The file was too big to paste so I am sending installments. Should file under SETEYAN, and TG/AUTHORITARIAN. And a FETISH section if that exists yet...
IF SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MATERIAL OFFENDS YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS!
All RIGHTS RESERVED, 1998
Hooked Copyright Seteyan PART one...
I could hear them talking, breathing, sweating on the other side of the curtain, but I could not see. The world was dark, thanks to the tight lycra hood which covered my head.
"NOW." The voice hissed in my ear like an angry cat. She was standing right next to me. Then I felt the tug on the collar that encircled my neck. I was pulled roughly forward, by a leash, into the light. I heard the crowd react. I heard the appreciative ooohs and aaahs, the guttural noises of desire. And why not - what they saw was a tall, leggy woman, clothed in a tight woolen sweater that left nothing to the imagination. The sweater barely covered the 38D breasts that they had fitted me with. On top of that they had bound my arms behind my back, pushing my tits forward. The tiny woolen miniskirt barely covered my groin, and the edges of the waist cincher were visible, pulled taut by the garters and fishnet stockings that encased my legs.
I stumbled on my five inch heels and moved forward, trying to keep up with the tugs on the leash. It was unbelievable that one month ago I had been a man, leading a normal life.
Well almost normal.
It had all started a month ago. Somehow I ended up in the darkest part of town, trying to find this video store a co-worker had told me about. I had circled Little West 12th Street three times, and still nothing. The whole area was a ghost town: dark, gated storefronts and empty loading docks. As the last vestiges of daylight faded in the sky, I started to notice a lot of ladies appearing on the corners, and it did not take alot of imagination to figure out that they were prostitutes. I did not know this was the new streetwalker district, and I was sure it would not be for long, as soon as the police got a look at the tide of hookers drifting along the sidewalks. They were dressed in a variety of fashions, from the simple to the outlandish. Many wore furcoats over little or nothing, to fight the early spring chill. I watched bemusedly as a pair in tight shiny outfits fought over a prime corner. And then I saw HER. Usually prostitutes do little for me, aside from arousing my curiousity, but she physically stopped me in my tracks - I actually braked to a halt in the middle of the street. She was dark skinned, and tall, and very buxom, but what stopped me most of all was the tight angora sweater she was wearing, a white cropped number, that was stretched over her enormous breasts like a spider web. Her nipples were clearly visible, even in the half-light of the evening. The sweater ended in a short turtleneck, and the fuzzy arms ended almost at her fingertips. The rest of her outfit was alluring - a stretchy, lycra miniskirt of ivory, a pair of white fishnet stockings, and pale grey ankleboots with thick, tall heels - but the sweater was what stopped me. I have nursed a quiet sweater fetish for years, trying not to stare at the sweaters on the street, but this was too much. When she saw me stopped there she immediately sauntered out into the street, and bent at the waist to peer into my car. Her breasts strained the delicate weave of the sweater a little more. I swallowed. Her face was sharp, sculpted, with huge slanted eyes the color of almonds, and a pair of brown, shapely lips. Her ethnic origins were as indiscernible as her feelings about me - maybe she was Chinese and Carribean, maybe not. Her brown skin shone next to the white fabric of her outfit. She looked at me closely, then smiled slightly, and let herself into my car.
I could not unlock my eyes from her breasts, which literally glowed in an aura of fuzzy angora. She said, "Twenty five dollars to talk, fifty to touch." I had maybe one hundred dollars in my wallet, and about two hundred more in an envelope in my bag, payday from a cash-under-the-table job. I stared some more and then tore my eyes up to her face. I could feel the heat from her in my small car. She looked back at me, waiting calmly. "Well let's go honey, we can't stay here in the middle of the street." Her husky voice snapped me back into the real world. I put the car into gear and started driving, just heading downtown.
She looked me over some more, and then sat back with a sigh. She crossed a long, brown leg, bringing her high heeled shoe up to her lap, where she started absently rotating her ankle. "Where to honey?" This time when she spoke I realized with a start that she had not always been woman - she was a transsexual or a transvestite - I could not be sure. It made me more excited if anything. I stammered a reply, which was barely english. She laughed, and told me to take a left, which I did, and then another. Finally I pulled over into the dark shadows of a loading dock awning. She turned to me, and held out her hand, which for a second I took to be the beginnings of an amorous advance, but then I realized she was asking for money. Like a zombie, or a sleepwalker, dreaming of those beautiful breasts, I fished my wallet out and emptied it into ther hand. She counted it carefully, and then tucked the money down her left boot. Matter of factly she turned back to me and started to take off her sweater - which sent a wave of fear through me. I practically shouted "No" and told her to stop, which she did, and with dawning interest she saw my worried expression. And my fixation.
"Oh," she said, "so you like my sweater?" Her grin got wider, like a cat. "I don't meet alot of you..all." She twisted her body like a cat, and drew herself closer to me. "Go ahead," she said, "touch it." I reached out a trembling hand and did, feeling the hard curve of her breasts through the soft sweater. My cock hardened in my pants. I ran my hands along her sweatered body. It was almost too much for me. And she knew it.
She flipped her body across mine, ending up between me and the steering wheel. Her ass sat squarely on top of my hard-on, and her sweatered breasts were right there at eye level. She grabbed my hands and began to grind her soft ass into my crotch. Suddenly her sweatered breasts were in my face - the hard mounds of her tits clothed in the soft angora was an incredible feeling. She smelled like wool and sweat, and cheap perfume. She kept my hands pinned with her surprisingly strong arms until the last minute, when I felt the release building in my pants, and then she wrapped her arms around my head and pulled me hard against her, deep into her bosom. I came like lightning had struck me, soaking my underpants, groaning like an animal.
After a moment she moved to her side of the car, and smiled at me in cruel way. She reached across and touched my crotch, she could feel how much of a mess I had made. "Oh my", she said. Then she reapplied her makeup and rolled away. Right before she left my stunned and spent presence, she fished a business card out of some hidden pocket and handed it to me.
"Call me sometime. Maybe I'll let you try on my sweaters..."
She said it like an invitation, but we both knew what it was.
Hooked Part Two, Copyright Seteyan
It didn't take me long to call her, in fact I only waited a day or two, constantly fingering the business card in my pocket. All it said on the card was ANGOR and a phone number. It drove me wild, the memory of my encounter with her: the sight of her on the street corner, her dusky skin against the pale white angora sweater. The thought of her sweater was enough to send me into a state of sexual excitement - my eyes went unfocused, my pants became tight, my whole body felt constricted.
When I finally dialed the number my chest felt like a giant hand was wrapped around it - every breath was short and shallow, like it might be my last. When someone finally answered I almost hung up, just to get my wind back. Instead I croaked out my request, asking if SHE was there, pronouncing her name like a child's mispronounciation of ANG-GERY.
She came to the phone after a minute, and barked a short hello, all business, and again I panicked, but I managed to get my words out, to explain who I was, where we had met. She remembered instantly, her voice changing from something harsh to a salesman's gentle whisper. She asked me if I wanted to come down to her crib, her place, I can't remember how she she said it, but I made an appointment for 3 0'clock that same afternoon, and hung up feeling like I had just been in a fight, out of breath and tired.
It was worse approaching her door. She lived close to where I had met her, all the way on the west side of town, in a strange blank faced apartment building. Buzzer B. She had said that several times, buzzer b, before I understood. I pressed the button, while my heart trip-hammered away, trying to think of something to say to Angora.
It was not she who answered the door, but an enormous woman, dressed in a voluminous robe. She had short blonde hair, an animal's face with harsh germanic features. She stood a full six inches over my head, and looked like she could kill me if she wanted to.
She looked me over with a snarl, and then gestured me inside. I followed her down a wide corridor, past the elevators to a broad black door, marked B. B for basement, I thought as she led me down a short flight of stairs, through another door, and finally into a curtained alcove. Here she turned and asked for my 'donation', her voice as germanic as her looks. I fished out my two hundred dollars in twenties (this was going to set me back), and handed it over. She counted it, laughed one short laugh, and reached past me to lock the door. Then she tossed off her robe and revealed an incredible body clothed in a rubber leotard, moist with exertion. Her long legs ended in thick boots, that started just below her knees.
"Come vit me."
I followed this herculean form down another short corridor, past curtained rooms that smelled of incense and sex, and finally to a door painted a cheap spray-paint silver. I was beginning to get worried. The giantess in front of me could easily hurt me. But instead she just opened the door and shoved me in.
It was a quiet liitle room, scattered with clothes and strange devices, lingerie everywhere, spilling out of the closet, under the bed. There was no one else in the room. I looked back at the Germanic queen, but she just snarled at me, and told me to take off all my clothes and jewelry. I was shocked, but one look from her was enough to tell me that she was serious. I undressed with teenage awkwardness, while she watched impassively. When I was naked the German took my clothes and pushed them to the side. Then she began pulling through the drawers, tugging out strange items of lingerie, tossing more stuff on to the bed. I was trying to think of what to say, how to stop this, when she turned to me and tossed a pair of strange latex panties at me.
"Put theese on."
I held them up, they were flesh colored and looked tight. I shook my head, and started to tell her I was here to see Angora - but she cut me off, roaring German curses in my face.
"You will do as I tell you! I did not tell you to speak! . Greta is now your master! You mast OBEY me - zis is the rule, zee only rule! Anozher word from you and I will einvertotten der kepple-"
The german went right over my head, but the general meaning did not. I was terrified, and suddenly aroused by my strange situation. When she saw my swelling cock dissappear into the latex panties, she smilled a cruel smile, as if to say I know your secret. The latex held me tightly, showing the bulge at my groin but little else. Over that she put a tiny lace g-string, a V of black lace over my crotch, and a strap wedged up my ass. It looked like I had covered a vagina rather than a penis. She worked like a pro - getting the newest prostitute ready for work. She layered a huge black lace bra over giant breast forms (like she knew big breasts were a weakness of mine), giving me at least a thrity eight size bust. And then stockings, attached to six long rubber garters that hung from a cincher at my waist. She strapped those on, roughly turning me when I hesitated. The stockings were black and patterned in a fine opaque fishnet design, and again I felt myself rise with excitement. I had little idea what was happening but now it was so surreal it did not matter.
My German mistress pulled a few pairs of shoes out of the closet, and finally slid my feet into three inch heels that were black and looked worn. I stood teetering on the heels, then, while she fished a black angora sweater off a hook on the closet door. And when she told me to put that on I almost expired - but I did it, feeling the softness of the sweater caress my arms, my face as I pulled it on. I was so excited I almost fainted.
Did this mean I was a woman? Or a transvestite? That was all my addled brain could come up with, as Greta shut the closet door and revealed a tall gangly sweater girl standing in a full length mirror. The sweater was long, edging down to just above my crotch, and the mock turtleneck rolled up to just below my chin. I could feel the sweater overwhelming my senses - the feel of it, the smell of wool, the look of a sweater stretched tight over large breasts. I started to touch myself, to run my hands along the edges of my curvaceous form, but Greta did not like that - she grabbed my hands roughly and pulled them behind my back. A soft rope, or pantyhose was looped around my wrists, securing my hands back there, pushing my breasts forward. I sighed with distraction, at the sight of my breasts thrust so eagerly forward, and Greta laughed. She knew what this was doing to me. She went to a cabinet beneath the bed and started taking out loops of rope. I stepped back two steps on my tottering heels, but where would I go? Greta approached me like a movie villian, her hands laden with rope and belts and straps, and I backed up again. I could tell Greta was enjoying the fear in my eyes...
And then she walked in, Angora, the reason I was here. She wore a long slender sweater dress of pale grey, and stiletto heels of blood red. The heels made her whole body twist as she walked - like the sweater was the skin of a muscled animal. She smiled when she saw me, already half trussed, and obviously scared.
"Oh Greta, what have you done?", she said.
I relaxed, hoping that now she would save me from Greta. But her next sentence showed the truth:
"Let her try to please us first. If she does not do a good job as a sweater girl, then you can tie her up and we can move on to more..drastic measures."
Angora laughed, which made Greta smile as well. I looked at them both. Could I ask them to stop? Did I really want them to?
Angora slithered up to me, and rubbed her body along mine. Her mouth was next to my ear when she whispered, "I know what you want." She stepped back and laughed, and I could see that she too was excited, as her erection showed on the front of her sweater dress. And then the room grew dark as sexual arousal overcame me...
HOOKED Chapter 3 Copyright Seteyan
And then the room grew dark as sexual arousal overcame me...
No, it was not sexual arousal - Greta had slipped a hood over my head, a hood made of something soft and tight. In the darkness, I felt Angora's hands caress my body, running over my crotch and the fake curves at my chest. At some point I started moaning, and it did not sound like my voice at all. Angora's hands were around my neck now, caressing the wool bunched up under my chin, and then suddenly something was clamped there around my neck. It felt like a collar of some kind, like a dog collar. I heard the jangle of metal, before I felt the leash pull me forward. I stumbled again on my heels.
"Come along slave", whispered Angora, "we are going to the sweater room, to test your limits."
I was pulled out the door and stumbled along, blind-folded. The German giantess behind me tugged at the garters, telling me to take shorter steps. I could not imagine what I looked like, as I bounced along, my arms bound behind me, false breasts forcing the fuzzy weave of the sweater out in a cartoonish satire of a woman. I managed to navigate the hall with the help of Angora tugging me from the front, and Greta pushing from behind. And then I realized we were not alone in the hall, other people were watching me go by, whistling and calling out. Under the tight lycra hood I burned with shame, but somewhere deeper I was enjoying this, this attention, as if I was a sweater girl. What had I become, I wondered, and then it hit me: I was the woman I had always fantasized about! And as I realized with a rush - someone reached out from a doorway and groped my ass, grabbing at the cheeks split by the g-string wedged there. I reacted - flinching to the left - only to run into another pair of strong arms that held me tightly, against my will. I struggled, suceeding only in moving my breasts back and forth. I felt weaker than I had my whole life. There was laughter, and then I was pulled along by the leash in the hands of my temptress.
The laughter died away behind us, but not my shame.
I heard a door open and then shut behind me. I was walking on something soft, like carpet, and there was less light in here...wherever here was. A vicious tug on my collar brought me to the floor, on my knees. Someone growled, "All the way down ", and my head was pulled to the floor. I tried to raise my head after a moment, but someone was standing on the lead. I was guessing it was Greta who smacked my ass, now high in the air, as they both laughed at my coquettish behaviour. They swore they would punish me for acting like a slut. I ran my fingers across the floor, over the texture of a plush carpet. What more could they do to me? The thought frightened me, but also sent another wave of excitement through my already tortured groin. And then something unexpected did happen, a sharp jab of pain on my upeneded buttocks, as someone slid a needle into my skin. I yelped in fear, but tried to stay relaxed, tried to loosen my muscles. After a second the pain was gone, and the laughter and threats continued, as if nothing had happened.
Someone unlocked the collar at my neck, and took it off. Then the hood was removed. I was still on my knees, and not about to get up without their permission. The room I was in was dimly lit, and lined with mirrored doors. The carpet was a pale purple, and the walls a tropical blue. I was guessing it was Angora's room - something about it seemed Caribbean.
I was helped up to my feet, still shakey on my heels, and told to face the mirror. I saw myself standing there, awkward looking, the sweatered breasts hanging off my lanky male frame. My two temptresses were somewhere behind me, lounging on the divan in the corner. I felt stranger and stranger. Angora laughed again, and told me to take off my clothes. I turned and asked if she meant all of them. She nodded and I felt unbelievably sad. I stripped myself bare, rolling the stockings down my legs, removing all the lingerie before I took off the sweater. That was the last thing I removed, even after I had peeled off the latex pants, and stood before them half naked. I shivered with sad delight as the angora passed over my head. I almost felt like crying.
Greta stopped me as I tried to extricate myself from the brassiere. The two dominatrixes prowled around me, carefully inspecting me. They commented on the lack of hair onmy chest, but thought I should shave my legs. And my waist needed shaping. They wondered what they should call me, and Greta thought the name Seta seemed nice. All of these discussions were carried on as if I was not even there, as if I was just an object. Then Angora threw wide the closet door, and revealed - stacks and stacks of sweaters. I felt myself stiffen with excitement, and for some reason close to tears again.
Angora held out a pair of woolen bikini underpants. I slid them up my legs and over my raging hardon. They were both smiling at me. I edged towards the closet, unbelieving. I ran my hands over the sweaters: they were soft and woolen, scratchy and furry, dense and loose like spider webs. So many different colors, different textures.
"Go ahead," said Angora, "try them on Seta. This is why you are here."
The next hour was so full of pleasure that it was almost unbelievable, like it was all an opium dream, as I changed from one sweater to the next. Greta dissappeared, but Angora remained, in her tight sweater dress, whispering encouragement in my ear, touching me, and in the end making love to me in a beautiful combination of male and female anatomy, sweaters, and lust. When I finished it seemed to last for ever. I lay splayed out on the divan, a pink mohair sweater, a turtleneck, wrapped around my chest, and the woolen underpants at my ankles. Angora stood over me smiling.
"You do love sweaters." She said that still smiling but there was the glint of victory in her eyes. She helped me out of the clothes, the sweater and bra, but pulled the bikini shorts back up over my softening cock. She said, "I want you to wear those until I see you again. And I want to see you soon." Then my clothes, my male clothes, reappeared, and I got dressed in a daze of spent passion.
By the time I hit the street my head had cleared a little, but I found myself wandering through the streets as the sun set. I could not believe what had happened to me, what I was feeling. Alternately I planned to never go back there again,after all it was expensive and dangerous, and to return tomorrow or the next day. All the while as I walked I could feel the soft woolen underwear brushing across my penis.
And then I saw a woman, she was not especially attractive, brown hair and tired eyes, but she was wearing a tight grey sweater over her melon sized breasts. My eyes locked on her sweater, tracing the contours in my mind. It was like taking a drug, like heroin or cocaine, I felt a hot burning excitement run through my body, straight to my groin. It was all I could do to keep from moaning.
I had to turn away, my body shaking with physical longing. What was happening to me?
CHAPTER 4 HOOKED Copyright Seteyan
The next few days were full of conflicting emotions. Half of the time I felt like I was coming down from some drug. And every time I even thought about sweaters my body was wracked with lust: my vision blurred, my temperature soared, my cock stiffened. It took everything in me to stay away from Angora's establishment. But finally I succumbed. Perhaps it was the woolen underwear, perhaps it was the woman I saw on the subway with her enormous floppy breasts tucked in to a sleeveless mohair turtleneck. Whatever was happened to me was taking over - I dreamt about sweaters - I masturbated constantly - I even went out and bought a soft, fuzzy sweater from a local thrift shop and wore it around the house. I needed to. It had become an addiction.
When I finally called Angora I was told to come in immediately, and to wear the underwear that she had given me. She was brusque, but she also seemed relieved that I had called.
I arrived a little after six, my body stiff with desire. This time Angora met me at the door, wearing a red sweater cropped at her navel and a pair of latex shorts. She smiled and led me down and up - through a maze of hallways - to a door marked WET ROOM. I was oblivious as I watched her lithe body move under the weave of the sweater.
She took me inside the room, which was in fact a large tiled bathroom, and told me to strip. I did so without hesitation this time, lingering over the woolen underwear. My penis had obviously stretched them but I was no longer ashamed. She told me I could leave them on.
"Now", she said, "shave your legs." She gestured at a razor and a tube of gel. I hesitated. She looked down at me angrily. "Don't you want to wear my sweaters?" I nodded. She swung the door shut and there hanging on a hook was the grey sweater dress she had worn before, a delicate wool number, which pierced my brain, sending me into a state of intense lust. "So," she said, "get to work." She put me in the shower and doused me with hot water, and then stood and watched as I smeared this gel all over my legs, shaving the hair with careful strokes. She only commented when I missed a spot. She rinsed me, and then produced a towel. While I was drying off, she left the room and returned with an elaborate corselet, crafted of flimsy nylon and elastic, but I knew it would be tight. She had attached breastforms the size of cantaloupes... I stepped in to it willingly and felt the elastic stretch around my now hairless legs. The waist cincher was tightened, the breastforms adjusted, and then she said, "Bend over."
For the last time, I hesitated, and she slapped me on my ass, stinging me through the flimsy material. "On your knees", she hissed, "and put your ass in the air." I knelt down at the edge of the tub, and raised my ass up. A sudden stinging sensation went through my buttocks, and I knew she had injected me with something. I had put that out of my mind before, and even this time I felt my brain ignore the fear that needles presented. As if she could read my mind, Angora knelt down and whispered, "Don't worry - this is what you want."
My head started to swim a little, but she stood me up and pulled me toward the dress on the hook. She told me she would let me wear it but I had to surrender to her, I had to be her slave. Her words sounded like they were coming from far away. I did not understand. She let me touch the dress and electricity ran through me. Would I surrender? I would no longer have a will of my own, my life would be hers. All I could feel was the sweater. I think I nodded. Finally she let me pull it on, and it slid over my curves like a soft second skin. Fake nipples were visible through the fabric. I touched myself in amazement, waves of euphoria washing over me. The feeling of wool against my clean-shaven legs was indescribable.
Angora smiled wider - I was her's, even if I could not say it. She took my hand and pulled me back into the shower. She ran the water as I marveled at our sweatered forms. The shower suddenly gushed on - soaking us in warm water. Angora laughed and rubbed her wet sweatered breasts. I watched her nipples rise through the red fabric, and felt my cock stiffen and pulse with desire. My sweatered form was also wet, and cloying, sticking to my body. Angora laughed and kissed me, running her hands over my body. The water was running down my smooth legs, pulling the sweater dress around me, my firm cock now a visible lump.
Finally she turned the water off, and motioned me out of the shower, into the next room. This room was also tiled, with a large vanity, and an orange bank of lights in the ceiling. She pulled my dripping form forward, until I could see myself in the wide vanity mirror. On the floor was a pair of heels, with straps and buckles hanging off of them.
"Step into these shoes." I obeyed. She locked the two heels onto my feet, and then together, so that I could not take a step. Then she tied my hands behind my back with a piece of soft rope. I was more interested in the sight of the wet sweater dress sticking to my body. Then the lights went on -a bank of orange lamps, and they were hot - heat lamps. In a few seconds my face was dry.
Angora was working busily the whole time, running red lipstick around my firm lips. I watched my face in the mirror, a blank slate as Angora applied makeup. My hair was already dry. The sweater dress was drying also, but it was only after a few minutes that I realized it was shrinking. Really shrinking. Shrinking around my feminine curves. The results were devastating. Angora decided to help the process along, pulling out a hair dryer and blowing me dry. The fuzz along the sweater's edge began to puff out, and soon I was encased in a tight sheath of wool. I was hot, but I ignored the sweat between my thighs. The corselt felt dry, the sweater dress was only wet at the edges and Angora was taking care of that. And me- I was no longer even there, not me, I was transformed, I was whoever Angora said I should be. I writhed against the tight wool dress, feeling it constrict around me. Angora smiled and encouraged me.
When the dress was dry, and two sizes too tight, I was unbound, and my high heels unchained. Angora made one final adjustment and then pulled a wig down on to my head, a short wig of silvery blonde hair, in a pageboy cut. I looked like someone else in the mirror now, someone different. Angora was very pleased. "You are almost passable now", she said.
Then she led me out of the wet room, letting me get used to my heels, letting me walk unbound through the hallways, my every move reflected in the tight sweater dress I was wearing. Some people passed us, but I was no longer ashamed, I mean I lowered my gaze but I felt, well, like someone else.
Finally Angora led me into a dark room that was decorated like an office, rich plush furniture, a huge mirror behind a desk of mahogany. And here Angora left me. She left me alone to stare at my reflection in the mirror. To marvel at my curves...
I was unprepared when the door opened again a moment later, and three men entered the room, dressed in conservative suits, in the midst of a quiet conversation. They were all youngish, one was black, one was dark haired, and one was big and white - big like a body builder with a smooth buddha like face. They all stopped when they saw me, and then all three smiled.
The buddha faced one spoke first: "Oh, Angora has outdone herself again." He turned to his two associates and nodded once, smiling. They left without a word, backing out of the room with their eyes on me. The bald man turned to me, and asked me to walk for him. I did, trying to overcome my shock and fear. He was undoing his tie, removing his jacket. I backed up, and stood by a chair. He was removing his t-shirt now. I stared around the room frantically. He saw my fear and said, "Look at yourself, look in the mirror, what do you see?" I turned to the mirror and stared at the face that was not my own.
"I see a woman who loves her sweaters. Isn't that right?", he asked, "Isn't that what you like?"
I nodded, and felt the room go soft. When I thought about sweaters, when I felt them, I was someone else. It was like my body, my new body, was inhabited by a new person. I heard his belt buckle fall to the floor. I touched myself, some buried desires rising up within me.
He was behind me now, naked, a hairless giant, with smooth round features, and a solid thick body. He touched me tentatively, then ran a hand down my furry spine. He grunted appreciatively. He said, "We are not so far apart, you and I. I make it my business to know about people's desires, and to make those desires come...forward." And then he pressed himself against me, and I could feel every part of his body against mine, and I moaned softly, and it was not my voice. I felt his body with my hands, felt my hands traveling down, down, down - and that was how I felt, as if I was spiraling down into some inescapible funnel of desire...
CHAPTER 5
I awoke in a bed that was not my own. The sweater dress that I thought would never come off was gone. In fact I was naked, and hairless, and almost in shock. What had happened to me? Where was I? I stared at the mirrored closets, not comprehending.
And then it all came back. Angora, the visits to her dungeon, the transformation, the sweaters, oh my god, the sweaters...I moaned. What was happening to me? At that moment Angora walked in, dressed in an outlandish bikini of silvery lame. She barely glanced in my direction, heading for the closet. She spoke from the closet, "You better get dressed - it's late."
I tried to clear my head. What had happened last night? I got out of bed, shaking on my hairless legs, and looked at the closet where Angora was busy trying to get dressed. I noticed my clothes there on the edge of the bed, neatly folded. What did she mean? How should I get dressed? She turned around with a fuzzy, mohair turtleneck in her hands, and I felt a wave of desire sweep across me. She was watching me closely. She slowly put the sweater on over her head, stretching it out over her breasts. I took a step towards her, like a sleep walker. She pulled her tousled hair through the tight neck, then her face appeared and she was still watching me. She shook her head. "Oh no", she said, "you should put on your clothes. You can make another appointment with me anytime you like." And then she left.
I watched her go, and my whole body felt heavy with depression. Ten minutes later I was on the street. I was surprised to find my wallet still amongst my things, but Angora must have taken the $200 'donation' while I slept. That left me with four hundred dollars in the bank. Not enough for rent next week. What was I doing? I stopped at a cafa and ordered a coffee. The day was cold, so all of the patrons were inside. I sat there for a long time, staring at the bald head of the man sitting at the next table. Trying to remember, trying to remember...what? It was if I had left something behind. I watched the pedestrians go by, tourists mostly. A new waitress came to my table and said something, I did not really hear her, but then I looked up and saw this beautiful redhead, wearing a fuzzy orange sweater around her skinny pale body. She asked again, "Would I like another cup of coffee?" But all I could do was stare at her, at her sweater. It was like a trigger. She walked away, glancing back at me like I was some sort of psychopath. I remembered now. I remembered the Buddha-like man, and what we had done. He had taken me further than I had ever gone, with anyone, in terms of sex. I was sitting in the cafe, but my body was suddenly back in his office: I was on my knees in front of him, his hairless body was like an altar, and the sweater dress, it moved like a animal's skin as my body writhed under it. I had kissed him, I had done everything he demanded of me, I had been his slave, and yet it seemed like it had all happened to some one else.
I left the cafa - my head buzzing. I wandered the streets, trying to make it to my apartment without losing my mind. The problem was the weather, the chill in the air - there were girls all over the streets and many of them were wearing sweaters...
When I reached my apartment I was shaking, my body wracked with spasms of desire. And there on my door was a package. I clutched at it as I opened the door - I think I knew what it was, even though there was no return address, no markings of any kind.
I tore open the box, and inside was a fluffy brown sweater, with a generous wide neck, almost a cowl, and enough material to reach to my knees. It was like a tube of soft, brown, furry wool - and there was a note on top. It said, wear this when you return.
I tore off my clothes with the same speed, and pulled the sweater around my hairless body. It felt wonderful, like putting ice on a burn. I was still in a state of raging hormonal desire, as stiff as a board, but I felt saner. I floated around my apartment, trying to catch glimpses of myself in the mirrors. I was disappointed at the sight of my empty male face - without the wig and makeup I looked like a..like..like myself, not that other person...I found myself on my bed, imagining the night before, the things that had happened to me...and suddenly I was touching myself, looking for release - I lost all control, and before I knew it I had exploded across my bed, spilling cum on to the soft brown sweater. I was stunned by the energy of my release...and yet I was unsatisfied. I lolled on the bed, visions dancing through my head. Usually after masturbating I felt a certain sense of shame, but now...all I could think of was Angora and her collection of sweaters and...
Two hours later I was dialing the phone. It was 10 pm. I was certain I would not reach her, she must be out, working, but after a few minutes she came to the phone. She seemed once again satisfied that I had called. She told me to hurry, and to wear the sweater. Only the sweater.
I had taken it off to try to clean it, but I put it back on in a trance. I pulled on a pair of jeans and put my raincoat on to cover the obviously feminine sweater. The wool bunched up at my hips, and the neck lolled around my shoulders. It did not matter. I went downstairs and headed for the bank machine. My account was down to 196 dollars. I did not blink. I walked like a zombie to Angora's building and rang the buzzer. The wool against my bare skin was driving me crazy. A woman answered the door, not Greta or Angora, and for a second I thought I was in the wrong place, but she reached out and pulled my coat open, looking at my sweater with a big grin on her face. She was Asian, short, and dressed conservatively, like a secretary. The most striking thing about her was her enormous breasts, rare in Asian women. She giggled at my discomfort as I looked down at the fluffy brown sweater under my raincoat. She looked around the empty streets, as if she was hoping that someone else would see. After a moment she took my hand and lead me down and through the door into Angora's world, and as we walked the corridors I began to relax. I was back, I was close to release, close to satisfying this overwhelming desire. The Asian woman laughed and looked over her shoulder at me. She asked how many times I had been here, and I answered twice. She rolled her eyes, smiling the whole time, like she knew what it all meant. She led me into a small carpeted chamber, with a few pieces of fetish gear scattered on the floor. She quickly stripped off her clothes, her jacket and blouse, and let them drop to the floor. I was stunned. She was a he! Or had been at some point. Now he had enormous breasts, which looked better than some implant jobs you see on Hollywood types, and he even had hips. But between his legs was a small tan penis, which he/she playfully touched a few times.
"Angora say we should get dressed," she said, as she played her hands up and down her body. Her nails were sharp and red, and she used them to tease along the edges of her enormous boobs. "Do you like my breasts?", she asked. I nodded, not sure what was happening. "Do you want to play with them?" I stared at her confused. She took that to mean no, and seemed to get angry. "You like sweaters?" She tore away my raincoat. "You like sweaters?" Her voice was rising. I nodded again, as she ran her hands along my sweater. My hands joined her hands after a moment, touching the soft wool. I started to feel that sense of not being here, in my body, like someone else might be using it. "Take off your pants!" Her voice was higher now, getting shriller. I complied immediately. With my pants off I let the sweater drop and felt the wool touch my penis, my hairless thighs. A thrill went through me. The room and my shrill companion seemed transformed. She was watching me, pacing around me angrily. Her small Asian face looked dark and menacing.
"On your knees!" She screamed that, and I fell to my knees immediately. She planted her crotch in my face and screamed again. I followed her commands without hesitation, taking her soft, salty cock into my mouth. After a moment I felt it begin to uncurl, to stiffen, and her breathing pattern changed. She took the hair at the back of my head and started to rock back and forth. Every once in a while a gasp would issue out of her mouth, and a string of words in Chinese or Vietnamese. Sometimes she said the word Sweater. For a moment I was aware that I was not acting on my own volition - that I had fallen to my knees and taken this stranger into my mouth without thinking - but as I felt her passion rise, and my own cock stiffen under the sweater - my head cleared, emptied, sang with a single purpose.
I don't know how long I was on my knees before the big-breasted Asian transsexual groaned and exploded in my mouth. Old fears of contact, of sexual disease, kept me from swallowing all of it. Cum dribbled out of my mouth onto my sweater. I was dabbing at that, when Angora walked in.
It was clear to her what had happened, and I could tell she was angry. Angry at both of us. She yelled something at the Asian woman who fell to her knees. Angore came to my side and looked at the dark splotches on my sweater. She looked beautiful, dressed in this strange latex leotard, but also menacing. She began to whisper the punishments that I would suffer for this indiscretion, whispering about how I would never see her sweaters again, never wear them, and in moments I was shaking in fear. I found my voice and apologized, I promised her anything if she would forgive me. I promised her anything for the sweaters.
One hour later I was in an even smaller room with my Asian friend, but now we were suffering for our crimes. First we had been led naked through a long corridor, on leashes and collars, even forced to kneel in the corridor while Angora took care of some details. Then I was put in a strange chastity belt of rubber that held my penis tight against my stomach, and also spread my ass wide with some sort of anal device. The whole thing smelled of rubber and lanolin, and felt very uncomfortable. Walking in it I was forced to step carefully side to side, to keep my ass swaying in a sense, so that it looked like I was a cheap street walker. The high heels did not help. When we reached our cell, for it was little more than a carpeted closet with one large mirror and a lightbulb, Angora had the Asian transsexual, whom she called Celeste, dress in an open bra and pantyhose, and finally a bright orange mohair sweater. I was forced to kneel in my chastity belt during all of this, while Celeste got to dress in my favorite things. Hardly fair. But Angora was not about fairness - she was about desire and submission. I watched Celeste shake her breasts playfully under the tight mohair sweater. I felt an urge to get up, to touch her. Then Angora descended on her with belts and rope and in seconds had bound her in a cocoon of leather. She was tied from head to foot in lateral bindings. Two belts squeezed her breasts painfully under the sweater, so that they stuck out at a strange angle. Her legs were secure down to her ankles and her wrists were tight at her side. A ball gag silenced her complaints, and she was left rolling on the floor, staring at her huge breasts under the tight sweater and bindings. Then it was my turn. I was stiff with desire watching Celeste's punishment. I did not care about what would happen to me.
Angora took an enormous bra out of her bag and with Celeste watching she placed it on my skinny body. I could not imagine breasts that big, but then Angora produced breast forms that filled it completely. Celeste's eyes widened. I began to understand. Celeste was as affected by breasts as I was by sweaters - it was her hook, and she could do nothing but stare as I was fitted with enormous breasts and forced to parade in front of her. Angora made me wear a fishnet bodystocking that barely stretched around my new mammaries. And then over that a striped dress of spandex that covered my curves like saran wrap.
It was too much for Celeste. She was flexing her body, trying to get free, trying to find release. I watched her sweatered breasts straining between the belts and I began to moan. Soon I was tied up as well and the two of us, both slaves to our desire, rolled around on the floor moaning like animals. I do not know how long we were left like that. Maybe all night. At some point Angora returned and I felt the sharp jab of a needle in my ass.
When she finally freed us both we were exhausted. But we were not done.
Angora told Celeste to dress me, and to do it well. I must be passable. Celeste complied, doing my makeup, choosing a short pageboy wig - she would ultimately be the one to teach me all of these things. When she was done, Angora stripped Celeste bare and left her in that dark little room. I saw a man enter as we left. Then Angore took me to the door, the front door, dressed as I was in this tight spandex dress, and fishnet stockings, heels, and a wig. She opened the door and said, "You owe me $150 for the sweater you ruined. Go to the bank and get me the money." Then and only then would she let me wear her sweaters. I looked out at the streets in fear. It was late, maybe 4 or 5 AM, and there was no one about. But what would happen to me dressed like this? Angora made up my mind for me by giving me a push forward, out into the night. She said something about it being cold, and tossed a cardigan to me, a soft woolen cardigan of black cashmere. Putting it on, I felt that disconnection with my body, the feeling that I was someone else. And then I walked out, trying to remain steady on my heels, I walked the five blocks to the nearest bank machine, without seeing a soul. Some cars passed but they barely slowed down.
I got the money, leaving my account with a few pennies and then started back. A police car slowed but did not stop. And then a man walked out of the night, walked right at me, and stared. I was terrified, but kept walking, past him, back to the waterfront, back to Angora.
And it was all worth it. When I returned Angore stripped me bare and enclosed me in a tube of wool, sealed at one end, with a collar at the neck. She whispered promises to me, and asked me to surrender completely. She told me I would enjoy endless hours dressed in her sweaters. That I could even stay there with her. And I agreed, I agreed to it all.
CHAPTER SIX
I checked my reflection in the mirror.
My feminine silohuette was accented by the tight blue sweater. My wig was a platinum white. My legs were encased in latex stockings, and the thin strip of cloth they called a miniskirt barely covered my crotch. Underneath the layers of lingerie my soft penis stirred lazily, still excited by the sight of breasts under a sweater. Even if they were not mine, even if they were only breast forms... But I was beginning to wonder what was mine, where my body ended and Seta's began.
Angora walked in and said, "Heels, the tallest." I followed her orders without thinking.
It had been at least a month, living with Angora, serving her every whim. Some of the time that meant keeping her stuff clean, but sometimes I helped her with clients, and sometimes I even slept with her. She was tough, but I never questioned her commands. I could not. Something had happened to me, somehow my love of sweaters, my addiciton, had broken down my free will, to the point where I was quite literally, a slave. When Angora, or anyone else for that matter, told me to do something, or to do someone, I complied immediately. Eagerly. Of course I was almost always dressed as a sweater girl, and I suspected it was the feel of the wool which kept me in thrall. That and the injections that Angora had started me on that first time I visited her establishment.
I found out more about this huge dungeon where men, and women, came to satisfy their desires - this place was a veritable chop shop of sexual slavery, and the clients who came invariably found what they needed in the numerous dominatrixes and submissives that inhabited the underground. It was known as 'the basement'. Some of the girls who worked here also lived here, like Angora. Some also worked on the outside, trolling for clients. Each little cubby hole here in this underground warren was full of someone's idea of sexual pleasure. Each fetish was satisfied, down to the darkest and most perverse desires. I had seen woman transformed in to animals for clients, I had seen men beaten and whipped into euphoria, I had even seen women madeup to resemble corpses for the necrophiliacs. Compared to all that I may have seemed fairly innocent - a sweater girl - but it did not feel like that the first time a client used me sexually: He also had something for sweaters, a big Indian business man, with a body the color of river mud. He took me from behind, while I was bound in the most stereotypical of pink mohair sweaters, all the while calling me a slut, a whore, in his thick Hindi accent. Now I was used to that, used to the humiliation and the bondage. Not that I had any choice in the matter.
With the five inch heels on I was very tall - a gangly sweater girl with a cinched waist and fake breasts. I was passable, but I could see through the artifice pretty easily. Sometimes I wondered why they did not employ an actual woman in my place, a female submissive who loved sweaters. When I asked Angora I was told it had something to do with male chemistry, that only men were such slaves to their desire.
So every morning I would get up, and if I wasn't already dressed in some exotic woolen bondage device, I would dress myself in the sexiest sweater I could find. And when I pulled the sweater over my head, it was like pulling on another personality. My male self looked on in shocked amazement as I debased myself in ever more elaborate sweater outfits. Some times Angora would even take me out in to the real world, dressed down usually in a conservative sweater dress, and I could see myself walking down the street - as if I was standing on the opposite corner - I could see these two exotic creatures walking along - one dark skinned and the other light, both exuding a certain sense of sexuality. And even though it was my body walking down the street, I would sometimes become excited when I caught a glimpse of my sweatered female form in a store window.
Unfortunately, when Angora took me outside, it usually meant an outcall, what the girls in the basement called a housecall. We would usually end up in some wealthy bastard's apartment, where he would demand his money's worth in sexual gymnastics. I remember one housecall, it was soon after I turned my back on the rest of my life, where I was forced to have sex with a Wall Street operator known as the Iceman. His button - that was how the girls referred to the client's fetish - was to have a sweatered woman blow him in his massive walk-in freezer. He was dressed in high heels, stockings and a garter belt, and an enormous fur coat - nothing else. With the coat closed, he looked like royalty in his sable or mink, and you barely noticed his sheer stockings and patent leather heels. But with it open you could see he was twisted, his hairy chest contrasting with the black and red garter belt. He was actually a very handsome guy, in that slicked-back, dark-haired sort of way.
I was allowed to wear the thickest of mohair for this task, a long white turtleneck over a cabled tank dress, as well as thick woolen tights and a scarf of furry angora. To stay warm, that was the idea, but underneath all that fuzz and wool I was a slavish zombie. Everything was white, or blue, a winter motif, down to my pale lips. Angora laughed as I crawled towards the Iceman - I even wore woolen gloves - my thick white-blonde hair hanging in front of my eyes. She was there to supervise, but obviously I needed little encouragement. The Iceman, on the other hand, needed a ton of encouragement to get his tiny cock to respond in the cold. I was on my knees in that freezer for a half an hour, until he finally released in to my mouth - but that was the idea. He felt that the cold kept him from cumming too quickly. For two more hours after that he took all the problems that he had with his penis out on me. I was bound and gagged, and stripped of some of my layers - the so-called Iceman would literally tear the clothes off of me - and then he put on a weird harness, a belt around his middle, and I remember a woman, maybe it was his wife, helping to attach an enormous dildo, and then he...he had me there on his living room floor.
I had become in a sense a prostitute. Except I never saw the money. I suppose the basement was paid well for my services, but I was sure I was not making them rich. After all, they fed me, and clothed me (sweaters are not cheap), and then there was the training time and the vitamins. Every morning I took several pills. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew they were not simple vitamins. I could feel my body was changing, the hair on my legs and arms was coming in slower and slower, and I did not have to shave all the time. Even the weight in my body felt different. But it never came up, and in my sweatered haze I never questioned what was happening to me. Celeste, the girl or rather boy with the big breasts taught me about makeup and how to carry yourself. We even practiced the tricks of oral sex, and a few other things that would have made Angora very angry. She became my friend, and I marveled over the growth of her breasts with her. Celeste was focused, I'll say that for her.
Sometimes the two of us would take care of a single client, when that client needed two slaves. With the both of us in tiny pink sweaters and white fishnet stockings we looked like a novelty act. One man came back every week to watch us perform oral sex on each other, while he played with himself. That was an easy one. Not like Felipe. Felipe was a strange Spanish man who for some reason equated sweaters with pain. He was the one who had the sweater straitjacket suit made for me, so that my arms would be tied back behind my back in the extremely long sleeves, and my legs knotted into a tube of wool so tight that I could not even take a step. He would then spank me over his knee, his naked body quivering underneath my fuzzy sheath until he could not stand it anymore. His penis would jerk against the soft fabric, and then he would dump me off his lap and finish himself in a fit of rage. For Felipe it was all about shame.
Many men came to be dressed in layers and layers of sweaters, especially as the weather turned colder and colder. In those scenarios, I was just the lovely assistant, helping Angora to turn these quivering men into woolen cocoons. That was fun.
I checked myself in the mirror one last time. The heels helped but I found it hard to walk. Hopefully we were not going out today. Angora stuck her head back in the door and gestured impatiently. I followed her as quickly as I could, my breastforms bouncing langorously under the wool.
It turned out to just be a cattle call, where a bunch of us girls are brought into a room while someone chooses from behind a one-way mirror. Usually we were led through by our trainers, or just chained to the wall. Today all of the girls were wearing the latex stockings, so I guessed that was the hook. We competed in an off hand fashion to pose sexily, to walk and look like a temptress. This time it took longer than usual, and the three other girls (if they were real girls or not I was never sure) began to look bored. Suddenly a voice spoke through the loudspeaker: "Seta-press your self against the glass." I obeyed the voice, even though it was not Angora. It sounded familiar. I rolled my sweatered breasts against the mirror, becoming excited at my reflection. Someone else entered the room behind me, a mistress I had never seen before. She was dressed in a latex catsuit, as black as the bangs above her green eyes. The other girls filtered out of the room. The mistress pointed to the floor and pointed down. I kneeled obediently. She tugged the sweater over my head roughly, upsetting my wig in the process. I suddenly felt scared. The mistress surveyed my body, caressing me with her reptilian glove. Another woman entered looking professional - she was dark skinned and dressed like any business woman on the street. The first told me to strip, and again I obeyed with fear in my eyes. I looked for the sweater on the floor. Soon I was naked, more naked than I had been in a long time. The two women looked me over with practiced ease. The business woman lifted her skirt, a short skirt of silk with incongrously sexy panties underneath, and said, "Do you even want to fuck me?" I was confused, staring at her crotchless bush. My body was not my own...why was she asking me? She picked up the sweater from the floor and held it in front of me - I trembled. She commanded me to become erect. In seconds I had. She bent down and measured my penis, inspected my balls. Then without a word she left the room, tossing the sweater to the catsuited mistress. That one stayed, pacing behind me.
Finally a man entered, and for second I felt a wave of pleasure. He was wearing a soft grey cashemere sweater over his male model frame. The mistress said, blow him, and I fell to my knees in front of him. I must have hesitated, though, because the mistress stopped me before I even got his fly down. She then put on the sweater, pulling it over her skinny frame. She looked lovely, if not a little strange, the latex showing through the fine knit. She commanded me to kiss the man's naked ass - he had conveniently dropped his pants. I moved to do it, but again she stopped me. She gestured at the man, and he took off his sweater and draped it over my head. I pulled it on without thinking, feeling for the first time I think the buds of breasts growing in my chest. I felt the wool embrace me, and the sight of the naked man became exciting, and I moved to touch him without thinking. The mistress stopped me after I had his thick tool hard and wet in my mouth. I think he was dissapointed as well.
They both exited the room, and I was left to stare at my male form in the mirror, the grey sweater wrapped around me. No one else appeared, there was no sound from behind the glass. After a moment I became uncomfortable staring at my male features, and I began to get dressed again, in my corset and stockings (still coated in a fine layer of talc), and once I reinserted the breast forms under the sweater -stretching the cashemere out- I began to feel better. I tried to fix my makeup, and my wig. I was still tugging and primping when Angora came to get me.
"Congratulations", she said, "you passed. Now you are ready."
"For what?"
"For the auctions."
Two days later, there I was, on the stage, dressed in the finest sweater and fishnet ensemble, Angora angrily whispering "NOW" in my ear, as a crowd of potential buyers oohed and aahed at my appearance. I was blind behind the tight lycra hood. They had decided to go with the mask, to reveal my face later in the proceedings. I had little to say about it.
I stumbled on my five inch heels and moved forward on the catwalk, trying to keep up with the tugs on the leash. A voice announced my package: "Seta - one month in training, one month on hormones, and already she is a lovely sweater girl." I walked nervously forward. Angora continued: "Sweaters are her desire - she would do anything for them - literally." Angora lifted my miniskirt showing my ass and penis under a pair of flesh colored, transparent panties. I was hard as a rock despite my fear. The crowd laughed appreciatively. Angora whispered in my ear, telling me to bend forward, which I did - bending awkwardly at the waist, and then some sort of pedestal was placed under my stomach, and I was belted into this awkward position, my ass stuck out behind me, my breasts thrust forward, and my head pulled back by the dog leash and tied off somewhere at my waist. I breathed raggedly under the hood.
And then a crowd of people moved in on me, I could feel their bodies passing mine. Hands reached out and began to touch me, feeling the soft wool, smoothing their hands across my ass, breathing and whispering all around me.
And one of these people would own me? What had happened to me? Someone caressed my penis. Another whispered in my ear, something foreign about sweaters and sex, and I felt my body arch in unbidden desire. What would happen to me?
HOOKED Copyright Seteyan
LAST CHAPTER - ONCE AGAIN, do not read this if sexual content offends you.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The auction contiued for two more days. I was routinely paraded out in front of the audience, reintroduced by Angora or another one of the Basement dominatrices. Sometimes they would lie about me, promise the crowd that I had an unbelievable capacity for pain, or sex. The costumes I wore were changed constantly, from one lurid extreme to another. When I was not walking the catwalk, I was kept in one of the slender cages in the hallway. The patrons could then walk by and ogle me to their hearts content. They would poke and prod me through the bars, trying to tell what part of me was real and what was fake. And there was nothing I could do about it, my arms were secured behind me, or to the bars of the cage. On the second day, after a particulary humiliating parade down the runway, I found my self chained bodily to the framework of the cage, my breasts sticking out on either side of a metal pole. I was dressed in an almost translucent white angora sweater, my gaudy pink lingerie showing through. My cock was hidden by a matching pair of leggings, and a pink thong. The white leggings were fuzzy and stretched thin on my long hairless legs. My feet disappeared into a pair of white gogo boots, all white, down to a white wig, and pale makeup. It went with my skintones, or so Angora said. I still could not believe that one of these...creatures could own me. I tried to talk to Angora about it, but she would silence me with a word. The chemicals coursing through my system, and my obvious dependence on sweaters, had made me into a slave. My free will was gone. So in terms of being sold to some other person it made little difference, except that I would miss Angora. And the people walking past my cage seemed strange, almost sinister. But then they were trading in human flesh, what did I expect? They could purchase me, and do whatever they wanted to my transgendered body, all because of my addiction to wool.
One man did seem as excited by my sweaters as I was, and he spent a long time walking back and forth in front of my bound form. He was tall, with white blond hair and a stocky body. He looked germanic, but I never heard him talk. I could tell he was interested in the wool when he stroked his hand acros my thigh, and because he completely ignored the transsexual covered in liquid latex crooning to my left, and the human toliet enthusiast to my right. At the end of the day he returned to my cage and brought with him a dark Asian woman, wire thin, with wide- spread features and hair like a crow's wing. Her attention was even more unsettling than the blond man's.
She stared at me for a long time, her almond eyes unblinking like a cat, and then she ran a thin dry hand across my face. Her face looked like the carvings on statues in some jungle temple - like a Hindu goddess almost. It did not help that she was dressed in a thin knit dress, thin enough to see the nipples standing up on the ends of her small breasts. Later I saw them both talking to Angora, but I thought little of it - I was off to the dressing rooms for one last go round.
They tried their best, outfitting me in a short angora dress of pink and evil looking red pumps that went with my seamed fishnet stockings - they tried to make me into a 1950's blond Betty Page - with huge breasts and a pink dress that ended at my thighs - but I did not sell. No one bought me. It was a relief, but also humiliating. Celeste had been bought, she was gone forever. But I was still here. Still dressed as a sweater pinup, oozing sexuality, but now it seemed wasted. Angora did not seem that concerned. I apologized and she laughed. That night I slept next to her, in a long green sweater that was as soft as a feather.
After that my life changed at the basement - I was no longer used for the rough trade. I was kept exclusively for the inhouse jobs - the men who just wanted to look and touch. Angora started paying close attention to my diet and the steady stream of vitamins that she fed me. And I started to feel...different. My body was no longer familiar to me, even under the sweaters and foundation garments. I was still in thrall to the sweaters though, and Angora saw to it that my collection grew. Incredible angora dresses arrived from Australia, and handmade mohair sweaters from some old lady in New England, along with a strange assortment of cheap cropped sweaters from the boutiques on 14th street, and sweater stockings from Germany. I was encouraged to care for my own appearance now, and I became quite good at doing my own makeup. I was amazed sometimes when I looked at my face in the mirror, at the stranger I saw there. With a wig on I looked almost passable, my features seemed to have softened and become somehow more feminine.
It was only a few weeks since the auction, and things had settled down at the basement. I had begun to visit a large transvestite named Milla. She was teaching me more about appearance and how to walk, how to talk. I liked her, and she seemed to enjoy my elaborate sweater costumes. Less enjoyable were my regular sessions with Nurse Ross, a huge black woman who lived deep within the bowels of the basement. She was the answer to all of the medical fetishists that came seeking enemas and anal thermometers. But incredibly she was also a registered nurse, and she would perform regular check-ups on my body, pinching and probing, giving me shots, and massaging my strangely pliable body. She was about six feet tall and had enormous breasts, the kind that fill half of a womans body, hanging there like enormous balloons. Sometimes she was dressed as a nurse, her breasts stretching her white cotton uniform, but when she found out about me she would sometimes wear a white sweater that barely fit her. Cheap and threadbare, it drove me wild nevertheless. She knew what she was doing - it made her job easier to have me stupefied by the sight of her enormous breasts stretching the sweater to its bursting point.
Her job was to monitor my condition, and to fill me with chemicals. She never answered my questions, just told me to shut up, or grunted like a tired parent. I did not enjoy the time with her, except of course her sweater...She was strong, and would physically toss me around her little examination room, plunging needles and thermometers into me. Sometimes she would strip me bare and check my genitals and body with her cool gloved hands. Once she even laid me out on her table and inserted something long and hard inside of me, holding me down with the weight of her sweatered breasts. I still hated being naked, away from my sweaters, but I had begun to get over it. My body looked so different now - hairless and soft, with the hints of curves at my hips and chest. It did not look like my own. I was certain all of the injections were changing me. That was part of the reason. The other part was Angora. She had me on a diet of powder shakes that were very filling - I saw the results in the mirror: added weight across my chest, my waist and ass, even my face looked different. My moods were changing too, and the sight of my chubby body under a tight (tighter and tighter) sweater dress would alternately make me happy then sad.
One night I was returning from another meeting with Milla (she was showing me how to put on latex stockings) when I was grabbed by Greta, the huge German dominatrix, and Angora. They were waiting just outside the door of one of the bondage rooms, and they pulled the clothes off of me like they were going to rape me. I was scared, mostly because Greta was the chief discliplinarian in the basement, and her punishments were legendary. So of course I thought I had done something wrong. When I was naked, Greta twisted the flesh around my swollen nipples and said something in German. They proceeded to tie me up, so that I was spread eagle on the table. My heart dropped when Nurse Ross walked in to the room. She went straight to work inspecting my body, pulling at my flesh, her dry latex covered hands touching me everywhere. Finally she shrugged and said, She is ready.
Angora and Greta smiled and unchained me. I was feeling quite naked without my sweater (it sat on the floor with my bra and corselette, a big brown mass of angora and nylon), and I stood there feeling incredibly self conscious. They were arranging a pile of papers on the table, ignoring me. Finally Angora put a pen in my hand and said, Sign here and here and here.
I looked down at the stack of documents. The words PERMISISON FOR SURGERY and SEXUAL REASSIGNMENT swam in front of my eyes.
I looked up at them in shock. Angora smiled. She said, Sign your real name, the name you had before you came here. She said, This is what you want.
It all came rushing back - the life I had lived before being turned into a sexual slave, a slave to a fetish I had never understood. I wanted to run away suddenly, to escape all these leering women, these sirens who dominated my life. Greta was staring at my eyes with the cruelest of smiles: You see this, she said, This is the look of realization that I relish. What they have become. They all laughed. I stood up, my naked body tense with fear.
But my body was no longer my own. Flesh jiggled at my hips, and my swollen nipples hung off of the buds of newborn breasts. Worse still was the fact that Angora was holding a sweater in her clawed hands, a long dark blue turtleneck of the fuzziest wool. She commanded me to put the sweater on, and of course I did. The months of training, and the chemicals they had filled me with - I had no choice. But somewhere inside me I vowed to escape. I would escape, I repeated to myself, while I watched my sweatered arm reach out and take the pen, and sign the papers. Somehow, I would escape. Then someone clamped a piece of cloth over my mouth, and I watched the room melt into strips of chloroform green and blue. The laughter of a dominatrix was the last thing I heard.
...
Two months later I woke up in Amsterdam. Well, not exactly in Amsterdam. I was brought here, delivered by Angora and Greta. I had sat between them on the plane, dressed demurely in a black sweater and a rayon suit. My passport read Seta Phillips. The picture showed an attractive woman with a firm jaw and sculpted cheeks. I was now the property of the Servandamm House, bought by the Germanic man who I had seen at the auction. His wife was Min No, the cat-like Asian woman. She was very interested in me, and had paid special attention to my warddrobe. I served her with happiness, and twice I had fucked her while we both were wearing white cropped sweaters over our beautiful bodies. She liked that I had a penis. So did her husband. And their clients. I was very popular with the clients, and the other girls inthe House. I spent whatever money I was given on new sweaters and delicate lingerie, shopping in Milan and Paris - wherever our work took us. I was a happy.
And yet I could remember another life, another name, but only dimly. Some nights I would sit and stare at my strange body: the long legs, the feminine hips and the incongruous penis, and of course the d-cup breasts hanging there in artificial suspension, and I would wonder what had happened. Where had I taken that fateful turn, to end up here, dressed like this?
But soon I would forget, captivated by my new curves, and the way they looked in my clothes. I looked great in a sweater. Today I was to wear a pink outfit, a light pink cardigan over a sweater dress. The blue boa accented my hair, dyed red by Angora before she left. I got dressed slowly, pulling on a garter belt, and rolling the fishnet stockings up my legs, and then the pink skirt down over that. I smiled at my reflection in the mirror. No one could resist me in this outfit. Not even me.