Women have always had the luxury of using both their wiles and a little illusion to bewitch and enchant. I remember watching my mother as she dressed for an evening out -- the ritual of her pantyhose, the slip, that gorgeous backless dress that showed off her shoulder blades, not to mention her application of a deep red lipstick.Why has it taken me this long to find the "Sissy Maid Academy and Charm School for CrossDressers, Fetishists and Gentlemen in Need of Behaviour Modification Through Petticoat Discipline and Domestic Training?"
Madame de Sade, the now notorious dominatrix from Thornhill, runs the Academy. She greets me at the door of the grey, two-storey house on Gerrard that this den mother of decadence calls home.
Madame (who must be called Head Mistress inside the Academy), leads me to the sitting room. An iguana lazes under a heat lamp. Leather-bound volumes line a wall. A white cat is curled up in a corner.
I'm left in the presence of a person of a certain age who's wearing a blue velvet dress and a rope of pearls set off by a luscious red bob. Deep, soulful brown eyes are muted by a large pair of glasses.
He is painting his nails.
Head Mistress returns to lead me to the Parlour.
The Parlour is the dream of every budding trannie. Dresses -- everything from schoolgirl tunics to femme-fatale gowns -- line the far wall. Stiletto shoes of all types are displayed in rows. There are drawers laden with panties, girdles, bustiers and corsets. Another wall is decorated with a shimmering strapless gown against a backdrop of peacock feathers.
Madame lets me know that she decides whether training will mould her student into a sissy maid or a sissy socialite. She then instructs me to call her once I've changed into the black panties she hands me.
Well, at least they're black.
When I call her back into the room, she rummages through the drawers of the dresser to assemble the rest of my paraphernalia. She holds out a garter belt for me to step into. I slide my legs into some silky hosiery. She tells me to turn around while she fits me into a black bustier that she fills with delicately small breast forms. I'm then bound in a corset.
While she pulls all the strings taut, I remember a scene from Titanic where Kate Winslet is being similarly restrained by her mother. All is good.
Slipping on a pair of stiletto slingbacks, I gaze at myself in the mirror and think, "With these legs, Tina ain't got nothing on me!"
As she applies my makeup, Head Mistress says she teaches her sissies to do their prep in 15 minutes or less, unless they're preparing for an evening out. That demands at least 30 minutes.
While she puts on my face, we chat about some of her sissy maids, her trial on bawdy-house charges and the different personality types who attend the Academy. All the while, our conversation is interrupted by numerous phone calls.
"Yes, you've reached the Academy. Yes, we do fetish. What kind?" she asks. "That's $200 an hour. No, I'm busy right now. Call back later."
She is a kind but strict mistress. We call each other "Dear" and "Love."
The finishing touch is a lustrous red wig of layered straight hair. When I stand to look in the mirror, I'm faced with a creature of beauty I cannot recognize. My eyes are huge brown pools fringed with thick, bewitching lashes.
Sea Venus A large, sensuous mouth painted in carmine looks on the verge of pledging a tragic love. A lithe, supple body stands erect. Hips, ass, tits --it's all there!
She suggests that I might see my sister or my mother in this figure, but I don't. This is a woman, a socialite, born of the sea, like the Botticelli Venus that adorns her wall.
Upstairs, Mistress teaches me how to walk, curtsy, sit, carry a purse -- no easy feat while wearing spike heels and barely breathing because of my corset.
Weaker sex, nothing. This takes balls, baby!
My initiation into the Academy finishes when Mistress has me kneel on a chair while she recites the rules of the institution. For each rule, I'm given five slaps on the bottom. (I feel like a character in an Anne Rice novel.) In between slaps, she caresses my back and ass.
And her rules are fucking endless. No swearing, no smoking, no talk of politics. Did Bette Davis have to suffer this kind of humiliation?
Then I'm ordered to recite 10 of the rules or be punished by bare-bottom slaps. Disoriented, I'm barely able to comply.
Later, back in boy clothes and on my way home, my stomach is full of butterflies. I look at myself in store windows and wonder, which look is more becoming, which more fulfilling?
As I pass a restaurant, a woman calls out to me, "You strut your thang, baby!"
Sweet thing, you don't know the half of it.