tagTranssexuals & CrossdressersCharisma & Tiffany Ch. 04

Charisma & Tiffany Ch. 04

byCal Y. Pygia©

While bathing her in the shower stall, before pissing on her and making her drink the warm, golden beverage she’d poured from her bladder, Charisma had planned to fuck Tiffany in the ass with the aluminum Little League baseball bat she’d brought into the shower stall with her for that very purpose. The bat would have opened the shemale’s asshole even more than Charisma had when she’d fist-fucked Tiffany, inserting not only her fingers and fist, but also her wrist and half her forearm inside the shemale’s rectum. Tiffany’s anus had gaped until it was about the same in circumference as that of a small grapefruit. The sight had been, for the cruel and sadistic Charisma, sweet and exciting. However, thanks to the magic that had resulted from Tiffany’s having inserted the enchanted, phallus-shaped butt plug that Charisma had given her, the shemale’s asshole had returned to its normal tight, small size within a minute or so of the sorceress’ withdrawal of her arm from within Tiffany’s smooth-walled rectum.

Since the shower, a week ago, Charisma had lost interest in ravaging Tiffany’s ass with the bat. In fact, as it always seemed to happen with Charisma’s paramours, she was fast losing interest in Tiffany as well.

Over the years, Charisma had had many lovers--male, female, and shemale alike. At first, each had seemed to be her perfect soul mate, the one and only person for her, the beloved upon whom the sun rose and set. Unfortunately, each had, over time, also lost his or her appeal, and Charisma had broken off her relationships with them and started her search anew.

With Tiffany, she thought she’d finally found the perfect lover, but, it seemed, once more, Charisma was destined to be disappointed. It was true that Tiffany was the most gorgeous shemale Charisma had ever seen. Her loveliness exceeded that of most genetic girls, and her having a cock and pair of balls instead of a cunt was an added attraction; the incongruity of a person with such a beautiful face and an obviously feminine shape having male genitals despite her firm, high breasts, her round, womanly ass, and her long, tapering legs was somehow thrilling, no matter how many times Charisma had observed these contrasting, contradictory features.

Tiffany’s personality had also been a turn-on for Charisma: whereas Charisma was jaded, Tiffany enjoyed new experiences; whereas Charisma was cynical, Tiffany was sweet and trusting. Charisma was urbane, but Tiffany was naïve. Although Charisma was cruel, Tiffany was kind. If Charisma tended to be dominant and aggressive, Tiffany was submissive and docile. Charisma was a taker, but Tiffany was a giver. It had been tremendous fun tormenting Tiffany emotionally, sexually, and physically these past months, but, finally, the bloom was off the rose, and it simply wasn’t much fun, anymore, to use and abuse the lovely shemale.

Tiffany, for her part, had long ago begun to hate the cruel, oppressive Charisma. Their relationship had started out as one of equals--or so the naïve Tiffany had supposed--but it had soon become one of mistress and slave, and the affection and tenderness that Charisma had initially displayed toward Tiffany had been replaced with aggression and the administering of pain. When Charisma had fist-fucked her, working half her forearm into Tiffany’s rectum, the shemale had understood what she’d suspected for several weeks--Charisma did not love her; the abusive bitch had just been using her to satisfy her own sadistic and depraved impulses. When Charisma had sought to shove that aluminum baseball bat up her ass a week ago, Tiffany had decided she wanted nothing more to do with the crazy bitch. Since then, she’d avoided Charisma--although doing so had not been, by any means, easy to do.

For some reason, despite the mistreatment to which Charisma subjected her, making her go without clothes in front of the household servants, spanking her for little or no reason, making her drink her piss, and otherwise routinely humiliating and abusing her, Tiffany still could not stop thinking of her cruel, hated mistress. Whenever they were apart, Tiffany thought of nothing but Charisma, and her thoughts, though tinged with hatred, were still tender. She still wanted to be with Charisma, emotionally, physically, and sexually, despite her awareness that the sorceress didn’t not love her and was merely using her to satisfy the impulses that resulted from her wanton cruelty. For a week now, ever since the fiasco in the shower stall, Tiffany had resisted innumerable urges to seek out her mistress’ company and to indulge herself with the sorceress, doing whatever Charisma commanded of her. Finally, she could do so no longer. She must go to Charisma, regardless of the pain and suffering that might result. She needed to see her again, or she’d go insane with unsatisfied longing.

She went first to the sorceress’ bedroom, but Charisma was not there. However, Brenda, the upstairs maid was present, dusting and cleaning. Despite the fact that Brenda, like the other servants, had seen Tiffany naked many times since Charisma had forbidden Tiffany to wear clothes around the house--or anywhere else--the shemale felt mortified to be seen this way, with her tits, cock, balls, and ass on display like so much meat in a butcher’s shop window. Brenda’s eyes swept over her body, a smug smile on her face as she studied the shemale’s nakedness. Without having to say the word, the maid’s expression clearly communicated the disdain in which she held Tiffany, the “slut.”

“Have you seen Charisma?” Tiffany asked.

Brenda stared at Tiffany’s breasts and genitals for another long, moment, her contempt clearly displayed on her sneering lips, in her sparkling eyes, and by her arched brow. “No,” she replied shortly, as if a single word of response was all that the likes of Tiffany deserved, even from a servant.

Tiffany nodded. “Thank you.”

Brenda said nothing, merely continuing to stare in her haughty manner.

Tiffany left hurriedly, wanting to be away from the maid’s scornful gaze. She went downstairs, to the library. Charisma was not in this room, either--but the butler was. He gave her the same haughty look as Brenda had and replied in the same curt, condescending manner as the upstairs maid had used, advising her that no, he hadn’t seen Charisma this morning. “Perhaps, she is dressing,” he added, eyeing Tiffany’s nudity in such a way as to suggest that she ought to have the same decency as the mistress of the manor and put some clothes on, too.

Tiffany moved on. She tried the ballroom, the kitchen, the dining room, the billiard parlor, several sitting rooms, the art gallery, the indoor swimming pool, and the conservatory. She found her in this last room, working with one of her bonsai trees. The art of dwarfing trees was Charisma’s only passion besides sorcery and, of course, sadism.

Charisma looked up from her work. “I don’t recall having sent for you,” she declared.

The coldness in Charisma’s words made Tiffany shiver. “You didn’t,” she agreed, her own voice sounding timid.

“Then why are you here, wasting my time?”

A tear rose in Tiffany’s eye. How could she ever have thought she’d loved such a cruel and tyrannical bitch? At one time, she’d feared that Charisma could use her magic powers to read her mind, but Tiffany no longer cared whether the sorceress could do so. It didn’t matter. Charisma would be certain to punish her, anyway; whether she thought ill of her or not made no difference, because she punished her not because of Tiffany’s behavior but because of who Charisma was herself. “I can’t stop thinking of you,” the shemale confessed.

Charisma gave her a smile, but it wasn’t a friendly one. Like the maid and the butler, the sorceress looked arrogant and scornful of Tiffany’s nude presence. “There are five bonsai styles,” she said, as if lecturing a naughty child. “The formal upright requires perfect growing conditions. It must have a straight trunk that tapers gradually from top to bottom, and the branches must be symmetrically spaced. Larches, junipers, pines and spruces are suitable for such a style.”

Charisma ended her lecture, and Tiffany wondered whether the sorceress expected a reply. Uncertain as to what to say, she said, “I see.”

“You see nothing,” Charisma said, snorting at the very notion that such a one as Tiffany might understand anything of the fine art of bonsai. “An art such as mine requires a sophistication beyond your years--or, for that matter, your cognitive capabilities.”

Tiffany’s eyes filled with tears, and she bit her lip.

“If I were a bonsai,” Charisma said, more to herself than to her visitor, “I would be a formal upright.” She gazed at the nude shemale. “You, on the other hand, would be nothing more than a slanting bonsai.” She paused, studying the beautiful shemale. “Do you know what that is?” she asked. Before Tiffany could respond, Charisma answered her own question. “Of course, you don’t. Well, then, I shall tell you. With the slanting bonsai, the trunk may curve or remain straight, but the tree itself must angle to the right or the left. This style is simple and results from many methods. When the tree is young, it can be trained to angle by wiring its trunk in the desired direction of growth. The tree can also be forced to grow in a slanted style by putting the pot in which it grows on a slant and causing the tree to grow abnormally.” Charisma paused. “I used both methods on you, to twist and warp your emotional, physical, and sexual development. Now, my work with you is almost finished.”

Charisma’s cavalier comparison of Tiffany to a stunted tree that had been purposely made to grow in a bizarre, twisted fashion enraged the shemale. Despite her fear of the sorceress, Tiffany snapped, “I am not a fucking tree!”

Charisma smiled. “Don’t be offended by my little analogy. After all, in working with a bonsai--or a person--one must always remember that one is working with a living thing. One must study its natural characteristics carefully to discern a style that suits its individual nature. In your case, it was obvious to me, from the outset, that the slanting style is best suited to your nature; even so, I have had pleasure--immense pleasure--in interpreting--and shaping--your development in many ways.”

“I am not a fucking tree!” Tiffany repeated.

Charisma put aside the shears with which she was attending the miniature tree on the conservatory’s work bench and stepped close to her visitor. “True,” she agreed, “you are not a tree.” Her hands cupped Tiffany’s exquisite breasts, slid over her sides and hips, clutched her buttocks, and trailed down her silken thighs. “You are a human bonsai, like all my previous lovers. I shaped your breasts, did I not?”

Tiffany wanted to deny Charisma’s statement, but she could not, for the magic brassiere that the sorceress had designed had enlarged Tiffany’s breasts, separating and lifting them.

“I also shaped your belly, your waist, and your hips,” Charisma declared.

Again, Tiffany was unable to challenge the sorceress’ assertion, because the enchanted corset that Charisma had given her had accomplished just these magical transformations, flattening her tummy, narrowing her waist, and firming her hips.

“I even made your feet smaller,” Charisma added.

Indeed, she had, giving Tiffany the enchanted high-heeled shoes that had caused her feet to shrink from size eight to size four.

“I have shaped you in many other ways, too, emotionally and sexually as well as physically. I have transformed you into quite an interesting, if rather bizarre, specimen.”

“Bitch,” Tiffany said, spitting the word from her mouth as if it were poison. She was no longer frightened of the sorceress. Charisma had molded her body and twisted her mind. What worse thing could she do to her? Nothing.

“I also gave you the locket that makes you long for my company whenever we are separate.”

Tiffany’s hand seized the fine gold chain about her throat and tore it loose, casting it upon the floor. “Thanks for telling me. Now, I’m rid of you.”

Charisma smiled at Tiffany’s naiveté. How could she be so simple after all she’d put her through? “Have your breasts gotten smaller since you stopped wearing the brassiere? Have your stomach and waist and hips widened or loosened since you put away the corset? Have your feet resumed their previous size since you discarded the shoes?”

No, Tiffany thought. Her breasts were as large as ever. Her tummy was still flat, her waist still narrow, and her hips still as shapely as before she’d stopped wearing the enchanted corset that Charisma had given her. Likewise, her feet remained size five, despite her having thrown away the magic shoes that had transformed them.

“The effects never end, once they have been established. They’re permanent.”

Tears spilled from Tiffany’s eyes. “I’ll always crave your company?”

“Always.”

A sob escaped the shemale’s lips as her tears flowed down her wet, shining cheeks.

“Only I can end the effects of the spells.”

Tiffany looked at the sorceress through her veil of tears, hope rising in her heart. “Would you?” she pleaded.

“I might,” Charisma said.

Tiffany smiled through her tears. “Thank you!” she cried. “Thank you!”

“After I give you something to remember me by.”

Another present? Tiffany asked herself. What pain and suffering did the sadistic bitch have in mind for her now? “No,” she said. “That’s quite all right.”

“Oh, but I insist.”

Tiffany’s heart beat fast. She found that she was still afraid of the cruel, abusive sorceress--indeed, she was terrified of her. “You aren’t going to shove that baseball bat up my ass?” she blurted.

Charisma smiled at the shemale’s obvious anxiety. “No.”

Tiffany looked relieved.

“I have something else in mind for you,” Charisma said, her voice as small as the calm before a storm, “something that will leave a much longer and more emphatic impression on you than would your having been ravished anally by an aluminum bat.”

Tiffany gulped.

“Come with me,” Charisma ordered. She strolled from the conservatory, the naked Tiffany following her lead.

The sorceress led the shemale to a basement room that Tiffany had never seen before. Now that she did see it, Tiffany wished she’d never had. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all stone. The chamber was without windows except for a long, narrow slit in each wall, a foot below the ceiling. The windows, if these apertures could be called such, were so narrow that no one could hope to scramble through one even if he or she was able, somehow, to gain access to it. Nevertheless, the windows were barred. Set in the sides of two facing walls were chains from which were suspended iron manacles. There were two pairs of these shackles, the lower set for the ankles, and the higher one for the wrists. Charisma secured the fetters at once, making Tiffany a prisoner now, instead of a guest.

“What do you plan to do to me?” Tiffany asked, her voice tremulous.

“Silence!”

Tiffany had, earlier, for the first time since she’d met Charisma, months ago, supposed herself immune, at last, from her fear of the sorceress. Now, locked in chains and iron cuffs, at her captor’s mercy, she knew she’d been wrong. Tiffany was terrified of her cruel mistress. She had no doubt that Charisma would do anything to satisfy whatever brutal impulses drove her. To appease her vile whims, she would think nothing of anally ravaging her captive with the aluminum baseball bat she kept on hand for that purpose, of making Tiffany swallow a monstrous, three-foot-long cock that Charisma made appear magically in place of her own cunt, or of strangling the shemale with a garrote held in her own sadistic hands.

Instead, the butler appeared. He looked ridiculous, dressed in a tuxedo and carrying a rattan cane upon a red velvet pillow atop a silver tray, in the all-stone torture chamber. His calm, dignified appearance, his formal attire, and his august demeanor made the unlikely setting laughable, but Tiffany did not laugh. She groaned, sagging against the heavy chains. Seeing the wicker cane, she knew what Charisma had in mind for her, and she dreaded what was about to happen to her. She didn’t know she’d begun to weep until she felt her tears, warm and wet, stream down her face. She whimpered, wanting to beg and plead to be spared the extreme punishment that Charisma had decided to inflict upon her bare, defenseless flesh, but she did not, knowing that any request for mercy would earn her only greater, and more prolonged, torment.

Charisma took the cane from the velvet pillow on the silver tray. “Thank you, James,” she said to the butler. “That will be all.”

“Yes, Madam.” The servant left the chamber as quietly as he had entered, leaving Tiffany alone with the sorceress.

“If I were you,” Charisma advised, “I would face the wall, bend forward as far as possible at the waist, and try not to move. This cane will cut you, wherever it lands, and if you dance, it is likely to fall upon your cock or balls rather than your back, ass, or thighs. In that unfortunate event, it would probably cause irreparable damage. You might well be castrated.”

Now, despite her better judgment, Tiffany did beg for mercy. “Please don’t so this to me,” she pleaded. “Let me go. Please. Please. Please--”

A sharp, stinging lash fell across Tiffany’s buttocks, and, howling, she leaped forward, into the wall, stunning herself in her desperate, but vain, effort to escape the instrument that had just inflicted such extreme pain.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Charisma said, her tone still calm, still quiet, but full of menace, nevertheless.

Tiffany squeezed her eyes shut, bit her lip, and shuddered from the effort of repressing the need to cry out against the burning pain that continued to flash through her bottom. No doubt, she thought, an angry red welt was already rising along the line of impact that the cane had made upon her ass cheeks.

Tiffany cringed as she heard the cane whoosh through the air. A moment later, the cruel instrument cut a red furrow in the flesh of her buttocks, and she lunged forward in her chains as an intense agony surged through her loins. Shrieking, she collapsed, the chains keeping her from falling, and hung in the tight, iron grip of her fetters, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping, and tears coursing down her face.

Charisma raised the cane again, delivering six more lashes. The cane fell hard and fast, and, one above another, as many parallel lines appeared on Tiffany’s ass cheeks. The shemale lurched in her restraint, wailing her misery. A dreadful, unquenchable agony burned through her bottom. She could feel blood trickling from her lacerated buttocks. She sobbed loudly, unable to repress the need to voice the agony within. Tears ran thick and fast down her contorted countenance.

After a moment, another flurry of lashes rained against Tiffany’s outthrust bottom, and she squealed and shrieked, pain blossoming within her bleeding buttocks. With each stroke of the cane, every new blow aggravated the pain that had ensued from the previous lashes, so that the fiery pain was multiplied six, seven, eight, nine, or ten times. More strokes followed, faster and harder than before, and Tiffany screamed, straining against the fetters that bound her, her face twisted in agony.

Charisma grinned at the sight of Tiffany’s red and purple ass as she crossed the rising welts and spreading bruises with new marks of the lashing cane, and Tiffany leaped and squealed in her chains. Again and again, the cane cut the air--and the flesh of the shemale’s sleek ass cheeks--and still more strokes slashed Tiffany’s squirming bottom. In all, Charisma wasn’t sure how many strokes she’d delivered; she’d lost count somewhere after the thirtieth lash. The shemale’s ass was a sight, though! Pretty as a flower, Tiffany’s bottom was black and blue--all over pink, and red wherever it was not purple. Bruises decorated Tiffany’s silken cheeks, and numerous welts stood in thick, ragged lines. In places, the flesh had been flayed entirely from the shemale’s buttocks, and blood ran down the sleek mounds. Tiffany’s ass was, to say the least, a bloody mess.

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byCal Y. Pygia© 0 comments/ 34995 views/ 2 favorites

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