Miss High-heels - Anonymous - ebook

"Miss High-heels" or "The story of a rich but girlish young gentleman under the control of his pretty step-sister and her aunt" is a classic erotic novel, published in 1931. It contains graphic sexual descriptions and themes.

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Miss High-heels

The story of a rich but girlish young gentleman under the control of his pretty step-sister and her aunt


Miss High-heels 1931AnonymousThis ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy.

Chapter I

This story is a reminiscence, a fond recollection of my colourful days as a youth. I can safely say (with the clarity of hindsight) that my youth was extraordinary. My upbringing was unlike any other young man knew at the time, and to this day, many years later, I have yet to meet a soul whose story can compare with mine in its bizarre nature.

My erotic rearing gave me a great sense of alienation, yet also a feeling of being absolutely rare and precious. Of course, later in life I learned that I was not alone in my exclusive sexual proclivities; proclivities that flourished and were fostered from the time I was very young on through my early adulthood. I have since had the pleasure of finding others who share the same delicious tastes that I have enjoyed. I was cared for by my strange and beautiful stepsister, Helen, with the delicate attentions that one gives a fragile, unique flower. It was my lovely stepsister who helped me to find the “true” self that was hiding inside my male skin.

Ever since I could remember, I had a great fondness for the excesses of women’s clothing, of women’s finery, and of their ways. It was Helen who really prodded me to discover my true nature and created an environment in which I relished the world of women. Thus, the following words are the tale of what I shall call my “becoming.” This is the tale of how I metamorphosed from Dennis Evelyn Beryl to the lovely Denise Beryl.

* * * * * *

The story begins shortly after I had arrived at the manor, having just finished my two years at school. My time at the school is a fraction of this unusual story, spicy morsels that I will elaborate upon later in luscious detail.

Helen had hired a French maid named Phoebe as my personal servant. A maid for a young master of the house, you ask. Yes. Granted, it was a rather strange arrangement for a young gentleman to have a maidservant in his employ, and at his bath and toilet, but as you may have gathered, I was no ordinary young gentleman.

Phoebe, the maid, had the deft, neat hands of a French woman. I watched her, mesmerized as she threaded a pink satin ribbon among the shining curls of my coiffure and buttoned the last button of my very long glacé kid evening gloves. She dusted a powder puff lightly over my white bosom and shoulders. Then Phoebe tucked a tiny lace handkerchief into my corsage and said, “There, now you are ready, Miss. Denise. Stand up!”

“Miss.” Denise indeed! And “Stand up!” The insolence of her! I remained seated.

“Ah!” said Phoebe with a malicious smile. “You don’t like being ordered about by poor servants, do you? You are the young master of Beaumanoir, the wealthy aristocrat, the great landlord, Dennis Evelyn Beryl,” uttering my name with amused contempt.

“Bah! I do not trouble my head about your position. You are in your own house, it is true. It is also true you are under the control of your beautiful stepsister who stripped you of your foolish trousers two years ago to punish you for your impertinence. You are over eighteen years old-I admit it-but for two years you have been mincing in petticoats in a girls’ school. A young gentleman, are you? Nobody would believe it. Your hair reaches down below your waist. You have the figure, the face, the soft limbs, the hands and feet and the breasts of a girl.”

I was dreadfully ashamed at Phoebe’s outburst. I could not deny a word of it.

“You are a very important person, I suppose,” she went on jeering at me, “with a great career in Parliament! Heavens, how you used to plague my ears with your boastfulness! It may all be true. What I am concerned with is that you should be beautifully dressed as a young lady for the dinner party that your stepsister, Miss. Deverel, is giving. Stand up at once, or I will lace you into a corset one inch tighter than the one you are wearing now.”

“Oh, Phoebe,” I cried, “I can hardly breathe in this one.”

I was alarmed. Her tone was so menacing. She was much stronger than I was. She could carry out her threat if she chose. I stood up. I had a special reason for being obedient tonight.

“That’s better, Miss. Denise,” Phoebe said.

I was dressed in an exquisite décolleté frock of white transparent chiffon glittering with silver embroideries over an underdress of soft white satin. The corsage was cut very low, the sleeves being merely shoulder straps of flashing silver bugles, and my tight, unwrinkled white kid gloves reached up to my shoulders. A sash of white satin encircled my slim waist and was tied in an enormous bow looped through a huge diamond buckle on my left hip, whence the broad streamers fringed with silver floated down to my feet. A bunch of pink roses was pinned on the right of my corsage at the waist. The sheath skirt moulded my hips in its gleaming satin and chiffon.

The girlish curves of my figure were caught tightly in at the ankles by a scarf of tulle that passed through a big sparkling diamond buckle in front of the dress and tied in a great bow behind. My legs were quite bound by these dainty fetters of satin and tulle. The skirt was hemmed with tulle and was bordered with a festoon of tiny pink cloth roses, and on the left side a row of flat diamond buttons sparkled up to the knee. The skirt had a long train of white satin, lined with pleats of tulle that rustled deliciously at each movement. Phoebe arranged the train in a gleaming swirl about my feet, and stood up.

* * * * * *

Now dear reader, you may be wondering what kind of young gentleman I was, allowing a servant to speak to me thus, mocking and jeering my predicament. Not only that, but what kind of wealthy aristocrat would allow a maid to dress him so fantastically?

I have to admit that I was in a strange state of shock, having just arrived at Beaumanoir that afternoon. It was Helen’s birthday, and she was throwing an elegant little party that night to celebrate. I had been away for two long years, and before my absence, I had made a strange arrangement with Helen. I had behaved rather terribly at my first boarding school, and so, rather than attract scandal about our names because of my misconduct, I was sent to a girls’ school in the country. I was sent there as a punishment, and worse still, I was to be treated as a young lady.

I had thought at the time that Helen believed that she had sentenced me to a hellish fate. Not so-I was deliriously happy. Oh, of course I protested and wept and begged, claiming the mere idea was repugnant to me. But deep within my breast, my heart pounded with the anxiety of a secret pleasure. I pleaded with Helen because it began to please me to beg and crawl in her presence, and in turn, I could see that Helen was enjoying her dominion over me. At last, I was sent away to bear the delectable torments that awaited me at the school for young ladies.

Two years had passed, and I had returned to my home to claim my birthright. I was eighteen and of age to become master of Beaumanoir. One would assume that this occasion would merit much anticipatory joy on my part. I was to be released from these exquisite bonds of femininity forever.

But I was not happy. I had savoured every moment that I was dressed as a lady. I had enjoyed all the privileges that a lovely young girl enjoys, and I was not exactly ready or willing to give that up.

Helen had demanded that I make one more appearance as a young woman, after which I would be released as her charge. I had agreed, and there I stood in the dressing room with Phoebe the maid, my white skin trembling and enervated by the cool, luscious silk that rubbed against my body. Knowing that I was wearing the delicate batiste lingerie of a young woman, that I was deliciously confined by the lovely laces and whalebone of the corset for the last time, was a terrible thought. I was nearly aroused by the soft, sweet smell of the lavender powder that Phoebe had lightly dusted my breasts with. I remember that my pleasurable sensations were marked by a bittersweet feeling that all this would end, and I would be forced, by society and circumstance, to return to the world of men; a world I had come to admire from the perspective of a woman.

Phoebe’s voice suddenly ruptured these sad thoughts.

* * * * * *

“Now Miss. Denise, put those smartly gloved hands behind your back!” shouted Phoebe.

“Behind my back? Like a child?”

“Don’t argue. Behind your back with them at once, palm to palm, the fingers pointing down.”

I obeyed. How humiliating it was!

“Now lift up this pretty face.”

She took my chin and tilted back my head.

“I must say, Miss. Denise, your governesses have done wonders for you at your school. You always looked like a pretty girl of course, but you are quite lovely now.”

I blushed! Was it all from shame, or was there not some thrill of pleasure and of girlish vanity in my reddening cheeks? Oh, my two years at a girls’ school had left their indelible influence upon my disposition.

“Now put the high heels of your satin slippers together under your frock.”

She looked down to the billowy satin and tulle of my skirt.

“Have you done it? Are the toes daintily turned out?”

“Yes, Phoebe.”

“I’ll make sure.”

She stooped and, thrusting her hand under my dress, felt my feet. The blush deepened on my face, and a soft wave of voluptuous delight swept over me, enflaming my body and exciting my passions. I am to write the truth here. The thought that here, I was dressed with all the dainty luxury of a very fashionable girl, standing obediently with my hands behind me at the bidding of a maid, while she adjusted my satin-slippered feet, troubled my passions. There was something sensuously bizarre in the contrast that fascinated me. Besides, apart from the queer mental impression produced in me, the actual touch of Phoebe’s hands on my body, particularly on my insteps and ankles, gave me a delicious physical sensation. I noticed Phoebe was wearing long, white kid gloves. I asked her why, and she glanced at me shrewdly. “Miss. Priscilla’s orders,” she answered. “No one is to touch you, or dress you without long glacé kid gloves on their hands. But why do you ask, Miss. Denise?”

I was confused.

“Did the feel of the gloves on your silk stockings please you? Answer at once.”

“Yes, Phoebe,” I replied shyly.

Phoebe nodded her head with a lewd, knowing smile.

I was tortured by the possibility that she would not touch my ankle again. I feared that she would not stroke the delicate arch of my instep with her soft gloved fingers. I assumed that she would stop caressing my foot when she realized that she was affording me erotic pleasure. I could tell that she liked the position of dominating me. I could tell it pleased her to see me tortured and willing to be subject to her torments and whims. In fact, I believe Helen hired her because she was capable of severe disciplinarian actions.

As she stroked my ankle, I arched my back ever so slightly, so that the buds of my nipples would rub against the cool white satin of my slip. The sensation made me move involuntarily.

“Miss. Denise! If you don’t stand still, I am going to be forced to punish you. Not only that, but I must finish my work. Miss. Helen will be calling for you soon.

“Miss. Helen is a very wise lady. Now stand without moving until she comes to inspect you.”

Helen had foreseen that the touch of the kid gloves would make its sensuous appeal to me. She had deliberately intended that it should. Why? My old fear returned to me-a fear that she and Miss. Priscilla, her aunt, were in a plot together to nullify me, to make me unimportant. Perhaps they had devised some enervating system to reduce me to perpetual subjection. If so, I had reason to shiver; They were so clever. Those two women had shown such insight into my character and failings.

On the other hand there was the promise that Helen Deverel had given to me in the most emphatic way two years ago. She had promised that the day after I returned from the girls’ school I should be allowed to resume the dress of my sex, if the head schoolmistress sent me home with a good report. Well, I had returned this afternoon with an excellent report. Tonight I was to be Miss. Denise Beryl, a cousin of Dennis’s. But tomorrow I was to resume my liberty. I was to become once more the master of Beaumanoir.

I was turning over these doubts in my mind when Phoebe interrupted my reflections.

“You have moved your feet, Miss. Denise,” she said sternly. “In that tight, pretty satin frock, every tremor of your limbs is visible.”

“I wasn’t thinking, Phoebe,” I said humbly, “I am sorry.”

Phoebe was appeased by the humility of my voice.

“I will forgive you this once,” she said. “There’s no doubt, Miss. Denise, that you ought to be kept in girls’ clothes all your life.”

“All my life!” I exclaimed.

“You are so much easier to manage,” she replied. What a selfish argument! All she thought of was her comfort, not one consideration did she give to me, my position, the career that awaited me. No! As a male youth, I should give her orders. Under discipline and dressed as a girl, I received them from her. That was all she cared about.

I was careful not to move again, and Phoebe busied herself putting away the schoolgirl’s dress, the one that I had laid aside so I could appear as a grown-up young lady in a décolleté gown with a long train.

I should briefly explain what had led me to these …unusual circumstances.

My father, who was probably the wealthiest commoner in England, had inherited the great estate of Beaumanoir in Hampshire, a house in Park Lane, and a large fortune, which by skilful business he had greatly increased. He married late in life and I, his only child, was born when he was fifty-two. I was baptized Dennis Evelyn, and the second name, which is given to girls as well as to boys, I always resented. I resented it all the more, because in complexion, features, limbs, and figure I was, alas, as the taunts of my school friends assured me, more like a girl than a boy. My father lost his wife when I was 12 and a year later married a second time-whence came all my troubles. He married a middle-aged widow, Mrs. Deverel, who had a daughter Helen, a girl just four years older than myself. She was a sinister girl with dark hair, a pale lovely face, and a slim figure. She had the most winning manners and at once set herself to charming everybody. She succeeded with everybody-except me. I recognized her game immediately.

I resented my father’s marriage and the intrusion of these new people into the house. I would not call the new Mrs. Beryl, “mother,” nor Helen, “sister.” Mrs. Beryl was considerate and Helen set about trying to please me, but I distrusted them both. I always had a fear that they meant to take my place in my father’s affections and oust me from my inheritance.

I remember particularly one day when I was home for the holidays. I was thirteen at the time, Helen seventeen; she stopped me as I was leaving the drawing room and as she was coming in. Laying her little hand upon my arm, she said with her eyebrows arched, “Evelyn, can’t we be good friends? I am so unhappy that you dislike me.”

The name Evelyn irritated me. I looked at her ironically and I replied, “I suppose that you really want to marry me, to get hold of my fortune, don’t you?”

She laughed coldly, and pinched my arm hard. “How wrong you are!” If I had not spoken so rashly, I might not be standing now in the fashionable ball dress of a wealthy young lady, waiting for the moment when I should take my place at Helen’s birthday dinner party. I had become a living tribute to her domination, from the Louis Quinze heels of my smart satin slippers to the pink ribbon in my curls. For to that foolish answer, I attribute the beginnings of her hatred and resentment. She turned away from me that day, and never made advances to me again.

That same year, in the autumn, my stepmother died, and the shock of her death prostrated my father, who was then sixty-five. He had a great affection for Helen and a great faith in her capacity; at her suggestion, Miss. Priscilla Deverel, an aunt of hers, was introduced into the household to act as companion to Helen and to assist her in the management of the house.

Miss. Priscilla was a remarkable woman, a fully qualified doctor with a great medical reputation. Although she gave up her practice to join us, to me at this time, she seemed merely a harmless, slightly ridiculous old maid. She was forty-seven or so when she came to Beaumanoir, a wrinkled thin ungainly woman, who dressed very badly. She was very patient and submissive, and I treated her with the utmost disregard. I did not resent her presence in the house, as I did Helen’s. I looked upon her as of no importance whatever.

The first time I had any doubt about her was a year later when I was ill with a cold: I was then between fourteen and fifteen, and Helen brought her to my bedroom. At first I would not allow her to examine my chest, but Helen threatened to tell my father of my refusal and to send for a doctor from London. That, for a special reason, I dreaded. I let Miss. Priscilla open my nightgown and I saw at once a flash of wonder cross her face. I flushed scarlet. I had a secret that I had always tried to conceal. My bosom was much too developed for a boy’s and continuing to develop as I grew. I had not merely the nipples of a boy, but the white globes of a girl’s breasts were threatening to become prominent.

Miss. Priscilla examined them carefully. Then she turned to Helen and exchanged with her a significant look. When she looked again at me, a slow smile of triumph was spreading over her face. It seemed to say: “I have got you,” and when she went out of the room I remembered with some discomfort the impertinences that I had showered upon her in the past. However, I soon took courage. She could do me no harm, I thought. What a fool I was!

The next term at school, an episode occurred of which it is difficult for me to write. But I must refer to it because it affected my future tremendously. I was, as I have confessed, girlish to look at, although I took my part in the games of the school, and my appearance brought upon me a great deal of chaff and ridicule. It also brought upon me the attentions of the bigger boys in the Sixth Form, especially from Guy Repton, a youth of nineteen, who kept pestering me.

* * * * * *

The episode that I am about to relate is a description of my sexual awakening, and the pivotal event that shaped the rest of my life.

As you can imagine, I had been wallowing in a state of some confusion as to the nature of my sexual orientation since the onset of my adolescence. I had been reluctant to leave my home, which had been veritably dominated by women since my father was a widower. Not only was my experience oriented toward the feminine world, but I was slowly developing a pair of budding breasts!

When I was sent away to school, I took great pains to hide my body from the other young chaps, but this did not mean that I didn’t take the opportunity to steal long glances at my schoolmates. I quickly noted that I was not growing hair upon my body as some of my companions were, and that my muscles were not turning hard, but quite the opposite. I was becoming softer and more round with every passing month. This gave me a terribly ambivalent feeling, for deep within my heart, I could not help but admire the fantastic changes that were happening to my body. On the other hand, I was ashamed and stood up to much ridicule during my time at boarding school.

My interests were limited when it came to discussions that most of the other boys delighted in. In fact, even though I had grown to mistrust Helen and Miss. Priscilla, I severely missed their gentle company. I found their conversations so much more reassuring and civilized than those of my new companions. I was miserable and terribly out of place. I found that my one solace was daydreaming, and I took to staring out of my window, and the windows of the classrooms, remembering the womanly luxuries that I had once been surrounded with at Beaumanoir.

Many was the night that I lay alone in my bed, creating images of delight, picture fancies of the lovely gowns that Helen wore and all the accoutrements of her station and sex. I would worry, on such sleepless nights, about my future when I was to take over as master of the household. I felt that I should look forward to that day with much hunger, but in truth, I was not anticipating the day with gladness. In fact, I knew deep within my soul that I had no taste for the powers of my impending manhood, but I did not know how to escape my destiny. If I had only known at that time that my fate was already decided, I would have worried considerably fewer hours away.

But those hours during which I lay awake were not without their pleasurable moments. It was during the secret quiet of the night that I began to discover the pleasures my own body had to offer. Because I was not obliged to share a room with anyone else, I could spend hours lightly stroking my body and bringing myself to pleasure over and over as I massaged my cock and my extra-sensitive breasts. During these wonderful moments, I would always imagine myself to be dressed in the finest of women’s clothing. I fantasized that my hands ran over my body encased in kid gloves, and that my breasts were softly caressed by the fine lingerie or the harsh lacing of a corset. These thoughts aroused my fancy almost more than the actual touch of my hand did. The potency that these fineries held for me is impossible to describe in detail. I can safely say that the deep hours of the night were among the only happy ones that I spent at that boarding school.

I devised elaborate passion plays in which Miss. Priscilla dominated me, while Helen enjoyed toying with my breasts, or even better still, I liked to imagine Helen’s lovely full lips wrapped around my cock while Miss. Priscilla lightly abused my nipples with her fingers or her mouth. Of course, during these imaginary scenes, the two women would be dressed in the most exquisite of gowns, while I too was dressed in the dainty underclothes of a young lady. Oh, the hours of pleasure I afforded myself thinking these wickedly delicious thoughts.

I had yet to see a woman naked, so it was hard for me to imagine. But there was an instance that I liked to draw upon during my hours of fantasizing. One time, a few years previous to being sent to school, Helen and I were sent to the shore. I will never forget the moment when Helen bent over and gingerly removed her shoes and then her stockings, revealing the most beautiful pair of feet that I had ever seen. I watched with jealous hunger as she ran to and from the sneaking tide. Oh, how I wished that I were the sea, that it was I caressing her perfect white feet with my tongue, with my hands and fingers.

But I digress! I was to relate the story of the fateful evening in which a turn of events happened that shaped the entire course of my life.

It was a night like any other previous to it. I lay alone in my bed, lightly stroking my cock with one hand, my lovely little breast with the other. I was recalling an elegant evening dress of satin and tulle that Helen had worn at a spring party the season before. I was enjoying my solitary pleasure so greatly that I never heard the door of my bedroom creak open. As I was quietly moaning into my pillow, I felt a pair of cool hands stroke the soft flesh of my buttocks. I sat up instantly, quietly yelping in surprise when I was met with Guy Repton’s hungry eyes. Guy Repton! Here was the boy who had taken such pleasure in tormenting me, and now he had caught me in nightly pleasures.

“Guy! What are you...”

“Shh!” he hissed, and covered my mouth with one hand, while the other began roving around my body freely.

I began to struggle, and he pushed me roughly against the pillows. My heart raced, half in fear and half in a new lust aroused.

“Guy, what do you think you’re doing?” I whispered desperately as I thrashed weakly under his body, which was pinning me to the bed.

“I know what you’ve been doing in here, you nasty little thing,” he said. He reached between my legs, and grasped my cock in his strong hand. “I came to join in your fun.”

I felt my face flush painfully, especially because my erection showed no sign of quieting. Not only that, but I was painfully aware of my breasts and tried to cover them with my arms.

“Oh, Dennis, don’t cover those lovely things. I came to see them too!” Guy laughed, pulling my arm away from my chest with his free hand. “I want to put my lips on your girlish titties, Dennis. Let me suck your titties!”

Without waiting for an answer from me, Guy plunged his head down upon my chest and hungrily began to suckle at my soft pink nipple.

Oh, if I could describe to you the exquisite joy and heated pleasure that I felt course through every inch of my flesh! No one’s hands but my own had ever stroked or paid lusty attentions to my secret boobies. And now, in a moment’s time, Guy Repton had fallen upon me, and with his lips he kissed and bit and sucked my tit. With his hand, he reached between my soft thighs and took my cock in his hand and began to stroke and fondle the shaft of my pulsing member. I could feel his strong rod bulging against my thigh and the weight and force of his body and mine, the way he was dominating me was exhilarating. I arched my back involuntarily to meet the kisses that he continued to lavish upon one nipple and then the other.

“Oh! Oh! Guy!” I moaned, my pleasure very nearly exploding.