Am I Still The Stud-Male Who Impregnated Her?
That Friday after work, I found myself hogtied in the trunk of Mistress Hunter’s Lexus, still wearing my dress and pumps, panties stuffed in my mouth and sealed with a strip of duct tape. I lay flat on my stomach, ankles and wrists bound and tied together with rope behind my back, the only concession to comfort a thin pillow on which my head rested, right cheek down. Through the floor of the trunk, I felt every bump and vibration of the road, jarring not just my body, but my soul itself.
We were on our way to the farm, where Lillian would meet the woman I had become. My identity had become scrambled. I loved Lillian, but what we had shared already seemed like a lifetime ago when I was a man. How would she view me now, when she saw the sissy slave girl created by Mistress Hunter? Would the woman I had been turned into break the connection to the stud-male who had impregnated her? Would the memory of me evaporate, someone she used to know?
Arriving At The Farm
More profoundly, would my memory of me evaporate, someone I used to know? I totally lost track of time on the long drive, the only measure of progress being the transition from steady freeway driving to the lateral sways of winding country roads. It was only when the wheels briefly thrummed over the bars of a cattle guard and then crunched on a gravel road that I knew the ride was finally coming to an end.
At last, the Lexus came to a stop; I heard the set of the handbrake and click of the trunk latch. The lid flew up and a moment later, the harsh beam of a flashlight shined into my face. “Woo-wee, now what do we have here?” I heard Mr. Thompson exclaim in his slow farmer’s drawl. “Lookin’ like we have ourselves a purty girl all trussed up, aching to be fucked.” I felt his hand trace a salacious circle across the cheeks of my ass. My flesh crawled in its wake.
Mistress Unties Me
“Julian, take your hand off Miss Paulina’s bottom, if you please,” scolded Mistress Hunter, ending my molestation. “Our bags are in the back seat. Take them to the bedroom.” “Yes ma’am,” Mr. Thompson replied in a chastened voice. Mistress Hunter set about untying the ropes which she had expertly bound around my ankles and wrists after ordering me into the trunk of her Lexus, parked in a secluded corner of the garage under her offices at L’Enfant Plaza.
As she worked the ropes free, she spoke in a warm, cooing voice, “Oh my goodness, darling girl, such a long drive, wasn’t it? But here you are, none the worse for wear . . . tch, we’ll get your wig straightened out and have you presentable in no time, just as soon as I undo these knots . . .”
“There,” she said, freeing my ankles from my wrists. She unfolded my aching legs and guided them over the lip of the trunk to the ground, helping me pivot on my stomach. Now I faced forward, my wrists still bound. The passenger door slammed shut and I heard footsteps going up the steps into the house.
A Spanking Before We Go Inside
“Before we go inside, Paulina, let me help you to mentally prepare, darling,” Mistress Hunter said to me an instant before the flat of her palm landed on the cheek of my ass. I flinched and yelped into the drool-sopped panties, still stuffed inside my mouth. She swung her hand again, hard. Twelve stinging blows I counted out in my head before she finally stopped, leaving my ass burning, a fresh layer of pain distracting me from my protesting muscles, cramped from hours of tight bondage. “There, that should be enough, my sweet,” said Mistress Hunter.
She swiftly undid the rope binding my wrists. “Lift yourself out of the trunk, dear.” The muscles of my shoulders aching, I ordered my arms to work. Drawing my hands under my chest, I pushed myself out of the trunk to an upright position. I found myself light-headed, swaying unsteadily on the heels of my leather pumps. Mistress Hunter stabilized me, placing both hands on my waist until the moment passed. The she lifted the hair off the nape of my neck and ripped the duct tape free.
My drool-soaked panties plopped out and fell into my hands. Mistress Hunter took them from me and tossed them in the trunk, slamming the lid closed. “Are you all right, Paulina?” “Yes, Mistress. I was a little dizzy for a moment. I’m okay now.”
“Good girl. Now let’s get your hair straightened.” She shifted my wig into position and brushed the bangs in place. “Now your dress; we can’t have you looking all wrinkled for Miss Lilly, can we?” I wore a peasant-girl skater dress with a tight bodice and low neckline. She ran her hands down the front, plumping my breasts (I wore a stuffed C-cup bra), then smoothing out the pleated skirt, hemmed just above the knees. She spun me around and repeated the process down the back of the dress.
“We’ll be going inside the house in a moment, Paulina,” she informed me as her hands smoothed down the fabric. “I expect you on your best behavior, a perfect lady. When I present you to Miss Lilly, you will curtsy and greet her as if it were the first time you have ever met, is that understood?” “Yes, Mistress.” She slapped my rear. “Use a higher-pitched voice, sweet girl.” “Yes, Mistress,” I replied in a soft falsetto.
“Better.” She turned me by the shoulders so that I faced her. “Ready?” “Yes, Mistress.” “You look beautiful, Paulina.” She snapped her leash to my collar. “Let’s go inside.”Miss Lilly opened the door for us. I kept my eyes lowered, only getting a glimpse of her pants legs: blue farmer’s overalls and lace-up work boots. Mistress Hunter led me inside. Miss Lilly closed the door. Out the corner of my eye, I saw armchairs and couches. We were in the living room.
The Shock Of Seeing Lillian
“Look up, Paulina,” said Mistress Hunter with a sharp jerk on my leash. “I want you to meet my servant, Miss Packard. She’ll be looking after us during our stay this weekend.” I looked up, curtsied. “Nice to meet you—” I started to say, but my mouth fell open. Lillian’s beautiful hair had been shaved off; her head was completely bald. “—Miss Packard,” I managed to finish with a strangled falsetto. She looked like a young man. A flat-chested young man, and with a bit of a protruding belly.
She looked at me in equal shock. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” she sputtered. “Miss Packard, this is Miss Paulina. Come and shake her hand.” “Yes, ma’am.” Lillian walked like a robot across the living room and took my hand. I looked down as we shook. Her cuticles were torn, fingernails short and chipped, her skin red and chapped; the hands of a laborer. In contrast, mine were soft and white, the nails long, manicured, painted with cherry-red nail polish.
She let go of my hand and looked into my eyes, the briefest searching glance. “Miss Packard,” Mistress Hunter said, “get on your hands and knees and kiss Miss Paulina’s shoes.” “Yes, ma’am.” Lillian dropped to her knees and kissed the tops of my pumps. I looked down at her shaved head, her slender neck. She wore a long-sleeved work shirt. The sight of her kissing my shoes was almost too much to handle; I found it both disturbing and perversely erotic.
Mistress Hunter broke the spell. “That’s enough, Miss Packard. Miss Paulina and I will have a snack and glass of wine before bed. Red, something dry, please. Bring it up to the bedroom.” Lillian stayed on her hands and knees. “Yes, ma’am.” “Come, Paulina,” Mistress Hunter said with a gentle tug of my leash. “Let’s take a tour of the house. I think you’re going to love it here.”
Next: To be, or not to be.