As you may recall, Master Jason and I spent Wednesday afternoon studying math, then after dinner we cuddled on the couch while he told me the history of his hypnotic powers. That interlude ended quite abruptly, due to my Master’s need (or desire — they’re the same to me) to fuck me, and as my ass is still recovering from yesterday, I had almost a whole second meal consisting entirely of his wonderful cum.
As I was cleaning up I found his note.
“Bitch —
“Meet me Friday at 8 PM at Richie’s Tavern. Your name will be Bitz; if anyone asks, it’s short for Elizabeth. Elizabeth is a good-looking single divorcee in her mid-30s. I will very displeased if nobody hits on you. Very displeased.
“I won’t see you tomorrow. I’ll be getting a blow job from somebody competent.”
No signature. Bitch, Bitz, Bitch, Bitz. Cute. “Well-hung, dominant, and clever, too!” I thought. “Oops. Careful. As slave, I have no right to judge whether he’s clever. I mustn’t form opinions about anything he does, except math, where I have his express permission. It’s axiomatic. What he does is right, and if there are several right answers then his is the best. If you’re going to have a Master, you can’t be second-guessing. What if I were to think he’d made a mistake? A conflict between logic and my Master’s will, with me as the battlefield. I’d go mad in an endless recursion, like that renegade computer in Star Trek. Worse, I’d blurt it out like I’ve done, twice, already. I don’t want to know, ever, what Phase Three punishment is like. No, I won’t presume to understand. Master Jason is right in all things. Logic’s for math only.”
How was I going to obey these commands? I knew nothing about dressing in drag. And it can’t be silly, like “Some Like It Hot,” because I must be convincing to horny, pool-shooting boys. As “Bitz.” In less than 48 hours. I sat down to make a list. Dress. I’d need a dress, sort of dressy, but not too much — Richie’s is just a neighborhood tavern, not an upscale wine bar. Bra, with some way to fill it; will B cups be enough? Panty hose, shoes — some heel, not stiletto. Makeup. Hairstyle. It’s probably long enough, but how would a woman do my hair? Nail polish. Purse. Woman’s watch.
In despair, I crumbled up the list and threw it, somewhere. What in the hell was I thinking? The guys at Richie’s aren’t blind. Or stupid. I’m 5’10”, 165 pounds. And I want to trick them into hitting on me? What am I going to do? More accurately, what’s going to happen to me when I fail Friday night? Maybe he wants to dump me for Mr. or Ms. Thursday Night, and giving me an impossible task will be his excuse. No, he doesn’t care about excuses. If he dumps me, he’ll just stop showing up. If I shoot myself, he’ll mention it casually to Mr. Thursday, but that’s all. He’s all about power, not remorse.
That was a dazzling, if irrelevant, insight. My Master is totally, totally self-absorbed with the idea of increasing his power! Maybe. If a worm such as myself can comprehend his thinking. I can’t even comprehend my own thinking. How did I get so obsessed with a 19-year old boy’s cock?
A searing pain shot through my head. It darted all over my brain, here, there, everywhere, until its charge wore down. Then it exited, through my eyes. On a scale of 1 to 10, where the pain of having your virgin ass buggered by three or four pounds of rigid, engorged cock is a 9 (I left 10 for later — no telling what Master Jason had planned for some future session), this lightning bolt in my brain was at least a 7. The generalized ache in my whole body was about a 4. Funny thing. Two weeks ago, I’d have given my body pains an 8 or 9. I wondered if the lightning bolt was a warning — “Warning! You’re about to cross the line into blasphemy and disloyalty. Warning!”
If the pain inflicted by my Master was excruciating, so was the pleasure. That is, whatever word is the pleasure equivalent of “excruciating.” Being fucked in my virgin ass hurt, hurt like hell, but that explosion of sheer sexual bliss, maybe a half-pound of endorphins, offset the pain and then some. He was going to do it again, soon. He’d said every two or three days. The skin around my ass hole flinched, just at the thought. Even so, all things considered, I couldn’t wait.
Treason, heresy, disloyalty. I must get control of myself! I have no right to an opinion about anything my Master does. My purpose is to cater to his pleasure, as he commands, and to hope for crumbs in return. Drops, not crumbs. Drops of his delicious, life-enhancing cum.
I knew what I had to do. Wearily I got in the shower, and got dressed to go out. I was out of Advil, for one thing. More important, I had to go to my office, to do some intensive Web searching. (I have really fast Internet access at work, so I never saw the point in paying for service at home.) It was kind of obvious, once I cleared my mind of all those impious doubts about my Master. Lots of men dress as women. Many are convincing. Commerce adana escort will find a way to help, in exchange for cash — it always does. Probably serious cash. So, I had a sort of a plan. Google — what? — maybe transvestite + accessories, see what turns up. Most important, find a store where I could buy what I need, tomorrow. That meant a four-hour drive to Metropolis, my impromptu pseudonym for our nearest big city. (Chicago? Minneapolis? My lips are sealed, except to admit portions of my Master.)
I sat at the computer, waiting for the long, tedious start-up routine, complete with every anti-virus program since Pasteur. As I sat, I thought of my need for a bit of good luck, which, now that I was thinking straight, was the only kind of luck I’d had for over a week, since Master Jason first came to me with that silly story of his dream. His dream of becoming a woman! Of course! He wants me to become the woman in his dream, even if the whole thing was fiction! I closed my eyes, trying to recall her description. He said she looked at lot like Ms. Decolletage, from the front row of our calculus class. Ms. Decolletage has big tits — C cups, for sure — and a very big frame, for a woman. Of the few times I’d talked to her at all, she was standing only once — she was about my height! Was she wearing heels at the time? I couldn’t remember, but I thought not. And not thin, either. Not fat. Her curves curved in all the right directions. Just big. In fact, she was really sexy. She filled a plaid flannel shirt like nobody’s business. At least, I’d thought so until just the other day. As I thought, I realized I’d seen routine paperwork about her — the athletic department checking up on its team members. What team, though? I couldn’t remember. Anyway, Dr. Bitch was probably broader and heavier than Ms. Decolletage, but with luck Ms. Bitz would be just her size. Maybe I could borrow some clothes.
My luck held, as it had held for over a week. Yes, there’s a whole lot of stuff you can buy and put on, or stick on, to help yourself become a convincing transvestite. Spendy, but that was no surprise. Stick on boobs, pads for the hips, . . . not to mention the actual garments. I found the web site of a store in our Metropolis. It was 8:45 PM.
I called the number, and they were still open. Getting ready to close. Hours tomorrow 11:00 AM to 9:00 PM. I really, really needed their help, so I just told them the truth. Most of the truth.
“Listen, I’m really in a bind. I need your help. I’ve agreed to meet a my beau in a bar Friday night, and I have to be totally female. He wants straight, pool-playing guys to hit on me.”
The clerk sighed. “I’m afraid, sir, that it’s almost impossible. The clothes are no problem, it’s the mannerisms. You have no idea how much differently women move and act than men.”
“But it’s imperative that I try. Can you help me?”
Another sigh. “All right, but you’ll have to come to the shop.”
“I’ll be there, 11:00 sharp. You know, I’ve never met a man who’s so demanding and, and. . . virile! I’ll do just about anything to please him. You have to help me, you have to. This man makes me feel like I’ve never felt before. I don’t want to make this all about money, but I’ll certainly pay for your time, and everything else.” I paused. “You have to help me, coach me into acting feminine. This could be true love.”
Reading the words in black-and-white, you might think I was mincing like some bad imitation of what we used to call a queer, or fairy. Not so. I was pouring out my heart. I sounded desperate, because I felt desperate. Everything I said was true, except where I said I’d do “just about” anything to please my Master. Strike the “just about.”
He unbent a little. “Sir, we work with two or three women who are experts in such coaching. I can arrange for one of them to be here tomorrow afternoon, but I’ll have to guarantee payment. It won’t be cheap. And that’s just for her. On top of that, to really pull it off you’ll have to have quite a lot of accessories and even equipment you’ve never heard of. Stuff you wouldn’t need, if you had a woman’s body.” He gave a ballpark estimate of the total.
I almost gasped, but I’d had lots of practice recently in keeping such reactions silent. It was obvious he was padding the price to get a big gratuity for himself, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was pay, or fail, and I couldn’t bear to think about the consequences of failing. Besides, the value of his services would be immense. So, what the hell, I figured. What’s the use of a high credit limit if you never splurge?
He was still speaking. “You’ll have to guarantee Mme Coach’s fee, tonight, by credit card. Would you like to continue?”
I recovered. “Yes, very much.” I told him my credit card information. “Also, I hate to impose, but I must get up early and drive from College Town tomorrow morning, and back here tomorrow night. If I tell eskişehir escort you my basic measurements and certain requirements, will you have things ready when I arrive? In fact, can you open the store early for me? I’ll meet you as early as you think necessary.”
In an old Warner Brothers cartoon, you’d hear a ‘ca-ching!’ and his eyes would light up with dollar signs. I didn’t hear the ‘ca-ching!,’ but his eyes might have done just that — I couldn’t see him. His answer was immediate.
“Yes, sir. Actually, yes ma’am. I can meet you here at 9:00, and have things laid out for you to try. Of course, I’ll need your word that you’ll buy what you need from us — really, from me. I work on commission, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I promise. I already promised you an extra fee for your time. If you’d rather fold it into your commission, that’s your business.”
“Very well, ma’am. I shall expect you at 9:00 AM tomorrow. Now, about your requirements?” I gave him my measurements, and described Ms. Decolletage, explaining that I was sure she was the model my beau wanted me to look like. He asked a lot of questions about minute measurements that I’d never thought of, ever, but apparently were important for properly fitting the transvestite appliances. After about 45 minutes total, we were about done.
“One more thing, ma’am. Shall we schedule you for a makeover — you know, manicure, hairstyling, and such? As you can imagine, we know some very good artists in that line.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But remember, I want to keep it simple. This is College Town, not Park Avenue. Please choose the stylist accordingly. Someone who can also explain to me how to do it myself Friday evening.”
“My dear madame, I very much hope for your sake that you will be putting on your makeup more than just the once on Friday evening. No more questions? Then, good night, ma’am. Go to bed. You’ll be very busy tomorrow. If you can fly, or persuade someone to drive you here and back, it would be wise.”
“Thank you very much. I can’t tell you how much. And thanks for your advice. Good night.”
At nine, sharp, the next morning, I pulled up to a small boutique in a crummy strip mall. There was nothing sexy about it. In fact, they overdid the discreet bit — a woman’s boutique would have had much better windows. Anyway, I didn’t need to knock. The clerk swung the door open. He looked nothing like what you’re picturing. He looked like an insurance salesman, but in a high-quality, well-fitted suit, if you can imagine such a thing. As we shook hands, he told me his name. “Call me Bitz,” I replied.
His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
(Sigh. He’d probably heard, “Call me bitch.”) “Bitz. B-I-T-Z. Short for ‘Elizabeth.’ ‘Bitzi’ is okay too, if you’d prefer.”
“No, here we always call a customer what he wants to be called. Many men, like possibly yourself, need to practice their name, and get used to responding. Well, please come right this way, Ms. Bitz.”
I held up both hands, to stop him. “Listen, I know you don’t want to hear about my personal life, but I want to explain just how badly I need help. A week and a half ago, I thought I was straight. I was straight. I have an ex-wife and a kid. Now I’m madly in love with a handsome, virile man, and I’m ready to renounce women forever. I’ll do anything to please him. But except for what he’s taught me, I know nothing about being gay, or women’s clothes, or anything. Nothing. Any tips you and your team can give me, especially on how to act like a woman in woman’s clothes, would be infinitely appreciated.”
“Of course, Ms. Bitz. Congratulations. You have learned the truth relatively young. But right now, time is of the essence. Please follow me.”
Just as darkness fell Thursday evening, Ms. Bitz got into my car and got on the freeway for College Town. She was hot. Very warm, anyway.
Twenty-four hours later, I pulled the same car into the parking lot of Richie’s Tavern. I was exhausted, and still in pain from my activities of past week. But I was also keyed up. Excited. Of course, I was thinking about my Master, Jason, but I was also thinking of all the good-looking kids, cock-teasing girls and cock-heavy boys. It was gonna be fun.
I was wearing my best (only) out-on-the-town dress, a black number cut about two inches above my knees. It had a high neckline, but had a wide belt, almost a cummerbund, showing the outline of my generous tits. Instead of sleeves, it had a sort of bunched-up gather of cloth. From the back, it looked a little like a monk’s robe. This was to conceal the shoulders and biceps of which I had been so proud only a short time ago. I couldn’t wear a low-cut dress, either, at least not until I got falsies exactly matching my skin tones. Too easy to see the seam. They’d promised me that the adhesive would hold, and not hurt if the bra — Victoria’s Secret, C-cup, satin — was doing its job holding up my sakarya escort tits so they didn’t pull on the skin of my chest. Real stockings and garters — I had a boyfriend to seduce, after all — and shoes with a heel, but a low one. Luckily, it was warm for January, because the boutique didn’t carry women’s winter coats and I’d had no time to buy one anywhere else. I just picked up my simple but elegant black purse and dashed in to the bar, sans coat.
The hardest part of my new role was movement and mannerisms, as I’d been warned, and coached for hours, just yesterday. Getting dressed and made up wasn’t too bad. Shaving my legs was a hassle, but nothing I couldn’t figure out. I’m naturally not hairy — 42 years old and can’t grow a proper beard — so it had been relatively easy for the experts to devise a makeup pattern that would lead the eye away from my cheeks and chin, to my eyes.
Which were gorgeous. Eyebrow waxing hurts, but on my new pain scale, only about a 2, maybe 2.5. Somehow, I’d instinctively known how to apply eye makeup, after being shown only once, and I thought I’d done a better job this evening than the pros had done yesterday. So there. Anyway, my eyes were elegantly tapered, almost but not quite almonds. Eyebrows waxed, but not in any high-fashion arches.
They’d shown me how to apply false nails, but I decided to let it go. After the manicure, my real nails looked feminine enough to me, even if they weren’t long. I’d’ had to redo the polish myself, this afternoon, but it was plenty good enough for a dark, loud, smoky bar. Lipstick, the same. Good enough for enticing horny kids.
As for the girly mannerisms, after endless coaching and practice, I knew the basics of what not to do, but most of the feminine touches, that je ne sais quoi, I couldn’t do well, or couldn’t do reliably, or couldn’t do either well or reliably. Finally, possibly in desperation, we’d had the idea that I simply shouldn’t move quickly unless necessary, so I’d have more time to adjust. Marlene Dietrich?
Besides, as I had to remind everyone at the end of a long and often frustrating day, I’m a strange woman, alone, in a bar that isn’t rough, but is mostly male. It’s dark. It’s loud, making it relatively easy to fake my voice. I’ve got great legs (been a runner all my life), good tits, and, thanks to the makeup, a very pretty face. How many 22 year-old guys are going to bother about the details? I don’t think I would have, ‘way back, two weeks ago.
As I left the city last night, the salesman said something really sweet. “One problem. What are you going to do when you’re carded?” I kissed his cheek as a reward, and we both laughed and laughed, tension easing after a long day. I wasn’t worried about being carded. Besides, my Master hangs out here, and he’s underage.
I walked in, stride correct, hips swaying just a little. The bouncer looked me up and down, like guys do, but if he thought I was underage he kept it to himself. Inside, the action was just starting to pick up. The band was setting up, the music on the loudspeakers was just that — loud — and the light was even dimmer than we’d rehearsed with.
Some guys cleared their coats off a spare barstool as I approached, so I could sit at the bar. I didn’t even have to ask. Girlness has some advantages. I resisted the temptation to hike up my skirt a few inches as I took my perch there, but I didn’t resist very hard, and hiked it up. Caught a couple of older guys — wedding bands embedded in their hands — looking. Smiled a cool smile for them, one that said, “compliment accepted, stay where you are.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The bartender startled me. Lucky I’d thought this one through. “Do you have Chardonnay by the glass?” He nodded. “That would be wonderful.” I didn’t bat my new eyelashes at him, because I couldn’t yet do it without looking like a whore in a bad movie. My natural, formerly guy-to-guy smile worked well. It looked okay in the mirror, too. Go with what you know.
You don’t want to hear about the Torquemada-inspired devices preventing my cock from spoiling the planes of the dress, and especially preventing him from any gallant responses to sexy creatures. As far as I was concerned, only one person, man or woman, was at all sexy, but he’s the one I was concerned about. If I popped a hard-on when I saw my Master, which I certainly, 100%, would do, then my chances of getting hit on would diminish considerably, and Phase Three awaited. I was sure that the prevention was less painful than the punishment.
My wine came, and I paid for it, man-style, by handing the guy a twenty and just leaving the change on the bar. Nobody noticed. I peered at my new watch, bought at Tar-zhay on the way here tonight. How could dames really see the tiny watch face, especially in a dark bar? It wasn’t quite 8:00. Was Master here? I hadn’t seen him, but I could see only half the room. So I sat, demurely, sipping my wine, a nice girl waiting for her date or her friends.
That got boring pretty fast, and 8:00 had come and passed. What was Master’s game, this time? What hoops did I have to jump through? Forgive me, Master, for doubting, but I was nervous and a little scared. What would happen if I slipped up somehow? They’d laugh, but would anyone recognize me as their math professor?