Silken Embrace
Page 2
The tone my Aunt adopts is cool and neutral. I listen with a thudding, desperate heart and a rock-hard sex.
‘While it is true that the Moderates have saved you, it is also true that you have flouted the cardinal rule of the Femocracy. Your deeply stupid dalliance with Myriam betrayed all the faith the movement put in you, Shelly. We expected you to be stronger and wiser. You were a fool to let a pretty little slut like Myriam get the better of you. Mary will make sure she suffers for her own stupidity, but I must also make sure that you suffer too, my love. For you must learn that your sissification is permanent and absolute and that the tenets of the Bigger Picture are not optional extras. You are a servant of womankind, Shelly. Nothing more. And you must obey our rules without question. By allowing yourself to be seduced and ravished by Myriam, you have demonstrated that you learnt nothing from your time in the training academy. Therefore, we must start again. Hence this nursery. You will be babified and kept here for the entire length of your stay. You will be dummy gagged at all times and fed on a special diet. You will, while in this nursery, be allowed no form of sexual relief, except a weekly milking that will be carried out by your nanny, using a tried and tested clinical procedure. Ms Gillette will have overall responsibility for your retraining, but a nanny will be employed to look after the day-to-day business of your regression. Myriam will assist the nanny as the nursery maid.’
I listen to my gorgeous regal Aunt with an increasing sense of disbelief. My girlish eyes widen. I feel hot tears well up in them. I begin to shake my head and moan desperately and angrily into the fat mouth-stretching ball gag. I am to be returned to the regime of ultra-kinky babification for an indeterminate period! Tears begin to trickle down my soft alabaster cheeks. The shaking of my head lessens. The anger fades from my tear-logged eyes. Even as I protest, I know there is nothing I can do. Even as I squeal my sissy horror, I know I have escaped lightly.
‘I will visit you when I can but, given the task ahead of me and the rest of the Moderates, I doubt that will be often. But, when this little disagreement has been resolved, you will be allowed to return to your original sissy identity and to continue to play an important role in the implementation of the Femocracy.’
There is a pause and I try my hardest to stifle the tears.
‘Do you understand?’
I nod weakly and stare down at my rubber-sheathed feet, disappointed yet not surprised, appalled but not frightened: this is all I deserve.
My Aunt then steps forward and leans down close to me, so that our faces are inches apart. I smell her powerful, erotic perfume and my eyes feast on her large perfectly shaped breasts. My cock stretches in the restrainer and I wince with a strangely pleasurable pain. As she kneels, her skirt rises up over her legs and exposes a generous length of black nylon-wrapped thigh.
‘You know I love you, Shelly. And I know how much you love me. Prove to me just how powerful our love is.’
She then kisses me on the forehead. Our eyes meet then and I am lost in her divine gaze. Yes, I will endure anything for this woman. I will suffer any humiliation to prove the true depths of my adoration.
She rises and turns to Ms Gillette.
‘I need to get back on the road as quickly as possible. I’ll ring you when I get to London.’
Ms Gillette nods and smiles. They embrace and then exchange a long, passionate kiss. I stare at them with a terrible fundamentally frustrated longing, both excited by their lesbian love and made jealous by the sight of my beloved Aunt in the arms of this buxom cruel-eyed beauty.
Then, without turning back, Aunt Jane leaves the nursery and I am suddenly alone with Ms Mary Gillette. I hear a car door open and shut outside, then the sound of a motor starting. As the car moves down the gravel driveway, Ms Gillette’s ironic smile fades and I find myself staring fearfully into two ice-cold pale-blue eyes.
‘Well . . . now we’re alone, I think it’s best to warn you that I’ve made some very special arrangements for your stay, Shelly. I will, of course, keep a close eye on you, and also ensure that your notorious oral talents are put to regular and profitable use. But to be quite honest with you, my real interest is in Myriam. I have been charged with ensuring she is subject to a suitably strict and punitive regime, and I intend to devote all my energies to establishing and enforcing this regime. That is why I have employed Ms Lillian Ambrose to act as your nanny for the period of your babification.’ She says the name as if she expects me to have heard of this woman and to be in some way filled with either awe or terror. The blank look she subsequently receives does, however, seem to amuse her.
‘Lillian has a rather impressive track record with sissies, and she, and her rather gorgeous sister, are close personal friends of mine. I’m sure you’ll enjoy being her charge. And I’m sure she’ll enjoy looking after you. She’ll be visiting a little later today, and I will expect Myriam to have you suitably attired when she arrives. However, as it is not yet 10.00 a.m., and I’m not expecting her until 3.00 p.m., we have plenty of time. I think it’s best if you stay here for now, while I go and introduce myself to Myriam.’
She then pulls a length of black rubber cording from a pocket in her jacket and steps forward. I look at her with fear-filled eyes and she laughs.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. That’s not my job. But I think it’s wise to make sure you can’t wiggle out of here.’
She then rather roughly pushes me onto my side and rolls me onto my stomach. She attaches one end of the cording to the material binding my ankles and pulls the free end roughly towards my tethered wrists. Thus, within a few painful seconds, I am secured in an unnecessarily tight hog-tie and completely immobilised.
As she secures the final knot at my wrists, she leans forward and applies a single very hard slap to my rubber-sealed bottom. I squeal with shock and pain and she bursts out laughing.
‘There. Snug as a bug. See you about lunch time.’
She leaves the nursery, locking the door behind her, and I am left face down, hardly able to move a muscle, moaning with dark masochistic pleasure into my fat rubber ball gag.
After a few minutes of staring face down at the thick white carpet, my mind tormented by the words of Aunt Jane, the strange future that awaits me playing out in a hundred ultra-kinky possibilities, I begin to take stock of my surroundings in more detail.
The nursery is indeed a very large room. The walls have been painted a deep hot-pink and decorated with beautifully crafted pictures of what seem to be Victorian dolls, but which closer inspection reveals to be a series of pictures of sissy she-males in a striking variety of ultra-kinky and humiliating baby attire! Virtually all have faces crimson with embarrassment and eyes filled with desperate tears. All are sucking helplessly on fat dummy gags and many are secured in intricate and often painful bondage. As I behold these mini-masterpieces, I am filled with a sense of my own fate and also a terribly powerful sexual need, a need that immediately produces some significant discomfort. The pins of the restrainer dig mercilessly into the stiff meat of my sex, and I know that my desire will now always inhabit the borderline between pleasure and pain.
In the centre of the nursery, a few feet from where I am tethered, is a large circular playpen. Its white wooden bars are at least five feet high and its resemblance to a cage is quite deliberate. Its almost perfectly circular interior is covered in a thick white rubber mat, upon which has been placed a collection of silk-covered cushions of various colours, a number of dolls clearly meant to be physical representations of the images on the walls, and what appears to be a number of strange-looking plastic toys.
Against the far wall of the room is a huge wooden wardrobe, both very long and very tall. Made from expensive oak and painted a high-gloss snow white, it has gleaming silver handles and very obviously dominates the room. It must be ten feet high and twenty feet wide!
Between the playpen and the wardrobe is a long metal table covered in a matching white rubber sheet and an adult-sized highchair, made from t
Against another wall is a row of white shelves, upon which are stacked the various tools that will ensure the proper management of my babification: piles of thick heavily be-frilled rubber panties, pint-size baby bottles with large pink rubber teats, rubber bibs in a variety of colours, a collection of fat ribbed dummy gags – each attached to lengths of silk ribbon – coils of pink rubber-coated cording, rolls of white and silver masking tape, rubber ball gags, and much, much more.
This strange vault of babification is to be my home for the next six months. The thought of being trapped here, under the supervision of some strange nanny, a nanny who will be assisted by the gorgeous betrayer Myriam, fills me with a mixture of emotions. There is no doubt that I am appalled that the progress of my feminisation, a process I had willingly embraced under the guidance of my beautiful all-powerful Aunt Jane, is to be so brutally halted. Far from becoming the elegant graceful and totally convincing she-male, the ultra-feminine paragon of the philosophy of desire and transformation that is the Bigger Picture, I am to be imprisoned in nappies and baby girl dainties twenty-four hours a day, tightly dummy gagged, locked in this vast perverse nursery and relentlessly and intricately humiliated. Yet this dark kinky prospect also leaves me intensely aroused. My carefully nurtured masochism will find plenty to feed it in this room!
2
My erotic contemplation continues for perhaps another hour or so before my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock. The large white door to the nursery opens and Mary Gillette enters, closely followed by a spectacularly costumed Myriam and two others: a striking, very plump woman and a fourth person whose body is, from my rather restricted perspective, obscured by the significant form of the woman.
But it is Myriam who attracts my immediate attention. Her lovely honey-brown eyes are filled with a shocked arousal and then I know that Ms Gillette has already seduced her. Indeed, she periodically gazes at the striking blonde dominatrix with a very telling mixture of real fear and an even more real desire. Yet even her obvious sexual excitement is not the primary focus of my desiring eyes, for Ms Gillette has wrapped her up in a particularly impressive and highly erotic uniform for her role as nursery maid and assistant to my ‘nanny’.
The dress she is wearing is made from blood-red satin. It is incredibly tight and reveals every contour of her splendid form in graphic fetishistic detail, particularly her large perfectly formed bosom and her tiny waist. It has a ridiculously short skirt, which rests at a ninety degree angle on a sea of white frou-frou petticoating. Indeed, her heavily be-frilled red silk panties are clearly visible through the petticoating, as are black nylon-sheathed upper thighs running down to long exquisitely shaped legs. The tights are made from expensive Italian nylon with seams that run down the backs of her perfect legs with a precision that is both impressive and exciting. And then there are her amazing shoes: black patent leather mules with stunning six-inch heels, incredibly testing and erotic shoes that turn each tiny step into the beginning of a teasing ballet of wiggling hips and bouncing breasts. Over the dress has been secured a white silk pinafore bound in place at the base of her spine by a huge carefully tied bow. The pinafore, which is edged with more very fine white lace, seems to contain a body fighting to escape and manages to accentuate her curvy form in a way that inspires an immediate and very well-gagged moan of desperate excitement from yours truly.
Ms Gillette draws to a halt a few inches from my face, and I find myself staring at the elegant footwear of both her and her generously proportioned companion. Before me are the sleek white pumps of Ms Gillette and a pair of dark-brown mules with exquisitely crafted three-inch stiletto heels, affixed to which are gleaming metal tips. My eyes follow the erotic contours of the shoes to rather shapely ankles sealed in dark-tan semi-opaque hose and then along the lines of long, muscular legs that disappear just below the knees into a tight-fitting tan tweed skirt.
‘This is Shelly, Lillian.’
Ms Gillette’s tone is cool, sardonic and utterly unforgiving. There will be no mercy from this beautiful ice blonde.
‘Is it possible to stand her up?’
The voice is deep, precise and filled with the rich rigorous pronunciation of the English upper class. It is a voice streaked with sensual authority and dominance, and I am immediately stirred by its sado-erotic undertones.
‘Myriam.’
Her name is her command. Suddenly, Myriam is kneeling by my face. An explosion of delicate scented petticoating brushes against my sex-heated cheeks. The cording securing the hog-tie is removed and I gasp with a pained sigh of deep relief. Then she is struggling to roll me onto my side and encouraging me to sit up, my hands and feet still tightly bound. This proves to be a very difficult task. Then there is a loud tut of impatience and firm powerful arms have slipped under mine and I am being unceremoniously hauled to my tethered feet.
‘There. Much better.’
Then I am facing her directly, a tall pleasantly rotund woman in a tweed suit and high-necked white silk blouse. A woman in her mid-fifties, perhaps, yet still very attractive, thanks to a very large tightly restrained chest and a rather chubby but strikingly beautiful face, a face distinguished by stunning emerald green eyes and very full dark-peach-painted lips in a face framed by thick autumnal red hair bound in a very tight bun by a light-green velvet band.
‘Shelly, meet Ms Lillian Ambrose.’
I look into her eyes with a mixture of trepidation and sexual attraction. Ms Ambrose is a fierce-eyed matron with an air of gloriously sensual power and firmness. In her steely gaze is a simple truth: there will only ever be complete and absolute obedience. Anything else will be firmly punished without a second’s hesitation.
I smell her strong sandalwood perfume and feel my heart flutter girlishly. Her eyes widen as she senses my arousal and a slight smile bends her lovely lips. Then, despite my inescapable and erotic bondage, I manage a slight bob curtsey.
‘What a striking creature you are, Shelly,’ Miss Ambrose whispers. ‘When Mary asked me to assist with your care and training, I was a little hesitant, given my work at the School and the constant challenges presented by Rupert. But now that we are finally meeting, now that I am seeing the genius of the Bigger Picture – well, I’m so glad I accepted!’
It is only as she mentions the name ‘Rupert’ and steps slightly to the left that I get a proper view of the fourth person who has entered the nursery. And as my eyes fall upon this strange vision and widen in amazement, Ms Ambrose’s smile broadens and her lovely eyes fill with a rather malicious pleasure.
‘Yes,’ she says, standing back completely to give me a full and truly shocking view, ‘this is Rupert, my son.’
A sob of terrible humiliation fills the room and I gasp into the fat ball gag. Before me is a vision of spectacular perversity, a vision of intricate and cruel feminisation that is not quite an image of true femininity. A sissy, most certainly, but not in any recognisable way a she-male.
Rupert is taller than me by a good two inches, but as he is wearing five-inch-high stiletto-heeled ankle boots of fine black leather, I immediately realise he is in fact quite small. His hair is the same red as his mother’s and, despite being cut short, has been styled in a very curly perm. His small girlish ears are adorned with pearl tear-drop earrings. His face has been painted a very striking alabaster and his lips – very much the lips of his impressive mother – have been painted a light peach. A small beauty spot rests just to the right of his upper lip and there is a circle of peach-coloured rouge on each snowy cheek. His green eyes are wide with a look of intense embarrassment cut through with an almost reluctant sexual excitement. He is wearing a tight black velvet jacket with large silver buttons. Beneath this is a cream silk blouse with a very high heavily be-frilled neck, which has a large silk bow tie wrapped around it, and which explodes over the top of the jacket in a deliberately excessive and dandified fashion. He is also wearing a pair of very tight silk pantaloons that run to just below his knees. The ends of the pantaloon legs are also heavily be-frilled with thick white lace. His legs below the pantaloons are sheathed in sheer black nylon. Around his very slender waist just beneath the short jacket is a thick broad belt of cream silk that exactly matches the blouse and which is tied in another very fat bow at the base of his spine.
The incredible spectacle of Rupert is topped off by the long hard and embarrassingly obvious bulge that runs across the front of his pantaloons. He is, it would seem, a particularly well-endowed sissy and in a state of some significant sexual arousal. Yet his eyes contradict this brutal physical manifestation. In these pretty green orbs there is nothing but humiliation and discomfort. Thanks to the thick face paint, it is impossible to see whether or not he is blushing, but I cannot help but expect he is – and quite furiously!
‘I think Shelly rather likes your little boy,’ Ms Gillette says, her voice filled with erotic tease.
Ms Ambrose smiles knowingly. ‘Yes, I think you’re probably right. I have considered full feminisation on more than one occasion, but given my roll in the School, I find that a sissified but distinctly male Rupert is a very helpful educational tool. Since his father walked out on us and Glynis founded the School, he has been relatively easy to control. Probably because somewhere there is still a vague hint of utterly subjugated masculinity. If we put him into skirts and panties, it would be very interesting to see the impact. I am, as you know, a stern disciplinarian, and he is spanked at least twice every day, but it amuses me to consider how many more times that girlish little bottom of his would have to be attended to if he were forced to become a full-blown she-male.’
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