As I totter from the closet, laden with new delights, I catch full sight of Mother in her underwear and am immediately filled with a very powerful acceptance of all that has happened to me. Luckily, she hasn’t noticed me sneaking a peak at her marvellous, ample form enveloped in sheer nylon and the gorgeous corselette.
I wiggle mince to her side, curtsey deeply and hold out the clothing, a new offering to my beautiful, all powerful goddess.
With eyes downcast, I am aware only of the terribly teasing sounds of this extremely beautiful woman drawing gorgeously feminine clothing over her ample, curvaceous body. I squirm and fight back more dummy gagged moans of sexual frustration. I feel the plug move deeper into my arse as my nylon sheathed legs press together and a sense of absolute possession by a blind animal desire grips my delicately feminised form.
Once dressed, Mother rises from the bed and moves towards the lovely antique dressing table that dominates one corner of the large bedroom, the sound of her hosed thighs rubbing together filling the room and tickling my sissy ears. Beyond the dressing table are the two large bay windows that open out onto the balcony, which in turn overlooks the grounds of Mother’s beautiful country house, the house that framed my privileged upbringing and is now the venue for my strange, tormenting enslavement.
I remain still and desperate as Mother slowly brushes her long, thick black hair before fixing it in a stern bun with a diamond studded hair clip. The sound of the brush sliding through her hair is yet another aural torment. How desperately I wish to look up and fill my vision with her great and profound beauty. But I know Mother is watching me carefully through the circular dressing table mirror.
Her hair secure, Mother then applies her make-up. From experience, I know she is painting her full, soft lips a bloody shade of red, adding just a touch a foundation and then carefully applying jet black eye liner. A few modest touches to a face already utterly exquisite, a face I can only see when given her permission to look up.
‘Get me the back open toed mules, with the three inch heels.’
Another bob curtsey and I totter back into the closet, my bottom wriggling with a helpless girlishness, my plastic panties filling the room with the humiliating babyish squeaking that is my constant companion. I enter the valley of Mother’s feminine delights and seek out the shelves loaded with her amazing shoes. From this glorious fetishist cornucopia, I select a familiar pair of black leather, open toed, 3 inch stiletto heeled mules. A quiver of helpless sissy pleasure crosses my feminised form as I hold these astonishing shoes in shaking, silken gloved hands. At the heart of their elegant design is the deliberately eroticised fact of female power. As I wiggle mince back towards Mother I am giddy with a terrible, absolutely overwhelming desire.
I totter to Mother’s side, perform a deeper curtsey and hold out the shoes.
‘Put them on,’ she orders, words that fill me with a new level of intense and awful arousal.
A bob curtsey and then I am lowering myself back onto my knees, my legs together, my sense of feminine grace and submission a furiously ambivalent torment.
Buried once again in an eruption of dainty ultra-feminine petticoats, I find myself confronted with the astonishing sight of Mother’s black nylon sheathed feet. In a deliberately provocative and achingly erotic gesture, she stretches her toes against the simpering nylon skin of the tights, accentuating the length and shape of each beautiful foot. Her perfectly manicured toes, painted a deep, bloody red, are visible through the fine, enticing mesh and my heart pounds into my chest as I move the first gorgeous shoe towards her left foot.
With a practiced care, I gently slip the shoe over her arched toes and then up beneath her heel before easing it into place. It is, of course, a perfect fit, a natural extension of her stunning form that immediately accentuates the perfection and beauty of her nylon sheathed leg. A moan of helpless arousal fights its way past my fat dummy gag as I fit the second shoe and, for a moment, a wave of dizzying ecstasy washes over my delicately babified form and I fear I might faint, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure induced by my bizarre and inescapable enslavement.
Then the shoes are in place. For a few terribly teasing seconds Mother models the shoes. I stare at them with wide, sex-soaked eyes and another moan escapes the dummy gag. Mother’s light, mocking laugh fills the room. Then she is on her feet and I am rising gracefully to continue meeting her every need.
It at this point each week day that I am allowed the privilege of beholding Mother in all her astonishing glory. I look up at her with awed, desiring eyes.
‘How do I look?’ she asks, a question that she asks every week day morning at his time, a question filled with irony and the simple fact of her absolute power over me.
She stands over six feet tall in the heels, an astonishing Amazon queen. I look up at her, four inches shorter even in my heels, and feel my sissified form enveloped by her majesty. With her thick, dark hair bound in a tight, strict bun, her honey brown eyes staring down mockingly at me, and her blood red lips curved into a satisfied, amused smile, I can only behold her buxom form with something very close to worship. Her strong musk perfume torments my nostrils as my eyes roam helplessly over the elegant design of the formal and yet deeply erotic suit. I find myself staring at her large, perfectly shaped bosom as it strains against the gleaming fabric of the tight silk blouse. I imagine the elaborate, sado-erotic prison of the panty corselette beneath and feel the return of the almost sickening sex dizziness. I follow the curves of her ample figure down to her long, black nylon sheathed legs and my sex begs for an impossible release. And then there are the gorgeous black leather, stiletto-heeled mules, shoes designed to accentuate the perfect shape of her legs and also state the simple, humbling and profoundly sensual fact of her unique feminine power.
I perform a double bob curtsey, the accepted sign for pleasure. Yes, Mother looks absolutely marvellous!
She smiles, her large brown eyes filled with a mix of amusement and maternal love. She then leans forward and places a gentle kiss on my forehead. An electric shot of intense sexual pleasure passes through my body. My face is only a few tormenting inches from her generous bosom, and her strong perfume is a sensual mist enveloping my sissified form.
‘Good girl,’ Mother whispers. ‘Now let’s go downstairs and say hello to Nanny.’
I curtsey. She moves towards the door of the large, beautiful bedroom and I meekly totter after her, my nylon sheathed legs close together, my high-heeled steps tiny, my hands held at my side and tilted upward at the required 45 degree angle, my nappied bottom wiggling in a now helplessly feminine display of complete submission, the humiliating squeaking of the plastic panties filling the room. And almost immediately, my eyes fix upon Mother’s large, beautifully shaped backside, its graceful, teasing movement stretching the fabric of her skirt. The soundtrack to this astonishingly erotic vision is the teasing sound of her sheer nylon wrapped thighs rubbing gently together. By the time we leave the bedroom and enter the upstairs hallway, I am fighting back more moans of deep and terrible desire, even though I fully realise the day ahead will be one of relentless hard work, humiliation and punishment at the hands of my plump, strict and deeply perverse Jamaican Nanny.
7. Sissy Day Care
I was pulled from the bed sometime before dawn by my stepmother and her two daughters. Hung over, naked and thoroughly disoriented, I was helpless as they quickly bound my legs and arms and then gagged me. They used black nylon stockings to tether my limbs and a pair of black silk panties held in place with a strip of silver duct tape to silence my confused protests. Within a few terrible seconds, I was immobilised face down before my stepmother's gleaming stiletto heeled court shoes. I squealed furiously, both terrified and angry. They responded with contemptuous laughter.
'Hood him. Then bring him down to the living room,' my stepmother ordered.
The lovely, sexy shoes disappeared and I was left at the mercy of my step sisters. Almost immediately, a pair of elegant but strong hands sli
pped under my arms and pulled me roughly into a sitting position. I cried furiously into the fat gag and received a hard slap to my left cheek.
'Shut up!' Anita, my older stepsister, snapped.
My head rung like a bell and tears filled my eyes. Then Angeline, Anita's junior by two years, pulled a sheer black nylon stocking down over my head, plunging me into a strange universe of scented shadows. What was happening to me!? Before I could ponder an answer to this question, another black nylon stocking was used to blindfold me. I was then hauled up to my tethered feet and thrown like a sack of corn over Anita's broad, powerful shoulders.
In a few minutes, I was once again face down on the floor, this time, judging from the feel of the soft, deep carpet, in the living room.
'Get the car ready, Angie. I want to be there by seven.'
I moaned into the panty gag, enclosed in an awful darkness, and for the first time became aware of my naked form. A terrible sense of embarrassment mingled with my fear. The powerful, rose tinted aroma of my stepmother's perfume tickled my desperately flaring nostrils and memories of her beauty and my own terrible secret filled my tormented, panic stricken mind. Then my sex, up until this point shrivelled with fear, began to stiffen. My blushes were hidden by the stocking hood, but the horror that washed over my tethered form as I struggled to turn onto my stomach and hide this bizarre manifestation was as apparent as the humiliating erection.
'There's no point in trying to cover it up, Peter. I can see what's happening. And I know all about your dirty little secret. I've known for ages.'
I froze with embarrassed horror at my stepmother's harsh, shocking words. In an act of desperate defence, I squealed with hypocritical outrage and she burst out laughing.
'It was always just a matter of time,' she continued. 'While your father was alive, I put up with your… inclinations. They were harmless enough, and in a way demonstrated a form of love. But now…well, Herbert is dead and I don't have to support you; now we don't have to put up with a lazy, stupid young man wasting our time and space. I'm afraid the days of indifference to everything and everyone are over. As are your little trips to my underwear draw.'
Yes: she knew; and the fact that she knew filled me with a sick dread.
My father had been dead less than a month. He had been ill for over a year, and my stepmother mother had cared for him with genuine love. Her grown up daughters from her first marriage had become regular visitors and I had withdrawn to my room, unable to face the responsibility of care or the passing of the one human being who had not been alienated by my wayward behaviour. I was eighteen. I had failed my A levels and spent the summer either drunk or asleep. And in the moments when there was only my semi-comatose father and myself in the house, I had slipped into the room my stepmother had slept in for the past twelve months and indulged an increasingly irresistible fetish for her under things. Indeed, in the last few months of my father's life, it is safe to say that my only pleasures were drinking in my room and dressing up in my step mother's underwear; dressing up and slowly masturbating myself to dark, violent orgasms driven by fantasies of this stunningly beautiful, haughty woman.
To understand my helpless desire, it is perhaps helpful to describe my stepmother. Her long, jet hair is almost always worn in a tight, gleaming bun held in place by a diamond clasp. Her dark brown eyes are lit with a steely determination. Her full, almost helplessly sensual lips are painted blood red on most days. Yes, she is a truly impressive and erotic figure. On the day I was dragged so brutally from my bed, she was 45. Now, a year since my very radical transformation, she is an equally stunning 46. She is just over five feet eleven inches tall; yet, despite her impressive height, she insists on wearing at least three-inch stiletto heeled court shoes, normally of black patent leather. As I am a little over five feet six inches, she has always appeared a goddess, a woman to be looked up to in more ways than one! Despite her maturity, she has the voluptuous figure of a woman twenty years younger, a figure she protects with a regime of regular exercise and very careful diet, a regime rooted in her always impressive and frequently frightening self-discipline. Her height and firm, upright posture allow her to carry a considerable, perfectly shaped 40-inch bosom with ease. Her penchant for tight nylon sweaters and sheer, second-skin silk blouses ensure this spectacular chest is always very effectively (and quite deliberately) displayed. A collection of surprisingly short skirts continue the theme of deliberate and careful display of a body that deserves to be seen at every opportunity. Normally black or black/white check, never quite mini, but always erotically revealing, these teasing skirts ensure the beautiful revelation of long, exquisitely formed legs that are constantly wrapped in expensive and very sheer black nylon. Tight, as well as short, they also draw attention in a most provocative and arousing way to her slightly plump but, given her height, still perfectly proportioned backside.
My stepmother is a vision of mature physical beauty that has tormented me since her arrival in my father's life. A gorgeous, fierce woman, a woman who on that fateful morning was determined to deal in a very final and permanent way with her lazy, wayward stepson!
As I struggled to hide my helplessly rampant manhood, I suddenly felt a body move very close to my own, tightly tethered form. The sweet, powerful rose perfume that began to torment my fear flared nostrils made it clear my imperial stepmother was leaning over me. Then, to my horror and astonishment, I felt fingernails, sharp, hard fingernails, brush against the hot, hard length of my sex. I squealed into the panty gag and tried to pull away. But then she took a very firm hold of the base of my sex and my squeals raised a terrified octave.
'Calm down,' she whispered, a surprisingly maternal tone entering her deep, always erotic voice.
Moaning into the fat panty gag, the most intimate tastes of this incredible woman filling my stretched and privileged mouth, I tried to relax my fear-tensed form.
'If you do as I say, if you surrender to the fate I have prepared for you, all your secret dreams will come true, my love.'
Then something very soft touched the bulging head of my hot, rigid sex. I squealed with fear and excitement equally mixed and this teasing softness began to spread over my sex. Very soon it became apparent that my amazing, beautiful step-mother was very carefully and teasingly pulling a sheer, heavily scented black nylon stocking over my wildly aroused penis.
And within micro-seconds, I was again squealing with a terrible, bottomless sexual pleasure. I wiggled helplessly in my tight, utterly inescapable bonds and pleaded for mercy from this pleasure that was so great that it threatened to transform into a furious pain of unbearable frustration. My step-mother rested a firm, strong hand on my thigh to hold me in position and then firmly pulled the stocking over my aching, straining testicles.
'There, there, my pretty little baby,' she whispered, as she then used some unknown cording to tie the stocking tightly in place around my scrotum.
Then the lovely, powerful perfume was gone and I knew she had risen to her splendid, high heeled feet. I felt tears of terrible frustration leak from my wide, sex shocked eyes through the nylon stocking hood and the blindfold. I uttered well-gagged pleas for mercy and release. I also took the strangest and darkest pleasure in my tight and perverse bondage. This one moment of erotic kindness opened the flood gates of my long suppressed sexual need and I found myself quickly performing a bizarre wiggle ballet accompanied by a song of embarrassing sissy squeals.
'Bag him up and put him in the car.'
My mother's voice, stern and unforgiving once more, filled the room, and a wave of sobering fear washed over me. I fell still and silent, and soon I sensed my wicked, beautiful step-sisters close by.
Then a thick, soft fabric was being drawn over my feet and up my legs. I moaned with fear and heard the girls laugh.
'This isn't even the beginning, you dirty little slut,' Anita snapped.
Then a sudden, hard slap was administered to my left thigh and I squealed with shock and pain. After more laughter, the ma
terial was drawn further up my legs and I realised I was being imprisoned inside one of the extra-large sleeping bags that were used by my sisters in their frequent camping trips. These fit, firm, beautiful young women were both keen hill climbers and pot-holers, taking their fierce athleticism from their beautiful mother, and now I was being cocooned in one of the very necessary tools of their weekend trips to various remote parts of the United Kingdom!
Eventually, the bag was pulled up over the entirety of my body and then my head. Then it was zipped up and I was very effectively imprisoned in a soft nylon tomb. I was thus deaf, dumb and blind - sentenced to a strange, terrifying sensory deprivation. And this, as Anita had made so cruelly clear, was hardly the beginning of my strange ordeal!
As soon as I was tightly imprisoned, strong hands grabbed the bag and I was pulled upward. Locked in my sisters' firm embrace, I was then carried from the room and down the ground floor corridor towards the rear of the house. A few moments later I was thrown roughly into a small, confined space and a loud thunk indicated that I had been locked in the boot of my mother's new Mercedes! A few seconds later, the motor purred easily into life. I heard the vibration of doors being closed then there was only the low hum of the engine and the sound of my own rapidly beating heart!
Then there was movement. In a few moments we had turned onto the country lane that led up to the main road leading to the town and beyond.
I had no idea where we were going or why. My initial terror had been subdued by my mother's deeply erotic ministrations, and my sex stretched angrily and desperately against the tight, teasing embrace of the stocking. The taste of my step-mother and the memory of her recent, so intimate and promising caresses flooded my mind with a million bizarre possibilities. But the more I contemplated what lay ahead, the more worried I became.
Silken Tales Page 17