Chapter 2
Chapter 6 - Girlie
His feet hurt although they should have adapted by now, but they hadn't, and they did. It was the shoes that were the problem. Another new pair of four-inch heels this time in glossy pale pink with dainty little leather bows on the sharply pointed toes. He'd long since lost count of how many pairs of shoes, boots, sandals, mules he'd worn. The one thing they all had in common was the inevitable high stiletto heels. Either the three or four-inch ones he wore when engaged in various mundane household tasks, or the five and six-inch killer ones when in the bedroom, what they called his sexy shoes although when he wore those he was not always standing on his feet for very long.
It wasn't even as if he had big feet. He had always taken a relatively small size in the trainers he'd previously habitually worn. 'Dainty feet', that's what his mother had often said. 'Fairy feet' his sister had teased him when they were younger. Good things come in small packages his father had always remarked whenever they had made fun of him over the tea table.
He'd always been conscious of his more modest build. He'd never quite been the smallest boy in any class but his lack of inches, when combined with a lightweight even petite frame, had invariably made him one of the last to be chosen when his peers picked football or other team games s where some degree of physical strength was required. Bullying had of course been a regular occurrence throughout his early junior school days.
The senior school had been different; he'd learnt and so fought them from day one. A much bigger boy had come up to him on the first morning, thrust his face into his, grabbed him by the testicles and screamed, "Knackered a new boy". He'd punched that boy in the face hard 'so hard that it split the skin over three of his knuckles plus breaking his aggressors' nose! They'd banned him for two weeks and when he'd finally returned he found he had a new name. They called him Tiger. No one had bothered him from that day on. Not till recently anyway. No one would call him Tiger now, maybe never again.
Thoughts about his previous life inevitably brought on 'The Misery' as he called it. He tried not to think about it, but it was always there. The triggers were all around him. A stolen glance toward a football match on the TV, a newspaper headline, picking up a discarded pair of trainers, a forbidden bar of chocolate laying on a kitchen work surface, a casual or cruelly often deliberate remark about one of his captive family. How could he forget when there were a thousand little snippets every day to remind him of who and what he once had been. No, who he still was and would be again one day. He was a man; he was called George, he was his own man, a free-born individual with an exciting future ahead of him. G was for George, NOT 'Girlie' "I'm not, I'm not" the words quietly burst out of him as he half sobbed his hatred of the foul name aloud. Unfortunately, the reflection in the tarnished mirror of the old hall-stand belied his anguished statement.
He'd stopped briefly to glance at his reflection in its age-spotted surface. The last six months had taught him, often painfully, to do that. He recalled years ago on a family outing his Grandfather had once jokingly remarked, "you never pass up a public lavatory at my age - might be a while till you find the next one." He now had his personal equivalent. Stopping by a mirror had become automatic. His grandfather had had a choice, so had he - ignore it and risk getting a beating because his appearance was less than perfect or stop, look and if necessary fix whatever minor 'defect' might mar his presence in their eyes.
He stared at his reflection. Mirrors were cruel inventions he mused. They showed reality, not the enhanced perceptions that people had of themselves no matter what their circumstances might be. Outside of the mirror reflection, shorter people were inevitably taller; fat people were always thin, ugly people were beautiful, older were younger and so on. Real men like him wore branded trainers, tee shirts and jeans, sported cool designer stubble and expensive yet artfully casual hairstyles. They were virile, masculine, independent and absolute, masters of their destiny. They were not, repeat not, period, what he was looking at in that old mirror.
Pink was the dominant colour that reflected. Vivid, eye-catching inescapable, humiliatingly feminine in garish shades that only the most depraved or perhaps colour blind whore would have considered wearing. He had no choice. Not of colours anyway. His wardrobes were well stocked and continually receiving additions. His small bedroom was virtually all built-in closets and cupboards, shelves, hanging space, shoe racks and mirrors, the narrow bed with its hard mattress along one wall was almost an afterthought. He probably spent more time anyway perched on the small stool and makeup mirror while carefully applying some of the contents of the myriad pots, tubes, liners, pencils, lipsticks, and the like that were lined up in regimented fashion on top of the dressing table.
In his previous existence he had never been a fussy dresser, didn't own a suit, smart jacket or formal shirt and frequently went about without socks. His daily dress had been distinctly casual and limited, his entire wardrobe including a couple of pairs of trainers would probably have fitted into a medium-sized suitcase. The present collection upstairs would probably need a small shipping container to move it.
Apart from the many pairs of shoes and boots, he had no regular daily or outside clothing. No jeans, sweaters, skirts, dresses, coats, nothing that the average woman or girl would have to hand for everyday wear. Even the numerous pairs of boots and shoes with their inevitable high heels were all more appropriate for long-legged models posing for a top shelf glossy men's magazine shoot or the boudoir rather than practical wear.
He was never allowed out any way other than the occasional trip over to the stable block. He served by day or night, always in his heels, mincing around as was required. Heels that never left his feet, even his daily shower did not allow a respite. He was expected to take it wearing a pair of flimsy rose-hued plastic chunky high heeled open toed sandals. Sometimes he might wear half a dozen different pairs or more in a single day, and there was no relief. Almost every single pair had some form of ankle strap or similar device to be securely fastened with tiny padlocks. Each of his tormentors had a key; they would briefly free him, so he could quickly change into a new outfit and then present himself so that either the same footwear or more frequently a different 'erotic' pair could be locked and worn for their apparent titillation or amusement.
Not even night brought any relief. His shoes almost always remained locked. He lived, ate, slept, worked and got fucked in them. The little locks were more a symbolic addition to his humiliating slavery rather than for security purposes. He could probably have ripped them off in seconds with his fingers alone, but he shrank back from that idea. God, what would they do to him if he did that? Getting a ladder in one of his stockings was a near capital offence!
It was Eva of course who had told him that one day they would not need the locks. "Just a pain for us" she had said. "One day we won't have to bother with this, even a stupid bitch like you will know better than to try and go without your so sexy shoes" She had said that while locking him into a pair of seven-inch pink platform heels she'd decided he would look 'so cool' wearing for her. "Of course, by then you will have learned to walk like the cock hungry whore you are and anyway", she added, clicking the second lock home and standing up, "Mother says your feet will probably no longer work with proper shoes like ordinary people wear in a few more years". She indicated her Nike trainers. "They will be too fucked up ever to walk flat again"!
That had been about three months ago. A few more years she had said. Years! How long was this nightmare going to last? Even if it did, was she right? Surely not, didn't many women wear high heels and trainers and the like, their feet were not altered beyond redemption, were they? But then they did not wear them 24/7 and for years...!!!!!
Heels were not the only thing he had to master. His wardrobe ran the whole gamut of erotic apparel and lingerie. He had garter belts in a range of styles and suspender straps, corsets, waspies, corselets, chokers, teddies, catsuits, ballet tutu's, elbow and shoulder gloves, headbands, baby dolls, harem suits, etc. One significant draw contained nothing but stockings, sheer, shimmering, seamed, fishnet or a combination of features. The one thing absent was any item of panties. They always wanted his captive manhood fully displayed. Anything that might have had a crotch was of course crotchless. The same applied to the other part of his anatomy. Equally his 'bitch cunt' always had to be bare and accessible. Even the limited possibility of covering himself no matter how humiliating or degrading the covering might be was not permitted.
There were no bras either. That was an ongoing casual topic of conversation that frequently terrified him. Young Eva felt he should wear a training bra. "Training what?" her elder sister usually sneered. His Master seemed to prefer him as he was with his flat bitch man tits, but the sadistic tyrant that ruled this place sometimes mentioned hormone treatment or maybe getting some implants. "She'd be worth more if we ever sold her," she'd once mused to add to his horror.
New garments were provided on a regular basis as if the considerable collection of humiliating feminine, frilly items and similar were not enough. Sometimes packages would just be left in his room for him to open and put carefully away in their assigned places. At other times he would be summoned and presented with his latest 'gift'. He would have to smile sweetly, curtsy gracefully as he'd been rigorously taught, or as gracefully as he could manage and thank his benefactor. He would have to open the wretched thing, hold it up for them to see, listen to their comments as to how he would look wearing it. He hated that.
Likewise, during the day he might hear one of them say, "That would suit Girlie or Girlie would look so sexy in that don't you think?" Someone would hold up a magazine or point to something on a computer screen. "Maybe, would come an answer but not in that colour, see if they do one in pink or similar, order one if you like". He would have no say, of course, would not even know what they were discussing, he knew better than to try and attempt to see what his owners were viewing. It was not his business.
Sometimes they did let him decide on his apparel for the day or night. He hated, even feared that. Not only was it grossly humiliating but an unacceptable or unappealing choice (in their eyes) could result in impromptu punishment. In fact, it invariably did. One, two, even three of his captors might ignore him or perchance be too involved in something else to care overmuch. Four, however, was one too many. One, usually his Master of the youngest daughter would decide that they didn't approve, and he would be beaten, or at least face slapped and sent to change. Occasionally it varied, he might get sent to change and then report back for a beating. Either way, he still got the beating or a couple of painful slaps!
His moist eyes stared despairingly back at him, sad, helpless, bowed but not entirely broken. A spark remained a small spark perhaps and for how long he did not know. Maybe ultimately even that would be ruthlessly crushed out of him. He blinked several times to clear his eyes, he didn't dare let his eyes water or worse, cry. The bright blue eyes were his own, the painted mask that surrounded them was not. That had been imposed on him.
Pale foundation cream, eyeshadow, liner, mascara, bright pink lipstick a touch of rouge to highlight his cheekbones even long false eyelashes that curled aggressively outward giving him a permanent look of startled, wide-eyed innocence! That was a laugh. Innocence. His had been brutally ripped from him that first evening of his captivity. His 'new' Master had left him in no doubt as to what his prime role would be. He was not naive, he had or had had several girlfriends. Girls found him 'cute' or, so he'd been told. However, no relationship had ever progressed beyond some kissing and the odd 'stop that', when his wandering hand squeezed or fondled a little too adventurously!
He'd been a virgin sexually, still was and likely to remain one now insofar as any normal sexual activity was concerned. Normal sexual activity! No chance of that with the tight restraining plastic tube they had used to imprison his penis. He'd never been very big, and of course and that was something additional to taunt him with. Especially for that evil brat Eva. Her mother and sister rarely even seemed to notice that he had once been a man, no, correction, still was a man! Eva, however, mentioned it frequently and delighted in reminding him both verbally and physically of his impotence. While his manhood had never been overtly long it made up for it a little in girth, his bulbous penis head being worthy of crowning a more massive organ. It stuck out of the end of its plastic straitjacket like a bald man's head emerging from a very tight sweater and was just a too prominent and tempting target for a casual swat with a suitable corrective implement.
Agonizing, excruciatingly agonising. Sometimes the leather tip of a riding crop would catch him completely unawares, and other times, he would hear that feared command, "present Mr Pee Pee" from the youngest of his tormentors. He would have to face her with arms bent and hands clasped behind his neck bending backwards slightly so that his groin thrust forward. There was always a pause while she savoured the power she exercised over him. She delighted in watching him tremble and the fear in his eyes as he knew what was about to happen. His eyes downcast affixed on her casually held crop or worse, the dreaded cane. It didn't always happen of course. The young sadist was an expert in making him suffer. Sometimes she would laugh and dismiss him back to his domestic duties, other times she would decide she couldn't be bothered and tell him to report to her later or on the next day and leave him to sweat on it. There was one thing certain though, she never forgot. If he were not swatted at once, he would be in the very near future. She loved making 'Little Mr Pee Pee dance' as she put it.
Mr Pee Pee might be imprisoned and unlikely to erupt with pleasure in the foreseeable future or to receive any form of sexual attention. However, the same was not applicable to other parts of his anatomy. Not that any of it was pleasurable for him. He no longer had an anus, he had a bitch cunt, for that was how they referred to his rectum. That received plenty of sexual attention as did his mouth. His mouth, they'd told him, other than eating and drinking, had four primary uses only. Licking, sucking, swallowing, and kissing who, what or where his lips were directed. It was NOT for talking unless asked a question that needed an answer or when given on rare occasions permission to say something. Screaming, however, he'd noted bitterly was always allowed, there seemed to be no restriction on that, and it was all too often actively encouraged!
There were other exceptions to the verbal rule. Automatically curtsying and thanking those who frequently 'corrected' any minor failings was one. Not only could you get beaten into screaming near insensibility, but you had to thank your tormentor for doing it. Another regular requirement was to moan and mouth suitably erotic and endearing compliments and whispered encouragements while engaged in confirming his Master's domineering virile masculinity at the expensive of his own. Not always of course as his Master's mood varied and with it the spectrum of his sexual advances. Sometimes he was taken to bed and treated gently like a virgin bride on her wedding night, on others being thrown down, beaten, clothing ripped off and brutally raped. No loving endearments required for the later, just begging and screaming and the screams were all too often completely genuine. He'd experienced a whole range of unwanted attention between those two extremes almost on a nightly basis.
The painted face was only one aspect of the many humiliations that had been heaped upon him. His dusty blonde hair now hung down nearly to his shoulders. He'd always had a relatively light beard, rarely bothering to shave more than once every four or five days unless there was a particular reason. His hair had always been more prolific necessitating a trip to Tony's unisex saloon at least every three weeks. Both had betrayed him in his present incarceration. He was required to shave every day here, but with little need, his face remained smooth and pale, no blue hint of five o'clock shadow or anything near would ever taint him. His near shoulder length swift growing mane stayed predominantly uncut although he was under orders to brush it a hundred times morning and night. Additionally, once a fortnight he had to submit to a styling session carried out by the older daughter who was training the end to curl inwards.
His hair wasn't the only thing she trained. He had spent days being taught to walk 'sexy'. Every morning with hands cuffed behind his back, she had marched him across to the stable building where a long leash dangling from a rotary device in the rafters was affixed to his collar. Under the painful tutorage of whip and riding crop, he had been forced to walk around and around in an endless circle, his feet locked into a pair of high heeled boots as he learned to walk anew. He minced, sashayed, wiggled his butt, took dainty, ladylike steps in his glossy heels, and frequently screamed when something swished and then bit hard and sharp into his buttocks or thighs when his efforts failed to satisfy.
Alice, the eldest daughter, frightened him. They all scared him but Alice and her mother most of all. They were both so impersonal. They treated him more like an animal or an inanimate object. To them, he was not a person just a thing to be used or taken for granted. At least young Eva treated him as a human being albeit one who could be treated with contemptuous cruelty. Her father, his master and owner, behaved similarly and could sometimes be kind and friendly in a weird possessive sort of way even though he raped and brutalised him daily.
He blinked at his reflection; he dare not give way to tears no matter how desperate or deep his misery ran and today for some reason his usual state of depression was almost overwhelming. Crying, tears, anything that would ruin his makeup was another thing that was not allowed. They always demanded perfection which was why he stopped by every mirror and checked his face and overall appearance. That bitch would be back from the school run soon and not only would she expect him to have finished his first set of chores but could, dependent on her mood, thrash him on the spot if she felt he had so much as a hair out of place!
He took one final despairing glance in the mirror. He could not stand there motionless for too long. The shocking pink leather choker locked around his neck would trigger if he did that. Inactivity was another thing on the endless forbidden list. It wasn't just the awful colour, it actually was shocking or could be when it activated. He did not need the traditional iron ball and chain shackled to his ankle so beloved by cartoonists to render him a total captive, nor the wrought ironwork that covered all the ground floor windows.
The large heavy wooden front door just a few yards away led to freedom. Freedom from humiliation, freedom from abuse, freedom from pain, freedom from repeated rape and sodomy, freedom from high heels and feminine frills, freedom from the vilest slavery imaginable, a release from the black despair that filled his waking hours and haunted his restless nights.
He'd tried it once. Only once but he knew better now than to try again. That humiliating choker around his neck was more than just a feminine adornment. They could and had and did use it to shock him into painful incapacity, screaming, collapsed and writhing in helpless agony on the ground. He knew each level on the wretched device from 1 through to 6. They rarely went above 3, but that time he'd tried to sneak out of the back door a level 6 shock automatically zapped him.
There had been trouble with his mother; she'd apparently attacked the bitch who ruled the roost in this hell hole. In the early days, it was the first time since he'd been there that he'd been left alone and near an exit. That little hellhound in female form, Eva, had been enthusiastically directing his domestic activities in the huge old kitchen with the aid of a long flexible bamboo cane. They had been interrupted by a loud scream of pain and rage from upstairs followed by a cry for help. Eva had instantly rushed to her mothers' aid. He was at the door in seconds, the handle turned, the door opened, no lock obstructed his freedom, he'd made to lunge forwards, and then he remembered screaming, screaming and intense mind-numbing pain then nothing but blissful darkness.
Unfortunately, the darkness had not lasted for very long. He'd recovered consciousness to find his limbs still twitching helplessly and with all four of them standing over him looking down. "Stupid, stupid bitch!" Eva had shouted at him, lashing down twice with her cane before drawing back a foot and kicking him hard in the ribs. He'd absently noticed that the trainer was adorned with faded printed pictures of her favourite boy band members, the ones whose music sometimes reverberated around the upper floor when she was in residence.
"You were warned not to attempt to leave this house", Mistress Patricia had said in a low, threatening voice. "Before I take you down to my basement.... and shut your mouth, I don't want to hear anything from you, you know begging won't make a difference and speaking without my permission will only make it worse!" She spoke slowly and chillingly. "You now know why you cannot leave my house. The doors are all linked to your collar, so are the grounds should you manage to get out. That was a level six shock. I have just adjusted the system. It does not just punish your laziness. Go within two feet now of any external door, and you will get a level nine. Eva here wanted me to give you a taster of it", she smiled sadistically, "however, I want you relatively fit and certainly conscious to appreciate our next few hours together. Experiment in the future if you wish, personally I would not recommend it."
He shuddered at that old memory, cast a last longing glance at the front door and freedom denied, then resumed his morning mopping of the of the faded hall tiles being extra careful not to slop over his new pink shoes. His colourful image in the antiquated mirror gradually retreated.