Chapter 5

Winter had been fickle.

The first snow thawed after a week, followed by a new load that resisted two months of alternate frost and thaw, more snow and chilling rain. Finally, when February ended, all paths and lanes around Norton’s buildings turned into slippery mud and soggy brown grass.

Lucian kept running whatever the weather.

He often returned soaked and splattered from his twice-daily forays amongst ice-bearded trees leaking their chilly melt water down his neck and spine. Most of the time he ran alone, and usually he had to find his way through misty dawn and gloomy dusk.

He didn’t care.

Running was his last resort – the only moments of the day he felt free from the constant pressure Norton’s Academy of Excellence had become.

Teachers relentlessly pushed and polished, patiently shaping a new standard of normalcy. Looking good and moving graciously became impersonal things, like learning French or history. There was no link to his personal reality. He took it all for granted – as he knew everyone did. And finally it became an unconscious part of his life, conditioning his mind.

The routine started each morning, after running.

In the end he came to a point where he knew he’d feel bad if he skipped shampooing and blow-drying his curly hair – even if he hated the effect. He’d also feel uncomfortable the rest of the day if he forgot the thorough rubbing of every square inch of his skin with the prescribed lotion.

Smelling fresh ensured peace of mind, and it had become virtually impossible to ignore a stray hair or the tiniest stubble on his pale, immaculate skin. His nails on toes and fingers had to be perfect – smoothly polished and spotlessly painted.

Sure, part of his brain was still screaming in disgust at what he did to himself, but another part just had to go through the automatic movements. Maybe, he thought, his body had grown its own brain, working separately from the one in his head?

Schizophrenia was a word he’d heard about.

Sometimes tears spoiled the work he did on making up his eyes. But he soaked them up angrily with a tissue and went on, drawing perfect lines and fattening his lashes with mascara.

Breakfast was no longer the raucous affair he remembered from his first days. The yelling and pushing became exceptions; belching or breaking wind was definitely not done.

Did the others feel the pressure like he did? Did Harper? Jo?

Red haired Kelly had always been the most boyish Bob, always in for a romp, bragging and swaggering. But lately there were changes – physical changes too. The riot of freckles on his skin faded, and the fierce orange of his hair seemed darker. His green eyes were bigger and more intense, maybe because of the subtle eyeliner he used, as they all did by now.

The changes in Kelly’s face might be from just growing up – wizening up. He looked definitely softer, less edgy, as did most of the Bobs. Even his big, horsey teeth seemed smaller.

The most chilling change he noticed was with Charlie – but maybe it was only a change in the way he and the rest of the boys saw him.

Little porcelain Charlie seemed to have grown these last months, not so much in stature as in presence. He was still quiet and soft-spoken, appearing and disappearing like a ghost, but the fragile shyness was gone. Whenever he joined them now, a hush descended on the group; his appearance spread a silent wave of smiles on the faces around him. His chair was pulled out for him, and his glass filled with water.

Lucian watched the boy carefully.

The very outline of his face and body seemed to blur – the soft shoulders, the dainty fingers and the dimpled cheeks. Even the flaxen curls had a velvety halo; the cherry lips trembled, the violet of his gaze seemed to blend with the light.

By now it felt silly to call her a him anymore.

Time became syrup when Charlie’s eyes found his; the long lashes fluttered in slow motion as the violet deepened, pulling him in.

Lucian shivered and looked away. But not before the boy’s smile melted the air between them.

Yes, change was everywhere, but very slow.

It was never abrupt or obvious – ­ and never the same for everybody. It might be a sweet and welcome gift for some, Lucian guessed, or a venomous snake in the grass for others. It all depended on your opinion, didn’t it?

For Charlie it certainly was a gift. For himself Lucian wasn’t sure. While picking up his daily pills, he kept watching out for the adder.

It was on a wet day in March.

Lucian returned from another muddy run, having lost the others while doing his second and third lap around the grounds. His top and tights were soaked with sweat and drenched by icy rain. Panting from racing the last three hundred yards he bent over, hands on his knees. Heat steamed from his back while water leaked from his curly bangs.

“The old cow needs to see you; nine o’clock her place.”

Lucian looked up into Harper’s grinning face.

Ms. Parker had absolute power over her Bobs. But, as things go with dictators, the urge among her subjects to secretly mock her was proportional. ‘Old cow’ was maybe the friendliest. There also was ‘Iron Tits’ and ‘Panzer Babe’ for the severe suits she loved to wear.

But there was never a doubt: they would do whatever she told them – and pronto.

It wasn’t yet eight now. Lucian knew that if he hurried the showering and dressing he might still make breakfast before seeing Parker. So he thanked Harper and ran up the steps to the front door, grimacing as he felt the boy’s hand on his damp ass cheek.

Before reaching his room, he’d already peeled off the sticky top. Dancing inside on one leg while pulling off his left trainer, he saw the small pile of clothing on his unmade bed.

Picking up the uppermost item he saw it was a tiny top, made of lace and satin. It really was more like a bra, although there were no cups – just triangular pieces of flimsy satin, like a bikini top.

It had spaghetti straps, but no clasp at the back or front.

At first he was puzzled by its obvious uselessness. But as he let it slide through his fingers, memories entered his mind. Things he’d pushed away, but never really forgot.

For a woman like his mother bras had a function, both for comfort and beauty. But he knew you didn’t have to be a woman to feel other secrets, aspects beyond pure functionality – deeper thrills than just imagining how it held up breasts, hiding them, shaping them, and showing them off. He shivered at the secret, magical signals it whispered to him, the arousing taboo he could sense, just letting it slip through his fingers.

He brought it to his face, trying to smell the ghost of a long gone perfume – a telltale scent.

Shaking his head he laid the object aside, picking up the next item. It was a white thong made of the same material as the top: a flimsy triangle of satin held up by strings. Next to it he found white nylon stockings with a wide elastic band at the top. The fabric slithered through his fingers. His heart pounded.

Then he saw the card.

“Please go shower,” it read in Parker’s business-like handwriting. “Do your make up like Ms. Larue taught you. Then dress up in these clothes and come to my office at 9.00 sharp. Trust me, it’s important to look your best. Do us proud.”

Ms. Larue was Mamselle. Parker was probably the only one ever using her name.

Lucian picked up the white dress that lay under the card. It seemed curiously narrow, but was very stretchy. Even hanging shapelessly from his hand he knew it would make him look embarrassingly sexy.

He’d worn it in the photo shoot.

Letting it dangle from a finger he inspected the final items – a set of heeled pumps, a clutch, bracelets and ear rings, all in silver. He also found a tiny hat, white and round, like a vintage stewardess’s cap, and two wrist-long gloves made of white, stretchy satin.

Sighing he sank on the bed.

‘Fuck‘ was the unspoken word lingering in his head where he repeated it for a while. His lips moved, but the only sound came from the bracelets dangling from his fingertips.

Another lame charade.

Whatever could be the reason this time? Another photo shoot, maybe? He knew the photographer wanted a repeat after that first time, but why meet at Parker’s place; why not at the studio? He hadn’t seen Bobs wearing dresses and heels since Christmas, and this was just an anonymous day in March. No holiday, no party, nothing.

The jingling of the bracelets got on his nerves.

He dropped the jewelry. Shivering from the cold wetness of his naked chest and drenched running tights, he rose, pressing his jaws together to keep his teeth from chattering.

Well, he had to shower anyway, didn’t he?

The water fell hot and steaming on his neck and back, soaking his cold core until the muscles relaxed. He shampooed his hair and carefully checked every fold and cranny like he did every morning, soaping his armpits and his loins, probing in and out of his sphincter and rubbing between his toes.

The familiarity of the soap’s perfume soothed his mind, while the routine of the process relaxed knots and kinks in his muscles. Reassurance replaced anguish, ushering in some confidence.

He felt a glow spread from rubbing his skin with the rich fluff of a clean towel. Then he grabbed the bottle of lotion and started to apply it – following the mandatory daily routine.

He understood it was hypnosis: the autohypnosis of repetition. He didn’t care. It felt wonderfully secure, like standing on an island in the midst of an uncontrollably raging river. Knowing he had no choice calmed his demons, scaring away his fears.

But picking up the bra-like top caused them to rush back in with a vengeance.

He knew what this so called school was trying to do to him. He’d always known, of course, and nobody ever denied it. Looking down his starved and well-trained body he saw his pathetic little penis limply hanging down on its tight and hairless sac. It had never amounted to much, but it surely seemed smaller lately, as did the balls it rested on.

He was eighteen, goddammit.

The exposed head wasn’t much more than a salmon pink knob against his skin’s paleness.

Cradling it in the palm of his right hand he knew what they were doing to him, but there seemed to be no sense of panic anymore, no urgency to flee – no horror.

Well, maybe that was the horror? But what was new?

All his life he’d been flung from one type of horror to the next, hadn’t he – running from the neglect of his parents to the negligence of his nannies; from the bullies at one school to the torturers at the next – from the contempt of his father to the ridicule of his mother.

And from those to the knives and pills and syringes of Norton’s Academy of Fucking Excellence.

He picked up the silver shoe, turning it left and right so the light sparkled off its slim curves. His mind traveled back to an afternoon about three years ago.

They still lived in London back then, and he’d just returned from a disastrous few months at an upper class boarding school in rural Sussex. Shaking his head Lucian tried to get rid of the avalanche of images the memory caused – the sneering faces, the crude remarks, the spittle dripping from his face, the hits and bruises.

Most of all: the utter solitude.

He shook his head and concentrated on the memory of the silver shoe, or one almost like it as he sat admiring it on the soft white rug in his mother’s room – boudoir she called it. He was surrounded by half of her wardrobe: shining satins, softly knit jerseys, slippery nylons and sensuously smelling leather.

He knew he was alone in the house.

So he let go of his fear, putting his shame on hold for later. Only wearing his tight briefs he let the silk of a blouse caress his skin – eyes closed, nostrils flaring.

Shivering he imagined how it would feel to wear it, back then, together with the nylons and the leather skirt – to put them on and watch himself in them. But he’d laid the blouse down, picking up a tiny lace thong to bury his face in.

Back in the present a chilly draft touched his neck.

The shoe lay on the bed again, he saw, and his fingers once more fondled the tiny bra thing – the silken spaghetti straps and the filmy triangular panels.

The chill came from his still moist hair.

He rose and put on a robe. Then he got his blow dryer and brush, turning his hair into a silvery mob of curls that danced around his face.

How he hated his hair. How he hated its beauty.

The clock said it was ten past eight. He did have to hurry. Or did he?

Once again he studied the bra.

The boys at Norton’s wore tight silk tops all the time, didn’t they? They all did. But this seemed different. Seeing his pink nails shimmer through the fabric he wondered what the difference was. The usual tops were, well, like short T’s. And T-shirts were all right.

Everybody wore them.

This ... thing, though ... it was maybe the most feminine piece of garment. It insinuated something – something altogether different from their daily tops. It suggested as if he ought to have breasts; as if he had them, even though you couldn’t see them. But he didn’t, did he? No student did at Norton’s, not even the Barbs, so what was the point?

He dropped the bra and picked up the thong, just another contraption of strings, really.

Shaking his head he dropped it on the pile. Then he walked over to the closet and took out a sky blue regular Norton’s top and white satin shorts. Completing his outfit with the long dress shirt and ballet shoes, he grabbed his compact to do his eyes – the daily dash of eyeliner; a bit of clear gloss on the lips – it was just lip balm, really.

Rising, he decided to go look for breakfast.

“Trusting you, Parker?” he mumbled, crumpling the note in his hand. “Fuck you, old cow.”

The corridors were empty.

He guessed most students already were having breakfast as he walked the marble floors of a well-lit hallway. The tall windows on his left gave out on the central lawn and driveway.

That’s where he saw the limousine.

It came to a halt right in front of the entrance where the usual welcome-Barb in tailed jacket waited for it. She opened a passenger door, and Lucian’s heart stopped.

From the limo stepped his mother.

The upturned collar of her mink coat and the brim of a black hat mostly covered her face, but it was all he needed to know it was her. The coat was short enough to show off a knee-length black skirt, dark shimmering nylons and needle-heeled pumps.

He recognized the impatience in her movements as she waited for two men who followed her. They both wore dark coats and leather briefcases. One was gray, the other dark haired.

‘Lawyers,’ he knew.

His mind raced.

They were no doubt on their way to Parker’s office for a meeting he was supposed to attend. Last time his mother was here she hadn’t even bothered to see him, but now he ought to be present – done up like a girl no less, in a dress and heels. What was the fucking purpose of that? What plan did they have? Or was it just meant to humiliate him?

Lucian quietly returned to his room.

His heartbeat slowed down to normal as he once more fondled the white dress. Sitting on his bed he went through every possible reason why his mother was here.

It was all about the divorce, of course.

Some decision must have been made; some deal struck – or maybe not. Maybe his mother needed extra leverage to make his father pay for his tuition.

Or would she even care?

It would be far more probable that she was here to recruit his assistance in securing her future. But how could he ever help with that?

Wasn’t he just an obstacle?

No, she wouldn’t be here to take him with her – certainly not if he were all dressed and made up like a girl. Nah... maybe she didn’t even expect him at the meeting, certainly not in dress and make up. Maybe Parker deliberately wanted to show him off to his mother, just to prove how irreversibly his progress had become.

Progress.

He could very well imagine the impact on his mother; it might make her believe he belonged here – that he was happy with it. It would be just like Parker to think that up.

But why bother – hadn’t his mother brought him here in the first place?

For Parker it must be all about money.

Maybe the two of them were in this together, planning on making pictures of him to show his father. Seeing him as a girl, he might give up his dream of ever having a son he could send to a testosterone-ridden bully college of his choice.

Did she want to show him he didn’t have a son anymore?

Oh yes, she would. But wouldn’t it make him even less inclined to pay?

Besides, there were already photos of him as a female model – outrageous shots. Just showing them to his father ought to do the job nicely.

But what job?

Nah...

It must be Parker’s idea, just to demonstrate he belonged here, suggesting he was happy. He could see how his mother might be enchanted by it.

He remembered Parker and Kurtz telling him how they thought his mother loved him. Maybe they thought she would pay for him?

God, were they in for a disappointment.

Even if his mother did have any money left at all, would she ever want to spend it on him? He doubted it, but then, why was she here? And if she did consider paying, would seeing him dressed up be the way to convince her?

Lucian sighed. What should he do?

It wasn’t a matter of choice, was it? All he could do was choose between the bad and the awful.

Should he refuse Parker’s order to dress up and insist on leaving with his mother? Would she even agree to take him? And what then? He’d just be thrown to the lions in one of the deadly boarding schools of his father’s choice.

He’d sooner die.

So should he dress up in order to stay? Without his parents’ money he’d be another Drew at Norton’s.

The ‘chores’ of Drew and the other poor students came to mind. The known chores were all right, he guessed, but he shivered at the unknown ones – the chores that made Drew’s eyes turn away when he asked her about them.

So, all in all: wanting to stay here would mean to dress and make up, wouldn’t it? He’d have to mince into Parker’s office on high heels, and expose himself to his mother and two male strangers as the sissy they’d turned him into.

Life sucks when all you have are bad choices.

He picked up the bra-like top, softly cursing.

Holding the two flimsy triangles in front of his light blue top, he rose and moved in front of the mirror, pushing out his chest. He watched the elastic fabric expand over his protruding nipples.

A sudden wave of shame shook him.

This was not some imposter he saw, was it? The brushed hair, the made up eyes and the tight, provocative bra didn’t make him doubt what he saw in that mirror. There was no charade here, no save distance, no make belief.

This was he, and his entire body felt aflame.

Throwing the top on the bed he started undressing until he was naked. Once again he picked up the fake bra and pulled it over his curls and bare shoulders. He felt the thin fabric caress his nipples as he moved the flat triangles into place.

Two aroused bumps were clearly visible in the tall mirror.

He felt as if suspended in un-reality.

His entire body was a hovering cloud of heat. He turned and got the thong, stepping into it and pulling it up over his smooth legs. The string crept between his buttocks, and the tiny front panel hugged his package, stretching tightly over it.

Looking up into the mirror he saw the clear outline of his penis in the thin material. Stepping closer he cupped it with his hand. It felt hot and definitely firm. He squeezed it, and closed his eyes when a throbbing thrill started spreading.

Moving his fingers away he clearly saw the shape of his cock’s glans, pressing into the thong. A damp spot made the gill-like underside even more visible, like a pale, silvery fish gasping to get up and out of the net it was caught in.

A small fish it was, but very visible.

Lucian slid a hand inside the thong’s front to tuck down the telltale erection. He only succeeded in making it thrust forward.

Shrugging he sat down and picked up one of the nylon stockings, rolling it carefully, bit by bit into a ball, like he’d often seen his mother do. He pushed his pointed toes into the little hollow he’d created, stretching the nylon carefully over his foot and ankle, then over his calf and knee until its wide elastic band snapped closed over his thigh. His hands ran softly up his leg to straighten out folds and creases.

Closing his eyes he felt his hands caress his soft skin through the slick material. A puff of stale air escaped his lungs – he’d obviously held it all the while.

Picking up the second stocking he repeated the procedure.

As he stood straight he sensed the tight massage the sheer fabric gave his flexing flesh. It felt disturbingly good. But then his eye fell on the clock and he saw he had to hurry.

Walking over to his vanity desk he noticed a small selection of items that were set aside, with a scrap of paper propped against it. He read the elegant handwriting: ‘Soit un ange, chéri,’ it said. ‘Be an angel.’

Amongst the items he found a pale foundation, sky blue and pink eye shadow, baby pink rouge and lipstick in soft salmon shades. Even the mascara had a pinkish hue. Reminding how Mamselle had insisted to do his face in similar colors at his last Beauty class, he presumed this wasn’t a coincidence.

He pulled a wide, stretchy band down his brow and up again to keep the hair out of his face.

Five minutes later he removed the headband, allowing the shining curls to drop down on his brow, framing and shading his painted eyes.

His sigh was almost one of relief – the creature in the mirror had stopped being him. It looked impossibly young, yet decadently world-wise; at once innocent and depraved, perversely angelic and totally alien.

Lucian swallowed and let his pink tongue travel across glossed lips.

He understood Parker’s intentions, he thought. He also knew they wouldn’t work.

Once more it amazed him how both she and Dr. Kurtz had this naïve notion of his mother loving him – or even caring about him. They might hope that changing him into this pseudo innocent, corrupted angel would pull at the strings of her motherly heart – and likewise at the strings of her purse, but he knew they were mistaken for the simple reason that she had no heart.

Lucian turned to the bed and picked up the thin white dress.

Pulling it over his head he found out it was tight and stretchy – and long. A cocoon it was. Flimsy enough to be almost sheer, it forced him to take small steps as it closed around his knees on its way down to his upper calves.

Its tightness felt as if a hundred strong but soft hands caressed him, sending shivers up his spine.

He slipped into the silver heels, wriggling his toes to make them fit. The new, steep angle of his feet tugged at his calves and made him push out his buttocks to find a proper balance.

He reached for the white gloves, made of the same stretchy material as the dress. After worming his fingers in, he closed the pearly button at the heel of each hand. The gloves were another tight sensation, along with the fake bra, the dress and the stockings.

The tightness made him feel self conscious, but it also gave a curious sense of safety.

He walked over to the tall dressing mirror, holding the small hat. The light came from behind – drowning details while enclosing him in a soft, bright outline.

‘No shit,’ he thought, turning left and right, wondering at the mirage. He was very aware of the suggestive tightening around his chest and hips. The fingers of his free hand touched the little cup between his clavicles, trying to still the hammering throb that rose from his ribcage.

Then he saw the bulge.

It was an insistent presence right at the center of his crotch pushing out the flimsy fabric of the narrow dress – like a finger; like the digit of a finger.

And around it spread a small, wet spot.

“Fuck.”

The clock’s big hand crawled to the top; it was almost nine. He couldn’t really walk over to Parker’s office with that, could he? Cupping the protrusion with his gloved hand only made it stiffen more.

What was going on?

It had been ages since his penis had been hard. Even when he masturbated of late, all it did was swell into a soft, pink ball of goo-spewing flesh.

He pulled up the tube of the dress and saw that the thong’s damp panel was totally transparent, showing off his erection.

Lucian shuffled over to the toilet, holding up the hem of the dress with his chin. He pulled the thong down his thighs and took the slender stem of his penis between a gloved thumb and finger – starting to jerk.

Closing his eyes he felt the pressure of time, but none of the usual urges of an impending orgasm. His pink, glossy lips murmured a string of silent curses, but nothing happened.

Why did the fucking, useless thing suddenly have to be hard? Why now? He’d dressed and made up his face before, and the thing never bothered him this way.

What was different today?

Suddenly the hard stem pulsed in his grip, and as it did the pink head gushed a clear, slimy liquid that ran down his gloved fingers and on to his inner thigh where it soaked the elastic band of his stocking.

At once the penis shrank and was soft again – almost retreating into his body.

Lucian shuddered, although there had hardly been any sensation. He grabbed a tissue and cleaned up the mess on his scrotum, stocking and glove. Then he removed the soaked thong and pulled the dress down over his bare crotch.

The wet spot was still there.

He smelled at the thong; there was no scent at all.

After pinning the silly white hat to his curls and donning the earrings and bracelets, he picked up the silver clutch. Covering his crotch with it he minced out of the room – holding his breath.

His heart beat like mad.

The satin glove muffled the sound of his knuckles as they knocked on Parker’s door, but the shaking of his wrist made his bracelets jingle loudly.

He waited for an answer.

Walking the corridors on pumps, hindered by the awkward dress hadn’t been easy. The heels sounded uncomfortably loud on the marble, but thank God the hallways had been deserted. Classes must have kept most students and teachers away.

He rapped on the door again; this time he didn’t wait before opening it.

There were four people inside: the headmistress herself, the two lawyers he’d seen, and a woman who sat with her back to the door. She still wore the wide-brimmed hat, but had opened her fur coat. Hanging over the back of her chair it showed its lovely silk lining.

His arrival stopped their conversation.

Parker looked up and smiled. The two lawyers turned his way, but their faces held a frowning expression.

Seeing the reaction of the others, the woman also turned in her chair. Of course it was his mother, but her face held a blank expression of puzzlement.

She didn’t recognize him.

“Lucian,” Parker said, rising from behind her desk. Her suit was a dark blue and as severely cut as ever.

“Of course I don’t have to introduce your mother,” she went on, her smile vintage Norton’s, “but there are these two gentlemen who are her legal consultants – Mr. Kargosian...” – she waved to the elder lawyer in a striped suit – “and Mr. Bronstein-Cohen, please meet Lucian Gaines.”

The younger man just nodded.

His pale-olive face contrasted sharply with his black, slick hair and heavy eyebrows. He was attractive in a cold and arrogant way.

But Lucian hardly looked at them. His attention was focused on his mother’s face.

The moment Parker mentioned his name it turned even whiter than its natural paleness. As she rose from her chair, her blood red lips stammered something that must have been his name, while her narrow hand fluttered over the front of her silk blouse.

“Hi mom,” he said, forcing the standard Norton smile through his tumultuous embarrassment. At last he understood why they trained that smile so much – it was a marvelous buoy to cling to at moments like this.

‘Mom’ he’d said, knowing she hated the word.

“Glad you finally had time for me,” he went on in the low, breathy voice Ms. Fontaine taught them. He cranked up the Smile a few more Watts, very aware of the tight bra and the stockings and the heels – and their threat to throttle his confidence at any moment.