Silken Tales

by Christina Shelly

  And that night, that terrible, life changing night, she had looked like a sex goddess, and he was so hard and in such violent need. He had thought about slipping off to the toilets to relive himself, but she had come into his office. The third floor was utterly deserted. It was just him and her. She was dressed in a very tight white nylon sweater, a short white and black checked mini-skirt, black tights and stiletto heeled mules. Her hair bound in a ponytail, her lips painted scarlet. She was a vision beyond words.

  Then she had dropped a pile of papers and bent forward in front of him. The mini-skirt had risen slowly up her legs to reveal white panties. She had turned her head to face him and smiled knowingly. He had cried out and grabbed her from behind. Then there was only the red mist of sex and violence. She was on the floor, her skirt pulled down to her knees, his hands fumbling with her tights. A hand struck his face. Then there had been another blow. He could hear a voice, or rather a cry, or perhaps a scream. He held her firmly, surprised by his strength. He unzipped his trousers. He grabbed his sex. Then there was a blow, a violent chopping blow to the back of his head. Then there was blackness.

  He had awoken maybe fifteen minutes later. He was still on the floor. An electric charge of pain shot through the back of his head. He tried to cry out, but something was covering his mouth. He tried to move his arms, but they were immobilised, tied very tightly together behind his back. He tried to sit up. But his ankles were also lashed together. Then, to his horror, he saw he was naked.

  'Wakey wakey, Daphne.'

  It had been Helen's voice. Helen standing over him like some fierce-some pagan goddess. He tasted blood in his mouth and tried to look up at her. Dressed in the usual tight, semi-transparent white silk blouse, long black skirt and heeled boots, she was both beautiful and utterly terrifying.

  He had squealed angrily into what had now revealed itself to be a strip of thick, tightly secured duck tape and tried to fight back the tears that were beginning to flood his wide, baby blue eyes.

  'Listen to him cry. Just like a little girl. How appropriate.'

  This had been Sally's voice, full of cruelty and anger. Then he remembered what had happened and a wave of sickening realisation stifled any further protest.

  'Yes, Daphne,' Helen had snapped. 'You finally revealed your true colours.'

  He had wondered why she kept referring to him as "Daphne" and then noticed that he still had an embarrassingly firm erection. As he blushed, the women had laughed even louder.

  'I'm afraid you've really let yourself down,' Helen had continued. 'We know you're a sad little fuck with no friends, who's terrified of women, who takes all his horrible little inadequacies out on his staff. But this? Rape? We never really expected you to fall into our little trap. I was sceptical. But Sally was convinced. And obviously I was wrong.'

  He had looked over at Sally. There was a nasty bruise on her left cheek, just under her eye. Had he hit her? In the fit of sex madness? Her tights were torn, as was her sweater, which was also blood stained, as were her lips. Had he done all this? A sickening wave of shame had washed over him. Yes, he was a monster. But then there was the reference to a "trap". But before he could think further about this, Helen had continued.

  'Anyway, I really don't think we can let this go, Daphne. We've really had to put up with a lot from you. And now this. So, we've had to think very carefully about the best way forward. Sally wants to call the police, but I think that's much too easy. Of course, you'd be arrested, charged, tried. And then a few years in prison, in the sex offenders wing. Yes, far too easy. And what would we gain? The women, I mean? The women you so obviously despise. A sense of justice? Maybe. But I suspect there would be no long term benefit. We need something much more elaborate to ensure a long term benefit.'

  'Then,' Sally had interrupted, 'there's all the other little questions you'll have to answer.'

  He had looked at her with fear and confusion, and tried once again to sit up. Helen had then stepped forward, placed a heel on his chest and pushed him back down onto the office floor.

  'Yes. Those nasty little secrets that will be discovered. All that hard core porn on your computer. Perverted, sick. Bondage, S and M, even transvestites in bondage! And all the magazines at home.'

  He had squealed angrily into the gag. What on earth were they talking about! There was no sick pornography!

  'Then, of course, there's the financial irregularities. Those dodgy expenses claims. Ten thousand pounds worth.'

  'A criminal ,mastermind,' Helen had added, her smile wide and so very cruel.

  Tears had began to flood from his eyes as the truth of his situation sunk in, as he realised that this whole dreadful event had been carefully stage managed by Helen. He would be removed from the office and she would become section head: either via the grim reality of prison or by means yet to be revealed.

  'You'd be ruined forever, Daphne. Absolutely destroyed. The whole carefully constructed edifice of your nasty little career flushed down the toilet. Well, that's probably going to happen anyway. But I think you'll be more interested in our alternative to imprisonment.'

  His tears had lessened and he stared up at the gorgeous, imperial figure of Helen Bliss, his cock hard, his heart pounding, his fate in her lovely, elegant hands.

  'Put simply,' she had continued, 'you submit absolutely to our will. You allow us to take you to my home tonight and enslave you. Transform you into an elaborately sissified maidservant. To train you as a she-male submissive. Then, when the training is complete, we will give you a choice: prison or permanent feminisation.'

  His eye had widened even further as he fought to take in the proposed alternative.

  'How long will this training take?' she had asked, a mock rhetorical question. 'As long as it takes. As long as it takes you to kneel before me and beg to be permanently imprisoned in panties and hose.'

  He had listened and felt a surreal sense of utter horror. He had listened and realised how all the terrible fears that had dogged his life and that he had fought so hard to push aside were suddenly overwhelming him. His worst nightmare was about to become reality. His mother's words led straight to this fate: the inevitable truth of his being. How had he ever been foolish enough to think he could avoid it!?

  'I take it from your silence that you ascent to our proposals,' Helen said, and Sally burst out laughing.

  The tears had returned to his girlish eyes and he moaned pathetically into the tight, highly effective tape gag.

  'Get the bag.'

  Sally had obeyed Helen's curt instruction without hesitation and left the office.

  The gorgeous brunette had then knelt down by his side.

  'You're so unhappy, Daphne. And your unhappiness is making everyone else unhappy too. This has got to stop. In the next few months, you are certainly going to suffer terribly, but it will be worth it if you come to realise your true self. Of course, there'll be a few explanations required. Tomorrow, we'll announce that you've had a nervous breakdown. A doctor friend will provide a certificate and you'll be signed off for a month. Eventually, this note will be renewed. Then, after careful consideration, you will resign. It just all got too much for you.'

  He had looked up at her angrily and squealed his outrage. She had laughed and then grabbed his hard, pained cock, turning his squeal into a strange winy of shocked arousal.

  'Yes, you'll fight us all the way…at the start. But after that you come to realise how serious we are. Well, let's just say, you'll make the right decision eventually.'

  As she had spoken, her long, elegant, blood red nailed fingers teased his tormented cock wickedly and he wiggled desperately in his tight bonds. Then she had used her free hand to pull what looked like the finger of a pink rubber glove from a pocket in her dress. She had then released his cock and carefully pulled open the finger to reveal a lining of what looked like hundreds of tiny metal pins!

  'This is just a taste of what awaits you, Daphne. The punishment of the cock glove'

  She had
then very quickly slipped the mouth of the glove over the enflamed head of his cock and pulled it down the long, hard shaft in one brutal move that left him squealing in agony.

  'The pins won't tear the skin, but they will certainly make any form of erection extremely uncomfortable,' she had shouted over the top of his squeals, pulling the glove down over his balls and letting it snap painfully into place around his scrotum.

  As he had struggled uselessly. He had begged her with wide, sissy blue eyes for mercy and she had smiled cruelly, clearly aroused by his suffering. Then she had taken three silver metal rings from her skirt pocket.

  As he had fought to control the awful torment of what felt like a thousand tiny teeth nibbling at his cock, she proceeded to add another sadistic touch to his suffering. She had unclipped the first ring and then very carefully slipped it over his rubberised sex, clipping it into place at the base of the hard, agonised shaft. She had then clipped the second ring in place just beneath the bulging head of the sex. Finally, she had taken by far the biggest of the three and clipped it tightly in place around his balls!

  The result of this added layer of torment was significantly to increase the pain in his cock and place a terrible, painful pressure on his already bulging, pin tortured balls!

  He had squealed louder and wiggled more insanely and she had laughed her brutal indifference into his red, pain-contorted face.

  'There,' she had whispered, running a teasing red nail down the cock's outraged length. 'Snug as a bug in a torture chamber.'

  Sally had then walked back into the office carrying what looked like a long, black rubber sack.

  'Right,' Helen had snapped. 'She's ready for transport. Let's get her bagged up and we'll be on our way.'

  Sally, a wickedly entertained smile lighting up her bruised face, had then rolled the bag up into a fat, gaping mouth, grabbed David's tethered ankles and begun to slide the bag over his legs.

  It had quickly become apparent that the bag was very tight. The second skin material had contracted around his tormented, terrified form as Sally pulled it up over his thighs, his tortured sex and then over his slight stomach and unimpressive chest. As she had pulled it up around his neck, he realised he was literally being cocooned in tight black rubber and more tears of terror poured from his baby blue yes.

  'Oh dear,' Sally had sneered, 'she's frightened.'

  Helen had snorted derisively. 'She better get used to fear. It will be her main emotion from now on.'

  David had looked up at Helen, his vision blurred by tears, a moan of pathetic pleading fighting past the tight tape gag. Then he noticed that Sally had produced another rubber bag, this one much smaller. She had opened it out and then, to his utter horror, begun to pull it down over his head.

  He had tried to shake his head. He had squealed furiously. He had tried to fight his bonds even harder, but the body bag made any real movement utterly impossible. In a few seconds, Sally's powerful arms had hauled the hood down over his head and he was plunged into a dreadful, absolute darkness.

  At first he had been terrified he would suffocate. But he had found that, despite the tightness of the bag, he could breathe through his nose quite easily. Then there were hands grasping his body, strong, determined hands. Then, to his further horror, he had been lifted from the floor and carried along like a sack of potatoes!

  Now, two months later, he has trouble remembering the details of what happened next. He had been carried from the building, thrown into the trunk of a car and taken to Helen's isolated country home. Still bagged, he had been thrown into the closet that would become his bedroom and left for the night. The next morning, after a terrifying, sleepless night, he had been freed and plunged into the universe of constant pain and submission that had since become his permanent state of being.

  Using terrifying bamboo canes, the two women had ensured absolute obedience. Still gagged, he had been showered and shaven. A powerful pink skin remover stripped every spec of hair of from his body, including his pubes. Then he had been strapped to a chair and, to his utter horror and disgust, his head was shaven. Yet this was only the beginning. His buttocks were stretched apart and the vibrator was forced deep inside him. He had squealed and cried and they laughed louder and louder. They had covered his body in powerful, ultra-feminine perfumes and powders. They had applied make up to his face. Then they had dressed him in the dreadful, so effective body girdle, in the sheerest and sexiest of black nylon tights, in spectacularly be-frilled silk panties, in the prettiest and sissiest of petticoats, in the highest and most terrifying of heels, and in the most elaborate and humiliating maid's dresses and pinafores.

  That first week, he had been refused the relief of a wig. His freakish appearance was their cruellest entertainment. It took him over a week to get used to the heels, and during this time, the slightest wobble earned him a caning. Their brutality amazed him. They were viscous Nazis and he was their de-humanised prisoner. They beat and starved him. If he was lucky, he received three glasses of water and a variety of fruit, plus a regular supply of vitamin pills. What he didn't realise was that some of the pills were female hormones! And it wasn't long before his skin softened, his hips widened, and his breasts began very slowly to emerge from his chest.

  His? He? Him? Words they had attempted to beat out of him. She was Daphne. David was dead, unless he wanted to give himself up to the police. She was a simpering she-male, a pathetic, high-heeled sissy. They had reinforced this by rigorous and strict instruction in movement. Sealed in a pink nylon leotard and a dainty tutu, he had been forced to spend two hours each afternoon learning the principles of sissy movement. Tiny steps, a permanent wiggle of the hips and buttocks. Arms held at his sides, hands slightly raised, his nylon sheathed thighs rubbing together. Sally was always the instructress, always armed with her terrible, eagerly applied cane; always dressed in a tight, red nylon leotard that revealed her splendid form to a dreadfully teasing perfection. And, despite himself, he had remained furiously stiff and thus always in pain.

  And then there was the awful vibrator. A fiendish reminder of his sissified submission, but also, much to his horror, an increasing source of sexual pleasure! Not only was he hard all day and all night, but he quickly began to enjoy the teasing presence of the vibrator! And this was made much worse by the fact that both Sally and Helen carried remote control devices at all times: with a flick of a plastic switch they could start the thing buzzing angrily in his backside!

  Yes, conditioning. Sissy brainwashing. Pain and a strange, almost masochistic pleasure. Their aim was not only obedience, but utter surrender: to have him kneel before them and beg for complete feminisation. To be realised from bondage and allowed to live full-time as a woman, or rather a totally convincing and endlessly desiring she-male. And he had fought them as best he could. He had fought them by refusing to accept this fate. But as each week went by the fight had become so much more difficult.

  He had been trained to cook and to clean, to sow and to iron. To his amazement, he took quite naturally to his domestic tasks, a fact he tried to explain away by the need for distraction from his daily sexual and physical sufferings. And in their way, Helen and Sally had been impressed by how well he adapted, his natural, fierce intelligence applied so successfully. But this didn't stop them beating him at every opportunity!

  They had also taught him something else, something that made his restraint so much harder to endure. They had taught him to pleasure them.

  Soon after his arrival at the large, beautiful house, one thing had become quickly apparent: Helen and Sally were lovers. As their personal maid, he was forced to serve them breakfast in bed, and the first time he had nervously minced on his pretty high heels into Helen's vast bedroom, the sight of the two beauties, naked and locked in each others’ arms, had dragged a gasp of amazement and arousal from his full pink lips. Yet amazement was soon replaced by anger and a much deeper sense of how easily Helen had brought about his downfall. For it was clear she had plotted with Sally for
some time before the terrible incident that led him to this state of reluctant femininity. Indeed, it had been Helen who had pushed for Sally's appointment!

  Yes, he had been the victim of a conspiracy, and as he served breakfast to these gorgeous, wicked creatures each morning, the thought had filed him with a terrible bitterness sugared coated by a helpless desire, a desire the women teased brutally at every opportunity, but most directly through their insistence that, at the end of each day, he kneel before them, slip his head between their muscular thighs and bring them both to orgasm with his tongue. At first the mere thought of giving a woman oral pleasure had been enough to make him sick, but after a few prolonged evening sessions, he had found himself more than enjoying the pungent delights of their soaking cunts. And, in the bedroom, as he caressed and probed, they kissed and cuddled. A most unusual and powerful form of foreplay, in which he always remained merely a tool, a terribly frustrated and uncomfortable tool who was always, eventually, returned to his closet room and shackled to his hard, unforgiving bunk. If he was lucky, Helen would stuff his mouth with her soiled panties and tape it shut before binding his arms tightly behind his back. If he was unlucky, she would leave him in some terrible, impossible hogtie, his buttocks turned crimson by the cane, nipple clamps fixed to his chest, a skin irritant soaked vibrator rammed deep into his ever widening sissy's arse, the tiny, wicked pins of the evil restrainer tormenting his iron cock.

  *

  Now, two months later, on a Sunday morning, bound and gagged in a terrible, pained darkness, he continues to recall the latest manifestation of his mistresses cruelty and cunning.

  In the kitchen, after slipping on an ankle length white rubber apron, he had prepared a special Sunday breakfast: two eggs, bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes, all carefully fried, with toast, jam and a large pot of strong black coffee. His sexy high heels had clicked against the marble surface of the large, state of the art kitchen, a working environment he had become more than used to in the last eight weeks. In the midst of his sissy labours, he had felt confidence and a relative ease of being. In his gloriously dainty French maid's costume, he was a vision of sissy submission and obedient commitment. He moved easily, with an almost natural femininity rooted in grace and control. And as he worked, he had felt an increasingly familiar sense of resignation. And as he felt it, he had fought it. Yet the struggle was becoming too much. When he had looked into the mirror this morning, he had felt something like pride. Yes, he looked so very convincing, and now, as was increasingly the case, he felt so terribly sexy. The vibrator tickled his arse and he moaned. The pins bit into his erect cock and he realised how easy it would be to surrender, to kneel before his beautiful mistresses and admit defeat. His nylon sheathed thighs rubbed teasingly together, his bottom wiggled provocatively. I am Daphne, he had thought. I am her. I cannot escape the simpering she-male beauty of Sissy Daphne.