. It as, indeed, Delia who had made him writhe in torment under the rod and lash. He was glad indeed to have escaped from that vicious, buxom blonde . . . to that haven of a mistress who punished - but who punished with justice and not simply for her own amusement and sadistic gratification.
For, whenever my mistress has made me suffer, he reflected, I have truly deserved it. I have failed her, or disobeyed her, and that is not permitted to a slave. It MERITS punishment. Paul felt an almost irresistible desire to bend and kiss the smooth, creamy-white back so near him. It would have been an act of reverent gratitude for Gloria’s principles. He resisted the temptation.
Such an action, he was well aware, would rightly have earned him a most memorable good hiding.
“Pauline,” said Gloria, stretching her arms wide and high, uplifting her voluptuous breasts. “Your mistress is feeling a little perverted tonight.”
Paul’s nerves tingled. “Yes . . . Ma’am?” he said.
Gloria smiled into the mirror, lowered her arms and firmed her breasts upwards. “Yes . . . “ she said, “sometimes your mistress likes to have a girl to please her. Her maid, for instance. You, I mean. They call it lesbianism, I believe!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Paul, his pulses now pounding.
“So I am now going to bed,” said Gloria. “You girl, will go to your room and get undressed. Everything but your corset and stockings, that is. Then you will come to my room, and on your knees, ask if I am still in the mood for your services.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Paul
. There was now true adoration in his voice. Of course, he had often enough served Gloria in this way in former days. As a male slave. But that he had not done that for a long while. Now, however, he was not really serving her as before. Her was serving her in a female capacity . . . and that was different. For Gloria was indeed a true lesbian. He would be pleasing her as she basically wanted to be pleased. Because, to all intents and purposes, he was now a woman!
He curtsied and left the room as she moved towards her bed.
*****
Paul knelt naked by the bed, feeling the hair of his blonde wig brushing his shoulders. He was glad his skin was now so hairlessly smooth. Proud of his swelling breasts, now fast getting beyond the girlish stage.
“Your slave is here, Ma’am,” he said, “ready to serve you as you wish.”
Gloria was sprawled elegantly on the top of the black satin covers of the bed. Her eyes swivelled slowly to him. They were half-closed, cat-like, slanting. They had a liquid look about them. Paul got the impression she may have taken some drug, possibly, to heighten her pleasures. His blood was racing at the thought of being able to please her so intimately. There was painful pressure on his genital-restraint, of course, but he had become quite accustomed to that. It was not part of everyday life. Just as was the impossibility of ever getting any release. Fortunately, the desire for that seemed very gradually to be lessening. Probably something to do with the female hormone injections.
Languidly Gloria stretched out a hand and lightly fingered one of Paul’s breasts. He could not control a shudder. A shudder of delight.
“You’re getting quite pretty, Pauline,” she said ‘growing up . . .”