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Mistress Belle

by Jennifer White

  

The internet is a wonderful thing. It brings people together, and allows for them to share information in ways that weren't possible in the past. It also opens up many opportunities to make money, if you have a good idea. I had such an idea, which allowed me to do both things.

I started up an internet business of my own, under the name of Belle. I wanted something that sounded particularly unmistakably *female*, unlike my given name of Chris. Some might mistake me for a man if I went by my real name. Plus, that gave me a degree of anonymity, which is good in case you ever come across some wacko out there.

But I should back up, and tell you a bit about myself first, so you'd understand what it is I do. Ever since I was a little girl, I had been hooked on the idea of turning men into women. My parents gave me a Barbie, along with a Ken and a house. I soon had Ken wearing Barbie's dresses (although some were too tight to get on him, and tore some of them). I put 'makeup' on Ken with colored pens, but I guess it didn't really look that good. So when my younger sister tore the head off of an older Barbie of mine, I knocked Ken's head off, and glued hers on in its place.

I got my brother really mad when I turned his GI Joe into a girl too. I even glued little plastic things on his chest to give him boobs, like Barbie had. Ken and Joe would be sitting there, in their dresses, having a tea party with Barbie. Oh how he hated that!

So Ken, now with a girl's head including long hair, would wear a dress. He would cook and clean while Barbie sat back and watched TV or chatted with her friends, or rode her horse.

When I got a little older, I got in trouble for trying to dress up the neighbor boy into girl's clothes. I seethed and fumed, and was forced to keep my activities underground after that.

When I matured and started to become sexually aware, I found that I got off on turning men into women almost more than I did from having sex with the boys. They all wanted it so bad at that age! So I'd make them wear a bra, or put on a skirt. Only then would I do them. I loved it, they loved it. A real win-win situation.

But when I moved into my twenties, I felt somewhat alone. I felt like a freak, because I had this thing I liked to do, and I was the only one in the world who felt this way. That made me depressed. But one day, the internet saved me.

By accident, I found a site that talked about something they called 'forced feminization', where men were turned into women against their will. I got wet just from reading about it. And I was stunned to find that there were literally hundreds of sites devoted to the topic! That meant that there were millions of people worldwide who felt the way I did.

As I investigated further, I found out that there were *men* who enjoyed having it done to them! There were just begging for a woman to help them. Then the light bulb went off in my head. Bingo! I was in business soon after.

I put up my own web site, with enticing ads to lure men in. I would give free glimpses of what they could expect if they signed up for my services. Once they paid me, I let them into the really good pages of my web site, and started doing things like sending them an e-mail every week, with detailed instructions on what they were supposed to do. I customized the instructions, based on what each individual client was into. For example, I might tell them that they had to go out, get a prescription for birth control pills, and start taking them. And I made sure that each task had to be harder than the first one.

But I made sure that every command would always be something within reason, and I would never make them do anything humiliating. Being a woman should be a joyous thing, so I never wanted even the faintest association between womanhood and sexual humiliation.

Soon, I had dozens of subscribers. Then it grew to hundreds. Soon, I was inundated. It was a good thing; it allowed me to quit my other job, and devote all of my time to feminizing men.

But there was a downside. Sometimes I was so overworked, that I got sloppy a couple of times.

 

A good example of this was a guy that I'll call 'Henry'. I was sending him emails every week, ordering him to do certain tasks. He was advancing fairly well for such an early stage, so I told him to go out and buy a red bra.

He responded that he didn't know anything about bra sizes. I replied jokingly that he could always go into a store and get sized. Then I typed up a quick summary of how bra sizes work. But he responded with another e-mail:

 

--------------------------------

Dear Mistress Belle,

I'm really confused here. I tried to read your note, but the more I read it, the less I understand it. Do you even know what you're talking about here?

 

Henry.

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I could have gone off on him, but I responded gently:

 

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Dear Henry,

I'm sorry for the confusion. Sometimes I think faster than I can type, and that results in a typo. Or spell check decides to 'fix' something for me. Let's try again:

A bra has a 'band size', which is the number of inches you measure around yourself, plus 4 inches. Then measure the largest size, at the tip of your bust, and subtract your band size. The result can be used to determine your cup size. If the number is one or less, you're an A cup. Then every inch more adds one size (so 1-2 for B, 2-3 for C, and so on).

Also sizes can vary from one company to the next, and they measure them differently in Europe or Japan! You'd think that they would have a standard for this by now.

But where I think you're confused was what I said about your band size growing. You need to understand something about girls and breasts. The muscles in your chest also contribute to how far your boobs stick out. If you added two inches there, you'd look bigger, but need a bigger band size too.

As a young girl, my girlfriend and I would do chest exercises white chanting something that started out: "We must, we must, we must increase our bust!". So in my mind, as I had the image of your boobs rapidly expanding, I imagined the muscles growing too, making them look even bigger. That's why you'd end up with a bigger band size.

Sorry for the misunderstanding, I forgot that you're not a girl, and didn't go through what we did. My bad!

 

Mistress Belle.

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This was a typical type of misunderstanding. Between the fact that I only got a C+ in my typing class (I'm really bad on the numbers row) and the fact that men and women often had different sets of shared experiences, causing us to sometimes speak different languages (even though we use the same words), there can be confusion. As a woman, you might *mean* something, but a man hears (or reads) it differently. I always made it a point to get the men who signed up for my service working on using words the proper way. The *female* way. But they always took some time to come around.

Next, I sent out some more emails. I told one man who was fairly well advanced that he needed to go to the mall while fully dressed, and get a new pair of shoes. Next, I told a person in the middle of their training that they needed to subscribe to Glamour, and read it from cover to cover every month as soon as it arrived. And I ordered a newer customer that he needed to wear the panties he bought last week to work.

I did a few more, answered a few questions from customers, then called it a night. I was tired. But what I didn't know, is that one of my new customers had played a trick on me. They had sent an invisible attachment with their e-mail question, which launched a snoop program on my machine. It gathered information, and sent it back to him. But I didn't know this yet!

* * *

 

The next day when I logged on, I checked my e-mail, just as I always did first thing in the morning. I was in for a shock when I read one of them:

 

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Dear Mistress Belle,

Or should I say *Chris*? I can see many things on your computer. Many interesting things. Don't bother trying to stop me, I've already extracted all the information I need.

I am going to shut you down, you and your perverted operation.

 

The Hacker

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I was shocked and stunned. I had a firewall, a virus scanner, and this still happened to me? Or was he lying? I made a phone call to one of my clients, who was local. I knew that he was a real techno-nerd, and knew a million times more about computers than I ever would.

I told him to come see me right away. He was very excited to be able to finally meet me in person. I told him to wear his bra and panties under his clothes, or to come wearing a skirt, if he dared.

An hour later he showed up. He looked just like his picture he had sent with his enrollment form. He chickened out on the skirt, but did come through on the bra and panties.

I told him what happened, and that I would be very grateful if he would be willing to look at my computer.

"In exchange, I'll do a private session with you tonight, right here. No charge."

He was very eager, and he set off right away to dig into my computer. I went to the bedroom to prepare some clothes for him.

 

Two hours later, he came to me smiling and proud of what he had done. He used techno-jargon to tell me that he traced the message back to The Hacker, found his home IP address, found where it was registered to, then used an algorithm to make sure that the address hadn't been spoofed.

He had for me the name, address, phone number, and e-mail account (along with password!) of 'The Hacker'. I would be doing some hacking of my own later that night.

But first, I treated Kevin to an evening of femininity. I dressed him up, stuffed his bra, put on makeup, got out my men's sized heels for him, and ate supper with him while we sipped white wine and worked on his girl talk. He was in heaven. He was so reluctant to go! I told him that if he would wear his outfit and walk back home, that he could borrow it for a while.

He agreed, and twirled out the door in a flash of skirts. I loved to see a man feel free as he went out into the world for the first time as a woman! He seemed so happy. And I was about to be happy myself, as I began my revenge on 'The Hacker'.

* * *

Now that I knew who The Hacker was, I could easily do some research on him. He had used a false name when he registered with me, so I didn't find any hits on him when I looked in databases I paid annual fees for the privilege of accessing. But his real name was another story. I found out quite a bit about him. I was armed and ready.

I found his nickname he used when instant messaging, so I sent him one.

 

MBelle1: Hello Peter.

PMan1967: I'm sorry, do I know you?

MBelle1: Mistress Belle.

PMan1967: Sorry, you have the wrong person.

MBelle1: Do I *Kaye*? Should I ask your wife Angela what she thinks of you wearing her bras?

PMan1967: No! You can't!

MBelle1: I can, and I will.

MBelle1: Unless you do exactly what I tell you.

PMan1967: I promise! Don't tell her! Please!!!!!

MBelle1: So we have an understanding?

PMan1967: Yes.

MBelle1: Good. First of all, erase that computer virus you wrote. And wait for my orders. Remember, I'm watching you too. Don't disappoint me. I'd hate to have to expose you to all your friends and family.

 

Peter was a successful businessman, and his career would have been in deep trouble if word got out that he liked to dress up as a woman for fun. Of course, he would later claim that he signed up for the service so he could expose me and shut me down. But I knew better. There was a seed of something feminine within him. And now all I had to do was to unleash it.

* * *

 

I sent out an e-mail next:

 

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Dear Peter,

Come to Chicago next weekend, arriving Friday evening no later than 7pm. I don't care what you do, but make an excuse, or you will be plastered all over the internet, and exposed as the she-male that you wish you were. Tell me what hotel you are staying at downtown. You don't need to bring any male clothes; we're going shopping for you.

 

Mistress Belle

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I attached a file with his information, and his registration for my forced feminization service. He would cave in and show up. Someone like him would do anything to avoid being exposed.

* * *

 

Right on schedule, I received a reply e-mail from Peter the next day, with the name of his downtown hotel, right on Michigan Avenue. That was the best place to shop (but not the cheapest!) in town.

I dressed in my sexiest leather outfit, and wore a long coat over the top. I went to his hotel, and called the cell phone number he provided. I knocked on the door, and he let me it.

Just in case, I had my hand in my coat pocket, holding a can of mace. But it wasn't needed. He was really scared.

"Sit down on the bed" I ordered, in my best femme domme voice. He obeyed, frightened about what I was going to do. When I took off my jacket and turned around for him to see me in my leathers, I thought he was going to come in his pants.

The leather was tight and form fitting, and really made my curves look even more pronounced than when I wore something loose. And it made my boobs look bigger, and my cleavage deeper up top. I stood near him, and he cowered in fear.

"So, you want to be a woman" I said.

"No" he said, almost in a whisper. "I hate people like you. I wanted to go online to fight you, to stop you."

"I don't think so. I think you wanted to fail. I think you wanted to give me something to hold over you as a threat, so I could force you to become a woman. That's what you really want, isn't it Peter? Or should I call you Polly? That is your name now. Tell me who you are Polly."

"I'm Polly" he whispered.

"And what are you Polly?"

"I'm...." he was too shy to go on.

"You're *what*?" I said more forcefully.

"I'm a girl."

"That's right" I replied. "You're a girl. You had better get used to it. Now lets get you dressed up, so we can go out."

"Go out?"

"Yes! What fun is it to be a girl if you're stuck in some hotel room? Live a little! We're going out dancing at the clubs. We'll pick up some guys and..."

"Wait! I thought you didn't like humiliation!" he protested.

"I'm not going to force you to have sex with them or anything" I said. "That is, unless you want to. Is that it Polly? Do you want to be with a man? I can help arrange that."

"No!" he said.

"Your lips say no, but that swelling between your legs says otherwise."

"That's just because I'm looking at you!" he said.

"We'll see. If you're a good girl, and you obey without protesting, then I won't make you dance with a guy. It will just be a girl's night out. How's that?"

He just looked at me, helpless. He was real pathetic, this one. He protested, but I had known enough of his type to know what he really wanted. The more the protested, the closer to the truth I had come.

 

I called down to the front desk, and had the bell hop bring up a suitcase I had left down there. It had everything I needed to turn Peter into Polly. First, I made him shower and shave his legs, along with his chest and armpits.

"Do I really have to shave my chest and armpits?" he said.

"Yes" I replied. "Otherwise, the glue we're going to use for your fake boobs will stick to your hair, and they will be very painful to remove. And you can't go around with a hairy chest and arms when you're wearing an outfit like I'm going to put you into."

He showered, and returned to me naked, just as I asked. While he was gone, I changed into something more appropriate for clubbing it. I made him put on a bra and panties. It was obvious from the way he closed the clasps in the back, that this was not the first time he had tried it. So much for his fake protests.

I put in his fake boobs next, with a couple of drops of glue on each one to help hold them in place. They were heavy, and I could tell that he was surprised by the feeling of weight in his bra. He must have used something lighter to stuff it normally.

I had him put on control top pantyhose, then a slip. Next I gave him a black knee length skirt. I zipped it closed in back, then handed him his top. It left a little of a bare skin below his belly button, which I assured him was all the rage in the fashion world.

"This top doesn't cover up very much of me. You can see my breasts." he said.

"That's the idea. Men dress up and cover themselves all up. But when you're a woman, dressing up means showing off as much as possible. You've got big tits, then you had better show them off.

Next was the wig, makeup, long press-on nails, nail polish, jewelry, and perfume. And the last touch was a pair of pumps. He was passable as a woman. Peter looked at himself in the mirror, and was obviously reeling from the sight. Either he was realizing a lifelong dream that he was afraid to admit, even to himself, or he was scared out of his mind, being forced into his worse nightmare.

 

I took it easy on him, going out to dinner first (I made him put all the contents of his wallet into a little purse with a long strap, which I made him carry). Then we went into a few clothing stores.

"What do you think of this Polly?" I would ask, showing him an outfit. After going through quite a few, I found the perfect one for him, and made him buy it. Then on to several shoe stores, were we each got a couple of pairs.

 

Back at his hotel room, I took lots of photos of him, all dolled up. And I made him tell me over and over that he was a girl. I think that he was starting to loosen up a bit, and become a little less uncomfortable about wearing a dress.

I made him do all sorts of 'girly' things, making him walk, talk, sit, stand, and act like a girl. When I was satisfied that he was pretty much broken, I told him that I was going to my room for the night.

"I'll be by at 9am tomorrow morning. Make sure you're wearing that new outfit you bought today, and have your makeup on. I suspect that you know how to apply it already. And apply this tonight to your breast area."

I handed him a tube of breast cream. I didn't think the stuff worked, but it was more to freak him out than anything.

I left him, and I checked into a hotel nearby, and spent the night reading a novel, then watching HBO before going to bed. I wondered what he would be doing.

The last thing I did was to upload the pictures from my digital camera to my laptop, and send them to my server at home. I would keep them safe, just in case.

* * *

 

The next day, 'Polly' was ready and waiting when I arrived. We ate breakfast together, then spent hours and hours shopping. We went to the art institute next, and Polly started to complain that 'her' feet were really hurting.

"You had better get used to it. That's how it is when you wear women's shoes. But in time, your feet will adjust."

"What do you mean 'in time'?"

"Well, you've only been wearing them for one day. But after months and months of wearing them every day, your feet will adjust."

"Why would I wear them every day?" he said.

"Because after this weekend, I don't think that you'll ever go back to being a man. You're going to like being a woman so much, that you'll wish that you really were one of us."

"No!" he said.

"I think you do all ready. In fact, I bet that you're really hoping that I arrange that date with a man tonight. Don't you Polly. Don't you want to date a man."

"No! Please!"

"All right. We'll see. When you see a cute guy tonight, don't blame me if you are interested in him."

"Never" he said.

I just smiled. I knew better.

 

We went shopping again, and I thought how scary it was that 'Polly' could use a credit card with the name 'Peter' on it, and not get asked by anyone about it! So much for security. I hope I never loose my purse!

I made him buy bras, lingerie, skirts, makeup, accessories, and lots of other fun stuff. A girl can never get too much shopping in. At least now when the bill is going on someone else's credit card!

After we hauled it all back to Polly's room, we went out to lunch. Then we went to dinner, followed by a Broadway style show. Finally, I took Polly to a bar I found in 'The Reader', which was focused on an 'alternative' clientele.

You see, in my experience in my particular field, I found that many men who are like Peter had something inside of, that they were afraid to let out. They were afraid to admit even to themselves how they truly felt. I was going to give him an opportunity to discover for himself what he really felt.

Some men liked to dress up as women, but still felt attracted only to women. I loved this type, because they tend to worship women, place us on a pedestal, and do anything they can to please us. But from what I had seen, I doubted that Peter was one of these.

Some men like to dress up as a woman, as an excuse to be attracted to other men. That is what I thought he was. I liked this type too, because once they let themselves be who they were, they were more like women than men. With this type, you could be naked in front of them, and they would look at you the way one woman sees another woman. No sexual threat included.

There were of course others who didn't fit into any category, or those who felt like women trapped in men's bodies, and needed surgeries to free them. But I really doubted that he was that type. But this was our chance to find out.

 

We walked in the bar, and Polly seemed shocked to see women holding hands with other women, men with men, men in dresses (not looking nearly as pretty and feminine as I had Polly made up), and more.

"I brought you here," I said, "because this is a place where you can just be who you are. Nobody will be judgmental of you. You can relax, and just do whatever you want."

All the tables were full, so I walked us over to one where two 'girls' who were obviously men were sitting.

"Do you ladies mind if we join you?" I asked sweetly.

"Of course not sugar. Come on, take a load off!" she said.

We sat down and ordered drinks. Polly seemed very nervous and edgy.

"Your first time here sweetheart?" asked the 'girl' named Lizzie.

"Yes" said Polly.

"Well don't worry honey. You are welcome here. Nobody is going hassle you in here, or give you a hard time. Relax! Enjoy yourself!"

Polly still looked stiff to me, even after she guzzled her drink.

"I know, why don't we go have a dance?" I suggested.

Lizzie and her friend seemed eager, so I dragged Polly out onto the dance floor with us. We danced to the song, and as often happens in any bar, once a few people hit the dance floor, more and more start to join in. Soon, there were dozens of people out dancing.

And that's when they started hitting on Polly.

 

Now I had done a very good job of making her look as much like a girl as possible, but there was no way to hide certain things like the shape of the face, the lack of real curves, the size of the shoulders, and other male characteristics. So naturally, those who are attracted to a man in a dress picked Polly out as a guy right away. And they started to offer to buy 'her' drinks, asked to dance, and more.

"You're very popular honey" said Lizzie. "I wish they'd all hit on me like that!"

Her friend elbowed her.

"If you were a sweet little thing like her, maybe they would!"

 

We danced, drank, talked, laughed, and had a good time. 'Polly' loosened up after a while, and really got into it. The real test was at the end, to see what 'she' would do when it was time to go.

I smiled as she exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses with Lizzie. I had her pegged right. And I had done my job: I had created the environment where should could express her feminine side, and find out what she really was.

* * *

 

So in the end, everybody was happy. I turned someone who hated people who were into cross dressing (another other things) into one of them himself, and had opened a new door for him.

And he would now pay for my services, so I had another customer to boot! Now if I could only find the time to learn how to type better...

  

  

  

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2003 by Jennifer White. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.