Lillian Ambrose beholds my own dainty costume with a broad smile and mock clapping.
‘Bravo, Mary! A superb effort.’
Ms Gillette performs a mock curtsey. ‘Thanks. I must say that Rupert is looking absolutely splendid as well.’
Ms Ambrose nods her agreement. ‘Yes. I think we’re at a halfway stage between his house boy image and the new sissy identity. I’m afraid he’s already addicted to the panty gags, and he’s positively mad about the arse intruder – I had it on full power all night. I had to keep him bound and gagged in my dirty washing chest for most of it, mainly because of the noise. It’s still running at moderate pleasure mode, and he seemed to be calming down a bit until Shelly turned up.’
The women laugh and I look up at my gorgeous all-powerful aunt with curious desiring eyes.
‘We have made an important breakthrough, my darling,’ she says. ‘Helen has recanted her Radical perversion. The other Radical leaders have been dispatched into a suitable slavery and, if the Executive Group meeting can be managed correctly, the Moderates will be back in control of the Bigger Picture by the end of the day.’
My heart nearly explodes with delight and I squeal with a helpless sissy pleasure.
I am led before a large mahogany desk in the centre of the spacious room. Spring light pours in through a set of wide French windows behind the desk and I feel exposed and revealed in the most intimate and exquisitely humiliating of ways. A few seconds later, Rupert shuffles forward to stand beside me. Then Glynis Ambrose takes a seat behind the desk. The other women gather around us.
‘When I first started this School, I had no idea that it would become a part of a truly historical movement,’ she says, sitting forward and staring at us in an intense and very serious manner. ‘The original plan was to produce confident young women with the skills to advance in society. Not revolutionaries or feminist activists. I have always seen the key traits of femininity as weapons for progress. We teach our students to use all the tools at their disposal to succeed in this strange world of men. Including their bodies and their sexuality. But then I met Mary.’
Glynis stares over at Ms Gillette and gives her a warm and obviously sexual smile.
‘She changed everything, for me and the School. She turned me towards the Bigger Picture, towards Emily Ashcroft and Eleanor Groves, and towards Ms Blakemore. Through them, and through the simple profound truths at the heart of the Bigger Picture, I began to see the role my School could play in creating a new generation of truly dominant females able to take forward the challenge of a historical world social change.’
As she speaks, there is increasing animation: Ms Ambrose is a convert, a true believer. Here is the passion of Mistress Helen and Ms Blakemore, a passion never shared by Aunt Jane, and certainly not shared by Ms Ambrose’s beautiful, ironic and deeply sensual sister.
‘About a year or so ago, we shifted the focus. The School would train the daughters of the Bigger Picture, the female children of its members. From fifteen to eighteen. A small, concentrated cohort. No more than twenty a year. An exclusive and necessarily expensive education for the children of the Bigger Picture elite. Lillian had already begun her experiments with sissifying Rupert. He has always been a helplessly feminine boy, quite infatuated with his mother, quite unable to fend for himself in the world of men. And very eager to help around the house. The more radical changes to his costume and status came as a bit of a shock, but despite his initial, rather loud protests, I’m afraid his deeper sexual response was all too obvious. He fought us for a little while, but once he felt the kiss of soft nylon on his shaven legs and had experienced tight inescapable bondage . . . well, then he was sissy putty in our hands. And now, he will soon be a she. A proper she-male slave girl. A true servant of the Bigger Picture.’
Poor Rupert, his face a shade of deep red above the thick broad length of silk ribbon, stares down at his elegantly high-heeled feet and his furious erection strains even harder against the tight silk of his sissy hotpants. His desire is both the core of his liberation and the guarantee of his enslavement. This is the terrible inescapable truth of the Bigger Picture.
‘Now that our little problem with the Radical faction has been sorted out, Rupert will begin his training at the SMC academy by the end of the week. Seeing that he has taken a very real shine to you, Shelly, we have decided that you will become his sissy lover and mentor. In preparation for this, you will begin to train him in the secret pleasures of sissy love tonight. Lillian has agreed that you can stay with him in his room.’
My heart skips a beat as this latest plan is revealed. I find myself turning and staring at the lovely visage of pretty, blushing Rupert. Our eyes meet and there is immediately no doubt in my mind that the thought of spending the night with me fills him with an intense sexual arousal.
‘As a way of kickstarting your . . . relationship . . . tonight you will both be freed of the restrainers,’ my glorious beautiful aunt adds, a teasingly maternal smile curving her soft full cherry-red lips.
Rupert’s eyes widen with shock and pleasure. I feel my sex twitch desperately in its rubber prison and a moan of helpless delight fights to escape my ingenious and utterly inescapable gag.
Then Ms Blakemore steps forward.
‘The struggle with the Radicals has presented the School with an interesting challenge,’ she says, resting her broad sexy bottom on the edge of Glynis Ambrose’s desk. ‘Although the core Radical rebellion is crushed, the ideas that informed it persist. Thus we must be prepared to continue the fight using all means necessary. There is no doubt that, at some point, there will have to be a swift and possibly violent confrontation. We need to be prepared, especially in France, where Céline’s followers will resist us all the way. We will fight them by using insider agents – mistresses and sissies – and also, where necessary, by the rapid deployment of a little army of commandos, all of whom will be specially trained pupils of the Ambrose Academy.’
It is now that I begin to understand the link between Mary Gillette and the events of the last few days, why I have been brought to her home and why Aunt Jane has become such a key figure in the war between Moderates and Radicals. The Ambrose Academy is not just a school for young ladies, but an ideological training centre for the Moderates, a place where a new generation of mistresses trained in the ideas and methods of the Bigger Picture can take forward the vision set out by founders like Emily Ashcroft and Amelia Blakemore, a vision now aggressively challenged by the remaining Radicals.
‘We have been weak,’ Ms Blakemore continues. ‘We all accept that. We allowed our commitment to the voluntary transformation of the male sex via the persuasive powers of Senso and the direction of male desire to block out a true understanding of the brutal intentions of the Radicals. We tried to persuade them that they were wrong and they laughed at us. Then, when we were at our weakest, they simply seized control. Without even a minor struggle. So now, we have to play their game. And play it much harder. And you, my pretty petals, must help us. When the moment comes, you must stand up on those pretty high heels and be counted.’
In a moment of strange and rather uplifting synchronicity, we both curtsey our acceptance of this important truth. A broad triumphant smile crosses Glynis Ambrose’s face. The other women laugh warmly.
‘We have nothing to be worried about here, ladies,’ Lillian says.
‘I think it’s time that Rupert showed Shelly around the Academy,’ Glynis says.
Aunt Jane nods. ‘Let me do the honours.’
And so we are led from the room, bound, gagged, tottering on pretty high heels, our tightly displayed bottoms wiggling with a girlish helplessness, our minds filled with teasingly erotic apprehension, our cocks tightly restrained and desperate for release. Tonight Rupert and I are to be together: the thought fills me with a terrible, almost dizzying excitement.
We return down the long rather dark corridor to the foyer area, my amazing, buxom and so beautiful aunt leading the way, Rupert behind her a
nd me behind Rupert, my eyes never leaving his long white nylon-sheathed legs, my imagination trapped in the endlessly spinning whirlpool of a dark fetishistic desire.
Then we are climbing the wide dark-red carpeted stairs.
‘The ladies are at morning exercises in the upstairs dance studio. I believe the other sissies are with them. Let’s start there.’
My heart speeds up at mention of ‘the ladies’ and ‘the other sissies’: we are to be exposed to the students of the Ambrose Academy and to more pretty sissies! I find myself looking over at Rupert. His eyes are filled with a very genuine love and an equally genuine and deeply masochistic desire.
Once on the wide landing beneath the huge window, we turn right and follow another long corridor lined with large white doors sporting golden handles. Each door has a red number on it and I am immediately reminded of the SMC Academy. But this is not a facility for the training of sissies: here young women are being trained to become the dominant mistresses of sissies, the agents of change at the heart of the Bigger Picture’s dark and wondrous Philosophy of Desire.
Towards the end of the corridor there is a much larger set of double doors. My aunt brings us to a slightly unsteady halt and then looks down upon our tethered tormented sissy forms.
‘You’ll need to be on your best behaviour, girls. I want to see the tiniest and sissiest of steps and the deepest of curtsies once we’re inside.’
We look up at her with adoring and desire-streaked eyes. I again look into Rupert’s wide green eyes and I see a truly beautiful future.
Then my wonderful ample aunt pushes the doors open and leads us into a vast rectangular studio. As we totter forward with our daintiest steps, I am immediately aware of a vaguely female voice barking harsh demanding commands.
The owner of the voice is standing at the far end of the room. At the other end are a group of young women, maybe no more than eight. They are organised into groups of two, and they are huddled around objects of unseen fascination. Yet what is striking about them is not the fact of their training, but their appearance; for each is dressed in a tight black nylon leotard and matching tights, and each is uncommonly attractive, with large firm breasts, hourglass figures and long perfectly formed legs.
For a minute, it is as if I am looking at a clone army of buxom trainee sex goddesses. But then I realise a simple striking truth: these young women have been quite deliberately selected for their physical allure; each has been identified as having the key attributes required to take forward the uniquely erotic and deeply cunning mission of the Bigger Picture. These are the women who will inspire male desire and then mould it as a tool to ensure complete and inescapable submission.
Then there is a sudden disturbing silence. The woman’s voice echoes into nothingness and I am aware that the young women have turned their attentions upon us.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ my aunt says, her voice filled with teasing irony, ‘but I thought you might like some more sissies to practise on.’
Then the woman steps forward into a pool of bright white morning light and I gasp into my mouth-filling sex-stained panty gag. For before me is Ms Hartley, the stern beautiful guardian of Dominic, the lovely young man she and my Aunt Jane transformed into Pansy.
Ms Hartley, her hair cut in a severe sado-erotic page boy, nods slightly and smiles. She is wearing a shimmering, very tight white silk blouse with a high button-up neck, a long grey skirt that reaches down to the middle of her black nylon-sheathed knees and a pair of spike-heeled black patent leather mules. As she looks down at me her blood-red smile widens.
‘Of course. The more the merrier.’
Ms Hartley calls the girls to attention.
‘Ladies, Jane has brought us two more subjects. Please take one each. You have fifteen minutes to secure them, then we will return to dance class.’
Suddenly the girls explode out from their mysterious huddles and reveal the object of their attention. As they bounce over towards us I see they have been surrounding two chairs and secured to each chair is a sissy, three of which are very familiar to me!
In one corner, I immediately recognise Christina and, to my amazement, the betrayer Annette. Both look absolutely gorgeous in costumes clearly designed for this very special occasion.
Christina is dressed in a spectacular white silk dress, with huge puffed sleeves and a very high lace be-frilled neck, around which has been wrapped a band of white pearls. The dress is covered in a design of barely perceptible silk roses and a large white silk pinafore has been tied over it. Her dark hair has been tied in a tight bun with a butterfly-shaped diamond clasp and her beautiful brown eyes are wide with a terrible sex madness. Her large perfectly designed breasts heave with a dreadful frustration and she looks at me both with shocked recognition and the darkest deepest sexual longing. A thick strip of white Senso plaster tape has been stretched very tightly over her lips and her bulging checks betray a particularly fat and inescapable gag.
The dress has a short petticoat-laden skirt and its fiendish design inspires a gasp of gagged surprise; for the front section of the skirt and petticoating is missing and rising up from between her legs, on full and terrible display, is her very large, very hard, white rubber-sealed cock! I stare at this astonishing vision and feel my own sex scream for release. I remember her member, I remember sucking and teasing it and contemplate the pleasures that must surely come.
The cock has been imprisoned in golden rings at the head, base and then with a much larger ring around the scrotum. Attached to the scrotal ring by a narrow silver chain is a small silver bell.
She is wearing white nylon tights covered in tiny silver roses. The front section of the tights has been adjusted so that there is a small elasticated and lace-frilled hole through which the rubber-sealed cock can be extracted and positioned. It is a classic SMC design whose purpose is complete, inescapable exposure and absolute control.
She is wearing no panties and her feet are erotically imprisoned in gorgeous white kid leather ankle boots with stunning six-inch stiletto heels.
She is tied to the chair with thin white rope, her ankles and knees lashed very tightly together, her wrists and elbows also tightly secured behind the white wooden chair. A further length of the white rope hangs from her tied wrists under the chair and is secured to her tightly bound ankles, thus holding her securely and rather uncomfortably in an upright sitting position.
‘The girls get so little bondage practice, except for weekly sessions with Ruppi,’ Ms Hartley explains, ‘and we thought this would be an ideal opportunity.’
My aunt smiles warmly. ‘Of course, an excellent idea. Please feel free to use Shelly as you see fit.’
I look up at my aunt and surrender without question to her will. I look over at the other sissies and see that they are all wearing exactly the same costume as Christina, but in different colours. I glance at my ex-lover and closest friend Pansy and we exchange a look of pure love and deep fierce desire. She is secured in exactly the same manner as Christina and dressed exactly the same, but her colour is hot pink – the dress, the tights, the restrainer and the boots. Then there is the sissy that is tied to the chair next to her. A sissy I have never seen before, whose colour is daisy yellow. A very, very pretty sissy who stirs my sex and widens my eyes. She is a real beauty and she beholds me with curiosity and a very obvious arousal. And then there is Annette, the gorgeous red-headed lover of Christina. The sissy who had betrayed me and then paid the ultimate price. She is dressed in a soft powder blue. Yet where the other sissies have their teasingly decorated and proudly displayed cocks, she has a powder-blue nylon-covered slit, a beautifully crafted female sex that has been carefully and erotically decorated with a blood-red dye. I look at her and see a sissy in a state of sexual ecstasy. She moans into her cheek-stretching gag, her eyes wide with a constant and utterly unforgiving sexual need. I look at her and wonder what it would be like to . . .
As the girls gather around us, they whisper and giggle. One or two pass teas
ing remarks to Rupert.
‘Hello, Ruppi. Don’t you look lovely today. Who’s your pretty sissy friend?’
Yet most of them stare at me with wide, clearly excited eyes.
It is then that I perform a deep curtsey and Rupert, slightly reluctantly, follows suit. A ripple of mocking applause and laughter passes around the girls and I fight to pull my eyes from so many full, nylon-imprisoned and perfectly formed pairs of breasts. And, perhaps not so strangely, the girls’ eyes struggle to avoid my own considerable bosom!
‘This is Shelly,’ my aunt announces. ‘One of the real success stories of the SMC transformative processes.’
‘Was she really once a boy?’ a very pretty blonde asks, looking at me with mocking, but also highly aroused eyes. ‘Its so hard to believe!’
‘Oh yes. Shelly was once a boy, leading a typical boy’s life. But then I took him in hand and began the process that has led . . . well, to this.’
I listen to Aunt Jane’s words and ponder my previous male existence. I know how very wrong she is when she talks about ‘my typical boy’s life’!
As the girls continue to stare, Ms Hartley enters the semicircle that has formed, a slight, cool and rather threatening smile on her very beautiful face.
‘We’ve run out of chairs, so I suggest we practise hog-ties on these two. OK?’
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