Pansy Pond
by Timothy Reisling Betticut
Chapter One – Teather
*** Week 1 ***
“Not another week! Jesus Derk, this isn’t working. I… I can’t take
another week. Look at me for Christ sake. Look at these boobs. They’re
fucking real. Real! C’s. C-CUPS! Look, Goddamnit look what happens when
I clack around in these heels. My chests jiggle. They’re heavy Derk. My
back hurts. I gotta wear all this apparatus just to keep them up…..
And this is the last time we can talk if I stay. They’ll give me the
earrings tomorrow. Look at them on those other girls. SHIT, I mean
boys.”
“Stop you’re damn whining Tim. This was a volunteer thing. You got
yourself to blame for this predicament and you gotta stay. The city paid
a bundle of money and this is cleared all the way up to the fucking
Commissioner. Hey, here comes one of your mistresses, smile and touch me
or something.”
Designer drugs. Diabolical new chemistry that fall between the cracks of
current law. A nasty problem. Make some molecular change and suddenly
the stuff’s not coke or crack or sambo or ice. But the ride’s still
there, maybe worse, or better, depending on how you look at dope. Pansy
Pond was making the things, the information was impeccable. But it was a
bonafide sanitarium for gay men and neurotically dominant women
experiencing trouble dealing with the passive role in their
relationships. Commitment was voluntary, but judicially total, once
made. Only a legal guardian could release the patient prior to the full
treatment. Only staff counselors determined the duration of that
treatment in consultation with the guardians. Six weeks was the minimum
commitment. Visiting on weekends only, at the institution.
So how to get someone inside? Get a cop committed? Simple? Only if a cop
could be found, someone so secure in his manhood that the department
judged the sanitarium couldn’t break him, yet still able to pass the
scrutiny of Pansy Pond professionals. Tim Mitty needed a promotion
badly. He’d been passed over twice for lieutenant – the next was the
last. Fifteen years in the Marines. Airborne. Yet just over the minimum
height requirement. Wiry. He’d developed his toughness to overcome his
size. In college they kidded him about his blond hairless body – once.
The same thing at boot camp. Once. Later, he’d break up drinking buddies
with a fag impression that was too perfect. But the mean little bastard
got away with it because nobody ever wondered about his manhood.
Especially ladies. He liked them tall and built and he got them that
way. Only God made more women than Tim Mitty.
But the little tough guy got passed over in the police department. Then
came this opportunity. Pass at Pansy Pond and no more passes on the
force. More money, command rank and a shot at a lot of perks. Dirty
work. But Tim bashed enough gays in his days to know about his
sexuality. They needed a secure undercover cop. He was it.
The deal. Pose as Commander Derk Kerl’s boyfriend. The bottom to Derk’s
top. But claim, they couldn’t adjust. Counseling at Pansy Pond made it
clear Tim needed treatment, needed help to adjust to a long term
commitment to the passive side. He swished his role perfectly. He got
in, but, could he get out?
Week one at Pansy Pond starts with intensive testing of both partners.
Derk is plucked before a computer and hooked up with apparatus that
looks like lie detector probes. Pictures are flashed and the electronics
read everything; respiration, heartbeat, sweat, the subtlest muscle
spasms (particularly in some intimate areas), pupil dilation and
fixation, even body temperature and vascular dilation. Occasionally he’s
questioned and his voice tested for stress. The pictures? All sorts.
Men, women, boys, girls, animals. They flash for instants. The reactions
lead the machine in directions that feed his body responses. An
inventory of his most intimate fantasies is made in just hours. And what
an inventory. Kerl apparently likes his partners in frou frous and
girlie stuff. He’s sensitive to colors and sounds – girl sounds. And
he’s sensitive to scents. Girl scents.
The machine knows the Derk likes strawberry blondes, and boobs. It
understands his fetish for heels and big curls. It pulls out his
excitement over makeup and lips, rubber and leather and some other,
darker, kinks. If they didn’t know better, his was the reading for a man
hyper sensitive to ladies. Without Derk’s ever sensing how or why, the
machine had its mold, the shape for Tim Mitty.
Meantime Tim was scanned. And his perfect partner was constructed. But
not to change Derk. No, to match with Derk’s profile so everywhere
possible, Tim would metamporph not just into Derk Kerl’s ultimate turn
on, but to his own as well. Just as women are frequently aroused by the
apparatus of girl stuff, that was the object here. Pansy Pond created
fantasies both partners could literally love. How better to make a
submissive happy with her submission? The smiling lips of Pansy Pond
graduates were always real, or the girls stayed on until they were.
The counselors were ecstatic over the printouts. Derk was assured the
training would be successful. He and Tim shared over ninety percent
fantasy overlap, explaining Tim’s reluctance to accept his agreed upon
role, but auguring well for a successful therapy stay at Pansy Pond. His
commitment was accepted and week one began that Monday.
Now Sunday’d come and Tim pleaded. Or actually it was Teather who pled.
That was his sanitarium name. Teather Meatite. This was a week for
physical alteration. Massive doses of Metacalpholate-X had restructured
Tim/Teather’s body liquids, pulling them from his waist, legs, hands,
shoulders and arms to his chest, hips and buns. Supplemented with
hormone and oil injections, Teather’s 5 foot 6 frame sported 40 inch
bouncy C cups, a lithe 25 inch waist and glorious 39 inch hips. Her
blond hair sparkled with fiery red highlights and curls erupted like
Mount Pinatubo. Silicon swelled her lips to three times normal as she
teetered about on three inch spikes – shoes that forced her to hold
Derk’s arm for support for this garden stroll.
“I was wrong. I gotta get outta’ this now Derk. Not next week. Now. Sign
the papers, you gotta’. Look at me. These fucking breasts are like
carrying bags of lard. Shit, and these slacks make my tail stand out
like an invitation.”
“Why the slacks Teather? I mean I like you in hot green, but I thought
they said you needed feminization. Don’t real girls wear skirts?”
“Wipe that smile off your puss, Sucker. They tried to put me into a
skirt for this meeting and I wouldn’t. So they agreed that maybe they
were moving too fast. And they are. This damn tight sweater was as far
as I’d let them go. This is our last chance to talk privately. If you
keep me here I get the earrings tomorrow. And I can’t find anything
about the lab. It’s off limits to all the girls… er, guests.”
“What’s the deal with the earrings Teather?”
“Stop calling me that, you shit. It’s Tim, and I want out of here. I’ll
tell the Commissioner why. Hell, he’ll know just as soon as he sees me.
The earrings? See that girl over there? The one with the long dangling
things that brush her shoulders? Well those sparkling dangles are
antennas. There’s a microphone on each earlobe and a little transmitter
in each ear. When those devils are on, Lylia, my mistress will hear
everything I hear, and she can give me directions. They’re two way
radios!”
“You know it’s amazing how pretty you are in that new body. Hey! Calm
down, just kidding. Alright. I’ll talk with the Commissioner, but no way
I’m signing any releases on my own. Uh-uh. I’ll call you tomorrow and
probably have you out by Tuesday morning. We can always take those
earrings right off.”
“Well, they’re soldered on after the piercing. But Okay. Okay. One more
day. But that better be it…..”
*** Week Two ***
It wasn’t. No call came on Monday – or all the following week. And what
a week. Wednesday morning, Dr. Dwight started to make Tim into
Teather-The-Prom-Girl.
“There are three reasons for the dance Teather, First you need some
important memories all girls share. Second, you have to experience what
all reluctant beauties undergo when they’re too provocatively dressed
for the wrong guy. And lastly, Derk needs you to have a set of manners
only a formal affair can really drill home.” They sat in Dr. Dwight’s
comfortable office. Peach wallpaper, French country furniture, warm
light bulbs in each of the lampshades cast a golden glow over the light
woods and rich fabrics.
“But a prom? Like that?” The blond was still getting used to the twin C
cups that chemicals formed on her chest, the same drugs that reshaped
Tim Mitty’s figure into a new, 40-26-39 jiggling package. His entire
center of gravity was rearranged and the wrappings for the package only
highlighted his display. He was a sheer drama in a bodysuit made from a
transparent ivory stretch fabric with just a hint of sheen. The bra
beneath was lacy and underwired with deep d’collet’ cups for maximum
uplift and support of his new bosom. The demi cups called out for
attention with scalloped floral edging, tiny bows and faux pearl
detailing. Long, lean and silky ivory stirrup leggings dropped to four
inch open backed ivory sandals. Above the leggings he wore a matching
opaque Lycra Spandex stretch skirt whose length couldn’t have been much
more than 18 inches. A wide front laced belt held the outfit together
and emphasized his tiny waist in its taught ivory grip.
Tim’s strawberry blond mane would have dropped to his mid back if it
hadn’t been gently curled at the base and it swept from a golden side
part to swirl more fully on the right where he had to shake it free of
his eyes and new full lips from time to time – or push it back with pale
ivory nails they’d lengthened about a half inch. Chemicals that filled
out his body, also softened his muscles along with the harder features
on his face. Those were gently and modestly highlighted with autumn
tones and pinks. So while his eyes and mouth were the impish delights of
a girl next door, his cataclysmic body was offered up in provocative
coverings that themselves were contradicted by their silky ivory
elegance. Golden hoops encircled his earlobes, his right wrist and his
left ankle as he looked at pictures with his therapist, Dr. Lylia
Dwight.
“Now sit up Teather, so the cameras can get all of this, it’s important
that your escort see the preparation a girl’s got to go through.”
Tim looked nervously at the camcorder taping all of his reactions, then
back at the pictures, “So what am I going to wear to this event Dr.
Dwight? Not all of these things?”
“Well, yes. And as you can see, you’ll be strictly laced into this very
long line corseting that will start just below your breasts and travel
all the way down to about ten inches below your knee.”
“Wow! Will I walk?”
“Just barely, but the hobbling effect is charming and it’ll reinforce
the dependence a girl has toward her partner.”
“Everything will be pink then?” The strawberry blond pushed her hair
back, unwittingly making her nails flash for the camera.
“Uh-huh, and you’ll have sheer pink silk stockings, and these six inch
heels with an ankle strap so you won’t kick them off.”
Tim turned to the next picture, “Omagawd! This can’t be my dress?
It’s…. it’s….”
“Elegant. The thing’s so classic. See it’s perfectly simple in front
with a bustier bodice and that’s called a godet skirt. Devastating,
huh?”
“What’s Godet mean?”
“Don’t you see? The thing’s strapless with a sweetheart neckline and
then just hugs you to right below your knees where it flails out to your
ankles. A hot column, Huh?”
“And I’ve got to wear those gloves?”
“Pink beauties. The whole thing; the gloves, the dress – they’re all a
polyester/Spandex, and the gloves are boned right up to your armpits.
Even the fingers are boned. And see, here are your earrings.
Transmitters of course, we don’t want to miss anything.” Dr. Dwight
grinned. “See, they add just the touch of glamour. Four stone drop
earrings, round, onyx, oval and tear shapes – all black surrounded by
sparkling crystals. And see, the gloves have matching crystals
slithering down the sides all the way to the tips of your little
fingers. And lastly,” Lylia Dwight was growing excited as she pointed
out each new detail to her fidgeting patient. “There are the matching
twin slave bracelets. This one goes just above your left glove and the
other around your right ankle. See, they’re both shocking pink with
crystal stripes. Why with your cherry blond hair teased and moussed out
about a foot off your head – you’ll be incredibly exquisite man bait.”
Tim understood his role – the increasingly submissive member of a
homosexual couple. Yet, as the masquerade Lylia Dwight outlined became
clearer, he also knew he had to find some way to slip out of this awful
test. No way he wanted to become a prom girl under any circumstances,
but in that rig he knew a man would have just one thought on his mind.
And this pink costume would put precious little between its wearer and a
man’s most obvious notion. While he didn’t know if clothes made the
woman, that outfit would sure make somebody want to make her.
“Uh, look Dr. Dwight. I can’t do this. I mean not like that. Gee, this
outfit’s spooky enough, I mean these things I’m wearing right now.” He
smoothed his tiny skirt and crossed his long ivory legs, peering
nervously at the camera. “But, I…. uh….. Well Derk and I are a
couple and I’m not sure I’m ready to do something like that even with
him. Who is this ‘escort’ you’re setting me up with and what’s this
‘prom’ all about?”
“Relax Dear,” a model appeared at the doorway, her steps hobbled by her
strict pink skirt, impossible heels and something more binding beneath,
“That’s a little surprise you’ll get tomorrow night when he picks up his
date. First, come on and stand up to get a look at Sissy in your prom
dress.”
*** ** ***
Romantic music wafted across the dimly lit floor. The couples, as if
pasted together swayed to the melody. Teather, her arms locked around
her partner’s neck, her body pressed into his, now looked up into his
face. Her instructions were clear. ‘Excite the guy and obey him.’ Her
earrings transmitted each word of conversation to Lylia Dwight who
waited with her finger poised above a red button. Teather feared the
zap, a misdeed or a miscue would bring. She blushed under her mask of
makeup and at how her skirted crotch was arousing under the guy’s fly.
He’d been so quiet until the girls got some drinks into him. Now,
loosened up he seemed to realized his date was hot to trot. And his
shyness evaporated faster than morning mist.
Tim, buried deep inside the outrageous prom-girl who was dry fucking her
date, tried to pull back. But he knew any reluctance on the part of the
strawberry beauty would be rewarded with an immediate zap. So he obeyed
the commands to follow this guy’s lead, to stare deeply into his eyes,
and keep his shiny pink lips wet and parted in a dreamy smile. Meantime
his partner had either found a sausage somewhere, or he was very glad to
see her.
*** ** ***
Derk arrived Sunday for his visitation. Teather floated down the main
winding stairway to greet him. Not Tim. Teather.
“Uh, look, I’m sorry buddy but the Comm….”
“Derk, oh it’s just so wonderful to have you here. The week seemed so
long. Quiet my Darling and just tell me, what do you think?”
Her curls splayed out as she twirled reasonably gracefully on the
tottering heels. Her skirts whirled full and long twin dangles spiraled
out from her ears as she spun. Isn’t it beautiful. Don’t you love me in
tangerine? Somehow everyone just knew you would. Look, even my new long
nails and my lips are tangerine. See this? Oh, I know it’s naughty to
pull up my skirts. Just a little Dear. See, tangerine garters on my
stockings. And you should see the gorgeous corset. You can if you want
to come on up to the bedroom Darling.”
“Uh, no. Ummmm. The earrings eh? So pretty. Maybe we could walk out in
the garden?”
“Christ!” he wrote. “Get me outta this place.” His inch long nails made
it hard to grasp Derk’s pen and hold the pad. “I told you, I can’t get
into the labs. Only graduates who’re committed for additional treatment
have the run of the place. And that means at least 6 weeks in this nut
bin. What did the Commissioner say?”
If the word swoon weren’t so archaic it would have explained Teather’s
reaction to Derk’s message. “No soap. You stay.” “Uh, I’m so excited
Derk dear,” Teather smiled, but her eyes sent a dark message, “this is
my Pansy Week. Last week was so wonderful. I got fashion lessons and
charm schooled. They’ll give you an adorable tape of the highlights of
me doing some, er, scrumptious things. Oh, listen to me, I’m using a lot
of my new words? And my voice is coming along so well,
don’t…you…think? Uh what’s that?”
“I didn’t say anything, I….”
“Ah yes. Mistress Lylia reminded me we’re not touching. Here, let me
hold your hand, you gorgeous hunk, or I’m liable to get zapped really
bad.”
“Zapped?”
“Uh-huh. Isn’t it neat. They put my thing into a special little cache.
Oh it’s so delightful, all lacy and it’s tangerine and it’s lined with
tiny wires that are attached to batteries that, well, if Mistress Lylia
thinks I need it. Well ZAPPP!! It’s what happens to misbehaving little
girls.” Teather giggled, but her eyes fixed on Derk, smoldering with an
inner fury. Someday, you might get my controls,” her fingers walked down
the front of Derk’s shirt, “Then just imagine what you could make me
do.”
“What’s this, uh, Pansy Week you mentioned Teather?” He pushed her hand
away, shaking his head, aware of another sensation in his body that
surprised the hell out of him.
“Well….. If I’m a good little Teather, they’ll help make me into a
delightfully naughty little girl, just for you. I get special lessons in
maiden stuff this week. Or maybe it’s boy stuff that girls know. And I
can’t wait, especially for the adoration sessions. Unless, you think
I’ve had enough already…. Yieeeeeee!” Teather’s hands caught her
crotch and she fell to her knees a look of terrified pain in her wide
eyes and thin sheen of sweat breaking through her perfect makeup. “Oh
God, I’m sorry Miss Lylia. I….. I, didn’t mean……. YIEEEEEEE!”
Teather began to drool on the ground as two large attendants appeared
and in what seemed like instants left the blond neatly trussed into a
tight and silent package.
“Holy shit,” Derk murmured watching his buddy pull at the glistening
tangerine straight jacket and sputter around some sort of prong buckled
tightly between his fat oranged lips. Silvery locks sparkled everywhere
holding their victim implacably as he tugged, fought and shimmied inside
the cacooning.
“She’s earned the rest of the evening that way I’m afraid Mr. Kerl,”
Derk whirled to see the statuesque form of Lylia Dwight come down the
path to steady Teather’s tearful and tottering form. “She knows she
can’t ever mention confinement here to anyone, especially you. In fact,
until she deeply wants more of her counseling. Demands it. Depends upon
it. She can’t hope to be free of it. Isn’t that right little scamp?”
Derk couldn’t believe the tears rolling down Teather’s cheeks. Nor the
way she nodded and her eyes pleaded with the woman. “Um, well, maybe
that outfit’s a little severe…..”
“Nuh…. Uh-uh. Pleahhh. Nuh. I luh igh.” Teather shook her head, and
seemed to be imploring Derk, even through her tears. Did she really love
it? What the hell?
“See how she’s coming on? She really loves her punishment clothes, even
these less humiliating ones. It’s only that you’ve never seen her like
this. Stilted up on heels, short full skirts, tight taffeta tops and
hair and earrings all swinging around. She so wanted to impress you. And
it’s my guess she’s doing a pretty good job, right Mr. Kerl?”
She was. Derk was harder than a evening of vice patrol ever made him.
And in his tight pants it was obvious to Lylia and to Teather. But when
he watched a gorgeous strawberry blond, all tarted up and helplessly
packaged. Shit. Enough. “Um…. I really gotta go Lylia…”
“Well, I’m sure when you come next Sunday, and you really will come next
Sunday, I’m sure – our little Teather will be much better behaved. Right
Dear? Pity she’ll be preoccupied tonight, we’d planned on the two of you
watching some her video tapes from last week. But, I’m afraid we do need
you a little longer. If you’ll stop back at the desk, we have some
details to work out with you Mr. Kerl. But do plan on next week together
with your girlfriend here, I know she’ll plan on it.”
Teather’s anxious nods were the last thing burnt into Derk’s mind as he
made his way back to the main building.
“Tight enough Mr. Kerl?” the pretty nurse was solicitous as he pulled
the seat belt taught behind Derk. Kerl felt silly. Apparently the
details Mistress Lylia meant involved some more testing, but this time
the methods were unusual. Derk sat astride what seemed like a slightly
inclined snow mobile bench. It leaned forward and his crotch slid into a
an opening that broke between the seat and a console that pressed
against his belly to just below his chest. The belt came from front and
snapped closed behind his waist pulling him snug against the console and
the slant poked his male apparatus entirely into that opening while his
feet fit into stirrups toward the front. There were handlebars. And oh
yes, he was naked.
“Now let me adjust the sensors and the helmet. How does that feel?”
Apparently there were sensors in the hand grips and others down the
front where his stomach and waist pressed against the console. Some
seemed aimed at his retinas inside the helmet, where pictures and sounds
were projected all around him. He felt a comfortable softness caressing
intimate areas around his scrotum and sack as the pictures began. And
what pictures. Once again, this time in terribly intimate depth, Kerl
realized another inventory was being made of his most private fantasies.
He only understood the smallest part of what was happening.
Chapter 2 – Kimberly
From behind her desk, Doctor Satyrini looked at the couple, “It’s a six
week cycle Miss Russell, so we begin it today, Saturday, with Lance?”
The angular redhead looked anxiously at her husband who glowered in a
leather wing chair beside her. The room was still as its centuries old
paneling for a moment, then the man sighed, “Screw it. If this is what
it takes, Randi, I’ll do it.”
“Lance, look,” Doctor Raquel Satyrini’s green eyed gaze fixed on the
wiry man and wondered for the thousandth time how he’d managed to ever
attract Randi Russell’s interest in the first place. He was short and
slight, with that snotty sophisticated look of an effete European
gigolo. And she was one of America’s foremost models. – a buxom beauty
with a face known on every continent, tall, smooth and yet vulnerable.
The girl next door, if the girl next door appeared on Cosmo.
But a wedding happened. And they were married now some four years.
Surely Lance Torp had magic. For in those four years, Randi Russell
found her husband in bed with at least five other women. Marriage
counseling at Pansy Pond was the last hope for the union. And they both
wanted to try it. There was that pre-nuptial. It was an iron clad
agreement that demanded they take every effort to save their marriage
should it fall on hard times. Failing extra-ordinary action, the
document called for an equal split of their joint worth. Since that
worth was mostly Randi’s each of them had an interest in this last
counseling session. Randi to hold onto her money, even if it meant
holding onto Lance. And Lance to shed Randi but not her money.
Tests indicated Lance Torp exhibited classic symptoms of elevated
testosterone. At the same time, his estrogen levels were – well -
Captain Jean Luc Picard had more hair. All of the studies of the couple
indicated radical therapy was essential if Lance was ever to fully bond
with the beautiful Randi. And Pansy Pond specialized in radical therapy.
“You know this means total feminization? You completely understand?” Dr.
Satyrini pushed he curl of her long dark page boy aside as she took the
papers that Lance signed. The plan was to temporarily reverse his male
and female hormonal balance while challenging him in a heavily dependent
girlish role. Not to punish Lance, but to teach him about women’s
emotions and to give him an appreciation for just what horrors his wife
experienced from his infidelities. Lance smirked as he handed the things
over, “Yea, but if you’re not successful, well – at least I tried it
all. Agreed Randi?”
*** Week One ***
What to expect after you’ve sent your husband off to his first week of
modeling and charm school? No one lived a life more immersed in feminine
toys, apparatus and paraphernalia than a world class model. No one is
more aware of the stereotypical outward characteristics of the sexes
than a world class model. Randi Russell was a world class model. That’s
why she’d married so far from type. Instead of finding a stereotypical
man – the kind of dazzling hunk that decorated most of her layouts – she
sought out the physical opposite. And, like many women, she was
fascinated by danger.
The unconscious wickedness of Lance Torp, coupled with his unmuscular
good looks knocked her over. It also knocked the pants off of too many
other women. He couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to. He was a man without
conscience when it came to women. Randi was determined to give him a
conscience – and with the help of Pansy Pond – a very feminine one.
Still, she never expected the package awaiting her one weekend later at
the asylum.
“I hope you’re thatithfied,” the little girl said to Randi. Only it
wasn’t a little girl. Well, not a young girl anyway. She was dressed in
a pretty party frock that swished whenever her gloved hands brushed
through the stand-out skirts. And the colors were wild orange and plum.
Plum in her hair bows, stockings and gloves….. Orange in the dress,
shoes, gloves and even on her puffed up lips.
Somehow, Lance was now a young child – or dressed like an eight year
old. “I weally hate this Wandi. I weally, weally do.” But even though
his eyes glowered, he skipped along beside Randi as they walked in the
garden, a smile never leaving his orange-slicked lips. “Thith ith too
much. They did so much to me this week that I twyed to leave, but those
paperth I thigned have me committed here until you thay I can go.” His
voice sounded so mad and so sweet at the same time, Randi Russell
couldn’t keep from smiling. “And they made me thudy a thmall girl all
week. And wear all kindth of darling little clothes. And they videoed
evweething so you can watch it. And I gotta get outta here. Tho, I’m
gonna’ let you out of the deal and I won’t take my half.”
Wow! Randi thought, All this in just one week . “Oh I wish I could help
you Lance, but everything’s just beginning…”
“It’s Kimber, er, Mommy.”
“WHAT? What did you say?”
“Uh, my girl name’th Kimber, and I’m thuppothed to. Well, uh…”
He looks so divine and embarrassed, what’s he trying to say? That
taffeta skirt’s so full and those darling little maryjanes. “What do you
mean Lance?” She said with a smile she hoped wasn’t too wicked.
The little girl stopped and her eyes seemed to fill with tears as she
stared at the taller woman, “They make me call mythelf Kimber here. Or
Kimmie. And I’ve gotta call you Mommie until thomeone tellth me
otherwithe. Oh pleasth Mommy, let me the hell out of here. I’ll do
whatever you want.” For the first time since she met him, Lance Torp
seemed afraid of something. He was actually crying.
“Now don’t go on Dear. I’m sure Doctor Satyrini knows best for you, and
I’m so pleased with how much she’s accomplished in just a week. Why at
the end of the treatment – perhaps you will be a truly new man.”
His voice grew hushed, but the smile came back to his lips as he looked
furtively around to see if they could be overheard, “Mommeeeee. Next
week they give me eawings and breasts. Big breasts. They say you ordered
D Cups for me. Mommeeee! Don’t kid awound.”
Oh he’ll look adorable in D’s. So much work and so much effect. I can’t
wait. “My little Kimmie has got to blossom into a big teenager next week
for Mommy. But why does a pretty little girl worry about getting her
ears pierced? You should love it.”
“Momeeeee. Thee those other girlth with the earrings? The long things
that thkim their shoulderth? Those are antennae. The thingth are two way
radios. Dr. Thantorini will be able to hear evweething I hear.
Evweeeething I do. And she can give me orderth. right back. And if I
don’t do right……”
He looks terrified. Ewwwww. I love this. Yes, I love this very much.
“But what can she do to you Kimmie?”
“They put a thing on me here,” the girl said, bunching her plum gloved
fists into her crotch. And it’s all wired. If I do thomething bad.
They’ll zap me.” A gentle breeze rustled the orange skirts as the sissy
child held her crotch for an instant and shuddered.
“Have they zapped you yet Kimberly?”
The breeze picked up wipping both the short skirts and the dozen dark
sausage curls dangling from Kimberly’s head. “Yeth Mommy. A couple of
times when I didn’t want to wear thome of my girl things and when I
didn’t want to study how a little girl talkth and walkth, and when I
wanted to go home. And it hurts tho bad I just fall down and I thcweam
tho hard and…… Oh pleathe Mommy. Don’t let them bweast and earring
me. Take me home with you. I’ll be good. Honest… I’ll….. Omagawd,
no. NO! It’s not time yet. Noooo!”
“I’m afraid it is Kimmie and you know the rules,” Raquel Satyrini had
been watching the whole meeting from just behind some shrubbery waiting
the moment of maximum impact for her arrival. “Now say good- by to your
Mommy with a big happy kiss until she can come back and see you next
weekend. You will be able to come next week won’t you Miss Russell?”
I think he’s going to wail. How wonderfully terrified he looks. “Well,
it’s so hard to predict my schedule this far in advance.” As the tall
redheaded model spoke the little girl’s eyes widened and her whole body
started to shake. “Well, perhaps. I’ll call you during the week and let
you know. Thursday maybe?”
“Noooooo,” The child shrieked, falling to her knees and clutching at the
larger woman. “Oh please. Er. Pleathe don’t weave me here Mommy. I’ll be
good. I can come and be good. I’ll never dithapoint you. I’ll do
evweething wight. You’ll thee. Ohhhhh pleathe. Ohhh. Don’t noooo…..” A
large attendant appeared, carrying a small box with a wire he seemed to
plug into something on Kimber’s back. Whatever it was, the child
suddenly stood stock still, her hands straight at her sides, hands and
fingers flat out, her eyes crammed closed and her feet together. She
seemed to be tightening all of her muscles against some sort of jolt, as
if someone was going to hit her.
“This is an interesting little gadget,” Dr. Satyrini said displaying a
box with a dial, some diodes and a red button. The box was wired to
Kimber. By next week of course, we’ll have her earringed and there will
be little need for the wiring. But for now. Hmmmm. Let’s set the dial on
just one. Here,” she reached the box toward Randi Russell, “push this
button. Yes, that’s the one.”
When the redheaded beauty left him sometime later, her husband was still
in tears from the jolt and the realization he’d committed himself
inextricably into very special therapy at Pansy Pond.
*** ** ***
“But why the little girl rig?” Randi lit a cigarette and let the smoke
curl out of her nose and deep red lips as she looked at the therapist.
Raquel Satyrini sat quietly for a moment, then reached forward to tap a
button on her desk, “Perhaps it’s easier to show you what we’ve done.
See there?”
A large screen lit with a picture of Lance, naked and straddling some
sort of padded bench, something like the seat of a snowmobile. He was
strapped forward on the thing and it was canted downward sliding his
crotch and male apparatus into the forward opening between the seat and
a flat plate that rose up against his chest stopping at his neck. His
hands grasped the grips of handlebars and an attendant who’d just
strapped him firmly against the front piece was fitting a visored helmet
over his head. Lance’s feet rode stirrups well forward and down. While
tight, the apparatus looked comfortable.
“Lance rode our horse for some three hours this week during different
sessions Randi, may I call you Randi? Good. Please call me Raquel. And
what a wonderful ride it was for us.”
The redheaded model took another deep drag and peered through the smoke
at her husband merely sitting on the apparatus. “I don’t understand.
What does it do to him?”
“To him? Nothing. Well, very little. In fact, he really likes it. The
helmet shows him three dimensional pictures and plays sounds and emits
aromas. A giant computer trawls those images while sensors read his
eyes, temperature, respiration, heart, blood pressure and general
movements – including involuntary responses in very intimate areas – to
direct the computer’s output. We’re testing him in erotica. Millions of
images mix with other sensory stimuli determining just how Lance Torp is
turned on, and off. After his ride, we know more about his sexual
cravings than…. well than he does.”
A last pull and then the model poked out her smoke in the ashtray
silently pondering what was going on up there on that screen. “But what
good is all that? Am I going to have to learn….. uh, Am I going to
have to change to attract the…. Look, Raquel, can I level with you?”
The dark haired doctor leaned forward, “That normally happens about
now.”
“I can’t stand the creep. After what he’s done to me, I would have
dropped him faster than a cow drops dung in the field. But that damned
prenuptial demands I keep trying to save our marriage. If he wants to
screw around after this – he can walk with a lot of my money. I don’t
want to learn the Kama Sutra of his creepy turn-ons. I just want him,
uh…..”
“Neutralized?” The green eyed psycho-therapist had a Cheshire grin.
Randi shook back her red hair and stiffened leaning toward the doctor,
“That…. that sounds like it. Uh-huh. I want him somewhere off in a
harmless corner of my life. I want him made into……”
“Furniture?” It was the second time Dr. Satyrini’d finished her sentence
and Randi Russell was stunned. Each time they’d become better thoughts
than she’d planned. “Yea – Make him furniture.”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment, then both women sat back, and
smiled.
*** ** ***
Pink Lycra tights, snug-fitting white short-shorts, a tiny unconstructed
hot-pink jacket over a soft white back buttoned sweater top. Two inch
demi-boots with fuzzy pink anklets and fuzzier pom-poms bouncing from
the laces. Under the tights and the top, a blood red corset snugged
Lance down to almost 27″ while his chest was flat as a slice of Wonder
Bread. A gaff cut deep into the Sissy’s crotch molding it into distinct
love lips perking against the flyless crotch of his shiny nylon shorts.
“Sissies have no use for a fly-front. That’s why,” Dr. Raquel Santyrini
said as Kimberly’s palm slid across the front of her hot pants. “Your
Lycra tights are sleek and zipper free for the same reason. Now get in
there!”
“Ouch!” Lance was startled by the swat across his cute little bottom,
stinging him right through the taught nylon and Lycra. The slap hopped
him through the door of the shop filled with female stuff and staffed by
what seemed to be only teenage girls. “Omagawd Doctor, this is
terrible,” Lance whispered to Raquel and backed away from the place, an
exact replica of an exclusive boutique, “These are young kids in here,
and I look like a……”
“Sissy? You are a sissy, Lance. And you’ll be one until you get your
trousseau together. That’s what we’re doing her – Sissies love to shop.”
She swatted him again, louder this time. A couple of the shopgirls
giggled. He stood inside now. Legs and arms waxed smooth, pink jacket,
white sweater, white shorts, pink tights, white bootlettes with bouncy
pom poms – almost a girl. Except his chest was flat and his face and
hair were left naturally male. No makeup, no wig – just the long
earrings to hint at some girlish desires. Like that, he couldn’t help
attracting a lot of attention.
“I’m Buffy, may I help you, uh, Sir?” The sales girl smirked as she
grabbed a pad. “Perhaps,” she exchanged a giggling glance at another
shopgirl, her eyes drooping to the dark underwear peeking through his
taught pink and white clothes. “Perhaps we should start with lingerie’
or would you prefer our cosmetic and wig departments?”
Chapter 3 – Teather
*** Week Three ***
Later, that week, Derk watched all six hours of the Teather tapes. There
was Tim being fitted with his zapper and the first training. There was
Tim modeling lingerie and dresses. They seemed determined to dress him
for some role, and it took Kerl a while to figure it out. Teather was
being trained as a secretary, with a look to match. Tight skirts, fancy
blouses, big hair, chewing gum. There were charm classes, and makeup
classes until the tapes showed Teather mastering her own look. There
were voice lessons and little girl lessons. The latter so she’d have
memories of times in pinafores and teenage fashions. There were even
session with dolls and coloring books. Tim was rebuilt in a week into
the charming young girl secretary Teather Meatite. And the zapper was a
cruel mistress in typing and shorthand classes.
Derk couldn’t imagine what the Pansy Week would bring, or what they took
from him on during his two hour ride on that odd electronic horse. But
he knew his growing excitement to find out contributed to his
recommendation that the project continue – at least through six weeks.
*** ** ***
Pansy Pond was letting Teather in on Derk’s ride. The horse is a state
of the art probing experience. While a Cray super computer sped sounds
and sights into the subject’s helmet, devices measured the tiniest
responses – and the biggest. Heart, respiration, pupil dilation, retina
reaction, blood pressure, body heat and every major muscle change,
particularly the involuntary ones. Particularly those around the
subject’s penis. In fact the penis was a principal subject of horse
study. That tunnel enveloping Derk’s member was very much like a micro
cat scan. The computer modeling of his experience could determine every
nuance of his physical arousal, including the unique positioning of each
of his major and minor nerve endings. Its reactions to pressure, heat,
and tactile along with sensory manipulation.
And the machine could produce a mold for a perfect replica of Derk’s
organ that, when attached to a small and properly programmed micro
computer, would react exactly like the real thing, or just a bit more
slowly. And the machine did produce exactly that model – that thing – a
perfect Derk for Teather’s play. The center of every action for
Teather’s own personal Pansy Week.
The chapel was minimal, mostly dark, with small candles lighting the
rubbery white apparatus protruding from a recess in front of the
pitch-black altar. Another series of soft lights lit Teather. Apparently
cameras were somewhere hidden, and microphones. For twenty minutes at a
stretch, Teather entered the little place and worked in her lights or
actually on the device. If she got the required reaction, she left for
pleasure. If not, she left for pain. Either way, she left, then came
back with new instructions.
This time she was after a ‘two’. She had to get it by just her
conversation and her body language. A ‘two’ meant that the thing on the
altar – the entity she called ‘Dearest’ or ‘Darling’ – it had to perk up
just slightly. Engorge a bit and straighten out. Sensors had to detect a
small increase in its internal temperature. The thing, was a fully
working model of Derk’s penis and balls. Eventually she’d have to
regularly produce ‘tens’ in very little time.
They had so much to help her prepare. There were hundreds of computer
screens now that unveiled Derk’s interests: what makeups, what hemlines,
what heels with what corsets – they were all there. How words aroused
him. What flirtation worked. She could read of his soul, could hear his
mind, could be his idea. And if she couldn’t, she could be hurt.
Where did Tim Mitty go? Girdled and hosed, curled and jeweled. Where was
the Marine? The cop. The wiry pug who’d take apart a cretin who’d taunt
him? Deep under the layers of rustling girl things, still conscious
under the tides of hormones, he watched, heard and felt it all. But this
conditioning was too tough. They were reconstructing him. No, somehow,
Derk Kerl’s mind was doing it. This soft, curvy girl. This blond, busty
tease. A bimbo for Derk. Derk who didn’t even care. A fiction for a
fiction. Tim was Teather for Derk, who couldn’t care. Who was just
pretending his homosexuality, while Tim couldn’t pretend. Teather was
falling in lust with Derk and taking Tim along, and next weekend, after
this terrible week of pansy preparation – Tim would have to be Teather.
And Teather, this slut personality was getting crammed into everywhere
Tim lived, binding his very being inside a new person. And all Tim could
do now was understand, and loath Teather.
*** ** ***
“I…. I can’t believe it’s….. Uh, you’re beautiful Tim.”
“It’s Teather, Dearest.” Was she blushing? Her eyes still held a
contradiction to the smile on her pink wet lips. But not anger this
week. Nope, it was something else, that Derk couldn’t place as they
walked to their quiet spot in the garden of Pansy Pond. Her confidence
in the four inch spikes was strong now, but she still held to Derk’s
arm, not so much for balance this week. Her costume was stunning. With
her red blond hair piled into a gibson girl, the dress went from neck to
hem and down to her wrists, yet it still seemed tiny. It was a simple
hot pink thing, zippered in back and made from some a silky fabric, snug
to the just below the waist where it broke into pleats that ended
beneath her crotch. From there to her feet, the sheerest purple tights
sparkled her long legs down to sling back pink pumps that arched her
heels at least four inches off the ground. She wore purple gloves, just
as sheer as her legs so that long pink nails shone through. And from her
ears purple dangles brushed slightly padded shoulders.
The body beneath the dress seemed designed for a centerfold, and all of
Tim’s sharper muscles had softened somehow. The woman that held his arm
was all boobs, legs, buns and lips showcased in the hottest pink and
purple. While she still had Tim Mitty’s face, it was as if Tim’s
magnificent younger twin sister had come to town. Derk’s mind was
clearly spooked by the apparition. Derk’s body, on the other hand
was……
“This might be my last chance to beg you,” she wrote in a clearly more
feminine hand. “Why am I still here? Why won’t you let me go? Next week
is Gay Week Derk. You know I can’t do that. That wasn’t our intention.
They keep me in this fem room, all locked up except for your chapel,
therapy and training sessions. I can’t get to the lab.”
Even as she wrote, Derk found himself staring at her breasts. Was she
bra-less under that thing? Could he see nipples poking against the
fabric? What color were her panties? Look how she crossed her legs under
that tiny skirt. Those nails, like ten pink jewels in their feminine
gloves. Why did he like gloves so much? And long nails and why did pink
make him so…..
“A penny for your thoughts Darling,” Teather nudged him hard even though
her voice was so soft and charming. Then he met her eyes and startled
back to the problem. Those eyes, what was the expression there? Not
fear, not anger…… Embarrassment! Tim was in there and…..
humiliated. Pinked and silked and heeled and curled. Tim was done up in
a costume that screamed turn on. Only the wrong kind. He was a lure, and
he knew it. A man made into bait. All girls give off vibes. But hers
were so powerful. Derk knew he was coming near the rocks and somewhere
in there, Tim was a siren pulling him nearer. He wanted to help, but he
also knew he had to escape. Leave. Pull away, as he leapt to his feet.
“Got to go Teather. Got a lot to do. Next week…” he muttered as he
started to leave.
“Derk, no. Darling was it something I said?” Her eyes were frantic now.
She was in double trouble. He was talking about next week, he wasn’t
going to pull her out. And they’d told her to entice him to the viewing
room where they were to watch some videos of Pansy Week. And she’d be
punished unless she could get Derk alone in the video room. Alone to
snuggle and kiss. Tim hated the thought. But he hated the penalty. This
would mean an additional week, unless Derk pulled him out.
“Derk, Dear. Come on now. Teather was just fooling,” Derk was backing
off, turning to go for the building. Teather felt a tingle in her cache.
Lylia was listening, about to punish him if Derk fled. “Oh please Derk,
just one thing. Just do this for me.” Derk slowed, turned back.
“I uh, need to be a little better prepared if you leave me. Could you
just come back here for a moment? Please Derk. Oh please…..” Her
gloved hands brushed away a stray curl, flashing those nails, while the
other subtly snicked her skirt just a little higher.
“Well, uh. Okay, just for a moment. What’s the…. I mean if there’s
something small that I can do. I, uh, I made an appointment tonight is
all , and I gotta get going,” it was hard for him to look at her. She
seemed to be pulling him in. Some kind of radiance, even her scent was a
powerful lure.
“Here Dear, just help me into these little things before you go. Oh
won’t you please?” She’d leapt to her feet, all rustles and wriggles
pulling a pile of shiny chains from beneath her bench, along with some
tiny locks and something else. “Chains? What the fuck?”
Her smile was more a smirk now. Was she enjoying this power she had over
him? “See, here’s how it’s done. Oh please, just chain me up before you
go, so you’ll remember me right?” She smoothed her dress then turned to
playfully twist small links about her purpled wrist.
Five minutes later Derk steadied a mincing Teather back to the main
house, her gloved hands chained to her back then to her waist then down
to her ankles where just seven inches of slack made high heeled steps
even less certain. He’d silenced her with the pink prong that deeply
impaled her lips and then locked behind her head. So much seemed to
assault his senses especially the sparkling metal tinkling with each
helpless step she took. But the keys were nowhere evident, and that
prong looked oddly familiar. And while so much of him wanted to take her
into the couch of the tiny dim video room – a last effort made him leave
her there, eyes pleading, as he escaped to his car – his heart beating
almost as hard as other parts of him had become.
Chapter 4 – Kimberly
*** Week Two ***
“I….. You can’t make me do this. I…. I……” The blonde’s hands
raised easily even while her face and eyes seemed to will them down.
“Look, you’ve got me under some kinda trance Doc, but I’m going to find
a way around this and….. The fuck is this thing?”
The attendants tugged the tight black dress down over Kimberly’s corset
casing and finally to the very top of her spiked bootlettes. Then they
started working on the buckles as the blue eyed beauty lowered her hands
and stared at herself in the mirror. “Hey, Omagawd that’s tight. No,
these heels are bad enough, I won’t be able to walk. Damnit! I can
hardly breathe now, don’t…… Oh! don’t do that!”
As if she wasn’t there, the attendants meticulously rolled the buckles
closed high on her neck, wrists, ankles and thighs. The casing was, at
any distance, a dress. Condom tight and matte black with belts in the
same unforgiving fabric, each buckling almost invisibly in front. The
belt at the neck was high and kept her chin up, the waist cinch was at
least 15 inches wide and snickered her down to some 19 inches around.
Snugged in this strictly the blond could take only the shallowest
breaths in her upper lungs. The two on her legs held her steps to the
most mincing.
Finished, Raquel Satyrini walked around the captive beauty, as she spoke
she snapped her fingers at the attendants who came forward with a high
tray stacked with cosmetics, “Alright, that’s a start for your evening,
now let’s get you made up and opened, eh?”
Fifteen minutes later Lance Torp stared from the eyes of a dazzling
blond Kimberly. He saw her D cups bloom against the tight plain front of
the dress from hell, her tiny waist spread out into jiggling wide hips
and then his eyes dropped down along the super long legs belted together
under that taught skirt that ended just above the five inch heels he
teetered upon. Her swollen lips were wet and red to match the long nails
poking from each of her fingers. Fingers that involuntarily, and
unbelievingly swept along the dangerous curves of the glamorous body
that held him so humiliatingly inside.
Lance Torp couldn’t understand how all this was happening. All his life
he hated women, yet needed to use them. Many times he purposely insisted
his dates wear clothing that cheapened them and even imprisoned them,
just to know he had the power to make a woman demean herself for him.
And now he stood, blonded, painted, corseted, hosed, heeled and finally
packed into what looked like a sausage casing. He was the bimbo he’d
commanded so many women to become. A creature devoid of any purpose
except helpless sexual pleasure. He watched as the buxom blond thing in
the mirror shook her curls and her long earrings sparkled and flashed in
the light.
He knew the curves were real now, induced by some sort of drugs that
seemed to depress his ability to object just as surely as it enhanced
the exaggerated femininity of his body. And he knew the voices coming
from those flashy silver and rhinestone earrings would order him as
effectively as any commands he ever gave to the women he conquered in
his other life before marrying Randi Russell.
Now, almost in a dream, he watched the attendants attach the belts at
his wrists with a clear plastic rod some five inches long, then bring
them up and attach the center of that rod to another rod of equal length
already hanging from the very front of his collar. A third, slightly
longer rod dangled from the front of that connecting rod. Now they
pulled a single lace glove over his hands, the fingers somehow
reinforced on the inside so that he appeared to be…… praying? His
hands just below his chin, and his elbows tied off to nine inch lengths
of invisible fishing cord to the front sides of the wide belt at the
blonde’s nipped in waist.
After circling her victim another time, Raquel Satyrini stepped in close
and placed an index finger under Kimberly’s chin, “Here’s your deal
little one. Your wife’s coming this evening. She understands you’re
unhappy here and maybe the treatment’s not working. If that’s true, all
you need do is tell her, and we’ll release you. Understand?”
Lance couldn’t believe what he heard as he teetered in his casing and
heels to hold himself from falling toward his massive tits, “Just tell
her I want out and you’ll tell her the therapy’s a failure?”
Doctor Satyrini stepped back a twinkle in her eyes as her hands dropped
to her hips, “That’s right Kimmie. Simple eh? Of course you’ll have to
be clear, that outfit sort of contradicts your message a bit.”
Lance saw the trap, but it didn’t faze him, “So you’ve made me look
silly. So what. If I only have to tell her you’ve failed, I’ll do it
regardless of this getup. When’s she getting here?”
“Oh, she’s here Kimmie, let’s go get her now, okay?”
“Get her, ummmmph. Hey wait up, aright. I’m coming. This rig’s not
stopping me, if that’s what you think.” And Lance hopped along behind,
Kimberly’s breathtaking body flopping around with each little jump, “I’m
coming damn you. I’m…… uh…… coming. Wait, now. What’s in there?
Who are they?”
Four blondes, encased in identical black hobble dresses stood outside a
door. Each seemed a twin of the other, and all were almost identical to
the hopping Kimberly, almost except for her bonds. “If you’ll just get
into line, we’ll take you into that little room and get you fixed up to
tell Randi your story, if she can pick you out of course.”
“Hah. I knew there was a catch. I’m supposed to be such a broad now,
that she won’t know me, eh. You think? Well you’re wrong baby. Fix me up
any way you want. Even like this, no way my wife’s gonna confuse me with
any of these sluts of yours. Hey, what’s the…… uh-uh. Uh ohne uh izz
hing.”
The attendants easily pushed the red O ring behind Kimberly’s teeth and
pulled the skin colored strapping tightly under her hair, as Dr.
Satyrini smiled encouragement. “You agreed to stand out in the crowd
Kimmie and the other girls will all open up nice and wide – so……”
Lance still wasn’t too worried. The thing jacking open his teeth
obscured his words some, but he could talk, and there was no way anyone
would confuse his manners or his intentions with the willing nymphets
parading in front of him. While they might look identical, Lance
retained total confidence in his masculine ability to contradict this
enforced transvestite disguise, as he hobbled and skipped along behind
the other girls through the opening door.
Inside the round dim room five comfortable benches were built into the
walls and each girl took a position facing one while Kimberly took the
last. A deep pile carpet covered the floor and the walls were paneled in
smoky mirrors.
“Huuunh. Hey. Whaaaa?” The attendant behind Kimberly suddenly pushed his
knees into the back of her’s causing Kimmie to drop forward to a
kneeling position. Then the man quickly attached a clasps to the front
of the buckles at her ankles and knees – clasps fixed to the floor. Just
as rapidly he leaned forward and with a well practiced movement took
hold of the rod that hung from between Lance’s wrist binding, pulled it
and Lance forward and down to hook the end of the thing to a catch on
the front of the bench facing him. Now Lance knelt, bent almost to the
seat, squirming in his cacooning and throwing his long curls back to see
each of the other blondes similarly kneeling, but none of them appeared
to be bound at the neck or ankles.
That’s when five men entered. Dr. Satyrini directed each to a seat in
front of one of the attending women, the last to a spot directly before
Lance. The man assigned to Kimberly had to slide his legs around the rod
that held her praying gloved hands just above the seat cushion and now
forced Lance’s face almost against this massive guy’s fly. As the man’s
fingers grabbed his zipper and slowly began to pull it down in front of
Kimberly’s swollen red lips, Lance started to realize what was to come -
in his face.
When Randi Russell left her view point from behind the one way mirror
and entered the room she’d been watching during her husband’s entire
entrapment, she did her best to hold back laughter. Five back sides
pointed up at her. Five blond heads were buried into the crotches of
five panting men. Each guy held his sucker by the hair and helped her
mouth along his shaft. Each of the girls shook her head and squirmed in
apparent passion, their hands up somewhere in front of them helping
their men along. One of the girls, the one closest to the door, was
particularly creative and seemingly engaged in an Herculean hum-job
along with the sucking she was performing. And her music got louder as
she heard Randi Russell talk with Dr. Raquel Satyrini.
“So this is the fourth place you’ve brought me Raquel, and I still don’t
see him. You say, he wants to talk with me? I feel like a kid playing
hide and seek.”
“This is the blow job room. Each of these girls loves what she’s up to
and they’re on their first man. As a guy gets finished, he slides around
under the next girl’s lips. They’ll be here a long while, but the men
love it. And that’s the point Mrs. Torp. That’s exactly the game we’re
playing. In only two weeks we’ve gone a long way to accomplishing
exactly our objective. You’ve seen dozens of our patients today, in a
number of settings, yet, while one of them is definitely your Lance,
we’ve fooled you huh? You’re certain you can’t pick him out, right?”
The redheaded super model watched her husband’s back as it bobbed
forward and back along the swollen gag of human meat stuffing his mouth
and throat. “Well, certainly he isn’t one of these tramps. No way Lance
would ever…… ever suck another man’s cock. Yuck, the idea is a
terrible turn off. If I ever thought he was one of these cock heads,
why…… I…. I’d just have him committed here for life. Ewww, let’s
get out, I think I know which one Lance is. He’s back in that second
room isn’t he? The masked girl on the vibrating saw horse?”
As Randi Russell’s voice faded the large dong popped free from
Kimberly’s lips and spurted over her eyes, nose and hair while the blond
shook to avoid the massive spray and hoped his wife wouldn’t come back
before they let him out of the blow job room. And Lance could only
squirm forward in shame as a second man slid in front of his kneeling
mouth, his flaccid dong pointing at Kimberly’s soft red lips jacked
wide. Lance felt his great breasts sway as the guy tugged him forward
and down upon his meat gagging. Futiley Lance yanked at his wrists and
tried to pull free of the belting and corseting and taut black skirting
and towering heels that simultaneously entrapped him and made him into a
more enticing Kimberly-the-cock-sucker.
*** Week Three ***
“I can’t believe you didn’t hear me last week. How could you leave me
doing that?” Kimberly walked as quickly as the knee high boots let her,
trying to keep up with her long legged spouse. “That was you? My husband
the cock sucker? You were one of the blondes giving head in the blow job
room?” Randi Russell giggled and flipped a stray red curl from her eyes
as they walked toward the door following the five other couples.
“You think I liked that? The guys were using my head like a vacuum
spigot.”
“I don’t know Kimmie, all of those girls seemed pretty active in there
to me. I never dreamed…..”
Randi Russell was dressed to kill. She wore a Spandex orange thing that
was short and tighter than Ed McMahon after a toot. Her shiny hair
swirled behind them like a cape as they approached the archway at the
end of the tunnel. Her husband Lance hurried to keep up as his long red
nails gestured agitatedly. With each step his tiny white pleated skirt
flipped up over his slick white tights to reveal sparkling gold panties.
He was dressed to match the other cheerleaders who passed through the
door in front of them. “Well, maybe they did go too far last week, but
you can drop out anytime you want Kimberly, if you’ll just admit this
therapy failed.”
The blond cheerleader stopped, her hair billowing around her and the
long earrings swinging gaily, “Admit this thing failed? So you can just
shed me without any compensation? That’s it isn’t it? You want me gone?
Well, no way Randi. And I’m not Kimberly, I’m Lance Torp, remember? Your
husband?” She actually stamped her high booted foot on the walkway as
she made her point, her large breasts jiggling behind the tight rayon
white top and the large ‘PP’ lettering in the same gold as her panties.
I’ll go out there and lead the cheers they made me learn this week. And
every one of those spectators is going to cream over my performance this
afternoon, you just watch.” Kimberly turned on her heel and strutted out
through the door onto the field before the crowd gathered for the
football game.
“I wouldn’t smile too hard, it’s not going well,” it was Dr. Raquel
Satyrini who’d come up quietly upon the redheaded super model watching
her husband mince onto the field all white and gold shaking her
pom-poms, tits and ass.
“It isn’t? You mean he’s out there in front of hundreds of strangers,
corseted and heeled, hosed and curled, painted and perfumed and you say
it isn’t working? He sure looks like he’s getting into it.”
“This is just a charade for him. He’s mastered the moves of a
cheerleader, but his smile’s not real. We’ve go to find that smile -
that coquettish subservience of a real girl who packs herself into a
costume like that to flaunt everything she’s got to a crowd of
strangers. He’s only going through an act. We must make Lance love it,
or hate it. Last week was the closest we came to real humiliation. But
even with the drugs and hypno therapy, he resists fiercely.”
Dr. Satyrini watched her patient bounce as she worked the crowd. “I’m
afraid some sort of goal is blocking the taming of her maleness. We’ll
take it up this week with my colleagues.” What Dr. Satyrini didn’t
express was her fears about the methods necessary to break Lance Torp’s
ferocious male spirit.
Chapter 5 – Teather
*** Week Four ***
“It was a wonderful try Teather,” Mistress Lylia soothed as she wheeled
the circular device behind the bent form, “Comfy?”
“Mistress, I….. I tried so hard. Really. It wasn’t my fault. I did
want him to come back with me. You don’t need to do this. Oh please
don’t. I’ll be better next week.” Teather struggled against the stocks
that kept her doubled almost in half at the waist. With the wooden yoke
the leggy bimbette could see nothing of the activity behind her, but
already the preparations were hints at her plight. Still in her tiny hot
pink dress, her curls unpinned to hang free around her, she peered
toward the floor where a small color TV monitor stared lifelessly back.
Meanwhile Lylia’d already raised Teather’s skirt pinning its hem up on
her back, arranged like a flashy pink drape to frame the twin buns
swelling against their purple veiling. The spreader bar locked heeled
sandals some three feet wide while Tim’s pink nails clawed frustratingly
against the air on either side of those cascading curls..
“We know you tried Sweet thing, but maybe a little too hard? You
terrified poor Derky, especially by that desperate play to his bondage
fantasies at the end. You can’t hit so many hot buttons all at once, the
tender dears panic so easily Teather. And you always must beware of
revealing just how much you know of them.”
Lylia worked the device, a sort of wheel about three feet across, that
sat on its’ side atop a poll which brought it just even to where
Teather’s twin cheeks waited in their pink thong panties and purple
hose. The pole disappeared at its base into some sort of motor on
wheels, and a foot switch poked toward Lylia’s booted foot. “There, now
let me just lock the wheels and reach down and set this knob to
‘Intermittent’. Fine. How’s my little slave girl baby? Ready for some
attitude adjustments?”
Teather struggled to look behind the yoke of her stocks, tugged to pull
her hands or head free of the securely locked apparatus when the TV
monitor flashed to life. “Uh-oh. Shit!”
“Now Teather, you’ve got to hold the dirty words for Derk, but I guess
you’ve got the idea, so explain it carefully to me. What’s about to
happen to you?” Lylia’s voice was cooler, commanding.
Teather peered into the screen glowing with a wide shot of her dark rump
peeking from beneath its pink framing. “That’s a leather strap fastened
to that wheel isn’t it Mistress? And if you start the wheel spinning,
that strap will whirl out and around until….. Until I stop it.”
“Well,” Lylia giggled. “You won’t really stop it, just slow it down a
lot with your pretty rump. And each time it slows down, the counter down
here will register. But you won’t need to see the counter, know why?”
The pink stocked girl shimmied and pulled at her bindings, tried to turn
to see Lylia then tugged more undulating the twin C’s dangling from her
chest behind the stocks. Finally, breathing heavily she stopped, sensing
her tiny skirt sway against her upper thighs. “No Mistress. Why won’t I
need the counter?”
“Because you’ll count yourself. Out loud. And you’ll thank Derk for each
swat. And I mean really smile and thank him, because we’re taping all of
this and we don’t want him to think you dislike anything he’s caused
you, now do we?”
“Count? Thank him for doing this…… Jesus, Lylia! Ohhhhhh. Wait. I
mean, I’m really sorry Mistress. Really.”
“That little tantrum just doubled your swatting Teather dear. And oh
yes. If the counter down here, doesn’t agree with the count you keep.
Well we multiply the number and start all over again. You’re a little
slave girl now, and slave girls don’t have any freedoms, especially not
those kind. So smile, count and thank. Got it Poopsie?”
As Lylia’s foot poked toward the ‘ON’ switch, Tim Mitty strained shook
the curls from his eyes and tugged to pull free. Free of the stocks, the
corset, the dangling curls and breasts. He wanted to be out of the girl
thing molding him inside and out into a wanton bimbo. A helpless slave
girl, yoked to a ghastly predicament. A bound star of a damsel in
distress video that the computer said was Derk’s biggest turn-on. “I’m..
not.. a.. girl.. ,” he thought. And as if in slow motion he watched
Lylia’s toe press down, heard the click, saw the wheel start to whirl
and tried to twitch his ass forward, down, up – anywhere but in the path
of that speeding…… “Whack!”
“That’s one. Oh thank you Darling Derk,” he forced her big lips to
smile. “AHHHH! Two. Thank you my Dearest Derk….. Aieee! Three. Oh
Honey…….”
*** ** ***
“Does Precious want some candy?” The fat guy’d been too long between
baths. He smelled as bad as he looked, and he looked vile as a corridor
in a New York subway. For a fleeting moment he wondered where Pansy Pond
got the cretins for laboratory time, but the rubbing on his chest
quickly brought him back to his problem.
“Oh yeth,” the strawberry blond burbled. “Precious woves candy.” She
fidgeted on the big man’s lap. Had too. The long thin prong poking up
into her would whorl and twirl if she didn’t keep it moving. While one
of the corpulent character’s hands stroked the front of her frilly
little girl dress, the other held the flat metal device imprisoning her
lacy gloved thumbs behind her.
“And what kind of Candy does Precious want?” He actually leered at his
petticoated prisoner while she nuzzled into his neck. “Something
special?”
“Oh golly Daddy,” Tim’s eyes were large and his pouty lips serious in
spite of the battle going on inside his frilly prison. “Precious wants
the warm kind of candy. The kind you keep in your big old tube.”
“Well, alright Precious can have Daddy’s candy. But get it right girl.”
“Um, I’ll have to slide down then Daddy.” The figure on the big guy’s
lap was in a little party dress. Yellow and white. Two dresses actually.
A sheer white dress worn over a frilly yellow thing. Full short skirts
billowed over layers of crinolines. She wore shiny yellow tights and
short white ankle stockings insider her sparkling maryjanes. It was a
party dress for a six year old, but on Teather’s amazing body the effect
was very different. They’d woven layers of new hair into her head, so
thick sausage curls now dangled well over her shoulders, pulled away
from her face by a floppy yellow bow on the very back of her head.
Teather’s makeup was light and warm, emphasizing her big blue green
eyes. Tiny pearls dangled from each ear.
And under the white and yellow, the corset, bra and panties. Under the
curvy body – Tim fought to control Teather. But two days of conditioning
made Teather want to be an uncontrollable, flirty six year old. For
hours Teather peered at videos of a real little girl and a forced an
imitation of her voice and walk, her head movements and her giggle. They
all combined with the drugs and the conditioning to power Teather to
this impersonation. And to bind Tim down under Teather’s control.
The girl in yellow slid to her knees, a pile of skirts and hair between
the big man’s thighs. Fat guy held onto her thumb cuffs, bowing her
forward, giving her an encouragement for which she had little need.
“Precious needs her hands Daddy,” Teather murmured, her lips pressing
against the guy’s crotch.
“No she doesn’t, Precious needs her mouth,” and he pulled the cuffs
upward, straining her so tightly against him that for a moment she lost
her breath and forgot to fidget causing her companion inside to tremble.
Teather’s knees were caught in her crinolines forcing her farther off
balance and the slippery hose gave Tim little purchase among the yards
of petticoats. He was steadied on his face, his nose buried into the
hard rod within. The fat man stank. Still Teather inched her face
upward, her teeth grabbing at his belt, chewing it open. Then the top
and now her lips trying to find the zipper. There. Get it down. Ohhh,
his thumbs were flaring in pain. Rub around now, try to get the dong
free with her cheeks. And it dropped in front of her face. Six fat
inches of throbbing cock – pointing like the barrel of a gun just below
her lovely lips.
That’s when she slipped. Her knees just gave way against her balled up
skirtings and horrified Tim sunk, in open mouthed amazement, down onto
the engorged head. Now Teather’s balance was on just two points, the
cuffs behind and the big rod in her mouth. She couldn’t pull away.
Couldn’t remove herself from the impalement. Even if Tim could regain
control of Teather’s body now, it was useless. A prisoner of that little
girl dress and the way it snarled his slippery legs, Tim gave head, and
would keep at it until the fat man popped him loose.
Chapter 6 – Kimberly
*** Week Four ***
Kimberly’s gown was breathtaking, so was her corset. The painted and
blushing bride stood before mirrors slowly taking in the problem from
under her brilliant white veiling. “The costume party at M’Faux? Like
this? With Andy?” She puffed out the full ivory skirts over their full
length petticoats with her high silk gloves. Kimberly looked again at
her dangerous cleavage obvious through the ivory lace cutout that went
into a deep V from her neck to the wide ribbon about her tiny waist.
That ribbon bowed large in back, it’s ends fluttering down to meet the
train trailing behind. The veil was woven with pearls into her full
blond hair and pearls hung from her ears, circled her wrists and dangled
from her neck to frame the lacy cutouts in the front and back. A body
stocking beneath hid her corseting and gave the image of naked girlness
quivering beneath the gown which draped to the floor.
“I can hardly walk on these heels, these white boots are so high and
tight. I can’t go Randi. Not like this, and not with Gary. He’s gay for
god’s sake.”
“No problem Honey. Gary’s such a flamer, the sprinklers might go off.
So, as long as he’s convinced your 100% girl, hey, he’ll be less
interested in you than Teddy Kennedy is in sobriety. This will be a
great test. And I’ve paid your old buddy Gary to be as attentive as any
suitor to my poor friend Kimberly who’s gotten herself committed into
this awful place. My you look nice.”
Randi fluffed up her husband Lance’s skirts and veils with her own
gloved hands. “I usually hate being a maid of honor like this, since the
bride gets all the attention, but somehow tonight -well, I’m willing to
play second fiddle to my good buddy Kimmie. Let’s go the boys are
waiting to take us to the dance dear.”
Lance looked at himself again in the mirror. Even though he knew the
importance of all this and the prize at the end, it was hard to make
himself go out on a date, as a gorgeously gowned bride, with a man he
considered a screaming fag. He began to feel the awful fear from two
weeks back when they’d made him suck, in the blow job room. But if he
pulled off the masquerade, there was nothing to fear. Gary was just not
interested in girls. And even though TV’s frequented M’Faux, the
trendiest disco in the city, he wasn’t going to look like one of those
poor bastards. Nope, he was all girl from his trembling breasts to his
gorgeous face.
No way anyone would confuse this blond beauty with a man. Better not.
Because one thing everyone knew – and one reason most girls never chose
this sort of costume for masked ball – at the end of the evening,
everyone knows what happens to the girl in the bride’s dress. You didn’t
refuse your escort’s requests in this outfit. A bride is the only girl
who can’t just say no.
*** ** ***
M’Faux was teeming for the monthly costume ball. Playboy Lance Torp knew
hundreds of the revelers, and they knew him as an insatiable super stud.
He saw dozens of his conquests milling about the floor of the town’s
hottest club. Simply put, if anyone recognized him then his lust life
would end. Why? Well, first he was with Gary, the most libidinous
homosexual in the set, and of course he was rigged up in remarkable
drag. No way he’d explain it, so the evening had to be endured and lived
through.
The veiling and his makeup made the disguise impenetrable enough, but
Lance discovered when he demurely dropped his eyes to the Bouquette in
his gloved hands, few could get any kind of decent look at his face. So,
one arm through Gary’s for balance and his downward maidenly glance kept
him incognito. It also drove the boys wild. A dazzling blond, all in
antique ivory and lace – a bride jiggling and rustling across the floor
on the arm of the city’s wildest gay? What was the story? Better yet,
the couple was followed by the nation’s super model, Randi Russell, all
done up as pink satin bridesmaid. Too much. Conversations stopped as
Gary led his date across the big floor toward a distant room.
Unfortunately for Lance, his downcast eyes kept him ignorant of their
destination. The dungeon!
Imagine, this floating beauty, led to the kinkiest spot in the club by
the kinkiest man in the city. No wonder so many just stared. And the
more who stared, the more Kimberly avoided them, keeping her desperately
uninformed of her immediate fate, until the door opened.
The dungeon at M’Faux was one of the theme rooms. Gary had little
intention of being lumbered with a woman for the entire night, so what
better dumping spot than a piece of apparatus specially built to hold a
girl desirably, and amused for hours?
“Wait, Gary….. I can’t….. I mean you can’t……” Kimberly looked
around the room with Bambi-wide eyes, each piece of apparatus promising
more discomfort than the last.
“Love, honor and obey, Precious,” Gary simpered as he stopped his
tightly corseted bride to face a waist high bar. “Bend Baby. Now!” Gary
quickly pushed his date forward and down over the thing dropping her
neck into the open half moon of an awaiting stock. “Whack!” Too startled
to object, Kimberly suddenly found herself bent over and the top half of
the stock dropped quickly about her neck just after Randi swiftly lifted
her hair and veils from behind.
Now, Kimberly stood bent so her upper body was parallel to the floor,
her abdomen hard against the bar holding her tush out and up, while her
head was held implacably, pocking through the hole in the wooden stock.
Kimmies’ hands were still free and hung down with her tits between the
bar and the stock. She could move her arms and hands but they could
reach nothing useful. Gary quickly pulled first her right then her left
ankle wide and looped them to the far corners of the shafts holding the
bar against Kimberly’s waist.
“Like them?” Gary asked, walking in front to dangle two signs, and
another object, before Kimberly’s eyes.
“Oh My God, Gary. You can’t. I won’t let you. This isn’t right.
Gary….. now don’t do that.”
Smiling the man slyly pulled the first sign free, the one with the quote
- “Feed the Babe!” and hung it to fall free around Kimberly’s neck
dropping just below her beautiful face. Then he floated around back and
Lance felt the second sign and that other thing getting pinned to his
waist – the sign reading, “Beat the Babe!” The other object? A wide,
black, leather, paddle.
“See this Hon?” Gary was back in front now, leaning against the stock
and reaching into his pocket. When his hand came out he held what looked
like one of those large rings that hold napkins. This one was about the
same shade of red as Kimberly’s lips and seemed made from a tough, but
semi-flexible rubber.
It happened so quickly. Gary twirled, and dipped, crouching just in
front of Kimberly. His right hand squeezed her cheeks hard forcing her
mouth to pop open – his left hand thrust the ring in hard, until her
teeth slid along it and clicked into a groove toward the front. The
thing was stuck in place behind her lips, jacking her teeth wide, the
ring, now a tunnel into her waiting mouth. Kimberly banged her fists on
the other side of her stocks. Wriggled and pulled at her bindings, but
succeeded in little more than swirling her great blond curls and
jiggling her dangling tits into paroxysms of man baiting signals. And
the men coming through the door were starting to gather like sharks.
Blood in the water. A feeding frenzy —— literally for Lance, unless
he could think of something.
In horror, he realized what his struggles were doing to the male
audience. So he tried to stop, but the jiggling tits seemed to have a
life of their own. Double D melons straining painfully against their
lacy prison. He grabbed at them with his gloved hands, holding them
still, knowing he knew he looked like a wanton bride, all in ivory, bent
down for a mouthful of something only her man could provide.
He wanted to tell these guy who he was. He knew a lot of the men
encircling him. These weren’t gays. He wasn’t gay. He’d only agreed to
an external feminization, not this terribly public disgrace in veils and
makeup and hose and heels.
Like darkness lanced by lightening, it came to Lance. His only hope -
and he screamed it, struggling to see around the dreadful board,
desperate that Gary would still be near and understand. “Ah uhhhh oy!”,
he screeched around the dreadful device slurring his speech. For as bad
as it seemed letting Gary know his true sex, the worst would be an all
night degradation at that flamer’s hands. But left as boy-bait in this
awful trap, he’d have to suck how many sticks dry? “I’m a boy Gary. A
Boy,” Lance scratched his long nails against the back of the stock as he
shouted, but the sounds fell unintelligibly from Kimberly’s wildly
splayed lips….. “Ahh uh oy! Ary. Uh oy!”
Someone hiked his skirts behind, Kimberly’s powder blue thong G string
would hide little from that paddle. Meantime, someone else swaggered in
front of him. Who? Kimberly couldn’t look up far enough. Couldn’t see
the guy’s face. What she could see was a first course emerging in what
looked to be a long Saturday night buffet dinner.
“What’s that she’s saying?” It was Gary’s voice. He’d heard Lance and
his smirking face poked around as he stooped to look into Kimberly’s
wide eyes.
“I’m a toy,” came a laughing voice from behind them. It was Super model
Randi Russell, giggling. “She’s screaming she’s a toy Gary. She wants it
bad. Pity you can’t appreciate our little Kimberly the bride.”
“Uh-uh. Uh oy. Ahhh uh OY! UHHHHH OYYY!” Kimberly was frantic, blond
hair sparking wildly about, her pendulous D’s flopping and slapping
against one another as they aimed at the floor like twin bombs set to
drop from their bays. She stomped her pretty bound feet and beat at the
rear of her stocks, all too aware of others she’d offered just as
hopelessly to the gathering testosterone gang.
“Yes,” Bruce stood, his face once again beyond Lance’s view, “you
certainly are a toy baby. That’s the idea, so delicious that you agree.”
And Kimberly felt two fingers tweak her pencil hard tittie. “It’s
playtime boys. Careful not to break any working parts”
As the pack of man-poles drew close, just before her first forced
feeding, Kimberly heard the giggles. One was definitely Randi, was the
other her therapist, Dr. Satyrini?
Chapter 7: Teather & Kimberly: The Session
*** The Session ** ***
Secretarial Arts, that was Teather’s major. The idea was to take a man,
who just couldn’t adjust to a subordinate role, and remake him. In this
case Pansy Pond counselors reviewed all of Derk Kerl’s inventories. Then
all of Tim Mitty’s. Both men were gay. Admitted lovers. But their
relationship was frustrated by Tim’s inability to embrace the bottom
role he agreed to. So many gay relationships foundered on just this
problem. The research was clear. If homosexual men were ever to emulate
straights and enter into long term relationships – then one partner
would truly have to be dominate, the other subordinate. Apparently that
was easier for men and women where the ying and yang of testosterone and
estrogen complimented one another. While researchers at Pansy Pond were
convinced the major glue for hetero marriages came in the hard wiring of
men and women, they conceded that a lot of social conditioning soldered
those wires down.
In effect, they worked at turning one of the partners into stereotypical
women in the oldest of the old-fashioned molds. Women who were
subordinate, supportive, pliant and wanton. Women who were sexually
cemented to their mates. Dependent, no addicted, to girlie attitudes and
an almost childish fawning over their men – yet raging whores in bed.
Addicted to love and slaves to one man.
So the Pansy Pond scheme was to bond the partners more permanently than
any traditional hetero couple. And at the same time, produce a
subordinate mate who retained a male randyness and male equipment (after
all these were gay guys) while demonstrating an outrageous femininity.
They felt they succeeded when only the couples could tell the true sex
of the submissive partner. So they worked at producing a gay man who
straight men would lust over. A boy/girl who could not only pass for
female, but whose femininity was so powerful, that a couple who chose,
could present a hetero image to the world and even escape the stigma of
gayness.
Their program produced powerful results. With new drugs designed in
their laboratories like: Metocalpholate-X, Macro Eckstasy, and Extro-
gen, so much of the subordinate’s hard wiring could be altered. Not only
did the patient’s body metamorph into whatever fabulous mold the
counselors and the dominant fantasized, but attitudes were malleable as
well. Yes, the real man remained beneath all the changes. But since that
man wanted the transformation so deeply anyway – he became a loving
audience for the seemingly lovely new girl they built up over him.
Unfortunately, Tim Mitty seemed somehow resistant to their efforts.
Hence the special meeting of the counseling staff to discuss his
progress.
“It’s his Fourth Week and Lylia is concerned, am I right Doctor Dwight?”
The kindly older man turned to Lylia Dwight.
“Well, yes Dr. Voelker. The corpo-morph progressed well. And the
profiles tell us Teather and her lover, Derk Kerl, share a 90% fantasy
overlap. Yet, she is definitely not responding psychologically according
to past platens.”
The gentle doctor pondered the brunet’s words for some moments, “And her
chemical dosages?”
About to traditional limits for a sixth week patient, doctor. There
seems to be some sort of internal resistance.”
“Hmmm,” Dr. Voelker stroked his soft white beard, “The videos show a
carnal little vixen. How does this block express itself Dr. Dwight?”
“Well, Teather isn’t fully committed to homoerotic sex sessions. While
her partners have expressed pleasure, we’ve noted her nights are spent
restlessly and REM brain waves indicate what seems to be a rejection,
even an abhorrence for some acts successful patients favor. Moreover,
she longs to wander at night. For some reason she seems drawn to our
labs. It’s as if the attraction of the forbidden is strong in her.”
“Could she still harbor latent hetero tendencies?”
“Exactly my theory Doctor. Yet her admission statements express the
strongest interests in the gay life and her alter ego, Tim Mitty,
appears to evidence highly effeminate proclivities.”
“Then we must get firmer,” the older man quietly remarked, looking
around the table for suggestions. “Are there type-ten fantasy overlaps?”
“Well, yes. And we’ve used some mildly. Bondage for example.”
“Rubber? Danger? Foot or breast fetishes? What are his fears? What are
his joys? What about discipline and humiliation?”
“Yes to rubber, foot and breasts, Doctor. And as for humiliation, the
patient appears to have a strong sense of self. Perhaps he is…”
“Humiliated by girlishness? Ah-hah. Good point Lylia. And if we could
combine that with real risk of total disgrace we might heighten by some
drug inducements? Dr. Satyrini, your patient, Ms. Randi Russell’s
husband, what’s his name again?”
Startled, the green eyed psychotherapist looked down at her notes,
“Lance Thorp Doctor Voelker, why do you ask?”
The elderly man gently twirled a pen as he spoke in a deep fatherly
voice, “Well, you’ve also been sensing resistance in spite of drug and
hypno therapy and I detect a thread linking the cases.”
“Really? Well, unlike Tim Mitty, Mr. Thorp is a committed heterosexual
doctor. In fact he’s somewhat obsessed with his gender identification
and we’re trying to overcome that block at his wife, Randi Russell’s,
direction. If Mitty and his lover Kerl are gays, I fail to see the…..”
The distinguished white haired man raised a hand from the gleaming
conference table and gently wiggled his fingers, “I understand Raquel,
and normally there would be no identification. But we appear to have a
latent heterosexuality stopping Lylia’s therapy and a pronounced
heterosexuality obstructing your own. I wonder if we could not combine
some of our activities – especially some of the humiliation therapies to
enjoy a synergistic response?”
“Well, it could be dangerous Sir,” Lylia Dwight said quickly as her
colleague digested the senior therapist’s suggestion, “I mean, all of
our graduates are left with the ability to transcend their feminized
states should they wish to resume a male role.”
“Ah yes, the trapdoor,” Doctor Heinrich Voelker murmured as his fingers
played with his beard. “This is a result of which I have never agreed.
After all, our objective is permanent bonding in the case of Mitty and
Kerl, as well as with this Lance Thorp and his unfortunate wife, no? So
why do we leave them this out? Isn’t it just like leaving a hetero
couple the option of divorce? If it is there, will not some use it and
frustrate our efforts? No, this is a chance to achieve the permanent
bond. I recommend you go for it and we will have a new body of research
with these patients.”
Dr. Lylia Dwight looked disturbed, “But Doctor, Mr. Mitty will remain
aware inside the cacooning we achieve and if he retains his
frustrations, who knows what will happen to him in an irreversible
state?”
“And what of Lance Thorp’s malehood?” Raquel Satyrini interjected. “If
we force his gender identification to crumble, he may pass through
bi-sexuality and become permanently homosexual. I’m not certain that is
Randi Russell’s desire. It certainly will come as a….. uh. Surprise to
her husband, Mr. Torp.”
“It’s hardly a prison to achieve your life’s dream. And their admission
papers did indicate they both have similar desires, no? Each wants to
better serve his partner. The only risk is that this Derk Kerl will tire
of Mitty, or Ms. Russell of her errant spouse. But is that not the risk
all girls take when they marry? Perhaps the dependence on male love is
exactly the, er, comeuppance necessitated by these stubborn subjects.
And you will give each of our new girls many tools to retain their
excitement, right? Besides,” his eyes twinkled, “I see we know of their
prior haunts. The clubs they frequented. Places where others knew them?
They will face quite a challenge to create a perfect Teather, or
Kimberly disguise in those locales lest they be unmasked. And you are
giving Teather skills as a secretary eh? She will always have that to
return to if her relationship should sour. Meantime, I see Kimberly will
have a sizable income to support her regardless of our results. Ummmm,
still it must be developed, some kind of job for her. What of the
profiles?
Raquel Satyrini grinned as she pulled a printout from a file, “Mr. Torp
seems to fear the very things he demanded of his various women. In every
case he forced his conquests toward exhibitionist stunts that were
beyond their tastes. Most times he encouraged women to don clothing that
contradicted their sense of decency. In one case he demanded a young
woman turn to couch dancing. And he used his considerable influence upon
his wife, the model, Randi Russell. In her case he insisted upon spreads
in certain male magazines which almost certainly slowed her career
growth. Yet he seems to abhor audiences himself, fearing public displays
of all kinds.
Dr. Voelker’s smile matched that of his associate, “You are considering
the magician?”
“Bondo? Exactly so Doctor, does it meet with your approval?”
For a moment, Voelker rubbed his nose and tapped his pencil, “Hmmm, yes.
That is it. In fact they both might even be displayed, against their
will of course, in some establishment where they were previously known?”
“Yes, by all means, he went on, “Let us enter into a full determination
with these two. You have the devices. Use them Raquel, Lylia. Work
together here, perhaps these two maidens should be roommates? Give these
men memories of rich, wild girlhoods, eh?”
“Even if it makes Teather a…. uh, lifelong slave of her bonding to
Kerl?”
“Or if it detaches Lance Torp from his ability to ever make it again
with women?”
“Especially if. Make it so Doctors.”
*** ** ***
This was night two, Tuesday, for the new roommates. They’d actually
fought their bedding on Monday, but stiff shots of Macro Eckstasy &
Extro-gen settled them, along with a couple of zaps from the attendant’s
prod. Tonight they squirmed, but who wouldn’t. Lylia smiled at her
associate Dr. Satyrini and thought about the introduction session Monday
evening. The twin blondes sensed the worse – and the two therapists
didn’t disappoint them.
Kimberly and Teather sat strapped into chairs, corseted, hosed, heeled,
painted identical little nighties pored over their lush feminine curves
during the orientation. Raquel Satyrini explained how it was necessary
that they bond as quickly as possible and Lylia Dwight introduced them
to their bed wear on the mannequin who pranced before their worried
eyes. Neither patient spoke, but their breathing became pronounced as
Dr. Dwight described the particular features of the apparatus on the
model.
“See, she’s wearing an almost invisible head harness with tiny flesh
colored straps under her chin, around the back and over her head…..
Come here girl and bend a little,” Lylia Dwight pulled the woman’s hair
back to show how it hid the nylon cording. “And see here and here?” She
pointed to tiny rings on either side of the model’s mouth that were part
of the straps holding a medium sized ‘O’ ring behind her teeth, “They’ll
be important later. Now look down here.” The therapist swept the
mannequin’s skirting upward to reveal a surprise. The shapely redhead
sported a significant piece of male apparatus, just like the one’s owned
by the gaping patients.
“look closely Dears,” Dr. Russell joined her colleague to point out an
apparatus that was only visible at near range. “See, she’s got something
belted around her waist, then down between her legs to hold this ring
here,” she reached down to tweak a large circular piece of clear plastic
that hung around the model’s penis and balls, held firmly by the belting
to her body. “And of course, everything’…. Turn around Dear? See,
there are tiny locks on the back of the waist belting, and up here on
the head harness. Beautiful work. Thank you Raven.” And the model
curtseyed, rearranged her negligee and pranced out of the room.
“See,” Dr. Satyrini smiled, “we’ve got the very same stuff for you.
Isn’t this sweet?”
And now, one night later, Teather and Kimberly were in bed. Bonding.
Well, bound at least, and very close to one another. The bungee saw to
that. Each on their side, with heads in opposite directions, heads
locked intimately between one another’s legs. To each of the genital
circles two short bungee cords were attached, one on either side of the
male equipment. The other ends of the cords were strictly fixed to the
tiny rings on each side of the patients’ mouths. Their bound wrists were
pulled around their partner’s legs and fastened to their own foreheads
by additional bungee cords. Teather’s bound ankles were lashed to the
headboard by yet another bungee, while Kimberly’s were knotted to the
foot board. The could roll a bit, and squirm, but little more.
The therapists had been thoughtful enough to insert flaccid penises into
open mouths before tying off the genital bungees. The patients could
suckle their living gags as they slept. Of course, should a member
become aroused, the sucking girl could pull away to avoid choking, but
sooner or later the bungee would pull tired muscles back. The effect
guaranteed an interesting sensation upon the developing male muscle. And
even though each patient in his little baby doll outfit knew he’d been
lashed to another man. And even though, neither seemed interested in
such intimacy…… The manual, or mouthal impact upon nature guaranteed
all things would come to those who wait. Besides, bouncy tits against
stomachs, romantic music and perfume sprayed genitals helped things
develop throughout the night.
If their nights were real mouthfuls, Kimberly and Teather’s days
continued to fill other areas. Teather still took intensive Secretarial
courses, while Kimberly learned ballet and jazz dance. Each was now
ordered to make the other into a daily Barbi doll. For an hour before
bedtime, each girl spent time planning her roommate’s outfit for the
coming day. They knew their work would be judged – in a devilish way.
After they were dressed, first Lylia, then Kimberly performed -
performed for her partner – a partner who sat in a booth that analyzed
her erotic responses. Each knew that to fail to excite men meant special
punishment. So they dressed their roommates with one though in mind -
fuck me. And they performed with one thought in mind – fuck me. The
results were bizarre.
While each had a number of fantasy overlaps, the therapists demanded
they dress their partners in those fetishes that didn’t overlap. For
example, Kimberly got turned on by bound French maids, the frillier the
better. Teather hated the frou frous and laces. Teather lusted after
rubber corseted, latex slaves. Kimmie despised, and even feared the
breathtaking tightness and claustrophobic isolation of PVC and rubber.
Teather loved to think of virgin maidens, implacably bound and faced
with a bull whipping. Kimberly was terrified of whips but got off on
little girls forced to accept enemas in their go-to-party frocks. And
Kimberly got off on the classics; damsel tied to railroad tracks or
fixed to a log feeding the millwright’s circular saw. Teather dreamed of
girls in uncomfortable apparatus, struggling – exposed and defenseless.
So each morning began with each patient accepting and living the other’s
fantasy. And while each was the one she herself dreaded, she knew how
critical it was she sell it completely and fully, directly to her
partner’s expectant crotch.
And each day was full with togetherness. The twins were ordered to
always smile and use only the most endearing terms to each other.
“Darling, Dearest, Baby, Love, Poopsy,” filled their smiling mouths, and
oozed from their lush red lips. They held hands, kissed whenever they
were close – one’s fingers were never far from the other’s intimate
spots. To do otherwise was painful, but with the drugs and the hypno
therapy, to do otherwise – was impossible. While Teather and Kimberly
were falling in love, or in lust – Lance and Tim were horribly snared
inside the bodies of TV lesbians, each a lure – bait for the other. By
Friday, the girls couldn’t wait for their bedtime feedings – the men
couldn’t escape them.
Chapter 8- Kimberly
*** Week Six ***
“I can hardly walk in this stuff Bondo,” the striking blond was near
tears as she tried to step in the cruel skirting and savage heels. “How
will I get away from this thing in time?” She’d asked the question as
Bondo’s two large assistants placed her in the center of the circular
stage and began strapping Kimberly’s gloved arms onto the vertical Y
frame, each wrist so far above her head that she was stretched even
higher up than the six inch heels forced her.
“No worry Girlie. You are to juz, let me do zat. Tight. I vant her very
tight girls.” The two big women in their tiny French maid costumes
pulled the golden ropes solidly around each wrist and then pitilessly
tugged the belt at the blonde’s waist. Kimberly stood encased in a
daring gold on black brocade latex corset. An all-in-one which held her
magnificent tits high and covered her crotch with a wisp of black
triangle pulled into a thong behind her. Under it she wore sheer black
tights. And the shoes were ankle belted sandals that showed her flashing
red nails.
Over it she was covered from neck to wrist, shoulders to ankle in a deep
red gown that clung like a drowning girl to her lifeguard. The thing was
back zippered from top to bottom and fell to her ankles. While it was
made of unyielding nylon, the thing was sheer as lightly fogged glass.
The golden threads and semi precious stones encrusting her latex corset
glimmered through, especially at her breasts and crotch. Each wriggle
caused a sparkling dance, attracting all eyes to her suggestive mounds.
But the thing was so snug, it allowed her only mincing steps atop those
ankle breaking heels.
Lace framed her hem, neck and wrists, with another bundle surrounding
her bejeweled crotch and breasts.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said working the crowd that sat in a great
semi circle around the stage, ” Vecome to zee twin escapades of zee two
women who changed history. Dat’s right Girlie, look worried. Vee ne-vair
know if zeez thing veell vork as planned, eh?” Bondo paced in tight semi
circles as he spoke, intensely watching the entire effect, his hands
working his words with large, bold sweeps, as much out of habit as for
the audience sitting quietly about the stage. “Now, zee flammables
girls, si vous plait.” With a brush of his hands the two began to shape
clear red cellophane wrap at and around the base of the apparatus,
working it into clouds about the blonde’s feet and skirted calves.
Kimberly pulled at her wrists as she reluctantly watched the material
building up and around her legs.
“We call zees first, zee Joan D’Arc escapade,” Bondo said as he swirled
to look a the audience. “Zee how my helplezz azziztant pulls and tugs at
her bonds? How she zquirms zo provocatively in her helplezznezz. An you
see zee zelophane – a material zat eez notorious in eet’s reaction du
flame? Now watch as my maids, zey lay down zee zingle track in front of
zee bound Kimberly, zee, it goes juz unner zee zelophane on zat end and
comez way out to me on zees other. Zo.” Now, the little man bent to
touch the track, which really resembled nothing more than a ten foot
silver pipe that was cut and the top half removed, revealing some sort
of wax in its trough. Bondo, gently poked his index finger into the
stuff then stood and held it above his head.
“See, eet eez zee fire ztar-tair. You know, zee stuff zat zay use to
begin charcoal for barbeque? Eet lights quickly and flares zo hot, yez?”
Smiling the tuxedoed guy snapped fingers over his head and, FUUUP! A
flame popped to life, his finger like a candle with the tip burning
bright. ‘Ewws’ and ‘Ahhhs’ popped from the audience while Kimberly
gasped and pulled harder at her bonds.
She seemed in stark terror. Lance Torp had two great fears; fire and
drowning. And here he stood, lashed to this frame. Encased in these
clothes. Monstrous twin boobs hung from his chest making it hard for him
to see the layers of shiny cellophane bundled about his lower legs. The
belt at his waist and the ropes on his wrists welded him to the Y frame
while his costume bound him even tighter. Lance knew that Kimberly was a
turn on, that the men in the audience were building up wet-dream
inventories, yet Lance had to struggle. This was supposed to be some
sort of stage magic trick, so there had to be a way out of this. Surely
this weird little magician didn’t intend to ignite the stuff in that
track, a track which led directly to the crumpled cellophane encircling
Kimberly’s feet.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen. Zee, Joan D’Arc Ezcapade!” Bondo
twirled, aimed his burning finger, then flicked it toward his end of the
open tube. The flame spat out and down, catching the very tip of the
pipe and popped to life burning and eating its way into the trough and
inexorably toward Kimmie’s struggling form. “Za lights and, Zee music
please!”
In a fleck, the house went dark as a drum roll began its cadence and
somewhere a single bow began to work on a cello. One note, back and
forth. “Zum-zum, zum-zum, zum-zum.” And as the fire ate at the wax that
note built higher and it accelerated, heralding the flame toward the
reflecting cellophane and the dark girl-form tugging and whining in its
path.
In the darkened theater, every eye watched the bright glow of the flame.
And in the dimness they imagined Kimberly pulling for her life. What
they didn’t see, in the pitch darkness, was the transparent wires pull
tight on either tip of the Y frame and spring the girl up to the wings.
Nor did they see a new Y frame pull up from under the stage to sit in
the path of the fire, cellophane wrapped tightly around the legs of the
bundle tied to it.
In a minute the fire was bright and now it lit the frame and its package
but “Whack” the last feed in the track was so highly flammable that it
exploded like photographer’s powder momentarily blinding everyone in the
audience who stared at the tableau, letting the original Y with Heather
attached disappear into a fast opening, then closing trap door in the
ceiling.
Another “Poof!” and the cellophane flashed to life, a terrible cry
coming from the form on the frame as it blasted into flame, still
seeming to shake and pull at its bonds. The audience began to scream.
Meanwhile overhead, Heather was cut quickly from her frame, unzipped
from her dress and dropped into a tube that spiraled her down to just
outside the door behind the main aisle to the theater. There the two
maids grabbed the startled girl, snapped wide rubber belts around her
upper arms, her waist, thighs and ankles and picked her now bundled body
up and to slide it into a three foot long aquarium mounted on a wheeled
table.
The case is filled with clear water so she sits, as if in a tub,
upright, her back against the rear, her head just outside of the three
feet of water in the two foot wide crystal tank. Working swiftly, the
maids slide another piece of glass from the foot of the tank, along the
top in rubber tracks on either side. This piece is a sliding lid coming
toward Heather’s neck. Pulling her hair free, the girls pushed the lid
taught against Heather’s neck the remaining glass jutting out at the
foot of the top of the tank. So Heather sat immersed in cool water,
except for her head that poked free as the girls maneuvered the
apparatus swiftly, feet first, through the door and down the aisle into
the still somewhat darkened auditorium.
Inside pandemonium reigns. The form on the flaming Y frame sends off an
acrid smoke, enhanced by hunks of cowhide and dog hair inside the
burning dummy. The audience is hysterical over what appears to have been
a stunt gone wrong, and they cry to Bondo to save the immolating woman.
At that very moment a spotlight picks up on the maids and more cries
arise as they recognize Heather speeding down the aisle. And they
simultaneously see what Bondo has done.
In the moments of panic, the small magician reached to the floor to pull
a flat metal plate erect at the very base of the aisle. With a prop
behind it the thing now stood as an immovable wall ready to meet the
irresistible glass case careening at it. And all could see that the way
the lip of glass protruded, the girl inside the case would soon either
have to duck down, or lose her head as the lid guillotined back from the
force of the impending collision.
Yet something even more bizarre was occurring. Lights sprang on along
the lower four borders of the case to illuminate the watery rider. And
in the intense glow, each detail of the woman could be clearly seen. Her
strict water proof corseting, her savage heels, her belted arms and
legs, and the red stain.
From between her legs, a blood red stain began to drift upward. A
trickle at first but now it seemed more pronounced. Even as the girl
raced toward the wall, survival meant she’d have to take a deep breath
and pull herself under a water that seemed to becoming a darker and
darker red.
In fact, that triangle covering Heather’s crotch was connected to a
hundred capillary sized tubes which connected to thousands of little
sponges inside Heather’s rubber corset. Each contained a strong red
stain, and as liquid oozed down into the device from the top and bottom
wetting the sponges and driving their now stained contents to pour out
through that crotch covering. With each movement, Heather squeezed some
part of her costume and squirted more of the powerful dye out in a
humiliating imitation of a girl’s estrus. And as Lance Torp understood
the danger of sitting upright and hastily ducked under the water to
avoid the oncoming glass top, he squeezed himself into the tight space
to simultaneously ejaculate enough coloring into the pool to make it
finally opaque from without.
“Whack” The table hit the wall. “Fwaaak!” The top slid home. “Clack!” A
spring shot a bolt up from the bottom and pushed it firmly against over
the top, trapping the lid closed, until someone unhooked the device
holding it in place. Heather was entombed, inside a glass tank of
apparently bloody water, safe only as long as her air supply could hold
out.
But the audience, so relieved to see her safe from the fire and so
excited by the dramatic re-entrance reacted by leaping to applause.
Calmer now, they reasoned that if the first was a trick, this, while
apparently just as risky, was still nothing more than a stunt. Yet the
applause died quickly as the look on Bondo’s face became obvious.
“Queeckly,” he bellowed. “Girls, help. Thees lid appearz ztuck. Zees
ting at zee base won’t releaze.” Now all three of them worked at the lid
as the captive inside seemed to thrash and toss, broiling the red water
into waves inside the case. The lights on the glass box failed to
penetrate far into the murky ruby waters, but they seemed to show a
silhouette of a breasty female form smashing herself against the roof of
her liquid prison. Every now and then a sparkling gem streaked along the
glass from inside as the girl apparently spun around in a hopeless hunt
for some bubble of life.
Seconds, then minutes passed as they worked feverishly. How long could
Heather hold out? What was wrong. Screams started to grow again. Watery
cries seemed to come from inside that case. Then it suddenly sat still
in the spotlight. No more rocking or pushing came from within.
“Zee fire ax!” Bondo cried. “Zomeone. Anyone. Bring me an axe from a
wall.” Heads turned. Hands shot out. Throngs passed a red ax overhead.
It seemed forever as the bound beauty basted inside that bloody casing
sauting in her ripe juices.
Whack! Crack! One swing by Bondo and the entire side of the case
exploded – and nothing happened. Some few drops of water fell as he
smashed the top, then each of the other sides. The glass, now dyed red
fell to reveal a case empty of either water, or the latexed Kimberly.
Poof! Lights flooded the small circular stage again, and there, at it’s
center stood the Y frame. And to it, white gloved hands bound high over
her head stood Kimberly, gowned like Cinderella for the ball. The belt
now sniggered down hard around her wasp waist and a huge bell skirt hid
her legs and high heeled feet. And while the audience gasped and gaped
at the roped beauty, Bondo dropped the metal plate back down to slide it
under the cart and hide the hole through which Kimberly had dropped into
the hands of dryers and dressers down below.
The applause detonated. The small magician grabbed a hand mike and
walked to his bound assistant like a beast toward prey. And as his arm
too intimately slid toward one of her underwired melons poking above her
lacy sweetheart neckline, his lips dropped to the microphone and asked,
“And how did you like playing our zecond part dear? We call eet zee
ezcapade of Mary Jo Kopechny.”
Chapter 9 – Teather
Week 6
Tim entered the room. Not Teather. Tim. Wearing a golf hat, along
sleeved baggy button down shirt, long blowzy slacks, no makeup and
topsiders – it was Tim who came into the camera’ view. It was Tim who
slowly unbuttoned that shirt, revealing the bandaging crushing down his
breasts, and Tim who stripped it smilingly away to let them fall free.
Now he turned and sat at the vanity in the corner, the camera zooming to
catch his image as he began to apply foundation.
Each stage of the makeup process dissolved into the next. Like time
lapse photography the face grew enhanced by Tim’s own hand until a plump
lipid, heavy lidded beauty peered back at the camera. Finally the cap
came off to expose pins holding a great mass of hair tightly down. Tim
smiled and reached for a jet black wig sitting on its perch. Over the
curls and pinned in place, the page boy bob fell to brush Tim’s
shoulders, the under waves at the tips falling into his face and the
bangs dropping almost into his deeply colored eyes.
Now the laughing boy/girl swiveled toward the camera and began to
unbutton the padded front poking up from his waist band revealing
padding which filled in the deep curves. The curves were cut into the
she/male’s body by sparkling red corseting. He stood, undid his belt and
pants to let them drop free, pulling the bottom of the padding open as
well to reveal a red panty hosed bottom. Kicking off his loafers, Tim
sat and bent to straighten the smoky seamed stockings then buckle the
straps of black demi boots onto either foot, their tapering heels a
towering four inches. Standing again, the brunet spun and smirked at the
camera. It was Teather now who strutted behind a white screen, backlit
to place the girl in silhouette as she struggled into some sort of
suiting, then belted it tightly at her neck and waist..
Finally, she poked just her head around the screen, hair falling at an
angle. One hand grabbed the frame directly below that gorgeous face and
in it she held what seemed to be an exactingly reproduced replica of a
man’s rampant wong. Purring into the phallus like a microphone she
peered directly into the lens and said, “This one’s for you Derk.” But
even though her lips were wet and smiling. Even though the tight
close-up that faded away showed a stunning woman. There was still
something about the girl’s eyes as the video faded that looked…….
terrified.
*** ** ***
There’s a cop bar near every precinct with the big one always closest to
headquarters. Cuff ‘N Collar was fancier than some. Built as a trendy
disco, the place got in drug trouble and a retired sergeant bought it
for a song (and some help from the gang in liquor licensing). The bar
still has the tall stools and shiny railing and there’s a good sized
disco floor. Only now a juke box fills the speakers and some tables have
sprung up over parts of the dance space. The menu’s plainer now, but
hearty, and the lights are dim and the cop groupies – hot as an ejected
shell casing.
Wednesday night – Lylia Dwight and Teather Meatite perched high up on a
middle stool. Teather peeked through bangs cascading down over each eye.
The damn things were annoying. But her dark brunet wig was carefully
feathered to hang into a long page boy with thick bangs that parted in
the middle and dropped below her eyebrows. Her blood red nails would
poke them back uselessly, but they’d stay for only minutes or until she
tossed her head. The effect was distracting to Teather, but a lot more
distracting to the sharks who coasted about her.
They were a study in contrasts. Lylia was all in peach, a tailored,
silky sheath from neck to knee length hem. It was long sleeved, lightly
patterned and accented with pearls. Lylia was honey blond this night, in
a short pert bob. Her look was sexually elegant. Teather looked
expensive as well in her red playsuit. The thing was shiny tight
leather, all one piece zippered tight at her wrists, with a black
buckled collar, a wide black belt and shiny hot panted bottom. Her
pantyhose were red and her shorty boots were sparkling black. Teather’s
lips, eyelids, dangling earrings and nails all matched the belt, collar
and stockings. It was hard to tell if her blush was painted on or real.
It was very deep.
These two were clearly girl groupies cruising for a cop to do what the
place promised. Two to get collared and cuffed.
Inside the corseting and leathering, beneath the black curls and high
atop the bar stool, Tim frantically peered around the room. So many
faces were familiar. Over there, Big Jim Riley, twice Tim’s size and a
mean drunk. Farther over four guys he finished the academy with, all out
for night of wife cheating. Ram Sinclair was there bonded now with
Chardonay Talbot Tim’s old girlfriend before he tossed her over for
Leslie Sue Tangway. And right in the center of the bar, nails curled
around a pink lady, Tim Mitty sat trapped inside that nympho body,
smiling helplessly at any man who’d peep at her. And most men were
peeping. Worse yet, the stools Lylia found were immediately on the path
to the rest rooms so sooner or later, every guy’d come by.
“Remember Teather, you can look. You can even touch. In fact, the guys
with the hidden camera who are watching us want you to. But until I say
the secret word – you can’t fall helplessly in lust with any of these
studs. Got it Girlie?”
Tim had it too well. He knew what Teather was conditioned to do to him.
When Lylia said “Sic it”, Teather would fall totally for the person she
was directed to suck. And the more time that elapsed, the horny-er
Teather Meatite would get. She was going to have to use every bit of
persuasion, every little trick – whatever it took to get into her
victim’s pants.
An hour’d passed. A couple of dozen guys’d hit on the pair, but except
for accepting a couple of dances and some free drinks, nothing. Until
eleven O’clock, when the call of nature pulled Ram and Chardonay by and
Lylia stopped them for a moment. “Pardon me, but haven’t we met
somewhere.”
“Baby, that’s the oldest line,” Ram was drunk but obviously flattered by
Lylia’s attention. Chardonay was having none of it, she grabbed her
man’s hand and turned to face Lylia with a territorial look females of
the species must have had in the caves. That’s when she saw Teather and
her face suddenly froze.
“Uh, as a matter of fact….. Haven’t we met somewhere?” Chardonay
dropped Ram’s hand to stare at the busty brunet in the red leather jump
suit. Tim was doubly terrified. First he feared that Chardonay’d made
him. Regardless of the reasons for his masquerade, this was an
appearance which could destroy him. But even worse, he was beginning to
get to know Lylia well enough to fear her whimsy. And the evening was
waning, did she stop these two to turn Teather onto Ram?
“Um, I don’t think….. I’m, uh sorta new here.” Teather seemed to be
melting away and releasing some will to Tim. Lylia smiled and leaned
toward Chardonay. “Maybe you’re confusing Teather here for her cousin, a
lot of guys have done that tonight. Do you know Tim Mitty maybe?”
“Tim?” Chardonay stared at Teather. “You’re Tim’s cousin?” She put out
her hand, “I’m Chardonay Talbot, I used to go with Tim.” She stared hard
now, first at the brunet’s legs and breasts then trying to see the
girl’s face in the gloom. Teather took the handshake trying not to look
directly at Chardonay as Lylia interrupted.
“She certainly is Tim’s little cousin Teather Meatite . Teather, say
hello to Chardonay and…..” she leaned into the tightly play suited
brunet and smilingly murmured into Tim’s ear, “….. Sic it!”
*** ** ***
“The fuck you pulling off here Lylia?” Teather brushed her page boy,
while Tim argued with Lylia in the triple mirrors.
“Such language! Cool it Sweetie,” Lylia brushed blusher over her sharp
cheekbones and looked at the girl sitting next to her in the Cuff ‘N
Collar ladies room. “It’ s simple. Your records said you frequented this
place, and that back in your bi-sexual days there was a passion for this
Chardonay. Now it’s time to confront that relationship to deal with your
former dominant male attitudes.”
Teather stared wide eyed at her blond companion, “Wait up. You mean I’m
supposed to tell Chardonay….”
“Uh-huh. Either you do, or I do. She’s gotta’ know you’re her old
boyfriend. The way you, uh, dumped her really ought to provoke some
strong reaction to your current condition that we judge will be very
useful to your evolution. Come on girl, let’s not keep your date
waiting.”
*** ** ***
“How you feel, Lover?” Chardonay prowled about Tim, like a cat sizing up
her prey.
“These ribbons are too tight, really Chardy. I…… Look, I feel
indecent, alright?” Teather looked lewd. Her little romper suit was gone
and Chardonay’s full length white negligee flowed over her red waist
nipper, red panty hose and stopped just short of a pair of white puffy
mules. She lay on her back on the woman’s big Victorian, couch tugging
at the fluffy white nylon bows binding her hands to either side and back
over the top. Another pair tugged her feet about a foot apart at the
bottom. The negligee was slathered in lace and buttonless, held closed
by a great floppy bow at the brunet’s waist. As Chardonay glided about
her helpless guest she patted and teased Teather’s hair, and her white
lacy covering to better frame Teather’s voluptuous form.
“You remember Rod and Lance from across the hall don’t you Timmie, Uh, I
mean Teather?”
“The twin stevedores? The big guys? Yea. Come on Chardy, please let me
go. I’m sorry about us, but…..”
“But you just don’t like girls, eh? Well, you know, that’s somehow
easier to take. When you walked out on me, I thought it was my fault.
Now I realize you owned the faults,” Her fingers darted out to pinch at
one of Teather’s nipples visible just under its white veiling.
“Uhhhh. No! I mean,” as Tim jerked in response to the nipple tweaking
the stems of his dangling earrings slapped against his cheeks reminding
him every word was being transmitted and recorded. “Yea, alright. I
guess that really was the problem.”
Chardonay’s fingers continued to pull at the swollen nipple as she
twirled it and bent to look more closely, “Why they’re real aren’t they?
Wow? When did you get these luscious things installed? They’re what? C
cups? D’s?”
“Ewww. You’re hurting me,” the brunet winced in her bonds trying to
raise her body with the pincering fingers. “They installed them at
the…. owww-OWCH!” Teather snapped back onto the couch as her nipples
slipped free. “Ohhh. Gosh that hurts Chardy. They put these things on me
at the sanitarium a couple of weeks ago and they’re just so sensitive. I
think they’re C’s. At least they were,” Teather looked down at her
aching breast heaving as she tried to regain her breath. “But I think
they still might be growing. Maybe it’s just the clothes they pack me
into, but they really seem to jut and jiggle.”
“Sure do,” Chardonay patted the other on its’ side with the open palm of
her hand to set it wiggling like a fat water balloon. “Shit. Not only
are you prettier than me but those things are a man snare for sure. And
you like boys, huh. Wow. Did you ever do a terrific job of rebuilding
yourself. You always were kind of tiny for a guy. You still are a guy
aren’t you Sweetie?” Her hand stroked playfully to Tim’s crotch as the
doorbell chimed. “Great, Rod and Lance must have seen my note on their
door. You’d better make this convincing Teather baby, these two are men
just like you love them. Big and hot. But they dig girls. And you really
don’t want them to see this video Lylia lent us with you doing the
transformation do you? I mean if I found it shocking, just imagine how
it might provoke your, uh, dates?”
The doorbell rang again as Chardonay turned to get it. “I can’t wait to
see just how much girl stuff you’ve mastered. Or should I say
mistressed? Hi guys. Come on in I want you to meet an old friend who’s
all tied up just now, but she’s the head of the class, or the class of
the head – if you know what I mean. And she’s impatient to suck start
you off to bed. Fellas, meet Teather the blow job slave girl. She says
she’s gonna teach all of us something tonight, and I can’t wait to watch
and learn…….”
Tim saw the leers on the faces of the big men. He forced a smile onto
Teather’s fat red lips and licked at them with his dry tongue. He pulled
at his ribboned wrists and ankles feeling his negligee stretching open.
And even with these small moves it frightened him to realize how quickly
a woman’s skirts rode upward when she was bound on her back. He knew the
bows would hold his hands high and his ankles wide – helpless bait for
the male predators looming his way. Like peering through a rifle’s
sights, Teather watched between the tossing valley of her jutting
breasts as the twins approached, each fingering his fly.
“Enjoy it Teather,” he heard Lylia’s voice in his ear. “And during it
all, think hard of your only love. Call them Darling and Dearest,” the
voice cooed, “And pretend they’re your darling and dearest Derk…..”
Chapter 10 – Kimberly
“Ohhhh, Teather….. OHHHHHHH! FUCK! OMIGAWD! TEATHER, PLEASE…… NO!”
Teather dressed Kimberly in the odd uniform. ‘Stew on the Love Flight’
she’d called it. Skin tight satin in purple with hot pink trim.
Everything over the normal crushing corset and boob bucket bra and
slithery pink stockings and hypodermic high heels. Then Kimberly put
Teather into the red baby doll, see through with flouchy trim.
Everything over a body stocking that hid her breathtaking waist cinch.
Teather made Kim teeter on even higher, six inch spikes. Both of them
were blonded with multi tiered layers of thick lazy curls that dropped
to their thighs and covered their backs like capes. Of course their ear
lobes were dangled with brilliants that matched their bracelets. Each
was a bimbo tailored to meet the fantasies of their mates. Yet each was
taken just a bit farther than their own daring would allow. Both were
once again deeply embarrassed by the kinkiness of their outfits.
Then they were led to the TV room. “It’s simple girls”, Dr. Raquel
Satyrini explained as her associate Lylia Dwight set up the terrifying
apparatus. “You just sit down. And see the rings that go around here
near the tops?” Of course each of the girls saw a ring. Actually, with
their ankles strapped to the legs of their chairs, and their hands
strapped over their heads, it was hard to see the ring that tremored
beneath them. Right under their opened ass panties. But since they were
bound facing one another, they saw the apparatus fluttering under their
partner’s bottom. Each sissy pursed fattened red lips wet in….. fear.
“Well the rings are, held up by three rods that drop through these holes
in the base,” as Raquel spoke, Lylia acted like one of those product
girls you see on quiz shows, outling or pointing to the appropriate spot
with her lovely long nails. “See, the rods are sitting on springs. When
the springs go all the way down, the rods complete a circuit and you
switch off your partner’s, er, problem? Simple eh? And all you’ve got to
do is — sit down. We call this, Le Plunge’, neat huh?”
“Why Dr. Satyrini? I mean, my wife Randi couldn’t possibly have any use
for me to do something like this,” Kimberly tried to peer around and see
the thing that brushed her bare ass cheeks.
“Actually, this is more for little Teather’s benefit than yours Kimberly
dear. Her boyfriend can only benefit from this tiny workout. But hold on
there’s more.” Dr Lylia Dwight grasped the head of the phallus that
poked through the ring. “See it’s semi hard rubber, about like the real
thing, only…. well at nine inches, he’s a big boy,” Raquel giggled.
“Now look,” and Lylia pulled at the penis. “See, if you pull it up, it
breaks another switch. That one will make things a lot easier for you.”
“Pull it up?” Teather squealed. “How will I pull it up with my hands
tied up here.
“With your pussy lips Dear. This is an exercise in muscle control. Not
only that, watch.” Suddenly the thing erupted, spurting a thick creamy
slime out of its tip with the force of a child blowing whipped creme
through a straw. “See that, if you wiggle just so, it does that after a
while, but only after a while.”
“What…. what is that stuff?” Teather had a suspicious look as she saw
the goo dribble over Dr. Dwight’s hand and wrist.
“Why it’s your antidote of course. See the tip of the penis is coated
with itching powder. Oh, it just drives you nuts. But that stuff soothes
the discomfort. And since it spews in with such force, it pretty much
coats your aching bowls. Now let’s hook them up Lylia.
The twin blondes watched in horror as their tits were exposed then each
snapped into tight alligator clips that were connected to cables
disappearing into the backs of their chairs. “C’est fini, Lylia?” Raquel
asked as she turned from Kimberly to watch her colleague finish off
Teather’s clamps? “Tres bien, and viola!” The green eyed brunet pushed a
button on a small faceplate. “Ici Le Plunge’ mademoiselles. Chaio!”
As the therapists left, the two sissies crouched over their things, and
except for the quiet hum of video recorders – nothing happened.
“What…. What is this Kimmie? Tim asked, trying to see what was going
on under him.
“I dunno, Teather. There’s nothing happening over here. Maybe they
didn’t set it up right and…… YEEEEEOW!!”
“What happened. What is it Kimberly?” Tim watched his sexy roommate flex
as if struck by a club. Then she pulled and stared at her heaving
breasts.
“They shocked me! These damn clips, they’re…”
“SHEEEEEET! JEEEEEZUZ!” this time it was Teather’s turn to scream as the
voltage surged through her sensitive nipples. “Holy shit,” she was
panting from the burst and the pain and the fantastic fright. “Oh no.
You realize what this means don’t you?”
“OOHHHHHH FUUUUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Kimberly babbled and pulsed with the rapid bursts of
fire in her nipples then sagged as the shot ended. She was almost
desperately out of breath. “Oh God Teather, you can’t let that happen to
me again. You’ve got to stop it. You…..”
“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! Yeeeeeeeeeeoooooow! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Teather pulled and yanked and
leapt and shook and screamed, realizing as the fire ended that each
burst was longer than the last. Each would be more painful.
Unless…….
“OOOOHHHHHHHHHHH GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA DDDDDDD! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Kimberly flopped like a
fish pulled onto the dock, tugging at her wrist cuffs and the implacable
soft nylon ropes that held her ankle so firmly to the chair’s legs.
Then, when it stopped just as suddenly as it started, her breasts
fluttering, her chest heaving she screamed, “My god Teather, for the
love of Satan….. please. Oh please. SIT YOUR ASS DOWN!”
How long until the first gingerly try to slide a ring down by sliding a
greased pole up her rear? How long until both impaled themselves on the
powder coated fuckers waiting patiently beneath them? How long until
both, worn out, panting but finally smiling into the cameras as their
poles erupted soothing juices deep into desperately itching holes? About
fifteen minutes. Actually a little shorter than the norm for patients in
the TV room.
“Great video, Raquel. Look at his smile. What did you do to make him
screw himself that way?” Randi Russell watched her husband squirm his
way down the large pole, then pluck it up with his tightened ass hole.
Down and up, down and up. All the while the smile on an angelic face
that looked like it was enjoying a fantastic orgasm. “My god, he…. I
mean, she’s never been prettier. She’s really getting into it, huh?
Great. Fucking himself? Wow!” The redheaded super model peered at the
video in wonder, never seeing the beginning, never knowing of the
shocks, but loving every frame as her husband Lance Torp rode a giant
pole up his obviously consenting ass, on a tape she could show to
everybody. “Yea, we’ve got that bastard now. Do it.. Kimberly. Fuck your
brains out baby.” On the screen the blond screamed out in joy as her
implacable lover exploded his goo seven inches into her loins.
*** ** ***
Black. The Long line bra worn over the high line girdle, the opera
length hose tied off to eight lacy suspender snaps, the five inch spikes
and the great waving mane of jet curls grazing the middle of her back -
all black. Even the shoulder length gloves and shiny ebony beaded
chokers around her throat and stranding around each wrist were shiny
coal black to match the rows of beads dangling from each ear.
Her mouth was luxuriant red and her eyes smoldered inside a smoky black
powdering. Crimson cheeks hid the natural blush Kimberly glowed as she
peered at her cherry red nipples poking through her bra’s cutouts. The
same lipstick and oil slicked both her firm meaty breast buttons and her
plump pouting lips as well. That oil slicked other more intimate parts.
Matching red nails shined through sheer stockings spurting from her open
toed sandals. Everything: the gloves, the bra and the girdle were
viciously boned to repress any dramatic movements. Even her fingers were
boned against curving more than the case hardened steel already allowed.
And the bracelets were tied off to that high wasted girdle by invisible
fishing cords, holding both hands to her jouncing hips. Over it all the
sheerest dusting of sparkling powder glimmered a thousand tiny
highlights.
That lip and nipple oil was a special torture. Lathered on not only as a
glosser, the stuff coated Kimberly’s imprisoned cock and jutting buns
under her black rubberized casing. And as she heated up, the stuff
activated – to sink down below the surface of this bizarre apparition’s
skin, and to – itch. Yet with her hands gloved and strung, what else
could she do as the evening progressed. What else could a girl dressed
only in a seemingly one piece girdle and shoulder strapped bra, hose and
heels do to relieve these horrible itches on her lips and rear and her
exposed and fattened nipples? What else could she do but rub herself
against the dates she’d been provided? What else could she do but seek
the antidote to the awful oil. What else could she do but eventually
drink the only stuff that would act as oral vaccine against the horrors
of this primal itching.
“Our Kimberly is in heat and you have the equipment to satisfy her
secret desires,” he heard Raquel Satyrini tell the men. And Kimmie knew
that she had to make these men help. Had to lure their elixir, their
golden goo, to deaden these stings. Some of their stuff Kimberly might
rub right on her lips and nipples, but for the more intimate itching,
rubbing might help at first – but only a drink of enough of the high
protein male-milk would quench those sparks.
So eyes downcast, tiny purse swinging from one shoulder, Kimberly joined
her dates for the clubs, knowing that the irritation she felt now would
build to the point where she would rub, knead and finally beg these
rough black strangers for release. A white slut in black heat, off into
the night between two bad black studs. Her twin fountains of …. youth.
Kimberly was carnal. The underwear outfit she wore gleamed in rubberized
satin sinisterness. Her high stockings were threaded with silvery
highlights to provoke attention with every step. And the creamy bulge of
flesh between the stocking tops and the girdle bottom matched her naked
shoulders and the fat fleshy circles showcasing her lush red nipples.
The way her wrists were bound allowed her to rub her palms against her
dancing partner’s thighs as she wantonly kneaded her throbbing nipples
and crotch against his body. Kimberly scratched the guy’s bearded
stubble with her lips as she fluttered her erotic outfit against him.
And inside, Lance knew that his tiniest move built his partner to a
hardened point – a point he’d have to take between his lips before long,
to suck a thick antidote for the terrible itching that veiled his body.
He imagined the pre-cum juices as the guy grew rock hard and even now
wondered how long Kimberly would be able to hold out until she had to
have the thing deep down her throat. While Kimmie’s every move built
their love muscles to the limit, Lance wondered how much of the men’s
fluids he’d need to finally stop this physical torture, or whether, in
the final analysis this emotional debasement would be the worst of his
scarring.
“You now what I want?” Lance heard his partner whisper as his hand
stroked Kimmie’s undulating ass-cheeks and fingered her crack to the
saxophone’s surge. And Lance felt his head nod and his lips nuzzle the
man’s neck while that guy’s other hand teased toward Kimberly’s
shivering ruby nipples. A massive black paw that couldn’t arrive too
soon. Uh-huh, Lance realized Raquel was right, as those beefy black
fingers gently massaged his engorged buttons tweaking moans of
passionate relief. Yep, our Kimberly was in heat. Pansy Pond would make
Randi Russell very happy… and Kimberly Squerms would live unhappily
ever after.
Chapter 11 – Teather
In The End
And he pulled at his other hand, frantic now to get loose. But the
bindings at his ankles and wrists kept him splayed wide while the fat
hard thing between his lips just brushed the back of his mouth. Any
sound and he’d regurgitate. So he hung there. Spread eagled. Gagged and
naked.
They said it was just another test when he arrived for the Sunday
visitation. Like last week Derk disrobed and followed the nurse. The
room was dim and the pretty attendant quickly took his hands and before
he knew it they were wrapped and he was pulled up off his feet. It was
no effort to strap his ankles wide as well. So now Derk hung like a
human X in this frame the thing buckled deeply into his mouth, waiting.
Waiting what?
The wall in front of him burst into light. Backlit, a rear projection
screen filled the eight by twelve foot surface. First a video of Lylia,
dressed professionally behind her desk. Was this pre-recorded or could
she see him there swaying from the ceiling?
“So far Mr. Kerl,” she said, opening a folder on her desk. “We assumed
that our problem was with Teather. Well, after five weeks, a different
conclusion’s occurred to us.” The figure pushed a button and the picture
changed. There was Tim, a brunet, sitting in some smoky bar….. The
Collar ‘N Cuff! And that outfit. Holy Shit! And who was he talking to?
Jesus. That’s Chardonay Talbot from the Mayor’s office. Hey, didn’t Tim
used to go with that bitch?
Suddenly Chardonay slid from her stool and Tim followed her toward the
door and they were gone. “Oh no! Tim couldn’t hold it in. He’d hit on
Chardy Talbot. That blew the whole thing.” Derk struggled against his
bindings.
“Ah,” Lylia’d returned to view. “You recognize Ms. Talbot. Good. A
little competition, eh? Just as we’d hoped. You see Mr. Kerl, Teather’s
become a startling good companion. She had a wonderful night with
Chardonay Talbot and her spirit became even more, uh, docile. Yet we’ve
concluded something about the new Teather is somehow frightening you?”
Derk tugged again, harder this time, “Nughhhhh.” On the screen now was a
little girl sitting in a big man’s lap. Teather! She slid to the ground
between his knees and began rubbing at his crotch with her face.
“Uhhhhh-uhhhh!” Behind him, Derk sensed the door open and close but he
couldn’t turn that far, the girl on the screen was pulling at the man’s
zipper with her teeth. Derk was getting hard, even though he knew that
the girl wasn’t a girl. That the actress up there was reluctant. Still
he grew. And a hand gently slid around his waist from behind and moved
down over his stomach.
Derk jiggled and tugged, pulled and fought the bindings. The hand was
gloved in something lacy and sheer. Long red nails shined through the
thin covering as it dipped down farther along his stomach. On the screen
the girl’s teeth were working on the top of the guy’s shorts, pulling
them out around a massive bulge.
An index finger touched the very tip of his penis, then dropped back to
his stomach, another hand was gliding about the other side of his waist.
He smelled a gentle perfume and felt curls teasing along his lower back.
The hands began to gently rock him, one flat on his stomach just above
his bulging member, the other in the center of his waist. As he rocked
back he felt his buns brush against……. Breasts! Tits covered in some
soft veiling. And then he’d rock forward, the lower hand dancing down to
tickle the base of his shaft.
The girl on the screen had the underwear down now, still in her teeth
she looked up to see the fat man’s face up above the rampant prick
hovering millimeters overhead. She let the waist snap back and her
tongue darted to flick at first his sack then the base of the large rod.
The camera was close. Her face and that dong filled the wall while a
head was resting against his lower back now, tiny kisses planting down
toward his taut buns, the hands continued to rock him as the screen
dissolved into Lylia’s office.
“Tonight, you are to become engaged. Teather knew that, now so do you
Mr. Kerl. Next week we’ll have a wedding, but tonight, you deflower your
intended – or maybe she deflowers you? At any rate, it’s time to
overcome your inhibitions Mr. Kerl, and Teather’s been conditioned to
give you a taste of her new talents. Enjoy.” Lylia smiled and waved as
she pushed a different button.
This time the screen was filled with a dozen images. Teather in her
little girl’s costume. Another of Teather squirming in a leather
straight jacket. In another she seemed to be in stocks, bent and – was
she getting spanked? Was that her voice thanking Derk for the blows?
Others showed Teather in all sorts of predicaments and costumes. And
each plight and each garment was somehow exciting to Derk. Meanwhile the
hands continued to work, stroking his organ – kneading it – while
breasts jiggled against his buns and arms hugged him close and the
images flickered and changed and…… And…… AND……. Derk
exploded into the gloved hands that pulled and stroked him to a
pulsating climax.
“And that’s the gentle one Dearest” Teather swung in front of him, gooey
hands held daintily up and out to her sides. She wore a black corset,
black thong panties, black seamed opera hose, black stilt heeled
bootlettes and long sheer black gloves. Her strawberry hair was teased
out to twice it’s length and long diamond earrings brushed her naked
shoulders.
She never lost eye contact. “Ummmm.” Slowly Teather undulated in front
of him, the screen flashing its images in back as she deliberately poked
those long fingers deep into her mouth, sucking each of them dry of his
explosion.
“I’ve gone through so much in these last weeks for you Sweetheart,” her
face was soft and her smile almost a smirk – yet there was a look in her
eyes… As if someone else was in there as well. Someone, trapped and
locked into a masquerade, a costumed prison, who wanted out. “Tonight, I
will find a way to thank you properly.” The honey blond wriggled closer
to her dangling victim. “Such a waste Darling,” she tongued the last
remnants from her gloves, then delicately prodded his limp member with a
lace coated forefinger. “Next time, let me drink you right out of the
tube.” In spite of, maybe because of, the spooky expression in the black
clad beauty’s eyes, Derk felt himself become aroused again.
“They’re making me queer!” he thought willing his prick to subside. He
knew what’d happened to Tim in the last five weeks, but he’d forced it
into a back corner of his mind, until the tapes were on in his
apartment. Teather was so pretty, and the kinky thought that she was
really a reluctant man turned Derk hot. Somehow he couldn’t pull the
police officer out, left him committed against his will so more tapes
would come. But he never thought they’d ever have to make it together.
After all, Derk was straight – a hetero. The whole thing was a sting.
But now as he hung naked in the clutches of the delicious she-male, Derk
was bound too tight to stop it all. His mind told him he was being
stroked by a man, Tim Mitty, the ex-Marine. But every other sense
contradicted his mind.
While inside he screamed out against his raping, outside he hardened
inside the voluptuous red lips that suckled on him. The cloud of blond
curls floated around his scrotum and the suction drew him toward a
pneumatic heaven. If he didn’t find a way out of these bonds, he knew
Teather would make him gay within the hour. So Derk sweated and
struggled and built up toward the greatest cum of his life. Or at least
the greatest until that moment. Dr. Lylia Dwight watched the swaying man
and his dazzling blond sucker on the video screen, content that the next
three hours would bring Mr. Derk Kerl a lot higher and closer to his
beloved – that the therapy would, once again, succeed.
Pansy Pond was successful again…. More than they knew… Or wanted
to…
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