Part 3
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The Price of Perfection/Part Three

by Marlissa


Candy double-locked her door as soon as she returned home. The doorman was told that no visitors-- absolutely NONE-- were to be allowed up unless she said otherwise. M, whoever he really was, was crazy. He would try to hurt her! What would she do? Who would she go to?

She grabbed her address book, flipping to the S page. She snatched up the Princess phone and began to punch in numbers.

"Dr. Slate speaking." The voice was calm, reassuring.

She spilled out her story, from beginning to end, omitting the details of the Male Model encounter. "Someone's got to know, so in case something happens," she explained disjointedly.

The inevitable, superior sigh, then "It's all right, calm down Candy! Please calm down! Now just stay there and relax. You haven't been hurt so you're lucky. You knew there were going to be some men who would try to take advantage of you this way-- they can't help it. Pretty girls like you are like magnets for a certain type of man, understand my dear?"

Candy downed a glass of wine and nodded into the phone. "I know, you said something weird like this might happen. But still!"

His deep authoritative voice continued to soothe. "Just calm down. I want my star patient to relax, take a bubble bath and dive into a copy of Cosmo, all right? I'll send over something to cheer you up. Now follow the Good Doctor's orders and be a good girl, all right?"

She agreed and hung up feeling worlds better. Dr. Slate had a bedside manner that made you forget what he did for a living and how much he charged. His suave English accent would put any transgendered gal's fears to rest.

True to his word, the doorman called up and said there was a visitor who wanted to bring up some flowers, a Doctor Slate. She told him to let just THIS visitor up and threw on a silk kimono. The knock on the door brought a smile to her face. Candy opened the door.

"Doctor, come in, please!"

Dr. Slate smiled and took her offer to enter the penthouse. He was holding a box. Roses she wondered? He handed the box to her and she took it greedily.

She opened the box. It was a dozen gorgeous American Beauty long-stemmed roses. She took one out. Without explaining, Dr. Slate put his hand around hers. She gave him a pouty smile. Was Dr. Slate coming onto her?

He didn't speak. Instead he crushed her hand around the rose stem. He watched impassively as tears sprung from her eyes, then spoke. "The rose is a beautiful flower is it not? Perfect in every way. But for it's beauty, it pays a price-- doesn't it, my dear?"

She retreated from him, cradling her wounded hand. There were thorn pricks on her palm "I-- I. uh, what did you do that for, uh..." Candy felt woozy. From rose thorns, she thought wildly? I'm on the verge of passing out from rose thorns?

She fell to the carpeted floor. She began to snore unconscious and flat on her back as he went to work. He looked down at the prone feminine form. If he wanted to, he could easily rape her-- if he found the prospect exciting. But he didn't. He started fishing through her desk for the numerous passbooks, stock and bond certificates, as well as legal documents, expensive jewelry-- anything that might have value. Slate knew a number of unsavory acquaintances he had met in the transgendering racket who could easily forge Charles Dane's name to release and transfer forms. It would be risk-free too. There would be no Charles Dane to object to the transfer of the ten million dollars in question.

He waited for ten minutes as the narcotic from the treated thorns did their job. Then Dr. Slate hit the intercom button for the doorman. "I need your help! Ms. Cane has passed out and I need to get her to my car at once!"


She woke in stages. There was a blinding overhead fluorescent light and it was difficult to see. Between her dry-eyed blinks, she could make out a white jacketed man wearing a mask. A doctor? And a smirking bearded man whose eyes rolled up and down her body. M.

She limply struggled but it was no good. Her arms were securely fastened to the table. An operating table. Candy screamed. They ignored her screams-- she was gagged anyway. Her body was bare, pressed hard against the cold stainless steel table by the restraints. She made herself be still, though her body shook with fear.

In reward, M turned off the overhead light. Her eyes sought out M's then, filled with what she hoped would be interpreted as respect. He smiled.

"My pet wishes to speak?"

She nodded weakly. Keep it calm. Keep it still, she told herself frantically. He pulled the tape off gently and addressed her. The doctor left the room. Something familiar about him, but the mask...

"You want to know what is going on-- why you are here, what is being done to you. You think I wish revenge for your impertinence-- perhaps torture you, kill you. You are wrong," M informed her, "I don't seek revenge."

Candy swallowed in relief. Thank God. Thank God!

M continued. "Revenge is visited upon those whom we fear and respect on some level. I neither fear nor respect you. So I do not seek revenge. I will kill you though. I will kill Candy Kane."

She started to shriek, but the tape was reapplied. The scream died in Candy's throat. No one could hear her in this place. This place...familiar somehow...

M stroked Candy's thigh. "Let me finish-- I will kill Candy Kane," he spat the name out in disgust. "Candy Cane was a cheap oversexed little nympho, one not deserving of life. BUT in eliminating her--" his eyes gleamed in triumph, "I will give birth to Dominique. Just Dominique-- you'll have no need for a surname."

Candy's face pressed against the table. She understood now. How could she have ever thought it would turn out any differently? Her tears dripped on the shiny steel unchecked. He was going to make her into the creature of his dreams. Candy, the life-long fantasy of one man's imagination, would be transformed into Dominique, the fantasy of another man's desires.

M pulled off the tape again. Candy looked up at him, shaking the short curly blonde hair out of her eyes. "Will you tell me what you are going to turn me into?

M shook his head. "No, because it makes no difference whether you know or not. You will be Dominique and that is that. You will come to learn that your identity is mine to decide and yours to accept." He stroked her cheek. "You'll see, soon enough. I can't say whether or not you'll like it, but that matters least of all."

Candy looked at him and sobbed inconsolably. He was going to do this somehow. She had no doubt all he said would come true. The dark light in his deep-set eyes told her that Candy Cane's fate was sealed. "P-please, may I ask one thing? Just one promise? Please?"

M shrugged. "You have no right to expect anything, but go and ask. I am in a gentle mood."

Candy looked down between her legs. "M-may I keep it?"

M considered and smiled. "I'll consider your request. But there will be a price if I allow it." The doctor returned with a syringe and nodded at M. M looked down again at the bound she-male. "My brother is ready to work his magic. I believe you are aware of his work?"

The doctor pulled his mask down. It was Dr. Slate. She was at the Slate Institute.

M smirked. "Your American dollars will do much to revive both my and my brother's family fortunes. My family made it's fortune in the floral business in England-- do you see the irony? In our own ways, my brother and I are both gardeners of a sort. He says this will be his transgendering operation. He finds this work frankly...appalling."

Dr. Slate winced in distaste. "Putting tits on perverted American financiers is not why I obtained a medical degree at Oxford, I assure you."

M nodded. "True, brother. And once you performed the changes so direly needed by Missy Cane, you need never pick up a scalpel again. And your big brother will have the woman of his dreams, a woman like the one who served our father so many years ago back in England." He smiled broadly. "We will have our family fortune back, you shall have leisure and I shall have..." M looked down at Candy with an openly carnal appetite.

 "We are ready to begin. Goodbye Candy." Dr. Slate begin to inject her with the anesthetic.

As he began to pull up the tape again for the last time, Candy blurted out the last question she would ever ask. M retaped her mouth and as she slide into unconsciousness, he answered her question.

"M stands for Master, my pet. Your Master."

Dominique bent over prettily to fetch the Master's morning paper, which was shoved through the mail slot in the front door. As she did, she felt the short hem of her black taffeta skirt rose up over the top of her black fishnet stockings and even over the catch of the black lace garterbelt. Even when she was most ladylike, the hem always threatened to reveal the black lace thong panty underneath. Instinctively her hands flew back to restrain the skirt hem from showing even more of her feminine dainties and rose in place. As she rose on her three inch shiny black T-strapped pumps, Dominique unfolded the paper and placed it on the silver platter. A rose-- an American Beauty- adorned the platter in a small crystal vase. The Master insisted on a rose each and every morning. He said he loved beautiful things captured in attractive vessels.

She examined herself in the hallway mirror. She must be perfect for the Master. Dominique's face was longer now, less pretty than before but more striking. Prettiness, the Master said, was a common thing. What he preferred was an oval-shaped face with flawless classic European elegance, not a commonplace showgirl looking face. The doe-like baby blues were gone forever. Her eyes were a synthetic smoky gray now, to better match her surroundings as well as to impart a sulky suitability for sexual use. Candy's unruly mane of wild golden curls were no more. Dominique's hair was straight and deeply dyed an inky boot polish black for eternity. Master thought curls an aesthetic extravagance in a mere servant such as Dominique. Short hair, even stylishly cut, was inappropriate in a serving girl so it was worn long, though in a bun when engaged in domestic service. All other body hair had been removed, giving Dominique's skin a silky smoothness for the Master's touch. The upturned button nose Candy had paid so much for was history. In it's place was a small, straight thin nose-- a more aristocratic, aquiline look that appealed to the Master. The only reminder of her former face was the thin-lipped, bow-shaped mouth. The Master enjoyed the mouth precisely the way it was-- small and tight.

The Master had decided to remove any temptation for Dominique to alter her facial appearance by making permanent alterations. His maid need not make any decisions regarding her appearance, he said. He would fashion her in such a way that required no thought on her part. Her eyebrows were no longer thick. Instead they were plucked razor-thin, like mere pencil lines that framed her now-dark eyes. Long luscious, and false, black lashes had been fixed for good to give her come-hither expression more seductive allure. The dark of the Master's residence had erased the once golden California glow and replaced it with a vampiric paleness, her complexion wan bordering on moon-whiteness. The Master thought the complexion contrasted dramatically and aesthetically pleasingly with the permanent blood red lipstick applied to her mouth. Her pierced ears had grown together-- the Master said a mere maid had no place wearing such distracting baubles. But her counterfeit inch long nails, painted a matching blood red that never needed additional finishing, were considered attractive and feminine and these were likewise attached for all time with locking glue.

All these features she considered as she fearfully brushed a straight raven tress back into her bun. She must be perfect for the Master. To serve the Master with even a single flaw was to earn his wrath. The Master taught and trained his maid with only two lessons-- those involving pleasure (for him) and pain (for her). And Dominique had no wish to be taught a lesson in pain. She picked up the tray and knocked once on the door.

"Enter," the deep English voice bade her. He sat up in his king-size four poster bed watching her enter to serve him.

As Dominique bent over to place the tray before her master, she felt the skirt hem rise up again. This time she allowed it to rise, giving the Master a peek at the negligible black lace dainty beneath the errant hem. Serving the Master necessitated such naughty displays, in deed was the point for her service. Sexuality was identity now, though not the slutty bar girl playfulness Candy had exhibited. No. It was now the practiced, choreographed seduction of Dominique, the Master's French maid, who lived to entice him to use her. He placed his hand firmly under her black taffeta skirt and squeezed the skimpily-pantied buns underneath.

Dominique, eyes kept respectfully downcast, offered him the little sphinx-like smile she had been taught was the appropriate way for a maid to exhibit her emotions to her master-- small, deferential gestures that gave the merest hints.

"May zee maid haf permizshon to playshur her masteer?" Dominique humbly asked.

Candy's American English with its grad school-level vocabulary had been erased from her memory. French had taken its place, a low-class French at an sixth grade vocabulary level. But to further complicate Dominique's life, she was not permitted to speak that "barbarian tongue." The Master expected her to speak only in the pidgin English she was taught-- a few words sufficient for her to carry out the menial duties of a gentleman's maid. He found her sweet-pitched French-laced English simply intoxicating.

"Yes, Dominique. You have permission to pleasure your Master," he replied in the assuming tone he took with his maid. He returned to his paper, turning to the Financials as he always did to check on his many investments. A meticulous man, the Master oversaw his five million dollar portfolio with close attention.

Dominique nodded and stepped back from the bed. As coyly as she might, she pranced on the toes of her black patent leather heels to the foot of the oversized bed, swaying her barely skirted backside for her Master's amusement with exaggerated hip swings. Though he ignored her seductive strut, she continued it methodically till she reached the foot of the bed.

Keeping her eyes cast downward, she untied the minuscule white lace serving apron in back, tossing it aside. Dominique then reached back to unbutton her form-fitting black maid's uniform blouse, careful to unbutton the frilly white lace collar and separate cuffs. Sinuously the blouse and skirt dripped off the pale thin feminized body. The plush tanned party girl body was gone.

The 36C breasts had been reduced to small girlish 30As-- the Master preferring "fruit not yet ripe" to "gross melons." The petite mounds jiggled ever so slightly in a black lace demi-bra, underwired to give the trifling buds as much cleavage as possible, which was very little indeed. The bra was decorated with French lillies and closed in front with a small black heart-shaped close. Dominique's nipples poked against the lilies, making a tiny bullet against the sheer material.

Just below Dominique's precious black lace brassiere, the French maid's waist disappeared under the harsh insistence of a corset. The corset fitted an unforgiving wall of steel-bone reinforced black lace around the pale, moon-white torso. The once womanly 32 inch waist had been subjugated by the corset and pinched into a waspy 24 inch schoolgirl measurement. The corset was locked in back and was worn without respite. Frilly black lace wafted off the edge of the corset, tickling Dominique's flat, sensitive tummy.

Dominique's slimmed down alabaster hips were framed with an enticing garter belt of gossamer fashioned black lace. Tiny clasps at the ends of narrow black straps supported black fishnet stockings of the most common variety. What had been 36 inch hips were now a svelte 26 inches in diameter. Over the wispy garter belt, Dominique wore her black lace thong panty. In the center of the panty panel was a French lily, an embellishment that pleased her Master.

The French maid now stood before her Master. With a single fluid motion, she reached behind to the nape of her neck and pulled out the pins which kept her raven hair in a bun. The Master had instructed her to perform all sexual service with her hair long and loose at scheduled times such as these. Dominique shook out the jet hair, feeling it cascade to the middle of her bare spine. She furtively looked up to see if her Master was watching. He flipped the newspaper pages, oblivious to her presence. She suppressed a sigh.

With well-practiced grace, Dominique knelt before the foot of the bed and with the utmost care buried her head under the bedcovers. Like a well-trained diver, she bored through the fine linen of the Master's private bed, till she found a leg of the Master's pajama bottoms. She gently tugged the end of the garment and could feel the Master raise his hips to better let her pull the garment off. It came free and she pulled it entirely off.

Next the French maid began to lick the feet of her English master. Pressing her small mouth downward, she took each and every toe with her wet, tight mouth and fellated them like small cocks. Hungrily, she drew the toes in and bathed them hotly with her tongue. When this was complete, Dominique ran her tongue from the base of the Master's ankles, up and over his thick, wire-haired legs, switching off leg to leg to ensure complete adoration.

The minutes passed as Dominique continued the ritual-like servicing. As she climbed deeper into the bed, she remembered not to let her heels touch the clean sheets. Once she had ripped a sheet-- inexcusable for a maid. She was well punished for her indiscretion by the Master and was eager not to learn the lesson again. Would that she might take off the heels. But they, like the corset, were locked on, never to be removed, giving her permanent heels.

Finally she had reached as far as she would travel in her voyage up the Master's body-- his long, thick and semi-erect cock. Dominique's task was to coax her Master to pleasure with her pretty, tight mouth and she set herself to her assignment with the fervor of a fearful worshipper. Balls were lapped first, Dominique hoping to stir the Master's cum within to spurt out later. His pubic hair scratched against her pale face without mercy as she took the balls in her mouth, sucking gently on each. The Master's hand descended beneath the covers, catching in it a bridle of her raven hair too direct her efforts. Without pity, the hand yanked the hair up, her face to the shaft. Suppressing a tear, she opened her mouth as the Master positioned her lips over the flesh scepter. A brutal yank down and Dominique's mouth was impaled by the Master's lance. She took it as deep as she might within her throat, feeling the precum drizzle down and coat her mouth's insides. The Master remained silent and unseen as Dominique obeyed the imperative of his lust, sucking and deepthroating him with every piston of the mighty rod. Hot splashes of cum shoot within her and Dominique moaned like an overheated whore in simulated orgasm for her Master.

He had taught her she might display her obedience to him by cumming just after he had. Never before. Not that she could cum anymore. But she understood his meaning-- he wanted her to make a display for him, to moan and buck. It gave him pleasure to see her humiliate herself this way. And if she failed to make this sluttish display of affection, he would further instruct her in the importance of discipline and her submission. Dominique knew this meant his strap or his belt or his crop or the paddle he kept for such purposes. She whipped her tongue over her lips, panting with abandon for the delectation of her Master.

Finally he released her hair. She understood he was finished with her for the moment. With speed, she crept out from the bedcover the way she had entered. With considerably more rapidity that she had taken them off, Dominique dressed herself in her uniform clothing again, clipping her hair back into a tight black bun. Without a word, the Master waved off the tray and newspaper. Dominique took the silver platter wordlessly and wriggled her way trembling from the bedchamber. Behind her the Master rose an began his day, thus.

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