Mistress Melony Wakes Up Mistress Hunter
We woke in the middle of the night to the jarring ring of an old-fashioned telephone. The call came in on the landline, only used by the office for emergencies. Somehow during our fervent lovemaking (and by that, I mean Mistress Hunter fucking me with her strap-on), we had flipped from our normal positions, with her sleeping next to the nightstand. She was spooning me from behind and had to reach over my torso to grab the handset. “Yes?” she said into the receiver, sounding groggy and peeved.
The cord stretched across my neck. I heard Mistress Melony’s voice coming out of the receiver, faint and scratchy. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, only that it sounded urgent. “Okay, we’ll work up a response,” Mistress Hunter said. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. Meet me at the office at seven. Call Todd and Jeremy, they need to come in, too.”
Again, I heard the weak, unintelligible sound of Mistress Melony’s voice, apologetic. “It’s okay, dear, you did the right thing. Now try to get some sleep. Oh, and Melony—swing by Starbucks on the way in. We’ll need coffee and bagels. Breakfast sandwiches for the boys.” Mistress reached over to me and hung up the receiver. She fumbled for her cell phone. I noted the red digits of the nightstand clock: 02:30. I watched as Mistress set her iPhone alarm for 04:30. Ouch.
Sleeping In At The Farm
She put down the phone and wrapped an arm around my chest. “Christ,” she muttered, her breath warm on my neck. “Sometimes I think I’d be better off breeding horses and doing weddings,” I said nothing, wondering if I was going back with her to Washington. Front seat or trunk? “Go back to sleep, Paulina. I’ll be back before noon, two p.m. at the latest. We’ll still have time to go riding tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said. I guessed that meant I’d be staying at the farm. What seemed like only a few seconds later, the obnoxious bleating of the phone alarm woke us up. “Stay, sweetheart,” Mistress Hunter said, pressing down on my shoulder as she crawled out of bed. Kneeling next to me, she touched a hand to my face. “Sleep in, dear one. I’ll leave a note for Mr. Thompson and Miss Packard. I’ll be back by two.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered sleepily, grateful to stay in bed. Sometimes, being a sissy girl had its advantages. I didn’t wake until around eight thirty, and then only because someone knocked on the door. For a moment I was disoriented—not just where I was, but who I was. I had to pee, and my wig was on the dresser, across the room. Did I answer the door as Paulina or Paul? And who was knocking? Lillian?
Mr. Thompson’s Attack
“Miss Paulina, it’s Mr. Thompson . . . I have a message from Mistress Hunter,” I heard a deep voice speak through the door, answering both questions. “Just a minute—” I said in my natural voice; then again, louder, in Paulina’s alto voice: “Just a minute!”
I hurried to the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, peed, flushed, and went back into the bedroom, standing in front of the dresser. I studied my face in the mirror. God, what a mess. I needed to shave. My makeup was ruined, eyeliner smudged, and lipstick smeared. Oh well. At least I could put on the wig. I tugged the wig in place, flipped the bangs over my forehead, straightened my pajamas, realized that I didn’t have a bra or panties on, only pajamas “—oh well, it was only Mr. Thompson—” and padded across the floor to the door.
As I turned the knob, the door swung in violently, slamming my face, and stunning me. Before I realized what was happening, a hand slapped a chemical-infused cloth over my face. Mr. Thompson’s other hand reached behind my neck, his leering face inches from my own. Before I could even think of struggling, the room started spinning. My legs went wobbly and I felt my knees buckle. I saw bright, shooting sparks of light, like fireworks arcing across the daytime sky.
Tied Up In The Barn
I heard Mr. Thompson’s distant voice, like someone hollering from across a valley. “That’s a girl, you just relax. No need to struggle, Miss Paulina, you’ll be just fine.” Then, strangely, my vision faded to a whiteout, like falling snow. When I came to, I found myself strung up by my arms, wrists cuffed and locked, ball gagged, naked, legs spread, ankles cuffed and snapped to a rusty iron bar, my bare feet on a dirt floor. Sunlight slipped through gaps of warped wooden siding, letting shards of light into the dusky, shadowed space.
As my eyes slowly adjusted, I made out rusted tanks and tools stacked against the side of the walls. There were waist-high animal pens. It looked like they once held pigs or sheep. I looked up, following the rope from my wrists to a wood pulley, suspended from a beam. Above it, a corrugated-iron roof.
It was quiet in the shed. I listened to the sounds of life outside. Nothing, just a faint wind whispering through the warped boards and my labored breathing. I took an inventory. My body felt okay, other than my shoulder muscles screaming from carrying my weight. Something felt odd with my cock.
Lillian Arrives
I looked down. My penis hung normally, but now I saw that my scrotum was wrapped with a leather cord, the winding so tight that it formed a tube that pushed my nuts forward into a ball-shaped package. The skin over my balls was as tight as a drum, so they looked like two walnuts squeezed together, protruding at the end of a three-inch leather tube.
What the fuck? No sooner had I made this discovery than I heard the sounds of someone approaching outside. I heard a door creak open behind me. A shaft of light lit the dirt floor, then it collapsed as the door slammed shut. I heard the shuffling of feet behind me. Around my right side, the ghostly, pale figure of a woman came into view. She was naked, her body encased by a latticework of rope.
It was Lillian. Mr. Thompson herded her with a metal rod attached to a collar that completely enclosed her neck, forcing her to chin up. A red ball gag filled her mouth, straps fastened to the sides of the collar. When they reached a spot in front of me, he twisted her neck to force her to face me. Her shoulders, breasts, torso, and belly were crisscrossed in a diamond rope pattern that bound her arms behind her back.
The Castration Device
She was so beautiful; skinnier than before, with a little protruding belly. She had to be pregnant. “Stand here and don’t move, slut,” Mr. Thompson ordered. He unsnapped the bar from her collar and disappeared somewhere behind us. Lillian looked at me frantically, her eyes wide, bright as moons.
Mr. Thompson came back a minute later, holding what seemed to be a milled aluminum brick, the size of a box of Crackerjacks, with a hole in the middle. Draped like a lasso in his other hand, he held a winding of braided cable, attached to the box. Using an underarm pitch, he tossed this metal brick up and over the beam. It fell back down and came to a dangling stop, bouncing between us.
“Know what this is, Miss Paulina?” Mr. Thompson said slyly, knowing I couldn’t reply. I shook my head. “Well, sweetheart, this here’s a castration device. It cuts off the balls of little porkers and sheep. Designed it myself. It’s got two parts inside, a little guillotine, and a clamp that stops the bleeding.”
Mistress Hunter Wants You To Be A Girl
He pulled out a carrot from his overalls. “Here, lemme show you how it works.” The device hinged at the middle, like flipping open an old-fashioned lighter. Mr. Thompson put the carrot in the half-circle cutout, snapped the device closed, and held it up in front of my face. “See, that’s all it takes. Now, all you gotta do is yank the cable, and presto.” He gave the cable a jerk and I heard an internal snap. The carrot fell away in two pieces. I looked down in disbelieving shock. Behind Mr. Thompson, Lillian’s eyes flared wide with horror.
“So, Miss Paulina,” continued Mr. Thompson, “Mistress Hunter wants you as her girl. And I know for a fact she’s scheduled your surgery; I saw the paperwork myself. Yesterday. But she’s too nice to make you do it. So, the way I see it, you just need a little nudge in the right direction.” He jerked his head in Lillian’s direction. “Your girlfriend here? She’s gonna give you the nudge.”
With that, he grabbed my cock, compressed the leather windings to make a space next to my balls, then snapped the castration device in place. “Now don’t you go wiggling,” he warned me. “Might set this nasty bugger off by accident. We’re going to give that honor to Miss Lilly.”
Stay On Your Toes Miss Lillian
He went to where Lillian stood, took her by the hand, and led her to a position directly in front of me. “See here, boys and girls, I do already figured this out, figured out the geometry, exactly how this is gonna work. Miss Lilly, if you’d be so kind to lift up on your feet.” He slapped her on the bottom, grabbed the nape of the collar, and lifted them, forcing her up on her toes. He held the link at the end of the cable and snapped it to the ring on the back of her collar.
“Now, Miss Lilly, you’d best stay up on your toes . . . unless you wanna give Miss Paulina here a head-start on her sex change operation. Iffin’ you do, all you gotta do is relax and go down a little. Capeesh?” He stepped to the side, admiring his handiwork. Lillian’s face was inches from mine, her eyes on the same level, the wire cable stretched taut from the back of her neck, up over the beam, and back down to the castration device locked on my scrotum. My balls were literally at her mercy.
Recalling The Sessions In Mistress Hunter’s Office
Mr. Thompson bent over and picked the two pieces of carrot off the ground. With one piece in each hand, he waved them at me with a smirk. “No sense wasting these; got horses happy to eat ‘em.” He squeezed between us, one hand on my chest, the other on Lillian’s breasts, pressing us apart like two prizefighters in a boxing match. He chuckled. “Well boys and girls, I got chores to do. I’ll leave you lovebirds to sort this out.”
With that, he snorted and shuffled into the gloom behind us, out of the shed. Lillian’s head bobbed and swayed as she struggled to maintain her balance. My eyes locked on hers. I recalled the sessions “up on my toes” I had endured in Mistress Hunter’s office, the leg strain after only a few minutes, and how my calf muscles cramped up and eventually gave out. And that was with my wrists snapped above my head, carrying some of my weight.
Lillian’s arms were tied behind her back. She was supporting her weight entirely on her toes. Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck . . . I was fucked. At that instant, the fantasy that I could be Miss Hunter’s female submissive fell away. I realized I wanted to be a man. Lillian’s man.
Next: Jiu-jitsu with the devil
