Strangely, I have seen very little of Ms Gillette and nothing more of Ms Ambrose and the rather lovely Rupert. Yet I have thought of them, especially of Rupert and his astonishing mother. As I am constantly and quite wickedly stimulated, as the enema probe fills me with its soapy cum and as I void this matter in such a humiliating manner from my bowels, as I endure a suffering of truly epic proportions, I remain helplessly and darkly excited. My erection is permanent and fights its cruel restraint with a savage and disturbing determination. I enter a new extremely powerful stage of my already fierce masochism.
And as I writhe in my erotic sufferings, I am tended to by Myriam. Yet this is not the meek sexy Myriam of the Sissy Maids Academy. No: this is a far more confident Myriam, Myriam wielding power and control on behalf of the buxom, cruel and stunningly beautiful Ms Mary Gillette.
It is Myriam who, twice a day, unbinds me, removes me from the large playpen, then straps me tightly into the adult-sized highchair for my meals. It is Myriam, always dressed in the elaborate and wildly sexy uniform of Ms Gillette’s personal French maid, who feeds me a pink plastic bowl of some strange pink-dyed mashed food and two large baby bottles of full cream, heavily sugared milk. It is Myriam who whispers teasing baby talk as I suck helplessly and desperately on the huge clear rubber teat of the bottle. It is her expensive erotic perfume that torments my helplessly flaring nostrils and her large tightly restrained breasts, held firmly in place by the black silk of her uniform dress, that fill my sex-addled vision.
Yet as she feeds me, I notice one important and new fact: there is no longer desire in her pretty eyes – a desire for me. I no longer see that strange counter-need that has led us to become fugitives from the Bigger Picture. No, her eyes are now filled with detached amusement, with ironic regard, and with a hint of true sadistic pleasure. Within a few hours, I have become an object of ridicule, a babified sissy slave to be teased and tormented, but certainly never to be desired!
And so, when I return her mocking look with one of weak anger, I know I am doomed. I know that even the she-male identity so carefully constructed by my beautiful beloved Aunt Jane, has been crushed under the weight of my complete and all-pervasive humiliation. And the grim, but always helplessly erotic fact of this humiliation is soon made apparent: for giving Myriam an angry look, I must be punished.
‘Naughty baby!’ she snaps, her lovely French-accented rebuke enough to ensure a shocking wave of intense sexual excitement. ‘How dare you look at me like that! Now you must be punished.’
She pronounces ‘punished’ puneeshed, and I swoon with a dreadful soul-crunching desire at its helplessly erotic delivery.
I am unstrapped from the highchair and helped down to my bootied feet. I am utterly helpless in her harsh but always erotic grasp. As she re-inserts and secures the fat ultra-humiliating dummy gag, our eyes meet again. She smiles slightly. I whimper with a dreadful deeply masculine sexual need, a need trapped inside the tangled neural networks of an almost cosmic masochism. In her shining smile there is a hint of her former affection, but most of it is the pleasure of cruelty, the drug of sadistic desire. Yes: I am most certainly going to suffer.
‘I think we need to grease your little dolly to start with, babikins.’
My eyes widen with a mixture of horror and furious arousal.
‘If you do not come, then it will just be a hard spanking. If you do . . . well, then we will have to put you in the Trainer.’
My eyes widen even further. Earlier, Myriam had made a cruel and teasing point of demonstrating the Trainer to me: a particularly ingenious and utterly wicked device, whose soul purpose was to expose the sissy to a prolonged period of truly awful torment.
As she leads me to a pink leather-seated metal stool placed between the highchair and the playpen, my eyes consume her great and profound beauty. The uniform she is wearing today is made of a shimmering black silk. It has a deliberately plunging and heavily frilled neckline and the skirt is so short it barely covers her upper thighs. It is extremely tight, and hugs every inch of her buxom perfectly formed torso with a deeply erotic care. Unusually, she is wearing no petticoating. The skirt is therefore pulled very tightly against her lower torso and thighs, and her black-hosed legs – so perfectly shaped, so achingly long – seem to pour out of the dress like streams of black nylon-wrapped liquid gold.
She is wearing a heavily frilled, white silk apron that is secured to her tightly corseted waist by thick silk ribbons bound in an elegant fat bow just above her splendidly ample and carefully displayed backside. Her large bosom is presented with a brazen provocation by the low curving neckline, their almost overwhelming ampleness threatening, but never achieving a sudden explosion of pale-rose woman flesh. Her long black-nyloned legs lead down to black patent leather court shoes armed with fierce and obviously very testing five-inch stiletto heels.
Her thick wavy blonde hair is bound in the tightest of buns with a diamond-studded metal clasp, and upon her head rests a curved, rectangular and heavily be-frilled maid’s cap. Her skin is pale yet flawless, her eyes honey-brown and her lips blood red. Yes, she is the perfect paradoxical expression of the power of the female form and the submission of the slave.
I am ordered to sit on the chair. I obey with an instinctive and – in the Nursery – always required bob curtsey, turning and lowering my silk-pantied behind onto the cool pink leather of the seat. Then I stare up at the gorgeous figure of Myriam as if beholding a true goddess, a divinity brought to spectacular ultra-erotic life.
Myriam leans forward and hauls up the short skirt of my baby girl dress and the layers of ornate frou-frou petticoating beneath. She uses a thick long white silk ribbon taken from a pocket in her apron to act as a belt, wrapping it around the bunched up skirt and petticoats and tying them in place in a suitably fat bow at the rear of the dress.
Then she kneels and quickly pulls my dainty white silk panties down around my white nylon-sheathed thighs. Then, with an impressive speed mixed with genuine care, she begins to inch the thicker light pink sheath from my constantly and tormented erect cock. I moan into a black despair of bottomless frustration as the tighter darker restrainer beneath is revealed. This is inched from my sex with even greater care, a slow, cruelly teasing process that leaves me squealing with heated agonised hunger into the fat dummy gag.
‘Be quite, you naughty girl!’
I try to remain silent, but as the crimson flesh of my boiling long-imprisoned sex is finally revealed, I find myself squealing even louder, with a deeply girlish desperation. Myriam tuts loudly and then pulls the restrainer free. My cock rises up before her like a rearing sex monster exploding from the depths of some primeval sea of black desire. Then, before I can do anything to resist, she quickly extracts a slender metal ruler from her apron, grasps the base of rigid sex and applies six hard agonising whacks to its rigid and utterly exposed length.
I rise up from the chair, but she forces me back down in order to complete this wicked and vicious punishment. Huge tears flood from my eyes. I shake my head furiously. This is the most dreadful and perverse of beatings; yet, when she is finished and I am a sobbing sissy wreck, my sex is harder (and redder!) than ever.
‘Now put your hands behind your back. Quickly!’
Her words are filled with a malign energy, the vital truth of her sadistic desire. And I obey her instantly, now terrified by her cruel passion and, despite everything, so terribly and helplessly excited.
She binds my wrists behind my back with a length of rubber-lined cording taken from the apparently bottomless pocket of her apron. She then uses another length of the cording to secure my elbows so tightly that they are pressed together. I squeal my protest at this unnecessary cruelty and she laughs, as if to say ‘what else do you expect!’ She adds to this cruel bondage by ordering me to pull my legs tightly together. More cording is then applied to my ankles and knees. Yet even this is not the end of the perverse securing she has in mind. For as soon as my legs are tied, she takes another, slightl
y longer length of the cording and ties one end of it to the cording binding my ankles. She then moves around the stool on her knees and carefully pulls the free end of the cording under the seat and up to my tightly tethered wrists. As she does this, my legs are pulled tightly beneath the stool, so that the heels of my dainty pink silk booties are nearly pressing into its underside. Myriam then ties the free end of the cording to the cording binding my wrists, thus leaving me balancing precariously in a strange seated hog-tie, a position that causes my back to arch painfully, my head to pull back and my cock to jut desperately forward, leaving me totally exposed and helpless beneath Myriam’s wicked sadistic gaze.
Then she minces provocatively and beautifully over to the shelves that hold so many of the devices of ultra-humiliation and suffering that have marked out my time in this kinky Nursery. Straining my bonnet-sealed head, my eyes again fall upon her amazing legs. My red throbbing cock stretches forward even harder. How desperate it is for release, to serve its fundamental purpose. I know resistance to Myriam’s impending caresses will be useless, and I know that even as I experience the simple ecstasy of the orgasm, I will be faced with the more complex horror of the Trainer.
When Myriam returns, she is holding a glass jar in her hand. Immediately, I know it contains the irritant gel that is used as a sissy punishment tool across the SMC/Bigger Picture. She has donned a pair of white latex gloves, another clear indication of its contents.
I fight to avoid looking at the jar and gasp with effort into the tight fat dummy gag.
Myriam laughs cruelly and then disappears from my restricted vision. I guess that she is once again on her knees and easing out a line of the terrible gel onto her latex-sealed fingers.
I wait, bound not just by the tight utterly unyielding cording, but also by a dreadful black expectation. My cock feels so hard that the slightest touch might shatter it into a million pieces, yet when I feel the sudden apprehensive touch of one of Myriam’s latex-sheathed fingers, there is no sudden brutal explosion. Instead I squeal with anger and a furious unyielding desire. Then there are two fingers engaged in an initial and very gentle caress. My squeals quickly become moans of a terrible aching pleasure. My babified body tenses and I strain uselessly against the cording that is binding me so very cruelly and effectively.
Gradually the caress becomes more confident and I feel the express train of orgasm hurtle towards its inevitable erupting crash into the face of reality. Yet even as I begin to lose control of my physical being, as I am so easily manipulated into coming and thus damning myself to the wicked torments of the Trainer, I feel the glistening film of gel now covering my sissy cock begin to take very awful effect. The strange pleasure of Myriam’s cruel masturbation is quickly cut through with the mixture of itching and burning that is the typical product of the gel’s application. And as initial discomfort turns into genuine and worrying pain, I squeal my pointless protests and wiggle uselessly in my fiendishly tight and very clever bondage.
‘Control yourself, Shelly. If you come, you’ll regret it,’ Myriam says, her voice filled with irony and sadistic pleasure, knowing I am even now just seconds away from a truly damning orgasm.
As I scream into the boundary between life and death that is the Coming, and as hot thick semen begins to spurt in jerking explosions from the dark crimson head of my cock, I feel Myriam point the sex downward, directing the lava jet of cum into some unseen container. Seizures of mind-bending power wrack my elegantly sissified form, my eyes wide, my body straining to the point where I feel as if it will explode into a million unbearably bright stars that will shine with a truly blinding intensity for a few seconds before fading into a complete and inescapable nothingness.
Then, slowly, the wild physicality of the Coming begins to pass. Yet as it does, the true impact of the gel becomes apparent. As Myriam drains off the last few drops of semen from the inflated head of my still rock-hard sex, I feel the gel begin to burn into my flesh with a new and horrible intensity. I cry into the gag and begin to shake my head furiously. Then Myriam stands up and towers over my tethered form, her face lit up by an evil smile of the darkest pleasure imaginable.
‘What a naughty little baby you are, Shelly! I am afraid it must be the Trainer for you now.’
I look at her with angry and desiring eyes. I am trapped in a whirlpool of genuine physical pain and deeply conflicting emotions.
She takes the slender metal vibrator control from her apron pocket and turns the plastic dial to full pleasure mode. I shake my head, my eyes wide with anger and fear, my cock a torch of tormented need, and her smile widens.
‘Tormenting you is such fun, my pretty babified angel. I wish I could keep you like this forever.’
Then the vibrator begins to bore deep into my arse, as it has done for many hours over the last few days, and my struggles and squeals quickly subside, yet the pain flooding across my cock actually increases!
Now I must watch the preparations for my own destruction. This is the simple sadistic intention of my buxom French captor: to witness her preparations and to suffer a slow contemplation of the dreadful torment that awaits me.
It is then that she holds up one of the pint-sized baby bottles used to feed me the sweet solution of milk, laxative and hormonal stimulant known as ‘Shelly’s Formula’. The teat head has been removed and the bottle is about a quarter full with a thick pale liquid that I immediately realise is my cum.
‘The Trainer requires a rather special version of your formula, my pretty silken petal.’
Still struggling to focus thanks to the way I am bound and the increasingly enthusiastic intervention of the vibrator, I fight to watch as she takes a full bottle from the highchair and unscrews the teat. She then uses it to fill the bottle containing my cum to the brim. She places both bottles on the highchair and totters out of my range of vision.
I listen fearfully as my cock stretches forward on fire. I squeal with an increasing desperation into the dummy gag, begging for realise from this particularly unpleasant suffering. Yet even as I do so, the profound and utterly irresistible pleasure imparted by the throbbing of the anal vibrator makes me wish that this strange torment could go on forever.
Then there is the sound of something being wheeled across the room. My angry, desperate, always aroused struggles lessen. Despite the pain, I feel a powerful fear-driven curiosity. Then the gorgeous wicked Myriam moves back into my field of vision.
She is pushing what initially appears to be a chair, but further uncomfortable observation shows that it is something much more sinister than a device for sitting!
Once the chair is positioned a few feet from me, Myriam minces back over to my painfully tethered tormented form and, to my profound relief, releases the length of cording that is binding my ankles to my wrists.
I gasp with relief into the dummy gag and allow my bootied feet to fall back to the floor. With my cock still exposed, my panties down around my knees and my arms and legs still tightly tied, Myriam insists that I stand, pulling me to my feet and leaving me to sway precariously before her.
She then reproduces the terrible metal ruler and applies one more hard whack to my terribly tortured sex. I release a high-pitched sissy squeal that is a mixture of anger humiliation and terror.
‘Now . . . hop to the Trainer, Shelly.’
And so, with my red-raw cock bouncing absurdly before me, I hop hesitantly towards the strange chair.
My tear-logged eyes behold what looks like a pink plastic chair, with high arms and long straight and rather thick legs. Attached to the base of each leg is a wheel. Fixed to one of the wheels is a brake lock that has been snapped into place by one of Myriam’s lovely elegantly heeled feet. Attached to the two front legs are rubber shackles. Two more very similar shackles are attached to the arms. Attached to the base of the chair is what appears to be a large metal box. Attached to the front of the box is a long pink rubber tube that has been uncoiled on the floor in front of the chair. Next to it is a separate unattached c
oil. Fixed to the one end of the unattached coil is a slender latex sheath very much like the one that has been fixed to my restrained sex during my time in the playpen.
But all of this is only of minor interest compared with the pink leather seat, for rising from the back of it is a large metal probe very similar to the one that has been plugged into the ingenious hollow vibrator when I am in the pen.
I stare at the probe and then at the two sets of thick pink leather straps that are fixed at the middle and top of the backrest and I begin to understand better something of the nature of the fate that is awaiting me.
The metal ruler strikes hard and sudden against my exposed backside and I release a very well gagged cry of shock and pain.
‘Turn around!’ Myriam snaps, and I obey immediately, terrified, yet still furiously aroused.
Myriam unties the ribbon holding my skirt in place and lets it and the inches of frou-frou petticoating fall over my exposed inflamed sex.
She then takes what appears to be a thick rubber belt from the floor beside the chair. She holds it before me with a cruel smile and I respond with a puzzled frightened stare.
‘The key to the Trainer,’ she whispers.
Set into the centre of the belt is what appears to be a metal frame containing a pint bottle-sized glass oval. It looks exotic and deeply perverse, and its purpose – although currently quite mysterious – is most certainly bound to be cruel and unusual.
She proceeds to slip the belt very slowly and very carefully around my waist and buckle it into position at the base of my spine.
I am immediately aware of the weight created by the box and its empty bottle-like core. I wobble desperately as this additional weight begins to undermine my already precarious balance. Myriam responds by holding me steady, then very quickly untying my wrists and elbows. This enables me to create a counterbalance long enough for Myriam to lower me onto the seat and, at the same time, gently slip the probe inside the hollow vibrator, which is still buzzing inside me with a cruel highly arousing fury.
Silken Embrace Page 13