For the next week, I endured the snickers of my office mates about my newly frosted hair and trimmed eyebrows. I was glad they couldn't detect one other reminder of my weekend as Carol--Mistress Samantha had used her magical control over me to force me to wear panties, garter belt and stockings under my male attire. Every morning I tried to fight the mystic urge, but every morning I failed. Moving of their own volition, seemingly, my hands would place the treasured feminine underthings on my body.
The weekend after my transformation to Carol Mistress Samantha did not command my presence at her apartment. Perhaps she wanted to heighten my sense of anticipation for the next time I would be transformed.
However, she did order me to spend the two days in my own place, wearing nothing but lingerie and high heels, and practicing with makeup. She also commanded me to bring home a large selection of women fashion magazines and to study the looks in them in order to gain a better knowledge of modern fashion. By the end of the weekend, I was as much an expert on fashion as any man outside the garment trade could be.
By the second week after my initial transformation, the snickers and stares from my fellow workers had subsided, though visitors to the office were sometimes momentarily surprised to see my slightly feminine appearance. I thought perhaps I would be able to last this all out until my hair and eyebrows grew back out. Alas, Mistress Samantha had no intention of making it that easy.
On Wednesday of that second week, I was in the midst of a meeting with my staff when my mistress's latest trick struck.
"Okay, folks, the March issue looked good," I told them, "but April can still look better--" I stopped short. A familiar tingle was beginning in my chest and my ass. Oh God, I thought, Mistress Samantha has reactivated the spell! I'm going to transform into Carol right here! I had to get out of the meeting before the glow began to appear.
I feigned illness and excused myself, rushing to my office and closing the door. Just in time, too--because the telltale glow in the womanly shape was beginning. Moments later, I looked in the mirror on the inside of my office door and saw Carol staring back. The phone rang--I knew who it had to be.
"Hello, Carol, dear," the mistress said. "How do you like my little surprise?"
"Mistress, how--how," I stammered, "how am I going to get out of here? I'm dressed like a man now!"
"Well, darling," she cooed, "I'm sure you'll think of something." And she hung up.
I was in a quandary. How could Carol--a woman--walk out of Carl's office, wearing his suit? I'd look ridiculous. Then I had an idea.
Earlier that week, at Mistress Samantha's order, I had purchased some new shoes and other accessories to add to Carol's wardrobe. They were still in my desk drawer. If I put them on, I could perhaps make this man's business suit look feminine enough to pass anything but a close inspection. And if I waited until late enough in the day, no one would see me leave my office.
I pulled off my shoes and socks--being too big now they were practically falling off anyway--and stepped into the gray kid pumps with five-inch heels. Instantly, I felt more like Carol. I took off my tie and opened the front of my shirt by a few buttons. Taking out another of the packages I had squirreled away in my desk, I put on earrings, a matching necklace, and pinned a colorful satin scarf to my shoulder.
Next, I took out the makeup kit Mistress Samantha commanded me to keep in the office, and made up my face. The look I had when completed was somewhat androgynous but I was reasonably certain I'd pass.
At 6:30 that evening, sure that the rest of the staff had left, I finally ventured out of my office. Fortunately, I was right--no one was there. I quickly got to the elevator and headed for the lobby. I made it to the subway--still a little crowded with late-leaving commuters--without incident.
This was seemingly the ultimate humiliation Mistress Samantha could play upon me. I guessed wrong--the coming weekend would be even worse.
On Friday morning, I received a call from Mistress Samantha, commanding my presence that evening at 7:00. She ordered me to come straight from the office--I would need no "accessories," everything required for our time together would be at her apartment.
I arrived as ordered. Mistress Samantha met me at the door, dressed casually. The moment I stepped through the door, she uttered the mystic command--and by the time I walked into the bedroom, I was Carol once again.
"Get out of those male clothes, Carol," she told me. "I have a very interesting outfit for you to wear this evening."
"These are called 'ballet shoes,'" Mistress Samantha explained as she buckled the things to my feet. "As you can see, the height of the heels--about eight inches--and the extreme curve of the arch force you to walk with almost all your weight on your toes, just like a ballerina!" She secured the buckles with tiny padlocks. "Stand up and let me see how you walk in them--now!"
Once again, seemingly without my mind having any control over my body, I stood and minced in the painfully sexy shoes. I looked into the full-length mirror on the Mistress's wall and saw how the strange footwear further emphasized my feminine gait, forcing my ass to wiggle provocatively and my boobs to jiggle even more than usual.
"Beautiful! Carol, you're certain to be the hit of the party!" Mistress Samantha exclaimed.
Party?! I was going to a party like this?
"All right, Carol, now sit at the vanity," she instructed. "I want to be sure your makeup is perfect for the evening." Thirty minutes later, I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror. The mistress had indeed done a masterful job with my face. My eyes looked large and bright, accented with greenish eyeshadow and three coats of mascara. My cheeks glowed with the blush of rouge, aided by the natural blush of my embarrassment at my growing predicament. My lips were as red as cherries, perfectly shaped into a Cupid's bow pout. But my face was not the end of my makeup job that night.
Mistress Samantha moved down to my breasts, dusting them with powder until they were nearly as white as my corset. Next, she took the cherry-red lipstick she used on my lips and carefully colored my erect nipples. The final effect was almost unbearably erotic--with the pure white of my clothing, I looked like a virgin in heat!
Then it dawned on me. If Mistress Samantha has gone to the trouble of making up my breasts--then I'm not going to be wearing anything over them! She obviously saw the light go on in my eyes. "Yes, Carol, darling. With but a few exceptions, this is your outfit for the evening," she said, smiling evilly. "And I must say you look scrumptious. Perhaps next time, I'll pierce your nipples and hang a chain from them--that should bring some attention at the office and the gym!"
My cheeks colored again. Would she really consider so permanent a change in my male appearance? So much had changed in our relationship since Mistress Samantha had discovered the transformation spell that I couldn't be sure.
Now came the final accessories: a white patent-leather collar that the mistress padlocked to my throat and a silvery pair of handcuffs that she locked me into, with my arms behind my back. She produced a chain lead and clipped it to the collar, locking the other end onto a heavy chair. "Just so you don't go anywhere while I change into my party clothes," she laughed. As if I would go anywhere, locked into this semblance of submissive femininity!
A few moments later, Mistress Samantha emerged, dressed to kill. She wore a tight-fitting floor-length black satin gown, with a slit up the left side to her hip, revealing her garters and stocking top. It had a halter neckline, the back bare nearly to her ass, making it obvious that the garter belt and sheer black stockings were her only underwear. Her feet were clad in black patent-leather sandals with 6-inch heels, showing off her red-painted toenails (nails that I had personally polished only the previous night). A black patent-leather collar, matching my own white one, showed at her neck--and a riding crop dangled from her left wrist.
She picked up the end of my lead, smirking. "Come along, pet--or we'll be late," she cooed, leading me through the door and to her car. I struggled to get in, hampered as I was by the bonds on my wrists and the "ballet shoes" on my feet. Once I was inside, any hopes I had for slumping in my seat in order to be less noticeable instantly disappeared, as Mistress Samantha firmly buckled me into the seat harness, making any attempt at hiding nearly impossible.
Fortunately, the trip to the party was uneventful. The same cannot be said for our arrival. As Mistress Samantha pulled into the parking lot, I instantly recognized the name on the front of the establishment where the party was being held--Lesbos! A notorious hangout for the lesbian D/S set, I had often fantasized about being brought here under circumstances not unlike the situation I found myself in tonight. But those were only fantasies--now I was living them, and I wasn't sure I wanted to!
The mistress unbuckled my seat belt and aided me in getting out of the car. Then she took my lead in her hand and escorted me to the door of the club. "This is a very special night at Lesbos," she explained as we waited for her secret knock to be answered. "No dominant is allowed in without a slave in tow. You'll have lots of company."
The "bouncer" was Evelyn, Mistress Samantha's friend from the beauty parlor where I had had my first transformation completed. Kneeling beside her was Christy, her TV assistant from the salon. The feminized male was nearly naked, his slender but masculine body in clear view. Still, Christy looked suitably feminine--her hair was set in a softly waved pageboy, her face was made up with Evelyn's usual cosmetic skill and, like me, her breasts had been powdered and rouged to emphasize their femininity. She wore a garter belt and fishnet stockings, with her feet locked into black pumps with a T-strap and six-inch heels.
"Is this Carol, Sam?" Evelyn asked. "What a wonderful job you've done with her!" I blushed (all over) at Evelyn's enthusiastic reaction to my submissive predicament. "C'mon in, the party's just getting started."
She stepped aside and let us enter the semi-darkened club. In many ways, it was a submissive cross-dresser's wet dream--a room filled with beautiful dominant lesbians, many of whom--like Carol and Evelyn--who delighted in transforming submissive men into the sweet feminine objects of their lust. Obviously, I was in for a night to remember!
To be continued
[Don't forget to pick the man you'd love to see feminized (details here)!]
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