Rosaline

Author’s note:

This story was inspired by the AI-generated artwork of Michelle Bound which can be found on DeviantArt. Please pay her a visit and like some of her images. The images in this story are by her.

---

As I stand there hanging from the ceiling, I gaze at myself in the full-length mirror, just as I do every day. Just as the mirror is intended for.

My eyes trace over my figure. The large, firm and unnaturally round breasts; the wide hips, the smooth, hairless skin and the perfect visage with manicured brows, large lashes that flap every time I blink and plumped-up pouting lips.

My arms are stretched upwards, fastened at the wrists to the bar which stretches me so that my stays can be laced that little bit tighter. Those stays that keep me artificially thin, forever short of breath and weak. Yet they also hold me and hug me. Without their embrace I am unable to hold myself up these days, so atrophied are the muscles. My torment and my blessing.

God, I’m beautiful!

It’s weird saying that, isn’t it, yet it is true. I am absolutely stunning, as pretty as a picture. It’s perverse but I arouse myself. I glance down at my engorged clit, the little bell tinkling from its piercing and blush in embarrassment. That is without the tablets! As always, the maid is sure to notice and mention it to mistress and she shall doubtless tease me for being a wanton and perhaps punish me too for my unnatural thoughts. I imagine the swish of her swatter as she strikes, the pain as it connects with my engorged clit. Arrgh!

To take my attentions away and in the futile hope that it may subside before I take my tablets, I cast my eyes around elsewhere. But my vision is filled with me. All except at the very top, the motto painted on the wall above the mirror.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

And above that motto the mask. I shudder.

My thoughts are broken by the maid as she enters bearing my costume for the day. It is, as always, large, cumbersome, and pink. It is a billowing concoction of pink satin with rose-adorned bulky sleeves and a large pink bonnet with a lengthy gauze train. “Come on Rosaline, let’s be getting you ready! She’ll be waking soon, and we’ll need you in place. Let’s get this corset laced and then we can think about the rest…” She pauses to survey me and then smiles. “Been admiring yourself again, I see. Mistress won’t be pleased at all.” I sigh inwardly. My clit has given the game away as it always does. She flicks it and laughs and then disappears to start my morning dressing whilst I ache with unquenched desire.

---

The day that Henry Boulton’s life changed irrevocably, is seared into his soul forever. Every second of that conversation, every detail of the weather, every expression on the faces, he can recall with perfect clarity.

It was a windy May morning, and they were in the office of the solicitor. It was all about his dad. The debts that he had accrued when he was made jobless were being called in. And no, there was nothing they could do about it. The creditor – not the bank itself, but another corporation that had bought the debts – was calling them in and they were not giving any leeway. Theirs was not the only family in this position and the office had already dealt with two similar cases this week. His father was looking at prison without doubt unless they took up the offer on the table. It was an unusual offer; the solicitor had never seen anything like it, but it was genuine and did represent a way out of their predicament.

The offer was marriage. Not for his dad, but for him. Marriage to a Miss Charlotte McCaffery who was a resident of the entity of Libertaria, the tax-free haven for the ultra-rich. Yes, she was a multi-billionaire, well, sort-of… and she wanted Henry’s hand in marriage.

“But he has never met her!” dad protested.

“That is true, but she has specified him particularly,” replied the solicitor.

“You mentioned that she was ‘sort-of’ a multi-billionaire,” broke in Henry. “What does that mean exactly?”

“Aha, now we get to the crux of the matter. Miss McCaffery is the only child of Patrick McCaffery, an extremely successful city trader who made billions in the boom of the thirties. He died last year in an accident, and she stood to inherit everything… or so she thought. When the Will was read, it was rather unusual. Mr. McCaffery, a strict Roman Catholic, was extremely traditional in his ways and yet his daughter was far less so. To inherit the money, she has to attend Mass weekly, marry a Roman Catholic man and bring up her children in the faith. Should she not do so within two years of her father’s death then everything will go to the Society of St. Vincent and St. Paul. Should she do so, she gets the money but only on the proviso that she does not divorce. Then it all reverts to the Society of St. Vincent. So, reluctant Charlotte has to marry, and she engaged a professional matchmaker to find the best candidate. The programme threw up you as the ideal man. You are Catholic and fit all her other requirements. She does not expect love, but she insists on a church marriage and children. It is her father’s company that you father is indebted to. Marry and all the debts are cleared, plus a gift on £5 million to your family so long as you agree to all her terms and conditions. Here is a picture of Miss McCaffery.”

The photo showed an extremely pretty brunette dressed in an elaborate high-society gown with a billowing crinoline and ballooning sleeves. She had obviously had work done on her as all high-society girls do, but Henry still found her extremely attractive. This goddess actually wanted to marry him and then give his family millions. What was there to lose?! “Where do I sign?!” he exclaimed.

“Erm, I think you should read the terms and conditions first…” cautioned the solicitor.

---

Today’s creation is as elaborate as they all are. My breasts surging from the overtightened corset, the maid unties me from the bar and, when my weight is transferred down onto my feet squeezed into their tiny high-heeled shoes, the pain surges through my body as my middle tries unsuccessfully to expand. She gives me a minute to acclimatise and then the gown is lowered over my head. It is adorned with hundreds of roses and bows. She laces it at the back and then fits the white satin gloves onto my hands. I clasp them demurely in front of me and then slowly make my way elegantly out of the dressing room and down the corridor towards my mistress’s chamber.

Out of the door opposite comes Serendipity. She is dressed in a fantastic gown of shimmering sky blue adorned with cornflowers. We curtsey to one another and then air kiss femininely. I’d love to actual put my lips on her smooth cheek but the immense width of our two crinolines prevents it. Together we make our way into the main chamber.

I see my mistress lying naked save for her night stays on the silken sheets. Her arms are draped around Felicity Dorado. Due to the drugs and what I am viewing, my engorged clit aches with desire yet in my breast I also feel another emotion: jealousy. She is mine! Why should another have her?

The air is pungent with their desire. Silently I make my way to where she lies whilst Serendipity makes her way to her own mistress. Silently, I lean over and begin stroking her soft cheek with my gloved hand. She stirs and turns over. I stroke more, lovingly caressing her through the material. She opens her eyes and smiles. “Good morning Rosy,” she says. I lean in as I always do and we kiss passionately, my tongue greeting hers, our lips melding. Below I am raging with unquenched desire. When we withdraw, she whispers, “Prepare me.”

I move down the bed towards her exposed sex and lean in. My nose fills with her fragrance and I begin my work with my tongue. Expertly, the result of both training and practice, I work her to excitement. Her scent intensifies tenfold and her moistness dampens my face. Just as I know she is reaching completion, she sits up, pushes me away, and turns to her lover. I look up. Serendipity has been providing the same service for her own mistress. As we are trained to do, we both retreat two steps and then kneel down at the bedside, heads bowed, hands in prayer whilst our two mistresses join together in passion. Then, when finished, my mistress beckons, and I lick her clean before withdrawing after completing my morning duties.

---

The wedding was a low-key, private affair. Henry was flown to New Zealand after which he was transferred to a helicopter which took him to Libertarian territory. There, he was put up in a hotel and the following morning was given a suit to wear and driven to a Catholic church.

His bride arrived some ten minutes later accompanied by a man who was acting in the place of her father. Aside from him and the priest, there were no others there. Charlotte McCaffery was clad in a traditional white gown. It was supported by a wide crinoline and there were ballooning puffed sleeves. Her hands were gloved in white satin and she had a bonnet that supported a long net train on her head. Over her face, she wore a thick white veil. Henry could see nothing of the woman that he was marrying and, he surmised that she could see very little of him.

The ceremony was completed quickly, with Charlotte muttering her vows through the layers of material. Henry fitted the ring on her gloved finger and then was waiting for the bit where the priest allowed him to kiss the bride, but that was omitted and, instead, when he moved to lift her veil, her substitute father moved to stop him. So, he was not to see her until the bedroom!

They left the church with him holding her arm. Her huge dress pushed up against him and rustled loudly as she walked, and she leaned into him for support. He became increasingly sure that she could not see and so he was actually leading her blindly into her new life.

Outside the church, an old-school horse and carriage was waiting. He helped Charlotte into it and then got in himself. Waiting inside were two fluted glasses. He heard a pop and saw a servant outside proffering a bottle of champagne. He let the man fill the glasses and then handed one to his bride. They clinked them and then she lifted hers to her mouth, tentatively lifting her veil. He drank his own and then looked at her, wondering if he would catch a glimpse of her face.

But he never did because within seconds the drug had done its work and he had passed out on her lap.

---

When our two mistresses take themselves off to the shower, Serendipity and I are ushered by the maids to our own bathroom where our faces are freshened up and then we head downstairs for breakfast. We both eat very little, picking at the pastries before us and taking tiny sips from the delicate coffee cups put before us. This is due to our training of course, but also the fact that our tightly compressed stomachs will not allow much to be fed into them. After only a few bites, I feel full and so simply sit there, smiling at my friend and our two mistresses who chat excitedly about the day ahead.

I envy them. They have decided to go riding this morning and are dressed in tight riding pants and smart black jackets. The outfit is almost male and certainly inappropriate for a Libertarian lady, but they are riding on their own private property so no one can say anything. As it is, of course, impossible for us to contemplate anything so energetic as riding wearing our huge and impractical gowns, my mistress has decreed that we sit and relax in the female sitting room. I am glad. It will be a lovely opportunity to communicate with Serendipity whose conversation I love dearly. However, just as they are draining their coffee, Felicity turns to my mistress and says, “I do believe that my ornament is slouching most unbecomingly this morning.”

I sigh inwardly. My mistress is a darling, but she never has the courage – or the inclination – to disagree with her lover in public and so I know what is coming next.

“Yes, darling, I do believe she is.”

“I suggest she dons her monoglove for the morning to rectify it.”

I was right! And, of course, what is good for one…

“Excellent idea! And mine should join her in that. It would be unfair otherwise.”

Felicity smiles sadisticly. She is such a horrible bitch, I hate her, I really do. We all know that Serendipity does not slouch; she is the perfect lady in every respect and such a warm and loving soul. But Felicity gets pleasure out of the suffering of others and so here we are. No chatting, merely suffering. It is so unfair!

The monoglove does not hurt at first when the maid fits it. It is only when it is laced up tight and my elbows are crushed up against one another. The strain on the shoulders is horrendous, but that is not the worst of it. It dulls and then deadens soon enough, and all feels as if I am armless. No, the worst of it is that, incapacitated so, I am unable to converse with my friend and, what is more, with my arms pinioned behind me, I cannot lean back or truly relax. Instead, we both must merely sit up straight in absolute silence with only the ticking clock for company.

The maids position both of the sofa and then leave to enjoy themselves as is always the case. They, although servants, are not ornaments, and so have considerable freedom of action compared to us. However, we do have some free will left. When we have been left alone, Serendipity and I snuggle closer to one another, our enormous dresses billowing up between us. Then we face each other and lean in. It is difficult to get the angle right due to our ridiculous bonnets, but we have had a lot of practice. I mouth a silent greeting and our smooth cheeks rub against each other. Then, our plumped-up lips touch and I open mine. We kiss passionately, saying all that we would love to say but are unable to using our tongues in a very different manner to most people. We do not rush; there is no need to. However, when we do finally withdraw, Serendipity leans her head against my shoulder, and I feel her warmth through the silky material.

---

Having read the pre-nuptial agreement with its myriad terms and conditions, Henry knew what he was in for when he agreed to wed Charlotte McCaffery. However, there is one thing knowing it and another actually experiencing it for real.

When he awoke, it was clear from the fact that he was lying in a hospital bed with a number of aches and pains that the process had begun. Begun yet far from completed.

When he fully came round, the doctor talked through the work that had been undertaken already. The first was the most expected. A pair of breasts now sat on his chest. 300cl each, the first of two augmentations. They would need to settle before the next bout. He held them. They were firm and round with enormous nipples that stood out proudly. He liked how they defied gravity and how they felt when he played with them. He was less happy about how they trumpeted his new femininity.

Femininity, yes, femininity. For that was the whole crux to this marriage. Charlotte’s father was a traditionalist who insisted that his wayward daughter marry a man who would give her children. But Charlotte was a lesbian who could not stand the thought of lying with a man and instead desired only her own sex. So, a solution was devised. She would marry a man – Henry – and then make him a her.

Well, almost.

He explored some other aspects of his new body. The smooth hairless skin, made so due to a lengthy laser dilapidation process; the permanent make-up on his brows and lips. And the other work to those lips. Fuller and plumper. The doctor said that he had received only two of a series of eight collagen injections. He touched them with his fingers. They felt rubbery and inviting, as if devised for one purpose only…

Down below his cock hardened.

He looked at it. It appeared different but that was only because of the absence of hair. Weirdly, that made it appear somehow more feminine. It stood ramrod straight to attention. How awful! He was getting off on looking at… himself!

When he touched it, it felt exquisite and he longed for more but knew that it was inappropriate. The doctor sternly warned him that masturbation was not allowed by his mistress. Only she or those given permission by her, could let him cum. That brought his new reality to a head. Mistress. Not wife, but his mistress. This was no union of equals, but instead there was a master and a servant. Nay, not even that. A mistress and her ornament. Her accessory.

That was what he was.

There were other changes too. Large false lashes fluttered every time he blinked his eyes and his hips seemed somehow rounder whilst a tight corset embraced his middle. The doctor explained how his lower ribs had been removed so as to achieve a more feminine silhouette. Fat had also been added into his buttocks.

All of this he listened to in silence, making no response. For he could not.

The very first operation that they had undertaken was the severing of his vocal cords.

---

The maid comes up and makes an announcement. “John Hawkins is here, mademoiselle. He seeks the mistress, but I have informed him that she is unavailable and that you will see him instead in the receiving room.”

Inwardly I sigh, knowing what this means, but outwardly I smile, nod, and rise gracefully, leaving my beloved Serendipity alone on the sofa.

John Hawkins is a pain! He attended a ball a year ago and took a real shine to the mistress. He knows that she is married – the whole world does – but since her husband is such a recluse, believes that she needs a lover and that he is the man to fulfil that role.

If only he knew the truth!

He rises when I enter the room. He is in his mid-thirties and quite average looking. I curtsey to him, and he greets me. “Rosaline, you are a picture as ever!” I smile and he kisses me on both cheeks before helping me to sit on the sofa and then choosing to sit right next to me.

“Your mistress is incapacitated I believe?”

I nod.

“But she is well?”

I nod again.

“And her husband? He is well also?”

I nod for a third time.

“And yet he never shows his face, just stays in his quarters studying and reading. How curious! If I were married to such a woman as her, I would not wish to leave her side.”

Another nod.

“Although,” and he smiles, “I would find you a temptation, dear Rosaline. Your gown today is exquisite but not so wonderful as the girl within it!”

I blush becomingly and bow my head.

“You must speak to your mistress… however it is you communicate that is. There are rumours. She has a friend, Felicity Dourada, and they chatter about them. That the two of them engage in unnatural acts. All nonsense of course, but it hurts me to think that they besmirch her name. You will speak to her, won’t you?”

Nod.

“To think that one so pure and beautiful as her would want to lie with another woman! It is sickening! Homosexuality is a crime in Libertaria and with good reason! Why, escaping such liberal degeneracy is why so many of us came here. What is natural is for a man to be with a woman, not their own sex. That is how the Good Lord decreed it.” He pauses for effect. “That is why I feel desire even now. Desire I had hoped to quench with your darling mistress.” He leaves the words hanging in the air and I know what is expected of me. Hating myself, I turn my face towards him and lean in slightly. He needs no further invitation. He attaches his face to my own and his tongue invades my mouth. The tongue piercing excites him, and I taste tobacco. I submit passively as an ornament should.

When he withdraws, he mutters, “Bloody good, Rosaline. You are one wonderful girl! My God, if I were with your mistress, I would look after you too. That dress would be gone and…”

Although I know that the maids are watching on the cameras, ready to intervene in case of emergency, I do not take the risk of allowing him to lift up my skirts and explore. I drop to my knees before him and undo his fly. His rod springs out, erect, and proud. Feeling sick, I open my mouth and engulf the hot tool. I use my skills, to arouse and titillate still further and he groans in ecstasy. Within seconds he is on the brink. I know he would like me to edge him, to prolong the pleasure, but I have no inclination to spin it out any longer and, if I did, mistress would be unimpressed. So, I finish him off and the hot, salty seed spurts down my throat, causing me to cough. He does not notice; he thinks only of himself. “By God Rosaline, you are one fucking great cocksucker!” he exclaims. I suck him clean and then rise, curtsey and exit leaving him recovering from the experience.

The maid takes me to the bathroom, freshens my face, gives me some water to drink and then relaces my monoglove back on before I return to sit in silence alongside Serendipity.

---

The recovery and transformation took months. There were more operations to feminise his appearance, and then there was additional work. One day a piercer came and put holes through his tongue, ear lobes, nipples and the head of his penis. The ears and tongue got studs, the nipples rings and the penis a ring with a bell attached.

Except that it wasn’t his penis anymore. More longer and more difficult than the surgery was the re-training. Before he had been a man named Henry. After he would be a woman named Rosaline. Except not a normal woman but an ornament, a special class of women available only in Libertaria whose only function in life was to be beautiful, to be an elegant accessory for their master or mistress. Hence no voice; they no longer required one.

There were days spent walking around wearing only a corset and high heels, with deportment teachers correcting and criticising his gait. And there were endless hours strapped to a chair, wearing a VR headset with looped films of ultra-feminine ladies dressed in vast billowing crinolines with puffy beret sleeves smiling and sitting prettily whilst all the while the mantra that now dominated his life played.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

On and on, endlessly, drumming itself into his soul.

And then those other hours. Late at night. Strapped to the bed. The huge screen above showing hardcore porn whilst the wires were attached to his head. And every time he saw a male cock he had to gasp and silently say penis.

But every time he saw the appendage on an ornament, formerly male, now feminised, he had to mouth and think the term clitoris.

And whenever he got it right, the device on his own clit would stroke.

But when he got it wrong, the electric shock he received still haunts his dreams.

Until, one day, when his stern-faced teacher declared him ready. He had passed the course. With his bouncing breasts and plumped up lips and arse, he looked female, whilst inside just as much had been done to his mind.

Symbolically, he was dressed in a gown of billowing pink and then taken, bonneted, and veiled, his hands secured in a muff, to the ornate, baroque House of the Ornaments. And there, before the head of the Order of Ornaments, he was officially declared female, her humanity replaced by ornamentinity and her new name bestowed.

Rosaline.

A name befitting the pink gown she wore and the bunch of roses in her hand.

And then her wife appeared, dressed in a smart male suit that was tight over her wonderful bottom and bulging breasts, causing her clit to harden immediately. And there she knelt before her spouse and declared that their marriage was on paper only for, as an ornament, she was no equal and henceforth she would be her mistress.

And then, to seal the act, she opened her mistress’s trousers and pleasured her with her tongue whilst her beloved mistress stroked her hair and vowed to always protect her.

Whilst all around them the Mantra of the Ornament was solemnly chanted:

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters.

And following the Act of Ornamentation, she rose, and her mask was presented to her mistress who then led her away from the House of Ornaments to her new life.

---

When she returns, the maid tells my mistress all about the visit of John Hawkins. At first she just rolls her eyes and mutters, “That idiot!” but then she is told that I attended to him and, in an instant, her demeanour transforms. “Oh my darling Rosaline, is this true?!” she asks.

I nod.

“And did he… take advantage of you in his male way?”

I nod again.

“My darling ornament, I am sooo sorry! He is like all men, so hateful and crude! To think that you had to endure such degradation, such abuse, such an invasion of your personal space!”

She runs over and hugs me and I revel in the warmth of her body and the softness of her touch. It is at moments like this when she shows me such love that I adore her beyond all compare!

She is angry, of course, because he is a man. Because the thing that enflames her more than anything else is the oppression of her sex by the one that I was born into. And she feels it because she believes herself to be a victim of it. Countless are the times when, lying with me in the bed, she has railed about a woman’s lot, about her father whom she detested and who tried to dictate her life’s path for her. At moments like this, she cups her wonderful, pert and round breasts and laments that society forces her to endure such a burden and then screams about the operation that he parents forced her to undergo as a teenager which removed her lower ribs and gave her an hourglass figure that has to be continually supported by stays. All for the sake of beauty; all for some perverted ideal of femininity.

Yet at the same time, whilst she is acutely aware of such injustices, she seems oblivious to the fact that it was she who decreed that I under the very same operation; who ordered breast implants far in excess to those that she carries, who transformed me from an independent, strong-minded male to a mute ultra-feminine doll, an ornament or accessory to her, a way to circumnavigate her father’s plan.

Yet I cannot be angry with her for this, since she is all that I have. If I hated her, what would I have left? Yes, late at night sometimes, I do lament my lost masculinity, but it will never return. As was drummed into me during my training, I have to accept my feminine and ornamental status, nay even revel in it. That was I can live with a degree of happiness. That way I can please my mistress and, if I do manage to please her, I can receive any pleasures that she deigns to bestow.

As a result of my violation, she decrees that I have my monoglove removed and I be allowed to work out in the gym.

---

The mask.

When this was first taken out of its box and revealed to her, Rosaline shuddered. Of course, it had all been explained to her on the day when she had gone to have the cast made, the curious process when tubes had been fitted into her nostrils and mouth and then the plaster coated over her entire faced until it hardened and she was left in a dark and isolated world for a couple of hours until it was removed.

Knowing is one thing though; seeing the real thing is something else entirely.

When her mistress revealed it to her in the sanctity of their new home, inexplicably, she cried. It was beautiful, unbelievably so, and it was lifelike, uncannily so, but seeing it before her just brought on the reality of her new situation and status.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters

The Mantra of the Ornament rang around her head as she gazed into those placid blue eyes. Nothing symbolised its truth and reality like the mask.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters

The purpose of an ornament is to adorn. To be pretty. Like the mantra says, nothing else matters. And, due to the extensive surgeries and other work performed on her body, the fine costumes, the piercings, the training, she was just that. Beautiful. Incredibly so. Her clit hardened whenever she saw herself in the mirror. She was a dream girl, the sort that she had fantasised over when she had been male. She adorned. She was ornamental.

And the mask captured that at its apogee. At the moment of her ornamentation – well, a couple of weeks prior to it – her face was captured in exquisite detail. Through the plaster cast, yes, but also extensive 3D photography and mapping. At her most beautiful, most ornamental, most adorning, her face was copied and preserved. In the mask. The mask that would hang on her wall as a reminder of her glory, of how perfect she had become.

But also, as a reminder of time.

Technology can do many wonderful things in the mid-21^st century, but even with the digital imaging, body-moulding and age-defying treatments available, the ravages of time cannot be halted, let alone reversed.

And the mask will be a constant reminder of that for her as it was for all ornaments. It will hang there as a reminder of what she had been. What she no longer was. How she had aged.

And one day, perhaps five years hence, perhaps ten or twenty or thirty, her mistress will wake up one morning, look at her real face and decide that it no longer pleases her.

That she is no longer pretty.

That she can no longer adorn.

You are an ornament. Your purpose is to adorn. You are pretty. Nothing else matters

And then what will her purpose be? How can she carry on as an ornament?

And on that day, she will be retired.

And the mask shall become her face forever.

---

The gym is my happy place. It is the place where I am freest and where I can forget my woes. Mistress had it built for the both of us so that she could keep fit and healthy, and so that my body would remain pleasing for her. I am grateful on both counts.

In the gym I wear something akin to normal clothes. When I say “normal” I don’t mean the kind of clothes that I wore before I became Rosaline since those outfits were male, but clothes similar to what girls in the wider world wear. The materials are figure-hugging, breathable, and stretchy, allowing full movement of the limbs, whilst the trainers are comfortable.

There are two differences though, to a “normal” girl’s attire. Firstly, my top incorporates some loosely-laced stays. As with my mistress, I struggle without any support these days due to the operation. And secondly, my trainers incorporate wedge heels of six centimetres because, after so long in extreme heels, I can no longer walk in flats.

Lively music plays and I go through my routine. Of course, if I drop below a certain tempo, then I will receive a punishment, but I am so fit these days that the target is not so onerous as it was when I first started. Then it was almost daily occurrence that I had missed the mark and, after the session, I was fastened into the correction chair, my wrists strapped to the armrests and my ankles tied to the legs. And then my mistress would come brandishing her squatter and take aim at my exposed and engorged clitoris.

Swoosh!

The pain is unimaginable. Your whole body explodes. But she does not relent. I have been a naughty doll and so I must pay the price.

Swoosh!

I learn quickly, weeping for her mercy, promising to behave. But she is just and does not listen.

Swoosh!

Swoosh!

Swoosh!

And then, when the punishment is over, she pushes her wonderful bottom in my face so that I may kiss it as an act of contrition.

She punishes me rarely these days since I am well-behaved and docile. Perversely, I almost miss it and some nights I dream that she is standing over me, swatter in hand, waiting to administer justice.

I turn my mind away from such thoughts and focus on the rowing.

But it is hard when my engorged clit strains against the tight fabric of the gym shorts.

---

The night they consummated their relationship will remain enshrined in Rosaline’s memory forever. Dressed in her huge and ostentatious gown, struggling for breath due to the overtightened corset, Charlotte led her out of the car and into her new home. They went straight to the bedroom and carefully, slowly, sensuously, Charlotte undressed her. Being a woman herself, unlike a male lover, she knew how to undo and remove a dress and the other trappings of femininity. As was befitting though, the mistress took the dominant role. She kissed and caressed her lover passionately and complimented her beauty and her love. All was perfect until it came to the final garment.

When her panties were removed, her rock-hard, long-unmilked clit stood proud and strong, the bell through its tip jingling in anticipation. But its presence affected Charlotte. She stopped her caresses and sat down. Tears fell from her eyes and Rosaline sat beside her and silently comforted her, putting her arms around her mistress.

“It is not your fault,” sobbed Charlotte. “It is me. You look so feminine, so absolutely perfect. But then I see that… that… thing and… you wouldn’t understand but what it represents to me. All my life I have been told that I am inferior to men, that I must be subservient to them. My damned father forced me to get these ridiculous tits and squeeze my waist and plump my lips, trying to turn me into his vision of the submissive daughter. I longed to remove them but when he died, the evil bastard, as well as the marriage instructions, he also stated that I would lose everything if I in any way made my appearance less feminine. He thought he owned my body and could control me and he made me marry a man and…”

Rosaline comforted her as she sobbed and then the moment passed. Naked save for their stays, they lay together on the huge bed. Charlotte turned the light off and then started stroking and caressing her ornament again. “Perhaps, if I don’t see it, then we shall be alright?” she whispered.

Desperate for release but knowing that she can never take the initiative, Rosaline just nodded and kissed her. The kisses became more passionate and the fondling more intense. Then, eventually, Charlotte mounted her and her clit was engulfed in warm, female flesh. The feeling was exquisite and obviously not for her, for Charlotte moaned in pleasure. Rosaline finished quickly but, true to her training, then retreated down the bed and made sure that her mistress finished too through expert use of her tongue.

Then the two lay in one another’s arms before drifting off.

Rosaline awoke much earlier, the vibrating of her jewelled buttplug alarm causing her to leave slumberland. In the early morning sun, she surveyed her sleeping mistress, the woman whom she had wedded herself to for life. She could, if she wanted, throttle her there and then, end her humiliation and degradation. But then prison, probably death row, would be her only destination and her family would suffer too. Besides, she had agreed to this life and Charlotte was very beautiful, the kind of girl you dream of fucking.

But she was also, obviously, a spoiled brat. All that complaining about her lot in life, yet she had always lived in luxury and, to escape her fate, had heaped the same femininity, the same oversized breasts and lips, on an innocent other. Perversely though, Rosaline knew that Charlotte was unaware. She was oblivious.

Slowly, she moved down on the bed and started licking the inside of Charlotte’s thighs, as she had been trained, slowly making her way towards the sacred folds, waking her up gently and pleasurably as she did. She imagined a woman going down on her, sucking her clit to completion as a wake-up call. Yet she knew it would never happen. Her job was to serve, not be served. She inhaled the feminine scent and poured herself into her task as her mistress stirred and began to enter the new day.

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Serendipity and I have been dressed in our finest gowns. As always, mine is in rose pink, but it is a wonderful creation, supported by a crinoline several metres across and with enormous puffed sleeves, padded inside, which make moving my arms difficult but look oh-so-elegant and feminine. I feel like the ornament that I am and my clit, as always is rock-hard although now it is not the tablets that are causing the strain – their effects ran out some hours back.

Serendipity’s clit is also engorged and straining. I wonder if she too has been given her tablets. I know that her mistress feeds them to her like mine does because she told me one day when we were granted a written conversation. She also said that it worried her as, before she was an ornament, she had been studying medicine and she believed such tablets put a strain on the heart. I told her not to be so silly as our mistresses would never do anything to harm us, but even though I said the words, a doubt lingered in my mind. Serendipity does not love her mistress so much as I love mine, but then she is so sadistic at times. She brings out the worst in my beloved. But away with such thoughts! Serendipity looks truly scrumptious in her gown on sky blue. She truly is one of the most beautiful girls in the world and her mistress is honoured to own her!

Our mistresses have organised a soiree. Several close friends have come, each of them female and each with their own ornament. My mistress does not associate with males unless she has to and so her social life is like that of an unofficial society where pure femininity rules supreme and it is the norm for a woman to possess an ornament.

There is a meal which we ornaments pick at daintily and then the music starts and the lights are dimmed and there is dancing. I twirl around the floor with various mistresses and ornaments and feel like I am in heaven despite the strain on my waist caused by the overtightened stays and the agony in my feet caused by the heels.

But then my mistress claps her hands and stays the music. “We have an announcement to make!” The crowd murmurs and I glance at Serendipity, wondering what it could be. “This week, as if by design – although I can assure that it was not! – my dear Felicity and I both found ourselves to be expecting after lying with our husbands.” She says the last word in inverted commas and the room laughs and looks at Serendipity and I. “Yes, our fathers’ will are being realised and there will be a McCaffery heir and a Gonzalez heir born within legal wedlock. Therefore we have invited you, our dearest friends and confidents, to celebrate!”

“Three cheers for the mothers-to-be!” cries one guest.

The cheers ring out and glasses are raised and then downed.

“And please, ladies, an additional toast. It takes two to tango and these happy events would not have been possible without our pair of darling ornaments… or should I say, husbands!”

The laughs ring out again but I blush with pride and love as the glasses are raised for Serendipity and I. The music starts again and the crowd begins to dance, but our mistresses come over to us and guide us both out into the hallway.

“Thank you darling,” Charlotte says to me, kissing me on the lips. I notice that Serendipity does not receive the same level of devotion. “So, you know the wonderful news; we are all to be parents. Naturally, Felicity and I will be going away for some time. Firstly, to enjoy ourselves whilst we are able and then to birth our children in the healthiest environment possible, the Birthing Nirvana Resort in Goa where there are all the best facilities as well as relaxing yoga sessions, meditation and sadhus on hand to pray for the well-being of the children. You two then, shall remain here. We have decided that, as a reward for your services in impregnating us, you shall be taken off your course of clit tablets – after all, who have you got to be hard about if we aren’t about?!”

“But in their place, you have new duties,” interjected Felicity. “Your task whilst we are away is to ensure that these pregnancies will be safe and successful. You will dedicate five hours every day to prayer, on your knees in the private chapel.”

“Yes, and to celebrate your role in motherhood, you will also both be undergoing an operation. Those titties will have to be enlarged as both mine and Felcity’s will expand when we come into milk.”

We nod at all of this, please to be off the tablets but uncertain about the praying. Then though, my mistress shows her love and kindness.

“And tonight, as a reward, you and Serendipity will be allowed to share a bed, naked. We know you like one another and so, for once, the no completion without mistress rule is waived.”

“Although Serendipity will be laced into a monoglove,” Felicity added with a cruel smile.

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The day that she first met Serendipity remains enshrined in Rosaline’s heart as one of the most joyful of her life.

When she had heard that her mistress had acquired a lover, a serious lesbian partner rather than merely another meaningless shag, her heart has shattered. Before then she had truly believed that, if she poured her whole body and soul into being a perfect ornament for her mistress then, as she had been trained, her mistress would love only here. Casual affairs are one thing, but real devotion comes only with real submission.

Yet when Charlotte began talking about this wonderful girl that she had met at the Sixsmith-Montague’s party, then Rosaline knew. That night, her mistress was different in bed and from that day forward something changed and the emptiness that engulfed Rosaline was all-consuming.

An emptiness which only increased when she met this mystical maiden. Where Charlotte saw a goddess, Rosaline saw only a sadistic, selfish, domineering and, quite frankly, rather ugly, demon. How could her mistress fall for someone so awful?

But she had and the illness seemed incurable.

Then though, they visited Felicity Dourada’s home. For some reason, Charlotte had neglected to inform her that her new lover had an ornament of her own.

But when she saw the vision in sky blue, ringleted blonde curls framing her perfect face with its rosebud lips and cornflower eyes, the emptiness vanished.

The two lovebirds skittled off to the bedroom leaving their ornaments side-by-side on the sofa. With the aid of notepads, they began to speak. They told one another their stories, their time as males, their hopes of getting their mistresses pregnant and their fears for the future – what precisely happens to an ornament after she is ordered to “don the mask”. And then they wept, and, after that, they hugged. Nothing more but it was heavenly. In the absence of her spouse, Rosaline was consoled by a kindred spirit.

That night and for every night since, Serendipity has entered her dreams, sister, wife, lover, and friend all rolled into one.

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I am already in the bedroom when my beloved arrives. My maids have prepared me well, making sure my waxed body is smooth and oiled, my long tresses braided, and my make-up expertly applied. I love my mistress because although she cuckolds me and dominates me, she also cares and makes sures that I am allowed pleasures forbidden to many ornaments.

Serendipity has it harder. Her maid leads her in on a leash, her arms cruelly strapped behind her in a tightly-laced monoglove which, I see, has a padlock to prevent removal. And in her mouth a large red ball-gag resides, causing her to drool embarrassingly as she approaches.

I do not care. She is still beautiful beyond compare.

The maid leaves us, and I take the leash myself. I remove the hateful gag and then lead her onto the bed myself, taking care to brush her engorged clit but never enough to stimulate it too much. It drips pre-cum, and she is excited. For so long she has been denied the pleasures that should be all of ours by right. I stroke her breasts and her legs, starting low down and working up to the inside of her thighs. She leans in to kiss me, but I retreat. I shall be the mistress tonight, not her. She accepts and falls into the passive role that she has been well-trained for. Then I mount her and kiss her lips. Our tongues dance a dance of love and I continue with my caresses whilst she, her arms strapped uselessly behind her, cannot reciprocate.

Our foreplay continues for some time before I turn my body around. I place my mouth over her clit and she does the same over mine. Then we start our gentle rhythm, working one another to that place we so wish to go to.

Several times we reach the brink and several times I withdraw. Then, when I can take it no longer and know that she too is almost there, I quicken the pace and Serendipity, taking the cue, reciprocates. We erupt into one another’s mouths, panting and screaming.

Eventually, when my copious load is spent, I adjust myself again and snuggle next to her. Our lips meet again and our offerings into one another’s mouths mingle. I mouth to her that I love her, and she mouths back the same. Then we passed into a blessed, dreamless sleep.

The night is perfect and I happy. I have a life of wealth and ease and in my arms is the girl I adore more than any other. So, what if I am dominated, abused and transformed into something that I never wanted to be? In this moment at least, it does not matter.

All is well.

As Serendipity’s breathing deepens and her mammoth chest rises and falls, I gaze up at the wall. The mask hanging there has been joined by hers. Both seem to mock us cruelly. I stare up at them and wonder and a shadow passes my soul.

03/01/24-10/02/24

Copyright © 2024, Dave Potter

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