“How are you feeling, Chris?” Sharon asked.
“A little better,” he replied.
“Then why don’t you get dressed for me, Chrissy-Poo?”
Chrissy-Poo? Since when does Sharon call me Chrissy-P–
“Yes, Mistress Sharon,” Chris replied, in a soft, husky voice. “How would you like me to dress?”
Sharon was flabbergasted–Carla’s implant was remarkable. Chris’ every movement was entirely feminine–and he was obviously ready to obey any request she might make of him. “Go to the closet, Chrissy-Poo. There’s a white satin mini-dress I’d like to see you in. You’ll find the proper undergarments in the second drawer of the dresser.”
Sharon must be crazy. There’s no way I’m going to wear a dress–
Chris crossed to the closet and got out the dress Sharon indicated. It was designed to be very tight, its shimmering fabric would cling tightly to Chris’ every curve; curves that would soon be apparent, thanks to the corset, bra, and panties he found in the dresser. “But, Mistress, I can’t wear this dress and this lovely lingerie with hair all over my body,” he said.
“Of course not,” Sharon replied. “Go to the bathroom, draw yourself a nice warm bubble-bath and shave yourself entirely. Then get dressed and come down to see me in the living room.”
Half an hour later, Chris (now Chrissy-Poo) appeared in the living room door. He curtsied to his mistress-wife, saying, “Am I satisfactory, Mistress Sharon?”
Why am I doing this? Why can’t I stop myself? What have these women done to me–and why is my cock so swollen with excitement?
Sharon surveyed her newly transformed spouse. Chrissy-Poo was dressed in the tight white satin dress, its hem stopping a full eight inches above her knees. Under the dress, her corset was pulled in to 24 inches (from Chris’ normal 34), and her bra was padded to create a 36C bosom. Below the hem of the dress, Chrissy-Poo wore sheer stockings, held up by the garters of her corset, white ankle socks with frilly lace cuffs, and white high heels, with five-inch heels and a strap across the instep.
What’s going on? How did I get into this predicament? Is it something about this town, about Stepton?
As Chris Martin drove his family into the small suburban town of Stepton, he began to wonder if it had been a good idea to let his wife choose the site of their new home. The place seemed so pristine, almost Norman-Rockwell-like–very different from the gritty big city where they had lived and where Chris had grown up.
Something about the scene passing by outside the car windows also disturbed Chris, but he couldn’t quite place the problem immediately. Then it dawned on him: he hadn’t seen a single male– adult or child–since passing the town limits. He turned to ask his wife, Sharon, about it, but she was busy pointing out the town’s highlights to their 15-year-old daughter Karen and 12-year-old son Danny. Chris shrugged–it was probably nothing to worry about, anyway.
A short time later, they pulled into the driveway of their new home. The lack of male faces continued to play on Chris’ mind: all up and down the tree-lined street, he saw nothing but women and girls. All the people working in their yards were female; all the children playing were neatly dressed girls of varying ages.
Still, Chris thought, as he lugged in the last of the family’s possessions, Stepton has a great reputation–good schools, low crime rate, no juvenile delinquency at all. It’s going to be a great place to raise the kids. And the long commute back to the city was no problem. Chris was a freelance writer; he rarely had face-to- face contact with his editors, and nearly all of his work was sent to the publishers via modem.
The next morning, after a tiring day of hauling boxes and setting up furniture, Sharon asked Chris to take Danny to the local supermarket while she and Karen played host to the town’s welcoming committee of women. Not wanting to be surrounded by gabbing women, Chris readily agreed.
As he headed out the door for the car, he nearly bumped into the first of the welcoming committee to arrive. A tall, dark woman whose stunning figure was not hidden by her black-leather business suit and red satin blouse, she introduced herself as Carla. “Sorry, I have to run, Carla,” Chris excused himself, “but the shopping needs doing. The pantry is empty.”
“That’s quite all right, Chris,” Carla replied. She smiled mysteriously, “I know we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.” Then she walked confidently into the house on her six-inch black patent pumps.
Chris, his own confidence a bit shaken by the run-in with the intriguing Carla, climbed into the car beside Danny and headed for the supermarket.
The supermarket was another new experience for Chris. There was seemingly not a single male in the place–not even on the staff. And all the women shoppers were dressed in the most extravagantly feminine manner–flouncy dresses and blouses, miniskirts, five-, six- and seven-inch heels. A few were even dressed in the classic French maid’s uniform: low-cut, short-skirted black satin dresses with bouncy petticoats; sheer black hose (often with a hint of garter showing); black patent high-heeled pumps, all topped with a lacy apron and cap. Chris assumed they were servants in some of the richer households, out doing the shopping.
Chris was surprised to find that the experience of being surrounded by so much femininity was arousing him, engorging his cock. As a particularly scrumptious beauty passed him, Chris followed her with his eyes–and found that he had pushed the shopping cart into one of the frilly French maids.
“Ooops! Pardon me,” he apologized.
The young lady in the extremely short outfit smiled prettily in return. “Oh, it’s quite all right,” she replied. “This place can get pretty crowded at times.” She held out her hand, adorned with a set of gold rings and long, perfectly shaped red nails. “I’m Deirdre.”
Chris took her hand in his, noting the heavy gold band around her wrist. Was that a lock on it? “Pleased to meet you, Deirdre. I’m Chris Martin and this is Danny.” The absolute femininity of this vision before him had Chris blushing.
Meanwhile, back at the house, Sharon had dozens of questions for Carla and her other guests. “But I still can’t believe that someone as masculine as Chris can be made into a woman that simply,” she protested.
“Not a ‘woman,’ please, Sharon,” Carla corrected. “He’ll still be male in body, but female in outward appearance and temperament.
“And believe me,” she continued, “it can be done. Why, my little Deirdre was just as manly as Chris back when she was David. Now the dear is a perfect French maid–and she wouldn’t think of being anything else.”
“And Deirdre–just like all our husbands–is completely submissive to women,” interjected Michelle, another of the guests. “Carla’s little implants are a work of genius.”
Carla went on to explain the implants. The electronic devices, when placed against the spinal cord, transmitted a specially prepared “program” into the subject’s unconscious mind. The program could be nearly anything–from a command to stop smoking to dance instruction (as long as it did not threaten the subject’s life)–but Carla and her fellow Stepton wives had chosen to use them to enslave the men of the town, turning them into sweetly submissive false females.
“But not all of the men are like Deirdre,” Sharon pointed out.
“Of course not,” replied Susan, another guest. “Sweet as Deirdre and the other French maids look in their outfits, not all of us are into that scene. Most of us are just happy to see our little darlings in the most feminine of normal street clothing. None of them are ever permitted to wear pants–except tight little short-shorts in summer. We all agreed to that when we signed our little pact.”
“But a few of us have gone even further than Carla has with Deirdre,” put in Gretchen. She was dressed in a very severe, yet sexy, black outfit, and carried a short whip, hanging from her belt. “I came to Stepton, like you, when I heard of Carla’s implants through the grapevine. I had already imposed my will on Marshall–now Marsha–but I wanted to make his enslavement permanent. She now spends her days in lingerie and mild bondage in our home, only seeing others when we entertain. Perhaps you’d like to visit someday soon?”
Back at the supermarket, Chris and Danny were just checking out when Deirdre approached them again. “Please, let me invite you to visit my Mistress Carla and me,” she offered. “I’ll check with her when I arrive home. I’m sure she’ll find you just charming.”
“Well, thank you, Deirdre,” Chris replied. “I’m looking forward to it.” Mistress? He watched the frilly figure mince toward her car. What kind of town is Stepton anyway?
At the women’s meeting, Sharon had one last question. “What about Danny? I haven’t seen any boys in town at all–have they all been transformed too?”
“Certainly, my dear,” Carla answered. “My own son Charlie is about Danny’s age. I put an implant in him two years ago–now little Charlotte is a perfect angel. We’ve found the implants work even better on pre-teen and teenaged boys. They almost seem to want the transformation. We’ll handle Danny this summer, before school starts. We wouldn’t want him disrupting the other boy-girls.”
At that moment, Chris and Danny entered the house with the groceries. “Hello, everyone,” he greeted them. “Oh, Carla–I ran into your maid, Deirdre, at the market. She sort of invited me to visit you.”
“Wonderful, Chris,” Carla purred. “Shall we say tomorrow– about 11:00?” She leaned toward Sharon and whispered: “Deirdre was ordered to make that invitation if she ran into Chris. It will give me an excellent chance to do the implant.”
The next day, Chris rang the bell at Carla’s door. Moments later, he was led into the living room by the ever-ravishing Deirdre. Today the maid was dressed in a pink-satin uniform with white hose and six-inch-heeled pink sandals, which let her polished toenails wink through. She curtsied prettily to Chris and told him, “Mistress Carla will be here shortly. Let me make you a drink; then sit back and relax.” She went to the bar, returning with Chris’ requested Bloody Mary a few moments later.
After a short while, after Chris had had a few sips of his drink, Carla appeared. As usual, she was dressed in leather and satin. Today, everything was red: red leather miniskirt, red satin blouse, red hose, red patent-leather heels. The effect, against Carla’s dark brunette beauty, was every bit as devastating as she’d hoped it would be.
Carla put out her hand for Chris’ greeting. “Thank you for coming, Chris.”
“Thanks for having me…..” Suddenly, Chris felt his knees go out from under him as his mind swam. He collapsed into Carla’s arms.
“Quickly, Deirdre,” she ordered her transformed maid-husband. “Help me get him into the surgery. The effects of that drugged drink won’t last very long.” The two hefted Chris into the next room, which was set up much like a doctor’s examining room. They placed him carefully on the table.
Carla brought a special device out of a cabinet. She fit one of her special implants into the air gun-like device and placed it against the back of Chris’ neck. She pulled the “trigger,” and a slight hiss of air indicated the procedure was over. As she removed the gun from his neck, the only sign of Chris’ implant was a slight red mark just below his hairline.
Now Carla and Deirdre brought the rapidly recovering man back into the living room. “Whew,” he breathed, “what happened to me?” He rubbed his stiff neck.
“I’ve no idea,” Carla smiled. “Perhaps the vodka in your drink was stronger than you’re used to.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’d better go on home. Sorry to ruin our get-together, Carla,” Chris apologized.
“No problem,” she replied. “And be sure and say hello to Sharon for me.”
Not long after, Chris arrived home, still rubbing the back of his neck. Sharon greeted him at the door and helped to their bedroom to lie down.
Then she picked up the phone and called Carla.
“Are you sure the implant is working?” she asked. “Chris doesn’t seem to be any different.”
“The implant’s programming doesn’t begin to operate until you activate it,” Carla explained. “The activation phrase is ‘Get dressed for me, Chrissy-Poo.’ Say that to him and watch what happens. It can also be used to give irrevocable commands once the implant is activated.”
So Sharon activated the implant and ordered Chris to get dressed in the little-girlish outfit and present himself to her.
“You look lovely, Chrissy-Poo,” Sharon told him. “The only thing missing is your makeup and hairstyle. But I have the answer to that–your appointment at the beauty salon downtown is in 20 minutes. Let’s go.”
And she took the cross-dressed submissive by the hand and led him to the door.
No! NO! I don’t want to go to a beauty salon! But I do–and the very thought of having pretty hair and makeup is driving me wild. Why? WHY?
A short time later, Sharon led Chrissy-Poo, in her tight, short, white satin dress, sheer stockings, white ankle socks with frilly lace cuffs, and white five-inch high heels, into the beauty salon. They were met by Carla, who was the owner as well as leader of the feminizers of Stepton.
“Well, doesn’t Chrissy-Poo look precious in her satin dress?” Carla teased.
I ought to slap her one for that…
“Thank you, Mistress Carla. I am pleased you like the way I look,” Chris replied. The cross-dressed slave looked around the beauty salon. It was obvious that all the staff–and a goodly number of the customers–were implant-dominated transvestites like himself. All the staff members wore tight pink mini-dresses, exceedingly short: The hems revealed their stocking tops and garters. Unlike most of Stepton’s cross-dressed male population, they did not wear their hair long or have wigs on. Instead, their short male hair was laced with matching pink ribbons.
Hey–isn’t that one just a boy? Chris’s gaze was locked on a child of 14 or 15, seated in one of the salon’s chairs. He could tell the customer was young, despite the sophisticated way in which “she” was dressed–silk wraparound dress, patterned stockings, black patent leather pumps with six-inch heels. The boy-girl’s hair was platinum blonde, done in flowing waves around her face, which was made up beautifully beyond her years. Her figure had obviously been trained and surgically remade as well, giving her a 37-24-35 shape. Is that’s what in store for Danny?
“Ahhh…I see you’ve noticed little Allison,” Carla commented. “Allison’s mother has decided that the child should earn her way in the world–in the only way such an unruly little thing can. Since Allison has no abilities at school or typical domestic work, her mother has turned her into a call girl. This is her day off, but normally Allison goes to New York each day, where she earns her keep as a high-priced escort for men who appreciate her looks–and her abilities at cock-sucking.”
Allison was not the only exotic sight in the salon. In another chair sat an obvious male in a tight corset, black hose and seven-inch heels. His arms were bound to the chair and his ankles were connected by a ten-inch length of chain–obviously meant to train his gait to a ladylike mincing step. One of the attendants was coating his nails with red polish while another powdered his exposed, hairless chest and rouged the nipples. He seemed to be totally embarrassed.
Even Sharon spotted this one. “Why is he bound? Doesn’t his implant work?” she asked Carla.
“Oh, it works perfectly,” Carla replied. “That’s Gretchen’s little Marsha. Her implant is designed to merely reinforce her submissive nature…and her aversion to femininity. That’s why she’s so humiliated by her current situation. Gretchen doesn’t want just a feminized slave–she wants one who is completely aware of what has happened to him…and the humiliation he experiences as a result.”
As they spoke, the attendants completed their work on Marsha, unbound her wrists and helped her out of the chair. Gretchen entered then, and produced a bondage glove. She pulled her slave’s arms behind her back, thrust them into the tight leather glove and tightened it until Marsha’s elbows met in the small of her back. Next she pushed a ball gag into Marsha’s mouth, buckling it behind her head. That was followed by a collar with a leash attached. Gretchen took the leash in hand and led the half-naked, half-feminized slave out of the salon, past the gaping Sharon and Chrissy-Poo. Marsha’s eyes implored the others to understand his situation and not to laugh. Sharon couldn’t help but smile–someday she would have to experiment with bondage on Chris.
“Come along, Chrissy-Poo,” Carla said, taking the new TV slave by the hand. “It’s time to complete your transformation.” The satin- clad man-woman was seated in one of the salon’s comfortable chairs and a lovely staff member came up to begin work on his hair.
“Wait!” Sharon halted the process. “I want Chris to be aware of what’s going on. Get dressed for me, Chrissy-Poo!” That was the code phrase that would permit Sharon to impose specific, unopposable orders upon Chris through the implant. “Until I reactivate your implant,” she ordered, “you are Chris again. Carla, perhaps you’d best tie him down as you did Marsha.”
Instantly, Carla and the attendant strapped the hapless Chris into the chair. He pleaded with his wife. “Sharon, why are you doing this?”
“When I met Carla while house-hunting,” she explained, “I discovered that the women of Stepton had the best of everything. About half of them own their own very successful businesses–like Carla here–and have no need of a traditional ‘breadwinner’ as a husband. The others all have husbands whose jobs, like yours, do not require them to be seen frequently in public. Hence, it was simple for them to develop this feminization process.”
“Most of us are confirmed lesbians or bi, anyway,” Carla interjected. “Certainly I can testify that Sharon is–or didn’t you know that when you married her?”
The women all laughed at the surprise that registered on Chris’s face at that assertion. But now, the final steps in his transformation began. One of the boy-girl attendants appeared and introduced herself. “Hi Chrissy-Poo, my name is Francie. I’ll be washing and setting your hair. I’m also told that your mistress has instructed that it be frosted.”
Chris gulped. How far was Sharon going to go with this? He felt the chair fall backward as his head was lowered into the sink. Francie began washing his hair.
Meanwhile, at the high school, Sharon and Chris’ 15-year-old daughter Karen was getting her indoctrination to the joys of petticoating and dominating young men. She was meeting with the leaders of the school’s “domination team,” who had brought along their personal slaves–all boys who also attended the school in feminine disguise–to demonstrate their control over the male sex.
The girls, like their mothers, favored leather clothing–while the boys, like their hapless fathers, were dressed in the most feminine of styles. The leader of the team was Melinda, Gretchen’s daughter, who wore a clinging outfit of black leather jacket and jeans, with spiked-heel knee-length boots. The other two girls, Sondra and Kathryn, wore similar outfits. They had all lent leather clothing to newcomer Karen, so she would not look out of place.
“C’mon, Misty, show Karen how you greet your mistress,” Melinda ordered her slave, a mincing 17-year-old senior once named Michael. He was dressed in Parisian high fashion, as Melinda preferred him to be: silk blouse, tight slim-cut navy skirt, topped by a fitted jacket. Underneath, she had him dressed in what she termed “slut lingerie”–black lacy half-bra, black lacy crotchless panties, matching garter belt and black seamed stockings. He was perched on six-inch-heeled black patent pumps.
Misty fell to her knees at Melinda’s feet, pressing her red glossy lips against the gleaming leather of the teen-age dominatrix’s boots. She ran her tongue up the length of each boot. Then Melinda took the cross-dressed boy’s scarlet-nailed hands and drew him to her face, planting a passionate French kiss upon him, thrusting her tongue deep into the boy-girl’s lipsticked mouth. She reached down and rubbed her hand over the growing mound beneath the navy skirt Melinda wore. Then she pushed him away, nearly sprawling him on the ground.
Misty’s hands strayed toward her turgid cock. “Don’t you dare!” commanded Melinda. “Who does that little dicky thing belong to?” she asked.
“To you and you alone, Mistress,” Misty responded, blushing.
“Drop your skirt, Misty,” Melinda demanded. The embarrassed femme obeyed. “Pull out your dicky thing.” Again Misty complied. “Now jerk off!”
Misty began to pull and rub his cock, feeling it grow larger and larger in his hands. Then–just as he was about to explode– Melinda cried, “Stop!” Immediately he dropped his hands to his sides.
Melinda turned to her compatriots. “Janice,” she cooed, “don’t you think your little Judy would like a taste of come? I know she loves it.”
All eyes turned to Judy, nee Jules, a petite young slave dressed in little girl drag: taffeta party dress with ruffled petticoats, smooth bare legs with white ankle socks. The little-girl look was belied by the size of his breast implants and the seven-inch white heels he was forced to wear. He looked to his mistress, a tall well-built black girl.
“Well, you heard Mistress Melinda,” she told him. “Suck that cock,” she ordered, pointing to Misty’s still-swollen member. The little-girl TV dropped to her knees and took the cock in her mouth, sucking off the other cross-dressed lad until he shuddered with pleasure.
Melinda turned to the stunned but smiling Karen. “You see, Karen, the implants make them unable to defy us. All you have to do is make your pick of the unattached femmes in the school.”
At Carla’s beauty salon, Chris was just seeing the results of Francie’s efforts. His hair was now a coppery red, falling into gentle waves to his shoulders. His eyebrows had been reshaped into ladylike arches; even his ears had been pierced. Little gold studs now graced his lobes. His face had been artfully made up, with eyeshadow, mascara, blush, lipstick and powder. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He actually looked like a woman–albeit a bizarre one, given the satin outfit he was still wearing.
In the mirror, he saw Sharon come up from behind him. “Well, Chrissy-Poo, now you know that the women of Stepton mean what they say. You’ll stay a man-woman from now on.”
He turned to face her and began to speak. She put her hand to his lips and whispered, “Get dressed for me, Chrissy-Poo.” Oh no! She’s done it again–I’m helpless!
“Now, Chrissy-Poo,” said Sharon, settling into one of the salon’s chairs, “I’m horny. Satisfy me.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he responded, burying his face in Sharon’s hot pussy. Why is this happening? Why can’t I stop? Why am I so excited?!
Later that day, Chrissy-Poo and Sharon arrived home. Though the implant permitted no outward sign of it, the transformed sissy was shocked to find Carla, her own little boy-girl Charlotte and her maid-husband Deirdre waiting for them in the living room. What are they doing here?
The answer came in a moment, as the three stepped aside to reveal Chris and Sharon’s son Danny–looking very little like a son at the moment. Laid out on the couch, he was dressed in a pink taffeta party dress, with starched white crinolines and opaque white stockings underneath. He wore charming black patent leather Mary Janes with a two-inch heel upon his feet and white lace gloves upon his hands, folded neatly below his childish bosom. His face was artfully made up to disguise his masculinity, a disguise furthered by the curly, shoulder-length blonde wig he wore. Oh no! thought Chris, has Danny already had the implant done? Is it too late for him?
“I thought you were going to wait for us to get home to transform Danny?” Sharon asked.
“Oh, this is just a preliminary stage,” Carla replied. “Charlotte was visiting–under my orders–and slipped a drugged juice drink to little Danielle here. We’ve found that the implant works particularly well on adolescents if they are already in a transformed state.”
“Good,” Sharon commented. “I want to be here to establish the proper pecking order among my little transformed beauties.”
What does she mean by that? Is Sharon planning something even more bizarre with Danny?
While Chrissy-Poo pondered, Carla prepared the implant injector. She pressed the “muzzle” of the air-gun against the back of the cross-dressed Danny and pulled the “trigger.” There was a brief hiss and she withdrew the device. “It’s done,” she announced.
“Get the little dear to his feet,” Sharon requested, “and wake him up.” Charlotte and Deirdre hauled the still-sleeping boy-girl off the couch and shook him to rouse him.
“Huh–what’s goin’ on…Mom? What is all this….” he mumbled, blearily.
His mother turned to Carla. “What’s his activation phrase?” Carla whispered in Sharon’s ear. “Oh, that’s good.” She turned back to Danny, who was starting to notice how he was dressed–and how his erstwhile father was dressed as well.
“Dad? Why are you in those clothes? What’s happening?”
“Danielle, blow me a kiss!” Sharon announced.
Danny stopped speaking in mid-sentence, pursed his lips and blew a kiss to his domineering mother. “May I do anything else for you, Mother?” he asked, in feminine tones.
Oh God! Chris thought. She’s done it–now we’re both helpless. We’re just boy-girl sex slaves…just like every other male in Stepton!
“Danielle, Carla informs me that her friend Michelle needs a model for her children’s clothing store in New York,” Sharon informed her transformed son. “I have told her you would be happy to take the job. Naturally, all your salary will be turned over to me.”
“Oh, Mother, that’s wonderful! I so love to wear pretty clothes!” Danielle enthused.
I hate hearing him talk like that–but partly because I want to be the one wearing those clothes, Chris realized. What else does Sharon have planned for us?
Sharon turned to her husband-slave. “As for you, Chrissy-Poo, Michelle also has a section of the store that sells exotic and bizarre clothing for transformed males like yourself. I have told her you would be pleased to act as a sales girl–and model–for her.”
“Oh, I can’t wait, Mistress Sharon,” Chrissy-Poo exclaimed. And the horrible thing was that he couldn’t.
The next day, Sharon drove Chrissy-Poo and Danielle to the city. Chrissy-Poo was dressed in her most elegantly bizarre clothes. On the outside, it seemed as though her skintight jump suit was shining red satin; but the satin covered only the outer surface. Beneath it was a form-hugging rubber suit. Under that outre outfit, Chrissy-Poo wore her usual corset, laced to a breath-tightening 19 inches, 37C false boobs, and rubber panties. Her shoes were red patent leather pumps with seven-inch heels; they were secured to her feet with tiny padlocks–“so you don’t kick them off when you get uncomfortable,” Sharon advised her. In order to prepare her for the bondage she might sometimes have to display in her new position at Michelle’s shop, Sharon had also laced Chrissy-Poo into a single glove, her elbows tightly bound in the small of her back.
Danielle, on the other hand, appeared to be the epitome of youthful femininity. The transformed boy wore a white cotton dress with lots of lace on its Buster-Brown collar, cuffs and hem. The skirt of the dress stopped six inches above her knees and was thrust out at nearly right angles by the three layers of white taffeta petticoats that rustled beneath it. Despite her youth, her bust had also been padded out–though not to the same extreme as her erst-while father’s. Beneath the dress she was all in satin–satin camisole, satin garter belt, satin panties. Her sheer white nylons made her legs look both sleek and childlike–especially with the pink-trimmed ankle socks and white patent Mary Janes she wore on her feet.
Both boy-girls had been artfully made up. Chrissy-Poo’s face looked adult and sensuous–but innocent as well, with her cheeks rouged to imitate the embarrassed blush of a woman ashamed of her flaunted femininity. Danielle’s make up, though, was subtle and gentle, making the 12-year-old boy look the picture of shy youth. Still, she was beautiful, certain to attract the eye of any young lad–and be the envy of the customers for whom she would model in Michelle’s store.
Sharon parked the car near Broadway and 79th on Manhattan’s fashionable West Side and directed the two “girls” to follow her. They were greeted at the shop door by Michelle, who clapped her hands in delight at the sight of her two new employees.
“Sharon, honey, they’re wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I just love what you’ve done with Chrissy-Poo’s bondage. And Danielle–her dress is just darling!” The shop owner reached down and took the skirt of the youthful boy-girl’s dress in her hands, rustling the petticoats across Danielle’s legs. Beneath her panties, Danielle could feel her cock grow from the stimulation.
“Now, you just leave them to me,” she continued. “I close the shop at six. You can come and pick them up then. Enjoy your day in the city.”
Two hours later, both boy-girls were well into their respective jobs. Danielle was modeling for one of Michelle’s exclusive customers, a young matron who had petticoated her own little boy.
She was outfitted in a red velvet party dress with white lace collar and cuffs. Her hands were tightly encased in white cotton gloves. Like the dress in which she had come to the store, the skirt was buoyed by the three starched petticoats beneath it. Her legs were bare, with just white ankle socks with a red satin ribbon through the cuff and red patent leather strapless pumps upon her feet. This customer preferred to keep her charge in mild bondage, so Michelle had demonstrated how this pretty party outfit could be accessorized with white satin ribbon wrapped tightly around Danielle’s wrists tied in a big bow, keeping her hands locked tightly together, while the ribbons in her socks had been tied together as well, restricting her step to a scant eight inches.
The young matron looked thoughtfully at the bound vision Danielle made–and then glanced at her own “daughter,” sitting beside her, with her neck immobilized by a punishment collar so that she had no choice but to look at her counterpart, despite her deep desire to avoid knowing her fate.
Chrissy-Poo, on the other hand, was modeling even more bizarre clothing for a professional mistress who frequently ordered her cross-dressed clients to accompany her to Michelle’s shop. The dominatrix had one such slave with her today. He was dressed in tight-fitting green sheath which set off his red wig beautifully. The extremely tight corset he wore was perfectly obvious beneath the sheath, as were his garters and stocking tops below the short tight skirt. He wore eight-inch heels, in which he couldn’t really walk. He was completely at his mistress’ mercy.
Chrissy-Poo, perched on a pedestal in the center of the shop, was equally at Michelle’s mercy. She was still in her corset, but now her clothing consisted of a black leather miniskirt and white satin halter. Her hands were chained in front of her, locked to the belt of the skirt. She could move them perhaps three inches in any direction. Her legs were tightly encased in white patent leather, thigh-high boots with six-inch heels. They had been carefully posed in a feminine gesture–one foot slightly in front of the other, toe pointed, knee slightly bent. To ensure that she could not change her position, Chrissy-Poo’s feet were chained to the pedestal.
Michelle stood next to her, demonstrating the various bondage gear sold in the shop. Finally, when she wished to prove how helpless a cross-dressed slave could be in this outfit, she began to massage Chrissy-Poo’s breasts, hips and crotch, stroking the transformed man’s body through the sensuous leather and lace. Chrissy-Poo’s growing excitement was obvious.
Oh God! Chris thought. Even under this skirt, my cock must be visible! It feels so big! Please, Michelle, don’t make me come! Not here, not now!
Michelle leaned over and whispered in Chrissy-Poo’s ear, “Now come for me, little Chrissy-Poo.”
She shuddered and came, unable to resist the power of the implant that turned Chris Martin into one of the Stepton slaves.