Garnet: a Story of Submission Ch. 02

2. Second Commission

I thought long and hard how I was going to accomplish this. It wouldn't be the same as my first experience in buying girls clothes for myself; that time the exotic nature of the costume I'd been ordered to acquire necessitated a visit to an Anne Summers outlet, where the young woman who'd served me hadn't 'batted an eyelid' at the concept of a young man being clad in corselet, bra, panties, stockings, high heels and a mask, and had been both helpful at the time and informative as to the sizes I would need to purchase, if my Mistresses ordered me to extend my feminine wardrobe.

Well, they'd done just that. Only, this time, the clothes I was required to buy were of a far more conventional nature, and I'd have to visit the more traditional stores – at least, as I considered the commission in a more detached and less panicky frame of mind, I would need to do so for some of them!

This time I had been directed to buy myself three changes of outfit for each of three different scenarios: their first requirement was that I present myself in the persona of a young business woman; the second that I assume the personality of a pretty, innocent young provincial girl; and, the third that I turn myself into a slut.

In considering the problems of acquiring the necessary wardrobes, with the minimum embarrassment to myself I'd become transfixed by the order in which my Mistresses had dictated their desires. It suddenly occurred to me that I could reverse the order in which I fulfilled my mission and start with the clothes I needed to become a slut! For that purpose I could return to the scene of my earlier expedition and, maybe, even secure the assistance of my earlier mentor, Genevieve. After all, surely an Anne Summers shop would be able to transform into a slut if anywhere could!

It didn't occur to me that I didn't have to change myself into a female of any kind for any one, if I didn't want to; I suppose, having experienced the excitement of dressing in my previously prescribed femininity and presenting myself in that role on the web, at least subconsciously, I wanted to – change myself into some kind of female, that is!

Perhaps I'd better explain myself. A childhood spent under the domination of an overbearing bully of a father had prevented me from developing any form of self confidence or self worth. Even after my father died I allowed myself to succumb to the admittedly far kinder and well meaning domination of my sister and, to a lesser extent, my mother. It wasn't until the age of 28 that I managed to summon up sufficient courage to start a separate life in London, buying and selling antiques on the inter-net, still leading a more or less solitary life, trying to find fulfilment at one remove on the web. I was easy prey to my three newly acquired inter-net Mistresses – Miss Emerald, Miss Sapphire and Miss Topaz. It was they who'd induced me to transform myself into a lingerie clad trollop and to expose myself on the net four times weekly. It was from them, too, that I had received my latest orders.

[The account of Garnet's first encounter with his three mistresses can be found in 'Garnet: a Story of Submission, Ch 1' fp]

*********

Early that summer Saturday morning I made my way to Long Acre just as the shop was opening and, to my relief, found that Genevieve was working that day and that she wasn't at all surprised to see me.

'I thought you might be back,' she said. 'What is it? Have you received another commission from your mistress?'

Somewhat shamefaced, despite my relief at finding her available, I explained my mission, detailing the three different outfits I was now images I was directed to achieve, each one in triplicate, with the added requirement to 'remember my specified colour scheme'.

Genevieve considered the problem before acknowledging that there would be no difficulty in turning me into a slut.

'For the other outfits you'll need to go to more conventional outlets, Debenham's and such,' she told me. 'Look, it's my Saturday afternoon off today, if you like I'll meet you at Oxford Circus after I finish here and we'll spend the afternoon sorting you out.'

As you can guess, I accepted her offer with alacrity.

In a business like manner Genevieve ushered me into one of the changing rooms before, after telling me to strip, hightailing it back into the shop. Left to myself, I removed my clothes as bid and sat, acutely conscious of my state of nudity and my obvious masculinity, for what seemed like an age but was I suppose no more than ten minutes before she returned with a her arms full of what appeared to be highly exotic assorted feminine outer and underwear. I wasn't mistaken – the underwear particularly proved to be highly exotic!

'Three sets of clothes, you said,' Genevieve commented, as she proceeded to hang garments of on the hooks attached to the wall of the cubicle. 'We'll start with these. I've brought you a set of more conventional knickers and bra' to start with, so that we can chose the outfits first before we concentrate on the appropriate underwear. As you can see, everything I've selected is in shades of pink ands crimson, as directed.'

The 'more conventional knickers and bra'' proved to be only more conventional in comparison with the other underwear Genevieve had selected – the knickers were a pair of flimsy, lacy, more or less transparent pale pink panties that held my cock and scrotum in position but did nothing to disguise their outline or screen them from view. The matching bra' was equally inadequate in concealing my masculine chest and nipples. Without comment Genevieve produced a pair of breast forms similar in size to those she'd previously sold me, but these were augmented with realistic nipples and aureole – the nipples projecting in a 'half engorged' condition suggesting, the beginnings, at least, of arousal; an arousal that I was rapidly echoing in my pulsing, stiffening masculinity.

The first of the outfits that Genevieve eventually settled on comprised a vivid shocking pink leatherette micro-skirt, the hem of which fell less than three inches below the point of my crotch; with a semi-transparent blouse bearing a ruched collar and front that buttoned only to slightly above my diaphragm, allowing clear sight of the centre strap and the inside of the cups of my bra'. With the blouse tucked into the waist band of my skirt the material was flimsy enough to allow the rest of my bra' to shadow through and, to allow the imprint of my false nipples to be clearly discernable.

The second outfit was a startlingly short full skirted micro-tunic, again barely covering my bum, in filmy deep crimson voile. The top was both collarless and sleeveless with the sides open to the waist. When, to Genevieve's direction, I twirled and gyrated as if 'at a disco' the skirt flew up around me to expose, momentarily of course, my barely concealed cock now straining more than ever against the insubstantial confines of the flimsy femininity of my panties.

I was relieved to see that the pale pink, slender fitting skirt of the third outfit fell to below my knees; that is, until I appreciated that the back was split to within about three inches of the waist band, this time allowing glimpses of the back of my delicate panties every time I moved. The blouse that accompanied it was an even paler pink and virtually transparent – far more so than the first. My bra' and the imprint of my nipples were clearly visible.

Satisfied with the outer garments, Genevieve now produced a welter of underwear from which she eventually chose three sets 'to compliment the outfits'. As I say, Genevieve made all the choices; I didn't have any say in it.

The three sets she chose were all in filmy, crimson nylon, decorated with pink lace trims. All three bras' were the same with under-wired cups that supported the breast forms, holding them firmly in place. The cups of each were split vertically, with the splits wired and trimmed in pink lace each side, uncovering the nipples of my breast form allowing them to press through the splits against the fabric of my blouses and the bodice of my tunic. The three suspender-belts matched the bras'.

As did the knickers although the three pairs selected were of completely different styles; 'to compliment your three different outfits'. For under the pink leatherette micro-skirt Genevieve chose a miniscule thong, with a waist band and back strap in pink lace, far too small to contain my cock and scrotum, leaving them hanging out of the side. To go under the flared skirt of my tunic-dress her choice was a pair of panty-briefs, with the front split and trimmed with lace, similar to the cups of my bra', through which my masculinity spilled dangling down over the cill of the lace trimmed crotch. Selected for the long fitting, back split, skirt was a pair of full panties trimmed as before but with additional bands of pink lace, set in layers, across the back panel. It was only too obvious why Genevieve considered the styles matching to my outfits! I knew only to well what would be on display, both in terms of my false bosom and my ill-disguised masculinity, if I ever wore any of the outfits in public! But, I consoled myself that was unlikely – even if my internet exposure continued; at least that was anonymous. Little did I know!

Genevieve completed the undertaking by adding a selection of pink and crimson stockings, and by duplicating the bras' and suspender-belts and triplicating the knickers.

'You never know with underwear,' she added, somewhat cryptically. 'We'll have to consider appropriate shoes this afternoon; now off home with you. Meet me at Oxford Circus at one-thirty. You'd better wear the ordinary panties and bra', with your ordinary breast forms, under tee-shirt and jeans. That way you'll stand a better chance of being taken for a girl, while we sort out the rest of your order.'

My heart quailed. Accustomed as I'd become to sitting in my own flat, in front of a webcam dressed in lingerie, exposed to anyone who chose to visit the site, at least then I was masked! The prospect of travelling around London dressed in female underwear to enhance the chances of being taken for a girl – albeit under the androgynous uniform of tee-shirt and jeans – suddenly brought home to me the enormity of what I was allowing myself to submit to! Did I really want to allow a trio of anonymous women to prescribe my lifestyle? Even to the extent of allowing them to feminise me in the way they so obviously intended?

I could, of course, have broken the whole thing off there and then. Neither my mistresses nor Genevieve knew where I lived. I could simply ditch my morning's purchases, along with my web-site costumes, and forget the whole thing!

However, clasping my newly acquired apparel, like an obedient child I set out for my flat at Camden Lock knowing full well that, despite my severe misgivings ... almost heart stopping fears, I would be waiting for her at Oxford Circus as she had directed.

*********

Sitting in front of a computer masked and clad like some fantasy of a dominatrix, even allowing a personable young woman to clothe you in exotic and erotic femininity, is one thing; stepping outside into the public arena conscious that underneath a conventional exterior clad in a set of flimsy, filmy women's underwear was another, particularly as the unisex nature of the outer apparel and the modest but perceptible twin bulges of my contrived bust-line were all intended to mislead others as to my gender. Additionally, of course, the whole nature of the adventure plus the pull of my lacy panties across my genitalia was causing me untold problems in trying to contain an arousal that seriously threatened to destroy the whole illusion – if illusion there was.

Genevieve was waiting as I emerged from the underground station into the bright, warm summer's day.

'Not bad,' she commented, 'but I think we can do better than that.'

With that somewhat enigmatic remark she plunged into a nearby boutique, leaving me standing on the pavement outside, to emerge some ten minutes later bearing a crop-top which she thrust into my hands with instructions to 'swap that for the tee-shirt'.

I looked at her in amazement, totally undecided as to what I was expected to do next.

'Come on,' she said, 'no-ones going to bat an eyelid in this day and age at a girl swapping her top in the street. You've got a bra' on haven't you? For goodness sake, girl, get on with it!'

At that, not at that time registering that she had addressed me as female, I reluctantly stripped my shirt off replacing it as quickly as possible with the proffered garment; getting a wolf whistle from a couple of passing lads as I did so. I wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or pleased ... on the whole, as the adventure suddenly now took a new turn, I settled for 'pleased'.

'Let your jeans slide down over hips a bit,' Genevieve breathed in my ear, as she led me along Oxford Street, 'it'll display a bit more of your tummy, and allow the waist band of your panties to show above your jeans.'

Startled, but again unexpectedly but pleasurably surprised at the prospect of increasing my subterfuge, I did my best comply.

Genevieve, supervising my acquisitions of course, chose Debenham's to fulfil the second part my mission, turning me into an innocent provincial girl. For my third persona, the young business woman, she went 'up market'.

It was in Debenham's, ushered by Genevieve into the changing room along with an armful of clothes, complying with the instruction to 'get your jeans and top off', that I revealed what I had feared. In trying, not always successfully, to control my arousal my panties had become initially soaked and consequently stained with pre-come ... at least, I hoped it was only 'pre-come'. Genevieve looked at the mess critically.

'That won't do,' she said, 'we can't have you trying on clothes over those.'

Kneeling in front of me she grasped the waist band of my panties and slid them down over my legs and off my feet – which, shamefaced, I lifted one at time to assist her in so doing. Still kneeling she grasped my throbbing and solid, if not rigid, cock and closed her lips and mouth around it.

My arousal was instantaneously transformed into a raging hard-on which exploded in floods into her receptive mouth, all of which she swallowed with every sign of comfort and even enjoyment. It was the first time I'd ever been fellated.

After sucking me dry she used my already soiled panties to clean around her mouth and around my genitalia. Standing, she bent slightly to slide her hands up under her skirt and divest her-self of her own pale lemon, lacy panties which she handed to me with the obvious inference. Wordlessly, I bent to step into them and pull them up around me.

It was yet another new sensation; I was beginning to get used to wearing girl's knickers but, so far, they'd always been my own knickers – now here I was wearing someone else's knickers, still warm from their body. After what Genevieve had done for me, and to me, I was incapable of raising an erection! Even the knowledge of the secret hidden in my panties, and the intriguing thought that Genevieve was now knickerless under her skirt, couldn't raise any response – for the time being; so at least I had no more trouble with uncontrollable arousal for the rest of the afternoon, which was spent in a welter of clothes buying.

*********

When we finally left the West End for my flat, I was the possessor of six more outfits, with underwear to match, duplicated and triplicated as Genevieve had previously prescribed, with an accompaniment of stockings, shoes and make-up.

We needed a taxi.

'Hells teeth,' was the driver's comment, 'you girls certainly know how to go on spree, don't you. What was it a 'shop till you drop bet' or something?'

We made a play of ignoring him, but managed to encourage him into a bout of verbal flirtation for the rest of the journey. Again I was surprised at how secretly thrilled I was to be taken as feminine – and, presumably one worth flirting with at that.

Later, when I added up the cost of the expedition, I realised that – so far – complying with my mistresses demands had cost me the best part of two-and-half thousand pounds. It was as well that my hitherto solitary and rather frugal life style, funded by a relatively well paid job, had given me the wherewithal to afford it.

Back in my flat Genevieve wanted me to try model my new outfits. To be honest I didn't take much persuading. After the experience of buying them, and the strange but pleasurable feelings the whole escapade had roused, I was only too willing to begin my life as a girl; even though I imagined, at that stage, that it would be some kind of alternative life style that would only be exposed on the web and that I'd be able to turn on and off as I wanted.

And so, after a rigorous shower supervised but not shared by Genevieve, I modelled my newly acquired femininity.

As a provincial girl, Genevieve had provided me with two skirt and blouse outfits and one dress, all three demurely reaching to just above my knees and covering my throat and arms. My corresponding underwear was in printed delicate cotton, trimmed with broderie anglaise as opposed to lace, and consisted of matching sets of bra', panties, suspender-belt and half-slip. Having become accustomed to the feel of more exotic fabrics against my body I was surprised how arousing the touch of the delicate cotton could be – being cotton I suppose I'd anticipated that it would feel very little different to my own conventional masculine underwear.

To provide me with a business girl persona Genevieve had chosen two suits and another dress. This time the slim tailored skirts fell to below my knees and, although the jackets covered my arms, the high necked dress was finished in short sleeves that left my arms bare. Underwear this time was in matching sets of lace trimmed and panelled satin. The underskirts were replaced by full length slips held over my shoulders by spaghetti straps, with lace panelled cups over my false breasts – which Genevieve pronounced would suffice without the addition of a blouse or alternative top. Instead of panties, each set was completed by loose legged French knickers.

All six sets were, of course, strictly in accordance with my prescribed colour code and accompanied by matching stockings and shoes.

*********

Genevieve stopped me from reluctantly removing my final set of satin underwear and I remained clad in crimson lacy satin as she instructed me in removing sales tickets and storing my newly acquired attire in 'a proper manner'.

Fortunately my flat had been previously occupied by the lesbian couple who remained as my landlords ... ladies and there was both a spare wardrobe and a spare dressing table in my bedroom. These proved perfectly adequate to house my femininity, even leaving room for 'further expansion' as Genevieve obscurely commented.

My dresses, skirts, blouses and full slips now hanging sedately in the wardrobe; my matching sets of knickers, panties, bras', suspender-belts, stockings and underskirts all neatly residing in separate draws – according to their classification; and my shoes all tidily arrayed in the bottom of my wardrobe; Genevieve took my hand and led me over to my bed where she laid me down and arranged me in an orderly manner down the middle.

Restraining any movement on my part she raised the hem of my slip, tucking it up around my waist to expose my lace trimmed and panelled knickers the loose leg of which my cock, already stirring in anticipation, was beginning to lift and displace. Bending over me she took my cock in her mouth for the second time that day but, this time, she was gentler in her application and contented herself – and me – with brining me a condition of throbbing readiness. Satisfied with the result she stood and shed her own outer clothes, skirt and blouse, and reaching behind her back she unclipped and a shrugged off her bra'. Already knickerless, since she'd sacrificed her panties to my necessity, she was now naked – apart from suspender-belt and stockings.