To my readers - It took me years of reading TG fiction on the web before I got the courage to write Boy Nanny, the first piece of fiction I ever wrote. Then it took six months or so to actually write it. By the time I had nearly finished, I was so eager to see it posted, that I sent it to Crystal at least two drafts too soon. As a result, it was full of careless mistakes. So I watched first with relief, then with gratification, and finally with some awe, as it became one of the most popular stories on Storysite.

To celebrate Boy Nanny's success, and as a small thank you to readers who have been willing to ignore all the errors, I have finally gone through and corrected all those annoying mistakes that detracted from the first version. Along the way I also made some minor changes to the story and tightened up the dialog.

Better yet, Sweet Chastity has created a terrific image that is now embedded in the story.

I hope you enjoy.

 

The Boy Nanny

by Kelly Ann Rogers

 

Part 1

 

Chapter 1: Things Weren't That Bad to Begin With

I gently shifted little Emma into the curve of my right elbow, shrugged the strap of my gown off my shoulder, and pulled the lacy bodice to the side. She was already searching for the nipple with her lips, so she started suckling as soon as I placed her mouth against my breast. Once she had gotten a good grip on my nipple, I started shifting around, tugging at the seat of my gown and robe to straighten them so I could sit comfortably. You would think that after all this time I would have learned to straighten them before I sit. But there's been so much to learn. Breastfeeding Emma, for example, I really didn't know what to do at first, and then my nipples got dry and cracked, and then my breasts got sore when I tried to put off a feeding. But she is my baby, and breast feeding is so much healthier. It's just that I always figured it would be the mom who nursed the baby, not me. As sweet as it feels to have Emma suckling at my breast, I still feel a wave of humiliation surge through me as she starts. And because I'm now awake, I can't help remembering, yet again, how the father ended up nursing his baby.

It was the week between Christmas and New Years and I was enjoying the relative calm in a somewhat deserted New York City. The schools were closed and the kids and their families away on vacation. The center of the city was crowded with tourists, but the neighborhoods weren't. That's something most people don't understand about Manhattan, it's made of hundreds of small neighborhoods, each a few square blocks. Mine was on the upper west side. I had graduated from Brown University two years ago with a major in drama and I was in New York to make my career on Broadway. I could act, I could sing, and I could dance. Oh, I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I was young and had started off full of hope.

By the end of 1998, however, I was frustrated and beginning to get more than a little desperate. I was working full-time as a waiter in a small upscale bistro not too far from Lincoln Center. I was good at it and earned pretty good money. This paid my third of the rent and supported my lessons in acting and dancing. Oh, how I love to dance. But the performing jobs have been too few to support me, and not always the kind I wanted. People like me well enough, but I'm finally beginning to figure out that my size really is a hindrance. At not quite 5'7" (OK, I'm 5'6"), I'm not much bigger than most of woman dancers and smaller than many. And a small leading man just isn't what producers are looking for these days. In fact, most of the jobs I got were for parts as teenagers.

But I was getting by for now, loving my classes, and, I had a way with the ladies. There are plenty of ladies in New York City, let me tell you. At 5:30 in the afternoon when the offices are letting out, attractive women are streaming all over the streets of Manhattan, beautifully dressed, heads held high, and looking for Mr. Right, sometimes just for an evening, and sometimes for longer. A good-looking, aspiring young actor was a pretty good catch, even if he really was a waiter.

After awhile, I discovered that the combination of my good looks, natural friendliness, and university education was attractive to a slightly older, more successful group of 30_something professional women. I learned that I didn't have to play macho with them and that it was better if I didn't. They preferred to be in charge of their relationships. Maybe that's why they were unmarried despite their good looks and brains. No matter how pretty, or sexy, or sweet they were, before too long their dominant streaks would scare off any man who might be their equal in brains, drive, or business success.

While I was as smart as any of them, I wasn't successful in too many other things (just for now, I hoped), and I certainly didn't earn much money. So, while these women could afford to take me to the opera, the best I could offer was my personal guided tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, when it was open free on Tuesday evenings. They took me to fancy restaurants and clubs in SoHo, and I took them for walks in Central Park, where I treated them as if we were long separated sweethearts. They took me to Fire Island or the Hamptons for long weekends, and I was charming and deferential, and made love to them as if we were doomed lovers with only one night left together. In other words, they treated me pretty much the way an affluent guy might treat a trophy girlfriend. I, in turn, did what was expected of anyone whose date just bought an expensive dinner.

This didn't bother me in the least. I had no problem giving what they wanted. I was discovering a submissive streak in my personality that I hadn't really known about before, and I was slightly appalled to learn that I liked having someone else in charge. I was content doing what they wanted and simply adored the time I spent with either my tongue or my dick buried in a pussy. They loved the attention, and I had no responsibilities in any of these relationships expect to be bright, engaging, and attentive. And, when I needed to be, I could be a very good actor.

Eventually, I was being shared by a loose circle of friends, all successful professional women. Two of the women in this group who seemed to enjoy me the most were also close friends. Sheila was a hard driving Ob/Gyn to the monied women on the Upper East Side. She was a workaholic, practiced medicine with a passion, and was completely loyal to her patients. She completely dominated me and just about everyone else she knew. Her need to dominate was too much for my taste at times, but she earned a fortune and figured that she could buy my tolerance and attention with fancy dinners, expensive gifts (especially clothes, she bought me an Armani tuxedo that was the envy of almost everyone who saw it), and by placing no demands on me when we weren't together. I guess I was a hot date when we were both available. She was also gorgeous, but created an almost unapproachable aura with her clothes and makeup. She usually wore her long golden hair tied tightly in a bun, slightly overdid her makeup, and preferred severe clothes. She liked to show me off as a symbol of the sexuality she buried under that cool professional demeanor. She also liked to pin me on my back and ride my hard dick for all she was worth.

"Look what I have, girls, don't you wish you could have him?" And they did, too.

I met Sheila through her friend Amanda, one of her patients. Amanda was just adorable. Sweet face, loosely curled dirty blonde hair that fell to her shoulders, and a lithe body. In fact, she was just about my size, but where I had a typically thin male body (with none-too-road shoulders, I'm afraid), she had curves. She was awesome in a tight sweater and jeans, but she mostly preferred a more feminine flowing kind of look, with layered soft tops and longish skirts that looked just sublime clinging to her tall thin frame. She also liked to trap my head under those skirts and squeeze my face into her pussy with her muscular thighs.

Their personalities were as different as their looks. Amanda was so charming and kind, she actually made me feel a little gooey inside. I knew that I was mostly just a diversion for her, but she made me feel like her lover. When we were together, it was my job to make her feel special, so I pampered her when we were out of bed and worshiped her body when we were in it. She never seemed to take this for granted. Unlike most of the women who saw me, she seemed to exult in my attentions, which only made me more eager to please her. We could spend a rainy afternoon curled up on a couch in the eight room apartment she inherited from her first mother (what she did with an eight room apartment except to hire people to clean it was beyond me), or watch a romantic girly flick together. When I was with Sheila, I had the feeling that what I was doing was kind of an obligation, but when I was with Amanda, I reveled in it. She made me feel needed even though she was the one who was in charge of our relationship.

Of course, I only saw her when she wanted to see me. She worked for a fancy auction house on the Upper East Side and traveled frequently to acquire the costly art, antiques, and other stuff that they then resold. I heard that she was the last person you would want to have to bid against. She was absolutely ruthless when she had to do business with someone who tried to take advantage of her. She used her sweet disposition and soft good looks to put men at ease. If you were fair with her, you got a good deal. If you miscalculated and tried to take advantage of her, she ate you for lunch.

There were others from the group as well, ad executives, lawyers, even a plastic surgeon, but those mostly came and went. The two girlfriends, Sheila and Amanda were the most constant thread in my relatively brief life as a sort of male escort in New York City. So, I spent my time charming the affluent people on whose tables I waited five nights each week, taking dancing and acting lessons, which were making me broke, and dating well-heeled women when they wanted me, which is how I got to live the high life in New York City.

Then the roof fell in. I had made the final cut in three straight auditions, but didn't get any of the parts. I was depressed and angry. I even had fight with one of the directors, who suggested that given my size and long hair, perhaps I should be trying out for some girl's roles. Then he had security throw me out. Real tough guy.

Not long after that, I had to go to work. I was still pissed off when I walked in, and quickly lost my patience with a little old lady who simply couldn't make up her mind between the clam chowder and leek and potato soup.

'Oh, spare me your drama,' I thought, rolling my eyes. 'Just pick a fucking soup.' It might not have been so bad, but while I was standing there watching her dither, another table was desperately trying to get my attention. I was in a no win situation and when the other table finally caught my eye, I managed to make the worst of it by pointedly telling the woman I was waiting for her to pick a damn soup already, other people needed me too. While I was in the kitchen, she had a talk with the manager. So did the people at the other table.

"You little prick," he yelled. "Who the fuck do you think you are! You don't treat my customers like that! Get the hell out of here."

"Well, fuck you too." I was gone.

Next, I had a fight with Sheila. I was still angry and she was feeling bitchy after a couple of long nights on call. Since she was the one paying for my attentions, I guess she had a right to be put off by my pissy mood.

"You little whore," she spit out, with more anger than insight, "I don't pay you to be bitchy."

Well, what could be meaner than attacking someone with the truth? That's just how I had been feeling, like a whore. My anger, which I never showed her, flared up, fueled by her nastiness and my own despair at not being able to get work as an actor or dancer, and having been fired from my menial job as a waiter.

"The reason you have to spend time with me tonight, or any other night for that matter, is because no one else in their right mind would spend any time with such a domineering bitch." After a few more acid insults from each of us, she threw me out.

So I went home, only to be confronted by my two male roommates, who had decided that they were in love, and needed their own apartment. Since one of them actually held the lease, I was the odd man out (which seemed kind of odd since I was the only straight one there). They gave me two weeks to leave.

Usually, when I was angry, I would walk along Central Park West, and my anger would dissipate in the beauty and bustle of the city. On this night, however, it just got stronger and stronger. I was swept away by my failures. I couldn't get work as an actor or dancer, I was about to be homeless, and I had prostituted myself to a bunch of well-off, overbearing bitches for nothing but a few fancy suits and opera tickets. Shit, their idea of a relationship was to exploit someone too poor to fight back. Fuck 'em all!

That's when I ran into Amanda. She could see I was upset and tried to comfort me. She took me back to her apartment, gave me all the wine I wanted, and let me rant and rave for a while. Then, she tried to comfort me with hugs and caresses. Little slut that I was, I started to get turned on. As my penis stiffened, I decided that Amanda needed to get laid. She disagreed and told me not to be a jerk and that "no" meant "no!"

In the end, what it came down to was that I raped Amanda. She said no. I didn't stop. I've been through it in my mind a thousand times, and that's still the only conclusion that really makes sense to me. I knew better, but I didn't stop. Lots of men might have said she had it coming, or that "no" meant "convince me," but I knew what she meant, and I ignored her.

Really, I was getting even with Sheila and all the other women who had used me (and this did include Amanda). But surely, of all the women I had known, Amanda deserved it the least. On that night, however, I wouldn't let myself feel that. Even after I had left her sobbing on the floor of her antique stuffed living room, I wasn't really aware that I had done something wrong. I worked hard to convince myself that she had asked for it. What I didn't know then, was that I was the one who was going to get it. Actually, by the time I went to sleep (which is to say, passed out), I didn't know anything. I had gotten as drunk as I'd ever been.

So, when I awoke the next afternoon, I wasn't quite sure if I should be worried or not. I went out to run my errands, pick up some fresh coffee at the Starbuck's on the next block, and bagels at the bakery on the corner of 81st and Broadway. When I got back there was a message from Sheila. She wanted to make up. Maybe I was just too stupid to hear the menace in her voice, or maybe she just hid it too well, but all I heard was an invitation to meet her at her apartment that evening at 9:30 for a late dinner. I had plenty of time. I straightened the apartment, even cleaning up after the two love birds who were about to throw me out, went for a long run in Central Park, and then joined a late afternoon dance class at the studio. By the time I got back and started to get ready to meet Sheila I was physically exhausted, mentally drained, and too focused on my thoroughly tired body to be thinking about last night.

When Sheila greeted me at her door, I wasn't really paying attention.

"Hi baby?" I offered tentatively, suddenly realizing I didn't know if she had spoken to Amanda.

"Hiiiiii baaaaaby," she responded, a little too cheerfully for someone who had heard Amanda's tearful story three times already over the course of a long sleepless night. I followed her in, momentarily captivated as she turned her back, which was beautifully bare because she was wearing a halter top tied behind her neck.

"Grab a drink. I've got a great Merlot open on the bar. I poured you a glass."

Well, good deal, usually she makes me open and pour. I grabbed the crystal goblet sitting on the bar, sniffed briefly (like I really cared about its aroma), and took a big swallow, then another. Good stuff! I drained the balloon shaped glass, refilled it, took a couple of more big gulps, refilled it again, and joined Sheila in the kitchen. As I entered, I noticed that there was no food.

"No food?" I asked. "That's strange; I thought we were going to have a late dinner."

"Oh, you'll be better off with an empty stomach. Can I get you some more to drink?" Since she had drugged my drink and planned to have me unconscious as soon as possible, she wanted me to drink up. Well, I had already consumed enough of that great Merlot and whatever else she had added to it. The world was getting blurry very quickly. The last thing I remember was the remarkable sparkle of Sheila's golden hair, and strangely, the three piercings in her right ear lobe, the one I must have fallen past as I slid to the floor, unconscious.

Chapter 2: Let's Start at the beginning again, shall we?

When I awoke, I was tied up. Well, more accurately, tied down. I was in one of the spare rooms in Sheila's condo, flat on my back, with my hands stretched up above my head and my feet spread toward the corners of the cast-iron bed frame I had helped Sheila select at a downtown antique store not that long ago. I had a rigid collar around my neck that prevented me from looking down or around. My head hurt, my chest hurt, my throat was dry, and I needed to pee. Not only that, but I had an IV in my left arm. The stand was just in my line of sight and I could see the fluids dripping into the line. I also noted that something seemed to be tugging at the middle of my nose, as I moved my upper lip around, it pushed against the septum between the two nostrils. I stuck my tongue out to explore. . . I had a ring in my nose! They put those into bulls, to control them, don't they? Shit, shit, shit.

I'm a pretty smart guy, so I immediately assessed my situation and began to panic. I could feel my heart rate start to accelerate and I was hyperventilating within half a minute. I pulled at my restraints, but they were secure and I couldn't move more than a couple of inches in any direction. After a few moments, I started to calm down and really worry.

If Sheila had drugged me and tied me up, she must know what I had done to Amanda. That was not good. As I tried to figure out what she might do to me, I all of a sudden became really frightened about my dick. I mean, what are people always threatening to do to rapists? I focused on my groin and discovered I could still feel what seemed to be my penis, but it felt. . . strange. I tried to flip it around a little by moving my hips, but it seemed to be pulled back between my legs and restrained somehow so it couldn't flop around as usual. Worse, it became clear to me that there was something quite bulky around my hips and ass, and whatever this something was, it was bunched up between my legs. Moving my hips was not a good idea in any case, because it just put pressure on my bladder and my need to pee increased.

So, I took the next logical step. I started to call out. There was no answer. I called louder,

"Sheila . . . Sheila! . . . SHEILA . . . Get in here and let me up I need to pee!" Hey, am I one tough guy or what? Still, no answer. After about 15 minutes, I stopped yelling for help and just tried not to pee in my pants, or whatever I was wearing. As time went on, I began to understand what was so bulky around my middle and tight between my legs. It must be a diaper! No one is here to let me go to the bathroom, and I'm in a diaper, Sheila couldn't really. . . , she wouldn't really . . . . . . SHIT! She left me in a diaper because she wasn't coming back soon, and I was going to have to wet myself.

While lying there with that thought, and using my tongue to play with the nose ring, I started to get stomach cramps, and another ugly suspicion started to grow. If someone didn't get back soon, I was going to do a lot more than just wet myself. I found out months later that I had been given a not so mild laxative and plenty of fluids to make sure I made a big mess. I did. Over the course of who knows how many hours, I filled my diaper with whatever had been in my bowels and bladder, and had to lie in it for what seemed like forever. I spent a good deal of that time crying, although I'm still not sure if it was for me, what I did to Amanda, or for Amanda herself.

Finally, someone showed up. Although I was in no position to appreciate it at the time, my "nurse" was a hunk. He was well over six feet tall, weighed probably 210 pounds, had light sandy hair and a face that was more pretty than rugged. Before he freed my legs to clean me up, he jerked my nose ring.

"Oh," he said blandly, as I screamed, "did that hurt? Well, you better not give me a hard time then, I would hate to pull this out."

I hadn't yet started to figure out how to escape and that little jerk on my nose ring (MY NOSE RING!) short-circuited any possibility that I might. "Hey," I said, trying to sound friendly, "what's going on here? Why am I tied down like this?"

"Sorry, honeybunch," he said, "can't tell you anything. And if you don't shut up, I'm going to gag you. Your choice." I started to answer but he cocked an eyebrow at me and I snapped my mouth shut. Things were bad enough; I didn't need a gag too.

As he removed my diaper, I remembered that I was covered in excrement and felt disgusting. He didn't seem to mind, but I sure did! I felt humiliated to be cared for like a baby by this guy I had never met. And he was so fucking cheerful about the whole thing. He kept calling me sweetie, telling me how cute I was, and how I would be a knockout when I was done. What the fuck was he talking about? I'm a prisoner of a crazed feminist gynecologist and her large gay flunky. I hoped against hope that Sheila wasn't too mad.

While he was cleaning me, I felt him move something just in front of my asshole. It kind of flipped back and forth as he wiped and then he finally lifted it, pulling on my tender perineum, I figured out what it was. Oh shit! Another ring! What the hell was that doing there? After cleaning me, he put a new diaper under my butt, and again restrained my legs. I could feel him start to manipulate my penis. He seemed to loosen something from around it and then take whatever it was off entirely. It was only then that I could feel something pulling at the skin on the bottom of the head of my penis. Each time he moved me, I could feel what I was now sure was a ring flopping around under my penis.

He played with me so that I had an erection the whole time he was cleaning my penis, and as he finished and threw away his wet wipes (you know, the kind moms use on babies), he chuckled and said, "We certainly don't want that infected, do we?" Might have to cut the whole thing off."

He smiled, indicating he was joking, but a cold shiver speared me. He handled my penis in a very attentive and loving way, almost as if it belonged to him. As I was to learn much later on, it did belong to him, as did the rest of me. But I didn't know that then, and wouldn't for many months. I only knew that this guy was cleaning me like he was making love to me. Suddenly, he scared me to death by spraying something cold on my penis, which quickly shrank allowing him to refit the restraint, which was in turn clipped to the ring in my penis. By pulling the penis ring back, he was able to clip it to the ring in my perineum, which pointed the head down and back.

"Guess you'll be sitting to pee for a while," he grinned as he pinned up my diaper." If you ever get out of diapers that is."

Tommy, as I learned his name was, began to examine and clean other parts of my body. As he manipulated my right ear lobe, I thought I could feel him pull something through a hole. . . more than once. By really concentrating when he did the other ear, I was able to count at least three holes. They had pierced my ears at least three times on each side! What the hell for?

Next, he turned to my chest. He said he had to clean the wounds under my arm pits, but they would become all but invisible over time, and I would have no trouble shaving there. 'Huh?' was all I could think. I was totally confused, but at least I couldn't feel any rings in my nipples. While Tommy cleaned whatever he was cleaning, he took the opportunity to massage my breasts in a very erotic way. As I quickly learned, he really knew his way around nipples, and I started to get turned on. Naturally, my dick started to harden in response. That didn't last long. As my shaft started to grow it encountered the restraint, which choked it quite effectively. After a few moments of pain, my incipient hard on ebbed quickly away, leaving me gasping in pain, pleasure, and confusion.

Finally, Tommy checked something lumpy under the skin just above each elbow. Then, he blew me a kiss and left. I was alone again. I worried and I cursed myself for what I had done to Amanda. The IV dripped fluids into my arm and I periodically peed into my diaper. What difference did it make? I cried some, dozed fitfully, and felt guilty and remorseful. Tommy appeared periodically to change my diaper, give me a sip of water, and tend to the other parts of my body. He even put a balm on my lips to keep them from chapping. Or was it lipstick? It didn't taste like any balm I had ever encountered. Instead, it had a faint strawberry like taste. After who knows how long, I was completely disoriented, hungry beyond belief, and feeling totally defeated.

All of a sudden, I saw Amanda standing over me. Since I could barely move my head, she had to lean over my face so I could see her.

"I'm sorry!" I cried. But she just stared at me, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

"You broke my heart. You just better pray I'm not pregnant."

God no! I hadn't even considered that. I started to say I was sorry again, but she slapped my face, turned and walked out of my line of sight.

A moment later, Sheila was there. There weren't any tears in her eyes, just calculated anger. I cringed. She melted my ego with her stare.

"Listen, you little shit, I would have cut your prick off already if Amanda hadn't stopped me. You're going to pay for what you did to her, and I might get that sorry little sausage yet." She just oozed hatred. "Right now, you're undergoing some adjustments." She jerked my nose ring. "Your real punishment will begin soon."

"How long have I been here? What are you going to do?" I pleaded.

She too slapped me and disappeared just like Amanda had.

As it turned out, I spent more than a month tied to that bed. I was sedated most of the time by drugs in my IV. Because I wasn't eating, I lost more than 25 pounds from my already spare frame. The bumps above my elbows were continuous release implants of estrogen and progesterone, which along with the spironolactone in my IV, played havoc with my mood and started softening my body and shrinking my nuts.

Worse, having spent so much time completely disoriented and in a diaper, I began to ignore bowel control. At some point, I just allowed myself to go whenever the urge hit. I even started to wet myself in my sleep.

The scars under my arm pits were small implanted ports that allowed Tommy to inject a little silicone every few days, so that my breast size was slowly, but inexorably increased. The hormones would cause me to grow my own breast tissue around these implants to insure that I would eventually have a substantial set of tits.

By the time Sheila had Tommy untie me, I was so weak I could barely sit up. I was emaciated, having used a good deal of my muscle mass in the place of food, and I was ready to do whatever I was told. As I sat shakily on the edge of the bed in a clean diaper, gazing at my now A cup breasts, Sheila quickly laid down the ground rules. She took a thin silver chain and clipped it to my nose ring. With a light tug, she pulled my face up so I had to look right into hers.

"You raped my best friend, you little shit. She wanted to have you arrested. I wanted to castrate you on the spot. My mob friends offered to throw you off the Staten Island Ferry with your dick stuffed down your throat and a heavy chain wrapped around your neck. Then, I had a better idea." Sheila was hissing she was so agitated. "With the help of a little drug therapy, behavioral modification, and whatever else it takes, you still might become a useful member of society. Instead of being a parasitic failure of a dancer, you could be a contributing to society as a MAID!"

She kept talking, but I wasn't paying attention anymore. I imagined myself vacuuming Sheila's living room dressed in nothing but a little white apron and white maid's cap. That looked pretty ridiculous, but being a maid might be better than spending the rest of my life in a diaper tied to a bed. It's certainly better than jail, and being crab food on the bottom of the East River was definitely not on my list of things to do. I can clean a condo for the foreseeable future. What the hell, some might say it's a step up from being a whore. Anyway, one day she would forget to be careful, and I would be gone.

When I tuned back in, Sheila was on a completely different subject. "What happens down the road will be determined by how you behave. The best you can hope for is to become a passable woman. You don't want to think about what some of the less desirable outcomes might be. You already have one ring in your nose (she jerked it for emphasis), another in your penis, and one in your ass. If you ever want any of them removed (she was offering hope!), you better toe the line. And just remember, you try anything stupid and my mob friends get you."

As she said that, she took the silver chain, wrapped it around my neck, and pushed me off the bed. After I hit the floor, I curled into a fetal position and lay there passively, not even looking up. The combination of the sedatives, hormones, and guilt led me to simply accept my fate. I had no fight in me. Plus, I was so remorseful I believed that I deserved to be punished like this. Perhaps I did.

I knew Sheila would have this figured out. In fact, she had boxed me in completely. First, my penis restraint was an effective chastity belt. I couldn't get it off without damaging my penis, and there was no way I was going to do that. Second, she emptied my apartment and tossed all my clothes. I had no where to go and nothing to wear. Third, she emptied my bank account. And, as I was about to discover, I had only minimal bowel or bladder control. I was not only naked, homeless, and broke; I also had the toilet habits of a two year old. Add the rigid neck collar and the nose ring to all that, and it was pretty obvious that she owned me lock, stock, and barrel.

After Sheila was done with me, Tommy picked me up and took me in to take a bath. First, he unlocked my penis, stood me in the shower and coated me with a depilatory.

"Don't you dare piss or shit while this stuff is on," he warned. But I couldn't even stand up and slid to the floor of the shower where I huddled for the next 20 minutes while the cream burned my skin. He simply left me there while he used the showerhead to clean me off. I peed while I was lying there, not even realizing what was happening until it did. I guess Tommy didn't notice.

He lifted my now hairless body and placed me into a scented bubble bath, again warning me not to foul myself. I passed out and probably would have drowned if he hadn't been hovering over me, expecting just that. I cycled in and out of consciousness in the bathroom while Tommy tended to me.

When I came back to awareness, I was again diapered and on the bed. Tommy was caressing my head as I opened my eyes, but he stopped right away. I soon discovered that I wasn't restrained anymore and that I could move my head. I still had a collar on, but it was a lot smaller than my previous one.

I looked down and saw that I was wearing a pink cotton baby doll style nightgown with pale, creamy lace at the sleeves, collar and hem. The hem barely covered my lap, so I could immediately see the ruffled panties that covered my diaper. The sensations were coming so fast my head nearly exploded with humiliation. I saw my little breasts create a slight rise in the bodice of the gown. They were hardly bigger than the ones you would see on a thirteen year old girl barely into puberty. And that wasn't all. As I looked down, two other things hit me at the same time. The first was the weight pulling on my nose. The chain was now run off to the side through a second ring on the edge of my right nostril, which directed it past the edge of my mouth and from there down to the side of my new collar. The second was the now blond, loosely curled hair brushing my cheeks. I was a 24 year old man, with the diaper, nightgown, and curled hair of a toddler, the breasts of a 13 year old, and the nose ring of a slave. I passed out again.

Chapter 3: Our Little Girl Starts to Grow Up

Over the following couple of weeks, I started to regain my strength, and began the first phase of my training. Because I was a little girl, and all little girls had dollies, I got a Barbie. I was required to carry her at all times and she became my constant companion.

"You want to be an actor," Sheila mocked. "Here's your chance to demonstrate some of your skills. You're a baby, act like one." So, I waddled around with a stiff legged gait and talked with a cute little lithsp. I wasn't allowed to use big words; those were for grownups. Worst of all, I had to talk to my dolly. I was to keep up a constant stream of babyish patter so she wouldn't get bored or lonely. After a while, talking all the time like a little girl, I found it hard not to think like one as well.

That actually turned out to be a good thing. I discovered that if I did what they wanted, they praised me and treated me like a cute baby. If not, I was punished. I couldn't believe how sensitive I was to punishment. My moods were remarkably fragile, I cried easily, and before too long, even an angry glance from Mrs. Spinner, Sheila's housekeeper and my trainer, would demoralize me. And she seemed to be angry with me all the time.

In truth, Mrs. Spinner could barely contain her contempt for what I had done and what I had become. Who could blame her? I was a rapist who now slept in cotton baby dolls, spent his days in little jumpers, or rompers, and always wore a diaper and ruffled rubber panties. The least show of resistance from me was met with punishment from her. She would whip the backs of my thighs with a small leather crop for the slightest indiscretion and just loved to pull me from one task to the next by the chain running from my nose ring. If she lost patience with me, she would just tether my chain to a hook on a closet door so that I had to stand perfectly straight with my head tilted as high up as it would go to keep the ring from pulling. It was even worse, when she would attach the chain to my baby booties, so I had to bend over with my ass up in the air. She would whip me and leave me there, with a silver hand mirror on the floor in front of my face.

"Good for your disposition," she grunted.

Since I spent so much of that time crying, I'm not sure how she wanted my disposition to turn out. It didn't matter; I was a wreck from the hormones and the stress, I was constantly working to play my role so I wouldn't be whipped by Mrs. Spinner, and I was scared to death of Sheila. Whenever anyone else was around, most often one of Sheila's girlfriends, but an occasional male friend as well, I was tormented and humiliated. As exhausted as I was by all of this, I wasn't even sleeping well.

I wasn't allowed to use the bathroom and was forced to go in my diaper. Tommy took care of changing me, and was always very tender about it. He was especially caring rubbing cream on the welts on my legs, and he almost always managed to give me an erection by playing with my penis. But they were never allowed to last long and always ended with that cold spray and my chastity device being put back on.

I didn't know it at the time, but Tommy and Mrs. Spinner were playing good cop _ bad cop. She was the hard case and was constantly degrading and punishing me. He would comfort and care for me. I became more and more dependent on him for emotional nurturing. Although I didn't realize it, he was treating me as if I was his little girl.

Mrs. Spinner also taught me to set my hair, and introduced me to girly makeup, nail polish, and perfume. Being a baby, my skin had to be baby soft and smooth, and my regimen of hair removal, skin care, hair care, and so forth took hours each day. During the rest of the day, I would help with the apartment. With two of us working at it, every room was always immaculate. And Mrs. Spinner occupied my free time by tying the chain from my nose to the vanity and having me change my hairstyle or make up. I curled and braided, wove ribbons and clipped barrettes. I played with eye shadow and blush and lipstick. I already had some skill from years of using stage makeup, but now I was to develop the ability to make myself look like a girl. I was always perfectly groomed. Still, I looked perfectly ridiculous.

After about a month, I had apparently learned all I needed to as a baby, so one evening, Sheila announced that it was time for my transition to puberty (lucky me, I got to skip the rest of my preteen years). To celebrate, there would be a big party.

"Whittle girls whove big parties, don't they?" Mrs. Spinner taunted as I sat before her on the floor of my bedroom with my feet straight out in front of me like a baby. They really liked to have me sit like that and play with my Barbie when their friends were visiting. It never failed to humiliate me.

"Don't you just adore the nice new party dress Aunt Sheila bought you?" I was encased in a pink satin party dress with sheer puffed sleeves that ended in the middle of my now skinny upper arms. There was a lace placket across the bodice and two rows of lace at the hem. A waist band of organza roses trailed pink ribbons down to the hem on each side, and, like any toddler's party dress, it barely reached mid thigh. This gave periodic glimpses of the ruffled pink panties that covered my diaper. I had little white lace anklets on my soft smooth legs, and white Maryjanes on my feet. Mrs. Spinner had directed me as I set my hair in small curlers, which I wore for a whole day. When they were removed, I had corkscrew curls everywhere. They were pulled back from my face on one side with a rhinestone studded comb. My face glowed with soft makeup and the constant blush of shame that burned my cheeks.

I had been living in a very protected environment for a couple of months now, and I was used to being dressed as a baby in front of Sheila, Mrs. Spinner, and Tommy. I actually enjoyed the pampering required to get me ready for this party and had started to revel in the femininity of my outfit. But when Mrs. Spinner led me out to Sheila and Amanda, reality came crashing in around me. They burst out laughing.

"Well, how is my big strong rapist now?" Amanda sneered as she circled me. Come here you little shit. I approached her fearfully, and she rewarded my caution with a resounding slap across my face. "You're pitiful."

I started to cry, but she cut me off, grabbing my chin the way an angry mother does. "Don't you dare ruin your makeup!" I managed to control myself as she stared into my eyes while Sheila snapped a short golden chain through my nose ring, threaded it to the side, and snapped it to one of my earrings, instead my collar. Well, that was slightly less ridiculous than it had been.

Amanda went on, "You're helping Mrs. Spinner serve tonight. Just remember though, you are a waitress, not a waiter. And, you will need one more lesson before the party starts. Mrs. Spinner really wanted to do this herself, but I insisted that I get the privilege. You need to learn how to curtsey."

I started to shrink away, but Amanda slipped her finger under the gold chain and pulled me back by the nose. "Yes, princess, you've got to be on your best behavior for our friends tonight. We don't want them thinking were raising a ragamuffin here do we?"

Actually, curtsying is no big deal. I picked it up in about two tries. I'm a dancer (well, I used to be) remember? Amanda was delighted. She virtually shrieked with glee once I had gotten it just right. Sheila and Mrs. Spinner both rushed in, with Tommy a step behind. I guess they all thought I had attacked Amanda again. Instead, they found me with my head bowed, and in a deep curtsey in front of her. Sheila laughed and Mrs. Spinner snorted as Amanda looked on giggling. Tommy gave me an appreciative wink when none of the others were looking.

"This might work," Amanda said as the doorbell rang. She turned to a mirror to check her lipstick. "Go let our guests in, angel. It's going to be a big night for you." She sounded positively loving as she glanced over her shoulder with her biggest smile. It warmed my heart as I headed for the door.

My mind was still captivated by Amanda's momentary kindness as I opened the door, but as soon as it swung aside, that warm feeling was replaced with cold dread. I wanted desperately to run, or fall through the floor, or jump off the balcony, anything but stay where I was. Standing right in front of me, just looking up was Samantha Marshall, a hot litigator with a large downtown firm. She had spent a few evenings with me and seemed to enjoy my attentive manner and the time I had spent with my face buried in her pussy. At first she was confused by the big baby girl standing in the doorway in a full curtsey, then her eyes widened in shock as she realized who I was, only to crinkle in the corners a moment later as she began to laugh.

"Why hello cutie; what a pretty dress. Did your mommy pick that out for you? Or did you select it yourself? By the way honey, what's your name?"

"She doesn't have a name yet." Sheila came sweeping in to embrace Samantha." We'll fix that later."

'Huh? What does that mean,' I started to think, but then the bell rang again, and again, and before I had a chance to consider just what Sheila had meant, the rest of the guests had arrived and gone through the same combination of confusion, shock, and amusement that Samantha had. Well, this should be a terrific party, everyone's already laughing. I had slept with many of the women, and knew most of others socially. Thankfully, there were no men. That was strange, but I was grateful. Not that it mattered, I was thoroughly humiliated in any case as one by one they entered, I curtsied, and they passed through the foyer laughing.

Soon, I was serving drinks and hor's devours. The women couldn't get enough of me, or pass up an opportunity to pinch, rub, grab, or embarrass me. They teased me incessantly and generally acted like little boys in the school playground. I couldn't count the number of times someone flipped up my skirt or stood behind me to reach around my chest and fondle my growing breasts. I sat on their laps and on the floor at their feet. I served and cleaned up. They dropped things constantly just to see me bend over to pick them up. The first time I tried to bend at the knee, but was roundly chastised, and from then on simply bent at the waist, knees straight, showing off my panties. They engaged me in conversation to force me to talk in my little girl lisp, and once one of them asked about my dolly, I was forced to talk about it with almost all of them. They told me about their dolls too. I never knew that so many little girls had such close relationships with their favorite dolls.

Just before midnight, Sheila stood up and called for attention. "I'm glad you've all had a good time playing with our little girlfriend here." She gestured me over and affectionately put her arm around my shoulder. She smiled down at me in what I almost took as a loving way. I suddenly realized that she was proud of me. Then I saw her expression change as she turned back to the group and realized that she wasn't proud of me, she was proud of what she had done to me.

"It's hard to believe, but this darling little girl was once a nasty rapist, and I know that many of you are still angry about that. So our next activity will be group punishment." She turned and grabbed my arm as I started to withdraw in fear. My first thought was that I had never realized how strong she was. As soon as that thought had popped into my mind, I realized the truth. I was now a weakling. With her other hand she clipped a chain onto my nose ring and pulled me to the center of the room. Amanda was sitting in a straight back chair. Sheila laid me down over Amanda's legs and tied the chain to one of the legs of the chair.

"Girls," Sheila beamed, "it's time for a little payback to little miss rapist here. She pulled down my panties and took off my diaper. My pretty pink ass sat in full view as I started to whimper.

"Amanda, dear, your honor." She gave Amanda my hairbrush, and Amanda wasted no time, raining well placed blows onto my behind. The women erupted in cheers and then started to taunt me.

"Bad girl, you're such a nasty little slut."

"Coward!"

"Wimp."

Bad, Bad Girl. . ."

By the time they were done, I wished I was dead. My ass was on fire and my ego was crushed even further. I felt like the worst, most despised person on the face of the earth. Amanda pushed me onto the floor. I just lay there whimpering, attached to the chair by the chain.

"OK girls, time for our next activity. Our little darling here has never had a name and now that she is about to grow up, she needs one."

"Bambi," someone shouted out.

"Missy!"

"Cissy!"

"Ali!"

"Colleen!"

"Jessica!"

One after another they shouted names, sometimes laughing, sometimes drawing a "That's it!" Or, "That's too nice," as they went along. Some wanted to humiliate me; others just wanted a cute name.

What the heck I thought, none too clearly, I might as well throw in my own two cents, "My mom said that she was going to call me Ashley if I had been born a girl."

This was met with a moment of stunned silence, and then the beginnings of objections.

"He can't name herself," someone shouted, "We get to do that."

"Wait a second," Sheila interrupted, "I think we should grant her mother's wish. After all, she is about to get a daughter!" Everyone laughed.

"And a granddaughter too!" More laughter.

"What?" I shouted, turning just far enough so as not to pull the ring out of my nose.

"Yes, you jerk," hissed Amanda as she swatted at my head with my hairbrush, "I'm pregnant."

Amanda and Sheila explained the whole thing over the next few minutes. Amanda wanted the baby, but she had no intention of taking care of it. She loved her job and her freedom too much. So I was going to be trained to be the nanny. Since it was my baby, I, as the other biological parent (they wouldn't use the word father), should take care of it. I now had about seven months to get ready.

Then they dropped the next bombshell. "He'll breast feed too," proclaimed Sheila; I know just how to manipulate his hormones to make sure he's lactating when the baby is born. Isn't that great ASHLEY?" She turned on me with the most demanding look I had ever seen.

"Y . . Y . . Yes Ma'am," I stuttered, without really understanding what was going on, but knowing what I had to do. The rest of the women again broke out into cheers and hoots.

"So I'm afraid your childhood is over, Ashley dear." Sheila looked down at me, "Tomorrow you become a teenager, and by the fall, you'll have your own baby to care for. Isn't that just what every young girl dreams of, a baby of her own? Of course, you can't be the mommy. Amanda's the mommy. But I'm sure that you'll want to be the best boy nanny ever, won't you?"

I was still lying there sobbing when Tommy came into the room to get me. He led me to my bedroom, undressed me, and gently applied some kind of soothing ointment to my inflamed butt.

"Do you think you still need a diaper, sweetheart?" I wanted desperately to get rid of it, but I was afraid I couldn't control my bowels or bladder. It had been three months since I'd last been allowed to.

"Yes, Tommy, I'm afraid I do." Add another humiliation to my scorecard. I had to agree to be diapered because I couldn't control my own body.

"I'll put it on for you then. But in a couple of days I want to see you in these." He held out a pair of the sweetest jade colored panties. I gave him a weak smile, but was too tired and sore to really care. I feel asleep almost as soon as the light was out.

Chapter 4: Ashley's Coming Out

A few more weeks, (I think it was around the end of March _ I had lost track of time) found Amanda sitting on the edge of my bed, directing me as I brushed my hair, my head tilted to one side, so it would fall freely.

"OK, here's the deal Ashley," she said, "After you finish your training, you'll live with me, care for me and my home, and when the baby comes, care for her as well. That will be your full-time job. Any sign of resistance and Sheila's mob friends get you. Do things right on the other hand, and you can be quite happy. And just to show you I'm sincere, I'm changing your nose ring."

It was replaced with a much smaller one, which I could barely feel, but which could still be used to control me, if needed. After that, I forgot it was there, except when Mrs. Spinner decided I needed a little remedial work tied to a door, a chair, or wherever.

Over the next couple of weeks, I was "grown up." My diapers were gone. I had been successfully toilet trained (again! My God, how many people have to do it twice?) by Mrs. Spinner, who did her best to humiliate me by checking on me repeatedly throughout the several days of my "training." Of course, I had to play along. My hair hadn't been cut and was still in soft blonde curls. I wore lots more makeup now and I had to constantly search through teen glamour magazines for new looks. My nails were much longer and I changed the color on them constantly.

Now I wore dresses or skirts and tops instead of rompers. My skirts were always short and my tops mostly tight and low cut or cropped and low cut. My shoes were either clunky platforms with big heels or high heeled spikes. I had lots of plastic jewelry, which I changed repeatedly, and still had to make myself over several times each day for Mrs. Spinner. Not only that, I was given a new acting assignment. I was to be an air headed teenybopper. I had to be enthusiastic all the time and express my exuberance in both my words and actions.

"Oh yes, Aunt Sheila. Like, thank you Aunt Sheila, can I, like, really?" I jumped up and down in front of her clapping my hands rapidly in front of my face, and looking at her pleadingly. " Can I really be a teenager? That would be sooo darling. I'd, like, love it!"

'Oh my god, did I say that?' I must be developing brain damage. Of course, that's just what Sheila and Amanda wanted to happen. They figured that if they could just overwhelm me with being a girl, I'd become one. The hormones certainly helped, and they were masterful at manipulating me and filling all my time with GIRL stuff. You know, clothes, makeup, hair, nails, and magazines. I literally had no time to be me, whoever that was by this point. When I slipped up, I was punished, by being pulled around by my nose ring, whipped, and verbally degraded.

But when I was the Ashley they wanted me to be, everyone treated me like a princess. They brushed my hair, which I learned could be heavenly, and they helped me with my makeup, teaching me little tricks. They called me sweet and adorable without any sarcasm, and I even started to get occasional hugs for being irresistibly cute.

I knew what was going on because their approach wasn't particularly subtle. But it was unrelenting, and I simply couldn't resist. Sure I changed my behavior to avoid the pain and punishments, but the truth was, I really wanted them to treat me nicely. I have a strong need to please people and I needed their approval. I don't know, maybe it was the Helsinki Syndrome, you know, where the hostages start to identify with their kidnapers, but after awhile, I wanted to be their good little girl. I needed to be loved, and if being a well-behaved and enthusiastic little princess got me their approval, that's what I would be. I would be the best little princess ever.

Well, I guess I shouldn't exaggerate. They didn't treat me exactly like a princess; I was more like Cinderella, because I was still the assistant housekeeper during the day, and by night. . . . the French maid. No tight miniskirts, tube tops, and clunky heels when Sheila was home. No, I was dressed for my part, in a formal maid's uniform. Sheila and Amanda both preferred me in a black satin uniform, which had fluffy lace all around the low-cut neckline, puffed short sleeves, and mid thigh hem. It had two layers of lace trimmed organza petticoats, and a little tea apron, and a lace cap that had to be pinned on just so. At first, I got in trouble because Mrs. Spinner said I didn't tie the apron bow properly or place the cap just right. I couldn't help it. How women did things with their hands behind their backs or on the tops of their heads was just a mystery to me. But I learned quickly, and soon presented a very professional image.

I also had the requisite seamed nylons and spiked heels. Fact is, my legs looked terrific, and both Tommy and Sheila took every opportunity to stroke my thighs or caress my butt. Even Mrs. Spinner, who did most of the cooking, offered an occasional, "You look scrumptious my dear," when I got the look just right. She was right, too. As much as I didn't want to admit it, from the neck down, I was a pretty tasty looking treat.

Part of that look was due to the corset I always wore with my uniform and any other time my outfit permitted it. I even had special sleeping corsets. No doubt about it, I was being figure trained. My waist had already been trimmed down to 25 inches during the day and I slept at 26. Sheila's target was 24 inches, but Mrs. Spinner was in charge, and vowed to get me to 23. I had no doubt I would make it.

My chest didn't need as much help as my waist. In the three months since I had received my small implants, the high dose hormones had added enough real breast tissue to give me some bounce and cleavage. Sheila was delighted and adamant that I show it off.

"How are you going to attract men if you don't show a little cleavage Ashley? You're not that pretty you know." So it was miracle bras and low-cut tops during the day and night. Most of my bras were lace trimmed, and as much as I wanted to deny it, I just loved the way they felt. This was a source of real concern for me. I was beginning to enjoy aspects of my own degradation.

I also had a very large collection of great fitting T-shirts. I had several with scalloped, scooped necklines that showed nice cleavage and others with V-necks that plunged from nearly the edge of my shoulders and exposed the insides of both breasts. Even the ones that didn't show cleavage were tight, so my breasts were always on display. I didn't wear my miracle bra under those; I had sheer seamless bras that made it look like I wasn't wearing one at all.

Then, there were the crop tops. For some reason I had always worn my shirts tucked in, so walking around with them not even reaching my navel was very disconcerting. I kept trying to pull them down, even though they weren't going any lower. The one that freaked me out the most was made of stretchy black lace. It was completely off the shoulder and came no where near the bottom of my ribs! I think most girls would wear tops like that with jeans, but I didn't have any pants. I wore them with little minis and heels or platform shoes so I looked like a teenage boy's wet dream.

One of Sheila's friends was always talking about piercing my navel, because, "it would look so cute with your short little tops." Eventually, I found the idea kind of exciting, though I'm still not sure why. But then I hardly knew why I thought anything anymore. Along with the hefty dose of humiliation I always felt, I was being force-fed ever larger doses of girliness, and I was constantly trying to figure out how to avoid being punished. Add to that my own need for approval and I hardly ever knew what I was really thinking anymore.

One boring day though, I called her bluff, and made her put her money where her mouth was. I decided that I would do something really girly for them. I would use my feminine wiles to get jewelry!

"Oh! A ring in my navel would be, like, sooo cool. Could you like really get me one Mistress Barbara? Would you? Pretty please? I want one with an emerald. That's sooo totally what I want. Then I could get earrings to match!" I put my hand up to my right ear and pushed the lobe out to her while I angled my toes toward each another and twisted my body back and forth just like I'd seen little girls do it. Just to be sure I was totally devastating, I pouted for all I was worth.

Sheila just leapt at that. "Oh Barbara darling, you can't disappoint little Ashley. She wants to pierce another part of her body. I guess the rings holding her cock prisoner aren't enough. Do take her to get her navel done. I know just the place."

"Well princess," Barbara came up and put her arm around me and gave me a squeeze. "Let's go, but one wrong move out of you and you'll regret it. You'll end up with more piercings than a pin cushion, and a couple of tattoos to boot."

"Oh thank you Mistress Barbara. I'll be good, I promise I will. Can I get earrings too?" I was kind of enjoying being the selfish little bitch, but I had always liked women's earrings and I had three holes to fill, so. . . .

So now I had a nice little emerald in my navel and a pair of dangly emerald and gold earrings (Mistress Barbara could certainly afford it), and I started wearing crop tops even more often. Tommy loved to play with that little ring, it turned him on somehow, and between that and my ever-growing tits, he got even more attentive and solicitous.

One day I was wearing one of my most provocative tops (like I had anything else). It was pale pink and cut square very low across my breasts. It was held up by thin straps that were always slipping off my shoulders. It barely reached the bottom of my ribs and I was wearing a short black pleated skirt with it. I was fixing my Very Berry Red lipstick in the mirror yet again so that Mrs. Spinner wouldn't whip my thighs, which were just about completely exposed in that dress.

"Lookin' gooood Ashley." Tommy had sidled up behind me as I was putting the cover on the lipstick case. I glanced up to see his reflection as he stepped right up to my back, his gaze fixed on my chest. I was startled to discover that my heart actually fluttered a little to have him so close.

"Do you really like them?" I asked, very tentatively, crossing my arms under my tits to push them up a little more.

"Oh yeah," he drawled out slowly, reaching around to cover my arms with his own and cuddle me into his hard body. That really set my heart off! I couldn't believe it, I was flattered by the attention of this man, flattered and flustered. And as I watched in the mirror, he bent his head around mine, nuzzled the strap off my shoulder and placed an exquisite, tender kiss on the top of my right breast.

Oooh, how delicious! I tilted my head back and began to arch back into his body. For a moment, I was in lust. But then awareness came crashing back and I panicked. I spun around to put my hands on his chest to push him away. He only let me get a few inches before he firmed up his grip around my back.

"Let go of me." I said quietly, raising my eyes to find his. What I saw stunned me. He had the sweetest and most adoring look in his eyes.

'My God!' I thought, 'he's in love with me.' Then I startled myself by kissing him quickly on the cheek. Now I was really embarrassed, I ducked my head down quickly, so he couldn't see my blush, and he let me dance away from his grip.

As I ran into the other room to catch my breath, I could hear him whisper, "For now, just for now."

After that I often found him staring at me. When our eyes met, I would blush, but he would just smile. Worse, I found myself staring at him and studying his muscular body. When he wasn't around, I found myself thinking about him. More awful yet, I caught myself fixing my makeup, fluffing out my hair, or adjusting my bra to be sure my tits were displayed to their best advantage when I knew he might show up shortly. I was trying to make myself look sexier for him!

In retrospect, it was a no brainer. Sheila had set this up. Tommy was the one person who had been unfailingly nice to me throughout my entire ordeal. He had taken care of my body under the worst of circumstances. When I had been completely and utterly helpless in his hands, both physically and emotionally, he had never once taken advantage of me. Not only that, but he had made sure I had at least some emotional support through the deepest pits my torment. Unknowingly, I had come to depend on him; he was my emotional safe harbor. At the same time, he was a constant source of complements. Whereas Sheila was angry and dismissive, and Mrs. Spinner cruelly strict, he was so charming, and so endearing!

The women dressed me to degrade me; they tried to make me feel like a bad joke. Today's outfit was a good example of that. But Tommy loved the way I looked, and he let me know it. While they were angrily trying to create a personal hell for me by making me a little girl and demeaning me for it, he was gently helping me out of my purgatory with his emotional support. Now he was expressing physical attraction for me. I was so confused my head was spinning. I couldn't let myself think about him. I was a man after all, wasn't I?

Of course, that's all I did _ think about him, that is. He made me feel loved. If a man makes me feel loved, does that mean I'm turning gay? What did being gay mean anyhow? I had tits, was developing a nice round ass and the softest skin, and hadn't acted anything like a male of any age in almost four months. I had been a baby girl and now I was teenybopper. I behaved so ridiculously it was beyond belief. To avoid punishment, I erupted with glee at the opportunity to try a different hairstyle, and skipped around the apartment in flirty little skirts, tight tops, and high heels, like a happy little air head.

I was almost beyond shame. Every time I allowed the young man in me to emerge, I was punished, usually painfully. I had to bury my feelings of humiliation so I could throw myself wholeheartedly into my girls' role to avoid pain. The women had been much stronger than me. For most of my waking moments, I was a young girl. My time and attention were absolutely filled with it. Being attracted to a man should be normal, not gay. Shouldn't it? Well, whatever it was, I was becoming obsessed with Tommy!

***

One afternoon, sitting in front of my vanity, teasing my hair to create a stupid bouffant style Mrs. Spinner had demanded, I had a set of flashing insights about my new life. These were triggered as I leaned close to the mirror and my robe fell open, giving me the most tantalizing view of my own naked chest. My breasts were soft and creamy and had a beautiful curve to them.

That's when I first consciously realized that I just loved having tits. I had loved tits on women when I was a guy, and I was becoming really obsessed with them now that they were growing on my own chest. Hey! They were a turn on. I reached up with my right hand and in the mirror saw my manicured nails fondle my left breast. I melted at the feeling. I straightened up. My breasts stood up on my chest like they were proud of themselves. I was proud of them! I pulled my shoulders back and shook them a little to make those wondrous globes sway. That sent a thrill down my spine and into my groin. My dick even started to stir. These breasts truly were a gift.

Thinking about my tits made me think about Tommy. At that moment I wanted him to be fondling them. I wanted to sink back into his chest, and stretch and purr as he reached around from behind and massaged my nipples. In my imagination, I was reveling in his soft touch. He had long ago shown me that he was really good with nipples. I wanted more!

As I rubbed my back against his chest in my little fantasy, I realized that I was profoundly grateful to Tommy for the way he had been treating me. I genuinely wanted to thank him! I knew that now with all my heart. I just as I hadn't allowed myself to feel it before. It was too dangerous.

But something else had been lurking just out of my awareness. There was a dark side to my feelings as well, and now I knew what it contained. I felt that I had to be nice to Tommy to make sure that he wouldn't abandon me. That would just be devastating! I couldn't imagine how I would survive without him.

My recent flirting had been my way of trying to secure his attention. Unconsciously, I had been giving him what I could within the character I was being forced to play. I was a little teenage sex pot, and I was leading him on. My god, Sheila, Amanda, and Mrs. Spinner were really doing a job on me. I was afraid the only man in my life would stop paying attention to me, and reacted to that fear by being sexually flirtatious. This is what real little girls do to keep their boyfriends, isn't it? I must be pretty far gone. I was instinctively reacting like a teen age girl!

And as I sat there staring at my image in the mirror while these revelations unfolded themselves, I realized something that reached to my very core. I really wasn't too upset about how things were going. The women want me to feel humiliated, but I didn't, really. . . , so much . . . . , anymore I mean. I wasn't really sure why not, but I did know that I had felt that I had deserved to be punished, so the retribution the women were taking on me was actually cleansing in a sick way. It helped to relieve my guilt.

In addition, someone seemed truly to care for me, for the first time since my mother, really. Once I had hoped that person would be Amanda. But I had blown that one. I would be lucky if she just stopped hating me.

Instead, there was now Tommy. We were both guys (well, me sort of), but that doesn't seem to bother him. Duhhh, he's gay. But the bottom line was that he's treating me wonderfully. . .

OMiGod! I was being courted! What was I going to do? I didn't even have to answer that question. The warm squirmy feeling in the pit of my stomach had already answered for me. I was falling for Tommy and at the very least, I wanted to let him know how much I appreciated his care. Plus, I was terrified of losing his attentions.

I was so confused! But some dim insight told me that this was somehow correct. I should be confused. My identity was somewhere between man and girl, and was headed for girl, at least socially, more quickly than I could control. But could I go that way sexually as well? I had always assumed Tommy would fuck me. Surely that's why the women brought him into this. To rape and humiliate me like I had done to Amanda. As sweet and wonderful as he's been, that could still happen. I did exactly the same thing to Amanda, who trusted me and who cared for me. I'm sure that from Sheila's perspective, it would be the perfect payback.

But maybe I could enjoy sex with a man. I had always liked sex, a lot. And I really had no inhibitions about it, at least I hadn't discovered any yet. Still, I wasn't gay and had never been sexually aroused by the thought of sex with a man. Even now with Tommy, I wasn't lusting after sex. It was approval and affection I craved.

I was so pitiful. Even with all my education and understanding and sexual experience, I had the emotional needs of a teenage girl. I looked at myself in the mirror. Truth was, I wasn't a very pretty girl. My face, despite the makeup still looked too boyish. I hung my head as feelings of self-loathing and self-pity washed over me.

All of a sudden, I was drowned by a wave of insecurity. I really wanted my Barbie! I grabbed her off my bed and held her tightly to my chest while I cried. I had to face it; I didn't know whether I was ever going to have access to my penis again. And given the effects of the hormones, it would probably be useless by the time I did. My days as a stud were over. I was being conditioned to be a young girl. I was going to be my own child's nanny. Could I live with that? I cried softly for what I had lost. And while I was crying, I wondered what it means if you're a guy who gets comfort from crying with his Barbie doll clutched against his breasts.

By the time I had turned my attention back to my hair, I had concluded that I had to continue down the path I was on. I didn't know what the outcome would be, but there was no way I could get away from these women and what they were doing to me. That being the case, I definitely didn't want to lose Tommy. I would continue to flirt with him as if I was a teenage girl and he was the man of my dreams. I could now combine this with other, somewhat more mature kinds of attention. I was going to get him for sure. Tommy didn't have a chance!

The only problem was, I wasn't sure just what I wanted from Tommy once I got him. Or what he might demand from me before I made my own decisions. Spending all my time thinking like this was driving me crazy. I had to distract myself. Then I realized that I hadn't had any exercise or been able to dance for months. I needed to dance! That would get my mind off Tommy! So later that night, while serving Mistress Sheila in my black satin maid's outfit and with my hair teased absurdly high in the most ridiculous bouffant hair style, I curtsied and asked if I could.

"Sure," she said, surprising the hell out of me, "but first you have to get in shape." That's when I discovered that Tommy was also Sheila's personal trainer. He came in the next morning, had a brief whispered conversation with Mrs. Spinner, gave me a package and told me to get changed. In my bedroom I discovered that he had brought me workout clothes. I was astounded _ I had a white Lycra sports bra with a T back, a pale, turquoise, crushed velvet leotard with a floral print (where did I learn this stuff? ), white tights, fluffy light blue socks that bunched down around my ankles, and a femmy pair of cross trainers with pink and blue inserts.

What the hell, I put it all on, pulled my hair back in a pony tail at the crown of my head and clipped the loose hairs back over my ears with blue barrettes that nicely matched my outfit. I had every intention of making Tommy notice me, so I brushed on some pink lipstick that picked up the shade of the flowers in my leotard, a little blush, mascara, and I was ready.

No, wait! I need some eye liner and shadow too. By the time I had finished putting on all that make up (do real girls wear make up to exercise?), I had decided that I didn't need the bra. I was by now a very full B cup, but the leotard top was pretty tight, and besides . . . I wanted my tits to bounce. I wanted to bounce them in front of Tommy to see how he would react. I mean, like, what was wrong with me? Hellllo! How did I think he was going to react? What's the matter with girls sometimes anyway? God, I really was a ditz.

When I got to the den, Tommy was there doing some slow crunches. He was facing away from me, so I stopped for a moment and watched. Yes, just watching him made my heart flutter. I took a deep breath, pulled my shoulders back so my breasts stood out, and with my sweetest, squeakiest voice, bounced into the room.

"Hi Tommy! I'm, like, ready! I just love the leotard. It's like so totally scrumptious!"

'Oh, shut up, you little twit,' I thought to myself. I stopped, did a quick pirouette, and ran my hands from my ribs to my thighs while pivoting slightly to the side. Was I ever cute! Then I pulled my shoulders back and stuck out my chest, again . . . . very obviously, too.

A slow smile ran across Tommy's face as he turned around and watched my little show. "Careful what you wish for, Ashley honey, you might get it."

"Let's dance." I bubbled, bouncing up and down on my toes and holding my hands primly in front of me. I was just too, too much. If the old me had been watching, he would have thrown up. But the new me, the one called Ashley, was locked into a little girl role, and was obviously not the old me. The new me had decided that it was not just fun, but important to flirt with Tommy.

"Not exactly, first you have to get into shape a little. You've done nothing harder than iron panties for months, and we need to get that hot little bod firmed up so you don't hurt yourself. You're as weak as a kitten. . ." He looked me over for a moment, leering with wide-open eyes, "just as cute too." And he winked at me.

I could feel my cheeks get real warm real fast, and I was sure that I was blushing bright red. I didn't know what to do. He was flirting with me!

Fortunately, he didn't wait for me to respond. "I made an exercise tape for you and I'm going to make sure you use the proper form for each movement."

And he did. And it was wonderful. He had his hands all over me as he ran me through a set of exercises that I eventually learned would firm up my nice new feminine shape while not adding any ugly male muscles. He corrected my form each time it wasn't just right by either demonstrating the proper position, so I could watch his luscious body, or better yet, by placing my body into the right position with his hands. My now shrunken and largely forgotten penis tried to get hard over and over again, only to be thwarted each time by its restraint. I couldn't get over the feeling of having my pony tail bounce from side to side as I moved, and nearly swooned as my breasts wobbled about inside the leotard. I wanted to grab them and rub them. How do women control themselves? I couldn't. I took every opportunity to rub against Tommy. I was a little slut in heat. I was trying to turn him on without having considered the consequences. I mean, really, like what was a fourteen year old girl doing trying to get a twenty five year old man excited. Where would that lead?

Thankfully, nowhere that day. Well, that's not exactly true. It got me nowhere with Tommy, but in big trouble with Mrs. Spinner. She had watched me on the security camera, and when Tommy was done with me, and I was so tired that all my muscles felt like jelly, and what I really needed to do was rest, I got punished. I was tied to the floor by my nose ring, and soundly spanked.

"You little slut," she shouted. "What makes you think you can behave like that? You really are a whore. Maybe we should take you down to one of the bars on 10th Avenue and let you strut your stuff. I'll teach you. You will behave like a proper young lady, or you won't be able to sit for a week."

I guess I still had a lot to learn about being a girl. I cried and cried as she spanked me, and then had to stand in the corner with my leotard down around my ankles. I was still there when Sheila got home. She took one look at me and laughed her way to her bedroom.

Needless to say, I was more . . . uhh . . . restrained . . . after that. I did my exercises, but didn't flaunt my body or throw myself against Tommy whenever he came within arm's length. . . , except occasionally. I wore my bra, didn't wiggle anything, except when it was part of a movement, and treated Tommy like he was my beloved, but respected pastor instead of my hulky trainer.

That didn't stop him though. He still copped the occasional feel, or stole a kiss here and there. This, of course, only made him more endearing. I would savor what he was doing for a moment with a soft sigh, to let him know I appreciated it, then slap his hand away and say, "I don't do that. I'm not that kind of a girl."

He'd laugh and say, "Oh? How could I have possibly gotten the wrong impression?" I actually began to blush when he treated me like that. Men don't blush! I used to fuck sophisticated babes who couldn't get enough of me. Now I was. . . what . . . ? A fourteen year old girl trying to get her aunt's trainer to notice her? Really? What was I?

Well, in case you forgot, I was an assistant maid and nanny in training. I was a girl who was alternately a little too enthusiastic, and a little too shy. I (was) dressed to attract boys (and to embarrass me), but wasn't allowed any sexual outlets. I guess the hormones had taken care of that anyway. I didn't have any sexual urges and wasn't really seeking sex, although I was still pursuing Tommy to make sure he continued to pay attention to me.

In effect, I was enrolled in a home study program designed to take a rather sophisticated, college graduated guy and turn him into a high school aged stay at home mom. I was awash in hormones, just like a girl in puberty, but instead of studying English, or history, or pre-algebra, like the rest of the girls my age (the rest of what?), I was heavily into child care manuals and Good Housekeeping, Martha Stewart Living and Parent and Child. Of course, I also had Allure, Seventeen, and Teen as well.

My god, who wrote that thing? It's nothing more than Cosmo for kids. "Fifty ways to get your boyfriend to kiss you," or "What's he's really thinking?" Now there's a brilliant title. If he read this stuff he wouldn't be thinking anything, he'd be brain dead! And as if I had any free time, there were romance novels scattered throughout the apartment, and every romantically sappy videotape every recorded. I was drowned in femininity, home making, and child care. When the time came, I would be a very well educated nanny; I just wouldn't have a real thought in my head.

But I guess they figured I wouldn't need any. The mom was Amanda, and no one ever let me forget it. And once her belly started to swell, who could? Amanda would visit on many nights to spend time with Sheila and discuss arrangements for me after the baby was born. When she was there, my costume would change again. I wore tight, straight skirts with silk blouses and high heels, or figure hugging dresses with tight skirts that went down to my calves. With all these clothes, I always wore a corset. My waist was nearing the goal of 24 inches, and, oh the joy of it, I had great posture.

I still had to serve, but at least I was now allowed to eat with the grown ups. It was just more training though. I was being given high manners of the most feminine kind. The position of my elbow and pinky were painstakingly critiqued, and my use of silverware perfected. When my hair was down, I was taught how to flip it to attract a man's eye. When it was up, I was taught how to pat it into place as a way to attract some other guy. And I was run back and forth to the kitchen so they could work on the way I moved.

"Ashley, honey, would you go get the salad please?" "Ashley, sweetie, would you fetch the cream? That's an angel. . ." And on and on. They were sickeningly sweet to me, but I was rewarded for doing what they wanted. I hate to say this, but I not only learned a lot about being a girl, but I loved the attention. They reinforced my submissively girlish behavior with the most potent reward they had. They treated me nicely, like I was a special person, instead of a despised object. Even though they were treating me like a teenage girl, she was a person they seemed to care about. My old male self, by contrast, whenever it briefly surfaced, was an object of hatred and derision.

What would you have done if you had been in my position? Would you have been stronger and resisted? Maybe, but I just couldn’t.

"Certainly Aunt Sheila, I'll get it right away," I said as if I had been blessed by her request. I rose out of my chair smoothly, head straight, shoulders back and as gracefully as a ballet dancer. I carefully folded my napkin, turned daintily towards the kitchen, and with a smile thrown back over my shoulder, I minced (How could anyone walk in these skirts, I used to wonder) to the kitchen to retrieve whatever it was she wanted this time. Only much later did Amanda reveal that they had dressed me mostly in hobble skirts, designed to severely restrict my stride. When I returned, I placed whatever it was on the table, curtsied, and asked to be able to sit again.

"Oh yes darling, please do," gushed Amanda. "And tell me about that delightful little outfit you're wearing. What kind of silk is that blouse? It really clings to the curve of your breasts, doesn't it?" I ducked my head to steal a quick glance at my chest and smiled slightly. By now, everyone knew I was infatuated with my own breasts and so went out of the way to mention them to me.

"And your hair is just perfect. I like the way you've pulled back the one side to show off your earrings. That's so sophisticated. You're becoming such a grown up young lady. She's just coming along wonderfully, isn't she Sheila? You're doing such a good job with her."

"There's still a long way to go, Amanda, so don't get impatient. You can have him only when she is a proper young lady in every way." She turned slowly and looked directly down into my crotch. I crossed my hands over my groin and shrunk back from her in fear.

One day in mid April Sheila came bursting into my room. I was rolling my hair to get some more body for the flirty little flip Mrs. Spinner had selected for me that day, and had both hands above my head and bobby pins in my mouth. My chest was sticking way out and my nipples pressed through the stretch fabric of my tube top. The emerald in my navel glistened.

She laughed. "Aren't you just precious? Listen sweetheart, we've decided it's time to get you out. First thing will be a visit to my office. We need to check your hormone levels."

"Out?" I squeaked, trying to keep the pins from falling. I grabbed them from my lips. "Why?" I was suddenly scared.

"Well, you didn't expect to spend the rest of your life in the apartment did you?"

Well, yeah, I guess I did. I sure didn't want anyone to see me. But I knew what Sheila required of me in answer to her question. "Oh no, Aunt Sheila, that would be like the pits. I'm just dying to get, like, out! That would be totally awesome! (Is it OK if I commit suicide first?) It's been like so long, and there's. . ."

"OK, Ashley, chill" She said curtly. "No need for that now, we haven't time for one of your darling little performances. Save them for when you have a bigger audience."

"Yes, Aunt Sheila," I said feigning disappointment. That was just great! The perkiness that I hated so much annoyed her too. That was one of the few things that made it worth doing. So I continued with my disappointed act. I turned my head toward my shoulder and pouted. I couldn't keep it up though, and after a moment, I giggled involuntarily.

Sheila burst out laughing. With a big smile on her face she said, "You just might do yet. Hurry up." And she pinched the back of my hip, which now really stuck out in a way that you only see on. . . Oh God. . . girls.

Well, we went out all right. But no one got to see me. Our first stop, as promised, was her office, where she checked my hormone levels (I figured they were so high you could probably just smell them). Our next stop, though, didn't even get us out of the building. It was just down the hall, where the brass door plaque announced:

Abigail Pierce, M. D. Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery.

Dr. Pierce was one friend of Sheila's I had never slept with, even though she looked quite delicious. Abigail had been at the party and seen me when I was a baby girl. She agreed that becoming a nanny was an appropriate fate for a rapist who obviously had testosterone poisoning. Today she said she was going to "fix me up" a little so I didn't "scare" anyone. Although I now had the curves of a 15_year_old, I certainly didn't have the face of one. Sheila and Amanda had decided to have Abigail correct that.

"I absolutely must have a cute nanny." Amanda had explained to Abigail. "Besides, I think changing his face will drive him even further into his femininity. She was thinking something else as well, though she didn't share it then. I was being made over into the girl she might want to sleep with. "Let me tell you what I'd like to see. . ."

"Come on in girly," Abigail said, poking her head into the waiting room. Even though I had been in there for only a few minutes, I jumped. My anxiety level was through the roof. I was sure they were going to cut my dick off and was starting to panic.

"My, aren't you skittish?" Abigail said, rubbing the back of her hand soothingly over my smooth cheek. "Just relax. I'm going to take that nasty ring out of your nose." She did, right then, and I started to relax a little, silly me.

Sometime later, she took part of that nose. But I wasn't awake anymore when that happened. I had walked into her office under my own power, but have no memory of ever leaving. Instead, I woke up in my own bed, my face a mass of pain. They had fixed me up all right. My lips, for example, where now much fuller, and they turned up in the corners to form an irresistible smile, kind of like Meg Ryan's. My cheeks seemed different too, very much like Brittany Spears I thought (I knew absolutely everything about Brittany Spears. She was just about my age after all). My nose was much smaller and my Adam's apple seemed never to have existed at all. They also did something to my eyes, so I always looked a little surprised. When it all healed, I looked like I was maybe 17. My dick, such as it was, was still intact.

It took weeks for my face to heal, and Tommy was again my angel, taking care of me, changing my dressings, and feeding me my liquid diet. I was skinny when I arrived at Abigail's office. Now, after several more weeks of no solid food, I doubt I weighed even 110. But I spent a lot of time close to Tommy, touching him actually, even holding him on occasion, and despite the pain, I felt safe.

- To Be Continued -

 

 

 

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© 2003 by Kelly Ann Rogers. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.