Rapture

He loves the sound of his heels when he enters the room. He knows they all turn to look at him. The men feel a stirring in their loins, and the women, well, some of them envy his swaying hips, and the way he carries himself in that dress, and some think him an intriguing circus act. He pays no mind to this latter group. He lives for the adoring eyes, the way the dress hugs him, the way they look at him, Her adoration of him, and the thought that soon, tonight, stranger's hands will traverse the landscape of his body and take possession of his inner most core.

The polite conversation lulls for a brief moment, and he can just about make out the low growl of men, barely audible, but there nonetheless, a counterpoint to his own soaring soul. His member is caged beneath his silk panties, and the pressure that builds up in the cage and sweet, exhilarating, painful. It is a wonder, he thinks, that he is still on his feet. The heady excitement makes him light headed, and by the time he reaches Her side, he is about to suffocate from the rush of blood.

She wraps an arm around his slim waist, the silk of his dress just caressing his flesh, the thin fabric a mere excuse of a covering - he feels bare under the thin fabric - and she pulls him close to Her. He, like a rag doll, lets himself be tugged this way, losing control of his feet, as the weight of his waif like form rests against her strong profile.

You're wonderful, she says beneath the sounds of the party and gathering, and he just smiles up at Her, hungry for the slightest praise. After all, it is She who rules his world, She for whom he has dressed up.

She has trained him well, a complete mastery over his very being. What She did with him was nothing less than a complete transformation, turning all of his instinctive drives into precise actions and thoughts that served one and only one purpose, complete and total devotion to Her and her needs, whims, desires. She had taught him to carry his body a certain way, to place his feet gracefully in front of the other as he walked, undulating his as he did, to never over reach, but to always maintain a precise and conscious approach to his movements.

In the early days, She had tied a soft chain, eighty centimeters long, to his ankles, so that his body learnt never to take strides longer than the chain would permit. That was why, when he walked into this room, he knew he had mastered the performance, knowing he was performing for Her, this was his sole purpose, his sole desire.

Her hand now presses against the small of his back, and pinned this way to Her, She resumes her conversation with the Men around Her. She holds court confidently, supremely, and he smiles coquettishly, a polite nod to each of the four Men - he can smell the trace of their cologne, their musk. He knows, in such a position, with a hand placed behind Her back and another against her chest for balance, the dress tightens so delectably around his shapely thighs, thight across his groin, and he knows the men, and no one who cares to observe will notice the slight bulge, formed by the steel casing that houses his compressed and excitably member. He knows what this makes him feel, and how it makes the men want.

Once he settles into the position, held tight by Her arm, against his slim waist, too slim to be manly, but perfectly slim to ooze a sensual eroticism, he casts his eyes around the room, dimmed by tasteful lighting, bright enough to register the faces and the bodies. The air smells of sweet and delicate perfume. It is as if they have all stepped in into Louis XIV's Versaille, he thinks, and how lovely, this hedonistic playground, high above the city, now doused in a soft darkness as far as his eye can see through the tall floor to ceiling windows.

From the ceiling hangs crystalline chandeliers, and the light dapples the faces and bodies and floor of the hall. Wait staff saunter through like shadows with slim glasses of champagne and cocktails, and the tables are lined with velvet purple. He casts his eyes, at once intrigued and demure around the room, occasionally turning to the conversation with the four Men, smiling softly at the little banter, and his eyes dart away again, and in one of these dartings, he catches sight of a Man, who sits on his own, drinking from a glass, and He eyes him, His eyes gleaming under the dappled light of the chandeliers.

At first, he dismissed it as the usual eyes-meeting-across-rooms phenomena, a kind of natural dance in crowds like this where the eye seeks and finds, then logs the dat and moves on. He had turned away from those eyes back to the circle of five he was in, and feeling the increased pressure of Her arm against his waist as She looked down at him, caressing him with a smile that always managed to melt him, but when he turned again to the room, there those eyes were, pointed, persistent, eyes that traversed the length of his form, taking in the thighs and the heels, then up again to meet eyes.

His instinct was to get embarrassed, and then perhaps a little angry. Did He not see that he was spoken for, that She had Her arm around his waist, a clear sign of Her claim on his sissy flesh? Yet, and yet, he felt his caged member press and fight against the steel, his heart thumped in wild excitement, and dewy precum oozed perceptibly from his little eye, moistening his panties, trickling down his thigh.

He looked again in His direction, and noticed His smile, His head canting to one side, as if making a silent evaluation of his worth, as one would do before purchasing a horse or a dog. He fidgeted a little in Her grip, and pretended to look away, disinterested, fighting the urge to turn in His direction.

But a sharp, pleasurable sting of a slap against his buttocks brings him back to the group, instinctively, a surge in his member presses against the cage. It is then that he realises that three of the Men's wives have joined the group, their smiles directed at him, their eyes assessing his form, and he blushes, revelling in the spotlight he is in.

"And doesn't the little thing have just the loveliest skin," one of the Wives says as she steps towards him, softly caressing his velveteen cheek. He smiles, and says thank you in a modulated voice, as She had taught him, all these months. The rigour of the speech training had exhausted him, made him cry from sheer exhaustion. There were days he did not wish to talk, to use his voice, afraid of the sound of the masculine tincture in his chords, afraid it would corrupt the pure crystalline sheen of modulated femininity. In time, months and months, night after night, it had become second nature, he finally found the cadence of feminine grace. Now, when he speaks, the vibrations of this vocal chords are controlled to deliver a pitch perfect demure response.

The Wife steps back and admires his form.

"Mark would love one of these for himself, wouldn't you, Mark. Something to keep in your man cave?" They laugh.

"Who says I don't already have one of these in my man cave?" There is more laughter, and he blushes softly, delectably, and She notices the blush, smiles at him and squeezes his buttocks, kneads it gently, cheek by cheek.

"How many bidders today?" one of the Men asks.

"Twenty, secret ballot" she says, and kneads him some more.

"Well," the Man says, "It will certainly be an initiation for the little whore. They agree in unison, their eyes sparkling with gleeful excitement at the prospect of his initiation into the Rapture.

The conversation moves away to something else, and he turns to check if he was still being observed by the seated Man, but He is long gone, nowhere to be seen. Somewhere within him, he senses something akin to disappointment, and an intrigue mingled in it. Then a flush of guilt and he holds Her tight, whimpering softly at Her kneading of his buttocks.