by Victor Bruno
Paul’s head reeled. His mistress had paid him a compliment! Had she ever done that before? No . . . never . . . never! It was an almost ecstatic moment for him. He bowed his head.
“All I wish is to please you, Ma’am,” he said. “In every way . . .” He meant it. Absolutely.
“You’d better,” said Gloria reverting to her usual manner. “You may come on to the bed, girl.”
Heart hammering, Paul insinuated himself into the world of soft-scented, womanly luxury.
“You will begin with my breasts, using both your mouth and your hands,” said Gloria.
“Yes, Ma’am,” whispered Paul. These moments of supreme delight seemed, at the time, to compensate for all his sufferings. He bowed his head into the lush warmness of the resilient flesh and went about his exquisite task. Gloria’s reactions, he noted, were more pronounced than usual. No doubt because, looking at his blonde head and feeling the new softness of his hands and his body, she was actually thinking of him as a woman.
Ten minutes later he was ordered down between the long, luscious thighs . . . down to the liquid-warm delta of silk in the valley of bliss. He was not only at the centre of all his desire, but at the fountain head of all the female power over him.
Paul could not possibly have been more content.
And, something like half an hour later, one could had said the same of Gloria. Having ordered her servant from her bed, she slipped down into a deep, contented sleep . . . while, Paul went away to dream again of the services he had been permitted to render.
*****
“Pauline . . . I shall be dispensing with your services for a week or so.” It was the following morning and Gloria who spoke.
Paul’s heart sank. What now? And how wretched to be parted from his adorable mistress. A mistress who could be so cruel, yet so kind! He waited with nervous anxiety.
“I’m having you assigned to a labouring party - along with some other slave-girls. You’ll be helping to build accommodation for my new male slave camp. So you will report to Miss Mandy after your duties have finished here for the day. Understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am . . . “ replied Paul miserably. He saw Gloria smile briefly, cruelly.
“I hear,” she said, “that Miss Delia will be in charge of your squad.”
Paul passed the day in apprehensive dread . . . following Gloria’s announcement about his new duties. Worst of all was the fact that Miss Delia was to be his overseer. That big, buxom blonde was a natural sadist to her fingertips. Not only did she revel in her power of the slave girls on Mrs Dupont’s estate, she enjoyed even more her power over Paul. He was the first male slave she had ever dealt with and, ever since the day of his arrival, she found she got more satisfaction out of him than her normal charges.
He recalled the day of his arrival when, at Gloria’s instructions she had laid her strap across his buttocks as he crouched naked with his nose in the dirt road. Then, later, there was the caning she had given him in the Punishment Room, alongside young Karen. It was Delia too, who had been the prime mover in his transformation from manhood to womanhood. How she had revelled in that! And how she had enjoyed mercilessly thrashing him again and again as he strove to adapt himself to his new role. It was terrible to think that he would again be under her command - rather than that of his adored mistress Gloria. She, it was true, was the author of all that had befallen him, yet he somehow viewed her in a different light. He had an adoration for her. A servile adoration. He now genuinely felt that it was an honour to serve her in ANY way she demanded. It was an attitude of mind that had developed as month succeeded month in her service.
Just before six o’clock a slave girl arrived in Gloria’s apartment. She had been sent to take Paul’s place as Gloria’s personal maid. His mistress dismissed him with customary disdain.
“Report to Miss Mandy, Pauline,” she said. “You’ve had an easy time of it here, so it won’t do you any harm to sweat for a few days.”
It was true that life as a ‘maid’ was relatively easy for a slave - but only relatively. No one could have exactly called it a sinecure! Especially with a woman so exacting as Gloria.
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Paul, automatically curtseying. Gloria ignored him. Her diamond black eyes were already on the newly arrived girl. “Your name, girl?”
“Daphne, ma’am,” answered the naked girl, trembling visibly.
“Well, Daphne,” said Gloria, “I believe in impressing my authority on all slaves who have the honour of serving me. So you will get your backside up.”
The girl didn’t hesitate for an instant. She went down hands and knees, pressed her nose into the carpet and thrust her hindquarters up high, dipping her back. At the same time she spread her thighs wide. It was the obligatory posture of a slave had to adopt when receiving such an order. Momentarily, Paul was favoured with an enchanting display of feminine charms . . . then, as Gloria advanced flexing a slim whalebone rod, he curtsied again and left the room.
As he closed the door he heard the whistle of the rod, the sound of it biting into flesh, followed by a gasping yelp of pain. One of many yet to come, he reflected. Then, with apprehension in his heart, he made his way to the quarters of the Chief Overseer, Miss Mandy.
*****
The tall and beautiful, coffee-coloured octoroon was seated behind a desk. On top of the
desk lay the riding crop which accompanied her everywhere.
Paul curtsied but Miss Mandy ignored him and went on writing. At last she looked up.
“Name?” she asked cursorily.
“Pauline, mistress,” he answered. The hormones had changed his voice virtually to that of a woman.
“Ah yes,” said Miss Mandy. “Your mistress had assigned you to one of the work parties. Miss Delia’s party. Report to her immediately.”
Paul curtseyed again and left, thankful nothing worse had befallen him. Only Miss Mandy, Miss Delia and, of course, his mistress Gloria, knew that Paul was actually a man who had been converted to look exactly like a woman. The slave girls, he was aware, simply accepted him as one of themselves. It was a situation which was both perpetually humiliating and frustrating.
Delia regarded him with laughter on her lips and in her eyes as he at last stood before her. “My, my,” she said, “quite the young lady, aren’t we? I must say those tits of yours have come out splendidly. Far better than I thought they would. And I do believe you’ve got quite curvy. Marvellous things modern drugs.”
“Strip,” ordered Miss Delia. “You won’t be needing those fancy maid’s items for some time.”
Paul removed his maid’s uniform, his knickers, girdle, stockings and shoes and stood naked before Delia. She came and examined him closely, fondling his breasts, running her hand over the new hairless smoothness of his buttocks and thighs. “Yes . . . “ she said, “very much the young lady. Quite an improvement. And that plastic thing I fitted on you couldn’t look more lifelike. Goodness knows what would happen if one of the male guests took a fancy to you!”
Paul shuddered inwardly, recalling Gloria’s words about giving him to a man who liked buggering women. That could well happen to him before long he thought.
“Your mistress appears to have been lenient with you of late,” said Delia, looking at Paul’s unmarked flesh. “Perhaps you have been such a good girl.”
Paul made no answer, standing meekly. It was best when one was so powerless.
“Well, you won’t have such an easy time of it with me,” she said. Paul was well aware of that! “Right, follow me,” she ordered.
Delia led him down to the slave quarters and unlocked one of the numerous cell doors. He found himself in a stone cell occupied by three slave girls, each one chained by the neck to a plank bed. Paul was similarly chained to the fourth bed in the cell.
“This is Pauline,” announced Delia,
“she will be joining our squad tomorrow morning.”
The three girls looked at him apathetically. They were dog-tired, he could see that and their backs, buttocks and thighs of all three of them were striped with weals. He was aware he would be in a very similar condition in twenty-four hours’ time. The door slammed behind Delia and was locked. The naked figure slumped sprawling, displaying themselves blatantly. Paul feasted his eyes - feeling once again the sear of bitter frustration. He could see . . . but he could do absolutely nothing.
He noticed one of the girls eyeing him. “Are you a lesbian?” she asked.
Paul felt slightly shocked. “Er . . . yes . . . as a matter of fact, I am,” he managed to say.
The girl smiled at him. “Pity these chains aren’t a bit longer,” she said, “then we could have some fun.” She thrust herself provocatively towards Paul. He felt the throb of his pulses and he felt the pressure on the genital case which enclosed him.
“Yes . . . a great pity,” he smiled back. Two lesbians together, he thought. What a sick joke. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Betty,” said the girl, giving him a steady look. “I should think you’re pretty butch. Let’s play with ourselves . . . while we think about each other.”
Her hand went down and a look of lechery dawned on her face as she began to manipulate her clitoris. Paul did the same but, of course, go no pleasure from doing so. He had to simulate pleasure as he worked his fingers on himself. Soon the other girl’s haunches were jerking and she was panting and gasping happily. Paul tried to imitate her as best as he could . . . watching enviously as the girl came to orgasm. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so furiously frustrated in his life.
“Oh . . . that was good . . . “said Betty, slumping down. “I must say, I quite fancy the look of you.”
“Thank you . . .” said Paul, trying to look as if he had just had an orgasm too.
“Christ, isn’t it terrible . . . that’s the only pleasure we can possibly get in this place. Playing with yourself. Unless you have to service one of the women guests. That’s not too bad at all if she’s not an absolute bitch. It’s being fucked I hate. Oh God . . . how I hate that. Have you been fucked often? I mean, I haven’t seen you around much. Are you new?”
“Fairly,” answered Paul. “New here. But I’ve been a slave for some time. My mistress brought me here. She’s staying with Mrs Dupont.”
“That Gloria van Meer? She looks a tough one, I don’t envy you.”
“She is tough,” nodded Paul. He found it somehow a great comfort to talk to this girl on equal terms. “But as to being fucked, the answer is no.”
“You’ve not been on a labour squad before?”
Paul shook his head. “It ain’t funny,” said Betty sprawling down. Paul had only to look at the striped across her hindquarters to realise that.
Silence reigned for quite a while. All the other girls seemed to be dozing. Paul tried to compose his mind, but it was not easy. He felt terribly wide awake. Suddenly there was the sound of the key in the door. Automatically his nerves flared. One never knew. Two weeping girls were led in by the collar and chain by an overseer. By the look of them they had just come from the Punishment Room.
“Jesus,” said the overseer, “this place is getting overcrowded. Still, no matter . . .”
She took one of the girls over to where Betty was lying and fastened her to the same ringbolt. Thus the girls had to share a plank between them. Then the overseer came across to Paul and the other girl was fastened to his ringbolt. He found a lushly naked young body crushed to his . . . and the lust surged fiercely through him. Oh . . . if only he were a man again! The door slammed and was locked. Paul gently clasped the weeping girl in his arms, loving the feel of her breasts on his.
“Try not to cry,” he whispered.
“Oh . . . oh God . . . “she sobbed, “after all I’ve had today . . . to . . . to do that . . .”
“What did you get?” he asked.
“Eighteen from the tawse,” answered the girl, “just . . . just because I fainted in the heat . . . oh . . . oh . . . I can’t stand it . . .”
“Shush . . .” said Paul consolingly. “That sort of talk only makes matters worse.” Very gently he laid the palm of his hand on the girl’s bottom. It was burning hot . . . and she winced even under his soft touch.
“You’re very kind,” said the girl, snuggling closer to him. “Most of the others don’t give a damn. As long as it’s not them getting it.”
“I know,” said Paul, “but I’m afraid it’s quite understandable under the circumstances.”
Slowly the girl’s sobs ceased and Paul clasped her to his body almost reverently. You’re one of the girls now, he told himself. Truly one of them. Over his shoulder he caught sight of Betty and the girl who had been locked to her ringbolt. They were frantically rubbing themselves together. A pity, thought Paul that that relief is denied me!
*****
They were all roused at six a. m. and unchained. They then ran to the mass showers where some twenty girls were already jumping up and down, squealing under the icy jets of water. Paul joined the mass of bouncing female flesh, crushing all around him. Oh yes, he was very much one of the girls. They all stayed there for five minutes under the pitiless streams of water before an overseer bellowed them into a drying room. Then, naked as the day they were born, they all marched down to the dining room. Seated at long wooden trestles they wolfed down the revolting bran mash which was served up. Nourishing as it was, it made one want to heave . . . and every last morsel had to be consumed.
Ten minutes later they were herded out to the courtyard . . . and the squads were formed up. Twelve to a squad. Four squads in all. Like on a military parade. Paul stood in line while an iron collar was put about his neck. A chain linked him to the girl in front and another one to the girl behind. The day was beginning . . . and very early. It was still cool . . . chilly even . . . and here was a faint haze in the air. Paul knew that coolness would not last.
Paul was shocked to see the plump young Karen linked into the same squad as himself. She saw him too, but obviously did not recognise him. No doubt at all his change was complete. Miss Delia, in black boots, black leather bolero and short pleated skirt strolled into the compound. From the hipster belt slanting across her bare belly hung the familiar long leather tawse. She strolled slowly up and down the line, eyeing each girl in turn . . . and lingering on Paul with a sardonic smile.
“Right,” she said, “I’m getting a full day’s work out of you bitches. There’s plenty of leather waiting for you. So . . . move . . . at the double . . . “
With chains clanking, the column went off at a jog-trot. Try as he might, Paul could not keep his eyes off the bouncing bottom right in front of him. It was futile . . . it was frustrating . . . but it was compulsive. He may have looked like a girl but, despite all his injections, he still had the urges of a man.
That, he now well realised, was just how exactly Gloria van Meer wanted it to be!
They came to a clearing and the squad was split up into pairs . . . each pair linked by collar and chain. Either by accident or Delia’s design, Paul found himself linked with young Karen. The memory of that night when he had been free to toss himself and look at her all the time was still hot upon him. He had got more relief in one night than he had done for months.
Their first task was to saw down one of the spruce trees in a small forest, trim off the branches with an axe and then carrying the heavy timber between them, resting it on their shoulders, take it to a pile some hundred yard away. One was not allowed to walk with the timber, one had to run with it.
Paul, thinking of the long morning ahead, and the increasing heat, strove to reserve all the energy he could. But, all the same, after an hour, he was sweating like a pig. As was Karen. Sat up on a dais, under a large sun umbrella, wa
s Miss Delia. Mistress of all she surveyed. By her side was a slave girl, ready to serve her refreshments whenever she wanted them. In front of the dais was a wooden framework, whose purpose Paul could easily guess.
“Do we . . . get a break?” whispered Paul . . . though speaking was forbidden.
“Y-Yes . . . “whispered Karen. “Ten minutes after two hours . . .”
Between them they hoisted another timber onto their sore and aching shoulders and doubled towards the growing pile. All around them, teams of two were doing the same. And steadily the heat increased.
It must have been very near the break time when Miss Delia’s voice bellowed out through a microphone. Two girls, it seemed, who had not been putting in sufficient effort, were summoned to the dais. No one else stopped work. But, out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw them both being fastened to the wooden framework. Soon there came the thwacking sound of Miss Delia’s tawse on bare flesh, accompanied by howls of pain. Paul counted the strokes. There were ten apiece. Then, buttocks aflame, the girls hurried back to their back-breaking task.
Murderous work, thought Paul. Tough enough for a man . . . let alone girls. When the whistle blew for a break, he dropped down beside Karen in the shade of a tree. Their breasts heaved, their breath rasped.
“How . . . how long does it go on?” he asked.
“Two two-hour stints in the morning. Two more in the afternoon. The afternoons are the worst,” said Karen. “It’s hotter.”
Paul’s mind gazed bleakly into the future . . . and found no comfort.
*****
It was during the second session that Karen began to flag. She kept on stumbling as they carried the trunks and, despite Paul’s urgings, seemed to get steadily weaker. He sensed Miss Delia’s eyes upon them and, though he was taking more than his fair share of the work, sensed that, as a team, they were not doing well enough.