Down and Outed: The making of a she-male Whore
Simon was not so much despised by women as completely unnoticed.
He led a very solitary life supported by a small allowance left by unknown parents. He was entirely devoid of friends and family, and seemed forever destined to move through life like a ghost.
That is, until he was finally claimed by a woman who made it her life’s work to meet people not worth seeing, particularly unenlightened males. She was the ultimate charity worker for she gave them the greatest gift: She awoke their potential in their most secret selves. Was it her fault that they were all slaves just waiting to be noticed and developed by a Dominatrix?
A classic femdom story of sissification, domination, and the making of a shemale whore.
Simon looked at the old man, appalled. He was evidently some sort of down and out with no teeth, matted hair, and a greasy coat. But it wasn’t that which disgusted him; it was the fact that the man was holding up a pornographic magazine with evident relish, turning it this way and that to get the best view of the centrefold, leering at it and making little sniggering grunts to himself.
Simon grabbed the carton of milk that he had come to the corner shop for and turned towards the little counter, intent on paying up and getting out as quickly as possible. There was a middle-aged woman in front of him with curly, shoulder-length brown hair, so he had to wait for a moment. She glanced at him appraisingly with dark eyes as he came to her side, and he felt himself go red at her frank gaze. His discomfiture seemed to amuse her. She was voluptuous in a shapely red calf-length woollen coat and leather boots; she looked very comfortable with it, her face made up without trying to be arty or understated, just perfectly confident and feminine.
He breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to pay for her cigarettes, allowing Simon a moment of respite from her all-too-obvious stare. He guiltily drank in the sight of her long red nails taking the packet and handing over the cash but had little more time to enjoy it as there was suddenly a great commotion.
And everything changed.
A tall man in a black balaclava burst in through the door, produced a gun and told everyone in a cold, vicious tone to get down on the floor. Simon looked at him in a panic for a moment and did nothing; paralysed. The woman coolly lowered herself gracefully into a squatting position. The intruder yelled at him again and pushed Simon down just as his muscles were finally answering his frantic efforts to comply. He fell backwards and caught his head a nasty blow on something hard. For a few seconds he saw the man looking down at him, and then everything went blank.
When he came to, he quickly realised he was in hospital. There was no mistaking the smell of disinfectant and the soul-less, clinical decor. His head hurt like hell, but his hands went first to his neck and lower body in a sudden panic, fumbling under the vest and briefs that he was dressed in under the covers. Nothing seemed amiss. He breathed shallowly, thinking hard, and decided that there was no real cause for alarm. His valuables, when he looked for them, where neatly stowed in the little locker by his bedside. His outer clothes were neatly folded on the chair by the bedside and looked as though they had been laundered.
He reached for his mobile phone which lay among his other things, but he remembered that the use of such things was frowned on in the wards, in case it interfered with their instruments. Anyway, he didn’t really have anyone to call.
He had to explain all of this to the medical orderly who appeared a while later. No, he had no parents living, and no particular friends to speak of. He survived on a small allowance left by a mother he had never known. He had been brought in a care home that he had no wish to associate himself with any further. After that place, he lived a solitary life in a small rented flat.
“Landlord or landlady, then!” Said the bored medical orderly, somewhat impatiently.
Simon told him, realising that the man merely wanted to put some details in boxes and leave him alone.
As he looked at the man writing the name and address of his landlord down, he saw a middle-aged woman coming towards them. The long red coat and leather boots stirred a vague recollection. Full figure and unblinking black eyes in a pleasantly made up, very feminine face, framed by brown hair. He was sure he had seen her somewhere.
“How are you?” She asked warmly as she came up.
“Er….” Said Simon, stupidly.
The man glanced at the two of them in surprise. He had been under the impression that Simon had no acquaintances at all.
“Oh,” said the woman, scarlet nails over her rouged mouth self-consciously, “I expect you don’t remember. I’m Miss Simms. I was the woman in the shop?”
“Oh,” said Simon, trying and failing to sound pleased.
“How are you feeling?”
“Well, OK,” said Simon, with a ghastly attempt at a grin, “just a bit of a headache.”
“So they are going to let you go home?”
“Well..,” began Simon. “Only if someone can vouch for him,” said the orderly, looking hopefully up at her.
“Oh,” she replied, with a smile, “that will be no problem. I can take him home in my car.”
Simon hesitated, but not for long. Though he was sure that he didn’t want to have anything more to do with this unsettling woman, at least this way he would get to go home.
He got into his outer clothes in the privacy of the ward while Miss Simms waited outside. He glanced self-consciously at his thighs and waist, where there were some sore spots, but did not linger in his inspection, drawing up his corduroy trousers with evident relief and donning his plaid shirt with similar dispatch. As he dressed, he began to feel more at ease and even felt equal to sharing a car with this Miss Simms. It was much better than walking or taking a bus anyway. It was bitterly cold outside.
He found that he was not quite able to maintain his composure entirely, however, despite the fact that she had to concentrate on driving her sleek black Audi. Feeling tense, he wondered what she did to afford such a luxurious car and listened with half an ear to her description of what had happened after he had lost consciousness. Apparently, the man had pistol-whipped the Indian shop assistant in a brutal attack as the man handed over the money and there was a good chance that he would suffer permanent neural damage as a result.
He felt very uncomfortable indeed when Miss Simms mentioned the old man leering at the porn magazine, with a knowing snigger. He managed to laugh along with a very unconvincing chuckle, trying to sound like a man of the world.
“Pretty pathetic, though,” he said, awkwardly, in the silence that followed. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Simms, dismissively, “wasn’t he just doing in public what you all do in private?”
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