Poor Veronica. Mrs. Gravely took the phone from me and replaced it in the draw and locked it.
“I don’t think I need to tell you that any deviation from the program will lead to Veronica being re-introduced to the lash. Neither of us want that, do we?”
No,” I said, still shocked at the sight of Veronica’s lash marks.
“You will address me as ‘Ma’am’, Andrea,” she said and looked at me, waiting.
“No, Ma’am,” I said, my eyes cast down looking at the floor.
“Good. Now, I’d like you to go and find 22. She’s going to help you get ready for this evening. We’re entertaining and I expect you to look your best. I don’t want to have to have you in again tomorrow morning and have to say that I thought you didn’t look like you were enjoying yourself. I expect you to look like you’re having the time of your life. Happier than you could imagine. Is that clear?”
I stared at Mrs. Gravely. How could I acquiesce to this? And yet, what choice did I have. Poor Veronica.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said softly.
“Good,” replied Mrs. Gravely. “Now, run along. Find 22 and she’ll give you something to wear.”
I rose to my feet almost trance like. I turned and walked out, unsure which way to go. As it happened I need not have concerned myself. 22 was waiting outside the door.
As I stepped out of the room she walked up to me and smiled and said, ‘Let’s get to it.”
I obediently followed 22 upstairs where she led me to a room with several long mirrors, and a large walk-in closet. When I say large, it contained a series of racks, and cannot have been less than 25 feet deep. Hanging on racks was every kind of clothing you could imagine, from thick winter coats to skimpy bikinis, arranged in organised tiers.
‘I understand it’s a fairly standard party tonight,” said 22. She then drew a list out of her pocket and studied it a moment. She moved with practiced efficiency through the racks, taking a piece here and another there.
“Let’s start with these,” she said looking at the list and handing me a tiny set of panties, bra and a suspender belt. Turning away she busied herself looking for other items, and after a moment stopped and looked at me.
“Well, dear, don’t just stand there. Put them on!”
I stepped across the room to a table and removed my blouse and bra, pleasantly surprised by the buoyant nature of my breasts. When I coyly glanced back at 22 she was already digging out another garment and oblivious to me. I guessed I wasn’t the first person she’d done this with. It seemed quite routine to her.
“There’s fishnets in the second draw,” came her voice from behind a rack.
I stripped and nervously pulled on a pair of tiny black mesh panties. What on earth would she think when she saw the chastity device. I felt quite embarrassed.
I struggled for a moment with the bra.
“Let me help,” came her voice and I realised she was standing right behind me. My hand covered my groin in a moment and I felt her strong fingers fastening the bra clip.
“I really wouldn’t be so modest,” said 22, smirking at my embarrassment. “It will just take longer.”
She quickly crossed the room to the draw and reached into the second one down and drew out a pair of fine fishnet stockings.
“Try these,” she said.
I took a seat in front of one of the mirrors, and pulled the stockings on. As I did so I had a chance to study 22 in the mirror for a moment. She had magnificent blonde hair, tumbling over delicate shoulders. She wore a close fitting sweater dress. When her hips were in profile I noticed the telltale bulge of a chastity device and I was shocked. I would never have thought 22 was trans. It seemed almost impossible.
A moment later she was back, handing me a faux leather halter and mini skirt, which I pulled on swiftly.
“You’ll need shoes,” she said quickly, and I stood up and followed her to a second closet. The walls were lined with shoes of every kind I could imagine.
“Keep it simple,” she said in a business-like tone. “Patent leather, black, four-inch heel.”
I quickly found my size and slipped on the shoes. I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself, noting 22 beside me casting a critical eye over my body.
She nodded and said, “not bad.”
She disappeared back into a closet and emerged a moment later with some earrings, a necklace and a glittering butt plug.
“You’ll need these,” she said handing them to me. “Try them on.”
I looked at the plug.
“Really?” I said.
“Oh, don’t worry, we all wear them for events.”
“How often are events,” I said, still wondering what the evening would entail.
“Not usually more than three times a week,” she said. “And sometimes you have to do a ‘special’, but they’re easy.”
I examined myself in the mirror, very pleased at the way I looked.
“This will be your outfit tonight. You’ll be told what to do, just follow along. I think 30 and you will be more less working with me, tonight.”
“And what will you be wearing,’ I asked.
“Oh, I got my things together last night. You’ll see. I’m sure you’ll like it,” she replied.
“22,” I said, “do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Of course not. Ask me anything,” she said, turning her full attention to me.
“Why does Mrs. Gravely give us numbers?” I asked.
“Why does Mrs. Gravely do anything?” she replied. “It’s so things run smoothly. She doesn’t want any of us gurls connecting too much with one another. That’s why we don’t get to use our names. And why we have to be in bed at the times we’re told, and why you’ll find your door locked after you’ve gone to bed. Alone. No chance of a little nocturnal action unless it’s at her direction, with someone she chooses. All very organised.”
I sensed a note of annoyance in 22’s voice. 22 was not the happy gurl she purported to be.
“You don’t seem too happy about that,” I said. Immediately I regretted it. 22 looked angry and checked the door was closed.
“Don’t say things like that,” she snapped. “Not if you know what’s good for you. If you give even the suggestion of dissent your whipping girl is going to be punished,” she said in a hushed voice.
“My whipping girl?” I said quizzically, and instantly realised she meant Veronica.
“Yes,” she said in a hushed voice. “We all have whipping girls on the outside.”
“What do you mean, ‘the outside’?” I asked.
“I’ve said too much already,” she said. “Just go and tidy your room and do your chores. We can meet for makeup at 6.00. Come to my room on the third floor. Don’t be late.”
A moment later 22 had gone, leaving me looking at myself in the mirror. As I looked at myself I could see that I looked good. I looked quite strong but most of all, I looked available. I suppose that was the idea.
I changed out of the clothes and put them in a neat pile before slipping into my day clothes. Taking my things I left the room and found my way back to my room, where I placed the clothing tidily in a draw ready for the evening.
On my dressing table I noticed a neatly written note instructing me to find my way to the stables behind the building where I was to report to ‘30’ to be assigned chores for the day.
I brushed my hair and made myself more presentable. It would be misleading to say I was feeling deprived of liberty. Far from it. I found the wonderful clothes and the way the dressing table was loaded with new makeup and brushes quite liberating. If anything I was conflicted. Was this somewhere to run from, or run to?
Such thoughts were quickly swept from my mind as I realised that outside my window people were hurrying to and fro, getting about their chores and fitting into this place. It seemed everyone had a job to do, things were organised and frankly all my needs so far appeared to be met. I didn’t much like how I got to be here, though to be quite honest I found it quite exciting. I wondered what would happen next, but didn’t suppose it would be so terrible. After all, I was here for some reason, whatever that may be, and I guessed that at some level they did want to spoil the goods.
As I hurried to the stable yard I saw people cleaning windows, sweeping the front verandah and even unloading a small truck loaded with vegetables and groceries. Each person seemed to have an assigned duty. Things appeared to run smoothly, and it cannot be denied, all the gurls here seemed to be quite happy in their work.
Still trying to understand my position I decided to go along with whatever this was, until the situation became clear. After all, I felt very comfortable in these clothes. True, they were a little more country than I was used to, but I’ve listened to Glen Campbell before and it didn’t kill me. Besides, I liked the way the long skirt swished around my ankles.
As I hurried to the stables and saw a couple of tall and well muscled gurls waiting outside the stable block I noticed how well toned their bodies were within the denim dungarees they wore. They carried pitch forks and between them stood a wheel barrow, their skin lightly bronzed by the sun and their hair naturally bleached by sunlight.
I walked up to them and said, “I was asked to come here. I’m Andrea. I’m looking for ‘number 30’.”
“You’re 38. Don’t forget it,” said one of the gurls. “Now, get in there and pick up a pitchfork. We’ve got stables to muck out,” and then she returned to her conversation with the other as though I wasn’t there.
As I walked into the barn I was reminded of the thought that only a few days ago I’d been sitting in my office at the agency, and here I was about to muck out a stable. And as for what might happen later, I had little idea what lay ahead.
Had I only known, I might have thought rather differently about these wholesome looking gurls. But, though I didn’t know it, I was already on a path to meet my inevitable fate, with all the humiliation and depravity that would unavoidably entail.
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2 Replies to “Clothes Maketh The Man – Part 53”
As I read this story, I am wishing that this would happen to me. I want to become a woman.
Me too Valentina