Lace, Whalebone and Hellfire 2/3 Copyright Bound Jenny

Lace, Whalebone and Hellfire - Part 2 (Click here for the first part)

By Bound Jenny.

 

I know it's been a while, and you've been impatient, but my inspiration was temporarily interrupted by a teensy-weensy health issue back in July. Since then, I have recovered quite nicely and am back up to my evil and sexy musings after putting my health on priority. In any case, evil is sexy!

 

---

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

---

 

Prologue to part 2

 

Michael Whitby is now trapped in a crazy world of crossdressing, bondage, and domination. The headmistress of the Countess' retreat estate, Miss Laverdiere, is taking personal interest in his training as a lady, in preparation for a visit by the Countess in a few month's time. And she was no one to take back talk or resistance as an answer to an order. And Miss Laverdiere was ready to back her orders with two burly footmen, if necessary.

 

So now we return to the story of our young Victorian man, Michael Whitby, who is now caught inescapably in... The Jenny Zone.

 

 

-

 

Act 1 - Dressing up

 

The bedding was warm and comfortable. He had slept fitfully at first, unaccustomed to the new surroundings, then soundly. Soundly enough for the Headmistress to shout, "Up!", after several insistent but unfruitful attempts to rouse the young man. He jumped and pulled the covers up slightly - he was nude under the sheets - and looked, wide-eyed, at the assembly of women that was occupying his quarters. He blinked as Miss Laverdiere repeated the order. "Up, or I'll pull you out by the ears!" Down in his being, he knew that she was serious about the threat. Keeping part of the down comforter over his privates, he swung his legs slowly over the edge of the bed. "Faster than that!" Miss Laverdiere barked as she whipped the bedding away from him. He stood there, bare as the day he was born, red-faced, while the other women smiled. The headmistress just stood there with a stern expression on her face.

 

"If you're to be a Lady, then you need to learn discipline and how to get up sharp and early in the morning!" After a pause, "You're lucky your correction corset isn't ready yet." The menace of the mysterious correction corset. He hadn't found any reference to it in his readings of the day before, where he carefully studied the basics of a woman's wardrobe. He looked around, and noted a collection of boxes that accompanied the women he had encountered yesterday in his tour of the... facilities.

 

"Well, at least you're completely undressed. I'll credit you for that. It makes our job easier. Now, what comes on first?" The question was blunt. He searched his memory, and replied, uncertainly, "The chemise, and..." a slight hesitation, "... drawers." For a few seconds, the fierce countenance of Miss Laverdiere changed to one of mock surprise, before going back to being fierce, though somewhat less so. She needs to keep inspiring fear so her charges would remain well-behaved. There is nothing like the fear of consequences to inspire respect, discipline and good behavior. "Well?" she asked, irritated. One of the women pulled out some frilly undergarments, loose and light, from one of the boxes. "The rest will be stored in the cabinets here, once we are finished." the attendant lady said. He put the drawers on first, then the chemise, remembering the drawings in one of the books.

 

"Now I am pleased, young lady. Yes, young lady - you are to be trained so. But you forgot something." as she glanced and nodded her head at Whitby's chest. His heart skipped a beat - he had failed in front of the headmistress. But she was lenient today. "I will forgive your error as it is your first day. But do not press my leniency too much." He removed the chemise and hurriedly put on the breast forms. They hung heavily on his chest, as the pockets on the garment seemed to be filled with some coarse material. Once the chemise was back on, he stood nervously. The woman he met yesterday, Caroline the corsetiere, took the training corset and brought it to him. "Turn around please." He obediently turned to face away from her. He felt the cold, stiff cloth embrace his torso, and the characteristic clipping of the busk hooks as Caroline closed the garment around him. "I suggest you raise your arms, missy." the corsetiere said, nonchalantly. He did, and felt the first pull of the laces. He had never managed more than just closing a corset around him, in his private amusements, and now he began to feel what the true grip of such a garment was.

 

Caroline expertly tightened the laces with the fingers of one hand, while keeping the ends taut with the other. She worked her way up from the bottom to the waist, pulled out the slack, then did the same from the top down to the waist. She did this several times, gradually tightening the corset around him. With each pass, he felt the grip tighten, and his ability to move inside the garment diminish. The steadily increasing tightness and stiffness was alarmingly arousing. Just when he thought he couldn't take any more, Caroline stopped and knotted the loose ends behind him.

 

"That's as tight as we want you for now. You will get used to it, soon enough. That's when we'll tighten you up some more. But don't worry, we won't make you faint. We are training your body to accept progressively tighter corsets, molding your torso into the lovely hourglass shape that is so admired by menfolk." She was right on that account - the Countess' figure was quite admirable, with that tiny waist connecting those wide skirted hips and tapering up to a magnificent bust line. He imagined himself in such an incredible corset...

 

He was taken to a full-length mirror where he stopped dead in his tracks, wide-eyed, staring at the reflected figure. It was nowhere nearly as shapely as any of the other ladies, and short by far of the Countess, but it was stunning nonetheless. His heart pounded hard, and he breathed shallowly, not so much from the action of the corset, which was surprisingly comfortable despite its tightness, but from his emotional reaction to his own reflection in the mirror.

 

In order to breathe, he had to heave his upper chest up and down, instead of the normal breathing motion of in and out. It was just as effective, but it felt strange. He would have to get used to it. The unyielding prison of cloth would allow nothing else. No matter how hard he inhaled, how hard he pressed his chest and belly against the corset, there was no give at all. Just a faint creaking sound. That very same creaking sound that was so arousing to him.

 

"Now what comes on?" He shook himself out of his reverie, and scoured his mind for the answer. It then popped into his head - before anything else was put on over the corset, there had to be some protection between it and any other garments. "The corset cover." he said slowly, still trying to figure out how to breathe, talk and move with the corset. Indeed, since the corset had some hardware protruding from it, especially the busk hooks, it was necessary to protect delicate blouses, petticoats and dresses from that hardware. A proper dress for a lady was no inexpensive proposition, and every precaution was required to protect that investment. The corset cover was a blouse-like affair, somewhat loose-fitting, buttoned at the front. One of the attendants pulled out a mountain of white, frilly cloth. "Petticoats, my dear." said the headmistress. The first one was very close-fitting, and somewhat sturdier than the others. As one of the seamstresses explained, it was to prevent long steps, to protect the tight, hobbling skirts that were in fashion. The delicate fabric and seamwork wouldn't resist a misstep, and would tear in a second. Miss Laverdiere punctuated that explanation with "And that would be immediately followed by some form of correction or punishment." The tone of her voice was almost gleeful in anticipation. It sounded like she enjoyed administering corrections.

 

Once his hips and legs were encased in all that lovely, frilly fabric, his figure seemed even more incredible. The hips were amplified by the thick petticoats, which made the waist look even smaller. The long cascade of cloth that flowed down from his hips in a graceful white cascade made his upper body look like a miniature. Now he understood how those lovely ladies could look so irresistibly feminine. "Shoes!" one of the attendants said, nervously. Miss Laverdiere fired a sidelong glance at her. "We will address this omission later, Miss Gatchell." the headmistress said in an icy tone. Michael had a feeling that Miss Gatchell would be having a... correction... later. What form that would take was only known in the mind of Miss Laverdiere.

 

The shoes themselves had relatively low heels, maybe two inches. This was a proper starting point for someone who never wore anything more than regular shoes with wide, flat heels. But the narrowness of the heel made those two inches seem like two feet. Once they were on, he teetered precariously, and it was an effort to just keep standing. And they were quite snug, tightly encasing his feet.

 

He was seated in a chair. Sitting in a tight corset is a new experience. He lowered himself slowly, almost gracefully, until his buttocks touched the chair. The sensation was odd, with all that cloth padding his hindquarters, and the skirts hobbling his legs, and a new sensation, the corset being pushed up and squeezing his ribs even more. He sat nearly bolt upright, his chest projecting forward, his buttocks sticking out backward. "You're a natural at this, young woman." It was unnerving to be addressed so. "Remember that you are to be graceful, dignified, and submissive. Now we're going to shave your face. We don't want you looking like an unkempt longshoreman." One of the women shaved his two day old beard, expertly, until his face was baby smooth. He never had a shave like that.

 

"Now we can get to serious business... Hmmm... Caroline, the collar, please." Miss Laverdiere requested, gently, but with a tone in her voice that signaled she was about to enjoy the next part of the process. The corsetiere produced a tiny corsetlike affair, frilly around the edges, lace facing but with a sturdy leather inner lining. Miss Laverdiere clipped it around Whitby's neck quickly, and he felt pulling at the back. Soon he felt an increasing pressure around his neck and throat. His eyes widened somewhat, a slight panic settling in. "Do not be afraid, young... lady. This is just to keep your posture in check. If you resist-" she paused as she pulled the laces brutally tighter, almost strangling him, "-it will just be pulled tighter." The grip loosened somewhat from a strangle to a bearable choke hold. "Relax, and it will feel better." He did. And it did feel somewhat better. The contraption held his neck from below the chin - holding his head erect - down to just below collarbone level. Now he was solidly imprisoned in cloth and whalebone and lace from his chin down to his hips, with little freedom between. The sight in the mirror was impressive, arousing, almost frighteningly so.

 

Next came a high-necked blouse, close-fitting around the neck, its long cuffs quite tight over the arms below the elbows. Those cuffs were buttoned closed with fourteen buttons each. The tightness of the sleeves made his arms look slimmer. The blouse was frilled and flounced over the chest, and buttoned in the back. The skirt came on next, pulled on over his head, and down until it was snug around those layers and layers of petticoats. He understood now the function of the hobbling petticoat. Just one step over the limit, and rrrrrrippp!!, that skirt was history, and Miss Laverdiere would gleefully administer whatever devious punishment she had in mind. A sleeveless vest came on over the blouse, buttoned tight in front, and then a tight-fitting jacket with puffed-up shoulders and long, tight cuffs. Some tight-fitting white kid gloves were fitted, and the dressing process was over. Now to some cosmetic work. Powdered, blushed, lips painted, and a wig parked on his head. He was led back to the mirror, and what he beheld was astonishing. It took Michael several seconds to recognize himself. Or herself. He couldn't decide which.

 

His identity was being slowly dissolved away. He tried to keep in touch with reality. A hushed whisper in his ear, "Don't fight it, missy. It will only make it worse..." The hot breath and maddeningly arousing whisper was that of Miss Laverdiere, the headmistress, tormenting him further in his predicament, making him straddle the fine line between pleasure and humiliation. Or more accurately, blurring that line. Just like the line between his masculinity and the femininity that stared back at him from the mirror.

 

The most frightening part of that was... she was right.

 

-

 

Act 2 - Training to be... a what?

 

He ran his hands over the skirt, and pressed. He could barely feel anything through the multiple layers of cloth. His hands strayed slowly up to his hips, and to his waist. The incredible curves - unfamiliar to him even if they were pathetically inadequate compared to the female staff here - were impossibly stunning, arousing even. He had become exactly what he desired, who he desired. He had always dreamed of caressing a tightly corsetted woman's curves, but this was different, one might say it was disturbingly exciting. He squeezed and pressed his waist and chest - it was like trying to squeeze iron, so stiff it felt. There was no give either from the outside nor - more distressingly - from the inside. Somehow this distress and arousal was unbelievably attractive, addictive. He wondered how women could withstand this, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. He remembered the Countess' impossible waist, so tiny he could wrap his hands around it and his thumbs and fingers would touch on opposite sides. The faint creaking sound as she breathed.

 

"Snap out of it!" was the sharp order from the headmistress, Miss Laverdiere. It fulfilled its purpose - his wandering mind came suddenly and brutally back to reality. The reality where he was dressed and made up as a woman, a lady, and surrounded by other ladies who actually participated in his transformation. His heart was pounding hard, he realized for the first time. That made for a very curious sensation while tightly laced, waist and neck. He was led away from the mirror and the headmistress, all business, told him, "We will practice walking and taking stairs. Follow me."

 

Walking... who would think that one needed practice for that! But when one was trussed up in this confining, restrictive dress, and the crushingly tight corset, it was a challenge just to breathe and walk at the same time.

 

First preconceived notion about walking is out the window - long steps. As a man, he was used to taking long steps, kicking his leg forward and letting the rest of him fall until that leg stopped him from hitting the ground, then repeating the ungainly process with the other leg, over and over again. Tightly corsetted, hobbled by a tight petticoat and skirts, handicapped by high heels, he had to learn how to walk all over again. And the collar he wore prevented him from looking down to see where he trod. There was a young lady waiting outside his room, in her twenties, dressed similarly to him, hobbled by a tight skirt, but with a much smaller waist - she had been tightlacing for at least a few years, if not more. Miss Laverdiere told Michael to follow the young woman's example.

 

She walked briskly, but gracefully. He was mesmerized by her movements below the waist. "Pay attention!" snapped the headmistress. He was paying attention, for sure - it was his motivation that was woefully delinquent in its intentions. Miss Laverdiere pulled him forward forcefully - she was uncannily strong - and he stumbled forward clumsily. He finally realized that he should be watching the young woman to analyze her technique, not her form.

 

Walking in a tight dress, a hobbling skirt, is an art (mind you, most men wouldn't argue with that and quite appreciate this particular form of art). One needs to exploit every inch of travel in every part of one's anatomy that had freedom of movement. First lesson - use the hips to lengthen one's steps. Second lesson, don't push that too far - or you'll get a correction from Miss Laverdiere. If one pivots the hips just enough, one can get an extra couple of inches out of a step. Oh, typically male, he would want to see how fast he could do it and how far he could pivot, but Lesson Number Two - punctuated by a cuff from the headmistress - taught him that subtlety is an advantage, not an impediment. Now this extra couple of inches was necessary because of the heels, which forced him to take shorter steps anyway. Lesson number three - being a woman was complicated... dressing, walking, behaving... Even just breathing.

 

He awkwardly walked along to breakfast, behind the young lady, prodded along by Miss Laverdiere, and tried to sit down by himself. More preconceptions out the window - like sitting down quickly, dropping into one's chair. He remembered the Countess as she lowered herself slowly and carefully, but gracefully - everything was graceful about her - into her chair. It was a process that took several seconds, and did not involve a disgraceful drop and plop. It was more difficult than he could imagine - the tight skirts didn't move with him without some wiggling. It also took quite a bit of strength and control in his legs. Miss Laverdiere and the young walking model helped him down. "It is easier when you aren't wearing a hobbling petticoat, missy." the headmistress suggested. Eventually, after about a half minute of wiggling, gasping for breath, and general grunting, he was down. Sitting bolt upright because of both the corset and the chair's straight, high back, he waited for breakfast.

 

He ate a lot less than he expected. The unyielding pressure of the corset made him feel full a lot more quickly, and prevented him from wolfing the food down as he was accustomed. The tight collar around his neck didn't help any. He knew now why he was instructed to take it easy. Even drinking a simple glass of water was a challenge - a sip at a time, give it time to trickle down, and start over. "Don't worry, over time, the next couple of weeks or so, your stomach will adapt to its new confines, and you'll be able to eat normally again - to a point, you'll need to mind your figure. But remember that once you wear a really tight corset, say for a special occasion, you'll need to curb your appetite again." Add eating to the list of complications. And what would be a special occasion?

 

He wondered how the Countess, in her impossibly tight corsets, could even eat anything. Then he remembered that she must have spent at least thirty or so years tightlaced. After decades of confinement in those prisons of cloth and whalebone and steel, her insides must be rearranged in some fashion. He heard of stories of women who fell ill because of corsets, but so far, they remained stories, mostly propagated by those who were against corsets. Mostly men. As he learned later, those stories were overamplification of rare cases, especially those where tightness was increased far too quickly in the training program, overwhelming the body's ability to adapt. No one could gain an instant waist reduction of eight inches without damage. That is why waist training is a long, laborious process that needs to be performed diligently and carefully, adjusting to the wearer's body. And the body can transmit a wealth of information on its condition. One only has to listen.

 

Miss Laverdiere decided that he was full. "That's all for now, young lady." she said, almost tauntingly. Somehow, this taunting, this subtle humiliation was a turn-on to Michael. The sensation surprised him. Then it dawned on him that when he bound himself, dressed in the undergarments of the young lady, the mere thought of discovery and the humiliation that would ensue was immensely stimulating. Of course, it was once he was discovered and humiliated, that his mind had the "normal" reaction of feeling shame. Here, he had no choice but to obey, to submit. And he was encouraged to do so! All the various and sundry parts of his fantasies, dressing in the clothes of the opposite sex, being ordered around by a strong female figure, being confined or bound, "forcibly" trained to behave like a lady, were coming together.

 

Again, Michael was assisted as he rose from the chair. "We'll have to work on that." said Miss Laverdiere. The rest of the morning consisted of deportment lessons, etiquette, and other assorted details that ladies must remember and practice, including sitting and getting up again. One particularly frightening lesson was climbing (and most especially) and descending stairs. It is unbelievably unnerving to go down stairs with a hobbling skirt. Each step must be calculated and done one at a time, handicapped by the collar again, so he couldn't look down. He was reassured that it would soon become second nature.

 

After a very sparse lunch - again restricted by the confining corset - he was back to walking lessons. But this time, Miss Laverdiere imposed another restriction. "I am not impressed by the way you flail your arms around as you walk, young lady. It is most ungraceful and unbecoming." She nodded at two of her aides, who pulled Whitby's arms behind him and proceeded to bind his wrists and elbows together, though the elbows didn't come close to touching, they were pulled as close together as they could be, and it was quite uncomfortable, and it forced his shoulders back and his bust outward. He was about to voice a protest when he saw the headmistress shoot him a stern glare. Wisely, he stifled his complaint. "You will learn how to balance yourself without your arms. You will walk gracefully, like a lady, before the Countess returns. She expects perfection."

 

Throughout the afternoon, he prayed that he wouldn't be made to do the stairs again, with his arms bound tightly behind him. That part of his wish was fulfilled, though he teetered precariously as he walked about. The effort was considerable, maintaining his balance, walking properly to the criteria of Miss Laverdiere, who spared no comments on his gait and deportment, and the added restriction of the tight corset. He did improve as the afternoon progressed, judging by the decreasing frequency of caustic remarks from the headmistress.

 

What Whitby did realize while his arms were tightly bound behind him, is that he found his predicament even more pleasurable, despite the discomfort imposed by the bonds. Now that the bondage part of his fantasies was added to his cross-dressing, he was taken a little bit closer to his ultimate fantasy. But unbeknownst to him, it was also taking him closer to the goal set by Miss Laverdiere, as ordered by the Countess.

 

And what the Countess wanted, the Countess ordered, and the Countess received. What she wanted from Michael Whitby was more than just a transformation. Everything that had happened, and was to happen, would fulfill her plans.

 

When those plans will be complete, Whitby would learn the true nature of the Countess' private retreat.

 

-

 

Act 3 - Restless night

 

Supper was as usual, as Whitby ate a lot less than he was used to. Or should he think of himself as "she"? More lessons in etiquette in the early evening, then to his room for a bath before bed. After he disrobed, he noticed the marks left by the bones and seams of the corset on his skin. He felt a little self-conscious in front of his handmaidens, who didn't seem to take notice at all of his nudity. It was as if they were accustomed to doing this. A thought crossed Whitby's mind... if these ladies were used to doing this, how many others came before him? He started wondering who was really a woman, and who was a man transformed into one. And where were they? He hadn't seen anyone who fit the profile. And what was the true function of the Countess' retreat, what were her intentions? He remembered the thin, faint smile that she had before she ordered him here, which was the same smile that was on the painting of her in the main hall.

 

Back into the lady clothes he went, fresh ones for the night: chemise, drawers, the training corset, and a nightgown. At least the collar was left off. But before the nightgown was put on, Miss Laverdiere checked his waist. She stuck a finger inside the corset, through the laces, and gauged the tightness. "Give her another half-inch." The laces were untied, and after some light grunting behind his back, the corset was tightened slightly. To Whitby, it was like he was being crushed alive. The stiffness he experienced when the corset was first put on was back. The unyielding tightness, the iron grip around his belly and chest... he had just become accustomed to the corset as it was. He breathed in short gasps, until he realized again that he had to change his pattern, and breathe with the upper chest. After the headmistress checked again, with her finger, the tightness of his corset, the nightgown was then put over him, and he was put to bed. All the while, one of the other women took the spent underclothes and placed them in a bag, for the laundry.

 

"Sleep well, young lady." said the headmistress with a wry grin as she closed and locked the door.

 

Miss Laverdiere's parting request wasn't easy to achieve. Other than the unrelenting grip of the corset, it was the sheer distraction of wearing it. Whitby was not used to wearing one, and it was still in his mind that this was a "naughty" thing to do. In addition, the sensation of being tightly laced and put into a nightgown was absolutely arousing, unless he made a deliberate effort to neutralize his erotic thoughts. However, that required a conscious mind, and that left him as soon as he dozed off.

 

When he did sleep - for short periods - his mind was invaded by vivid dreams. Dreams far more vivid than he had ever experienced. Highly erotic dreams or highly distressing ones, depending on his mindset upon dozing off. Many of those dreams involved the Countess - standing before him, with that faint smile on her face, almost an evil smile, with that tiny waist, with the subtle creaking from her impossibly tight corset as she breathed. In his dreams, she would cause him to kneel, or long tendrils would come out of her hands and envelop him tightly, squeezing, squeezing, crushing, molding his body. Always with that smile. Whitby would awake with a start, panting hard, aroused beyond belief. Then he would stare at the ceiling, in the dark, until he calmed down again. He shifted a bit, turned to one side or the other, and try to sleep a little more.

 

In other dreams, it was Miss Laverdiere who tormented him. She would pull his laces tighter and tighter, until the pressure was unbearable, until he could hardly breathe. She taunted him, humiliated him... Though in real life, the headmistress was several inches shorter than him, in his dreams, she was towering over him, menacing, dominating, controlling his every action, as if he was a puppet, pulling his strings and making him dance as she laughed. Again, he woke with a start, and aroused, rock-hard, still trapped in his corset and nightgown.

 

It took him about half the night to find a better position to sleep. He found that by piling up every available pillow against the head of the bed, and propping himself up at an angle, he could be more comfortable, and the corset was not quite as distracting. He fell asleep again, much more easily than before.

 

As he slept, he dreamed he was in the corridor, where all the paintings of the women were. Tightly laced, dressed, made up, the taps of his heels echoing through the great hall, which seemed longer and higher than he remembered. A movement caught his eye. He looked up at the paintings, and the colors oozed down, and off the canvas of each portrait, flowed down the walls and onto the floor, where they pooled and started to rise up, taking human form, each puddle becoming the woman in the painting from which it came. He was surrounded by tightly corseted women, each in splendid gowns, who slowly closed in around him. Each seemed to give off an aura of power, of importance, just as their portraits did. Prominent among them was the Countess, with her faint smile, her dark eyes drilling into him, mesmerizing him, freezing him in place. He was unable to move, unable to escape. Closer and closer they came, skirts rustling, corsets creaking ever so slightly. His heart pounded, raced. He wanted to flee, but it was impossible. The Countess held him in her power, her penetrating gaze extracting every bit of his will. Though it was distressing to be paralyzed as he was, he found it quite interesting, even enjoyable, to be so totally in the power of the Countess, to have her dominate every cell of his body, every thought of his mind.

 

Whitby opened his eyes, and looked around. Daylight was breaking, and he could see the clock. Not long before rising hour, so he decided not to try to get a few more winks. He didn't want to raise the ire of Miss Laverdiere as he did yesterday.

 

It was not advisable to raise her ire too often.

 

 

To be continued...

You can comment on this story in the selfbondage forum

(Link will open in a new window/tab)