by Miss Finch

I’m writing this to warn people about a new tactic that some women are using to enslave men. I know it sounds outrageous, and I know that it’s too late for me, but I hope that my story will cause men to be more aware, and to push for legal reforms that would prevent this from happening. Especially important is to make sure that you can’t be assumed guilty just on the basis of DNA evidence, or computer records!

Only a year ago, I was a successful at-home technical writer, living in a nice house in a suburb outside of San Francisco. I was single, I had a solid income stream, I was dating numerous attractive women, and things seemed to just be right with the world. I had a great car – that looked lonely in a three-car garage! – I set my own hours, I could surf porn when I wanted to, and you name it. So, I wasn’t feeling suspicious or threatened when a woman knocked at my door one day – a woman whose car battery had suddenly died as she was driving her daughter to a school function at a nearby Junior High school. The poor woman had forgotten her cell phone, and needed to borrow mine. And, as she’d have to wait for her friend to come and jump-start her car, she also asked to use the bathroom.

Naturally, I let her – she was an attractive woman, with a charming-looking daughter, and I couldn’t imagine a threat from either of them. She told me her name was Sarah, and that her daughter’s name was Bethany. I made them both some coffee, took out a plate of cookies, and made small-talk while we waited for her friend. We chatted about the house, my work, Bethany’s school progress, and on and on. I was a bit puzzled by the somewhat self-satisfied way that Sarah admired my expensive watch, my late-model car, my fancy entertainment center, and my brand new, upscale, computer equipment. But I didn’t make anything of it, and after a few hours her friend arrived, jump-started Sarah’s car, and she and her daughter were off.

Imagine my surprise when she returned, only two hours later. At the door, she asked to come in so that she could thank me again for my help earlier. I agreed, and she stepped inside, and reached into her purse for a “small present.” What she meant was, a small gun – I soon found myself staring at the barrel of a small revolver.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “this is just to keep you from doing anything rash. I don’t intend to shoot you, but you’re not going to like what I have to tell you, and you might react stupidly out of violence. What it comes down to is, your life, as you know it, is over.”

“I don’t understand,” I started to say, when she cut me off, yelling and waving the gun in my face. “Get your fucking ass on the sofa,” she yelled, and once I was there, she paced back and forth in front of me, keeping the gun on me the whole time.

“You stupid fuck….did you think that today’s encounter was an accident? Did you think I was really a damsel in distress? Jesus Christ, you’re dumber than I thought…today’s encounter wasn’t an accident,” she continued. “I was looking for a new place for my daughter and I to live, because my asshole-husband threw us out and managed to take our belongings off to a foreign country where I can’t touch him. You’re the designated-dumb-fuck!”

“You’re wondering how all this concerns you, dumb shit? Well, here’s how it is. There’s a new Women’s group, formed from those of us who’ve been burned by men, and we’ve figured out just how to get even. When one of us is burned, we tap into our network, and share information about guys who have things we want, and who work at home, like you, and who have stupid fucking fetishes and phobias like you! And then we make an excuse to get into their bathroom. Sounds innocent, doesn’t it? “Oh, would you excuse me, I have to use the little girl’s room.” That’s what I said to you, moron, don’t you remember?

While we’re there, we collect some pubic hair, and we take some of your disgusting saliva off of your toothbrush, and then we leave, to store all that nice DNA in a safe, refrigerated place. Then, we come back, and explain the new reality, and here it is: If you don’t do everything I say, I’ll be taking my daughter to the police, where she’ll charge you with sexually molesting her earlier today. Your ass will be a fuck-hole in jail for a decade.

My friend, who jump-started the car, will testify that she saw us here. The police will find your pubic hair, and traces of your saliva on my daughter’s genitals. You’ll go straight to jail, where child molesters aren’t very popular. You might remember the fate of Jim Brown, your co-worker, who was jailed for statutory rape. The stupid fuck actually thought he could beat us in court! Ah, well, but his sharp tongue is busy now!

So you have a choice. You can either become a slave for Bethany and I, or you’re off to jail tonight. Oh, and I know you have claustrophobia and a fear of being locked up, that’s one thing that makes you such a good candidate! You have one minute to decide.”

Well, all I can say is, one minute isn’t a very long time, and half of my thinking time was consumed remembering Jim Brown. About a year earlier, Jim had been arrested – out of the blue! – and charged with statutory rape. He’d gone to jail on the charge, and only six months later, someone smuggled pictures of him out of prison. To the horror of everyone who knew him, Jim had been turned into a prison sex slave for a drug lord, and was regularly traded around the prison for cigarettes. And Sarah was right – I had a dread of jail already, bigger than most of us do, and to top it off, I was terribly claustrophobic, and somewhat homophobic. But I couldn’t think my way out of the trap I suddenly found myself in, and realizing that I was only two hours from Jim’s fate, I was convinced that I had to stall, and try to get out of things in a more clever way.

“Alright, I’ll do what you want. What do you want me to do?,” I asked.”

Well, “Miss Sarah,” as I was told to call her, had quite a list of things for me to do. First, I had to remove all my personal objects from the house, moving them either to boxes in the garage, or into my den, where, she informed me, I’d be living from then on. She had me fetch groceries and suitcases from her car, and had me cook them dinner and wait on them. She’d had me sign a Power of Attorney, and as I cooked and brought her cocktails, she went through my computer accounts, and transferred all control over my finances to herself. That very night, she moved into the master bedroom, with her daughter in the second bedroom. I was left to sleep on the small daybed that I had in my den, not that I could sleep – I kept racking my brain, trying to think of a way out of this box I was in, but it was all so sudden, and I couldn’t stop thinking about those horrible pictures of Jim Brown, a caged, broken prison slut.

The next day, Sarah had me call into the agency that gave me work, and take two weeks off. That’s when I learned exactly how deep in trouble I was. My contact at the company, a woman I’d briefly dated laughed at me, saying “ah, I see that Miss Sarah has entered your life! You’re in for some very interesting times! You see, I’m part of the woman-scorned network, and I fed her all the information about you, you sucker! Did you really think you could date me, dump me, and then still have a regular working relationship? Well, you’re going to keep working with the company all right, don’t you worry about that. I’ll see that you have plenty of work, and that you don’t have to be seen in person for quite awhile. Oh, and I have access to those DNA samples Sarah took, so if you’re thinking that she’s lost her leverage over you by moving in and taking over so quickly, don’t think it. I also have a teenage daughter, and could get your ass thrown in jail too!”

For the next two weeks Sarah had me running around like a maniac. I redecorated the house in a more feminine style, while doing all of the cleaning, waiting on Sarah and Bethany hand and foot, pouring their baths, lighting their cigarettes (they both smoked), emptying their ashtrays, and basically doing anything they wanted me to do. They both referred to me as ‘slave.’ Since Sarah liked to cook, I was spared that duty, but all I was given to eat was a bowl of scraps from their meals. Bethany took great delight in spitting in my food, always making sure I saw her do it. Since I was fairly slim to begin with, the labor and diet had me positively skinny, and increasingly weak, even by the end of two weeks. In the meanwhile, Sarah cemented her lock on everything I owned, and seemed to take a spiteful, personal pleasure in either selling off or destroying anything I had that either she didn’t want, or that I didn’t need to continue working for her as a slave from my office. One evening, she made me gather all of the memorabilia from my past, pictures, certificates of achievement, old school records, everything that identified me, and she laughed as she made me feed it into the fire place that used to be mine. Even my office was redecorated in feminine styles. The daybed had lacy shams, and the linens were perfumed. There were candles all around, on the bookshelves, and all but my working books had been removed. My favorite fiction was gone, replaced with romance novels, and my magazines were gone, replaced with women’s magazines. When the manual labor was done to her satisfaction, she had me bring all of my clothing into the garage, and shove it all into garbage bags. She even had me strip, and put the street clothes I was wearing into the last bag.

“Now slave, as you’ve finished the manual labor, and you won’t be going out to any work or social functions, I think your clothing and appearance needs a bit of a change for your new place in MY house. While you’ve been re-decorating, I’ve taken some of your savings, and had some nice uniforms made up for you by one of my friends in the Woman-scorned network. I’ve had them delivered to your quarters – your maid quarters, that is. Goodwill is coming for the rest of this stuff in an hour. Go look at your new uniforms, maid.”

I could hear her laughter as I walked into what used to be my den, and was now a maid’s quarters, and of course, I found what I expected. My clothes closet had 3 “naughty” maids costumes in it, from the padded foundation garments to the shoes and the little lace apron and cap. The shoes had three- and four-inch heels. Now I understood why she’d had me install a vanity in the small bath connected to my office – it was now covered with cosmetics, brushes, and a book on how to “Color me Beautiful. Sarah laughed at as I stared, in shock, which only grew as she produced a steel-tube chastity for my penis that Sarah forced me to put on. Instead of a key, she super-glued the lock. As she locked away my manhood in a permanent steel prison, I stared at the uniforms, not believing that this was to be my life, a feminized maid-slave and laborer for Sarah and Bethany, women I never harmed or ever knew before two weeks previously. I only wish now that I’d been so lucky.

That was pretty much my life for the following two months, as Sarah had her girlfriends from the women-scorned network over for parties, including some women that I’d dated. They delighted in humiliating me, constantly making me assume the most exaggerated “sissy” behaviors, curtseying to everyone, wearing full makeup, mincing around with limp wrists, and even lisping. Thing weren’t sexual, until, at a sex-toy party Sarah threw for her friends, she decided that it would be fun for them to test the strap-on dildos and “take the maid’s virginity.” Well, the strap-on parties became a regular event on weekends, the dildos growing larger and larger. My penis had never been let out of its chastity, and I realized that it probably never would. Sarah and Bethany would laugh as I cried, from the humiliation of being gang-banged by women I’d dated, in front of their teenage daughters and friends, who were being taught that my treatment was to be the norm, now that women had the upper hand in society. Some of the women were crueler still, and at different times, my mouth was used as an ashtray, a urinal, and a spittoon. I thought I’d sunk as low as I could get, working as an enslaved writer, maid, and object of sexual abuse, but at least, I thought, they didn’t beat me, and I wasn’t in jail, in a cage, being abused by vicious men. I still thought that someday, somehow, I’d get out of this nightmare. I was wrong. One evening, as Sarah was using a strap-on in my mouth, and her friend was slamming another strap-on into my ass, Sarah started laughing. It was a very cruel laugh.

“Well slave,” she said, “You’ll be glad to know that I’ve thought of a way for you to make me even more money! A plastic surgeon friend of mine is going to do a little volunteer work for me, and make you a bit prettier. Well, if you think cocksucker lips and huge tits are pretty, that is!” I felt a sting in my ass, and realized that the woman behind me had injected me. I felt things start to swim, as Sarah informed me of my fate. “You thought you avoided Jim Brown’s fate, did you? Well, you’re going to have as many men in your ass and mouth as he does, the only difference is, you’ll be earning me money as a she-male whore!”

When I woke up, I was laying in my day-bed, feeling as if I’d been hit by a truck. I knew that they’d done far more to me than giving me fat lips and tits, and from the track marks I saw inside my arms, I guessed that they’d kept me sleeping for weeks. Moaning with pain, I managed to get up, and shamble over to the mirror on the inside of my closet door. I immediately burst into tears. My face was still bruised and puffy, but I could see that they’d done more than just plump up my lips – they were now huge, like Angelina Jolie’s, but bigger. From the slight burn pattern, I could see that my eyebrows had been lasered off, and new ones – high black arches – had been tattooed on. My adam’s apple was gone, and from the strangely high pitch of my moaning, I assumed they’d raised the pitch of my voice. Sarah had also lied about my breasts, they weren’t just huge, they were massive – they looked like mountains. I don’t know how they stretched the skin that far, but I assumed it must be a new surgical technique I’d never heard of. I continued to survey the horror of what they’d done, when I got to the worst of it. I’d known it was coming from the pain in my groin, but I’d hoped it wasn’t true. But it was true – I’d been castrated, and the chastity that I had worn had been replaced with one that actually was riveted onto my penis. I fell to my knees, and sobbed uncontrollably. The sound must have alerted Sarah to my wakefulness, as she soon entered the room.

“Well slut, you’ve obviously seen that we did a bit more to you than we told you about. We figure, the more of a sexual fetish object we turn you into, the more money you’ll earn for us! We’ve installed an outside door to your maid’s quarters so that your customers won’t bother us, and as soon as you’re ready for a camera, we’ll put ads in the all the local sex papers and websites. From now on, this will be your life, slut. When you’re not writing to make me money, you’ll be whoring to make me money, or doing phone sex to make me money, and when you’re not doing those, you’ll be serving me and my friends as a maid, ashtray, urinal, or whatever else we think to use you for. You’ll dress like a whore or maid at all times, you’ll learn everything about pleasing men, from sexy smoking, to faking orgasms as they fill your mouth and ass with their spunk. You will sleep about four hours a night, if you get that much. There’s a life-time dose of high-strength estrogen implanted in those tits, to keep your hair nice and full, for the men to yank as they fuck those ridiculous lips. Oh, and you’re probably thinking that my original threat, to have you prosecuted for statutory rape wouldn’t work with you looking like this: well, you’re right. That’s why we had a girlfriend in the State District Attorney’s office code the fingerprint of your DNA entered into the state criminal registry and create a nice alias for you: You’re a known prostitute, with a string of convictions, and two felony warrants out for you. The first thing the cops will do if you ever go to them, is arrest you! Oh, and you have a history of “identity theft” so even if you call people and try to prove who you are with personal details, they’ll all just assume you hacked into their personal information on a computer net somewhere.

Well, that has been my life now for six months, and the horror of it never ends. Unlike all the sex stories that make all this stuff sound sexy, it isn’t when it really happens. Though I’ve serviced hundreds of men now, often two at once, I have never learned to enjoy it, and I’ve had no pleasure from any of the abuse heaped on me by the women-scorned members or their horrid little man-hating daughters. I wake up before dawn to do my technical writing, and maid’s duty for Sarah and Bethany. I generally wind up servicing at least six men during the lunch hours, and then after dinner, a few more. Wherever I can, I do housework, and try to avoid being the target of the women’s cruel games.

I know that they’ll find out I wrote this, and beat me, or otherwise torture me for it, but I have to warn others now, because every day, I’m feeling my grip on reality slipping away. I think that soon, I won’t be able to write, and they’ll take this computer, leaving me only a full time whore.

So please, take this warning, guys – if a strange woman and daughter ever come to your home, bolt the door and pray. And if you use shemale whores, treat them nicely – it might be me, or, one day soon, it might be you.

The End