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From: np98rb@mail.telepac.pt (Christine & David Stevenson)
Subject: Under Control part nineteen of twenty eight
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Under Control - part nineteen of twenty eight
by mailto: VictorBruno@mschristine.com
this story remains copyright Victor Bruno, release to publish
granted to Christine Stevenson.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Paul was allocated a cell by the chatelaine-guard, but it was of
a different kind to the one he had originally been locked up in
with young Karen. It was a multiple cell (known as a Holding
Compound at Bel Air). Here the slave-girls were kept whilst still
on duty but not being actually required for service. It was not
till they actually came off duty later at night that they were
chained in pairs in the smaller cells.
The Holding Compound was large . . . an echoing stone chamber in
which stood three iron cages, in a line, some five yards apart.
Paul saw that two of the cages were full - very full - and it was
towards the third cage he was herded with other girls all around
him. This cage was partially filled and the chatelaine-guard
unlocked the barred door and motioned her charges in. Rapidly the
cage filled, with naked body crushing to naked body . . . Paul
finding himself in the middle of this mass of female flesh. Warm,
soft, scented . . . heavy-breathing, whimpering, sobbing. Breasts
and buttocks and thighs crushed to him. He could feel as he
wished and nobody noticed; he was just another one of the massed
slave-girls. The heat of lust was like a burning brand within
him; the pressure on his cruel restrainer was agonizing. How
could he endure such mingled fire and frustration? He groaned
aloud in his torment, and was unheeded. There were groans of one
kind and another everywhere. Crushed and helpless, he stood
there, sweating amidst the plentitude of female bodies . . . his
mind and body a torment of desire and denial.
* * *
I look like a woman, thought Paul . . . I move like a woman . . .
I am surrounded by women. In order to survive I have to feel like
a woman. Surely if I learnt to think like a woman the need would
not be as bad. I must learn to feel like a woman, he cried
desperately within himself. And soon . . . soon. Those luscious
naked bodies crushing me must not tempt me. They are not for me.
They are my own sex.
He tried desperately to convince himself. Yet still he was
hideously aware of the lush female flesh all around.
"Oh God help me," he whimpered bitterly to himself.
* * *
For several weeks, Paul was kept in the slave quarters of Bel Air
. . . treated like the slave-girls, working alongside them,
living alongside them, sharing their wretched servitude and daily
torments. Never in his whole life had he been in such close and
constant contact with so much superb female flesh; yet never had
been able to do so little about it. Admittedly, he could feel and
fondle that flesh - as a lesbian might - but that only added to
the agonies of his enforced frustration. In fact, such was the
success of his 'transformation' that he was regarded by the other
slave-girls as a genuine butch lesbian!
The only difference in his regime was his daily sessions with
Delia . . . when he would receive his female hormone injections,
be shaved and creamed, and generally be put through his paces as
a woman. His slave mistress was well satisfied with his progress,
but she rarely showed it. His walking on stilt high-heels was
perfected within a day or so but there was much still to be
learnt. He had to learn to stand provocatively like a woman . . .
to learn the mannerisms of a woman, the gestures of a woman. Even
how to sit and cross his legs like a woman. Daily he felt the
bite of Delia's rod for he had to satisfy her completely and she
was the hardest of task-mistresses. Daily she would make him
dress and undress in a bewildering variety of women's clothes.
Daily he had to slake her as Pauline, her lesbian slave. This was
a torment indeed, for at times like that he was unable to forget
his manhood.
After a week Paul found himself not only acting more and more
like a woman but actually feeling like one a lot of the time. He
had moments of panic-terror at this erosion of his manhood but,
after another week, these became less frequent as he became more
and more resigned to his new role. The massive doses of female
hormones that Delia gave him daily were taking effect. The
changes were gradual but constant over succeeding weeks. Under
his false breasts he could feel his new 'real' breasts beginning
to swell and develop; his skin was becoming much less hairy and
was smoother, too. There was also an added curvy plumpness about
him. Even his voice was less deep; more of a contralto. He
realised how well those female hormones were doing their work!
Finally one day, as he knelt with his knickers down - having had
a twelve stroke caning for some trivial offence - Delia informed
him that within a few days he was going to be assigned to his
original mistress, Gloria van Meer, as a personal slave-maid.
Paul's heart leapt and thudded; he felt both dread and a strange
kind of exultation at the prospect of once again serving his
goddess. He had long since thought she had forgotten him.
"Get up, Pauline, and pull your knickers up," ordered Delia. Paul
did so, in the lady-like fashion required of him. Delia was
smiling wickedly at him, sensing his reactions by the pinkness of
his cheeks. "Since she asked for another girl," she said, "you
seemed the obvious choice. Are you not fortunate?"
"Yes . . . oh . . . yes, Miss . . . I am indeed fortunate,"
agreed Paul. And, in some strange sense, he actually considered
he was.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This story is being released as an illustrated web book, for
autoresponder details of Victor Bruno Books available please
contact
VictorBruno@MsChristine.com
http://www.mschristine.com/bruno.html
Also published as text simultaneously on......
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