Mrs Peason 01

Author's preamble.
This story is a product of my imagination. The characters herein are similarly imaginary and any similarity to real people is purely accidental. All sexually active characters are over the age of 18.

The story will contain aspects of cross dressing, BDSM and male and female bisexuality. If any of these aspects are not to your taste, may I respectfully suggest you look to other stories on the site. It is not my wish to offend my readers.

If these aspects are illegal where you are viewing this material, please browse elsewhere.

I welcome constructive criticism and comments and encourage you to enter your vote if you like my story.

Enjoy.

Chapter One.

I had spent the evening in the business of getting myself rat-arse drunk. My regular girlfriend of two years standing had ditched me for my brother. Oblivion was at the bottom of a pint pot, or so I hoped. "How could she?" and, "With him?" were the two phrases circling round my head when a loud, familiar, voice penetrated my blue melancholic haze.

"Jimmy here will buy us a drink, won't you Jimmy?" A gorilla-sized hand landed on my shoulder and squeezed painfully just as I was lifting the glass to my mouth, causing me to spill it down the front of my shirt and in my lap. Without looking, I knew the hand belonged to Billy Toogoode and never did a man bear such an inapt name. Billy had been the terror of the schoolyard for as long as I could remember. Unfortunately, we had been in the same class and I was often the butt of his 'humour' which usually involved humiliation or pain and, just as often, I went hungry at dinner time as he smoked away my dinner money behind the gymnasium. Payday was a week away so I barely had enough for my planned binge but that great paw of his was grinding the crap out of my shoulder.

I was groping for my wallet when another familiar voice clearly and precisely intoned, "I'm sure you have business elsewhere, Mr Toogoode. Now!"

That excruciating pain was immediately relieved as Billy snatched his hand from my shoulder and backed away from the pocket battleship standing before him. He turned and lurched his way to the nearest exit at an impressive rate of knots with his two cohorts trailing in tandem.

Watching them go was Mrs Peason. Mrs Peason was our sixth form maths teacher. She stood at a scant inch over five feet but in perfect proportion, from her jet black hair set in a large tight bun to the dainty points of shoes. And she was absolute ruler of her classroom: just a glance from her would stop even Billy Toogoode's shenanigans. She was there to teach us maths and would permit no interruptions to her regime. How did she do it? She was tiny but she had such a force of command about her that none would stand against her.

Mrs Peason is one of those teachers in a million who can radiate her enthusiasm for her chosen subject. In two years she managed to drag me up from a probable 'D' to a creditable 'B' grade in maths and I was even beginning to enjoy looking for 'the patterns in the numbers,' as she called them, "Can you see the pattern, James?" was her frequent question. Not that grades had done me any good, I was stuck in a boring McJob.

At school, her 'uniform' had always been the same: a crisp white shirt tucked into slim black skirt, which fell to just above her knees. Her legs were always clad in opaque black hosiery and her shoes were 'sensible' black leather. Her hair must have been quite long as she piled a thick braid on top of her head, which gave her a few extra inches. I guess she was in her mid thirties. For all she was very attractive, you just never thought of her as sexy. Not Mrs Peason, you didn't. She never even seemed to come up when we lads were discussing the various merits of our teachers.

Now, when I focussed on her with some difficulty, I saw she was wearing a smart figure-hugging red suit with black 'trimmings', black accessories and a black winter coat open all down the front. Mrs Peason looked me up and down for a minute and spoke briskly, "Look at the state you're in James, beer all down you. I've been watching you for the past half hour and you've just been getting drunk. You'll never make it home in that state; you had better come with us." I peered at her, trying to see past the double vision and let her words penetrate through the alcoholic haze. "Now," she snapped and helped me off the bar stool as I tried to stand at her command.

"Quentin, help him. Grab his other arm." Her companion was a giant of a man. The top of his shaved head towered a good 15 inches over my 5'2". Built like the proverbial outhouse, his suit was tailored to fit his frame but it failed to hide the man's bulging muscles: no wonder Billy's mates fled as fast as he had done. But Quentin held me gently and I was guided out of the pub and into the back seat of a Jaguar Sovereign. I assumed it was his as she normally drives an MGB-GT to school but I was surprised to see Mrs Peason settle behind the wheel and drive away. Maybe ten minutes later she turned into the drive of a large house into which I was led.

Standing in the middle of the hall, I swayed a little as Mrs Peason turned to face me while Quentin removed her coat and hung it up. She looked me up and down disdainfully. "You stink of beer." She turned me towards a door and instructed, "Go in there and get those wet clothes off. You'd better have a shower because you're obviously soaked right through."

Quentin opened the door and ushered me through. He stayed outside but kept a foot in the door so I couldn't close it, "Just in case you have an accident," he told me in his deep cultured voice. The layout of the luxurious bathroom meant that he couldn't see me so I thought nothing much of it. I had to sit down to get undressed then clambered into the shower. I turned it on and my face was hit by a powered blast of ice-cold water. I ducked under the spray and found the temperature controls and turned them up until it was just about as hot as I could bear.

I looked around and discovered that there were only female shower toiletries. After sniffing them all, I chose the least 'feminine' of them. It had a lavender perfume with heavy musky overtones and I've always liked musk anyway. My blue-black hair normally lies in a ponytail halfway down my back: it's my pride and joy but my now-ex came from a remote rural area which hadn't caught on to PC matters and was suspicious of the inclinations of a man with long hair. That was one of the reasons why she left me in spite of the fact that we had good sex together. Anyway, I took the opportunity of using a good quality shampoo.

There was a shelf full of fluffy white bath sheets so I wrapped one round my shoulders and started the long process of drying my hair. I never heard nor saw Mrs Peason enter but suddenly she was there looking at my almost naked body, her eyes resting on my tool. I gasped in surprise and pulled the damp towel off my head and over my crotch. "Sorry," she said, with a grin that said she wasn't too sorry at all, "but you have a lovely body and I couldn't resist peeking. Come on James, finish drying yourself then come and join me and Quentin in the library, last door on the left." Still smiling, she left me alone in the bathroom, scooping up my beer-stained clothes as she went.

I dried myself off but then I was stuck. Was I supposed to go to the library naked? Looking around and thinking I could preserve my decency maybe with a towel, I noticed some clothes on top of a cabinet near the door. I crossed over and saw a pair of white woman's shorts which looked very small to me but they had a lot of stretch in them. The only other garment was a red silk woman's housecoat. Underneath them was a pair of fluffy red mules with inch-high heels. Definitely not my style of clothing, I thought.

"Will I be OK with a towel round me?" I asked Quentin, who was still just outside.

"I believe my wife left you some clothes to wear."

"All I can see is these." I reached round the door to show him.

"If my wife left them for you, I would think you should wear them. Anyway, the only other clothes in the house are mine and I think they may be just a tad too big." He chuckled to himself, probably imagining me in his clothes. Into my own mind came the picture of my little sister 'dressing up' in her Mummy's clothes with her skirt trailing half a yard behind, sleeves within inches of the floor and clumping around in her mummy's shoes. My chuckle joined Quentin's but I was still faced with those shorts.

I shrugged and pulled the shorts up my legs. Sure enough, they stretched enough to go all the way but they were so tight as to be almost non-existent and no matter where I 'parked' them my cock and balls were detailed bulges under the thin material. Almost indecent, but then, I thought, they weren't made for a man with standard equipment.

I slipped into the housecoat, feeling the luxury of that material against my skin, and pushed my feet into the mules. I opened the door and stepped into the hall. Quentin didn't stare or in any way embarrass me he just smiled a little and showed me to the library. Mrs Peason was sitting on a sofa with her jacket unbuttoned showing her black silk shirt. She smiled when I came in and patted the sofa next to her. I shuffled over and sat by her side, my hands clenched in my lap, looking at the floor.

She took out a packet of cigarettes, took one out for herself and offered one to me. "No thanks," I said. "I don't smoke." But she continued to hold it out. There was an embarrassed (on my side) silence but her eyes were adamant and would brook no dissent. I felt my resistance weaken and hesitantly accepted the offer. She lit her own and then mine. It made me cough and splutter and feel dizzy.

She smiled and told me, "You will get used to it," She said, emphasising the 'will', then took a deep drag on her own cigarette and, a few seconds later allowed the smoke to trickle slowly out of her nostrils, encouraging me to take a drag.

I felt her hand brush lightly over my damp hair. I hadn't found a comb or brush in the bathroom so it wasn't tidy. "Quentin, please pull up a chair behind us and brush James' lovely hair. Now, James, lean back and let him do it. He loves brushing mine and he's ever so gentle with the snags. Do you know, he even trained as a hairdresser just so he could look after mine." With that, she pulled the pins out of her bun and shook her hair free. It was as long as mine and was in beautiful condition. I felt Quentin lifting my hair free of the sofa so I sat back and surrendered myself to his ministrations.

While Quentin busied himself with a brush and comb, she made sure I finished the cigarette. I was almost finished when I felt my stomach heave. "Quick," I was ordered, "to the toilet." I lurched out of the room and only just made it to the toilet where the contents of my stomach spewed into the pot so much that my abdominal muscles ached. When I was finished I searched the cupboards until I found a mouthwash and rinsed my mouth out a couple of times until it no longer tasted sour and then rinsed my face.

I returned to my seat beside Mrs Peason who remarked, "Well, that got rid the all that beer, you'll feel better in a minute. Now just relax, James," she said when her husband had restarted his task, "and listen to what I have to say.

"I'm retiring at the end of this term. I love teaching but conditions make it impossible to teach children these days. There are too many of the likes of yon Mr Toogoode coming through. They have no intention of learning and go out of their way to disrupt. They spoil it for people like you who are struggling but willing. Nor do the authorities help: they are just in thrall to the PC brigade who think the likes of Toogoode are just misunderstood.

"I am a teacher because I love it: I'm proud to have nurtured a few pearls in my career, some who have progressed to high places, and helped so many more into successful futures. You were never a high flyer, James, but you gave it an honest try in difficult circumstances, especially with your home life. For various reasons, I have kept my eye on you for three or four years and I like what I see. You are a kind and caring boy/man and sensitive to others.

"Now let me digress ... Oh, sorry, James, I should have offered earlier would you like a coffee? I'd offer you something stronger but I think you have had enough of that, don't you?"

My throat was dry from the beer and retching, and still a little sour so I was happy to accept a coffee. "Quentin, do be a darling. Leave his hair for a minute and bring us some coffee please. I promise you won't miss anything." I missed him when he left the room; his touch on my hair was very soothing.

Mrs Peason told me to stand up and face her. Automatically I obeyed. "May I?" she asked, and went for the belt of my housecoat. I didn't resist so she opened it up and looked again at my body. "I like you in those shorts. Full cover but so revealing." She said after concentrating her vision on my package for a while, her gaze causing the blood to start pumping into my prick: it was growing visibly within its tight mould. The pointed nail of her index finger traced round the contours of my tool, making it swell and grow even more. "Yes, so revealing, isn't it? But I mustn't get you too excited."

She closed the silk wrap around me the opposite way to how I had it. "It's a lady's garment so it was designed to fold this way. Do you like the feel of silk on your skin?" She ran her hand up and down the material on my arm. "I love it: so soft, so sensual. Do you like it James?" I mumbled that I did like it to which she replied, "Then you'll have to start wearing it more often, won't you?"

At that point, Quentin returned pushing a trolley loaded with coffee pots and so on. He poured us all a cup of coffee then took his to his chair behind the sofa. Mrs Peason indicated we should resume our places so Quentin could get back to his task. I was happy to let him do his thing as Mrs Peason continued.

"So, I'm retiring – I don't need the money, Quentin and I are individually quite wealthy. Now for several years Quentin has promised me I can have a companion but she's got to be very special because I also want her as my best friend, my Personal Assistant to go everywhere with me, even sleep with me. I love Quentin to bits but he knows I have other needs and he's happy to let me pursue them, aren't you Quentin?"

"Yes, Ivy. Just be happy." It was obviously said with a great deal of affection and love. She reached out to touch his hand and they shared a brief intimate touch. She passed me her packet of cigarettes and told me to light one for each of us. I did as I was told and passed hers over then took small puffs on my own.

"And I also want another man in my bed at times," she took up where she had left off, "but don't want to go around picking up men in bars or anything distasteful.

"Anyway," she continued, "I believe you're not happy with your job or your home life. I think you deserve better than that. James, I want you to leave your job, leave your home and come here and work for me. As my girlfriend!" She mentioned a salary I could never dream about.

I was shocked rigid by this offer out of the blue but eventually blurted out, "There's one obvious snag, Mrs Peason: I'm not a girl so how could I be your girlfriend?"

Quentin had finished brushing my hair and had started pulling gently until I realised what he was doing. He was braiding my ponytail but starting very high near the crown of my head. But Mrs Peason's answer had my full attention. "You could be a very pretty girl, James, in some nice clothes." She was dead serious. OK, in the maelstrom of pubescent hormones I had tried lots of things, one of them being borrowing my Mum's panties and wearing them but I was always afraid of getting caught so I moved on to other exciting things. But dressing up as a girl, all the way?

Two cups of strong, black coffee had cleared my brain so I was beginning to think more normally. My mind wasn't repulsed by the idea, just thrown off-track for a minute. That salary would end my money worries, for one massive plus. I took a couple of deep breaths and said nervously, "What if you can't turn me into your pretty girl?"

"I'm sure we can, Quentin and me. He has exquisite dress sense and is a wizard in the makeup department. Will you let us at least try?"

"OK, I'll go along with that, so what exactly do I do for that salary, Mrs Peason?"

"Well, you will live in our house – your own room - and will be on duty 24/7 to do whatever I need you to do. That would include everything!" She paused to let that sink in. "Let me be clear about this, James, Quentin and I will train you to be a lady but our discipline will be strict and we both believe in corporal punishment. You'll have to agree to that before we go any further. What I'm saying is, trust me and put yourself completely in my hands.

"We would start with a one month trial period at the end of which either of us could terminate. After that, should we both be happy to continue, you will be sent to a school for maids for a four week crash course in the arts and skills you will need as a maid now and again. You will also learn cooking skills. Officially you will be my Personal Assistant and girlfriend who also doubles as my maid. Unofficially I'm asking you to be my slave, mine to use as I see fit. You see, James, I'm saying it straight. Do you want the job?"

That last bit scared me more than somewhat. "I'm not so sure about the slave bit."

"It does have other perks, James. As my PA you would certainly travel with me and I intend to go with Quentin on some of his easier business trips and I want to see more of the world now I'm no longer going to be tied to school timetables. Not many slaves get to do that." It was a big fat carrot for her to wave in my face. Another massive plus. Mrs Peason could see my hesitation but said nothing, just looked at me with those piercing eyes of hers and a smile on her face.

Meanwhile, Quentin had finished on my hair and shuffled his chair behind his wife and was almost finished braiding Mrs Peason's hair in the same way as mine. As soon as Quentin had finished her hair she stood up and had me stand up too. "Come, I want to show you something."

She took my hand and led me to the bathroom with Quentin bringing up the rear. I liked the sound and feel of the silk passing over my skin. She had us both standing in three-quarter profile to the ceiling-to-floor wall mirror as Quentin flipped both our braided ponytails over our left shoulders. They were tied off with identical bright yellow ribbons.

"Look," she said, pointing at our images. "You could be my daughter." Now she pointed it out, we looked very similar and could easily taken for close relatives. "That's why I'm sure we can turn you into a very pretty girl. And a beautiful woman."

"And a very sexy maid," added Quentin and I could see his caricature lecherous grin reflecting in the mirror.

"Don't worry about him, he has a penchant for pretty maids," she half-whispered.

"OK," I said after another moment of hesitation. "Let's see if you can make a pretty girl of me. We can take it from there."

"Then let us begin," said Mrs Peason. "I want you to get undressed and stand before me." Had it just been her there I would have done it with no hesitation but I was dubious because Quentin was also with us. However, I did go as far as removing the silk robe and I stood there wearing just those very tight shorts. Mrs Peason stood in front of me, gave me a no-nonsense slap on my face and said, "I told you to get undressed. From now on you will strip whenever, wherever, I tell you to, no matter who is watching. You will have no hang-ups about bodily modesty. Now, I tell you for the last time: strip!"