Thea Chapter Four
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The Will - Part Four free porn video
The Will - Part Four
Just about three and a half months now into my PTP. My weight is still
going down nicely. Mother is so proud.
I know it was planned this way, but I rarely think male thoughts
anymore. Why would I want to? My life has become immersed all things
feminine. Though I am still outwardly a male, I still wear male
clothing. I wear no makeup, my hair is still that of a long haired male
dilettante. But inwardly Mother has succeeded in placing the world of
femininity into my psyche. My speech and mannerisms have become
increasingly girlish.
The process of keeping me a male in all outward appearances while
indoctrinating my 25 year old male consciousness continually with all
things female is working perfectly. Most importantly of all, from
Mother's point of view, deep down, under my male clothing, Mother is
starting to see a girl about ready to burst out. This six month period
of being outwardly a male while inwardly learning the knowledge and the
feelings woman must have was a brilliant stroke of genius on the part of
Grandmother.
Beauty School has now wound down. I really enjoyed the experience. All
"A's". I am a licensed beautician. I can now create a make up look, or a
coiffure, or a nail design which any of the girls in my class would die
for. But Mother has been ever so strict, still I am not allowed to do
myself or to have anyone do me. We must adhere to the rules laid down in
The Will. With the aid of my girl friends and the women at the Beauty
School and Mother, I look forward to the gossip sessions where I can be
as much of a woman as I want in speech and thought. The girls constantly
kid me that I seem to have an extraordinary interest in sundresses. My
daily collection of magazine articles and random pictures, which I share
with Mother and the girls, has leaned heavily recently to almost all
pictures of gorgeous sundresses, usually adorning spectacularly shaped,
very female, females. Well, Mother wanted to know what my thoughts were
about my wishes for my look in the future. She is getting her wish as we
discuss, Mother and Son, which bra would most enhance the sundress
experience.
Now that the Beauty School has become a delicious thing of the past,
Mother has told me that I will be spending a great deal of time with
Mistress Melissa. Mistress Melissa is a professional Dominatrix. Mother
says she is much in demand and it has cost the family a lot of money to
hire her to be my guide into her world.
Before we went to Mistress Melissa's salon, Mother corrected what had
been my thinking all along after the reading of The Will. My time with
Mistress Melissa was not for her to feminine or sissify or humiliate me.
No! That was not what was to happen. Mistress Melissa was to consider me
as a woman in strange male clothing, a woman who wants to LEARN HOW to
feminize, sissify and humiliate males of any type. This part of my PTP
was to instill in me the understanding that, I as a female, should
naturally dominate and control the weaker male of the species. As I
become a woman, I have to have the ability deep within myself to tower
over cringing males and demand their obeisance and their fear. Mistress
Melissa is the best woman in the world to teach me this lesson.
Now that I fully understood what my role would be in conjunction with
Mistress Melissa, I reversed my fears and became anxious to meet this
formidable woman. So I was amazed that Mistress Melissa was about 5'1"
tall and must have weighed all of 100 lbs. She had a blonde pixie hair
do and "the girl next door" make up on. Not what you would expect to
terrify men. Or women, for that matter. But once I gazed into her
startlingly clear demanding blue eyes, I could understand that no
resistance or disobedience would ever be allowed to her commands. Thank
God I was not to be her subject but rather her assistant. I immediately
knew that I would like her and hoped that she would like me. Even in
these rather upside down circumstances.
My training started right away. She sized me up and sized up the depth
of Mother's bank account. She immediately took me under her wing, even
though I had to bend down to let that wing enfold me.
Mistress Melissa's clients were many and varied. There were those men
and women who enjoyed being dominated and hurt and humiliated. What a
wild and crazy bunch! I was not to concern myself with that segment of
her business. Shucks! I was looking forward to some whip and chain
activity. These were the Marquis de Sade wannabes.
Another large part of Mistress Melissa's business were three types of
men (if you could call them that). And I was amazed at the sheer number
of these men who sought Mistress Melissa's ministration. These would be
the clients I would be trained to work on and, in fact, trained so I
could do the same work in the not too distant future.
The first group of men seeking Mistress Melissa's services were men who
enjoyed being forced (?), or even not to be forced, to don the apparel
of the female species and wanted to pass as females on the street and in
the home. These were your basic cross dressers who needed a little
loving prod to accomplish their needs. They left Mistress Melissa's
smartly turned out and as womanly passable as it was our ability to make
them. For a great deal of money, that is. These men were usually sweet
and docile and easy to instruct, willingly to do anything which would
allow them to be, for a while, a beautiful female. I enjoyed working
with these men. These were the Doris Day wannabes .
The second group were the rather pathetic men who enjoyed, really
enjoyed, being dominated, sissified, feminized, and humiliated. There
could be some pain involved, but the basis of their need was to be
humiliated by being made into sissies. Their need was humiliation, and
no extent of frills and petticoats and paint could be too much in their
quest for this need. These men (?) came willingly to Mistress Melissa
and paid dearly for her services. These men were putty in our hands.
They cared so little for themselves that no matter what indignities we
lavished upon them, they came back for more. It was fun working with
this type because I could stretch the bounds of good taste in their
makeup and dress. I was free to create a fantasy Barbie with Boobs
whenever I desired. There were always a multitude of this type, eager to
be humiliated and painted. These were the Shirley Temple wannabes.
The third type of male subject Mistress Melissa cared for were those men
who were brought to Mistress Melissa for punishment, or for behavioral
modification to high female standards, by their wives, their SO's, or
their Mothers. These individuals had no desire to be at Mistress
Melissa's salon. But nobody gave a damn what they felt. They were there
to be punished. Punished by being made into a parody of those they had
offended. They were to be feminized, sissified, humiliated, emasculated,
their ego's destroyed, their bodies altered and their minds washed of
all their anti-feminine biases. They would end up begging for bras and
girdles and perms and tampons. Punishment and pain and humiliation was
what they deserved and punishment and pain and humiliation was what
Mistress Melissa offered.
(I have to make note that some of this type were not here because they
were to be punished. Though we would treat them precisely the same, they
hadn't done anything to warrant Mistress Melissa's attentions. They were
here simply because their wife, SO, or Mother wanted them to endure all
the feminizing techniques that Mistress Melissa had to offer. Their
wives, SO's or Mothers had grown tired of having a silly useless male
around and wanted to change them into a superior being - a woman. And
whatever the real Woman wanted for the creature we were given, we would
do. Wether he deserved punishment or not. The Woman Is Always Right!)
The wives, SO's or Mothers didn't care what it cost to achieve this
wonderful goal. Mainly because the money was coming from the miserable
subject. These sorry male variations had nothing to emulate or strive
for, they were to become only what Mistress and I decided they should
be, wether that be painful for them, humiliating for them, or simply to
become beautiful. At the start, I didn't think I would enjoy working on
these wretches but as I got deeper into my work on them, I realized that
they did indeed need to be punished. They had mocked Femininity,
disparaged Womanhood, and disgraced their manhood. What better way to
prove my worthiness for Womanhood than to inflict as much degrading
humiliation and pain on these scum as I could. These were the Bride of
Frankenstein unwilling wannabes.
Mistress Melissa charged excessively for this treatment but the wives,
SO's and Mothers wanted their revenge and would pay for it. Mistress
Melissa also employed two massive Scandinavian Lesbian Dykes with very
bad people skills, to handle any resistance to our work on these
particular individuals. Their names were Gertrude and Brunhilda. Thank
God they liked me!
So now I was ready to help Mistress Melissa in this work and to learn
how to do the same in the future on my own.
My training in Cosmetology and Hair Styling allowed me to take more and
more of the basic time consuming burdens off of Mistress Melissa so she
could turn more of her energy to the breaking of former masculine wills
and minds. I have seen a burly specimen of punishment stock brought
bound into the salon by Gertrude and Brunhilda, protesting "That I am a
Man" at the top of his lungs. Within a half hour under the stern
handling of Mistress Melissa, this woeful object is whimpering and
begging to be allowed to be Permed and girdled.
I rarely ventured in Mistress Melissa's realm of straight domination. It
just wasn't my thing. But Mistress Melissa did insist that I learn a few
rudimentary lesson is the subject of pain and humiliation. In the field
where I would be employed the most; the sissies and cross dressers and
the punishment stock, I had to know basic techniques of applying nipple
clamps and anal butt plugs and feminine enema hygiene. When a man (?) is
being unwillingly forced to be a woman, at least at the start of the
process, pain can be a great help and motivator.
I found that the Crossdressers did not need much motivation to be a
woman. Their thrill was the dressing and the makeup and the possibility
of fully passing as a female in public. But even they were not adverse
to being High Heel trained with a large butt plug up their "Sissy"
vagina to help with the proper sway to their haltering beginner steps in
4 inch pumps. Doris Day always swayed in her walk like she had a 7 inch
plug up her ass and so should they. And as a starting point, so that
they would know that being a woman was not all fun and games, I liked to
use strong spring loaded clothespins on their nipples under their forms
and bras. The constant pain, together with the constant thrill and
pleasure they got from the tight controlling bra, after a while brought
home the message that they had to pay a price for the privilege of being
allowed to dress as one of the superior species. When, after a suitable
length of time, I relented and took off the clothespins, they really
appreciated the soft, clinging caress of their new friend, their own
bra. When working with one of these "Ladies", I always tried to end the
process with a nice lunch at a white table cloth restaurant where they
would have their first experience with "The Ladies Room". It was such a
thrill for me to see my shy creations toddle off on their high heels,
white purse gently swinging at their elbow, terror in their shadowed
eyes, fear in their hearts that they might make a mistake and reveal
themselves as less than 100% female.
It was a strange feeling for me, who had never been in a Ladies Room, to
revel in the knowledge that "My Girls" were primping in front of a
lighted mirror with real women all around them. How would I do when,
finally, it became my turn to be that babe in the woods.
During my time of apprenticeship with Mistress Melissa, Mother was
always keen to know all about my daily activities. What I had learned.
How did I feel as I went about my business of making men into women? Was
I having second thoughts about undergoing some of these same processes
myself in the very near future? Would I need a Gertrude or a Brunhilda
when it became my time to be corseted?
Mistress Melissa was giving Mother regular reports of my progress and
seeming state of mind. So Mother knew that I was doing my job as
beautician and stylist and humiliator to a very high degree of Mistress
Melissa's satisfaction.
I could honestly tell Mother that I was enjoying my training and even
looking forward to having my own subjects to feminize. I also had to
tell her that as I remained dressed and to all outward appearances still
a male, as I administered an cleansing enema or tightened a corset on a
willing or unwilling subject, the tension within me grew and grew. The
six months of PTP and all the training and discussing of all things
feminine was a stroke of genius of Grandmother's part. With each day and
each makeover of a terrified male face, whatever remaining maleness was
within me was being washed away. Master James of Mistress Melissa's
Salon, with every layer of smokey eye shadow applied to makeup virgin
eyes, was inwardly screaming to be allowed to let the inner Mistress
Wendy show herself to the world!
Mother smiled.
For me, the Sissies were a Fantasy Land. The object here was to
humiliate. They wanted it. They got it. I had free rein to create any
outlandish makeup or bizarre ensemble, using their bodies as a canvas to
showcase extreme modes of faux femininity. The Sissy was not now, and
was not to be, a woman. And the Sissy was not now, and was not to be, a
man. The Sissy came to Mistress Melissa to be prepared for a life of
ridicule and shame.
These men (?), deep inside themselves, knew that they were not worthy to
be man or woman. But to achieve the feelings of hmiliation they desired,
the most efficacious method was to be feminized to a ridiculous extreme.
The Sissy wanted and needed pain to verify their loathing of what they
were. Mistress Melissa, and I, provided that service, along with many
other services which lowered the self esteem even lower than it had been
when they pranced, nervously, through our doors. The Scandinavian Dykes
were seldom needed where a Sissy was involved. They meekly submitted to
our demands, positioning the worthless bodies as we directed, to receive
strong enemas or vacuum breast enlargement. They did not flinch or draw
back when nipple clamps were applied, and happily pushed their sissy
vaginas outward, making it easier for us to install penis shaped butt
plugs. I can't count the number of tight permanent waves which I did on
these creatures. Corset training was a process they seemed to enjoy, or
at least accept as their due. I had several Sissies swoon when they were
first placed under the dryer hood, their hair tightly rolled. I must say
Sissies gave me a tremendous amount of satisfaction in my newly acquired
trade. They seemed happy to have any thing done to them which made them
less of a man and nowhere near being a woman. I was happy to provide
that service. One of my favorite activities with these beings was to
dress a Sissy in all the frills and satins I could find but leave their
hair as a man and put no makeup on their cringing faces. Then I would
take them to a nearby Beauty Salon at the most busy time of day and make
them walk in on their three inch heels and request a makeup and
hairstyling based on the picture of June Allyson they were holding in
their white satin gloved hands.
Crossdressers were a great way for me to look ahead to what awaited me.
And I enjoyed visualizing myself in their position. But the Sissies were
just great fun. How else could you have the thrill of the person you are
tightening nipple clamps on, look into your eyes and say: "Thank you,
Master James."
My time under the tutelage of Mistress Melissa was time very well spent.
I learned a lot about myself, the male of the species, my needs. my
desires, where I was before the reading of The Will, and where I wanted
to be at the end of the PTP, and most importantly, I learned about Women
and their rightful place as the Superior Half of Humanity.
A great deal of this learning process occurred while working my trade on
the third type male subjects which Mistress Melissa took into the Salon
at the request of her Sisters. This was the Punishment Stock.
Crossdressers could be smiled at, even admired, and as a whole, where
extremely likable in their way. The Sissies were a source of laughter
and wonderment. Wonderment that a being, male or female, could want to
be so put upon, made fun of, and so humiliated. But they took it in good
grace and caused no one any trouble. They were what they were and we all
understood it.
But the Punishment Stock was another matter entirely. Each piece of
Stock came with a dossier which detailed why the piece was to be
punished. The reading of those dossiers made me sick. These specimens
brought to light all that is rotten in the male of the species. They
were the beaters, the haters, the "Lords of the World" in their own tiny
male minds. Women had suffered at their hands. Women had been humiliated
at their hands. Women were chattel in the hands of these men (?).
Well, believe me, Mistress Melissa and I were absolutely delighted to do
a little creative corrective engineering on the bodies and the minds of
these cretins.
Sometimes a Wife, SO, or Mother would bring the offender, smirking
sullenly, to the Salon. Other times Gertrude and Brunhilda were
dispatched to bring the miscreant back to the Salon in a bag. Upon
arrival at the Salon, there was always a lot of shouting: "I am a man",
"You can't make me stay here." "You'll be sorry."
"Make me wear a dress? Never!"
At which point Brunhilda would put the clown into a choke hold, drag his
sorry carcass to the nearest rubber sheet covered gurney, ask Gertrude
to please help dump the mutt onto the gurney and to cut off the vile
male clothing and help with the leather restraints. With the restraints
in place the choke hold was released and the bum could once again offend
our ears. Not for long. A medium sized ball gag was quickly stuffed into
his slimy mouth and tightly secured. As the dog lie there, struggling
against his restraints, Mistress Melissa or I would approach where he
could see us with the rolling medical stand which held the gallon size
enema bag with the thick tube coming out of the bag, leading to the
inflatable double bulb design 1/2 inch enema nozzle. They usually got
very quiet at that point.
I became very adept at nozzle insertion and bulb inflation control and
flow control on this type of miscreant.
There was no use struggling against their restraints. Gertrude knew her
stuff. After I had pumped the bulbs into complete sealing strength, I
would release a slow flow of hot soapy water and vinegar into their faux
vagina. Their eyes would get bigger and I would release a faster stream.
Slowly their stomach would distend and they would moan through their
ball gag. With about three fourths of the liquid had already emptied
into the smelly hole, I would look into the rat's eye and smile and them
use my hands to squirt the last of the liquid into him with a mighty
squeeze. His eyes would bulge and tears would flow. Then I would whisper
into his ear.
"I am going to leave this hot enema inside you for 15 minutes. By that
time you should be cramping and pushing vainly against the inflated
bulbs with all your might. Your might won't help you. After the 15
minute mark, I will release the bulb and let the enema leave you BUT
only after you BEG me to perm you, to corset you, to make you up, to let
you wear bras and girdles and dresses. Do you understand?"
They rarely did.
But they came to understand.
Usually around the 19 minute mark, Mr. Macho would politely ask me to
kindly do his perm and please, please make his waist as small as
possible with the tightest corset I can lace.
I was happy to oblige.
Punishment Stock was a big money maker at the Salon. Also a great source
of release of our stresses and worries. They were fair game for anything
we had done or had ever thought about doing to insufferable males. Their
first gynecological exam was always fun and such a feeling of calmness I
would have each time I made sure the mammogram plates securely held
their scummy breasts. When their time of menstration came, it was an
honor to insert their first tampon as far up their sissy vagina as
possible, even so far that the little string was gone. OOPS! And the
highlight was when Max and Bruce, two huge but lovable folk of the gay
persuasion, were allowed to show the punishment stock that bigger was
not necessarily better. At least in this instance. So many ruined
panties and so many rubber sheets to wash!
Oh, well, such is life as an intern to a professional Dominatrix.
I think I got pretty good at it.
Now just about four weeks to go in the PTP. Into the Hospital next week.
Mother is happy with my progress. So am I.
Tammi
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