Don Juan, libertine and womaniser, (Don Giovanni if you like Mozart) has been dragged down to Hell. But how is he being punished there? His manservant, Leporello, has seen it in a dream, and he's afraid...
Don Juan in Hell
by kandijayne
Leporello already had three or four empty tankards lined up beside him, and he was holding his head in his hands, with his elbows resting on the tavern bench, and moaning. This was not good, thought Ramon.
“Senor Leporello, there is a gentleman here who would like to hear about el Senor Don Juan Tenorio. He will make it worth your while…”
Leporello looked up, bleary eyed, and tried to take in both of them, the gentleman, and young Ramon.
“Sorry, I can’t do it. Not today. Sorry.”
He was beginning to slur his words very slightly, but still spoke clearly enough. He focussed on the gentleman, or tried to.
“My apologies, your honour. I ain’t feeling up to it today. Can’t do it. Come back another day. I’ll tell you all. I still got it, you know.”
He scrabbled about inside his jerkin and extracted a grubby, dog-eared notebook. He waved it around vaguely.
“Still got it. All the details. Don’t let it out of my sight. The names of all the bi-, all the wom-, all the ladies. Names and details and everything. Come back another day, your honour, tell you all. Sorry.” And his head slumped forward onto the tavern bench.
The gentleman glared at Ramon very hard, turned on his heel and without saying a word strode out of the tavern.
“Senor Leporello, this is not good. You must not start drinking, eh, hard liquor until the gentlemen offer to buy it for you. Why do you start early? You know it is not good for you.”
Ramon tried to remember his real name, to remonstrate with him using that, but could not recall it. He was always just Leporello, an Italian nickname he claimed to have picked up in Naples while in the Spanish army.
Leporello raised his head.
“Couldn’t do it. I ain’t had a wink of sleep. Not last night. Not since the dream.”
He tried to lean forward and his hands tried to clutch at Ramon, to hold onto his arm. The young man stepped backwards automatically, just out of reach.
“I seen him, Ramon! I seen the Master! I seen Don Juan, and he’s in Hell! Sweet Jesus and Mary, I had this dream, and it’s as clear to me now as your face – no, as this tankard sat here.
There was this mansion, see, very well appointed. I knew it was in Hell, ‘cos all around outside was fires. The walls was solid, but the flames showed through the walls!
And sitting at a table set for dinner was the old Commander. Or rather, a demon in his shape. Must have been, ‘cos Dona Anna said about her father, simply, ‘He is in Heaven.’ And I believed her. So must have been a demon. But a good likeness all the same.
And there was this maid there, bringing food, tidying the cutlery, that sort of thing. Slowly, as if she didn’t want to do it, as if she shouldn’t be there.
Anyway, she was a looker, far as I could see from the back or side view. Tall girl, basically slim, but with big – “
He gestured as if his hands were holding something in front of his chest.
“They stood proud, though. Didn’t droop at all. A well-padded arse too, but very trim waist, as if she’d got on a very tight girdle. Her hair was black and shiny, pinned up under her mob cap.
Anyhow, as she was passing by the Commander’s chair, what did he do but reach out and pinch her bum! She gasped and jerked upright, but managed not to drop the plate she was carrying.”
“Senor, this is all very well. But what has it got to do with your master?”
Leporello looked at Ramon as if he were in pain.
“But don’t you see? As she turned away I saw her full face for the first time. She bit her lip in frustration, and as I looked at her I saw – Oh God, Oh God, how to put this – I saw what she was. That maid – Oh God – that maid was him!
Sweet Jesus have mercy! Don Juan, that buck, my Master is now a wench! Oh God, that they’d do that to a man! Even the Inquisition never thought of that one.”
Leporello’s hands started shaking.
“Get me another drink, Ramon.”
He downed half the tankard in one gulp, and it seemed to calm him. He continued.
“ ‘Right Juanita,’ says the Commander – my God, that’s what they’re calling him now, Juanita – ‘Right, enough of this. Get upstairs and get ready. I’ll join you in a quarter of an hour. You know what’s wanted, but I’ll remind you.’
By all the saints, Ramon, I remember every word he said. It’s seared into my heart.
‘Lay out the cane on the coverlet. Kneel at the bedside, your arms on the coverlet, one hand each side of the cane. Make sure your skirt and petticoat are raised, and your drawers pulled down to your feet. Hold that position until I come.’
And then he – she – Oh God, Don Juan, he spoke. In a whisper, and it was a wench’s voice, but it was his voice. I could just about hear her, and she said
‘Please! As you are a gentleman, please no…’
The Commander cuts her off, sharpish.
‘No backchat from you, missy! That’s five strokes you’ve earned already, and we haven’t reviewed today’s performance yet! Say your catechism now.’
‘Uh…’
‘I mean it! Now!’
‘I am Juan Tenorio…’
‘Was.’
‘I was Juan Tenorio. Now I – I am simply Juanita, a maid.’
‘Go on.’
And very softly, as if the voice was almost breaking
‘I used to be a man. Now – now I am a man no longer. I exist only to give – to give pleasure to – to gentlemen.’
And then, Ramon, the Commander, he chuckled. Now the old Commander, in life he was a serious and dignified man. I never heard him laugh. Jesus, Ramon, that chuckle! It was the most sinister thing I ever heard!
‘It’s a good thing,’ says he, ‘you’re not completely broken, Juanita. For if you were broken, where would the punishment be? Right my girl, get upstairs, get ready to give your appraisal of your performance today. You’ve another long day tomorrow. We’re off to Italy, where a number of noblemen are most anxious to try you out. To see how well you fuck now you’re a girl.’ “
Leporello groaned.
“Jesus have mercy on a sinner! I’m damned, Ramon. I ain’t been to mass for years. I ain’t been to confession. I’m damned!”
“Why do you say that, Senor Leporello? This happened to Don Juan. Nothing to do with you.”
Leporello groaned again.
“But that’s not all. There’s more. When Don Juan – Juanita – had left the room… This is the worst bit. He knew I was there, the Commander. He knew I’d seen it all. And he turns and looks straight at me, and his eyes are black pits, and he says
‘And you too, Leporello. You helped him. He couldn’t have performed half his depravities without your help. You too, Leporello, when your time’s up. You’ll share his punishment.’
And then he laughs! Holy Mother of God, help me! They’re going to make me into a wench, like they did him!”
He raised his head to stare at Ramon with bloodshot eyes.
“Senor…”
“I don’t want to be a wench, Ramon! I don’t want to be a wench!”
Leporello’s head dropped back onto his arms, and he started sobbing, and nothing Ramon could say or do would get him to stop.
Copyright 2014
Kandijayne
A serial killer in Victorian London receives his just desserts from a rather unusual source
Incident in Whitechapel 1888
“Ere, what you doin ere? This is my pitch! You can’t take my gen’lemen orf me! Git aht of it! Clear orf, you ‘ear me? Clear orf!”
The woman – the figure was clearly a woman, though tall – was standing just outside the circle of sickly light thrown by the gas lamp through the fog. As the angry Millie Naismith came forward, clutching a now somewhat faded shawl around her shoulders, she turned, and Millie could see for the first time that she wore fine clothes. Her coat had a thick fur collar that framed her throat, and fur muffs. Millie could not see her dress, so closely was the coat wrapped about her, but it was clear that she wore a fashionable bustle, and her hat was as fresh as if it had been bought from a West End milliner the day before.
But what made Millie stop, and even take a step backwards, was her face. The woman was mature, but her complexion was flawless, and flawless without makeup. Her skin was slightly dusky, like a gypsy – no, not a gypsy, but from somewhere in the south, Italy perhaps, but smooth as a girl’s with sensual lips that did not need the enhancement of rouge, and she had a fine, almost noble nose, and piercing brown eyes. Her hair, coiled and piled up under her hat, was jet black. She seemed to radiate not freshness, but experience, but it was as if experience had enhanced her looks, had made and would go on making her seem attractive. As if somehow she were growing younger.
All this Millie saw, even in the poor light, and knew that men would call her beautiful and find her irresistible, and felt a strange fear clutch at her.
The woman said in a clear warm accentless voice that seemed pitched at a low soprano:
“This is a public thoroughfare. I am waiting for someone. I may stand where I like, may I not?”
“Not if the filth catch yer. Constable Perkins, ‘e knows me, but you’d likely get arrested, and what’d that do to you, a lady like you? If y’are a lady.”
There was a tinge of amusement in the woman’s voice.
“That will not happen. The police will not be here tonight. It will be morning before they arrive.”
Even her voice! It did nothing for Millie personally, but she recognised that its timbre would send shivers up and down a man’s spine.
“Go home,” the woman said. “A great danger walks these streets; a killer is on the loose. Do you not know that you put yourself at great risk, coming out on a night like this?”
Even in the gloom Millie felt the woman’s eyes upon her. They seemed to pierce her skin and to be looking inside her, looking for something. Millie shivered, and not just from the fog.
“Yeah, I know. ‘E got a coupla my friends, the bloody sod! But ‘e don’t come aht ev’ry night, so I gotta take my chance. ‘Ow else is a poor girl like me to make a livin? You don’t look like yer need it, Miss. I do. So why don’t you go, please? Any’ow, ain’t you afraid a this killer?”
The woman stepped into the circle of light, and smiled.
“I am in no danger, Millie Naismith.”
In the glare of the gas lamp something glinted in the woman’s mouth. And it was as if a giant hand had seized Millie’s heart, and was squeezing it. Starting to tremble, Millie said:
“Ere, ‘ow do you know my name? Who are yer?”
As the woman’s smile broadened, she saw for the first time that it was not just a woman but – something more.
“W-what are yer? You’re – you’re evil, ain’t you?” And she began to back away. Or rather she tried to back away, but some force held her and seemed to cement her to the spot.
“Yes, I am what you would call ‘evil’. I do Lord Satan’s work; tonight he will take one of his own. How strange then, that I do a good deed in passing. For as to who I am, I am Helen of Troy. Not the original Helen, but I wear her shape. The name means nothing to you, but any educated gentleman would know me. And it is one such that I seek. You will not be harmed tonight. Go home.”
It was as if there was an audible click, as if a trap had sprung open, and Millie was free to move again. And she would have, but something else held her.
“I ain’t made nuffing tonight. I gotta live some’ow….”
The woman opened her lady’s bag, and her elegantly black-gloved hand extracted something that also glinted.
“Here, hold out your hand.”
As if it were not her own, but under some other control, Millie did so. The woman dropped two coins on to it. They burnt like fire at first, but rapidly cooled. They were two ordinary gold half sovereigns.
The woman smiled again, showing fully what was in her mouth.
“Not perhaps as much as you might have hoped for, but still, as easy a night’s work as you will have had in a long while. Now GO!”
“Th-thank you…” Millie whispered. She was on the point of saying God bless you! but thought better of it. She turned and fled into the darkness.
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Some fifteen minutes later the woman heard his footsteps approaching long before she saw him. For some reason the fog, which muffled everything else, did not muffle them. He came with the collar of his greatcoat turned up against the chill, and a porkpie hat pulled down over his eyes. As he came into the range of the gas lamp, she said in an East End accent:
“Fancy a good time, sir? Reasonable prices!”
“Perhaps, my dear, I can give you a good time. Or at any rate something you’ve never experienced before.”
“Doubt that, sir. Seen everyfing, done it all ways you can fink of.”
“Oh I think I can. What are your prices?”
“Blow job four guineas, standard fuck five guineas, Greek six guineas. Anyfing more – unusual, we can negotiate.”
“Why should I pay you that sort of money – slut?”
“Because,” she slipped into a middle class English laden with sensuality “you would be getting something different. A lady. A genuine lady. A fallen lady.”
And she opened her coat to reveal her fashionable dress – a cameo brooch at the throat, two rows of lace down the front, a very tight waist and hips augmented by a bustle.
The man rubbed his whiskers in amazement.
“A lady? My God, why do you do this?”
“Because once your reputation’s gone there’s not much else you can do to make a living. A girl must try to live in this world somehow. You may kiss me if you wish.”
She removed her hat-pin, took off her hat, and shook out her hair, which fell down over her shoulders, black and glossy.
“Ah, you’re – beautiful.” He searched for a comparison and found one in his classical knowledge. “Like – Helen of Troy!”
For a minute his original resolution had seemed to desert him, but he recalled it. His voice changed.
“But you’re all the same. You pretend to be a lady, but you’re a slut like the rest of them. Bitch! Whore! Damned fucking whore!”
He drew the surgical knife from inside his greatcoat. He had perfected the technique now. Two thrusts only were necessary: the first to wound, to injure, the second straight to the heart to kill. He might have had difficulties penetrating her coat, but she had opened it for him. The material of her dress and underwear should prove no obstacle.
But then he would slit her throat to confuse a semi-competent police surgeon as to the cause of death. Finally he would eviscerate her, and at a whim remove one of her internal organs.
“You deserve this, bitch!” He thrust the knife into her.
She laughed at him.
He pulled the knife out. It was covered in blood, but the woman was still standing. He thrust it in again, intending the death blow, and again she laughed, and did not fall.
What was this? He thrust it in again, shouting “Die, you whore, die!” and then again. Her laughter was becoming continuous as though she found his failure, his incompetence a great joke. He stabbed again and again, ever more frenziedly, not judging now the best place for the blows to fall, but merely trying to penetrate her body ever more deeply, and still nothing happened to her, except that she went on laughing.
Finally she reached out, removed the knife from his hand as easily as removing a rattle from a child, and threw it to one side. She ripped his greatcoat down from his shoulders, and holding him by the arms, bent her fangs towards his throat. As the steel-tipped canine teeth penetrated his neck he heard screaming, and because it was usually his female victims who screamed, it was only gradually, as he began to lose consciousness through his loss of blood, that he realised it was his own voice that had screamed.
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Faustus let the inert body drop, and straightened up. He – no she felt reinvigorated, replete with blood and male essence, the body a husk, and only the target’s soul left as an offering to Hell, but it was always like this after feasting on a man. She felt more keenly and remembered more vividly that she had been – no was Doctor Faustus, the learned Doctor Faustus, who had made a pact with Mephistopheles, and lost.
Mephistopheles had promised Faustus youth and beauty, and he had kept his promise, after the fashion of Hell. She had retained all of Faustus’s memories, all of his learning and all of his skills, but he was now, and would continue to be, Helen of Troy, slave of the Lord Mephisto, and his servant and agent.
With a sigh she smoothed down the skirt of her dress, noticed a fleck of blood on it, and with her finger took up the blood, and automatically sucked it off. She noticed the knife lying to one side, and pointed at it. As she lifted her finger it rose and hovered in the air, began to smoke, and then burst into flame and disappeared entirely, leaving not even ash.
She looked round, picked up her hat and repinned it through her hair, rebuttoned her coat, and, satisfied that nothing else was left that was inappropriate, removed herself to another place entirely.
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The police found the body the next morning. It was clearly that of Dr. Arbuthnot, a well-known surgeon, but strangely it seemed to have been drained of all blood, and the look on the corpse’s face suggested he had died of fear. The inquest, which was hushed up, recorded an open verdict. But after that day no more prostitutes were found murdered in Whitechapel.
As for Millie Naismith, the next morning she went to the East End Mission, babbling that she had seen the Devil ‘herself’, and wanted to reform, because she was a good girl really, and wanted to be a good Christian. Of course they took her in, and fed and clothed her, and for a time she was shown as an example of a fallen woman who had been ‘saved’, and even met the Prime Minister, but after a few years she slipped back into old ways, and went on the streets again, saying a woman has to make a living somehow.
Copyright 2014
Want to become a woman? Magic Depot can supply a package tailored to your requirements. A would-be writer interviews an English transformee.
‘Magic Depot Changed My Life’
by kandijayne
Today I’m wearing Sally Cooper – DNA from the nearest Magic Depot superstore of course. I’m hoping that appearing as the popular newsreader will put my interviewee at ease, more than my normal male self would have done.
I have arranged to meet her in Anna Miller’s, where she works as a waitress. It’s an appropriate venue. Anna Miller’s is a restaurant that is a version of a chain of restaurants in Japan, that itself imitates western restaurants. So a fantasy at two removes. It’s light and airy, and very female and family friendly. Its pies and desserts are a speciality – totally delicious.
Miller’s management is happy for me to conduct the interview on their premises, no doubt considering that any mention of their restaurant in an article will be free publicity. I introduce myself to the manager, Mr Nakamura. All Miller’s managers are Japanese, although the waitresses are all Westerners, at least originally. I’ve already spotted one who’s wearing the DNA of a well-known (in Japan) Japanese actress.
Mr Nakamura seats me at a table for two with my back towards the window.
“I will send her to you.”
I watch her as she sashays over to my table. In her waitress uniform she can’t help but put a wiggle in her walk. But I notice how light on her feet she is, almost as if walking on air. And she really is spectacular.
Her long blonde hair, naturally wavy, is pulled back and tied off with a pink bow. The white blouse is high-necked, with a little stand-up collar and short puff sleeves. The pink skirt-apron has a bodice that comes up to immediately under the breasts, and there are two straps which go to the side of her breasts and over each shoulder to cross over at the back.
Her breasts are twin pyramids that thrust out her blouse most satisfactorily, and what makes them even more prominent is the narrowness of her waist. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so small. I looked up her measurements on the website: 41D-17-36. Can that really be right? Apparently it is.
The skirt is actually quite short, coming to no more than halfway down her thigh. All Miller’s girls have good legs, and they are covered in light tan stockings – and I know from the dress code that they are stockings and not tights, and with dead straight seams at the back. The shoes have low heels, at about two inches.
I notice her face last. It’s delicate, fine featured in a 1950s-ish, Audrey Hepburn sort of way. Oh, how clichéd is that, looking at her body first and her face afterwards? A typically male reaction, in spite of the fact that I am in a female body at the moment.
The heart-shaped name badge attached to the left shoulder strap announces her as ‘Sabrina’.
I stand up and extend my right hand across the table.
“Sabrina St Clair?”
She takes my hand in a gentle feminine gesture, and then sits in the chair across the table from me.
“It’s totally natural,” she says somewhat ruefully as she does so. “It’s not enhanced at all, this body. It’s the exact duplicate of my donor. From when she was about 20 with no medical problems, of course. We’re magical clones, that’s the way it was described to me.”
“What made you choose it?”
She laughs. “It was cheap!” Her voice is middle class southern English, more appropriate to the newsreader I’m imitating rather than the waitress/dancer I’m interviewing. But allied with her body it’s irresistibly sexy.
“I was looking for a total package from Magic Depot, but I didn’t have a lot of money. This DNA was in a sale, reduced to clear, which meant that I’d have more to devote to the rest of the package. It’s since been discontinued entirely. There won’t be any more like this.”
There must be more to it than that, but I’ll come back to it. I’m lucky that she seems ready to open up without much prompting.
“What do you know about your donor?”
“She was a starlet and glamour celebrity in the 1950s, very big in Britain and the Commonwealth, not well known in America. Very popular with men of a certain age, you know, but younger generations don’t seem to know about her. Sabrina was her stage name, but in honour of her I’ve changed my name legally. I’m now officially as well as professionally Sabrina St Clair. Oh, I think she’s still alive living in America somewhere.”
“What about the way people look at you, look at your body. Don’t you find that disconcerting?”
“Actually I quite enjoy it on the whole. Surprisingly. The way that many people, mostly men, do a sort of double take when they first meet me. The way that other men will look at my boobs first, and my waist, before they look at my face. I knew it was going to happen, of course, when I chose this body, but to experience it as reality is – well, different. But that sort of reaction gives me time, puts me at an advantage. Which I enjoy.”
“No downsides?”
“Some women will automatically hate me, which is sad, since I’m not trying to compete with them, not trying to outdo them. But what I really hate is when people think that because I look like this, I’m stupid, I’m a bimbo. That’s not true at all! That’s not me!”
“If you don’t mind I’d like to ask you about the package deal with Magic Depot. What did you go for, and why? I mean a lot of people buy DNA magic for a temporary change for various reasons, but you opted for permanent feminisation. Were you always transgender?”
She smiles, a genuine open smile. I notice her pink lipstick matches the colour of her apron.
“No, not at all. I always knew that I was male. I just didn’t like it very much. Since my early teens I’d had this yearning to be a girl, and wondered what it would be like and imagined being one. I used to pray every night when I went to bed that I’d wake up the next morning as a girl. Of course it never happened!”
She laughs, and with her the laugh is an attractive, feminine gesture. I’m guessing that she is the sort of woman who will laugh readily at a man’s jokes.
“I always worshipped women – that’s why I wanted to be one. The psychologists have got a name for it. Auto-gyno-something-or-other. I don’t feel guilty about it.”
“And the package?” I prompt gently.
“Yes, well, I wanted to be a real woman, not just a man in a woman’s body. At the same time I still wanted to be me. All my memories intact, you know? Not a total replacement of my personality. So when Magic Depot introduced their line of ‘Mix ‘n Match Spells’ that seemed to be just what I was looking for. There’s a payment plan of course. They include counselling by a trained magician-therapist, you know. If you need it.
They wanted me to take a temporary DNA body first, just to try it out to see if it was right for me. I’d never even done that before. But I wouldn’t do it. I insisted on going straight into my permanent form, with no possibility that I could revert. It seemed more ‘authentic’ somehow.”
“And was it?”
“Yes.”
“What did the package consist of, exactly?”
“As well as my body, all sorts of different psychological features I thought a woman should have. I like children a lot better now, for example, and I can communicate with them, where I couldn’t before. And I used to be a real slob as a man. My mother always had to tidy up after me when I was little. Well I asked for, and got, a real tidiness fetish. I have to keep everywhere clean now! If I see a mess I just have to tidy it up. I’m a real little housekeeper!”
“In other words not a complete personality transplant, but plenty of personality add-ons?”
“Yes, exactly! But the most important turned out to be something – a spell – called ‘poise’. I always used to be a little bit clumsy. A klutz, the Americans would say. Well now for example I can carry a full tray of food on one hand, and not spill a drop. Even if a customer pinches my bum as I go past, which hardly ever happens in Miller’s restaurants, fortunately. My body has a new sense of balance. And not just my body. Mentally as well. It was a tremendous boost to my female self-confidence.”
“And dancing – was that another spell?”
“No that came completely naturally. But I think ‘poise’ was the key that unlocked it. I now seemed to be able to find, and respond to rhythms. Or rather I was able to find the rhythm that was already inside me, and I just had to let it out. And so that’s what I did.”
“You’ve appeared in the chorus lines in several West End musicals?”
“Yes, after I got my full Equity card. I enjoyed all that work being a traditional ‘hoofer’, but Cats was my favourite. I really loved it, wearing those all-over err catsuits.”
She stifles a little laugh at her unintended pun.
“There again Magic Depot’s been a great help. With traditional materials I’d have to be careful. Things go out of shape so easily. But now they’ve introduced this new range made of magic-impregnated Lycra. Leotards, zentai suits, whatever you do the material retains its stretchiness permanently. Can you imagine that?”
“And then you went on to Burlesque Dancing?”
“I’d always been attracted to the concept, to the glamour. Appearing on stage I’d made useful contacts, and with this body clubs were keen to employ me. And I liked the artistic freedom. When you’re in a chorus you have to do what the director tells you, but in Burlesque you can work out your own routine. I felt liberated. No, really! People looking at your body, men and women, is liberating when you control how and what they’re looking at!”
“You’re now gaining quite a reputation, even though you only appear in small private clubs. ‘Second only to Dita von Teese in her artistry and sensuality’ is what a lot of connoisseurs of Burlesque have said and written about you.”
“Hey, I’ve met Dita when she was performing over here. She’s a lady, let me tell you. She has real class! Dita is someone I’ll always look up to. She gave me some good advice about always following my own ideas and not letting anyone else impose theirs on me. But I think I gave her something as well. Before she met me she was very leery about leasing a DNA sample to the magic labs. Since meeting me I know she’s reconsidered, and done it. “
Sabrina giggles like a schoolgirl. “So now all those boys who wank over her image can actually become her for a while.”
“But with all this you’re still working as a waitress?”
“I’m only part-time now. Miller’s is a good employer, and they pay good wages. They like me, and it’s a regular source of income. Burlesque, the Theatre, it’s irregular, and they don’t pay as well as people think. I need the money, quite frankly. I’m still paying off Magic Depot’s pay plan for the services they provided.”
“There’s Glamour Photography as well?”
“That’s good work if you can get it, yes.”
Sabrina’s giving nothing away here, and I should probe further, but for some reason I don’t want to. I don’t want to turn this into an expose. She’s modelled for Glamour photographs, I know. And not only Glamour; she’s done Fetish as well. I’ve seen some of them. I’ve seen some of her Bondage photos.
My two favourites are taken in the same position. She’s lying on her right side, her wrists and elbows tied behind her back with white rope, likewise her ankles and below her knees. A white scarf is dragged into her mouth and knotted behind her head as a gag. In one photo she’s wearing a white ribbed sleeveless polo-necked jumper and chequered miniskirt, and black boots. In the other photo she’s in exactly the same position and with the same bonds, but naked.
Yes, I should ask her about this, but for some reason I’m not going to. Maybe it’s because I have a female body at the moment, and have a fellow feeling with her. Sister, I don’t want to ruin this. Hah, a writer with scruples? That’s why I’ve always been a failure! Maybe it’s because I don’t want her to know that I know about those photos? Maybe it’s just because I’m soft?
“Let me ask you this,” I say. “Are you happy?”
She cocks her head on one side, considering the question.
“If you mean am I deliriously happy all of the time, then no. Like other people I have good days and bad days. We all have our ups and downs. But am I happier on the whole than I was before, then yes. I’ve never thought of happiness as something you go out and grab. I believe in doing what you have to do, and doing the best at it that you can. Then happiness comes to find you, if you’re lucky.
But if you ask did I do the right thing, then yes, absolutely! Do I have any regrets? No, not at all! Given the choice would I do the same thing over again? Again, yes!”
“I don’t want to pry,” I say, “but what about your private life?”
“I don’t have a regular boyfriend. I’ve had one-nighters, of course, but the trouble is most men are either scared of me, what I was, what I’ve become, or else they’re stupid macho jerks. I never knew before how many jerks there are out there. I never realised what women have to put up with until I became one myself.
There is Karl, of course. I see him every now and then. That’s someone I knew from before I changed. Caroline was short, dumpy and unattractive, but a genuinely sweet person inside. She’s gone the opposite route from me. Mm, Karl is deliciously strong and well set, but he’s a real sweetie, not at all macho. Whenever we see each other we hit it off. Trouble is that’s not all that often.”
The intelligent part of me is thinking that I’ve got almost enough material now, while the macho jerk part of me is thinking about those bondage photos. I try to suppress that part of me, at least until later. Later, when I can masturbate before I revert back to my male body.
“Ms St Clair, thank you for sharing these thoughts with me. Now I’d better let you get back to waitressing.”
I go to stand up. “Oh, one last thing. Have you found anything that surprised you, anything that you didn’t expect before your change?”
A faraway look comes into her eyes. “Not until recently. But recently I’ve had the feeling, been thinking, maybe it would be nice to settle down. With someone. Maybe start a family. I could, you know. We magic clones have all the internal parts in working order. I don’t see Karl often enough. More frequently would be nice, you know? It’s odd; this wasn’t part of the Magic Depot package. I don’t know where it’s come from.”
She shakes her head as if to shake herself out of this reverie.
“I’m performing at the Wig and Gown Club – you know, for lawyers? – all next week. Even if you’re not a member I can get you an invite. You could see my act live, see what all the fuss is about. It’d be nice to see you there.”
“Thanks,“ I say, “I’d like to come. I might be wearing a different body, though.”
We both laugh at that. Then we both stand up and shake hands. Sabrina St Clair walks away from me, and her back view, particularly her bottom moving inside her skirt, is almost as attractive as her front view.
I sit down again. I’ve decided I need a coffee before I leave. Another waitress, a pretty girl with an oriental body, takes my order. And as I sit sipping my coffee, I observe Sabrina serving other customers. At one point she carries a tray with a meal on it balanced on the fingers of her left hand. And she doesn’t spill a drop.
Copyright 2014
On an unknown alien planet two members of the Space Service who have been captured and transformed review what has happened to them. They are unlikely to be rescued - have they become reconciled to their situation?
Note 1: I first published this story in 1987 in a small British SF magazine (Cassandra Anthology) under the pseudonym ‘Richard Kollo’. Since it was angled towards a science fiction rather than a TG readership, it may not be explicit enough for TG sites; but I have posted it unchanged, save for some minor corrections of punctuation, and should be grateful for any feedback.
Note 2: The names are pronounced: Lotey –ahmeh, Ni-roweh; i.e. the final ‘e’is sounded.
On Summer Nights We Remember
“Kris, what the hell are we doing here?”
The evening is warm and sensual; dark, drowsy and yet alive, alive with the whirring and humming of insects and nameless night creatures. Somewhere outside a taumra’a is being played, its sound seductive, at once metallic and resonant, pure and classical in its technique, yet it can catch at the heart, can lift it and soar with it up to a joy, to a pitch of ecstasy. Andy is lying prone, a cushion under his chin, in his eyes a distant, thoughtful look.
“But what the hell are we doing here?”
“We were kidnapped. Surely you can’t have forgotten that already?”
I am lying on my back in the darkness, letting the music envelope me. It seems to sink into every pore in my body, filling the space in me and around me. I hear it, feel it and am part of it, am held and caressed by it, and there is no time, there is nothing but the now.
“Please, Kris, please don’t be flippant. I want to be serious for a bit. We’ve got no idea where this place actually is. Oh, I know what it’s called in half a dozen local languages, but its location…. Where in Creation are we? There can’t ever have been contact with this planet, this civilisation before our ship got here, can there? How close are our people to making contact again? All this – we’ve never come across anything like it before. It’s too fantastic.”
I am silent, and the music is a veil pulled over me.
“They’re so much like us, Kris, so very like us except in one vital way, but that difference makes them so strange. Are they really human beings?”
“Andy, you and I, we both know with more certainty than we know almost anything else about this world, we know in the most intimate possible way, whatever else they might be, they really are human.”
And Andy has to sigh, for he knows that what I have said is true.
“Look, it’s no use thinking there’s anyone out there looking for us. We’ve been written off, you’ve got to realise that. Another ship missing on active service, nothing more. Remember what they told you at Induction: there are thousands gone that way. By now our records have been tagged ‘Missing Believed Dead’ and shoved back in an unused memory bank. It’s only going to be a machine that remembers us on Earth, not any living person. It’s why they prefer people ‘without ties’.”
He gets up and goes to the window. He draws the gauze curtain aside slightly and the night, the warmth, the insects calling, the drone of the taumra’a seem to enfold us more closely.
“Look at that sky. Look at those stars. It’s like no chart I’ve ever seen before. None of the star patterns we learned even approaches it. We’re lost, aren’t we? Lost beyond the edge of the universe.”
I lie still, watching the figure silhouetted in the darkness who gazes out over the balcony; across the little enclosed courtyard with the fountain that still murmurs to itself, and the garden of fruits and flowers; across the rooftops to the horizon and the distant wooded hills where the lodge is; and over and beyond them all to the stars. I study the outline that stands there unmoving.
“If only we still had the navigator with us,” he says. “Erlander would have known where we are, just by looking at the stars.”
“No,” I say, “I think not even Erlander.”
Then I say suddenly “Andy, that’s not what’s troubling you, is it, knowing where we are? It’s a lot deeper, isn’t it? You’ve been restless for the past few days, more than I’ve ever known you since we came here. It’s as though you’ve been thinking too much, and you’re thinking about what’s happened to us, and what we’ve become.”
He does not answer, and still there is the drone of the taumra’a as though the darkness itself, the nothingness, is vibrating, playing to us. Then he lets the curtain fall and comes and sits down close to me, and I hear the rustle of silken fabric and the whispered clatter of bangles and bracelets.
“Why us, Kris, why us? I do think about it, and even now I can hardly believe what happened. In the Service they prepared us for all sorts of things: mechanical failure, mutiny, starvation, capture by aliens, torture, insanity, even death – we could handle them all. But not this. Never in my deepest fantasies…”
“No?”
“No! Never. What have we been turned into, Kris? What sort of freaks are we?”
“Not freaks. You’re looking at it from the wrong point of view. To our…our captors we must have seemed like freaks when they first found us, but now we’ve become real men. That’s what Meta’en would say, and the other…do we call them ‘Masters’ or ‘Mistresses’? The concepts are difficult in Anglo; shall we talk in Makhaled?”
“Please no, Kris, don’t. I feel while I can at least talk to you in Anglo I still exist as Andrew Berenson. If we talk in Makhaled I shall become Loteame again. For the first time since – it, I’ve looked at myself, into my own heart, and I’m frightened. It’s as if I’ve been walking down a long tunnel and I turn round suddenly and there’s Lieutenant Berenson, everything I was, still back at the entrance. I’m not him anymore. Every step I take gets farther and farther away from him. Oh, Kris, I want to remember, somehow, that I am Andrew Berenson.”
I put my arms round his shoulders, for I see that he is near to tears. We are close to each other now after all that has happened. When we were fellow officers I would not have dared such a thing which at the very least would have excited whispered comment among the rest of the crew; in fact there was no physical contact between any of us aside from the formal shaking of hands, isolated as we were in our own cabins with only sense-u-tapes for comfort. But in the life we now lead it seems right and good that we can touch and embrace each other without fear.
Stroking his long hair I say “Andy, don’t upset yourself like this. There’s no need. Is our life here so terrible? Just think, we’re probably the luckiest of the whole ship. If any of the crew survived they must be scattered across the whole of this world and they could be, well, in the temples or taverns perhaps, anywhere. They haven’t split us up, have they? Isn’t that something to be thankful for?”
The moonlight, I notice – for there is a moon, just as on Earth there is a moon – catches his hair which shimmers in a soft golden cascade down his back.
“At least we’re living in comfort here, Andy. Why not try and relax, enjoy it a little?”
“Lie back and think of Earth, is that it? Lie back and enjoy being ravished?”
“You know that’s not fair. She would never do anything… never force us… not Meta’en. She’s like a tigress sometimes, yes, but not… You’re in a bad way, aren’t you? What’s happened to the bright, vivacious Loteame everyone loves?”
“No, Kris, please don’t. Let me stay Andrew Berenson a bit longer.”
“No, Loteame. And you must only call me Niroe. We can’t go back, you know. I was Kristopher Ewert. Was, that’s the thing, but no longer. Now I’m Niroe, you’re Loteame. There’s nothing we can do.”
Still I stroke his hair. The taumra’a is more urgent, more rhythmic.
“It was all luck, I’m sure. Pure luck that they found us. We were already lost, don’t forget, far beyond the known regions of space, and they were perhaps scanning new regions too, farther than they ever had before. And they came across us and brought us in. We crashed on the planet, with what results we know. With the ship gone we just became exotic specimens that would fetch a good price.”
He disentangles my arm and turns his back to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t seem to be saying much to help.”
He turns to face me, and the melody of his voice cracks. “I’ve seen Quenelle.”
“Quenelle? You’ve seen him? But…how?” I find this astonishing. Of course we are not allowed out alone.
“It was last week, when we were all taken out on that excursion to the country, out to the hills. You remember? As our carriage was crossing the market place I lifted a corner of the curtain while no one was looking, and I caught a glimpse of him. He’s changed, Kris, like us he’s changed. But it was him, I’m certain. That face – oh yes it was Quennelle all right. And he was dancing. You know, as we’ve been trained. But he was on a wooden platform surrounded by a crowd, and he was dancing.”
I say nothing. Etienne Quennelle had been cold, humourless, puritanical. He would not even use sense-u-tapes. Most of us thought him prudish.
“His hair… you remember how black it was and how short he kept it cut? Well it was long, down over his shoulders, flowing and wild.” Andy swallows hard. “I suppose they consider him exciting. He was stripped to the waist, Kris, and… dancing.”
The darkness is a living presence that surrounds us and touches our faces with warm fingers. The taumra’a is harsh, insistent.
“It seems we have two choices,” I say after a long silence. “Either to be secluded in private, or to become public property.”
And then the dam is broken. Andy is upon my shoulder, his tears coming in floods.
“We are property. She owns us, Kris. Meta’en owns us. There’s no escape is there? There’s no escape.”
“No.” I echo him hollowly. “There’s no escape.”
The taumra’a is softer now, more lyrical. We are lying on our backs close to each other. Loteame is quiet, his tears spent.
“It’s easier for you, Niroe. You’re the sort they find attractive. You’ve got dark hair and dark eyes, and you’ve got the body, like Etienne – whatever they call him now. Me, I’m just thin and plain. They make me play this role, and I’m not even any good at it.”
I turn my head and look at the slim delicate form lying next to me. So he really doesn’t know! It’s true I have the body. I’ve learned to move well enough. And I am witty and charming, for those who own us demand that we shall be bright and intelligent, able to discourse on a wide range of suitable topics, to write poetry and sing songs, as well as to move and to dance. But I can never compete with his beauty, his magnetism, his sensuality which so captivates them. I have learned to enjoy the life too much, so that I am too relaxed. I can never seem to attain that passionate intensity which makes him so much the object of her desire. Meta’en with those burning, hungry eyes can talk to me, but she will never love me. But Loteame… And he doesn’t realise it! I am embracing him again now, talking earnestly to him.
“Loteame, can’t you see you’re her favourite? All the others are jealous of you. Look, she calls you to her as often as the rest of us put together. You’re not plain, you’re attractive, desirable, beautiful, everything the rest of us long to be. She sometimes talks to me about you afterwards. ‘His hair is a river of gold’ – that’s what she said once. I’m sure she loves you above all of us.”
I kiss him, and our noserings clash and jingle, and we laugh a little, as we always do when that happens.
“Promise me,” I say, “that you won’t let her sell me. We’re still together, we’ve still got each other, and that’s something, isn’t it?” and smiling he promises.
“Believe me,” I say, “you really are beautiful.” The tears are drying fast now.
“Thanks,” he says, “it’s not true, but you’re a good friend, Niroe.”
Soon, soon we know it will be time. The taumra’a is quiet, deceptively gentle, lulling its hearers into security and sleep. Loteame whispers to me:
“Niroe, which one will it be tonight? You? Me? Both of us together?”
But I do not answer, for who can say which of us will be called? Every night we must wait in expectation, yet it still comes as a little shock to learn that it is our own turn. The taumra’a is building to a climax, louder and louder, to a great chord that clangs in dissonance, and then suddenly it is completely silent, and we can hear again the whirring and humming of insects in the night air, and know indeed that it is the time, that now Meta’en, our Master, will make her choice and call whom she will to serve her. Perhaps Loteame, perhaps me, Niroe. Or perhaps both of us together.
Copyright 1987, 2014.
If you are a not very masculine 18 year old male, you should fear the 11.00 pm knock on the door. It'll probably be the Sissy Service with a warrant for your feminization!
You’ve been drafted, Girlie!
by kandijayne
It’s almost 11.00 pm. From where our unmarked, darkened van is parked we can see the light still on in the mark’s bedroom.
“It’s watching porn movies,” says Danni the IT expert through our earpieces. She has hacked into the mark’s home computer, just as she had previously hacked into its school records.
“Porn movies?”
“Yeah, shemale porn movies.”
“Ooh, p’raps it wants to star in shemale porn?” suggests Sally. We all giggle. In the future it will be given every opportunity to do so.
At this stage in the operation we always refer to the mark as ‘it’. No longer male in our eyes, but not yet started on the long journey to femininity. Not for a few minutes anyway.
“Right,” I say, “it’s 11.00. Everybody ready?”
“Yeah, A-OK!” “Right on!” from Sally and Kylee.
“Check, mistress.” from Felicity.
I glance in the van’s mirror. My domino mask is on straight, and my lips, deep scarlet, contrast well with the glossy black of my jumpsuit.
“Then let’s go, go, go, girls!”
I bang on the front door; three sharp double raps, wait 10 seconds, another three. I am ready for any possible trouble. At this stage it usually comes in the shape of macho fathers in denial about their offspring’s masculinity (lack of), or overprotective brothers. But a scratch on the face and the drugs from my nails will have them out like a light, and sleeping peacefully for several hours. Oh, and one of my spiked heels jabbed down onto a foot can be painfully disabling. Yes, I can take care of myself if necessary.
I rap again. From inside: “Okay, okay, I’m coming already!” There is the sound of bolts being drawn back. “Sheesh, who the heck at this time…”
The front door opens, and I am immediately halfway over the threshold, preventing it from being closed.
“Lieutenant Lorelei, SS.” I flash my ID. “I have a warrant for the detention and reassignment of your ‘son’, Jason Jablonsky.” I pause long enough before the word son to indicate that it’s in quote marks.
“Humph. Better come in.” No, there won’t be any problems with this one. It’s almost as if he was expecting us.
Actually I am in already. Sally, Kylee and Felicity follow.
“Who is it, Steve? Oh…!” Mrs Jablonsky has come into the hall, and her hand flies to her mouth as soon as she sees us.
“Oh, no, no, please, not my boy!”
She knows just by looking at us who we are, what organisation we’re from. I present as quite striking. I’m tall (for a sissy) and slim, but with curves in all the right places, and my tight-fitting black leather jumpsuit emphasises them. The stiletto heels on my boots make me even taller. With my black hair I look rather like Catwoman without the cat ears. Kylee has tried to get me to wear cat ears out on ops, but I haven’t taken her up on that. Her alternative suggestion of deely boppers earned her a good spanking.
Sally and Kylee could be twins. They’re both blondes with short tight curls, on top of which sit black baseball caps, bearing in pink the Sissy Service logo: entwined Mars and Venus, male and female symbols. They both wear black polo shirts, filled nicely with 38C boobs (mine are only 36B but, hey, I’m not jealous), and tight black leather miniskirts and black boots. They’ve both unholstered their revolvers.
Felicity looks more like a conventional sissy. She’s basically here to carry the bag that holds our equipment. Her Lolita-style dress is pink, with layers and layers of frills and ruffles, and comes to just below the knee. White ankle socks and Mary Janes complete her ensemble. Her brown hair is done in ringlets down both sides of her sweet face, with white and red ribbons entwined in it.
We all wear masks, domino style. While mine, Sally’s and Kylee’s are black, to match our uniforms, Felicity’s is pink, to match her dress.
Anyway:
“Oh, no, no, no! Please, not my boy!”
“Ma’am, do you know what ‘your boy’ is doing now? He’s watching porn on his computer. And when was the last time he took part in a ball game? No, she’s (I emphasise the word) not your boy any longer. The next time you see her, she’ll be your sissy girlie daughter.”
With a nod of my head I gesture to Sally and Kylee. They push past the Jablonskys and dash up the stairs. I’m never quite sure how they can dash in those tight skirts, but dash they do. They kick the bedroom door down and burst in. We hear “Freeze!” in Sally’s soprano.
“Steve, do something!”
Mr Jablonsky attempts to comfort his wife.
“Lorna honey, it’s all official. There’s nothing we can do.” Yes, he’s been expecting this. He hasn’t even asked to see the warrant.
I saunter to the stairs and climb them elegantly, taking my time. Style is everything! Felicity follows with her bag.
I step through the bedroom doorway. The mark has indeed frozen, like the proverbial rabbit caught in a truck’s head lights.
Sally and Kylee are both holding their revolvers, their pink day-glo revolvers, two handed, pointing at the mark. This is mostly for show, to increase the fear factor. The Service doesn’t actually kill people, usually. If necessary they will shoot darts that will disable for a period, just like the drugs in my nails.
The mark sees me for the first time, and I see a flicker of fear cross its face. Good.
“Jessi Jablonsky, I have a warrant for your feminization. I must ask you to remove your clothes. All of them. Now.”
“I, er, oh heck, I – this has gotta be a mistake! My name isn’t Jessi!”
I smile wickedly. “It is now. There are two ways we can do this. Either you obey my orders, completely, and start stripping off immediately. Or my officers here can rip your clothes off for you. And – other things. They’d enjoy doing that, I guarantee. Now, which is it to be, Jessi?”
“Oh, fuckin’ shit, I…”
In two strides I cross the room and slap her face with the flat of my hand.
“Never, ever use such language again! If sissies are foul-mouthed they will be punished for it! That includes you! Now strip!”
Slowly, reluctantly, she does so. First the usual teenage male uniform of logo’d teeshirt and ragged jeans. Her fingers fumble nervously with the zip. Under the jeans a pair of boxers. And under the boxers – Ah ha! She’s wearing a pair of very delicate, black lacy panties. She blushes with shame as they’re revealed. I know what they are. They’re her mother’s, and Mrs Jablonsky hasn’t missed them yet. Hasn’t missed them, because they’re only for very special occasions. Jessi thought she could put them back before mom noticed.
“Socks as well,” I say.
Soon Jessi is standing there naked. She’s scrawny, with very little growth of hair on her torso or her face. This is generally a good sign for a sissy, though it’s not always the case. Danni for example was hairy and overweight. A very severe regime of diet, exercise and hormone therapy was necessary before she attained her present smooth, hour-glass figure.
I read Jessi her rights. I love this bit. Basically she hasn’t got any.
“By a decision of the Gender Determination Board, and under the signed authority of a Judge, you have been drafted by the Sissy Service to be reassigned as a girlie. You, Jessi Jablonsky, will be detained at a Re-education Centre until your transition has been completed.
You have the right to appeal this decision within 48 hours of written notification or registration at a Re-education Centre, whichever is the sooner. However I must warn you that if such appeal is refused you will be subject to a severe spanking, among other things. Physical and mental training programs will not be put on hold pending such appeal. Do you wish to say anything?”
“I – er -” There’s a catch in her voice.
“No? Good! Turn round!” I say sharply.
Nervously she does so. I snap the cuffs that Felicity has handed to me onto her wrists. Sally and Kylee re-holster their revolvers.
“Bend over your bed!” I order, with a sharp slap to her butt. “Do it!”
With a little whimper she does so. If she’s been watching the right sort of porn, she’ll have some idea of what’s coming next. Sally snaps on the thin rubber gloves from Felicity’s bag, and parts our draftee’s ass cheeks. Jessi whimpers again, and tenses. Kylee stands ready to hold her down if necessary.
“She’s very tight.”
I bend down close to Jessi’s ear and murmur almost seductively “This won’t hurt. Much. But you need to relax. Don’t tighten up. It’s only a couple of fingers. Don’t fight them, let them in. It’ll be much easier if you do.”
“That’s better. Got three in.”
Sally withdraws her fingers and takes the suppository from Felicity, who giggles. I know she enjoys this bit.
Sally unwraps the suppository and places it against the draftee’s ass. It’s soft and malleable and goes in fairly easily. Sally pushes it up as far as it will go. There’s another whimper.
Then Sally takes the metal butt plug. Kylee has already lubed it up for her, and she hands her the tube of lubricant jelly so that some can be smeared up Jessi’s ass. The plug is cold and metallic and is quite a different proposition from the suppository. As Sally pushes and twists it, it elicits a series of gasps.
“No-oo!”
“Easy,” I murmur, “easy! Don’t tighten, relax! Don’t fight it.”
The plug goes in with a little ‘pop’ and Jessi instinctively, automatically, tenses. Her sphincter muscle tightens round the narrow neck of the plug, sealing it inside her. Sally presses a button on the exposed outer part, and there’s a gasp as the interior section expands. Now there’s no way it can be removed until we unlock it.
“There,” I murmur, “all over! That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Little does Jessi know. The suppository will dissolve in her bowel over the next six hours or so, releasing the first instalment of the Service’s special cocktail of female hormones and other drugs that will cure her ‘testosterone poisoning’. Not as efficient as an injection, perhaps, but still a nice humiliating start.
Because the suppository also releases another compound, based largely on chilli powder. It won’t react with the hormones, but will gradually impart a heat to her insides, slight at first, but it will build up to an excruciating sensation that will cause her to wiggle her butt about like a demented pole dancer. It will only be relieved by her first enema, tomorrow morning. As Felicity would say “Ooh, aren’t we wicked!”
Kylee and I both grasp Jessi’s arms and help to raise her upright. We haven’t finished with her yet. Felicity hands me the roll of pink duct tape, and I use it to wrap round her upper arms, pulling her elbows tightly together. If she had proper titties this would make them thrust forward. Soon, girlie, soon!
I spin her round to face me.
“Who’s been a naughty girl, wearing Momma’s panties without permission?” I let them dangle from my finger. “Oh dear, they’re all soiled. I hope you were going to wash them before you put them back.” I ball them up in my hand. Jessi is now blushing furiously. I wonder how long it will be before Mrs Jablonsky misses them.
“Open wide!” Kylee pinches her nose so she has to open her mouth. I stuff the panties in and then press her jaw back up. Then using several strips of the pink duct tape I seal her mouth shut.
Her eyes try to plead with me. I grasp her chin with my hand and move her head from side to side as if examining it. Her hair is straggly and she’s let it grow rather long, almost down to the shoulders. When washed, conditioned, brushed and styled properly it should turn out to be a dark blonde, almost auburn.
“You know, I think you’re gonna be quite pretty.”
I see fear in her eyes, real deep fear. Not fear of the unknown, for she knows roughly what’s going to happen, just not the details of how, but fear that deep down inside she actually wants this, fear of admitting it to herself.
At any rate her sissy clitty – it will be called that from now on – is showing signs of arousal. That won’t do at all. Sally sprays it with the special aerosol. The cool mist causes a sudden intake of breath through her nose, and her sissy clitty deflates rapidly. In its flaccid state it’s easy to fit and lock the rods and mesh of metal that’s her temporary chastity device. Her permanent chastity will be fitted at the Re-education Centre.
Finally the part I really love. Felicity hands me the piercing and sealing tool that looks like a sort of gun. I check it to make sure that the ring is in place inside.
I hold the ‘gun’ up in front of her face, checking that the slot in the top fits round the septum of her nose. Kylee holds her head between her hands to make sure she doesn’t jerk away. I pull the trigger.
There’s a noise like a small bang, and tears spring to Jessi’s eyes. A cry tries to erupt in her throat, but of course is stifled by the fact that she’s gagged. Her nose is now pierced.
I pull the trigger again. There’s the sound of whirring and clicking, and she can feel the heat from the tool. Then there’s a loud ‘ping’, and I carefully remove the ‘gun’ away from her face. Jessi now has a fine, gold-colored ring through the septum of her nose. She’s now legally a sissy.
By law all girlies, whatever else they wear or don’t wear, must have a ring fixed in their nose. It defines a sissy at a glance, establishes her status. Felicity of course has one, and Danni. Sally and Kylee both have one. Even I sport a nose ring. And we all wear them with pride, for they’re part of what we are. Proud to be a sissy girlie! And now Jessi has one too. Welcome to the family, sister!
Jessi is sobbing quietly to herself as Sally clips a collar with a chain lead attached round her neck. Sally gives the chain a tug.
“Get moving, girlie!”
Kylee jabs a finger into the small of her back. As Jessi can’t see her, she doesn’t know that it’s her finger, and not her revolver. They take her downstairs.
Before I follow them I click on Jessi’s computer. The last website she was viewing before we detained her was one called ‘Fictionmania’. That’s good, that’s very good. They’re an excellent bait for candidates for feminization.
Felicity has been looking over my shoulder. “That’s how I started, mistress, looking at Fictionmania. “
I give her butt a playful swot.
“Get away with you, little slut.” and she giggles happily. I switch off the computer.
I descend the stairs with Felicity in tow. As I pass the Jablonskys – Mrs openly crying, Mr still trying to comfort her – I say airily “Don’t worry about the damage to the door. The Sissy Service will pay for repairs.” And it’s quite true. There’s even a special budget, the ‘Bedroom Door Repairs Fund’.
We get Jessi settled in the back of the van, alongside the other two draftees we’ve collected tonight. Once she’s lying on the hard rubber floor I immobilise her legs with duct tape. Aah, three soon-to-be sweet girlies, all bound and gagged, and all with fear in their eyes! Quite rightly. Our first detainee, Lily, is beginning to twitch as her suppository starts to take effect. The second, Debbi, is just lying there, attempting to whimper behind her gag.
“Secured the last of them,” I inform Danni over the radio. “We’re bringing them in.”
“Right girls,” I tell the others, “let’s get these turkeys back to the Centre and checked in, and then we’re done for the night.”
Now we just have to endure Kylee’s madcap, hair-raising driving on the way back. Goodness knows what the poor detainees, bouncing around in the back, must think.
It’s Saturday tomorrow, and we’re all off duty for the weekend. Two whole days to relax and enjoy life. I shall be back with Mistress Claire.
The thing I love about Mistress Claire is that she’s totally unimpressed that I’m a lieutenant in the Sissy Service. To her I’m just another girlie in need of work and discipline. I shall again be her parlour maid in ankle-length black dress and white bib-apron, my hair bound up in a bun under a mob cap, and will spend Saturday cleaning her house from top to bottom, punctuated by sessions under her paddle if she thinks I’m not doing a good enough job, or just not working hard enough.
Sunday I’ll spend a lot of the time preparing food, and it’s only on Sunday evening that I’ll change into a classic French Maid dress to serve her dinner guests. My sissy clitty is already straining in its metal prison at the thought of it. Of course it won’t be let out; chastity is a permanent condition for a girlie.
The others will be similarly occupied. Danni, I know, will be continuing her ponygirl training – she needs the exercise to keep her trim – and Felicity will be serving her adored Black Master. I’m not sure what Sally and Kylee are going to be doing exactly, but I bet it’s something together and involves being dressed as bunny girls.
Yes I may be a Domme in the Sissy Service, but underneath I’m a girlie who needs to know her place like all the others. The Constitution guarantees everyone the right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Well, nobody wants a dead sissy. They’re much more fun to play with as living girlies. Liberty? Every sissy has the freedom to become her true feminized self, what she really is in her heart. And as for the Pursuit of Happiness, everyone knows that sissies are only happy, or rather are happiest when they’re serving a Master or a Mistress.
These truths are self-evident, as Jessi and her sister draftees will come to realise. And it’s our job in the Sissy Service to help them on their way to realising it. Yes, it’s a worthwhile profession we’re in. No wonder we all enjoy it so much!
Copyright 2014