Silken Tales

by Christina Shelly

  ‘Don’t worry, Petal, I’ll catch you if you can fall. So, off you go…sweet little bunny hops for mummy.’

  And, helpless to resist, overwhelmed with the paradox of shame and a dreadful, unending sexual arousal, he begins very tentatively to hop across the precariously slippery rubber surface of the playpen towards the cot, his heart pounding with genuine fear, his cock a hot metal pole of black sex need.

  Maintaining balance in the tight bondage is incredibly difficult. On more than one occasion, he finds himself having to stop, swaying dangerously, to prevent toppling over. At these points, Prunela steps forward, the sound of the silken, semi-transparent material of her night dress a truly awful torment, as is her strong musky scent and the brief glimpse of the startling outline of her naked form.

  She encourages him with humiliating baby talk as he hops from the pen and begins to make his way across the nursery towards the cot. Sweat pores from his face and his breathing becomes heavy and difficult through the fat dummy gag and the pungent covering of the panty hood. Each fear edged hop is accompanied by the loud, soul-crushing squeaking of the plastic panties. His defeat is complete and inescapable, the vengeful destruction of a broken personality. Yet still he is hard, still he is more sexually aroused than at any time in the last twelve months.

  Finally, after maybe ten minutes of exhausting hopping, he is at the cot. And Prunela is besides him. And now he is standing directly before her, his eyes given the great and profound privilege of a full view of her body in the nightdress.

  He stares in utter amazement at her large and perfectly formed breasts with their long, hard nipples. A moan of desperate need escapes the gag and tears of frustration well up in his eyes as they traverse the Rubenesque curvature of her stomach and then rest on the thick, dark triangle of her sex. For a moment he feels he might pass out with a combination of unbearable desire and physical exhaustion. He manages to pull his eyes away from her sex and let them drink up the long, curving perfection of her legs before resting his tormented and very tired body against the side of the cot.

  Prunela smiles and steps closer to her sissy slave. He offers absolutely no resistance as she gently works free the cording securing his arms and legs, her divine body brushing against his through the layers of his babification and the silken second skin of the nightdress. And when he is free, he can only stare at her in sex narcoticised astonishment, his body and soul clay to be moulded as she sees fit.

  ‘Right, my pretty Petal,’ she whispers, ‘let’s get you tucked up for the night.’

  He watches as she turns his body and begins to work free the buttons of the outrageously dainty baby dress. As he is undressed, his eyes peer down into the cot. Set out on the thick rubber mattress is what look like a pink satin sack, plus three white leather belts and a small leather case.

  The dress is pulled down over his arms and allowed to fall to the floor. He is helped to step out of it and then positioned so that he is once again directly facing his stunningly beautiful, all powerful mother-in-law.

  Then she takes up the leather case. Smiling gently, she opens it to reveal a hypodermic syringe. His eyes widen and a moan of terror fights its way through the dummy gag and panty hood.

  ‘You’ll receive a shot of the weakening drug every night before bedibyes. It will help you sleep and reduce the chances of baby hurting himself during the night.’

  Sobs of genuine terror slip past the fat dummy gag as Prunela prepares the syringe. She whispers comforting baby talk as the needle is carefully pressed against a vein in his left arm and then pushed home. There a surprisingly mild prick and his fear passes as she injects the clear fluid into his arm.

  Within seconds, the familiar dizziness returns and he feels his body turn to rubber. Strangely, it is not an unpleasant experience; indeed, a pleasurable indifference to everything washes over him, along with a suddenly even more heightened sexual arousal. His eyes glaze over momentarily and he moans quietly into the gag.

  ‘There, isn’t that better...all baby’s troubles are floating away,’ Prunella whispers, propping his body up against the side of the cot. ‘There’s no more need to worry about trying to be a big tough man now. You’re mummy’s little bundle of sissy joy. From now on, you’ll be lost in the endless pleasure of nappies, pretty baby dresses and absolute submission.’

  He can only nod weakly as she then takes up the satin sack and holds it before him.

  ‘You special baby sleeping bag. This will keep you nice and warm and also prevent any bad behaviour.’

  He watches, utterly helpless, as she pulls open the neck of the sack. Then she kneels down before him, providing a full, cock tormenting view of her majestic bosom. He moans with aching pleasure as she proceeds to gently ease the neck of the sack over his bootied and stockinged feet and then pull it up his legs, rising slowly as she does so. Gradually, he is completely enveloped in the teasing satin fabric. As she pulls the sack up over his corseted waist and chest, her own chest is only inches from his tormented body; he gasps into the gag and breaths in more of his wife’s most intimate odours through the tightly positioned gusset of the panties.

  ‘Keep your arms held at your sides,’ Prunela orders as she works the sack up towards his shoulders. He obeys without question or hesitation.

  As the sack is pulled over his shoulders, it becomes apparent that it has a high, button up neck. Once the sack is secured over his body, Prunela carefully slips these buttons into a row of lace frilled eyes, creating a tight embrace that rises up to the edge of his alabaster chin.

  Immediately, he is aware the sack is a very exact and snug fit, and it is very difficult for him to move in it. However, Prunela is taking no chances: as soon as the neck is buttoned up, she takes the white leather belts and uses them to bind the sack and thus his body tightly at the ankles, just above the knees, at the stomach and then at the chest. And if this wasn’t enough, she then produces a previously unseen white leather collar and wraps this tightly around his satin enveloped neck before buckling it tightly in position.

  And there he is: a strange tube of feminised male submission; a mummified object of sissy servitude.

  Prunela admires her latest handiwork with an amused, triumphant smile, and he – Baby Petal, the sissy slave – can only in-turn admire her stunning form semi-revealed by the deliberate tease of the beautiful night dress.

  Held rigid, the nappy and plastic panties creating a strange, embarrassing bulge at the centre of this wicked tubal restraint, he can only moan with a maddening sex need as Prunela gently lifts his weakened body so that he is sitting on the edge of the cot’s thick rubber mattress. Then she carefully lays her sissy charge flat out on his back so that his body runs the length of the cot and Prunela is standing over him, a figure of deeply erotic and absolute maternal power.

  He watches, furiously aroused and completely immobilised, as she checks the belts holding him so absolutely still, her bosom displayed in the most provocative fashion possible through the skimpy material of the nightdress. He moans with a dreadful, doomed need and she whispers more baby talk. Then, for maybe a minute, she disappears from view, eventually return with a thick, satin cased pillow which she carefully slips under his head. Then she pulls up the side gate of the cot and locks it in place, leaving him mummified and imprisoned, completely helpless, furiously excited…madly frustrated.

  Then, to his surprise and further sex outrage, she drapes a pair of sheer black nylon tights over the edge of the cot. He knows immediately that these are the tights she had worn earlier.

  ‘Something to remind you of me, Petal,’ she teases, leaning forward and gently stroking his panty covered cheek.

  Desperate and angry, he squeals into the fat dummy gag.

  Prunela laughs. ‘Yes, you must be going quite bonkers in all that sexy babywear. But that is part of your punishment, my pretty little doll. I’m afraid you’ll just have to learn to live with the torment of frustrated need. Now get some sleep, because tomorrow is going to be a very
busy and demanding day.’

  Then she is gone and he is left staring up at the high ceiling of the nursery, unable to move a muscle. Sex madness floods over his babified, tightly secured form. Visions of Prunela and Myriam fill his mind. His tormented erection stretches painfully and uselessly against its cruel restraint. For a few moments, the awful truth of his predicament unleashes a tidal wave of crushing embarrassment and fury. But within seconds these emotions pass and he is confronted once again by the terrible truth of his intense sexual arousal.

  Suddenly the lights dim considerably, leaving the large room bathed in a shadowy dark pink. He hears the nursery door close, then the sound of it being locked. Stretched out on his back, the weakening drug infects every muscle of his body except his still furiously erect cock. Drugged and bound, he finds himself surrendering to a sense of strange contentment. With this comes an aching exhaustion and within seconds he has fallen into a deep sleep tormented by wildly erotic dreams of a prettily babified future in the hands of his beautiful mother-in-law.

  5. Office Sissy

  Delia Broom had worked for Strickland Publishing for 10 years. In this time, she had progressed from a junior clerk to the manager of the clerical pool for the catalogue team, an office of 6 women. The team provided secretarial and administrative support for the publishing and marketing executives responsible for the production of over 100 clothing and retail catalogues. It was a busy, efficient and happy office, with little of the back biting and in fighting that was such a depressing feature of so many other office environments. But then most other offices didn’t have Christabel, the junior clerk and all round help mate, an extremely pretty and very able she-male whose single purpose in life was to meet the every need of her female superiors without question.

  Debra, now 47, but with the appearance of a woman ten years younger, looked out from her small office into the main open plan area and watched Christabel serve mid-morning coffee to the ladies. A smile of satisfaction lit up her beautiful face. Today the she-male was wearing a particularly striking outfit. Like all of her clothing, it had been chosen by one of the clerical team from a very special catalogue the ladies had created with the help of Delia’s direct line manager, Marisa Lake, the Head of Publishing. As today was Thursday, the outfit had been chosen by Babs Carter.

  The 20 year old she-male beauty was wearing a costume that many would have found bizarre and perhaps outrageous, but in the relatively secluded office on the top floor of the Strickland Building, it was very much the norm for Christabel. First there was the dress: a spectacular confection of pink satin with long puffed sleeves and a very short skirt resting on a thick sea of lace petticoating. The very high neck, sleeves and hem of the dress were heavily frilled with beautiful hand stitched white French lace. Over the top of the dress was a cream coloured satin pinafore, its two ribbon ties secured at the base of her back in an extra large bow. Clearly visible through the mist of petticoating was a pair of heavily frilled white silk panties out of which emerged a pair of long, very shapely legs sealed in white nylon tights covered in a delightful pattern of pink hearts. Her small, girlish feet were imprisoned in pink patent leather ankles boots with testing four inch stiletto heels. Her equally girlish hands were sealed in pink silk mittens, which made some of her chores especially challenging. And, as the topping on this particularly sissy cake, Christabel’s head was covered by a striking pink satin baby’s bonnet, which was held in place by another fat bow tied at the base of her sweetly dimpled chin. Yes, Christabel was, without doubt, a sissy masterpiece, the collective creation of a group of very determined and contented women.

  The sissy slave carried a tray loaded with cups of coffee. Taking small, mincing steps, she tottered between the workstations, performing an expert bob curtsey by each of the secretaries before carefully (and with the mittens, somewhat precariously) lacing a cup of the steaming black liquid on the table by each computer keyboard. Each woman made a point of thanking Christabel and teasing her with baby talk or some deeply humiliating remark about her costume. Unfortunately, the she-male had no way of verbally acknowledging these comments, as her mouth was stuffed with a pair of soiled panties (today from Babs) and her lips were sealed firmly shut with a thick strip of white duct tape. Only her wide, pretty blue eyes could communicate the strange mix of intense shame and desire that accompanied her through every waking hour of a strange and totally subjugated existence.

  Debra found herself recalling how a shy young man, a student who had been employed as a summer temp, had been transformed so completely into the Office Sissy, an intricately feminised slave who catered for every team member’s needs both here and, at for least one evening a week, at each of their homes. Ultimately, they had Marisa to thank. Five years older than Delia, Marisa was the senior executive officer for the publishing section, and it had been she who had offered up her nephew Chris to help out in the office during his long summer vacation from University. As July and August were particularly busy months for the office, and there was always lots of menial work to be done, Delia had accepted the offer of help during one of her frequent lunches with Marisa. Despite the professional relationship that existed between them, the two women had been best friends for nearly 5 years. They were also lovers.

  Chris had proven an adequate clerical assistant, but he had been painfully shy around the confident, playful women who made up the secretarial team, and often rather sullen. Indeed, he seemed quite terrified of women in general. While this might have been manageable under normal circumstances, it was made much more difficult by the fact that Chris was quite beautiful, a gorgeous looking young man whose appearance really was quite a distraction. A blue eyed, blonde, a bit on the short side, but with a strong, athletic form, he was subject to low level teasing by most of the team and quickly earned himself the nick name “pretty boy”. And it had been Babs, plump, fun loving Babs, who had, on one busy Friday afternoon, loudly proclaimed that Chris was far too pretty to be a boy; that perhaps they should dress him as a girl. This teasing remark, made in front of Chris and most of the office, had been immediately picked up by the other women, and soon they were all loudly discussing suitable outfits and a general makeover for their hapless victim.

  Chris’s reaction had been more than interesting. He had laughed weakly at first, then started to blush furiously. Sam Rae, one of the younger girls, had then noticed something rather shocking.

  ‘Look!’ she had shouted, ‘he’s hard…the naughty little boy’s got an erection!’

  Chris tried to flee the room as huge tears had welled up in his pretty blue eyes. Aware of the disturbance, Delia had come out of her office. Chris ran straight into her. By this point, he was sobbing loudly and had looked up at Delia with wild, desperate, but also deeply desiring eyes.

  Delia had told the women to be quiet and taken a shaking Chris into her office. She had been aware of his attraction to her for some time, a woman old enough to be his mother, and, despite her lesbian preference, had been rather flattered. That particular day, she had been dressed in a particularly striking outfit: a tight white nylon sweater that accentuated her large, firm bosom, a knee length check skirt, very sheer black nylon tights and stiletto heeled court shoes. Her thick black hair bound in a tight bun, her lips painted a dark red, she had been, as usual, beautiful and desirable, and Chris, standing before her, couldn’t keep his tear soaked eyes off of her ample, extremely attractive form. And then there had been the erection, a surprisingly large tumescence, its outline straining against the pale fabric of his tight chinos in a quite outrageous fashion.

  ‘Good lord, Chris,’ she had snapped, what an earth is the matter with you?’

  Her eyes had been fixed to his blatant hard-on as she scolded him. His face had turned cherry red and he had mumbled a sob-ridden apology.

  She had pulled her chair out from behind her desk and sat down in front of him, crossing her long, very shapely legs as she did so. An electric whisper of nylon kissing nylon had filled the room. And then,
to Delia’s amazement, Chris had let out a loud cry of helpless, almost painful ecstasy.

  She had known immediately that he had come, a fact made very obvious seconds later by the large, dark stain spreading across the front of his chinos. Then he had fallen to his knees, crying, begging forgiveness. He had then tipped forward and his face had brushed against the gleaming leather fabric of her shoes.

  Shocked, vaguely disgusted, Delia had climbed from the chair, stepped over Chris’s shaking body, and then gently closed the office door, her eyes meeting those of her staff with a shared mixture of bafflement and dark amusement.

  She had returned to her desk and phoned Marisa.

  ‘There’s a problem with Chris. Can you come into my office?’

  Then she had pulled Chris to his feet and sat him down in the chair. A few minutes later, Marisa had entered, her face darkened by a mixture of anger and concern.

  ‘What an earth is going on,’ she had snapped, looking down at her nephew with a glare of absolute contempt.

  Marisa was 53, yet still very beautiful. A tall, athletic blonde very clearly of the same genetic stock as Chris, she stood nearly 6 feet tall in her elegant, high heeled mules. She had been dressed in a tight business suit of dark blue silk that accentuated her very well maintained figure perfectly. With her hair cut short, there was a certain masculinity to her appearance, yet this was left teasingly ambivalent by a firm bosom and a wonderfully shapely arse, which on that fateful day had been displayed to stunning effect by the tight trousers.