Bianca Paragon Part One
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Bianca Paragon - Part Three free porn video
Foreword: Dear Readers, I wrote this story nearly 20 years ago. Now,
thanks to my new French friend Avaro Le Banni, who searched his archive
and forwarded a copy to me, I am pleased to post Bianca Paragon here.
Here's part two of four parts. - Best wishes, Toxis.
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BIANCA PARAGON
A Tale Of Love Perfected
by
TOXIS
Part Three
JOAN'S STORY
I. AFTER
The days seemed to pass by without a change. Joan kept track of time by
the time for meals. She had no hope any more that the police where ever
going to find Oren.
In the beginning, uniformed officers had taken down what she said
earnestly and detectives had her in their offices, asking rude questions
about their life together. She endured the prying because, maybe, just
maybe, there would be a clue in her answers that might lead to Oren.
Finally, she asked the woman from the support group to stop coming by, it
was too painful and the police were useless. How do you ease the pain?
Joan drifted away from her friends. She left her job and stayed at home.
She sat for hours by the phone. Oren might call and where would she be if
she was not be there to answer. When the phone rang, her heart would
cringe, anxious, reaching with a trembling hand for the receiver. Of
course, it was someone else, a friend calling to express concern. Joan
never returned their calls and began to ask people not to call. She was
too disturbed, too distracted. She needed some quiet. Please understand,
I just need some time. Sometime for Oren to call me - if I just sit here
and wait.
The personal computer occupied the dining room table now. The police had
given Joan copies of their files to shut her up, to keep her from
haunting their offices. She had put all their clues in the machine, every
witness, every detail. Sorting and tabulating, cross checking in every
way she could, Joan tired to find something they missed.
After four months of police effort and nearly a year of her own, no trace
of Oren had been found. Oh, there had been sightings. Everyone had been
checked. Most had been of men, about the same age, the right coloring,
but not Oren, just a resemblance. Joan scrolled the screen down over her
notes. One lead had taken Joan to a cross dressing lesbian. In men's
clothes, Joan had to admit the woman had closely resembled her husband.
Recently, a few strange calls had come in. The police had referred the
callers to Joan for her to follow up. A woman, attractive, blonde, petite
and busty at the same time, flashily overdressed, always in the company
of a man, had been spotted in a Mall, on a downtown San Francisco street,
at a rest stop just north of Irvine. And she could be Oren's sister.
A local evening entertainment show had done a special segment on missing
persons. Joan held up Oren's picture when she related her husband's
disappearance. Usually, the people who called had seen the show but until
now, the reports she received seemed little more than faint hopes and
rumors. Today, a letter had arrived and inside was a photograph. The
quality was poor, grainy and over-exposed. A too shapely woman stood at
the corner, ready to cross the street. Her arm was linked to someone - it
looked like a man but he was cut off by the picture's edge - and she was
smiling. The mystery woman was dressed oddly. A tight black sheath that
fit poorly across her hips and bust, pulling and stretching, patterned
stockings and the clunky spiked heels of the Fifties, her hair was
upswept in a platinum bouffant, her make up heavy, Joan studied the face
under a magnifying glass.
Scrub all the female trappings away and she could see it. Would Oren look
like this if he had started dressing like a woman? Joan called the
airline and made reservations to fly to San Francisco. In the background
of the photo was a trolley car.
II.
How do you find one cross-dressed male in a city like San Francisco?
There were private detectives and specialists and skip tracers and
lawyers and a litany of those who claimed to be able to delve into the
demi-world and retrieve the lost. She had started to do research about
feminized males - Joan knew to call them "she-males" now - by reading
little paperbound, pamphlet-like books that catered to their interests.
Stories about she-male abductees were disturbingly common. Was there a
basis in fact for these odd stories, Joan wondered.
Joan spent a weary weak interviewing one after another and rejecting each
in turn. On a hot sunny afternoon, tired and out of energy, Joan went
into a quiet bar and took a seat in a booth. The barmaid came over to get
her order. As she walked away, Joan realized that the barmaid was a male,
a very convincing female impersonator.
"Pardon me, but do you have a moment to talk?"
"I guess so," the cross-dressed barmaid responded, a bit unsure.
Darla had worked this place for a while, saving the money for her
reassignment surgery. She had gotten used to the kinky come-on's from the
clientele. Surprise! Surprise!! It was usually the women who solicited
her. It made Darla wonder what she would be like when she completed her
transition to female-dom.
Would she find herself cruising bars for strange sex?
"I have a problem and I need your help." Darla looked at her customer
oddly, a feeling of deja vu. How was that? "It's about my husband ..."
Darla's face brightened with recognition. "Now I know who you are. You
were on TV!"
"Yes, I was. Did you see the show?"
"I thought it was really spooky, you know, your husband just disappearing
into thin .. I'm sorry .. I didn't ... "
"Darla", Joan read the barmaid's name from her name tag, "that's not
important. It's just that I had the feeling that you might be a male
dressed in female clothes and I wanted to ask your advice."
"I don't see how it's any of .. ", Darla shot back.
"Please, give me a chance. I want you to look at some pictures", Joan
hurriedly replied. From her purse, she took two 8x10 glossy enlargements.
"On the right is my husband. Who do you think is on the left?"
Darla looked for a moment and then looked again more closely. Not
satisfied, she took both pictures outside and looked at them closely
under the sunlight.
"I'm not sure, you know. That one picture is pretty bad but I'd say that
was your husband's sister." Darla looked at the photos again, intrigued.
"What if I told you that Oren doesn't have a sister?"
Darla looked again, studying the photos now as closely as she could. "Do
you have a full body shot of your husband I could see?" Joan pulled
several, including one of Oren in a swimsuit, and passed them over. "I
could be crazy but I think it's the same person. I know a lot about
looking like a woman. You were right, you know, I am still male but I'm
scheduled for surgery. I'm what you call a pre-op transsexual.
"But you do think that the women might really be Oren?"
It was the first concrete lead Joan had found and she could let go, even
for a moment.
"Don't make me swear to it but ... yeah, I think it could be him. See the
hands? Men's hands tend to be bigger than women's and all the hormones
and surgery in the world can't do much to hide that."
"If you look at the hands, they look identical to me."
"Tell me, Darla, if you were looking for someone who had disappeared to
become a woman, how would you find them?"
Darla started to get up, uncomfortable. This conversation was going
farther than she wanted to be any part of. She looked back and saw the
desperation in Joan's face. It took courage to be here, to ask these
questions and listen to the answers.
Darla knew about courage. She had been the star pitcher on the Little
League team back in Arkansas, sure to get a baseball scholarship to
college. That would have made her the first person in her family to get
more than a Fifth Grade education.
In the morning, she had been supposed to get on the bus for State
College. The Baseball Coach himself was going to be there to meet the new
starting pitcher for the freshman team. Darla spent hours writing a note
that tried to explain it all - why she wasn't going to college just yet,
why she was going off on her own. She asked for her parents' forgiveness
and prayers, and the letter when it was done, tear-stained and much
erased and re-written, was, at least, honest. Darla had cashed in the bus
ticket and bought a new one.
Darla had tried to call home. At first, her father would hang up, Mom
crying in the background. Then one time, when she called, Mom answered
and, when Dad told her to hang up, Mom answered short, sweet and sharp.
They talked a bit, stiff and hurt, but with time it had gotten better.
Sometimes, even Dad got on the line to say a short hello and wish well.
Courage.
"Look, I can tell you how it works here. But you could get me in a lot of
trouble unless you promise you'll do what I say." Darla's visible fright
made an immediate impact on Joan.
"This is a small town when it comes to what you're looking for and if it
got out that I told you what I'm going to say .. well, it just wouldn't
be very healthy. For me and you!!"
Joan promised she would keep anything Darla said secret and follow
Darla's instructions if she decided to try to find Oren in San Francisco.
Not "if", Darla thought, "when!" Oren either would have to be a voluntary
or forced she-male. He could be pre-op or post-op by now. Either way, he
is clearly being displayed. Now that could be because this is his new
lifestyle. Or it could be that his owner wants to show off a new toy.
"Either way, you have to find a way to be able to circulate in the she-
male culture. That's not as easy as you may think. It's very secretive
and bitchy. Women are totally suspect but there is a way."
"Every now and then, an ad runs in the personals. A real girl wants to be
a maid, beautician, live in to a she-male. Usually, the woman is gay and
between lovers. This is a way she can make a living and eat but still be
available for her next lesbian relationship."
"You would be looking for an older queen who wants the luxury of a docile
lady's maid and would enjoy the extra frisson of having a submissive
woman waiting on happily feminized males. The whole thing implies a lot
of self hatred on your part and a need for some heavy humiliation."
"And you had better be able to be cope with passes from every kind of
pervert around. And I mean cope!"
"If your Mistress wants you to put on a show with a he-she, a rubber
freak and a dog while an S&M dominatrix whips your tits, you'll be
expected to do all of that and look like you like it."
"You would get to go to the parties and the private functions. You would
get access!"
"It's the only way I can think of. You become a lesbian maid to a Queen
and keep your eyes open. I'd be willing to teach you a lot of what you'd
be expected to know."
The very idea was repulsive. She would be pampering effeminate men and
there was more than a chance she'd wind up in bed with a woman. I can't
do this.
Joan was at the door, about to push it open. Oren was out there and she
was his last hope. He wasn't gay or interested in pretending to be a
woman. Forced, Darla had said. Some of these people were forced into a
bent gender life. That must be what happened to Oren. Joan couldn't turn
her back on him now. She went back to the booth.
III.
How should a woman feel when her dress was picked out by two middle aged
transvestites? Her hair was set when she was blindfolded and her make up
done standing next to a urinal in a bus terminal rest room.
"Darling, how's your new project?
It seems to be coming along so nicely!" The sleek, elegant impersonator,
clad in Lagenfield silks cooed bitchily. No one referred to Joan as a
"she" or "her" or even as a "female". Joan was an it, a cunt, a bitch. It
had been weeks since she had been called by name.
The room was filled with fluttering wrists and lisping voices, thick
chests cinched down by draconian waspies. Joan felt a tug on her leash
and followed.
"Hello, Darling, how are you?" Ophelia gave another tug to the leash and
Joan minced up smiling. Bobbie Trane, a rich witch from North Shore, very
pampered and "done" in a sequined gown, gave a quick "kiss-kiss" back and
spied Joan.
"God, Ophelia, what do you have this little cupcake laced to?"
"Nineteen inches today and, I may add, the corsetiere thinks she can
reach seventeen if I demand it." Joan groaned inwardly.
Since her servitude began, she had endured a never-ending process of
physical and emotional torture and transformation. First there had been
corsets and high heels. Then, inflatable bladders had been inserted in
her vagina and rectum and filled. As her figure molded, her passages were
being stretched open. It amused her Mistress to have Joan wedge her
clinched fist into her exposed cunt and thrust several fingers into her
rectum as an after dinner amusement.
Was it ever going to end? And the things she had seen.
Laced into a full body leather mummy bag, her mouth gagged, she had
watched as a young man was given fat breasts against his will, corseted
and auctioned to the highest bidder. Joan had shuddered but kept quiet.
If Oren was to be found - ever - this was the place to start.
There were several enslaved males, caught somewhere in mid- change. Joan
hardly noticed them now - once she was sure Oren wasn't the one she was
looking at now. Something special was supposed to happen, something to
her. Joan knew that it was a test and that she had to pass it.
Joan stepped into the plastic cylinder. It was big enough to hold her and
let her move a bit. Three tubes, spaced evenly, connected to a matching
tube. A boy, maybe twenty- one or twenty-two, dressed like a little girl
was pushed into the other chamber.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, for your entertainment, I give you the "passages
of Fashion." Old Jacqueline Daltain, lead bitch of the pack, was dressed
in a feminine knock-off of a Ringmaster's riding pinks. "You see before
you two pathetic creatures being trained for our amusement."
"Now you will see them perform a special kind of trick. Each must disrobe
completely and pass their clothes through to the other. Then they must
dress the other in the passed through clothes, do their makeup, hair and
accessories." Now that doesn't sound too hard does it?"
"And they will do it while the entire thing rotates and fills with
water." Lids were being screwed down. Shower heads were seated in the
center of each tube and water began to cascade in!
Frantically, Joan began to wriggle out of her tight satin sheath. There
was no room to bend down if it fell to the floor. She would have to wait
until the water rose if it dropped. Hopping a bit, she stepped out and
pushed the slinky garment through a tube. One heel, the other, she
ungartered her stockings and shoved them after her dress. An over frilled
petticoat was coming back through an open passage.
Earrings, necklace, bracelets, all went. Next, she tugged frantically at
the front eye catches of her foundation. That's why no corset tonight.
She'd never have been able to get the damn thing off. The spiral wired
bra, satin underpants, she was naked!!
No, not quite, one last thing. She tore off the intricately set black wig
and sent it over too. The water was streaming down steadily. Joan used it
to wash her face, clean it of the heavy make up she had worn. What was
her fellow captive doing? He was so slim, so pale and he had big breasts.
They had been flattened by the cruel training bra in her hands.
Joan grimaced as he clipped the bra on her. The pain in her breasts was
excruciating. Outside, she could see the painted faces smiling, hear the
gay voices twitter at her obvious discomfort. She stood still as he drew
ruffled girls' panties up her legs. Knee socks, Mary Janes, the
petticoats, now cold and soaked. The pink taffeta party dress, ruined,
cold and horrid to have on.
Her turn to dress him. The water was mid-thigh. Her skirts were already
half underwater. The foundation, the bra pointing his tits, the stockings
and heels, the sheath. Joan reached for his wig when the passage was
blocked. The top tube was being removed and replaced. Inside the new
connecting tube was a box of grease paints. Make up for underwater!
Joan couldn't reach. There was a long brush. While her she-male companion
held his face still, she painted on a white foundation, like some Kabuki
dancer, pouty red lips, eyes arched in succeeding arcs of ice blue and
rainbow like penciled arches. The water was up to their bust lines.
Inwardly, Joan urged her fellow sufferer to hurry as the brush carefully
did its work on her. The greasy, thick coating was awkward on her face.
She hated it but what did that matter?
Wigs! They couldn't finish without them.
A jet black and a golden blonde wig were put in the tube. Joan grabbed
the black one. The water was at her shoulders. The wig was rubber. It was
a bathing cap shaped like a fancy woman's hairdo. She pulled it on his
head and let him do the same for her.
The tube came out to be replaced this time by a jutting dildo. Joan was
still sealed in. The dildo was mounted in a plastic cover and matched the
one in the she-males tank. A tube connected the two rods.
Water came into Joan's mouth and she began to choke. She was going to
drown! Frantically, she began to claw at the plastic. Her activity made
her skirts slowly twist in the water. Across in the other tube, a gesture
caught her eye; he was pointing at the dildo. Holes! She had to suck
through the holes in the dildo to breathe. She took the plastic cock into
her mouth and took a breath of air. Midway, she was cut off.
Panic! The air was gone. No, her companion had been taking a breath. Only
one of them could breath at a time! Tentatively, Joan took a breath and
pulled away. Her mate took one, now Joan, now him. Did she look as
bizarre as he did, skirt floating, like some ridiculous specimen in a
bottle?
The stage began to move! Slowly and then building speed, the stage began
to whirl. The force of the rotation pulled Joan away from her erotic
source of oxygen. With both hands, she clung to the dildo and forced
herself down on it to suck. Dimly, she could hear the announcement.
"These two will be kept like this for a while. The test is to see if we
can make a matching set. They were picked for bone structure and
coloring. The water is laced with permeable hormone and other goodies.
"You can stop by anytime you want to check them out." Trapped! Joan
wanted to scream but that was clearly impossible now. Around and around,
she had to block the whirling from her mind or go mad with dizziness.
Just think about breathing.
Was it possible to cry under water? Her she-male friend looked ready to
sob.
IV.
Urina made no move as the latex penis was glued to her belly. It was long
and thick but soft. The scrotum was big as well, with two fat testicles.
There was no way to remove the fake male genitals. An insert filed her
vagina and ensured that any pleasure or pain inflicted on her new
appendage would find its way home to her own flesh.
She would never get an erection, after all what she-male could. After
they took her from the tank, she had collapsed. For some unknown time she
was unconscious. Yesterday, she had awoken to find herself in this
hospital. No one had asked her if she wanted surgery. There were lines
drawn on her breasts and they were wiping away the last traces of
adhesive from the latex seams on her groin.
Looking down, it was like she had always had a penis. Someone took her
hand and made her hold the strange, new part of her.
A doctor made an incision under her left nipple. She could feel the
pressure, the intrusion at her left breast and later, her right. Her
breasts were bigger. When did that happen? Urina must have passed out.
Several days later, she was allowed to stand up in front of a mirror. She
was a Size Two now, they said. A 36DD, her breasts were enormous, sagging
bags. She cupped them with her small hands. Looking over her shoulder
into the mirror, she could see the sides of her breasts bulge past the
width of her back. And then, there was her cock. They made her measure
it. Eleven inches long, four inches around. There was a huge mound in her
panties and only the strongest girdle would hold her flat.
Urina was taken to the cafeteria for a bite, her breasts still bare.
Another she-male was being force-fed. It was her tank-mate but Urina
couldn't care. He hadn't been able to keep up with her weight drop and
her Size Two petiteness. If he couldn't be the daintiest, now he would be
the fattest.
Urina is a funny name? I wonder why they call me that. Joan didn't mind
exactly, indeed, after her stint in the tank, Joan didn't object to
anything. Rather, the name was odd. Did it mean something?
Days passed slowly as Urina adjusted to her new life. Hours were spent on
make up and hair, on suffering new ways to conceal her big cock. The
other she-males were sympathetic but she could hear them laughing at her
predicament.
One day, she saw a blonde, dressed all in black lace, her fat breasts
propped up and out teetering down a hallway. Urina would have struggled
to keep up but her new uniform wouldn't let her. The Orphanage dressed
its girls in ankle length hobble skirts and, high heels.
Urina asked one of the matrons who the woman was. Someone looking to
adopt, she was told. So now, I'm in an Orphanage, up for adoption. Was
that Oren, she wondered. Was he the woman she had seen?
Dress up, she was told. Urina was to meet some parents today. Maybe, she
would be adopted. Was it going to be Oren or whatever he called himself
now?
Urina came down in her presentation dress. It was very tight, cut
dramatically to the ankle. Urina wore no girdle so that the lump of her
fake penis showed clearly through the satin of her skirt. The equally
dramatic plunge of her neckline left her titties on plump display.
With sharp clicks and clacks, Urina made, her way to the parlor and stood
to be, introduced.
"Doctor and Mrs. Crown, I'd like to introduce Urina. Urina, say "Hello"
to Doctor and Mrs. Crown". Urina looked up and nearly fainted.
"I understand that you had been looking for my wife", Doctor Crown said.
"When she found out you were looking, she made me promise to get you two
back together, only I insisted it be on my terms."
"Hence, my dear, I had you altered and trained a bit and we are going to
adopt you. Your name now is Urina Crown."
"Forcibly gender changed mother and daughter. Sort of a mirror image
matching set." The Headmistress was obviously amused.
The room was spinning. Urina/Joan wanted to sit down. A French maid in a
sexily absurd uniform carried in tea. Red faced, she glanced over at
Urina. DARLA! They'd caught her too.
Over tea, papers were signed and Mrs. Crown supervised Urina's traveling
wardrobe, a more youthful version of her own.
Seated in the back of the rented limousine, the opaque partition raised
for privacy, Dr. Crown sat in the middle, braced by his wife, Bianca, and
their lovely daughter, Urina. Their gloved hands each stoked his jutting
cock carefully. Their other hand stuffed into their panties,
masturbating.
Bianca would take her husband's cock into her mouth for a few moments and
then pull away. Urina would take her mother's place on her father's cock.
Urina held her peace, wait, be patient. All that had come before had
taught her how to do that. This was no surrender. She had gotten where
she had been seeking to go. There would be a time and a place to talk to
Oren, to learn what had happened, what was going on.
For now, it was enough to be obedient, a succulent little artificial she-
male until Urina had become a fixture, taken for granted by Dr. Crown.
Joan would find out if Oren wanted to escape with her and they would go
however best they might. Dr. Crown took the golden leash that dangled
from her nose ring and pulled Joan back down to join her "Mother".
Gently, the two pink tongues snaked expertly across their Master's organ.
There was plenty of time. And for many things.
Mhairi
- 21.02.2021
- 12
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