Two forced-feminisation stories for the price of one, set twenty years apart.
Twenty years ago a young man finds himself living with his stepmother and stepsister after his real father is sent to prison, They are not happy and start to transform into someone much more to their liking.
In the present day, a lazy husband is confronted by his wife who wants him to do more in the home. With the help of a sexy neighbour, he is forced to become their housemaid. But what’s the connection between the two forced-feminisation episodes?
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Here’s an excerpt to read
Copyright Lady Alexa 2016, 2017
Annette remembered the first time she had imagined her husband Adrian wearing a dress. It was Jenny’s idea and the image had developed from there. Jenny was her next-door neighbour and friend. She had pointed out that Adrian seemed to have a strong feminine side so wouldn’t it be fun to see him in a dress? Besides, why can’t men wear dresses she had added?
Annette guessed she had been joking. Well, half-joking. She hadn’t thought about it before as she had become used to his ways. Jenny was right; her husband did have a strong feminine side. This was, without doubt, what had attracted her in the first place.
Annette picked up the small metal bell from the side table and rang it twice. She sank into the sofa. Her erstwhile husband and now housemaid came scurrying in. His enormous breasts bounced up and down in time with his footsteps, the outcome of a trip to a plastic surgeon in Eastern Europe. His bra strained to hold his boobs in. High-heeled shoes clattered on the wooden floor. A mid-thigh grey pleated skirt flapped around his smooth thighs, like an over-aged schoolgirl. He stopped in front of her and curtsied, bending his long slim legs. Knee-high white socks with large pink bows at the tops made her smile with pleasure. He bowed his head, long straightened dyed-blond hair fell forward, a long fringe flicking into his eyes. The ends of his hair curled up on his shoulders, a large stiff pink ribbon tied into a bow in the back.
She found it difficult to imagine he was once a man, such was the success of his transformation. His breasts dominated a willowy body and a thin waist accentuated by his new rotund bum. Surgery corrects so many little problems in life she thought.
“Yes Mistress?” He asked, eyes to the floor in subservience.
“Massage my feet Adrianna, there’s a good girl.” Her voice highlighted the feminine nouns as she looked at him and smirked. It had been a busy day in the office and she was home and needed pampering.
Adrian knelt down on the floor where his wife slouched on their grey leather sofa, a white cushion supporting her back. Annette removed her tights and the material of her black dress hung loosely across her knees. She raised one bare foot onto a footstool and held out a hand containing a blue glass jar with the lid removed. The soft-scented smell of the thick creamy white moisturiser greeted her nostrils. He took the jar and scooped out two fingers of the viscous cream and spread it across her right foot. He began to rub it in, his talon-like red fingernails standing out against the stark white of the moisturiser. Feminine fingertips pushed into her feet with a firm massage technique, his nails producing a pleasant soothing scratching sensation on her skin.
Seeing him at her feet, indulging her, made her feel more mellow which turned into a deep feeling of sensuality. She looked down at him and said with a gentle voice. “Enough my girl, now lick me.”
She raised her bottom from the seat and slid off her white knickers. She opened her legs wide as she slid down the seat towards her housemaid husband. He positioned his head between her long slim legs. He glanced up at her for a short moment, submission flickering in his eyes. Grey smoke-coloured eyelids peered through long false eyelashes looking like jet-black spiders’ legs. Lined eyebrows showed though his think fringe. The framed bulge of a cock cage outlined like a tube through his schoolgirl skirt as he knelt down. His head moved towards her damp expectant vagina, her labia parting in a slow moist motion like a zipper opening. She was waiting, anticipating the pleasure of his tongue that was milliseconds away. A tingling sensation had built up in her clitoris as she felt his hot breath against its sensitive nerves
The light was sharp and sudden and woke her with a start. She shook her head. A half-empty carriage of seated passengers stared into space avoiding each other’s eye contact. The newspaper she had been reading had fallen to the floor by her feet. The articles on the pages still covering the impact of the UK’s vote to leave the European Union. She closed her mouth as the familiar green baize-like back gardens passed by outside the windows. The underground tube train had broken into the open-air section of the network meaning she would soon arrive at her destination station. Her recurring dream had terminated too soon, she felt disappointment. And a little damp. She imagined that few wives dreamt about sex with their husbands. Even fewer dreamt about having sex with their husbands while he was dressed as a schoolgirl housemaid. She smirked.
Annette stood and lumbered to the sliding doors and waited for the train to come to a halt. Her head was still bleary from the disturbed sleep; and the dream. She had that familiar sense of anger at her husband Adrian rising in her chest as she neared home. She earned a fantastic salary and had risen to a senior role in her company, but that wasn’t the point. He seemed to have given up, he had become lazy as it was now all too easy for him. No need to work for a living when she provided for everything and their cleaner did the housework. She didn’t know what he got up to during the day apart from some basic cooking and tidying. She had to nag him to do even that. She had tried discussing, warning, moaning and threatening. Nothing had got him out of his lazy indolent lifestyle.
Things were going to to change she thought. The dream had helped her. It was going to be her way and she knew exactly what she wanted to do. Jenny would help, she knew that.
Camille and Abbie
He watched as Camille sat forward, one arm folded across her low-cut dress, the other raised to an eye. She dabbed as a tear dripped like molasses down her cheek and onto the top of her cleavage. It hesitated a moment then began a slide into a deep vertical channel between mountainous breasts. A single sobbing sound deep from her stomach stuck in her throat.
The police officer watched the tear disappearing into her cleavage for a few moments too long. He knew it wasn’t appropriate to be ogling the tits of a poor woman to whom he had just given terrible news. But they were a sight to behold. His female colleague saw him following the trajectory of Camille’s tear and threw him a jab with a sharp elbow. A silent mouthed admonishment followed.
The young man watched the two police officers and leaned back and thought he might faint. His world had just fallen apart. When his step-mother Camille had called him into the room, he hadn’t wanted to come. He had been engrossed in the 1996 Atlanta Olympics closing ceremony playing on the TV in the next room. What could be more important than sport? He had now found out there were some things after all. He watched and waited for Camille to say something to the two officers. Abbie, his stepsister and two years his senior, looked over and snarled in silence at him. Her lips curled like an angry wild cat. She was at the back of the room leaning against a wall observing things without emotion. His father had married Camille three years before and every day since then he clashed with Abbie in the battle for sibling household supremacy. Camille had never been that bad to him but she had never been that warm with him either.
He would describe his step-mother Camille as voluptuous. Even now in her distressed condition, in fact it seemed to make her even more alluring. He knew he shouldn’t think like that, she was his step-mum after all. He watched her in his own despair as she sat sobbing. Her thick hair wavy and dark, falling down her back and shaking with her sobs. Her body was made in the old fashioned Marilyn Monroe style. She wore low-fronted dresses to show off her assets and high heels, even at home. He remembered his version of the old joke he used to make to his father.
“Dad, what was it that attracted you to this lady with enormous breasts, sensual body and sexy bum?” His dad was never sure whether to laugh or be angry with him.
Abbie would one day develop into her mother’s body style and sultry manner. At eighteen, she was still filling out. She was also an athlete and spent her evenings after college in the gym. Her arms and legs defined and muscular with a burning resentment to match her fitness. She didn’t want to contend with a rival for her mother’s affection. With his father working so much, it was often the three of them at home and Abbie only wanted two.
The female police officer waited for Camille’s sobs to subside before continuing. She explained that they had arrested his father that morning for fraud. His father was an accountant and had his own business. She told them his father had been helping London’s underworld to launder money. The police had been monitoring his activities for months and they had a lot of evidence against him. If convicted, he would go to prison for several years. Prison was extremely likely.
The young man’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped and he ran both his fingers through his long hair. It fell over his shoulders and down his back providing Abbie with a lot of material for abuse. He loved his long hair this way as he played lead guitar at weekends in a rock band with his mates. The whole band effected the look of skinny long haired rockers. His tight-fit jeans and loose grandad tee-shirt completing the look. Abbie said it made him like a girl. A taunt she used to great effect regularly.
“I’m sorry to bring you such bad news.” The police officer continued, avoiding eye contact with both him and Camille.
The officers looked at each other and nodded then stood up. The male officer explained that a liaison officer would contact them soon to provide details of visiting times and other information before his trial. He said they would show themselves out and they left looking awkward. After they had gone the room descended onto a thick silence broken only by the incongruous chirping of a bird in the garden. Camille’s face transformed from upset to a hard, angry look. She stared up at him crossing her arms, red veins crossed her tired damp eyes. He stepped back in concern at her change in attitude. It was directed at him. The sobbing had stopped.
“Well that’s great isn’t it? Your father has dumped a big problem on me hasn’t he? And dumped you on us too. How could he do this to me? Well I can tell you boy that things are going to have to change around here.” She glared at him. “I don’t know how we are going to live, they’ve closed all our bank accounts. We have just the money from my job.”
“Yeah girly-boy,” came the instant reply from Abbie, a well-aimed verbal arrow intended to anger him. Their two-year age gap made a physical difference. He hadn’t yet filled out or shot up in height meaning Abbie was taller and larger than him. “Your father has ruined things for us.”
He had always suspected that Camille put up with him rather than liked him. Her attitude now seemed to confirm it.
“Yeah girly-boy, your daddy’s dumped you on us.” Abbie, still leaning against the wall, arms folded.
“Camille, tell Abbie not to call me that,” he pleaded. He regretted saying it as soon as it slipped out as it sounded as if he were eight rather than eighteen.
Camille grunted. Sensing that Camille was going to do nothing to stop her daughter from taunting him, his temper rose. They were making a bad morning worse. His father had been arrested and he was stuck here with his moaning stepmother and aggressive stepsister. This was not the best morning he could have had. Abbie was glaring at him as if it were his fault, a piercing look full of hate. Something snapped in his brain, the anger rising like an erupting geyser at what had happened to his father, Abbie’s taunts and Camille’s fake sorrow. He strode over to Abbie and grabbed her around the neck with both hands. The veins on his temples expanded, his eyes bulging. He wasn’t thinking of anything other than lashing out and Abbie was the best option. Abbie prised his hands from his neck with ease as Camille stomped over and pulled his arms back. They were ganging up on him. As he stood pinned back, Abbie slapped him around the face.
“How dare you,” Abbie sneered. Camille grabbed him by his ear from behind and twisted his head down towards the floor like a naughty six year old.
“I will not have you attacking your sister, everything that’s happened is your father’s fault not hers. I need to teach you a lesson boy,” Camille said, her voice raising several levels in pitch in her exasperation. “If I’d known your father was going to leave me to look after you I would never have married him. You’re both losers. Well, I’m stuck with you for now so I’m going to impose some rules. Right here right now.”
He could take no more as his throat closed up and he fought back the tears. He didn’t want to cry in front of them. He pulled his head away from Camille’s hand on his ear and felt a pain as it twisted tightly in her fist. He lashed out a hand at Camille. She ducked away much more athletically than her top heavy-figure should have allowed. He knew that Abbie would insult him even more. She’d always called him girly-boy when his father wasn’t around. Now it would increase; he was sure. His resolve broke like a weak dam and the tears poured through, he couldn’t hold in in any longer. The waters burst down his cheeks and he stopped trying to swat out at Camille who had moved back to avoid him. He hunched over, his body bending in half, his head bowed towards the floor. The tears tumbling out.
“See mother, I told you he was a girly-boy.” Abbie said confirming his fears that she was going to use the situation to her advantage.
He didn’t know what to do and remained bent over, crying, bawling. Damp specks like raindrops dropped onto the lush cream carpet below his feet.
“I know you’re upset about your father getting arrested but you attacked us. You need to be punished.” Camille put a finger under Adrian’s chin and directed him to stand up straight and face her. His sobs had started to subside as he sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Camille’s attitude was calm. She had gone into a new mode: control.
Camille guided him over to the sofa with her hand on his back and she sat down and positioned him to stand in front of her. His look of sadness turned to confusion. His words tumbled out, aggressive, angry.
“You didn’t ask where my father’s money was coming from when you were spending it and having a great time did you?
Camille glowered, the emotions of the moment making everyone aggrieved for different reasons. He could see Camille’s face change to a shade of deep purple at his words. Her calmness had dissipated.
“You need a good spanking for your dreadful behaviour boy.” She glared at him and he glared back in a stand off. He huffed at her as if to say just try. They continued staring at each other as Abbie looked on. She knew there would be only one winner in this stand off.
“With the problems we’re now facing, my first priority is to control you. You will take down your trousers and underpants,” she ordered through clenched teeth.
His eyes widened to the size of empty dinner plates. Did she just say what I thought she said he thought?
“Come along girly-boy, trousers down,” Abbie added with an oddly cheerful tone.
He looked round to see Abbie behind him, arms folded across her chest, a wide smirk on deep red lips. For the past three years that he’d lived with them, they had never spoken to him in this way. He thought about how the world he had was no more. His father arrested and imprisoned, Camille and Abbie ganging up on him. He shook his head to try to wipe away reality like a car’s wiper blades pushing away the rain.
“I’m not taking my trousers down Camille, what on earth do you think you’re you doing?”
He wanted to discuss his father’s arrest and what they were going to do as a family. All they wanted to do was remove his trousers? This must be a bad nightmare but it wasn’t, it was real.
“I told you boy, you have misbehaved and now your father isn’t going to be here to sort you out any more. It’s now down to me and you need to be punished. It’s the only way you’ll learn.”
Camille continued to look at him, her eyes unblinking, lips tight, face pinched. Abbie moved towards him and put her arms inside his and held him back tight. He could feel her breasts against his back as she held him tight. Her nipples pressed into him like pert versions of her mother’s. For a surreal moment he enjoyed the sensation. He tried to pull his arms away but she was far stronger than him. Her muscled arms expanded to hold him. He attempted to wriggle but he was trapped; she was too strong. Camille allowed herself a faint smile. Realisation dawned on him that they were really going to remove his trousers and underpants.
“I’ve got her, you can remove her trousers mum,” Abbie said.
His neck twisted to face her. “Her? Her? What do you mean her?” He shouted.
“You’re a girly-boy. No that’s not exactly true. You’re a girly, not even a boy.” Abbie laughed out like a mad professor in a bad film.
Camille didn’t say anything and put her fingers onto his trouser waist button. She flipped it open and hesitated a split second as she looked up at him with a gloating stare. One corner of her mouth raised itself up as if pulled by an invisible string. His zip slid down as she stared into his eyes.
They are going to remove my trousers, he thought. This is madness.
Abbie’s grip tightened, her breast now so tight against his back he could feel them flatten. The outline of her sports bra dug in.
Camille’s hands moved onto the top of his unzipped and unbuttoned trousers. Terror on his face. She jerked his trousers down to his knees in one swift movement. He gasped and pulled his knees together to try to stop them falling. Camille prised them apart and his trousers slid down to his ankles and spilled onto the carpet.
They were doing it, they were removing my trousers. This can’t be true. His head moved from side to side, wondering what he should do. This is a dream, a nightmare.
He saw that his underpants had come down to expose a few wisps of pubic hair and half his bottom cheeks. He pushed his thighs together. His face flushed at seeing Camille looking at his pubic hair. He squeezed his thighs harder in an attempt to provide some kind of barrier.
“Camille, please. You’re not going to take down my underpants are you? Please no,” he pleaded. His eyes shivering like porcelain, his eyebrows lifting in terror. “Don’t take my underpants down. Please.”
Camille put her head to one side and looked up at him through her long brown eyelashes. She batted them several times in an exaggerated fake innocence, teasing and taunting. She rested her hands on his hips again. He had another problem; his cock was beginning to harden. He was desperate. Not only was Camille about to expose his cock but it was becoming erect. But why? He didn’t understand.
Before he could work out any reason for his excitement, Camille tugged his underpants down to his ankles. His cock sprung free, bouncing up and down a couple of times before setting at right angles to his body. Pointing like an accusing finger at Camille. Cool air flowed around his balls and exposed cone-shaped end. His foreskin retracted to expose a bright red moist head; like a glowing Christmas decoration.
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