A LESSON I’LL NEVER FORGET

by Catherine Rose

 

Chapter 1 – A Few Too Many, Once Too Often

I already knew that I drank far too much alcohol for my own good but could see little reason to change my habits. That is, until a couple of years ago when I learnt a lasting lesson, albeit the price I paid could be considered a trifle "extreme".

It wasn’t the first time I had woken up after a drinking binge without knowing where I was or how I had got there. I lay in semi-consciousness, without any real interest in waking up, trying to retrace my steps from the night before. I remembered being out of town on business, having some drinks with a couple of guys I’d only just met. Alcohol has a way of enabling spontaneous friendships to develop which otherwise might never have occurred. So it was that night when these two guys wandered over for a chat.

A variety of things we had debated flashed through my mind, such life threatening issues like the weekend’s sporting fixtures, which was the most superior make of car, and who had experienced the wildest sexual conquests. As I remembered it, it was this last topic that had provoked the most heated discussions.

One of the guys had claimed he had sex with a transsexual – that’s a guy in a dress, no less! I couldn’t believe it. I told him that if what he had said was true than he must have been a "fag" himself. I told him that he and his "girlfriend" were both sick and in need of help. He didn’t take too kindly to this and kept insisting, "Don’t knock it until you tried it." I couldn’t give a shit. I thought he was a "queer" and told him so.

As I continued to lie there, my mind was jerked back to the present by an odd feeling. Something felt strangely different. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Even allowing for the amount of alcohol I had consumed, I could never remember feeling this way before. Something felt very weird.

I suddenly realised that I had unconsciously started stroking the side of my leg and that I was feeling quite sexy. I started slowly rocking back and forth, rubbing my penis against the bed, getting more and more excited in the process.

I tried to run my hand towards my crotch but found that I had somehow got tangled up in what seemed to be the bed sheets. I turned over and back but couldn’t seem to free myself from my entanglement. Even pushing back the bedding didn’t help much.

I turned over to get out of bed only to find the bedding following me out. As I stood up, re-focusing my eyes to the light in the room, I suddenly realised that it wasn’t bedding that had entangled me. It was a woman’s nightie! It was pink; it was silky; it had shoelace straps; it draped to my knees; and I was wearing it!

As I pondered over my discovery while trying to stay upright it suddenly dawned on me what it was that had me feeling so strange – I was hairless! None on my legs; none on my arms; none on my chest; not even any on my underarms. My whole body tingled. It was a weird feeling of coldness that felt strangely appealing at the same time.

I held myself in an embrace feeling the softness of my upper arms for the first time. I felt confused. On one hand, I was shocked by what had happened to me while I had been "out of it". On the other hand, the tingling and softness of my body felt quite nice. I ran my hands upwards along my nightie towards my chest, marvelling how nice even it felt.

Just then, the door of the room opened and in walked Vincent, one of the guys I’d met at the bar.

"Ah, Tina. You are finally awake." he said. "You’ve overslept. Get dressed quickly now, like a good girl, and meet us in the lounge room for a chat when you are ready."

The door closed as quickly as it had opened, leaving me looking around to see who else was in the room with me. It was probably some woman I had picked up the night before. Not seeing anyone else around and deciding I might as well get dressed myself, I started looking around for my clothes.

Nothing seemed to be on the floor so I looked around the rest of the apartment. There were only women’s clothes hanging in the walk-in-robe with women’s shoes on the floor. I figured that I must have been in Tina’s bedroom, whoever she was. I walked over to the dressing table only to find more women’s things on it like make-up, jewellery boxes, etc. Opening the drawers, I flipped through bras, panties, camisoles, tops, but nothing even remotely suitable for me to wear and there was certainly no sign of my own clothes.

I took out a pair of panties and held them up admiringly. They were silky, emerald in colour, with lace at the sides and along the edges. I quickly gazed around the room again hoping to somehow catch sight of this lady called Tina. If she was half as pretty as her underwear, I must have really struck it lucky last night. She was certainly worth another look. I gave the apartment another quick search, looking in the shower and behind the bathroom door, even under the bed. Nothing!

"Hey, you guys!" I called out opening the door from where Vincent had appeared not a moment before. " Have you seen my clothes?"

"You little slut!" came the reply, confusing my already confused brain even further. "Still walking around in your nightie? Why, your clothes are all round your room. Didn’t you hear what I said? Let me help you with your hearing."

Before I knew what was happening, a fist connected with the side of my head, knocking me to the floor. A hand reached down to drag me up by my hair only long enough for the another fist to sent me back to the carpet. A succession of blows followed before everything went dark.

 

Chapter 2 – A Rude Awakening

I was unsure how long I was out for, but there was nothing pleasurable about waking up this time. I was in pain … Real Pain! And the pain was coming from all over my body. I struggled to make sense of what had happened. "Had it been a dream?" I wondered, feeling like I had just been run over by a truck. I might have wished I had been dreaming but my pain told me otherwise.

As I stumbled to my feet, something caught my eye on the dressing table. It was a jar I was certain hadn’t been there before. Next to it was a note. It read:

"Hello, Tina. Welcome to your new life. We won’t be warning you again. Please tidy yourself up with a shower and shave, get dressed and meet us in the lounge room as previously requested. This jar and its contents are a reminder of what happens if you disobey us. Signed Vincent and Tony."

I studied the contents of the jar more closely, grasping my crotch and screaming uncontrollably as I noticed that one of my testicles was missing! At least, it was missing from its normal resting-place alongside its partner between my legs. Could it now be floating at the bottom of the jar before me?

I screamed and screamed, "What have you done to me? You bastards!" I was in such a state of hysteria I didn’t even notice the door re-opening, or the blow that sent me to the carpet and turned my world into darkness yet again.

* * *

I awoke some time later even in more pain than before. There was no longer any need to work anything out this time. It was clear what had happened. I had walked into a nightmare from which there was no apparent way out, at least, for now. I dragged my sorry self towards the shower, hoping that the water might wash everything away. If I had stopped at the dressing table, I might have noticed that the jar had been disturbed and that another note had appeared:

"What a waste! Now you have two ‘trophies’ to remind yourself of your disobedience. We gave you a rare opportunity to choose your own clothes, but now you will have to earn this back. You better get with the program before you lose something else near and dear to you. Make sure you dress up after your shower in the clothes we’ve laid out for you on the bed, and be suitably ready for our talk without any further fuss. The next time you make such a scene, we won’t be cutting off your penis while you are unconscious. We will have you fully awake to watch us fillet it like a fish, invert your penile skin inside of you to make a vaginal lining, and sew on the head of your penis to make a clitoris. Then we will turn you over to a pimp for you to start earning your keep on the streets. So, choose well from now on! Signed Vincent and Tony."

As I turned on the shower, I noticed that my fingernails were bright red with nail polish and somewhat longer than I remembered them being. Slipping out of my nightie and gazing down at my toes as I stepped into the shower, I noticed a matching redness about them as well. As I started to soap myself, I noticed that my breasts were showing a slight overhang.

Shocking though it may have all seemed, nothing I noticed about myself mattered much to me anymore. That is, until I dared to inch my hands down towards my crotch. It was then that I slowly slid down the shower wall to the ground, sobbing … trying very hard not to make any noise.

 

Chapter 3 – My New Clothes

I stayed on the floor of the shower for the longest time. Eventually, I picked myself up, finished my shower, resigned to the fact that I was totally powerless to do anything about my situation other than what I was ordered to do. As if in autopilot, I dried myself off with the fluffy pink towel I found hanging in the on-suite with the letters "T-I-N-A" emblazoned on it, and walked over to the clothes lying on the bed.

I didn’t need to read the note. I could have guessed what it had to say, albeit nothing could have prepared me for how it said it. I nearly gagged. Even seeing two round objects now immersed in the bottom of the jar now seemed tame by comparison.

I picked up the pair of emerald panties I had been admiring while I was rifling the dressing table drawers in search of my own clothes. How ironic that these very same panties were again in my hands, only this time waiting for me to step into them myself! As I slipped them on, I couldn’t help but remember how I had tried to imagine what they would look like on "Tina". All I had to do now was to look in the mirror. I was wearing them! I had become Tina! It was as if I was now perving at myself!

I picked up the matching bra, admiring the fine lace encircling its soft padded cups. I struggled with the clips at the back for a while but was pleasantly surprised at how easily I did them up. Looking down, I could scarcely believe how the push-me-up cups had herded my breasts up into a half-decent cleavage. As I ran my fingers down between the narrow opening, I almost turned myself on. I reached for my penis but was disappointed by how limply it hung.

The pantihose, on the other hand, gave me heaps of trouble. It was almost comical. It didn’t take me long to realise that I couldn’t pull them up like socks, rather I had to roll them up over each leg like a second skin. But it certainly took me a while to learn that I had to alternate between legs so that I could get the panty to wind up in the right place.

I couldn’t help but admire what the pantihose had done to my legs. I had always enjoyed how nice they felt on women’s legs. Now I could also enjoy how nice they felt on my own. I had the best of both worlds. I ran my hand gently up and down, over and over, in gentle rhythm over each leg. By now I felt really aroused yet my penis seemed to be in a world of its own. I ran my hand around to my crotch just to make sure that there was a penis even there. It was, of course, but it was scarcely good for anything. I tried masturbating it to no avail, so I turned my attention back to the stroking of my legs. I recalled seeing women often do this almost unconsciously while engaged in other things. It used to drive me crazy. Now I couldn’t stop doing it myself.

I picked up the petticoat and held it against myself as I admired it in the mirror. It was white and as soft and silky as the nightie had been but with a layer of lace skirting its edges. I slipped it on quickly so that I could rub its delicate fabric against my body. It felt every bit as wonderful as it looked. How could I have gone through nearly 30 years of my life oblivious to such pleasure? How could such beautiful clothes be denied to half of the population? What could I say? I was in heaven!

The dress came next. It was almost an anti-climax after what had come before. Yet it was exquisite in its own way. It was a black print dress patterned with dainty pink flowers. They were so small, they could have easily been missed in the blackness of their background. Yet I found myself admiring their delicate detail, something I normally would not have given second thoughts to.

It was a peasant-styled dress with short ruffled sleeves and ruffled bodice. The skirt was waisted with elastic from immediately beneath my breasts, hanging loosely down to my upper thighs, drawing attention to my shapely black legs. The rounded neckline was gathered with elastic in such a way that it could almost be worn off-shoulder excepting that it would have left my bra and petticoat straps exposed.

Instinctively, I walked over to the dresser to find a necklace laid out for me with bracelets and earrings. I picked up the necklace and was amazed how easily I managed to undo the clip and do it up again behind my neck, even with my long fingernails. I watched the tiny heart-shaped pendant slowly slide down towards the opening between my breasts, suspended by its intricate gold chain. It was the perfect finishing touch for my cleavage.

The bracelets came in groups of four sparkling colours, one set of which I slipped over the knuckles of each hand to adorn both wrists. I twirled my hands over and over as I watched the pretty colours dance. I was amazed at how wonderful it felt. I had often wondered why women would even bother with bracelets. Now I knew. Admiring my hands with their sparkling bracelets and their long painted nails, I realised how much I’d taken my hands for granted, at least till now.

I picked up the earrings, expecting them to be clip-ons, only to find little hooks from which hung large gold ringlets about 2 inches in diameter. It was then I noticed that my ears had been pierced and had studs in them. I couldn’t believe it. When did this happen?

I unscrewed the studs and removed them from my ears, being careful to reassemble them without losing any pieces. I remembered an ex-girlfriend stressing out, aimlessly searching the floor for something almost impossible to find. I was damn sure I wasn’t going to allow that to happen to me.

I looped my new earrings through the tiny holes in my earlobes and watched how the rings dangled around my neck. I turned my head left and right, delighted at how the earrings danced alongside my face. I was stunned at how pleasure such simples thing could bring.

"What had become of me?" I wondered. "How could I possibly be thinking this way? Where were these feelings coming from?"

I bent forward to pick up my shoes, stopping myself as I felt my dress ride up my bottom. I squatted down demurely instead so my panties wouldn’t show, bouncing back up quickly to cross my legs in ladylike fashion as I sat down on the bed. I shocked myself at how instinctive and natural this set of movements had been.

I couldn’t resist a few more strokes of my leg as I fitted the first shoe on right foot. I was amazed with their perfect fit. Vincent and Tony had obviously done their homework well. I re-crossed my legs to put on the left shoe, struggling a little to find the right hole in the strap.

I tried to stand up and fell over back onto the bed. The shoes had a 3-inch square heel, which slid my foot deep into its closed toe. My second attempt at standing was more successful and I moved around the room like a child learning to walk for the first time. Stopping at the mirror, I thought the black suede material gave the shoes a classy look about them and perfectly set off my black mini-dress and pantihosed legs.

From practise, I soon realised that I needed to take smaller steps and bend slightly at the knees if I wanted to stay on my feet and to avoid something even more difficult, picking myself up from the floor. Walking, however, was to remain a challenge for me for quite some time. Long after I had mastered its basic skill, wearing high heels was not without its dramas. There remained the ongoing problem of sore feet and calves, not to mention the occasional twisted ankle. But it is amazing how quickly you can get used to things through repetition. These days, it feels strange for me to wear flats. They make me feel … well, flat. High heels seem to raise not only my body but my spirit as well.

Even on that first day, I had already started to display feminine mannerisms just from having to adjust my gait to my new centre of gravity. It also seemed that my wrists had gone quite limp, probably from wearing bracelets and holding my hands up higher. Taking into account the effect the mini-dress had made to the way I sat, and other subtle changes I had noticed in myself, I couldn’t believe how effeminate I had become from simply a change in clothes. The saying might have been that "Clothes maketh the man". In my case, however, they seemed to be making a woman.

I opened the door slowly to make my entrance as requested, only to be greeted by a glare that sent shivers down my spine.

"How dare you disrespect us by coming out here without your make-up!"

I instantly slammed the door and held my breath. When the door remained closed, I started to breathe again. With great relief, I made my way to the dresser (or should I say make-up table?) where I sat myself down to examine the multitude of items before me.

Fortunately, for me, I had been involved in some amateur theatre, even starring in a couple of TV ads, so I recognised most of the items. This didn’t mean I was any good with them, but at least I knew enough to start with the Foundation. I spotted my face and neck with it and smoothed it out all over. I also remembered that the Powder needed to be pressed into the Foundation. I even found a Brush to dust off the excess Powder. So much for the easy stuff.

I had no idea about eye make-up, other than it came in a palette of different colours like a paint tin. I chose one of the darker colours for my eyelids and blended it in with a couple of lighter shades under my brows. For a first attempt, I thought I had done a pretty good job.

Things only got harder from there. Do you think I could draw a straight line with the EyeLiner? Under the lower lid was hard enough, the upper one was near impossible. How could you be expected to get a line straight when you had to close your eye to do it? I did the best I could, trying to cover up my mistakes with more Eye Shadow, and was pleasantly surprised by the result – It wasn’t too bad!

Oh, but then came the Mascara … I had no idea what I was doing. I tried twirling it on; I tried brushing on; I tried rolling it on; Mostly, I just tried not to poke my eyes out with it. It was almost funny and I caught myself even chuckling about it.

After the Mascara, all else seemed relatively easy. I’d seen women apply Lipstick often enough to have a basic idea of how to do it myself and with a dab of Blusher to highlight my cheeks, I was finished.

The Lipstick felt slippery on my lips and the Mascara felt a bit heavy on my lashes, but other than that, I didn’t feel much different. That is, until I noticed the Perfume bottles beckoning me. I didn’t dare risk another beating, so I quickly grabbed the nearest one called "Innocence", spraying it liberally around my neck, chest, and wrists. Even before I could put the bottle back down on the dresser, its scent seemed to permeate my skin, overpowering my senses. It levitated up me from my stool in such a wave of femininity that numbed what little resistance to it I had left.

I steadied myself against the dresser as much out of a concern that I didn’t fall over in my new shoes as out of an apprehension of having to face my tormentors again. I took one last look at myself in the full-length mirror on the door of the walk-in robe to make sure there wasn’t anything else that might ignite their wraith.

I stood there mesmerised at the sight of the stranger before me for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know if to laugh or to cry. I looked at myself from all different angles. Under different circumstances, I would have liked to chat up this woman that I could see looking back at me. I couldn’t believe what I had become. Yet the truth was as plain as daylight.

There was my face, with full make-up on and earrings dangling by its side. There was my chest, naked but for a necklace adorning a flattering cleavage. There were my hands, glowing with bright red nail polish and bracelets dancing in all colours. There was a dress draping down to where my shapely legs emerged encased in black pantihose, perched on black suede high-heeled shoes.

Even without having done anything with my hair, I doubted if anyone would have recognised me, as I now stood, not even my own mother. The realisation that from tip to toe I had become a woman was almost too much for me. I quickly wiped a tear from the side of my eye before it could damage my make-up. I felt both shame and excitement as I took those last tentative steps towards the door that once opened, would change my life forever.

 

Chapter 4 – My First Lesson

"Tina! My God, you look beautiful!" came the verdict from Vincent and Tony as I stood in the open doorway.

I knew I should not have, but I let the compliment wash over me with some pride.

"Come over here and let us look at you properly."

I traipsed along like a model on a catwalk spinning around to their approval.

"You should have been born a girl! You’ve gone from a pathetic excuse for a man to one hell of a woman. If only your mother could see you now … Come sit with us so we can talk about the ‘rules’."

The ‘rules’ seemed simple enough on the surface. Basically, I had to wear whatever they told me to wear, and to keep house for them as their ‘wife’, while they taught me a lesson about not criticising anyone "until I had walked a mile in their shoes. I was being made to live the life of a transgender person until they had decided that I had learnt my lesson.

Having had the situation ably explained in some detail, I was given a present, gift-wrapped in floral paper with a pretty pink bow. They told me it was something "no girl should be without".

I unwrapped the parcel apprehensively, shocked to find a tube of lubricant and a vibrator. I sat open-mouthed, not even noticing Vincent quietly walking up behind me until he was sucking sensuously on the side of my neck. I thought I was going to die. His kisses made me feel so sexy I was tingling all over with goosebumps. He took me by my hands and helped me to my feet as his lips worked their way around to under my chin. Suddenly, they immersed themselves in mine as we went into the most passionate kiss I had ever experienced.

If I had stopped to think about it, I would have realised that my tongue was sliding around in another man’s mouth. But how could I think at all in such a moment? I could scarcely even breathe. As Vincent and I continued exploring each other’s mouths, Tony reached up under my dress, and gently eased down my panties and pantihose to my ankles.

"Put your head down to your knees and touch your toes."

As I bent forward, Vincent leaned over me to fold back the skirt of my dress and expose my naked bum, easing it apart with a hand either side of my buttocks. Something cold and slippery was applied around my anus. I heard a buzzing sound as something long and hard started to pry open my anus. I almost screamed in pain, but I dared not. A pitiable squeal was all I could muster.

"Take it in, Tina," came the soft voice as the dildo slowly hummed in and out of my hole. "Don’t fight it or it will hurt."

Fight it? I had lost all control of myself long ago. And now as the vibrations slowly eased their way in deeper and deeper, I had gone beyond all feeling. I was in another world.

Vincent pulled my head back and buried his penis deep inside my mouth. I did what came naturally. As I sucked and licked his big rod, Tony planted his own throbbing member up my bum in place of the vibrator. I heard them orgasm at the same time as I started choking from the cum squirting down inside my throat. It was seeping out of my mouth and my anus at the same time. It was rolling down my chin and neck. It was rolling down my buttocks and my inside legs. I had been fucked from both ends. This was not what I had in mind when I thought of "simultaneous orgasms".

But they were not finished with me yet. I was handed the vibrator and made to fuck myself. I gasped and moaned as I explored around in my own cavity. Vincent eased me back into the upright position, as the vibrator remained humming away inside me, tighter than ever. I gasped and moaned even more. He rolled back my dress with the bra and petticoat straps off my shoulders down to my elbows, and started feasting on my breasts. Tony started pecking my thigh, working his way up my leg to my penis, and making it disappear into his mouth. I started gasping and moaning uncontrollably.

Then it happened – I climaxed into the most intense orgasm I had ever had but a mere trickle was all my penis could discharge. It was as if every cell in my body had detonated at once instead. I collapsed to the floor and writhed around as if in convulsions.

As I slowly returned to earth, Vince and Tony continued with their debauchery. In a final act of humiliation they thrust the vibrator into my face, making me lick it clean, removing all the caked on shit with my mouth and tongue. I was made to pull up my panties and pantihose, and was marched back to my room.

I hobbled towards the bathroom aware of the pain exuding from my sticky bum. I saw in the mirror the mess that was my face – smudged make-up with a mixture of dried cum and shit. My own smell disgusted me. I couldn’t even be bothered undressing for a shower. I walked over to the toilet bowl, shoved my head into it, and "pulled the chain".

 

Chapter 5 – I’ll Never Be The Same Again

That event haunted me for a long, long time, forever, in fact. Not only was I ashamed of how totally humiliated I had been but also by the thought that I had somehow been to blame for it. I blamed myself for causing it all by my condemnation of transsexuals, and for offering so little resistance (none in fact), and for having such an intense orgasm that made it impossible to deny how much I had enjoyed it.

The sick thing was that my shame and humiliation only excited me all the more. I had enjoyed how my panties and pantihose restrained my ankles, and how the sleeves of my dress had restrained my arms, while unthinkable things were happening around my body. I had enjoyed my powerlessness in being able to neither run to escape nor to raise my arms in my defence. And painful as my arse still was, it only reminded me of the pleasure I had experienced from all this depravity. My God, I had even inserted a throbbing dildo up into myself! I had allowed a man to penetrate me and to scatter his semen inside my arse as if staking his territory. I had allowed another man to shove his penis deep inside my throat so that his semen would be digested through my entire body seeping into my every cell.

Okay, so I didn’t have much choice in the matter, but I scarcely needed much encouragement either. Once put in that position, it was as if my body had responded to its own natural urges. I tried in vain to dismiss it from my mind as if it hadn’t happened but I couldn’t help but wonder when it would happen again. I felt relieved when nothing happened the following day, disappointed on the second, and found myself longing for it by the third. I had tasted ‘forbidden fruit’ and found it pleasurable. The longer between drinks, the thirstier I got.

Apart from the physical and emotions scars I carried from this experience, my whole concept of gender and sexuality had been tossed out the window. I scarcely knew anymore if I was a man or a woman. I had always thought of myself as a man, yet the mirror now seemed to say otherwise. I had, of course, little choice but to dress in that way. But the frightening thing was that I found myself increasingly behaving like a woman and enjoying it!

And while I never again had to eat my own shit, the sight of my face caked in it seemed to have been indelibly imprinted in my mind. I felt branded. I felt as if that final act of depravity tarnished my very soul with a stain that could never be removed.

Having washed the vibrator out in my bathroom, I had tried to get it out of my sight by hiding under my undies in the dresser drawer. Yet I couldn’t get it out of my mind. It was as if it was calling out to me to pick it up. I kept trying to tell myself to leave it alone, that it was wrong for my to even have such thoughts. Yet somehow, it kept finding its way back in my hands, roaming around my breasts, down to my crotch, and back inside my anus. I was ashamed of what I was doing to myself but was enjoying it too much to stop.

Pleasurable as it was on my own, I couldn’t help but think back to how Vincent and Tony had licked and sucked my breasts, and how they had pumped me from behind. I remembered how much I enjoyed doing this to women while being totally oblivious to how it might have felt to them. Now suddenly overnight, I was wishing that I could be one of them so that someone would do the same to me.

Finally one morning, while I had my dildo firmly inside my arse, craving for Vincent and Tony, they walked in on me unexpectedly.

"Wow, Tina! Can we join you?"

"Please," I gasped. As my nightie slipped from my shoulders to the floor, my prayers were answered.

* * *

If I had hoped that I might have learnt my lesson well enough to be let go after a day or two, I was in for a shock. Each day started like the first with a different ensemble laid out for me to wear. I would doll myself up and walk out to ‘glowing reviews’ from my two captors. I have to admit that I started to enjoy their attention so much that I found myself fussing around with my appearance each morning, not for fear of being beaten up, but because I longed for their compliments. On days when these were not as glowing, I became even more determined to look prettier for them the following morning.

I would then be given a list of housekeeping jobs to perform during the day, which included cooking, washing, ironing, etc while they went out to work. Any thoughts of escape were pointless, as I lived in a self-contained portion of the house at basement level. There was no windows, no phone, and only one outgoing door that they always left locked.

There wasn’t even a TV or Radio so the only entertainment I had was a pile of women’s magazines, which were added to each week. Instead of flicking through these quickly in search of the ‘hottest babes’ as I used to, I found myself increasingly more interested in what the models had on. I have to admit that I sometimes caught myself being a bit jealous of their perfect figures, their beautiful hair, and their expert make-up. I started paying more attention to all the beauty tips so that I could be more like them.

After the first week, I was ‘rewarded’ for my co-operation by being allowed to chose my own clothes. The only hitch was that they had to be something I had worn during the past week and that I had to talk about each item I chose and what I had liked best about it. It was embarrassing enough having to choose anything at all as this was an admission that I had actually received some form of pleasure from wearing women’s clothes. Having to then explain how attractive I had found these items in terms of their pretty colours, their stylish designs, and the feel of their delicate fabrics, was even more humiliating.

The second week started similar to the first, only this time I was allowed to choose my own outfits on both of the last two days. Again, my selections had to be made from anything I had already worn, which I then had to model while explaining in detail what I liked most about wearing them. I found this easier this time around, especially on the second day.

In fact, everything was becoming easier with practice. For those first two weeks, I had to wear the sexiest of clothes - micro-mini skirts and dresses, low cut and see-through tops, the highest of high heels, and the most prominent jewellery. I felt very exposed. I had a lot to get used to. But after a few initial awkward days, I started to adapt to it all pretty well, even if my mannerisms continued to become more effeminite because of it.

My routine became quite complex from the third week on, leading me to make some mistakes for which I was severely punished. It wasn’t that I was deliberately disobedient, otherwise my penis would have been filleted into a vagina. It was just that I found the routine difficult to remember.

On the surface it seemed easy enough. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, new outfits were laid out for me. These were easier to wear, like skirts and dresses that reached down to my middle thighs instead of barely covering my bottom, and shoes with slightly lower heels. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I had to wear whatever I had chosen for the previous Saturday and Sunday.

But it was the weekend, where I continued to have free choice in what I wore, that I got most confused. On Saturdays, I had to choose one of those skimpy revealing outfits I had worn during my first fortnight. On Sundays, I had to choose from the more recent outfits. On both days, the outfits had to be ones I hadn’t chosen before ‘to teach me to appreciate all my clothes, not just my favourites’. After a few weeks, I had trouble remembering which clothes I had worn when.

There were other technicalities to consider as well like having to change my nail polish every third day ‘to keep it looking good’. The easiest way to do this was to remove the old nail polish before I went to bed, and to re-apply a new shade in the morning. Easy enough, only I sometimes got confused as to whether it had been 2 or 3 days since the last change.

And my punishment for my mistakes? I was made to pull down my panties and lie across the armrest of the sofa with my bottom pointing upwards while it was strapped 10 times with a leather belt. I’ll tell you, this really hurt. If I ‘uttered a sound or moved a muscle’, the strap was repeated. As each one landed, it more often then not flicked around on the side of my bare leg. The first one I received sent me through the roof in an ear-piercing scream. It took nearly half an hour to count even the first of the straps and nearly an hour to count the tenth. Painful as it was I soon learnt to grit my teeth, hold my breath, and to take my mind somewhere else. The only signs of life I showed were the tears streaming from my eyes and my trembling body. I quietly cried myself to sleep afterwards vowing never to make another mistake. Yet, I had to endure this two more times.

The ‘rules’ of my week changed slightly with the start of week 8 when I was given a knee-length skirt to wear for the first time. It was a strange sensation to find my upper-legs suddenly covered after all that time spent wearing only miniskirts and dresses. Surprisingly, because of its narrow cut and non-elastic material, I actually found it more restrictive and had to re-adjust my movements to this new complexity.

Tuesdays (and Thursdays) remained as before, wearing my choices from the previous Saturday and Sunday. But on Wednesday, I was given a long floral dress to wear. It was navy blue with large lavender and cyan flowers. I felt so delightfully feminine in it, especially with a full petticoat underneath rustling around my legs as I walked. It posed new problems whenever I sat down, of course, but having to re-arrange it only allowed me more opportunity to admire its loveliness. Needless to say, I couldn’t resist wearing it again on Sunday and by now was having no problems explaining what I most liked about my clothes during our discussions other than finding adequate words to describe my joy.

Friday brought with it another surprise. I was given a pair of trousers, the first time I had been allowed to wear any form of pants for over 2 months. They might have been black in colour, but the gold buttons at the front left no doubt as for which sex they had been intended. And when worn with a tightly fitting maroon cardigan with three-quarter sleeves, even this outfit could not diminish my femininity. When I sat, I still crossed my legs over like a woman. When I walked, I still carried myself in my high-heeled shoes like a woman. Even my mannerisms remained like those of a woman. Wearing pants just wasn’t the same anymore. The women’s undies I wore with them, the shoes, the tops, the jewellery, the make-up, all combined to have me feeling as much a woman as I had since wearing dresses had become an everyday thing.

The new pattern of my week remained unchanged for the next 12 weeks. On Saturdays I was now allowed to choose anything to wear from the first 8 weeks, while on Sundays I had a choice of any of my newer outfits. The only proviso about Sundays was that I had to alternate each week between the knee-length dresses and skirts from Mondays, the full-length dresses and skirts from Wednesdays, and the trousers, shorts, and leggings from Fridays.

Being able to now wear a wider variety of clothes made my life feel almost normal again. And with Vincent and Tony seemingly more easy-going about things (there were no further beatings), I started to enjoy my life more and more. I couldn’t help but think back to how restricted I had been as a man in what I was allowed to wear. I wondered how I would ever cope going back to that life when I had finally ‘learned my lesson’. I had to admit, though, that I had little to complain about my life as it now was.

But there was another subtle difference I noticed in myself from wearing pants again – how I filled them out! I had an exercise bike I had used every day to stay fit, so I had lost a lot of flab from around my body. Yet my hips and my bottom seemed bigger and more rounded than ever before.

I had suspected that the ‘vitamins’ I had been taking might have been some sort of female growth hormones. I always felt very sexy after taking them, my skin seemed to have softened over time, and my body hair was all but gone. While the biggest telltale sign might have been my breasts which seemed to fill my B-cups better than ever even without any padding, I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t getting paranoid about them since there was no big change in them from one day to the next. Seeing my figure in pants after such a long time, however, seemed to leave no doubt. Even my body had let me down. It had been feminised just like the rest of me.

If I had thought I had already suffered all the humiliation possible with this realisation, I would have been wrong again. There was something more I was soon to discover.

 

Chapter 6 – My Goose Is Cooked

Having been held captive for almost 5 months and enduring very strict rules in the process (especially in my dress), I was quite unprepared for the new turn in events. I was to be allowed to go free! My lessons were over! I was in raptures. I could scarcely contain myself. The thought that I could finally walk free was so exciting that I danced around the room hysterically with tears of joy streaming down my face, hopelessly messing up my make-up.

As this was to be my final week, I was allowed to choose whatever outfits I liked every day of the week, free of all conditions! But my ultimate freedom still depended on passing my final test - I had to make my "debut in society", especially dressed up for a night on the town. To celebrate my ‘graduation’, Vincent and Tony would wine and dine me through to the early hours of the morning. Providing I behaved like the ‘perfect lady’, I would be free to leave the following Monday.

To ensure that my special night would be everything it should be, my ‘party dress’ would be kept a surprise until Saturday afternoon, by which time I needed to be completely ready including having visited the hairdressers. The appointment had already been made for me, but I would be allowed to choose my own style, albeit whatever I chose would obviously affect my ‘final assessment’. The appointment included extra time in case I wanted to indulge myself in any extras like a new hair colour or a perm.

Up until to recently, my hair had always been kept in typical men’s manner, short and easy to maintain. By now, it had grown considerably longer with little attention other than me having experimented with various hair-clips to keep it out of my eyes and occasionally putting it in ponytails or plaits just for the fun of it. My fear of going bald had disappeared with my hair appearing more luxuriant than ever before.

My week went by uneventfully, other than I was perkier than I had been for a long time (perhaps ever) and that I had great trouble in deciding what to wear now that I had such a choice. I felt pressured by time, with not enough of it to be able to wear all my favourite outfits for one last time. I would often change my clothes 3 or 4 times in the morning before settling on something to wear for the rest of the day.

However, Friday night brought with it a new complication -Vincent and Tony asked me to stay on! They offered to support me in my current lifestyle in return for me becoming their ‘wife’ both sexually and domestically. They felt that I had learnt my lesson well and deserved my freedom, so it was up to me if I wanted to go back to my old life or to stay as I was. If wanted to leave, I could once I passed the final test first. If I wanted to stay, then I would have to prove my commitment to them by ‘going all the way", by voluntarily having my penis filleted and inverted into a vagina.

I sat stunned by my options. Irrespective of everything that had transpired over the previous 5 months I had never given up my hope for freedom or ever considered the possibility that I would doing anything else other than returning to my former life. Suddenly I was being given the opportunity to have both my freedom and to stay, as I was, a woman! It was totally outrageous to suddenly have a choice of which gender I wanted to live as. This was something I’d never had, not in the last 5 months, nor in the preceding 30 years.

But before I had any time to think about all this, Vincent and Tony suggested I might want to watch a video in case I had any ‘funny ideas’ for when I was allowed to leave the house. I sat down apprehensively wondering what the hell was going to happen now. I should have guessed that they would have had another trick up their sleeves. The video consisted of scenes of me in my apartment, carefully edited in what could only be described as a very biased way. I had secretly been caught on hidden video-cams.

I watched myself get out of bed in my short pink nightie on that first fateful day. The video immediately cut to me opening the dresser drawer and holding up the pair of emerald panties with a big cheesy grin on my face. In a flash I was putting them on and admiring myself in the mirror! There was nothing of Vincent or Tony, or the beatings I had endured, or even my testicles that had been removed. These scenes had been carefully edited out to make it look like I’d done everything of my own free will.

I shuddered as I watched myself expertly put on the matching bra as if I’d done it a hundred times before, without any sign of the struggle I had coping with the clips at the back. More embarrassing still was how I fussed with my breasts herding them into their padded cups and in adjusting the bra straps on my shoulders. I couldn’t believe how womanly I was behaving and this was only the first day! I wished the earth could have swallowed me up when I saw myself stroking my cleavage while masturbating with my other hand.

The spectacle of me putting on my pantihose was obviously heavily edited, with only the smile on my face to remind me of the drama I had in getting them on straight. Seeing myself stroking my pantihosed legs over and over as I had, you would be forgiven for thinking that this was the reason for my obvious delight on my face.

When I saw myself hold the petticoat up against my body in a typically womanly manner, then slipping in on quickly and rubbing its delicate fabric against my body, I looked as if I was near orgasm. From memory, I nearly was, so I could not blame that on the editing.

Shocking as it was to see myself put on a dress for the first time, the most embarrassing thing was the attention I gave to my cleavage. I kept adjusting the neckline of the dress to seemingly best accentuate my cleavage. Then, instinctively I put on my necklace and kept admiring myself in the mirror for far too long. I was surprised at how often my hands seemed to rest on the top of my chest and how I kept twirling around the bracelets on my wrists almost unconsciously. Then there was my obvious delight from my dangly earrings in my newly pierced ears.

Next I watched how demurely I had squatted to pick up my shoes and how I crossed my legs in sitting myself down on the bed to put them on. I couldn’t stand to watch on as I again started stroking the pantihose on my legs. I couldn’t believe how obsessive I had become about them. Then to my horror, I realised that I was stroking them again while I was watching the video. What had become of me? It was as if women’s clothes had taken over my whole being and turned me into a woman.

The video then cut to me sitting at the dressing table applying my make-up, missing completely the terror I had felt walking out without it. Again, I was embarrassed by how expertly I seemed to apply it. You could not tell that this was my first time. Even my fumbles with the eyeliner came across as if I was having fun.

I had to turn my head away again from the video when it came to me checking myself out from all different angles in the mirror. I looked so girlie it nearly made me sick. Mercifully, this segment of the video soon ended with me parading out to see Vincent and Tony in the other room, quite obviously basking in their compliments. The ‘edited highlights’ had so far lasted nearly half an hour and at no time did they show any coercion to behave as I had. All it showed was a man who was obviously enjoying himself dressing up as a woman.

The next segment shocked me even more. It showed me rummaging in my undies drawer for my vibrator. I watched aghast as the video showed me massaging my breasts with the dildo before sliding it up my arse to sounds of obvious delight. But even worse was yet to come as the video showed Vincent and Tony walking in on me, asking me if they could join me. I could not believe that the only word I could find to answer them with was ‘Please’! Whatever had possessed me to say that?

From there, the video became just like a porn flick with me in the starring role. It showed Vincent and Tony ravishing me all over before penetrating me with penises in both my anus and my mouth, exploding their seeds leaving cum seeping out of me from both ends. It showed them bringing me to boiling point before cutting back to my first orgasm with them on day one when I had writhed around on the floor like a snake making the most guttural sounds I’d ever heard.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I wished I could have died rather than having to continue to watch this horror movie. It was embarrassing enough being caught on video in such a sexually explicit way. For it to be with two men … I shuddered to think what people would think if they saw me in this way. Yet for all my embarrassment, I couldn’t help but be excited as I recalled the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced.

The video then moved onto a new segment but by now I had given up on expecting it to ease up on my mounting humiliation. Sure enough, there I was modelling my favourite clothes and mouthing off excitedly what I liked most about them. My initial reticence had conveniently been left out and I came across like some deranged ‘Spice Girl’, traipsing around in my outfits, talking glibly like an empty bottle.

What struck me most was how feminine I looked irrespective of what I had on. Even wearing stone-coloured trousers with a lilac fitted shirt, you wouldn’t have picked me for a man. There’s something about women’s shirts, cut to accentuate every bump and curve, and worn as if they were two sizes too small, that does something to the appearance of its wearer that traditional men’s shirts simply don’t.

I couldn’t help but be struck by how limited I had been in what I could wear as a man in comparison. Not only had women commandeered traditional men’s clothes like pants and shirts, they had more freedom in how they wore them. While no man would want to be caught dead wearing women’s clothes, the irony was that there was not a single item of clothing left that men could still claim as their own. Women had taken them all and improved on them.

The final segment could only be described as ‘chilling’. It showed me making hamburgers. I remembered mixing them in the food processor from ingredients that were already in it. But I don’t recall ever seeing Vincent putting them in as depicted in the video. It had been a clever addition. It showed him removing my testicles one by one from the jar with a spoon as if they were some sort of delicacy and dropping them into the food processor with other chopped up meat. It then showed me calmly walking up to the food processor, adding in eggs and spices, and flicking on the switch.

I trembled at the gravity of what I had done, of what I had been tricked into doing, as the video showed me kneading my shattered testicles into patties. I gagged all over myself as I watched myself cannibalising my own manhood. It was in that moment that I first realised that I could never go back to my previous life. Even if I tried, how could I ever account for those missing months? And even if I promised to keep my silence, how could I ever trust Vincent or Tony not to make the video suddenly appear in the letterbox of one of my friends? I realised my old life was over and all that was left for me was to make the most of my new situation. After a mostly restless night, I awoke with a new resolve.

 

Chapter 7 – My Night Out

My visit to the hairdresser was the first time I had been outside in 21 weeks. It was meant to be a mere prelude to my official ‘debut’ later that night. Yet to me, it was a defining moment in its own right, a significant turning point in my life.

This was Tina’s first chance to be seen in public and I felt it was important she created the right impression. I wanted to show off her newly discovered femininity without flaunting it too much. In short, I wanted to look just like any other woman out shopping on a Saturday morning.

I was up early to give myself plenty of time for trying on various combinations of clothes. After endless indecision, I settled for a long maroon button front skirt (with a feint red flower pattern), a plain white boat neck top, and modern black sandals with a platform sole.

That was only the beginning, of course, because I still had to deal with my make-up, accessories, and to pack a handbag for the first time. I choose a plain gold-chained necklace and similar styled bracelet. I couldn’t resist wearing dangly earrings but at least I choose the most conservative ones I had. Knowing full well that I had to be careful not to overdo my make-up, I simply dusted some powder on my face and applied some light mascara and lippy. Packing the make-up bits and pieces into my handbag with my purse and some tissues, I was ready.

I stood frozen for a while in anticipation of what I was about to do. I took a long deep breath and walked out of my room into a brave new world.

My visit to the hairdresser took up the latter part of the morning and much of the afternoon, almost as long as all my previous visits put together. Vincent escorted me in, obviously to keep an eye on me. He left a blank cheque at reception telling everyone that he was organising a mystery night out for me and to simply put on his tab whatever I wanted. Only proviso was to call him a half an hour before I was ready so that I wouldn’t have to wait unnecessarily. Everyone in the shop cooed at how lucky I was to have such a romantic boyfriend. I had little choice but to play along with this masquerade.

I had decided to stay with the hairstyle that I had decided upon earlier in the week, having little more than an inch off, complete with a colour change. As I sat in the chair looking at the blonde woman in the mirror, I knew I had made the right decision. No one, who had ever known me previously, would ever recognise me now.

It was a simple cut stopping short of my shoulders, with the fringe curling over my forehead, and the sides curling inwards to frame my face. I was grateful for hints I received in how to maintain my new style even though I knew they would be adding extra time to my already busy beauty routine in the mornings.

While Vincent and Tony may have insisted on keeping my ‘party’ dress a secret till the very last minute, they kept teasing me all week about how pretty I would look in ‘pink’. So taking their hints, I decided to have my nails manicured and my make-up done professionally to match, and include them on the account. I glowed with contentment as I realised how lovely I looked. I had waited so long for my freedom and yet it now seemed that deciding to live the rest of my life as a woman was the final act that set me free.

I chatted with the beautician waiting for my nails to dry while someone rang Vincent to pick me up. It was late afternoon by the time I returned home, having basked in his compliments all the way home, and again from Tony as he handed me some gift-wrapped parcels on arrival.

The first contained the most beautiful corset I had ever seen. It was white, adorned with pink ribbons, and I couldn’t wait to try it on. I didn’t have long to wait as the boys insisted I remove my top and bra and put it on straightaway, so that I ‘could get used to it’. As they tightened the lacing at the back, I could see what they meant. I felt as if I was cut in half. The corset lifted my breasts upward, making them look a size larger. As they double-knotted the tie at the back, I realised that I was at their mercy yet again, in that I wouldn’t be able to remove the corset without their help.

As we were booked for early dinner at 6.30pm, I got told to take my remaining ‘presents’ down to my apartment and to start readying myself for my night out. They cheekily added that they could ‘watch it all later on video’ to emphasise the fact that my every move was still being monitored even after 5 months of being totally submissiveness to them.

I kept reminding myself that this was going to my night and that I could ignore all their none too subtle bullying tactics. I immediately opened the biggest parcel knowing that this contained my new dress. It was absolutely gorgeous! My first strapless frock, with a boned bodice and a flared above-knee skirt, all in hot-pink. It was on me in a flash, even as my maroon skirt hit the floor.

I can’t even start to describe how wonderful I felt. It was as if giving in to the inevitable had allowed me to fully enjoy my femininity for the first time without any guilt. I felt like a little girl on Christmas morning. I impatiently unpacked all the other items. There was a pair of panties to match my corset, black stockings, and pink closed-toe high-heeled shoes that would go perfectly with my new party dress. I stood transfixed delighting in my appearance. I held the hem of my dress and started spinning around like a ballerina.

But there was more to come. I received a new clutch bag with shiny pink sequins. Inside there was a pendant necklace with sparkling diamonds surrounding a small ruby in the middle, earrings with solitary diamonds, and a bracelet ringed with small diamonds. I realised that diamonds certainly were ‘a girl’s best friend’. I was in awe of their beauty and felt a tinge of guilt at how expensive they must have been. But then after all I’d been through, I deserved them!

I touched up my lipstick and packed my new handbag. I wrapped my new shawl around my shoulders, almost as an after thought, and was pleasantly surprised at how such a simple piece could top things off so well. I let it drop to my arms. I was amazed how wonderful I felt. I felt as if I had truly arrived, that I was looking at the new me.

I endured the wolf whistles and compliments from Vincent and Tony as I emerged from my apartment. I had transcended my dependence on their approval. I felt no shame from their belittling comments. This was going to be my night, and I was going to lap up every moment, not for them but for myself.

The restaurant was delightful. The drinks at the bar, while we killed time before our night clubbing, left me feeling quite tipsy. I danced through the night until I was too tired to dance at all. All the while I was aware that all eyes were on me not because I was a creature from outer space but because I was attractive.

But my favourite moment was yet to come. As we rounded into our street on our way home, there were flashing lights from police cars as if there had been some bad accident right outside our house. As we drove up our driveway, policemen walked up, handcuffed us as we got out of our car, and drove us away in separate cars. I didn’t get to see Vincent’s or Tony’s faces, but I was sure that I was the only one smiling.

 

Chapter 8 – New Beginnings

Today was the last day of the trial with Vincent and Tony being put away long enough for me not to have to worry about them ever again. The turning point came when I realised that it was not their violence that kept me under their control, but my silence in the face of my own shame and humiliation.

It was bad enough having to live with what they had put me through. But the most shame and humiliation I ever had to face was admitting that I now wanted to live my life as a woman, that I didn’t want to return to my old life even if I could. This honesty with myself is what set me free.

The rest was easy! It was all a matter of taking whatever opportunities presented themselves. My hairdressing appointment meant I didn’t have long to wait. Of course, I had to be very careful since Vincent and Tony were still keeping a watchful eye on me. But they couldn’t really sit through my entire appointment without raising suspicion. They had to leave me to my ‘girlie stuff’ and this was all opportunity I needed.

So when I was asked if I wanted a cup of coffee while I waited for my new hair colour to take effect, I simply asked if I could also have a pen and paper. With this, I wrote the following note to one of my customers whose appointment I was never able to make because of my kidnapping, who coincidentally happened to be the Practise Manager of a firm of lawyers.

Dear Bob. I’m sorry I missed our appointment without notice 5 months ago. However, I’m sure that when you hear my full story you will understand why. Briefly, I was kidnapped by 2 guys in a bar who have forced me to dress as a woman and to live as their ‘wife’. I won’t even try to explain what this has entailed other than they have already castrated me and will soon remove my penis if you don’t act quickly. This is the first time I have been allowed to leave the house in 5 months and am still under close scrutiny. Fortunately, I noticed the number on the letterbox as we left the house and the street name on our way out. So I’ve added this to the bottom of the note. My captives will be taking me out for dinner tonight and we will not be returning till early morning. You must organise a search of their house during this time. This should uncover the video tapes they took of what they put me through, which they later edited to try to blackmail me with into staying ‘of my own free will’. I’m certain this will give you all the evidence you’ll ever need. If you need further proof that this is no joke, then ask for a description of the person who wrote this letter. This should more than convince you of the gravity of my position. Signed Keith Wilkins.

I then asked the hairdresser to book an Urgent Courier to deliver my note, adding the cost to my account.

And that was enough! In addition to the edited video tape with which Vincent and Tony had tried to blackmail me, the search of the house uncovered the original unedited video tapes and a wad of prescription-only hormonal drugs obviously used to feminise my body. But by far the most damning thing that was found were video tapes of two other people with remarkably similar build to my own who appeared to have been abducted at some time before I had been. This would explain how there were so many outfits in my size already waiting for me when I first arrived.

Vincent and Tony were both denied bail while police painstakingly sifted through hours and hours of footage. Their diligence soon paid off when they found footage showing the first victim hanging himself out of despair to escape his imprisonment. Then later in the week a tape was found showing the second man beaten to death after he tried to go back to his old life the day after his ‘big night out’. Neither body was ever found but they were both identified from the videos through ‘Missing Persons’ files. It was ironic that the thing Vincent and Tony had tried to use to trap me, was the very thing that caught them out instead.

When it all came to trial, I may have been the ‘star witness’ for the prosecution, but the trial was more about murder and manslaughter than kidnapping. My testimony was used to establish the horrors that the other two people went through leading to their deaths.

I was initially given ‘name-suppression’ so that I could start to re-construct my life. The first step was to re-establish contact with my family. It was incredibly difficult to have to face my parents, even harder than the trial itself. It would have been so easy to walk away and leave them to live with the uncertainty of whether I was dead or alive. I was both, in fact. Keith Wilkins was dead, while Tina Wilkins was alive. It was hard for my parents, too. They wanted to support me, but needed support themselves. I don’t see them much these days, being more like a ‘distant relative’ than their offspring. But I’m hoping that time will allow them to accept me into their family as their new daughter.

I am very grateful to Social Services for helping me through the last 18 months. I’ve had countless hours of counselling, not to mention money for food, shelter and clothing. Everything in the house became impounded as ‘evidence’, so I haven’t been able to wear any of my old outfits. While my clothes these days are nowhere near as elaborate as they used to be, at least I’ve been able to truly choose them myself. I still seem to favour short dresses and skirts with high heeled shoes, a legacy no doubt from those first 8 weeks in captivity.

But I’m not intending to stay dependent on governmental handouts for long. Now that the Criminal Trial is over, the Civil Trial can finally go ahead. Bob, my lawyer, says this should set me up for life with a chance of me being awarded nearly all Vincent’s and Tony’s assets which have been frozen through the courts subject to the conclusion of my claim. Vincent being a doctor and Tony a pharmacist, means there is plenty in the kitty with which to compensate me.

But there is still at least one thing that bothers me, something that remains unresolved. Should I go through with a complete sex change or should I remain a sexual oddity? Psychologists have examined my unique situation and have recommended me for a State-Funded sex change operation. The problem is that I just can’t bring myself to do it.

I know that my emotional scars will never allow me to be a man again and that my ongoing happiness depends on making the most of my life as a woman. But it is one thing to have to live with the legacy of a feminisation process I did not ask for. It is an entirely different matter, bordering on self-mutilation, to decide to continue that process myself.

To complicate things even further, my sexual orientation has been unaffected by all this. I might have been taught to engage in sex with men, but I remain sexually attracted to only women. So while I have yet to meet a man that could make me wish I had a vagina, I have precious little left of what might interest those women whom I might find desirable. It is a dilemma! One that keeps me from getting close to any person.

But if there’s one thing I have learnt through this experience it is this. You can dress for a sunny day and return home drenched by the rain; you can dress for rain and get scorched by the sun. Whenever you catch yourself thinking you can control your life, remember you can’t control ‘earthquakes’. All you can do is ride them out. Bad things can happen to good people just as good things can happen to bad people. If you think that life has dealt you a lousy hand, know that you can’t tell if you’ve won or lost until all the cards are on the table, and that the game is never over while you continue breathing.

Who would have ever thought that I would write a book that would lead to a bidding war between several prospective publishers? It is, of course, an autobiography about my days in captivity, the resulting emotional scars that won’t go away, and my attempts to re-construct some sort of ‘normal’ life in the aftermath. It’s only an initial draft at this stage but it already looks like it will earn me more money than my compensation claims from Vincent and Tony.

And who would have ever thought that I would become such a celebrity that I would need to employ a business manager to field the countless offers from all over the world for personal interviews and public appearances? At first, I tried to ignore them, hoping they would go away. But, of course, scarcity only breeds demand. I know that tomorrow I might be ‘yesterday’s news’. In the meantime talking about my trauma has not only helped me to deal with it, but has also helped pay my ongoing living expenses.

Finally, who would have ever thought that I would be on a plane heading for a guest appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show? Most women would die for the chance just to be in the audience. Here I am about to share centre stage with her. Of course I’m very nervous about it. Who wouldn’t be? But this was too good an opportunity to refuse. Not to mention the ‘all expenses paid’ trip and a healthy appearance fee.

So I’m sitting on the plane, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt (a women’s one, of course) with a black above-knee skirt, black pantihose and black high-heeled shoes (which I’ll be replacing with my comfy slippers as soon as the plane takes off). You can’t really tell, but I’m wearing the most delightful white camisole you could ever imagine, with matching bra and panties. You can just make out the top of the camisole peeking out from underneath my shirt but this doesn’t do it justice. My hair is still blonde, overhanging my shoulders by a couple of inches. I’ve had it longer but found that this to be the most manageable length, easy to maintain on a daily basis yet long enough to glamorise when the occasion warrants it.

Things might not be perfect yet, but they are pretty damn good! A far cry from the loser life I used to lead getting drunk with strangers in bars. You just can’t ever tell what lies around the next corner in life.

 

 

 

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© 2001 by Catherine Rose. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.