TV GROUPIE by Clinton Crayle



by “C. C.”


My name is Clinton Crayle, and I’m a very different kind of Private Detective. I specialize in untangling the kinky sex lives of the very rich. My fee is One Thousand Dollars a day, and I’m seldom out of work. My clients know my discretion is absolute, and I guarantee my results. So if you’re rich and in a jam, call on me. Margaret Thaylor did…


Robyn Thaylor’s room looked like the room of any teenage daughter of a wealthy widowed mother. Rock posters on the walls, two record players, a portable TV, makeup table, dressers and closets stuffed with loud clothes… I turned to Margaret Thaylor.


“You say your daughter Robyn has been gone Three Weeks now?”


She nodded. I looked around the room, trying to figure out what was missing.


“But she took none of her clothes or makeup?”


“None at all,” Mrs. Thaylor was a striking woman in her mid-forties, with a strong chin and well-styled dark hair. She spoke with a barely perceptible tremor in her soft voice. “I’m afraid I really don’t have much idea what all is usually in here. After all, Robyn is almost Eighteen, and I’ve been trying to give her a certain amount of privacy, hoping to nurture the maturity which she so sadly lacks. So I truthfully can’t say whether anything is missing or not.”


“Yet she did leave a note,” I mused.


“Yes,” Margaret Thaylor added, “And I also discovered that she emptied out her checking and savings accounts as well.”


“So she planned to run away for some time,” I reflected, “Yet she took nothing from her own room? It just doesn’t fit!”


“I’ve already told you, Mr. Crayle,” Margaret Thaylor sighed with weariness and frustration, “Robyn has more than her share of personal quirks. She’ll be an adult in a few months, yet in many ways, she still behaves like a spoiled child. All she seems to care about are parties, rock music….”


“And girlfriends?” I asked gently.


Mrs. Thaylor bit her lower lip and nodded.


“Yes,” She answered, “As I told you, Robyn has been thrown out of several schools, public and private, for… for lesbian activities. I even had to hire a private tutor, just to polish up her basic reading and writing. But you can see from her note, it wasn’t much help.”


I looked at the note again, a cramped, ungainly scrawl in red ink across expensive personal stationery:


Dear Mom—


Im splitting at last!!! You always want me to be something I’m not and you try to make me not be what I am so Im splitting at last. You would never accept the Life Style I choose so don’t try to find me.




“This note would indicate that she’s already worked out some kind of living arrangement,” I said, “Possibly with another girl. Had she been seeing anyone very much recently?”


“No one,” Mrs. Thaylor insisted, “And the Police have already checked out all her girlfriends very closely indeed. No, we seem to have run out of ideas. Which is why I called you.”


“All right,” I said, “Leave me alone in here for a few minutes and I’ll see what I can find.”


The first thing I found was three rolls of invisible scotch tape in the desk, all partially-used and buried under various layers of clutter, as if Robyn had set them down but not bothered to hunt them out again. Three paper knives and two pairs of scissors were similarly overlayed in clutter.


Now why would she be. doing all that cutting and pasting, I wondered; A scrap-book? I looked around, but could find no scrapbook of any kind. What I did find was a good-sized stack of teen/rock/music magazines under the bed, all with pages missing.


The first magazine had no cover. I turned to the title page. In a lower corner was a picture of four girls in leather. Below it was the caption:


ON THE COVER… Punk rock, female style, with those weird chicks from “Bitchin’ Heat”. They’re hot all right, but are they carrying Bizarre too farre??? Check out the story on Page 47


I turned to page 47. It, and the following three pages were all missing.


The second magazine was missing the entire middle eight pages. I turned to the table of contents:


CENTERSPREAD— Femme fashions in Leather & Lace, courtesy of that controversial group, “Bitchin’ Heat”


On the contents page of the third magazine, second item from the top:


“Parents are afraid of us — and they’d better be!” An interview with eccentric Edie Smythe, lead singer of “Bitchin’ Heat”…….p.8


Of course, pages eight, nine and ten were missing.


So it looked like Robyn Thaylor had indeed been keeping a scrapbook. And it was something that she considered important enough to take with her, even when she left her clothes and makeup behind. Which, for a girl, is pretty damned important!


I went back downstairs and found Margaret Thaylor arranging flowers in a vase.


“I’ve got a lead, Mrs. Thaylor,” I said, “It’s just a possibility, but if it pans out, I should be able to find Robyn for you in a few days.”


“And then what?” She looked at me hopefully.


“And then it’s up to you,” I said, “I would recommend a good de-programming clinic. One that will subject Robyn to strict aversion therapy, shock treatment, sensory deprivation, whatever is needed to turn her in to a proper, demure young lady. But she won’t go willingly, so I’m going to give you the names of a couple of strong-arm gals who can carry off just about anything for a price. Meanwhile, start checking out the de-programming clinics. I’ve got a feeling your daughter Robyn is going to need the toughest one in the business!”


I left the Thayer Estate and drove into the heart of the City, planning my next move. For most Private Eyes, it would have been a trip to the Public Library to get information on the rock group “Bitchin’ Heat”. But I knew of a short-cut.


I headed straight to the editorial offices of the City’s biggest daily newspaper. There, in a spacious area marked ACCENT/ENTERTAINMENT, I brushed past a couple of secretaries and right into the office of JoBeth Harris, the Entertainment Editor-in-chief.


“Hello Jo,” I smiled, “Whaddaya know?”


She tried to muster a smile at the old cliché, failed, and instead spoke to a burly guy who was walking up behind me with the intention of throwing my body > from JoBeth’s office to the far side of any convenient window.


“Let him stay, Wittowski,” JoBeth sighed, “He’s harmless. Close the door on your way out and tell Maggie to hold all my calls.”


The big guy nodded, glanced at me with the indifferent look of a lumberjack eyeing a tree, and ambled off. I sat down.


“What do you want, Crayle?” JoBeth was an attractive woman with a sharp, almost mannish face and short red hair atop a nearly six-foot frame.


“I expected a warmer reception than this, Jo,” I said, “After what I’ve done for you and all….”


“I know,” She softened a little. “It’s just that this is June and we’re swamped with Graduation Party Announcements. You could have phoned for an appointment, you know.”


“No time,” I said, “I’m on a case that you can help me with, and at my rates, I hate to waste even minutes. You should remember that.”


“You know, you do have quite a sense of integrity,” JoBeth almost smiled. “You’ve handled cases that are worth Millions, I’ve heard, and you’ve dealt with some very sensitive situations. Yet you have a reputation for complete discretion, and when you take on a job, you always follow it through to the end. You certainly did in my case!”


I began to feel more comfortable. A few years ago, JoBeth came to me for help with an ex-lover who was threatening to expose some very explicit photos of the two of them together. That would have be en bad enough, but an additional complication was that this lover was female. But it had taken me only a few days to find and destroy the photos, plus another day-and-a-half to persuade the blackmailing dyke that she should try the climate in Australia.


“Tell me,” JoBeth lit a cigar. “How does a man in your line of work manage to keep looking young and innocent the way you do? With all your years of experience you still don’t look a day over Twenty.”


“Clean living,” I said, “But I’m not here to talk about me. What can you tell me about a rock group called Bitchin’ Heat?”


JoBeth raised an eyebrow.


“Bitchin’Heat? You must be into something really kinky!”


“You know I can’t tell you about it,” I said, “But as Entertainment Editor, there ought to be a lot you can tell me.”


“Well,” JoBeth concentrated her thoughts. “They’ve been on the scene about Four Years now. Allegedly from England, but nobody knows. Their records sell well, even if they don’t get a lot of air time, but the group doesn’t make a lot of money because of their odd performance policy. Word has it that they’re being bankrolled by a wealthy lesbian lady who finances their albums and lets them stay every summer in her mansion, which incidentally, is about fifty miles from here.”


“What’s so odd about their performance policy?” I asked.


“Bitchin’ Heat plays only at private clubs and only for women. I’ve heard that they put on some really kinky shows, with lots of bondage and discipline. All this summer they’ll be trying out new ideas at a really kinky nightclub upstate: the kind of place where you get in by Invitation Only and Bring Your Own Paddle.” She smiled knowingly. “I have a friend who’s been invited there in fact. She’s asked me to come as her date, but since that little episode a few years ago, I’ve been too discreet for that sort of thing.”


“Interesting,” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “Tell me: Does a band like that draw many groupies?”


“Quite a few, in their own way,” JoBeth said. “I’ve even heard that they use young girls in their act sometimes. And there are rumors that some women are brought to the estate of that rich patron of theirs. Grandamme is her name, I think.”


“JoBeth,” I said, “I’ve got to get in to see Bitchin’ Heat perform. And you’ve got to help me.”


“Crayle,” She replied, “There is no fucking way. I’ve told you: they perform only for women — Invited Women.”


“I can get around that,” I said, “I can disguise myself as a woman. I’ve -er-had experience at it. And you said your friend was invited. I could go as her guest.”


JoBeth tapped the ash off her cigar and tried to explain patiently.


“It just ain’t that simple,” She said, “Men have tried it before and ended up losing their balls over it. Guests at their performances are subject to a very close inspection, and there’s just no way a man could pass it.”


I drew a breath. I really didn’t like what I was letting myself in for, but there was no way around it.


“I could pass,” I said, “I -uh- know someone who can help me and I’ve -ah-done it before.” I saw the look of disbelief in her eyes and went on, “I’ve passed for a woman under — well, let’s just say I can do it.”


I would swear that the eyes of this veteran newswoman showed an almost girlish interest.


“You!? But how—? I mean, I guess I can see that with that wavey blonde hair and those soft features, you could pass in drag, but… close inspection?”


“That’s right,” I swallowed, remembering. My cases involving female impersonation have all been closed successfully, but they have not been pleasant experiences. “And I can do it again.”


“Well,” JoBeth considered, “It might be worth it just to see you… But no. I don’_t want to let a friend in for that kind of hassle. I can’t do it.”


“Of course you can,” I insisted, “I can guarantee your friend won’t be in the slightest danger of having me spotted. And I’ll take any other safeguards she asks,” I could see that JoBeth was going to refuse, so I played my trump card. “And besides; Don’t you think it’s worth it, just to sort of guarantee my discretion?”


JoBeth’s eyes got hard as steel.


“You wouldn’t tell anyone about me,” She said quietly, “Not with your reputation for keeping a secret.”


“I wouldn’t want to,” I said, “But I probably wouldn’t have to. If I know anything about newspaper office politics, there’ve got to be at least a dozen secretaries and copyboys who’d love to have your job. And if I know anything about you, you’re probably still living the Gay Life, albeit a bit more quietly these days. Now if someone on your staff were to get the notion that it might pay*


to have you followed… Well, I couldn’t be blamed if you got caught this time. I mean, I wouldn’t have been respons—”


“You’ve made your point, Crayle,” Jo Beth snapped, “I’ll get in touch with my friend. When do you want to set this up for?”


“This is Wednesday,” I said, “Let’s make it for Friday night.”


After arranging a few more details, it was all set. Or that part of it was, anyway. I still had to make one more call. To Evelyn Traynor, the Mistress of Feminine Disguise.


Waiting in the Showroom of Evelyn’s TV Boutique, I wondered to myself if I really wanted to go through all this. As I told JoBeth, I have passed as a woman many times before, and always managed to conclude my cases successfully. But I am not by nature a transvestite, and the results of my female escapades have often been unpleasant for me personally. I thought distastefully of the time those two teenagers tricked me into playing ” strip poker with them. I had lost first my clothes, then my masculine body hair, and finally my very identity as the girls had lured me to this very boutique where I met Evelyn Traynor for the first time. Thinking that I was a willing TV slave, she had glued realistic breasts onto my hairless chest and a triangular wig over my crotch, disguising my sex perfectly. A little makeup and a long, long wig completed my transformation into a convincing female. Convincing enough for my two mischievous captresses to sell me to a gay nightclub and massage parlor!


Or there was the time I had paid Evelyn to work her wondrous craft on my body again, turning me into a smooth-skinned, busty young lady once more, only this time with real breasts. In this disguise, I had actually passed as a female in a Nudist Camp in order to sabotage a blackmailing scheme. I had solved the case all right, but as a result of my feminine disguise, I had been forced to spend an additional six months as the personal maid of a very talented professional dominatrix, who delighted in inflicting pain on my feminized body while frustrating my basic maleness. I shivered at the recollection.


But perhaps the worst fix of all was the one I had gotten into while posing as a young student in a very strict Girl’s Academy. This had been a major undertaking, involving not only Evelyn Traynor’s art, but the services of a plastic surgeon and a glandular specialist as well. With their help, I had gained the outward appearance of a sixteen-year-old girl, and (by use of an experimental hormone) managed to keep that appearance for over a month while I investigated and broke up an organized drug ring with connections right at the top of the School Administration. Yet that case, too, had led to unpleasantness for me. I remembered how, once I had entered the Girl’s Academy, I had found it impossible to get out. The Call Girl who had posed as my mother took advantage of the situation to keep me there while she systematically robbed me of all my possessions. At last, the only way for me to get out was to agree to a marriage of convenience with the son of one of the teachers, in order for the boy to gain a colossal inheritance. I blushed to remember the year I had spent there, and the humiliations I had suffered at the hands of that domineering mother.


And yet… And yet, here I was, back for more. I had to admit that in my line of work, being able to pose as a sexy female had some definite advantages. And


it had certainly brought me a goodly measure of success. My fee for that last case — when I finally collected it — had been enough to cover my losses and show a very handsome profit indeed….


“Penny for your thoughts, Dear,”


Evelyn Traynor’s soft voice broke in on my musings. I turned from the rack of nighties I had been examining.


She was as quietly attractive as ever, a mature lady, somewhere in her thirties, perhaps, with light brown hair attractively styled, and a pretty, intelligent face, highlighted by subtle makeup. It would have been perfectly understandable for a woman in a business like Evelyn’s to over-dress and overdo her makeup. But Evelyn always dressed and did her face with quiet style and real class, emphasizing her genuine femininity.


“Oh, it’s you, Clinton,” Evelyn smiled warmly. “Have you finally decided to express your other side again?”


“If you mean Do I want to look like a woman again, the answer is Yes,” I said, reddening a little. “But I’ve told you before: I don’t have a female side. This is strictly business.”


“Yes, I know what you’ve told me, Sweet,” Evelyn’s manner was more knowing than ever. “And I’m impressed that you go to such lengths with your private fantasies. But really, you don’t need to make up these elaborate excuses for coming here. I mean, if you can’t freely admit your transsexual desires to me, who can you admit them to?”


I felt myself getting redder than ever.


“It’s not true!” I blurted, “I’m not a transvestite. Someday I’ll show you that I’m all male.”


“But for right now…?”


“For right now,” I admitted, “I’m going to need the ‘Total’ treatment. A complete feminine transformation from the skin out.”


“I thought so,” Evelyn was all business now. “Go on to the back room and get undressed. I’ll be right along.”


Lying naked on the adjustable makeup chair in Evelyn’s back room, I tried to hide my embarrassment (which was the only thing I could hide) as she calmly evaluated my body.


“I see that the experimental hormone you took is still having a lingering effect,” She said, “Your skin is almost completely hairless and unusually soft


and smooth for a man. Your hips and buttocks are just a tiny bit rounder, especially with that narrow waist of yours; and isn’t your chest shaped just a little bit like breasts?”


“I guess it is,” I said uncomfortably, “I was supposed to be on strong doses of male hormone for a year after that last episode, but I guess I’ve gotten a -uh-little careless about taking it lately.”


“Ummm-hmmm,” Evelyn nodded, trying to suppress a smile. “Well I’d better warn you that the effects of another treatment right now might be rather unpredictable. There’s no way of telling how much of that experimental female hormone might still be stored in your glands and skin tissues. So if I give you any shots, they could very possibly react with it and cause a strong and long-lasting effect.”


“I’ve already thought of that,” I said, still very aware of Evelyn’s piercing eyes on my nudity. “And I’ll have to risk it. This should be only a one-or-two day job anyway.”


“All right, Sweetie,” Evelyn filled a hypodermic syringe with a solution that would swell up my breasts. “We’ll do it your way. But remember: I strongly advise against taking any more female hormone. And particularly against taking it on a long-term basis — no matter how much you enjoy feeling feminine — unless you’re prepared for a change that may be permanent!”


I opened my mouth to reply, then shut it quickly and gritted my teeth as


Evelyn gave the first of the shots under my breasts.


Four injections later, both of us breathed a sigh of relief as Evelyn put the syringe away and pulled a small jar out of a nearby cabinet.


“Now while your breasts grow, I’ll get you fitted with a feminine disguise for that male equipment down there,” She mischievously pinched my genitals, then began covering my balls and the base of my cock with some sort of lotion.


“You’d be surprised at some of the things my friends and I have developed over the last few years,” Evelyn said, “This special glue, for instance, will not only hold your disguise in place, but also will actually act as an astringent, temporarily shrinking your goodies to a much more manageable size.”


“And I suppose that, as usual, it can’t be removed without special solvent?” I asked.


“Naturally!” Evelyn produced a small object of semi-flexible plastic, shaped like half of an egg shell. Running across the top was a tube made of the same material, bonded to the egg-shaped part.


With an expertise born of practice, Evelyn slipped my shrunken penis into the plastic tube, then fitted the oval portion tightly over my scrotum, pushing my cock and balls back between my legs. She held it there for four minutes, until the glue had set completely, trying to return my mind to reality.


“Enough of this,11 My voice seemed higher, softer than usual. “Get me a wide elastic band to contain these things.” My breasts jiggled for emphasis. “Fortunately, I wore loose-fitting clothes over here. And I’ll take those artificial nails with me.”


And after a little more small talk and settling the bill (which would go on my expense account) I was gone.


I kept to my apartment for the whole of the next day, getting used to my female body once again, brushing up on how to move, talk, and act like a woman. And putting on my artificial fingernails. These proved to be very strong, nicely rounded, and a brilliant red in color. I painted my toenails a matching shade, admiring the visually striking effect.


Friday morning I got a phone call from JoBeth.


“It’s all set up for tonight,” She said, “The club where th4y’re appearing is a couple hours drive from here, so my friend and I will meet you at a motel nearby. Can you find Monk’s Auto Court on Route 117?”


“Sure,” I said. I had passed that anonymous collection of cubicles several times on trips upstate. “How will I find you?”


“My friend and I will be in Number Twelve. Just park in front and come on in.


Are you sure you’re -uh- ready?”


“Completely,” I said, “All I have to do is pick out some feminine clothes and-—’


“Hold on,” JoBeth interrupted, “That’s something I’m supposed to tell you. My friend Naomi wants you to come to the Motel dressed as a man.”


“Dressed as a man?” I protested, “But I can’t get into the club that way! You said they only allow women.”


“That’s right,” JoBeth said, “But Naomi says that the only way she’ll agree to escort you is if she gets to pick out your outfit. And the best way to guarantee that is for you not to bring any feminine clothes with you. Since you said you’d agree to any conditions, I assumed there’d be no problem. Of course, I can still call the whole trip off if….”


“No,” I said, feeling somewhat apprehensive, “I’ll do it.”


“Fine,” There was a laugh somewhere in JoBeth’s voice. “See you Friday at Six!’


All the way up Route 117, I felt an uneasy tingle in my stomach. My breasts, which had grown to a 38-C, felt suffocated in the elastic band that was supposed to minimize their size. My hips and ass threatened to split the seams of the pants I wore, yet the waistband of those pants was much too large for my narrow middle. My voice and skin had both become much softer, and even without makeup, my face seemed quite feminine. My bright red fingernails were hidden by gloves that seemed ridiculous in this late-June weather. And, inside my pants, I still felt the presence of that incredibly realistic mock-pussy, disguising my male genitals.


It was just Six PM when I pulled up in front of Cabin Twelve at Monk’s Auto Court and got out. There was a late-model, expensive-looking car in the drive with smoked windows and Physician’s license plates. I wondered if it belonged to Jo Beth’s friend Naomi. Well, one way to find out, I thought. I knocked at the door.


Almost immediately, it was opened by an attractive, dark-haired woman.


“Clinton Crayle?” She asked, looking me up and down closely.


“That’s right,” I said nervously.


She stepped back for me to enter and turned her head.


“JoBeth, he’s here!” She called.


As Naomi closed and locked the door behind me, JoBeth came in from the bathroom.-


“I see you made it, Hot-Shot,” She said, “Naomi, this is Clinton Crayle, Private Eye and — to hear him tell it — Master of Disguise. Crayle, this is Doctor Naomi Bernstein.”


I looked at the woman. She was short, with a petite frame, but her arms seemed firm and strong in the short-sleeved dress she wore. Her face was unusual, but intriguing, with hooded brown eyes under gracefully-arching narrow eyebrows, an acquiline nose, and a wide, sensuously curved mouth which opened to reveal large white teeth. Her was dark, as I said, and very curly, tumbling down to her shoulders. And as she looked at me, I felt that her gaze was sharp, intelligent, and just a bit predatory.


“Charmed, I’m sure,” Her accent was pure Boston. “Okay, Clinton: Peel the tomato.”


“What?” I asked, startled.


“You heard,” She said, “Peel the tomato. Strip. Disrobe. Let’s have a look at this disguise of yours.”


“Yes, Clinton,” JoBeth chimed in, “I’m interested in this myself. Let’s see you!”


Feeling self-conscious, I sat down on the bed and slipped off my shoes and socks. Both girls smiled at my painted toenails. Trembling a little, I stood and unbuttoned my shirt. Slipped it off. Beneath my T-shirt, the elastic band that confined my breasts was clearly visible. I dropped my trousers. My male shorts seemed empty in front, although they were stretched nearly to breaking in the rear. Finally, deciding to get it over with as quickly as I could, I snatched off shorts, T-shirt, and elastic band, and stood there, exposed before the women.


Naomi let out a soft whistle. “Jeeze!” JoBeth almost gasped, “I never would have believed it. What the Hell did you do to yourself, Crayle?”


“Never mind,11 I said, “The breasts are real. The pussy isn’t, but it works as good as it looks, if you know what I mean. Well, do I pass?”


“With flying colors!” Naomi said, “When JoBeth talked me into this, I was ready to back out at any time. But now that I’ve seen you, wild horses couldn’t stop me. The girls at the Club will just go ape when I walk in with you as my Slave!”


“As your— Slave?” My eyes opened in surprise.


“That’s right, Peeper,” JoBeth cracked a smile. “You said Any Conditions, remember? Well, Naomi’s decided she wants to score points with some of the other girls who hang out at the Club, and the best way to do that is by bringing in her own little Slave Girl. YOU!”


“But I’m not… I’ll have things I need to do there,” I tried to protest, “I told you, this is for an investigation. I might need to look into something or—”


“Listen, Dearie,” Naomi Bernstein put her hands on her hips and shot a warning look from her dark, hooded eyes. “Without my help, you won’t get in there at all. I know you think you’ve got JoBeth over a barrel and you can dictate to her, but the only one who can actually get you into the Club is me,” She looked me up and down, and her lip curled slightly. “I’m the one you have to deal with now, so you’d better start thinking about what I want. And I say that you either go to the club as my slave, or you don’t go at all. Well?”


Standing there, awkwardly feminine and embarrassingly nude, I felt at a distinct disadvantage when it came to bargaining. Nonetheless, I tried:


“You may have a point,” I said, trying to sound confident, “But don’t forget the trouble I could make for your girlfriend here,” I nodded at JoBeth, “If I chose. Now instead of starting out at cross-purposes, let’s see if we can’t accommodate each other a little,” I took a deep breath and tried not to think of what I looked like standing there. “I’m perfectly willing to pose as your slave, I guess, but I have to be able to look around and get close to some people there. Will you agree to help me?”


Doctor Naomi Bernstein put a finger thoughtfully to her chin.


“I suppose so,” She said, “Yes, I think it might work. You agree to act as my slave. You promise to do whatever I tell you and play the role of the submissive little bitch to the hilt. And in return, I will arrange to lead you where you want and try to assist your investigation. We help each other: You, by showing complete slavish devotion to me in front of everyone there; and Me by acting as Front Man for your quest. Deal?”


“Deal!” I said, relieved to have concluded this tricky business successfully.


“Fine,” Naomi smiled with amusement, the white teeth showing brightly under her curling lip. “Now get dressed. Your clothes are in the box on the bed!” And she majestically stalked into the bathroom to put on her own outfit.


Apprehensively, I moved over to the bed (blushing when JoBeth whistled at the sight of my bare rump) and opened the box.


The first item inside was a pair of black silk panties, trimmed in filmy lace on the waist-and leg-bands. This trim was over two inches wide, making the panties look almost like a flouncey skirt as I held them up. I quickly slipped them on and found that they were at least a size too small, stretching tightly over my bottom, the waist-band not quite rising over my hips. I moved about in these things and the confining tightness of their fit vied for my attention with the soft tickle of their black lace trim across my legs and ass.


A garter-belt came next, lace-trimmed like the panties and every bit as tight and uncomfortable. I slipped the garter straps through the legs of the panties and drew on a pair of dark silk stockings that molded themselves to the sensuous curves of my shapely legs, fastening to the garter straps with erotic tightness.


The next item was a corset, which JoBeth eagerly helped me to get into. It was a hampering thing of heavy black satin, reinforced at the sides, stomach and back with heavy-duty nylon plastic.


As JoBeth tightened the laces in the back, I noticed the flouncey black lace at the waist and top, matching my panties. I saw the way it stopped just short of my breasts, lifting and separating them. Felt how it forcibly arched my back, forcing me to thrust my boobs and jut my bottom prominently.


“Ouch!11 I cried as JoBeth tightened the laces on this thing, “That’s too tight! I can’t breathe!”


She replied with the back of her hand across my pantied rump.




“Slaves don’t whine to their Mistresses, Darling,”She smiled, “And they certainly don’t complain about lovely outfits like this. Now not another word, or I’ll pull these laces in another inch. Understand?”


“Yes -er- Mistress,” I said meekly.


“That’s it!” JoBeth snarled with pleasure. “You spoke. So in we go, one moire inch!” And she started re-tightening the laces.


“Ouch! Urrgh!” I moaned, “But-but—”


“I — told — you what would — happen,” JoBeth’s straining at the laces gave a rhythmic cadence to her speech. “If you — said — one more — word…” And she pulled even harder on the laces.


I wanted to cry out with pain and protest. But I was too afraid of JoBeth tightening the laces even further. So I bit my lower lip and looked on in agony and amazement as she drew my waist in another full inch, feeling as if I were ‘being cut in two.


“There!” She said, tying off the laces at last, “Let’s see… Why, you’re down to a Twenty-Four waist! How lovely! But is it tight enough for you, Dear?”


I started to speak, thought better of it, and merely nodded.


“Very good!” JoBeth sparkled, “You catch on quickly. Now go get the next item of your apparel. You can put it on yourself.”


It was a leather collar. Black and neck-stretchingly wide, it buckled around my neck tightly. I noted with a worried look that there were four D-rings mounted on it, for convenient bondage. As I submissively fastened this thing around my own neck, I felt uncomfortably how a real slave must feel, assisting in her own bondage.


But at last the collar was on me, and I followed it with a pair of jet-black, open-toed, high-heeled shoes, with five-inch spike heels. It was murder, putting them on while wearing that stiff corset and collar, but fortunately, I am not a novice at transvestism, so once I got them on, I was able to walk around in them fairly easily, even though they pushed my ass out into even greater prominence and forced me to bounce my bare breasts wildly with each step. Then, JoBeth drew the last item from the box.


“Here, Darling,” She cooed, “Let me help you with this one. Turn around so your back is to me. I don’t want you peeking. Are you sure you can’t turn your head with that collar on? All right: Hands behind your back now. Here goes.


It was a single glove of heavy black nylon, just wide enough for me to slip both of my arms into. It fastened with heavy snaps up the back, and as JoBeth clicked these together, I felt myself becoming increasingly helpless.




Hands forced tightly together, bunched into helplessness. I noticed that the tip of this glove had no fingers; more like a thumbless mitten that narrowed into a thin nylon strap at the tip.




Wrists joined immovably. Snap! Snap! Snap!


On up my arms it went, mercifully stopping just short of my elbows, although I was certain that they could not be more than half an inch apart. It widened here into a sort of locking strap that wrapped around my arms and fastened midway between my elbows and shoulders, holding the single glove tightly in place.


“Try walking now, Darling,” JoBeth said haughtily, “I want to study the effect!”


Obediently, I minced around the room in docile silence, afraid of getting that damned corset tightened again if I spoke.


and dark mascara. Soft powder for my face. Bright rouged cheeks and brilliant red lipstick, drawing my mouth into a sulky pout.


Then, as Naomi combed and sprayed my blonde hair into a stiff, wind-swept, feminine style and clipped huge, dangling pendant earrings onto my ear lobes, JoBeth proceeded to powder my exposed breasts and rouge the nipples!


What? I wondered, Why are they making up my breasts?? They’ll be covered by a dress, won’t they? Won’t they!?


“There now,” JoBeth smiled, “Cinderella’s all ready for the Ball. And what a ball it’s going to be! Stand up, Beautiful.”


Trembling with fear, I stood up.


“You know,” Naomi mused, “I’d like to take you outside and parade you around < just like that! You look so scrumptious with your arms bound behind you and your waist nipped in! Black silk certainly becomes you! And I must say, your breasts and bottom would be the envy of any girl. But your bondage might draw too much attention to us on the way up, so here—”


With decisive movements, she drew a black rubber cape over my shoulders, buttoning it at the neck. It was very full, but seemed awfully short, reaching down to just halfway over my rump. Naomi adjusted it in the front.


“There,” She said, “When I drape it just so, the sides of the cape catch on your nipples, holding it in place….


temporarily, anyway. Let’s see how you look in the back. Tee-hee! Talk about leaving your ass hanging out! Well, you’ll be in the car for most of the trip, so I guess it won’t matter, much. Not if we hurry, anyway.”


She proceeded to pick up a small white satin handbag, from which she drew a strong leather leash. Before I knew it, the leash was clipped to the front of my collar, and Naomi was tugging me out the door.


“Have fun, Lovebirds!” JoBeth called, “I’ll wait here for you to come back and tell me all about it!”


I felt myself blushing with embarrassment, quivering with nervousness. We were outside! Outside in this bizarre confection of satin, lace, nylon and rubber, where anyone might see me. Twilight was falling, and I knew that most of the drivers on the highway that passed by the motel would have their eyes on the road. But still, as I made my mincing, jiggling, ass-switching way out to Dr. Bernstein’s car, I felt as if there must be a million eyes on us.


Naomi, on the other hand, seemed completely relaxed, totally sure of herself as she nonchalantly held my leash while unlocking her car. As soon as she had the door open, I almost jumped inside, causing her to titter with amusement as she reached in and buckled my seat belt.


“Is this turning out to be more than you bargained for, Mr. Big, Tough, Private Eye?” She smirked. “I must say, you certainly have got yourself looking beautiful, though. Mmmm, those boobs of yours are just like ripe melons! Let’s move the cape around, so I can see them…. My! The nipples certainly stand up when I do that! You must really be enjoying this!”


Before I could even try to reply, Naomi straightened up and closed the car door, walking sensuously around to her side and climbing behind the wheel. As she put the expensive car in Drive, she turned to look at me, her eyes hot behind those heavy lids, her lips moist as she ran her tongue across them. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Her expression of haughty, dominant sexuality (and my quivering, wide-eyed silence) spoke volumes.


Less than ten minutes later, we were turning towards a parking lot set off a rural side road. The highway at this point was flanked on either side by deep culverts on either side, drainage ditches that formed a natural barrier for the area beyond. We pulled up to a small outbuilding


near a private bridge that ran across the culvert. Naomi pressed a button that automatically lowered the windows of her car, and a tall, muscular woman came out of the small guard-shack.


“Good to see you again, Doctor Bernstein,” Her smile was friendly, but her eyes were sharp, watchful, as she looked into the car. “Pop your trunk, Would you, Honey?” She walked slowly around the car, finally stopping by my door.


“Got company, I see,” The woman said, staring frankly down at my exposed bosom. She opened the car door. “Climb out, Honey. All newcomers here have to stand for a pat-down.”


I looked up at this female bodybuilder in confusion. Did she really mean for me to get out of the car? Here? On a public street where anyone might drive by? Dressed like this?


Then I felt Naomi gently release the catch on my seat belt.


“You heard the lady, Slave,” She said, “Climb out, so she can pat you down!”


Blushing several shades of red, I managed to squirm and twist my legs out the door, then bend over and balance my body into an upright position. The female guard looked at me oddly for a moment, then lifted my short cape and studied my single-mittened arms.


“Hmmm,” She said, “No wonder you’re having so much trouble getting around. Here, I’ll take care of this for you.”


She reached up behind me, and I eagerly backed toward her, anxious to have my~arms freed. But the guard removed my cape instead!


“Cumbersome things, capes,” She said, “And totally unnecessary in your case!” casually tossed it in the trunk and set about patting me down.


Standing there in the gathering darkness like that, pantied, corsetted, gloved, bare-breasted and teetering on high heels that accentuated my nylon-clad legs, I felt more degraded than ever as the stocky female proceeded to squeeze, fondle, and prod every inch of my feminized body.


“Ahh-hmm,” She muttered softly, “Tits sure are the genuine article. Anything concealed in those stockings? I’ll just run my hands up and down them… good. Let’s see, now… What’s in these panties?”


She snaked her hands knowingly into my tight, lacey panties, then darted a finger of each hand deep into the clefts, front and back, wiggling them until I squirmed.


“That’s sure genuine,” She smiled, “Now what do you have in your cute little mouth here?” She playfully pulled the panties from my mouth. “Anything else in there?”


“No Ma’am,” I gasped, glad to have the use of my mouth again.


“I’ll just check,” The muscular guard laced her fingers in my hair, pulled my head to hers, and planted a deep, tongue-twining kiss on my red lips.


Totally against my will, I felt myself responding to the actions of this woman. I sensed my nipples stiffening and my crotch growing tight as my confined penis strained to burst into erection. I was still quivering, but now with a strange sort of desire as female hands left my hair and began sliding up and down my female body. I was getting turned on… hot….


“There!” The female guard pulled away from me suddenly, leaving me gasping and humiliated. “You pass with flying colors, Babe!” Breathing heavily herself, she stuffed Naomi’s panties back into my mouth. “Back in the car, Sweet Stuff,” She said, pinching my bottom, “And have fun!”


Sitting on my sore rump in the car, I tried to ignore Naomi’s titters of amusement as the guard returned to her shack. She picked up a phone in the little guard house and called something over to a matching cubicle that stood behind a fence on the other side of the short bridge.


Then, to my surprise, the girl in the far shack flipped a lever. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I thought I saw the bridge give an odd shudder.


“Those are moveable reinforcing rods, motor-driven, being locked into place under the bridge,” Naomi explained, “Unless they’re in position, the bridge here won’t hold the weight of a car.”


I marveled at the impregnability of this fortress-club. And quailed a little to think that I. a disguised male, was now headed inside it!


Naomi parked the car in a row with several others. Now that I looked at it, this was a rather crowded parking lot, even this early in the evening. This place must have quite a reputation in the kinky lesbian underground!


But by now, Naomi had exited the car and was opening my door, clipping a leash to my collar with an easy, practiced motion.


Come along, Slave Darling,” She said, her eyes sweeping up and down my body. “My, don’t you look a sight!”


We walked across the parking lot, (Me mincing in my heels, feeling my bound arms tugging at my crotch while my breasts shimmied and shook) to a glass door fronted with what was obviously a see-thru mirror. I suddenly understood what Naomi meant when she said I looked a sight. Wow! My stockings were sagging, my lipstick smeared, my panties hanging off one hip, and my blonde hair crumpled and disarrayed by the mauling that lesbian guard had given me. I looked like a common prostitute just crawling out of bed, and that, together with my bare-breasted bondage, gave me a look of total depravity, complete degradation.


I wanted to speak, to ask Naomi to at least repair my makeup and rearrange my clothing before anyone saw me like this. And somehow, I could tell that Naomi knew it, even though my mouth was silent, stuffed full of her panties. Her curved mouth, already smiling, curled just a little more, and her hooded eyes seemed to smoulder with more heat as she pushed a security buzzer at the door and tugged at my leash.


“Oh…just…you…wait!” She breathed as the door swung open.


Inside, it was like a thousand other disco’s and nightclubs across the world. Garish lights swallowed up in deep red-and-black decor. A modest entryway (where a female bouncer insisted on “checking me out”like the guard had done, this time in front of a group of amused lesbians) leading onto a large, cavernous room, broken up into a small mezzanine that ran around three walls, and a dance floor crowded with tables. The far wall was completely filled by a stage, empty and dark, as Naomi took our seats at a table on the mezzanine.


Or rather, Naomi took her seat, then curtly tugged downward on my leash.


“On your knees, Slave Darling,” She said, “I think I’ll have you kneel beside my chair for a while, so all my friends can admire you*”


And did they ever! For the next half hour, I became nothing but a living display-piece as curious and giggling women strolled by and admired Naomi’s captive — Me! They lifted and squeezed my breasts, complimenting Naomi on their size and shape. They pinched my nipples and bottom, admiring the training she had put into me. And they especially praised the clever bondage costume Naomi had designed for her slave. In response, Naomi smilingly removed her panties from my mouth, dried them by rubbing them through my hair and across my breasts, and casually put them back on, right in front of me.


“She hates having me cover my pussy,11 Naomi told her friends, “She’s so eager to kiss and lick me there that she gets terribly frustrated and impatient whenever I have panties on,” She looked down at me. “Don’t you, Slave Darling?”


Realizing that I had better play my part well, I lowered my eyes modestly and replied,


“Yes, Mistress, I do.”


“You do what, Slave?” Naomi persisted.


“I do love -uh- serving your pussy, Mistress.”


“Oh yes?” Naomi tittered, “And how about kissing my feet, Slave? Do you like that, too?”


Keeping my eyes low, I answered,


“Yes, Mistress, I love kissing your feet.”


“And frenching my ass?”


“Yes, Mistress,” I was burning red with anger and embarrassment, yet I knew I had no choice but to continue this charade.


“How naughty!” Behind me, a voice sounded, rich, vibrant and feminine. I turned and looked respectfully up at a devastating red-head in tight leather breeches, knee-high shiny black boots, and a loose, low-cut white silk blouse.


“Naughty girls like you should be spanked,” She said eagerly, in that strong contralto. “Does your Mistress ever discipline you for your naughtiness?”


“Yes Ma’am,” I smiled, hating every second of this. “My Mistress very considerately corrects me for my wicked deeds and thoughts!”


“And do you enjoy,” The red-head’s gaze was becoming more forceful, but her speech remained soft and deliberate, “… being…corrected?”


I swallowed, suddenly very apprehensive.


“Yes Ma’am?” I squeaked.


Suddenly the red-head looked at her watch.


“Damn!” She said, “No time now.” She looked down at me, her breathing clearly audible, and ran a leather-gloved hand across my cheek, almost tenderly. “Maybe later, Sweet!”


And to my enormous relief, she got up and left.


“Well,” Another woman took her place almost immediately, drawing up a chair in front of my crouching figure. She was a black woman, tall and solidly built, wearing a white kid leather minidress that showed up excitingly against her dark skin. “If we’re not? going to see you get spanked, Slave, I wanna see you display your other talent,” She moved her legs apart, facing me straight on. “And unlike Naomi, I don’t have any panties to get in the way!”


The black lady leaned forward. I felt her fingers entwine in my hair as she


pulled my face to her lap. From the corner of my eye, I just had time to catch a glimpse of Naomi’s huge, amused grin. Then, shapely black legs filled my vision as my mouth and nose were pressed into warm, moist womanhood.


I knew that this might be the acid test of my disguise. For they say (and lesbians firmly believe it) that no one can pleasure a woman quite like another woman can. Now, this experienced black lezzie was determined to try my oral skills, and I knew I had better not let her down!


I tongued, drawing slowly upward along the center of her pussy, even as I kissed at her nether-lips. She rewarded me with a sensuous squirm, propping her knees up on my bare shoulders. I applied a gentle, sucking motion, moving my lips in a slow rhythm as I probed with my tongue, and the black woman’s fingers tightened in my hair. Working my kissing way up her pussy, I at last found her swollen love-button, just barely big enough to put my lips around. But I


fastened on it hungrily, working with a steady, syncopated tongue. I imagined music in my mind, to keep me in rhythm and avoid the common male mistake of working too hard and too fast.


Dum-da-dee-da-Dum-da-dum-dum. Duh-dee-da-da-da-Dum….


Crouched there between the ebony legs, I could almost hear it. My body began to move instinctively with the beat. As did that of my impromptu lover!


She seemed to be coiling and writhing around my head like a supple, tightly wound spring….


And then she released.


I felt her powerful legs clench and unclench around my head as she pulled at the roots of my hair. Within my prison of hlac4c flesh, I could hear a soft,




And it was over. The black lady released me and I rocked back on my heels and butt, my face smeared with her juices, as she stretched her legs, a dreamy look on her face.


Then I suddenly found that the music T had heard wasn’t in my head. In a moment, I almost forgot my confused, erotic state (for my encounter had gotten me very turned on; to the point where I could feel my balls ache as my cock strained to swell up inside the false pussy, and my stiff nipples tingled with arousal) forgot the shameless appearance I must now present, and even forgot Naomi’s burning, laughing eyes all over my feminized body.


The stage along the far wall was now awash with bright, colorful spotlights, bouncing off sequined screens and brass bars. Just left of center stage, on a raised platform, a bizarrely-clad girl was pounding an elaborate set of drums, the skins of which had been painted to look like naked derrières. Just right of center, another girl, identically dressed, was making feverish passes on an odd-sounding synthesizer. Two girls shared center


stage, one with the inevitable electric guitar, the other making oral love to a hand-held microphone:


“I watch you with the hookers dancin1, Move your body to an’ fro,


You’re the Pretty Bitch, the Baby Rich, To make my juices flow….”


So this was Bitchin’ Heat. And they were certainly not just another punk rock group! The voice of the lead singer, whom I immediately recognized as the red-head I’d met earlier, was versatile, powerful, alluring and intriguing. The kind of voice that can last an opera star a lifetime or a rock star a decade.


“You’re out a-with the hustlers movin’ , A-dancin’ to their jive,


The legs that spread — around my head, To make me come alive….”


All four girls wore male jock straps of black leather with silver-studded belts, and abbreviated vests that bound up their bosoms like succulent roasts. Strong wrist-bands, head-bands, and soft black leather sandals completed the outfits, setting off their ripe, sinewy feminine bodies with startling sensual strength.


“You hustle down my alley. To act so coy and sweet,

But I’ll spill your cup,

and bind you up,

My captive and my meat!”


The girl at the synthesizer launched into a solo, rhythmic, intricate, showcasing her talented improvisation. While she


played, the red-headed lead singer (Edie Smythe, I recalled her name now) danced sensuously across the stage, followed by a brilliant blue light that made her body positively glow. Then the light picked up something else.


There was another girl on stage. But she definitely wasn’t part of the group. She stood to one side, her elbows bound behind her, her knees loosely hobbled, totally nude except for a leather hood that covered her entire head. And — oddly enough — her firm, full breasts were painted a bright red!


But that wasn’t all. As the red-head danced closer, I could see that the girl’s elbows and knees were attached to a beam above her, restricting her movements considerably. And not only this: She was standing on a carpeted turntable, about two feet in diameter, and as it turned, she was forced to keep moving her feet or else lose her balance and fall, which would leave her dangling by her knees and elbows. I could see her straining to keep her hobbled legs pumping up and down, up and down….


It apparently was not good enough for Edie. She danced haughtily in front of the bound girl, looking disdainfully at her efforts, then picked up a riding crop from the floor and began bringing it down on top of the poor girl’s feet!


If she was moving before, the bound victim was really jumping now! At Edie’s insistence, she raised her hobbled knees as high as possible, thrusting and jiggling her red-painted breasts as she danced to the beat.


Edie moved behind her now, and gently slid the riding crop between the girl’s thrashing legs, gripping it in front and back and slowly raising it so that it slid easily along her vulnerable vulva. Then Edie leaned over and softly blew on the back of the girl’s neck.


It was too much. As I watched in fascination, the poor girl gave a quiver of sexual desire and straightened her legs, as if trying to trap the riding crop between them. Instantly, her feet shot out from under her, and she was hanging in a sexy arch from her knees and elbows, her pussy almost touching the still-revolving turntable.


Edie continued to play with her, moving in front to shake her ass in the girl’s face, then dancing around behind her. She placed a sandaled foot softly on the girl’s round bottom, then slowly pushed down.


As soon as her pussy touched the revolving carpeted turntable, the bound girl gave a moan of desire audible even through her all-concealing hood. It almost looked as if she were having an orgasm right there on stage! The red-head kept pressing down, until her prisoner was almost shrieking with muffled pleasure, then spun around with a sinuous motion and danced back to her partners just as the girl at the synthesizer finished her cadenza and swung back to the beat:


“So if you play, be careful,

And wise to what you need,

For if you stay,

You gotta pay,

And eat the feast I feed,

And serve the feast I feed!”


The lights on stage doused to thunderous applause, as if blown out by the burst of enthusiasm from the audience.


For myself, I blinked in the darkness, unsure of myself, unsettled by the bizarre performance I had just witnessed. It was obvious that the girl on stage was a willing victim, taking pleasure from the pain her tormentors inflicted. But to be so shameless about it! So eager to receive punishment that she would allow herself to be exposed naked, bound and beaten until she climaxed in front of a roomful of strangers! I wondered how anyone could fall so low. Imagine being paraded around in just a hood, with your tits painted—


An idea suddenly hit me. I started to turn towards Naomi, struggling with the hampering arm-mitten and constricting corset. Feeling the silky texture of wrinkled nylons on my shapely smooth legs. As I moved, I could feel a waft of air across my bare breasts, bringing back to me the scent of the black woman I had just serviced. I ignored the embarrassment. I had to talk to Naomi! This idea might not wait.


But before I could get turned around, I felt something pink and soft slip down over my head and around my neck. As I finished turning, I saw Naomi’s smiling face. She had removed her panties and put


one leg-band of them over my neck, like a second collar. The other leg-band she was pulling like a leash, tugging me towards her. The silky feel of her intimate undergarment on my neck, caressing my chin and bare shoulders, felt strangely erotic.


“Come on, Slave Darling,” Her mouth curled in haughty desire. “I want you to do for me like you did for my friend Mandy!”


She pulled her skirt to one side and, spread her legs apart so there could be no mistaking her intention.


I was light-headed, tingling and warm all over. Maybe it was the exotic scene I had just witnessed. Perhaps it was the sensuality of being surrounded by all these women. Surely it couldn’t have been my own sexy shape and near-nudity — could it? But whatever the reason, I was filled with an almost nymphic excitement, incredibly turned on. I eagerly hobbled on my knees to the waiting Naomi, feeling my bare breasts and lace-covered bottom jiggle for everyone to see. I didn’t care. I reached my goal and began tenderly lapping as Naomi wrapped herself around my face. Someone placed a playful swat on my naughty rear, which must have been jutting out very temptingly in the pose I was in. I didn’t care. Scarcely felt it. On stage, Bitchin’ Heat was starting another performance, but I couldn’t see it right now. And a moment later, when Naomi’s thighs clamped around my head, I couldn’t hear it, either.


It must have been an hour later when I finally snapped out of it. I don’t know how many women I had kissed, tongued and serviced. It seemed like three or five, not counting Naomi. The band was taking a break, and we were in the crowded Ladies’ Room, where Naomi was thoughtfully wiping my face and repairing my makeup.


“Well, Slave Darling,” Naomi asked as she stroked mascara on my lashes, “Did you get to see any of the show?”


I shivered a little, uncomfortably aware again of my feminized state and my semi-nude, completely helpless condition.


“Er- Mistress, can we talk privately somewhere?”


Just then, a toilet stall became vacant and Naomi tugged me into it. With she plopped me down on the seat, then hiked up her skirt and sat down facing me, her smooth legs straddling mine, her silken-covered breasts pressed up against my bare ones.


“Well, Miss-ter Crayle?” The way she said the name was a deliberate mockery of my true identity and gender. “Did you get what you came here for?”


“Not yet,” My voice was still soft and feminine from force of habit, and it seemed like too much trouble to change it. “I’ve got to get closer to those singers, and especially to that bound girl they had with them. Is there any way we can talk to them?


Naomi pursed her lips, either in thought or trying to suppress a laugh.


“Mmm-maybe,” She said, “That lead singer, Edie Smythe, seemed rather taken with you. It’s possible I could get her over to our table and wangle some sort of invitation backstage….”


“Do it,” I said, “I’ve got to get in with them somehow.”


“All right,” There was something sly and delighted in Naomi’s manner. But she straightened her face and said, “Just let me take care of something first.”


I heard a tinkle of water. Although I couldn’t look down because of my collar, I -realized that Naomi must be taking a leak into the toilet while sitting on my lap! How strange it felt! She finished and stood up.


“Oh dear,” She pouted ruefully, “I got a couple drops on your nice little panties! You don’t want to wear dirty panties, do you Slave Darling? No? Well I can fix that.”


Naomi pulled a pair of manicure scissors from her purse and in an instant she had snipped through the waistband of my panties and was pulling them off my now-naked hips!


“There now!” She said brightly, “You’re all dainty again! And doesn’t your pretty blonde bush look nice with that strap running through it!” She playfully ran a finger along the cord that passed between my legs from the tip of the single mitten that imprisoned my arms behind me to the front of my corset.


“Now what to do with these?” She smilingly held up the remains of my panties, wadded up with her own. “I have it!”


And once again, Naomi pinched my nose tightly between her fingers and pulled sharply upwards, forcing my mouth open. And once more, my mouth was full of panties!


“Now don’t you dare spit those out,” She cautioned, clamping my red lips together, “Mustn’t litter, you know!”


Naomi rose, holding my leash with a gay nonchalance, and calmly led me out of the restroom.


If I was confused before, I was even more at sea now! It seemed so strange to be led bare-ass on a leash out among a crowd of amorous lesbians. I wanted to scamper close to Naomi to shield my front from view, and I wished I could spread my fingers wide in my single mitten to cover my naked bottom. But of course, I couldn’t. The most sensuous parts of my feminine body were completely exposed, and the rest of me was excitingly off-set in heels, hose, corset and collar — plus, of course, that cramping, confining single glove! As I minced obediently behind Naomi, I wished fervently that I could just disappear.


Yet, if my hunch was right, I might be out of this soon, I thought. For I had noticed something about that girl on stage that might be significant: Those red-painted breasts of hers!


And if they meant what I thought they did, then I had found the runaway Thayer girl.


I swallowed my pride and tried my best to ignore the discomfort and embarrassment I felt over my lewd, feminized condition. Meekly, I followed Naomi back to her table and crouched demurely beside her chair while she sipped a drink and chatted with her girlfriends.


Then, I sensed rather than heard the soft tread of leather sandals behind me. Edie Smythe, the lead singer of Bitchin’ Heat, drew up a chair and sat regally down at our table, her legs crossed so that one exquisite foot dangled just inches from my face.


Naomi, true to our plan, began working on her immediately.


“Oh, Ms. Smythe,” She gushed, “My slave just adored your show! And I must say, it gave me plenty of good ideas, too!”


“Well thank you,” Edie smiled, “It’s so nice to feel appreciated, Miss-er-”


“Oh let me introduce myself. I’m Doctor Naomi Bernstein. And this,” She nudged my bare ass with the toe of her shoe. “This is Slave Darling.”


Instinctively, I bent my neck forward as much as I could and kissed the female singer’s toe through her sandal.


“How charming!” She smiled, “Tell me: Have you had her long?”


The two women then started comparing notes on bondage techniques, slave training, the natural superiority of women as lovers, and the importance of living out one’s fantasies.


“Speaking of fantasies,” Naomi suppressed a giggle. “Slave Darling confessed an interesting one to me in the Ladies1 Room just a few minutes ago.”


“Oh, really?” The red-head looked down at me speculatively.


“Oh yes,” Naomi replied, “She told me that she was absolutely intrigued by that girl you had bound up on stage there, and she wondered what it would be like to live as a Groupie with a band like yours, appearing in the show, attending you off-stage, following you from town to town…”


“Fascinating!” Edie’s look was more calculating than ever. “As it happens, we’re staying the summer with a local friend, working on some new ideas we want to put in the show next Wednesday. We’ve got just oodles of room, so if you and Slave Darling would care to pay us a visit…?”


“Oh, I just couldn’t,” Naomi sighed, “I’m on call at the clinic all next week and possibly the week after—” She looked down at me.  I was fidgeting, trying to let her know that we had to accept this invitation. I had to get closer to those singers to see if my guess about the Thayer girl was right. But of course, I could say nothing with my mouth full of panties.


Naomi, however, read my impatient movements. And promptly mis-interpreted them!


“Of course, you could always take Slave Darling home with you,” She said casually, “She has no commitments, and I’m sur she’d be just thrilled to live out her fantasy with you!”


“You wouldn’t mind?” Edie raised an eyebrow. “Losing a little gem like this?”


“I can pick her up later. Maybe.” She casually passed my leash across the table to Edie.


“But what’s her real name?” Edie asked, smiling, “What’s her background?”


“Her real name is whatever you decide it will be,” Naomi rose, looking down at me through those hooded eyes of hers, “I call her Slave Darling, but Slut would do just as well. Or anything, really. And a slave has no past. She lives only in the present, her only goal in life to please her Mistress,” She looked up at Edie as she turned to go. “Enjoy her. Perhaps I’ll see her at your show next Wednesday if I can get off work.”


Dumbfounded, I watched Naomi’s tempting backside as she walked away. What had she done? Did she really imagine that I wanted to be just given to this sadistic singer? Or was she secretly enjoying this? Or did she have some plan for picking me up again ? Or—


My wondering was cut suddenly short by a firm tug on my leash. I looked up to see Edie wrapping the free end securely around her wrist.


“Come along then, Slave Darling,” She smiled, “I’ll introduce you to your sister-sufferer and get you all packaged up!”


Packaged up!?! I balked; tried to hang back. This couldn’t be! When I started out this evening, I had assumed I would be the sedately-dressed date of the prestigious Doctor Naomi Bernstein, able to come and go freely, to inspect the slaves here at my leisure. I had certainly never intended to be paraded around bound and naked, much less carted off to God-knew-where.


“Oh come now,” Edie sighed, “You’re not one of those Slave-Girls who tries to provoke a lot of beatings, are you? Well, if you insist—”


She made a practiced, graceful motion toward her belt with her free hand, and suddenly she was holding a flexible, two foot riding crop!


I blanched pale, petrified with fright as she swung the evil-looking thing through the air.


“Still won’t move, eh? Well, try a few of these for starters.”




She had moved around behind me and brought the riding crop down across my defenseless buttocks with surprising speed.




Another one, this time across my tender thighs.




And a third, back across my still-inflamed bottom.


“Now will you come along?”


Oh yes! I wanted ti scream, Yes! Yes! At that point, I would gladly have walked stark naked into the locker room of a boy’s high school football team, just to escape another one of those terrible, stinging blows.


“Come along, then.”


And I obediently trotted behind my new Mistress as she led me across the crowded room, bare-assed and bare-breasted, past tables of snickering lesbians, and finally to a dressing room backstage.


“Meet your new sister,” Edie said as she opened the door, “I think you’ll find you have a great deal in common. Or if you don’t, you soon shall!”


Inside the room was an assortment of musical instruments, sound equipment, and, sealed inside a fifty-gallon drum made of clear plastic, the naked, hooded girl with the painted breasts that I had seen earlier on stage.


“I call it ‘Canned Slave’,” Edie commented, “Take a good look.”


It took me a few moments to comprehend the bizarre sight of a girl crammed inside a crystal-clear drum of tough acrylic plastic. I soon saw, however, that the container was perforated all over with air-holes, permitting the contents to breathe.


But that must have been scant comfort for the pent-up nude inside! She was forced to sit in that thing with her knees drawn up and her arms folded over her hooded head, while her bare ass and shapely legs pressed excitingly against the clear plastic sides. I wondered how it must feel to be unbound, yet captive in such a tiny space, vulnerable and on-view to any chance passer-by.


A few minutes later, I found out.


Edie had been joined by the other three girls in the group: Olivia, Cindi, and Grace, and the four of them set about preparing me for packaging. My corset, collar, stockings $and shoes were all unceremoniously removed, and my arms freed from that awful single glove. The girls obviously weren’t worried about me running away stark naked, and besides, I remembered how well this place was sealed off.


Edie reached up and placed a strong finger gently between my red lips.


“I’m going to remove the panties that I know are in your mouth,” She said, “And when I do, you shall have a chance to speak. Just have a care to choose your words carefully.”


Slowly, she pulled the silky things from my mouth, holding them in a tight ball.


“Thank you, Mistress,” I said, eyes downcast submissively, very aware of my feminine nudity.


“An excellent response,” She smiled, “Who are you, now?”


“I am — whoever you want me to be, Mistress,” I almost whispered.


“Better still. And what are you?”


“Your slave, Mistress,” I answered, “Your own property to use as you wish. My only desire is the pleasure of you and your friends.”


“What a charming reply!” Edie laughed, “Let’s package her up, Girls!”


The girls of Bitchin’ Heat moved like a practiced team. Cindi removed the top from the drum that held their hooded slave, then ordered her to stand upright, feet spread as wide as the huge can would allow. Then, to my helpless surprise, Olivia and Grace picked me up bodily and inserted me into the can, head-first!


I felt myself lying on the back of my head and the nape of my neck, discovering, to my relief, that the bottom of the can was covered by a thick sponge mat. I felt my feminized, naked body slide past that of my fellow captive, felt my legs being doubled over and pressed down upon her shoulders, leaving me ass-upwards.


Then, as she obediently sat back down, I saw and then felt her smooth, round bottom press into my face. Felt her legs against my sides, her hooded face pushed down near my pussy.


A few more shoves crammed us closer together. My face was swallowed up in the cleft of her bottom. My hands pinned against her breasts. Her feet were resting on my own breasts, and I felt her damp toes across my nipples. The top of the can was replaced, pushing my knees closer down around the leather hood of my can-mate.


I moved my head to get some breathing room, and my eyes came out from under the other girl’s bottom. I could see.


I almost wished I couldn’t. For around me were the four leather-clad female musicians, grinning broadly, and I suddenly realized that they could see in as well as I could see out! Every inch of my body, crammed into this ridiculously sexy container, was on display to anyone who cared to look. Thank heaven, I thought, for the relative privacy of the dressing room. If anyone else saw me like this, I don’t know what I’d do!


Then Edie said, “Let’s give ’em an encore, girls!”


A fur-covered dolly was wheeled into place and the can that contained me and my soul-sister was shifted onto it. A push, and we were being wheeled out on stage, into the glare of a multicolored spotlight, onto the turntable where my companion had danced, now revolving slowly so as to show off our bizarre, nude, feminine predicament from every angle as the girls picked up their instruments and Edie began to sing:


“Canned Slave, Ca-a-anned Sla-a-ave,

Y’thought that you could trust her, Awwww,

But Baby now you’re only just her Canned Slave….”


That was Friday night.


Wednesday morning at Eight, the alarm clock chimed. I worked my way out from under a pile of silk sheets and dragged myself across the oversized bed to the night stand, striking the alarm button to turn it off. Then I squirmed around to my bed mate.


“Wake up, Robyn!” I said in my soft, feminine voice, “We’ve only got an hour to get ready for our Mistresses.”


Yes, it was Robyn Thaylor I was sharing a bed with: the missing daughter of my wealthy client. As soon as I had noticed her red-painted bosom there on the stage, the thought had occurred to me: Robyn Red-Breast! Immediately, I had known that such a joke would have an irresistible appeal to the cruelly amused rock singers.


Well, my hunch had been right. Robyn Thayer was the bound, hooded captive on stage, performing as a willing slave to Bitchin’ Heat. But as I pulled the satin covers off our nude, feminine bodies, I realized that I was no closer to returning her home to Mommy than I had been when I took this case a week ago.


Robyn wiggled herself upright. She had to wiggle, because her entire upper torso had been sealed inside a thin but strong casing of flesh-colored rubber!


I watched as she moved around in this. Above the waist, up to her neck, she was encased in the skin-tight rubber except for her breasts, which stuck out lewdly through outlet holes.) Her arms were tightly taped to her sides and completely covered by this thing, giving her an oddly sexy armless look. We had experimented alone at night, and found it to be reinforced with nylon, impossible to remove without cutting it off. So poor Robyn was stuck as a long-legged walking female torso, a sort of young Venus di Milo, forced to depend on me for any hand-work, such as feeding, dressing, lighting cigarettes, and even going to the bathroom.


And I was in quite a predicament myself. A very similar casing of skintight, flesh-colored rubber had been applied to my legs, sealing them tightly together, sticking straight out like a bizarre snake-tail. The rubber extended clear up to my bottom, leaving it bare, “for everyone’s convenience,” as Edie said.


So Robyn and I had been turned into a kinky feminine Yin and Yang, complementing each other as slave-toys. She had no arms and I had no legs. She could run places, fetch things in her mouth, or haul (with a little help) wheeled serving trays. I could only wriggle and crawl about on the floor or, with great difficulty, hop short distances, but my arms and hands were free for chores like cooking and cleaning.


Now, as Robyn finished on the toilet in our slave-bathroom and I wiped her clean, as per instructions, I became more convinced than ever that she had gotten the best end (so to speak) of this deal. After I finished on the toilet myself, Robyn went over to the shower-tub and waited for me to crawl in and turn on the water. Once it was running, I would have to soap us both up, shampoo our hair, and lie there in the bottom of the tub while Robyn rinsed off. Then I would have to towel us both dry, comb and blow-dry our hair, put makeup on both of us, and get us dressed.


Oh yes, we were both required to wear uniforms, and they were exotically unique creations. Black nylon dresses, styled like maids’ uniforms, but with some exciting differences.


For one thing, both dresses were extremely short, barely covering Robyn’s pantied bottom, and quite full, so that they flipped up and rustled gaily with every move we made. The fronts of the skirts had tiny white lace aprons sewn on them, but these were practically useless as aprons (mine in particular, since I spent so much time crawling about on my stomach) and they served primarily as frivolous ornamentation, reminding us of our lowly maid-slave status.


At the waist, each dress turned into a black satin corset, compressing our sides and tummies very tightly indeed, and I knew this must be very difficult for Robyn, since her arms were taped to her sides as well, but she never uttered a word of complaint.


Above the waist, two wide straps of black satin, trimmed in white lace, rose over our shoulders and crossed behind our backs. Aside from that, our costumes were completely topless, our thrusting breasts bared to the world. On our heads, we wore cute little white lace maid’s caps, pinned in our curly hair. Robyn’s legs were sheathed in black net stockings, held up by white lace garters, and she was shod in the tallest of high-heeled pumps with six-inch stiletto heels. For myself, the girls had designed a special wide, one-legged pantihose, in dark stretch-nylon. It covered me — more or less — from my waist down to my single foot (which wore a double-wide high-heel shoe, especially made for me) but the sheer dark nylon highlighted my legs and ass so excitingly that I really would have been better off nude.


And in these bizarre mockeries of maids’ uniforms, Robyn and I had to mince and hop about, docilely serving the girls of Bitchin’ Heat.


I prepared their breakfast and put it on a serving tray, which Robyn pushed into the large, mirrored bedroom they all shared, while I crawled behind. Sometimes I would see us in a mirror this way — our feminine curves flashing, trimmed in white lace and black satin, Robyn stepping daintily while I squirmed about on the


floor with that silly maid’s cap perched in my hair — and I would feel terribly naked and helpless, almost like the submissive female I was pretending to be!


Over the last four days, Robyn and I had been attending our mistresses faithfully, and today was no exception. After serving Breakfast, we served the girls themselves, wriggling onto the bed and kissing, caressing, and licking whenever and whatever we were directed, until the singers had come to repeated climaxes. Our own sexual needs were blithely ignored.


Following this, we assisted our Ladies in the Bath, Robyn fetching towels, perfume and powder puffs in her mouth while I lovingly scrubbed, dried and body-oiled their feminine bodies.


For the rest of the day, we fetched and carried refreshments, note-paper, instruments, or anything else, obedient hand-maidens to the musical muse that Bitchin’ Heat had embraced. I found, to my surprise, that the routine of these rock singers was far from the endless round of drugs and sex that I had imagined. They all worked hard several hours each day, practicing, listening to classical music and taking notes, writing and re-writing lyrics. These girls were no empty-minded pot-heads. They were serious and talented musicians, dedicated to translating their unconventional lifestyle into interesting and even memorable music. And they were working especially hard today, intending to try out a new routine this very night.


Their attitude towards Robyn and me could best be described as Benevolent Cruelty. Edie, Olivia, Cindi and Grace all understood well the nature of the masochist: how he or she thrives on sexual denial and constant titillation; the thrill of being forced to expose oneself in silly erotic clothing; the comfort of bondage and the inner security that comes from Obedience instead of Choice. They thought we wanted all this (and in Robyn’s case, they were right) and by their lights, they were doing us a kindness by allowing us to serve them.


I’ll admit that I more or less fell into the spirit of this thing. I thrilled at the feel of silk, and satin sliding over my feminine curves. Deep inside, I tingled at the intimate contact with my Mistresses1 bodies, and during my entire stay there, I felt the pleasant excitement that only comes from sexual arousal.


Does this make me kinky? I think not. Take any man: feminize him; surround him with feminine clothes and perfume and with beautiful women in various stages of dress and undress; force him to tenderly and thoroughly give oral love to these gorgeous creatures, but deny him any sexual relief himself — I can just about guarantee that any man in my position, transformed into a male lesbian, would have found it as erotically thrilling as I did.


The difference is that I never lost sight of my goal. The entire time I was there, I kept looking for a way out of this feminine captivity. Kept my eyes open for the chance that would let me get myself and Robyn Thayer out of there and back to reality.


And that Wednesday afternoon, I found it. The girls were upstairs practicing, and Grace sent me to the Study for some notes she had taken earlier. Robyn, meanwhile, was doing some bondage poses for them. So for the first time, I was by myself in the house and unobserved,


As quickly as I could on my single leg, I wiggled down the stairs and into the Study. I’d had a lot of practice dragging myself about on my tummy, with my leg wriggling behind me like a sexy tail (Funny: I thought of it now as one leg, although I knew that it was actually two joined together) and my breasts jiggling merrily in front, so it took me less than a minute. In the study, I perched myself up on the large desk near one wall, and in seconds, I had dialed Margaret Thayer.


One ring. Two. I tried flexing my throat so that when I spoke, it would not be in the high, feminine tones that I was accustomed to using.


Three rings. It suddenly occurred to me that Mrs. Thayer might not be at home. If not, when would I get a chance like this again?


Four rings. Would they have missed me upstairs by now? I kept my eye on the door that led to the hallway, looking for any movement that might signal an approach. Five rings. Si—


“Hello?” The familiar voice came over the wire to my welcoming ears. “Thayer residence.”


“Mrs. Thayer,” I whispered as deeply as I could. “Clinton Crayle here. Don’t talk. Just listen, because I may not have much time. Your daughter is staying with a lesbian rock group called Bitchin’ Heat. She’s not a prisoner, but they do keep her tied up at her own request. I think they’re staying on the Grandamme estate, but I can’t be positive. I do know that the group will be playing at a place called The Club just off Route 117 tonight. Did you contact those strong-arm girls I told you about? Good. Now listen: Don’t try to take your daughter out of the Club. That place is too well-guarded to get into and out of safely. The only way to get Robyn is to hi-jack the band’s van between here and the Club. You can’t miss it; It’s an over-sized gold thing with the letters ‘BH’ on each side. Robyn will be inside, tied up, with the other equipment. Just have the girls get her out of the van and take off with her. If I were you, I’d have her taken straight to a de-programming clinic before she runs away again. Got all that now? I may have to hang up in a hurry, so if you have any questions, go ahead.”


“No…” Mrs. Thayer’s voice was hesitant at first, then stronger. “I’ll make all the arrangements, Mr. Crayle. And thank you.”


“Oh one more thing!” I had almost forgotten a very important item. “There’ll be another woman tied up in the van with Robyn. Tell the girls to take her as well. I’ll explain later. Understand?”


“I think so. Is she supposed to g—”


Suddenly I heard a rustling noise behind me. I slammed the phone down in its cradle and spun about, my leg sliding across the smooth desk-top.


There was a tall, feminine figure standing there in the shadows. Completely nude, bald, but undeniably female. She walked stiffly forward into the light, and my eyes widened. She was made of rubber!


It took me just a second to recompose myself. After all, I had seen things like this before. It was someone inside a full body flesh-tone latex sheath, much like the ones that covered my legs and Robyn’s arms. This one, too, fit like a second skin, but as it covered parts of the body, it accentuated them. Packed inside the thin rubber casing, the breasts and buttocks seemed full, firm and taut. There were high heels inside the feet, bringing the wearer up to a tip-toe walk that showed off the long, shapely, rubber smooth legs. The arms moved stiffly, and there were no fingers in the gloves, just small hand-pods, so I assumed that this was a bondage costume of some sort. The head was completely covered, and feminine features drawn on the face, including a smiling, red-painted mouth that I knew must cover a gag. The only apparent opening in this entire thing was two holes at the eyes for vision, and through these, two intense blue orbs positively burned out at me, as if trying to express everything that the person sealed inside could not say.


For my part, I stared back at this rubberized person. How much had he or she heard? How much could one hear inside that thing? And what—


“So there you are, you naughty slave! I wondered what was keeping you!”


The sound of Grace’s voice in the doorway startled me. I tried to spin around again, forgot about the fix my legs were in, and promptly fell off the desk onto the floor. I lay there on the floor, looking guiltily up at the slender, dark-haired rock singer.


“I see you’ve met our gracious hostess,” Grace looked from me to the rubberized figure, smiling. “Mrs. Grandamme, meet Slave Darling. Slave: Curtsey for Mrs. Grandamme.”


Somehow, I got to my knees and raised the hem of my skirt, trying to smile submissively through my confusion. This was Mrs. Grandamme?! But why? What was she doing in that get-up? Had the girls taken her captive in her own house, or was she willingly undergoing this treatment? Was she really Mrs. Grandamme? Was it even really a “she”?


And most important: How much had she heard? How much would she tell, if she got a chance?


But Grace was talking.


“Really now, Slave Darling, I realize that seeing our hostess for the first time must have been surprising to you, but that’s no excuse for dawdling around down here. You deserve another spanking, Don’t You, Slave?”


There was only one answer to a question like that.


“Y-yes, Mistress,” I admitted, hanging my head.


“Very well,” Grace picked up a metal ruler from the desk and swished it through the air experimentally. “This will do nicely, I think. Stand up, Slave. You may hold on to the back of that chair.”


Trembling a little, I pulled myself up to my feet (or “foot” in my case) and bent forward, clutching the back of the chair tightly.




Hot pain exploded across my tender bum. I moaned softly.


“Mmmm,” Grace commented, “You like this, don’t you? I’ll bet you’re having an orgasm right now, you little slut—”




More pain. As I winced in agony, I cast a nervous glance over at the rubberized feminine figure watching all this. Her eyes shone brighter than ever, but I could read no emotion on her plastic face.




How strange to be spanked in front of this silent, glassy-faced spectator! I wondered in embarrassment what she must be thinking.




“There,” Grace said finally, “That’ll do for now. Come upstairs, Slave Darling. It’s time for you and Robyn to practice.”


“Th-thank you, M-Mistress,” I gasped, lowering myself to the floor.


Obediently, I wriggled upstairs for Practice. Grace led the way, and I couldn’t help but stare from my low vantage point at her shapely, pantied rear. And think about how brightly red my own bottom must be glowing as I swished along.


This Practice was something that, so far, I had been unable to figure out. Twice a day, for a few hours at a time, the girls put Robyn and me through a routine they called “Practice”. They approached it as thoroughly and professionally as they did all their work, but I had yet to understand its purpose.


First, Robyn and I were ordered to stand at attention — easy for Robyn, but terribly difficult for me to balance on my single high heel. Then (with a little assistance for me from Olivia and Cindi) we had to bend over and touch our palms to the floor without bending our knees. This feat had been patently impossible when we first tried it Saturday morning, but with a great deal of work, and physical encouragement from our Mistresses, we had finally gotten to the point where it was almost easy.


Once bent over, Robyn and I had stout bands of strong, flesh-colored nylon wrapped around us; one across the middle back, under the breasts and around the backs of the knees, and another, slightly higher up, around the small of the back and the upper thighs.


Secured like this, it was completely impossible to straighten up. Robyn and I were like two salt shakers, asses raised high, totally vulnerable and exposed.


Vulnerable, maybe, but far from motionless. Under the strict guidance of Bitchin’ Heat, Robyn and I had actually learned to walk like this! I had to hop about in tiny movements, scooting my pretty hands across the floor and bouncing my high-heeled foot to keep up. There were dire punishments for falling over while attempting this movement, so I had perforce learned to keep my balance fairly well. As a reward, my Mistresses had given me a stiff, curved collar to wear that kept my head bent back, allowing me to see in front of me, and a pair of padded satin hand-pods that laced up my arms almost to the elbows. They had the double effect of protecting my hands from the hard floors and of keeping me totally helpless and unable to remove a bit of my bondage.


Robyn fared a little better, since she was able to move her high-heeled legs from the knees down, and could look between them to guide herself as she walked backwards. In this way, her breasts were pretty much hidden behind her legs, while mine were exposed and flaunted by the neck-arching collar I wore.


This was the “Practice” that we had been subjected to. A few hours each Say for five days now, until both of us were fairly proficient in moving about with our noses to the ground and our bottoms in the air.


Today, our Mistresses were very pleased with our work, and as a reward, when they let us straighten up they allowed us to rest until Dinnertime.


“Rest” consisted of lying on a long, long sofa in the Living Room, Robyn on her back and me on my stomach, with Robyn’s legs wrapped firmly around my neck and tied there, my face buried in her crotch and my wrists in leather cuffs that attached with eighteen-inch chains to a collar thoughtfully locked around Robyn’s neck by Grace.


“There now!” I heard the pleasure in Grace s voice, but the furthest I could see like this was the slight curve of Robyn’s flat tummy. “This will give Robyn a chance to brush up on her reading while Slave Darling practices her cunnilingus. Also this position will guarantee that the two of you stay out of trouble. As you can see, Robyn’s legs and Slave Darling’s arms are completely wrapped up, and with the two of you joined together like that, I’m sure you’ll have plenty on your minds besides getting into mischief. On, by the way Robyn; Those books I set beside you are all lesbian magazines. Slave Darling can pick them up for you, if she strains a bit, and turn the pages. So enjoy!”


And so she did.


Dinner was a light meal served at 4-30 so the girls would not feel stuffy before their performance. As usual, Robyn and I were allowed to eat leftovers from bowls on the floor, after which I repaired our hair and makeup and brushed our teeth.


But then the routine was changed. I was ordered to remove our clothes, except for our high heels, and we both presented ourselves to our Mistresses in the hallway near the Garage. Then, totally nude except for our footwear and our rubber casings we were ordered into the van.


A chill went over me that had nothing to do with my shivering nudity. We were leaving! Had Mrs, Thayer had time to arrange for our hi-jacking? Had Mrs. Grandamme told the girls anything? I knew that Robyn and I would be expected to perform with Bitchin’ Heat tonight, and I fervently hoped that we would be stopped before we got to the Club.”


We had been driving for about Twenty Minutes — the singers in cushy seats up front while Robyn and I huddled among boxes in the back — when I thought my prayers had been answered. Edie said something about this looking like a good spot, and pulled off the side of the road. Had the van been stopped?


To my disappointment, however, the girls of Bitchin1 Heat laughingly got out and came around to the back of the van, opening the doors.


“All right, Slaves,” Edie announced, “It’s exercise time. Climb out.”


Bewildered, we did as we were told. We were on a lightly-traveled country road, parked at a spot where heavy shrubbery would hide us from the roadway so long as we kept on the passenger side of the van. Which we eagerly did!


“As you two are looking a bit pale, I’ve decided that a bit of fresh-air exercises in order,” Edie announced, “Something to put a bit of flush in your cheeks.” She eyed our exposed bottoms meaningfully as Olivia and Grace pulled two strange-looking items from the back of the van. “So we’re going to let you cycle the rest of the way!”


My red lips opened in shock and my tummy fluttered at the sight of what Olivia and Grace were pushing towards us. They were bicycles, but strangely designed and modified to our special needs. Mine was fashioned so that I could peddle it with my hands and steer it from the back by wiggling my leg, which was locked into a special frame for that purpose. Robyn’s was similarly rigged so that her torso was strapped to the front, steering the bike with her whole upper body while she pedalled with her high-heeled feet. Both bikes were equipped with training wheels to keep us from upsetting, but they were also designed with the front wheel only half the size of the rear wheel, so that once we were strapped on these things, our bare asses were raised high in the air while our pendulous breasts hung and swayed with every motion.


Once we were strapped, shivering with fright and blushing with embarrassment, onto these things, Edie gave us our instructions:


“It’s only a few kilometers to the Club, Slaves, s# you should be able to cycle there in just an hour or so. Straight down this road leads to a back entrance where they’ll be expecting you. If anyone sees you, you’re on your own, so try to come up with a good story,” The giggling girls climbed into the van and Cindi leaned out to blow us a kiss.


“Have fun now!” She laughed as they sped off.


I think the enormity of the whole tr. I. thing hit me at that moment. I was totally feminized. Naked. Reduced to one leg and strapped to a bizarre mockery of a bicycle that flaunted my smooth ass and feminine tits outlandishly. Deserted here, in the middle of nowhere, where anyone might come along and see me like this. Ordered to peddle an unknown distance down a road that might (or might not — what if those girls were on to me?) lead to a dubious safety.


The fear, the humiliation, the total sexy helplessness all seemed to flood in on my consciousness at once. What should I do? What could I do?


There seemed to be no doubt in Robyn’s mind, however. She started immediately pedalling down the road after the van, and with little choice in the matter I followed her.


Or tried to. It was much easier for Robyn to pedal with her legs than it was for me with my arms, and she soon had me outdistanced. I pumped as hard as I could, my breasts swinging furiously, hair tousled in the wind, while sweat ran down my feminine body, but it was no use. I began to lose sight of her when we turned at curves. Then the road began to wind even more, and I could only see Robyn when we were on a straightaway. The glimpses became shorter, less frequent, her bare rump smaller in the distance, and finally the road straightened out for nearly a mile ahead, and she was nowhere in sight.


Some swell detective I looked now! I had lost the teenager that I had gone through all this for. Gotten myself stuck out here like this in this ridiculous condition, bare-assed and feminine, all alone, pumping away, hoping desperately to be allowed to reach the safety of my slavery without being seen.


It was not to be. Over the whirr of my bicycle, I suddenly heard the rumble of a car engine. Oh Gawd! What was it? I couldn’t look back. I could only keep pedalling furiously and hope against hope that they might just pass me by.


No such luck. I heard the vehicle slow up behind me, as if to get a better look at the incredible sight I must present. Who could it be? It didn’t sound like a semi-truck, but it might be farmers or some local high school kids out for a ride. Maybe even a Police Car! I felt close to tears as the mystery vehicle eased along behind me. Oh, why didn’t they just pass me and get it over with?


At last, the car accelerated, but to my horror, it pulled up in front of me and two young men got out, blocking the road.


“Out for a spin, Miss?” One of them leered. They were both dressed in casual but expensive clothes, and I noticed that their car had a fraternity bumper sticker on it.


“Yeah,” The other one, an athletic-looking fellow with thick brown hair asked, “Whatcha doin’ out here like that?”


I was close to fainting from embarrassment, out of breath, chest heaving, quivering with dread as their staring eyes roamed all over my feminine nudity and bizarre bondage. But then that fraternity sign gave me an inspiration.


“Oh dear,” I said as best I could, “I was afraid of this. I’m in the Delta Sorority at Northern State and the girls did this to me for initiation. Th-they’re waiting for me somewhere up ahead.”


“Oh yeah?” The other one, a slender, blonde guy spoke up. “We go to N.U. too; Want a lift? We could take you down to the pep rally and drop you off there!”


I quailed at the thought of being taken so far away and put down in the middle of a crowd on a strange campus — like this!


“Oh no!” I said quickly, “I couldn’t! I mustn’t! My Sisters are waiting and if I don’t meet them down the road here, I have to do this whole darned thing over again!”


“Y’know,” The chunky one said doubtfully, “You look a little old to be joining a sorority. Are you sure you’re telling us this thing straight?”


I didn’t have to feign the nervous deeper blush or the guilty sidelong glance.


“Actually,” I lied, “I’m the House Mother. Oh, this is so embarrassing! One of the girls caught me borrowing her bath salts, and since we’re having our pre-summer-rush this week, I agreed to go through Initiation with the Pledges as punishment. I never dreamed they’d do this to me! Oh, please just let me go. I’ll make it worthwhile to you. Oh, I will! I’ll get you keys to the house so you can come and go as\y°u please. I’ll let you peek into the shower room… Anything!”


“Whatcha think?” The blonde one asked his buddy, “Shall we just take her back to the Frat House? Maybe we could hold her there a few days and then ransom her off to those stuck-up Delta girls. They’d probably do plenty to keep this from getting out, and we could have a lot of fun with her in the meantime.”


“Naah,” The big one said to my vast relief, “That could get us in trouble. We’ll get more out of her this way if she owes us a favor. Let’s just leave her here to pedal her ass all over the county!”


His friend laughed.


“All-right!” He squatted down in front of me. “Let’s have a little face-sucking, Beautiful!” And he grabbed me by the hair, pulling my lips to his.


Humiliated, mortified, I returned his kiss. I felt his dry male lips press against my fed-painted ones. Felt his tongue invade my mouth, hot and demanding. Confused, woman-like, I felt myself swoon in his embrace…..


He got up and stuck a casual thumb into my false pussy, laughing as I jumped and squirmed.


“Hot to trot and you know it, Bitch,” He sneered, then cracked his open palm on my vulnerable, upraised, inviting ass. “Get going! We’ll stay here to make sure no one else comes along. But we’ll be looking you up back a N.U.!”


Let them look, I thought angrily as I sped off. I hope they get themselves into a real bind with those Delta sisters. Burning with embarrassment, I pedalled down the road.


It was only minutes later when I arrived at the Club, where they were indeed expecting me. Cindi and Grace obligingly took me off my bike and carried me to a backstage dressing room where Robyn was waiting. Using sponges soaked in mild cologne, I wiped the sweat from our bodies  those parts that weren’t sealed up in the rubber casings) then dusted us with powder, combed out our hair and fixed our makeup. Really! Having the use of my arms had seemed a blessing at first, but lately I wondered if it didn’t make me as much a slave to Robyn as to the other girls, since I had to wait on her so much. I found myself wishing my arms were secured like hers so someone would have to wait on me for a change!


“Chains, My Baby’s got me locked up in chains,

And they ain’t the kind, that you could see….”


Out front, the girls had kicked off their act with an oldie, while a smiling female stage hand watched Robyn and me in the dressing room. I knew now that Mrs. Thayer had been unsuccessful in getting us intercepted en route to the Club, and I suspected that Robyn and I would soon be performing on stage. I just wondered what we would have to do.


My answer came three songs later, when Bitchin’ Heat took a break and the four girls sauntered backstage, looking sexy and exciting in their studded leather bikinis. They wiped each other down with perfumed sponges that made their supple bodies glisten, then turned their attention to us.


It was the “Practice” position. The curved collar and padded satin hand-pods went on me again, followed by a black net stocking held up by a ruffled leather garter. I slipped my oversized high heel on and bent submissively forward as Edie bound my torso to my single leg with strong black nylon belts, forcing me into the ass-raised hobble that they had coached me in. Robyn was similarly dressed in black net stockings, heels and garters, and she was bound in the now-familiar position. As a finishing touch, tight black rubber bathing caps were strapped on our heads, making us look oddly identical. The idea of matching salt-and-pepper shakers came to mind again as I saw us in a mirror, standing this way with our heads down and our bare asses raised temptingly in the air.


And then it occurred to me what Robyn and I were going to have to do.


Oh no, I thought; Not that. Not bound up and naked like this. Not in front of a crowd of strangers, amorous kinky lesbians. Oh no.


Oh yes.


The girls strode out on stage to thunderous applause while a muscular female stagehand calmly carried Robyn and me to the wings. The music started up, an eccentric, jiggling, bouncing beat. Edie picked up her microphone and spoke to the crowd in a breathy, sensuous voice:


“Hey, Lovers… I want to show you all a new feature in the act… one I think… you’re gonna like….”


A spotlight flashed on Stage Left where Robyn and I would soon make our entrance.


“As you watch,” Edie continued, “I want you to listen to the words… and think about fem.” Her voice picked up as she prepared for her song. “You’ve all heard of Talking Heads. Well get a load of Walking Butts!”


The music kicked on full force as the lesbian stage hand casually prodded us in a very private place, forcing Robyn and me to mince on stage. Riotous cheering rattled my ear drums, even as blinding spotlights tore at my eyes. The applause swelled.


There was a packed house out there, watching two semi-nude women, willing slaves, show off their debasement eagerly as they hopped about on stage, bare asses raised high. Or were these truly women doing this degrading act? Perhaps in the depth of their submissive passion, they had ceased to be persons at all, and were merely, as Edie said, Walking Butts. Nothing but sex-objects, vulnerable to any stranger.


Whatever they were, I was one of them. I felt hundreds of eyes all over me: Watching, scornful, evaluative, excited, sneering — a whole range of emotion that seemed to come in a psychic wave straight from lesbian audience and into my consciousness, paralyzing my brain, just as the lights and noise had overwhelmed my eyes and ears.


I, a naked, bound female, was out in front of all these people, the focus of their attention… their desire.


And next to me, Edie was singing:


“Hey Ba-a-aby, How’d you ever fall so low?

Ohh, Sug-Sugar, Now was my kiss your fatal blow?

Ahh, sing it to the crowd now, ‘Cause they’re all asking for to know—

Baby, Ba-a-a-aby, How’d you ever fall so low?”


The synthesizer swung in, and Edie danced back. The next thing I knew, she had a purple velvet whip in her hand, and was flicking it with skillful precision on the two, upturned dancing asses before her.


Beat-ba-da-Beat-da-da-Beat, went the synthesizer.


Smack!  (pause) Crack!  (pause pause) Snap! Crack! Smack! came the soft whip, exploding like a sunburst of pain across the pale surface of our tender, upraised bottoms.


At last the whipping was over, and as Robyn and I hopped about laughably to cool our burning bums, Edie finished,


“Yeah, once you were really something,

But now everybody’s wond’ring,

Umm-mmm, Baby! How’d you ever fall so low?”


And as I minced about, jiggling sexily for everyone to see, I almost wondered the same thing myself.


But it was far from the end of our night. After two encores, the House Lights came up and our Mistresses made us hobble down among the crowd, passing between packed tables, feeling eager, exploring, feminine hands over our vulnerable flesh. We were turned upright and set on cushioned chairs, our feet sticking in the air, while a reporter from an underground newspaper insisted on interviewing us. Seated there in that ridiculous fix, head still bent back by my collar, I had to smile and say in my best feminine voice that this was all an expression of my love and trust in my lesbian Mistresses, that I enjoyed the excitement of being bound and the thrill of being totally exposed to the whims of a strange, exotic crowd.


I wondered if Doctor Naomi Bernstein was there, sitting outside my limited field of view and listening to all this. I could just picture her lips curling over her large white teeth as she got an earful of what I, an erstwhile male and her date of five days ago, was saying about my present condition.


But I did not see Naomi, and thankfully remembered her commenting that she would be at work this week. It was small relief. After awhile, the girls took us backstage and removed the straps from around us. I straightened out, grateful for the release, as Olivia removed the rest of our clothing and, to my surprise, cut off the rubber casings around my legs and Robyn’s torso, freeing us completely for the first time in days!


But this was just by way of preparation. For once Robyn and I were completely free and nude, we were placed back inside that clear plastic drum in the familiar position — my face under Robyn’s ass while my smooth legs curled around her head — then wheeled back out front so that Bitchin’ Heat could thrill the crowd with their new hit single, “Canned Slave.”


Writhing in that can, trapped for everyone to see while Robyn ground her pretty ass into my feminine face, felt like the absolute bottom point of my life.


And two hours later, we were rescued.


Robyn and I were still inside the plastic drum. Only now we were in the back of Bitchin’ Heat’s gold van , on our way from the Club back to the Grandamme estate, when I heard (I could see nothing because of Robyn’s bottom) Grace say,


“Looks like an accident up ahead!”


“Oh dear,” Edie cried, “That girl is hurt! I’d better stop!”


“I think she’s pinned under that van,” Olivia put in, “We’d better get out and help push.”


I heard the four front doors of the van open and close as the girls rushed to the aid of what they thought was a stricken motorist. Then, very faintly, I heard cries of alarm and dismay. Orders being barked in a strong feminine voice quite unlike any of the rock singers1. Finally, after a suspenseful spent rolled up naked in that plastic drum with the equally nude Robyn, I heard someone climb into the van.


“Don’t be alarmed girls,” Came the female voice, “We’re here to help you.” I heard and felt hands running over the sides of the barrel. “Might as well take you to the clinic before we open this thing. Just to let you know, you won’t be hearing from those other girls for awhile. My partner Carole and I suckered them into stopping for an ‘accident1 then got the drop on them.


“We were just going to tie them up and take you with us in our van, but I came up with a better idea. You see, we got some background information on that Club they’ve been performing at, and I thought we’d give those Bitches a taste of their own medicine. So I told them we were going to take you two back to the Club and make you work there as slaves for a month. Since everyone had seen you with those singers, though, we’d need a written release from them to get you back in. At least that’s what we told those gullible she-punks.”


“Anyway, I wrote up a paper that said ‘Please take these girls in and keep them as slaves for a month. We, the undersigned girls of Bitchin’ Heat, hereby state that any future objection or denial on our part is to be disregarded.’ I got all four girls to sign it at gunpoint. Then, Carole and I handcuffed them and put leg shackles on their ankles. They didn’t mind that so much, but you should have heard them holler when we cut away all their clothing, leaving them naked. They yelled so much that Carole and I finally decided to lock them in hoods with built-in gags, blindfolds and earplugs.”


“They’re in the back of our van now, and Carole is taking them back to the Club. When they get there, all the dykes who run the place will see are four bound and hooded slaves, one of whom will have a note taped to her forehead, signed by all four, asking that they be kept as slaves for the whole month of July! Won’t that be a kick?”


“No!!!” Robyn’s scream reverberated inside our tiny plastic can. “No! You can’t do that to my Mistresses! I love them! Oh, don’t take me from them! Let me go! Let me get back to them!”


She started kicking her arms and legs as much as she could, trying to break out of the confining plastic drum. Packed inside as we were, she couldn’t move at all without pushing at some part of my body, and escape was out of the question, but her struggles did succeed in rubbing her body even more intimately over mine, and it must have looked to our rescuer like two very active females squirming around in there while screams of protest squeaked out from the air-holes.


As for me, I felt pretty good. Maybe it was the thought of the erotic punishment that our rescuers had dreamed up for Bitchin’ Heat. Maybe it was Robyn’s round silky bottom moving back and forth across my feminine face. But it was most of all the satisfying glow of a Mission Accomplished. Soon, Robyn and I would be at the Clinic, and I could just imagine the surprised faces-of the staff when I told them who I really was and had Mrs. Thayer corroborate my story. Then, a little later, I would be back to my masculine self and several thousand dollars richer. Robyn writhed in despair, perhaps thinking of the harsh de-programming clinic awaiting her, and her full, bare breasts rubbed against my smooth, well-shaped thighs.


It felt good.




Margaret Thayer walked into the Linden Clinic, her coat buttoned against the December chill, wondering if there would be snow for Christmas next week. Oh well, she thought, at least I’ll have Robyn home for the Holidays. That’s the main thing.


Inside the clinic, Doctor Linden himself, portly, greying, with a stern but gentle fatherly air, greeted Mrs. Thayer and showed her to a patients1 lounge where Robyn was waiting. She scarcely recognized the demure, quiet, well-mannered young lady in the long skirt, sensible shoes, and high-collared blouse with lace at the cuffs. Robyn was working on a needlepoint


sampler, but as soon as her mother entered she rose gracefully and walked politely over to the older woman.


“Oh hello, Mommie Dearest,” Her voice was warm and loving, but much more refined than Mrs. Thayer had heard in many years. “It’s so nice to see you again! I’m really looking forward to Christmas at home. I’m even making you a present!”


“My!” Mrs. Thayer hugged her daughter warmly, “What a lovely surprise!”


A short time later, after Mrs. Thayer had signed the necessary papers for Robyn’s release, she asked,


“What about the woman who was brought here with Robyn? May I see her?”


Doctor Linden pursed his lips thoughtfully, then nodded.


“Normally, as you know, we do not permit the Sponsor to see the Patient while in treatment, but I think this case is exceptional enough to warrant it.”


As they walked down a maze of corridors, the Doctor continued:


“After all, Claire is an adult, her problem is a serious one, and you have been generous enough to pay for her treatment here.” He opened the door to a gymnasium. “Come in here.”


Inside the elaborate gym, Mrs. Thayer looked dispassionately at the strange sight.


The woman on the treadmill was nude.


Her thrusting breasts, generous bottom, and long, shapely smooth legs gave ample proof of that. Her feet had been bound so that she could only walk on tip-toe. Knee hobbles gave her about eighteen inches of freedom to move her legs. Behind her back, her wrists and elbows had been strapped together and then pulled high up on her back by means of a leather strap that attached to her elbow cuffs and braided tightly into her long blonde hair. A collar encircled her neck, and from this a leash, just three feet long, ran down to a metal ring at the base of the treadmill, forcing her to bend sharply forward at the waist even as her neck and shoulders were arched cruelly backwards by the elbow-bondage, pushing her 40-D breasts out in front of her.


Between the cheeks of her incredibly round, silky-smooth bottom was a small vibrator, operated by remote control. A matching vibrator nestled between her nether-lips, both devices held in place by narrow straps of black leather that stood out excitingly against the round ivory-paleness of her ass and legs.


Strapped irrecoverably in her mouth was not a gag, but a shiny black plastic bicycle horn with a rubber bulb that filled her mouth completely. She could not talk, but could communicate, after a fashion, by squeezing the rubber bulb in her mouth. Like a trained seal.


Her face was lovely, with smooth skin, pretty, upturned nose, and just a hint of makeup. The expression in her eyes, as she stared at Mrs. Thayer, was


not one of pain, but rather of shock. Bewilderment. An Alice-in-Wonderland expression, as if, even after all these months, she still couldn’t believe that this was happening to her!


“I know it’s a shocking sight,” Dr. Linden said soberly, “I can only hope to comfort you, Mrs. Thayer, with the knowledge that she was accustomed to much harsher treatment from her female lovers.”


“Doctor,” Mrs. Thayer looked with sick fascination at the bound woman stepping daintily on the treadmill. “Why isn’t she cured by now? Why is her deprogramming taking so much longer than Robyn’s did?”


“Reasonable questions, Mrs. Thayer,” The Doctor replied, “I can’t answer all of them, but I may be able to give you some indication of what we’re up against here and what we’ve been able to do so far.


“When Claire was brought here, she was under the most extraordinary delusions. She insisted that she was a man and she demanded that we let her talk to you. As you know, of course, we simply do not permit Sponsors to see patients who are brought in under their aegis, so the request was denied, the patient tranquilized, and given a complete physical by the Doctor on duty. We discovered that she was suffering from a severe hormonal imbalance. One that we have been able to correct with regular glandular injections. She now has a completely female hormone count.


“Her mind was another problem. She kept insisting that she was really a man, j despite the obvious evidence to the contrary,” Doctor Linden looked meaningfully at the bouncing, pulchritudinous charms of bound woman tiptoing naked in the bent-over pose on the treadmill, and he could not resist a faint smile. “She became angry and abusive when we refused to release her, and she had a violent reaction to the attending physician who gave her the initial Physical. After a while, she quit asking for you, and her delusion shifted slightly. Let me see the notes here—-Oh yes, it seems she insisted that we contact her trainer: Someone named Evelyn, I believe. She kept calling for Trainer Evelyn, or something like that. Obviously, she was referring to a previous lover who kept her in bondage and probably sold her to those singers your daughter was found with.


“At any rate, we put her in a full body-cast and placed her#in a sensory-deprivation tank for two days. Since she is so obviously unbalanced, it was a simple matter to have the State Board probate her into our custody until her true identity can be discovered. The attending physician played tapes for her in the tank, like the ones we used on Robyn, imbuing her with more traditional thought patterns for a female, instilling strong feelings of modesty, obedience, and even a bit of old-fashioned prudish-ness.


“These tapes changed Clair’s attitude as completely as they did Robyn1s, but they still did not cure her delusion that she is really a male. We have managed to discover through hypnosis that she was once called Claire, and the doctor in charge of her case thinks that she may even be married, but that’s as much as we’ve been able to discover.


“But to continue: This delusion of Clair’s is extremely elaborate, which is typical in her case. She was able to give the Doctor exact addresses of her imaginary residence and office, her bank card pass-numbers, safety-deposit boxes, and other confidential information that only a man of her supposed identity would have. I checked them out myself a few weeks later and found that the office was vacant, the bank accounts closed, and the apartment was actually the residence of a prominent newspaper editor.


“Two months ago, Claire started making plans to escape. She tried bribing a guard with all this money she thought she had, and naturally the guard came to us. We decided that this would be an excellent opportunity to test her conditioning. So we allowed the guard to ‘help’ her escape by arranging to have a car with money and male clothes waiting for her along the road just a few hundred yards from the building here. Then he showed her how to crawl through a vent from the Shower Room to the outside. But by that time, her feelings of feminine modesty were so strong that she simply could not bring herself to make the dash from the building to the car without clothing. It was impressive to watch on the closed-circuit cameras as she hesitated out there, nude, with clothing, transportation and money just a few-minutes’ run away. Yet she was completely unable to do it. She just stood there, frozen to the spot, until we went out and got her and brought her in to be punished.”


“Is this her punishment for trying to escape?” Mrs. Thayer asked.


On the treadmill, the bound woman began honking her horn. Dr. Linden ignored it.


“Oh no,” He replied, “This is for a completely different offense. When she was told that we are trying to locate her husband, Claire became violent again. She called the Doctor all sorts of vile names and her old delusion became stronger than ever. So we placed her on the treadmill like this to work off her excess energy. She finds her present unclad condition and silly posture painfully embarrassing, and when she slows down, we -ah- stimulate her with the vibrators. The horn in her mouth is a punishment for her shocking language. We find that when patients are reduced to only very basic communication, they quickly become more polite.”


“But what is it she’s trying to say?” Mrs. Thayer still could not tear her eyes away from the erotically thrilling sight of the jiggling, bound nude, bleating her horn desperately, “Such an odd rhythm! ‘Da-da-da , Daa-daa-daa, Da-da-da….”


“Probably the beat of one of those rock tunes to which she was subjected,” Dr. Linden surmised. “But we really should leave now. Our presence seems to be exciting her.”


“All right, Doctor,” Mrs. Thayer walked out of the gymnasium, the Doctor’s hand on her arm, warm and reassuring. “But do you think you’ll ever be able to cure her?”


“I have the utmost confidence,” He replied, “Her Attending Physician, Doctor Naomi Bernstein, is one of the most intelligent on our staff, and she has taken this case as a personal challenge and commitment. She works around the clock to stay close to Claire, and she feels that as soon as we find her husband, we’ll see a remarkable change….”


Back in the gymnasium, alone with her patient, Dr. Bernstein slowly walked up to the woman mincing naked on the treadmill.


“Very clever, Clinton,” She smiled, “Too bad Mrs. Thayer didn’t understand your ‘S-O-S’. I’m going to have to give you extra punishment for that.”


Casually, she flipped a switch, activating the rear vibrator, and accelerated the treadmill a notch. Then she picked up a leather paddle.


“But before I start, I want you to know that I’ve found your Husband,” Her smile grew wider, the lips curling back from her white teeth as her hooded eyes shone with excitement. And pleasure. “His name is Roger. He’s very wealthy, black as the ace of spades, and gay as a dozen hairdressers. He’s always wanted a male lover that he could pass off as his wife, and you seem perfect for it. He won’t mind at all if you’re a bit reluctant at first, because he’s very much into administering bondage and discipline and he can’t wait to try it out on you. Of course, with all the female hormone we’ve been giving you, you’ll probably fall madly in love with your Prince Charming at first sight. Won’t that be sweet? I’ll probably even give you a post-hypnotic suggestion so that you do something really lovey-dovey when you meet him. But of course, we won’t let your new husband take you out of here until we know you’re permanently cured!”


Dr. Bernstein swished the paddle in the air, studying the bouncing, vibrating, feminine tush in front of her. Then her eyes swept lustfully all over the nude, ultra-feminine, bound form of the former male detective who now minced submissively in front of her.


“And I hope,” Crack! went the paddle, “that’s not,” Crack! Crack! “for a long, long time!”


Crack! Crack! CRACK!!

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