No one could have guessed that this lithe figure of nearly fashion model appearance was the former HHR, Her late husband and now Her transgender sex toy. Kept for more than three years in the cellar or on the farm, always bound, always tormented and constantly in one stage or another of being mentally and surgically transformed from a cheating husband into a complacent and lovely female sex slave, Hank was truly dead. After living in the deep pit that he dug himself by his unfaithfulness, Holly was no longer anything that resembled Hank.
“My friends,” Melinda, began, standing at the side of the room in darkness. “I want you to meet Holly. She is my newest sexual servant and obedient slave.”
No one moved. No words were spoken. The room remained hushed. Here and there the quick intake of hot breath was heard and the pulses of most of the guests quickened. Here and there a nipple hardened, normally quiescent clits throbbed and at least one vestigial cock came to attention. Even in their darkest or most provocative dreams, no one in the room imagined owning and having what Melinda now was showing them: an attractive, well-build, but somewhat anorexically thin young woman in chains, her body pierced in so many sensitive places, her subservient manner and presentation making her total obedience obvious and her devotion to her mistress self-evident.
“This human specimen before you was not always as fine as it appears today. What you see is essentially permanent, not a temporary result of diet or chemically altered status. There are no Botox, silicone or saline bags here. She is a product of contemporary science and medicine, the realization of what was once only fiction or a far from reachable ideal in our minds. The art and sickness of what is mistakenly called “plastic surgery” is far more complex and frankly, unnecessarily complicated by mercenary and unskillful hacks whose disastrous efforts abound in Hollywood and elsewhere. The bungled results of that artless and Frankensteinian kind of work get plenty of exposure, usually with would be stars who want their age and gender altered. Often, misuse of drugs and carelessness by the surgeon complicate the process and the patient ends up looking like something out of a horror film and OD’s out of his or her appallingly vapid life. You have only to look at the wasted lives of some crotch-stroking, pedophile semi-male singers to begin to understand how such fool-hardy practices give the medical arts a bad reputation.” Melinda stopped, letting her prelude sink in.
“Furthermore,” She continued, “this young woman was not always a woman. Nor was she as young as she is now. As we all know, today, age is much more a state of mind than a chronological condition. Thirty year olds often look decades older and sixty year olds can be surprisingly more youthful than their contemporaries. The element of sex is today almost reduced to little more than what features might be found anatomically between the subject's legs…and even that detail has been warped to the point where we cannot always be sure what we are looking at. We have already seen the gradual bending of genders in our society, in schools, in shopping malls, on TV and in films,” said Melinda, warming to her favorite subject.
“One benefit of all of this is that today there is no job a man can do that a woman cannot do as well. Likewise, the gender factor is, for lack of a better term, twisted to the degree where it is, in some cases, even illegal to inquire as to what one's sex might be. Indeed, if the chest is modified or camouflaged and the buttocks and hips reduced to a nominal level, what goes on between the legs is almost moot.”
The Black-draped woman and her charge stopped in the middle of the room, the spotlight focused on the girl in chains, her guide fading quietly into the darkness.
“Let me take a few minutes to tell how this all came about,” Melinda continued. The group remained silent, but the tension in the room was electric. “Oh, and just to help make my point, this young slave will quickly demonstrate her ability to satisfy any one of you while I continue my narrative. Is there anyone here who would like to test the slave’s ability to fully satisfy?”
Three hands went up at once. The rest of the audience looked at each other and mentally debated what this could have entailed had they raised their hand sooner.
“Tabatha darling, I think your hand went up first, so please bring your adorable little twat over here to this recliner, lay back and let the slave take care of you.” Tabatha did as she was told, revealing long slender legs and a hair-free bush as she walked in her six inch heels the recliner and was assisted by one of Melinda’s aides until she was comfortable with legs spread wide and head back, awaiting what she was sure would be the head job of the year.
The aides then released a locking catch on the couch and it opened up so that there was now a space between Tabatha’s legs which were spread even further apart. Quickly, the aides attached soft black straps to Tabatha’s ankles, fastening them to the outside of the recliner’s split lower sections. Tabatha’s wrists were similarly strapped and pulled up and over her head and attached snugly tot eh hardware at the top of the couch. Tabatha did not resist, even when the large penis gag was stuffed into her mouth and strapped tightly behind her head.
“Just so you all know, my dears, Tabatha is an old friend and knows me well enough to be confident that I would do nothing to hurt her. She is, like many of you, a confirmed sexual masochist and well accustomed to the kind of position she is now in. The slave will take her position and begin on cue. Let us begin.”
The slave moved gracefully to the couch, knelt between the spread legs of the furniture and its occupant and lowered her head towards Tabatha’s open pussy.
Melinda continued her monologue.
“It has always seemed to me that the fashion world's strange fixation with skinny, flat-chested females best illustrates the continuing conspiracy among men and woman to have women who look more like men and men look more like women,” Melinda said, her voice and tone neutral, but slowly building in tenor and strength. “Granted, one can argue that the periodic trends for men to dress and look more feminine are perhaps no more than a plot to feminize the male and place him in a more subservient role. Men with ear and nose rings, long hair, tight trousers and other traditionally feminine accessories are part of the culture of many societies, but this is not permanent physical alteration. This is fashion or some other forms of personal expression.
“Following fashion can be dangerous. It might get you into a trendy club, but it can also keep you from getting a job.” Melinda was on a roll, and she was milking the crowd towards her grand climax. “Likewise,” She continued, “the fetish for skinny, shapeless female models is most likely a further attempt to control the average woman by making her feel inadequate and inferior to those mindless beanpoles who thrust the newest fashions at us.
“Nevertheless,” Melinda continued, now warming to her subject, “the fashion world's weird and continuing attempts to change the gender appearance of both sexes provides an interesting puzzle for anyone who is dumb or naive enough to attempt to follow the trend or emulate the oddly attired models presented as 'the latest thing.' The 'with-it' young males with their long hair, earrings, smooth, pink-cheeked, girlish faces; necklaces, bracelets and tight-fitting pants and jackets can be easily interchanged, (with slight modifications, I might add), with the anorexic young women who have breasts that resemble the proverbial two peas on an ironing board, closely cropped hair, virtually no waist or hips and a flat ass.”
The crowd giggled and there was light applause.
Melinda waited a full minute before she went on: “To aspire to look like a runway model is probably the worst desire a pubescent teen can harbor, but the numbing pervasiveness of the image seems to perpetuate it. What I have done here is not so much a remarkable surgical and medical, albeit Frankensteinish, achievement, but rather a real time creation, not cosmetic, of the look the world's fashion designers seem to have wanted to bring about.”
The room was now silent except for the noises coming from the recliner. As an undertone to the sex on the couch, you could hear the distant hum of the air conditioning and the slow breathing of the cro
wd. All eyes were on Melinda’s creation who was industriously sucking and lapping away at Tabatha’s molten crotch while Tabatha herself moaned and thrashed in her bonds with eyes rolled up and sweat pouring off her now nearly naked body. You could almost feel the quickening of the common pulse as Melinda carefully wove her story for the audience.
“When the unisex concept first appeared,” She continued, “most of the world's population assumed it was an aberration and would shortly past. It didn't. The melding of man and woman into some sort of twisted amalgam of either, but neither sex, suddenly descended upon an unready world. It came to us in the form of business suits for both men and women, a male and female military force where both sexes dressed alike, an apparent erasure of the gender differences in the interests of equality and a leveling of the previously very clear division between what men and women did and did not do. In the USA, Europe and some parts of Asia, the forced acceptance by society of allowing same sex marriage only extended this perversion into a nether land much like drug addiction. It wasn’t that people objected to the concept, but what they disliked was having it thrown at them as a cultish aberration that they had to accept, no matter what their own personal beliefs might be.
“All of this is physical. The mental aspect of gender alteration is usually set aside while the patient engages in worshipping the image in the mirror or selfies. What is going on their head is almost always ignored or passed off as a temporary condition, to be addressed later by a shrink.
“So, what I have achieved here is to first alter the mindset by simply taking an ordinary, albeit, more or less worthless, male, and teach it how to be female. Once the psychological barriers are removed, the physical changes follow more easily than you might imagine.
“Today, Holly has but one goal: to serve me. As you can see and hear, she does so with vigor and enthusiasm because over time, I trained her to respond instantly to any order, no matter how uncomfortable it might make her feel. She is as capable and amenable to performing oral, anal or vaginal sex on me as she is to having it performed on her and enjoying it while she is being whipped or otherwise tormented. And, I must add, she is now almost equally responsive to these dual stimuli. That is, she gets off as quickly and as easily when she is bound and whipped as when her mouth, clitoris, nipples, vagina and other key body sites are excited and entertained.
“Do not mistakenly think that this specimen is perfect. She is not yet ready psychologically or physically to take over running a household or business. But Holly, my friends, is the perfect sex toy,” Melinda continued. “If she is able and her bonds allow it, she can spend hours entertaining me. Or, she can do the same to herself with equal enthusiasm and creativity. The bondage elements, I must say, are strictly my personal perversion. I like to have Holly tied up, ringed, gagged, chained, multi-plugged, hung by her ankles and flogged or anything else that gives her pleasure/pain and me satisfaction. The ultimate kick, if you would, is having her satisfy me while I am whipping or electrically tormenting her. In this area, I think her former male genes may hold the key.”
The audience remained in studied silence as Melinda continued and Holly seemed to be taking Tabatha to a higher plateau where she was no longer even aware of where she was or who was mining her pussy and asshole simultaneously.
“I will tell you more about that later,” Melinda said. “But suffice to say that the fractional remnants of her male physique and character seem to respond to the torment and sexual performance much as the common human male will persevere in the sex act long after he is satiated, IF, (and it's a big ‘if’), if he is determined and motivated to satisfy his mate. I am not saying this is a unique male trait, but in Holly's case, she is so motivated to do both things at the same time that the outcome is usually positive for her and me.
Melinda turned and addressed the shadowy guide: “Tanda, secure your charge to the post and leave us. Thank-you, Dear.” The Black-draped woman jerked on Holly's tit chains and pulled her away from Tabatha’s spread legs and moved her to the glittering silver post at the side of the room, near one huge fireplace. She had the girl stand on a small wooden stool facing the post, then released her hands from behind her back and quickly secured them to a waiting pair of steel manacles attached to the top of the post. She made sure that the girl, (for Holly looked and acted like a young twenty-year old woman), was pressed hard against the cold steel pole and then She unfastened one chain from a nipple clip and wrapped it around the pole. She then refastened it, making certain that there was strong tension on both nipples, pulling her small, perfect breasts into a close embrace with the steel upright.
“Tanda, remove the stool and spread her ankles, please,” said Melinda softly.
The Black-robed woman kicked the wooden stool away, leaving Holly to hang by her chained wrists with her toes just an inch or two above the floor. Then she expertly fitted a chromed metal ankle spreader between the unresisting feet of her charge, adjusted it to the widest spread possible and then turned to her mistress, as if to ask if there was anything else that was required. Holly hung quietly, the tight nipple chain tugging unpleasantly at her tits and her toes an inch away from gaining any relieving support; waiting. Melinda nodded and the black clad servant left the room.
“Now,” said Melinda, addressing the lounging women. “Who will have the pleasure?” She waited a moment and then nodded to Cathy, a small-framed redhead with a substantial chest and large thighs. Cathy stood up quickly, went to the wall shelf and picked up a well-used cat-o-nine-tails. Twirling the cat wickedly, she stepped over behind Holly and let the girl feel the wind from the spinning leather tails. Holly flinched a bit, but made no other movement.
“It is perhaps worthwhile to mention here,” Melinda said, “that while Cathy selected a common cat, she had a choice of several to choose from. Cathy, please show us the other similar devices, so that we might appreciate your present choice.”
Cathy returned to the cabinet where the cat had hung and removed several more, apparently identical instruments and laid them out on a nearby counter with the multiple thongs hanging over the edge. She then stood quietly, waiting for Melinda to carry on her instructive narrative.
“The first cat, the one on the far left,” Melinda began, “is the least damaging because, as Cathy will demonstrate shortly, the nine separate thongs are of moderate length and weight. Important here is the fact that the leather thongs are not knotted at the end. Please deliver three strokes with this one, my Dear,” Melinda instructed.
Cathy picked up the cat, twirled it about for a moment so that the fixated audience heard the whirling sounds of the nine leather thongs and then slashed it across Holly’s bare back in three quick, but well-coordinated forehand and back hand swings, leaving a criss-cross pattern of red welts on Holly’s twitching back. Holly made no sound other than the rapid intake of breath as each blow impacted her slim body. Cathy replaced the used cat on the counter and picked up the next one on display.
“Now,” Melinda said quietly. “This version is a bit more effective in delivering a lesson in the right fashion. The thongs are much heavier and stiffer. They land in a more, shall I say, impressive Cathy, imbedding themselves in soft flesh and marking the target extremely well. Three strokes with this one leave a lasting impression. Please carry on, Cathy. Three to the upper thighs, please.”
Cathy strode quickly over to Holly’s suspended form and again swung the heavy cat three times; a forehand lash, followed by a wicked backhand and terminated with yet another forehand stroke that brought forth a whimper and a sob from Holly’s gagged mouth. The back of her narrow, shapely thighs oozed a mixture of blood and other unidentified fluids. Cathy replaced the cat and picked up the next in line.
“This one,” Melinda said, sitting down in her leather wing chair, “is seldom used because it is, in fact too brutal for most victims to appreciate. In short, they usually cannot stand more than one or two strikes before they pass out from the excruciating pain. The reason, (Cathy, please
show them the thong ends), is the knots at the end of each stiff leather thong.”
Cathy spread the cat’s nine tentacles and displayed the small knots.
“Give her three, please, but turn her around first. Three on her tits.”
Cathy first released Holly’s nipple clips, then bent down and grabbed the ankle spreader. She raised and easily twisted it to compel the suffering, suspended girl to turn so that her back now rested against the steel post and her front was exposed to what was to come. The nipple clips were reattached, but this time with the chain going behind her and around the post, tugging each rigid nipple to the side and back, but exposing the untanned, white underside of each breast. Quiet sobs still tumbled from her pretty, gagged mouth.
“Proceed,” Melinda said quietly, sipping her drink and watching carefully as Cathy picked up the knotted cat and moved to stand in front of her victim. She swung with a strong forehand and brought the nine knotted ends in an array across Holly’s exposed chest, tearing the nipple chain away and leaving both nipples bleeding. Cathy turned half way towards Melinda, as if asking if she should proceed and Melinda simply nodded. The second blow struck on the other side of Holly’s now heaving chest, leaving deep cuts around her right breast. The third came with an upward sweep, carried out admirably by Cathy as she brought he cat up from below and snapped it as the knots struck just below Holly’s breasts.
The chained girl was now opening crying behind her gag, her sobs louder and her entire body racked in pain from the twelve cat strokes.
“Thank-you, Cathy,” Melinda said. “Well done. You may retire. I have other entertainments for this slave.”
“Wait,” shouted a raven-haired woman lounging on a couch with her bare feet on one armrest. “Before we proceed, don't you think it might be more entertaining if she was, ah, extended a bit?”
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