The Rose Diaries Ch. 13

Disclaimer and Notes: The Rose Diaries is an incredibly dark story focusing on forced (heavy emphasis on "forced") feminization of a completely non-compliant individual. There are elements of non-consent, violence, and dark subject matters. In addition, this story depicts dysphoria, dissociation, and general depression.

I hope you do enjoy this chapter if you decide to continue reading. If you do enjoy this chapter, please leave a comment/feedback and let me know!

Act 2 will have fleeting moments of intense physical violence. I will give more warning when it is present in the chapter. It is in general darker than Act 1. This is chapter however does have a lot of violence and is quite intense.

Thank you.
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He didn't regret his choices. He didn't regret the insults, the taunts, and the exchanged barbs. He did, however, regret not feeling her flesh underneath his fists. He learned that Miss A. and Miss K.'s anger was around the same intensity. If there was doubt that they were family then that all vanished when they bared their fangs. They both had a cold fury that chilled him down to the bone. Miss K. was a woman who could silence a room with a single gaze. He had many times before thought of her as an animal. A vicious beast who stalked, pounced, and eviscerated her carefully chosen prey.

If Miss K. was a predator then Miss A. was the apex of the hunt. Miss A. didn't silence rooms. She cleared them out when she walked in the door. She wasn't physical, she didn't use her claws or teeth, but instead used every single asset in her control to cause misery and pain. Some of it was physical. But others...

Others left him crying in a large dark room in silence.

He hated how well she knew him. How she knew his family, his friends, and his dreams. Everything that she had was everything he was. All of it contained in a manila folder. All of it organized by date, by experience, and by how much it would hurt him. The tattoo, the stories she had, and even the hormones that coursed through his veins. She had planned for this exact scenario. She had planned for how she would enact her revenge against him. A revenge that had no end. A revenge that existed for as long as he lived.

Miss A. loved her sister. Her sister that shared none of her looks or even personality. Her sister that somehow entered her family. She loved her so much that she was willing to forsake everything just to hurt him. Just for an idea of hurting her family.

He was reminded of his time in high school. It was no secret that he wasn't a popular person in high school. Movies always played it as the nerds and geeks being stuffed into lockers, toilets, and trashcans. But he spent none of his minutes in any one of those. He became a fixture in the background. People knew his older brother. People knew his father. But people didn't know anything about him and they didn't care. Peter did love his family. He loved them before it all fell apart. Before they forced him away.

So, he understood her. Understood what it was like to feel such sorrow and anger. She was a hypocrite. One that hoarded love and affection under her own rules. She was allowed to scream, fight, and hurt others over threats to her family. But when she threatened others, no one was allowed to reciprocate. She was allowed to hurt him with the same hands that would threaten his own family.

He knew that under different circumstances he might have had pity for her. He might've felt bad. He might've felt a lot of different things. But those days were long gone. His heart which had once beat to the rhythm of love and compassion had changed. It grew dark, cold, and small as it fueled his never-ending hatred at the tragedy before him.

The ballroom held his sobs from reaching the ears of those who cared. The wooden stage had been stained with two twin rivers of both his sadness and his anger. One that coalesced underneath his chin before falling to the ground one by one. One still warm that painted the deck underneath in a deep red. The lights had been turned off, the audience had been disbanded, but he could still see. Dim lights kept on above the stage illuminated his pale form. He whimpered quietly to himself in effort to feel something. He didn't want to cry. He didn't want to scream. He just wanted to feel again.

The numbness begun at the start of Miss A.'s continuation of her tortures. He remembered it like an old friend. It was not the darkness of slumber. Not the nothingness of his loss of sanity. It was the cold numbness of futility that had once taken his body in a stranglehold on the third floor's lounge. After Miss K. had raped him. After she discarded him with a torn body and mind to the carpeted floor. After everything that she had done and would continue to do.

It had grown out of control. Much of his senses dulled and faded as he attempted to reason with his ever-fracturing mind. He remembered more of her taunts. More of her threats. She dug her nails into his thighs and drew blood when he didn't give her the anger and sadness that she so craved. She carved pieces out of him. If not by her bare hands then by her orders. He screamed but did not curse. He screamed but did not fight. Not outwardly. Not in the ways that she expected.

His body had found a way to defend itself. His soul barricaded itself deep within the darkest confines of his head. This numbing feeling was not sorrow. It was not despair. It was not any sort of weakness.

It was his strength. A hardened exterior that they would not be able to chip away so easily. A cocoon of his own making. A defensive strategy that Miss A. did not expect. When he stopped responding to her completely, she showed her more animalistic side. When he rolled over and played dead, she lost her interest.

He wondered what she thought of him now. Did she hear his sobs? Did she see his tears glistening against his face? Or was she fuming in some lavish room thinking of new ways to break him down. Going back to a literal drawing board covered in punishments and abuse of her own designs. Was Miss K. nearby? Was Miss R.? Did they intend to help or hinder her in the end?

He let another whimper escape from his lips. Energy that faded away into the darkness. His body ached in new and different ways as time, in unknown amounts, slipped through his fingers with ease. His chest was sore. His back, thighs, and buttocks were on fire. The muscles in his limbs felt like they were about to snap at any moment. He didn't know why he smiled when he closed his eyes.

But sleep came soon enough that he didn't care for too long.
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Sweet dolly, pretty dolly, happy dolly, silly dolly...

From somewhere within his own mind a woman's voice echoed clear as day. She repeated herself with a deliberately slow cadence as she tasted each word before speaking. Her voice was beautiful and soft. Her intent was nothing but sincere. It was not a voice he had ever heard before though. She took a breath before giggling.

Stupid dolly, mean dolly, nasty dolly, bad dolly...

He cringed as she began to chide him. He couldn't hear anything aside from a soft tranquil backing sound to her words. Before long, he felt something underneath him. A chair? His legs were bound together, and his arms were tied behind his back. He could feel the weight of clothing once more on his form.

You are a Doll. A sweet little plaything. You are a Doll. A beautiful young girl who yearns to be free. You are a Doll...

His was no longer suspended above the stage in the ballroom. He ran his fingertips against the back of his seat. It was leather, soft and supple. As he shifted his weight, he could feel something running across his chest. He could feel what appeared to be another blindfold tied tightly around his face.

You want to be dressed up.

The voice was faster now. He could hear another voice slightly behind it. Another woman speaking far quieter than the one before.

You want to be dressed up (Yes). You want to be played with (You need it). You want to wear dresses and skirts and frilly things (So much). You want to get your makeup done and wear fancy jewelry (So bad). You want to be a girl (You do).

His head swooned, and he was overtaken quickly by a wave of warmth and security. He stomped his foot down hard before shaking his head. He felt something fall from his head and on the seat next to him. Strange sounds immediately overwhelmed him.

There was quiet but underneath was a layer of ambient noise. From in the distance, he heard a car horn. Was he being driven somewhere? Was he no longer in the house? From extremely close by, he heard a page turn in a book before someone took a deep breath. Wherever he was, he was not alone.

"Where am I?" He asked aloud surprised at the lack of the gag for once. The person did not answer. He waited a few moments before he heard the page turn again.

"Where are you taking me?" He heard someone shift in their seat but still no response.

"I can hear you!" He hissed. "I know you're there. Answer me! Where are you taking me?" He heard them take a deep sigh before the blindfold came free.

They were a woman dressed in a fine pantsuit with a ruby broach. She was not young by any stretch of the imagination. Not like the other women he had seen before. Instead, she wore the scars of aging well, keeping most of it hidden from his gaze. But her skin was still wrinkled and frail. She had long black hair and a pair of golden earrings of no particular design.

"Talkative, aren't you?" She muttered turning a page in her book as she crossed her legs. They were in the back of what appeared to be a limousine. Beside him, he heard the faint mutterings of a woman from a pair of wireless headphones. The source of the noise from earlier he assumed.

"Who are you?" He narrowed his eyes. She had the same unflinching and uncaring look in her eyes that Miss A. had when she looked at him. He was so used to it now. That look in their eyes that told him they didn't see him as a person. As anyone worth thinking about.

"Who are you?" He repeated once more when she didn't even bother to look up at him. "Who are you?"

"Fantastic," She muttered. "I see the rumors are true." She closed her book before placing it on the seat beside her gently.

"Rumors?" He cocked an eyebrow. She folded her hands on her lap with another cold gaze.

"I am Mrs. Cecilia Tyson. I am what you would call a problem-solver." She didn't look away from him as he took in the meaning of her words.

"Well, I've got a problem." He scoffed. "I'm tied up in the back of a car without any idea of where we are going."

"My lord," She shook her head. "Mandi was not lying about you. Perhaps, I should begin once again. I am a problem solver for the Stone household."

"No, I figured that." He rolled his eyes. Of course, this was a new part to her abuse.

"Drop the attitude." She narrowed her eyes. "It's unbecoming of you."

"So, Cecilia-"He watched her tense up as he called her by her first name.

"Am I your friend? Do we go to the mall or talk about boys together?" He opened his mouth to speak but the glare he received in response kept him silent. "No. I am not your friend, your acquaintance, your anything. You will refer to me with respect, girl. Mrs. Tyson or not at all."

"So, are you going to answer my questions?" He sighed.

"Perhaps. But then again," She picked up her book once more before settling into the chair. "Perhaps not."

"Where are we going?"

"A destination." She thumbed through the pages until she found her spot and scanned the pages.

"Thanks." He sighed. "That's very helpful."

"If you were under the impression that I was here to help you then I do apologize for the confusion."

"Got it." He muttered through clenched teeth.

"We're on a trip. We've got a few stops along the way before we reach our final destination for this excursion."

"Are you going to kill me?" She didn't even blink when he asked her the question. She just continued to read with a look of dissatisfaction on her face.

"That depends on you, doesn't it?"

"How so?"

"Well, if you like to keep chattering on, I'll gladly show you why." He studied her cold pale blue eyes for any sort of a hint of her claims. As she turned another page and not a single bit of reaction came from her. He sighed deeply.

"You aren't going to kill me." He said calling her bluff.

"I may." She answered not looking up at him. "If that's where our trip goes then so be it."

"But you won't." He repeated his claim again.

"Very sure of yourself aren't you, Doll?"

"That's not my name."

"Unless it has changed since I last checked then I have to say otherwise. I could think of far less respectful things to refer to you by if that pleases you." He narrowed his eyes as he struggled in his binds.

"Same to you."

"I'm sure that you could." She chuckled. "I'm sure that there's all kinds of filthy words in your head yearning for freedom. Just as I'm even more sure that if you do not pay me my due respect, I will make our travels far less comfortable."

"Less comfortable than being tied up?"

"Oh lord whatever did she see in you?"

"Charm, wit, and an incredible sense of humor." She laughed at his comment.

"Of course, how silly of me."

"So, you know Miss A.?"

"I know her, yes."

"Was she always such a brat?"

"Careful," She growled her eyes slowly raising up from the page. "You might make me mad."

"So, you're close to her then?" Peter couldn't help but smirk. Was this a way he could hurt her? Was this her weakness too?

"Yes."

"You don't talk very much." He continued to put further pressure on to her. She was extremely composed but a crack in that composition could reveal something vital to his own survival. Mrs. Tyson was it? They were no longer inside of that fucking house. If he could cause her to freak out, could he cause her to let him go?

"I'm much too old to talk to dolls." He clenched his fists behind his back.

"Touché." He muttered.

"We are heading on a trip that will have many stops. Nod once if you understand." He nodded at her request.

"I understand." He added.

"I did not request you to speak. I asked you to nod. These stops will involve you and I getting out of this vehicle and yes, to my dismay, spending time in the public eye. As you may have observed we are not in Blackstone. But that does not mean that those rules do not apply. Nod once if you understand me."

He grit his teeth and nodded once.

"Good. I would refrain from doing stupid things such as calling for help or trying to run. It will not work. Now you nod again." She sighed.

He rolled his eyes as he obeyed.

"Stupid girl," She muttered. "You really expect to win here, don't you?"

"Perhaps," He grinned. "But perhaps not."

"Oh lord." She shook her head picking up her book again. "One more word and you're going in the trunk."

"Fine." Peter sighed. He stopped as his eyes widened at his folly. He met Mrs. Tyson's cold dark eyes that made every hair on his body stand up.

"Fuck." Peter exclaimed.

Peter's ride in the trunk was as uncomfortable as he thought it would be. It was primarily empty, but it was still a motherfucking trunk. Mrs. Tyson had gagged him before throwing him in the back like discarded luggage. She seemed so above it all. So above carrying him around, above talking to him, even above being in his presence. She was composed so rigidly. She was the closest he'd ever encountered to a fortress of a person. Miss A. was easy to annoy into a misstep, Miss K. could be sloppy when she got angry, and Miss R. was easy to shut down. But Mrs. Tyson was none of those things. She had no patience for any games, taunts, or insults.

She just dealt with things. Even if those things could talk back.

She had no remorse. No ability to care for the things that she so easily did. She had no worries, cares, or hesitation in the way she handled him. He doubted she even thought he was alive. Just another thing for her to do. A chore in any other word. There was very little light in the trunk and to Peter it seemed as if with every passing moment the compartment seemed to grow smaller and smaller. He had never been one for claustrophobia but nevertheless it seemed to be taking a tight grip upon his mind. His legs were still bound tightly around the ankles, his wrists were even tighter behind his back. He felt every turn, acceleration, or bump that the vehicle went over.

Eventually, the car came to a gradual halt. He heard a car door slam from nearby and footsteps approach. The compartment was flooded with light as he screamed into the gag and squeezed his eyes shut. He thrashed in defiance, anger, or possibly frustration in his spot before opening his eyes once again. She was standing above him. Her face was still a reflection of her displeasure at the situation. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of her dark eyes.

He looked pathetic. Trussed up, red in the face, and gagged in the back of a car. Was that what she saw?

"Comfortable?" She crossed her arms against her chest as she continued to stare at him. He didn't respond. Not that he could've anyway.

"We'll be making an unscheduled stop in a few short miles. I'd like to invite you to join me as I get something to eat. Unfortunately, I cannot do that while you are in this," She motioned to his body. "State. It's looked down upon in public. Even though, you already look like a five-dollar tart." She scoffed.

He resisted the urge to scream once again into the gag. He hadn't seen himself in a mirror in such a long time. He knew the changes that Miss A. had forced upon him. He could only imagine the outfit that they had dressed him in.

"So, I'd like to release you from your bonds. But only if you truly understand."

He barely let the words hang in the air as he nodded once.

"Well done." She smiled. Without a bit of hesitation, she pulled the ropes free. His joints made an unholy noise as he brought his hands from behind his back and to his side. They were beyond sore, but he leaned up slightly as he struggled to undo the knot around his ankles. As he worked, she slid the gag from his mouth.

"Thank you." He forced himself to say.

"Of course. Join me in back of the car when you are able." She gave a small smile before drumming her fingers on the lid of the trunk and walking away. Normally, a smile was something that someone would like to see. But for Peter it filled him with a cold draining dread. Why had she smiled? Was this a joke? Was he in trouble? Where was he? What stop?

Peter shot his hand out of the trunk and tumbled out into the afternoon sun. His limbs barely had any feeling and had been taking their sweet time awakening from their long slumber. He had a faint memory of the last time he felt dirt and sun fresh on his body. The last time he had been writing in the ground in absolute agony. The distant pain of the collar and the sounds of his tormenters echoed from deep within his mind.

He was dressed in a familiar outfit. A soft pink and white dress that ended at his thighs and white stockings that began soon after. At the top of each stocking were two pink crystal hearts. There was nothing around but more forest. Though, if he squinted, he could see an exit. These trees were different and so was the air. This was not Blackstone.

Peter Baker screamed in relief, agony, and sadness. He was outside once again. The misses were somewhere far off in the distance. He couldn't help but scream. Even as he lay down in the dirt. He caught himself from his release letting his own relief be caught in his throat. He slammed his hand down on the edge of the trunk and slowly used it to bring himself off the ground and to his feet.