What is happening to me!
My right hand goes to my pubes. The twinge has returned and in the privacy of my counselor’s office, everything most confidential, I cannot ignore it. I caress myself... unable to do so while walking the streets of New York. And then for the first time my left hand goes to my nipples. I caress there as well. Such are crinkled...like the girl in the park! Oh, the irony!
My counselor smiles... projecting that ‘I know something you don’t know’ look. She seems satiated, in guy’s parlance as if she just scored a major league run to win a game.
“You’re discovering yourself anew, Mr. Warren. Perhaps it would be better if we used another moniker for you if you’re going to be a naughty girl.”
She grasps my hand. I am infatuated by my reflection and she must tug firmly.
“Come. Let’s talk, Renee. We have much to cover. Tomorrow you have an appointment with a woman who will be taking you shopping and teaching you deportment. And I think you will enjoy yourself. Your skin is becoming tender as I am sure you can feel. You’ll need silk and satin. There are not many girls who get to go shopping on a wealthy benefactress...”
Lying on the couch I spy a dildo. I am to play with it, to simulate masturbation.
But am I to simulate masturbating myself... or another male?
“Picture that boy on the park bench...”
I do. And I find my hand to be disturbingly tender and dainty.
***
It’s Saturday. I have an appointment. I shower, my soapy hands gliding about my shorn pubes, spurring both remorse and a degree of distant joy. I gently pull on my penis and feel a twinge of pleasure... and disappointment, having stroked away the prior night on a sizable faux phallus to seemingly amuse my counselor.
I dry. I dress. For some reason I spend extra time before the mirror, care taken to assure my hair is properly combed and set as Molly showed me. The blond locks stun... unnaturally golden... but attractive.
Almost out the door, I remember to grab the hand bag my counselor gave me.
‘You’ll carry this at all times,’ she instructed, making me leave behind my brief bag.
No loss. The brief bag was not much more than an attempt to project importance. I really never carried anything in it other than the morning paper and a sandwich.
Stepping to the elevator I assess the fine over the shoulder bag offered in its place. Smooth and shiny black leather, not effeminate, not masculine; I realize it will further serve to obfuscate my gender as I walk the streets. The brief bag, I suppose, has been deemed too conclusively masculine.
Herald Square is my destination. I am to meet a woman named ‘Miss Aliquot’ at Sixth Avenue and 33rd Street. I have no idea how she will find me, but then my reflection comes to mind.
How many prepubescent looking blonds will be standing there at 10:00 a.m. with a black leather bag over their shoulders?
I arrive and of course must wait. I always seem to be waiting... in my counselor’s reception area, in the doctor’s changing room, even in the back room of the beauty salon.
Finally, after twenty minutes, a woman approaches. From a near distance, she smiles and offers a modest hand signal. I nod.
“You must be Renee,” an arm reaches, fingers smooth over my newly styled locks.
It is a matronly gesture, a mother adoringly grooming her child. As I begin to speak her hand glides to my cheek and pinches, causing me to stutter the intended words ‘I am Mr. Warren’.
My attempt to establish masculinity, utilizing my surname, fails. The woman interrupts, her strong fingers continuing to pinch with surprising zeal.
“Today, with me, you are Renee, my little one. I am Miss Lalique,” the words accented in French
At five foot two I am ‘little one’ to just about all. I am accustomed to looking up into the faces of most men and half the women I greet. But Miss Lalique is a truly large woman, not only compared to my limited stature, but to all.
“We have much to do. We will talk as we walk.”
We do. Miss Lalique explains our day as we stroll to a clothing store.
“There is to be more acclimatization. Your benefactress has provided an almost unlimited budget, Renee. We need to change some things. It will help the way you think. You will be very happy with the result.”
The clothing store proves to be rather small and upscale, not one of the busy Herald Square general department stores. When we enter a woman spies Miss Lalique and immediately approaches.
“Welcome again, Miss Lalique. Another protégé?”
Miss Lalique nods.
“We will need to use the fourth floor. Can you send up two of your girls?”
“Of course. I assume otherwise you’ll want privacy?”
Miss Lalique nods again and takes my hand. I offer no resistance, accustomed to my walks with Nurse Sueann in control. We move to a small elevator, just about able to accommodate us both. The door slides shut.
“You will remain silent, Renee. This is new for you, but is done quite often in New York. There are many to be transformed and we are here to help. The girls I think you will find to be delightful... and discreet... so you should not deny them their enjoyment.”
The hum of the elevator stops. The door slides open. We step into a woman’s clothing boutique. There is not one item to be described as less than gaudily frilly.
It will be a long morning.
***
I am chagrined to have to report there was thrill. And with it, more confusion in understanding myself.
We sit at lunch. Miss Lalique, having finished making an extraordinary monetary outlay for my new clothing, is buying at a midtown bistro. We sit outside, the mid September weather quite mild. Passersby tend to gawk, and I must wonder if I will ever become accustomed to the questioning stares.
Miss Lalique notes my mild discomfort.
“Overall Renee, deep within, all pretty girls like the attention. Just as you did at the shop.”
I blush, my reaction to her reference something else that I do not fully understand... when my flesh turns pink, bumps form, on occasion my nipples crinkle.
“You pranced about so happily, once you got used to the girls.”
I did. And I did so without a stitch of clothing, exuding a strange pride in exposing my smooth, plumped and hairless body. The girls took relish in visually noting my missing organs, but otherwise said nothing, just looked at each, nodded and smiled... a ‘here’s another one’ type of reaction.
How many times have they fitted... selected... frilly feminine clothing for the male figure... one time male figure?
The result of the curious display... my modeling of so many pretty, sheer and colorful garments. Dozens of pink satin panties are the most memorable. The feel of such fine smoothness at my empty scrotal sac and neglected penis brought arousal. For me a rather peculiar style was chosen, tight at the front, at the back covering less than half of my plumped and burgeoning globes.
The word skimpy comes to mind.
After determining my size, Miss Lalique went to work. Women love to shop and all types of dresses and blouses were selected. The pile grew.
But what was most comical... shoes. Even I joined in the laughter in attempting to walk about naked in heels. The girls caught me each time before sprawling to the floor. Their guiding hands felt good. And with one near fall some fingers brushed my privates, others rubbed my derriere. I protested not... instead lustfully absorbing both the touch and the attention.
Hours later, lunch becomes a lesson in proper ‘ladylike’ deportment, Miss Lalique many times correcting some masculine habits, such as aggressively stabbing stuff with a fork.
But in completing the meal, as Miss Lalique orders coffee, a slice of reality pops to mind.
When will I be wearing such an extensive wardrobe?
I inquire, and the reply disheartens... initially.
“You will dress for me every day, Renee. I have selected some fine things. Why would you not wear?�
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“But I must work!”
“And so you shall. Your counselor will handle your employment. You should not worry about a thing.”
I do worry... but then... the stuff felt so good... and does now! Miss Lalique tossed away my undergarments at the shop. I am wearing the pink panties at lunch... and there is curious comfort... physical... and emotional.
***
“Must we do this?”
“Would you have me report your disobedience, Renee?”
I glumly shake my head ‘no’ and Miss Lalique nods to the girl.
I am having my ears pierced.
“I suppose with the hair style no one at work will notice,” I rationalize aloud.
Indeed, the girl must push back my fine blond locks in order to position the wicked looking device. In the corner of my eye I see her hand squeeze and with the sound of a sharp snap there is an instant of pain as my left earlobe is penetrated.
Not too bad, I note.
But she then repositions the device higher and before I can protest makes another opening well up into the cartilage of the main body of the ear.
“You may need to show off some special jewelry, Renee. Somewhat elaborate,” Miss Lalique’s reference left deliberately vague as the device twice attacks my right ear.
Studs are slipped in place, with instructions about occasionally twisting and the maintenance of sanitary conditions while the openings heal.
“You will look so pretty, Renee.”
I will. And oddly the thought entices... except when I think about the work day... commuting... in general interacting with the world outside of the doctor, Nurse Sueann, my counselor and now this Miss Lalique.
How will I function?
“And now for some cosmetics,” Miss Lalique announces with noted enthusiasm.
***
Finally the day ends. Expecting to part company and rush home to accept the delivery of abundant clothing, instead Miss Lalique takes my hand and escorts.
With my ears pierced with plain but somewhat noticeable shards of stainless steel, carrying what could be interpreted as a pocket book, golden blond page boy styled hair, the passersby gape with curiosity even more intensely. Some stop and stare. Young males offer a look of lust... and my reaction can neither be described nor understood.
I am in full make up, an alluring young woman prepped for an evening of glamour at the theater... at the opera. But I am wearing slacks, a somewhat masculine shirt. Loafers. My attire is incongruous with the efforts of the cosmetician... hours spent on rouge, eye shadow, mascara, prominent false eye lashes.
Bizarre, but with my unattractive attire, I feel I am disappointing my admirers...
Miss Lalique just nods and smiles. I stare straight ahead, counting the many blocks, hoping the traffic lights change timely.
Told to remain silent unless spoken to, I find I must inquire.
“Miss Lalique, what’s this all about? So much time... so much money.”
She smiles, shushing me, but adds... “In time, my precious little one. In time.
“But tonight, would you not like to get out of those dreary male clothes?”
I would. For some reason... I want to feel pretty... to look pretty... for her.
***
I was not expecting Miss Lalique to accompany me home and even more surprised when she enters my apartment and stays. With her simple hand signal I know to disrobe and am soon standing before her in my new pink panties, my softening cheeks so prominently displayed to her.
I should have suspected her next course of action, for after exiting the elevator she took particular note of the garbage chute. I watch somewhat amused... somewhat aghast... as she gathers up my slacks, shirt and shoes.
“You’ll no longer need these.”
Yes, she makes her way back to the garbage chute and my attire tumbles the eight floors to the disposal bin.
Symbolic? No. For the next hour, awaiting the special delivery from the clothing shop, she rummages through every drawer and every closet. Nothing male escapes her attention. Even sports stuff, nothing to do with apparel, fall the eight floors.
At the end, I have nothing but the pink panties I arrived in and become even more eager for the delivery from the clothing store.
“Now... it’s time you learned a few things.”
Manicure... pedicure... my nails are turned to a pink to match my panties. Fun... so I think until the notion of the Monday work day comes to mind. Then, unexplainably I begin to whimper.
Why? Such an unmanly reaction.
Unanswerable, just as is the intensity of the blushing... the goose bumps... the crinkling nipples.
“What’s the matter, Renee, you look very pretty?” Miss Lalique softly inquires.
“I don’t know. But everyone will be looking at me.”
“Pretty girls like to be looked at. You will enjoy it.”
Her counseling somewhat composes. Next, she opens my pocket book and extracts the many cosmetics assembled, the girl who pierced explaining each small bottle and tube. Lots to learn and we review the need for each dainty item.
Then the buzzer for the main entrance sounds and the delivery men announce themselves over the intercom. I instruct Miss Lalique how to offer access and arise intending to hide myself from what I assume to be the muscular earthiness about to invade my apartment... certainly not to be as understanding as the many women tending to my... my what? My condition I suppose.
Miss Lalique buzzes them in and turns.
“Where are you going, Renee?”
“I can’t be seen.”
“But you will. Come back here this instant.”
“Please no, Miss Lalique. They are men and I have no... no clothing.”
“You have your panties. That’s enough. Or should I take them away and have you show yourself to the men completely... fully displaying every inch of that plumping hairless body.”
I blush. The words... so strong... so driving home my fear... my concern. And yet there comes the twinge. There is strange excitement. I stammer. I cannot find words of protest... realizing that whatever utterance comes to mind will be futile.
It’s been such a long day. Ups... downs... prancing about naked... then in tight pink panties... being pierced... adorned with makeup and now the stunning pink nails. My mind becomes addled as there comes a knock on my apartment door and Miss Lalique slides open the bolt.
My change of life has arrived... and with it the most stultifying exhibition to date. To be nearly naked... in front of men!
“Come in, boys. And please do not mind my niece, Renee. She’s so eager to try on her new clothing she could not stay dressed and wait.”
My panties! The protruding buttocks are bad enough. But with the tightness at the front, my penis, however diminutive, presses forth. There appears to be the outline of a pinky finger, though soft, limp, and useless. Still, it evidences my gender... my former gender?
Will they notice?
How odd... to want to be observed as a girl... not a man. I want to act out the ruse... want them to think of me as feminine!
My nipples crinkle and I suppose, with the men believing me to be underage, they try to look away. Miss Lalique just smiles at my quandary. I freeze and dare not move, try not to draw attention, concerned about further tantalizing in showing more of me... or worse... offer a sultry view of soft, newly rounded buttocks.
Miss Lalique tips generously. The ten minutes spent checking the contents of the many boxes seem like an eternity.
Finally, they leave. I will forever wonder as to what conclusions they came.
***
My pounding heart slows. Miss Lalique has me remove my panties, desiring to see all of me. And of course I am compliant, for some reason placing my hands on my head as she becomes rather stern.
“You’ll have all of tomorrow to try on your new things – such wonderful soft and smooth garments. It will make you feel so alluring, but for now there’s just a little more work to b
e done. You were not impressive in heels. Put on the four inch set for me.”
Once again I am completely naked before a fully clothed woman. There comes the twinge as I slip into the impossible footwear... impossible in which to walk with any degree of aplomb.
As I encircle my calves with the straps, just as the girls at the shop showed me, Miss Lalique retrieves a wand from her purse. Some eight inches long, it telescopes to extend to some two feet. My perplexity is brief as when I arise and attempt to take an initial step, my slight stumble earns a crisp tap to my well presented buttocks. It hurts... not overwhelming... but I certainly know I have been corrected... and seek to avoid more.
“There was too much silliness at the shop, Renee. You will learn to walk in heels... and learn to do so most temptingly.”
I will... and I do.
***
No welts. Some evidence of bruising, I endure the exacting tutelage of Miss Lalique, learning indeed to not only walk in heels, but to do so in that ‘come hither and fuck me manner’. Many hours, many corrective ‘taps’, I learn that placing one foot directly in front of the other swings... sways... the hips. Suggestive... lascivious... for some reason I buy into it.
I learn to walk like a young girl... and one on the prowl!
How else can I describe the resulting gait!
Sunday, as Miss Lalique suggested, I am left alone. Me and my wardrobe... a girl and her clothes.
The weather is temperate... but where is it I can go? I have blouses... I have skirts... I have heels... some more modest than the devilish four inch pumps in which I have been trained... but I am a guy!
Or am I?
Showering on Sunday morning, the fingers of a soapy hand once again gently scour that which the doctor plundered. There comes a certain degree of arousal.... a distant pleasure. The palpation of the loose flesh stirs certain nerves. I recall the doctor’s countenance... ‘left lots of puffy skin for you. Some girls... ah, rather boys... enjoy playing’.
Quite prescient, I assume that as the physical trauma of excising my balls dissipates, the relative sensitivity returns... slowly. I recall Nurse Sueann observing that anatomically the flesh of the male scrotum has the same sensitivity as the female labia.
The Entrapped Page 3
