But before he was placed in the sleep sack, Aunt Valerie took up the fresh stocking hood and then, her eyes full of teasing promise, looked down on her helpless, wildly aroused sissy nephew.
'Seeing that you've been such good little baby today, I've got a very special treat for you, Chrissie.'
The sissy's girlish eyes widened and a squeal of terrible, agonising need fought its way past his sexy, tasty gag as Aunt Valerie then proceeded to slip the hood beneath her legs and wipe it firmly against the front of her very wet pantied and hosed crotch, allowing it to soak up a large amount of the pungent sex juice that had filtered through from her very excited cunt.
She then retrieved the stocking and Sister Amelia, an impressed and aroused smile lighting up her own gorgeous face, gently lifted Chrissie's head up to allow Aunt Valerie to slip the stocking over it, making sure that the sex juice soaked section was positioned directly over his nose and expertly sealed mouth.
The poor sissy was driven quite mad by this latest kinky provocation and the two lovely women quickly set to work securing him for the night. First, his delicately and tightly hosed legs were bound with the ribbons at his ankles, knees and thighs, each ribbon secured with a fat, dainty sissy bow of dazzling pink silk. Then a fourth, much longer ribbon was wrapped very carefully around his waist and his nylon sheath wrists were tied to this with two shorter ribbons.
Satisfied that he was secured, the women then took up the sleep sack. At first, it appeared to be little more than large pink satin sheet, but as it was slipped beneath the sissy and the sides were pulled together to meet in the exact middle of Chrissie's nylon cocooned and bound form, a series of very large, pink plastic buttons were revealed, running from his toes right up to the tip of his shaven and stockinged head.
Aunt Valerie then began to slip the buttons through corresponding eyelets and thus slowly seal helpless, sex maddened Chrissie within the tight, teasing sack. And within a few minutes, the lovely, wiggling, moaning sissy was buttoned neck.
Just before she completed the buttoning round his head, and thus plunged him into an absolute darkness relieved only by the scent of her cunt and the endless buzzing of the vibrator, she lent forward and kissed him gently on his very hot forehead.
'Sleep well, babikns. I think we'll start tomorrow with a nice soapy enema, and then maybe you can suckle on my breasts for a while.'
His squeals of desperate need were quickly drowned out as she then proceeded to button up the rest of the sack, leaving him a wiggling, helpless, utterly overwhelmed sex snake, a pink sissy torpedo of fierce and endless desire.
Sister Amelia then slipped her hands through a gap between the buttons and retrieved the tube connected to the cock restrainer. Aunt Valerie slipped her own hands beneath his wiggling bottom and found a small hole through which she extracted the tube connected to the vibrator. The tubes were then connected to two longer lengths of rubber tubing at the end of the cot which ran into the glass and metal boxes, thus assuring an overnight supply of waste mater and more ingredients for Sister Amelia's formula.
The two women then pulled up the wooden bars of the cot and locked them in place.
Sister Amelia turned to Aunt Valerie and smiled.
'That obviously got you going.'
Aunt Valerie blushed and smiled. 'Yes,' she said shyly. 'I find it very…arousing.'
To Aunt Valerie's surprise, Sister Amelia then stepped forward and kissed her very softly on the lips. Aunt Valerie gasped and fell into a long and erotic embrace.
'Is this part of the therapy?' she asked.
'Oh yes,' Sister Amelia said, taking the beautiful, buxom brunette by the hand. 'Very much so.'
She then led Aunt Valerie from the room. Before she flicked off the Nursery light and closed and locked the door, Aunt Valerie whispered a teasing "nighty night, babikins" to the wiggling bundle secured so expertly in the cot. Then, she allowed herself to be led to her bedroom and a prolonged night of erotic adventure.
11. Sunday Best
David struggles uselessly on the bed. He squeals angrily into his fat panty gag and strains with a desperate energy against his tight, utterly unforgiving bonds. Yet, despite all this intense and prolonged physical effort, he hardly moves an inch. He remains utterly immobilised, completely helpless. A prisoner, a slave, a sissified male undergoing a most unusual and terrible punishment.
David is 25. Barely 5 feet six inches tall, with a slender, always feminine build, a pale, disturbingly pretty face framed by long blond hair and a pair of striking crystal blue eyes. As a boy, his mother had teased him about his girlish good looks, teasing that would always deeply embarrass and annoy him, and which would continue throughout his life. A teasing that had driven him to develop an aggressive, harsh personality, a hard mental mask forged out of every stupid stereotype of dominant masculinity he had ever encountered. This personality proved very useful for succeeding in his business, but left him with few friends and, particularly, no female companion. Indeed, as a "mummy's boy "and only child, he had been left with a deep and painful shyness in the company of women, beneath which was fear and hate, and which had mixed with his own loathing of his weak physique to produce a powerful misogyny.
Despite this, he had, to some extent, succeeded in his bitter, lonely life, and was now a section manager for the company at which he had worked since leaving university five years before. The section consisted of 10 employees, all female, including his secretary, Sally, and his deputy, Helen.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, David was a workaholic who spent more time in his office than in his small, sad flat. An isolated, pathetic man in a world he found frightening and pointless, a world where he found pleasure only in power and control. He was a rude and often harsh boss, despising and despised. There wasn't one of his "team" who didn't hate him and wished for nothing but a terrible, prolonged revenge for his bullying and belittling behaviour, particularly his long suffering and very beautiful secretary.
But now he is truly powerless and completely under the control of the gorgeous, unforgiving and deeply kinky Helen. Or, as he must call her now, Mistress Helen.
Tears of pain and frustration seep through the black nylon stocking that has been pulled so very tightly over his shaven head, a scented mask that flattens and distorts his face and leaves him imprisoned within a strange, sex-ravaged shadow world. He tastes the now very familiar flavours of Helen's silk panties, her sex, her piss, her sweat, and he moans. The thick strip of silver duct tape sealing his lips so very effectively together ensures that this moan is hardly heard. The moan turns into a girlish squeal of pain as the skin irritant lining his anus sends another wave of heat and itching deep into the tender skin of his back passage, skin which is currently stretched so very painfully by the throbbing, teasing vibrator that has been lodged deep inside him for the past two months. Yes, in two months Helen and Sally have changed everything. In two months, his world has been destroyed and rebuilt in the image of his mistress.
Here he is, in the small closet that has become his only private living space. Bound and gagged, laying face down on the hard, single bunk that is both his bed and the only furniture in the "room". His shaven body contorts uselessly, a body undergoing constant, cruel torture. His arse smeared and filled, his permanently hard cock locked in a rubber restrainer lined with hundreds of tiny pins. Three painfully tight metal rings holding the restrainer in place, one just beneath the bulging head of his circumcised cock, one in the middle, and one, the tightest and most painful, at its base. His balls have also been smeared in irritant and a tight, thick rubber band has been wrapped around them to insure that they bulge painfully and are totally exposed to his mistress's evil ministrations.
He is naked except for a pair of sheer black nylon tights. His legs have been bound together very tightly at the ankles, knees and thighs with black rubber cording. A black nylon stocking has then been pulled up his tethered legs to create one single leg. Duct tape has then been wrapped tightly around each length of covere
d cording. A similar fate has befallen his arms: bound cruelly with cording at the wrists, elbows and lower shoulders, then sheathed in the other black nylon stocking and secured with duct tape over the cording. A further length of cording has been wrapped around his ankles and pulled up to his wrists. Here, the slack has been wrapped around his single nylon sheathed and tape bound "wrist" and tied very tightly in place, thus forcing him into an extreme and quite agonising hog-tie that leaves him utterly still, profoundly helpless and in constant pain.
Beneath all of this are the welts, the long, deep, burning marks that criss-cross his buttocks and thighs, the marks of the caning he received two hours ago for failing to wiggle his hips in an appropriately feminine manner when, dressed in his spectacular French maid's costume, he had served Mistresses Helen and Sally breakfast in bed. As he struggles in his tight, wicked bondage, he remembers this latest punishment and the events leading up to it with a helpless and useless bitterness.
As usual he had been dragged out of bed at 5.30am, the alarm blasting him from exhausted sleep, despite that fact that he had been serving his mistresses until well after midnight. The heavy metal shackles secured to his ankles, both of which were fitted with time locks, had popped open. He had staggered from the closet into the large, en- suite spare room that now acted as a "sissfication suite", and, fear already filling his heart, rushed across the pink rubber matted floor to the toilet. He had known he had just three hours to prepare himself, to undertake his "dawn chores", and then to cook and serve his mistresses Sunday breakfast.
Dressed in a short, sexy pink silk baby doll, matching panties and stockings, the first thing he had confronted was his reflection in the full length mirror placed next to the shower stall. A wave of humiliating despair had washed over his feminised form as he beheld the terrible truth of this elaborate and most terrible punishment. David Best, 25: sissy slave. David, now known as "Daphne", his body silky smooth thanks to the shocking application of electrolysis techniques that had left not one atom of hair, including pubic hair, on his physical form. His head and eyebrows were also shaven, and his lips had been painted with long lasting, water proof pink dye. Through the semi-transparent material of the baby doll, two tiny, yet growing breasts were visible, breasts with long, hard nipples pierced with golden rings. A strangely attractive and helplessly feminine form, one made even more appealing by a pair of long, very shapely legs, legs that ended in small, girlish feet with toenails painted the same pink as his lips and his long, expertly manicured fingernails.
He had lowered his pretty silk panties and carefully positioned himself on the pink toilet seat. The restrainer, plus the rings and rubber band, made urinating standing up impossible, but thanks to a very thin filter built into the head of the restrainer, he was able to empty his bladder sitting down. However, because of the density of the filter, even this was a prolonged and painful experience, especially given the heat burning into his balls and the biting of the restrainer's merciless teeth.
With tears in his big blue eyes, he had eventually managed to urinate. Then he had climbed slowly, wearily and sadly to his feet. He had pulled the panties up his smooth, nylon sheathed legs and walked out of the bathroom, noticing how natural the tiny sissy steps demanded by Mistress Helen had become, how easily he wiggled his arse and hips, how ultra-femininity was most assuredly taking over his mind and body a little more as each terrible day passed.
He had minced fearfully towards the middle of the room and the exercise bike, the large pink tool of punishment. Each morning he was forced to cycle the equivalent of one mile. Later on, Mistress Helen would read the mileage clock to check he had reached the target distance. If he was even a metre out, he would be caned.
He had lowered his tormented backside onto the small, uncomfortable leather seat and fought a now familiar but still deeply disturbing sensation. As the seat took his weight, it had pressed deep into the space between his legs and thus pressed against the vibrator that was constantly lodged deep in his arse. The resultant pressure was far from unpleasant and as he had begun to cycle, a dreadfully erotic sensation tormented his backside. And as he increased the speed of the peddling, he had increased his helpless excitement, and soon his poor cock was hardening in its wicked rubber prison, and the more excited he became, the more his sex had been brutally punished. Tears of pain mixed with gasps of pleasure, and he had wished, as he wished so many times, that he had never invited Sally into his office on that so very fateful evening.
It had taken him a very hot and bothered 30 minutes to reach the mile mark. Then, soaked in sweat, his heart pounding, his head spinning, his sex tortured by the terribly ambivalent sexual pleasure imparted by the saddle, he had fallen rather than climbed from the bike. Then he had dragged himself back to the bathroom and the shower. As the digital clock on the bathroom wall had clicked to 06.10, he knew he was already running ten minutes behind schedule and a terrible, dark fear drove him to strip off his sissy attire and step beneath a jet of ice cold water for his morning shower. Yes, ice cold. Mistress Helen made a point of ensuring that the water heater did not come on until 6.30am, and thus David's first shower was always a freezing one.
He had squealed as the water crashed against his slender, feminised form and tried to avoid staring down at his restrained, ringed and painfully hard cock. He had used a powerfully scented bar of pink soap to wash his tormented body thoroughly, including his embarrassingly bald head.
Eventually, he had stepped from the shower, shivering and crying, and dried himself with a large, ultra-fluffy pink towel. Then, with the towel wrapped around his waist, he had minced painfully back into the spare room. Here he had stopped suddenly and taken stock of the dreadful venue for a most elaborate and perverse petticoat punishment.
The room itself was one of four large bedrooms that made up most of the top floor of Helen's impressive country house. She had inherited the property from her mother, a beautiful, relatively secluded cottage just outside a gorgeous village twenty miles from the nearest town. Originally a guest room, it had now become the focus for David's enforced transformation. Two large, white mahogany wardrobes dominated one wall, each filled to bursting with the kinky costumes that so effectively symbolized his imprisonment and feminisation. By the wardrobes were a row of shelves stacked with other tools of his enslavement: coils of rubber cording, rolls of thick silver duct tape, enema equipment, leather backed paddles, two long, thin bamboo canes, piles of neatly folded nappies, a large variety of gags – mainly different types of rubber penis gag and ball gag - leather and rubber hoods, male chastity belts, a collection of rubber and silk cock restrainers, a terrifying range of dildos and vibrators. Then, by the shelves, there was a class panelled cabinet containing a startling collection of wigs.
Against the wall opposite the wardrobes was a large, long and very ornate dressing table, and, following this depressing pause, he minced towards it.
He had very carefully lowered his tormented and helplessly shapely bottom onto the white leather backed stool and faced his shocked, somewhat chaotic reflection. He had wiped tears of embarrassment and discomfort from his face and set about the intricate task of applying his make-up.
The bizarre sight of a shaven headed man applying a feminine mask was perhaps the most painful of his many daily humiliations. There was no more potent symbol of his absolute subjugation to Mistress Helen and her beautiful, sadistic lesbian lover, Sally, than the fact that daily he transformed himself into Daphne; that his fear of these two astonishing, wicked women was far greater than the self-loathing his increasing expertise in this self-transformation inspired.
Yes, over the last two months, there was no doubt that he had become something of an expert in the complementary arts of make-up and dress. Yet he took little pride in this fact, knowing that his motivation was simple: self-preservation through the avoidance of what could be an extended jail sentence.
As his lips were now permanently hot pink, he had, as usual, begun with the cream-coloured fo
undation, a thick gel that turned his skin from the pale pink of a typically unhealthy European into a shining doll-like veneer, a gel he had spread across his face with trained care, and which quickly established the truly severe and perverse nature of the feminine personality forced upon him by Helen and Sally. And very soon he had been facing a living showroom dummy, an object created and surely not human, an object he then sought to give strange life via the rigorous application of black eyebrow pencil, pink eye shadow and peach-coloured rouge applied in two surprisingly exact circles on his now alabaster cheeks.
The weirdly feminine face before him had been disturbing and arousing. He was disgusted by the fact that this freak appeared so feminine, so strangely appealing. Yet he had quickly cast these thoughts aside and minced over to the glass panelled cabinet. From inside he had extracted an explosion of gorgeous blonde waves, a lovely creation cast in a sexy fifties film star style, which was the standard wig for the black maid's dress he would be wearing that morning. As he had taken the wig from the cabinet, his eyes had fallen nervously on the equally spectacular creation beside it: a mass of bangs and curls in stunning strawberry blonde, the wig he knew he would be wearing this afternoon at the regular Sunday tea party. A sickening terror had gripped his stomach at the thought of that dreadful humiliation and then he fled back to the dressing table.
To his mild horror, relief had washed over him as he had sat back down by the dressing table mirror and pulled the lovely wig over his gleaming shaven head; for almost immediately, Daphne had appeared – beautiful sissy Daphne; and suddenly he had resembled something that was at least a human being again.
The ease with which David became a rather convincing female had both amused and impressed Helen. In the early days, in the days when his lack of natural feminine poise and a still distinct sense of resistance ensured that there was always a trace of masculinity about Daphne, there had always been the inescapable fact of his natural feminine beauty, and as his two determined mistresses so enthusiastically teased him about this fact, memories of his mother would inevitably come flooding back. Yes, he had gone full circle, from pretty mummy's boy to hard man and now back to a state of even more severe and absolute sissification.
Silken Tales Page 33