My Landlady Had Different Plans - Part 7

OTHER PARTS | ALL STORY LIST

Note - This story is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and events are purely imaginary and bear no relation to real people, living or dead. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.

"I finished, simply.

"Well," Mrs. Johnson said, smiling and having to take a deep breath herself at hearing my heartfelt admission. "I guess that settles it, then. We'll start the process tomorrow."

"Do I call you Mom now?" I asked, curious.

"Oh, Melissa, let's wait on that," Mrs. Johnson laughed. "I think it's best if you're just my renter and I'm just your landlady for now. Okay? Now I think it's time we went to bed, don't you? After all, you have a long day tomorrow!"

Mrs. Johnson and I snuggled together under the covers, Mrs. Johnson in her gorgeous silver appliqué nightgown and me in my girly pink embroidered nightgown. The room was dark except for the soft glow of an alabaster night-light by the door to the master bath. Her sheets were soft, super-high-thread-count cotton with overstuffed pillows on a soft pillow-top bed. I sank into the luxury, feeling warm and comfortable.

"Mrs. Johnson?" I asked.

Mrs. Johnson moved so she could pull me into a hug from behind, our bodies like spoons.

"Yes, Melissa?" she asked.

"I… I need to stop at a charity drop-off tomorrow."

"Really?" she asked. "Why?" Her lips were right at my ear. I could feel her warm breath on my neck.

"Because, I, uh, I want to give away all my male clothes."

"Oh, sweetie! Are you sure?" She said, pulling me into a full-body hug. "If you do that, there's no going back. I have no male clothes in this house. You'll have no choice but to dress as a woman all the time."

"I know," I said, snuggling into her embrace. "But I want to."

"Is this why Jessica asked me for your suitcase and male briefs? Now, don't lie to me, young lady," she added with mock sternness. "You promised to be obedient."

"Yes, Ma'am," I said, blushing. "Oh my god," I thought to myself. I am so easily manipulated. "Yes, it was Jessica's idea, Ma'am."

"That girl should learn to leave well enough alone."

"B-but I want it, too," I said. "Really, I do."

"Are you sure?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am," I said.

"Why?" she asked, mercilessly. "Why do you want to get rid of all your old male clothes?"

"Because…" I paused, trying to think of what to say. "Because I'm Melissa now," I finally said.

"And there's no going back," Mrs. Johnson breathed in my ear.

"No going back," I repeated.

"Not even if you wanted to. Trapped. Trapped as Melissa."

"Yes," I said, tears squeezing out of my eyes. Why am I crying now? I thought angrily to myself. What is the matter with me? Why am I so emotional all the time? "I am… Melissa."

"Forever."

"Forever," I repeated.

"You are so brave," Mrs. Johnson said. "And so yes, if you want to, we can stop at the drop-off place and donate all your male clothes to charity."

"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson."

"Oh, Melissa," she said, her hands snaking around my waist and then up my body, where they settled on my breasts. I moaned softly as she gently kneaded them. I felt Mrs. Johnson's own large bosom press into my back as she hugged me from behind.

"Oh, how I missed this," she continued. "My husband, my Melissa, she and I would snuggle at night just like this, and those were the happiest moments of my life. Oh, Melissa…" She nuzzled my ear from behind. "… I can't tell you how happy you've made me. You are such a darling to put up with all of the… uh… eccentricities of the Johnson women."

"M-my pleasure, Ma'am," I said, enjoying her hands on my chest.

"Now, did you relieve your… tensions? Earlier this evening?" she asked.

"My tensions?" I asked, feeling stupid.

"Yes," she said, a hand sliding down my body. "Your tensions," she repeated, making her meaning obvious by resting a hand on my thing and gently squeezing it. "When did you last release your tension? Now tell me the truth, dear."

"Oh," I gasped, squirming in her arms. "Oh! Ahh, this morning," I said, burrowing my face in the pillow. Thank god it was dark in the room, or she would have seen my face blush bright red.

"This morning? Well, that's not nearly recent enough for a healthy, active young lady like yourself! I think you would sleep much better if you could achieve some release, don't you? Now, when you are in my room, you must ask for permission. Do you understand, Melissa? Now ask me. Ask me for permission for your release."

Was my landlady really telling me to ask her for permission to masturbate? I tried to open my mouth, but only a strangling sound came out.

"It's okay, Melissa. You know you want to. All you have to do is ask. Here, I'll help you get started. Say this: 'Please, Ma'am, may I please have permission to…' "

"Please," I said softly, then gulped hard. "Please, Ma'am, may I please have permission to…"

"To what?" she asked. "Permission to do what, my dear?"

"May I please have permission to, uh… relieve my tensions?"

"Your inner tensions?" she teased.

Oh god. An involuntary shiver ran through me. Her fingers found the nipples in my nightgown and tweaked and lightly pinched them, causing little jolts of pleasure.

"Yes, please," I sighed. "Yes, please, may I have permission to relieve my, uh… inner tensions?" The last words came out in a whisper.

"You're what? Speak up, dear!" Mrs. Johnson said. I could tell she was loving this!

I cleared my throat. "My sexual tensions," I said, more clearly this time.

"Of course, my dear! Now, let me help you."

What? Now she was going to 'help me'? Help me how? I thought to myself, my mind in a whirl.

Mrs. Johnson reached into her nightstand and pulled out a super soft silk-terry washcloth. I gasped as she pulled up the hem of my nightgown.

"Oh…" I moaned as her fingers slipped into the elastic waistband of my pink nylon and lace panties and slipped them down to my thighs, exposing me.

"There you go," she cooed as she placed the soft terrycloth towel on my hardness and began stroking.

"Oh, Mrs. Johnson!" I groaned, arching my back with pleasure.

"Hold on, dear, I can't see you well enough," she said, letting go of my penis and reaching over to snap on the nightstand lamp. "There, now isn't that so much better?" Mrs. Johnson gently rolled me onto my back, my head in the crook of her arm, looking up into her smiling eyes.

"You're so beautiful," I said, enraptured by her warm softness. The amber light from the lamp made her auburn hair glow like an angel.

"And you are such a flatterer! I know I'm just an old lady."

"No!"

"But that does come with its advantages. For example, I believe I know well how to take care of a certain need that a certain girl named Melissa might have right now…"

Mrs. Johnson leaned down and pulled me into a long kiss, while her hand returned to stroking my 'tension' with the soft terry washcloth.

"Oh dear," she said, breaking the kiss. "It seems I have run out of arms. Would you help me?"

"Of course, Mrs. Johnson!" I said, Only too happy to help.

"Oh, thank you, Melissa. Now let's place your hands right here, and here," she said, picking up each of my hands and placing them on my own breasts. "There. Now play with your nipples," she commanded. "Playing with your nipples makes you feel so girly, doesn't it, Melissa?"

"Oh yes," I sighed. My eyes glazed over as I tweaked and pinched the little nubs on my chest.

Mrs. Johnson pulled me back into the kiss and returned to stroking me. Her manipulations were practiced and expert, and I cooed and sighed and squirmed in her arms until I finally let myself go with an undignified squeak and spurted into the towel, thrusting up against her hand.

"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson," I sighed.

"You are most welcome, Melissa," she said. "Anytime. Now, if you'll just hold still for a moment…" She placed the towel to the side and slipped a hand underneath her own nightgown, seeking out her own special spot.

She looked me straight in the eyes as she pleasured herself, occasionally emitting little gasps and moans, before her eyes got that misty, far-away look, and with a low moan and furrowed brow, she brought herself to orgasm.

"Oh, Melissa," she said, breathing hard, her brow damp. "Oh, Melissa. You do an old lady good. You really do." She used the towel to clean herself and put it on the nightstand and then turned out the nightstand light.

We lay together like that for a few moments, me still in the crook of her elbow, looking up, Mrs. Johnson looking down, giving me little kisses on my lips, cheeks, or nose, enjoying each other's afterglow.

"And I really do mean any time," she said, out of the blue.

"Any time?" I asked.

"Yes, any time of the day or night. When you need help relieving your tension, just come to me and ask for permission, and I will help you."

Mrs. Johnson thought to herself for a moment.

"Actually, let's make it a requirement, shall we? This will be a test of your obedience. A test that you truly are a good and conscientious girl who can follow orders. Before you relieve your tensions, you must come see me. You are not allowed to achieve, how shall I say? Sexual release without asking for and receiving my permission. Can you do that?"

Can I? I thought to myself, my eyes as round as saucers. Ask my landlady for permission whenever I want to masturbate? Putting her in control of my orgasms? I felt my face flush hot at the thought of what this would mean for my future, standing before Mrs. Johnson and asking for permission. Oh god.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said. Suddenly, I was hard all over again.

"Very good, Melissa. And you must promise to not hold back," she said. "I don't want you to not ask just because you're embarrassed or because it's inconvenient. Okay? Now I want your solemn promise. Promise me that, from now on, you will ask for permission for sexual release AND that you will always ask whenever you want it."

"Yes, Ma'am," I shuddered, my nipples tingling. "I promise that I will always ask for permission for sexual release, and I further promise that I will not hold back from asking for it whenever I want."

And that was that. I put a little more of my life and my freedom into Mrs. Johnson's loving hands.

"Did you know I used to work as a stylist at a beauty salon?" Mrs. Johnson asked.

I was sitting at my dressing table, looking in the mirror as Mrs. Johnson stood behind me, efficiently separating out ropes of hair and wrapping them around a curling iron.

The alarm rang so early that morning! Ugh. But Mrs. Johnson insisted that we would need all of the time to get ready. I was glad we had gotten to bed early.

After a light breakfast (which I fetched and served in bed, at Mrs. Johnson's command), I showered, did my standard hair removal and skin routines, and now here I was, in my practical cotton panties and bra (both picked out by Mrs. Johnson and laid on my bed, as always) and breast forms. The breast forms were new (retrieved from a box in the closet by Mrs. Johnson) and I was glad to have them so I could look more feminine in public.

I was starting to get increasingly more nervous about my first public foray as a woman. 'Today is the first day of the rest of your life,' kept going through my head. The rest of my life… as a woman.

And so here I was, at my own dressing table, wearing an old smock, with Mrs. Johnson expertly styling my hair.

Originally, I thought I'd wear a wig, but then Mrs. Johnson said, "Let's see what I can do with your natural hair. It's long-ish for a man. How long since you last got it cut? Eight months? I think this might actually work. Won't it be so much nicer to have your own hair styled? Wigs are so hot and itchy, you'll be a lot more comfortable."

She started by applying mousse to my wet hair ('it provides better curl memory', she explained), then she dried it with a blow dryer, and now was wrapping sections around the barrel of the curling iron as tightly as she could. There were at least a dozen curling irons in the drawer of the dressing table, and I swore she chose the one with the smallest barrel for the tightest possible curls, probably since my hair was so short to begin with.

"This is how I met my husband," she continued, conversationally. "He was my client at the salon, coming in every other week for a cut and style. He liked to keep it long too, but it needed to be business-like, so that was always a challenge."

"So how did you go from being his stylist to… you know…"

"Being his wife? Or rather, having him as my wife?" she chuckled. "Well one day, while working on his hair, guess what I noticed?"

"What?"

"A bra strap," she grinned. "My titan of the local business community was wearing a bra! Well, that was a shock, let me tell you! But then I started noticing, every time he came back, there it was. He wore bras. And then one day, I still don't know why I did it, but I slipped a finger inside his shirt and just fingered the strap. 'That is so sexy,' I whispered into his ear, and he just looked at me, and you could see it: fear, but also desire. It took him two more sessions (and some more teasing) before he worked up the courage to ask for my number, which I was happy to give him, of course, and then we dated for a while and then along came Jessica, and the rest is history!"

"Oh, that's so wonderful."

"I know. It was a fairytale, it really was."

"Like me," I said. "Like now."

"You really think so?"

"Oh yes," I said, looking at my new hairdo in the mirror. Mrs. Johnson fluffed out the curls with her fingers, giving them volume. It was a short cut, by necessity, but with a mound of soft curls that softened and feminized my face.

"But I still look like… me," I said.

"Of course you do!" she said. "I hope you always do! We don't want to change who you are, just bring out the girl inside. Besides, don't judge until we've done some makeup."

"Shouldn't I get dressed first?"

"No dear, applying makeup is a messy business. It's best if we do that first."

Mrs. Johnson turned me around on the bench to face her and pulled up a chair. She started by plucking my eyebrows a bit ("we can do more later," she said) and then applied concealer, foundation, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick, explaining everything as she did it.

"That can't be enough!" I complained as she quickly went from item to item.

"Hush! You're not a prostitute, you're an intern. Besides, with your good skin care these last few weeks, you don't need much. Okay? All done. Let's get you dressed, and then we'll take a look at the whole package, okay?"

And so, finally, time to get dressed. Since I was already wearing panties, I started with pantyhose.

"Do I have to wear these?" I asked, rolling them up in my hands and then pulling them up my legs, smoothing and stretching the sheer fabric as I went.

"Don't you want to?" Mrs. Johnson asked in return.

"Yes," I said, blushing slightly. They did make my legs feel amazing.

"Well then, stop fussing!" she gently mocked. "Don't forget, I always know what's best for my girl."

A little warmth blossomed inside of me at hearing her say 'My girl.'

"I, I need to wear a corset," I said, tentatively. "Something like this," I pulled out the pink neoprene waist cinch.

"A corset??" Mrs. Johnson asked, surprised.

"Yes," I mumbled.

"Did Jessica make you promise to wear corsets from now on?"

"It was my idea," I said, with as much honesty and enthusiasm as I could muster. "I want to do waist training, too, you know, get a more girlish figure."

"You didn't answer my question. Did Jessica make you promise to wear corsets? Now remember your promise to always tell me the truth and be an obedient girl."

"Yes, Ma'am," I admitted. "Jessica did make me promise. But I really want to. It's not just her."

"Harrumph," she snorted, not believing me. "And why do you want to wear corsets? They are quite uncomfortable, you know. And once you start, I won't let you stop."

"Because," I faltered. She won't let me stop? I began to worry. "Because I want to have a trimmer waist. You know, a more feminine shape."

"And you're not doing this just because Jessica told you to?"

"No, I'm not," I said, with fake certainty. "This is something I want to do. Honestly."

"Are you sure? You are absolutely committed to this?"

"Yes, Ma'am, I'm absolutely committed."

"Well, then, if you're certain! Don't say I didn't warn you. Now, the problem with the corset you chose is that it will not actually reduce your waist."

"No?" I asked, suddenly worried.

"No. It is for maintenance only. So if you really want to reduce your waist -- which is what you told me you wanted! -- then you'll need to wear something more like this."

Mrs. Johnson pulled out a heavy navy blue cloth corset with wide buckles in front and ties in the back.

"Now this is a waist training corset," she said, her eyes glittering. "And since you absolutely insist that this is what you want, then we're going to do it right and lace you into a true waist training corset and pull your waist in by two inches, I think, would be good. Unless you want to change your mind and admit that this was all Jessica's idea and that you don't really want to start corset training?"

I looked at the contraption, all buckles and laces. How the heck do you get into it?

"N-no, Ma'am," I stammered. "I don't want to change my mind. Corseting is something I w-want to do."

I groaned inwardly. Why was I doing this? Would Jessica know? Of course she would. She would see me and ask if I was wearing a corset. And I wanted to tell her 'yes'. I just didn't think it would be… this involved.

"Well, if you're absolutely certain!" Mrs. Johnson said brightly.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said, feeling trapped. "I am."

"Well, okay, if you are absolutely certain. Let me just say that there's no backing out. You'll be wearing one from now on, every day, I will insist upon it, as will Jessica, I'm sure. We'll make it gradually tighter and tighter until you get that sexy hourglass figure you say you want. No,w one last time, are you sure this is what you want to do? Commit yourself to a lifetime of wearing corsets?"

Ever get that feeling that you're making a mistake, a horrible, terrible, life-changing mistake, but you just can't seem to do anything about it? You think, 'oh, I'll figure it out later,' or 'oh, it won't be that bad,' or 'I can stop this, anytime', but then, somewhere down deep, you just know that none of that is right, and then you just go ahead and make the biggest mistake of your life?

"Yes," I said, sealing my fate. "Yes, I want to start waist training, please."

Mrs. Johnson looked at me with a wry smile. She could tell I was lying and that I felt trapped in it. But at the same time, it was clear that she was enjoying my predicament.

"Well, since you insist," she grinned, "let's start with a camisole. It will help to have a layer between you and the corset."

She handed me a simple cotton camisole with lace trim and spaghetti straps.

I slipped it on over my head, being as careful as possible to not muss up my hair or makeup. It was a snug fit and hugged my body like a second skin.

"Okay, now the corset. I'll loosen it up, then you'll have to step inside - it has no fasteners at the front, which means it's nice and secure and is definitely not coming off without my help. Okay? In you go!"

I stepped into the corset, and with some tugging and struggling it was finally around my waist. Mrs. Johnson pulled out a measuring tape and measured my natural waist size.

"Now let's have you grab onto the door jamb, and I'll tighten it up."

As I grasped the door jamb, Mrs. Johnson first tightened the laces at the middle, cinching in my waist, then went to the top edge and worked her way in to the middle, and then again, but starting at the bottom and working her way up.

"Oh god," I gasped, as it clamped around my body.

"Nice secure feeling, isn't it?" Mrs. Johnson chuckled. "Now, just imagine wearing this full-time? And not just because you want to, but because you have to. Because Jessica and I require it."

"I… oh gosh…"

"Okay, since today is your first day and you have a busy day at work, shall we start by reducing your waist by three inches?" She pulled out the tape measure.

"Three inches?" Didn't she just say two inches? And now it's three?

"Would you prefer four?"

"No! Ah… thanks, Ma'am, but I think you're right," I said, gasping for air. "Three inches is probably best. Since this, uh, is my first day and all."

"I think that's very practical, Melissa," she said. "You're already down by two and a half inches, so let's pull it in by another half-inch.

I groaned as she tightened the laces further.

"Don't worry, sweetie, you'll get used to it, and sooner than you think. Especially when you start sleeping in one."

"Sleep? In a corset?"

"Of course, dear! You did say you wanted to start waist training, didn't you?"

"I-- uh… yes, that's what I said, but I didn't… I mean…"

"Well, that's how you do waist training. We'll loosen the corset by an inch when you sleep, of course, but you'll need to sleep with a corset on, or you'll lose the benefit of your training. I'm so sorry," the mocking in her voice implied she wasn't sorry at all, but instead was enjoying my discomfort immensely, "but that's the way it is."

"But Jessica said--"

"Jessica?" Mrs. Johnson asked, suddenly interested. "What exactly did Jessica say?"

"I-- uh… nothing."

I stood there, grasping the door frame and feeling light-headed as she finished tying off the laces and tucked away the loose ends.

Jessica was right, I realized. The corset was a very real symbol of the physical and mental control which the Johnson women had over me. It hugged my body and squeezed me tight, and was comforting, exciting, and terrifying all at the same time, and it made you realize that you wanted it. Wanted to be trapped in their world. Would I someday become dependent on the corset? Was such a thing possible? Maybe I would have to wear one to support my back? I wondered. The thought excited me even further.

"Time for the dress!" Her enthusiasm was contagious. "Here, let me help you slip it on."

She held it open for me and I stepped into it, slipping my hands into the arm holes. Mrs. Johnson zipped up the back, closing it around me and then turned me around to fasten up the belt (nice and snug now, thanks to the corset!!).

"Oh…" Mrs. Johnson said, looking at me at arm's length.

"What?" I asked, worried.

"Come, dear," she led me to the full-length mirror on the wall.

"Oh!" I whispered, seeing the finished product for the first time. "I… I am…"

"You're beautiful," said Mrs. Johnson.

"But… I still look like me," I lamented.

"Well, of course, you look like you!" she said. "Who else would you look like?"

"But I mean, I just thought…"

"This is you," said Mrs. Johnson. "It looks like you because this is you. The beautiful, feminine, girly you."

"I… It is, isn't it?" I said, as if seeing myself for the first time. "And… and…" I took some deep breaths (or as best I could with the corset), "and I love it," I said, finally. "But do you still think I look like a boy? Do I look enough like a girl? I mean, will people tell that I'm… that I'm… transgender?" The word came out clinical and awkward. How could such a word represent what I was feeling now? So feminine, and put together, and beautiful, and… just being myself - a girl. A young lady. "Will people look at me and think that I'm just a boy underneath it all?" I asked.

"What is your name?" Mrs. Johnson asked.

"Melissa," I said, humbly, looking down at the floor.