Stage 2

 

 

I was collected from that room by three men. They were very amused to find me tied down so lewdly, particularly when they spotted the end of the banana protruding from my hole. I had been crouched there with it stuck up inside me for some time before they arrived and by then was desperate to visit the toilet. The banana had warmed considerably by then and become quite soft. Although I wanted desperately to expel it I was afraid of tensing my internal muscles to do it in case I merely reduced it to a messy pulp which would be impossible to remove. So it was still there when they found me. They did take it out in the end but not before they had enjoyed the sight.

I had become very cramped by being tied down for so long and release caused almost as much discomfort as my bondage. Straightening my back and bending my legs sent spasms of pain throughout my new body. I did manage to make them understand my desperate need to relieve myself and felt some gratitude when one of them accompanied me to the en-suite bathroom. He had already seen the woman’s naked body, had played with the banana inside her but still I felt some embarrassment at having to pass water in front of him. When we emerged from the bathroom I saw that the other two men had withdrawn, to be replaced by two fearsome looking women. While the man watched the two women controlled and supervised my transition from naked victim to fully clothed woman. Once it was clear that they didn’t intend to hurt me, just allow me the relative dignity of clothing, I did co-operate. The dignity was relative because quite clearly I was only to be allowed female clothing to match the body I now occupied. I sat in a chair in front of the dressing table mirror while one of them applied make-up to my face and rearranged my hair. The other collected up the clothing and helped me to dress in the unfamiliar garments. She showed me how to fasten a bra and snug my new breasts into it. It was so peculiar. The action of my own hands sent ripples of anticipation through every fibre of my being. The part which was still man savoured the softness, the elasticity, the warm responsiveness while the new-found female part shivered in anticipation of what might follow. Secured inside the soft support of the bra the breasts still sent secret messages.

The stockings I had worn while Linda and her friend had played with me were replaced by a pair of sheer tights. My female guards were amused at my incompetence as I struggled to put them on, eventually condescending to show me how to roll each leg down to the foot and so insert my legs. They provided a pair of very brief knickers and then helped me into the smart blue dress they had brought for me. A pair of low heeled blue shoes and I was dressed. I wondered what they had in store for me now. Had I been dressed just so that Linda’s beau could humiliate and hurt me again by tearing off these clothes? Or would I be given to some other friend of Linda’s? I was beginning to feel hungry and thirsty. I wondered how long it was since this female body had last been fed. I had no idea how long I had been inside it and couldn’t even guess how long the transformation had taken. My mind was in turmoil as I tried to make sense of my plight. Had I been kept unconscious while they had surgically altered my body into this perfect replica of a woman? Or did they have some other method of effecting this change in me?

The women clearly couldn’t speak to me in English and I hadn’t learned more than a few rudimentary phrases so our communication was largely through signs. I managed to make them understand that I was very hungry - I had taken the edge off my thirst by drinking from the bathroom tap. They made me understand that I wouldn’t be given food until we had left the place where I was being held but that I would get food if I co-operated with the transfer. They indicated that I would be moved in a crate if I didn’t co-operate so there was no doubt that I would be moved. It was just a matter of accepting that. Willingly or unwillingly I would be transferred to my next destination. I deduced that they would prefer a willing victim and indicated that I would not resist. I was rewarded with a smile from the harder looking of the two women. Even then they took no chances. Before we left she gave me a small clutch handbag to carry in my right hand and locked my left wrist to hers with an effective looking pair of heavy duty handcuffs. The other woman then draped a coat over my shoulders which obscured the handcuffs. I was ready.

They took me down in the lift and walked me down through the hotel lobby and out into the street. A large black car was waiting for us and I was helped into the back. Once safely inside the car whisked us away from the hotel and soon we were out of the town and into the surrounding farmland. We must have travelled about ten miles before the car pulled over to the side of the road. A black van had been following us and pulled up behind us. It was clear that I was to be transferred into the van.

She didn’t remove the handcuffs until I had climbed into the back of the van. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so co-operative. It had clearly been designed to transport prisoners and despite my sophisticated female appearance, that is how I was treated. The handcuffs were removed but only so that my wrists could be locked into the shackles attached to the side of the van. There were two pairs on each side of the van and I couldn’t avoid seeing that one pair were already occupied. She was dressed very much as I was, perhaps a slightly younger style to match her appearance. Her skirt was very short and her breasts thrust out at the front of the tight fitting jumper. Her legs were bare apart from the short white socks and on her feet she wore a pair of what I think the Americans call ‘loafers’, low heeled black casual shoes. But it was the way she was shackled which caused me concern, especially as it was already clear that I was to be shackled in the same way.

Her wrists were locked to the side of the van, held at shoulder height, her elbows bent sharply as her back was pressed against the cold metal. Her ankles too were shackled, holding her legs down beneath her. But the thing which made my stomach churn at the prospect of mirroring her position was the sight of her support. Between her legs, clearly supporting most of her weight, was a short, square wooden peg. It was about three inches square in section and perhaps nine inches long. It stuck out at right angles to the side of the van and her weight was forcing it into her crotch. I could imagine the pain as the sharp edges were pressed against her young and tender flesh. She was moaning quietly, as if it had been in place for too long, as if her energies had already become too sapped to allow her tears or screams. She fidgeted as she tried to get some relief from the pain she was so obviously suffering, stretching one leg and then the other down as she tried to make a firmer contact with the floor with one toe, struggling to take some of her weight off that awful bar. The marks on her wrists provided evidence of her earlier struggles to take some of her weight on her arms. As I was pushed back against the other side of the van I too had to stand astride a similar wooden peg. My wrists were locked in, as hers were and my ankles locked into the shackles. The smartness of my blue dress was negated as the hem was pushed up towards my upper thighs by that shaft of wood. It protruded from between my legs, the sharp edges pressed against my thighs. I felt a sense of relief as I realised that for me, the shaft would create discomfort rather than pain, pain perhaps instead of agony. The girl facing me was shorter. For me, the height of that shaft was less extreme, the greater length of these new legs holding my crotch above its fearsome attentions. As long as I could stand upright I would be able to prevent it from pressing so viciously into me.

Once I was securely shackled in the back of the van, the women who had brought me from the hotel engaged in a noisy discussion with the men who seemed now to be in charge of me. After several minutes they seemed to reach some agreement and I saw one of the men produce a large bundle of notes from an inside pocket. He took about half of the notes and divided them between the two women who immediately began to count their shares. I formed the impression that I was the reason for this transaction and guessed that I had now left the C****** judicial system, sold to some more sinister organisation. I could guess why I was sufficiently valuable and tried not to imagine what would happen to me now. Was I now the property of some sort of C****** Mafia, one of the Triads or just a free-lance criminal operation. Would I now be advertised, hawked around as my new owners sought the best possible price for me? Or was my fate already settled? Was my six year sentence now to become a lifetime?

Any hope that I had entertained of being fed had to be abandoned. I would have to cope with my hunger. At least I had managed to slake my thirst before I had agreed to leave the hotel. I could see the women as they got back into the car. The man who had paid them climbed into the back of the van and looked me over as if inspecting the goods he had just bought. While they had been busy I had managed to shift myself a little, exploring my shackles to see if it might be possible to gain a little less discomfort. As I had moved, the skirt at the front of my dress had slipped down over the peg so that it was held out as if by a tent pole. The sight amused him and I heard him make what I can only imagine was a coarse remark to his companion. He lifted the dress up over the peg again, making a point of hitching it right up to allow him to examine my legs. He pressed his hand into my crotch, apparently to test the amount of space I had between it and the peg. He seemed not to be satisfied and bent down to adjust the chains around my ankles. I felt them being tugged apart and my crotch was pressed more tightly against the peg. When he pressed his fingers between me and the peg the next time I made sure that I was pressing as firmly against the peg as I could, trying to convince him that I would soon be suffering like the girl opposite. I moaned and gasped, desperately hoping that my performance would convince him. He squeezed my breasts through the fabric of the dress and then pulled the neckline down to peer down its front. One hand was inserted and he seemed to be assessing what he could feel, alternately stroking and squeezing the breast in his hand. From my own inspection earlier I knew that the breasts were almost perfect and his manipulation confirmed my estimation. He muttered quietly to himself and re-fixed my ankles, as if to ensure that I wasn’t damaged on the next part of my journey. Satisfied that he had bought well he turned away from me. The girl opposite cried out to him, from her tone pleading for some relief. Her reward was a sharp slap across the face and a stream of what I took to be shouted abuse. She cringed back against the side of the van as he jumped out of the back. The heavy doors slammed shut behind him and we were left in darkness with only the light from the darkened windows of the rear doors. The engine started and our journey to hell began.

I have no idea of how long that journey lasted, or what route we took. I do know that before we stopped at all the last daylight from the rear windows had gone. Throughout the time the girl on the other side of the van suffered. Every bump in the road bounced her against her crotch peg, the worst forcing cries even from her exhausted and pain-racked body. Several times I heard her cry out in pain and frustration and then heard the flood of her water as she failed to contain it. After each flood there was a sharp scent of her urine but after a while the smell seemed to diminish, presumably as we became inured to it. I couldn’t understand the words of her complaints although I could understand their meaning and cause, couldn’t console her with my words since she seemed not to understand me either. My own pain was as nothing compared with what I knew she was suffering but even so that peg did cause some discomfort, especially over the most severe bumps. Hunger and thirst came to dominate my thoughts, crowding out the compassion I felt for my companion and eventually even the thoughts about the mystery of my transformation.

We stopped at last. The girl and I were left in the van for what seemed like hours. I could hear doors slamming, voices speaking in incomprehensible tongues and the sounds of other vehicles arriving and departing. And then they came for us. The doors swung open and the light flooded in. Dark figures were silhouetted against the light as men came to fetch us from our bondage. I heard the girl crying with relief as she was lifted from that peg. Then it was my turn. Their hands were firm but not over-rough. Resistance would clearly have gained nothing and so I allowed myself to be treated like an object rather than a person. The body I had been given ached from the long hours of standing, of balancing on those heels. I felt sore between the legs where that square peg had pressed against the tender spot there. The knickers and tights had provided little protection from it as the van had lurched over the rough road. I felt sure that my own body would have coped much better, apart from the additional threat that the peg would have offered. But there were strong shoulders to give support as I staggered out of the van.

From the brightly lit yard we were taken into something resembling a warehouse. I noticed the girl, already there and collapsed in a heap on the floor. As I watched, two men lifted her and started to drag off her clothes. When she was naked, they made her stand again. Her breasts still thrust out proudly from her chest but there was blood oozing from between her legs. She seemed to lack the will to resist as hands pawed her breasts and her quim was inspected. I watched as she was helped away, every step seeming to cause her agony.

It was my turn to be stripped and inspected. The man who had bought me from the two women seemed to have some sort of clipboard which he handed over to another man, a man wearing a western style suit. The two of them watched as I was displayed for them. I had to allow the breasts to be handled, the two men supporting me enjoying taking one each and squeezing them forward, bouncing them and teasing the nipples into hard little knots. My stomach churned as they displayed me. Then I was made to hold open my legs so that they could see the space between them, allow uninvited fingers to intrude into that space. The man in the suit spoke some English.

“You, very look good. Give fun, plenty. Good price.”

Still naked I was taken into another, smaller room. The girl had been cleaned up and was being dealt with. I had to watch in mounting horror as she was prepared. She was being tied to a wooden frame. She had to sit on a narrow support and her legs were tied, bent almost double at the knees. Her ankles were fastened beneath the support and then her arms were fixed to the rest of the frame, spread wide at the shoulders with her forearms bent forward. A gag was inserted into her mouth and her face covered with a sort of mask. Then the rest of frame was produced. It was suddenly clear to me. Her frame formed the basic structure of an armchair and now the rest of it was being assembled around her. In just a few minutes the girl had disappeared inside the upholstered chair, her face mask connected to a tube which was threaded through the back of the chair.

“She look good, huh? We got plenty chair. Whole shop full. You come on lorry.”

They did give me some food and water before I too was fixed inside a chair. I saw enough to guess that we were going to be transported secretly across some sort of border, disguised as armchairs and concealed among many other less exotic chairs. Then the chair was closed around me and everything went very dark. It was difficult at first to get enough air through the face mask but as I relaxed it seemed to get easier. I could feel myself being moved, trundled across spaces, lifted in the air, shunted and juggled into position and loaded into some sort of vehicle. I prepared myself for hours of boredom and constant movement. I hardly noticed the slight change in the smell of the air coming through the mask but I guess that they introduced some sort of gas and then, fortunately, I slept.

From inside my imprisoning chair I was aware of very little during that journey. Brief moments of consciousness punctuated my sleep, every time repeating the rumbling of wheels on the road, the drone of a powerful engine as we were transported. I slept on through whatever distance was involved, whatever complications encountered by the drivers. I wasn’t even aware of my arrival at this destination and it took some time for the actual location to become clear to me.

My chair was being opened. The light which flooded in was subdued although it seemed very bright compared with the blackness which had surrounded me for so long. My limbs were cramped again, too cramped to cope with the demands made on them to move as the bonds holding me were removed. The mask was taken from my face and at last I could breathe properly again. The men unpacking me seemed unwilling to interfere too much with the naked female body which was otherwise so readily available to them. The armchair was re-assembled and pushed to one corner of the small room. I was allowed to sit in it and was given a blanket to wrap around me. I wondered whether it was primarily intended to provide warmth or decency but wrapped myself in it anyway. I wondered too where I had been brought and what they now had in store for me. A door opened and I learned a little more.

She carried a few clothes. I was offered a bra and pantie set, pale blue satin with white lace trim. The rest of the clothes she retained but she made it clear that I was to put on the bra’ and knickers. The knickers had small suspenders attached to the legs and she gave me a pair of sheer flesh coloured stockings. I had found it difficult to snug the breasts into the bra, just slightly easier than the first attempt. Tights had given me a clue about putting on stockings and it was clear that I might be punished for damaging them before I had them properly on my legs. The white high heeled sandals were another problem - I hadn’t faced the problem of fastening small buckles like those before. But eventually I was attired to her satisfaction and one of the men left the room.

A few minutes later another man entered. I learned that I was to call him Mr Wong. He spoke a little English, enough to enlighten me about my destination and my future. But before he told me anything, he made me display the female body I now inhabited. He seemed pleased with what he saw, as I would have been myself in his position. “Now you in H******g and you mine. I have work for you and clients you please. Perhaps you tired from journey?” I nodded, hoping for some respite, some period of relaxation before the inevitable. “No matter. What you do not strenuous. You start right away.” He turned to the woman waiting for his command. I didn’t understand the instruction but guessed that it meant something like “get her ready for work immediately”. “Perhaps you not used to work yet so you start easy. If you chosen you just let it happen. Fight no good.”

Fighting certainly wasn’t any good. The woman seemed just as strong as the man and between them they controlled me easily. My wrists and ankles were quickly locked to two straight rods, long enough to keep my arms and legs spread open. The rod holding my arms was then clipped to a hook in the ceiling so that I stood close to the door. And then all three of them left.

I didn’t realise until later what was happening as I stood there for what seemed like hours. In fact it was less than half an hour and I was in fact being exhibited to his ‘clients’. There was a small ‘spy-hole’ in the door and his clients were allowed to peep through to see me inside. In fact I was one of about two dozen women on display. My door had some details about me on the outside - I was ‘new’, unbroken and probably unwilling, my ‘vital statistics’ - age, cup size, height and weight together with a list of ‘restraints’ which could be made available. I had been delivered to a sort of high class brothel cum restaurant. Suitable clients were allowed to choose their entertainment from the ‘menu’ my owner provided before choosing their meal. While they enjoyed their food, the woman who was to provide their entertainment would be prepared for them, just as their meal had been. Then, when they had finished their meal and were ready for her, they would go to the room where she would be waiting.

While I stood fixed to the ceiling with my arms and legs outspread, the blue satin underwear my only covering, I was inspected and chosen. I had no way of knowing that, of course, and just accepted what happened next. The woman who had given me the clothes returned with another woman. My arms and legs were released and I was taken into a small bathroom cubicle where I was showered and thoroughly cleaned. Thorough cleaning included having my cunt opened and water sprayed inside. They made me lie down on a bench as they dried me and then the women busied themselves with massaging sweetly perfumed oils into my skin. It felt wonderful. Their hands were so smooth and gentle compared with the treatment I had been given before. Their hands smoothed away my fear and tension as well as giving me a little excitement as they massaged my breasts. I felt acute embarrassment when the older woman’s hands moved up my legs and into the cleft between them. She pressed some of her perfumed cream between those nether lips and I felt it penetrating, gently sliding inside me as she manipulated my labia. But she wasn’t trying to give me pleasure and all too soon she reverted to the rest of her task.

I was feeling very relaxed, almost sleepy, by the time they had finished. I was helped up and then new undergarments were produced for me to wear. This time it was a very revealing corset thing which I now know is properly called a ‘basque’. They pulled it tight and fastened it at the front with tiny hooks. It was very snug around my waist, nipping it in sharply and under the bust as it thrust my breasts up and forwards. They allowed me to put on the pair of very sheer black stockings and the tiny apology for a pair of knickers. They hardly covered the front of my pudendum and the back seemed to disappear entirely between my nates. Black, ultra-high stiletto heeled shoes were fitted on to my feet before the younger woman set to work to prepare my face and hair. She worked quickly and expertly and the next time I caught sight of myself I could hardly recognise the woman I had now become. I did look very feminine but rather ‘tarty’. Even so I could still recognise that I would have paid very good money indeed to be ‘entertained’ by her. That recognition caused me a frisson of fear as I realised just why they had spent so much care on preparing me. By then, the chains were already fastened around my wrists again.

It was a surprise when the older woman pressed a button and the back of the room opened into a lift. They pushed me inside, presses another button beside the door and stood back as the doors closed behind me. The lift sped upwards and when the doors opened again I was immediately grabbed by two small but strong C****** men. The hustled me along a corridor and into one of the rooms. It was large and comfortably furnished but the principal item of furniture was a large, four-poster bed in the middle of the room. It was covered with a red silk sheet and I soon learned that it was in fact very firm. That discovery was made as I was laid on it and my wrists were attached to the posts at the head. Straps around my ankles were clipped to a long metal rod which splayed my legs out wide. It was obvious that I was now available to be raped.

The men left me alone and I had time to reflect on my situation. I had to admit that this was real justice. As punishment for having so foully raped Linda, it was almost certain that I was now going to be raped myself. I could only wait to find out which man would be the instrument of my punishment. What Linda and her ‘man-mountain’ had done to me had stopped short of actual intercourse. True I had been penetrated but not by a man’s prick. How would it feel? How much would it hurt? How long would it last? Now that I was securely chained down, would it be just one man? Perhaps, like Linda’s man-mountain, he would be able to go on all night. Or share me with his friends!

I repented over and over again as I lay there waiting to be fucked. It was obvious that it was going to happen. Why else would I be stretched out like this, dressed in such revealing clothes? If only I had been sensible. I could have found some woman who would have been only too happy to let me fuck her. I had plenty of money, or at least I used to have plenty of money. How could this have happened? Where was I? Where was the person who had been inside this body before? Was she used to being fucked? Would she get pregnant?

As I lay, spreadeagled and totally available to any man who wanted to take me, I had so much time to repent. And so much time to imagine what was to come. What stimulated my imagination was the large mirror beneath the canopy of that bed. Looking up I could see myself - or rather the woman I had become. I knew that if I still had the equipment I would have been aroused by the sight she presented. The bright red basque nipped in her waist so charmingly and thrust her wonderfully shaped breasts upwards and forwards. Her legs looked exquisite as they were stretched open by the rod, every nuance of shape enhanced by the sheer black stockings. If I were still a man I would have grown inches, solid hard inches, just watching her. She struggled against her chains, the ineffectual movements enhancing her attractions. A part of me which I couldn’t recognise seemed to be stimulated as I watched her. I desperately wanted to be able to slip those flimsy little knickers aside and plunge my own rampant cock between her legs and into her soft silken purse. But such feelings were futile. I possessed no cock, rampant or otherwise. This helpless female was destined to be some other man’s prize. The masculine feelings I still retained told me to expect him to be rough, to be so provoked by the beautiful young woman so carefully and precisely prepared for him that he would want to fuck her almost as soon as he saw her. I could expect no pause, no hesitation. As soon as some man entered the room I would be fucked. It was obviously why I had been prepared and immobilised, spread so wide that his entry would be unimpeded.

As I lay there, imagining, I had so many different feelings. Mostly I wanted to wind back the clock to go to before my attack on Linda, to avoid this whole experience. The parts that accepted that time cannot be wound back, that actions have consequences could accept the justice of the situation as well. Even so, there was the hope that it wouldn’t really happen, that all this was just to make sure that I realised the depth of my own depravity and repent. But then there were other feelings. Let them forget about me, just leave me here until I fall asleep, until the morning. And - what will he be like, will he be rough and uncaring or will he treat me gently, rape me or make love to me? Let him make love to me. If it’s going to happen, let me enjoy it as a woman.

I looked up at her. She looked so sad, so afraid, so worried. I wanted her to be happier and forced myself to smile up at her. She smiled back at me and I began to feel better. She was so pretty. She tried to make herself less obviously available, bending her knees so that she could half close them despite the rod between her ankles. I helped her, twisting about on the bed, bending one knee and pulling it as close to my body as I could while straightening the other leg. I managed to help her almost close her upper thighs and by twisting my body at the waist she looked less exposed. I have to confess that the woman above me still presented an exciting prospect, her body only just covered by that sexily feminine basque, her legs so wonderfully shaped and alluringly displayed, their shape emphasised by the sheer dark stockings. I wanted her so badly, longed to hold those firm young breasts which pressed against the lacy covering, filling the delicate cups almost to overflowing. I caught a glimpse of my own expression in her eyes and felt ashamed. The sight filled me with apprehension, another feeling which was immediately expressed in her eyes.

The inevitable happened. He arrived. He looked Japanese, but rather larger than those I had met before, taller and more heavily set. Not as large as a sumo wrestler but certainly bigger than my own male self had been. He was dressed in immaculate western evening dress, black dinner jacket, black bow tie and a sparklingly white evening shirt. There was nothing inscrutably oriental in his face as he gazed down at me. I could recognise every lustful thought, every unspoken wish behind those eyes. He was delighted by what he saw and determined to fuck me, and as soon as possible. Before he even touched me he was stripping off his western veneer, reverting to the hungry male animal the clothes were hiding. I didn’t want to watch, didn’t want to see the thing which he was going to poke into me. In his rush to get started on me he omitted to remove his socks. I couldn’t avoid noticing the incongruity, his naked body, his rapidly engorging penis and his short black socks. He spoke and although I understood nothing he said it seemed clear that he was just expressing his delight at having me rather than trying to engage me in conversation. His hands reached out towards me. I tried to shrink away but there was so very little opportunity - my chains held me too firmly. I felt the hands through the basque as they explored the slimness of my waist and moved up towards the greater bulk of my breasts. They were squeezed and pressed upward until each one popped up out of the restraint of that basque, free and exposed. He was only doing what I had so longed to do myself. I realised as he was pawing my female body that since I had occupied it I had never been left alone and unfettered with it. It was for others to enjoy. And enjoy it he did. His manipulations gave me such strange feelings. I could do nothing to prevent them and saw no point in trying to talk to him. So I just lay there and let it happen.

He played with the breasts for only a few minutes, minutes during which I learned again that such treatment made the nipples more sensitive, firmer. They were expanded like little cherries and seemed to ache to be touched. They ached even more as he transferred his attentions to other parts of my body. Now he was stroking my legs through the sheer smooth stockings, wrapping his whole hand round my ankle, sliding the hand higher and higher up my leg. His stroking reached my knees and then my thighs. He was pressing his hands against the insides of my thighs reaching up above the tops of the stockings. With both hands and using considerable strength, he was pressing, pushing, trying to force my legs even wider apart. Again I tried to resist, to deny him access to the part of me which should have been private but his strength was too much for me. He pressed down on my knees, forcing me to straighten my legs, making me open myself for him. He pressed against the inside of my thighs, trying to spread me open even wider but I felt that I was already fully stretched. He tried lifting my knees and pulling them open but my own physical limits and the restraining chains denied him. And then he used the adjustment which that rod allowed; by rotating the central portion I felt it expand, forcing my legs even wider apart. I realise now that the central part must have been a double threaded design so that as he turned it, the outer parts expanded. I wondered how much this woman could spread her legs, marvelled at hr flexibility as her legs went ever wider. His hands moved back to my thighs and up into my crotch. The knickers presented no impediment. They were pulled aside, allowing his fingers free access to that part of me which proclaimed my female state. The perfumed cream which the woman had pushed inside me made me slippery there and his fingers penetrated easily. He stopped playing and began in earnest. He climbed on to the bed and positioned himself above me. It was now. It was going to be pushed into me. He was stretching me open and adjusting his position. I felt it as it first touched that most tender place. I could not hold back the involuntary shudder as I recognised that the start of my fucking was so imminent. I saw his face as he looked down at me, saw the lust behind his eyes, felt his prick starting to slide into me. Above us I saw the outspread woman with the eager man on top of her, saw his white and naked buttocks as they clenched for the thrust. I was impaled. The thing slid right inside me and was forced home. It seemed to reach so far inside, to touch places of which I had no knowledge. He grunted as he started to exert himself and to thrust into me even harder. I turned my head and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see the captive woman being raped above me, didn’t want to see the passion in his expression as he worked on her. His thrusts became ever more vigorous until each thrust forced me to gasp and then grunt, echoing the sounds he was making as he worked himself up to his peak. I felt the tunnel inside me being stretched and rubbed by the thing plunging about inside me and then there was an extra deep thrust after a series of really rapid ones. He cried out as his spunk jetted into me. Suddenly I was so wet and slippery inside and the noise of his movements changed. If only I could have fucked her. Surely I would have made it last longer, stimulated some response from her? But he just wanted to fuck and I was there to be fucked. Had it pleased him that I had been so anxious to avoid this? Is that why I had been made incapable of resistance? What was he going to do to me now that his passions were slaked?

Nothing. Or at least nothing for a time. He just collapsed in an exhausted sort of state on top of me. He was so heavy. It was so hard to breathe with his weight pressing down on me. I felt his prick growing smaller, shrinking back out of me, his wetness beginning to leak from me. I wriggled my hips so that gradually the flaccid thing slipped right out. More of his juice dribbled out. I could feel it cooling around my used entrance, dribbling down between my lips towards my bottom. I tried to push him off, but he was too heavy. My legs were feeling so stretched now. I bent my knees a little to relax the muscles, to gain some relief from this outspread position. If only I could use my arms to slide him down. I managed to wriggle myself a little higher on the bed to move some of his weight from my chest. His face slid down and nestled between my breasts, his warm breath heating a patch around my right nipple. Sleep would have been an escape but it wouldn’t come. I could feel every nerve, especially those in my tits and around, even inside, my pussy. It was as if I had got myself to the edge of a wank and then been interrupted. My body still felt a little excited but there was nothing I could do for myself. I tried to concentrate on the aches in my legs, the chafing of the chains around my wrists, his weight oppressing me. But I kept seeing her stretched out above me, the man between her legs, her breasts framing his head. She looked so tempting, so ravished. And the bed was getting so wet beneath my bottom.

I don’t know how long he slept. When he did waken, he first just moved slightly, giving me some relief from the oppression of his weight. But then, as he became more conscious, he became more aware of me as well. At first he just fondled my breast, his hand stroking round and round the nipple as he half-dozed beside me. Then he transferred his attentions to my crotch and his fingers were penetrating me again. The pleasure of having me so available stimulated him into a more wakeful state. I saw him reach out towards the side of the bed and saw in the mirror above me that he was looking at his watch. The sight provoked him into action, as if it reminded him that there was some limit on his time with me. He wanted to make full use of it!

Any relief I might have felt when he rose from the bed, removed my shoes and started to unfasten the links holding my ankles to that rod was only momentary. He wanted my legs free so that he could remove the knickers completely. He wiped them around my tender and still wet entrance before folding them reverently and slipping them inside a pocket of his still discarded trousers. He did the same with the stockings, first sliding them expertly down my legs and off my feet. Next he turned his attention to the basque, investigating its fastenings and then starting to release the hooks. Needless to say, he succeeded and when it was removed, I was naked. My wrists were still locked to the posts at the head of the bed but now my legs were free. He moved round me until he stood behind my head and I realised what he was going to do before he began. I might have wanted to resist but any struggles I made were easily overcome. He pulled me up to the top of the bed and twisted me right over its head and on to the floor. My arms were still held outspread and it took him only seconds to re-fasten the rod to my ankles. He forced me to stand, or at least to rise. I couldn’t stand straight because my wrists were still chained down to the bed so I had to pose for him with my legs outspread and my bottom in the air. I had expected him to beat me, to slap me at least but he contented himself with the soft smooth feel of my bottom under his hands. He stroked me all over, hands reaching down between my legs, around my waist to my breasts, down over my stomach. It was so disturbing to be fondled like that. Part of me was filled with revulsion and horror, fear and disgust while another part, presumably the part still connected to the female feelings of my body’s previous owner, was relishing his new-found gentleness. It didn’t last long. I began to feel his pecker rising as he played with me, its end starting to touch my behind as he moved. And then his hands were on my bottom again, prising me open. I had been terrified that he intended to fuck my arse so felt almost a sense of relief as his attentions were focused on my labia and vagina. He held me still so that I couldn’t avoid the thrust of his entry. The earlier fucking had been eased by the perfumed lotions the woman had used on me. His previous spend inside me seemed to have dribbled out and I was quite dry inside there. The entry was painful as his distended prick pressed into my tunnel, catching the sides, stretching me open. He seemed to enjoy that feeling, the extra resistance my body offered to the fucking he was determined to impose on me. I heard him grunting as he poked, sensed his satisfaction as he fucked.

This fucking lasted longer than my first but the most memorable thing about it was the pain.

Any gentleness he might have felt before he was fully aroused fell away as his excitement mounted. I was mounted like an animal, a bitch being coupled, a mare covered by a stallion. His prick went in and out, every thrust as painful as the last, all thought driven out by the agony of being so used, so abused. As he persisted, I wanted him to finish, found myself squeezing myself tighter around him to hasten his orgasm. On and on he went despite my efforts until at last I felt the signals which foretold his orgasm. He worked on me faster and faster, plunging ever more powerfully, ever deeper, ever more painfully until I felt the final thrust and that jet of extra wetness. That at least lubricated the tunnel he had been using so vigorously - too late to provide comfort. Now the worry was impregnation.

He held himself inside me for as long as he was able but his rapidly shrinking cock couldn’t maintain the contact he so desired. Eventually had admitted defeat and let it slip out the last few millimetres. I was left, still frustrated by his lack of consideration for me as anything other than a sleeve for his enjoyment. He pulled out his watch and then dressed himself before leaving me, still chained to the bed, still forced to hold my legs wide open by that awful rod. Only when I managed to roll myself back on to the bed was I able to get some relief from that stretching, again bending my knees to allow at least my knees to close. But now, of course, I was naked and available to any man who might enter.

In fact it was the older of the two women who came to collect me. She didn’t seem surprised to see that the clothes she and her partner had used to prepare me for my fucking had been removed. She found the basque and shoes, then looked around for a few minutes, as if for the stockings and knickers. There was a resigned sounding ‘cluck’ as she abandoned her search and released my arms and legs from their restraints. My wrists were quickly and expertly locked together again behind my back and then she draped a silk garment over my shoulders before leading me back to the lift and the room which became my home while I was in their possession there. I was allowed to shower, eat a light meal and was given a flimsy nightdress before being allowed to sleep - still with my arms fastened so that I was unable to explore the true nature of my womanhood. Lying there, with those breasts on my chest and that gaping space between my legs to constantly remind me of my new state did not make sleep come easily but eventually, the strain of the journey, the pain and humiliation of being so abused did combine to allow that small escape.

My next few nights followed very much the same pattern. There were minor differences in the way I was dressed or undressed and bound before being taken by whichever man had rented me for the night. The pills I was given each morning presumably protected me from pregnancy but nothing prevented the rape-like treatment I received each time. The men who took possession of me valued only the space between my legs and the shape, and feel, of my body. They were different and yet still the same. It didn’t matter whether they were Oriental, Western, African or even Inuit as far as I knew - they wanted me incapable of offering anything more than a token resistance to the repeated fuckings they imposed. Talking to them about my situation was expressly forbidden and to make sure that I knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep anything from them, they played back tapes they had made of my sessions, the sound enhanced so that every gasp and groan was clearly audible, especially the occasional pleas for relief from the pains of the bondage or the force of their fucking. One of the most uncomfortable and which caused me to plead too vehemently for mercy was when I was fixed with my lower arms lashed to my legs, wrists to ankles, elbows to knees, my arms inside my legs. I had been carried into the bedroom and dumped on the floor, forced to sit and wait for my abuser. He delighted in my helplessness, crouching down in front of me to admire the gaping hole I was forced to display before tipping me on to my face so that he could rape me from behind. He was clearly well prepared and fucked me at least five times that night, culminating with two special performances. For these, he squatted down with his legs wide open and held me above his rampant cock. With my arms and legs still bound as when he had first inspected me he found it easy to position my cunt above his erect prick and let me slide down on to it. He moved me gently around himself, manoevring me by my legs and arms, jiggling me and rocking me to tease himself to his peak of excitement. My own weight held me down on him and forced that thing so deeply into my body. It was like being impaled on a pole. The only experience I had to compare it with was the mechanical fucking I had received when Linda and her man-mountain had first introduced me to these humiliations.

When they played back the recording of my responses to that night’s fuckings, they showed their displeasure at the way I had attempted to persuade him to take pity on me. My pleas had been entirely ineffectual - I couldn’t tell from the total lack of any response whether he had understood one word I said. But I was going to be punished for it whatever response it had evoked.

It still brings me out in a cold sweat to think about it. It began when I was taken, naked, to a different room. There was no bed, just a few armchairs at the sides and a soft carpet in the middle. Lying on the carpet I saw the young girl who had shared my journey. I felt instant pity for her, she looked so obviously abused. Her back showed the marks of having been beaten, marks which continued over her bottom and down between her legs. She lay there, entirely submissive, expecting nothing pleasant apparently but unwilling to, or incapable of, offering any resistance, her only covering a leather belt tight around her waist. I didn’t realise my part of her performance even when it should have been obvious. I watched as the older of our two female guards squirted baby oil into her entrance. While this was being done, a strange glove device was being fitted on my right hand. It had only two short fingers which were fitted on to my middle fingers. On the outside of each one was a metal ball which looked rather like the gem of a ring. Wires from these two balls ran down my wrists and the device was strapped firmly to my arm, just below my elbow. When it was secure I was instructed, with a lot of signs as well as a few words, in the next stage. My hand was also made oily and I had to put a finger into the girl’s entrance. Then they wanted another finger inside. Almost as soon as I had two fingers embedded in her quim I was shown how to squeeze up my fingers and thumb so that my whole hand could be slid into her. The oil made her so slippery that her vagina seemed to offer no resistance. I was reluctant, sensing the hurt I was imposing as my hand stretched her so wide. But my reluctance was overcome as one of the women pushed on my elbow, forcing my whole hand inside. Once it was inside, I had to find a way to clench my fingers around my thumb to make a fist inside her. Once they were sure that I had clenched my fingers the strap around my arm was connected to the belt around her waist, at the front and behind. To accomplish all this, I had been kneeling on the floor beside her but now I was stretched out beside her, my feet close to her head and my head near hers. I realised as soon as they brought that bottle of oil that they were going to push her right hand inside me!

At first her fingers slipped in easily and quickly but as more and more of her hand came into me I began to feel stretched. I guessed that her hand must have been much smaller than my own and the worst part, when her knuckles first stretched me wide, was in fact less difficult to accommodate than I had expected. After that it seemed as if my entrance closed around her wrist with her hand so hard inside me. Then there was the horrible feeling of being stuffed as her fist clenched and the women forced her hand as far inside me as they could manage. Her arm was also attached to the belt around my waist. I knew that she must be feeling even more stuffed than I was myself since her hand seemed so tiny compared with my own. I know that the hand I had plunged inside her was far smaller than the hands I had possessed as Martin but even so my fist felt so tight rammed up into her as it was. As for me, I felt stretched and stuffed, the fist inside me filling my every being, penetrating as none of the pricks which had been pushed into me until then had managed. The tension was unrelenting, every tiny movement of her fingers and hand sending surges of pain up into my very soul. It had never occurred to me until that night that a woman’s sex could be so stretched as to accommodate another’s fist. When I had overheard men talking about ‘fisting’ and ‘fist fucking’, I had always believed that they were talking about masturbation. And yet, as I lay on the floor with her fist deeply embedded in me, seeing her lower arm protruding from between my legs like an enormous prick, I realised the degree of stretching necessary during childbirth. That was when I also realised that my own fingers must have been touching the entrance to her womb as I had first forced my open hand into her. At least clenching my fist had prevented me from penetrating that most private place.

We lay on the floor, waiting to find out what other indignity they would impose. We didn’t have to wait long. The wires attached to our arms and fingers were stretched across the floor and plugged into four separate sockets set into the floor close to the ring of armchairs. One of the women threw a switch and the other demonstrated the effects. I felt my arm being pulled so that my fist started to slip out of the girl’s quim. I felt a sharp pain in my hand and the girl seemed to convulse around my hand, a high pitched scream forced from her mouth. And when they did the same with her hand I understood. Tightening the links between our arms and waists triggered a surge of current through the wires which was delivered through the metal studs on our fingers. The pain was execrable, unbearable, especially being delivered just there. It triggered an involuntary convulsion and an instinctive attempt to expel her fist, an attempt which just heightened the pain. To avoid inflicting such pain on the girl, I had to keep my fist as tightly embedded inside her as I could - and perversely hope that she would do the same for me, despite the discomfort her fist imposed. It was a question of balancing that discomfort against the greater pain which the electric charge delivered.

When the women were satisfied that their devices were performing properly we were introduced to another refinement. The power was controlled by a series of switches on the floor around us which glowed red or green. When one of them glowed red it indicated that within the next minute, when it turned green, we would receive an electric shock whatever the state of the tension in our bonds. The only way we would be able to prevent it would be by moving ourselves across the floor and flicking the switch to deactivate it. And that was made even more difficult when our left wrists were chained,, one to the other. The women made us play their game a few times, delighting in the sight of us scrambling across the floor, mostly on our backs, struggling to coordinate our legs to move in the right direction, desperately trying to keep our fists plugged tightly into the other’s cunt as we sought to reach the appropriate switch. Satisfied by the effectiveness of their torturous devices, they switched everything off and left us. Apart from the stuffed feeling which her invading fist generated, I have to admit that it was a relief to be left alone. But since this punishment was the result of talking too much, we were neither of us willing to engage in conversation!

The night which followed was the worst until then. A group of six men were shown into our torture chamber and clearly already knew how to operate the devices which controlled us. At first it was humiliating to be forced to scramble about the floor for them, giving them such pleasure as we occasionally failed to keep the wires slack and so shot those painful jolts through our most tender places. But as the night went on the only important thing became that of avoiding the extra pain which failing to throw a switch in time imposed. We did accidentally find a slightly more efficient means of locomotion when one of the shocks caused us both such agony that our paroxysms threw us on to our fronts. Then at least we were able to use our knees, although coordination was a big problem at first and my left arm ached from the strain of supporting my upper body whenever we had to move. Crawling around the floor on our knees and elbows while those fiends enjoyed our pain did reinforce our need to cooperate fully in later fuckings! And their enjoyment of our discomfort and pain was just an extra bit of excitement as they gambled on our ability to reach the next switch in time.

The morning light was beginning to penetrate the thick curtains by the time they had lost the will to gamble on our responses. They wanted something new, something more exciting. There was no escaping them, we were too securely attached to each other, too restricted in our movements to have any hope of escape. They started by progressively shortening the chains between our arms and waists so that it became almost impossible to avoid those agonising shocks. They seemed so amused by the way we were forced to thrust our fists more and more deeply into our fellow victim’s sex, causing both of us greater discomfort as we sought to prevent the shocks. Her hand was so deep inside me that I felt sure that nothing could ever get deeper. But of course it did. And my hand was pressing so hard against a seemingly impenetrable barrier that I knew I was hurting her even more than she was hurting me. They had us moaning and begging as we struggled to accommodate the fist inside us. And there was worse - at least for her.

They decided that my fist was too small to achieve the effect they wanted. As we lay in helpless pain it was clear that they were trying to decide which of them had the biggest fist. So clear that we were both terrified of what was to come. There was a short period of respite as the electrical connections were removed and then the chains keeping our arms so deeply plunged into our partner’s body. For me, having her hand dragged out did offer some relief, although the suction as it came out was dreadful. My own hand was also dragged out and I could see how white and shrivelled it had become through its long immersion. Then, as I was sat on successive laps and penetrated each time, my breasts clasped and massaged while they fucked me, the girl was made to suffer even greater torment. Two of the men held her upside down, holding her by her ankles and forcing her legs wide apart while a third poured more of the oil into her wide open crevice to ease the entry of his hand. When he was satisfied, he started to force his clenched fist into her. She was so small and his fist was so big. She was screaming, kicking so violently that another two men left me and helped to hold her steady against him as gradually he forced more and more of his fist, wrist and upper arm into her poor stretched passage. She was so small and he was so big, so strong. Once he was fully inside the other men turned her upright and then, using his great strength, he held her off the ground, impaled on his fist. When she tried to take some of her weight with her arms they were grabbed and tied behind her. She had to hold her entire weight with her sex as he held her aloft, like a trophy, his fist being forced even deeper as she slid further down his arm. Her face was contorted with the pain and I recognised that being fucked, as I was, represented the easier option.

I lost count of how many times I was fucked while she was being so abused but eventually there was a pause. The men talked excitedly for a few minutes and then another form of abuse began. They had decided that we deserved a special reward from those who had made the most money from their gambling. So each of them screwed up some of the money which had changed hands and one by one took their turn at thrusting it up inside us. My tunnel was already sore from having her arm inside me for so long and the repeated shocks had made me very tender so having their fingers pushed inside caused great discomfort. But the sharp edges of the folded notes were even worse. We weren’t allowed to remove the money and the poor girl suffered even more than I did when they added a lot of coins as well, thrusting them up into her as if they wanted to stuff her full. She was clearly in pain as the coins and the notes filled her but still they weren’t satisfied. She had to walk around the room and perform a very active dance for them, always with the threat of more money being stuffed inside if any fell out. And as she danced, I was made to lie on the floor as one by one they jerked themselves off over me, their disgusting mess spraying over my face and body as they came.

At last their time with us came to an end and we were both deposited on the floor when they left. Neither of us had the strength or energy to do more than crawl together and offer the other a sympathetic cuddle. My tunnel was leaking spunk as I lay there. My insides felt torn and abused, sore and sensitive to every movement, every beat of my heart sending more pain through me as the blood surged past tender places, places which I knew I shouldn’t have, made even more tender by the notes still packed inside. Then we were collected and separated.

I was taken back to my cell like room and allowed to rest on the bed. My hands were still fixed, this time to the bed-head so that I couldn’t touch the places deep inside me which felt so tender. Everything in there felt so injured. And I felt so sick, so ill. They obviously knew that the men had put money inside me and the two women took great pleasure in removing it, counting each note as they divided the spoils between them. Surely I had been injured. Being given so many painful electric shocks in such a sensitive place had probably burned me in there. My imagination was going wild. My head was spinning. Sleep wouldn’t come. If only I could hold myself there, press my hands against the pain to make it bearable. Then there were pains in my head as well. The room was spinning, each turn making me retch. If only I had left Linda alone, exercised more self-control then. How had they done this to me? I felt so low. And as the pain in my lower abdomen intensified I realised that I was getting wetter down there. This wasn’t more of their gunk leaking out. I looked down. I was bleeding! I had been torn open. her hand must have burst something inside me. At first it was just a little trickle. I tried to console myself. But as the trickle grew stronger and became a flow I knew that I was seriously injured. I called out for help but no-one came. Hour after hour went by. The blood leaking from my wounds dripped down, running along the crack in my bottom and then on to the bed beneath me. I could feel it more than see it. I struggled to sit more upright. The bloody patch was clearly visible. I was still bleeding. And the flow was getting faster. I felt so sick. I guessed it was my imagination again as I imagined the effects of this loss of blood. They had abandoned me to die here. I would die alone, watching my own life dripping away as my blood leaked from these wounds.

The blood changed colour as I watched it flow. There was an awful smell as well. Her hand must have torn through into my anal passage. I needed help. I know that I was crying out, screaming hysterically for help before weakness and panic overcame me and I passed out.

I felt so foolish when I came round. It was only then that I realised what had happened. My insides might feel as if they were dropping out but this was only the natural cycle for any woman. After three weeks in this body I was experiencing my first period as a woman! I could look forward to this every four weeks for as long as they kept me in a female body. However it was achieved, everything about me was now female.

After that night I was allowed a period of rest, during which the extent of their power over me and the even more agonising punishments they could inflict was made very clear. One evening I was even allowed to walk along the corridor outside my presentation cell to see what the visiting men could see as they made their choices. There were about a dozen of us. The first two cells were occupied by fully and elegantly dressed women, one dressed in traditional C****** clothes and the other, who looked half Indian, half European, in a white evening dress. The next group of cells contained women wearing less clothing and more bondage. Further along the corridor I saw the girl who had shared that night. She cowered in a corner of her cell which was bare and made more cell like by the decoration - stone effect walls set with heavy rings and chains and with a glass cabinet in which there was a display of whips and canes. The next cell looked even worse. The woman inside was hanging by her wrists from rings in the walls and all around her was a collection of instruments of torture - heavy manacles, studded collars, hoods and helmets resembling the scold’s bridles I had seen in museums, sharp instruments whose purposes I had no wish to know, racks and wheels reminiscent of medieval punishments allegedly used by the Inquisition. There was also a very young looking girl, dressed like a Japanese schoolgirl who danced around her room bouncing a balloon, showing her white knickers as she jumped up in the air. Right at the end of the corridor there was a woman dressed entirely in shiny rubber and another dressed in a leather skirt, thigh high, stiletto heeled boots, a leather bra and swishing a leather whip.

As I looked in on the women displayed in those cells I wondered how many of them were like me. How many were really men being punished for indulging in just the sort of behaviour which this place seemed to encourage? Or were they willing? Was this just a way of earning a living? Or perhaps they were real women who had committed some offence. But I knew that I would get no answers by asking my captors and felt too subdued to risk asking any of the other women.

I learned my lesson and suppressed my desire to seek escape by engaging the sympathy of my tormentors. I allowed myself to be fucked, resisting as much as the client seemed to want, learning to pretend to be provoked by their activities into actually wanting them to fuck me. My bondage altered from one client to the next but I was always bound enough to ensure that the man could overcome any resistance I could offer. And I was always available to be fucked. One man after another had me during the next week or so and I learned how to let myself be fucked, how to ensure that the man would enjoy fucking me whatever disgust I might really be feeling. And some of that disgust was with myself for allowing myself to be so used. After all, I was really a man, should be able to protect myself from situations like this. And I was also no better than the men who exploited me, a rapist like them - except that they were probably paying for their pleasure, pleasure which I had stolen when I had raped Linda. More self-loathing, I deserved no better.

Day followed day now, each filled with the compulsory exercise period, the swim and the treadmills which we had to use. Every calorie we burned off was recorded before our meals were planned, so that we were fed just enough to keep us the shape they intended. Afternoons provided the only period of relaxation, in my case, still fettered as I was allowed to rest on my bed before being prepared for the night’s work. Then one night I had an experience which changed my life. Whether it was for the better or the worse I cannot say since my life had been so significantly changed already. But the change was dramatic.

I realised that things were going to be different when the women started to get me ready for my night’s service. I was given a much more scrupulous bathing and cleaning than usual, they took much more care with my hair and make-up and then, the greatest surprise of all, dressed me in an elegant evening dress. It was of black velvet, strapless, the bodice fitting around all of my female curves, zipped in tightly to emphasise the cleavage which was displayed so sexily. It was expertly cut so that it flared out gently at the waist, falling to about mid-calf length. It needed no bra but I was wearing a tiny black suspender belt and black lace knickers with sheer black stockings. A soft sheer slip fell from my waist and enhanced the shape of the dress. My feet were fitted into a pair of ultra-high black velvet finish court shoes. Fortunately my experiences during the previous week or so enabled me to cope with walking in such shoes. This time I wasn’t bound before being taken up in the lift to the entertainment rooms. And instead of being put in my usual room, the one with the four-poster bed equipped with all its shackling positions, I was led into a larger, more luxuriously appointed room. It was a suite rather than just a room, as I discovered while I was left to wait there. And as I waited I wondered what was to happen to me next. I guessed that I was not fettered because there would be more than one man, enough to subdue me without the need for bondage. The anticipation of being raped by more than one man sent shivers through me. The male part of me was excited by the extra stimulation which two men would be able to generate. Could I cope with three, or four? Perhaps it would last long enough for me to experience more than the perpetual frustration of being excited but not satisfied. Was this the fate of all women? Were all men incapable of giving a woman pleasure? Or was it just me and the sort of man who had already fucked me. Surely Linda had been enjoying her night with the man-mountain. Or had she too been pretending just to please him, to make him think that his performance was better than it was?

As I walked about, exploring that suite and anticipating the rest of the night I realised that this was the first time I had been alone and able to explore my new body. Until then I had always been chained or tied to deny me access to what I now possessed. This time I could see for myself. I posed in front of a mirror. She looked ravishing. I reminded myself that that was what she was going to get - a ravishing, another to go with all her previous sexual experiences. Ravishable perhaps would be a better word. Her blonde hair fell across her shoulders, the expensive earrings tinkling as she moved her head. The necklace sparkled at her throat and the other jewellery which adorned her fingers and wrists matched completely. A gentle fragrance surrounded her and her clothes looked so exciting. I slid the hem of the dress up towards my knees, teasing the man inside myself with the slow revelation of her legs - calves, knees, thighs and then, such utter delight, the tops of those sheer stockings. A short expanse of white thighs above the lace top of the stockings and then the charming sight of the black lace of her knickers disappearing between her legs. Looking at her I could hardly blame the men who had already seen her and had her available for using her as they had - I wanted to fuck her myself. But I would never do that - I lacked the essential item of equipment. I wanted to examine her tits but didn’t dare to disturb the bodice of the dress. I felt them through the fabric and was delighted as a man by their feel and as the woman I now was by the exciting sensations that my own hands aroused. Why shouldn’t I examine my other pearl? My own hands and imagination had already made me aware of it. I lifted the skirt again, anxious to let my own fingers explore that sensitive opening.

I felt such a surge of fear and guilt at that instant as I heard the rattle of keys outside the door. I leapt back from the mirror, trying to smooth the skirt down my legs, and tumbled off those high heels. As the door opened, I fell in an inelegant heap on the floor, my legs bouncing up and out as I fell so that the sight which greeted him first must have been the knickers. And my first sight of him was of a tall, fair haired figure who stood in amazed admiration of the sight. He recovered his composure before I managed mine. I was still struggling to control my legs to retain my upright position when he reached me. He was unlike any of the men who had booked me before. Any of them I suspect, would have instantly fallen on me, spread my legs and thrust themselves inside before jacking themselves off. Such experience of men as I had gained led me to expect an immediate fucking but, as I said, he was different. He helped me to my feet, speaking softly and consolingly in what I took to be German or Dutch. I learned later that it was Danish. He looked at me as he spoke, seeming to check for some response to his words. I thanked him and he immediately switched into English.

“I’m so sorry if I startled you. My name is Torben. And you are ...?” His tone seemed so sympathetic that part of me wanted to tell him my whole story, plead with him to help me to escape from this fiendish form of punishment but that earlier experience was still fresh in my mind.

“I’m Sheila. I’m very pleased to meet you.” I didn’t know what to say or how to behave. Should I ask him how he wanted me, where I should lie for him to fuck me? How should I stand? Or should I sit down?

“And I’m very pleased to meet you too, Sheila. I’ve seen you here several times and I think that you look much better this time. I’ve always thought that you looked special but this confirms it. Thank you very much for agreeing to meet me like this.” I wanted to tell him that I had been given no choice in the matter, that I was just an object to be used by any man who could afford to pay for me. At least I had come to believe that that was how my partners were chosen. But, as I have already said, he was different.

“Come and sit by the window.” He escorted me across the room and fussed around me as I sat down. He went back to the door, collecting a trolley and pushing it into the room ahead of him as he returned.

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you” he said and then busied himself setting out knives and forks on the table in front of me, setting two places before revealing the food he had brought with him. He also produced a bottle of chilled wine, pouring two glasses before sitting down himself.

“Your very good health.” He toasted me, smiling across the table. I raised my glass and reflected his toast, studying him as closely as he was studying me. His features were clean cut, his blue eyes almost piercing in their intensity. He was clean shaven and his skin was clear - just a little pale, making his fair hair look yellow. His teeth were straight and his smile disarming. He had the ability to put me at my ease despite the strangeness of our situation. I guessed that he was between thirty five and forty. There was a sadness about him which I found hard to pin down; how did I know, what signals was he giving me?

“I have been told that I must ask you no personal questions - you wouldn’t answer them anyway - but there is no reason for me not to tell you about myself.” He started to talk, and once started, there was no stopping him. Not that I tried. In actual fact I found myself suddenly aware of a womanly skill which my appearance seemed to have imparted. he expected me to behave as a woman and I was finding it increasingly easy. So I nodded attentively, sighed sympathetically, repeated occasional words to encourage him to continue, even managed to suppress the urge to interrupt or break the occasional periods of silence. The reasons for his sadness became very clear. A happy and successful marriage had been destroyed by a vicious attack in one of the countries of South-East Asia - a dissident group had planted a bomb outside a hotel, the hotel where he had been staying with his wife and young son. Both had been killed instantly while he had been busy elsewhere. He blamed himself for having taken them there, for not being with them, for choosing that hotel. His whole life had been shattered, the grief interfering with his business activities, making it almost impossible to function as every sight, every sound, every smell reminded him of what he had lost. It had taken him five years to come to terms with his loss and return to his work and then he had been entertained at this place. It had only been a week since he had first seen me through that peep-hole but the sight had re-awakened everything which he thought he had managed to overcome. I reminded him so powerfully of his wife that he had been determined to meet me - but in a more comfortable setting than those which seemed to be on offer. It had taken time but now he had achieved the first part of his ambition; a quiet meal in my company and the chance to tell me his story.

He told me his story with such heart-felt emotion that I found it hard to control my own feelings. The story touched me so deeply as he told it. I found myself struggling to control my own voice, to prevent the tears from leaking from my eyes. He noticed the little droplets as they began to drip from my eyes. And he was apologetic for having upset me! It seemed so natural to squeeze his hand reassuringly, to try to console him. We were standing. His arms surrounded me and he leaned down to kiss me. I had never been kissed by a man before - none of the brutes who had taken possession of me had been interested in anything except my body, my breasts, my bottom, my legs and, most important, my vagina. I couldn’t help myself. I was kissing him in return. His arms held me firmly but gently and he started to explain that since that awful day he had made love to no woman, had felt attracted by no woman and yet now, he felt himself recapturing his manly feelings. He begged me not to be offended, not to let him do anything I would find offensive. And all the time, his strong hands were caressing me. I felt myself melting. I couldn’t understand my feelings as he held me, kissing me gently, stroking my neck and face, holding me so gently and yet so positively. I had already been raped, fucked by so many men. Was that what he wanted to do to me? What harm could it do? Just another fuck, if that was what he wanted.

But as he kissed and caressed me something inside me was responding. I supposed at the time that it was some residual trace of the woman I had obviously been before. I sensed that it wasn’t a simple fuck that he wanted, that he needed more. And so did I! I was kissing him back. His tongue flicked around my lips and I was almost sucking it into my mouth. He transferred his attentions to my ears, kissing and nuzzling. Why was I feeling such shivers of anticipation? I pressed myself against him and felt his hands pulling me even closer, hands on my back, down to my bottom. One hand in the small of my back, the other higher. He was stroking my shoulders above the dress. The hand slid down to join the other. I was glad. It was what I wanted too. The air wafted across my back. The zip was undone. A hand on my back, stroking so gently, but this time directly on my skin. I know that I was still kissing, being kissed. My hands were around his neck as he leaned over me. The dress was unsupported now. It began to slip. A breast, and then the other slipped up over the top. I reached down, loosened his tie and helped him to slip out of his jacket. The shirt was rubbing against my nipples. One hand was holding me to him while the other slipped between us. The trousers slid to the floor, swiftly followed by the dress. He span me round, holding my back against his chest as his hands cupped the breasts. They were my breasts - and yet not mine. I had never had such feelings there. They seemed to be growing under his hands. A hand down on my belly. Down beneath the slip. I reached back. Behind me was a hard pole. I touched it and as I touched there was a surge of growth. I knew exactly what he was feeling - more exactly than I knew what I felt myself. This was so strange. He turned me round again, pushing the slip over my hips so that it too slid to the floor. Two hands beneath my bum lifting me. Lips between my breasts as his kisses slid down to meet me. Higher, and the kisses got lower. A nipple in his mouth. He nibbled gently and as he sucked he seemed to draw tight some string linked deep down in my belly to that secret part - at least secret from me. My nipples seemed to explode into life, just as my breasts seemed firmer. The shirt was discarded and I felt myself held against his almost hairless chest. We didn’t need to speak now. This was something we both wanted. I wanted to be naked for him but also wanted to please him - he was so pleasing me. The knickers slid to the floor. He lifted me higher and carried me across the room, his lips still pressed to my belly. I was lying on the bed. The kisses didn’t stop but were getting lower. Down to the bare space between the suspender belt and the bifurcation of my legs. This was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I lay back on the bed. Lower, lower, please kiss me lower. He answered my unspoken pleas and moved his kisses down. My legs wouldn’t have closed if I had wanted them to. I found myself lifting my hips to encourage the contact my body was demanding. He kissed the bare patch of flesh above the stockings and as he kissed me his fingers deftly slipped the fastenings. As he slid the stocking down my leg, his mouth followed, kissing every centimetre until he was holding my ankle and kissing my foot. The other stocking too was removed, the kisses continuing unabated. Now, please, come higher. And then he was kissing me there. The thrill was electric. Surpassed as his tongue probed. Nothing else mattered. He was so gentle and my body so insistent. Inside, on that spot. There. There. Again. And the sucking. How did he know what to do? My mind was disengaged, only my body responding to the triggers. And he was firing on all cylinders. forcing me to want, to need. How did a man know what to do to a woman like me? Could he do this to any woman or was it just me? Was it just my inexperience, the novelty of being treated like this? Were we making love? This surely wasn’t just sex.

I know that I was stroking his head as he played with me, fondling his ears because that was almost all of him that I could reach without moving. I didn’t want to risk breaking this contact as my body responded to his treatment. Inside I could feel that I was getting damp, as if his caresses had stimulated that first droplet of cum on a prick I no longer had - and yet so much wetter. There were surges of ecstasy and desire. And strangely, the feelings didn’t diminish as his tongue and lips left their station and moved up my body. Now I could reach more of him. His mouth enclosed a nipple, his sucking drawing more and more of my breast into his mouth. It felt as if he was sucking out my stomach as some unknown thread drew my excited body up towards him. Now I could reach his back, stroke the strong muscles, sense the tightness of his fitness. His lips were on my neck. My hands were reaching down towards his plug, the plug which would seal my femininity. I wanted. I needed. He had roused me to fever pitch. I had to have it. My legs were so open as he rubbed his body up against mine. I felt the prickle of his pubic hair, a contact which filled me with even more desire. My hands were making contact. It was so hot, so firm, so big. As I touched the end I saw his face. I recognised the little grimace which indicated his urge to control these passionate feelings, remembered how often I had been over stimulated, provoked into an urgent and apparently unfeeling fuck as I felt my orgasm approaching and didn’t want to admit it, or spoil it by just gushing all over her. I forced myself to take my hands away from it, to allow him to control the pace despite my longing. A finger just inside me found the spot which mirrored the penis I had possessed so recently. The contact was irresistible. There was nothing I could do. I surrendered to those feelings and wave after wave of sensation coursed through me. It was wonderful. And unlike the peaks I had reached as a man, this didn’t burn itself out. Yes, I felt drained but not empty. The contact persisted and although that surge had passed I could still enjoy it. I heard myself moaning with pleasure and desire as his fingers continued to stroke, his lips persisted with the kissing. I wanted to please him as he had pleased me. As gently as I could, I reached down. I opened my mouth in an unspoken plea, an indication of the openness I was offering him. My entrance was so wet, so slippery. His tool slid in so easily. Strong hands were holding me to him with an unspoken instruction which I could empathise with. Keep still, just for a few moments, until I get control again. I lay beneath him, a willing vessel, a vassal, beholden to my master, willing and anxious to please, to return with interest the pleasure he had already bestowed. And then he began to screw me. His nail was driven in so deeply. I felt my inner self moving to intensify our pleasure and then as his rhythm increased and he grew in confidence felt again those surges of passion. And suddenly, it was on me again. My whole body was overwhelmed by the sensation as we both climaxed together.

As I lay beneath him, a woman now in every respect, I recognised what was happening to him. First the passion, then the ejaculation - the evidence of that was filling me almost to overflowing - and then the detumescence, the decline of physical potency and the onset of that self-satisfied exhaustion after the almost obligatory enquiry. He didn’t need to enquire. Every part of me had felt such excitement and my reactions had been entirely uncontrollable. I felt him slipping out of me and out of consciousness. I could have tipped him off me and let him sleep but I still wanted to feel him inside me. I felt so alive. If only the other men who had penetrated and used me during the past weeks had been willing - or capable - of arousing such feelings. Had this been arranged deliberately? Was I intended to discover the gap between a man’s satisfaction and a woman’s arousal? Now that I had experienced the empyrean joy of a penis generated orgasm would I now be subjected to more and more of those humiliating, degrading rapes during which a man would get himself off while leaving me longing?

He slept as I continued to ponder such questions. I still knew that I was really a man, like him. Only my own brutishness and their skill had given me this new existence, these new opportunities of awareness. I had been altered, penetrated, raped and abused. And now I had also been given the joy of making love. I could only wonder if I had ever managed to give a woman such joy myself? Clearly I had come nowhere near it with poor Linda. If only he were not asleep. Perhaps when he wakes he will be able to repeat that performance. The woman I now recognised myself to be might long for it but the remaining memories of my male state told me that such hopes were futile. He would be spent now.

As he shrank away inside me, our combined juices were leaking out, coursing down the inside of my upper thigh and down on to the bed. If I moved I felt the wetness beneath me. I wondered how much of it was my own. I was aware of the extra flood from inside me just before he ejaculated. I reached down to hold what was left of him, half hoping for a miraculous hardening which would allow me to enjoy having him there even as he slept. Perhaps if I could keep him there until the morning he would grow inside me as he woke. I could remember how often I had woken with an erection. I wished.

He must have lain on me for more than an hour before he stirred. I had had so much time to reflect on my situation. If I had to be a woman - and it seemed that I had no choice - it was far better to make love like this than to be raped. The feelings had been so strong, so much more powerful than those I could still remember feeling as a man. And the gap between that first real orgasm and the next had been so much shorter. I might manage to get him to fuck me again like that once, perhaps twice, before his time with me was up. But only if I could arouse him.

He was so apologetic; for having taken advantage of me, for letting himself ejaculate inside me, for having made me so wet. It had been the first time he had made love with a woman since his wife’s death and I was the first woman since her to have aroused that sort of desire. He guessed that it had been more than six years since he had used his body for pleasure. I had to tell him how much pleasure he had given me ‘more than any man has ever given me before’. I wanted to ask him if he wanted to do it again, offer myself, seduce him. But I didn’t know how. I was so afraid of putting him off, making myself seem too eager, too readily available. And yet he must know that I was being made available to any man who wanted me, who had access to the service here. If only I knew how to behave.

In the end I found the right way. It was so easy really that I wondered why I had worried. As he started to speak again, to apologise again, I just put one finger on his lips, held him in my arms as he lay on top of me and kissed him gently on the lips. The kiss was returned, just as gently. He moved from on top of me and we lay side by side, stroking and touching each other. His touch was electric. My body was responding. I felt my breasts tingling as his fingers brushed across the nipples. I tested his chest and found that I could raise his nipples into hardness. In return, he concentrated his attentions on my nipples. They seemed to burst into life under his fingers, swelling, growing in sensitivity as they grew in size. I could see that his prick was also growing. I wanted to touch it, make it spring to attention and then take it inside me. But as a woman who could still remember what it was like to be a man, I held myself back, knowing that touching him too early might just send him out of control too early. I concentrated on his chest and neck. I touched him gently, stroked and fondled. He was nibbling my ear, one hand on one tit and the other stroking down my belly. He was working the magic again. I was his. I wanted to be possessed. I needed this void to be filled. He had the plug to make me complete. Despite his obvious arousal he spent time, making sure that I was ready, stimulating with his hands, fingers and tongue until I had to respond, had to plead with him with my eyes, draw his magic wand towards its target. And he was so gentle, so slow, so unhurried as he played me. I drifted into a state of total sensual awareness, enjoying being his, longing to be entered, longing to be possessed. Another orgasm before he was ready to fuck me again. And I was still ready for him when eventually he succumbed. Paroxysms of joy as he brought me to yet another thundering orgasm around him.

In the half light of the early morning I took the initiative. He had already given me such pleasure that I wanted to make him the focus of my attentions this time. He was supine beside me, only half awake when I began. I touched him to erection, firming him until he was rigid. He relaxed and let me. I made myself kiss his tool, still smelling and tasting of me. I made it wet by taking it half way into my mouth. Did this make me a homosexual? I was making love to a man. Was there still something inside me which was male? He had been so kind, so loving. He deserved my co-operation. I knelt astride him and lowered myself on to him. He was so hard and I was so ready. He started to speak but just a look constrained him and he allowed me to take him inside. Now I concentrated on doing what I had always wanted a woman to do to me. I held him with my tunnel, moved myself slowly and gently up and down to stimulate him. I twisted my body from side to side. His face showed his appreciation and his mounting excitement. I half expected him to grab me, roll me over and beneath him, thrust himself into me and fuck me fiercely. Instead he lay there, looking up at me, showing through his expression his pleasure as I excited him more and more. Only his hands moved, up on to my breasts, holding them, intensifying their sensitivity, magnifying my passion. I moved faster, anticipating his need for more contact, greater stimulation. Knowing what he was feeling made it so much easier to give him the most wonderful fuck. I was getting such pleasure from knowing that I was in control, was giving him the greatest fuck I could offer. My body was getting excited too as I worked and then, yet again, we both reached our peaks together.

This time I slumped down on to him, still holding his penis inside me. More gentle kisses, another period of relaxation, deeper this time than before. And soon it would be time for him to go. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me. Was it just that he had awakened a dormant vein of sexuality within me? Why did I feel so attached to him? Yes, I had enjoyed sex for the first time as a woman but there seemed to be something else. I didn’t want him to go. Or if he did go, I wanted so much to go with him. Yet going with him meant a denial of all that I had been. My only hope of regaining the being I had been was to serve out my time, submit to my punishment and hope that they had some means of reversing whatever they had done to me. Going with him would mean spending the rest of my life like this, as a vulnerable woman. And worse, as a woman who had been fearfully abused by so many men already. I had no idea of this woman’s past, had no way of knowing what sort of woman I had been before the transformation - or indeed if I had been any sort of woman. Did I have any past? It was all so confusing, so incomprehensible. And still there was this feeling of desolation when I thought of being separated from the man who had awakened these feelings. Let him stay. Let me stay locked in his arms like this.

The room was so much brighter when I was next aware of it. We were still locked together in our embrace. He stirred as I moved. He seemed almost instantly as awake as I was myself. He pulled me to him again. He was whispering in my ear. So quietly that I could hardly hear him. He was so grateful. He had so enjoyed making love with me. And it had been so much better than he had imagined when he had set up our meeting. He would come back. He wanted to be with me. There must be some other way that we could be together. He couldn’t bear to think of other men taking advantage of me. He would find some way to get me out of this situation. Just be patient. I will be back. And as he whispered, he was kissing me and I was responding. Yes, I did want him to come back, did want to repeat this wonderful experience, couldn’t wait for another opportunity. I knew that I couldn’t replace what he had lost but somehow, at that moment, I wanted to try. My male mind had been overwhelmed by the sensuality of being a woman, of being cherished. Please come back soon.

His time was up. He had to go. Just one more kiss. No time to make love again. I studied him as I sought to remember every detail, noticed the strength of his chin, the beginnings of stubble, so fair as to be almost invisible. His shoulders, so wide and yet so soft, smooth down to just above the swell of the muscles on his chest. The blonde hairs on his chest and down over his belly. His hands, so powerful and yet so gentle. And his face! The knock on the door; and he was gone.

The next day was like a dream. I was fed and watered, exercised and rested. And during the late afternoon, during the period when they would have been preparing me for display in my chains and straps, there was another change. First there was a sort of interrogation. I was fixed down to a chair while they showed me ‘highlights’ of my night’s performance. I earned special praise for the point at which I had taken the initiative, had impaled myself on his erect pole, had worked him up to his peak. They wanted to know what had been happening at the end, the point where he had been nibbling my ear. Had he been talking? What had he said? Had he enjoyed his time with me? I lied - to some extent. Yes he had been speaking, had told me how much he had enjoyed having me, had said that he intended to return, would want me again. But of his whispered suggestions about my future I said nothing. The clarity of their sound was disturbing. Even as he whispered in my ear they could pick up something, could almost identify words. Knowing what I had told them about his intentions to return allowed them, I think, to imagine those parts of our conversation they couldn’t hear. As they talked around me I made a mental note to remove my earrings before anything like that happened again. Perhaps they held the microphones which had picked up these snatches of near conversation.

At last they seemed satisfied with my explanations. They were certainly satisfied with my performance. I had earned promotion. Tonight I would replace the Eurasian girl in the second room.

I was dressed in a white evening dress. The long straight skirt of the dress was split at the left, the split reaching up to the tops of my stockings. No petticoat but white knickers, a strapless bra and hold up stockings which needed no suspender belt. I was allowed to try to do my own make-up, my mistakes causing the women amusement as they corrected them. False eyelashes defeated me so I had to sit still as they were applied. The instructions were inadequate, the women’s English incapable of sustaining such technicalities. So I had to try to learn by watching, not easy when they demanded that I close my eyes at times. And when I was ready, I was displayed in that second inspection chamber, allowed to sit facing the inspection panel with a glass of wine and a magazine. I could make some sense of the pictures but the text was meaningless. I kept looking up at the inspection panel, hoping that he was looking through it. Had he come? Was there to be a repeat performance? How should I sit? Was it possible to sit without the slit in the skirt falling open to show my leg? Did I want to display myself? I knew that I had very good legs, enhanced by the sheer stockings. But what if some other man were peeping at me?

I was chosen. At first I was hopeful. He had said that he would return. But as I was set up in the ‘love-suite’ it was clear that things would be different. He wouldn’t have wanted me set up like this. My wrists were clipped together and hooked up above my head. I had to stand there for what seemed like hours. The shoes were starting to pinch. my calves were aching from the strain of just standing in them. This was going to be as bad as being raped in the other room. At least it didn’t seem that I would have a fist stuck up inside me. Concentrate. Try to think of that wonderful night. My owners wanted me to co-operate, to offer myself rather than just let myself be raped. I was going to be fucked anyway, every night, and probably several times. Wouldn’t it be better to give the sort of performance he had prompted. That way I might retain this apparently favoured position. Did they have rules about the sort of man who could have the women from the first two rooms? Could I make myself behave like a whore instead of just a victim?

It was clear from the moment he arrived that he wanted both! He spoke no English and despite his sophisticated western clothing, he was an Oriental animal. He gloated over me as I stood there waiting for him. He taunted me in some incomprehensible tongue. His hands found the slit in the skirt and roamed up under it towards the knickers. He stood behind me and unhooked the little shoulder straps of the dress so that it started to slide down my body. There was nothing to hold it until the top had flopped down to my waist. Now his hands played with my breasts, first outside and then inside the bra. Those fastenings next so that he could feel them properly. How could his touch be so unexciting when Torben’s had been so recent? I tried to pretend that it was Torben who was holding me, stroking me but the effort was too much, the disparity too obvious. The dress was being pulled down past my hips. It fell to the floor around my feet. I made myself smile - it was what he wanted. I crossed my knees as if to deny him the sight of the space between my legs. He stood in front of me and grasped me, held me against his chest. He bent down a little, grasping my breasts in both hands and squeezing them against his face. I saw the little bald spot at the back of his head. Had he paid a lot of money to have me like this? Or was I a gift, part of some shady deal? It didn’t matter. For the rest of the night I belonged to him, however he had come by me. If I could make myself perform to his satisfaction I might retain this more favoured state. At least he wasn’t hurting me.

I made myself moan, as if I was enjoying what he was doing, wriggled my chest to rub my breasts against his face. He liked it so I did it again. Hands were on my back, down inside the knickers. I made a sound as if I liked what he was doing, wriggled my hips as if to encourage him to go further. The knickers were being slid down over my bottom. He bent down in front of me to watch as more and more of me was revealed. The knickers were caught in my crotch. I didn’t understand his words but their meaning was clear. I eased my legs slightly open so that the knickers could slip down a little further. They caught again on the tops of the stockings but then there was nothing to stop their descent. He knelt down. His hands were on my knees. The pressure told me that he wanted me to part my legs. There was no point in refusing. His face was so close. His nose touched me. He breathed in deeply. He pressed his face closer. I made myself open my legs a little wider and pressed myself back against him. He seemed delighted and then he was sniffing and licking me. His actions were like Torben’s and yet completely different. The effects were also very different. Now I had to pretend, to try to remember the feelings of the previous night and simulate them. When he at last released my arms I knelt in front of him and copied what he had done, as if I enjoyed doing it. I held his prick between my tits and rubbed the end of it against my nipples. I kissed the end of it, making sure that I left a distinct lipstick mark. He couldn’t wait. He led me to the bed and laid me down. The fucking started.

There were three more like him before Torben came again. He was so wonderful - such a contrast with the animals who fucked me. All they wanted was to get themselves off without any thought for me except that I represented the cavity into which they could empty themselves. It had made no difference, as far as my own satisfaction was concerned, whether I submitted or contributed - as long as I lay back and spread my legs they could be satisfied. When I tempted them by using my body more enticingly or by kissing and sucking, they just got excited more quickly and humped me more vigorously, reaching their climaxes so much more quickly. None of them had any concern for the way they left me and I was always left thinking about Torben and what he could do to me.

Once again, he played me like a virtuoso soloist, treating me as gently as he would have treated a precious Stradivarius, as a highly prized instrument which deserved the most delicate touch. And once again I felt myself melting, felt myself becoming all woman in his arms, sought to please him by using my body in the ways which I knew he desired. He didn’t fuck me - but we did make love. His prick spent even longer inside me as we both sought to extend our conscious time together. It was only after we had coupled three times that I remembered my decision to remove the earrings. And in remembering, I was also remembering the possibility of escape from this confinement - and of committing myself to a lifetime of imprisonment in this female body. Somehow, while he was making love to me - and I to him - the prospect seemed enticing rather than frightful. Being able to make love like this whenever we wanted seemed such a prize. Would it be worth all that I would have to give up? At the time, I had no doubt that it would be.

He whispered in my ear again, noticing the deliberation with which I had removed the earrings. Did I ever have any private time, a space where I could keep a secret? There was something he wanted me to have, in case I should ever manage to leave. I could rely on him. He would support me if I should ever start to lead an independent life.

He was so careful. He took me into the en-suite bathroom and started to run the shower. When he was satisfied with the temperature of the water we went inside and there he started to make love to me again. Feeling the warm water splashing around me as his hands caressed my body made me want to melt in his arms again. Only weeks before I would have shuddered at just the thought, certainly couldn’t have contemplated physical love with a man. But now I felt so feminine. And he was so skilled, so expert at arousing these passions. His arms were round me, his hands beneath my buttocks. I was being lifted, pressed against the tiled wall of the shower. I opened my legs, the water cascading down them to splash down into the tray as he positioned me above his eager prick. I wanted it inside me, adjusted myself to ease his entry. It started to slide inside, every centimetre exciting me even more. And as he held me, entered me, made love to me, he was explaining how I should get access to money if I should ever decide to leave this place. Surrounded by the noise of splashing water it seemed safe to let him know that I wasn’t free to choose to leave. I could bear to tell him the truth about myself, of course - I wouldn’t have been able to bear the rejection which that confession would have prompted - but I made it clear that I had no private space, no personal possessions, no means of escaping from them. He whispered again. If he couldn’t arrange my escape himself, if I should get away alone I should contact HKSB and access the account numbered with the numeric equivalent of his name - 20 for T, 15 for O, and so on. He had arranged it all already, just in case. The words were meaningless. I would never escape, would have to abandon any prospect of regaining my former self. And his prick was working its magic inside me. How could I concentrate on escape when I was being reamed out so completely, so excitingly, so effectively. My body was in control, not my mind. These precious moments had to be savoured.

I was hardly conscious of the tiles of the shower behind me. All that mattered was the thing inside me. He took me so delicately, so gently and yet so powerfully. Held up against the wall, my legs splayed around him, his strong hands beneath my buttocks, supporting me and moving me just where he wanted, all I could do was enjoy what he was doing. It came up into me in long slow strokes and then he lifted me as he withdrew and I prepared for the next. The base of his prick kept coming into contact with the spot just inside my body which felt so excited. And as he probed, there seemed to be another place deep inside which was also responding to his ministrations. I wanted him so much. How it could have happened I had no idea. How could I possibly understand something which had turned me from brutal male to longing female? My body shouldn’t be able to enjoy this. But it did, it was enjoying. And somehow my mind was also altered.

When it came, it was as shattering as before. I felt everything inside me convulsing in an agony of passionate, frenzied pleasure. I was aware of his thing ramming up into me faster and faster and then the ecstasy as my climax took control. There were many cries and groans of pleasure as we both reached that peak. I was suddenly wetter than ever inside, almost as wet as on the outside. I had forgotten the flow of water from the shower and only gradually became aware of it again as we relaxed. He held me there, firmly and yet so tenderly. And I felt myself just a woman, a woman who had been so expertly and lovingly shagged.

Eventually, but all too soon, his time with me was up. I didn’t understand what was happening to me and while he was with me it seemed not to matter. But as he got ready to leave my doubts and disbelief were returning. This couldn’t be, shouldn’t be. This trick must be just that, a trick. And yet I knew that I felt an emotion which had never been there before. Yes, I had felt lust, the lust of a healthy male for an attractive, available female. But this? I wanted him so much. And I was afraid for him. Suppose he really meant that he was planning to get me away. What would they do to him if they found out? Or to me? Was there anything worse they could do to me? But I couldn’t bear to think of them doing to him what they had done, were doing, to me.

 

***

 

The trail was very hard to follow and I took much longer to find it than I had anticipated. I was almost ready to abandon my quest after the trail went so cold. I did manage to get as far as the furniture packaging plant but I could get no further. The girl I was trying to trace was either still inside there somewhere or she had been transported among some consignment of furniture. Trucks were leaving the place at regular intervals and their destinations were so varied. If she had been hidden in one of those lorries I had lost her. As far as I could tell there were no other deliveries of women during the time I kept the place under observation and offers of money to those inside generated fear rather than information. And eventually fear in me as well. I had been indiscreet, had asked too many questions of the wrong people. I felt myself to be in danger. I had to leave, to abandon this lead.

Back in B*****g I set about my task differently. I was sure that I had found the place where the photographs had been taken, felt equally sure about the furniture warehouse. From the photographs she was clearly a victim. Where would they take such a victim, and what would they do with her? And suddenly, as I used the word warehouse to describe that place it dawned on me. A whorehouse. She would have been taken to be used in a whorehouse. But where. The trucks went in so many directions. It was obviously an expensive operation. Such expense had to be supported by big profits. Where would they make most money? Of course. It had to be H******g or M***o. The next part was just a lucky guess. I chose H******g first, largely because my visa already covered that territory.

As a woman, it was hard to get the information I wanted in H******g. But I had an enormous stroke of luck. I overheard one of the male guests at my hotel talking about the wonderful night he had just had. He was returning to the hotel just as I was passing through the lobby after breakfast. I stopped, as if I had forgotten something and joined him, and his friend, in the lift. He was so full of hie experience that he was less discreet than he should have been and I was able to guess rather than hear the gist of his conversation. And it was by following up on that lucky break that I eventually made contact with Torben.

As it turned out, even that was luck. He was about to leave, devastated by what he thought must have happened. It seemed that he did know the girl I was looking for - he was looking for her himself. He gave me an account of what had happened and how it had all ended. He had been paying to see her for about a month and then he made the mistake of offering a bribe to one of the men in charge of her. The man had acted as if he were willing to help but then, suddenly, she was no longer there. He wasn’t allowed to see her but by questioning other visiting men felt sure that she had been spirited away. He had no idea how he might find her again. He told me about the money he was prepared to give her to help her escape, told me that she could get access to it if only she could get to a bank. He had waited for as long as he could, hoping to make contact with her again, hoping that she had been able to escape on her own, praying that she would manage it and get to the money. He was visiting the bank every day but it was always the same; the money was still unclaimed. He had waited for three months before he had to leave and already that was nearly six months ago. He had returned in the forlorn hope that he might yet be allowed to see her again or be given some news of her.

Now there were two of us. But the trail was almost completely cold.

 

***

 

I suppose I knew that it couldn’t last. Torben’s visits were all that made my time there bearable. Between his visits I was given to whichever man bought my company for the night. I still retained the more prestigious position as ‘well-dressed whore’ but the men who bought me were really not much better than the animals who had raped me when I was roped and chained. It was obvious that I would only retain this more favoured position by giving my visitors what they wanted - at least then I could be sure that they wouldn’t just take it anyway. What they wanted, of course, was to fuck me. Some of them wanted to play with me first, others wanted me to play with them, excite them until they were ready to fuck me. Since I still had all my memories of being a man myself, it wasn’t difficult to imagine the sorts of things which would stimulate them and so I made myself do things which no woman should ever have to let herself do. It might have been different if any of them had made me feel the way Torben always made me feel. But I just felt degraded and abused as I made myself stroke cocks with my fingers, lick and suck them, hold them between my breasts while the man rubbed himself up. The one thing I could never make myself do was accept it up my rear. The two men who wanted that both had to have me tied down before they managed it. But resisting did me no good. They just called up help and had me strapped down or tied across the bed so that they could do what they wanted. I can’t describe the pain of having a rampant prick stuck up my arse. The first time I resisted because I couldn’t bear the thought of such depravity but the second was because I wanted to avoid that pain. Not to mention the shame.

Anyway it all came to an end, very suddenly. One day Torben had been with me the whole night - and I had loved it - the next it was all over. It happened during the afternoon rest period. I heard some sort of argument going on and then three men arrived in my room with a small trunk. I was dragged out of the bed naked and expected to be beaten and raped. They began by tying me very tightly, my arms behind me then my ankles. They threw me down on my back and two of the men folded my legs up, pressing my knees down on my chest. While the two of them held me, the other man wrapped a rope round and round my knees and body so that my legs were held tightly against my chest. Then the bonds round my ankles were released, but only to allow them to bend my knees and retie the ropes, this time with my ankles held painfully against my thighs. Then they just dumped me inside the trunk and I felt abandoned as the lid was closed and locked on me. I couldn’t move and the padding inside the trunk absorbed any noise I might have made. And then I was aware of a sickly sweet smell and everything faded away.

I have no clear idea of what happened then. I think they must have kept me in the trunk while I was spirited away from the place where I had already been so badly treated. And I must have been kept unconscious or drugged into sleep while I was moved. I only know for certain that I was next aware of what was happening to me when I found myself in the next place of horror.

I can’t describe how I was treated then. It was painful and degrading and I was totally helpless, incapable of offering any serious resistance as they heaped more and more indignities on me. If my treatment while I was so frequently raped and fucked had not made me repent this certainly would have done. As it was, already thoroughly shamed and cowed, repentant and craven I couldn’t believe that anything I had ever done could deserve this.