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A few days passed and while Rachel and Mark had discussed their new sexual experience, they hadn’t repeated the events. They had an honest discussion the following day about the experience and while they were both intrigued but a little bashful about just how explicit the power dynamics of that night had been; they needed time to process. Mark continued to think about his experience with Rachel and what that might mean for their relationship. Rachel had teased him about the panties the following morning and said, “Will you keep them on for me?” Mark agreed but the domineering personality of the night before had receded a bit. Over the next few days Rachel was working intensely and they didn’t have much more time to consider the events. Mark got used to wearing the panties and Rachel seemed to accept it as part of their new dynamic. When she did some laundry the next day he found a set of pink panties folded in his drawer and she would occasionally swat his ass in the bathroom when they were getting ready but nothing more than that. It seemed to Mark that Rachel had treated their gender swapping as a bit of fun. Or so he thought.

The next Saturday Rachel had left the house early and gone to the gym, as was her usual routine. Mark was at home and was finishing up his morning coffee. He decided to quickly check his email and he saw, surprisingly, a message from Rachel. The subject line simply said “Read Me” and there was an attachment. Mark’s heart began to beat quickly — what could this mean? Was she confronting him and his weakness via email? Was she ending things between them? His mind was flooded with worry about what she might want to say. Everything had seemed fine over the past few days but he was quite worried that she didn’t respect him, saw him in a new negative light after their gender swapping, or, worse yet, was thinking about leaving him. His stomach churned a little as he looked at the email but found the courage to click on the attachment and began reading

—-Mark’s Tale: A Virginal Male—-

Mark was a young man born with very few prospects: he knew the world was difficult for young men in his position: no family name to carry him forward, no inherited wealth to secure his station in life, and, perhaps the greatest hurdle, Mark lacked the type of aggressive male enthusiasm, the unbridled masculine aggression and passion that marked the ideal of his sex. Indeed, Mark was, in temperament and spirit, closer to the feminine ideal: passive, considerate, kind — all virtues, to be sure, but often perceived as weaknesses in men. Indeed, Mark’s characteristics, at their worst, could be seen as a kind of yielding passivity, a willingness to be led, a failure to lead.

As it happened, Mark found himself in need of employ and noticed an advertisement in the local paper for a handyman and general servant to a R. Ashworth. Mark had little experience with any kind of physical labor, having been too frail and weak to ever take to it with a natural inclination. Similarly, he had no background in repair of machines, farm work, or anything else that might fall under the broad term ‘handyman.’ A man, yes, but, handy — no. Yet the ad appeared promising: “R. Ashworth, in need of a handyman and general servant for country estate. Reasonable wages, room and board. Inquire at estate.’ This was precisely the kind of opportunity Mark hoped for: where he might gain some sure footing, earn some money, and begin his life properly. He decided, then and there, to apply.

Before we should proceed, the gentle reader — and I know they are gentle at heart — should know have a picture of Mark in their mind. Mark was a slight man who, despite his efforts to project a masculine image, knew, in his heart of hearts, that he simply wasn’t the man society expected him to be. His slight stature, his soft features, his gentle nature, and his yielding demeanour all combined to create in him an impression of a kind of unmanned man, a feminine boy. Indeed, many of my gentle readers will empathize with Mark’s character: an honest look in the mirror, peering past their own mask of masculinity and bravado, might perceive a similarly placid and feminized self. While society has tried to shape the soft male matter into something that looks like a man, perhaps, dear reader, in your honest moments, you know that something soft, feminine, and gentle lies within you.

—-

Mark paused after reading these last lines which were clearly aimed at him. His feeling of worry subsided as he realized Rachel had sent him a story similar to the Victorian novel he’d been reading the night of their first gender reversal encounter only here, Mark was the primary character and he assumed that R. Ashworth would be Rachel. The prospect of a story involving Mark as Rachel’s servant awoke something inside him. He read on:

—-

Mark headed to the Ashworth estate first thing the following morning and made the one and a half hour trek out of town to Ankara escort the large estate. It was a long walk but Mark felt that fate was with him as the birds sang and some sun shone through the cloud-covered sky. The trees thickened as Mark left town and got closer to the Ashworth estate. He first spied from a nearby hill and noticed that it was a significant home and designed in a modern style. As Mark approached, he found the grounds spacious and Mark noticed rolling hills with a small, gentle brook between them. Oak trees adorned the property and the sounds of nature filled the air. The air was fresh, if cool, and Mark felt invigorated in his new surroundings although he was also tiring, being not used to lengthy travels.

Mark was impressed by the size of the grounds and the manor itself looked sprawling and stately. At the front of the home Mark came to a stone gate with the title, “R. Ashworth. Barrister” on a gold plate. Mark ran his small finger along the plate wondering all the more who R. Ashworth could be.

The front door was heavy, oak with a brass knocker on the front. Mark lifted it and knocked three times. No answer. He paused a few moments and then decided to knock again. Still, no answer. He called out “Hello, is anyone there” but, again, received no reply. Finally, Mark contemplated entering the home but was aware of what could happen to a young man even perceived of breaking into a wealthy home. He waited some additional ten minutes and tried the knocker again only to find himself sitting, alone, on the step. To make matters worse, clouds had convened over the estate and it had begun to rain slightly.

Mark wondered if he had missed some instruction about the position — had it advised him to call on a particular day? Or perhaps the position had been filled. A house of this size ought to have at least one servant to answer the door but no one heeded Mark’s knock. Had he made a mistake coming here? He decided to give in to the doubting voice in his mind and abandon his pursuit of the position. Of course it had been too good to be true and he began trudging back down the path away from the property. The trip, it seemed, had been in vain.

A trip that had begun with fortuitous omens had now turned to the opposite. The sky had darkened and the rain had picked up significantly; Mark was beginning to get soaked. The path offered no cover and Mark did not relish walking back to town in what was becoming a significant downpour. Mark spied a small group of oak trees on the bank of the river and he made for them. It was a few minutes walk and the rain picked up even more — he made it to the river just in time as the rain was now torrential. He clung his body to the largest oak tree, on the bank of the river, to keep out of the rain.

What he had perceived as a gentle brook was, upon closer inspection, quite a ferocious river, bolstered all the more by the deluge. Mark stood under the trees, deciding to wait until the torrent had passed. As he stood there he contemplated his bleak prospects: no opportunities, no fortune, no path for his future. Life seemed bleak.

Lost in his thoughts, Mark did not notice the ground slowly eroding under his feet and it was too late before he realized that the bank of the river was giving way. Metaphor became reality and Mark became aware too late, watching as the dirt shifted and a sizeable portion of the mud slid into the river. He tried to scramble to more secure footing but found himself falling backwards and, with a terrible plunge, falling into the river. Luckily, it was not nearly as deep as it looked, and Mark hit the bottom with a terrific thud. He was all a panic as the water rushed past him, disorienting him, confusing his senses, and chilling him quickly. He tried to pull himself up but found himself tangled in some weeds. These, combined with the pain of crashing into the bottom of the river left him wounded and winded and his mind scrambled to calculate how to escape the river. An answer was not forthcoming.

The cold was setting in quickly and Mark pulled at the grasping weeds to no avail. The rock beneath him was hard and firm and tried to use it to regain his footing. His energy was waning quickly and he was becoming frigidly cold. Mark was deep in worry and a flash of concern that this could be the end of him blasted across his mind. His worries multiplied. Blackness was setting in and he wondered if this would be the end until, fortunately, the fates intervened in the form of a set of arms grabbing his shoulders and pulling him out of the river. The arms were behind him but they were powerful and strong and he slid out of the water, and onto the riverbank, quickly. He was completely confused and realized, as the endorphins wore off, that he was losing consciousness. His head was spinning with dizziness and blackness was closing in. He saw a ribbon of black hair cut across his vision and then he passed out.

Now, Escort Ankara gentle reader, you might wonder who this mysterious figure is that pulled Mark out of the raging river? Ask yourself, who might you want it to be and use your answer as a compass for what you, my gentlest reader, really desire. What figure, form, and person would you most desire to pull Mark out of his distress, to rescue him at his most vulnerable? Were it you in that river, feeling the ground slip out beneath you, your ambitions dashed and your future dim, who might you want to be your rescuer from those icy waters? Then, as Mark shall, you too might understand some of your unspoken longings, your unconfessed truths about who you are.

For Mark, the answer was forthcoming because he awoke some hours later, although the duration was unbeknownst to him at the time, in a large oaken bed. The room was tastefully and expensively furnished with a warm coal fire facing the bed. The bed itself was a large, with pillars at all four corners and curtains on either side. Mark was positively swimming in the bed, its size was so massive. The rest of the room was a dark oak and someone had taken the liberty of placing fresh flowers on his night stand, giving the room a powerful, but not offputting scent. The walls were tastefully decorated with expensive rugs and paintings. As he came to, Mark wondered how he had gotten here, what had happened. He recalled the river, the rain, and the feeling of being plucked from the water but beyond that, he could remember nothing.

As he contemplated his situation, Mark realized he was wearing only a silk night shirt and he had a vague sense of embarrassment at the impropriety of being observed by some unknown stranger. He thought he should call out and offered a weak “Hello” to see if it brought an attendant.

From down the hallway he heard footsteps, boots echoing throughout a hallway that gradually became closer, and heavier. Mark wondered who this might be and his nervous sense of anticipation increased as they got closer. Was this some butler or servant ready to find out who he was? Finally the door opened and Mark was struck by the figure who entered. It was a woman who seemed to fill the doorway as she stepped through it. She was statuesque and Mark imagined she must have stood over 6′. She filled the doorway as she stepped through and was a significant presence entering the room. She wore white jodhpurs, a black riding jacket and a tight black riding top. Her boots came to her knee and added to her height.

As she walked into the room her thighs moved with subtle but clear power. His eyes were wide and followed her body up from her black shining boots to her legs which looked imperious and strong. Her breasts were clearly large beneath the riding top and her face was not stern but serious while also exuding a warmth. She was a strong presence in the room but retained a feminine appearance. Mark was speechless and was surprised by both her size and her attractiveness: her face had a masculine angularity that retained her feminine grace, and her hair was a short black bob.

Mark had always felt intimidated in the presence of taller, more powerful people and the feeling here was one of overpowering weakness. As the impression of her size and apparent strength became clear to Mark he felt even smaller in the bed. The outline of his thin, small body beneath the sheet contrasted with her presence at the end of the bed.

“Well, hello, you’re finally awake.” said the unknown woman. Turning to the coal fire, she said “It is hot in here,” and removed the riding jacket. Mark was struck immediately by the apparent strength of her upper body — her shoulders were impressive and thick. Beneath the riding top he could perceive both large breasts, rounded shoulders, and thick arms — he could sense the power in her body. The top was taut demonstrating the size of her breasts and the thickness of her arms which seemed to dance with her every movement. Mark felt positively tiny in the presence of this Amazonian woman.

Mark noticed too the sultry depth of her voice; a stark contrast to his gentle, soft tone and decidedly unmasculine voice. Yet, immediately, he was speechless.

“Well, cat’s got your tongue? Speak, boy. Who are you?” she asked.

“I… I… my name is Mark Shrewesby. I don’t know…”

“Well, Mark Shewesby, my name is Rachel Ashworth and you’re sitting in my guest bed. I don’t know what you recall but I noticed you loitering under my oak trees during the torrential rainstorm. Nature must have a funny sense of humour as it decided to punish you for your trespass by thrusting you into my river. Indeed, had I not pulled you out of the river, I suspect it would have been the end of you. I brought you here, dried you off, and put you to rest in that bed. You’ve been asleep for near on 12 hours.”

Mark stared at her momentarily and said, “Th— thank you” his voice Escort Bayan shaking both with the shock of what had happened and with his nervousness in front of this woman. “Thank you.” She crossed her arms over her chest, “You’re welcome. But I do need to ask, what were you doing on my property in the middle of the storm?”

Mark stammered as he tried to reply, “I— well–I was here to…”

She interrupted, “Come on, out with it. I haven’t got all day.”

He paused for a moment and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry miss. I mean to say, I arrived to apply for the handyman position.”

She cocked her head, furrowed her brow and came to the side of the bed. “I won’t tolerate lying in my house!” and with that she grasped his arm. Her strength was immense and he could feel her iron grip squeezing his arm. He felt like she would break his bones with her power. “Tell the truth, now!” He shuddered with fear from her size and power. Up close she was very intimidating and her size was even more impressive. He felt completely cowed next to her, a slip of a boy in front of this immensely strong, aggressive woman.

“I’m sorry, miss. It is the truth. Please, I beg you, let me go.” Tears welled up in his eyes and he looked at her pleadingly.

His display of sentimentality convinced her of his honesty and she relented, releasing his hand.

“I sense you’re telling the truth but I do demand answers from anyone I find on my property. If you came to apply for the handyman position, why were you skulking near the river?”

He rubbed his arm with relief and explained how he had sought shelter in the rain. She listened attentively and then stood up to consider his explanation. He realized, as she stood, and she was close to the bed, just how much taller she was than him. Mark stood a mere 5’7″ — a slightly below-average height for a man, to be sure, but this woman must have been 6’1 without the boots, 6’3 with them on. But it was not just her height, it was her strength, her presence, her ability to command so quickly and bring him to heel. Her body, her voice, her attitude all had a commanding quality that immediately make him yield. He felt like a child in her presence, scared even to open his mouth for fear of displeasing her. In a matter of moments she had established her power over him and as he watched her rise from the bed, her powerful thighs flexing in her tight white riding pants, he sensed both an overwhelming sense of his own weakness and desire for this woman.

It was a strange sensation of perverse desire and spiritual satisfaction: Mark felt in his deepest self that his feelings were right, that her power awoke something in him that he had known about himself his whole life: his inability to command, to live up to the social expectations of his sex, his willingness to follow and be led, it was all crystallized, in some unspoken way, by the power of this woman. Her brazen exhibition of strength, dominance, and her immediate assertion of her mastery over him: it was both wrong and deeply right.

Judge young Mark at your peril, dear Reader, for how might you react in the same position? Waking up in a strange bed wearing nothing but a silk shirt, handled roughly by a powerful woman who towers over you by more than a head? Put your bravado aside because, like Mark, you might find yourself quaking and cowed, awaiting further instruction from this domineering woman.

—-

Mark paused his reading and reflected on the story so far. His pulse was racing with anticipation and desire. Had Rachel written this? Where did she get the inspiration? The two characters were clearly both of them. Rachel wasn’t quite 6′ tall — he was sure she was more like 5’10 — but he was 5’7. The height difference had never bothered her before but it certainly contributed to this new dynamic that they were discovering. Her strength, combined with her size seemed to be a source of her domineering nature. The story was turning him on and it was like she was speaking directly to him. He read on:

—-

Mark explained, “I came to apply for the handyman position, I knocked at the door, I swear it, but no one answered. I was about to return home but the rain became so strong I wanted to wait for it to pass.”

She replied, “What, a little rain was a problem for you?”

Mark looked down at his hands, “Well, Miss, I don’t have a strong constitution and I didn’t want to risk getting ill.”

She looked at him sympathetically, “You’re a gentle flower, aren’t you Mark?”

He looked up at her with pleading, uncertain eyes and she stared back silently but with a realization about Mark. Mark felt like he was a piece of meat being assessed by a purchaser.

Rachel looked him up and down, sensing perhaps his intimidation. “To be frank, Mark, I do believe your account but I don’t think you’re the right person for a handyman position. How can a man who fears a bit of rain, who has a weak constitution, who really is such a gentle flower, be my handyman? I lifted you onto my horse myself and I saw how light you are. As you can imagine,” she said pausing and assessing his gentle frame, “I had to undress you and place you in this bed and I know you don’t have the physique for this kind of work.”

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