Chapter Text
The wedding celebration at the Castle of Eremnuk was the happiest moment in a decade, when the former Duchess, Lalisee; gave birth to a boy and died shortly after. The castle had since been shrouded in mourning, with the Duke, Donsam, retreating into his solitude, leaving the duchy's affairs to his trusted advicer Kobham.
And after a year of flirting, Duke Donsam finally found love again in Lady Marisynn, daughter of one of the former Duchess' maids. The young and beautiful Duchess was a tall, blonde woman, with a very curvaceous figure. Her ample bosom was a sight that had turned many heads during the festivities, a golden relic of the former Duchess resting on her chest, a necklace with a single blue stone that matched the color of her piercing eyes. The tight-fitting silver dress she wore hugged and highlit her body perfectly, as she stood next to her older husband, and her new 10 years old step-son, the young heir Grantham.
The whispers among the courtesans spoke of some animosity between Lady Marisynn and Grantham, the young heir to the duchy. It was subtle, yet palpable, as she used to be a simple maiden until the beautiful woman had caught the Duke's eye. Some said the boy complained to the Duke about her coldness towards him, but Donsam was too enamored to heed his son's words. Grantham was the living picture of his mother, with his brunette hair and soft features, a stark contrast to the robust Donsam. The child, wearing his formal attire, felt out of place, his hand now grabbing tightly to his new stepmother's hand as they stood before the guests and the courtesans.
"Long live the Duke and Duchess!" the heralds' voices echoed through the grand hall, the applause from the crowd mingling with the clinking of goblets and the sweet sound of minstrels playing a festive tune. Lady Marisynn's smile never faltered, even when she slightly turned her head to cast a discreet glance at Grantham. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and he saw in hers the gleam of triumph, as if she had conquered him as well as the Duke's heart.
While the newlywed couple shared a brief moment to dance for their guests, Grantham remained next to his trusted governess, watching them from afar. He sighed, feeling a knot in his stomach tighten. When they split apart, Duke Donsam shook hands and exchange pleasantries with his guests, leaving Lady Marisynn to mingle on her own. She approached Grantham with a cocky demeanor, her eyes gleaming like the jewels in her hair.
"Can I have a word with my son?" Lady Marisynn said to the governess, her voice as sweet as honey, but the underlying tone was one of authority. The governess nodded and went to attend to other guests, leaving Grantham alone with his new stepmother.
"I am not your son," Grantham said firmly, his voice steady.
"Why can't you just accept me, Grantham?" Lady Marisynn's smile was forced, her eyes searching his.
He looked at her, the gold necklace around her neck glinting in the candlelight, a stark reminder of his mother.
"I know you don't love my father," he replied, "you just want what's his."
Her laugh was musical, but her eyes remained cold. "You say funny things, little one. The only thing I want from the Duke is his love. As he seized my heart and love," she said, placing a hand gently on Grantham's shoulder, "you should do the same."
He took off her gloved hand from his shoulder, his grip firm. "Your love is as false as your smile," Grantham said, his voice filled with accusation. "Maybe he loves you, but I do not have to."
"Fine," Lady Marisynn's smile widened, "you're young, and your heart is still tender. But remember, Grantham, I am now your stepmother, and you shall treat me with respect."
With that said, she stood tall and walked away, the train of her dress fluttering as she melded with the throng of guests. Grantham sat down on a nearby bench, feeling the weight of his words and the heaviness of his heart. He watched her flit from one group to another, seeing the way her eyes shone and her laughter tinkled, seemingly carefree. Yet, on his eyes, every gesture and word seemed and felt false.
The party grew livelier as the night progressed, the warm glow of candles reflecting off the golden decorations and the laughter of the guests echoing through the castle. Yet Grantham's mood remained as somber as the shadows that danced along the edges of the grand hall. His father sent him to bed before midnight, at least he wouldn't have to watch Lady Marisynn's façade much longer. As he climbed the grand staircase, the sound of music grew faint, leaving only the thud of his boots on the cold stone floor.
As he wore his nightclothes, Grantham couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his stomach. He lay in his vast, draughty chamber, the echoes of the distant festivities a stark contrast to the silence surrounding him. The fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows on the tapestries that lined the walls, his eyes fixated on the flaming dance. His thoughts were a tumultuous whirlwind, swirling with suspicion and anger towards Lady Marisynn. He felt asleep eventually, only to be plagued by dreams of his mother, her gentle voice fading into the coldness of his stepmother's laughter.
A heartbreaking lament made him open his eyes to the lights of the morning. His heart pounded in his chest as he got up, leaving his bedchamber to find the source of the sorrowful sound. He saw many courtesans and servants heading to the Duke's chamber, their expressions filled with dread. As he became noticeable, whispers grew louder, and despite Grantham's demanding nature, none dared to tell him the reason behind the chaos.
He entered the Duke's chamber, his heart racing. The sight that greeted him was one of horror. His father laid lifeless on the bed, pale and cold, his eyes open and unseeing. The little boy felt his world crumble around him. Lady Marisynn was there, knelt beside his father's bed, weeping into her hands. Grantham ran and jumped over the bed, laying next to his father, his own hands shaking as he reached out to touch Donsam's lifeless face.
"Father," Grantham choked out, his voice a hoarse whisper, his hand trembling as he touched the Duke's cold, unresponsive cheek. His mind raced with questions, but no answers came. The room was a blur of concerned faces, from the advicers to the guards, all hovering around the lifeless form of Duke Donsam. Lady Marisynn looked up, her eyes red and swollen, her smile from the previous night replaced by a mask of grief.
"I woke up... and found him... like this," Lady Marisynn sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. The room fell silent, the only sound being her mournful sobs.
Grantham buried his face in his father's chest, crying out his pain and fear. He had lost the only person who truly loved him. His heart ached, feeling the void that his father's passing had left. As he wept, the whispers grew into murmurs, the room buzzing with speculation. The governess, who had been standing in the doorway, rushed over and wrapped her arms around him, gently pulling him away from the Duke's side.
She took him outside. He wiped his tears, his heart heavy with grief. The woman told him the Duchess woke up in the early hours, screaming, having found Duke Donsam next to her, inert.
"Did... anyone see anything, or find anything unusual?" Grantham asked a while later, his voice still quivering. The governess' eyes searched his face, her expression a mix of sympathy and concern.
"No, my dear," she replied, her voice gentle. "No blood or signs of struggle, it seems he passed peacefully in his sleep. Perhaps the joy of the wedding was too much for his heart. The physicians have been summoned to determine the cause."
The castle was soon filled with the solemn tread of mourners. The grand hall, which had been the site of such happiness just the night before, now held a somber pallor. The guests from the wedding were now dressed in black and gray, whispering their condolences. The laughter had been replaced with hushed tones and the occasional sniffle. Grantham stood next to his stepmother, who was now the dowager Duchess, watching the coffin of his father being carried away and the chief adviser Kobham nearby, speaking to the chief physician.
"Did you find the cause of his death?" Kobham, a long gray-haired man with a stern countenance, asked the chief physician. The physician, a plump man with a furrowed brow, took a deep breath.
"No, Sire. It appears to be a sudden failure of the heart. There's no sign of foul play or illness. The Duke was a robust man. It's... inexplicable." His voice trailed off as he met Grantham's gaze, the boy's eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"Thank you," the advicer said, his own face lined with sorrow. "Please, inform me of any new developments."
The days that followed were a blur of mourning rituals and ceremonies. Grantham felt as though he was living in a nightmare from which he could not wake. His father's body laid in state in the castle chapel, surrounded by an eerie silence, only broken by the occasional sob from mourners. The young heir was now always by the side of Lady Marisynn, her hand firmly clasping his, her eyes never leaving his face.
When his father was finally laid to rest, the council of Eremnuk gathered to discuss the future of the duchy. Grantham, still in mourning, was called to attend the meeting. He sat at the chair next to Lady Marisynn, who now occupied the throne-like chair at the head of the table, her eyes scanning the faces of the noble lords and advisers with melancholy. Kobham, the Duke's most trusted advisor, stood before them, his expression a mask of solemnity.
"I wish I wouldn't be saying this," Kobham began, his deep voice filling the chamber, "but with Duke Donsam's sudden and tragic passing, the question of succession must be addressed." He paused, looking at Grantham. He leaned over a piece of parchment on the table before he resumed. "As the sole heir, it falls upon you, young Grantham, to assume the responsibilities of your father as Duke of Eremnuk."
The room grew tense. The child looked up at Lady Marisynn, whose eyes were cast down, her expression unreadable. The lords and advisers exchanged whispers, their gazes shifting between the young heir and the widow. Grantham felt confident that his short-term step-mother wouldn't dare to oppose the council's decision, but she cleared her throat, still staring at her lap.
"My lords, my lords," Kobham's voice boomed, silencing the murmurs. "Grantham is but a child, and according to the custom, it is the duty of the mother and Dowager Duchess to exert guardianship until he comes of age."
"But his mother is dead," one lord spoke up.
"Indeed," the advicer agreed, "and so, it falls upon Lady Marisynn, his stepmother, to assume the role of his regent."
The room grew still. Grantham felt the weight of their gazes, the air thick with unspoken tension. His grip tightened on the armrest of his chair. Marisynn looked up at him, a subtle smile playing on her lips.
"I'm grateful for the council's confidence," Lady Marisynn said, her voice a firm tone. She stood up, her black mourning dress rustling. "I swear to you all, I shall rule with justice and wisdom until Grantham comes of age."
The whole council agreed, almost too quickly, and Grantham saw them bow before Lady Marisynn, who remained still and proud, her eyes staring back at him, the little boy gulped. He felt his heart sink into his stomach as he realized the true extent of his father's absence. The council members dismissed themselves, leaving only Grantham and Duchess Marisynn in the chamber. She approached him, her steps measured and deliberate, and bent down to his level.
"So it is done," Lady Marisynn said, her smile never fading. "Did you really think they would make you Duke so soon, my dear?" her tone was soft, but Grantham heard the mockery in her voice. He gritted his teeth and looked away, not willing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
She gripped his chin firmly and turned his face to meet her gaze.
"Hey, what are you...?" Grantham's voice faltered as he met Lady Marisynn's cold gaze. She stared at him for a moment longer before speaking.
"Look at me, spoiled brat," she said, her grip on his chin tightening, forcing his eyes to hers. "You may have the title, but I will have the power. And... I'm going to enjoy watching you squirm under my thumb."
"Let go... you bitch... you're hurting me," Grantham stammered, trying to pull away. But her grip was like iron, and her smile grew wider, colder.
"I guess you were right in everything but one thing," she whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. "It is you who I truly desire to control. This bitch will make you one, Grantham. Mark my words."
Her tongue felt like a serpent's caress against his skin, Grantham's eyes went wide with shock as she licked his cheek. He struggled in her grip, but he felt her tongue slowly licking up the side of his face, leaving a wet trail.
"How dare you!" Grantham gasped, free from her grasp. He wiped his face, his cheek sticky from her saliva. Lady Marisynn stepped back, her smile now replaced with a look of pure amusement.
"Everything is going to change now, little one," she said, her voice low and menacing. "You will learn to respect me, to obey me and please me. You have no choice, bitch... I own you now."
The Duchess walked out of the chamber, leaving Grantham breathing heavily, his cheek burning with humiliation. His thoughts raced. How could this happen? That disgraced night, her eyes gleamed with triumph, her words echoed in his head, and suddenly it all made sense. This was her plan all along, to marry his father, to take over the duchy, and to control him.
The next day, Grantham wandered all over the castle, unable to find his governess. He headed to the grand hall where he found Marisynn sat at the throne-like chair, surrounded by advisors, she waved her hand as he approached, the room silenced immediately. She wore a tight white dress that accentuated her figure, and a cleavage so deep that if she leaned forward slightly, the whole room would see her breasts. Her hair was tied up in a bun, with loose strands framing her face, making her look more regal than ever.
"What can I do for you, my dear Duke?" Lady Marisynn's voice was sugared with condescension as she addressed Grantham. Her eyes swept over his soft, delicate features.
"I can't find my governess," Grantham said in a not so polite tone.
"Ah, the dedicated servant," she replied with a mocking smile. "I've reassigned her to other duties. You're no longer in need of a babysitter. You have me now."
"You don't have the right," Grantham protested, his voice shaking.
"Really? The council seems to think otherwise," she said, her smile growing colder. "Now, if there's nothing else, I have matters of state to attend to. Matters little boys don't understand."
Grantham stormed out of the grand hall, his cheeks red with anger. He couldn't believe the audacity of Lady Marisynn to dismiss his governess like a common servant. The governess had been the only constant in his life, the only one who truly cared for him and had been by his side since his mother's death. He felt the anger boiling inside of him as he marched down the long corridor, his small fists balled up.
He spent the rest of the day attending his lessons, his mind preoccupied with his new reality. The castle, once a bastion of warmth and security, now felt like a prison with Lady Marisynn as its warden. His thoughts couldn't focus with dates and battle names the history tutor threw at him, nor the intricate dance steps his dance master demanded. Every corridor, every room, was a stark reminder of his father's absence, and her growing power.
Back to his room, Grantham wrapped himself in the sheet of his four-poster bed, feeling more alone than ever. Well, not completely alone. Marisynn was everywhere, her scent lingering in the corridors, her voice echoing in the grand hall. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to get some sleep, but the images of his stepmother licking his face haunted his mind, her words burning in his ears.
After breakfast, he headed to his swimming lessons, the first of the day. The castle's indoor pool was a vast chamber filled with the calming sound of splashing water. The mosaic walls depicted scenes of mythical sea creatures, but his tutor was nowhere to be found. Instead, Lady Marisynn waited for him, dressed in a satin robe, her lingerie barely concealed beneath.
"What's this? What are you doing here?" Grantham spat, trying to hide his revulsion at the sight of his stepmother's barely covered form.
"Good morning, where are your manners?" Lady Marisynn purred, her eyes sparkling with something unsettling. "Your swimming tutor is discharged. In fact, all your tutors have been dismissed. You will no longer need them."
"What!? Why?" Grantham's voice was a mix of shock and anger.
"You are now under my personal guidance, my dear," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "I believe it's time for you to come with me to my... special chamber".
Grantham's hand found trapped in hers as Lady Marisynn led him down the sunny corridors of the castle. He realized she was heading to the west wing, a place where his father had forbidden him to go. The floor and walls were colder, a long spiral staircase descending into darkness, she stopped in the first step, turning to face him.
"Where are we going?" Grantham asked, his voice tight with fear as they approached the forbidden wing of the castle. Lady Marisynn's grip on his hand was firm, her eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and malice.
"I told you, my sweet," she replied, her breath warm and sickly sweet, "to my special chamber. It's time for your real education to begin. One that will turn you into my bitch, my obedient little puppet."
Grantham tried to pull away, but her grasp was like a vice. She led him down the cold, dimly lit staircase, her silk robe gliding against the ancient stones. Finally, they reached a corridor with five black doors, each with an iron knob shaped like a ring. She stopped before the last one at the bottom of the narrow corridor, and with a dramatic flourish, she opened it.
Inside, the chamber was illuminated by candles as it didn't have windows. The walls black like ashes, with no decorations, the only source of color coming from the flaming torches on the walls, a large crimson-painted wardrobe stood in the corner and a full-sized mirror nailed to the opposite wall reflected the flickering light. A series of mannequin heads were arranged on a shelf, each one crowned with a wig of a different color and style. A pink chair in front of a table with a mirror on it, various cosmetic brushes, lipsticks, face powders, blushers, and other female accessories scattered around. Lastly, a queen size bed with red satin sheets.
Lady Marisynn locked the door behind them with a click that echoed through the cold stone chamber, sending a shiver down Grantham's spine. He looked around, his eyes wide with surprise at the items that surrounded him. This wasn't what he'd expected, not at all. It was almost like stepping into a girl's playroom, only this one seemed tobrusa bit sinister.
"What is this place?" Grantham's voice trembled, his eyes darting around the peculiar room.
"This..." she hissed, her smile growing wicked, "is where I'll turn you from a cute little boy into the gorgeous, obedient girl I've always wanted."
The revelation hit Grantham like a cold slap across the face. He'd never seen this side of Lady Marisynn, never even imagined it. He tried to pull away, his heart racing, but she held him firmly.
"You can't do this to me," Grantham protested, "I'm not your plaything!" But Lady Marisynn only chuckled, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
"You're whatever I say you are," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "And from now on, you're going to be my little girl, my pretty, obedient pet."
Her grip on his hand grew tighter as she led him to the large mirror. He stood before it, his reflection looking small and hesitant. Lady Marisynn knelt behind him, her breath hot on his neck and her hands placed on his waist.
"Look at yourself, Grantham," she said, her voice a low purr. "You're so beautiful. Whenever you were harsh or unkind to me as your maiden, I knew there was a bitch inside of you, yearning to be released. And when I make you look like the hottest slut in the duchy, you and I will share that queen-size bed... like duchess and little duchess."
Her words hit him like a storm, his heart racing as she slowly lifted his cotton shirt over his head. He felt the cold air kiss his bare skin, goosebumps rising everywhere. Grantham couldn't or didn't want to move, his body frozen in fear. She began to unbuckle his britches, her eyes never leaving his reflection in the mirror as his pale skin was exposed.
"You will learn to love it," Lady Marisynn whispered, her voice a dark melody in his ear. "The way your face looks with makeup, the way a dress hugs your body, the way your wig looks with those delicate earrings."
Grantham felt his heart racing, unable to move or speak as Lady Marisynn continued to strip him. His smooth chest and stomach exposed to the cold air, his hairless pelvis and boybits seemed smaller in the cold room. Her eyes devoured his nakedness, her smile growing wider at the sight of his limp weewee. She stood up, her eyes never leaving his, and went to the crimson wardrobe. She pulled out several panties of his size, lacey and frilly, waving them before his face.
"Panties are a girl's best friend," Lady Marisynn said, holding up the delicate fabric to the light. "You're going to look so pretty in these."
Grantham's face was a picture of horror as he watched her approach, the lace and silk panties fluttering in her hand. He felt his body stiffen as she laid them over a black puffy cushion near the mirror. Lady Marisynn's eyes danced along the undergarments and picked out a pink pair with tiny white bows.
"Let's start with these, shall we?" she cooed, her eyes gleaming. She squatted before him, holding the panties at his ankles, waiting for him to step into them. Grantham remained still, his body trembling.
"I'm not doing this," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"You don't have a choice, darling," Lady Marisynn said, her smile never fading. "Now, lift your legs and let mommy help you."
Grantham's cheeks burned with humiliation as she forced him to lift his feet. She slid the panties up, her fingers lingering over his boybits, sending a wave of revulsion through him. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of her touch. When she was done, she patted his bottom, sending him a look that was a mix of victory and amusement.
"Look at yourself, Grantham," Lady Marisynn purred, stepping out of the way so he could see his reflection in the mirror. The pink panties fitted him snugly, the bows sitting at both sides of his hips, the lace tickling his bare skin. The sight made him feel sick, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. He saw his own reflection looking back at him, his slim legs and the soft fabric of the panties. It was like looking into a twisted funhouse mirror.
"What do you think?" Lady Marisynn asked, her voice dripping with sweetness that didn't reach her cold, hungry eyes. "Aren't you the prettiest little bitch I've ever seen?"
"I hate you," Grantham spat out, his voice shaking with fear and anger.
"Oh, darling," she said, stroking his cheek with a gentle finger, "you're just saying that because you're not used to it yet. But you'll come to love it, I promise."
Her hand traveled down his back, sending a chill through his spine. Marisynn pulled down the panties and went on with a white silk one, her touch colder than the stone floor. Grantham's eyes remained glued to the mirror, watching the new pair of underwear being drawn over his bare skin. Then she picked up a red one, and another, a blue one with silver embroidery, and finally a black one with lace trimmings. Each time, her touch grew bolder, her gaze more possessive.
"I think this black one suits you best," Lady Marisynn murmured, sliding the last pair of panties up his legs. "It matches the color in your eyes, makes you look stunning."
"I said I hate you," Grantham repeated, his voice stronger this time.
"You'll thank me for this," she said, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Now, let's move on to the bra."
Grantham felt a cold lump form in his throat as Lady Marisynn approached the wardrobe again, pulling out the matching black lace bra. Her hands moved to his chest, clasping it around his small frame. His cheeks burned with a new level of humiliation as she fastened the hooks in the back, the cups framing his non-existent breasts. He could feel the lace pressing against his skin, a constant reminder of his new, unwanted identity.
"Hot, isn't it?" Lady Marisynn whispered as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. Grantham felt the fabric stick to his skin, the lace digging into his flesh, a stark contrast to the chilly air of the chamber. He stared at the reflection of the black lace, getting a little closer to what his wicked stepmother had in mind for him.
Marisynn brought a pair of black silk stockings next, her movements precise and practiced. "Now, let's get those legs looking as beautiful as the rest of you," she cooed, her voice thick with a hunger Grantham had never heard from her before. "You'll like them, as stockings always make your legs feel a constant gentle massage, darling. That tingle will mean you're loving your new self."
Her hands were cold as they touched his skin, sliding the stockings up his legs, one after the other. He tried to resist, but she was too determined. The stockings went all the way up to his thighs, and she fastened them with the garter belt attached to the panties. His legs looked like they belonged to a doll, not a boy.
Grantham stared at his legs, feeling the unfamiliar embrace of the stockings, it didn't feel right, but it wasn't discomfortable. Lady Marisynn winked at him in the mirror, then she led him to the pink chair. The Duchess made him sit down and then secured him with leather straps on his neck, wrists and ankles.
"Until you're ready to embrace your new life, Grantham, I'll have to keep you in line," Lady Marisynn said with a wicked smile, before she grabbed a spray bottle filled with water from the side table. She sprayed a pad of cotton wool, then leaned over him, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her robe. Lady Marisynn began to wipe his face with the cool, damp cloth, the boy couldn't help but feel the wetness of the cloth and the warmth of her body.
"Before applying your makeup, we must remove any imperfections," Lady Marisynn whispered, her breath tickling his ear as she checked his straps. Grantham's eyes darted to the cosmetic-laden table, his stepmother grabbed a jar of cold cream and picked another pad of cotton wool. He felt her gentle strokes over his face, the cream moisturizing his skin, and the pad's roughness as it glided over his nose and cheeks. The scent of roses filled the air as she worked meticulously, her movements calculated and deliberate. His small fists balled up in the leather straps, his knuckles white with tension.
"Now I just hydrated your skin," Lady Marisynn said with tutoring patience, setting aside the jar and the cotton pad. "We need to clean it thoroughly before applying any makeup. It's like a canvas, Grantham. If it's not clean and smooth, the paint won't adhere properly."
His face felt sticky with the cold cream, but Grantham couldn't protest as she leaned in closer, applying a primer to his skin. Lady Marisynn's eyes were sharp with focus, her hands deft as she painted the canvas that was now his face. She applied foundation with a gentle touch, blending it into his skin until it was a flawless mask, softening a bit more his delicate features. He watched in horror the current progress in the mirror, struggling less and less as Marisynn's work transformed him.
Concealer followed, hiding his dark circles. Then, she brought a puffy pad and a big circular jar of powder, tapping some of the product onto the pad and gently patting it onto his face. Each movement was precise and practiced, turning Grantham's reflection into a stranger with every stroke. His eyes watered as the dust tickled his nose, but he remained silent, watching in the mirror as Lady Marisynn painted him into her vision.
She began the color application, brushing blush onto the apples of his cheeks, turning his nose up with a smirk as she painted him into a doll-like image. His heart raced as the rouge deepened, giving him a rosy, feminine blush that made him look softer, more... delicate. Next came the eyeshadow, a shimmering gold that made his eyes pop and look larger. Eyeliner followed, a thick line that accentuated the natural arch of his eyelids, and mascara to make his lashes darker and longer.
Grantham puckered his lips as Lady Marisynn came at him with a crimson lipstick. He felt her hand grasping his chin to force his mouth open wider, her grip was firm but gentle, as if she didn't want to smear the makeup she'd so meticulously applied. She painted his lips with the sticky substance, a color so bold it almost matched her own. Grantham grunted in protest, trying to pull away, but the neck strap kept him in place. Once his lips were coated, she stepped back to examine her work, her eyes gliding over his face.
"And... some spray," Lady Marisynn said with a wicked smile, picking up a small bottle of hairspray. She held it close to Grantham's face and sprayed. He coughed, his eyes watering as the fumes filled his nostrils. The mist clung to the makeup, setting it in place. The room grew warmer from the candles, and Grantham got released from the straps and he could see his reflection, his heart sank.
The boy once known as Grantham now looked a pretty young 10 years old girl having her first makeover, except it was not a game or a play, but a twisted reality he never asked for. He watched in the mirror with mouth slightly open as Lady Marisynn stepped alongside, his little hand shaking as he touched his own painted lips, his rosy cheeks, and his lined eyes.
"Girl," Lady Marisynn said with a smirk, "you-look-so-pretty-now," she drew out each word, enjoying Grantham's gestures of disgust as he stared at the stranger in the mirror. "Now, let's choose a wig."
The wig selection process was just like the rest, she tried each one on him, watching his reaction with a mix of excitement and satisfaction. Each wig brought a different expression to his face, a different emotion to the surface, and Lady Marisynn adored every second of it. Finally, she settled on a blonde one, lacey bangs that reached just above his eyebrows, the curls reaching down to his neck. The Duchess took a moment to brush the hair, arranging it just right before securing it onto Grantham's head.
"Well, well," Lady Marisynn said, her eyes gleaming as Grantham stared at his reflection in the mirror. "You look absolutely stunning, Grantham. Or should I say, Granthame?" she addressed him now by the feminine version of his name, her smile stretching wider.
He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the mirror. The blonde wig framed his face, if he was someone else and he was seeing his new look, he would have thought it was a pretty girl staring back at him. But it was his own reflection, and he felt just speechless of thinking about he looked like a girl now. Lady Marisynn picked up a necklace with a pearl pendant, fastening it around his neck.
They returned to the wardrobe, and Grantham's eyes widened as Lady Marisynn pulled out an elegant red ball gawn made of the finest silk and adorned with delicate lace. The dress had silver sequins over the neckline, sparkling like stars in the candlelight. She helped him into the dress, her movements swift and efficient. As the sound of the rear zipping filled the room, Grantham felt his heart drop into his stomach. The fabric was softer than anything he'd ever worn, the dress hugging his thin frame. The neckline was in line with the bra she'd chosen for him.
His stepmother picked out a pair of silver sandals with a slight heel, pushing his feet into them with surprising ease. It seemed everything in that chamber was designed to fit him perfectly, he thought in horror. He tried to stand but wobbled, unsteady on the unfamiliar footwear. Lady Marisynn chuckled, holding his arm to stabilize him and they stood before the mirror, her hand lingering on his shoulder, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
"Look at you, my beautiful Granthame," Lady Marisynn whispered, her eyes raking over his reflection in the mirror. "Don't you just love the way you look?"
The boy-now-girl looked at the mirror, the reflection showing someone he didn't recognize. The red dress made him look... pretty. The way his eyebrows blinked at his own reflection, the look of his face painted with makeup, the necklace, and the wig. He was dressed up like a girl, a very pretty girl, and she (from now on) swallowed hard, afraid to admit the truth.
"I can't... I can't believe this," Granthame murmured, her voice cracking as she stared at the image before her. The Duchess lifted the hem of the dress, revealing the stockinged legs and panties beneath. Her legs looked so... gorgeous, and the fabric of the stockings made them seem so smooth and alluring. She felt a strange sensation in her stomach, something she hadn't felt before. Granthame expected the final result would make her feel disgusted, but deep down, there was something... appealing about her new look.
"You can't believe how pretty you are, can you?" Lady Marisynn said, her voice a sweet caress that sent chills down Granthame's spine. Her hands traced the side of her dress, the Duchess' touch almost loving as she examined every inch of her body. "I love how the dress accentuates your figure, darling. Your slender waist, your delicate shoulders, your hips that are just starting to show... girl, you're going to break hearts," Marisynn squatted behind her and whispered against her ear.
Granthame felt the heat rising in her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It was as if a part of her enjoyed the way Lady Marisynn's eyes devoured her new form, the way she talked to her. That shouldn't be the case, she thought, she should hate this, but she couldn't ignore the flutter in her stomach, or... the way her heart skipped a beat when her stepmother whispered sweet nothings into her ear. Why was thinking as a 'she' coming so naturally? She had never felt like this before.
"Say whatever you wish," Granthame managed to spit out, her voice trembling, "but I will never be your 'Granthame'."
Lady Marisynn's smile didn't falter. "We'll see, Granthame," she said, her voice a dark promise. "I am starting to see the obedient little girl in you."
The Duchess began to kiss Granthame's neck and shoulders, her hands gliding over the silky fabric of the dress. The sensation sent a shiver down Granthame's spine, and she realized she was not repulsed but... quite keen to feel more. It was as if the dress, the makeup, the wig, had turned her into someone else entirely, someone who enjoyed this kind of attention. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand suddenly, the Duchess grinned playfully behind her.
"Was that a sigh, young lady?" Lady Marisynn's voice was a purr as she stepped closer to Granthame, her eyes dark with excitement. "I can tell you're starting to like this."
Granthame tried to push her away, but the effort almost made her fall over in the heels. "No, I don't like this," she said, her voice shaking. "I hate you... for doing this to me."
The Duchess chuckled, her fingers playing with the silver sequins on the neckline of the dress. "You say that now, Granthame, but soon you'll learn to crave it. To crave me," she murmured, her breath warm on Granthame's neck.
Granthame felt a strange warmth spread through her, and she couldn't help but lean into the touch. It was wrong, so wrong, but it felt... good. She didn't understand why, but she didn't hate it as much as she should. "Please, stop," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lady Marisynn's smile grew wider, and she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Granthame's ear. "You know you want it, darling," she whispered, her voice like velvet. "You're just scared to admit it. Don't worry, I'll give you all the time you need, now... let's get those heels to work."
The Duchess led Granthame around the room, her hands on hers, guiding her steps. The heels felt strange under her feet, making her wobble slightly. "No rushing, girl. One step at a time," Lady Marisynn instructed, looking down at the young girl with a glint of satisfaction. "And slightly to the side, just like this."
Lady Marisynn showed her pupil how to move while she lifted the front of the dress to prevent any trips. "Remember, Granthame, a lady always holds her skirt just right," she said, mimicking the motion. "You must glide, not walk."
Granthame's face flushed, but she mimicked the action. The dress was surprisingly comfortable, but the heels... they were another story. Each step was a battle between grace and gravity, her muscles protesting the unfamiliar stance. Her wobbly gait slowly turned into something more stable, though, as the Duchess constantly made her practice for what it seemed like an eternity. Granthame's feet ached and her stepmother noticed the discomfort in her eyes.
"Do you need a break, Granthame?" Lady Marisynn's voice was filled with concern, but her eyes remained sharp with desire. Granthame nodded, her feet tired of the many repeats she had performed under her stepmother's watchful gaze. The Duchess led her to the chair again and made her sit, her hand never leaving her arm.
"The first time on heels is always a challenge, isn't it?" Lady Marisynn said, her tone soothing despite the twisted situation. "But you're doing splendidly, Granthame. Your progress is beyond what I expected."
"I'm not 'Granthame,'" Granthame said, trying to stand one of her last acts of defiance, but her voice was softer now, more of a mechanical response than a declaration of rebellion.
"Oh, but you are, darling. I wouldn't mistakenly call you by another name," Lady Marisynn said, stroking Granthame's hair. "Now, what if I teach you to paint your nails, wouldn't that be fun? After all, what two girls enjoy more than chattin' and doin' their nails together?"
The little lady didn't say a word as her stepmother seeked out a small box beneath the makeup table. She pulled out a set of nail polish in various colors, laying them out like a buffet of temptation. Granthame's eyes wandered over the vibrant shades, feeling a strange pull toward them despite the natural reject she should have felt.
After a few hesitant seconds, she offered her small hand, and Lady Marisynn took it with a smirk, leading her to the manicure set. She picked a fiery red shade, the same color as the dress Granthame was wearing, and began to paint the nails with surprising care and skill. Granthame felt the cold, wet brush against her nails, and she watched as the color coated them, turning her hands into something dainty and feminine.
"Oh girl, now it is a lovely hand," Lady Marisynn said, admiring Granthame's painted nails. "It's like watching a butterfly emerge from a cocoon." Granthame's stomach turned at the analogy, but she couldn't deny the comparison. The red polish gleamed under the candlelight, and turned this way and that, they did look pretty. The Duchess leaned in to kiss her hand, and Granthame felt the softness of her lips and the warmth of her breath.
"What do you think, Granthame?" Lady Marisynn held up Granthame's hand, displaying the freshly painted nails. "Do they suit you?"
Granthame stared at the red tips of her fingers, the sight causing an internal conflict she had never felt before. She didn't want to admit it, but she did feel... pretty, compared to her other hand which remained bare.
"They're... different," she managed, trying to keep her voice steady or avoid positive comment of something so feminine.
"Different? They're absolutely stunning!" Lady Marisynn exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement. "Your other hand, sweetheart, it needs the same love."
Granthame felt her hand being held, and watched as her stepmother painted her other hand with the same meticulousness. She felt... strange, a mix of revulsion and fascination as the red color spread across her nails. It was like watching someone else's hand being transformed, but it was her own. That was odd, she thought.
Lady Marisynn blew gently on Granthame's nails, the warmth of her breath causing them to shiver. "Almost dry," she murmured, her eyes glinting with excitement. "My dream girl shines more and more."
Granthame stared at her painted nails, and brought her hand to her mouth, trying to use her teeth to scrape the polish off. Lady Marisynn slapped her hand away with a ‘tsk’.
"Such a naughty girl," she said, her eyes flashing with a mix of stern and amusement. "We can't have that. Not when you're looking so lovely."
"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a girl," Granthame said, but her voice lacked the conviction it once had.
"Sure, dear, and I'm not the Duchess of Eremnuk," she replied with a wink, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She took Granthame's hand and placed it back on her lap. "Now, let's leave them to dry," she said, her grip firm but gentle.
As they waited, Lady Marisynn began to hum a lullaby Granthame couldn't help but enjoy. Her cheeks spasmed, trying to hold back the smile that wanted to emerge. The Duchess poked at her, teasing, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Granthame glared, but the anger didn't reach her eyes. She began to hum again the tune, staring at her stepdaughter, her eyes telling her to join in.
Granthame's hum was tentative at first, the melody strange and unfamiliar in her throat. Yet as the moments passed, both ladies found themselves humming in unison. The Duchess kissed her cheek when the tune was done. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" she said, her voice filled with a strange warmth.
The little girl stood up, her gait more graceful now with the practice. Her stepmother made her spin around, the dress twirling around her, the fabric brushing against her bare legs.
"I guess it's time for lunch already, young lady," Lady Marisynn announced, breaking the oddly serene silence that had filled the room. Granthame's stomach growled at the mention of food, a reminder of the long day she'd been through. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and the thought of food made her feel both hungry and anxious.
"But... I can't go out like this," Granthame mumbled, as she admired again in the mirror. The reflection was still surreal, but less terrifying than before.
"Of course not," Lady Marisynn said, her hand on her shoulder, "for now, we'll just have a small meal here, in private. You need to get used to your new self before you face the world."
"Face the world?" Granthame's voice cracked with fear. "You don't expect me to... to walk around the castle dressed like a... like this?"
"That's the final step, Granthame," Lady Marisynn said, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Embracing your true self. But for now, let's keep on with baby steps."
The Duchess used the bell outside the door, and soon, mute servants brought in a tray of salad and fruit, setting it on a small table in the center of the room. Both Granthame and Lady Marisynn sat down, the latter instructing the younger to keep her legs crossed and back straight, posture that she said was proper for a lady. Granthame felt the fabric of the dress brush against her thighs, the sensation strange yet oddly comforting. The hunger won over rebellion, and she did as her stepmother said so she would allow her to eat.
The meal was silent, only interrupted by the occasional correction of Granthame's posture or the way of using the cutlery. Lady Marisynn watched her closely, ensuring every move was ladylike, every bite dainty. Granthame's appetite was almost animal as any boy would have been after long hours of playing outdoors, yet she followed her stepmother's tempo, each bite calculated, each chew measured. Lady Marisynn finished her lunch only after a few bites, the little girl made an anguished face. She was still hungry.
"A proper lady knows when to stop," Lady Marisynn said with a smirk as Granthame eyed the remaining food, almost all of it still on the plate. "Besides, we wouldn't want you to ruin your figure, would we?"
Granthame sighed, resenting the many rules she now had to abide by. Lady Marisynn took the plate away, and the servants silently cleared the table. The Duchess's gaze lingered on Granthame, a twinkle in her eye as she assessed the transformation.
They went to the bed, Lady Marisynn guiding her and showing the right way to climb onto it in a feminine manner. Granthame felt the softness of the mattress and the silkiness of the sheets. Her stepmother began to unzip the back of the dress in the same slow, delicate way she had put it on earlier. The cold air hit Granthame's back as the dress was peeled away, the fabric gliding off her skin like a whisper. She felt goosebumps rise as the dress flew on the floor like a discarded piece of art, leaving her laid on her back, dressed only in the lingerie and stockings.
Her stepmom removed her robe and tossed it aside, leaving her just in the lingerie. Granthame gazed at the ceiling, feeling the softness of the bed and the hand of her stepmother on her body. The little lady closed her eyes, her breath shallow and quick. Lady Marisynn's fingers traced patterns on her skin, making her shiver, and she realized she was enjoying the sensation.
"Why?" she whispered to herself, "why is this feeling okay?"
"Because, Granthame, only another woman knows what's best for you," Lady Marisynn answered, her voice a silken caress as she pressed her body closer to Granthame's, her breast brushing against her arm.
The Duchess' hand wandered down Granthame's pelvis, and she felt something she had never felt before, a strange heat and anticipation that made her squirm. Her stepmother cupped her crotch, and she gasped, spreading her legs wider without realizing it. Lady Marisynn smirked, her hand going up and down slowly over the black panties, a small tent forming where her hand lingered. Granthame felt a wetness seep through the fabric, and she was too shocked to stop her stepmother's exploration.
"Being a girl it's not only about looking pretty, Granthame, or behaving like one," Lady Marisynn whispered, her hand darting beneath the black lace of Granthame's panties and feeling the warmth of her girlclit. "It's about enjoying your body, your sensuality, your femininity. To be my perfect lady, you must understand pleasure, how to give it and receive it, specially receiving it from me."
Her stepmother's hand began to massage Granthame's sex gently, her touch surprisingly tender, yet firm. Granthame's eyes widened, her cheeks flushed as the unfamiliar sensations grew more intense. Her fingers went a bit lower, teasing Granthame's bussy, and she felt a jolt of pleasure that she had never known before. "Here... your bussy is the source of plesure," Lady Marisynn whispered, her voice low and seductive. "It's where you'll let me love you, where you'll learn to love me back."
The warmth of Lady Marisynn's breath on her neck, the gentle strokes on her body, and the sweet whispers were making Granthame's resistance melt away like snow in spring. She bit her bottom lip to keep from moaning, her eyes searching her stepmother's face. The Duchess brought her hand to let her touch her own body, guiding Granthame's fingers to the spot where she had been touching.
Her eyes widened with a mix of shock and curiosity as she felt a larger bulge underneath her stepmother's panties. That sudden realization made her withdraw her hand immediately, but Lady Marisynn placed it back.
"Is it... a pe..." Granthame asked, her voice trembling.
"Shhh," Lady Marisynn silenced her, her hand guiding Granthame's trembling fingers under her own lace, pressing them around a thick, warm, throbbing mass that felt like hers... only so much bigger. "It's your stepmother's little secret," she whispered, her voice a dark purr. "Not so little, is it?"
Granthame's eyes grew wide as she felt the firmness beneath the lace, and she realized that her stepmother was not entirely like other women. A question came to her mind, she gathered all her courage to ask.
"Were you... like me when you were my age?" Granthame mumbled. Lady Marisynn giggled.
"No, pretty one. I was born this way. Simply, a woman with a different equipment," she said, her voice low, "that's what makes me special."
Her hand guided Granthame's to stroke her, showing her how to be gentle yet firm, how to coax pleasure from a body that was both like and unlike her own. Granthame felt the strange heat in her stomach again, and her cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and a growing curiosity. As she touched Lady Marisynn's big cock, she felt her stepmother's body tense, and the Duchess's fingers began to move faster down her own panties, teasing her bussy.
Granthame panted, her mind racing with confusion and a growing sense of arousal as she tentatively stroked the unyielding flesh beneath Lady Marisynn's lingerie. The Duchess's eyes never left hers, a silent command to continue as she began to poke and probe at Granthame's hot, sensitive bussy. The young lady felt a pressure building within her, something she'd never experienced before, and she didn't know if she should fight it or give in to the feeling.
Finally the older woman's hand retreated from Granthame's bussy, leaving the little girl gasping for air.
"Good girl," Lady Marisynn breathed as she withdrew her hand out of her own panties, her eyes never leaving Granthame's. She leaned down and captured Granthame's lips in a soft, lingering kiss, her tongue tracing the outline of her mouth before delving in deeper.
Granthame felt a strange sensation, a mix of fear and something... else. She had never felt this way before, never kissed a girl, never felt the softness of a woman's body against hers. But as the kiss deepened, she found herself responding, her tongue meeting Lady Marisynn's, a dance of submission and curiosity.
The Duchess' tongue danced with Granthame's, exploring the depths of her mouth with a lustful swirl that sent shockwaves down her spine. Granthame's body responded in ways she couldn't comprehend, her chest heaving with each shallow breath she took. Her hand, still trembling, gripped her curvy stepmother's body, feeling the contours of her waist and the softness of her breasts. She didn't want to, but she couldn't deny the pleasure it brought her.
The little girl panted as they broke the kiss, her eyes meeting Lady Marisynn's with fascination of the newest and most pleasant experience. The Duchess's hand slid down Granthame's side, caressing the smooth skin of her waist.
"I think this is a good progress for today, young lady," Lady Marisynn whispered against Granthame's neck, "tomorrow, meet me at the top of the spiral staircase to continue your lessons."
Granthame nodded, her mind racing with a whirlwind of emotions she couldn't quite understand. The Duchess stood up, picking up her robe and help her stepdaughter to reverse the process they had done in the morning. The marks of the bra and stockings were etched on Granthame's skin, a constant reminder of the day's events.
Lady Marisynn put the wig back on its mannequin stand, then washed her face and removed the makeup, watching Granthame's feminine features fade into the reflection of the mirror. Again, Grantham looked his former self, and he dressed his clothes with a sigh of relief, feeling the rough fabric of his tunic and the comfort of his trousers.
He left his stepmother alone in the chamber and ascended the staircase back to the known part of the castle, and into his room. He felt like he had been in a dream, or rather a nightmare, that had gone on for hours. The sun had set outside, leaving the castle in a soft embrace of twilight. His heart raced as he tried to make sense of what had happened, his hand unconsciously touching his lips where Lady Marisynn's had been.
The transformation was undone, but the feeling of Lady Marisynn's touch remained. Grantham sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing with a mix of emotions. The anger and resentment still burned deep within him, but there was something else, a flicker of curiosity that he couldn't ignore. He had felt a strange thrill, a sense of belonging in those moments of submission. The gentle touches, the soft whispers, they had all stirred something within him towards the woman he hated most.
The boy stood in front of the mirror in his room, his hand hovering over his face and head, as if he was trying to make sure it was all back to normal. The red lipstick kiss on his cheek was faint but still there, a stain he wiped away with trembling fingers. He didn't want to think about tomorrow, didn't want to go through the humiliation of becoming that... that pretty thing again. But he ran his fingers through his lips, remembering the softness of Lady Marisynn's own, and a strange yearning filled him.
Catching sleep was even harder than the days of mourning for his father. Grantham relived the moments of the evening over and over again in his head. The way Lady Marisynn's hand had felt on his body, the moment when she stripped away his masculinity piece by piece, and the surprising pleasure that had surged through him when she touched him in ways no one ever had before. A low grunt escaped his lips as he tried to suppress the memory, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. Yet, his body seemed to remember every detail, his little penis stiffening slightly at the thought. He threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow, trying to drown out the noise in his mind.
To be continued...