My name is Daisy and I live on a farm. It's a specialist farm, about 40 acres of open countryside near the sea on the south coast of England, near Brighton. Being coastal, the area surrounding is quite touristy at most times of the year, and so the farm is set up to be a bit of a petting zoo. Of course, the farm further specialises which means that the visitors to the farm are heavily vetted, and the security of the place would make a military establishment blush, albeit very discreetly.
I am a part-time lady, but this was not always the case. I used, at one time, to be a man of a sort. I was, I recall, quite effeminate. Oh, I was bullied for it in school and, later, in University, where I would often be sexually molested by other boys for my pretty looks. I can't say I didn't enjoy it -- well, I didn't at first, because I was away from the protective shelter of my parental home, and being stripped naked by a gang of horny teenagers on the twentieth floor of a dormitory towerblock was scary -- especially when they used to throw my clothes off the balcony for me to retrieve, still naked, late at night. I looked a proper sight, and would often get wolf-whistled as my girly frame, my small fig-leaf genitalia twitching despite -- and, on more than one occasion, dripping copious amounts of pre-cum as I secretly thrilled to the exhibition I was giving and then the gentle stroking of the open air upon my sensitivity -- made a play of trying to escape notice. It was often evident to the keen-eyed observer that I wasn't really trying to hide as, even once my clothing was retrieved, I never tried to cover myself -- even when it was inclement.
As time went on, my University studies started to suffer when the boys on my floor started passing me 'round as a sex toy -- unwillingly at first, because although my parents had never talked to me about birds, bees and horny nymphomaniacs, there was an underlying understanding that the back door was exit only. Naturally, the rebellious teenager in me experimented -- with all those hormones scrambling what I was pleased to call my mind, who wouldn't? And even though I found the sensations memorable, I thought nothing else of it. My main concern -- sexually, leastways -- was girls. I loved them all, 'though they didn't seem to like me very much. The few that did seem to take an interest in me turned out to be jokers of the first water -- and I was the joke they were telling!
I was too girly to be a man, apparently and, when they got me out of my boxers, they would laugh at my under-developed genitals. That didn't stop me spurting like a crop-sprayer in a drought whenever my clothes came off, but it did give me a bit of a resentment, for all their charms. But it was those charms I was trained increasingly to give of in the cloistered environment of the dorms. Sure, the boys could sneak into the ladies' dorms and interest a filly or six in some dripping, lustful cock -- and so they did, often. But I was manna from heaven -- I looked like a girl with my hairless white body devoid of any musculature to speak of and with a cock so tiny it could have been used to rewind a cassette tape, if cassette tapes weren't so yesterday afternoon. And so I was pressed into service.
At first I was just picked on and stripped of an evening so that the boys could ogle my girly body and, their hormonal imaginings presenting the real thing in their minds, they would jism all over me. One or two of the more adventurous boys -- the ones who didn't mind touching another man's cum -- would rub it into me, all the while still stroking their massive youthful hard-ons still vibrant and eager. Sometimes they would cum again, their young bodies not needing the recovery times their older selves would make their signature, and again they would rub it in before heading for schoolwork or a party or whatever, and leaving me to stumble, naked but for an emperor's new clothing suit of stallion potential and drunk with delirium, to my own devices. Eventually, I came to accept -- and even to welcome -- the attention and, as my rear exit started accepting admissions, so to did "my own devices" contain less and less finished work and more and more catering for the demands of students as a domesticated whore.
As my coursework, my grades and my prospects began to suffer, I was then summoned to the head of the department, Professor Edith Winthrop. She was a kindly woman with many years University management, and an achingly beautiful way of handling errant young boys.
"Hello Charlie", she purred in a voice so heavenly it was all I could do to not collapse in tears. "Come in, sit down -- great to see you. I hear your work here at the University is beginning to fall by the wayside" -- it had been suffering, truth be known, since the last five months of the first year. "What are we going to do about it, darling?"
The way she said darling sent me over the edge, and I just caught myself in time to manage some semblance of control, 'though it was a Herculean effort. "Well, P-p-professor, I've b-b-b-been caught up in th-the processes of growing up" -- was all I could manage between sobs.
"I see". She slinked past me in the manner of a coiled spring descending a staircase -- I thought to get me some paper hankies to dry my eyes, but I was surprised when I heard the click of the door latch. She continued: "that's better. Now, show me the results of your growing up. Strip!"
The sudden edge to her voice and the incongruity of her command stopped my tears in their tracks and made me hesitate for slightly too long. She snapped the command again and, in a trice, I was naked in her office. She looked me up and down.
