***************

Candy double-locked her door as soon as she returned home. The
doorman was told that no visitors-- absolutely NONE-- were to be
allowed up unless she said otherwise. M, whoever he really was, was
crazy. He would try to hurt her! What would she do? Who would she
go to?

She grabbed her address book, flipping to the S page. She snatched up
the Princess phone and began to punch in numbers.

"Dr. Slate speaking." The voice was calm, reassuring.

She spilled out her story, from beginning to end, omitting the details
of the Male Model encounter. "Someone's got to know, so in case
something happens," she explained disjointedly.

The inevitable, superior sigh, then "It's all right, calm down Candy!
Please calm down! Now just stay there and relax. You haven't been
hurt so you're lucky. You knew there were going to be some men who
would try to take advantage of you this way-- they can't help it.
Pretty girls like you are like magnets for a certain type of man,
understand my dear?"

Candy downed a glass of wine and nodded into the phone. "I know, you
said something weird like this might happen. But still!"

His deep authoritative voice continued to soothe. "Just calm down. I
want my star patient to relax, take a bubble bath and dive into a copy
of Cosmo, all right? I'll send over something to cheer you up. Now
follow the Good Doctor's orders and be a good girl, all right?"

She agreed and hung up feeling worlds better. Dr. Slate had a bedside
manner that made you forget what he did for a living and how much he
charged. His suave English accent would put any transgendered gal's
fears to rest.

True to his word, the doorman called up and said there was a visitor
who wanted to bring up some flowers, a Doctor Slate. She told him to
let just THIS visitor up and threw on a silk kimono. The knock on
the door brought a smile to her face. Candy opened the door.

"Doctor, come in, please!"

Dr. Slate smiled and took her offer to enter the penthouse. He was
holding a box. Roses she wondered? He handed the box to her and she
took it greedily.

She opened the box. It was a dozen gorgeous American Beauty
long-stemmed roses. She took one out. Without explaining, Dr. Slate
put his hand around hers. She gave him a pouty smile. Was Dr. Slate
coming onto her?

He didn't speak. Instead he crushed her hand around the rose stem.
He watched impassively as tears sprung from her eyes, then spoke.
"The rose is a beautiful flower is it not? Perfect in every way. But
for it's beauty, it pays a price-- doesn't it, my dear?"

She retreated from him, cradling her wounded hand. There were thorn
pricks on her palm "I-- I. uh, what did you do that for, uh..."
Candy felt woozy. From rose thorns, she thought wildly? I'm on the
verge of passing out from rose thorns?

She fell to the carpeted floor. She began to snore unconscious and
flat on her back as he went to work. He looked down at the prone
feminine form. If he wanted to, he could easily rape her-- if he
found the prospect exciting. But he didn't. He started fishing
through her desk for the numerous passbooks, stock and bond
certificates, as well as legal documents, expensive jewelry-- anything
that might have value. Slate knew a number of unsavory acquaintances
he had met in the transgendering racket who could easily forge Charles
Dane's name to release and transfer forms. It would be risk-free too.
There would be no Charles Dane to object to the transfer of the ten
million dollars in question.

He waited for ten minutes as the narcotic from the treated thorns did
their job. Then Dr. Slate hit the intercom button for the doorman.
"I need your help! Ms. Cane has passed out and I need to get her to
my car at once!"

*******************

She woke in stages. There was a blinding overhead fluorescent light
and it was difficult to see. Between her dry-eyed blinks, she could
make out a white jacketed man wearing a mask. A doctor? And a
smirking bearded man whose eyes rolled up and down her body. M.

She limply struggled but it was no good. Her arms were securely
fastened to the table. An operating table. Candy screamed. They
ignored her screams-- she was gagged anyway. Her body was bare,
pressed hard against the cold stainless steel table by the restraints.
She made herself be still, though her body shook with fear.

In reward, M turned off the overhead light. Her eyes sought out M's
then, filled with what she hoped would be interpreted as respect. He
smiled.

"My pet wishes to speak?"

She nodded weakly. Keep it calm. Keep it still, she told herself
frantically. He pulled the tape off gently and addressed her. The
doctor left the room. Something familiar about him, but the mask...

"You want to know what is going on-- why you are here, what is being
done to you. You think I wish revenge for your impertinence-- perhaps
torture you, kill you. You are wrong," M informed her, "I don't seek
revenge."

Candy swallowed in relief. Thank God. Thank God!

M continued. "Revenge is visited upon those whom we fear and respect
on some level. I neither fear nor respect you. So I do not seek
revenge. I will kill you though. I will kill Candy Kane."

She started to shriek, but the tape was reapplied. The scream died in
Candy's throat. No one could hear her in this place. This
place...familiar somehow...

M stroked Candy's thigh. "Let me finish-- I will kill Candy Kane," he
spat the name out in disgust. "Candy Cane was a cheap oversexed
little nympho, one not deserving of life. BUT in eliminating her--"
his eyes gleamed in triumph, "I will give birth to Dominique. Just
Dominique-- you'll have no need for a surname."

Candy's face pressed against the table. She understood now. How
could she have ever thought it would turn out any differently? Her
tears dripped on the shiny steel unchecked. He was going to make her
into the creature of his dreams. Candy, the life-long fantasy of one
man's imagination, would be transformed into Dominique, the fantasy of
another man's desires.

M pulled off the tape again. Candy looked up at him, shaking the
short curly blonde hair out of her eyes. "Will you tell me what you
are going to turn me into?

M shook his head. "No, because it makes no difference whether you
know or not. You will be Dominique and that is that. You will come to
learn that your identity is mine to decide and yours to accept." He
stroked her cheek. "You'll see, soon enough. I can't say whether or
not you'll like it, but that matters least of all."

Candy looked at him and sobbed inconsolably. He was going to do this
somehow. She had no doubt all he said would come true. The dark
light in his deep-set eyes told her that Candy Cane's fate was sealed.
"P-please, may I ask one thing? Just one promise? Please?"

M shrugged. "You have no right to expect anything, but go and ask. I
am in a gentle mood."

Candy looked down between her legs. "M-may I keep it?"

M considered and smiled. "I'll consider your request. But there will
be a price if I allow it." The doctor returned with a syringe and
nodded at M. M looked down again at the bound she-male. "My brother
is ready to work his magic. I believe you are aware of his work?"

The doctor pulled his mask down. It was Dr. Slate. She was at the
Slate Institute.

M smirked. "Your American dollars will do much to revive both my and
my brother's family fortunes. My family made it's fortune in the
floral business in England-- do you see the irony? In our own ways,
my brother and I are both gardeners of a sort. He says this will be
his transgendering operation. He finds this work
frankly...appalling."

Dr. Slate winced in distaste. "Putting tits on perverted American
financiers is not why I obtained a medical degree at Oxford, I assure
you."

M nodded. "True, brother. And once you performed the changes so
direly needed by Missy Cane, you need never pick up a scalpel again.
And your big brother will have the woman of his dreams, a woman like
the one who served our father so many years ago back in England." He
smiled broadly. "We will have our family fortune back, you shall have
leisure and I shall have..." M looked down at Candy with an openly
carnal appetite.

 "We are ready to begin. Goodbye Candy." Dr. Slate begin to inject
her with the anesthetic.

As he began to pull up the tape again for the last time, Candy blurted
out the last question she would ever ask. M retaped her mouth and as
she slide into unconsciousness, he answered her question.

"M stands for Master, my pet. Your Master."

Dominique bent over prettily to fetch the Master's morning paper,
which was shoved through the mail slot in the front door. As she did,
she felt the short hem of her black taffeta skirt rose up over the top
of her black fishnet stockings and even over the catch of the black
lace garterbelt. Even when she was most ladylike, the hem always
threatened to reveal the black lace thong panty underneath.
Instinctively her hands flew back to restrain the skirt hem from
showing even more of her feminine dainties and rose in place. As she
rose on her three inch shiny black T-strapped pumps, Dominique
unfolded the paper and placed it on the silver platter. A rose-- an
American Beauty- adorned the platter in a small crystal vase. The
Master insisted on a rose each and every morning. He said he loved
beautiful things captured in attractive vessels.

She examined herself in the hallway mirror. She must be perfect for
the Master. Dominique's face was longer now, less pretty than before
but more striking. Prettiness, the Master said, was a common thing.
What he preferred was an oval-shaped face with flawless classic
European elegance, not a commonplace showgirl looking face. The
doe-like baby blues were gone forever. Her eyes were a synthetic
smoky gray now, to better match her surroundings as well as to impart
a sulky suitability for sexual use. Candy's unruly mane of wild
golden curls were no more. Dominique's hair was straight and deeply
dyed an inky boot polish black for eternity. Master thought curls an
aesthetic extravagance in a mere servant such as Dominique. Short
hair, even stylishly cut, was inappropriate in a serving girl so it
was worn long, though in a bun when engaged in domestic service. All
other body hair had been removed, giving Dominique's skin a silky
smoothness for the Master's touch. The upturned button nose Candy had
paid so much for was history. In it's place was a small, straight
thin nose-- a more aristocratic, aquiline look that appealed to the
Master. The only reminder of her former face was the thin-lipped,
bow-shaped mouth. The Master enjoyed the mouth precisely the way it
was-- small and tight.

The Master had decided to remove any temptation for Dominique to alter
her facial appearance by making permanent alterations. His maid need
not make any decisions regarding her appearance, he said. He would
fashion her in such a way that required no thought on her part. Her
eyebrows were no longer thick. Instead they were plucked razor-thin,
like mere pencil lines that framed her now-dark eyes. Long luscious,
and false, black lashes had been fixed for good to give her
come-hither expression more seductive allure. The dark of the
Master's residence had erased the once golden California glow and
replaced it with a vampiric paleness, her complexion wan bordering on
moon-whiteness. The Master thought the complexion contrasted
dramatically and aesthetically pleasingly with the permanent blood red
lipstick applied to her mouth. Her pierced ears had grown together--
the Master said a mere maid had no place wearing such distracting
baubles. But her counterfeit inch long nails, painted a matching
blood red that never needed additional finishing, were considered
attractive and feminine and these were likewise attached for all time
with locking glue.

All these features she considered as she fearfully brushed a straight
raven tress back into her bun. She must be perfect for the Master.
To serve the Master with even a single flaw was to earn his wrath.
The Master taught and trained his maid with only two lessons-- those
involving pleasure (for him) and pain (for her). And Dominique had no
wish to be taught a lesson in pain. She picked up the tray and
knocked once on the door.

"Enter," the deep English voice bade her. He sat up in his king-size
four poster bed watching her enter to serve him.

As Dominique bent over to place the tray before her master, she felt
the skirt hem rise up again. This time she allowed it to rise, giving
the Master a peek at the negligible black lace dainty beneath the
errant hem. Serving the Master necessitated such naughty displays, in
deed was the point for her service. Sexuality was identity now,
though not the slutty bar girl playfulness Candy had exhibited. No.
It was now the practiced, choreographed seduction of Dominique, the
Master's French maid, who lived to entice him to use her. He placed
his hand firmly under her black taffeta skirt and squeezed the
skimpily-pantied buns underneath.

Dominique, eyes kept respectfully downcast, offered him the little
sphinx-like smile she had been taught was the appropriate way for a
maid to exhibit her emotions to her master-- small, deferential
gestures that gave the merest hints.

"May zee maid haf permizshon to playshur her masteer?" Dominique
humbly asked.

Candy's American English with its grad school-level vocabulary had
been erased from her memory. French had taken its place, a low-class
French at an sixth grade vocabulary level. But to further complicate
Dominique's life, she was not permitted to speak that "barbarian
tongue." The Master expected her to speak only in the pidgin English
she was taught-- a few words sufficient for her to carry out the
menial duties of a gentleman's maid. He found her sweet-pitched
French-laced English simply intoxicating.

"Yes, Dominique. You have permission to pleasure your Master," he
replied in the assuming tone he took with his maid. He returned to
his paper, turning to the Financials as he always did to check on his
many investments. A meticulous man, the Master oversaw his five
million dollar portfolio with close attention.

Dominique nodded and stepped back from the bed. As coyly as she
might, she pranced on the toes of her black patent leather heels to
the foot of the oversized bed, swaying her barely skirted backside for
her Master's amusement with exaggerated hip swings. Though he ignored
her seductive strut, she continued it methodically till she reached
the foot of the bed.

Keeping her eyes cast downward, she untied the minuscule white lace
serving apron in back, tossing it aside. Dominique then reached back
to unbutton her form-fitting black maid's uniform blouse, careful to
unbutton the frilly white lace collar and separate cuffs. Sinuously
the blouse and skirt dripped off the pale thin feminized body. The
plush tanned party girl body was gone.

The 36C breasts had been reduced to small girlish 30As-- the Master
preferring "fruit not yet ripe" to "gross melons." The petite mounds
jiggled ever so slightly in a black lace demi-bra, underwired to give
the trifling buds as much cleavage as possible, which was very little
indeed. The bra was decorated with French lillies and closed in front
with a small black heart-shaped close. Dominique's nipples poked
against the lilies, making a tiny bullet against the sheer material.

Just below Dominique's precious black lace brassiere, the French
maid's waist disappeared under the harsh insistence of a corset. The
corset fitted an unforgiving wall of steel-bone reinforced black lace
around the pale, moon-white torso. The once womanly 32 inch waist had
been subjugated by the corset and pinched into a waspy 24 inch
schoolgirl measurement. The corset was locked in back and was worn
without respite. Frilly black lace wafted off the edge of the corset,
tickling Dominique's flat, sensitive tummy.

Dominique's slimmed down alabaster hips were framed with an enticing
garter belt of gossamer fashioned black lace. Tiny clasps at the ends
of narrow black straps supported black fishnet stockings of the most
common variety. What had been 36 inch hips were now a svelte 26
inches in diameter. Over the wispy garter belt, Dominique wore her
black lace thong panty. In the center of the panty panel was a French
lily, an embellishment that pleased her Master.

The French maid now stood before her Master. With a single fluid
motion, she reached behind to the nape of her neck and pulled out the
pins which kept her raven hair in a bun. The Master had instructed
her to perform all sexual service with her hair long and loose at
scheduled times such as these. Dominique shook out the jet hair,
feeling it cascade to the middle of her bare spine. She furtively
looked up to see if her Master was watching. He flipped the newspaper
pages, oblivious to her presence. She suppressed a sigh.

With well-practiced grace, Dominique knelt before the foot of the bed
and with the utmost care buried her head under the bedcovers. Like a
well-trained diver, she bored through the fine linen of the Master's
private bed, till she found a leg of the Master's pajama bottoms. She
gently tugged the end of the garment and could feel the Master raise
his hips to better let her pull the garment off. It came free and she
pulled it entirely off.

Next the French maid began to lick the feet of her English master.
Pressing her small mouth downward, she took each and every toe with
her wet, tight mouth and fellated them like small cocks. Hungrily,
she drew the toes in and bathed them hotly with her tongue. When this
was complete, Dominique ran her tongue from the base of the Master's
ankles, up and over his thick, wire-haired legs, switching off leg to
leg to ensure complete adoration.

The minutes passed as Dominique continued the ritual-like servicing.
As she climbed deeper into the bed, she remembered not to let her
heels touch the clean sheets. Once she had ripped a sheet--
inexcusable for a maid. She was well punished for her indiscretion by
the Master and was eager not to learn the lesson again. Would that
she might take off the heels. But they, like the corset, were locked
on, never to be removed, giving her permanent heels.

Finally she had reached as far as she would travel in her voyage up
the Master's body-- his long, thick and semi-erect cock. Dominique's
task was to coax her Master to pleasure with her pretty, tight mouth
and she set herself to her assignment with the fervor of a fearful
worshipper. Balls were lapped first, Dominique hoping to stir the
Master's cum within to spurt out later. His pubic hair scratched
against her pale face without mercy as she took the balls in her
mouth, sucking gently on each. The Master's hand descended beneath
the covers, catching in it a bridle of her raven hair too direct her
efforts. Without pity, the hand yanked the hair up, her face to the
shaft. Suppressing a tear, she opened her mouth as the Master
positioned her lips over the flesh scepter. A brutal yank down and
Dominique's mouth was impaled by the Master's lance. She took it as
deep as she might within her throat, feeling the precum drizzle down
and coat her mouth's insides. The Master remained silent and unseen
as Dominique obeyed the imperative of his lust, sucking and
deepthroating him with every piston of the mighty rod. Hot splashes
of cum shoot within her and Dominique moaned like an overheated whore
in simulated orgasm for her Master.

He had taught her she might display her obedience to him by cumming
just after he had. Never before. Not that she could cum anymore.
But she understood his meaning-- he wanted her to make a display for
him, to moan and buck. It gave him pleasure to see her humiliate
herself this way. And if she failed to make this sluttish display of
affection, he would further instruct her in the importance of
discipline and her submission. Dominique knew this meant his strap or
his belt or his crop or the paddle he kept for such purposes. She
whipped her tongue over her lips, panting with abandon for the
delectation of her Master.

Finally he released her hair. She understood he was finished with her
for the moment. With speed, she crept out from the bedcover the way
she had entered. With considerably more rapidity that she had taken
them off, Dominique dressed herself in her uniform clothing again,
clipping her hair back into a tight black bun. Without a word, the
Master waved off the tray and newspaper. Dominique took the silver
platter wordlessly and wriggled her way trembling from the bedchamber.
Behind her the Master rose an began his day, thus.