Soon, I had dozens of subscribers. Then it grew to hundreds. Soon, I was inundated. It was a good thing; it allowed me to quit my other job, and devote all of my time to feminizing men.

But there was a downside. Sometimes I was so overworked, that I got sloppy a couple of times.

A good example of this was a guy that I'll call 'Henry'. I was sending him emails every week, ordering him to do certain tasks. He was advancing fairly well for such an early stage, so I told him to go out and buy a red bra.

He responded that he didn't know anything about bra sizes. I replied jokingly that he could always go into a store and get sized. Then I typed up a quick summary of how bra sizes work. But he responded with another e-mail:

--------------------------------

Dear Mistress Belle,

I'm really confused here. I tried to read your note, but the more I read it, the less I understand it. Do you even know what you're talking about here?

Henry.

--------------------------------

I could have gone off on him, but I responded gently:

--------------------------------

Dear Henry,

I'm sorry for the confusion. Sometimes I think faster than I can type, and that results in a typo. Or spell check decides to 'fix' something for me. Let's try again:

A bra has a 'band size', which is the number of inches you measure around yourself, plus 4 inches. Then measure the largest size, at the tip of your bust, and subtract your band size. The result can be used to determine your cup size. If the number is one or less, you're an A cup. Then every inch more adds one size (so 1-2 for B, 2-3 for C, and so on).

Also sizes can vary from one company to the next, and they measure them differently in Europe or Japan! You'd think that they would have a standard for this by now.

But where I think you're confused was what I said about your band size growing. You need to understand something about girls and breasts. The muscles in your chest also contribute to how far your boobs stick out. If you added two inches there, you'd look bigger, but need a bigger band size too.

As a young girl, my girlfriend and I would do chest exercises white chanting something that started out: "We must, we must, we must increase our bust!". So in my mind, as I had the image of your boobs rapidly expanding, I imagined the muscles growing too, making them look even bigger. That's why you'd end up with a bigger band size.

Sorry for the misunderstanding, I forgot that you're not a girl, and didn't go through what we did. My bad!

Mistress Belle.

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This was a typical type of misunderstanding. Between the fact that I only got a C+ in my typing class (I'm really bad on the numbers row) and the fact that men and women often had different sets of shared experiences, causing us to sometimes speak different languages (even though we use the same words), there can be confusion. As a woman, you might *mean* something, but a man hears (or reads) it differently. I always made it a point to get the men who signed up for my service working on using words the proper way. The *female* way. But they always took some time to come around.

Next, I sent out some more emails. I told one man who was fairly well advanced that he needed to go to the mall while fully dressed, and get a new pair of shoes. Next, I told a person in the middle of their training that they needed to subscribe to Glamour, and read it from cover to cover every month as soon as it arrived. And I ordered a newer customer that he needed to wear the panties he bought last week to work.

I did a few more, answered a few questions from customers, then called it a night. I was tired. But what I didn't know, is that one of my new customers had played a trick on me. They had sent an invisible attachment with their e-mail question, which launched a snoop program on my machine. It gathered information, and sent it back to him. But I didn't know this yet!

* * *

The next day when I logged on, I checked my e-mail, just as I always did first thing in the morning. I was in for a shock when I read one of them:

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Dear Mistress Belle,

Or should I say *Chris*? I can see many things on your computer. Many interesting things. Don't bother trying to stop me, I've already extracted all the information I need.

I am going to shut you down, you and your perverted operation.

The Hacker

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I was shocked and stunned. I had a firewall, a virus scanner, and this still happened to me? Or was he lying? I made a phone call to one of my clients, who was local. I knew that he was a real techno-nerd, and knew a million times more about computers than I ever would.

I told him to come see me right away. He was very excited to be able to finally meet me in person. I told him to wear his bra and panties under his clothes, or to come wearing a skirt, if he dared.

An hour later he showed up. He looked just like his picture he had sent with his enrollment form. He chickened out on the skirt, but did come through on the bra and panties.

I told him what happened, and that I would be very grateful if he would be willing to look at my computer.

"In exchange, I'll do a private session with you tonight, right here. No charge."

He was very eager, and he set off right away to dig into my computer. I went to the bedroom to prepare some clothes for him.

Two hours later, he came to me smiling and proud of what he had done. He used techno-jargon to tell me that he traced the message back to The Hacker, found his home IP address, found where it was registered to, then used an algorithm to make sure that the address hadn't been spoofed.

He had for me the name, address, phone number, and e-mail account (along with password!) of 'The Hacker'. I would be doing some hacking of my own later that night.

But first, I treated Kevin to an evening of femininity. I dressed him up, stuffed his bra, put on makeup, got out my men's sized heels for him, and ate supper with him while we sipped white wine and worked on his girl talk. He was in heaven. He was so reluctant to go! I told him that if he would wear his outfit and walk back home, that he could borrow it for a while.

He agreed, and twirled out the door in a flash of skirts. I loved to see a man feel free as he went out into the world for the first time as a woman! He seemed so happy. And I was about to be happy myself, as I began my revenge on 'The Hacker'.

* * *

Now that I knew who The Hacker was, I could easily do some research on him. He had used a false name when he registered with me, so I didn't find any hits on him when I looked in databases I paid annual fees for the privilege of accessing. But his real name was another story. I found out quite a bit about him. I was armed and ready.

I found his nickname he used when instant messaging, so I sent him one.

MBelle1: Hello Peter.

PMan1967: I'm sorry, do I know you?

MBelle1: Mistress Belle.

PMan1967: Sorry, you have the wrong person.

MBelle1: Do I *Kaye*? Should I ask your wife Angela what she thinks of you wearing her bras?

PMan1967: No! You can't!

MBelle1: I can, and I will.

MBelle1: Unless you do exactly what I tell you.

PMan1967: I promise! Don't tell her! Please!!!!!

MBelle1: So we have an understanding?

PMan1967: Yes.

MBelle1: Good. First of all, erase that computer virus you wrote. And wait for my orders. Remember, I'm watching you too. Don't disappoint me. I'd hate to have to expose you to all your friends and family.

Peter was a successful businessman, and his career would have been in deep trouble if word got out that he liked to dress up as a woman for fun. Of course, he would later claim that he signed up for the service so he could expose me and shut me down. But I knew better. There was a seed of something feminine within him. And now all I had to do was to unleash it.

* * *

I sent out an e-mail next:

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Dear Peter,

Come to Chicago next weekend, arriving Friday evening no later than 7pm. I don't care what you do, but make an excuse, or you will be plastered all over the internet, and exposed as the she-male that you wish you were. Tell me what hotel you are staying at downtown. You don't need to bring any male clothes; we're going shopping for you.

Mistress Belle

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I attached a file with his information, and his registration for my forced feminization service. He would cave in and show up. Someone like him would do anything to avoid being exposed.

* * *

Right on schedule, I received a reply e-mail from Peter the next day, with the name of his downtown hotel, right on Michigan Avenue. That was the best place to shop (but not the cheapest!) in town.

I dressed in my sexiest leather outfit, and wore a long coat over the top. I went to his hotel, and called the cell phone number he provided. I knocked on the door, and he let me it.

Just in case, I had my hand in my coat pocket, holding a can of mace. But it wasn't needed. He was really scared.

"Sit down on the bed" I ordered, in my best femme domme voice. He obeyed, frightened about what I was going to do. When I took off my jacket and turned around for him to see me in my leathers, I thought he was going to come in his pants.

The leather was tight and form fitting, and really made my curves look even more pronounced than when I wore something loose. And it made my boobs look bigger, and my cleavage deeper up top. I stood near him, and he cowered in fear.

"So, you want to be a woman" I said.

"No" he said, almost in a whisper. "I hate people like you. I wanted to go online to fight you, to stop you."

"I don't think so. I think you wanted to fail. I think you wanted to give me something to hold over you as a threat, so I could force you to become a woman. That's what you really want, isn't it Peter? Or should I call you Polly? That is your name now. Tell me who you are Polly."

"I'm Polly" he whispered.

"And what are you Polly?"

"I'm...." he was too shy to go on.

"You're *what*?" I said more forcefully.

"I'm a girl."

"That's right" I replied. "You're a girl. You had better get used to it. Now lets get you dressed up, so we can go out."

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