Chris s Surprise Prize Part 3
- 3 years ago
- 53
- 0
Eyes On The Prize - Chapter 3 free porn video
EYES ON THE PRIZE - CHAPTER THREE
"That's it, keep going - a little more ... just a bit more ..."
"Are you sure you can take it, Stacey? You look like you're going to
burst!"
"Just a bit further," I gasped. "That's it ... Ooooh, fuck!"
"I don't think I've got the equipment for that right now," giggled
Natasha. I gave her - no, goddammit, him - a glare as he gave the cords
on my corset one final tug and tied them in place.
I wasn't sure what I found more disturbing right now - the fact that one
of my fellow inmates was making jokes about having his cock taped up and
essentially rendered useless, or that I was having such a hard time
remembering that this was actually a man.
Natasha - I had no idea of his real name - had been one of the few taken
prisoner with me who seemed comfortable with the transformation that was
being forced on us. After two weeks of training, he'd consistently been
among the top scorers for makeup and feminine deportment. Although not
blessed with Kaylee's long hair and petite build, he had progressed to
the point where on a quick glance he seemed female - even though a less
cursory inspection would still reveal his true gender. Which, I reflected
bitterly, put him well ahead of me right now.
Of course I had the more immediate problem of not fainting for lack of
oxygen, so tightly was the corset cinched. We had been wearing them for
the past week, day and night. We were allowed to remove them before
having a shower, which we generally took after our morning aerobics. But
the respite was a brief one. As soon as we were clean and dry, we would
have to buddy up with whoever had showered with us and lace each other's
corsets up anew.
It was left to us to decide how constricted we should be. I could have
chosen to have it a lot looser than I did. But as I saw it, the tighter
the fit, the quicker it would narrow my waist - which was surely the
point of being required to wear them in the first place.
So why was I so keen to give myself a more feminine figure? It was not
that I really wanted to change my shape. But short term pain for long
term gain, that was my thinking. I wanted to get out of here with my
manhood intact. And if a viable escape couldn't be found - and trust me,
I was still looking - well, I'd already vowed to do whatever it took to
win the competition that we'd been promised would offer one of us a
chance to stay male.
If I could somehow win free, it wouldn't take that long to get my regular
waist back - or so I hoped. The trouble was that the corsets were far
from the only way in which the crazy bitches who'd kidnapped us were
changing the look and feel of our bodies.
For one thing, I'd stopped having to worry about body hair. The
combination of the chemicals we used to wash ourselves, the drugs they
were feeding us and some weird kind of laser treatment meant that I
hadn't had to shave now for over a week. And I didn't just mean shave my
face - I meant anywhere. I was now totally hairless, save only for my
head and my carefully plucked eyebrows.
On top of that indignity, I had already had several injections in my
buttocks. Although it was hard to be sure, they seemed to be growing
bigger and rounder. That process was being helped along by the rigorous
exercises, plus our diet, which seemed to be strengthening muscle tone in
some places while weakening it in others. And that was without counting
the hormones they were doubtless pumping into us ...
And then there was the torc. Without conscious volition, my hand drifted
up to touch the band of silver around my neck. It was not there for
decoration - or not solely.
After the first couple of days, the ban on inmates speaking to one
another had not just been relaxed, we'd actually been encouraged to talk,
at least in pairs. (Larger groups were pretty well always discouraged.)
But there were two catches.
One was that we could converse only about our clothes, our makeup, our
exercises - or any story from the women's magazines that were the only
reading material available to us. Any other topic was strictly forbidden,
on pain of getting shocked, whipped or both.
And the other was that we had to speak exclusively in a higher register
from the one we would usually use. Which is where the elegantly crafted
torcs came in. Sitting snugly over our voice boxes, they had a device
that detected any vibrations of the wrong sort. Too low a frequency and
they would send a stab of pain to the implants in our cocks. So there was
a pretty basic incentive there to use a feminine tone.
Combined with the vocal training that now consumed our evenings, together
with makeup and deportment lessons, I was slowly finding it easier to
keep my voice higher and quieter. But it was still common, especially
early in the day, to hear conversations interrupted by cries of pain -
and then further cries, if the initial exclamation was itself pitched too
low.
My dark thoughts about the way we were being controlled were interrupted
by a gentle touch on my arm. I looked up to find Natasha peering at me, a
look of concern on her - his! - face. "Are you okay, hon?"
I was proud of my reaction - or rather, the lack of it. Two weeks ago,
I'd have punched any guy who dared to call me "hon," let alone touched
me. A week ago, even, I would have snarled at him, or at least scowled at
his presumption.
But I'd been training myself to control my responses. It was part of the
mental regimen that was going to get me out of here. The same discipline
that had made me so successful at school sports was now being used to
temper my responses to ... well, just about anything they threw at us
here.
The key, I kept telling myself, was to bide my time, do as I was told and
accept my treatment - until it was the right moment to do otherwise. And
if that moment never came, I would make it out anyway, by winning
whatever twisted contests they put us through. I intended to be the best
- and if that meant the best pseudo-woman, well, so be it. Hideous though
that might be, it was better than the alternative.
Of course I knew I wasn't the best, not right now at any rate. But I had
been working hard on my makeup, on how I carried myself, how I spoke. And
I had also schooled myself, as now, to take a moment before reacting to
anything said or done to me.
Because I had already seen what happened to the inmates who couldn't
match that discipline. On that dreadful second day, we had looked on
aghast as three of the most recalcitrant captives had been brutalised by
the guards, then sent off to surgery, where a truly dreadful fate awaited
them.
Anaesthetised, they were forced to watch helplessly as their genitals
were removed and replaced by a piece of plastic with a small hole in the
middle, similar to the one recessed into the side of my own appendage.
But I could still hope eventually to resume the use of my cock - theirs
had been taken forever.
The same had happened to two more inmates who had snapped and tried to
overpower a guard - a tactic which, after what we had seen, only an idiot
would attempt. If we were to believe what we were told - and it was hard
not to - all of them would be sent off to work in a prison camp,
mutilated and broken.
And the rest of us had been compelled to view the surgery on a big
screen! I found it hard to comprehend the kind of insanity that would
prompt one human being to treat another like that. But as the boss bitch
had made clear, we were paying not just for own "crimes," but those of
men in general.
Of course that wasn't fair. In my case, maybe I'd overstepped the mark a
few times, but not to the extent of deserving what I was currently being
put through. But while I couldn't stop that thought from routinely
popping into my head, I could and did suppress it as quickly as possible.
No amount of bemoaning my fate was going to remake it. It would be
discipline and commitment that would see me through, not self-pity,
despair or resentment.
So when Natasha asked if I was okay, I took a second to compose myself,
then quietly nodded and said in the soft voice so unlike my own: "I'm
fine thanks ... sweetie." The slight pause was to prevent me curling my
lip at the term. We'd been told that using such ridiculous vocabulary
would improve our femininity scores, but I was still struggling not to
sound strained when talking that way.
"I'm just a little out of breath, that's all," I continued. "I like your
skirt, by the way."
Natasha's face lit up in a smile. He looked down at the embroidered red
skirt that flared out slightly, its short cut emphasising what I had to
admit was a shapely pair of legs, clad in black nylon. "I wasn't sure if
it works with this blouse." The top he had chosen was made of black silk,
with long sleeves and silver buttons.
"Are you kidding?" I protested. "You look gorgeous!" That brought a
blush. Almost shyly, Natasha brushed the fringe of his auburn hair (or
wig, I reminded myself) out of his eyes. It was a thoroughly feminine
gesture and one I should really learn to copy. He gave me a piercing
look, his large hazel eyes as always skilfully enhanced by makeup. "You
really think so?" he asked softly.
Of course I don't, you sissy faggot, you look ridiculous. Put on some
proper clothes and take off that fucking makeup! That's what I wanted to
say ... but of course I didn't. And, truth be told, he looked - well, not
gorgeous, obviously, but nice. Those legs ...
I felt a strange surge of heat in my trapped member, firmly tied in its
usual position between my legs, though mercifully there was no sensation
of stiffening. I didn't want to deal with that kind of discomfort, let
alone what it would imply about my reaction to Natasha's appearance.
To cover my embarrassment, I leaned in and gave her - no, him! - a quick
peck on the cheek. "Of course I do Tash, it was a great choice. Now if
you'll excuse me, I need to get my own outfit on."
Not waiting to see his reaction, I turned and went to the rack where I'd
carefully hung up my choice of clothes.
This was actually the first day we'd been permitted to dress ourselves.
We'd previously been rotating through costumes that essentially fitted
whatever kind of dance workout we were going to do that day, each chosen
for maximum shame and distress - if you didn't want to look like a girl,
that is.
There had been the cheerleaders' uniforms, the brightly coloured polka
dot skirts and white socks for rock n roll dancing, the check shirts and
tight denim shorts for country line dancing, which weren't too bad ...
and worst of all, the ballet outfits. It had been utterly humiliating to
have to wear leotards, pink tutus and white stockings and then prove just
how flexible we weren't. I could see in the eyes of the inmates around me
- well most of them anyway - their loathing of this particular uniform.
Hopefully I was hiding my feelings better than they were.
At any rate, we'd been given an opportunity today, following a gruelling
class in our rock n roll outfits, to select clothes of our own choosing
from a very large collection. Our only instruction was to "look good".
After much umming and ahhing, I had settled on a fairly conservative
choice - a simple black cocktail dress, with a high neck and no sleeves.
I was still learning about women's fashion and wasn't too confident about
matching colours with my particular skin tone, or whatever stupid shit it
was women worried about ... No, can that thought, that "stupid shit"
might at some point mean the difference between having a dick and pissing
through a tube.
Anyway, I reckoned it was better to keep it simple and just look as
elegant as I possibly could. To add a little glitz, and also call
attention to my narrowing waist, I'd added a belt with gold circles. I'd
have worn some dangly earrings as well, but we had not yet been allowed
access to any jewellery.
We'd also been given the freedom to select a wig. I'd chosen an ash-
blonde number with curls that tumbled to my shoulders. As I brushed it
out and inspected my appearance in the mirror, I was reasonably satisfied
with the overall effect. It was certainly very feminine, even if I was
still pretty obviously a guy in drag.
The final touch was the shoes, black flats with a gold buckle that
matched my belt. I was a little mystified that we hadn't been forced into
wearing high heels, given the potential for ridicule and misadventure,
but I certainly wasn't complaining.
"You look good Stacey!" I looked up to find Natasha smiling at me. My
hands unconsciously started to ball into fists, but with an effort I
relaxed. He was paying me a compliment, not being sarcastic - or so I was
prepared to believe. And even if he wasn't, giving him the beating he
deserved would be foolish in the extreme.
I shrugged. "It'll have to do." I glanced up at the clock on the dressing
room wall. "C'mon," I said, heading towards the door, "we don't want to
be late."
With a few minutes to spare, we joined the throng of inmates in the
Studio, the room where we took our dance classes. Today the blocks that
usually formed a stage at one end had been laid out longwise down the
middle of the room. I looked around at my fellow prisoners. All were in
makeup, wigs and a colourful assortment of female clothes. Some looked
passable, others just garish. But then my breath caught as I saw Kaylee.
She was a wearing a gold mini skirt with an embossed pattern, a white
blouse inlaid with intricate panels of fine mesh and a dark jacket. The
skirt showed off her legs, which were also emphasised by the gladiator-
type sandals she was wearing, the black laces gracefully entwined around
her calves. Her makeup was understated rather than heavy, highlighting
her finely chiselled features. And where the rest of us were forced to
wear wigs, her flowing chestnut locks fell naturally to her shoulders.
I tried the mental correction, to think of Kaylee as a him, but my brain
was no longer willing to dispute what my eyes could plainly see. And that
heat was back between my legs ...
Wrenching my eyes away, I looked around the room. As usual, there were a
few guards, but not as many as our numbers might warrant. Our captors
were pretty confident about their ability to control us. And
unfortunately, that confidence seemed well placed.
As much to keep my thoughts away from Kaylee as anything else, I turned
to the guy next to me and said conversationally: "I've been wondering
about those initials on our cheerleading outfits, the ones that the
guards have too - R.A.M.S. What do you suppose they stand for?"
My neighbour was a large, well muscled man who had been stuck with the
name Chantelle. He was wearing a red wig and way too much green eye
makeup. He squinted at me suspiciously, though whether because he wasn't
sure why I was talking to him or was trying to work out whether this was
a permitted topic for conversation, I couldn't say.
"Rev-," he started to say in a rich baritone, then doubled over with
pain. Straightening up, he mouthed a swear word then tried again, this
time in a strangled falsetto. "Revenge Against Male Scum. That's what one
of the guards told me. But I couldn't tell if she was joking or not."
Before I could absorb or react to this information, the voice of the boss
bitch sounded above us. "Welcome, ladies, to your next challenge! You can
start by changing your footwear."
As she said this, several guards walked into the room, carrying large
racks of shoes. My heart sank as I realised every single one of them
seemed to have high heels. I might have known we wouldn't get off so
lightly.
"Select a pair that goes with your outfit, but don't put them on yet,"
came the instruction. "You have ten minutes." Like the crowd of
dispirited drag queens that we resembled, the group of inmates converged
on the racks. In other circumstances there might have been pushing and
shoving to get a closer look, but that would have implied enthusiasm.
Instead a sullen silence descended on the Studio as the options were
weighed.
I hung back from the throng, trying to decide what I should look for.
Something black, or black and gold, to go with the dress - that was
obvious. But what type of heel, and how high? We would probably be judged
for style, but I strongly suspected we'd also be expected to walk in them
- and there was the problem. I had no experience and not even the
faintest clue how to balance on heels of any size, let alone move my
feet.
Part of me wanted to insist that if women could do it, how hard could it
be? But the realist had an answer for that kind of bravado - yeah, you
thought that about makeup too, and look how difficult that had turned out
to be.
Still uncertain, I moved forward to look at the racks, which already had
empty places where others had made their selection. Of the ones in my
size, the best looking option was an elegant pair of what I thought from
my magazine reading were called slingbacks. But the heels were pretty
narrow and I figured I needed as much support as possible. That led me to
a pair with wedge heels - but even my uncertain fashion sense was telling
me that they would look out of place with a cocktail dress.
With time nearly up, I settled for a pair of plain black pumps with
fairly solid heels. Not very spectacular, but at least I should be able
to take a few steps in them - or so I hoped.
"Now that you're properly attired, we're going to see how you go
strutting your stuff on the catwalk. So when your name is called, you
will sashay - I believe that's the technical term - down to the other end
and back again."
The boss bitch's voice was dripping with sardonic amusement. But there
was nothing funny at all in what she said next.
"You've already been judged on your appearance today. That was your first
test. Your second is how you look on the catwalk. The third will follow
immediately afterwards. Your scores in the three tests will determine
whether you get through to the third round of the Competition. Half of
you will progress, half of you will be leaving us."
A glance around showed that everyone else was having the same thought.
Only half of us could stay. Which meant the other half ... But wait, had
she said third round?"
"You're probably wondering what happened to the second round." It was
hard to know what to hate more about the boss bitch - the uncanny way she
could anticipate our thoughts and reactions, or the smug tone that she
used to make it clear that she was always a step ahead.
"The first round concluded when we decided you had all reached the
minimum standard to progress. We didn't bother to tell you because we
wanted you to have an incentive to keep working hard on your appearance
and deportment. And as for telling you what will happen if you don't
progress to the third round ... we'll, I'll leave that to your
imagination for now. Another incentive, see?" The chuckle was truly
chilling.
But there was little time to fume, or even worry about our predicament,
because the guards were ushering us into place on each side of the
"catwalk". So, just to add to the pressure, we would have an audience all
along the way.
To kick things off, a rather overweight but neatly dressed inmate who had
been unlucky enough to draw Bambi as a name was asked to put his platform
shoes on and stride down the runway. Except it was not so much a stride
as a nervous shuffle, which drew jeers from the watching guards.
Even so, he did better than Savannah, who simply could not balance on his
chosen stilettos and toppled over seven or eight times. The sight of him
desperately trying to regain his feet, red-faced and with blonde wig
askew, would in other circumstances have had an audience falling about
with laughter. But it was only the guards who derived any mirth from his
predicament. The rest of us inmates were all too aware of what he was
going through - and how likely that might be us in due course.
And so it proved. A few took the same option as Bambi, virtually refusing
to lift their feet off the ground and taking the shortest of steps. But
most were a little bolder, likely figuring that the safest option would
score the fewest points. That was my thinking anyway, though by the time
my name was called I was beginning to have second thoughts. Almost
everyone had taken a turn by then, and not one prisoner had managed to
look comfortable. Even Natasha and Kaylee, who were easily the best
looking, turned from graceful to ungainly once forced to walk in heels.
I had tried hard to look for clues as to how best to handle the task, but
there was simply nobody to emulate. So it was with mounting anxiety that
I slipped my feet into the pumps, took a few seconds to ensure that I had
my balance and then, with my calves already protesting the unnatural
strain, took a step towards the stairs at the end of the catwalk ... and
landed flat on my back as my lead foot shot straight out from under me.
"Fuck it," I exclaimed as I collided painfully on the floor, then yelled
again, this time in a higher register, as the torc around my neck
delivered its painful rebuke. "Dear me Stacey," chided the boss bitch
over the PA, "that didn't sound very ladylike!"
Cursing under my breath, I clambered unsteadily to my feet and tried
again. I made it up one step before going down again, banging my knee
painfully. By the time I was ready to begin the walk down the makeshift
runway, my confidence was totally shot. So I took the easy way out and
performed a slow shuffle down and back. Even then I went over twice more.
By the time I clambered slowly and painfully back down the stairs I was
bright red with humiliation and exasperation.
I had still not recovered my composure by the time everyone has taken
their turn. And my worst fears about how badly I had done were realised
soon enough.
"Your last test," announced the boss bitch, "will be undertaken in
private, so that none of you gets the chance to prepare. But rest
assured, we'll be showing replays later. When you hear your name called,
go to the door at the rear of the Studio. You will be competing in
reverse order of standing after the first two tests."
Reverse order ... so that meant the first ones to be called would have
the lowest marks - and be most in danger of being eliminated from the
Competition.
"Courtney - you're up." To a crossdressed man, we turned to stare at the
inmate who was running dead last. It was hardly a surprise. Two weeks of
training had done little to improve the big blonde's makeup skills or
deportment, though after initial shows of resistance he had at least made
some effort. Some of his earlier defiance resurfaced now as he scowled at
us and, head held high, headed for the back of the room. But the effect
was spoiled by the shuffling gait he was forced to use to avoid toppling
off his heels.
He was out of the room for just a couple of minutes before returning, a
sour expression on his face that could not quite hide the underling fear.
Whatever the test had been, it had not gone well. He was quickly ushered
away to wait on the far side of the Studio, we'll away from the rest of
us. Chantelle and Savannah quickly followed him, both returning with
similarly distressed expressions.
As our group was slowly whittled down, I was keeping count - and so, I
knew was everyone else. Twenty-four of us remained from the original
group, which meant twelve only could stay. And when my name was called
tenth, I realised with a sick jolt that I was presently in the bottom
half. Unless I did well on the third test, I would be ejected - and I
didn't want to begin to think what I might lose in the process.
But if there was a silver lining, it was that I had no chance to reflect
on this, or to berate myself for being able to walk over to the door far
more easily (if still rather slowly) than I had been able to manage on
the catwalk. Even just a short span standing around in my heels had given
me a chance to grow a little more used to the peculiar feeling of being
balanced on such an unsteady and unnatural base.
Once outside the Studio, I was taken by a guard to a small room and told
to kneel down. As I did so, another guard entered, wearing the biggest
strapon dildo I had ever seen. It was about the same girth as the cock-
shaped feeders that we were forced to fellate three times a day to gain
the protein shake that had been our only sustenance for the past
fortnight. But it was far, far longer, maybe half a metre in length -and
it had regular markings all along its length, like some kind of measuring
scale.
The suspicion in my mind was quickly confirmed by the boss bitch, her
voice ringing out from the hidden speakers that just about every room
seemed to have in this accursed prison.
"Oh dear, Stacey, whatever are we going to do with you?" The tone was
mocking. "Such a disaster on the catwalk - and after you'd put all that
effort in to look good too! You're in real trouble, you know that? And
the only way out is to show us what a good little cocksucker you are."
As she said this the guard positioned herself in front of me, moving
forward to position the head of the giant phallus against my lipstick-
covered mouth. Fighting the instinct to pull away, I parted my lips
obediently. The boss bitch chuckled. "Do you see that, Ilona? She gagging
for it, the slut - or she will be in a minute. Go on, give her a little
slap."
Obediently, the guard grasped the shaft with both hands and whipped it
from side to side, making contact heavily with each of my cheeks in turn.
Steeling myself, I ignored the stinging blows and held my mouth open.
"Very good," laughed the voice above me, "such an obedient slut you are,
Stacey. But now you're going to show us how far you can get that toy down
your throat - and how long you can keep it there. So here it comes - eyes
up now!"
I looked up to see a wolfish grin on the face of the guard. And as she
drove the potent symbol of humiliation into my gaping mouth, I steeled
myself for the ordeal ...
To be continued
Jayla
- 06.05.2021
- 26
- 0
Thangaiku Theriyaamal Amma Magalai Oothen
- 2 years ago
- 205
- 0
Sneha Was My Real Prize
- 4 years ago
- 31
- 0
