Paris; A Foolish Bet

I was in my creative writing class, the last period of the day. Ms. Robbins, the professor, had just entered the classroom and was setting out some things on her desk. A few more stragglers came in and found seats, then Monica entered the room. Although this was already the fifth class of the semester, there were still some transfer students allowed to change their classes. She looked around the room, spotted me, and gave a girlish squeal. She waved and took one of the few empty seats at the front of the room. I tried to shrink in my seat a little, her squeal kind of embarrassing to me.

It had been several years since I had seen her last, in fact, graduation night at our high school, the last time we had been together. Since I am now a senior in college, it has indeed, been several years. Ms. Robbins got my attention back to the class as she handed out our writing assignments for the semester. Weekly papers, dealing with specific topics of interest, leading up to a final project that counted for seventy percent of our grade.

She had made out slips of paper dealing with most types of creative writing and had placed them in a box she carried around to each student. On one of the handout sheets, she had listed the choices; Romance, Science Fiction, Horror, Historical, Mystery, Erotic, and Westerns were our choices, and we would each pull out a slip of paper that would finalize our choice.

I automatically shrunk down in my chair once more, some of those choices would be very difficult for me to do anything with. I couldn’t picture me writing a romance story, much less a western. From the groans among my other classmates, I figured I am not alone. The final project had to be written online, at the class website, something added weekly, to keep from failing the class.

Luckily, our scribblings were going to be anonymous, known only by our teacher. She would grade us on our progress, make suggestions, and offer ideas to improve our work. All of the students could read the other stories, but they would have no idea who is writing them.

When Ms. Robbins got to me, I reached into the box, trying to focus my mind on getting a genre that I could actually do something with. I closed my eyes, and pulled a slip of paper out of the box. I placed it on my desk, and she moved to the next student. I opened my eyes, and turned over the paper, written on it was the word, Erotic. Not my first choice, but maybe not that bad, it sure beat several of the others. After everyone had selected, she explained some more about the assignment and listed some examples of each.

With a couple of the genres she listed, a few things that would not be allowed, the Erotic genre would not allow any person under the age of eighteen to be used in a story, and no sex scenes involving penetration of a penis into any orifice. That comment also applied to the Romance genre. That got a lot of comments and mumblings from the members of the class. Then, she read a short passage from each of the genre’s to illustrate some possibilities in writing our stories.

She called each of us to the front, one by one, asked us if we had any questions, recorded our selections then handed us our login and password for the website. Then we were dismissed. When I emerged from the classroom, Monica was waiting for me. We hugged briefly, I am not sure why, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t complain. She asked if I had another class, then when I responded no, she dragged me off to the Student Union. She told me her family had just moved back to town, and she managed to get classes for this semester. She was also a senior, actually only needing four semester hours to graduate. Since she had to be here anyway, she decided to take a couple of classes she had some interest in, this being one of them. We got some sodas from the cafeteria and found a seat in one of the lounges to catch up on each other’s lives.

She wanted to know all about me, what I was doing, what classes I am taking and what I had planned after graduation. After looking at my hand, did I have a girlfriend or wife, was also expressed. I chuckled, this is a side of Monica I had never seen before. Back in high school, we had often talked but never got around to personal things about our lives. I told her I was an English major, hoping to be able to write for a living one day, but probably teaching English at a private girl’s school owned by my Aunt after graduation. I gave her a list of classes I am taking, her outburst of giggles when I told her that one of my classes is female studies, getting some attention from others in the lounge.

My Aunt wanted me to take that course, since I was going to teach at a girls’ school; Monica immediately wanted to know when the class was held, and she wanted to take it with me. I told her the times; she used her cell phone to call admissions, and found out she could still sign up for the class. With a smile plastered on her face, she made the necessary changes to her schedule, and now, we would be classmates in two classes. I had a bad feeling about this; I am sure the kidding would be severe and constant with her in the class with me.

After high school graduation, she and her parents moved out west for a while, due to her father’s job. Just recently, he got promoted, and is now back at the home office. She would also like to do some writing, but is leaning towards writing textbooks for psychology, her major. She has almost all of her classes completed and has been working summers out west for a medical school clinic, in their psychology department. She wants to specialize in behavioral psychology, if she can, maybe setting up a practice around here, when she graduates.

We finally got around to discussing the genre of writing we had chosen earlier in the classroom and found out we both pulled Erotic stories as our subjects. Monica, like me, also feared writing anything Romantic, although she thought she could do a decent Western. Her biggest fear was drawing the dreaded Science Fiction category, telling me she couldn’t stand anything Star Wars or Star Trek. We chatted for another hour, nothing of any consequence, just getting to know each other a little better and catching up on our lives.

“Would you like to get something to eat, my treat. You can even choose the place.” I received a hug for that, and we went to a Pizza place just a couple of blocks from the campus. We ordered a large everything, and with two soft drinks, found a table. We managed to find a booth out of the way, private, so we could continue our chat. In high school, we never dated, seldom even saw each other except for several classes we had in common. We did chat some after receiving our diplomas, in the party for the graduating seniors.

I am not sure why the attraction now, but who am I to complain. She is a beautiful female, not the beauty of a runway model, but more the girl next door type, but possessing a rather untypical female body. She has assets in all the right places, her breasts in particular not lacking in anything, I might add.

We went over a few ideas for our stories, getting carried away in some of our ideas. The pizza was brought to us, steaming with the melted cheese still bubbling on the surface. We finished it off fairly quickly; I guess the stress of the creative writing class, making us desire food to calm us down. I know just the idea of maybe having to write a Romance type novel had my stomach churning earlier.

Then, Monica suggested a wager on who got the best grade for our story. I thought with her emphasis on psychology, I would have the upper hand, since I was more fiction-oriented in my writing. We worked out the wager, a simple bet for fifty dollars for whoever got the best grade for their story. Ms. Robbins had already set the end of the story submission for a month before the semester ended. It had been her intention for us to read our stories before the class during the last four times the class met, some on each class meeting.

Monica and I met the next day for lunch, before going to the female studies class. I was more than a little apprehensive about her in the class, so far she has not indicated any interest in kidding me, but I was still on guard. She had thought we should make the bet more substantial; it would be good motivation for us to work harder on our stories, more riding on the bet than just a little money. Both of us came from well to do families, so there is no fear of losing a fifty dollar bet. I suggested basing the bet on what our stories are about, the one that I had been thinking about, would put my character dressed as a maid serving her master for months.

I was picturing Monica as that maid in my mind, dressed in her little French maid outfit serving my every need. The smile that appeared on her face would launch a thousand ships, as she quickly agreed, the loser would live the fictional story to the letter, exactly as the story indicated. So, if I wrote she would be my maid for a month, she would indeed be my maid for a month. The fact that the details of the story would not be known until the grades were given adding to the suspense and thrill of the bet.

I was sure my previous exposure as an English major would ensure me a better grade, at least better than Monica’s. Her psychology background would make her story more technical and less creative, surely, that would help the cause. That was the idea of the assignment, it had to be creative, something different that the usual.

Lunch today was burgers and fries, their fries dipped in mayonnaise to die for. Unlike most college students, ketchup is not considered a food in my world. We talked a little more, shared some ideas for our stories, but I never mentioned, or hinted at, what I had in mind for my maid Monica. We both ate too much, but when you have hot French fries, seasoned just right, it is a sin to waste them.

The female studies class is actually very challenging, a lot of topics covered, and a host of reading material covering all aspects of the gender female. Feminism and the history, culture, and politics of women are studied, classes covering such broad topics as law, politics, literature, family, and sexuality as it affects the female gender.

The professor is knowledgeable, holding degrees from three different universities in this and related fields. Since I am the only male in the class, quite a few of the topics are slanted against the male viewpoint. Thus any comment from me is often challenged by most of my fellow classmates. I did learn a lot in the class, though I am not sure I would ever be able to utilize that information in my life. Teaching at my Aunt’s school, I at least will know some of the history, and the politics of the female gender.

Monica invited me to dinner tonight, to repay me for yesterday and lunch today. During the consumption of the barbecue sandwiches we chose to eat that night, she told me she had already written ten pages in her erotic novella, wanting to know if I had written any yet. I lied telling her that I had already outlined the entire story, completing a rough draft of the first three chapters, not mentioning any page numbers. I can see that I will need to get busy, she apparently is gung ho on this project, maybe the bet was providing her additional motivation. I just wish I knew what she is writing about.

The meal finished, we headed to our apartments. We each had rented one when we started here, it turned out, we were in the same complex, but on opposite ends of it. Monica’s apartment is nicer, a more recent construction, but not quite as large as mine, at least from the outside, it seemed smaller.

I got busy writing, managing to get into the flow of things easily and before I went to bed that night, I had written forty pages. The class’s website had software to correct spelling and a lot of grammar mistakes, so that made it much easier. After finishing for the night, I read a few of the other’s efforts, one in particular writing a western was very good. I couldn’t pick one that seemed like Monica’s contribution, so I closed the computer down and went to bed.

The next few days were uneventful; I had forgotten the weekly assignment for Creative Writing, so spent most of the early morning hours that day getting it done. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time I had forgotten an assignment, and I am positive it won’t be the last.

Monica seemed to be my major adversary in female studies, ever comment or question I had in the class, she made sure I was well informed before the discussion ended. Never nasty, but it got to the point that the rest of the female students would wait to see if she challenged me, before they spoke up. Even the teacher would look over to Monica before answering my question.

I had written almost a hundred pages of my story; Ms. Robbins comments generally favorable. Her suggestions are minor; she particularly liked my descriptions of the costumes and clothing in the story. I felt that I was on the right track to getting a very high grade. She had always graded the class numerically, one hundred being perfect and sixty being failing. I had gone back over the story several times making numerous changes trying to make everything more sensual, more seductive. I had decided not to put in any sex; it dealt more with the circumstances, the predicaments, and the situations that the maid faced on a daily basis.

The story had the maid with no money, her only chance at a job is to become a maid and serve her master. He required a contract, for a year, with penalties, if she withdrew earlier. The costumes were very scanty, lots of lace, and always the highest of heels adorned the maid’s feet. I so hoped I would win the bet, Monica, as my maid for a year, a pure delight. I had her sleeping in a room in her master’s house, a further tether to keep her all mine.

I kept reading some of the other stories, from time to time, some of them very intriguing. There is even a good Science Fiction story, although the story is far from the Star Wars and Trek series. The romance ones are okay but obviously authored by someone who had never read one of them in real life. The Western still had my interest, though the plot soon became predictable. I discounted most of the rest, obviously written by unmotivated students, they lacked plot and development of the characters.

There is one that I wanted to follow, but the author only posted small snippets every day, I think they were only up to page twelve, the last I looked. I was about a male that is being turned into a female, apparently very slowly and methodically. I wondered if this is Monica’s story, but discounted that right away, as she had told me she was working on page one-hundred and forty-two. There were several stories with that much written, one even in the Erotic category, but if one those was hers, I would win easily, the characters lifeless, and the plot nonexistent.

The rest of my professors seemed to sense when I had some extra time, and suddenly I was buried in homework and reports. This kept up for longer than usual, me scrambling to get everything done in time. I managed to write some, but in the last three weeks, I had managed only five pages. I didn’t have any time to read the other stories, despite staying up till midnight most nights doing reports. The female studies class almost the worse, two reports on feminism, and one report on the bra burning time of the feminist movement.

Those reports were hard for me to write, I realized the reasons behind the movement, but couldn’t understand why so many got involved in it. That class always had us reading our reports before the class, so I got an education in writing the report, and then another, when I read to the class, Monica being sure to point out any mistakes I might have made, along with asking lots of embarrassing questions.

The homework continued in earnest; I didn’t even have time to go out with Monica. We did manage one lunch shortly before the writing assignment was due, but we didn’t discuss the bet at all. The last comment from my teacher, Ms. Robbins was that I needed a conclusion to the story. I thought about it for several days, but the continued influx of work and reports due kept me from doing much. I decided to keep it simple, having the maid sell herself into servitude, to be able to pay off her personal and parent’s debts.

I ended up with a hundred and fifty pages, a little over 125,000 words. Ms. Robbins comments were favorable; she felt I took the easy way out at the ending, but overall a very Erotic story. I got a ninety-seven on the story. I was positively glowing as I read the grade, Monica soon to be my willing maid, almost a slave to me. She wanted us to keep our grades confidential, only to be revealed when we read the story to the class. I had no problem with that; it gave me something to look forward to. I never did get a chance to read any more of the stories from my other classmates, too much homework and then finals would be here in less than three weeks.

In the creative writing class, she had started having us read the stories in class, seven stories every class, with four weeks left that would allow all twenty-eight students to present their story. For some reason, Monica and I were the last ones to read our story to the class. I was number twenty-seven, and she was the last one to read her story. I was a little apprehensive about reading it to the entire class, but it is required. That last day of class we had several absences, mainly students that wanted to take the extra time to study for a difficult final.

I got up to read my story; it was well received as the entire class was silent. I noticed several young women breathing a little harder; my story must have sparked some reaction to the events of the story. I even got a little applause at the end. Ms. Robbins announced my grade to the class, at that point I had the highest grade. Now, I was getting a little nervous, did she go with the highest grade at the last or was it just the better stories were saved for last? During the other recitations, it was a mixed set, with no pattern to the grades.

Monica got up and started her story. I recognized it immediately; it was the one that I had read a little of, then dismissed, since it was not that good in my opinion. It was about the male being turned into a female. As she is reading the story I zoned out a little; I was figuring where I could get her maid outfits from, but decided I would make her buy them herself. I was in and out of reality as she read the story, the few parts I listened to were okay, but not good enough to beat my grade. She finished to complete silence; there was not a sound as she walked to her desk and sat down.

I looked around the classroom to see pure lust written on everybody’s face. The guys were trying to get their jewels in a more comfortable position, and several females were adjusting their bra strap. Then the applause broke out, almost deafening. I looked over at Monica, and she smiled at me, then I fainted. I never did hear her score, but if it had this kind of reaction with the class, I was doomed. I awoke with her by my side, holding a wet paper towel over my eyes. I moved the paper towel, and she smiled at me.

Ms. Robbins helped me to my feet, asking me if I am alright. I nodded in the affirmative and Monica sat me down in my desk. The rest of the class had already left, so after a few moments Monica took my hand and led me out of the classroom. We went to our next class, female studies, and sat waiting for the free period to pass. I thanked her for helping me and got out my books for this class, then, I remembered that the final is today, and put my books back in my backpack. She came and sat next to me, as the other students came into the classroom. She leaned over to me and whispered to me that the upcoming test, was now double or nothing with regards to the bet. If she got a higher score my penance would be double, if you get a higher score, the bet is off. I should have thought it out, but my mind grabbed at the possible out from the bet. I agreed, and she resumed her seat at the front of the class. You know I never did find out her grade on the story, I just presumed she had a higher grade.

Talk about pressure, by the time everybody had got to their seats I was sweating a little. The test was handed out, the teacher telling us that each test is individualized to fit the level of comprehension of the student. That made me feel a little better until I read the first question. It was the longest class in recorded history; I felt like it was hours long instead of the fifty minutes in actuality. The teacher picked up the tests, telling us we could get our grades after six tonight at the class’s website. Everything on a website, hardly any personal interaction anymore.

I was sure that I failed the class, or very close to it. I heard Monica talking to me, but I just ignored her and walked to my apartment. My head never looked up, my eyes locked to the ground. If this is what depression is, I am sure I have a very bad case of it? I answered the door three hours later; it is Monica with some take out containers of Chinese food. I know she is not a fan of the food, so she is trying to cheer me up. I gave her a small smile and invited her in.

We ate in silence for over thirty minutes, the only words exchanged were what she wanted to drink as I am standing in front of the refrigerator. I nibbled on the food and tried to be polite telling her that I appreciated it and the thought behind it. I put the unused portion in the refrigerator and cleaned up the kitchen. We went out to the living room and set down on the sofa. I never did get much furniture for the apartment, my bed, and this sofa about the only things that got used. A chair and an end table the only other items in the living room.

Monica scooted closer to me picking, up one of my hands in hers, and holding it tightly. She suggested that we move in together, her apartment is much nicer than mine, so that would be the logical choice. I turned and looked her in the face, startled with her statement. She giggled a little, but carried on. We can sleep in the same bed, that way we have more room for our vanities and the dressers for our lingerie. Your penance starts tomorrow, but if you relax a little, I think you will find it liberating. I will purchase my own maid’s costumes as per your story, and will be your servant and maid.

You will be my Barbie doll, a functioning female, that is in love with her maid and who will eventually marry her. I have made a few changes to your story, but I think you will find them acceptable. Yours through remains unchanged, a slow and deliberate transformation from a male to a Barbie-like female, who has a loving maid to help in her venture. That transformation starts tomorrow, I want you to move in with me this weekend, so figure out what you want to move. No male clothes are allowed or needed; you will be female for the foreseeable future. Now give me a kiss, and I will be here at promptly at seven tomorrow morning, to take you to the salon.

I laid awake for most of the night, trying to figure out what to do. I even considered leaving the area, but my conscious wouldn’t allow it. In the middle of the night, I came to a decision. I would do my best and take what came my way, maybe things would work out somehow, at least I will be learning what a female goes through in life at least that is the story I tried to convince myself of. As of when I dozed off, I don’t think I had made any sudden revelations in the matter.

Promptly at seven, Monica was knocking on the door; I let her in, and she pushed me to the bathroom. As I was finishing, she entered, handed me a set of sweats and removed the clothes I was wearing. I stared at her, but she turned and told me to get a move on, femininity is waiting. I donned the sweats; she hadn’t even furnished any underwear, but I was too embarrassed to ask, fearing I might get a pair of panties for my question.

Led out into the corridor, then down the stairs, and into her car. A short trip to the salon, then she just had me get out, telling me to ask for Janice, and that she would take care of me. I stood there as she drove off, no way to get back to my apartment, and fearing what might happen if I stayed here. I took a deep breath and entered the salon. It is definitely not what I am expecting, everything pink and lavender, chrome and lace, even the ladies who work here looked like goddesses.

I walked up to reception and asked for Janice, the receptionist suddenly smiling from ear to ear. I presume from her smile that word of my bet had made its way to the salon, everybody aware of what is in store for me. Now that I am in the salon, I wished I had read the story, knowing what is scheduled for me, might make it a little easier. Then again, it might only make the procedures more threatening. Janice takes my hand and steers me to a private room in the back.

As I enter, she tells me to remove my clothes, all of them and place them in the box on the chair. When I have done so, she tapes it shut and places it on a shelf high above the table I am sitting on. I swallow hard a couple of times trying to get the liquid stuck in my throat to move one way or the other. It is still lodged there, when she asks me to lean back and lay flat on the table. My hands and feet are secured to the table with a strap; then she moves closer to a pot of something warm. I can see the heat rising from the substance as she stirs it.

She takes a flat stick and spreads the warm mixture over some of my leg hair, then presses a cloth into the mixture. Before I can figure out what she is doing, the cloth gets ripped off along with the hair stuck in the mixture that was spread on me. I cry out a couple of times, the sharp pain causing tears to form and leak down my face. My elbows and knees seem to be the worst, the skin there more sensitive and tender.

Then she works her way to my groin; I try to struggle to get free, just the thought of getting waxed down there causing tears to flow freely down my cheeks. She folded up a towel and placed it in my mouth to bite down on; it helped some, but one particular rip of cloth right near my penis sent me into panic mode. I fought my restraints viciously trying everything I could to get loose. When I calmed down some she rubbed a soothing cream over the area, making it feel a lot better, then she had the gall to tell me that when I had it done again later, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Lots of nasty thoughts were running through my mind, but having it done again later, is never going to happen.

The back side is handled in the same way, although the pain seemed less somehow. When she attached the straps, this time, I didn’t fight her; I even held my hand closer to the strap so she could get it attached easier. Being strapped down made it easier to accept the pain, me not having any say or control over the procedure, made my mind more accepting. When she finishes, the soothing cream is rubbed all over my body, making me feel good, except for my little male organ that has been so traumatized, that he is afraid of showing his face. I don’t remember my male organ ever being that small or shriveled before.

Story Incomplete At Present

© 2016 thru 2021 Fran Cesca Walker

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