Adjusting My Attitude Pt. 05

Sigh. "Yes, Mistress."

*****

The next morning, I was cleaning up after her breakfast when Laura called me into "my" bedroom, where she had laid out an outfit for me to wear. She had included sandalwood thigh-high nylons, pink panties (with padding in the back to fill out my buttocks) and matching bra, a black, knee-length pencil skirt, a white blouse with a high neckline, and black pumps with two-inch heels. Nestled into the cups of the bra were two silicon breasts which, she informed me, were size C to go with my tall but rather thin frame. These breasts, which closely matched my skin color, could be glued to my chest, "but for the next few days, I want you to just get used to wearing them. There's other panties and bras in your bureau; wear a set every day."

Following her instructions, I rolled up the thigh-highs one at a time and began to gently pull them up my legs, sliding my fingers constantly around the circumference of my leg to ensure a smooth fit. Meanwhile, my owner launched on another of her philosophical speeches.

"I want you to understand that I'm not trying to punish you or emasculate you or embarrass you—although I need to come back to the embarrassment in a minute. On the contrary, I view this as a reward: you've made good progress in adjusting to your basic role, so now I'm promoting you—at least part way and temporarily—into the superior gender. Why feminize you? Because I want you to accomplish two things. First, you've heard the phrase "get in touch with your feminine side"—I need you to accept the orientation of a female in terms of caring for others. If you haven't noticed, many women tend to empathize with other people—women are much more open about sensing and supporting the feelings of those around them than are most men. Generally-usually-most of the time, women are more likely than men to compliment people about their appearance, congratulate them on their successes, and encourage them about difficulties or failures. That should be your approach as well."

"Closely related to that empathy is that I intend to put you in service roles that are traditionally performed by women—maid, childcare worker, secretary, waitress, and so on. Again, the very definition of these jobs is to put other people's needs ahead of your own. Whether free or slave, these service workers are subservient to others, and men tend to take their services for granted. Starting tomorrow, you'll wear one of the maid outfits most of the time; the only reason I didn't lay one out today is that a pencil skirt like this will help teach you to take shorter steps, which is a key to feminine deportment. That's also why you have the 2-inch "kitten" heels on your shoes—you should probably learn to wear much higher heels, but since you're already what?—5 feet 10 inches tall? You'll look better with shorter heels. Later on, you need to master at least 3-inch pumps, because that's what lots of secretaries wear."

She plunged onward. "I said that I was not trying to embarrass you, and I meant it, but let's face it, making a man wear women's clothing can intimidate him as much as making a woman remain naked. Beyond that, the only thing that will be more embarrassing for you than dressing as a woman in public will be if you attract attention because you look like a drag queen. Right now, you can't imagine how you'll ever pass in public as a woman, but I think you could if you really tried. In any case, there's no sense drawing attention to yourself by stomping around, legs wide apart and flashing everyone like some caricature of a cross-dresser. In fact, you may want to imply that you're transgender, because that would explain any awkwardness."

By this time, I had the nylons and panties on and was struggling to clasp the empty bra behind my back. "Mistress, that sounds as if I would be insulting genuinely transgender women. Besides, who ever heard of a transgender slave?"

"You'd be surprised. Last year, my law firm decided to purchase four slaves with basic secretarial skills, so we could free up our paralegals from routine tasks like reception, telephone answering, and copying. To give a professional image, we planned to put these male slaves into men's suits, but three of them asked if they could dress as women instead. Right now, they're seeing a slave psychiatrist to see if they qualify for hormone replacement therapy, but that's a sticky legal issue because neither the owner nor the slave is supposed to change a slave's gender unless the slave is under a life sentence. These gals are working out great for us, but they're stuck with a nasty nickname—sissy slaves."

Ouch! I knew enough to know there were many shades of transgender, but few of them would want to be classified as "sissies" rather than "women." I know I wouldn't, which made me determined to be as convincing a female as possible.

So it began. For hours, she watched me walk back and forth in the living room, constantly reminding me to put one foot directly in front of the other while slightly swaying my hips. Too much of a sway or swing would again look like a caricature, so getting just the right movement was difficult. When my feet began to complain about the stress of low heels, she shifted to having me practice sitting in a chair without showing too much leg. Once I did that, she had me use that chair to pretend I was entering and leaving a car, which meant not only managing the skirt but swivelling my legs after sitting down. I had anticipated the need to sweep my skirt under me so it didn't show too much as I sat. I was still surprised when my padded rump contacted the chair a fraction of a second before I expected.

Speaking of my rump, after a break for lunch Laura had me pull up my skirt, pull down the panties, and bend over the back of the sofa. I expected some form of corporal punishment, even though I had tried hard to obey her instructions. Instead, she inserted a lubricated butt plug that was somewhat larger than she had used during my first two days of slavery. When she finished, she told me to straighten out my clothing and then commented on how cute my butt looked under the padded panties and skirt. Perhaps she was just reminding me how men objectified women's bodies.

I soon discovered that this plug had two purposes. First, I naturally tensed my anus around the invader. This made me constantly aware of my rear end as I swayed on my heels, heightening my sexual awareness even though I was trying to ignore the overtones of how I presented myself. Secondly, I discovered that the new plug contained a remote-controlled vibrator. Instead of ringing a bell to summon me, my owner could now activate the vibrator until I reported to her. She also told me that, using the smart home features in her house, she could control this device from her office while watching the closed-circuit cameras. Any time I felt such a vibration, I was to go immediately to my computer because she would have sent an e-mail commenting and correcting my "performance" as a woman. (If I haven't emphasized this before, her closed-circuit cameras enabled her to check on my periodically while she was in the office. Despite the overtones of "Big Brother," that surveillance didn't trouble me too much; if anything, it gave me a vague sense of connection with her. I really was obsessed with her, wasn't I? But then, that was obvious when I enslaved myself to her.)

In that second full week of servitude, Laura gave me a few days to adjust to her new expectations. She did not, for example, insist that I go to Terri's house dressed as a French maid, although she did warn Terri to expect "Danielle" to appear the following Thursday. My owner was encouraging and gentle in her comments about my performance, and still allowed the two of us the mutual satisfaction of my tonguing her while she watched TV.

On the following Saturday, however, she began introducing her feminized slave to the rest of the world. That morning, she took me, wearing the blouse, skirt, nylons, and kitten heels of the previous Sunday, to a beauty salon that specialized in slaves. The beautician matched my natural brunette hair color with extensions that reached to my shoulders, then put a permanent curl on that hair. Another woman shaped and polished my nails, although Laura did not insist on nail extensions that would have made housework more difficult. Both my ears got pierced. Next, the salon also plucked my brows into thin arches and showed me how to apply a minimum of makeup, mostly a foundation (to smooth out my imperfections) followed by a few dabs of blush and pink lipstick. As I had expected, the advent of all these "beauty" treatments meant that I had to extend my day at both ends: in the morning, washing and combing my long hair before struggling to apply an even coat of foundation, only to remove the makeup in an evening cleansing ritual. Until my natural hair grew out, I had to be careful about very hot water and blow dryers, for fear the heat would release the wax holding my extensions on.

That Saturday afternoon, I mowed the lawn again, this time not as a naked male slave but rather as a long-haired shemale, wearing a filled sports bra, a remarkably-tight T-shirt, a pair of trainers with no-show socks, and women's capris that not only exposed most of my shins but highlighted the bulge of my chastity cage. This proclaimed my birth gender regardless of the collar than concealed my Adam's apple and the feminine attire I wore. I don't think I stopped blushing during the entire time that I mowed and Laura watched from the porch. The next day, it was back to the very brief and cartoonish maid's costume, again complete with petticoats and thigh-high stockings, in which she drilled me not only about walking but also about curtseying every time I met her or acknowledged an order. Once she unveiled Danielle the French maid to Terri the following Thursday, even my best friend's wife, an otherwise kind and friendly soul, could not stop herself from giggling when she addressed me. When Laura showed her how to call me with the remote-control butt plug, her giggles gave way to full-throated laughter, and I couldn't blame her. (Again, Terry mumbled something about wishing she could install such a device on her husband, but I pretended to be deaf at that point.) By this time, I was so desperate for conversation that we soon returned to our chatting, all while I cleaned her house and then her labia. It was again fortunate that her husband was at work all day, especially because my makeup needed serious repairs after servicing her.

Subsequent weeks added to the requirements of my gender masquerade. On those days when I was home alone, I had to hurry through cleaning and cooking in order to find time for reading women's magazines and on-line sources for clothing, deportment, imitating a woman's voice, and so on.

After four weeks of this regimen, Laura concluded that she had taught me most of what she knew. Rather than being satisfied, however, she employed a female impersonator to instruct and drill me for several additional days. I doubted whether the over-the-top makeup and behavior of such a person were useful for the service roles that Laura wanted me to perform; apparently, my mistress reached the same conclusion and halted the instruction. She still expressed disappointment in my comportment, even though she had few specific suggestions to make.

For similar reasons, she decided not to have me trained as a ponygurl, but I know she considered it at least briefly. One Saturday afternoon, Maid Danielle served coffee and snacks to Laura and a visitor, Mistress Roberta, who affected cowboy boots and Western clothing. Roberta spent an hour trying to convince Laura that the new "filly slave" should spend a few weeks on Roberta's ranch, tacked up in leather while learning how to pull a sulky at a trot. Fortunately for my peace of mind, Laura politely declined, saying that teaching me to high-step like a show horse would undo all her efforts to have me walk like a woman.

I have no objection to large, assertive women—I think I've made clear my respect for and attraction to the towering and well-built female handlers who had processed me at the Long Horn Slave Market. But, when Mistress Florence whipped my butt for moving at the wrong time, she did so with precision, motivating me to obey without even breaking my skin. By contrast, I saw something in Roberta's eyes that told me she had no such precision, that she would seize any excuse to inflict pain on the "ponies" at her ranch and would not stop even if she drew blood or damaged organs.

After Roberta departed, empty handed, my owner asked for my impression of the visitor. I tried to state my fears diplomatically: "Ummm, Mistress Roberta seems to be slightly . . . sadistic?"

"You're wrong, Danielle," Laura replied with a note of reproach in her voice. "Roberta's not slightly sadistic—she's MAJORLY sadistic. I feel sorry for the slave ponies she owns. For years, she's tried to persuade me to come out to her ranch and 'try on the tack for some fun.' If I were dumb enough to do that, she's whip me unconscious and never let me go. In fact, if I ever go missing, tell the police to look on Roberta Owens' ranch—I'm sure they'll find me in a skin-tight rubber suit with a bridle and bit in my mouth and a long tail connected to a fat butt plug in my rear end!" I couldn't help imagining such a sexy image, but she quickly brought me back to reality: "And, by the way, I might let her do that to you if you don't shape up!" (Gulp)

I'm sure you're wondering about intimacy between us—well, I was wondering, too. The first Thursday when Maid Danielle worked for Mistress Terri, my friend's wife gave me such a good report that my owner rewarded me with another evening of bliss, me restrained on my back while she mounted my (temporarily) freed cock. That wonderful experience was not repeated, and even "normal" cunnilingus and cuddling became a rarity.

Instead, Laura decided that I needed to experience penetration as a woman. Thank goodness she didn't invite some guy to fuck my face and butt, but the alternative at first seemed only slightly better: once or twice a week, she would order me to drop my panties and crouch on the kneeling rack in my bedroom so that she could strap me down and peg me with her strap-on.

It would be unfair of me to complain, since she had warned me of exactly this when I first proposed self-indenture. Besides, while we were dating she had occasionally permitted me to buttfuck her, so what goes around comes around.

Each time she did it, my helpless body tensed in anticipation of the initial penetration. I suppose I would have found anything she used back there to be "large," but the toy she wore felt far wider and longer than the vibrating butt plug that now filled my colon on most days. Eventually, I figured out that the best way to accommodate this rigid intruder was to pretend I was taking a crap just as she pushed inward, opening my anal muscles to accommodate the invasion. Thankfully, Laura was always very careful, using lots of lubrication and pushing slowly, smoothly, inch by inch into my intestines. Once she was fully mounted inside me, she paused for several minutes to let me adjust, and eventually my muscles accepted the dildo. While she waited, though, she whispered in my ear. Her tone of voice seemed to be friendly and even loving, but she chose her words as if she were the man and I the woman, telling me how great it felt to "fuck" me and what a magnificent "piece of ass" and "ass whore" I was. She clearly enjoyed the power reversal here, reminding me that men had always invaded and controlled women's bodies. Then she would begin pumping in and out, building up to a speed where she was slamming against my rear cheeks with every stroke.

I will confess that I took some comfort and even pleasure from this weird form of coupling. At least she removed my cage so that my prick had room to grow; she also fondled my cock and balls as she used me. Given my prolonged confinement in the cage, my penis was always rigid when she released it, supporting the illusion that I actually welcomed her domination. The rhythmic probing of my rectum and prostrate gave me such pleasure that I often ejaculated, a welcome relief after days of restraint. It was also comforting to feel her magnificent body pressing against my back and thighs, showing that she enjoyed being with me even if it were in an unorthodox way.

The sensation of something that large forcing its way into my body, occupying my core, was completely foreign to me. Her care had minimized the pain involved, but even after my body adjusted to the intrusion, that body was acutely aware that my Mistress had taken possession in the most thorough manner imaginable. I can't say that I felt "broken" by the experience, but it defined my submission and her dominance. And, she did it to me often enough to become almost routine.

She was very vocal about how much she enjoyed fucking me, usually climaxing while spewing out disjointed phrases about how much she enjoyed thrusting into me, but she rarely lingered once she had peaked. In less than three minutes after she shuddered to a halt, she would dismount, wipe me off, restore the cage, and then release me, going to her room for the night with hardly a word. I wondered whether, since she enjoyed subjugating me like this, she would ever again consent to let ME penetrate HER body or even share her bed. It didn't seem likely.

*****

The preceding description telescopes a six-week process into a few paragraphs you could read in six minutes. I'm sure that the reader is wondering why I didn't resist this strange treatment. Each time she came up with another step in my feminization, I thought about refusing, but then reminded myself that I had already sacrificed so much that another humiliation seemed almost trivial. I had surrendered my body to serve her, so it was a little late to complain about how she made use of that body. Yet, she was never satisfied with the results. I finally rebelled when she came up with another task that she thought would motivate me to act with more femininity.

For days, her vibrator e-mails had harped on my continued tendency to spread my legs too widely, taking long steps like a man. She was right about this-whenever I had to turn over her mattress, remake her bed, or haul the vacuum cleaner from one place to another, I naturally set my legs too wide apart and pushed. But her solution seemed way over the top. She called it "sucking practice," and that was an accurate description. She installed the suction-cup rear end of a rather large, anatomically-correct dildo about two feet above the bottom of the sliding glass door leading to her rear patio. What she demanded was that, whenever she so ordered, I would kneel down and swallow this toy and then pump back and forth on it for a specified number of minutes. She also placed both a closed-circuit camera and a mirror at floor level so that I could see my kneeling submission out of the corner of my eye, all the while knowing that she would watch me abase myself like that. Perhaps worst of all, although this glass door faced her back yard, it was at least conceivable that people in the house behind her would see me practicing fellatio on a fake cock!

When she told me the new procedure one morning, I acknowledge the order but mentally refused. Several hours later, when the vibrator notified me of an e-mail that ordered some sucking practice, I just ignored it and went on which my housekeeping. Needless to say, that was the wrong response from her point of view. When she got home that evening, she icily ordered me to my room "until you can apologize and comply."

Now I really was in a dilemma. After almost two months in which I had acquiesced to one indignity after another, I had royally pissed off the woman I loved who was also my owner. She was perfectly capable of selling my ass to Roberta Owen as a ponygurl or having me publicly whipped to make her "case" to me. If she went to such extremes, I might forgive her but she wouldn't forgive herself, ending my dreams. Even if she didn't go that far, this standoff made all my previous sacrifices pointless. After a sleepless night, I finally decided to capitulate. At 7:00 a.m. I knocked on her bedroom door to deliver her coffee and apologize for my refusal.