The soft, slippery satin of her bed's comforter slid against the skin of my
buttocks and the backs of my thighs.

I felt so very alone.  Which is silly, I guess, because I knew I wasn't really
alone.  I even knew exactly where she was.

Furtively, my eyes stole over to the large, antique framed mirror that hung above
her vanity table.  Only the antique glass of the original piece had been replaced
with a one way mirror.

Mistress had long ago shown me her secret viewing room. She'd given me that gift
one day after a scene during which I'd panicked when she seemed to leave me alone
in her house, hopelessly bound.  I had been so upset, so frightened, that she
had, without a second thought, sacrificed that secret, one I am sure she derived
a lot of pleasure from, for my peace of mind.

I think I fell irrevocably in love with her that day.

And I knew she was in there, behind the gleaming mirror - watching, waiting,
evaluating, judging.

I had never noticed before how intensely feminine her room was before that very
moment.  Frills and flounces, pastel colors, and sweet, spicy potpourri are
abundant in her special place. Even the bed canopy is unabashedly, blatantly
feminine - like something out of one of the Regency romance novels she insists I
read aloud for her listening pleasure.

I had never felt more out of place in my life.  And I was completely nude.  Her
last order before leaving me here was to strip.  She had then taken all of my
clothes with her, and if I'd left after that, I had known with absolute certainty
that I would not find them.

None of my previous lovers even guessed at my secret, and yet to her, it was as
if I had painted it on my forehead:

"Secretly wants to be dressed as a woman".

I guess it should not have surprised me.  She seems to see everything, and seems
to miss nothing - at least where I am concerned.  Still, her plans and schemes
for today came as a complete shock.  Maybe, if I had been prepared for it, maybe
if she had dropped some hints about what she wanted me to do, I would have
reacted differently, more positively.  She had not prepared me, and I blew it.

This morning she told me we would be going to Mistress Vera's where I would begin
my training in the feminine arts.

Stunned, I had argued with her. Mistress, who had been smiling when she told me
of her plans, had suddenly gone very cold and distant.  I could feel her
withdrawing from me emotionally even as she stepped up and got into my face.
"Henry," she said very, very softly, "I have already paid for your schooling and
you *are* going - period!"

The last word was an explosion of sound that rocked me back on my heels.  Then,
she grabbed my ear and started to march me to the door, when I did something that
shocked her.

I used my safe word.

All color drained out of her face, and she went stock-still, my ear still pinched
tightly between the nails of her thumb and middle finger.  "What did you say?"

Her tone was disbelieving, which is understandable.   In the six months since she
first gave me the word and explained its use and purpose, since I first gave over
my pride to her keeping and moved into her home, the only time she has heard that
word was at the start of a training session when she always makes me repeat it
aloud before any training begins.

Some pretty severe scenes have come and gone without that word being used "in
anger".  Her hands relaxed the pressure on my earlobe when I repeated the word.

"Why, Henry?  Why now, and for this?  Mistress Vera doesn't use pain, and
everything will be completely in private - I've told you that.  You know cross
dressing fascinates you, moves you. Why have you stopped me?  Make me understand,
love, please."  Her voice took the soft, crooning tones that always gentled me,
that tells me that everything was going to be all right.

I took my first deep breath in what seemed like hours and shuddered.  "It is too
much, Mistress.  It is too close.  I can't share that with someone I don't know. 
I can't do that, Mistress.  Please, I just can't."  The emotion was too much and
I looked away.

Gripping my arm, she led me to a chair, made me sit, and then sat down opposite
to me.

She sat staring at me for the longest time, just looking at me, into me.  I
fought to keep from squirming on my seat. Finally, her eyes cleared and she spoke
to me.  "You said that you cannot share it with someone you do not know, Henry. 
The important question is this. Can you share that part of yourself with me?"

I looked at her cautiously, and tried to make sense of what she was saying, what
she meant.  She gave me a grave look. "You gave yourself into my keeping, Henry. 
If you can't share this with me, then you must mean you don't know me, so how can
you trust me enough to continue as my slave?"

Oh God, was she going to send me away, make me leave?  I started to speak, but
she cut me off.  "I will accept, for now, what you say about Mistress Vera, but
you will give me this part of yourself, Henry.  It is mine, just as the rest of
your soul is mine."

She stood and moved around to stand in front of me again, lifting my chin upward
to lock eyes with me.  "You gave it to me and I will have it all.  It will just
be more difficult for you to perform properly without Mistress Vera's expert
assistance, but you *will* learn to dress as a woman. You will become *superb* at
dressing and you will serve me in that role when I so desire it.  In return, I
promise to honor your limit not sharing that with others, until you say that you
are ready."

My heart was thudding out of control.  A piece of me was crumbling, cracking
under the strain.  "Henry, go to my room and strip.  Neatly fold and stack your
clothes then wait for me."

She stood and strode from the room.  After she left, I had taken a few minutes to
calm myself.  I had always feared that using the codeword would have lead to my
dismissal. That hadn't happened, but what had?  I really wasn't sure, but
training took over and I went to her room to follow her orders.

When she came for me, she carried a shipping carton that she set beside me on the
bed.  She picked up my clothes and then gave me a tender kiss on the lips. 
"This" she said indicating the UPS-postmarked box resting on the comforter, "Was
to have been part of your gift today, Henry.  Along with your tuition at Mistress
Vera's.  Well, you will use this part of your gift today, anyway."

Her demeanor suddenly and dramatically changed, becoming that of the stern,
demandingly strict Mistress who owned and shaped my darkest fantasies.  When next
she spoke, her voice was coldly unemotional and hard.

"This is a go-no go test, Henry.  You have two hours to dress yourself, to make
yourself as convincingly feminine as you possibly can. That box, and anything
else you can find in this room are available for you to use.  Make good use of
them, but in two hours, you will walk through that door." She indicated the
bedroom's hallway door.  "If I am pleased with you, I will meet you.  If you do
not try, or if you have not tried hard enough, I won't be there, and you know
what to do then."

Without another word or backward glance, she spun on her heel and swept out of
the room, leaving me alone and bewildered in her feminine queen-dom.

A "go-no go" test is Mistress's form of a fealty test.  It means that safe words
have no meaning.  The tests are never physically demanding or painful, but they
are always emotionally difficult.

They also butt right up against the boundaries of what I believe my limits are at
the time to the test.  My first such test was when the I had presented myself for
correction for the very first time - a bare bottomed, over-the-knee, hand
spanking.  As I said, the test had not been really all that painful - physically.
 It was my ego that took that beating.  My face had been far redder than my ass
ever got, but the emotion of that act had nearly unmanned me.

Failure of a go-no go test means that Mistress has determined that we had reached
an incompatibility impasse that would preclude our continuing together.  In that
case, I am required to go to my apartment over her garage and close the door to 
her home.  The dead bolt on the house side of the door will then lock behind me. 
The garage apartment will remain mine to use until I can find another place, but
she has assured me that I will never again be allowed in her home.  Even the
thought of such an exile chills my soul.

I opened the parcel to find two other boxes inside bearing the name "Michael
Salem".  In one box was a pair of high heeled shoes, while the other contained
two realistic, silicone gel breast forms that jiggled eerily in my shaking hands.

I noted with relief that the shoe heels were only a couple inches high, not like
the stilts Mistress preferred.  They would still be a challenge for me, though. 
A quick check showed that they fit - perfectly.  I should not have expected 
otherwise.

Setting her gifts aside, I went to the mirror and examined myself.  Six months of
nightly aerobics and tri-weekly weight work under her supervision had tightened
me up and taken off  any excess weight.  What I saw was a six feet tall (ok, five
feet eleven inches), 150 pound male.  The aerobics had left my muscles long and
lithe, like a runner, instead of bulky.  At this weight, my torso is quite
slender, so I did not worry  about finding something that would fit in Mistress's
wardrobe. Everything would be short on me, but it would fit around me. I sighed
again.  Lord, but it was just so very hard.

I shook myself.  The clock was ticking, and I had to get moving.

Unfortunately, I am dark haired, and my body hair is very dense.  It has amused
Mistress to have me remain hairy, except for my cock and balls which are shaved
and inspected regularly.  I would have to do something about that. Checking the
clock, I knew there was not enough time to shave all over.  I grabbed her bottle
of depilatory (thankfully, it was nearly full), read the directions and applied
the slippery goo all over my body from the neck down.

I silently thanked Mistress for all those flexibility- enhancing exercises when I
had to get the stuff between my shoulder blades.  While the chemical sauve worked
on my body hair, I shaved off all my facial hair (including <sigh> my mustache)
and then did it a second time to ensure I was baby smooth.

Remembering my recent training in cosmetics and hair-care from Mistress, I used
her tweezers to thin and shape my brows as she had taught me to do for her.  By
the time that was completed, the depilatory's waiting period had passed and I was
starting to burn from the chemicals on my skin, particularly between the cheeks
of my ass.

I showered, soaping down and rinsing twice to soothe my skin. I was amazed at the
mass of hair caught in the trap. I would have to clean that up later as my time
was growing ever shorter.  If, I reminded myself with a near sob, if there *was*
a later for me with Mistress.

I have had body hair since I was twelve years old.  The depilatory had done its
work well.  No hair was visible below my brows. My body was tinged pink and still
burned slightly from the chemicals, but I was a hairless as a babe,... as
hairless as Mistress.

What to wear?  My deepest, darkest fantasy is that of the slut, the vamp, the
female as the voracious hunter, but I discarded that with a shrug.  I wasn't up
to that.  I wasn't skilled enough, brave enough or confident enough to pull that
one off in the short time that remained in this test period.

An inspiration struck me and I ran to Mistress's bureau.  I was after the jeans
she wore when her monthly visitor arrived, the pair that were a few sizes larger
than her normal jeans. That  drawer was locked.  The only pants Mistress wore
were jeans, preferring to emphasize her femininity in her dress so the effect of
her dominance was all the more overpowering.  And all of those jeans were locked
away in the *one* drawer that was denied to me.

That meant I was going to be in a dress or in skirts, but which outfit?  On
careful consideration, I elected to go conservatively. My chest is slender for a
male, but I did not think I could wear any of her tailored dresses or her fitted
blouses with the breast forms she obviously intended me to use.  I got out one of
her stretchy, knitted cowl neck sweaters, then added  a frilly bra and panty set,
and a matching garter belt and hosiery.  I looked longingly at the sexier
lingerie in her drawer - the corselets and the teddies - but passed them by.

This was a test, and I did not dare screw up by lampooning myself.  She had said
- feminine, not caricature.  I pulled a matching skirt from the closet, one that
I knew was longer and looser than she normally wore.  Mistress did not have
anything to reduce my waist measurement that did not require lacing.  I did not
dare waste time figuring out how to do that without her assistance.

I started to dress.  In front of the mirror, I pulled the brassiere on and tried
to hook the clasp behind me, trying to stretch and strain to make those infernal
hooks meet.  I had never seen Mistress put one on because helping her dress was a
function I performed whenever I was with her.  A bra was easy  to fasten on
someone else, but I was stumped as to how I would get one on *me* - by myself -
without help. Then I remembered seeing a pro wrestler putting on his championship
belt - he had connected it in front, first, and then spun it around him.

I did the same with the bra. Getting the shoulder straps on and straight was
another trick, but finally, I made it.

I had been correct in choosing the sweater instead of a blouse or dress - the
breast forms were only B's and while Mistress  was a C, the bra was still very .
. . prominent once the forms were inserted.  It occurred to me that I was
probably ruining the bra, but I had no time to change.  I only prayed that I
would still be under her command later, so that I could pay for damaging her
property.

I slipped the panties on, luxuriating in the feel of them grazing up my hairless,
sensitized legs.  I looked at myself and suddenly felt quite silly - a hard on
stretched the panties as badly as my chest was stretching out the bra.

I started to get worried - I did not look at all feminine to me.  Oh god, please
don't let me fail!!!

Recent experience with dressing her helped me get quickly into the hose.  I did
not think I could get harder, but the indescribable sensation of the silky
stockings gliding up, unrolling onto my legs almost made me lose control and
orgasm right there.  Well, I mused as I looked once again into the mirror, that
was one thing that was certainly in my favor.  I would not have to apologize for
the way my long, sleekly muscled legs looked.  I  was getting even more excited
just looking at them myself.

I had to stop, I ordered myself, and stopped to take some cleansing deep breaths.
I did not have permission to orgasm, and this *was* a test.

A look at the clock showed only twenty minutes left.  Where *had* the time gone
to??  I slipped the sweater on and zipped  up the side zip on the skirt.  I ran
to the vanity to make up my face.

I cowled a towel around my shoulders and neck to protect the peach colored
sweater, and then did a double take at the sight of breasts protruding from my
chest.  Unconsciously, I raised my hands to cup and feel them, to test their
weight in my palms.  The mismatch of sensation in my hands that said "tits" and
the lack of sensation in my chest gave me a momentary pause to regain composure.

I elected to try for what I call Mistress's "going shopping, semi-casual look". 
A little color (I really didn't need much I was blushing so hard), a little
highlighting and some shaping of the eyes was all I had the time or the courage
to attempt.

A quick foundation coat covered the remnants of my beard.  I used a light liner
to darken my eyes and bring out their green/gold highlights.  I darkened my brows
and lashes and then used her lightest blusher to highlight my cheek-bones, but
with fire red of my blushes, it was hard to see what good it did.  I used a pink
lipstick to coat my lips  and then added a slightly darker shade with a brush to
outline the lips.  I added light touches of her everyday  scent behind my ears
and at my wrists.  Would it combine favorably with my body chemistry, or would I
end up smelling like a stale horse stall in need of a good mucking out?

Would she even bother to get close enough to me after this to find out?

Idly, I wondered if the recent training in Good Mistress Keeping, emphasizing, as
they had, her daily toilette, might have been pointing to this day.  Had those
lessons been the hints and clues I had thought she had not given me?  If so, I
had been too thick-headed to pick up on them.

A look at the clock showed I had only five minutes left.

My heart nearly stopped as I realized I had done nothing about my hair. Precious
seconds were lost in nearly blind panic as I tried to recall if Mistress owned a
wig.  I had never seen her in one and I didn't have time to look.

I looked at my own, longish (for a male) dark brown hair. It wasn't much over my
ears, but didn't some very feminine women wear their hair quite short these days?
 I grabbed her hair dressing mousse and worked a liberal amount into my hair.  It
became wet looking and shiny in the light.

Frantically, I combed it into several different looks, trying to find something
that looked "feminine".  Finally, I combed against the normal lay of my hair, so
that the hair had to lie backwards from its normal training.  That gave me a wave
effect on the top of my head with the mousse holding the ends together, down
against my head.  That was as close as I was going to come.

As I finished combing the rest of my hair over my ears, I saw another deficiency.
I had no jewelry on. Earrings were out of the question - Mistress's ears are
pierced. Mine aren't yet, although she has indicated that was in the plans.  I
had to find something.  Pulling off the towel, I made a dash to her jewelry box. 
A frantic search for suitable accessories yielded a long gold chain necklace that
I put around  the cowl, and let fall between my (????) breasts, along with a
matching bracelet that I slipped onto my wrist.

Less than a minute to go by the clock on her bedside table. How many seconds? 
Not enough.  I slipped on the shoes and minced back to the mirror. I saw a tall,
wavy haired person, wearing a peach colored sweater and skirt.  I felt mostly
foolish and, at best, androgynous.  I stood there, peering into the mirror,
staring at myself, trying to find a feminine person, if not a woman in my
reflection.  I looked for whatever Mistress would look for in judging me at this
test.

All I could see was me, and I did not know if that was going to be enough this
time.

Technically, I knew I had done everything correctly, exactly as Mistress had
taught me.  If I had been dressing and making up Mistress, she would have looked
great. But then, she always did look great. The problem was that I knew how to
make her up, but what worked for her may not have been correct for me.

Oh, God, please.

One almost-positive thing occurred to me in those last, frantic, nearly
hysterical seconds - I no longer had the problem of a hard-on. Not with the
outcome of next few seconds determining if the love of my life was going to keep
me or reject me.

I was limp.

From the hall, the bell sounded.  My two hours were up.

Taking a deep breath, I walked carefully to the door, pleased that I could manage
the heels with so little trouble.  I gripped the doorknob, and stopped again. 
Would she make me go away???

Oh god, please, no!  I steeled myself, turned the knob, and opened the door to
find........

The Lady or the Tiger?