Miss High Heels
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Category: Erotica/Fetish Erotica
Description: The Transgender Classic! Mother Nature sometimes imprisons a female in a masculine body. Miss. High Heels is the beautifully written, deliciously slow-paced sensual revelation of how Dennis Evelyn Beryl metamorphosed into the lovely Denise Beryl. "A must read novel for everyone fascinated in this subject," Sibly Whyte, Transgender Magazine
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2004
eBookwise Release Date: December 2004
6 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [194 KB]
Reading time: 129-181 min.
This story is a reminiscence, a fond recollection of my colorful days as a youth. I can safely say (with the clarity of hindsight) that my youth was extraordinary. My upbringing was unlike any other young man knew at the time, and to this day, many years later, I have yet to meet a soul whose story can compare with mine in its bizarre nature.
My erotic rearing gave me a great sense of alienation, yet also a feeling of being absolutely rare and precious. Of course, later in life I learned that I was not alone in my exclusive sexual proclivities; proclivities that flourished and were fostered from the time I was very young on through my early adulthood. I have since had the pleasure of finding others who share the same delicious tastes that I have enjoyed. I was cared for by my strange and beautiful stepsister, Helen, with the delicate attentions that one gives a fragile, unique flower. It was my lovely stepsister who helped me to find the "true" self that was hiding inside my male skin.
Ever since I could remember, I had a great fondness for the excesses of women's clothing, of women's finery, and of their ways. It was Helen who really prodded me to discover my true nature and created an environment in which I relished the world of women. Thus, the following words are the tale of what I shall call my "becoming." This is the tale of how I metamorphosed from Dennis Evelyn Beryl to the lovely Denise Beryl.
* * * *
The story begins shortly after I had arrived at the manor, having just finished my two years at school. My time at the school is a fraction of this unusual story, spicy morsels that I will elaborate upon later in luscious detail.
Helen had hired a French maid named Phoebe as my personal servant. A maid for a young master of the house, you ask. Yes. Granted, it was a rather strange arrangement for a young gentleman to have a maidservant in his employ, and at his bath and toilet, but as you may have gathered, I was no ordinary young gentleman.
Phoebe, the maid, had the deft, neat hands of a French woman. I watched her, mesmerized as she threaded a pink satin ribbon among the shining curls of my coiffure and buttoned the last button of my very long glacé kid evening gloves. She dusted a powder puff lightly over my white bosom and shoulders. Then Phoebe tucked a tiny lace handkerchief into my corsage and said, "There, now you are ready, Miss. Denise. Stand up!"
"Miss." Denise indeed! And "Stand up!" The insolence of her! I remained seated.
"Ah!" said Phoebe with a malicious smile. "You don't like being ordered about by poor servants, do you? You are the young master of Beaumanoir, the wealthy aristocrat, the great landlord, Dennis Evelyn Beryl," uttering my name with amused contempt.
"Bah! I do not trouble my head about your position. You are in your own house, it is true. It is also true you are under the control of your beautiful stepsister who stripped you of your foolish trousers two years ago to punish you for your impertinence. You are over eighteen years old--I admit it--but for two years you have been mincing in petticoats in a girls' school. A young gentleman, are you? Nobody would believe it. Your hair reaches down below your waist. You have the figure, the face, the soft limbs, the hands and feet and the breasts of a girl."
I was dreadfully ashamed at Phoebe's outburst. I could not deny a word of it.
"You are a very important person, I suppose," she went on jeering at me, "with a great career in Parliament! Heavens, how you used to plague my ears with your boastfulness! It may all be true. What I am concerned with is that you should be beautifully dressed as a young lady for the dinner party that your stepsister, Miss. Deverel, is giving. Stand up at once, or I will lace you into a corset one inch tighter than the one you are wearing now."
"Oh, Phoebe," I cried, "I can hardly breathe in this one."
I was alarmed. Her tone was so menacing. She was much stronger than I was. She could carry out her threat if she chose. I stood up. I had a special reason for being obedient tonight.
"That's better, Miss. Denise," Phoebe said.
I was dressed in an exquisite décolleté frock of white transparent chiffon glittering with silver embroideries over an underdress of soft white satin. The corsage was cut very low, the sleeves being merely shoulder straps of flashing silver bugles, and my tight, unwrinkled white kid gloves reached up to my shoulders. A sash of white satin encircled my slim waist and was tied in an enormous bow looped through a huge diamond buckle on my left hip, whence the broad streamers fringed with silver floated down to my feet. A bunch of pink roses was pinned on the right of my corsage at the waist. The sheath skirt molded my hips in its gleaming satin and chiffon.
The girlish curves of my figure were caught tightly in at the ankles by a scarf of tulle that passed through a big sparkling diamond buckle in front of the dress and tied in a great bow behind. My legs were quite bound by these dainty fetters of satin and tulle. The skirt was hemmed with tulle and was bordered with a festoon of tiny pink cloth roses, and on the left side a row of flat diamond buttons sparkled up to the knee. The skirt had a long train of white satin, lined with pleats of tulle that rustled deliciously at each movement. Phoebe arranged the train in a gleaming swirl about my feet, and stood up.
* * * *
Now dear reader, you may be wondering what kind of young gentleman I was, allowing a servant to speak to me thus, mocking and jeering my predicament. Not only that, but what kind of wealthy aristocrat would allow a maid to dress him so fantastically?
I have to admit that I was in a strange state of shock, having just arrived at Beaumanoir that afternoon. It was Helen's birthday, and she was throwing an elegant little party that night to celebrate. I had been away for two long years, and before my absence, I had made a strange arrangement with Helen. I had behaved rather terribly at my first boarding school, and so, rather than attract scandal about our names because of my misconduct, I was sent to a girls' school in the country. I was sent there as a punishment, and worse still, I was to be treated as a young lady.
I had thought at the time that Helen believed that she had sentenced me to a hellish fate. Not so--I was deliriously happy. Oh, of course I protested and wept and begged, claiming the mere idea was repugnant to me. But deep within my breast, my heart pounded with the anxiety of a secret pleasure. I pleaded with Helen because it began to please me to beg and crawl in her presence, and in turn, I could see that Helen was enjoying her dominion over me. At last, I was sent away to bear the delectable torments that awaited me at the school for young ladies.
Two years had passed, and I had returned to my home to claim my birthright. I was eighteen and of age to become master of Beaumanoir. One would assume that this occasion would merit much anticipatory joy on my part. I was to be released from these exquisite bonds of femininity forever.
But I was not happy. I had savored every moment that I was dressed as a lady. I had enjoyed all the privileges that a lovely young girl enjoys, and I was not exactly ready or willing to give that up.
Helen had demanded that I make one more appearance as a young woman, after which I would be released as her charge. I had agreed, and there I stood in the dressing room with Phoebe the maid, my white skin trembling and enervated by the cool, luscious silk that rubbed against my body. Knowing that I was wearing the delicate batiste lingerie of a young woman, that I was deliciously confined by the lovely laces and whalebone of the corset for the last time, was a terrible thought. I was nearly aroused by the soft, sweet smell of the lavender powder that Phoebe had lightly dusted my breasts with. I remember that my pleasurable sensations were marked by a bittersweet feeling that all this would end, and I would be forced, by society and circumstance, to return to the world of men; a world I had come to admire from the perspective of a woman.
Phoebe's voice suddenly ruptured these sad thoughts.
* * * *
"Now Miss. Denise, put those smartly gloved hands behind your back!" shouted Phoebe.
"Behind my back? Like a child?"
"Don't argue. Behind your back with them at once, palm to palm, the fingers pointing down."
I obeyed. How humiliating it was!
"Now lift up this pretty face."
She took my chin and tilted back my head.
"I must say, Miss. Denise, your governesses have done wonders for you at your school. You always looked like a pretty girl of course, but you are quite lovely now."
I blushed! Was it all from shame, or was there not some thrill of pleasure and of girlish vanity in my reddening cheeks? Oh, my two years at a girls' school had left their indelible influence upon my disposition.
"Now put the high heels of your satin slippers together under your frock."
She looked down to the billowy satin and tulle of my skirt.
"Have you done it? Are the toes daintily turned out?"
"I'll make sure."
She stooped and, thrusting her hand under my dress, felt my feet. The blush deepened on my face, and a soft wave of voluptuous delight swept over me, enflaming my body and exciting my passions. I am to write the truth here. The thought that here, I was dressed with all the dainty luxury of a very fashionable girl, standing obediently with my hands behind me at the bidding of a maid, while she adjusted my satin-slippered feet, troubled my passions. There was something sensuously bizarre in the contrast that fascinated me. Besides, apart from the queer mental impression produced in me, the actual touch of Phoebe's hands on my body, particularly on my insteps and ankles, gave me a delicious physical sensation. I noticed Phoebe was wearing long, white kid gloves. I asked her why, and she glanced at me shrewdly. "Miss. Priscilla's orders," she answered. "No one is to touch you, or dress you without long glacé kid gloves on their hands. But why do you ask, Miss. Denise?"
I was confused.
"Did the feel of the gloves on your silk stockings please you? Answer at once."
"Yes, Phoebe," I replied shyly.
Phoebe nodded her head with a lewd, knowing smile.
I was tortured by the possibility that she would not touch my ankle again. I feared that she would not stroke the delicate arch of my instep with her soft gloved fingers. I assumed that she would stop caressing my foot when she realized that she was affording me erotic pleasure. I could tell that she liked the position of dominating me. I could tell it pleased her to see me tortured and willing to be subject to her torments and whims. In fact, I believe Helen hired her because she was capable of severe disciplinarian actions.