"It's the perfect disguise, no one will ever think of looking for you dressed as a girl."|
by Lainie Lee
When my aunt, my Dad's half-sister, met me at the gate of Camp Pinewood I knew something had gone terribly wrong. I had never seen Aunt Dorothy before but I recognized her immediately. She had Dad's high forehead and wide-set gray eyes, just like my own. Her dark blond hair fell to her shoulders, bare to the early August sun. Her periwinkle blue shirtwaist dress nipped in effectively below a pair of prominently displayed breasts, the top two buttons not being fastened. Her hips flared the loose skirt nicely and tan, tapering legs ended in pumps that matched her dress and the rather large leather bag she carried. Smiling, she called my name again, "Robin! Robin, over here!"
She didn't look like a Lesbian.
Behind my aunt a large, golden Cadillac crouched on the crushed gravel of the camp parking lot amidst the litter of lesser cars like a lioness among fat, neutered alley cats. The woman standing beside the driver's door could best be described as striking. Over six feet tall in her heels, Naomi Wynne had short red hair, an angular face, deep-set blue eyes and arms that seemed larger and more muscular than my own legs. Her smallish breasts made round shapes beneath her sleeveless aqua jersey dress. Her waist cinched in by a wide cinnamon belt made her figure seem more feminine. Slender hips, long, tawny legs and cinnamon, 3" high-heel pumps that were probably being ruined by the gravel completed her look; the look of a very successful, wealthy Lesbian.
I would not have looked at Aunt Dorothy long enough to recognize her as a relative if she had not called my name. At eighteen, full of raging hormones, I did not look long at beautiful blondes for fear of staring. Small and slight, barely five feet three inches tall and not more than 90 pounds, I felt all full of gawky, awkward insecurities and doubts. My own dark blond hair, shaggy now after six weeks without a haircut seemed constantly in rebellion. Puberty had finally arrived for me and my face threatened mutiny with pimple militia mustering just under the skin.
Sometimes I hated myself but just then I felt afraid. Why weren't my parents here to pick me up, what had happened to them? They had been traveling in the Middle East, Egypt, Israel....
"Robin, honey," Aunt Dorothy called again. "You'll have to come here, we can't walk on this stuff in these shoes." She waved encouragement at me and Naomi grimaced.
I trudged across the fifty feet of gravel, dreading what I might hear. As I got closer I realized my aunt's mascara had left dark runnels on her cheeks and I began to cry. I hurled myself the last few feet against the aunt I hardly knew, weeping my fears uncontrollably.
Through the storm of emotion, I heard her whisper, "There, there, honey. They're not dead, honey. At least, they're not dead."
Relieved and astonished, I pushed myself back to look up at her. "Th-they're not?"
"No, honey. We can't talk here, get in the car."
After putting my stuff in the trunk, Naomi held the door for me and I slid into the seat behind the driver. We were soon on Highway 330 to San Bernardino and then I-10 to LA.
On the trip, Aunt Dorothy told me that Dad had been captured by terrorists in Beirut and that Mom had gone into hiding in Europe since the terrorists wanted to capture her to use as leverage on him.
"They might want to kidnap you or your Aunt Dolly," Naomi amplified.
"But why?" I protested through tears. Dolly comforted me, holding my head to her ample bosom. On one level, I enjoyed this while terrified as to the fate of my parents.
Then Dorothy and Naomi told me about my parents secret life as spies for a militant Jewish-American anti-terrorist group called Never Another Holocaust. The initials tortured a giggle from me. My parents, agents of NAH?
They told me their plan, we would go into hiding also. At a secluded house in Ventura County, and we would also be disguised. Aunt Dorothy would become a brunette, Dolly Goode; and Naomi would disguise herself also, though no one should be looking for her. Naomi would finance this from her investment income made in the new field of biotechnology; she was willing to do this because she loved Aunt Dot, she said.
"What about me?" I asked.
Aunt Dorothy patted my hand comfortingly, "We have something worked out for you, dear."
* * *
I began wearing girl's clothing as soon as we reached the house. They had purchased a wardrobe for me. Mostly pretty party dresses and dress-up clothes.
I protested vehemently but to no avail. "I can't wear these clothes!"
"Of course you can, besides they are the only clothes we have provided for you. You can't go around naked now can you?"
"I won't wear these girl's clothes!" I said, appalled and frightened. They were adamant. "It's for your protection, dear," insisted Dot/Dolly. "It's the perfect disguise, no one will ever think of looking for you dressed as a girl."
Finally, I relented. I had no other choice, I would wear dresses and learn to be a proper young girl. They assured me that it would probably all be over before summer ended and my college semester started.
The cover story was that I was Dolly's 19-year-old daughter Robinette. Naomi became Dolly's husband, Norman, and supposedly my stepfather. Her disguise was almost more astonishing than my own.
With her breasts bound down and dressed loosely in male clothing she looked every bit like a suburban Dad. The house we moved into even had a garage full of tools. "Stay out of the garage," Naomi/Norman warned me. "A shop is no place for a girl, you'll get your pretty clothes snagged on something or smeared with grease." My new "stepdad" was very handy with tools, she could make anything out of wood or leather, rubber or metal.
I doubted that I could pass as a fourteen-year-old girl but my transformation surprised me again. First my aunt gave me a definitely feminine if rather short cut. She gave me a wig to wear until my hair grew out, a waist-length cascade of honey-blonde curls. The weight and feel of the wig seemed strange at first but soon I felt naked without it.
Makeup did wonders for my angular features and the uneven texture of my skin. Padding at bust and hips gave my skinny body a feminine shape. I wore little school dresses in pinks and whites and lavender many of them with lace at cuffs and around my neck. Some of the dresses may have been recreations from the fifties or even earlier, they had a classic look.
Almost immediately they started my hormone treatment. At first I didn't know what was happening as my emotions began to behave like a roller coaster, constantly up and down with fits of giggles and bouts of tears. But soon physical changes began happening to my body. I tried to ask Dot and Naomi about this but they put me off.
Aunt Dot assured me, "Such things are perfectly normal in a boy who iss dressing as a girl. Your body is just adjusting to your new role in life." I wasn't that naive but I didn't have the nerve to press the issue against the adult confidence my aunt and her cross-dressed lover.
Over the next two years I watched the transformation in my appearance with fear and wonder and a growing, guilty joy. My skin cleared up and the boniness of my face and form seemed to soften. In less than two months, breast buds made little points of tenderness on my chest. My ass became rounder and more fleshy. Day to day, the changes seemed unnoticeable but week to week they added up. By Easter, I wore a B-cup and no one would mistake my shape for a boy's. My breasts were still pear-shaped which Aunt Dorothy said meant they were still growing. "We hope they will get to be a full C-cup," she said. "But if not, that is all right because we will have implants put in eventually, anyway."
"How big are you going to make them?" I asked fearing my own reaction to her answer. I've since stopped asking her that because she keeps increasing the suggested size and I cannot imagine what I would look like with double-J-cups, let alone triple-M or OOOO. I have reached a C-cup after three years of hormones and my breasts seem to be a matter of pride to all of us.
The constant female hormones had their effect on my genitals also, my underdeveloped penis became even smaller and the testicles shrank and became so soft as to seem to have vanished. The morning hard-on I had become accustomed to also disappeared, in fact, by Christmas of that first year I could no longer get hard at all. The friction I had used to jerk-off now produced a warm feeling all over with hot points at groin and nipples, lips and earlobes. It takes longer to achieve release but when it comes it fills me and carries me outside myself and seems to last for minutes, less an explosion and more of a cataract of passion.
I had never been strong but now even ordinary doors seemed heavy and awkward. Naomi/Norman encouraged me in my weakness, not allowing me to lift or carry even so much as a loaded plate of food onto the patio of their beautiful home. Eventually, I became proud of my enervation and the fact that my grip is not sufficient even to lift a small glass of water to my lips in one hand.
At first I had chores to do around the house, girl-type chores. Like helping with cooking meals and cleaning the house and Dot began to teach me to sew. But as time went on, I was relieved of my duties. "Your job is to look pretty," Dot/Dolly would tell me when I tried to help. My increasing weakness seemed to please my kindly captors and sometimes I feigned being too weak for a chore I did not want to do anymore. Such behavior was rewarded by having that chore removed from my list of duties, permanently until it remained that my sole obligation in the household was to "look pretty."
I do look pretty in my lacy dresses and hair bows and clinky jewelry and high fashion shoes. Sometimes Dolly poses me in front of a mirror and makes me just look at myself for hours. The girl in the mirror is always smiling and trying not to do any ugly thing and I know that she is really me.
Along with changes caused by the hormones were other physical changes. My aunt/mother bleached and curled my hair as it grew out and taught me to take care of it at first but eventually she seemed to prefer to do all of that herself. I am like her living Barbie doll for she always chooses my clothes and dresses me as well as doing my hair and makeup.
Acrylic nail extensions gave me long, elegant nails while mine grew out to length. The two-inch long nails made it difficult to do many things but Aunt Dorothy/Mom said I would have to get used to it as I would never again wear them any shorter. If I complained that I could not do something specific because of my long nails or my weakness or the way I was dressed then I was forbidden ever to do that thing again.
"I can't put on my eye makeup with nails longer than the applicator," I once pouted. After that Dot took over doing my eyes for me.
Dot promised a spanking every time I broke a nail, adding an extra swat each time. The first week, I got four spankings and one or two per week after that for awhile. Later, she changed the rules; when I got up to 21 swats, she decided that I could not have my weekly spanking if I broke any nails. I haven't broken any nails in over a year.
Needless to say the growth of the nails were part of the reason I no longer help with the cooking or cleaning nor even dress or bathe myself anymore. My nails are kept at about five inches long and elegantly painted twice a week, pink or rose, fuchsia or lavender, red or cinnamon; usually to match my lips. .
Aunt Dorothy said that I must wear high heels, four-inch or more, all the time. I had pairs of boots to wear to bed and even waterproof high-heel sandals for the bath. Many of these rigidly supported my ankles and I fear that those became my favorites. Within a month or so, I could not walk without high heels but neither could I walk very far in them. I had nowhere to go in any case for fear of the terrorists kept all of us near home to begin with and later, well leaving the house was just unthinkable. Even standing became difficult as my strength faded though I am seldom allowed to sit as most of my clothing does not permit bending that way. Little supports Naomi has built into walls and furniture help me to stand without much effort, though when I am fastened to the supports I cannot move until I am released.
Naomi used her electrolysis machine to remove my eyebrows and unwanted underarm, leg and pubic hairs as well as the stray facial and chest hairs I had from my eighteen years as a boy. That should have hurt but a few of Naomi's pills and I could still feel the pain but I no longer cared. Naomi seemed to enjoy these sessions and after the first few, so did I. The drugs changed my perception of the pain, almost it became pleasure. Naomi said the electrolysis would never end completely because new hairs sprout now and again but we were down to half-hour sessions once per week. She spends much of the time on Monday mornings just caressing my body, searching for the tiny bristles. I love this.
The tattoo sessions went similarly as Naomi applied permanent lip and eye liner. She drew my eyes wider, the corners a half-inch beyond their natural dimensions with black eyeliner along both upper and lower lids. Delicate dots and lines curving away from the eyeliner simulated mascara. My lips she also drew much fuller, a perpetual pout. Later she filled in my brows, lips, eyebrows and eyelids with tattooed color. A bright, true red for my lips, with greens and violets for my eyes. She also tattooed peachy blush onto my cheeks after a dentist had removed all of my molars. Enormous eyes, full sensual lips, arching brows and hollow cheeks are all permanent, needing only a little makeup to perfect them.
The corsets I began wearing the second week cinched my waist in to about twenty-one inches at first. I had several, with lambs' wool corset liners and lovely silken corset covers in with pink and lavender lace. I wear my pretty corsets at least fourteen hours per day and continuously Fridays and Saturdays. Constant wearing of the corsets with a strictly controlled diet has reduced my waist to less than eighteen inches and Naomi says, after my lower ribs are removed, I will have a fourteen-inch waist.
At first, I felt hungry all the time and I would try to steal food. But Naomi made several masks for me with mouthpieces so I could not feed myself when she had locked one of them in place. The masks were never removed until Naomi had tied my hands behind me or fastened them to loops on my belt or to a chair or other piece of furniture. Then Dot would feed me, only just a few spoonfuls at a time then back in the mask. Some of the masks did not have eye holes and Dot or Naomi would have to lead me around but all of the masks are beautiful like the faces of fairytale princesses painted on rubber or metal. Lately, if I ask nicely, Dot will let me wear one of the masks for a few hours. Yesterday, she made me beg.
I never get fed if I say I am hungry. I have to pretend it doesn't matter while they are eating then I will have a few bites spooned into my mouth or be allowed a few sips of some thick liquid.
It is a good thing, I guess, that I am not fed much as I am not allowed to ask to go to the bathroom. I couldn't without help anyway since Naomi has built various rubber butt plugs with which she fills my asshole. At first these devices were quite small, no larger than my pinkie, but the one inside me now, well it is bigger than my delicate wrist, perhaps larger than my fist, if I could still make a fist. It is quite painful when it is removed or replaced although I am no longer quite sure of just what pain is supposed to be.
My ears have been pierced, not just the lobes but the upper part also. I wear enormous seven-inch hoops through the lobes and smaller four-inch and one- and-three-quarter-inch hoops as well. Little sliding bells on the circular hoops jingle when I walk and they jangle against each other. The upper piercings are a variety of jeweled studs and tiny rings. A half-inch ring through my tongue tip has a golden ball that sits atop my tongue. Talking is difficult and eating would be also except that all of my meals are liquid since I have no chewing teeth. Recently, Naomi used tools to anneal all of these rings so there are no openings and they can no longer be removed.
Another ring through the head of my penis also goes through the base of my scrotum, keeping my inelegant member back and down. This last piercing needs much care and cleaning which I am not allowed to do. Aunt Dot does most of this care and cleaning and is very solicitous and careful of my tender parts especially since the annealing Naomi did to make the ring permanent. A short chain connects this ring with a clip to my butt plug when it is in place and Dot is fond of tugging on the chain when she does the cleaning down there.
Because of the hormones, I cannot get an erection but the handling is pleasant and sometimes a fluid leaks out and stains my pretty panties even when no one is touching me there and I am fully dressed and it has been hours since anything has happened and I am just standing somewhere fastened by my restraints to the wall or the furniture and thinking about being touched. I know I will get punished for staining my pretty things but thinking about getting punished is almost certain to cause me to have one of my little accidents as Aunt Dot calls them.
"Oh, dear," she will say. "Robin has been a bad girl and made a little stain on her panties again." She strips most of my clothing off then, except my corset and boots and makes me lie on the bed.
Then Naomi locks my hands into leather mittens that are chained to the headboard. Padded cuffs just below my knees are chained to the side of the bed where I cannot squeeze my thighs together. Not being allowed to touch myself after Aunt Dot has teased and stroked me nearly to climax causes me to whimper through the gag of the blindfolding mask Naomi has locked onto me. The passion grows as I struggle because I know that someone will at last return to bring me to climax except that sometimes no one does. Then I must lie quietly, exhausted, pretending to sleep or sleeping or dreaming that I am pretending.
Sometimes, they chain me by the jeweled collar I wear to the wall on a short lead. I may not sit, but must stand for hours in my six-inch high-heeled boots. The drugs I am given make this torture bearable but my whimpers and cries are so pitiable that Naomi and Dolly must often shut the door to my room so they can go about their day and ignore my suffering. After these times I am always grateful to be fastened again to the supports Naomi has provided in various places but I know I will soon transgress some rule and so find my reason for some sweet punishment.
Many times I protested this transformation but my aunt and her Lesbian lover kept me drugged and docile, unable to physically resist or run away. I knew what was happening but I could do nothing to stop it and after awhile I knew that my protestations had been, or at least, had become sham. Still, I continue to make them, vainly but with heat I do not have to pretend to. There is something wrong with an aunt transforming her half-brother's son into what I have become. The guilt and shame I feel in my own pleasure in the process are themselves part of the pleasure and my protests part of the game.
For I know it is a game now. We are not in hiding from terrorists but from my parents. Naomi and Dolly have admitted as much to me. They fell in love with me and they uprooted all of our lives for the love of me and what they wanted to make of me. Naomi hates men and Dolly fears them; they wanted to take a man, or really a boy for that is what I was at only eighteen, and make him into a perfect Lesbian love slave. They dreamed up the terrorist story to get me to go along with the charade in the beginning.
I was devastated when I learned the truth. These months, now more than three years that I have sacrificed my manhood to an illusionary safety. Or did I?
"It's for the best, Robin," Aunt Dot said. "You have made a good girl where as a boy you were a pitiful, weak, failure. Look how easy we talked you into our scheme."
I had to admit that she was right. The boy Robin was hardly anything that a person could be proud of but as Robinette I was a beautiful and desired object of my captors lust, the image of desire.
When the surgery is done later this year, removing my lower ribs and enlarging my breasts and buttocks with implants, Dolly and Naomi have promised to remove the last vestige of my masculinity and have the surgeon build me a vagina, if I have been a good girl. Hope and fear mingle in me to such a degree as to make my skin tingle and my lips and nipples ache to be stroked, to be touched. To be loved.
Dare I be good? For if I am to become a girl, completely, totally, at last, this tortuous transformation will be over. What will be my reason for living then?
Copyright 1998, 1999, 2002 by Elaine Blankenship
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