Silken Tales

by Christina Shelly

  ‘Today will be a very busy day,’ Mother says, between mouthfuls of fruit salad. ‘You will need to prepare for tomorrow’s party. Nanny Sterling will demand a great deal of effort from you, my little baby. And you will obey her without question. Do you understand?’

  I perform another bob curtsey.

  ‘Very good,’ Mother says. ‘And if you fail to perform to the standards required, you know you will be severely punished, by Nanny Sterling and by me.’

  Yet another bob curtsey indicates that I know only too well the consequences of poor performance.

  ‘I bet you can’t wait for tomorrow, Daisy. Your little sissy heart must be pounding with baby anticipation!’

  I fight back the tears as her teasing words wash over my babified form. Tomorrow is my 18th birthday and a very special party has been organised, a party which will be attended by, among others, my Aunt Marie and my cousins, Alice and Tom. The thought of my exposure before them fills me with a renewed and awful dread. Finally, a tear trickles down my alabaster cheek and Mother releases a mocking tut.

  ‘Oh, you silly little baby! It will be such fun! Alice and Tom can’t wait to see their sissy cousin in all his baby finery. And Auntie Marie has promised you a very special birthday surprise.’

  I am soon sobbing helplessly and shaking my head desperately. In an act of utter desperation, I look up at Mother and squeal angrily into the fat dummy gag. No, I want to say, please no!

  I look into Mother’s beautiful honey brown eyes and know I will be punished for this act of defiance.

  She quickly moves across the bed and administers a hard slap to my nylon sheathed thighs.

  ‘Naughty baby!’ she scolds. ‘You know you are never to look mummy in the eyes!’

  Still sobbing, I lower my eyes and resume the position of absolute obedience, my sissified form trembling with fear and anger.

  ‘I will ask Nanny to make sure you are properly punished,’ she says, rising from the bed and standing over me. Even in the three inch high stilettos, I am shorter than this full-figured Amazon. A sense of absolute defeat and pathetic weakness washes over my sissified form as she beholds me with what I know is a stern and mocking gaze.

  Despite everything, her close presence is a familiar torment. The teasing aroma of her musk perfume tickles my helplessly flaring nostrils. As she had leant over the bed to smack me, I had glimpsed her large, still very firm bosom beneath the semi-transparent silk fabric of the nightdress. My tightly restrained penis, almost constantly erect, strains painfully against the silver rings that allow erection but prevent ejaculation. A whimper of profound frustration slips past the wicked dummy gag.

  In the next half hour, my terrible and relentless sexual frustration is increased considerably by the requirement to help Mother shower and dress.

  Helen Lawless, my mother, is 43 years old and stunningly beautiful. A tall, buxom woman with, as well as the extremely impressive bosom, an ample, perfectly formed backside and long, perfectly shaped legs. She radiates a natural authority which I, her only son, have always found both incredibly impressive but also deeply intimidating. As she crosses the large bedroom towards the en suite bathroom, I totter sweetly behind her, the sissy wiggle mince she demands at all times causing the plastic panties to squeak loudly. My downcast eyes catch teasing glimpses of her statuesque form through the shimmering fabric of the gorgeous nightdress. I notice her carefully manicured toenails painted a dark, blood red and remember how carefully I had painted my own toe and fingernails a pale pink at her instruction the night before. A hint of her most intimate body odours reach my nostrils and my erection strains even more furiously and painfully against its fiendish restraint.

  We enter the large, en suite bathroom. In one swift, elegant gesture, she removes the nightdress, letting it slip to the ground at my high-heeled feet. She then steps out of a pair of matching silk panties. She is inches from me and naked. I fight the terrible temptation to look up. As she climbs into the shower, I elegantly lean forward, my legs tightly together, my bottom sticking provocatively outward and pick up the delicate, erotic nightdress dress and panties. As my hands are sealed in rubber lined, pink silk gloves, I am denied the thrill of feeling the soft silken material against my bare skin.

  ‘Put the nightdress and panties in the wash basket and then stand in front of the mirror. Wait there until you are called.’

  I bob curtsey assent. Mother turns the shower tap and a jet of warm water strikes her beautiful naked form. I place the night dress and panties in the wash basket and mince back to the bedroom. Then, as instructed, I stand before the long, full size mirror built into the door to the long walk in closet. Here, finally, I am allowed to raise my head and am forced to behold the bizarre and deeply humiliating fact of my appearance. Here, quite deliberately, I am made to understand the terrible fact of my transformation and the absolute power of Mother.

  Thanks to the dark genius of Mother, the wayward male youth I was just 6 months ago is now totally unrecognisable. Indeed, there is no longer even the slightest trace of masculinity in my startling and deeply humiliating visage. The being I behold is someone who possesses the strange paradox of being recognised in the most painful manner imaginable and yet is also a creature totally alien to any previous sense of my own core identity.

  In the three inch stiletto heeled ankle boots, made from pink patent leather and secured with laces of pink silk, I stand five feet nine inches tall. My long, perhaps surprisingly shapely legs are sealed in sheer white nylon stockings. The stockings are held in place by white elastic garters covered in an intricate pattern of white lace. The garters are hidden by the bloomer-like leg sections of the pale pink, semi-transparent plastic panties which stretch down to the middle of my nylon sheathed thighs. The panties themselves are covered in a pattern of pink stars.

  Beneath the plastic panties is the thick white, Pampers-style, reusable nappy. It is one of 14 created especially for me. Like most of my outrageous wardrobe, it has been made to order by a private supplier of fetish wear for adult babies, Miss Abigail Walters. This attractive, elegant woman in her late 30s has become a good friend of Mother’s and, besides Nanny Sterling, is the only woman to have seen me in my fully transformed state.

  The nappy, which is heavily scented, is always embarrassingly visible beneath the plastic panties. Like every other morning, it cannot be changed until Miss Sterling arrives and during the night I have, as I have each night for the past 4 months, wet myself. Now it feels heavy and uncomfortable and, to my disgust, I am eager for my stern, beautiful Nanny to replace it with a fresh one.

  The plastic panties are partially covered by a thick sea of white and pink layered lace petticoats which are fixed in turn to the wide, short skirt of my spectacular “morning dress”, an outrageous concoction of gleaming pink satin with thick, heavily puffed arms that taper down to lace frilled sleeves. The dress has a very high neck which is also frilled at the edge with lace, and fixed to the front of the neck section is a large sissy bow of matching pink silk. The dress is shaped like an inverted cone, spreading outward from the neck to the short skirt and petticoats to reveal my so terribly embarrassing underwear and long, nylon sheathed legs leading down to the elegant, dainty ankle boots. Sown into the dress are hoops of pink silk roses that widen out as the cone expands down towards the thick, petticoat laden skirt.

  The morning dress has no buttons or zip. It slides over my head like a nightdress and is designed only for the period between when I wake and when I am fitted into my full baby maid’s costume by Nanny Sterling.

  Fitted over my shaven head is a pink satin baby’s bonnet with thickly frilled edges. The bonnet is tied in place at my chin by two lengths of thick pink silk ribbon secured in a fat bow. The heavy lace frills provide the perfect sissy frame for my face. Like every inch of my body, my face is covered in a thick, snow white body dye which gives me a deliberately striking similarity to a Victorian china doll. My lips, painted a bright pink, are obscured by a heart shaped pl
astic plate. The plate is in turn fixed to the thick, long rubber teat that fills my mouth and creates a highly effective and deeply embarrassing gag. The cruel, ribbed teat presses down against my tongue and makes speech impossible. Thanks to its permanent place in my mouth, I have not uttered an intelligible word since I was forcibly babified 5 months ago.

  My hands are held in thick, rubber lined, pink silk gloves. The gloves allow me use my hands to hold and carry but deny completely the sense of touch. When I am not required to use my hands as part of my daily serving duties, they are kept sealed in totally immobilising rubber lined, pink silk, fingerless mittens.

  A circle of bright pink rouge has been added to each of my alabaster cheeks, again using the body dye, a water proof substance that is removable only via the use of a special gel. The dye itself has the astonishing and deeply tormenting ability to soften and sensitise my skin, thus giving every inch of my body a silky baby softness and making it hyper-sensitive to the constant kiss of the silks, satins and sheer nylon that make up my baby girl attire. Before the dye had been applied by Nanny Sterling at the beginning of my babification, every hair of on my body was removed using a painful electrolysis-like procedure, a process that has made the denuding permanent.

  I stare at this strange, perverse spectacle and feel absolute, soul crushing humiliation. Yet, to my horror, there is also arousal, a terrible and constant arousal that plagues every waking second of my life and also my dreams. This perpetual sexual excitement is mainly the product of injections administered on a daily basis by Nanny Sterling and, at weekends, by Mother. Thanks to the carefully selected collection of hormones and stimulants contained in these injections I have a permanent erection and, perhaps paradoxically, my body is becoming ever more feminine (indeed, I am now forced to wear a specially-designed training bar to hold the slight but obvious orbs emerging from my chest).

  The bra, nappy and plastic panties are not the only items of ultra-feminine strangeness beneath my spectacular dress and petticoats. I also wear a tightly laced, pink rubber micro corset that is part of a harsh regime of “figure training”. Then, beneath the humiliating panties and nappy there are the strangest and most wicked devices of my servitude: the restrainer and the anal plug.

  The restrainer takes two forms: a tight, pink rubber sheath that is stretched very tightly our my constantly hard penis and bulging testicles, and three white plastic rings of varying sizes, one which is locked in place around my testicles, one which is positioned at the base the penis and one which is fitted beneath the bulging, rubberised head of my circumcised sex. The head of the restrainer has a small hole fitted over the eye of my penis. This allows me to urinate in a sitting position, although as I am now virtually incontinent, I must face the shameful filling of my nappy at least twice a day and once at night.

  The anal plug is an even more sinister and ingenious device. Initially, it resembles a length of hard, ribbed phallic-shaped pink rubber similar to a standard dildo. However, the hard rubber contains a small electronic control box that can be activated wirelessly. Both Mother and Nanny carry small control consoles which can be used to make the plug vibrate at varying speeds and also give tiny but very uncomfortable shocks through the slightly exposed pink plastic head. The plug can also be activated through an internal timer, thus set to operate remotely at pre-programmed times.

  In the last five months, the plug, which like the dummy gag and the restrainer is a terrible, teasing and constant companion, has been changed twice for a longer, thicker model. Gradually, my anus is being expanded for reasons that remain unclear but are deeply worrying. And much worse than all of this is the fact that I find the constant presence of this wicked intruder more and more arousing!

  The sound of the shower fades and after a few minutes, Mother returns to the bedroom. I immediately turn and curtsey deeply, my eyes once more cast down towards the floor. I glimpse my mother’s long, naked and perfectly shaped legs and know she is wearing only a towel wrapped around her torso. My sex strains against the painful embrace of the tight, tough plastic rings.

  ‘Get me a black corselette, plus matching panties and tights.’

  I obey without a second’s hesitation, performing a quick bob curtsey. I open the door of the large walk-in closet. I totter on my testing stiletto heels into this cave of hidden delights, each tiny step ensuring more tormenting teasing by the wicked plug and thus an even greater sexual arousal. A hint of Mother’s powerful musky perfume follows me into the closet.

  As soon as the door is opened a bright white light fills the closet. I find myself, as I do every morning, facing a long corridor bordered on one side by a row of dresses, skirts and blouses and on the other by a series of draws and shelves. The shelves are loaded with neatly ordered rows of women’s shoes, a striking collection of beautiful and often erotic footwear that reflects one of Mother’s more expensive hobbies.

  I totter down the narrow passage, my bottom swaying in a now instinctively feminine manner, the plastic panties squeaking and the plug teasing so terribly with each girlish step, and eventually I reach a set of wardrobe doors that are built into the end wall. I open the doors and face the beautiful collection of “foundation wear” that my mother’s shapely yet also ample form demands. A selection of beautifully designed and embroidered corselettes hang from a single white metal bar. I carefully slide a black panty corselette from its hanger and fold it over my arm, immediately aroused by its elegant, erotic contours and the teasing aroma of my mother’s perfume. I then move across to a row of white wooden drawers fitted with ornate brass handles. The drawer that I open is filled with neatly folded and stacked pairs of sheer nylon tights of various colours, but mainly black, tan and grey. I extract a pair of expensive, black Italian brand nylon tights, deeply frustrated by the fact that the thick, rubber lined gloves make it impossible to experience the exquisite tactile thrill of the soft and so perfectly feminine nylon fabric of the beautifully crafted hose.

  A lower drawer contains a deep pile of beautiful, sexy panties of various styles and fabrics. In line with my mother’s instruction, I take out a pair of elegantly embroidered black nylon and cotton panties and add them to the pile balanced on my arm. I then totter back out in the bedroom, mince across the bedroom in the sissiest fashion possible and the draw to a halt before Mother. I curtsey and present her with the gorgeous collection of female undergarments, my head lowered, my erection furious in its brutal and inescapable restraint.

  She takes the underwear from my arms and rises from the bed. She is now naked, yet my eyes see only her lovely legs and her gleaming, blood red toe nails.

  She slowly steps into the panties and then draws them up her legs. I fight a moan of angry and utterly helpless arousal. I am well aware that Mother is fully conscious of my terrible sexual torment and that, subsequently, her every action is designed to torture me.

  ‘Help me with the tights,’ she orders.

  I curtsey and a whimper of dreadful, aching sexual frustration fights its way past the wicked dummy gag. She hands me the gorgeous, sheer black nylon tights and I feel my knees weaken and my heart pound into my chest like a soul crushing sex hammer. With my nylon sheathed legs pressed tightly together, I lower myself with a practiced feminine elegance onto my knees and shuffle into a position a few inches in front of Mother’s lovely feet, the plug pressing deeper into me and inspiring more terrible arousal.

  By time Mother lowers her feet into my petticoat and satin smothered lap, a sweat of bleak sexual frustration is covering my alabaster face. She laughs lightly as another whimper escapes the dummy gag.

  ‘Dear me, Daisy, you are in a state this morning. I will have to make sure Nanny Sterling gives you an especially soapy enema once I have gone.’

  With shaking hands, I carefully roll open the right leg of the tights, my actions elegant and well-practiced, and then gently slide the created bowl of soft, sheer nylon over Mother’s left foot. I then repeat this process with her right foot and begin very carefully to g
uide the lovely tights up her bronzed, beautifully shaped legs. By the time I reach her knees she stands and takes over the unbearably erotic act of slipping her legs into the gorgeous, glorious hose.

  As she wiggles the tights over her hips, I sit back and then slowly pull myself to my high heeled feet. I stand before Mother, my eyes downcast, my hands behind my back, my entire babified form quivering with a dreadful sexual need. And then there is the torture of sound in this permanent world of sex: the sound of the delicate nylon being drawn over my mother’s silken skin, the electric brush of this ultimate sexual fabric against sensitised human flesh. Thanks to the stimulating drugs flooding my body, every sound is sexed – every sissy rustle, every squeak, every gorgeous female movement in the costumes of dominance and control is simply a terrible erotic torment.

  Once the tights are pulled firmly yet gracefully into place, Mother wiggles her ample, sensuous form into the tight, controlling yet also strangely liberating embrace of the corselette and I fight more moans of helpless arousal and frustration. The tight plastic rings bite into my hard, rubber sealed cock and desire, as always, inspires pain and discomfort: the simple and devastating dialectic of my transformation.

  I remember the fitting of the terrible, all controlling rings. Tied to the changing table, the bizarre rubber sheath already pulled over my achingly hard sex and bulging pulls, a fat ball gag filling my mouth, Nanny Sterling - her dark eyes filled with cruel passion -teasing the greased shaft and then sliding two rings over the fat, tumescent head, before easing each into place. The third and largest ring had been opened up like a gaping plastic mouth and then been snapped into place around my balls. Tears had poured from my eyes and Nanny Sterling’s teasing, husky voice had mocked me with her now familiar and soul crushing baby talk.

  Once the underwear is fitted, Mother sends me back to the closet to retrieve a cream white petticoat, a beautiful silk blouse and a matching pinstripe skirt and jacket. Over the past months of caring for her clothing, I have amassed an intimate knowledge of everything item of Mother’s daily attire. She has only to provide the most basic of descriptions and I am able to retrieve the item required.