And so the three gorgeous women, whispering secretly and laughing, leave their beautifully sissified charges to their pretty dance of helpless desire, safe in the knowledge that the first stage of Chrissy and Prissy's transformation from wayward, angry sons into obedient, dainty she-male daughters is complete.
*
It is over an hour before Helen and her beautiful daughter, Heather, return. By this time, Chrissy and Prissy are trapped inside a whirlpool of mutual sexual excitement that has washed away any thought of escape. With the wicked plugs humming in their sissy backsides, with their babified forms bound so closely together, both have confronted sexual arousal of an intensity never previously experienced. Now they are quite deliberately forcing their tethered bodies together and moaning girlishly into their fat dummy gags. Their eyes lock together through a shared gaze of sex hunger, and, despite the pain, both sissies push their pantied buttocks into the cruel high heels of the leather ankles boots in a desperate effort to force the vibrating plugs even deeper into their arses.
And even as their vengeful mothers and Heather peer down at their sissified victims with deeply amused, contemptuous eyes, Chrissy and Prissy cannot resist the waves of intense sexual pleasure crashing over their bodies and continue to writhe and moan with a fierce, all pervasive arousal.
'My, my,' Helen teases, 'our two sissies seem to have taken to each other with a passion.'
'I always knew they were queer,' Heather spits, her beautiful eyes filled with a cruel triumph.
'That wouldn't surprise me at all,' Helen replies, clearly stimulated by the sissy spectacle. 'It would explain all the aggression – they were resisting their true natures.'
The women continue to behold the erotic dance with amused fascination, silenced by the ease of their sissy sons' transformation and the absolute power they now wield.
'Well,' Helen eventually whispers, a sadistic smile lighting up her lovely face, 'they'll have plenty of time to discover their true natures.'.
Heather then takes the oblong control box from a pocket in her skirt and turns off the merciless vibrators. Slowly (very slowly) the sissies writhing and dummy gagged moaning fades. As if awaking from a strange, wicked dream, Chrissy and Prissy become aware of their surroundings once again and the grim reality of their mutual fate returns to shake them from deep arousal. Eyes wide with desire quickly transform into eyes filled with a terrible embarrassment and deep self-loathing. Tears quickly replace sexual need. Moans of intense, masochistic pleasure become gagged whimpers of despair.
'We can turn you on and off like mechanical dolls,' Heather teases as she and Helen untie their sissy charges. 'Like all males, sex is the key to controlling you. Once we have that under control, everything else is easy.'
Once untied, the sissies are helped to their heeled feet and led from the playpen, their numb, weakened legs wobbling and adding to the challenge to balance posed by the heels and the wicked hobble chains.
They are led back to the dressing table and made to sit on the leather backed seats directly facing the large oval mirror. The restraining belts are removed from their waists and left staring at their reflections. Despite the heat generated by their time in the playpen, the sissies make up remains unblemished – a tribute to the permanence and resilience of the make-up dyes the women have employed to decorate their hapless she-sons. And it is only now that the two young men begin to realise the terrible extent of their forced transformation: the dressing table has forced them to confront the true nature of their physical appearance and thus their terrible feminised fate. Suddenly, two wayward, perhaps handsome and masculine teenage boys have been turned, as if by some awful dominatrix magic, into two very pretty, whimpering baby girls, their sweet, pale faces highlighted by expert and permanent make up and the spectacular, soul destroying bonnets, their soft pink lips covered by the circular pink plastic plate of an inescapable dummy gag, their bodies imprisoned in delightful sissy satin, silk and sheer nylon.
They look at themselves and at each other. Tears trickle down snow white cheeks stretched by the fat dummy gags. A soul crushing humiliation washes over their sissified forms.
‘I can see you both like your new sissy look,’ Heather teases, waving the crop before them in a deliberately threatening manner, standing over them like some beautiful goddess of cruel female retribution.
Eventually, the she-males are helped back to their high heeled feet and lead them over to the wardrobe. Then it quickly becomes clear that the humiliation so brilliantly assured by their ultra-feminine baby costumes is far from over; for from the depths of the terrible wardrobe, Helen has now produced two white silk pinafores, delicately edged with beautiful white French lace. These are quickly slipped over the helpless she-males’ bonneted heads and tied tightly in place behind their backs via lengths of cream coloured silk ribbon belting, which are quickly fixed in the fattest, sissiest bows imaginable. And on the chest of each pinafore is a large pink satin heart, and crossing each heart in elegant white silk lettering is the relevant sissy's name.
'Perfect,' Helen whispers, as Heather sets about re-tying the very reluctant she-male's arms tightly behind their backs at their elbows and wrists with more pink silk ribbons. 'Simply perfect.'
A crack of the crop across each set of perfectly shaped, delicately hosed sissy thighs inspires the moaning she-males to totter back towards the steep stairway that is the only means of escape from the bizarre, wicked nursery. While one sissy is left to ponder the fate that awaits him above, the other is virtually carried up the stairs by the Helen and Debra.
Eventually Chrissy and Prissy find themselves being driven by the crop down the central hallway of Helen's home towards the living room. The sound of female laughter is already filling the house, a sound which brings renewed and utterly useless dummy gagged squeals for mercy from the pretty, dainty sissies, and very soon poor Chrissy and Prissy are teetering fearfully by the living room door, their pretty eyes wide with humiliation and terror, their sexy she-male bottoms wiggling desperately with sweet sissy fear.
It is Helen who opens the door and Heather, with one sharp blow of the crop, who forces the two she-male beauties to wiggle mince into the living room.
Their hearts pounding with a terrible, bottomless fear, the sissies quickly find themselves surrounded by a large group of strangely silent women. All seem taller, stronger, all emit waves of fascination mixed with hostility and amused contempt. Then there is laughter. As the two sissies stare angrily down at their pretty high-heeled boots, they are suddenly drowned in a sea of cruel, vengeful laughter, and it is not long before huge tears of utter despair are trickling down their sissified faces and moans of desperate, inescapable sadness are fighting past the fat dummy gags.
'What a pretty pair!' one woman announces, increasing the volume of the bitter, remorseless laughter.
'Oh, they so lovely! Is this really Christopher and Patrick? You've done such a wonderful job, Helen!'
'What sweet little sissies! How did they ever pass for boys!'
'What delightful dresses. I bet they just adore their pretty panties and hose. And the bonnets – they're utterly divine!'
Then the circle breaks. The women part and allow Helen and Debra to enter and stand before their sissified sons, broad, triumphant smiles lighting up their beautiful faces.
'Thank you, ladies,' Helen says, 'you're all very kind. But if you'd like to be seated, we can introduce Chrissy and Prissy more formally.'
As tears of deep humiliation trickle down cheeks dyed snow white, Helen describes in appalling detail every facet of their sissification, including their clothes, the grim torment of the restrainer, the terrible presence of the vibrators, their permanent bondage, how they have been shaved, the types of special make up used, the design and layout of the nursery (including the awful shared cot). As she speaks, the women clap and laugh, and they also tease the lovely sissies with exaggerated baby talk.
Helen also makes it very clear that the two she-males will act as
servants, that a key part of their long term punishment will be to work as house maids for their mothers and for the other women of the neighbourhood. At this, the women become extremely excited and begin bidding against each other to be the first to have the sissies working in their homes. Helen laughs and quietens them, making clear that the allocation of the sissies will be on an alphabetical basis. The sissies tears flow even faster as this new humiliation is detailed.
Helen and Debra then set about untying the sissies tightly trussed arms, and it is only now that poor Chrissy finds the courage to look up and face his tormentors. Before him are eight women, all but one painfully familiar, most his mother's neighbours, most, in one way or another, previous victims of his and Patrick's reign of terror. He finds himself avoiding the cruel, contemptuous, deeply amused eyes of Mrs Bellman, a lovely, plump widow in her early fifties whose window Prissy, when Patrick, had smashed; the steel gaze of Mrs Eve, the gorgeous Afro-Caribbean wife of Harry Eve, the self-employed construction worker whose van both the boys had vandalised; the laughter framed eyes of Mrs Pearl and her stunning teenage daughter, Beverley, who is Heather's best friend at the exclusive girls' school both attend; the hard glare of Miss Dale and her lovely French "friend", Babette, the two college lecturers who share a home in the close, and who have been the subject of much sexist and homophobic abuse from the two boys; and Ms Blaine, the beautiful divorcee and consultant breast surgeon who lives alone in the huge house at the end of the close.
Then there is the new woman, standing next to Ms Blaine. A very tall, also very beautiful blonde, with hard, crystal blue eyes, who is regarding the two squirming, sobbing sissies with a frighteningly cold stare, as if she is examining laboratory specimens.
And it is only as Heather's wicked crop cuts into his poor, hosed thighs once again that Chrissy realises he is being spoken to by his mother.
'Chrissy! You silly girl! Wake up! Now do as I say and show the ladies your lovely sissy panties!"
The level of laughter has increased considerably, and when Chrissy looks over at Prissy, he realises why. For the other, very unfortunate sissy has been forced to lift up his sweet satin skirt and inches of petticoating to display, for the ladies wicked amusement, his lovely, be-frilled panties. And now, under threat of a further kiss of the crop, Chrissy must do the same. Sobbing through his fat dummy gag, the devastated, ultra-humiliated she-male struggles with his tightly mittened hands to get a grip on each side of his skirt and petticoats and, with a final loud squeal of despair, pulls them up to reveal the beautiful white silk panties ringed with at least a dozen pretty rows of delicate French lace. And as he exposes the panties, the laughter increases, the women clap and cheer, each sound a terrible mocking, a brutal, intense revenge.
Then the gorgeous Beverly approaches Chrissy. She is a tall, lithe redhead with inescapably beautiful emerald eyes. Her long, thick hair is bound in a simple, yet still very sexy ponytail. She is wearing a very tight red sweater, a white and red checked mini skirt and white tights. Her feet are resting in low heeled, red patent leather court shoes. She is simply amazing, and Chrissy, despite his bullying behaviour, despite the cruelty and the harsh words, has always been very secretly and very deeply attracted to her.
'You look so sweet, Chrissy,' Beverly teases. 'And so utterly pathetic.'
The women laugh louder, Chrissy fights to avoid her angry, triumphant gaze.
'Your mummy's definitely made the right choice in babifying you. Heather and I are going to have such fun!'
Chrissy stares helplessly at his mother. She smiles softly and nods.
'Yes, Chrissy, I think it's only fair that Beverley help Heather with your training and supervision, given all the pain you've caused.'
A new flood of tears pours from Chrissy's eyes as he realises the terrible implications of his mother's words and the women laugh even louder.
'There is one thing, though,' Beverly continues, taking poor Chrissy's beribboned chin in her hands and forcing the sobbing sissy to meet her powerful, dazzling gaze. 'You should have your name on your panties, as well as the pinafore. Can that be arranged?'
Helen laughs and nods. 'Of course. We'll get some more heart transfers and they can iron them on tomorrow.'
The women unleash another torrent of cruel laughter. Then Heather steps forward. She has placed the viscous riding crop on a coffee table by the sofa and now holds a sinister looking leather paddle in her hands.
'Can Beverly go first, mummy?' she asks Helen.
'Yes. Ten whacks for Chrissy, I think.'
The two teenage girls then set upon the sobbing, helpless, crushed sissies. Chrissy and Prissy's wrists are forced back behind their backs and lashed together. The two beautiful friends then turn the sissies to face the wall and force them to bend forward, causing their short skirts and petticoats to rise up their hosed thighs and expose their pretty, pert, pantied bottoms to the full view of the jeering, hooting women.
'You will each get to spank a sissy,' Helen announces to the group of women, inspiring loud squeals of fear and outrage from Chrissy and Prissy. 'You are allowed ten hard whacks with the paddle. I suggest, given the history of their crimes, Beverly, Miss Dale, Babette and Ms Blaine concentrate on Chrissy and the rest on Prissy.'
And so, for the next thirty or so minutes, the poor sissies are subject to a terrible, cruelly collective spanking. Accompanied by much laughter and wicked teasing, Chrissy and Prissy receive 40 hard, merciless blows each, delivered with enthusiasm and righteous anger by their beautiful female captors. The sound of leather slapping hard against silk wrapped bottoms fills the living room, as does pathetic sissy sobbing into fat dummy gags and even louder, celebratory female laughter.
Eventually, the two sissies are untied and returned to face their tormentors, their vision blurred by tears, their bottoms burning terribly, their minds overwhelmed by the most appalling humiliation imaginable. They are truly and utterly defeated. And as the burning in their shapely sissy bottoms turns into a strangely familiar, teasing warmth, they are led across the living room to two very large, adult-sized high chairs. They are hauled up into the chairs and leather shackles are used to strap their wrists and ankles to the sides. Plastic table tops are then slipped into place so that they rest tightly upon each sissy lap, pinning the unfortunate she-males helplessly in place.
By now, the warmth in their bottoms has spread between their nylon sheathed legs and is working its way inescapably into their rubber imprisoned and very stiff cocks. Despite everything, the two reluctant she-males are, much to their mutual horror, sexually excited!
Heather steps forward and places a large plastic bowl filled with a strange pink mush on the table before a wide eyed, frightened Prissy. As Beverley places a similar bowl before Chrissy, the other women, all clearly excited by the collective spanking, form a semi-circle around the two sissies to observe the next stage of their humiliation.
'Now we will feed them,' Helen says, emerging from the semi-circle armed with two pint sized baby bottles filled with a dark pink liquid. 'All their meals will be liquidised and treated with pink food colouring. As far as our sissies are concerned each meal will look exactly the same. Believe or not that mush is mashed potatoes, various vegetables and gravy. For desert, they have four pints of sugared, full cream milk and a bowl of stewed prunes soaked in vinegar and double cream.'
The women laugh and clap as Helen and Debra place the bottles on the plastic tables in front of a now desperately sobbing Chrissy and Prissy. Heather then slips an appropriately monogrammed and very large, lace frilled pink rubber bib over each sissy's head.
'I suggest Heather and Bev feed them the mush and desert, and then we then take turns with the bottles.'
The women express very enthusiastic support for Debra's proposal and the two girls set about removing the dummy gags from their whimpering sissy captives.
No sooner have the gags been removed than Chrissy begins to plead with his mother for release, while Prissy just cries even louder,
shaking his pretty head in horrified disbelief and staring with huge, tear logged eyes at his grinning mother.
Chrissy's protests are cut short by a sudden, violent whack of the vicious crop across his prettily hosed thighs. He cries out in painful surprise and Beverley orders him to be quiet. He stares at her with angry, horrified eyes, but remains silent, even as Beverley proceeds to use a plastic desert spoon to scoop up a large serving of the pink mush.
'Open up, Chrissy,' she teases, her eyes making it quite clear that further disobedience will result in an even sharper application of the crop.
And so the two sissies submit to this dreadful, demeaning feeding, the air now filled with the cheers and jibes of the other women. Ten large scoops of mush are forced between reluctant sissy lips and swallowed under threat of further merciless beatings. The poor sissies eyes tell all there is to know: the food tastes quite horrible, and there is much worse to come.
As soon as the mush has been forced in its entirety down the sissies throats, Heather and Beverly place before their wide eyed captives two more plastic bowls filled with the grim desert: stewed prunes floating in a sauce of vinegar and double cream, to be force fed with relish by the two smiling, teasing teenage girls goaded on by the rest of the beautiful, vengeful women.
And as the sissies gag on the terribly sweet and bitter, treacle-like mixture, they watch out of the corner of appalled eyes as the other gorgeous, mocking women create two queues to force feed them the bottles of milk.
Chrissy manages only a single gasp of outrage between the spoon holding the last serving of prunes being pulled from his tormented mouth and the fat rubber teat of the first baby bottle being forced between his painted lips by the lovely Ms Dale.
'There, there, babikins,' Ms Dale whispers, her voice filled with an exaggerated erotic teasing, her beautiful green eyes burning with amused triumph, 'just relax and suck deeply.'
Chrissy pulls against the shackles holding him in place and squeals a useless defiance. Ms Dale pushes the teat deeper and forces the reluctant she-male to suck the thick, sweet, sickly milk down his throat.
Silken Tales Page 8