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Erin Halfelven/Morgan Preece: Mercedes - Chapters 5-7
Posted by: Admin on Sunday, July 21, 2002 - 07:42 PM Printer Friendly
Mercedes
Lust, Greed and Mystery
on the Gilded Coast

Chapters 5-7


by Morgan Preece

Read Chapters 1-4


Chapter 5. Chastity

When I woke, I felt no surprise to find myself in a place similar to many I had woken up in before; a woman’s bedroom. Or maybe I should say a boudoir, it had that appearance. Frilly, pink, with the scent of perfume; a coverlet reached nearly to my chin. I knew, too, that the sheets under me were satin.

A dresser with a lighted trifold makeup mirror sat against the wall, covered in the tools and potions women used in the pursuit of beauty. Another wall seemed all mirrors, sliding doors I felt sure concealed the treasures of a rich woman’s wardrobe. Daylight streamed in from a skylight above a couch, chair and entertainment center.

Beyond the dresser, through an arch, I could see a luxurious bathroom. Marble sinks, a sunken tiled bath, a shower enclosure big enough for a party of five. A partial screen concealed the toilet and bidet but I knew where they must be.

Another thing I knew, I needed to piss and bad. I moved to throw the coverlet off me and swing my legs to the floor. My arms seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds and I failed to do so much as ruffle the coverlet. Frightened, not to say shocked, by this weakness, I attempted to kick the coverlet off me. My legs barely trembled.

I feared I had been paralyzed by the blow Concha had dealt me earlier but I still could feel my body. And most especially, I felt my bladder. If I did not get relief quickly, I would be lying in the middle of a wide yellow stain. I struggled again, but nothing changed except that my urgency got greater. Opening my mouth to cry out for help, I could manage only a weak croak and a whisper.

My exertions had another effect also, from the corners of my vision I felt rather than saw darkness overtaking me. I wondered if I were dying.

When I woke the second time I no longer felt such a need to piss. Thirst seemed my most urgent bodily necessity. The light in the room had changed color, more golden, more of an afternoon quality to it, some time had passed. I did not feel cold and wet around my hips but I also did not feel a full bladder. Had someone changed the sheets?

I struggled again to move with little success and not much more noise. But I heard someone else in the room.

The face that appeared over my head seemed to be that of an angel. I had expected the dark chestnut of Sylvia or Concha's black hair. But this new woman surrounded her face with a cloud of golden curls. Impossibly long, showgirl lashes framed her wide cornflower blue eyes. Her skin seemed so pale as to make one doubt the existence of California beaches. Her lips were full and open, with a sort of built-in pout. The deep color of her lipstick set off her white, white teeth and the tip of a red, red tongue just visible. Violet and plum tones in her eyeshadow were echoed by blue and purple hints in the red of her lips and the black of her mascara and eyeliner. Rosy shadow indicated the hollow beneath her cheekbones.

From the most beautiful face I had ever seen came a voice. "Di'oo wet 'oo-thef? Ith 'oo thirth-tee? Um?" she said, all in a childish, lisping treble. I saw now that she wore a white lace garment, trimmed in lilac and lavender with a décolletage revealing as massive a pair of breasts as I have ever had the fortune to have loom over me. Stripper tits to go with the showgirl eyes and Las Vegas Hair. But that voice was pure Lambchop.

She smiled, brilliantly perfect teeth in a megawatt display. I opened my mouth to speak and she stuffed it full with a latex nipple attached to an oversize baby bottle. "Num-num," she said inanely.

Feeling ridiculous, but thirsty, I sucked, filling my mouth with orange juice. It should have been milk, I thought, eyeing the enormous mammaries of my nursemaid. I saw that her fingernails were longer than her fingers. Painted a shining silver pink, they had to be fake, like the tits. The tip of her tongue appeared between those perfect teeth as she seemed to concentrate on some unseen delight half a yard behind my head.

What is this girl on? I thought. She cooed at me, "Do ba-bee wike bo-wew? Num-num?" The little girl voice and the baby talk, the showgirl face and body, the room and the bottle, the surrealness of it all seemed overwhelming. I wondered if I were still dreaming but a Vegas stripper has never been one of my fantasies. Wherever she came from, I knew she had not escaped from my subconscious, not unless she started waving around bearer bonds and Krugerrands.

That meant this whole scene must be real.

Dismayed by that realization, I tried to struggle again. I had forgotten my previous weakness but it had not left me. I pushed feebly at the covers, tried with humiliating inability to kick with my legs. I did not disturb my covering but rather seemed to have stirred up the darkness again.

My lisping nursemaid, seemed disturbed by my efforts, worse than useless though they may have been. "Di'oo pot-tee? Um? Ta-thi-tee tanthe ba-bee's nap-py, 'kay?" She moved to lift the comforter.

I tried to push the bottle out of my mouth to cry out. I tried to turn my head away from the nipple. Nothing worked, I could not move and my efforts left me weaker than before. I spun again into darkness and sleep, appalled to think that I might be wearing a diaper while helplessly being bottle fed by a living Barbie doll.

When I woke again, I reflected carefully on my situation before attempting anything. The darkened room seemed adequately lit by a tiny lamp in the shape of a ballerina on one of the side tables. A nightlight?

I took inventory. I could open and close my eyes. Since closing them caused a tempting darkness to well up in my brain again, I decided to keep them open.

I could breathe. I felt myself breathing slowly and deeply. Thinking about that tempted the darkness, as well.

I could move my lips and tongue, though they felt thick and unnatural. I tried to speak, "What have they done to me?" I whispered. I couldn't manage much more than a whisper.

Frightened, I waited quietly. Twice before my struggles against my weakness had caused me to pass out. I wanted to be conscious for a while, I wanted to think. "What have they done to me?" I whispered again, almost a whimper.

Drugged surely, possibly with physical restraints under the coverlets. I wondered how long I had been out. Vague memories of multiple visits by the busty blonde and perhaps others suggested that I may have been out for days.

Prickly sensations in my jaw and lip might be beard growth, though I had a very light beard due in part to my mother being one quarter Paiute. I tried to lick my lip to test for beard but my swollen tongue would not cooperate.

I continued my inventory, prickly sensations in arms, legs, forehead, temples, crotch suggested nothing so much as perhaps poor circulation from lying still so long. Curiously, my nipples seemed to ache, in fact the minuscule motions of my breathing dragging the coverlet back and forth made me aware of a tender sensitivity there. Having noticed that, I felt my cock begin to rise.

I needed to pee again, I thought. But some tight fitting garment on my loins restrained the incipient piss hard-on. I tried to move a hand cautiously, just the fingers first. My limbs seemed heavy but I managed to move my right arm an inch or so. Increasing resistance stopped me, and now I knew there were restraints under the coverlet.

I don't know how long I lay there quietly contemplating the unknown terrors of my imprisonment. They surely did not mean to kill me I reasoned, they could have done that at anytime while I lay helpless. But why? Why keep me here a drugged and bound prisoner?

They were crazy. Well, I had known that. Concha with her frying pan, Sylvia with her fetishistic rings and laces holding her cunt in bondage. And the baby-talking blonde who seemed to think of me as her playtoy....

The door opened softly and the blonde stepped in. In the dimness I could see that she wore another pink and white teddy or corset, or perhaps the same one. Her waist seemed constricted but who wore a corset in the middle of the night, I wondered. Or was it night? No garters hung from the waist-cinching garment and I saw that the long showgirl legs ended in pink seven-inch platform heels.

Between the legs a nest of pink and white laces and silver rings and rods concealed her pussy much like Sylvia's had been. I almost gasped.

The big, blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders and down almost to her knees. "Ith ba-bee a-wayke-ey?" she lisped, quietly. I said nothing, trying to keep my breathing even. She stepped close to the bed, the light from the glowing ballerina showed her Barbie-doll face to be smiling.

Through half closed eyelids, I watched as she reached out to stroke my left cheek with the back of her fingers. Her fingers felt cool against my skin which seemed almost fevered. The long nails made little tick-tick noises against each other. She moved her hand to stroke the other cheek. This time I felt the drag of beard stubble against her soft skin. Why would they have shaved the left side of my face and not the right?

"Pwet-tee, pwet-tee," she cooed. I continued to feign a drugged slumber. She took the edge of the coverlet in her fingers and slid it softly down my chest. Cool air made my nipples crinkle and I felt my cock stir again. She stroked my chest lightly, from clavicle to navel.

The constrictive garment at my loins grew tighter as she played with my nipples with the tips of those long fingernails. She giggled softly. "Pwet-tee, pwet-tee," she whispered again.

The coverlet came down further, she touched my cock through layers of clothing. My breathing stuttered as I struggled to regain control of my pretense of sleep. She fumbled with something at my hips and I heard the tearing sound of Velcro. As she pulled some garment downward, I recognized the touch of latex on my thighs and felt my cock trying to tent some softer fabric.

I had been wearing rubber pants over a diaper or something. More Velcro sounds and night air caressed my stiffening penis.

"Pwet-tee, pwet-tee," she cooed like a four-year-old with a new toy.

She began to play with my shaft with her left hand while reaching up to tweak my nipples with her right, first one, then the other. I caught my breath as she bent forward, tongue out to lick the tip.

My erection felt soft to me, a measure of my weakened state I surmised. With lips and tongue and nails and fingers she teased me to greater rigidity then switched to kissing my nipples while her left hand continued to play with my prick.

If anything, I got harder as she bit one nipple and then sucked the other. A sensation of aching want flowed from my neck to my loins, I moaned abandoning the pretense of sleep. My dick felt the need of even greater hardness before penetrating something. I felt strange, floaty, disconnected from my body.

Drugs, I thought, as she moved her ministrations back down to my crotch. I felt a pearl of precum form on the head of my dick, she licked it off and carried it on her tongue to place it on my own swollen lips. I wondered that I had not spurted yet, even if my dick had not gotten quite as hard as usual.

I did not struggle to withhold my orgasm. In my career of pleasing women, I had bound and been bound before. I had played the baby game before, too. But I had never felt the total helplessness of my new situation before. I did not know what she wanted, I did not know how to please her.

Weakened by drugs and captivity, restrained by bonds I now felt at wrists and ankles by the absence of cool night air, I could do nothing. I did not know when or if I would be released. Helpless, truly for the first time in my sexual experience, I felt free to experience my own pleasure.

"Wak-ee, wak-ee, ba-bee," the blonde cooed. Then she took my cock in her mouth and began to work me deep into her throat with repeated thrusts. Her cocksucking technique had the same professional ease that I had used to separate my sugarmamas from a little spending money.

A tide of pleasure surged in me, my backbone seemed a channel for a passionate warmth that spread throughout my being. The tide crested, receded, redoubled, advanced. I moaned again, I wanted release. The greater tide washed into me, groin, lips, nipples, fingers ached with pleasure. The tide permeated me, an intensity of pleasure that ended in a release, then a series of releases like receding waves.

As the waves carried me out of my body back into that waiting darkness I realized that I had just had several orgasms without spurting jism, a cumming without cum.




Chapter 6. You Wish

I had no way to count time in my imprisonment. No way to mark the wall of my beautiful cell, one mark for each day, seven marks to the week. My only measure of time became the changes I perceived in my body. The visitations I received, for food, cleanliness and sex became the ticking of this clock.

My only visitor continued to be the baby-talking blonde who never answered questions, nor ever asked ones for which she expected answers. I decided that her name must be "Chastity" as that seemed to be what she called herself when one subtracted the multiple lisps.

Her costume varied a bit but remained essentially the same. A tight, mostly white corset cinched her waist, uplifted her enormous, stripper breasts and constrained her torso into an extreme arch like that of a woman at climax. Her nipples showed above the corset cups, pierced with large golden rings like improbably obscene door knockers.

Unstockinged but perfectly smooth legs led down to ankle-strapped, open-toed, high-heeled platform sandals like those worn by models in advertisements for lingerie shops and car parts. Between the legs, I often caught glimpses of the pink and white lacings and silvery rings and rods that concealed her sex much as Sylvia's had been.

Her ears bore multiple piercings, enormous hoops brushed her shoulders when she tilted her head slightly and smaller rings and studs twinkled with extravagant gemstones or, more likely, theatrical paste. She wore also at least three necklaces, sometimes five, one always a choker of white, pink or lavender lace with a large pendant tau.

Bangles and bracelets clattered and chimed at her wrists and her dagger-length nails clicked against each other as she efficiently fed, bathed and masturbated me to helpless, breath-robbing, mind-warping orgasm at the conclusion of almost every visit.

She had only three expressions. She smiled dreamily or frowned prettily always with the tip of a red tongue showing between white teeth and full, baby-pink or harlot-red lips. Sometimes she pouted her mouth like a five-year-old denied a favorite toy. She seemed to use her faces only for their effect on my libido they were not related directly to what she said or did.

Her voice cooed and bubbled in a kittenish whisper, one purring, childish, distorted syllable at a time. The speech impediments she displayed seemed theatrically contrived, no one has three different kinds of lisp.

Each time she entered my silken dungeon, she tested my beard, apparently pleased to find less of it each time. My legs, arms and crotch she also tested for smoothness. I suspected the use of depilatories and perhaps electrolysis on me while I slept my drugged slumbers.

She played with my nipples, rubbing creams into them as they and the flesh around them grew and increased in sensitivity. Perhaps the creams or something in my food made my breasts swell until they grew enough to be considered girlish or even womanly. Hormones I thought, but I had no real way of knowing.

In the beginning she played with my cock, which gradually lost the ability to become fully erect but contrariwise seemed to increase in sensitivity. Piling paradox upon paradox, it simultaneously became increasingly difficult for me to orgasm and my climaxes became longer, more intense, more satisfying. The level of sexual excitement I could achieve before cumming kept hitting higher and higher plateaus, too.

When Chastity tickled the underside of my glans with one of her absurdly long fingernails, simultaneously pinching a nipple with her other hand while bruising my lips with her mouth and using a knee to put pressure against my ass, I thought I would lose my guilty mind.

Though shamed by it all, I became intoxicated with desire whenever I heard the doorknob turn. Chastity continued to ignore whatever I said. My reactions to her manipulative ministrations seemed to please her but she took no direct pleasure in mine. I had no responsibility and no power to bring her to orgasm.

Her sexual repertoire widened to include dildos inserted in my mouth and ass. My horror at taking a cock-shaped piece of rubber into my mouth soon diminished. I had been desensitized to the thought by the increasing size of the nipples on the baby bottles with which she fed me and perhaps by my increasing dependence and passive mindset.

I wondered again at the drugs that might be in those baby bottles for I began to crave them as much as the sex and the oblivion that I knew would follow. Besides what's the difference between a four-inch baby bottle nipple and a four-inch dildo?

Starting with such small dildos, she increased the size at each visit until I could swallow an eight-inch ersatz dick while a replica in her expert hands thrust repeatedly into my anus.

A few of my former clients had wanted to play with such toys and I had experienced anal penetration before. I had never expected to learn to beg for it, though. Not that anything I said had much real effect on Chastity's routine.

During this same time Chastity had stopped using her virtuoso mouth on my shrinking penis. I couldn't get a real hard-on anyway and cocksucking seemed to have lost out to the nipple games she played with my ever-swelling breasts. After a half hour of foreplay with my lips, nipples, earlobes and asshole, she would bring on my shivering climax with fingernails or a vibrator in my ass.

Helpless, bound, drugged, I existed in a torpid limbo relieved only by moments of sexual ecstasy the like of which I had never known. Before my captivity I had found release in sex, I had given pleasure in sex but I had never really looked forward to sex except as a means to an end. Now, I existed only during interludes with my dominatrix.

When Sylvia entered the room I felt my heart quicken in surprise. Up until now I had awakened each time shortly before Chastity's arrival and I had been anticipating my blonde jailer's entrance for some time.

Sylvia wore a full skirted, long dress in the emerald shade that suited her so well. Her long chestnut hair fell past her waist. Green eyes, red lips, creamy bosom all the details matched the erotic dreams I still had of her. Regardless of the fact that Chastity brought me to climax almost everytime I woke, my dreams were still of Sylvia and her mysteries.

I breathed her name and saw her smile. "You have been our pampered captive long enough," she said. "I've come to make you an offer." She brushed my hair back from my face as she spoke. I wanted her to play with me as Chastity played with me. Captivity had left me insanely passive, madly submissive.

"Pampered? Offer? Sylvia, what have you done to me?" I summoned what outraged humiliation I could muster but it sounded like the whimper of some despised/adored love-thing.

"I think you know, or at least, suspect," she went on. "But we have come to the point where your co-operation will be valuable. Your ego can not be further crushed by more captivity. You must acquiesce to the final stages, agree to the ultimate degradation."

"Sylvia, please," I murmured, "please make love to me."

She laughed softly, cruel as velvet, cold as silk. "You never wanted my love, you wanted my money." Moving swiftly, she stripped the satiny coverlet from my bound and helpless body.

"Yes," I admitted. I felt shame for what I had been and more than shame for what I had become, a naked, wanting, impotent thing no longer a man. "But now I want you." She stood for a moment over me seeming to admire what she and her cohort had created.

"No," she said. "Not yet." She began to work on my bonds. The leather, silk and steel cuffs, belt and collar with which I had been restrained had only been removed before this while I slept or for Chastity to bathe me. I knew they were removed while I slept for I sometimes awoke in a different position. Face up, face down, arms above my head or at my waist, legs bound together or forced wide apart.

Rapidly she removed the cuffs at wrists and ankles but my limbs would not respond properly to freedom. I had ceased struggling against my bonds some time ago and my muscles had withered, I could scarce drag an arm or leg across the smoothness of my sheets. I had no real idea how bedsores had been prevented and truthfully, the idea had not occurred to me at the time.

"Sylvia," I whimpered again, frightened of a freedom that I no longer desired.

"Hush," she ordered. She removed my collar and belt also and I lay there in only the rubber underpants that had prevented accidents in my drugged slumbers. She stood again beside the bed, strong, free, clothed, female. At one time I knew, I had been stronger than she, more free, dressed in my own clothes and rampant in my masculinity. It seemed impossible.

"Nothing more will be done to you without your agreement," she said. "Drugs and hormones will stop, your beard and body hair will grow back if we stop suppressing your own hormones. Your breasts would shrink, a little surgery to remove the excess flesh there, a little physical therapy and a high protein diet to get your muscles back. You'll be pretty much back to being your old self." She paused.

"Physically," she added.

"No," I whispered.

She nodded. "Then we proceed with our plans for your transformation since the mental changes have become irreversible. Do you agree?" Her smile seemed both cruel and inviting.

"Yes," I whimpered.

"Are you sure?" she demanded. "You are ours to do with as we like? To mold, to shape, to train into the being we want to make of you?" She slapped me on the thigh as if to demonstrate how she intended to begin her total ownership. Too weak to flinch, I merely trembled.

"Yes. You are going to make me into a woman," I breathed, happy at last with the verbalized realization.

She snorted, delicately. "You wish."




Chapter 7. Finally!

The bar where I began my new career seemed familiar. The green leather booths, the long dark counter, the big angled mirrors, the seashore mural. After a moment of reflection, I realized that I had first met Sylvia here. I smiled, knowing that she had chosen the Conch for my debut on purpose.

Across the polished mahogany length of the bar, the woman with the golden curls smiled back at me. Her blue-green eyes locked on mine only briefly then she resumed scanning the room. Her perfectly made-up face, off-the-shoulder white cocktail dress and plunging neckline attracted a lot of return attention. Women, for the most part, watched her warily or ignored her hopefully. Men looked at her eagerly, perhaps hoping that her searching gaze would find what she sought in them.

I felt the heat of their intentions and glanced at myself again. Yes, the blonde in the mirror looked back. I am a beautiful object of desire, I reminded myself, trying to focus on why I had come to the Conch that night.

It hadn't been easy, becoming accomplished in the art of being beautiful. My months of enforced inactivity combined with drugs and hormones in the liquid diet had wasted my frame to less than ninety pounds. I couldn't sit up, let alone stand or walk by myself. I lay helpless while my captors began the transformation to which I had eagerly, fearfully, consented.

I had expected Chastity to return after Sylvia left. I felt the urgency of my need for her sexual ministrations. But when the door opened again, Sylvia entered carrying a corset, much like the ones I had seen her and Chastity wearing. I felt some excitement at seeing this garment and knowing that I would soon be wearing it.

First, however, came a bath with a sweet-smelling, astringent lotion. Sylvia's hands were quicker and more forceful than Chastity's had been. Less aroused from friction, more from pressure and anticipation, I felt my nipples and what remained of my manhood growing hard. She seemed amused by my physical reactions. "You have been well-trained," she observed.

I hoped that she would use her talented mouth on me. If anyone had ever been a better cocksucker than Chastity, Sylvia had owned the crown. I hadn't enjoyed fellatio in weeks, probably, but I wanted those red lips around me again. Or, alternatively, I wanted her to suck my new breasts. At least a kiss on my aching lips.... But Sylvia was all business, sprinkling me with scented powder before wiping off the excess. I shivered with the torment of unfulfilled fantasy.

A lamb's wool undercorset went on first, then she helped me turn so that I lay face down on the bed. Next, she helped me slip the silky, steely, slinky tube of the corset over my head. The laces in front were already tight. "You will always wear a corset from now on, except to bathe and sleep sometimes," she told me as she tightened the back laces. "You'll have to!" she laughed. "You won't be able to sit, stand or walk without it."

The constriction and support of the rigid garment did make it possible for me to sit up in my weakened state. I realized that if I were always to wear a corset, the muscles of my trunk and back would never recover. They might well atrophy to the point that nothing would ever bring them back to strength. A shiver of delicious fear went through me. Sylvia would make a lifelong cripple of me, a prisoner in eternal sexual bondage.

"But -- I can't -- breathe!" I protested feebly. The cruel stays forced my waist in, my new breasts up, my shoulders back and my ass out. There seemed to be a lot more ass back there than formerly, a distracting addendum to the inventory of my condition. My diaphragm had no room to move, forcing me to breathe by inflating my rib cage and heaving my bosom.

I sat on the bed where I had been kept captive while Sylvia tightened and re-tightened the laces. "If you can talk, you can still breathe," she told me before hooking up a small gadget like a windlass. While cranking this device, she poked and prodded me, expelling all of my air.

I felt sure she would crack my ribs or I would suffocate before she stopped tightening. My vision began darkening and a roaring filled my ears. "Help," I tried to gasp but nothing came out. I don't know if I fainted or not but Sylvia backed off on the lacings a bit then tied them off. My breath came in tiny, rapid gasps.

"We'll have your waist down to fifteen inches eventually, if we have to remove a few ribs," she commented. I didn't know how seriously she meant that but I felt that she had expressed her true intention. I could not get the air to question her about this. She slipped a tape around my waist and showed me that it now measured

18-3/4". Six months ago my waist had measured what had seemed a very trim 28".

A man approached me in my chair at the Conch. Handsome, early forties, well-dressed, smiling, the sort of man who might be willing to show a pretty girl a good time. Perhaps a man looking for a beautiful mistress upon whom he would lavish gifts of luxury and whimsy. I smiled at him and played the game awhile but he was not my assigned target for the evening and I managed to put him off without actually offending him. Who knew, next week I might be sent to seduce him.

Idly fingering the cultured pearl choker I wore, I moistened my lips, enhancing their shine and causing minor tremors in the onlooking males. I smiled into the mirror over the bar. Hung at a slight angle, it gave an excellent view of the depths my cleavage. That cleft seemed to promise riches to any explorer.

Curious, I thought, not for the first time, that I am still aroused sexually by my own appearance of femininity. Did all beautiful women feel this way about their own images? I did not doubt that it might be so. It would explain why so many of them treated the mirror like a lover.

I re-crossed my silk-stockinged legs to relieve the tension caused by my own appreciation of my reflection. The five-inch heeled, white glove-leather, ankle-high lace-up boots flashing by each other caused another Richter reading in the bar. I squeezed gently with my thigh muscles, enjoying the sensation, the attention, and the situation.

My thighs were the only muscles I had been allowed to strengthen much after my long imprisonment. They might even be stronger than they had been before. My upper body and arms remained so weak that I often used two hands for such tasks as picking up a glass of milk. There were also the two-inch nails constantly maintained in jewel perfect smoothness. The bright red scimitars on the end of every finger prevented me from developing a grip in my slender, delicate hands.

Learning to walk again had presented new difficulties. My leg bonds during my captivity had been designed to force me to point my toes, keeping my ankles extended and my arches flexed. The tendons and muscles of my calves had perforce shrunk to the point that I could not flex my ankles enough to put my heels to the floor. It caused excruciating, stabbing pain even to try.

I whimpered while Sylvia examined my feet and legs, flexing them cruelly this way and that. "You'll never be able to walk again without rigid ankle and arch support," she said. I didn't know if she meant that as observation or prediction.

From a bureau drawer she produced a pair of seamed, silken stockings in a pale shade of nude. My general weakness and loss of muscle mass extended also to my legs, of course. Sylvia slipped the stockings over my slender limbs and fastened them with the garters hanging from the corset. She would do this many more times before she allowed me to do it myself. "Always be sure you have the seams straight," she said every time.

Above-the-knee white boots went on next. Tightly laced from instep to thigh, their support allowed me to stand on blocky four-inch heels. Steel arches and heel and ankle shanks kept me from turning my weakened ankles, open toes showed the brightness of my painted nails through the gauzy silk of my stockings.

Delighted to be out of bed after so long, thrilled by my costuming, I tried to take a step and would have fallen if Sylvia had not supported me. "Slowly, at first, there's no hurry," she admonished. "You'd best remember that, never hurry. Slowly, sensually, sexily, take one step at a time. Shorten your stride, you're wearing heels. Swing your hips, elbows in, wrists relaxed, head up, lean into it."

She really had to teach me to walk again. As the muscles of my thighs and buttocks strengthened, I needed less help but I learned only one way of walking. A slow, ass-wriggling saunter, a sexy, slutty, strut that made me feel oh-so whorish. A walk like that could only end at a bed.

I wondered vaguely where my "date" could be. I had no real idea of the time, other than it had been dark when I arrived. I wore no watch and had been trained not to look at clocks or inquire about the time. My long, dark captivity had destroyed my sense of temporal placement anyway and I had never been much of a judge of interval. The moment seemed enough for me most of the time.

Even empty moments could be filled by going over my lessons in my mind. When to smile and at whom. How to ask for a gift. What compliments to pay and how to react to them. How to sit, walk, stand. How to apply makeup, do my hair, take care of my clothes. How to make a man happy in bed.

Just then, he entered the bar. More than six feet tall, wavy brown hair going gray at the temples, boat tan. He wore a short-sleeve pullover shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms. The faded denim of his pants looked soft and comfortable. His rugged good looks matched the photos I had been shown.

From his deck shoes to his perfect hair, his understated look said Gilded Coast money and plenty of it. Not that I would see a penny of it. I had no cash to pay for the drink in front of me. Sylvia's rules, I could not buy my own drinks or pay for a cab or even touch money. Not since my captivity, not tonight, maybe not ever. Poverty is another form of helplessness.

So is addiction. I felt cravings for the drugs they had given me anytime I went more than ten or twelve hours without them. Sylvia, I realized after a time, had a medical license of some sort. Mood altering drugs kept me docile and happy, uppers gave me enough energy to perform and painkillers kept me from objecting to what was done to my genitals.

The piercings hurt. Several through the foreskin held my penis back inside my body cavity. Several more through my scrotum held my single testicle up inside me also. More piercings, rings, rods and laces such as I had seen on Sylvia and Chastity, concealed my sex completely.

My groin became a mystery, the flesh constrained by steel and leather into a sexual puzzle. Now I knew what Sylvia had meant about my wish. It would have been easier to cut everything off and remodel. Twice weekly cleanings and relacings became necessary, also frequent flushings with clear water and warm air to dry things out.

My breasts ached to think about it. They had not been neglected though. Implants filled with natural oils enhanced my bosom from B-cup to a very full DD. No scars blemished my skin, the balloons went in through tubes in my navel and were filled after they were in place. A ring through each nipple attached to little golden weights inside the cups of my corset tugged gently when I moved.

He strode across the room to stand staring down at me. His rough masculinity made me feel small and vulnerable. I smiled up at him, "You must be looking for me," I said, challenging him.

I watched his nostrils flare. He settled into the chair beside me carefully. I knew his arousal put him into my power for all of his male strength. The hair on his forearms curled and twined around a Rolex on one arm and a heavy gold chain on the other.

"You are Mercedes?" he asked.

"The latest model," I giggled. My new name had been Sylvia's choice but it fit me and I liked it. I placed my slender, manicured hand in his sea-roughened one and tickled his palm with the sharp nail of my longest finger.

"What are you drinking?" He had paid Sylvia a lot for this encounter and he meant to enjoy it. He'd been promised something new, something different. The rich get bored. I had no desire to drag it out. I wanted action.

"Stoli, up," I said, smiling. The strong drink would hit me quickly. He knew it. He would be able to do what he wanted with me. The liquor I drank went straight to his manhood. The judo seduction, his money, strength and male power versus my penniless, weak, feminine helplessness. I licked my lips delicately when the drink arrived.

I imagined holding his penis in my mouth, feeling his rough hands tangled in my blonde hair. I pictured him taking me, that massive strength overpowering whatever protest I might offer. I thought I could feel his loins between my thighs, his insistent, rigid cock. Stymied at the lacings of my mystery, he would force himself into my ass. I knew what it would feel like to have him inside me.

I gulped the drink like water when it came and smiled up at him. I knew he could see the fantasy in my eyes. "You want to show me your boat?" I asked innocently, letting a little drunken giggle escape. He had no way of knowing that I had had nothing but mineral water before he arrived.

He helped me stand and left money on the table for the bill. His classic '56 Fairlane convertible gleamed turquoise and white in the streetlights. He opened the door for me and I slid across the rich leather to the center of the seat.

Before he got in he stood looking at me for most of a minute. I giggled a bit, self-consciously this time.

"You're perfect," he said as he slid in beside me. I held my face up then used my tongue when he bent to kiss me. He pulled away and drove us slowly to the bayside marina where his houseboat lay.

I teetered down the gangplank on high heels, laughing while he kept me from tumbling into the water. The rich woods and fabrics of the boat interior seemed designed for seduction. While he held me for another kiss, I unzipped his Levi's and his dick filled my hand.

"You know, I've wanted you so long," he murmured. He caught my other hand, forcing it behind me and holding me upright at the same time. I knew I had lost control but the Stoli and my own desire kept me from caring.

"Uh-huh," I managed around another kiss. "How long?" I teased. He moved the hand behind me to catch my right wrist against my upper arm. With the other hand he cradled my head.

"Years," he admitted. "Ever since I first saw you trolling the bars for sugarmamas. Hustling that ass of yours to serve those dried up old cunts." One hand in my hair, the other holding my arm behind me, he forced me down to my knees.

Surprised, I knelt. My fingers found his zipper while I thought about what he had said. Did he know who I had been? From what he said, he must. With trembling fingers I pulled his enormous cock out of its blue denim hiding place. Already hard, a pearly drop glistened at the tip.

"You know me," I finally said, not really a question. He still held my arm behind my back and I had to twist my neck at an extreme angle in my bent posture to look up at him. Smiling mostly with my eyes, I touched the tip of my tongue to his erection, tasting the salt-sour-sweet flavor of his precum.

"Uhn," he said. His jism came in spurts on my lips, my chin, my cheeks. He let go of my arm and my hair to enjoy his orgasm.

"Couldn't wait," he half-apologized.

"That's all right, we've got plenty of time to get you ready again." I flexed my arm, the weakened muscles there ached from the twisting he gave them. I scraped cum from my chin and cheeks and licked it from my fingers and lips. I hadn't experienced the sticky, bleachy taste since high school.

"How is it that you know?" I asked.

He leaned back on the bulkhead, if that's the word for wall in a boat, and watched me clean myself. He made no effort to clean his dick or put it back in his pants and the one-eyed snake watched me, too. "I paid that lez dom, Sylvia, $200,000 to transform you." It seemed equal parts brag and apology.

The thought of his having paid all that money -- for me! -- excited the avarice in my soul. I felt the old excitement of the hunt. I giggled. The golden carrot seemed within my grasp. "For that kind of money, you could have had me." I shivered, knowing that I spoke the truth.

"Sylvia got $100,000 up front, another hundred grand tomorrow. If I'm happy." He smiled, "I told her to make a high-class whore out of you. See, I don't really like women, they're all whores. But I don't think of myself as a queer, either. I wanted you, but I don't fuck anyone with a dick they can still use," he explained.

I knelt there, swaying slightly with the motion of the boat. I listened, helplessly aware of tears trickling down my face at the same time that sexual aching began in my breasts, my hidden genitals and my confused mind.

"Now if you make me happy, Sylvia gets her money and you become my slut. Sylvia will keep you happy with drugs as long as you keep me satisfied." He shrugged. "Otherwise, she puts you out to rent to make back expenses. Maybe we'll do that anyway." He smiled again, his penis rising with the thought of my degradation. "As long as you keep your looks," he added, twisting the knife.

Sighing, with shame, with desire fueled by my whorish, self-punishing soul, I knelt to my life's work.

The End.



Copyright 1997, 1999, 2002 by Morgan Preece. All Rights Reserved. Comments are welcome.


Note: The more things change...
TG, femdom, bondage, high heels, breast implants, crossdressing, drug induced, mind altering, corsets, she-male, prostitute, deals, consequences

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