Give the Student What He Wants Ch. 05
Keywords: Wants, He, Student, 05, the, Give, What, Ch.,
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As you may recall, Master Jason and I spent Wednesday afternoon studying math, then after dinner we cuddled on the couch while he told me the history of his hypnotic powers. That interlude ended quite abruptly, due to my Master's need (or desire -- they're the same to me) to fuck me, and as my ass is still recovering from yesterday, I had almost a whole second meal consisting entirely of his wonderful cum.
As I was cleaning up I found his note.
"Bitch --
"Meet me Friday at 8 PM at Richie's Tavern. Your name will be Bitz; if anyone asks, it's short for Elizabeth. Elizabeth is a good-looking single divorcee in her mid-30s. I will very displeased if nobody hits on you. Very displeased.
"I won't see you tomorrow. I'll be getting a blow job from somebody competent."
No signature. Bitch, Bitz, Bitch, Bitz. Cute. "Well-hung, dominant, and clever, too!" I thought. "Oops. Careful. As slave, I have no right to judge whether he's clever. I mustn't form opinions about anything he does, except math, where I have his express permission. It's axiomatic. What he does is right, and if there are several right answers then his is the best. If you're going to have a Master, you can't be second-guessing. What if I were to think he'd made a mistake? A conflict between logic and my Master's will, with me as the battlefield. I'd go mad in an endless recursion, like that renegade computer in Star Trek. Worse, I'd blurt it out like I've done, twice, already. I don't want to know, ever, what Phase Three punishment is like. No, I won't presume to understand. Master Jason is right in all things. Logic's for math only."
How was I going to obey these commands? I knew nothing about dressing in drag. And it can't be silly, like "Some Like It Hot," because I must be convincing to horny, pool-shooting boys. As "Bitz." In less than 48 hours. I sat down to make a list. Dress. I'd need a dress, sort of dressy, but not too much -- Richie's is just a neighborhood tavern, not an upscale wine bar. Bra, with some way to fill it; will B cups be enough? Panty hose, shoes -- some heel, not stiletto. Makeup. Hairstyle. It's probably long enough, but how would a woman do my hair? Nail polish. Purse. Woman's watch.
In despair, I crumbled up the list and threw it, somewhere. What in the hell was I thinking? The guys at Richie's aren't blind. Or stupid. I'm 5'10", 165 pounds. And I want to trick them into hitting on me? What am I going to do? More accurately, what's going to happen to me when I fail Friday night? Maybe he wants to dump me for Mr. or Ms. Thursday Night, and giving me an impossible task will be his excuse. No, he doesn't care about excuses. If he dumps me, he'll just stop showing up. If I shoot myself, he'll mention it casually to Mr. Thursday, but that's all. He's all about power, not remorse.
That was a dazzling, if irrelevant, insight. My Master is totally, totally self-absorbed with the idea of increasing his power! Maybe. If a worm such as myself can comprehend his thinking. I can't even comprehend my own thinking. How did I get so obsessed with a 19-year old boy's cock?
A searing pain shot through my head. It darted all over my brain, here, there, everywhere, until its charge wore down. Then it exited, through my eyes. On a scale of 1 to 10, where the pain of having your virgin ass buggered by three or four pounds of rigid, engorged cock is a 9 (I left 10 for later -- no telling what Master Jason had planned for some future session), this lightning bolt in my brain was at least a 7. The generalized ache in my whole body was about a 4. Funny thing. Two weeks ago, I'd have given my body pains an 8 or 9. I wondered if the lightning bolt was a warning -- "Warning! You're about to cross the line into blasphemy and disloyalty. Warning!"
If the pain inflicted by my Master was excruciating, so was the pleasure. That is, whatever word is the pleasure equivalent of "excruciating." Being fucked in my virgin ass hurt, hurt like hell, but that explosion of sheer sexual bliss, maybe a half-pound of endorphins, offset the pain and then some. He was going to do it again, soon. He'd said every two or three days. The skin around my ass hole flinched, just at the thought. Even so, all things considered, I couldn't wait.
Treason, heresy, disloyalty. I must get control of myself! I have no right to an opinion about anything my Master does. My purpose is to cater to his pleasure, as he commands, and to hope for crumbs in return. Drops, not crumbs. Drops of his delicious, life-enhancing cum.
I knew what I had to do. Wearily I got in the shower, and got dressed to go out. I was out of Advil, for one thing. More important, I had to go to my office, to do some intensive Web searching. (I have really fast Internet access at work, so I never saw the point in paying for service at home.) It was kind of obvious, once I cleared my mind of all those impious doubts about my Master. Lots of men dress as women. Many are convincing. Commerce will find a way to help, in exchange for cash -- it always does. Probably serious cash. So, I had a sort of a plan. Google -- what? -- maybe transvestite + accessories, see what turns up. Most important, find a store where I could buy what I need, tomorrow. That meant a four-hour drive to Metropolis, my impromptu pseudonym for our nearest big city. (Chicago? Minneapolis? My lips are sealed, except to admit portions of my Master.)
I sat at the computer, waiting for the long, tedious start-up routine, complete with every anti-virus program since Pasteur. As I sat, I thought of my need for a bit of good luck, which, now that I was thinking straight, was the only kind of luck I'd had for over a week, since Master Jason first came to me with that silly story of his dream. His dream of becoming a woman! Of course! He wants me to become the woman in his dream, even if the whole thing was fiction! I closed my eyes, trying to recall her description. He said she looked at lot like Ms. Decolletage, from the front row of our calculus class. Ms. Decolletage has big tits -- C cups, for sure -- and a very big frame, for a woman. Of the few times I'd talked to her at all, she was standing only once -- she was about my height! Was she wearing heels at the time? I couldn't remember, but I thought not. And not thin, either. Not fat. Her curves curved in all the right directions. Just big. In fact, she was really sexy. She filled a plaid flannel shirt like nobody's business. At least, I'd thought so until just the other day. As I thought, I realized I'd seen routine paperwork about her -- the athletic department checking up on its team members. What team, though? I couldn't remember. Anyway, Dr. Bitch was probably broader and heavier than Ms. Decolletage, but with luck Ms. Bitz would be just her size. Maybe I could borrow some clothes.
My luck held, as it had held for over a week. Yes, there's a whole lot of stuff you can buy and put on, or stick on, to help yourself become a convincing transvestite. Spendy, but that was no surprise. Stick on boobs, pads for the hips, . . . not to mention the actual garments. I found the web site of a store in our Metropolis. It was 8:45 PM.
I called the number, and they were still open. Getting ready to close. Hours tomorrow 11:00 AM to 9:00 PM. I really, really needed their help, so I just told them the truth. Most of the truth.
"Listen, I'm really in a bind. I need your help. I've agreed to meet a my beau in a bar Friday night, and I have to be totally female. He wants straight, pool-playing guys to hit on me."
The clerk sighed. "I'm afraid, sir, that it's almost impossible. The clothes are no problem, it's the mannerisms. You have no idea how much differently women move and act than men."
"But it's imperative that I try. Can you help me?"
Another sigh. "All right, but you'll have to come to the shop."
"I'll be there, 11:00 sharp. You know, I've never met a man who's so demanding and, and. . . virile! I'll do just about anything to please him. You have to help me, you have to. This man makes me feel like I've never felt before. I don't want to make this all about money, but I'll certainly pay for your time, and everything else." I paused. "You have to help me, coach me into acting feminine. This could be true love."
Reading the words in black-and-white, you might think I was mincing like some bad imitation of what we used to call a queer, or fairy. Not so. I was pouring out my heart. I sounded desperate, because I felt desperate. Everything I said was true, except where I said I'd do "just about" anything to please my Master. Strike the "just about."
He unbent a little. "Sir, we work with two or three women who are experts in such coaching. I can arrange for one of them to be here tomorrow afternoon, but I'll have to guarantee payment. It won't be cheap. And that's just for her. On top of that, to really pull it off you'll have to have quite a lot of accessories and even equipment you've never heard of. Stuff you wouldn't need, if you had a woman's body." He gave a ballpark estimate of the total.
I almost gasped, but I'd had lots of practice recently in keeping such reactions silent. It was obvious he was padding the price to get a big gratuity for himself, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was pay, or fail, and I couldn't bear to think about the consequences of failing. Besides, the value of his services would be immense. So, what the hell, I figured. What's the use of a high credit limit if you never splurge?
He was still speaking. "You'll have to guarantee Mme Coach's fee, tonight, by credit card. Would you like to continue?"
I recovered. "Yes, very much." I told him my credit card information. "Also, I hate to impose, but I must get up early and drive from College Town tomorrow morning, and back here tomorrow night. If I tell you my basic measurements and certain requirements, will you have things ready when I arrive? In fact, can you open the store early for me? I'll meet you as early as you think necessary.
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Keywords: Wants, He, Student, 05, the, Give, What, Ch.,