Stepton High

A sequel of sorts to The Stepton Slaves

Arnie Howard opened the letter from his stepmother again as the train left the next-to-last stop on his journey. He'd been away at boarding school when his father and his new wife decided to move to Stepton...and he'd never understood why they did it. Now, in this letter, Diane, his step-mother, had requested that he come to their new home town and start his high-school years there. She promised him lots of surprises when he arrived.

By the time he had finished re-reading the letter, the train pulled into Stepton. As he stepped off, Arnie noticed that he seemed to be the only male--outside of the conductor on the train--in the station. The station master, all the other departing passengers, and all those waiting to greet new arrivals were female: either women or girls of various ages. And all of them were attractive--there didn't seem to be an ugly or plain woman in the whole town.

"Arnie, darling, over here!" He turned at the voice calling his name. It was Diane, dressed to kill in an expensive black leather sheath, belted tight around her wasp waist. Her blonde hair cascaded in soft waves to her shoulders, its golden color contrasting with the ebony of her clothes. Her long legs, revealed to mid-thigh by the mini-skirt of the dress, were covered in sleek black nylons and perched on black patent-leather pumps with five-inch heels. Though she was smiling, Arnie always found the woman a little imposing. He walked toward her with some trepidation.

"Arnie, it's so good to have you home," she cried, putting her arm around him and leaning down to kiss the short, slender boy. "I have so much to tell you!"

"Where's Dad?" Arnie asked. His father was a financial consultant who worked out of their home; he'd expected to be picked up by his father at the station.

"Ronnie's at home, taking care of his duties," Diane replied, a hint of amusement in her voice. She led him to a dark luxury car, with a livery-clad young woman beside it. The chauffeur (for such Arnie assumed her to be) assisted them into the car.

"Will there be anything else?" the chauffeur inquired, in a sexily husky voice.

"No, Jeanne, just take us home, please." Arnie had been hustled along so effectively he completely forgot about his luggage, left behind at the station master's office.

Arnie's impression of the town's population was not changed by what he saw on the way to his new home. Not a male was in sight on the streets of Stepton. The women and girls seemed to come in two types: lots of leather-clad women and teens who walked with a sense of assuredness and the others--dressed in frills and extreme high heels, almost caricatures of pure femininity.

"I see you've noticed one of the unusual features of our little town, Arnie," Diane said. "Yes, there are no apparent males here--but, I assure you, there are men and boys here. Most of those adorably frilly and frothy young women you see out there are in reality males--transformed into images of female beauty," she went on.

Arnie frowned. "Transformed?"

"Yes, dear. One of Stepton's prominent women, Carla Weathers, has determined that this town shall never suffer from the depredations that male control brings to all cities: crime, corruption, juvenile delinquency. She developed a fascinating device that helps all the women in Stepton control their husbands, sons and boyfriends--by converting them into feminized slaves." Diane saw the look of consternation that suddenly passed Arnie's face. "Yes, Arnie--that means you, too.

"And don't bother trying to escape! I'm quite capable of handling you physically," Diane advised him. "Besides, all the car doors are locked from Jeanne's control panel."

Subdued by Diane's words and demeanor, Arnie sat in silence for the rest of the trip home. Obviously, his father had married a crazy woman; there was no way she was going to "feminize" him, whatever that meant. Certainly, his father would have no part of this scheme.

In a short time, the sullen 14-year-old and his beautiful stepmother pulled into the driveway of a large brick home. The lovely chauffeur opened the doors of the car and escorted them into the house. "Ronnie, darling, we're home!" Diane called.

At last, thought Arnie, now we'll see how far this idiocy continues. The door to the living room opened and a vision in sexual femininity minced out. The tall redhead was dressed in a classic French maid's uniform: black satin mini-dress over a froth of white petticoats; white satin apron tied in an over-large bow in the back; black seamed stockings; and black patent pumps with six-inch heels, their ankle straps secured with tiny padlocks. "Welcome, home, Mistress Diane. Hello, Arnie."

Arnie stared at this lovely creature with unabashed confusion--the face was in some ways familiar beneath the carefully applied cosmetics, the voice had a familiar ring within its breathy tones. It couldn't be!

But it was! "Arnie, say hello to your 'father'," Diane chuckled, watching the embarrassment in both their faces.

"Hi...Dad," Arnie stumbled over the words.

"Lunch is ready in the kitchen, Mistress," Ronnie informed them. "And Arnie's appointment at Miss Carla's salon is set for 3 p.m."

"Excellent, Ronnie," Diane replied. "Come, Arnie, let's eat. You'll need all your strength for this afternoon's activities."

During lunch, Arnie could not keep his eyes off the lovely creature who had once been his manly father. Finally, he could hold it in no longer. "How did you do this? How could you do this?"

"Everything will be explained at Carla's salon this afternoon," Diane answered. "Now, be quiet and eat, like a good little...boy." And she smiled secretly.

At 3, Arnie found himself in the waiting area of Carla's beauty salon. He had been to such places before, when his mother was alive, so he knew what to expect. But there were subtle differences to this salon. First of all, the magazines were not just the typical women's titles, such as Glamour, Vogue and Mademoiselle; there were also magazines with such strange-sounding names as Transformation and Petticoat Power.

The pictures on the wall also seemed unusual--and it took Arnie a few moments to realize that all these seemingly beautiful women were actually men in makeup and feminine hairdos. And the attendants! They were not dressed in the usual sensible smocks, but in short, tight mini-skirts, bustiers and six-inch heels. And a closer look let him see that most of them were male, as well.

After a few moments, Miss Carla herself came and escorted him to a seat in the working area of the salon. She wore what seemed to be the town 'uniform' for the real women--a leather business suit (in red), with an extremely short skirt, white satin blouse and matching red heels. "Now, Arnie, we're going to do the outer changes on you before the 'inner' ones, at your stepmother's request. Isn't that right, Diane?" she asked.

"That's correct, Carla. I want Arnie to know what's being done, so he understands the seriousness of our plans for him."

Carla strapped Arnie's hands to the arms of the chair, and his legs to the footrest. (Though he had long since resigned himself to undergo whatever Diane had in mind; surely, any changes she made to him would be purely 'cosmetic,' in every sense of the word and could always be undone when he got the chance.)

As these thoughts passed through Arnie, his stepmother and her beautician friend were looking over a number of beauty magazines, deciding on Arnie's new look. Finally, they both stopped on the same page and smiled conspiratorially. Carla summoned one of her assistants, a lovely "girl" named Suzie-Q, to wash and set Arnie's longish hair.

"You're really a man, aren't you?" Arnie asked Suzie-Q. She looked down at herself, clad in the revealing uniform of the salon. "Yes, I was, but not anymore..."

"You mean they.."

"Oh no--my mistress would never 'unsex' me," Suzie-Q replied. "I just never think of myself as male anymore. I can't, except when I'm reminded of it."

"What do you mean? How can you forget you're a man?" Arnie insisted.

Suzie-Q turned around and lifted her shoulder-length brunette locks from her neck. She pointed to the slightly reddish scar there, barely visible unless you looked closely. "It's because of this--you'll find out."

Arnie gulped. Perhaps getting out of all this later would not be as easy as he thought.

Arnie sat quietly as the women of the salon worked on him: cutting, coloring and setting his hair; plucking his eyebrows; applying cosmetics, including false eyelashes and fingernails. He even permitted them to remove his clothes and shave his legs without protest. Though resigned to what his stepmother had planned--for the moment--he secretly vowed to find a way out.

MORE TO COME