Saving Amy Part 3 Tiffany on Top
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Saving Amy Part 2: Tiffany's Return free porn video
SAVING AMY PART 2: TIFFANY'S RETURN
Eric was thinking about the business card when he was summoned to see the
managing partner. He thought about it again as he was clearing out his
desk. And it was still on his mind as he arrived home with the small box
of possessions that seemed a meagre memento of his two years at the law
firm.
He went to his desk, opened the drawer and found the item that was the
only tangible reminder of his enforced period of work for the Sissyfuckers
Club - aside, that was, from the large deposit in his bank account. Not
that he needed the card to remember what had been done to him. Or to count
the losses it had caused, which included his dignity, his self-respect,
his girlfriend, and now his job.
But he still couldn't help replaying that dreadful day and night, as he
had done almost constantly since it had happened a couple of months ago.
Seized while on a cycling holiday, he had been tricked into serving as a
maid for a group of male diners. Thinking that he was taking the place of
a young waitress called Amy, apparently kidnapped at the same time, he
allowed himself to be dressed and made up as a sexy French maid.
He was forced to suck the dinner guests' cocks and swallow their cum, and
then be anally penetrated over and over again. He had thought the crowning
humiliation was to have to eat out Amy, who it turned out was not a victim
at all, but the daughter of the event organiser. But no, that came on the
way home when, dressed now as a hooker, he had to negotiate a lift back to
his hotel.
He had hitched a ride with an overweight slob of a truck driver, who had
been only too happy to accept a blowjob as payment. But if having to wrap
his tired lips around the driver's disgustingly dirty cock had not been
enough, worse was to come. When they reached the next truck stop, the
driver insisted that he could go no further that night. Eric was forced to
seek help from three grinning men, who he strongly suspected had been
contacted by the first driver.
Although they were prepared to take him the rest of the way in their van,
the price this time was much more than a blowjob. He had to let each of
them fuck him twice, though they insisted on paying him for the second
time. The amount of money they stuffed into his bra though was a derisory
amount, to reflect the fact that he was, as they put it, "just a cheap
sissy whore." By the time they dropped him off outside his hotel, his
abused asshole was aching and so stretched that he could not stem the
constant flow of leaking sperm.
Even then, his troubles were not at an end. Although he had his room key,
he was challenged going through the hotel lobby by the young woman working
on the reception desk. She must have thought he was an escort making a
late night call. Embarrassed beyond belief, he had to identify himself and
spin her a tale about being at a fancy dress party, while cum steadily
dribbled down his legs and soaked his fishnet stockings.
Finally back in his room, he found a bag waiting for him with all the
clothes and personal effects that had been taken from him by his captors.
At this point he wanted nothing more than to wash away the makeup, the
spunk and the shame that had been accumulating all evening. But he still
had two problems: the blonde wig glued to his head, and the false tits
just as firmly affixed to his shaved chest.
He dealt with the wig by using the cutter on his electric shaver. But
while that got rid of the long blonde tresses he had been given, he also
had to take a lot of his own brown locks as well, so entangled had they
become. In the end, so unsightly was the result that he was forced to
shave the whole lot off.
He had less luck with the boobs. For some reason, he couldn't bring
himself to try and cut them off - it just felt a bit like self-mutilation,
somehow. And he had nothing with which to soften the glue. In the end he
left them as they were, finally had the much-needed shower and went to
bed. But he struggled to sleep, so traumatised was he feeling. And when he
did doze off, he kept being woken up by the unfamiliar feel of the mounds
of gel.
The following day, he had to tape them down as best he could and then go
out in his baggiest sweatshirt to find the solvent he needed to loosen the
glue. The rest of what should have been his holiday was spent hiding in
his room, trying to come to terms with what had happened to him. He
struggled to eat anything, because of what seemed to be a persistent taste
of semen in his mouth. And even as his anal passage returned to something
like its normal shape, he couldn't shake the sense of being empty back
there. He had spent less than a day with a butt plug and then a succession
of cocks inside it, and yet their absence now seemed somehow abnormal.
If he hoped that a return to work and a normal routine would banish his
demons, he was to be bitterly disappointed. His girlfriend was the first
to go. It was not so much the complete disappearance of their sex life, a
product of his inability to face any kind of physical intimacy. Rather, it
was his refusal to discuss what had happened to him, which she took
(perhaps correctly) as a sign of his lack of trust in her.
It was the same at work. Everyone could see that something had happened to
him. The HR manager practically begged him to tell her what it was. But
when he could not and would not provide an excuse for his plummeting
performance and perpetual state of distraction, the firm had no choice but
to let him go.
It was the business card. In the end, it all came back to that. He had
received it from the man he knew only as Vance, the one who had been
responsible for his abduction, and for directing his perverted performance
as Tiffany the bimbo maid. In their final conversation on that horrible
night, he had calmly told Eric both about the large payment he was
receiving for his performance and the recording that would be released if
he tried to go to the police.
But Vance had also given Eric a card that would allow him to contact the
perverted organisation he ran, the Sissyfuckers Club, "if you decide you
want to be Tiffany again."
If you decide you want to be Tiffany again. Those words haunted Eric.
There had not been a day since that he had not replayed them in his mind,
over and over. Vance was a powerful and physically imposing man who had
masterfully controlled Eric and taken personal responsibility for
deflowering him. Why would he have said that, unless he thought that Eric
was the sort of person who might actually like to be dressed as a woman
and treated as a cheap whore?
And just as importantly, why had Eric even taken the card? Or at least,
not torn it up or thrown it away as soon as he had the chance? Why had he
taken it home with him? Why did he keep looking at it and wondering
whether to use the email address on it?
In the rational part of Eric's brain, there might have been good answers
to all these questions. But that part was simply not working right now. As
it was, the more that he did not dismiss even the possibility of getting
back in touch with his captors, the more it seemed to him that they had
correctly identified him as the sort of person who would willingly submit
again to their control.
It still took a further three months after losing his job before Eric
finally cracked and sent the email. He had stopped exercising, his bicycle
never touched since the day he had left it chained up outside the
mountain-top cafe. He rarely now ate more than one meal a day. As a
result, his already lean frame had lost a lot of its definition and he was
as thin as a rake. He had also stopped shaving, whether on his face or
elsewhere, so that he now had a tangled beard and a light covering of fuzz
on his torso and limbs.
With no income, he was rapidly consuming his savings. He simply could not
bear to apply for jobs, so convinced was he that anyone seeing him would
instantly recognise him for what he really was - or for what, at least, he
feared he had become.
When he did finally send the email, in the ultimate act of desperation, it
simply said, "If I wanted to be Tiffany again, what would I need to do?"
He didn't sign the email, and he sent it from a new account that did not
reveal his name. Nevertheless, when the reply came a few hours later, it
was addressed to him as Eric and directed him to be at a particular cafe
the following morning.
He very nearly didn't go. He spent a sleepless night replaying all kinds
of alternative options that involved failing to turn up and seeking other
ways to get his life back on track. Yet he kept coming round to one
thought: if I don't give it another try, how will I know if Tiffany is who
I'm really meant to be?
When he arrived at the cafe his cheeks were once again burning with the
shame and humiliation that had become constant companions since his
capture. He ordered a glass of water from a waitress who gave him a
disgusted look at his parsimony and sat down at a table to wait. A few
minutes after the appointed time, he was joined by a familiar figure.
"Holy shit Tiff," said Nancy, "you look awful. Are you okay?" Although she
was grinning, he chose to accept her statement of concern at face value.
Of all the people he'd met that day at the remote mansion, she was perhaps
the only one who hadn't treated him badly - or at least given the
impression of wanting to. She'd dressed and made him up as Tiffany,
playing the role of another captive with aplomb. And after the big reveal,
she'd been perfectly happy to enjoy his tongue between her legs. There was
nothing feigned about her orgasm, he was pretty sure. Even so, and in
stark contrast to her younger sister Amy, she'd given no indication that
she was enjoying his humiliation. Which, he reflected, probably made her
as good a choice as any to send to this meeting.
So he contented himself with a murmured answer. "No - I wouldn't be here
if I was."
The grin faded from her face and she slid a hand across the table and
rested it on his. "I know," she said quietly, "and for what it's worth,
I'm sorry it had to be you." She left the hand there for a moment, until
the waitress reappeared with a cup of coffee for her. She took a mouthful
or two, then suddenly, as if a switch had been flicked, was all business.
"Okay," she said, "you wanted to know what to do about bringing Tiffany
out of retirement." Mercifully, she kept her voice low, so much so that he
had to strain to hear her. "Four things, that's all. First of all, you
need to sign this contract." She pulled a sheaf of paper out of her bag,
together with a pen, and put them on the table in front of him.
"Second, you need to get rid of all that hair." She waved a hand vaguely
at his beard, as well as his forearms. "You'll go to a clinic of ours,
they'll take care of you. Third, start taking these tablets, once a day
before bed." She tossed him a bottle of pills, which he fumbled and had to
retrieve from the floor. "What's in them?" he asked, but she ignored him.
"And fourth, you need to be ready for an assignment some time in the next
two or three weeks. It will be a probationary job. You do it properly, you
start getting regular work at the SiFu Club." She noticed his puzzled
reaction to the name. "That's the, ah, polite name we give it in public,
right?" He nodded. "Here," she continued, "take this phone - we'll use it
to get in touch, and you'll also find it has details of your appointments
at the clinic."
Eric took the proffered phone, staring at it dubiously. "What kind of
clinic? And what sort of assignment will it be? Will I -"
"Look," she said, cutting him off, and reaching over to flip over a few
pages of the contract, "why don't you take a look at what you'll make for
your probationary job. See that figure there?" She jabbed a finger first
at one line, then at another. "And that's your new salary if it works out
- not counting tips and bonuses of course."
She waited until he had looked at the relevant clauses, then asked
conversationally: "Are those the kind of amounts that might induce you to
just sign the fucking contract and not ask any more questions, do you
think?"
Eric was still staring at the figures. He swallowed convulsively and gave
a nod. "Okay then," she said.
As if in a trance, Eric picked up the pen and turned to the signature page
at the back. Years of legal training were telling him that you should
never sign a contract without reading it properly - and taking time to
think about it. He made one last effort. "Do you think I should sign
this?" he asked weakly.
When he looked up, she was staring out of the window. "Yeah," she said
reflectively, "you really should."
It was as if the past few months had all been pushing Eric to this point,
where he consigned himself to the unknown. But it had to be better than
what he was living with. And at least he'd find out if this was who he
really was. He signed the contract and pushed it across the table, his
eyes down. By the time he looked up, Nancy had gone, leaving only the
pills and the phone.
Eric was not at all sure that he'd made the right decision. And his
concerns only intensified after his first visit to the beauty clinic,
which despite presenting to the public as a normal business quite clearly
had close connections to the SiFu Club.
He was not just given a full body waxing, but told he must return for
laser treatments that would suppress further hair growth. He had thought
they might shave off the unruly mop on this head as well. But instead it
was given a page boy cut and dyed blonde, while his nails received their
first ever manicure. He was scolded for the neglect of his health and
given diet supplements to improve it, together with a makeup kit and
instructions on how to apply it. He was also carefully measured, including
for shoes, and given a pair of high-heeled pumps to take home.
All of this was extremely worrying. And yet at the same time, he felt
better simply for having made a decision. His sleep improved and so, after
a few days on the supplements, did his general health. And the mere fact
of being told what to do gave him some sense of structure and purpose in
his daily life. He took his medicine, assiduously practised both doing his
own makeup and walking in heels, and went back to the clinic when
instructed. He was also emailing regular reports on his progress,
including photos, to the Club.
Even so, it came as a shock when, a few weeks into his new routine, the
summons came for his probationary assignment. He was met at the clinic by
Nancy, who took one look at his anxious expression and gave him some
tablets to take. "They'll help you calm down," was the only explanation
she would give. And, truth to tell, Eric did soon feel a little more
relaxed. The worry was still there, but he felt more able to keep it at a
safe distance - which was just as well, given what happened next.
He was a little surprised to be led into a treatment room, where a doctor
and a nurse we're waiting. When he asked what was going on, he was told
that he needed "a few injections." This turned out to be a radical
understatement. There were a couple to puff up his lips, several more to
do the same to his buttocks and, most bizarrely and painfully of all, the
injection of large quantities of some kind of fluid into each side of his
chest. As the solution was pumped into him, he both felt and saw the flesh
underneath his nipples rise. The conical mounds that resulted looked far
from natural, but they were unmistakably breasts.
He should, he knew, have been screaming blue murder about this. He tried
to get Nancy to stop the treatment. She had followed him into the
treatment room and literally held his hand through the worst of the pain.
But she had simply said, "This is what the client likes - and besides, you
agreed to this in your contract. Anyway, it's only temporary - they'll be
gone by tomorrow, all right?" In his chemically dampened state, he could
see no option other than to accept her explanation and grit his teeth
through the rest of the procedure.
While he was recovering from his stint as a pin cushion, Nancy did his
makeup. She praised his efforts to learn how to do it himself, from which
he gathered she had seen the photos he had been submitting. But she also
made it clear he wasn't yet adept enough to prepare his own face for an
assignment. As at the mansion, she went for a look with bold colours that
highlighted his blue eyes, though rather than pink this time for his lips
(and also nails) she opted for a ruby red.
Next came the clothes. There was a matching set of satin underwear in
scarlet and black. Eric tucked away his cock into the panties and was then
helped on with the bra. The feeling settling his new breasts into the cups
was bizarre, yet also somehow comforting. Far better to have these
strange and unbalancing new protrusions safely encased in satin than
jiggling freely in front of him. Sheer black stockings clung to his
hairless legs, attached to the suspender belt that completed the lingerie.
Over the top of these he wore a simple but elegant black cocktail dress,
with a skirt that was just long enough to cover his stocking tops and yet
which would reveal them if he crossed his legs. The dress featured a
checkerboard cut-out design running down each side and around the hem.
Completing the outfit were a pair of black high-heeled sandals, with
straps which twisted around his calves, gold earrings and a gold necklace.
Nancy led him to a floor length mirror to show him the results. "I'd say
Tiffany was back, wouldn't you?" she asked with a broad smile on her face.
She'd been called him "Tiff," in a teasing sort of way. But this was the
first time she'd used the full name.
Tiffany looked at her reflection and nodded. She was still dreading what
was to come on the assignment. The last time had been horrible, and this
could well turn out to be even worse. There was a part of her that was
horrified at the choice she had made to submit again to this humiliation.
But she could still admire the skill with which she'd been transformed.
She really did look very glamorous ...
"So what do I have to do?" she asked, unable to keep the anxiety from her
voice. Nancy looked at her watch. "We've still got about twenty minutes
before the limo gets here. Let's head out to the foyer to wait and I'll
give you a few details."
As they reached the entrance hall to the building in which the clinic was
located, Tiffany looked around anxiously. This was a public area and, even
though it was now early evening, there were still a few people around. She
was worried about being seen, and indeed she attracted quite a few stares.
But they seemed on the whole to be admiring rather than accusing in
nature, which came as a relief.
As they sat together on a bench, Nancy explained what was about to happen.
To Tiffany's immense relief, she learned that she would not be
entertaining a group of men this time, but having dinner with a single
client, at his house.
"Just dinner?" she asked hopefully. Nancy laughed. "That's a no, honey,
there will very definitely be afters ... Oh, that reminds me, time for you
to take this." She dug into her handbag and came out with a little
capsule, which she handed over. "Do you need a glass of water?"
Tiffany shook her head and swallowed the capsule. "What's in it?"
Nancy's grin widened. "Just something to put some lead in your pencil, so
to speak. It's got a delayed release, so it shouldn't kick in until after
dinner. But if I were you, I wouldn't linger too much over dessert."
Tiffany frowned. "So it's not going to be like last time, when I couldn't,
um ..."
"Get it up?" supplied Nancy. "No, with that working it's magic you won't
be able to hold it down, I shouldn't think."
"So why the difference?" asked Tiffany. She wasn't at all sure that this
was welcome news at all. At the mansion, she had been given a drug that
prevented her from getting an erection. Although she'd still had several
orgasms, thanks to the relentless stimulation of her prostate, they had
been immensely frustrating, with cum just dribbling out of her limp penis.
She didn't want to experience that again. But nor did the idea of having
her ardour artificially stimulated appeal either.
"Well," explained Nancy, "the client's a bottom as well as a top, you
see." When Tiffany stared at her blankly, she laughed, "Seriously, you
don't know what that means? Well, a bottom is someone who likes being
fucked. The top does the fucking. So he'll expect there to be a bit of
give and take, right?"
"O-kay," said Tiffany slowly, thinking the exact opposite. More to change
the topic than because she was especially interested in knowing the
answer, she asked: "So, er, do I get a script, like last time? You know,
stuff to learn?"
"Nope," said Nancy. "You know your name, and that's it really."
"But what do I say if he asks me about myself?" It occurred to Tiffany
that while she certainly wouldn't miss the humiliating answers she was
forced to give at the mansion, they did at least obviate the need to say
anything about her real self.
"Up to you," responded Nancy. "You can make shit up if you like. Or tell
him the truth. He's a long-time member of the Club, so it's not as if he
doesn't know that our sissies have - how shall I put it - other lives."
Tiffany flushed slightly at the description, but simply nodded to show she
understood. They sat in silence after that until the promised limousine
arrived. As she got into the car, Nancy said, "The driver will bring you
back here in the morning, okay? You'll be able to, ah, change back and
then go home."
"The morning?" said Tiffany. "You mean like, one or two o'clock?"
Nancy laughed. "No, more like nine or ten. Depends how long you lie in,
really."
"So I'll have to sleep with him then?" asked Tiffany, her heart sinking.
She was pretty sure she knew the answer.
"Well, yeah," said Nancy, still grinning. "Only I don't know how much
actual sleeping you'll be doing, if you get my drift? Anyway, good luck
and I'll see you tomorrow." She closed the door and the car pulled away.
The ride took about twenty minutes and Tiffany did not spend much time
peering out of the tinted windows to see where she was going. She was too
preoccupied with thoughts of what she was getting into. Even so though, as
the limo turned into the driveway of an impressive looking house, she
thought she vaguely recognised it. Surely she couldn't have been here
before ... could she? Well, not as Tiffany, she thought. She would have
smiled if she hadn't been feeling so anxious. Even with the chemical
assistance from the clinic, she was a bundle of nerves as she rang the
bell.
The door opened to reveal a handsome, middle-aged man. He smiled warmly
and said, "You must be Tiffany. Do come in, dear."
Tiffany simply stood and stared. She had last seen tonight's client on the
day that Eric lost his job. He was the managing partner who had made the
decision ...
To be continued
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