The Gift

by Marlissa

The following seven part story contains adult material. If below
the age of 18, go outside, get some fresh air and do something
healthy (g).

If you ARE 18, then you should know the following story is
about a teenaged boy who is forcibly feminized and transformed
into teenage girl sex slave by a white slaver through chemical
and pyschological techniques. It contains non-consensual sex
and b&d themes. Both the characters and occurences in this
series are completely fictitious.


THE GIFT

by Marlissa

Smedley smiled as he heard the soprano voice float down the
staircase of his West Palm Beach vacation home.

"Ninety-one, Ninety--two, Ninety--three---"

He quietly crept up the stairs, his footsteps muffled by the
padding of the Persian rug. As unobtrusively as possible, he
craned his neck around the corner. As always, Rebecca's door
was open. He watched as the teenager sat in front of the vanity
mirror, nude and glistened from the recent morning shower.
Except for the fluffy pink towel drawn tightly from across the
petite bosom to just below the waist, Rebecca was nude and
glistening.

"Ninety--four, Ninety-five, Ninety-six---"

The comb swept methodically down the thick chestnut trail of
the long straight hair, which now hung an acceptable four inches
down in back. Smedley sipped his coffee. My how THAT had
been an issue at one point! But Rebecca had seen the light and
stopped begging for a shorter haircut. Longer hair was just so
much more feminine and the resulting mane suited the teenager
far better.

"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine---"

The hands that drew the ivory comb were well suited to their
task and Smedley couldn't help but admire them. Hands were
ever so important and Rebecca's hands were perfect-- small
piano playing hands with fingers that tapered into perfect pink
enameled nails. The nails weren't too long-- there would be
time for that later-- but they were properly painted and cared for
and certainly long enough to pass Smedley's critical muster.
Hands were hard to do, but they could be done, despite what
was thought.

"One hundred!" Now those delicate hands tucked the long light
brown mane of freshly combed hair into a flower print cloth
elastic popular with most teenage girls. Rebecca examined her
self in the mirror, turning head right then left. No blemishes,
Smedley noted without surprise. Rebecca was on the strictest
diet, eating only the most healthy of foods and certainly nothing
that would cause any breaking out. No the face was fine. More
than fine. It was perfectly adorable. Wide blue eyes were
accentuated with thinly plucked eyebrows (ouch! Now that had
been a struggle!), a small slightly upturned nose (expensive but
the result clearly worth it) that offered puckish charm, high
colored cheeks (done with the nose), a small chin (also done
with the nose, though not as much of a job as was normally
necessary), and the small bow-shaped mouth with their pouty
lips. You couldn't do mouths-- they had to be right to begin
with. Oh, you could do the lips, and he had enhanced them a
bit-- not much-- but the mouth just had to be right. Rebecca's
had been.

The teen rose and walked to the dresser. The legs too were
perfect, but the real trick there was in training, not alteration. It
showed in the flowing rhythm of the slight sway and swing of
the hips under the pink towel. It was a true test, because it was
easy to mock the proper walk. But as he watched, Rebecca
glided with effortless ease, using the requisite toe-first step with
the small bare feet. The tell-tale swivel, not too obvious but
noticeable, resulted in a half-mince, half-prance that was ever so
ladylike. Smedley sipped his coffee soundlessly.

Rebecca was picking through the items in the top drawer, the
undies drawer. Without too much thought, a small strappy item
was pulled out, which was held loosely while there was
meditation on the second item. Smedley nodded in self-
congratulations. The long months of lessons and proper training
paid off in these small introspective moments. The teen was at
last well aware of the importance of decisions such as these--
like which panties to wear for the day. A decision was made at
last, the hot pink cotton panties winning over another unknown
rival, which would surely win on another morning like this.

With undergarments in hand, Rebecca stood in front of a full-
length mirror, ready to begin dressing. With a deft little yank,
the pink towel fell to the bedroom floor in a small fluffy heap.
Smedley took another long soundless sip of coffee, admiring the
taut teen body from his observation post at the door. Not an
ounce of fat on the five foot six inch body. The skin was fair
complected but smooth and shiny in the way skin gets only with
constant treatment or has naturally with the glow of youth.
Though pale, there were tan lines. The weather had been
cooperating lately, with sun forecast for the rest of the week.

Rebecca took the soft, strappy item and gently drew the straps
up over each shoulder. With unconscious grace, the small
hands cupped the petite breasts into the soft cotton cups of the
dainty white cotton training brassiere. As Rebecca's hands
sought the clips in back, the small bra'ed pair of buds were
thrust forward. Rebecca's bra size had reached it's maturity--
32A. Many tears had been shed over the petite, perky pair over
the last few months-- too many perhaps given the final product.
They were more nipple than breast-- like a tangerine cut in two
with the flat end facing down. Rebecca would never need
anything more than a training bra really, Smedley thought, with
that small a set. But of course, the feminine preoccupation with
breasts would lead to more enticing garments than this simple
thin-strapped training brassiere, of that he was sure. Push-ups,
bustieres, the Wonder Bra at least-- so much energy would be
expended trying to enlarge those two less-than-handfuls to a
more alluring bustline.

Now the panties. Rebecca looked down between those long
legs and the sight caused a frown on the pouty lips. Smedley
looked down at the object causing such distress. It was
Rebecca's chastity belt, the thin metallic mesh cloth that
captured and imprisoned the boy's (yes, Rebecca was still
technically a boy Smedley reminded himself)hairless penis and
testicles. The organ was never referred to by either of them
now except as the "mischief-maker." When Rebecca hadn't yet
learned to control his feelings and thoughts, he had begged for
Smedley to release it. But that was unthinkable. Other than a
medical emergency, there was no reason to! After all, Smedley
had used the device for years and knew how effective it was.
The design allowed Rebecca to relieve himself without
difficulty and it gave the midsection a clean smooth line without
the ugly lumpy look. Which was apparent even now as
Rebecca swallowed hard and drew the hot pink cotton bikini
panties over the device. With the panties hugging high and
tightly on the girlish hips, you couldn't tell that Rebecca
possessed a penis at all!

Smedley heard the dull thud of the paper landing on the
doorstep and went to retrieve it, turning quietly away to let
Rebecca continuing dressing in true solitude. He opened the
door, waving to Ted, the paperboy, who returned the wave from
the other side of the high gate and cycled away. Wonderful
how he managed to throw it on his doorstep from so far away, a
feat which Smedley rewarded with a handsome tip every week.
For ornamental reasons, the entire house was bounded by a
short wrought iron fence-- not uncommon in a neighborhood
like this. He was a good kid, the Peterson's boy, Smedley
thought. He shut the door, the morning chill now entering the
house. Though February, it was warm and the sky bright and
blue. It would be a wonderful day.

Why just the other night, he had run into the boy's parents at the
country club. How admirable it was for people so well off (you
never used the word "rich" in West Palm--- it just wasn't done)
to teach their boy early the importance of hard work, he had
said. Then they had been kind enough to buy him a drink.
There were enjoying themselves when that writer and his wife
had come over and Smedley had ordered a bottle of champagne
to celebrate the author's entrance onto the New York Times
bestseller list.

At one point Peterson had asked what Smedley did. "You
know we've known you for years and I've never asked!" he said,
surprising himself.

"Oh, me? I'm in training and development. I do most of my
work outside the area though," he added, quick to cut off the
inevitable kindly invitation to do work for a friend's firm. Such
generosity of spirit was exactly what endeared old New Canaan
to him. It had been a perfectly enjoyable evening.
With paper under his arm, Smedley sought the sun of his
solarium. He loved the room, an addition he had put on after
doing a particularly difficult job for an overseas client a year
ago. He shuddered as he recalled it. Nasty piece of business
that, but it had paid for his beloved solarium. It was a bright
room facing the west overlooking his two acre estate, filled with
flowers and appointed with comfortable old wicker furniture. It
was ideally designed to grow flowers. He was an amateur
horticulturist and enjoyed the many permutations and variations
he could precipitate in his private garden. Beyond the garden
was the walkway that led to the ocean, the surf booming an
invitation to come swim.

He was proud to own such a stately home in such an exclusive
community. Not bad for someone who grew up in the worst
part of Miami. Or someone who had a criminal record. Or
used to have a criminal record, he thought as he smiled widely.
Not all his clients paid by check. He opened the paper.

GOVERNOR WESLEY CALLS FOR TAX CUT;
OPPONENTS CALL CUT "BREAK FOR RICH"

Smedley shook his head. You worked so hard and others
wanted to take what you had rightfully earned and give it all
away. he made a mental note to contribute to the Governor's
Reelection Fund.

SENATOR FROTHINGHAM DECRIES HIGH CRIME
RATE, DEMANDS ACTION BE TAKEN!

Smedley liked Frothingham too. A good anti-crime man. He
would send him a thousand dollars as well. He flipped through
the paper, checking the stock quotes and looking at the Society
pages. As an afterthought, he turned to the Metro pages.

STATE CUTS FUNDING FOR RUNAWAY OUTREACH
PROGRAM, CITES BUDGET SQUEEZE

Smedley scan the article with interest.

"State authorities, faced with looming budget deficits, have
trimmed back programs including the Runaway Outreach
Program. State Social Services Director Maria Molina called
the cuts understandable but shortsighted. "These kids need our
help," she claimed. "The teenagers coming into the Miami Bus
Depot alone number in the hundreds daily. They are alone,
vulnerable and easy prey for the street hustlers. Many wind up
as drug pushers, junkies, gang members, prostitutes or worse.
There is a certain element found only in the city which takes
advantage of these kids." When asked if she would resign over
the action, the political appointee answered she would not.
"The Governor appointed me and I will stand by his decision."

The phone rang and Smedley went to the parlor to get the call.

"Smedley residence. Justice MacDonald? Yes, sir, I have in
deed heard of you-- you do yourself an injustice! And yes,
Senator Frothingham did tell me you were calling. A domestic?
Light cleaning and cooking? Yes, sir. And other duties-- of
course, Judge MacDonald. Yes, Washington is a lonely place.
No need to get into details over the phone, your Honor. May I
suggest we meet? Oh you're a member of the Colonial Club--
I've never been there! Love to! I'll be flying up early
tomorrow. I have an engagement in New York in the afternoon,
so I'll just hop the Delta shuttle and meet you there tomorrow
evening, if that's convenient. I'm just finishing up a project and
I'm ready to take on another custom job, so you're timing
couldn't be better. See you then-- yes, my pleasure. Have a
nice day, Judge."

Smedley put the receiver down and returned to his paper. Just
as he was getting comfortable again, Rebecca made his way
down the stairs, head shyly bowed whenever he entered a room
now. He minced over to Smedley.

"Do you like what I'm wearing, Sir?" he asked respectfully,
spinning around as taught to give Smedley a full appreciation
for his outfit. The feminized boy looked at the floor nervously
chewing his full lower lip as Smedley carefully examined him
from head to toe.

Smedley did like what Rebecca had picked out. It was a
thoroughly appropriate outfit for a properly brought up teenage
girl. First he positively noted the use of make-up. Foundation; a
bit of rouge for coloring to give the high cheeks a slight flush;
mascara giving the batting lashes body; lips shiny with red
lipstick and, was it strawberry or cherry that he smelled?, lip
gloss; and finally a slight spritzer of Chanel Eau de Toilette.
On the delicate pierced lobes were gold studs. All enough to be
feminine, not enough to be garish or call attention. Very nice.
Rebecca had learned so well.

He liked the ribbed midriff tank tee-shirt Rebecca had picked
out. The robin's egg blue tee showed off Rebecca's trim tummy
and was emblazoned with white letters that read "Palm Beach
High Cheerleader." Not with those little boobies, you're not,
though Smedley. He noted that the tank tee shoulder straps
properly hid the wispy band of Rebecca's training bra. That was
good. The other day Rebecca had learned the price for letting a
bra strap stray into public sight-- a well deserved paddling over
Smedley's knee! Today the teen had made sure to tuck the strap
away and out of sight. Rebecca's denim miniskirt was so tight
he could make out the panty lines underneath. Smedley had
purposely bought all the teenager's clothing a size too small,
except her undies. Rebecca wore a simple pair of low heeled
open-toed pale pink sandals. His toenails were painted, like his
fingernails, pale pink.

"You look very pretty today Rebecca." He noted the boy-girl's
tense expression soften gratefully. There were days that
Smedley hadn't declared the teen sufficiently pretty. Poor
Rebecca had been reminded of his fashion duties on those
mornings with sound bare bottom spankings.

"Do be a good girl and cut some flowers for the table before we
sit down for breakfast," Smedley directed. "Do a little
arrangement for me like you learned from your tapes." He let
his hand cup the small rounded rump of the miniskirted boy and
patted him.

Rebecca nodded and skipped off. Smedley watched the teen
from the solarium, picking posies, pansies and roses and placing
them in a small basket some fifty yards away. He loved
watching the sun bounce off the long brownish gold ponytail as
the teen thoughtfully chose flower after flower with which to
make the table bouquet. No doubt trying to remember the taped
lesson on flower arranging he had watched not long ago.
Rebecca was nothing if not a quick learner though. He had
picked up his lessons from the tapes well-- all kinds of proper
feminine duties and whimsies like cleaning, sewing, cooking
and the like. Smedley had used the tapes for years and found
the auto-suggestion and subliminal messages worked wonders.
No wonder advertisers weren't allowed to use the technique
anymore!

What was that? Rebecca was looking at back at him through
the window, then away quickly. Strange. On a hunch, he put
the paper down and pretended to sleep. Rebecca looked back,
then around the garden. Smedley pretended to snore. Through
hooded eyelids he watched Rebecca as the boy dropped the
flower basket and scan the path leading to the front of the
house. Smedley watched the softened face as it estimated the
odds.

With a determination stolen from desperation, the boy
scampered rabbit-like toward the path. Smedley watched in
amusement as the boy-girl made his dash for freedom. Hair
flowing, Rebecca's face was filled with expectation. He was
getting so close, Smedley knew he could taste the life beyond
the small wrought iron fence.
The shock hit the teen as soon as he tried to step over the fence.
The pretty face grimaced in pain, the blue eyes bulging.
Gasping for breath, the feminized teen rolled onto his back,
denim skirt flipping up to reveal the hot pink panties
underneath.