Chapter 12

I wanted to run to save time, but I knew Aunt Liz would disapprove, so I concentrated on gliding down the hall and up the stairs to my room. I took a hurried shower, dried off, and rubbed the lotion I’d used before into every part of my skin I could reach. I exited the en suite to discover my aunt had laid out what she wanted me to wear again. There was a slinky, long, V-neck, peach-coloured satin nightie, white bikini briefs, and pink, fluffy slide slippers.

The bikini briefs were a problem because the sparsity of the material left little to hold my dick back and stop it from bulging. I eventually found if I lay two panty protectors side-by-side in the panty’s gusset, I could successfully tuck my slender penis well enough not to pop out when I walked. Happy with my appearance, I slid my feet into the slippers and turned to walk to the kitchen.

As I did, I saw myself in the mirror and stopped. ‘Why was I doing this?’ I wondered as I examined the undeniably feminine image staring back at me. I wasn’t a girl, and before meeting my aunt, I had no desire to dress or act as one, let alone become one. Part of it was a human being’s instinctive desire not to be alone. My aunt meant family and acceptance. Being with her and doing her bidding meant I fit somewhere. Aunty Liz seemed to honestly care about me, and despite her falling out with my mother, she cared enough about her to honour a promise given years before, and that respect and affection carried over to me.

Another part was my aunt’s powerful, dominant personality. Aunt Liz calmly stated her wants, desires, and orders, expecting and knowing she would be obeyed and get what she wanted. My much more submissive personality responded to that dominance with respectful obeisance, and I instinctively did as she asked.

I’d unknowingly sat on the bed’s edge as images of my life with my mother played through my mind. My grief welled, causing tears to well from my eyes and pour down my face. ‘What if I failed to please my aunt?’ I wondered. ‘Would I be tossed out on my ear, alone, unwanted, and unloved?’ I began sobbing as I imagined the life I’d be forced to live. That path led to forced prostitution, drug use, and early death.

Aunty Liz found me sitting there an unknown time later, uncontrollably weeping. She eased across to take my hand. “You poor thing,” she murmured, putting her hand on my head and guiding it to her shoulder. “This is all a bit much for you, isn’t it, baby? It’s for the best, though, Dylan, for I will look after you, my dear. Do not doubt that.”

“Thank you, Aunt Liz.”

Placing her warm hand on mine and causing thrilling excitement to race through me, my aunt smiled and answered, “You’re welcome, sweetie. Honey, I know this is all weird and hard for you right now, but I promise it will get better, okay? Don’t fight me, and I’ll make you into who you’re supposed to be. Resist me, and I’ll change you anyway, only it’ll be a lot more painful for you.”

Suddenly realising it was true, I firmly stated, “I’ll try not to disappoint you, Mistress Donnelly.”

I received another sweet smile and an electrifyingly warm touch on my hand. “I know you will, honey. Now, be a good girl and go and wash your face and brush your hair, and I’ll see you in the kitchen soon, okay?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I glided into the kitchen a few moments later, practising my walk. Aunt Liz sat at the table, her eyes twinkling as she watched me walk into her kitchen elegantly. Then, she stood and showed me where the wine glasses were, took a bottle of Pinot Gris from the fridge, and poured us a glass each. Next, holding my arm, Aunty Liz guided me into her lounge and sat me beside her on a plush leather couch. The book went back on my head, and we genteelly sipped our wine and spoke of this and that. I tried to think of intelligent replies to her questions, but I am unsure if I succeeded.

After about an hour, most of which I’d successfully kept the book on my head, my aunt asked, “Are you ready for dinner?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered.

“Good, so am I. Will you help me to prepare it?”

“Of course, Ma’am,” I replied.

“Have you cooked before, Dylan?” She asked.

“Not really, Ma’am,” I answered. “I’ve heated things like oven chips and pies in the stove, but I’ve never prepared and cooked a meal before.”

“Oven,” my aunt corrected absently. “A stove, these days, refers to the top of the oven, now called a stove or oven top. The baking and roasting is done in an oven. Never mind, because it doesn’t matter. I’ll give you some simple tasks to do so you can observe me preparing the chicken strips for our meal.”

Aunty Liz opened her fridge and got out lettuce, capsicum, tomatoes, spinach leaves, walnuts, a can of pears, and light balsamic vinegar. My task was to break open the iceberg lettuce and shred it. Then Aunt Liz handed me a cutting board and a sharp knife, and I sliced the tomatoes and capsicum. Next, I cut the pears into small chunks. Finally, I took the bowl my aunt had gotten out and mixed the disparate ingredients into it before sprinkling the vinegar over it.