Training With Madame free porn video

This is my attempt to achieve some sort of ultimate in consensual feminization. (Of course, the ultimate is unattainable; someone else will always find a way to go further than you have gone.) I hope the result doesn't cloy; there's a powerful lot of sweetness and light here. Certainly if you're looking for whips, barking dominatrixes, with verbal and physical abuse in general, you'll be disappointed. But for a few, I hope this tale will be a dream come true. There's a little bit of sex, but things don't really heat up until the last 5k or so, and even then the description is mostly elliptical rather than graphic. May be archived on Fictionmania, Crystal's site, Nifty, or any other non-membership, non-fee site. Training with Madame By Princess Pervette When the day came, Mom drove us to Madame's place. It was a large, old fashioned private house in a quiet residential neighborhood. At the door, we were greeted by one of the prettiest young girls I had ever seen. She can't have been more than sixteen, with cheerful brown eyes and lovely auburn hair. "You must be Mrs. Philips and Danny," she said with a smile. "Please come in. My name's Jennifer." We went into a room that, in any ordinary house would have been the living room, but in this old place I guess you'd call a parlor. Jennifer invited us to be seated. In a few minutes a very handsome middle aged woman came in. She looked at us and smiled pleasantly. "I am Madame," she said. "Welcome to my training establishment." Then, looking at me, "Is this Danny?" I said Yes. She came over to me, looked me over, cupped my chin gently in her hand, and examined my face. "Oh, a nice face. Full of possibilities. That would be a nice girl's face just as it is." She beckoned to the girl. "Jennifer, come here. Look at him. Isn't he a doll?" "Ooh, yes. Such a pretty face!" Then she turned to me and smiled. "You're so lucky! Once Madame has you trained, you're going to be such a pretty girl! Way prettier than me." I looked at her and suddenly realized that she was also a feminized boy. She was so perfect that I had taken her for a girl when I first saw her. I couldn't imagine anybody being prettier than she was. And I was here to be "trained"... Trained to be like her! *** It had started, as these things so often do, when Mom caught me dressed up in her clothes. I had been wearing them on the sly for some time when she was out of the house and thought I had the timing down pat. But this time I was caught. I was horrified when she came into my room and saw me. But all she did was to sit down next to me quite calmly and ask, "How long have you been doing this, dear?" "Dear" was a good sign, at least. She didn't call me that when she was angry. I mustered my courage and said, "About three months, Mom." I expected more questions, probably was I gay, did I want a sex change, things like that. But she astonished me. "Well... it must run in the family. Just like your poor father." My dad! I was shocked. "Well... I had to help him; I guess I'll have to help you, too." And she did. She never said anything more about my father, who had died some years previously, but I thought she must have helped him a good deal, because she seemed not only to understand women's clothes, as any woman would, but also to understand males who wanted to wear them, and was reasonably good at making a man or a boy look good in them. It seemed like heaven. I had dressed only occasionally before, just as opportunity offered; now we were setting aside whole evenings and weekends for dressing me up. And over the weeks, as we continued, I found my feelings and my self-image were becoming more girlish. What had been a momentary, furtive pleasure was turning into a genuine commitment. Mom must have noticed this, because one day, a few months after we had arrived at this arrangement, she said to me, "I've learned of a woman who trains boys like you." My heart skipped a beat. She was helping me with my makeup at the time, so there was no doubt what kind of training she meant. "She's called simply `Madame,' and boys go to live with her while she teaches them to be nice young ladies. She could do so much more for you than I can. "I've made a few enquiries to see just what kind of woman she is. I wouldn't want you to go to someone cruel or destructive. But from what I've heard, she offers a pleasant, loving experience. Her service is very expensive, but I think it's just what your poor father would have wanted for you, if he'd known. The question is, would you want it? Would you like to spend two months this Summer, living away from home, being trained in femininity?" "Oh, Mom, I'd love it!" Then I hesitated. Second thoughts. "Well... I think I would, anyway. Maybe we could visit her and see what kind of person she is." When Mom called Madame the first time and explained the situation, Madame wanted to know my entire history, in great detail. Then finally, she said, "Can he pass?" Mom said No. "Very well; have him come here dressed as a boy. But bring two of his feminine outfits: one casual-jeans and blouse or something like that- and one the most feminine you've given him to wear. Those will give me a baseline from which to start. And I will supply all the rest of the clothes he will need. What are his measurements?" She wanted these in great detail, and this led to a lengthy session with the tape measure, after which Mom called Madame back and gave her the required numbers. They made an appointment for an interview, and that concluded that call. *** That first afternoon, Madame sat us down and explained exactly what she was going to do. I was to learn how to be completely feminine. How to dress, how to act, how to move, how to sit, stand, walk, run. How to behave in company. How to look like a girl no matter what I'm wearing. Finally, how to date boys and how to please them. "When you leave here, you are going to be all girl." "You like dressing like a girl, don't you, Danny?" She had me so relaxed that it was easy to answer honestly. "Yes, I love it." "Well, then, that's good. Occasionally mothers want me to train reluctant boys... `petticoat punishment,' it's called. But you need to force them, you know, and forcing isn't my style. We aren't here to force our girls. You won't need that, will you, Danny?" "What? You mean, forcing me to dress like a girl? You'd have to force me NOT to!" I wondered whether I had spoken out of line. But she just smiled. "That's all right, then." She gestured to a door leading to the next room. "Now, go and change into the casual outfit that your mother brought." I went and changed. The casual outfit wasn't very feminine, just blue jeans and a white blouse with a light floral pattern around the neck, girls' socks with little flowers on the tops, and a pair of Keds; but they were girls' clothes and I felt better from the moment I had them on. It had been awkward sitting there and being the only boy in the crowd, especially with pretty Jennifer making me look so clownish; now I was back to what I thought of as my true self. I went back to the parlor. "Very good, Danny," she said after inspecting me. "Now, give your boy clothes to your mother to take home with her. You won't be needing anything like them as long as you're here." I had assumed that I would dress like a girl all the time, but I felt a rush of joy as her words confirmed that. She added, "If all goes well, you won't be needing anything like them for the rest of your life. "Now Danny, your mother is going to leave you. You will stay with us for nine weeks. She will be allowed to visit you once after three weeks for a conference with me and to see how well you are coming along, and again after six weeks, and finally at the conclusion of your training to fetch you home." Mom gave me a kiss and left. I was alone with Madame and Jennifer. I caught my breath: my training was about to begin... *** When I had put on the casual outfit, Madame had seemed satisfied. "Very good," she had said. But after Mom left, she had me model my more feminine outfit. Mom and I had chosen my very favorite, and I thought I looked lovely, but Madame was horrified. "My dear! Who... Well... I don't want to criticize your dear mother, but that ensemble is utterly wrong for you. It's too old for you, and the pieces just don't add up. It's funny... mothers who have perfect taste for themselves don't understand how to dress their boys. Well... we're going to have to teach you how to dress in any case." She walked around me as I stood there and pulled here, pushed there, freed a ruffle somewhere else, muttering partly to me and partly to herself as she worked. "There," she finally said. "The outfit is still not right for you, but at least you're wearing it properly. "It's not just what you wear, Dear," she continued, "it's how you wear it. Always inspect yourself in the mirror whenever you can. You'll find a full-length mirror in your room; use it before you go out. "Now: we've got to get a name for you. Boys usually have a different name they use when they're being girls. Do you have one already?" "Well, er, I've sort of thought of myself as Dani, with an -i..." I trailed off. "That's very sweet, Dear, but you're here to become someone completely different. Someone completely new. That's what all my girls are here for, to become someone completely new. So I don't much care for simply adopting a feminine version of your boy's name. That isn't different enough; it isn't completely new. I wonder..." She looked at me a long time, considering. "Would Nancy be all right? It's a nice, girly name, and I think it would fit you. And it's quite different from Danny. But you have to like it. Do you?" The name appealed to me right away. It was girly, all right; "Nancy" had a lilt to it; it suggested smiling girls' faces, pretty dresses, hair in ribbons, all kinds of feminine things. "Oh, yes, Madame," I told her, smiling. "I like it. From now on, I want to be Nancy." She smiled; then she turned to Jennifer. "Jennifer, dear, take Nancy up to her room, please." Jennifer took my hand and led me to a big, ornate stairway. We went up two flights, and then down a short hall to what, to this day, I still think of as the most heavenly place in the world. It wasn't merely a girl's room. I had been in girls' rooms and knew what they looked like. This was like a girl's room raised to the highest power. All the feminine things you would expect in a girl's room were here, but feminine in the highest degree, just short of exaggeration. It was so feminine, it was enough to make any ordinary girl's room seem like a barracks by comparison. The bedspread (pink with a pale blue pattern and pale blue ruffles around the edge), the pillow cases (matching the bedspread and also with ruffles). The wall paper (pink with little pictures of ballerinas on it, and a flowery border at the ceiling). The vanity (with a pink surround, like the bedspread, going down to the floor). The mirror over the vanity (delicately ornate frame in antique white with touches of gold). The carpet and draperies (beige, to relieve all the pink). The dresser (matching the mirror). There were teddy bears and girly dolls lying on the bed. And, as a finishing touch, there was just the suggestion of some kind of sweet, flowery scent in the air. It was the most scrumptious bedroom I had ever seen. And it was going to be mine! The closet looked enormous to me when Jennifer opened the door. Inside was a wealth of pretty things to wear. I remembered that Madame had asked Mom for my measurements, so everything was sure to fit. But such profusion! Dresses, skirts, blouses, all just right for a girl my age. Mom had said Madame's service was expensive, and I was beginning to see why. And when Jennifer encouraged me to go through the dresser, I found drawers full of panties, tops, socks... everything a girl like me, or a girl such as I wanted to be, could desire. People talk about thinking you have died and gone to heaven; that's how I felt. We sat down on the bed and Jennifer told me more about Madame's training. "She's going to make you such a girl that you'll have a hard time remembering what it was like to be a boy. She's very thorough. You won't believe how thorough she is until your training is under way. Not just dressing like a girl and looking like one, important as that is, but thinking like a girl, acting like a girl, reacting like a girl. Being a girl right down to your inmost being." I couldn't imagine anything sweeter. But then I asked, "Well, but with, I mean, boys... I mean, will I..." "Oh, Nancy darling, you will. Believe me, you will. There'll come a time when you won't see a nice-looking boy without your girly little heart going pitty-pat pitty-pat." "You mean... dressing up will do that to me?" I hadn't envisioned such an eventuality, and it was disturbing. "No. Being a girl will do that to you. But you're already a girl, deep down inside. You were before you ever came here. That's why you came here. All we need to do is awaken that sleeping girl inside you. "And when we've done that, I'll teach you how to do what your heart tells you when you see a boy," she added. *** That evening, Jennifer knocked at my door. When I let her in, she said, "It's a warm evening, and I thought it might be fun just to sit around in our panties." "Oh, Jennifer, I'd love to! I've been looking at some of the lovely things Madame had put in my dresser and wondering whether it would be all right to try some of them on." "Well, of course, silly! Girls are supposed to do that!" So I tried one pair after another and invited Jennifer to do the same. Finally, I settled on a pretty white number with lace panels on the sides, and Jennifer chose a plain pink pair. I looked at our reflection in the mirror then, and my heart sank. "Jen," I said, "this isn't going to work." "What isn't? And why not?" "Well, just look at us in the mirror." I gestured. "There's a pretty girl, and next to her is a foolish boy wearing panties." "Nancy, this is your first day here! Don't be so impatient! Believe me, once Madame has you properly trained, you'll look as much a girl as I do." She went on. "What's the difference between us? Our bodies are the same size and shape, we're wearing our hair pretty much the same. We both have," she blushed, "pretty faces. So on the outside we're the same. Do you know what the difference is? I'm a girl right from the inside out, while you're still a girl only on the outside. That girl inside you hasn't been set free yet. Be patient. Madame will make you so completely feminine that you'll look like a girl even if you're only wearing jeans and a T shirt." Later, as we sat talking, I noticed something else. "Jen," I said, "You're so lucky..." "Well, yes, I am. Living here with Madame, and being able to be a girl all the time, with such lovely things to wear..." "Well... I didn't mean that. I meant... well, you don't have a very big Thing, do you?" "Oh, that kind of luck! No, I haven't. I've always been grateful that I didn't have some great, big..." She made a face. "Did you... I mean, have you taken anything for..." "No. Just born lucky, I guess." She paused. "But you know, that's one decision you and your Mom are going to have to make. Are you going to have hormone treatments to prevent your having a boy's adolescence? And will you eventually have surgery to be a complete girl? Because that will affect the kind of training Madame gives you." I didn't know. I hadn't thought that far ahead, and neither had Mom. I sidestepped the question. "Well... how about you? Are you going to... well, are you having, er, a boy's adolescence?" "Oh, yes. I decided early on that I didn't want to be a real girl. I wanted to be a girly boy. It seemed so much more interesting, so much more fun. Once Madame started her training service, she wanted me to set a good example to our clients, so now I look just as feminine as I can, but at first I just liked the way I looked in girls' clothes with a boy's head and arms and legs sticking out. I liked the contradiction. I liked the way you could see that I wasn't really a girl, just a boy dressed up like a girl." I wondered about this; I hadn't realized she wasn't a girl until she as much as told me so that first afternoon. "Even now I sometimes masculinize my body when I'm alone. It still works well. You'll see, one day. So... no surgery later on and no hormones now." *** I had thought the hours I'd spent dressing up with Mommy were heaven, but I had been wrong: the months I spent with Madame were real heaven. I think I loved her from that first interview. That first week, Madame wouldn't let me pick my own outfits, but picked them every day for me. "You have to learn what kind of clothes are appropriate for the day, and for the time of day, and for what you're doing," she explained. She would then make clear exactly why she was choosing the things she did. The first day being a weekday, I had to forego the lovely, tempting, frilly dresses that Madame said were for Sundays and festal occasions and wear a plain green dress instead. We were in my sumptuous bedroom that first morning. I felt funny standing there naked in front of the two of them, but Madame had a gift for putting young girlyboys at their ease. "Now, let's see you dress from the skin out. Here." And she handed me a pair of lovely pale blue panties. I was about to draw them on when she stopped me. "Wait. Whose panties are those?" I was nonplussed. "Mine, I thought..." "Yes, and who are you?" "I'm Da... No; I'm Nancy." "That's right, Dear." She smiled. "My point is, you aren't a boy putting on a pair of panties. You're a girl putting them on. It isn't as if they were something magic that would turn you into a girl. You have to learn to be a girl no matter what you're wearing." She went on. "It isn't clothes. It's what you are inside. We're training you to be a girl, so that even if you were to put on" she made a face, "Jockey shorts, you'd still be a girl wearing them." She let me draw them on then. "Not excited?" she asked, noticing my limp penis. "Well... no. That never happens." "Oh, my dear, that's a good sign! A very good sign! When a boy puts on panties, he gets aroused. But when a girl puts her panties on, it's just her panties. Nothing to get excited about. So you're responding like a girl in a very important way." *** Madame's training embraced every aspect of femininity, and much of it naturally covered behavior: how to walk, how to use my arms, how to move generally. Interestingly, she had me practice naked the first two weeks. "We don't mean to embarrass or humiliate you, Nancy Dear," she explained, "and this has nothing to do with sex. But you mustn't use your clothes as a prop. "Girlyboys do, you know," she continued. "And girly men. They want to look feminine, so they dress up in feminine attire. Too feminine, frequently. And they will touch their clothes and adjust them. Grooming behavior." She smiled. "That's not bad in itself, but none of that is a substitute for the kind of inner femininity we want to help you to attain. We are developing your natural femininity here, and that is something that doesn't, or shouldn't, depend on clothes. Clothes are the least of it. You mustn't rely on them. "Our natural instincts lead us to classify everyone at first glance as male or female, and how they classify you depends greatly on how you move and how you hold yourself. You want strangers on the street, when they get their first glimpse of you, to think `girl,' not `boy.' So, lovely as that dress is, you're going to have to set it aside and convince Jennifer and me that you're a girl. Even with your narrow flanks and your little thing hanging out, you must make us see you as a girl." She paused. "You know, there are other women who train boys to be girls." I hadn't known that. "But they don't do this. Nobody else goes into such detail, such depth. That's why I'm so expensive. And why my girls are so successful." So I walked and ran naked afternoons while Madame and Jennifer observed and corrected me. "Elbows in, Nancy. Wrists high. No, not limp-wristed; that's not graceful. Hands just a little lower than the wrists. That's the idea." I even had tea naked, so they could show me how to use my hands and arms as I ate and drank. Even after they stopped having me drill naked, I still had to wear jeans and T-shirts a couple of days a week so that I couldn't use my pretty dresses as a crutch. *** Those early weeks were hard. I don't know what I had expected from Madame, but whatever it was, it wasn't the rigorous drill she and Jennifer put me through. Our lessons weren't just about how I moved; they were about how I talked, how I acted, how I behaved, and... well, everything. Their corrections were loving, not cruel, but they were detailed and unremitting. Jennifer had said it would be thorough, and it was. They were teaching me to think like a girl. It was as if they were trying to reach my mind and turn it into a girl's mind. They were doing to my mind what sex-change surgery does to the body. I felt the strain, too. I said they weren't cruel, but the sessions could be discouraging, no matter how kind they were to me. I had days when nothing seemed to go right, and afterwards I would just flee to my room where I could lie down on that lovely bed and cry out of sheer vexation. And yet, every morning when I woke up in that gorgeous room, I would remember with a rush that I was learning to be a girl, and the whole world was beautiful again. Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive! Jennifer's job was to drill me on the lessons I had learned from Madame. Madame was class; Jennifer was homework. But what lovely homework it was. At first, she concentrated on my feminine demeanor. "You're pretty, and you're learning to dress, but you aren't enough of a girl yet," she told me one evening. "You're still too tight. Too inhibited in the way you move. You're forcing it." "Forcing? Forcing what?" I asked. "Forcing yourself to be femme. It has to come naturally. It mustn't come from being forced, and in your case it doesn't have to. There's a girl inside you already. I've told you that dozens of times. Relax, Dear, and just let her out." "Can't Madame use hypnotism? That would be so much quicker and easier. I've heard about tapes you can listen to, you know, while you're asleep..." "No, Dear. Madame experimented with them early on, but for some reason the results aren't as good as they are when you're consciously thinking about what you're doing as you learn. And they don't go into as much detail as Madame does." And so I had to work and concentrate to undo a more than decade of conditioning, twelve years' worth of pretending to be a boy. But the conditioning was still largely external, and whenever I let my guard down, Nancy Girl would come out effortlessly and convincingly. That ultimately proved to be the key, at least in my case. I had to learn how to let my guard down. It was a mental exercise rather than a physical one, changing how I thought rather than just how I walked or moved my hands. It should have been easy, learning to be myself all over again; instead, it was one of the hardest tasks Madame ever set me. But the effort paid off. When I arrived at Madame's, I was a boy who found girls' clothes irresistible. But after only a couple of weeks of Madame's intensive training, I realized, one morning, that I was now a girl. A girl who found girls' clothes irresistible--and I was happy to see that my psychological sex-change hadn't changed my love of pretty things--but a girl, not a boy. But we did homework on week nights only; on weekends Jennifer and I just relaxed and played dress-up, without any serious purpose in mind. But even then, Jennifer would occasionally say something like "I don't think that's girly enough for you. Not for a girl named Nancy," or "Ooh, Nancy, that's it! You're moving so much more like a girl!" Then, after a pause, while I tried to remember the movements, the mind set, that elicited such praise: "Don't you love being a girl?" I did, I did. It was all like a lovely, sweet-scented dream. Sweet-scented literally, too. Madame had us both wear fragrances. They were flowery, little-girl fragrances, not sexy scents for grown women. Mine was the fragrance that subtly pervaded my lovely, feminine bedroom. Jennifer and I began to have different dress themes for different evenings. One would be schoolgirl night; another would be ball-gown night; still another would be sleaze night; and so on. I'm glad we hit on this, now; it was a way of exploring different aspects of femininity, of trying out the different items on the behavioral menu of being a girl, and of preparing for the eventual decision of just what kind of girl I was going to be. It didn't take me more than a week or so for me to develop a full- fledged crush on Jennifer. I adored her for her femininity, that seemed to flow from her body and envelop it like a cologne, and for her beauty, which was striking. And I wanted to touch her and hold her... One evening, after I had been there for two weeks, we were in my bedroom playing makeup games. Madame had been teaching me, and we had gotten well beyond the elementary principles--how much to use, how to avoid overdoing it, what kind of makeup was best for what time of day. "You're still too young for makeup," Madame had told me, "but I want you to learn about it while you're here with us, so you can do it properly. So many women never learn." She selected my colors for me, and I wear those same colors to this day. "Less is more, Dear," she said, repeatedly. "Especially for your clear complexion. Remember, you don't need makeup to convince people you're a girl; you're going to be a girl through and through now, and makeup will have nothing to add to that." So there we were, fooling around with makeup. Jennifer had a knack for turning drill into games, and this evening we each took turns, each applying makeup to the other's face. We worked to give each other different appearances--virginal, pixie, career woman, sex pot, whatever we could think of, even dogs and cats and monsters from outer space. One of us would make up the other, and then we would both look in the mirror and giggle. Or, once in a while, gasp. At one point in our play, when I had managed to give her the look of a young teenager, just on the verge of puberty, she looked so irresistible and her little lips so tender that I took my courage in my hands and whispered, "Give me a little girly kiss, Jen." To my astonishment and delight, she did. Just a little peck, but it was her lips against my cheek, and the memory of that kiss had me floating for the rest of the week. And then I started giving her little girly kisses, too; but she always presented her cheek to me, never her lips. "Little girls don't kiss like that," she explained. *** One morning Madame told me that Mommy would be here the next day. That meant I had been here for three weeks. I hadn't realized how swiftly the time had passed. And I thought back to the day we had arrived, how I had looked forward to Madame's training and wondered what form it would take, whether I would like it. And what a dreamy three weeks it had been! When Mommy arrived, she didn't recognize me at first. Jennifer and I came in with Madame to greet her, and for the merest fraction of a second she looked at me as if I were a stranger. Then she smiled, and I smiled back and ran to kiss her. "Well, aren't you the pretty lady!" she exclaimed. She held me at arms' length and examined me. "Such a sweet little girl, aren't you!" At that moment, Madame and Jennifer discreetly withdrew. "Oh, Mommy, Mommy, I'm having such a wonderful time here! Thank you, thank you so much! I wish I could stay here always!" That was probably not the most tactful thing to say to her, but she knew what I meant, and I saw her glowing with happiness at how well I had taken to life with Madame. Then we sat and talked seriously. I told her my new name; she hadn't known we had changed it to Nancy. I asked her whether she would miss the old Danny. Her face clouded for a moment and she admitted that she would, a little bit. "But it's what you want that's important, Dear, not what I want." She asked me to fetch Madame. I brought both Madame and Jennifer. Mommy said, "I want you both to know that I am completely satisfied with what you have done for Nancy"--using my new name. My real name, as I had come to think of it. "I don't know what your methods are, but they have transformed my little darling here, and she's utterly happy with what you've done for her. And if she's happy, then I'm happy." Then the conversation took a serious turn. Madame said, "Mrs. Philips, you and Nancy are going to have to think about the future. I have taken Nancy as far as I can without knowing where she is eventually headed. Specifically, I have to know whether you and she are contemplating any more fundamental changes." Mommy was unprepared for this question, and so was I, even though Jen had touched on it once. Neither of us had ever thought about it, not at home, and not since I had come here. "You mean, a sex-change operation..." Mommy asked. "That's one possibility," Madame agreed. "But there are degrees of feminization, you know. Everything from simple crossdressing on up to surgery. And each case is different." She smiled at me. "I'm sorry, Nancy dear, you aren't a `case.' You're a sweet little girl. But you know what I mean." I just smiled back, not wanting to interrupt her. "Different girls have different needs. I'm very pleased to know how satisfied you are with what we've done so far. That was one of the purposes of your three-weeks' visit. But the other thing you must now do, while you're here, if possible, is consider Nancy's future. There are basically three options. Well... that's oversimplifying a bit, but it will do for now. Your long-term options are"--she counted on her fingers--"do nothing, use hormone replacement therapy only, or have surgery of some kind or other. Breast implants, other surgical feminizations, or full genital reconstruction. You don't have to decide on all that to-day, but unless you mean to do nothing, Nancy should start on hormones as soon as possible. I know a responsible endocrinologist who understands my work, who is familiar with the effects of hormones on the young, and who can monitor Nancy's progress." She stood up and gestured to Jennifer. "We will leave you to discuss this privately," she said. "This is a decision that the two of you must arrive at yourselves, without my interference." My talk with Mommy was long, and I won't report it all here. I thought I might well want surgery, eventually. I had never known such happiness as I had known here, living as a girl under Madame's and Jennifer's sweet training. But neither of us was sure. We finally decided that I should start on hormones and leave the question of surgery open. **** Madame sent me to her physician, who put me through an exhaustive and searching physical. Afterward, she said she saw no reason why I shouldn't start on hormones and gave me prescriptions. I was to phone her if anything unusual happened, and Madame had to drive me to her office every week so she could monitor my progress. The hormone business was a sort of letdown, actually. Just pills twice a day and those weekly visits to the doctor for blood work. Boring. No dramatic changes, no breasts blossoming. The changes did happen, eventually, but not until well after my training with Madame was over. Contrary to what some people seem to believe, you don't take hormones at night and have breasts the next morning. Nevertheless, shortly after the regimen started, Madame gave me a bra to wear. Up to that time, I had dressed like a preadolescent girl, which is actually how I thought of myself, but Madame wanted to prepare me for the future. What she gave me was only a training bra, but I was thrilled to be wearing it. "You know," Jennifer said to me that evening as I practiced putting the bra on and taking it off with the closure behind me, "I think a bra is the most feminine garment a boy can wear." "Really? I would have thought panties would be." "Most people think so. But there is a considerable overlap, you know --women's panties that are plain enough to be taken for men's bikinis, and silky underwear for men that is hardly distinguishable from panties. "Furthermore, they don't feel that different once you're wearing them. In transvestite fiction, men are always feeling the panties on their bodies, but you know that isn't so." "Well, no. I love the feel of them when I first put them on in the morning, but five minutes later I've forgotten about them." "That's right. But a bra never lets you forget you're wearing it. You'll find that you never quite forget about your bra. Even when it's properly fitted and comfortable, it keeps saying to you, `I'm here, I'm here.'" That sounded nice. I hoped my breasts would be big. I dreamed of having huge breasts. As it turned out, I ended up with rather small but perky breasts, and I realize now that, for me, at least, that's best. Another new thing, those second three weeks, was reading. Madame had a respectable library, and I had browsed in it, when I had time, but now she put me through a regular course of reading. Women's magazines, of course, but also girls' fiction and especially books on the history of costume and fashion and on aspects of women's health. I found that there was a surprisingly extensive literature on the history of clothes and styles, and Madame set me to mastering at least the basics. And she would occasionally quiz me about the magazines I was reading: questions about the articles or even the clothes shown in the advertisements. There were times when Madame's information on a subject like skin care was more accurate than what some magazine article had to offer, and she would have me criticize the article in the light of what she had taught me. This was a whole new aspect of being a girl. Reading fed naturally into conversation. I had to learn what were suitable topics for a girls' talk. Clothes. Fashion. Boys. Makeup. Designers. But books, too--and not just romance novels, either--and the arts generally. Voice was a problem, as it is for most males. My voice hadn't changed (and never did, thanks to the hormones), so it wasn't a question of pitch but rather of intonation and manner. They started out by having me sing the things I was to say to melodies that suggested a girl's intonation. Then Madame had tapes of boys and girls saying various phrases, and she and Jennifer had me speak the same phrases and then compare my voice with the ones on the tape. Part of voice was also vocabulary, avoiding certain words favored by boys and substituting others more typical of girls. The hardest thing for me to learn was how to run like a girl. If I thought about it, I could remember to keep my elbows in and wave my hands about, but it was hard to manage my feet and make them move to the side in back. I never really did manage that, and if I ran without thinking, I used my arms in a masculine way, too. I ended up deciding never to run if I could avoid doing so. *** The three weeks after Mommy's first visit went quickly, and suddenly, one day, there she was again. This visit was less portentous than the last; there were no new decisions to be made, and all that happened was that Madame reported on my progress toward girlhood and passed on the physician's report on the hormones. "Madame is very pleased with you," Mommy told me afterward. "And so am I. If you're still happy with what is being done to you, that is. Are you?" "Oh, Mommy, it's just dreamy," I said. She smiled. "Then the money has been well spent." We spent the rest of that visit talking about what I was to do when I returned home after three more weeks. "You know, you can't go back to your old school as a girl. Your schoolmates would make your life intolerable." Madame, who had returned for this conversation, said, "I could get Nancy into a school for `special children.'" Mommy frowned. "You mean, for problem kids? I don't want that. Nancy is a bright boy..." she stopped, embarrassed. "*Was* a bright boy, I should say, and she's going to be a bright girl. I want her to go to school with other bright children." "Oh, no," Madame said. "Not special that way. Gay and transgendered children, mostly. Would you have any trouble with Nancy going to school with gay kids?" "None at all," Mommy said, "as long as they're bright." "Kids who aren't bright don't survive at that school. It's very demanding." So it was settled that Madame would set affairs in train for me to enter the special school in the Fall. I was going to keep on living as a girl! Always! I suddenly remembered Madame's words from that very first afternoon, when I gave the last of my boy clothes to Mommy: "If all goes well, you won't be needing anything like them for the rest of your life." *** One afternoon in one of our training sessions, shortly after Mommy's second visit, Jennifer asked Madame, "Do you think Nancy's ready to find out about boys?" "Whenever you think best," was all Madame said. That evening for our homework and play session, Jennifer brought the subject up again. "I think it may be time you learned about boys," she said. My heart skipped a beat. I knew what she meant. "Only I can teach you this," she went on. "The problem is the law. You're a minor and Madame's an adult, and so she can't teach you what you need to know. She can teach you to dress and act like a girl, she can train you and feminize you, but when it comes to anything having to do with sex, it's Hands Off. But I'm a minor, too, and so..." She opened an enormous scrapbook she had brought. It was full of pictures of teen-aged boys--all sorts, fully dressed, stark naked, and everything in between. Alone and in groups. Standing, sitting down, and lying down in every conceivable posture. A couple of the naked ones with erections, but most without. "I like to look through this and daydream," she confessed, "but it's also a good test to see whether you're ready. Just browse and see how you feel about what you see." I had never thought much about boys before I came to Madame's. But now... I leafed through the book. Their lean, hard bodies enchanted me. So did the little lumps in their pants and bathing suits (and sometimes not so little). And I realized that, insensibly, my feelings about boys had changed over the weeks I had spent with Madame and Jennifer. It was funny--nothing had ever been said, and I don't think it was the hormones I was taking regularly now; it must just have been the natural consequence of thinking and reacting like a girl. While I was becoming more girly in my behavior and letting that hidden, inner girl out, I must have been becoming more girly in other ways, too--as if that inner girl, now released and taking over, was making me interested in boys. And these sweet teenagers... I imagined how their bodies would feel under my hands, how those lumps, once revealed, would feel. Looking at one youth with the outlines of an erection clearly visible through the cloth of his Speedos, I imagined how it might be like to touch it. What I might do with it... Jennifer and I compared notes; I picked my favorites and compared my choices with her favorites. Then she got down to specifics, but not quite in the way I would have expected. She talked about love a great deal and not a word about the physical act. "It's not so much knowing how to do it," Jennifer said, "but learning to love to do it. Learning to give him your love and to receive his love in return." And that conversation was all the instruction she gave me that evening. The next afternoon she brought a dildo, very lifelike but no more than about six inches long. She had me practice on it, that day and the next, pointing out how to reach the most sensitive places and how best to accommodate it, but also having me show it affection. She regarded that as the most important part. I felt funny, speaking words of love to this piece of plastic, but that was what she wanted. When Jennifer came to my room a couple of evenings later, however, she had a surprise for me. I hardly recognized her. It wasn't just that she'd let her hair down into a Beatles style; it wasn't just that she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt; it wasn't just that she had no makeup on. There was something about her eyes and chin and the way she moved that said Boy. I had never seen her like that. But I knew what it meant. "As I told you, it's not the how," she said. "That's simple, caressing him with your lips and tongue. It's the love that counts." And when I knelt before her, undid her jeans, and let them drop, there was another surprise for me: she was wearing Jockey shorts. I had never made a point to notice her underwear, except when we had panty parties, but I had occasionally gotten a glimpse and, like me, she had always worn the most feminine panties. But now, Jockey shorts. "Do you want it?" she whispered. "Yes." She turned away from me. "You need to do more than want it. You've got to crave it." "Oh, Jen, don't play with me. You know I want it. All right, yes; I crave it. Please." "Nancy, when you're with a boy and he offers you his Thing, you need to want it more than anything else in the world. It's the desire that's important." "Yes, please, Jen, please. I want it. I want to see it. Touch it. Kiss it. Yes, more than anything else in the world. Please, please." She turned back to face me and let me pull her penis out and fondle it. "Kiss it," she whispered, and I did, tentatively, on the very tip. It felt smooth. Soft and smooth over the hardness. It felt good. I kissed it again, opening my mouth. It slipped between my lips. "That's it," she sighed. "Love it." I took it into my mouth. It was warm and hard. It felt right having it there. I felt right with it in my mouth. It was as if I had been born to do this. Well, I was a girl; of course I had been born for it! But until Jennifer and Madame had helped me release my inner girl, I had never thought of such a thing. Jennifer had been right: it was easy to know what to do, and I did it. As I did, Jennifer whispered, "Oh, love it! Love it!" and I lavished all the love I could on that sweet Thing in my mouth. But then she started to say, "Love me! Love me!" Well, I was half in love with her anyway by that time, but I bobbed away on her cock until I could feel it getting harder and hotter. And then, with a gasp, she came. It never occurred to me to wonder whether I should swallow. This was Jen, my pretty girlfriend--or boyfriend, whatever--this was my love, my fair one, her essence. Of course I swallowed what she offered me. After we had come down from the experience, Jennifer said, "So, you see, you gave your love to me, and I gave my love to you." I had never thought of a man's semen as his "love." It seemed a peculiar word for it. Slightly ridiculous, even. But she was right. It is a man's most precious gift, his very essence, from that evening on, I have always thought of it as his "love." Then we exchanged roles. Jennifer went to change, and I set myself to the unfamiliar task of trying to look like a boy. I didn't have any boy clothes, but I put on jeans and a T-shirt, as Jennifer had, and scrubbed off my makeup. Jennifer came back looking like the girl I knew and loved. She kissed me now. No virginal girly kisses such as we had exchanged in the weeks before. These were hot kisses, on the lips, inflaming our passions. I felt her tongue between my lips and let it in. Her hands were all over me. Soft, caressing hands, up and down, front and back, exploring all of me, not just my genitals but all of me--my back, my arms, my legs, my feet, even. Hands, yes, but lips and tongue, too. As if she were a blind girl, learning my body by feel. It was exquisite. Finally, after a long while of loving, kissing, and fondling, she took me in her mouth, just as I had done for her. I had never known that anything could feel so soft and warm. But there was more to it than that: she had me completely in thrall. I lay helpless and out of control as she ministered to me, slowly at first, agonizingly slowly. It was as if something primal, some irresistible force had got hold of my cock and was stimulating it unbearably. I finally cried out, "Jen, I've got to come! Love me, love me, Jen, make me come!" But she seemed to take forever. She knew how to pace herself, to make the experience last and last, and when I finally reached the point of no return, I was almost out of my mind. Afterward, she said, "Now you know what it is to be loved by a real girlyboy." I didn't know what to say. All the usual phrases--fantastic, incredible, out of this world--seemed inadequate. Fortunately, she continued, so I didn't have to say anything. "Loving your boy's Thing is the whole secret, Nancy. Not just sucking on it and getting it over with. Loving it. Loving every detail. Loving the head. Loving that little gathering of skin under the head. Loving the length of the shaft and its shape. Loving all the subtle differences that set his Thing apart from other boys' Things that you may have loved. Loving the way it feels in your girly mouth, the way having it there affirms and enhances your femininity. Loving the way it reminds you of what your role as a girl is to be. Loving the way you're fulfilling that role with him. And above all, taking your time, going slowly so that he doesn't come until you've loved every inch of him, as if you were memorizing him." She continued: "And it's very important for girlyboys like us. You see, we have to be twice as good as ordinary girls. Otherwise, except for a few special men who happen to prefer girlyboys, who would bother with us? So we have to be so good to them that men will seek us out in preference to ordinary girls. So good that they will never want to be with anybody but sissy boys like us." I had to learn about pleasing boys in another way as well. Jennifer started training me with "expanders." (We never called them "butt plugs"; that wasn't ladylike.) In addition, I learned a great deal about keeping myself clean back there and about preparing myself for penetration. "Aren't these lovely, Nancy Dear?" she asked me the evening she first got out my very own set of expanders for me. Oh, yes, how lovely they were, and how lovely they felt over the ensuing days when she delicately put each new one in place for me for the first time. I expected them to be painful, or at least uncomfortable, but painless, and in fact pleasant insertion turned out to be one of Jennifer's many talents. It wasn't the way she handled the objects; it was the way she handled my mind, if I can put it that way--talking to me and preparing me and making me yearn for that delicious feeling of being stretched, of being full. "That's the secret," she said to me one evening. "Wanting it. Wanting him inside you. People talk about relaxing, and that's all right as far as it goes, but the real secret is wanting him. Wanting to feel him inside you. Wanting that more than anything else in the world. Once you want him that badly, relaxation will take care of itself. Automatically." And so it always has been for me. She recommended that I occasionally wear an expander all day and all night. I loved doing this, and I wondered whether one could become addicted to it. She also gave me a small penis gag, which we used, not actually to gag me but just to give me something I could suck on while my hands were otherwise occupied. I spent a day and night wearing that, too, along with the current expander. What a night of sweet dreams that was! From expanders we went on to the real thing. And always Jennifer handled everything, and me, so artfully that I felt no discomfort, only the sweetness of having something in me back there. Of having her in me back there. I never loved her more than in these last weeks of sexual training. The other thing we did in those last three weeks was to go out of doors. Madame judged that I had become feminized profoundly enough to "pass," and while I regarded my first time out as a test, she and Jennifer regarded it merely as acclimatization. "Don't worry, Dear," Jen said to me the first time. "You're more of a lady than half the women you'll see out there." "I don't worry about grownups," I said. "I worry about other kids. The girls, especially. They'll see right through me, I know..." "Not if Madame and I have done our jobs properly," she said, "and we have. You will be able to go anywhere and be recognized for what you are. A girl. That's what you are, now." So after that we had a daily outing, sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon. We went for short walks at first, then later to a nearby mall, so I could get used to shopping for clothes and other feminine things, and finally to a local park where I was likely to meet kids my own age. It was pleasant to go outside in the warm Summer weather, but also a little disappointing, since I wore what most girls wear on such occasions, just jeans or shorts and a T-shirt. I missed my pretty dresses. One afternoon, we had gone to the park, and there, to my alarm, we found a group of boys, only a year or two older than I was. I was scared, and ready to turn tail and run, but Jennifer calmly walked up to them. They greeted her like an old friend, and then she turned and introduced me. "This is Nancy," she said. "One of our girls." The boys must have known what she meant by "one of our girls," because they stared at me. Then they broke into smiles and greeted me like a long-lost sister. I was surprised at how cordial they were, with none of the standoffishness or suspicion or hostility I would have expected. No nasty remarks about "fairies" or "fags." As we chatted, I found that I liked them. I was enchanted by their lithe young bodies and fresh young faces, but also by their friendly personalities. On the other hand, something about the way they looked at me made me nervous. But then I thought, that's the way boys look at girls. I found the whole encounter pleasant, however, and on our way home, I said, "I was surprised how nice those boys were, Jen! I'd like to see them again some time!" "Oh, you will," she said. "They are going to be your first lovers." I stared at her, but that was all she said until we got home. Then: "The last thing you will do here, the night before you're ready to go home, is entertain those boys. That will be your final passage into full girlhood. They know about us, and they understand what we do. They'll be sweet and you'll like them. You will have the opportunity to put into practice everything you've learned here. Not just the lovemaking you've been learning these last weeks, but everything. Everything about really being the girl you are." *** The cliche is "making a woman of one." But it wasn't entirely that, if only because, at age 12, I was too young to be a woman in any real sense. It was more like a ritual, a sacrifice, an initiation into full girlhood, full femininity. A rite of passage. And the room in which it was to take place was in fact known as the Initiation Room-- a special room I had never been in, whose very existence I had never suspected, and which was used only for this purpose. Indeed, as Madame and Jennifer led me, costumed and perfumed, to the Initiation Room, I felt as if I were a girl on her way to a sacred rite. But instead of virginal white, I wore black. Sexy black: black hose, black garter belt, black teddy (which unsnapped at the critical place), black strappy heels on my feet. Black everything. Almost no makeup, however, except eye shadow, and only the palest lipstick. I had thought my bedroom was the last word in femininity, but the Initiation Room exceeded it by a generous margin. The whole room was like a nest, a bower of soft, pink, gauzy ruffles and lace. Soft-- that was the word for it, as if the only solid thing in the room was the thickly carpeted floor. There were no windows. The walls were covered with a mass of ruffles and lace, so that it was like being inside a pink cloud. The ceiling was adorned with tiny fairy lights, except over the bed, where there was a mirror. The bed itself was an ocean of down and fluffy duvets. From somewhere, soft music was being piped in, and the air was thick with a heady, tropical fragrance. Jennifer removed my heels and helped me onto the bed. "Don't worry," she said, "the bedding is waterproof." She smiled at me. "I won't say `Have fun,' because you're bound to have fun. I won't need to wish you good luck, either, because this is your lucky night." And with a soft kiss on my lips, she whispered, "Lucky girl!" and was gone. Waiting, heart pounding, I lay on the bed in the soft, scented light like a black jewel in a pink setting. In they came: seven of them. Seven young boys, the ones I had met in the park, filing naked into the bedroom. All silent except one, a newcomer, whom I heard murmur, "Ho-ly shit!" as he took in the room, and me. I smiled and beckoned to them. They approached the bed. I put a hand out, drew one of them to me, and fondled him. That was all that was necessary. Suddenly they were all over me--one by one to begin with, but then two by two, and then, I guess, more. In the excitement, I couldn't be sure. At this point, description fails. I could describe the kisses given and received; I could describe what they inserted where and how often; I could describe the scents, the textures, the flavors, the opening up, that rich feeling of fullness; I could describe their soft requests, urgings, instructions, exclamations, grunts, and cries; I could describe my hands, fumbling, groping, caressing, fondling--or their hands, positioning me and holding me; I could describe how I looked in the mirror overhead as the boys used me; I could describe how swiftly the initiative passed from me to them as they perceived how powerful my cravings were; I could describe the gradual crescendo from the first tentative fumblings to the final sexual frenzy as they realized that I would gladly, gratefully welcome anything and everything they could do to me. But lovely as all that was, none of it mattered. What mattered for me was the maelstrom of emotions throughout: the nervous anticipation; the whirlwind of anxiety, hope, fear, terror even, giving way to ever more delicious excitement; the rapture, exaltation, love, and bliss. And the joy, unending and almost unendurable. And how can one put that down on paper? I loved them all, and none more than that nice newcomer, who turned out to have no sense of proportion or limits, no notion of when to stop. He was thrilling. An age later, after the last of them had sated himself on me for the last time, they filed out again, as silently as they had come. Then Jennifer tiptoed in, wiped the semen off my face, slipped a plug into me to keep me from leaking, and wafted a soft coverlet over me. "They said you were the best ever," she whispered. And I fell into a happy, contented, and dreamless sleep. *** Mommy came the next day and took me home. I was in tears, having to say good bye to Madame and my dear Jennifer. "But you aren't leaving forever, Dear," Madame told me. "We will always be happy to see you again." I smiled through my tears. "Maybe I could take a refresher course...?" "No, my dear, if I've done my work properly, you will never need a refresher." "Not even with those boys?" Hope springs eternal. She smiled. "No, not even with them." And she was right; her training has seen me through life and many gentleman friends. Going home with Mommy, I soon forgot my tears and was bubbling over with stories about Madame and Jennifer and the things we had done, but when I started describing what I did that last evening with the boys, Mommy quickly made me stop. Princess Pervette August, 2001