As agreed, the next day, I was delivered to Phoebe’s salon. She spent a lot of time closely shaving my face and applying layers of makeup. I watched this process in the mirror and was astonished to see the way she was able to project the face of a passable, rather sexy woman onto the features of a dull, middle-aged male.
I was then dressed again and instructed to practise walking, sitting, bending, curtseying and standing with as much feminine grace as possible. Jennifer was highly amused, but in the end, was quite complimentary about my hesitant efforts.
After spending over four hours ‘in transition’, it was time for Jennifer to convey me into her mother’s presence. On the way, she briefed me about the ladies who would be in attendance. Firstly, there was Lady A, the fifty-year-old former model and wife of a Baronet. Secondly was Miss B, an ex-headmistress from a top ladies’ private school, in her sixties. Thirdly was Ms C, the forty-eight-year-old director for a leading British company and finally, would be TV producer and novelist, Miss D, in her late thirties.
All of these women were notable feminists, and, in private, advocates of female supremacy, who were personal friends and associates of Mrs Crawford. If it was possible, I now felt even more nervous!
We arrived at 3.00 PM and Mrs Crawford showed us into her kitchen. To begin with, she totally ignored me, whilst she chatted casually with her daughter.
Finally, she turned to me, looked me up and down and said to Jennifer, “Not bad for a first effort darling. Phoebe is so talented, isn’t she?” She then addressed me, “Today Peter, you are to take on the role as ‘Petra’, my pretty, personal maid. You will serve tea to our guests, with the utmost feminine charm, respect and reverence. Any of their requests will be obeyed, without question. Do you understand?”
It was all I could do to answer, “Yes madam.”
Jennifer took some photos of me on her phone, gave me an encouraging smile and took her leave.
Mrs Crawford then began my training in earnest. Paying particular attention to my curtseying, and instilling the importance of keeping my eyes lowered, unless otherwise instructed.
Although titled as a ‘tea-party’, the ladies would, in fact, be drinking fine wines and eating canapes. I was instructed to open several bottles of expensive-looking Chablis, Alsace and white Burgundy and place them in a huge silver wine container, topped up with ice.
Mrs Crawford showed me the servant’s ‘message’ panel in the kitchen and pointed to the buzzer for the drawing-room which would light up when she required me. I was then left alone.
Her guests arrived shortly afterwards and Mrs Crawford greeted them herself. Twenty minutes later, the buzzer summoned me.
As instructed, I grabbed two plates of canapes and made my way to the drawing-room. Keeping my eyes down as I entered, I could nevertheless, see five pairs of shapely legs, standing on expensive high heels. I approached each guest, curtseyed and offered up the canapes. They seemed to ignore my presence, other than to take one or two of the proffered delicacies.
After I had completed the circuit, Mrs Crawford made an announcement: “Ladies, this is my new temporary maid, Petra. Isn’t she delightful?”
“Petra dear, you can look up now and let our guests see you properly.”
I lifted my gaze and looking around hesitantly, took in the exquisitely dressed alpha females before me. One had her back towards me. Slowly, she turned around with a wide grin on her face.
Oh my god. Ms C – I should have guessed, it was my wife, Caroline!
“Yes, Mrs Crawford, she is very pretty, and so obedient!” said my wife to the host, (clearly knowing full-well who I was, but talking about me as though I was a performing animal.)
Mrs Crawford replied, “Thank you, Caroline, I thought you might be impressed. Of course, it has taken quite some effort to train her. Eyes down again Petra!” she ordered. “Phoebe has done such a good job. I am informed that her pubis has been fully shaved for inspection. Apparently, she has a very large clitoris!”
There was much giggling from the ladies and only the heavy makeup disguised my deep blush.
“Lift your skirt and show the ladies, Petra,” insisted Mrs Crawford.
With utter humiliation, I lifted the hems of my apron and satin skirt.
“Higher, Petra. Right up to your waist dear!” prompted the host.
I lifted the flimsy material high, revealing my small, soft, hairless genitals, masked only by the sheer black pantyhose.
“See what a lovely big clit she has girls! It looks almost as big as a boy’s penis!” she mocked, “Go to each of our guests, Petra and let them inspect you.”
Holding up my skirt, I offered my inadequate, feminized genitalia for their delectation. Lady A was first to finger me through the nylon covering. “Oh goodness, it’s stirring! Look, ladies!”
They gathered round and one by one teased me with their experienced hands. Despite the utter humiliation, I couldn’t prevent my little cock from fully erecting in front of them.
“What a disgusting performance,” said Miss B, the former headmistress, “She obviously requires much training in the art of self-control.”
I was on the verge of ejaculation, when Miss D spoke up. “Leave her with me ladies, I know her type very well. If you’ll permit me, Mrs Crawford, I’ll deal with Petra myself.”
“What a delightful suggestion, Fiona. I feel sure that Petra will respond to your particular management style.”
The ladies burst out laughing at my expense as Miss D took a small vibrator from her purse and proceeded to pleasure my penis. It was not long before I was brought to a shuddering, involuntary climax. To my shame, in clear view of these mocking women, my sperm was soaking through the sheer pantyhose, and dripping down my legs.
“Tut-tut, Petra. You had better drop your skirt and carry on with your duties. Leave that filthy mess to dry, collect the plates and go through to the kitchen to wash the dishes.”
Shamefaced and uncomfortable, I obeyed, with a curtsey.
On the kitchen table was an envelope, marked ‘Petra’. I opened it to find five crisp, twenty-pound notes.
Having attended to the dishes, I sat alone in the kitchen for over an hour, contemplating the desperate, but maddingly erotic situation I had now arrived at. Clearly, I now had nowhere to hide my perversions and proclivities. Unless I was prepared to leave my wife (and, no doubt my house and pension), I would be at the mercy of these women.
I was shaken from my reverie by Jennifer, who had returned to collect me.
She drove me to Phoebe’s salon, where I was ‘de-frocked’, showered and returned, (as close as was possible), to my normal male appearance. Unsurprisingly, both Phoebe and Jennifer took every opportunity to tease me about my stained pantyhose.
Finally, I was taken home, to wait for my wife.