Fallen Angel
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FALLEN ANGEL
1.
Aunt Julene woke me up at 6:31 on the dot, sweeping lightly into the
bedroom with a breakfast tray between her hands. This was nothing
unusual in itself, I'd been subjected to these dawnlight raids for the
past couple of couple of years. Her voice sliced through the air like a
keen-edged blade.
"Rise and shine, sleepy-head," she chimed in bright, tinkling tones that
never failed to set my teeth on edge, "Your appointment's at nine, and
we can't lie around all day."
My appointment.
The one I'd been dreading all week.
"Do I have to, Aunt Julie?" I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I
didn't want to go through with any of this. The way she treated me was
embarrassing beyond words.
"We went over this yesterday, sweetheart," she replied, setting my
breakfast down on the corner stand, "now; come on, out of bed. We have a
long day ahead of us."
I swung my legs out of bed, planting my feet in hazy square of sunlight.
My thick blonde hair hung lankly around my shoulders while I lapped at
my breakfast. As always, the coffee was wincingly sweet, practically
swamped with milk and honey. Something of an eccentric, my aunt held
some extremely unorthodox views on diet and nutrition...amongst other
things.
Meantime, Julene went through my closet, sorting out my wardrobe for the
day. Almost inevitably, she chose the shortest outfit she could find, a
translucent red sunfrock with a full-circle drop-waist; the kind of
thing worn by little girls with giggly smiles and long yellow ribbons in
their hair.
"Yes, I think that will do nicely," Julene nodded to herself, then
raised a skeptical eyebrow in my direction, "now - take off those horrid
underpants. You know I can't stand to see you wearing them."
Those 'horrid underpants' were white cotton knickers, the type sold at
any Unisex outlet. On most occasions, Aunt Julie turned a blind eye to
them, as they could be worn by either boys or girls, but today was
different. Today, we had the appointment.
Turning my back to her, I peeled my underwear down to my ankles, feeling
my color deepen. No matter how many times she saw me naked, I always
blushed a torrid pink, knowing that literally everything I had was on
exhibition. Julie scrutinized me with a critical eye, gliding her
fingers over my tummy, waist and bottom several times in the process.
"All right, good," she concluded, ushering me towards the doorway, "come
along, Honeybee; it's time we ran a bath for you."
"Please, Aunt Julie," I protested quietly, "I can do that myself."
"I know you can, darling. I just want to make sure you do it right."
A hazy mist filled the room as Julene ran the hot water. This was a
scene we'd played out a hundred times in the past, one which never
failed to fill me with an overwhelming sense of disgrace. I stood
silently to one side with my hands crossed in front of myself, wondering
why she took such pleasure in humiliating me day after day.
Contrary to all appearances, I knew she didn't hate me. In many
respects, she'd always been exceptionally kind, showering me with
genuine affection I'd never known from my own parents. At the same time,
however, she seemed utterly obsessed with degrading me - breaking my
will through constant manipulation and vicious mind games.
I peered at the bath through hooded eyelids. The foam was swirling like
a small tornado beneath the faucet, the cloying scent of bath-oils hung
thick in the air around us. It was almost full now, pearly froth was
spilling over the edge.
"All right, in you get," Julene said, fluttering a casual hand towards
the tub. I complied in mute obedience, feeling roughly six years old as
she lathered up my naked limbs. It's impossible to convey how
humiliating it was, being forced to submit to her will that way. The
words simply don't exist in my vocabulary. It wasn't enough to simply
treat me like a girl. She had to reduce me to the level of a hapless
infant.
2.
I moved in with my Aunt Julene just over two years ago. I'd still been a
boy back then - a boy, more or less. It was hard to tell at times. With
my girlish features and slender build, I might've been one or the other.
That was the main reason my folks sent me away. Didn't want no nancies
swanning around the house: brought the family name into disrepute, they
said.
For a short time, I started over-compensating for my effeminate
mannerisms - I cut my hair short, swaggered around doing bad Marlon
Brando impersonations, the kind of thing most adolescent boys do in
their early teens. It was all doomed to failure; I was just too feminine
by nature and appearance. More than that, Aunt Julie refused to tolerate
any masculine behavior on my part.
Julene Mayfield had taken me in because I possessed so many androgynous
characteristics. While my parents "didn't want no nancies swanning round
the house," Aunt Julie didn't want nothing else. She'd accepted custody
on the sole understanding that I would be raised as a girl - the
daughter she'd never had.
Almost from our first week together, Julene had started the long and
sometimes arduous process of gender reconditioning - gradually recasting
me into a female role. Needless to say, I was somewhat less than
enthusiastic about the procedure - which involved corseting, deportment
and hormonal therapy - but Aunt Julie was utterly inflexible on these
points.
First, there were the sailor suits, followed by the unisexual clothing.
Within two months I was slipping on pink nylon panties with barely a
word of complaint. That was the hold she had on me. I hated being
treated like a little girl, but I felt as though I had no other choice.
By the time I turned fifteen, I was passing for female under even the
closest observation. The deception was so effective that I'd been
working as a fashion model under my Aunt's ever-vigilant tutelage. She'd
started me off with Chamberlain Studios over a year before, posing
mainly for catalogues and brochures before working gradually up to
mannequin parades at local malls and plazas. Within a few months, I'd
established a successful reputation and was making over three hundred
pounds per shoot.
There was, however, little consolation in my overnight success, as I saw
very little of the money I earned. In point of fact, my life had become
something of a nightmare.
Julene now controlled virtually every aspect of my existence, being both
my legal guardian and business representative. I was subservient to her
will and dependent on her charity, rarely questioning her decisions and
never defying her instructions.
Unable to resist my Aunt's authority, I was reduced to a helpless,
vulnerable child; denied the most basic rights enjoyed by young men my
age. Julene literally oversaw my every action, refusing me even the
privacy of bathing alone.
3.
My morning ablutions finished, I was taken, naked and dripping from the
bathroom, to prepare for our appointment. Holding me by the hand, Julene
led me back to my bedroom. I followed with a downcast expression, my
hair still moist from the bath. I was terribly conscious of my nudity,
the chill morning air caressing my bare flesh.
"Aunt Julie, I'm not feeling well," I murmured, still seeking an excuse
to avoid my forthcoming humiliation, "can't I stay home today?"
"Oh, nonsense" Julene replied dismissively, "you've just got the
butterflies, dear. Now - let's get you dressed." Despite her offhand
tone, I knew there would be no arguing the point. She'd made up her
mind, and I was going to follow her instructions. No questions, no
negotiations, no debate.
Entering the bedroom, she sent me off to the dressing table with a brisk
slap on the bottom. I bit my lip, holding back a tiny gasp of surprise.
I knew it was a gesture of affection, but being treated like a child
always filled me with embarrassment.
"All right; let's see what we have here," Julene said, rifling
systematically through my underwear drawer. "Pretty though you are, you
still can't go to work stark naked," she added with a laugh that raised
gooseflesh on my tummy. After close on a minute rummaging around, she
found what she was looking for.
"Here, put these on, baby. You'll need your prettiest undies for the
shoot this afternoon."
Oh No!! I thought, looking across at the sheer black panties dangling
from her fingertips, Not AGAIN!! She was going to make me wear the black
satin bra and knicker set she'd bought me last month - probably with
matching garters and stockings! Julene had had them specially made,
based on my projected measurements. I'd tried the brassiere on earlier
in the week; designed something like a corset, it squeezed my flesh into
a more girlish shape. The panties weren't as uncomfortable, but I
couldn't stand them all the same. At fifteen, I could conceive nothing
more humiliating than being forced into sleek, black lingerie.
Well, at least they'd be covered by the sundress, I thought. It was one
of several expensive pieces chosen for the summer catalogue. The frock
was excruciatingly short, barely concealing the tops of my thighs. I
hated the cutesy, girlish appearance of the thing, but bit down on my
complaints, knowing from long experience that my protests would be
ignored.
Little did I know that dress length would not be an issue on this
occasion. While Julene helped me into my underwear, I began to suspect
that she'd arranged something very special for today's fashion shoot.
Judging by her comments, it appeared that I would be graduating to an
entirely new level in the modeling business. Potential economic benefits
notwithstanding, I was less than enthusiastic over my Aunt's managerial
strategies.
Julene clipped me into the custom designed bra, modified to give the
appearance of a slight cleavage. I scrutinized my reflection in the
mirror, apprehensively searching for the slightest defect or
imperfection.
"Aunt Julie, I'm really worried about this. What if someone realizes I'm
not really a girl?"
"Don't be silly," she replied, diligently adjusting my bra-straps, "once
we get you into a maidenform, nobody will be able to tell the
difference. Not even when you're walking around in your bra and
panties."
What?! I thought, barely concealing an involuntary flinch, She expects
me to - to parade around in -?
"Can't I at least wear my jeans?" I suggested, feeling a faint, rosen
blush stealing across my features.
"Of course you can't, dear," Julene answered brightly, "we don't want
anyone mistaking you for a boy, now, do we?"
No chance of that, I admitted to myself. The illusion was flawless; all
the months of training and estrogen had lent me a frail, waif-like
appearance. Worse still - I'd be wearing NOTHING but my bra and knickers
for the photoshoot this afternoon. The thought of modeling these skimpy
little things before the camera made my head swim with panic. Once the
catalogue was published, literally thousands of people would see me in
my underwear.
No amount of pleading on my part could change her mind; Julene was
adamant that I would honor my contract (which she had previously
arranged), regardless of how much I resented the experience.
Having laced me into my sleek, black undergarments, she handed me the
frock, instructing me to put it on, post haste. Gnawing my lip in rising
consternation, I slid it carefully over my head, shivering as the cool
material whispered down my bare torso. Once it fell into position, she
smoothed out all of the folds and wrinkles, tutting to herself in mock
disapproval.
"Doesn't that look delightful?" she asked, still fussing with the
shoulders and waistline, "I really can't imagine anything prettier." I
glanced into my bedroom mirror, taking in Aunt Julie's idea of a 'pretty
little sundress'.
So short, it barely covered my panties.
So sheer, you could actually see my panties.
Might as well go out in nothing but my panties.
It probably wouldn't have bothered me so much if I hadn't been born a
boy.
"All right, Honeybee," Julene said, taking my wrist in her iron grip,
"we'd better get going. Come along." We were already running a little
late.
"OK," I replied, pausing to find my shoulder bag, "I'll just get my -"
"Now, Angela," she ordered, dragging me towards the door.
"Owww! Not so hard," I cried, stumbling along behind, "I'm coming."
4.
Julene hustled me out to the main corridor, where the ancient art deco
elevator took us down to the main foyer. Tottering about on my high
heels, I always drew a great deal of attention from the lobby staff, who
exchanged knowing glances with one another. I lowered my face until we
were out on the street, where a gleaming black limousine awaited our
arrival.
"Thank you, Marsden," Julene remarked as the chauffeur opened the door
for her. Marsden was a tall, steely-faced man in a vintage uniform,
black driver's cap riding low on his brow. The proverbial Man's Man, was
Marsden Everett, Esq. Soft spoken, mild-mannered and as hard as polished
granite. Precisely the kind of man I could never be.
"Ma'am," he greeted in the same toneless voice he used every morning,
face never changing expression. Sparing me a single grim nod, he closed
the door carefully behind us, then strode around to the driver's side of
the vehicle. I slid across the creamy leather upholstery, hemline riding
up to expose my lean, limber thighs. I tried to pull it down to the edge
of my panties, knowing it would cover nothing whatsoever.
"Redlace Productions," Julene ordered as Marsden fired up the engine,
"and don't spare the horses." This was one of her favorite expressions;
don't spare the horses. It was the kind of old-world vernacular that
appealed to my Aunt's upper-class pretensions. She was a huge fan of old
British dramas like Upstairs Downstairs and The Duchess of Duke Street,
patterning her life after them in many respects.
"Yes, Ma'am," Marsden replied with an implacable shifting of gears. The
jag rumbled out into the slowly drifting traffic, heading west along
Coronation Drive.
"You'll be taking a step up in the world today," Julene told me,
reaching for the wine chiller, "five hundred pounds just to traipse
around in your bra and knickers." True to form, she poured herself a
glass of Beaujolais, oblivious of my swiftly rising anxiety.
I'd never modeled lingerie before, but had a good idea what to expect.
Redlace Productions was probably the lowest rung on the ladder,
employing the absolute dregs of the industry. It was common knowledge
that the company was staffed entirely by perverts and deviants;
borderline criminals who should be locked away from the rest of
humanity.
With my session starting at 11.00 am, most of the morning would be spent
in the dressing room, where a hair-stylist and beautician would spend at
least two hours polishing the chrome. My cheeks would be rouged, my
nails painted and my hair flounced into a mass of golden curls. Around
10.45, I'd be taken out to the main venue, where a fat, sweaty cameraman
would drool all over me while the lighting crew set up the stage.
The remainder of the afternoon would be taken up with a series of
gratuitous stripteases, as I was compelled to pose in a variety of bras,
pants, bustiers, corsets, suspenders and stockings before a roomful of
camera-wielding strangers. Adding to this abject humiliation would be my
ever-present fear of discovery - nobody apart from Julene knew that I
was actually a boy, and every moment before the lens would increase the
risk of detection.
Worse still, I suspected that my troubles had barely begun. Aunt Julie
had already booked my next appearance; a live catwalk parade at Ceres
Department Store, scheduled for next Friday afternoon. What if that
turned out to be another panty-show as well? I could already see myself,
strutting my undies before hundreds of slavering degenerates.
Julene's voice suddenly cut across my reveries, jarring me back to the
present.
"Don't look so down in the mouth," she told me with an amused smile, "do
you know how many girls would sell their souls to trade places with you?
How many envy your fine bone structure, your perfect skin, your natural
beauty?"
"I'm not a girl," I objected under my breath.
"Not yet," she said, still beaming that amused smile.
My eyes widened slightly at this seemingly innocuous comment. The words
seemed harmless enough, but this was something she'd been hinting at for
months now - usually in connection the vacation we'd be taking next
summer. After all our hard work, we both deserved a holiday, preferably
in an exotic tropical paradise, surrounded by the most opulent of
luxuries. Most probably Brazil, where Julene would lie on the beach
sipping pina coladas...and I would be taken to a small, dilapidated room
full of sharp, glittering instruments. There, I would undergo a
complicated medical procedure ensuring my biological gender could never
be revealed.
"You don't mean that," I whispered.
"You know I do." Her eyes were twin slits of ice: cold, mocking and
utterly remorseless. I'd wondered for a long time if she were simply
oblivious to my misery, but I saw now that she took pleasure - great
pleasure - in my shame and fear. She was a viper, contemplating her next
meal; I was a sparrow, locked in the crosshairs of her venomous gaze.
I stared out the window for the rest of the journey, unable to conceal
my emotions from her. I had neither the strength nor courage to resist:
the past two years had devastated my ego, leaving me a hollow vessel
into which she could pour her desires. In every sense of the word, I
have become her slave, her possession, her thing.
And very soon - I will be her girl.
Stevie
- 16.05.2022
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