Fiction by Miss Ivy Ohmigosh
The bubbles were fluffy and pink and ever-increasing as the water poured into the tub from the gold-plated faucet. I stared down into the water as I stood naked before the tub as the steam rose around us. It almost seemed as if once I got into the water, there was no way back to my old life; but maybe that was just the paranoia of a man being forced into a night of womanhood?
“Get in!” snapped Tracy.
“Yes, ma’am!” I quipped in a perky voice, trying to be funny, as if I could disarm my angry wife from her mission to feminize me.
“Not ma’am, you stupid girl! It’s EMPRESS!” she said, taking me by the ear as if she were going to lift me by my very head and place me into the tub. I raised my right foot and put it into the foaming bubbles. The water was hot but bearable. Tracy still held onto my ear as I put my other foot in as well.
“Now settle into your bath, SLAVE GIRL!” she said, pointing at the water. “Lower that butt and submerge yourself into the bubbles.”
“Yes, Empress,” I said, holding onto the bar on the wall. My entire body really did turn pink from the heat and bubbles, and I sank down to my neck and rested my head against the back of the tub.
“All the way under!” said Tracy, looming over me with a grin on her face, grabbing my head with her red-polished fingernails and pushing me under the surface. I sputtered and closed my eyes just in time so the soap didn’t burn them. My feet kicked out at the other end of the tub even as Tracy held me under the water for several seconds, then let me come up for air.
“Why are you so cruel, Empress??” I cried as the water cascaded off and I tried to regain my seating in the tub.
“No talking, slave girl,” said Tracy. “Now soak and wash that body while I get ready for you in the bedroom.” And with those words she click-clacked on herhigh heels out of the huge hotel suite bathroom.
I did as she commanded. The flowery aroma of the bubble bath embraced me totally, filling my head and softening my skin. I washed thoroughly and my body already looked somehow feminized by the foam.
After several minutes, Tracy loomed back into the room. My wife was a tall, slender, but curvy brunette, and although I was most accustomed to seeing her in the tailored skirts and jackets she wore on her Wall Street job, she looked increasingly natural in the corset, stockings, garters and heels of a dominatrix which she wore tonight in the role of my “Empress.”
“All right, stand up, slave girl,” she said.
SLAP!! She smacked me right across the face.
“I told you no talking. Slave girls don’t talk. All I need is to see you obey.”
This was crazy, but I had no choice. I didn’t even nod, in case nodding was out of the question too.
“At least nature made this easy for me,” said Tracy. “You’re already blond and what little hair you do have over your body is almost unnoticeable. But I’m going to shave it off anyway.” She wet my razor in the running faucet of the sink. “And of course all this pubic hair must go. My slave girl must be smooth where it counts. Now stand still.”
I did as she asked, as she blasted shaving cream all over my body and then scraped the blade along my skin. Before I had gotten into the tub, she’d made me cut off the excess hair with a scissors—chest, armpits, and crotch. Now she shaved off closely what little stubble I had on my chest. Then under my arms: it felt so weird, but somehow sensuous and feminizing, to feel myself smooth there. Then my crotch. Although she was my “Empress,” she was clearly enjoying this labor. She turned me around and shaved what little was necessary with my back and bottom. The particles of hair floated on the now-flat surface of the water, and then she told me to put my right foot on the edge of the tub so she could start on my legs. She shot more shaving cream there, and as I stood with my hand on Tracy’s shoulder for balance, she thoroughly shaved my legs. It was humiliating and belittling, and I wasn’t getting turned on. My cock hung down from my shaved crotch, looking almost sad and forlorn. I just felt trapped by this whole thing, but I had to go along with it or she would destroy my life. She believed she had good reasons…
After she finished all the shaving—it took several blades, and a whole can of cream—she told me to rinse off with the shower head and dry myself. I did as she asked, running my hands over my now-smooth body. My legs felt like they belonged to a different person. Even though my leg hair had been sparse and blond, it had been there, but now my legs felt like the legs of all the women I had dated from my teens through my early thirties—feminine and smooth. I felt as if my consciousness had been placed inside someone’s else body.
After I dried off, I began to wrap the towel around my waist, but Tracy, standing just outside the bathroom, snapped at me, “Wrap it around yourself from the breasts down, slave girl! You’re not a man tonight, and don’t forget it!”
How could I forget? Catching a glimpse of myself in the half-foggy bathroom mirror, I seemed in that fluffy purple towel to be rising up out of a misty dream of transformation into something I never was and never wanted to be.
But would I learn to like it? Could Tracy MAKE me like it? That was my fear!
(Continued in Chapter 2)
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