Paulina, Mistress Hunter’s New Submissive
Paulina was not an especially attractive girl, nor was she particularly ugly. She was tall, flat-chested, with a small butt, and devoid of any pleasing curves. She wore horn-rimmed glasses that did nothing to flatter her face, which was oddly pretty, if you could see past the glasses. She spoke in a breathy, nearly inaudible monotone. She was exceptionally shy. No wonder men overlooked her.
Easy to ignore. In fact, she would’ve been invisible if it weren’t for one thing: she had a knock-out wardrobe. She was always dressed in the latest fashion (available in size-12). The only other redeeming feature was a beautiful head of hair: a dark shade of chestnut, wavy, and shoulder length.
Oh, and she had a laugh, a real laugh. She laughed like a man, from the belly. So that was me, two weeks later. I had learned to wear bras and panties, garter belts, hose and a dress, and walk in two-inch platform heels. I learned how to shave my legs, my crotch, my chest, pluck my eyebrows and care for my very expensive, real human hair wig. I shaved twice a day.
Mistress Hunter Treats Me Like A Girl
I learned how to put on make-up, false lashes and eyeliner. I learned that no matter how well Mistress Hunter dressed me, men tended to look the other way. There was just something about me. And I knew what.
Women, on the other hand, were drawn to me. I had become one of them. I got sympathy, support, questions. How long have I been on my hormone therapy? Have I scheduled sex reassignment surgery? They give me names of plastic surgeons for my boob job.
At home, I wore frilly pink maid outfits. Wearing them, I got bent over the couch and fucked. I could claim it was a nightmare, but that would be a lie. In two weeks, I had experienced a shift in my identity. Mistress Hunter treated me as a girl, a real girl, one with the unfortunate disability of having a cock, which had to be either taped-up or caged, but she treated me as a woman, her bitch, her maid, her slut . . . and I began thinking of myself that way. I suppose it was brainwashing, and it worked.
Resign From Work As A Woman
I’m glossing over the hard parts of the first two weeks, the hardest being when Mistress Hunter insisted I go to work and resign as a woman, dressed in a skirt. I was still new to my woman’s wear, not at all comfortable walking about in public dressed as a woman, and now here she was, telling me to go to where I worked, as a woman, and resign from my job. The ultimate submission, surrendering the last vestige of my manhood, in the most mortifying of circumstances.
She could tell I was freaked out by the prospect. So, she gave me an ultimatum: either resign from my job, or resign from my position as her slave. So, I wrote the letters, made the notifications, and made an appointment with the human resources department.
I arrived at work at nine in the morning. No one knew who I was; I made my way to HR, found the right desk, introduced myself to the woman assigned my case, did the paperwork, signed the forms, and presto, quit my job.
Working With Mistress Hunter At Hunter Solutions
The HR associate was amazingly nonchalant about it, as if she did this every day, making the logical deduction that as a new transgender, I didn’t have the courage or desire to face the inevitable scrutiny and gossip that would follow me around at work like a noxious cloud. And she was right.
The only thing that I hadn’t considered was cleaning out my desk. Let’s just say it was the most humiliating experience of my life. I walked out of the building carrying a box with my stuff, my face scarlet, my pride bleeding out on the carpet like a trail of blood as I made the walk of shame from my desk to the door.
It got better after that. Starting fresh at Hunter Solutions was easier than I anticipated; no one had really taken notice of me the one time I came in with Mistress Hunter, so while I got guarded looks from the men and knowing, sympathetic looks from the women, no one made a big deal about a transgender intern coming to work for a lobbying firm. They had bigger fish to fry.
They Are Not Above Sexually Harrassing Me At Work
At home, there actually were perks. For one, I no longer slept in a cage. There was a room next to Mistress Hunter’s master bedroom—the door had always been locked; I assumed it was a storage room with confidential files—but it turned out to be a girly-girl bedroom with hot pink walls, a four-poster double-bed with frilly white canopy, large closet with mirrored doors, white chest of drawers, and in the corner by a window, a white wicker rocking chair, matching table and reading lamp. It was all mine.
Actually, I think it had been waiting for me, all along. As a girl, Mistress Hunter liked having me sleep with her. She dressed me frilly undergarments and soft cotton or flannel pajamas, sometimes even without my cock cage. She liked spooning me, and she spoke to me like I was a lesbian lover, Paulina, her sorority sister. Of course, she enjoyed having me go down on her and bring her to orgasm, and of course, I never got to cum . . . in part because I had begun taking hormonal therapy, and my sex drive had tapered.
The Last Submissive
As I said, my axis had tilted; I was beginning to feel more like a woman than a man. After several months of this, one Thursday night while I cuddled in bed with Mistress Hunter and we watched a late-night talk show, she dropped the bomb on me. Clicking off the TV, she flipped over on top, smiling, looking down on me fondly, her thighs straddling my waist, my cock limp under her crotch, and she said, “Paulina, I so love having you submit to me as a woman. Don’t you love it, too, darling?”
I stared into those blue eyes, that beautiful face, her gorgeous breasts plumping out of her pajamas, this primal, alpha woman of my dreams, and I replied, not untruthfully, “Yes, Mistress.” She smiled. “I’m so pleased to hear you say that. Because . . . because, dear, I’ve been searching for a submissive like you all my life, I have always wanted to turn a man into my woman and have her that way—forever. You’d be my last submissive. I want you to consider that. I know it’s a big step, darling, but I’d like you to consider a lifetime commitment, becoming a female submissive for me.”
Be Her Sissy Slave Forever
I looked up at her, speechless. Then she began stroking my cock, which strangely, for the first time in days, grew hard, hormones or no hormones. Like it was a big clitoris saying, ‘Hell yes, I want this!” Fucking traitor cock. I was putty in her hands. I stammered, “Wha.. what do you mean, Mistress? You want to always wear women’s clothing and treat me like a woman, your sissy slave?”
“Oh love,” she said, “I want so much more than that, don’t you understand?” She kept stroking my big clitoris. My breathing accelerated. I squeaked, “Like what?” “Paulina, darling, I want you to undergo sex reassignment surgery. I want to give you a vagina and breasts. I want you to become a real woman, sharing my bed.” Her face shined. “You would become my masterpiece, the ultimate submissive. Wouldn’t you love doing that for me?”
The Idea So Mind-Boggling It Made Me Rock Hard
I was growing harder and harder by the second. The idea was so outrageous, so mind-boggling, so insanely crazy and erotic at the same time that . . . well . . . it actually appealed. Or maybe that was my giant clitoris doing the thinking. “Oh, Paulina, you are so hard,” Mistress Hunter cooed. “I bet you’d like to cum, wouldn’t you?” I panted, “Yes, please, Mistress.”
She smiled mischievously. “I tell you what, darling girl, you think about it—think about it with all your heart—and I’ll let you cum. How does that sound, love?” Oh. My. God. I might have been a man, but somehow, I had become a woman, a girl, a vulnerable, submissive and very horny girl who only wanted to please her Mistress, to make her happy. And those words sent me over the top. “Please, Mistress, please may I come?” I begged in a desperation.
My Dearest Paulina
“Ask again, in your lovely girl voice, and say you promise to think about it.” “Oh, oh, I promise, I promise,” I gasped in the highest falsetto as I could muster. “That’s my good girl,” Mistress Hunter said triumphantly. “You may cum, sweetie.” And I did, I squirted two weeks of stored cum all over my pink flannel pajamas. Afterwards, Mistress Hunter led me to my room and gave me a bedtime spanking before tucking me under the sheets with a goodnight kiss.
“My dearest Paulina,” she said, tenderly stoking my face, “I would love for you to become a woman, my forever female submissive. I would cherish you with all of my heart. Oh, and we would have such fun together, a lifetime of joy. Please think it over . . . I would be so very happy if you said yes.” She looked at me expectantly, with those compelling blue eyes.
I swam in them like a baby porpoise. “I will, Mistress,” I said, teary-eyed, choking up with emotion. Her smile lit up the room. She rose from my bed, sashayed to the open doorway, turned around to face me, and said warmly, “Goodnight, my darling.” She flipped out the light and gently closed the door, leaving me in darkness. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck I had gotten myself into.
Next: Identity Crisis