The House of Lesslie Part 2

It had taken me ten years to transform myself, but the time that it had taken for the first changes to take place in the Lesslie mansion had only been weeks. Perhaps not the busiest weeks of my life so far, but most certainly the most challenging.

The master bed had been reworked with great care by some of London's best industrial artists, and where once had been a wooden 17th century monstrosity of pillows, satin sheets and silk cushions was now a complex construct of hardened iron that had been drilled into the marble floor, penetrating mother's memory with cruel intentions and full intent to overpower her workings.

It was not that I didn't cherish those memories that had been forged here, in the decades she had ruled the House of Lesslie with her smooth touch and unforgiving cruelty.

I did cherish them, far too much, and in these moments, in the drift between sleep and waking, I feared I would drown in them and not return, if I let them come too close to my conscious mind.

After all, this was the room that birthed me.

Both as a boy named Sebastian, and then later again as what I would become, the shemale I had chosen to be, no longer held back by the confines of my natural body, no longer caged by how others saw me.

I allowed myself to fall into that feeling.

I allowed myself to slip back into sleep.

There was still so much to do, so many things to prepare.

II.

"Do you like your position here, darling?

I made it sound casual, not too much like an order while I placed my cigar between the teeth of the sculpted ashtray mouth on mother's desk, imagining it to feel the burn dripping down into a slave's throat, its sparks hissing as they went down.

I had drunk most of Caroline's cunt wine, with only a thin coating of it sloshing against the insides of my wine glass. It taste lingered in my mouth, its warmth filling my belly.

"I have no right - "

Caroline stopped herself, fearing to offend me.

"I am not my mother, Caroline."