The Entrapped

“But I wanted a chance... it’s not fair... I really thought there would be choices...”

“Strip for me this instant, young lady. Stop this. We need to talk.”

In my distress I have not disrobed for my counselor. She likes looking at me. And of course there is the less than subtle power exchange in being with the fully clothed woman while sans one thin thread of covering. She insists. And I have learned when governing women insist, I comply.

I disrobe displaying in full my smooth hairless form. I suspect the past Wednesday’s visit with Nurse Sueann was my last coating of depilation solution. Since I have not needed to shave my face in six days, it is unlikely that any otherwise sparse body hair will flourish.

“Walk about for me... on your toes. Hands on your head. Calm yourself.”

I obey, the counselor fully aware that in focusing on her instructions, there comes distraction from the abhorrence of knowing I am brimming with female hormones. And ironically, I find myself reacting as a little girl... pouting and caterwauling in frustration.

“Yes, prance about. Perhaps we should get you some dance lessons. Would you like that? Such a cute little ballerina you would be.

“I like what the doctor did with that useless penis, by the way. No longer showing itself. The piercings were my suggestion after Miss Lalique reported your little thing tented your panties.”

My counselor makes a point of dramatically showing me the key to the tiny lock, that which forces me to squat to pee.

So on my toes I prance indeed, feeling the newly acquired layers of thick gelatinous flesh gently quiver and flop about my thighs and buttocks.

Several trips about her good sized sanctum and she finally deems me calmed.

“Ok, on the couch, Renee. Let’s talk, shall we. I have a dildo for you to play with... the perfect size for you to relish orally. The doctor very nicely loosened that tongue for you and I think a little lady like you is eager to use it.

“Next week you’ll report to me here, but after counseling there’s someone I want you to meet. He’ll be kind and gentle... and you will be kind and gentle with him.”

***

We sit in a seedy Greenwich Village bistro. Though Friday evening, it is early and therefore nearly empty. Yet one can ascertain by the intense odor of spilled beer that within hours sloppy revelers will be enhancing the sour smell with more spillage.

I am dressed and coifed to the hilt as my counselor insisted. After orally ‘satisfying’ her dildo, she took me to her closet, opened the door to reveal the large mirror and had me once again survey my femininity. By rote I began to prink and preen and this brought a knowing smile... the ingrained need to look pretty. Lying on her couch, first kneading and massaging the dildo, then engulfing to emulate fellatio with tongue and lips, somewhat mussed my hair.

‘So, a big date for you. Remember to be kind and gentle... and he will be kind and gentle with you,’ her parting words as she offered a slip of paper with the Greenwich Village address.

Obedience instilled, I took a cab. Stepping inside the battered graffiti laden door, the man easily recognized me... a cute but flat chested blonde. When the waitress asked for identification, I somewhat panicked. But then calmed myself with the realization that my cohorts at work are more than aware of my transformation and my gender obfuscation, why not others?

The waitress smirked in noting my given name... Robert... and with it the disclosure of my gender at birth. In thereafter carefully observing the middle aged woman, I came to the conclusion it was a guy in drag. I felt an odd prideful glow in knowing I was much prettier and more alluring than him.

My date took my hand and we moved to a booth, seating me in the inner seat. He sits next to me, the bench opposite to remain unoccupied... least I hope so.

“Your counselor is a very generous woman,” the man sedately offers in making small talk. “She’s been helping me with certain... ‘issues’.”

I nod. The waitress returns. The man orders a brew for himself... water for me. Lots of water, he insists.

He/she departs.

“You may not like my taste,” he explains.

I gulp with concern. I note the relative seclusion of the booth, the paucity of patrons. I know what to say, my counselor was very specific. I decide to move onward with the demanded protocol. I am not the man’s counselor and do not care to hear of his issues. So in my high pitched girlish voice, abundance of estrogen finally explaining the drastic change, I meekly inquire.

“May I suck your penis, Sir?”

The words si

cken yet strangely excite. The man is initially taken aback by the brazen offer. Then he smiles. His hand extends to entwine in the hair at the back of my head. As he pulls I am chagrined to see the waitress return with the brew and two large glasses of water... to be offered should I not enjoy the man’s taste. She... he? smiles wickedly and says nothing, watching smugly as my head is drawn below the level of the table to the man’s lap. In his/her mind a young transvestite trollop is about to receive his comeuppance. With the silence, I must assume our comportment is well within the establishment’s rules of conduct.

After all, it is Greenwich Village.

His free hand opens his zipper.