I am in a formal gown, back in the 18th Century. It is a beautiful gown, all lace, scented perfume, and I am wearing a small pendant with the flag of my country. I have no idea what country this is, because I don't recognize the emblem, or the colors. I don't remember the colors at all.

Somehow, I know that my rival is here at this gala party. I must have watched some kind of movie based on a Dumas novel or Flaubert or something like that. As I coquette about the ballroom, curtsy to gallant looking men who seem to wearing codpieces that make them seem very large, I make sure to watch out for a woman in red.

But the woman who approaches me is dressed exactly like me. Only she has jet black hair and very light blue eyes. Her lipstick is very orange and her mouth is tight, in a little sliver of a line. I look up and down at her pretty gown, all white and lacy. Is she angry that I have worn the same gown? I know this is my rival, but she's not in red.

She slaps me across the face.

I take this with great dignity, and do not cry out. Somehow I think she has every reason to do this to me. It must be that we are rivals from different countries, and our countries are at war, even as we attend a ball together in a neutral kingdom.

She backhands me, and I stiffen but retain my dignity.

Now it comes to me why she is doing this.

She is a real woman, and I am not!

She slaps me again. I feel the shame of standing in front of her, wearing a dress like hers, making up my face to be pretty, having my hair so bright and reddish-blonde. But it is too late now. I can't undress in front of everyone and, in my humiliation, reveal my genitals. I must endure what she doles out to me.

She slaps me and backhands me several times in rapid succession. She hits me hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. My lips tremble.

Now, I think that I should fight back. But I am afraid that if I do, it won't be as a woman. I would punch her. I would knock her over with one blow.

My arm throbs like my heart is in it. It throbs terribly, for wanting to punch. It feels like it has been tied to my side, but it pulsates as if it will break free. I am crying now, not because I am hurt by her slaps, but because part of me wants to fight back, and I can't do that. I am a girl! I am a girl!

She once again slaps me and backhand slaps me and slaps me again. I am bitch-slapped into the wall, and I lose my balance and collapse, landing hard on my backside. My skirts fly up. I pray that I am not being exposed as a man. I pray that I am wearing so many layers of petticoats that my panties aren't showing. What kind of panties have I got on? Some panties that I wear have lycra and are thick, and I don't really show.

I put my arms down onto my lap to keep my skirt down. I cower on the floor, looking up at my rival, the real woman. Why is it that nobody comes to help me? Why am I so alone here?

I struggle to my feet, but this is one of those helpless dreams, and whenever I manage to get my footing, I lose it, and I seem to be constantly trying to get to my feet, making an utter fool of myself. I only hope I am doing it...as a woman! Daintily! Please, let no one detect my cheat!

Finally rising to my feet, I raise my chin, and I offer myself to the woman. I am offering to be slapped. As long as she doesn't shout out that I am a man...I will let her slap me until her hands are too sore to punish me any further.

Only now, she is spanking me. A huge crowd has gathered. Her skirts are voluptuous with lace, and I lay above them with my hairless, soft backside upturned. She spanks me over and over, and the crowd marvels at the way my flesh shudders and jiggles. Surely, they can see that I have a feminine fanny!

I think to myself, when she has finished spanking me, I must crawl off her lap so as not to expose myself. I must crawl on my belly out of the ballroom, and try and find a room with ladies clothes in it and re-dress myself.