Virginia - Vol 02

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[Content:] transfeminine (T4T), lingerie, latex, transformation, objectification, dark magic, immobility

[Spice Level:] Mild

[Notes:] This is previously uploaded content with minor edits. If you are looking to continue Virginia's story, I suggest starting at Volume 3. Though there's a lot of kinky fun in this series, this is not the story to read for a quick wank. This is a story for the femmes about transformation and the complexity of feminine desire through loss of power. Like the first one, this is mostly exposition - so you'll have to hold it in for me darling.

[Summary] - Our anonymous narrator goes to the backroom with the store manager to fit her corset. There, she loses her humanity and finds her name.

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Just like before, I slide the corset up my thighs and nestle my cock into the crotch. I fuss with my boobs until they sit nicely in their cups, then I run my hands down my sides. When I look in the mirror, I feel an instant rush of affirmation. This feels...right. It feels...essential.

I wrap my fingers around the laces at the back and pull gingerly. There is a heat like before, but not the sharp pain. Not at first. As I look in the mirror, my feminine form beams back at me. But it is not enough.

I tell myself that my waist could be smaller. So, I pull on the strings again. This time, they seem to hum to life and pain sears through my torso. Again, my tits are on fire like a thousand needles are piercing them. I cry out so loudly that I'm certain Scarlet will come running.

Sure enough, she bursts through the curtain as my pain is subsiding. I'm slumped over the upholstered chair in the corner, folding in on myself. "Oh you poor thing!" she exclaims sincerely, rushing to my side. She places her hand under my chin and raises my face to meet her gaze. Something is different about her eyes. They are like mahogany, dark and immobile. Her lips are a deeper red than before and her hair has become a shade of black so pure that it seems to absorb all the light in the room.

"What happened?" she asks, her voice dripping with concern.

"This...thing!" I gesture to the corset, "It -- it hurts." I half expect her to laugh as Gabrielle did, but instead she nods knowingly. "I thought it might," she says, more to herself than to me.

"What's going on?" I ask, trying to tame the hysteria bubbling up inside of me.

"It's exactly as I told you. This artifact is imbued with sexual power. Based on your reaction, it is likely using pain to transform you."

"Transform me? Transform me into what?" I ask incredulously. I've already been through a life-altering transformation. I certainly didn't sign up for another.

"Don't panic, my dear," Scarlet says reassuringly, "As with any such artifact, it can only use you if you allow it to. The choice is yours to make."

"The choice? What choice?" My voice starts to crescendo into full-fledged panic.

"The choice to become a real girl."

"You lied to me!" I scream. "You said that it didn't matter if I was cis or trans. You said that being a real girl had nothing to do with what's in my pants."

"It doesn't," Scarlet replies, unperturbed by my rising voice. "It involves becoming the very thing you want most. The epitome of feminine ideals. The voiceless, impossible models that you see on billboards. The altered and plastic faces that you cannot remove from your mind when you say 'woman'."

I can feel my body growing tense and hot, pushing against the birdcage around my chest.

"You're saying I'll become what? A model? Look, I've done enough self-reflecting to know that's not what I want. You'd have me be one of those lithe cryptids that pass for Victoria's Secret Angels? Fuck no. I have my insecurities like any other woman, but I'm proud of who I've become." I recite affirmations to myself that transcend appearance: "I am a good person... I can make mistakes...I try to be my best self...I can make mistakes..."

Scarlet sighs, and something tells me she believes that the game is over. The heat in my chest starts to dissipate, and she begins to unwind the lattice on my back. As I try to gather my wits, something more powerful than conviction takes over my thoughts -- desire. "Scarlet," I begin.

"It's Madame Scarlet, my little flower," she sings.

"What do I have to give -- to become a real girl?"

"Everything."

I take a deep breath, then cast aside my doubt. This is an opportunity. An opportunity to become something truly special. "I will give myself to the artifact. I will allow this bodice to transform my body and soul, whatever the outcome may be." Perhaps this is the wrong choice. But I am strong. I can handle anything. Right?

Scarlet pauses in the middle of untying the lattice. "You poor creature," she says, making no effort to hide her condescension. "I thought you might have the gall to escape this fate."

With a lurch, her hands pull the cords of the corset with inhuman force, and I feel unimaginable pressure on my midsection. Surely my ribs will break under the force and I will burst into a million tiny pieces.

I scream, but the voice that I hear is no longer my own. It is a high and hollow sound, like the sorrowful howl of some eldritch creature.

Thousands of small appendages appear from the seams of the corset. They are miniscule black tentacles, wavering in the air before attaching themselves to me. They dissipate into blots of waxy ink, sealing the bodice to my skin.

No, no, no, I think, then try in vain to rip the leather from my body. It holds fast, and I can no longer see the border between my skin and the bodice. I have a go at the bottom, trying to tug at the thong and dislodge it from my crotch. It has sealed around my pelvis, holding my cock and asshole hostage. My eyes flash frantically. Where has Scarlet gone? She's nowhere to be seen. The mirror is slowly growing opaque, illuminated by some otherworldly fog. I cannot see myself in it, though perhaps it is for the best that the panicked, helpless thing that I have become remains hidden.

A corporeal jolt passes through my legs as my feet seem to melt into the floor -- or rather - the floor seems to melt up onto my legs. An oily black substance coats my feet and runs up my calves, stopping at my knees. Struggling to free my legs, I realize that I am helplessly rooted to the spot. I try to wiggle my toes but feel nothing. The form encasing my legs resembles a pair of plastic knee-high heels. In a horrifying moment of lucidity, I realize not only can I not feel my feet, but they are...gone. I can't explain it, but I know that they are no longer beneath the shiny plastic coating.

"Scarlet! Scarlet!" I cry out, and now my voice has become lighter, higher. For a moment, I have a beautiful soprano voice that sings out like an operatic cry in the dark. I continue to scream and shout for what feels like an eternity. Each time, my voice ascends an octave and grows more distant. I once again feel her presence behind me, and pivot on my heels. The motion is too quick for my new form, and I fall to the ground. My hands instinctively support my back, and I scuttle away from her as quickly as I can manage.

"It's Madame Scarlet, dear. How many times must I correct you?" I feel something hot hit me in the cheek, and a brief shock works its way down my spine. She smacks me again. "Try again, my dear. How are you to address me?"

"I'm sorry, Madame Scarlet. I'm sorry." I want to fight for my dignity, but something fixes me in a state of submission. "What are you doing to me?" I ask in the meek, wavering voice that hardly feels like my own. Trying to meet her gaze, I realize that her red eyes are now shrouded in umbral mist. No, it's not that, it must be some sort of lace blindfold. However, she had just closed the distance between us in a mere second, and with such deliberate steps that I have no doubt she is perceiving her surroundings with startling clarity.

She straddles my body and leans in close. She smells like something old and forbidden. A forest rotting in a bog. An abandoned attic. Something full of sensation and yet entirely empty.

"My little flower, I am doing nothing to you. You have invited a change into yourself, and it is a fait accompli. You will become what you promised to become."

As before, a sickly, viscous liquid rises up my arms, which had had been the only support propping me up from the floor. I scream again, but my voice is barely audible, like the faint whistle of a tea kettle. The black fluid winds up my wrists and forearms like tar, once again relenting at the joints of my elbows. I flex my fingers over and over, trying to convince them to remain. But they no longer respond, and they become immobile, caught in the act of reaching for something. Unable to support my upper body, my face comes crashing to the floor, arms splayed out like useless, plastic appendages.

"I don't remember promising to..." Suddenly my mind draws a blank. "Promising to...I'm not..."

Nothing is working. My legs no longer obey me. My breath has grown thin, and my chest no longer rises and falls. My arms are useless, restrained in dark plastic gloves. My hands remain pitifully locked in a gesture of grasping at something.

"You're not what exactly, my dear? Before you trip over your tongue explaining what you are not, you ought to think about what exactly it is that you are."

"I am...I'm...," but I have no response. Who am I?

"My name is...," but I don't remember.

"I'm...," tears well in my eyes. At least I know that they are real.

"I'm lost," I finally manage through choked sobs.

"My dear, you are not lost." Mme. Scarlet purrs maternally, "You are finally finding yourself. Becoming yourself."

"Nothing makes sense anymore. I know nothing," I continue, sobbing.

"You know nothing, and I know all." She circles me like a predator assessing its quarry.

"I will have pity on you since you are such a pathetic little creature. You need a name, so I will give you one. I will name you Virginia."

Mme. Scarlet's hands have become something inhuman. Long, skeletal twigs have replaced her fingers. Her touch, however, is comforting. She lifts my lifeless arms and props me up on the upholstered chair.

"What is your name, my little flower?"

"My name is Virginia, Madame Scarlet."

"You don't sound like you believe it. Say it with that unbreakable conviction that I know you have."

"I am Virginia."

"Repeat it."

"I am Virginia. I am Virginia. I am Virginia..." I recite repeatedly. As I do, my voice continues to rise. Mme. Scarlet opens her mouth to reveal rows and rows of concentric teeth. The unholy aperture draws closer and closer to my mouth. She begins sucking the very air out of my lungs. My voice is as high as a dog whistle, then escalates to a pitch that I myself can no longer hear.

"That's a good girl, Virginia. You've done so well." Mme. Scarlet says. Her mouth closes, and she plants a couple of passionate kisses on my lips. Did I see her mouth open, or did I imagine it? Her lips are so warm, so soft, so real. This is real. This is happening.

"Now not only is your body fixed up nicely, but your voice is too. Now no one can hear you when you scream except for me. Give it a try." My moment of submission quickly gives way to a burning rage. "You bitch," my lips say, though no words follow, "You tricked me. You're crazy. You're a fucking con artist with a god complex."

"Your words wound me," she mocks, pursing her lips to feign hurt. "You won't be so obstinate once you see yourself," she continues, moving the chair closer to the mirror that extends from the floor to the ceiling. With a flick of her long fingers, Mme. Scarlet parts the fog obscuring the mirror.

A creature -- mostly human - stares back at me. I recognize my face, but my body is...different. The corset binds my midsection firmly, leaving a haughty amount of cleavage exposed. My arms are immobilized in long plastic gloves. My legs are the same, encased in dark plastic boots. The remaining parts of my exposed skin have changed. I can't make out my pores. My skin gives off a plastic shine. Mme. Scarlet traces my clavicles. I barely feel her touch. She explores my body with her long fingers, sending shivers down my spine in time with the delicate stimulation.

Though my appearance scares me, there is something comforting about it. I like the way I look. Everything that made me insecure about my previous body has been fixed. I am beautiful, spotless, symmetrical. My skin, though plastic, is now without a single blemish or freckle. My beauty may be plain in all its predictable symmetry, but I don't care. I have become the spitting image of feminine beauty. I've waited a lifetime for this. I deserve this.

I feel Mme. Scarlet run her hands up my taint, and I shriek inaudibly. I feel the rush of an erection, though I don't know whether my cock is able to move. If the rest of my body is any indication, it is now likely just a plastic statue contained in my thong.

"Doesn't that feel good, my little plaything? Doesn't that feel right?"

"Yes, Madame Scarlet, it does feel right." I say noiselessly before I can catch myself. There are perks to being as I am now. Everything I am feeling is more delicate and more exhilarating. I suddenly want every inch of my perfect skin to be touched, appreciated, loved. I feel a deep yearning to be useful and to be used.

The terror of immobility has softened to anticipation. My hips flare out beneath the cursed corset, accentuated by the curvature of the frame. Throughout my adult life, I spent so long trying to perfect the movement of my hips to simulate the bouncing strut of cis women walking on the street. One, two, one, two. I'd wake up sore around the hipbones from practicing those exaggerated steps. Now, I am free from the burdens of movement. If I cannot move myself, then there is no longer any pressure for me to carry myself in any particular manner. Someone else will decide if, when and how I move about this world now. Relief passes through me at the thought.

Mme. Scarlet brings her face in close to mine and starts to trace my cock through my thong. I try to moan, but again, no sound comes forth. I know Mme. Scarlet can hear me, however, because her pupils widen with ecstasy at each outburst.

"Oh, you like that, don't you my little plaything?" she asks, lightly stroking up and down. "I don't mean to tease you, but I couldn't help exploring your enticing new form." Creating a fist, she hits my sternum lightly. I feel a corporeal echo pass through me.

"You've done it, my dear. You have become a real girl." A jolt of pleasure runs through me. This is all I've ever wanted. Ever since I was forced into male spaces at school. Ever since I became a hairy, unfeeling young 'man.' All I've ever wanted is this. To be called a real girl.

"To be a real girl is to be hollow," Mme. Scarlet coos with maternal confidence. "It has nothing to do with biology or genitalia as so many impudent assholes might lead you to believe. No. I have been around long enough to know that to be real is to be something else entirely."

She bites my neck softly, and I can feel her sharpened teeth press into my plastic skin. Part of me wants her to bite harder to see if she can bend me or shatter me.

She continues, "How do you think supermodels do it? Or even the amateurs that pervade your endless stream of social media, offering frivolous weight loss routines and makeup tips? They hollow themselves. They become immobile little dolls that can be manipulated and maneuvered by dark artists like me. Yes, they are touched up by makeup and camerawork, but they are essentially exactly as you are now - empty."

She knocks on my chest again, and a fatal echo resonates through me. My lips try to part in shock, but they only reach a mild expression of astonishment before solidifying.

"What are you, my little Virginia?" Mme. Scarlet purrs in my ear, her voice languid and dark.

"I'm hollow."

"Try again."

"I'm a real girl."

"Good. That's my girl. Yes, you are as real as they come. I know you will serve me well."

At this, she turns and disappears through the curtain to the fitting room, and I am left in a helpless position, back straightened against the chair, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

As minutes turn to hours, I start to lose myself. "Perhaps I'm not really here after all," I reflect. I try endless strategies to try and trick my body to go to sleep. "Perhaps this is some horrible nightmare."

Despite my best efforts, my eyes refuse to shut and my mind does not settle. I am cursed with consciousness that will not abate. "I understand now," I think to myself helplessly, "Dolls don't sleep."