Brought to Heel

by Brought to Heel [Nexus] (retail) (epub)

  He often lingered outside the cookery classroom, peering in through the glass-panelled door, watching the women clap their busy hands, dusting the air with flour. He adored the crisp white aprons tied tightly above the swell of their plump buttocks. He wanted to untie those apron strings, kneeling down, his face buried in the soft bottoms.

  He hovered, as usual, at the door. Ten past nine. George knew how to clear the room. He would rattle his keys, bringing the lesson to an abrupt end. All Adam could manage was a timid cough. He coughed again, apologetically. Quarter past. The flushed women bustling at their sinks and ovens ignored him.

  Finally, when the main block was cleared, across the car park in the crisp November night air, he approached the gym. Tuesday and Thursday evenings were Dancercise. George usually locked up the gym. It was Adam’s first time.

  The neon lights were blazing. Music thumped out deafeningly. At the window, Adam peeped in cautiously. He swallowed with difficulty as the tongue in his dry mouth thickened. In front of a leaping instructress, nine beautifully svelte, trim-buttocked lovelies stretched and strained. Their thighs shivered as they stomped to the rhythm, their tightly leotarded bottoms joggled as they pranced.

  Adam pressed his hot face against the cold glass, clouding it with his breath. Inside, the ripely breasted instructress twirled, clapping her hands sharply as she span, then stamping her feet on the polished wooden floor. Adam held his breath as the nine students obeyed instantly, their multicoloured legwarmers becoming a blur as they pirouetted and did the flamenco stamp.

  Loose and lovely, with only the tight lycra to tame and control their warm weight, bosoms bounced deliciously. Straining within their satin sheaths, firm young buttocks bulged. Adam, raking his groin against the breeze block wall, gently crushed his thickening cock into its hard surface. He ached to be closer to them, to be in there with them. To be one of their number. To be one of them.

  A car door slammed and the headlights of a Maestro punched the darkness with a blaze of white. As the car turned, Adam flinched. The white light swept along the wall towards him. He ducked, crouching. If he was caught spying they would be ruthless with him, those stern matrons from the local history class. They would drag his overalls down and whip his bottom with leather belts. The squealing girls from Dancercise would emerge, angry and shouting, urging the matrons’ stinging belts on. Adam’s cock unfurled to its fullest stretch as he shivered in both fear and delight. The Maestro drove off.

  Face pressed against the window once more, he gazed longingly at the Dancercise class. He whimpered, yearning to feel the tight lycra biting up into his own cleft, to feel the multicoloured leg-warmers prickling at his thighs – to have his naked body strictly bound by the taut stretchy leotard. He wanted to be elegantly graceful, like them. To be sensuous, tantalising and deliciously feminine. Not to be Adam, but Eve.

  All the lights were out, and the Institute was deserted. Out in the empty car park, the night frost slowly glazed the black asphalt with a silver sparkle. Adam had to set the alarm system just before leaving. George had shown him how. But first, a final walk down along the glazed tiled corridor to check each classroom.

  In the hairdressing salon, where white sinks gleamed in the gloom, Adam gently fingered the array of wigs left on their blocks. In the torchlight, he saw the cascade of golden curls tumbling down and the tight, auburn curls glistening. A shorter wig, the brunette hair razor-cut pertly, caught his eye. He played the beam of his torch upon it for several seconds, before stretching out his hand and plucking it up from its stand. It fitted him perfectly, bestowing on him a gentle, feminine appearance. Patting the wig repeatedly, he gazed into a mirror. It was perfect.

  Keeping the wig on, he entered the beauty and cosmetic skills room next door but one. There, under a single spotlight, he dipped his fingertips inquisitively into various pots of cream and sniffed the delicious scents of oils and lotions. A pink lipstick, unearthed from a white leather cosmetic case, weighed lightly in his open palm.

  Twisting the golden barrel slowly, he felt his cock stiffen as the shiny pink wax emerged, lengthening from its golden sheath. Adam grunted as the soft lipstick’s snout pressed into his upper lip – and as his stiffness strained into his bulging overalls. Applying the lipstick carefully, he mimicked what he had often seen, and always adored, women do a thousand times. On the bus. In the street. Into their rear view mirrors when waiting at traffic lights. He closed his eyes and remembered. A woman applying lipstick distorted her lips, pressing them together then rolling them inwards to spread the sticky shine. Adam opened his eyes and gazed into the mirror. Slowly, he worked his mouth, shivering with delight as a perfect pair of pink lips smiled back at him.

  The door creaked. Adam dropped the lipstick in a panic. If he had been caught in here. He flushed, but the sweat on his face was cold. Returning from checking the deserted corridor outside, he stooped and picked up the pink lipstick, returning it to the white leather vanity case. If he had been caught . . . Adam shivered with delicious dread at the image of being punished, the cane strokes striping his bare bottom with stinging pink weals – just as if a pink lipstick had been firmly applied across his upturned cheeks.

  Before he crept out of the beauty and cosmetic skills room, Adam had sampled the eye-liner, concealent and blusher. He dabbed the powder on to his nose and chin gently, thrilling to the image in the glass as Eve slowly emerged, smiling up at him bewitchingly.

  At the end of the long corridor, the assistant caretaker, his appearance now transformed by the wig and skilful make-up, roamed the dark stillness of the dressmaking room. He pressed a red button on a sewing machine. The needle chattered for five loud seconds, setting his heart racing. Pulling open a drawer, he fingered the seductive fabrics, then held the felt, crisp linen and fluffy wool firmly between a pincered finger and thumbtip. Back in the darkness of the open drawer, a ripple of sheer silk arrested his fingertips. He drew it up, playing it out over his knuckles then, twisting his wrist, grasped it fiercely in his fist. As he scrunched the silk repeatedly, the ache in his balls became intolerable. Silk against soft skin. Panties and stockings. His cock throbbed, almost bursting for release.

  Adam stood before a full-length looking glass. Eve smiled back at him – her chic hair, pale face and pink lips teasing and tormenting. He unzipped and, painfully, dragged out his engorged erection, binding it tightly with the sinuous silk. Gripping his silk-sheathed shaft, he stared into his transformed reflection and moaned softly as he pumped. Pumped, slowly and firmly at first, then with an increasing frenzy as, in the glass, dark-eyed Eve parted her pink lips and mocked him.

  As Adam approached his furious climax, he stared directly into the eyes of Eve. Shuffling closer to the silvered glass, he strained to plant his lips into their pink reflection. As his lipsticked mouth smeared the cold glass, he came, soaking the silk with a prolonged squirt of molten seed. He stumbled and collapsed on to his knees as he came, his sticky semen dribbling down the looking-glass, his head lolling into its cold surface. Shuddering as his knuckles shone with hot seed, Adam struggled to kiss the lips of Eve. But in the glass, his smudged eyes could only make out the disturbing image of an assistant caretaker recovering from a shattering orgasm. Where he had sought to find the beautiful female trapped behind the silver wall, he had found the contorted features of his own twisted longing.

  Hot and confused, Adam wiped his face and mouth clean with a handful of snatched tissues before rinsing his semen-soaked fingers. He rolled up the spoiled silk and binned it carefully before replacing the chic little wig on its stand. His head still felt dizzy as his fingers fumbled with the alarm system. He wanted to get out, into the cold, clear night air. He began to panic when the alarm system failed to kick in. George had showed him. Two green lights and a red one.

  Then Adam remembered. The gym across the car park. He must have forgotten to set the switch. Scrabbling in the darkness for the correct key, he unlocked the double doors and entered the gym. It was dark. Dark, and
oppressively silent. But the air was heavy with delicious traces of female warmth, female perfume and female sweat. He stood still, sniffing at the heady mixture of talc and punishing exercise.

  His footsteps took him to the showers. A silver head fizzled softly in the darkness, dribbling luke warm water. Adam flashed his torch around, spotted the tap and tightened it. The fizzling ceased abruptly. He raked the torch beam down. In the silver drain, something golden gleamed. He bent down and plucked at it with his fingertips. A tuft of golden pubic hair. Squeezing it dry, he raised it up to his cheek. Crisp, golden pubic hair. The torch clattered down on to the wet tiles as Adam moaned.

  Stripped, trembling with excitement, Adam stood naked beneath the stream of hot water. He soaped and rinsed himself twice, reluctant to leave the place where women – naked and shining as they had offered their wet breasts up to the drumming sluice – had stood only an hour before. To be here, naked, where they had stood, naked. The sheer thrill electrified him. He pinched his nipples and ravished them brutally – as he thought women would when naked and alone, or indeed together, in the shower. His erection grew thick and hard. His hands cupped his buttocks and stretched them painfully apart. His balls churned. Moments later, still standing in the shower cubicle, glistening under the swirling cloud of steam, he trapped his erection between his palms. Rolling and rubbing his hands together, he rose up on skidding tiptoe – almost slipping on the wet surface. He gasped, pretending it was the statuesque, tightly leotarded Dancercise instructress thumbing his tingling glans. Yes. The severely beautiful, dominant, ponytailed instructress. Her thumbs, not his, punishing his hot snout. He cried out aloud, shooting off the thick silver squirt against the perspiring plastic shower curtain.

  It had been a sweet orgasm. His most intense ever. Fiercer and more furious than when he paraded up and down his bedsit in bra and panties, spanking himself with a hairbrush. Almost as intense, Adam thought, as he watched his smear of semen slither down the plastic shower curtain, as intense as Eve would have. Almost, but not quite. A sadness stole over him as he sensed that he could never achieve the vicious delights that Eve, soft buttocks clenched together, would sweetly suffer.

  As he shivered in the darkness – he’d forgotten about a towel, in his excitement – he felt the deep ache, the empty longing. What he had and what he had done was not enough. There must be more. He yearned to get closer, much closer, to the soft warmth, the breasts, the velvety buttocks and the slender thighs of elusive Eve.

  The following Thursday, at 8.45 p.m., Adam weaved between the neatly parked cars and tiptoed into the entrance to the gym where the Dancercise class was pounding out into the night. Since coming in the shower on Tuesday night, he had been possessed by the overwhelming desire to be there, in the changing rooms, among the young women. Driven by his powerful compulsion, he had made his plans carefully. When the class was dismissed, he would be there, waiting.

  Stealthily, in the dark, he pinned the out-of-order notice on to the outside of the shower curtain, then wedged a brush diagonally across the entrance. Ducking low, he slipped into the cubicle, carefully arranging the plastic curtain behind him. With mounting excitement, he stripped naked, tossing his overalls down on to the tiles, then silently unzipped the brown hold-all. From it, he took out the stolen wig, lipstick and cosmetics and small mirror.

  Just as the doors burst open from the gym a little after nine, Adam was prepared. Transformed – into Eve. The dark wig sat pertly in place. His eyes were large and smudgy, his face pale beneath the light application of powder, his mouth a luscious pink beneath the wet-look lipstick.

  He stood, naked and shivering, listening to the sounds of the Dancercise class getting undressed to shower. He thrilled to their laughter and giggling – and the occasional curse as protesting limbs stiffened and ached. He relished their girlish confidences and sweet whisperings. He squirmed as he heard elastic snap and soft stretchy lycra rustle as they stripped for the shower. He quivered, knowing that, inches beyond the opaque plastic curtain that shielded him, semi-naked young lovelies were bending as they struggled out of body stockings and peeled off their thigh-hugging leg-warmers. He closed his eyes tightly, imagining the bare breasts bulging and the soft buttocks parting to reveal their yawning clefts. Spilling breasts, absently crushed up by indifferent palms. Wobbling cheeks, softly dimpled as idle fingers scratched their swollen flesh. Glowing young naked female bodies, bumping and colliding softly as they lined up impatiently for the showers.

  Nine students and the stern, ponytailed instructress. Six showers, one out of order. They would share, Adam suddenly realised, hugging himself in delight. Colliding softly under the steam and stinging hot rain, breasts would bump and buttocks would crush together. Sinuous, shining hands would force the soap to cream, covering the naked flesh of the girl in front with curds and frothy suds. They would soap each other, he realised, straining to listen to their soft squeals, then hold each other’s buttocks as they stood, breast to breast, nipples peaked, to be rinsed pink and shining.

  To complete his illusion, Adam had sellotaped his cock between his legs and carefully combed his pubic hair down. Pleased with the transformation, he felt like one of the girls – one of the laughing, naked girls. But the excitement coursed through his veins, surging down like spilled quicksilver to engorge his hidden cock. To his dismay, it thickened and strained, tugging at the tape that bound it. Suddenly, with a soft, tearing sound – Adam clenched his teeth as the tape tore at his tender thigh-flesh – his prick flickered up, nodding ponderously. He would use a stronger type of tape next time. Next time? Of course, the small voice inside his head reasoned. Next time. Next Tuesday, when he would come to the Dancercise class in a wig and leotard – and really be one of the girls.

  The shower in the next cubicle burst into life. Adam held his breath and listened. He heard the rasp of the plastic shower curtain opening and then being dragged across. He heard the soft humming of a naked woman, singing her wordless song as she squirted scented gel on to her palm then rubbed it across her soft bosom. He fingernailed his own nipples as he imagined hers, pink and alert beneath the drumming sluice. Now she would be turning, offering her glistening buttocks up to the hot rain. Turning, Adam parted his thighs and shuddered as the hot water raked down his spine, scalding his cleft below.

  Out in the changing rooms, the naked young women were scampering to and fro, squealing as they collided in their eagerness to shower and go. In the adjacent cubicle, Adam caught the sharp gasp of pleasure as the nude squeezed and cupped her breasts, offering them up submissively once more to the punishing, stinging waters. He imagined the stubby, pink nipples peaking in their sweet ache. He savaged his own nipples once more, teasing them up into pinched points of pain. This is what Eve suffered. This, he moaned softly, was what Eve endured. A pleasurable pain.

  The soft grunt from the nearby shower warned him that the wet nude was now soaping herself between her thighs. Now she would be creaming her buttocks. He pictured the gleaming bar of white soap biting deeply into her dark cleft. Smothering his groan of arousal, he collapsed against the cold tiles. The thrill of their forbidden proximity ravished him. The exquisite torment of their intimacy engorged his straining shaft. He battled to ignore the urgency of his pulsing erection but was overwhelmed by the need, the desire, to masturbate. His fingers failed him – too wet and slippery. He was too agitated. Snarling softly, he snatched off his chic wig and smothered his cock with it. Pumping and squeezing, pumping and squeezing, he almost fainted as he suddenly spurted long and hard, soaking the shining black hair with his silvery semen. Slumping silently down on to his knees, his eyes prickling with scalding sweat, Adam gulped for air – shivering as he tasted the pink lipstick in his mouth. The taste of Eve.

  The days – and nights – dragged by slowly for him. His anticipation of joining the Dancercise class disguised as a young woman became an exquisite agony. Each evening, in his bedsit, Adam would undergo a careful dress rehearsal.

  On F
riday afternoon, he had applied wax stripes to his legs, thighs and arms. Painfully, he had removed all his body hair from his limbs. Later, smoothing baby oil over his stinging flesh, he had glimpsed at the effect in the mirror.

  On Saturday, he plucked his eyebrows. They remained red and swollen until Sunday night. Chest and armpit hair went on Monday morning, and he carefully varnished his nails with a clear, colourless tint later that night. On Tuesday afternoon, he stood before the mirror for a final appraisal. A final appraisal before setting off for the Institute.

  The new wig – soft, brown curls – was a perfect fit, as was his black leotard. He loved the way it held his buttocks in a firm hold. Each cheek taut and rounded in its lycra bondage. Industrial strength tape kept his cock and balls in check, rendering them unobtrusively discreet. Pale blue-and-silver sweat bands concealed his bony wrists. The one around his forehead gave him extra confidence with the wig. Soft tissues, scrunched up firmly, moulded a small, unprovocative bosom for him. More tape gave the breasts stability. The coloured leg-warmers smoothed his legs down into the required svelte shape. He was ready.

  After collecting the registers and locking the car park gates, Adam returned to the caretaker’s office. He changed there, folding his overalls neatly. In the mirror, his hands trembling with excitement, he made a few last-minute adjustments. He had filled out an enrolment form earlier, managing to stamp the receipt in the secretary’s office when she had been busy on the phone. Then, as if in a dream, he walked across the car park and through the entrance to the gym.