Lace, Whalebone and Hellfire 1/3 Copyright Bound Jenny

Lace, Whalebone and Hellfire - Part 1

By Bound Jenny.

There was a rather enthusiastic response to my allusion to a correction corset in the crossdressing forum - several expressed desire to be trussed up tightly in one, locked in, "forced" to wear it, and at the same time there is one member who particularly enjoys my style of writing (in addition to being quite excited at the thought of being locked in tight correction corset...). Born of the union of two concepts, writing and forcing pervs to wear corsets, an idea for a story came into being. It got my writing bug going again. I had been in a dry spell for a while. The inspiration just wasn't there. Things change. Inspired enough that this will be at least a two-part story (which I didn't expect at all!). The sexy beast (a moniker given to me by one admirer) is back - with a vengeance.

 

So a little bit of research, and a dash of evil imagination, spawned this piece.

 

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Warning! This story might contain activities that might not be suitable in selfbondage. Please play safe.

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Prologue

 

How would one imagine kink in the 19th century, in Victorian times? The stereotypical image of this era is of a prudish, puritanical time where sex was not discussed and only used as a last resort to procreate. No kink, strictly vanilla, since no one was amused, according to myth. I reject this reality and substitute my own. Well, not quite my own.

 

If one goes all the way back to the 18th century, there was a certain Hellfire Club, where high-ranking men of English society gathered and well, partied hard. There was lots of sex, kink and other naughtiness, and there was even, according to legend, one woman among them. She was ahead of her time, promoting women's rights, spent much time traveling, and wrote some interesting letters during her travels.

 

The original Hellfire Club faded into history as the 19th century opened. I have no quarrel with that fact. But what if...

 

Submitted for your consideration one hapless young Victorian man who, through a strange set of circumstances, an innocent game of cross-dressed self-bondage, falls into the evil clutches of The Countess, on a kinky journey into - The Jenny Zone...

 

-

 

Opening Act

 

The young lady stopped at the door to her room, and bade her friend a good evening, promising to see her at dinner later on. They had spent a lovely day outside in the large estate's gazebo, even having lunch there, delivered by the very efficient and loyal servants. Now they were to change into their dinner dresses, in preparation for the evening meal. One did have to be properly attired for each occasion - be it walking outside, going to the horse races, traveling, or even just sitting in the library to read. To change was an elaborate process and often required assistance from a servant specialized in dressing ladies in their elaborate finery. Among the more strenuous tasks was the corset, which could also be changed according to the occasion, and laced tighter or looser, again according to the occasion. And for some dresses, a specific corset had to be worn. Fortunately the dressing servant had all this information in her brain, so the lady didn't have to remember all that, though she was strongly encouraged to do so anyway.

 

Lucy, young Elizabeth's attendant, appeared with the key to the room and unlocked it. She opened the door and ushered Elizabeth in. Both stopped in their tracks, and young Elizabeth screamed and fainted.

 

On the floor, in the middle of the room, lay a young man, dressed in a chemise, corset, and petticoats, bound and gagged with scarves. By that time others came to the doorway and peered inside, gasping. The young man's face was as red as a ripe tomato. Lucy knelt down beside her charge and made sure she was uninjured. She turned to the gawking onlookers, "Don't just stand there with your jaws open, call the footmen! And inform The Countess!"

 

After the initial embarassment, an ominous cold knot formed in the stomach of the self-bound, cross-dressed young man. More precisely, right after hearing the word "Countess".

 

Michael Whitby's world was about to change...

 

-

 

Act 1: The Countess

 

To everyone in the household, she was only known as "The Countess". No one dared speak her real name, though one could probably surmise that it might have started with the letter "J", as evidenced by the monogram on her handkerchiefs. She was in her forties, tall, slim but by no means frail, had dark brown hair always worn up, never down. Her piercing dark eyes were almost black, conferring to her stare a chilling quality when she was measuring up someone. Her calculating mind was quick and sharp, which helped her considerably during her marriage - her late husband, though a loving and well-intentioned man, was quite poor at managing money. It was the Countess who managed everything and kept the family finances thriving.

 

She always wore a very tight corset, which could be heard creaking slightly as she breathed. This was particularly unnerving when called on the carpet before her, when nothing else could be heard, and with that dark, penetrating gaze gauging you like a leopard deciding on whether to have you for lunch or not. Her wardrobe was almost exclusively dark, long, hobbling dresses with high, stiff and tight collars, ornate but not excessively so. She walked in small steps, but elegantly, always with poise and grace.

 

The Countess was also a very strict disciplinarian. She tolerated no impropriety neither among the staff nor in her family. She raised her children with strict moral and civic values and was recognized for her ability to produce outstanding members of society through strict education. She expected nothing less than stellar service from the house staff, and dealt out penalties, from docked pay to outright dismissal, with frightening swiftness and efficiency. She was firm, always calm, and maintained her composure and self-confidence in any situation. No one dared defy her.

 

The footmen arrived less than a minute after Lucy demanded their presence. "Make sure he doesn't get loose and wait for word from the Countess." Lucy helped a groggy Elizabeth out of the room and left her in the care of her friend across the corridor. She returned to the scene of the scandal and firmly ushered off the curious onlookers. She shut the door and walked over to Whitby. Towering over his bound form, she said, "What in Heaven's name are you doing?" Before she could continue her tirade, there was a knock at the door. Lucy opened and Whitby could hear some whispering, and Lucy answering, "Thank you, Ellie. Go back to your duties." A short pause and he heard Lucy ordering the footmen to take him, as is, to the library. The Countess' lair. Promptly, the the two burly men picked him up as if he was a simple sack of potatoes, and carried him out of the room.

 

Whitby had plenty of time to reflect on his predicament while the footmen carried him to the library. He was somewhat infatuated by young Elizabeth. That's what attracted him to her undergarments - they were, after all, next to her skin and her most intimate possessions. He had performed such stunts several times before, managing to evade detection and discovery because he gauged the time he had rather well. But today, they were early, because of the dinner and the express request - from The Countess that meant an order - to dress in their finest along with their tightest corsets. He wasn't aware of that change to the routine.

 

A sharply dressed butler opened the door as they approached. He looked at the young man with disdain, down his nose, as they entered. The door shut behind them, the latching noise echoing through the large room. It was brightly lit from the high, large window at one end, backlighting a massive desk and a high-backed chair. Whitby couldn't see if there was anyone seated there, because of the strong daylight behind. The footmen stopped about six feet from the door, and waited. From the chair, a woman's voice commanded, "Put him down there, and stand near the door." The Countess' voice. He only heard it once before, when he was hired as an assistant to the groundskeeper. It was as chilling now, maybe more so, than it was then, when it warned him of the dire consequences of misbehavior or incompetence.

 

After he was deposited on the floor, still bound and gagged, he heard the footmen move off. There were a few seconds of dead silence, ominous silence, before he heard a chair shift and a rustling of skirts. Then the sharp taps of hard heels on the hardwood floor, rythmic, not slow nor quick, approaching, accompanying more rustling of cloth. The steps and rustling stopped about two feet from his head. His heart was pounding at a fearsome rate, and he had broken into a cold sweat. He turned his head and tried to look up. He saw the hem of a black skirt, satin and lace, just a fraction of an inch above the floor. It was one of the characteristic hobbling skirts The Countess wore. He turned his eyes as far as he could to try to catch a glimpse of the The Countess' expression, but he didn't need to see her to know that her dark eyes were already drilling holes right through him, and that her expression was a combination of deep disappointment and considerable irritation. In the dead silence of the library, he could hear a faint creaking with each of the formidable woman's breaths.

 

After what seemed an eternity, The Countess started walking again, counterclockwise around him, slowly, one pace every two seconds, her skirts rustling again. That sound of rustling fabric normally aroused him, but in his current misfortune, arousal was the last thing on his list. She still said nothing. That was probably the most unnerving part of this entire situation. Maybe the second - by now the entire estate was probably aware of his current state of dress and embarassment. Whitby had trouble deciding which was more distressing. His mental wanderings were cut short by a loud tap of a heel as The Countess stopped precisely where she started her circuit. It was as if she knew his mind was preoccupied.

 

"You, go and fetch his clothes. You, remove his bonds." Her strong voice resounded. He heard a door open and close while one of the footmen was busying himself untying the scarves that held his limbs fast. They would have been easy to remove had they not been retied back in Elizabeth's quarters. Once they were removed, without missing a beat, The Countess said "Stand up." He did, fearing the consequences of not obeying. As if he wasn't in plenty of trouble already.

 

He saw her countenance now, and it was indeed fearsome, and as he imagined. Those black eyes, unwavering, drilled into him. She was wearing a black dress, characteristic of her, high collar, long tight skirt. And a waist so incredibly tiny he could imagine himself encircling it with his hands, fingers touching on both sides, though he figured that he would probably be struck down by lightning if he did so.

 

"So you like dressing up." More of a statement than a question. "I suppose you have done this before." He remained silent, swallowing, intensely aware of his current state of dress, exposed. The Countess started to walk around him, again, in a slow, deliberate pace. Clockwise this time. She said nothing as she inspected her captive. "You are of quite slim build, Mr. Whitby." Another statement of fact, but oddly there was a faint smile on her thin lips. She was gauging him up as if she were a predator ready to pounce on her next meal. His heart was pounding hard, and he was trembling. The thin smile disappeared. "I suggest you calm down." By then the second footman had returned with his clothes. "Put them on the chair, there." she ordered, indicating the destination with a subtle movement of her head.

 

"You seem to be in good health, and I have heard good praise for your hard work as the groundskeeper's apprentice. It would be a shame to lose a good employee." The Countess returned deliberately and slowly to her desk, and sat down gracefully. Now Whitby could only see the silhouette of the chair against the bright daylight in the window. And that chilling, deliberately measured voice.

 

"However, I cannot keep you here. You have disturbed the smooth functioning of this household and made yourself into a disgraceful spectacle that will likely distract the rest of the staff sufficiently to degrade their exemplary efficiency." So this is it, he thought. Booted out into the street. The voice from the chair continued.

 

"I can offer you, as an alternative to being let go, a position at my private retreat. I need a good healthy worker there that can fill in many... positions." The pause was odd. She rarely hesitated when she spoke. He fidgeted nervously. "Well, are you going to just stand there fidgeting or will you accept my offer?" The Countess prodded in a firmer tone. "Remember that the story of your little costume adventure is spreading like wildfire by now, and not just on this estate. And having been turfed from here will not be a good reference for future employment."

 

She was right, of course. There is nothing that spreads faster than a rumour, especially a spicy one like this. "I humbly accept your offer, Countess." he said in a somber tone.

 

"Good!" she said in an unexpectedly cheery tone. Back to her stern tone, "Now get those clothes off of you, and back into your own. There's a small changing room next to the chair. And start packing. The carriage leaves tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock sharp. If you're late, you're out of luck."

 

-

 

Act 2: The Retreat

 

Whitby had heard of The Countess' private retreat before. He didn't know where it was, and neither did anyone else. No one knew anyone who worked there. Nor did anyone know what was going on there. The Countess regularly went there, several times a year, for a few days to a week, and when she returned, she was usually in good spirits. Otherwise, the place was a complete mystery.

 

He packed his clothes and other belongings into a sack, and tried to sleep. It was a bit difficult considering the events of the day. The groundskeeper refused to talk to him. Other people on the estate either looked away or cast gazes of disdain or worry. He was now an outcast here. He hoped he would fare better at his new position, at the retreat. He slept fitfully, dreaming of being chased by a torchlight mob, while dressed in a lady's undergarments, or other distressing themes related to his misadventure. When he awoke, early the next morning, he had decided that it couldn't possibly be worse and actually looked forward to the trip.

 

Making sure to catch the outbound carriage, Whitby showed up early outside, by about twenty minutes. The morning was cool and slightly damp, though there seemed to be no threat of rain. The carriage was there, its driver standing beside it stiffly. The Countess' butler was speaking to him quietly, and looked at Whitby as he approached. "Mr. Whitby." he said casually, pulling out an envelope from his pocket. It bore a wax seal, imprinted with the letter "J". "You will give this to the headmistress of the Countess' retreat. It contains instructions as to your lodgings, employment and other needs. It is very important that she receives and opens this personally." He took the envelope and put it in his own pocket, carefully. "Thank you, sir." he said in a subdued tone. Butterflies in his stomach, he heaved his sack of belongings into the carriage and climbed in.

 

The ride was long, but uneventful. Whitby was alone in the carriage, and his only distractions were the passing scenery and the hoofbeats of the two horses pulling his vehicle, punctuated by the occasional command barked by the driver to his animals. He did fall asleep a few times, which helped him recover from the dreadful night he spent. He had just dozed off again when the carriage door was opened, rousing him from his half-slumber.

 

"We have arrived, Mr. Whitby." the carriage driver announced. Groggily, he rose from the seat, stretched to get the kinks out of his body, and stepped out after heaving his sack over his shoulder. He looked around, taking in the surroundings. The building was a little smaller than the main estate house, but still looked quite spacious. It looked more like an old stone castle, not a brick-and-mortar construction. As far as the eye could see, around the place, there was nothing. A few trees dotted the mildly hilly landscape, and just one road led to the retreat. The steps led up to the large main door, which had the letter "J" engraved in a metal plaque. In front of the door was a stern-looking woman, in her fifties, dressed in a plain black crinoline dress with a white collar and cuffs. That must be the headmistress, he thought. That thought was punctuated by a dry, irritated voice from the woman.

 

"Well, are you just going to stand there like a bloody tourist or are you coming in?" Not wishing to create further disappointment in his direction, he hurried up the steps to meet the stern lady in the black dress. "Are you the headmistress?" he asked, nervously. "Yes, I am. Miss Laverdiere by name." she said as she held out a hand. After a split second of confusion, he pulled the precious sealed envelope and handed it to her. She broke the seal and opened it, and unfolded the missive that it contained. Her eyebrows rose fractionally, then the stern expression changed, for a fraction of a second to what looked ever so slightly like a smile. A chilling one, almost like the faint smile on The Countess the day before. "Come with me. It is late and I will show you to your room." Back to being all business.

 

Walking through the hallways, Whitby noted that the inside of this building was far from being as drab as the outside. It was positively luxurious, tastefully decorated, and along the main hall, there were paintings of women, and some, by their costumes, seemed to date from the previous century. One figure he recognized instantly - it was The Countess, resplendent in a lovely ball gown, looking confident and serene, and with that faint smile that she had made yesterday. In fact, she looked radiant. There were a few other ladies he recognized, as they had visited the estate before, though he didn't remember their names. All of them seemed to be powerful, rich ladies.

 

"Here we are." the headmistress announced without emotion. It is more spacious than your previous quarters, but you will realize that you will need that space." He wondered what she meant. "Supper is at seven o'clock. A servant will come to fetch you." He thanked her and went inside to set himself up.

 

He stopped cold in his tracks as the door shut behind him. Spacious was an understatement. This room was almost as large as the one he was caught in the day before. There was a large, four-poster bed with a canopy, with lacy drapings and bedding, a desk with a chair... he was mesmerized. He went to a door at the other end and opened to look inside - a complete bath room, with bath tub and one of those new water closets! He couldn't believe that this would be his permanent lodgings. Surely they will assign him a more appropriate room to his position. The question raised itself in his head: what position? What was his job here? He decided not to get used to the room, and took care not to soil anything. He opened a closet to put his sack inside, not bothering to unpack, and again, stopped cold. It was a large wardrobe, filled with all manner of chemises, drawers, petticoats, dresses, and other feminine apparel and accessories. Now he was convinced it was either a mistake or a temporary assignment. It must be the latter - the headmistress did not seem to be the kind to make mistakes. Especially since she was in the employ of The Countess.

 

The temptation was there to try them on, but he resisted. He had resolved not to commit the same error that landed him here in the first place. At least not until he got an idea of the routine here. Even then, he had counted on routine yesterday and it failed on him...

 

There still was some time, so he decided to take a bath, to clean up after a long day's travel, and to change into some fresh clothes for supper. The water was nicely warm, coming out of the faucet at the right temperature. He dried himself off and put some fresh clothes on. Minutes later, there was a knock at the door of the room. "Come!" he called out. He was feeling better now. A young man entered, and stood stiffly erect, straight as a pole, announcing, "I am here to escort you to the dining room for supper." Whitby followed him out. All the while, the young escort kept his stiff posture.

 

Supper was delicious, and he ate heartily. He hadn't eaten this well in ages. There were other people there, men, women, but they weren't very chatty. Neither were they hostile. They just seemed tired and eager to get a good night's sleep. Whitby figured that a stranger in their midst wasn't facilitating communication either.

 

-

 

Act 3: Settling In

 

His first night at the retreat was a restful one. The bed in his room was comfortable and warm, and he had slept better than he had in ages. The long trip and the previous night probably helped him along. A persistent knocking at the door woke him. He rose and opened the door. "Yes?" The same stiff young man stood outside the door. "I am here to accompany you on your first day, for your orientation and other required duties." Whitby said he'd get dressed, and be out in a few minutes. "Oh, when will I be assigned my permanent quarters? These seem to be that of a lady." The young man shook his head. "These are your permanent quarters."

 

First order of business was breakfast. Again, the meal was delicious. He decided he was going to like it here, at least for the food. Then the young man ushered him to the headmistress, whose door was guarded by two rather burly men.

 

The headmistress was seated behind her desk. "Sit down, Mr. Whitby." Miss Laverdiere said calmly. He obeyed. "You are here in order to know what your duties will be on this property, and what will be expected of you." She paused, consulting some papers. He recognized, among them, the letter that was in the sealed envelope he gave to her the day before. "Michael Whitby, age 23, orphaned at 14, good basic education, good health, and a penchant for dressing in a lady's undergarments and tying yourself up with her scarves." His face reddened. "I am not judging you, young man. In fact, that's why The Countess sent you here." She looked at him for a few moments, gauging his state.

 

"What drives you to this?" she asked in a more gentle tone. He was taken aback by the question. He hesitated, and stammered, "W-well, it umm... gives... n-no makes..." before he finished his explanation, the headmistress did so for him. "It makes you feel good, it arouses you, am I correct?". Now he was more than taken aback, he was flabbergasted by the frankness of what seemed, at first glance, to be a dry, prudish woman. Whitby just nodded, embarrassed. The next words out of the headmistress' mouth nearly made him fall out of his chair. "You will have ample opportunity to indulge in your little fetish, Mr. Whitby. In fact, it is part of what is expected of you."

 

From the previous bright red, the colour drained completely from his face. "I-I beg your p-pardon?" he stammered. "From your change of colour, I deduce you heard me quite correctly." A pause. Whitby made the connection between what she had said and his permanent assignment to what seemed to be the lodgings of a lady. "Ah, your mind has clicked. You will indeed be submitted to a formal training program so that you are ready for The Countess when she returns here in three months. It would usually take a good six months to a year, but The Countess made a special request." Whitby's mind was reeling. "So I will be handling your training personally." He opened his mouth to object, but no sound came out.

 

"Before you say another word, and likely get yourself into trouble, let me say this. Your pastime is your own choice. You chose to wear a lady's clothes, to bind yourself with her scarves, and chose to risk discovery to get a few thrills. You chose to come here, though I doubt that you had this in mind when you accepted. More likely than not, you expected to serve as some kind of laborer on the property." She was right. He had daydreamed often about dressing up all the time, wearing lovely dresses and frilly things every day. "You will serve, and you will be trained to do so properly and in the guise of what you seem to enjoy so much yet also seem to be terrified of." Another pregnant pause. "You will be ready in three months for the return of The Countess, and will serve her as she sees fit." Now he tried to imagine how he could serve The Countess when all dressed up like a lady. He had an odd feeling in his gut.

 

Headmistress Laverdiere shuffled some papers. "Our first stop is our in-house corsetiere and seamstress. You will be measured up for your corsets, training and others, and for your wardrobe. The dresses in your room will be altered accordingly, and a few special ones made up." She rose, and motioned to the door. "Let's go, now." He hesitated, but rose quickly when the headmistress shot him a stern look.

 

After they left the office, the two burly men followed them, which made Whitby a bit uneasy. He did understand why, though - he might try to resist or bolt, and they were there to ensure that the wishes of The Countess were followed. The headmistress knocked on the door, and a lady called from within, "Come in!". This room was a large sewing room, and many women were busy stitching and fixing dresses and other garments. "Good morning, Miss Laverdiere!" the lady said warmly. "Good morning, Caroline. I see that you are in good spirits today. I have a challenge for you, here. This young man needs to be fitted for a full set of corsets, and to have his wardrobe altered accordingly." Caroline looked at Whitby with a glint in her eyes. "It would be a pleasure. Any particulars?"

 

"Yes, particulars. The Countess wants him ready in three months, so we will need all this in very short order, you do understand?" "Yes, Miss Laverdiere, I understand." she replied in her cheery voice. "I can have a first training corset ready for fitting by tomorrow - that's relatively easy, and work on the rest in parallel. The first one should give us time here to complete the rest. The correction corset will be ready by the end of the week." The headmistress nodded satisfaction. "That would be excellent. You will receive further instructions for other garments very soon." She turned to Whitby. "Now strip. Everything off." He gaped and reddened. "Don't worry, there isn't anything on you we haven't seen a thousand times before on others. So strip, now. Or I'll have Wilkins and Harper do it for you." Reluctantly, he removed his clothes and put them on a chair that Caroline had placed near him.

 

Much to his surprise, the women there were quite nonchalant about his nudity. Caroline came with a measuring tape and started measuring him in dozens of places, calling out the size to her assistant. He was measured in places that he couldn't possibly have imagined being measured before. Obviously, making corsets and clothes for ladies was much more complicated than for a man's clothes. If one looked at the fit, the cut, the shape of a beautiful gown on a lady, it was no wonder. The corset had to fit properly, and the dress had to exactly fit the lady's figure with the corset on. Caroline was an old hand at this, obviously, and knew by experience how to account for all that.

 

"There, all done! Now that wasn't so bad, wasn't it?" Caroline said with a bright smile. She whispered, almost mockingly, with a wink, "You can cover up now, before you get too cold." He was all too glad to get dressed again, even if no one seemed to be the least bit distracted. Caroline said one more thing before they left again. "Oh, Miss Laverdiere, I do hope that all that hair all over him is removed." The headmistress replied, calmly, "All in good time, Caroline."

 

Behind the next door down the corridor was another cheery woman, but she had wigs and other appliances to complement his figure. "Good morning, Lucille." A bright smile accompanied the reply, "Good morning, Miss Laverdiere. I trust you are well?" "Indeed, I am, thank you." the headmistress glanced at Whitby and said, "Hair and bust, Lucille. What can you do for him?" The petite old lady stood up and eyed him for a few seconds. "Hmmm... for the hair I suggest a light brown, not too long, a few different styles." She pulled a measuring tape out of nowhere and before he could react, she had measured his head twice. He blinked. "Sorry about that, young man. Or young lady?" Lucille quipped as disappeared into a back room, and came out a few moments later with several boxes. She opened one and pulled out a wig. "Please bend over." He obligingly did, not wanting to raise the ire of the headmistress. Lucille put the wig on his head and said, "Now straighten up." She fussed with the hair a little, "Yes, that's good." A few more wigs were tried, some accepted, some rejected. "And for the bust, I know what to supply. Has you been to Caroline's yet?" The headmistress nodded. "Good. I'll get the measurements from her. The items will be delivered to his room before noon." "Thank you, Lucille."

 

Next stop was a sort of classroom or library. The headmistress picked some books off the shelves and handed them to Whitby. He looked at the titles. There were some about the etiquette of a lady, others about dressing for various occasions, all the various and sundry little details that a woman knew, so that she would be absolutely correct and proper in every situation. "I suggest you read these in your spare time, before tomorrow. You want to dress like a lady, well, you will also learn to behave like a proper one." She added, "You will come here every day to be taught what's in those books, to apply the theory in practice, starting tomorrow morning. In full dress, no less." He was still trying to get used to the idea of being dressed up in public - about as public as it gets in here.

 

Now he was led into another area, it was a tiled room, rather warm, with wash basins and metal tables, and a few barber-type chairs. Miss Laverdiere went to a man that rose from his desk and greeted the party. She discussed something with him, which Whitby could not hear. He looked over at Whitby and nodded before turning his attention back to the headmistress. A few more moments of conversation and the headmistress turned. "You're going to strip again. Completely. You're going to be shaven from top to bottom." His eyes went wide. "That is not a suggestion." she said icily. The two burly escorts took a step forward. "Strip. And comply fully with what is asked of you." He relented, and removed his clothes again.

 

The man, who introduced himself as Mr. Jeffries, the barber, led him to a spot in the center of the room. Whitby then noticed a bar suspended from the ceiling, with chains and pulleys. It was about at eye level. "Hold onto the bar, please." Cautiously, apprehensive, he grabbed the bar. Before he could react, the two escorts had used straps to bind his wrists to the bar, while Mr. Jeffries went to the wall where the chain came down and started pulling. Whitby saw the bar rise and his arms were raised above his head, the chains rattling and the pulleys ratcheting noisily. "Why all this?" Whitby asked, visibly frightened. "Just so you don't get yourself hurt while you're being shaved." Mr. Jeffries replied, casually. The headmistress added, "And it would be preferable that you be quiet and still. You like binding yourself, so this should not bother you." Again, she was right, but the circumstances were not exactly what he had in mind for this kind of activity.

 

Carefully and deliberately, the barber lathered and shaved him. His arms, armpits, shoulders, chest, back, belly, buttocks, finally his legs. The expert hand wielded the blade with impressive efficiency. After what seemed like an eternity, Whitby's body was completely hairless, save for his head and a small area around his genitals. The bar was let down again, and the straps removed. "You'll have to come in again in two weeks. I will have prepared a more permanent treatment by then. This is just a temporary measure." He wondered what that meant.

 

He dressed again, and the tour of the retreat continued, stopping for lunch, then finally back to his room. The items Lucille promised were there - wigs, and some kind of appliance simulating breasts. The headmistress looked at him, and said, "All right. Tomorrow morning, we will start in earnest. I suggest you start reading what I gave you and make an effort to remember how to behave like a proper lady. Someone will come to fetch you for supper. That will be all." She turned around and left, closing the door. He could hear a lock click. He went to the door and tested it. Locked. Trapped.

 

He resigned himself to his situation, and started wondering what was in store for him the next day. And what Miss Laverdiere meant when she said "start in earnest".

 

And what in blazes is a correction corset?

 

 

The story continues in part two...

 

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