Chapter 3: The Deflowering Ceremony
The black car felt like a rolling prison. The heavy sable fur coat lay discarded on the plush seat beside him, a pelt of his former self. Julian sat rigid in the ivory faille dress, the boned basque digging into his ribs with each shallow breath. Dubois’s hand remained a burning brand on the small of his back, fingers splayed possessively over the smooth silk covering his ass. The blonde wig felt alien, heavy, the synthetic hair tickling his unnaturally bare neck. He kept his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window, watching the blurred lights of Paris glide by, a world he felt severed from. His cock, that traitorous betrayer, had subsided into a soft, shameful ache beneath the layers of delicate fabric. The brutal stilettos still tormented his feet, a constant reminder of his precarious, artificial balance.
The car didn’t return to Rue des Écoles. It glided to a stop outside a discreet, elegant building in a quieter arrondissement. A private entrance. Dubois guided him out, his grip unyielding, half-carrying Julian as he stumbled on the slick pavement. An elevator, silent and plush, carried them upwards. The doors opened directly into an apartment. His apartment. Dubois’s domain.
Julian gasped. It wasn't the stark studio. This was a sprawling, sun-drenched space, high ceilings, tall windows overlooking a night-time panorama of Paris. But the most striking feature was the art. Canvases lined the walls, vibrant, chaotic, visceral – abstract explosions of color next to hyper-realistic portraits, landscapes twisted into surreal dreams. The air hummed faintly with the crackle of a vintage record player emitting a low, melancholic jazz melody. The scent was complex: turpentine, linseed oil, expensive tobacco, and beneath it all, the pervasive aroma of Dubois’s dark cologne. A worn, plush velvet sofa sat amidst a comfortable clutter – art books piled high, sketchpads, tubes of paint, discarded charcoal sticks. It was the lair of a wealthy, obsessive creator.
Dubois steered Julian towards a chaise longue near the windows. "Sit. Carefully." His voice cut through the jazz. Julian sank down, the stiff faille rustling, the boning pressing relentlessly. He felt like a delicate, breakable object placed on display. Dubois stood over him, his grey gaze sweeping the ivory-clad figure, lingering on the exposed smoothness of Julian’s throat, the curve the basque forced upon his torso. "Evangeline will attend to you shortly. Do exactly as she says." He didn't wait for acknowledgment. He turned and walked towards a large easel in the corner, partially covered by a drape, picking up a charcoal stick, his attention already shifting.
Julian sat alone in the humming silence. The enormity of it crashed over him. The shaving, the fur, the heels, the boutique, the wig, this dress... this place. His heart hammered against the constriction of the basque. He wanted to tear it off, rip the wig away, scrub the smoothness from his skin. But Dubois’s command held him paralyzed. He stared at his reflection distorted in the dark window glass – a blonde, ivory-wrapped doll, utterly incongruous amidst the vibrant chaos of Dubois’s world.
A soft click of a door announced Madame Evangeline. She emerged from what must have been a bedroom, carrying a bundle of fabric. She wore a simple, elegant dressing gown now, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her expression was serene, professional. She approached Julian, her eyes taking in the transformation, the dress, the wig, with quiet appraisal. "Stand, chéri," she instructed softly. "Monsieur Dubois wishes you rested and... prepared for tomorrow. The dress must come off now."
Julian stood, swaying slightly. Evangeline’s fingers were deft, impersonal. She found the hidden zipper of the faille dress and eased it down. The heavy silk pooled around his feet on the polished wood floor, leaving him standing in the constricting ivory basque, the flimsy silk chemise, the garter belt clipped to sheer stockings, and the brutal stilettos. He felt even more exposed. Evangeline unclipped the garter straps one by one, then knelt and expertly rolled the stockings down his smooth legs, the silk whispering against his newly hairless skin. She set the stockings aside, then turned her attention to the basque. Her fingers worked the satin ribbons at the back, loosening the laces with practiced ease. Julian gasped as the pressure released, the boning shifting. She slid the stiff garment off his torso. Finally, she unhooked the garter belt. He stood now in only the thin ivory chemise and the stilettos, the cool air touching his shaved skin, making him shiver. His cock stirred faintly again, visible beneath the translucent silk.
Evangeline held up the garment she’d brought. Not day clothes. Not his jeans. A nightgown. Delicate ivory silk, almost identical to the chemise but longer, falling to mid-thigh, with thin spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline. It was pure, fragile femininity. "Arms up," she said. Julian obeyed, numb. She slipped the nightgown over his head. It settled over the chemise, adding another whisper-soft layer, clinging to his frame. She then knelt again and, with surprising strength, eased the stilettos off his aching feet. He sighed in relief as his feet touched the cool floor, the arch protesting. Evangeline stood back. "Bien. Now, to bed."
She led him towards the bedroom door she’d emerged from. Inside was dominated by a large, canopied bed draped in dark velvet. The room was opulent, masculine, yet softened by rich fabrics and low lighting. Another space steeped in Dubois. "Monsieur Dubois will require you to be... receptive tomorrow," Evangeline said, her voice dropping slightly as she turned to face him by the bed. Her gaze was direct, unflinching. "Your training begins in earnest. You will learn to present yourself properly. To accommodate." She reached out, her fingers surprisingly cool, and traced the curve of his hip bone through the layers of silk. Julian flinched. "This requires preparation. Internal preparation." Her hand moved lower, brushing lightly over the front of the nightgown, her knuckles grazing the base of his soft cock. "A clean canvas, inside and out. You understand?"
Julian’s breath hitched. He understood. The humiliation was a physical weight in his chest. "I... I don't..." he stammered.
"You will," Evangeline stated firmly. "Tomorrow morning. Early. I will instruct you. Now, sleep." She gestured to the bed. "Do not remove the nightgown." Her gaze held his for a moment longer, a silent reinforcement of the command, then she turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.
Julian stood alone in the vast, silent bedroom. The scent of Dubois was everywhere. He looked at the imposing bed. Sleep felt impossible. He touched the silk nightgown, the softness a mockery. Receptive. Accommodate. The words echoed, chilling him. He crawled under the heavy velvet duvet, the silk whispering against the sheets. He lay rigid, staring at the canopy fabric above, listening to the faint jazz drifting from the other room, feeling the unfamiliar smoothness of his skin against the linen, the ghostly weight of the wig now gone, the vulnerability left behind utterly exposed. The night stretched ahead, long and terrifying. The promise of the morning coiled in his gut like cold dread.
Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, stabbed through a gap in the heavy curtains, pulling Julian from a shallow, nightmare-riddled sleep. He was tangled in sheets, the silk nightgown rucked up around his hips. For a disorienting second, he didn’t know where he was. Then memory crashed back – the mirrors, the razors, the fur, the heels, the lace, the dress, Dubois’s hand, Dubois’s eyes, Dubois’s bed. He sat bolt upright, the silk sliding against his skin. The apartment was silent now, the jazz long finished.
The bedroom door opened without a knock. Madame Evangeline stood there, already impeccably dressed in a crisp linen suit, her hair flawlessly arranged. She held a small tray bearing a glass of water and a small, unmarked white pill. "Good morning, chéri," she said, her voice brisk. "Take this. It will help you relax. Then the bathroom. You need to be clean inside for your lesson." She placed the tray on a side table. "Hurry. Monsieur Dubois does not tolerate tardiness."
Julian stared at the pill. Relax? He felt wired, his nerves screaming. But refusal wasn't an option. He picked up the pill, dry-swallowed it with a grimace, chasing it with the water. It left a chalky bitterness on his tongue. Evangeline watched him, then gestured towards an en-suite bathroom.
Inside, everything was marble and chrome, intimidatingly luxurious. Evangeline followed him in. "Empty your bowels," she instructed calmly, pointing to the toilet. "Thoroughly. Use this." She handed him a small bottle of clear liquid. An enema solution. Julian’s face burned. He stood frozen. "Now, Julian," Evangeline said, her voice losing its warmth, gaining an edge of steel. "Or shall I assist you?"
The threat, the utter lack of privacy, shattered his paralysis. He took the bottle, his hand trembling. Evangeline remained, a silent, observant statue by the sink. He turned his back, fumbling with the nightgown, his movements clumsy with humiliation. The process was clinical, cold, deeply degrading. He followed the instructions on the bottle, kneeling on the cold marble floor, inserting the nozzle himself under her impassive gaze. The invasion was shocking, the cramping intense. Evangeline handed him towels, pointed to the bidet, her instructions precise and devoid of empathy. When he was finally finished, trembling, clean, and feeling hollowed out, she nodded. "Good. Shower. Wash everywhere. Especially... the area we will be working on. Use the soap provided."
The shower was a rainfall cascade. He stood under the hot water, scrubbing his smooth skin raw with the expensive, floral-scented soap, focusing intensely on cleaning his asshole, the tender pucker still clenching from the enema. The water sluiced away the physical residue, but not the shame. Not the dread. He dried himself with a thick, soft towel, avoiding his reflection in the steamy mirror. The pill was beginning to take effect; a strange, floaty detachment seeped into his limbs, muting the sharp edges of panic but amplifying the surreal horror.
Evangeline was waiting when he emerged, wrapped in the towel. She had laid out items on a small table near the bed. Not clothes. A selection of objects that made Julian’s stomach drop: several dildos of varying sizes and colours, all gleaming and sinisterly smooth; a tube of lubricant; and a row of butt plugs, starting small and increasing in girth, the largest one intimidatingly thick and bulbous. They sat there like surgical instruments.
"Come," Evangeline said, patting the edge of the bed. "Sit. We begin."
Julian walked on unsteady legs. The floating feeling warred with cold fear. He perched on the edge of the luxurious bed, the towel tented around his waist. Evangeline picked up the smallest dildo, a pale pink silicone shaft no thicker than two fingers, and the lubricant. She squeezed a generous amount of clear gel onto her fingers, coating them thickly. "Legs apart," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument.
Julian squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't look. He slowly, stiffly, spread his knees apart. The towel covered his groin, but his thighs were exposed, leading down to the vulnerable space between. He felt the cool air on his inner thighs, his perineum, his tight, untouched hole. Evangeline’s lubricated fingers touched him there. A jolt shot through him. Her touch was neither rough nor gentle. Clinical. Purposeful.
"Relax the muscle," she instructed, her voice calm, instructional. "It’s just a sphincter. Control it. Let it open." Her fingertip circled the tight ring of muscle, spreading the cool lube. Julian flinched, trying to obey, but his body clenched instinctively, resisting the invasion. "Breathe out," Evangeline commanded. "Push out, as if you are moving your bowels. Relax. Down."
Julian exhaled shakily, tried to push down. He felt her fingertip press firmly, insistently. There was pressure, a shocking, intimate stretching burn, and then her fingertip breached him, sliding knuckle-deep into his ass. He gasped, a ragged, shocked sound. It felt alien, intrusive, deeply violating. The lube eased the way but couldn't mask the sensation of being entered, penetrated in this most private place.
"Good," Evangeline murmured, almost to herself, as she worked her finger slowly in and out. "Tight. Virgin. But responsive." She added more lube, then slid a second finger alongside the first. The stretch intensified. Julian hissed, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the mattress. She scissored her fingers gently inside him, stretching him. It hurt. It burned. And beneath the pain and the humiliation, amplified by the pill’s detachment, was a traitorous, confusing spark of sensation, a deep internal friction that sent a jolt of unwanted electricity through his groin. His cock stirred beneath the towel.
"See?" Evangeline said, feeling the involuntary flutter of his inner muscles, the faint pulse of blood below. "The body knows its function. It wants to accept." She withdrew her fingers, slick and glistening. Julian shuddered with relief and a strange, sudden emptiness.
She picked up the small, pink dildo, coating it liberally with lube. The silicone glistened. "Now, the tool. This is small. Breathe. Relax. Push out." She positioned the blunt tip against his stretched, slippery opening. "Take it deep."
Julian braced himself. He took a ragged breath, tried to force his muscles to obey. Push out. Relax. The rounded tip pressed inward, stretching him wider than her fingers had. The burn was sharper. He cried out, a short, sharp gasp of pain and shock as the dildo pushed past the resisting ring of muscle and slid several inches into his rectum. It felt huge, unyielding, a cold, hard intrusion filling him in a way nothing ever had. He panted, overwhelmed by the sensation of being speared, owned in this vulnerable depth.
"Good boy," Evangeline said, her voice holding a hint of approval that twisted strangely in Julian’s drugged haze. She held the dildo still for a moment, letting him adjust to the fullness, then slowly withdrew it almost all the way before pushing it back in, establishing a rhythm. Out. Slow. Insistent. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of burning stretch and that unsettling, deep internal friction. He felt himself opening, loosening under the persistent invasion. His cock was fully hard now, tenting the towel, a throbbing counterpoint to the violation happening behind it. Shame warred with the insistent physical response.
"Deep," Evangeline commanded, pushing the dildo further. "Take it all." She pressed firmly. Julian whimpered as the entire length slid home, the base pressing against his ass cheeks. He felt impossibly full. Stuffed. She held it there. "Feel it. Accept it." Her free hand rested on his lower belly, pressing down slightly as if guiding the dildo deeper. "This is preparation. For greater things. For Monsieur’s pleasure."
She began withdrawing it again, slowly, then thrusting back in with more purpose. The glide was smoother now, the lube and the stretching doing their work, but each penetration still resonated deep within him, a rhythmic claiming. He groaned, his head dropping back, the sensations blurring – the deep, alien fullness, the burning stretch, the humiliating hardness of his own cock. Tears pricked his eyes, but the pill kept them at bay, leaving only the raw, physical reality.
After what felt like an eternity, Evangeline withdrew the dildo completely. Julian sagged, breathing heavily, feeling gaping and exposed. But she wasn't finished. She picked up the next dildo. Thicker. Darker blue. "We progress," she announced, coating it generously. "Open wider."
The larger tip pressed against him. Julian whimpered, knowing the pain was coming. "Breathe out! Down!" Evangeline commanded, her voice sharp. He pushed down instinctively. The thicker intrusion
He pushed down instinctively. The thicker intrusion breached him, a searing stretch that tore a ragged gasp from his throat. Fire lanced through his asshole as the blue silicone forced its way past the tight ring of muscle, wider, deeper than before."Fuck! Christ!" Julian choked out, his knuckles bone-white on the velvet duvet, body bowing against the invasion. The clinical burn warred violently with the drug haze and the insistent, shameful throb of his cock beneath the towel.
"Good," Evangeline murmured, her voice devoid of warmth. Her hand was firm on his hip, holding him still. "Breathe through it. Let the muscle yield." She worked the dildo slowly, in and out, each withdrawal a brief respite before the next plunge stretched him obscenely wide. Lube dripped down his trembling thigh, cool against his heated skin. He felt stuffed, pried open, the relentless glide carving a path inside him. Sweat beaded on his smooth brow. His hole burned and ached, yet his cock remained stubbornly hard, leaking pre-come onto the towel. The humiliation was absolute, layered with a terrifying, unwanted physical response.
Evangeline watched his face, the flinch with each thrust, the way his breath hitched when she angled the dildo deeper. After several agonizing minutes, the slide became marginally easier, the initial fierce resistance giving way to a raw, swollen ache. "Better," she stated flatly. Withdrew the blue dildo. The sudden emptiness felt like a gaping wound. Before he could sag in relief, she selected the next one. Larger. Black. Impossibly thick. Julian’s eyes widened in pure panic. "Non, please... not that one..."
"Silence." Her tone brooked no argument. She slathered the monstrous black dildo with viscous lube, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. The blunt, rounded tip pressed against his abused opening, already slick and trembling. It felt huge. Impossible. "Deep breath," she commanded. "Push down. Hard." Her free hand pressed firmly on his lower belly, forcing his muscles into position. "Open for it."
Julian squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking despite the drug. He took a shuddering breath, pushed down with everything he had, a desperate, animal urge to expel the invader. The massive tip pressed, stretched, burned. He whimpered, a high, broken sound. Evangeline pushed relentlessly. The pressure was immense, unbearable. It felt like splitting. "Merde!" he sobbed. Then, with a sickening, wet pop, the widest part of the bulbous head breached him. He screamed, his body convulsing. The pain was white-hot. Agonizing.
She held it there, buried deep in the burning tightness. "Hold still." Her voice was ice. "Feel it. Accept the stretch." Julian panted, ragged sobs tearing from his throat, his asshole a screaming ring of fire clamped around the monstrous intrusion. His cock pulsed violently against the towel, untouched, betraying him completely. The pain began to subside into a deep, throbbing ache, a terrifying sense of being stretched beyond capacity. Evangeline began a slow, torturous rhythm.Out. The thick shaft dragged against his raw inner walls, a relentless friction that was pure violation. Each withdrawal threatened to pull his insides out; each thrust forced him wider, deeper. "Deeper," she hissed, shoving it home hard, grinding the wide base against his tender cheeks. "Take it all, slut."
Just as he thought he couldn't endure another second, she pulled the black horror free. Julian slumped forward, gasping, his asshole clenching spasmodically around nothing, feeling gaped and raw. Evangeline dropped the dildo onto the tray with a wet thud. She picked up another one – long, flesh-toned, realistically veined, glistening with fresh lube. "Open your mouth."
Julian stared at it, dazed, his throat raw from screaming. "Wha—?" He flinched as she grabbed his jaw, her fingers digging in. "Wider!" she snapped. He opened his mouth. The cold, slick silicone pressed against his lips. The chemical taste of lube filled his mouth. "Suck it. Like you mean it. Deep."
He closed his lips hesitantly around the head, tasting the artificiality. "Use your tongue," Evangeline commanded, her voice sharp. "Work the tip." He swirled his tongue awkwardly, nausea churning in his gut. "Pathetic." She grabbed the back of his head, fingers tangling in his damp hair, and pushed.Hard. The dildo rammed past his teeth, hitting the back of his throat. He gagged violently, eyes watering, choking sounds tearing from him. Saliva pooled, dripped down his chin. "Swallow it down, whore!" she ordered, shoving harder. "Take it deep!"
He fought the reflex, tears streaming, as she forced the thick shaft deeper into his throat. It scraped his palate, blocked his airway. Panic flared. He gagged again, convulsively, his throat spasming around the intrusion. "Relax your fucking throat!" Evangeline snarled, her grip relentless. She pulled the dildo back slightly, then slammed it forward again, deeper this time. The tip pressed against his tight esophageal sphincter. "Open. Take it all." She applied brutal pressure. Julian felt a terrifying pop as his throat yielded, the dildo plunging deep into his gullet. His eyes bulged. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't make a sound. He was being fucked raw in both ends simultaneously – his ass still throbbing and gaping, his throat brutally invaded.
Evangeline held it there for an agonizing moment, his face purpling, before pulling it back just enough for him to gasp a ragged, wet breath. "Again," she commanded, immediately forcing it back down his throat. She established a harsh, rhythmic fucking of his mouth, ignoring his choked gags and tears. The dildo pistoned over his tongue, battering the back of his throat, stretching his jaw. Pre-come soaked the towel over his lap, his cock untouched yet rock-hard and leaking. Humiliation burned hotter than the pain. He was reduced to a whimpering hole, being prepped for Dubois’s cock.
She withdrew the throat dildo abruptly. Julian collapsed forward, coughing, spitting, drool and tears slicking his chin. Before he could recover, Evangeline grabbed the black dildo again. His eyes widened in fresh terror. "No!Please! It's too big!" he rasped, his throat raw.
"Weak," she spat. "Monsieur requires readiness." She slathered more lube onto the monstrous black silicone, then pressed the slick, bulbous tip back against his stretched, burning hole without preamble. He cried out, a hoarse, broken sound. Evangeline shoved it in ruthlessly. The brutal girth tore into him, reigniting the white-hot agony. He screamed, back arching off the bed. "TAKE IT!" she roared, pushing harder, grinding the thick shaft into his ravaged passage. "Be his filthy, open cunt!"
She fucked him hard with the giant dildo while simultaneously grabbing his hair again, forcing his head back down onto the flesh-toned one. "Suck! Deep!" The thick shaft slammed back into his abused throat. Julian was trapped, impaled brutally at both ends, his body a vessel for violation. Pain lanced from his torn asshole and his bruised throat. Tears streamed freely. Gags choked him every time the throat dildo plunged deep. His cock throbbed obscenely beneath the soaked towel, untouched yet on the edge. He was a raw nerve of agony, humiliation, and perverse, drugged arousal. The sounds were obscene: wet, gagging gulps, the slick squelch of the massive dildo pistoning into his ass, his own choked sobs. Evangeline worked him relentlessly, her breath coming faster now, a flush high on her cheeks. "Yes," she hissed, watching his face contort. "Beg for it with your greedy holes."
He couldn't speak, couldn't beg. He could only endure the brutal dual invasion, his body betraying him with every involuntary spasm, every traitorous pulse of his aching cock. The monstrous dildo in his ass scraped over some deep, forbidden spot, sending a jolt of electric sensation through his gut that warred with the pain. His balls tightened. A low, choked groan vibrated around the dildo fucking his throat. He was breaking. Coming apart under her skilled, merciless hands. Prepared.