By the time he had entered the bedroom, he had moved a significant step closer to surrendering. By the time he had gently placed the heavy, circular silver tray on the bedside table and then minced over to the curtains to let in the Sunday morning light, his frilled panties so sexily exposed as he had bent forward, with his knees together, to tie the curtains in place, he was ready to give them what they had always wanted, all the women, all the beautiful, sexy, powerful, controlling women: his utter capitulation and permanent feminisation.
He had turned back towards the bed and beheld the two of them, a familiar, intensely erotic vision. They were asleep, both naked, both stunning. Wrapped in each others’ arms, the bed sheets thrown back to reveal the upper halves of their splendid forms. Helen, with her hair freed from its typical tight bun, a waterfall of black gold falling over her large, plump breasts; Sally, her slender, but firm and muscular form, with its pert, girlish bosom and perfectly flat tummy. He had tasted them both so many times; most recently, the night before. And the taste of them was still in his mouth, an almost permanent torment.
Eventually, Helen's eyes had fluttered open. She had gently disentangled herself from her lover and stretched, releasing a long, sensual yarn. Then her dark brown eyes had fallen upon her sissified captive. Almost immediately he had performed a deep curtsey, pulling up the short hem of his dress and petticoats to reveal his nylon sheathed thighs and pretty, sexy silk panties.
His head bowed, he had then minced to the table and set about serving breakfast. Helen, as usual, had never taken her gorgeous eyes off him, analysing every movement, every gesture.
'You've come such a long way, Daphne,' she had suddenly said. 'Why are you making it so difficult for yourself?'
Her voice was shockingly conciliatory. Here there had been an invitation to surrender, to do the thing that had been running through his mind ever since he first faced Daphne in the bathroom mirror.
She sat up. His eyes fixed to her marvellous, ample breasts. He swallowed hard and then shook his head.
'I'm sorry, mistress,' he whispered. 'I can't. I just can't.'
Even now he could not give into this beautiful, powerful woman. No, he was not quite ready. He had not suffered enough.
A sudden flash of anger filled Helen's eyes.
'You silly fool,' she hissed. 'You naughty, pathetic little girl!'
Used to her cruel words, he had turned back to the table.
'Get my dressing gown,' she had snapped.
He had automatically curtsied his understanding and minced over to the dressing table. He had bent forward, flashing his panties provocatively at Helen, then took the splendid black silk gown from the dressing table stool and returned to Helen, her eyes burning into him, her fury turning her lovely face a fearful scarlet.
'You really haven't learned anything, have you!?' she had shouted as he curtsied again and handed her the gown. She had grabbed it from him. Sally was now beginning to stir.
'Look at you – look at that pathetic excuse for a feminine wiggle! And the steps. Just not tiny enough, Daphne. Get back to your room now!'
Tears welling up in his eyes, he had curtsied once again and then minced from the room, knowing his refusal was about to earn him a most severe punishment.
They had stripped him down to the restrainer, Helen in her sexy black silk dressing gown, Sally dressed in a terribly teasing white silk teddy. Then, with an evil smile scaring her beautiful face, Helen had ordered him to touch his toes. His hard, tormented cock had pressed against his slight stomach and tears of terror had flooded from his pretty blue eyes. Yet instead of the cane biting into his buttocks, a hand had slipped between his legs and gently eased the tormenting vibrator form his stretched, teased arse. He had gasped with a dreadful mixture of discomfort and arousal, appalled by just how pleasurable this subtle manipulation was.
He was forced to remain in this painful position for another five minutes. Then the vibrator was eased gently back into his arse. He had squealed and wiggled and the women had laughed.
'Yes, it's such a turn on, Daphne,' Helen had teased. 'I bet you can't wait for a real cock inside you.'
Eventually, the vibrator had been lodged deep within him, and he was made to stand. Almost immediately he had realised what his two female captors had done. A sudden violent itching filled his arse, accompanied by a very painful heat. His eyes had widened and the two had women burst out laughing as he begun to wiggle uncontrollably. Indeed, his wiggles of discomfort were so great, that Sally had to hold him still when, to his astonishment, Helen began to work the dreadful restrainer free from his long tormented, rock hard cock.
The smell of Sally's perfume, mixed with her sweat and sex had filled his flaring nostrils, as her strong hands held him firmly in place. He had moaned with equal amounts of pain and pleasure as the restrainer was pulled free and his rampant sex was given its first airing for two months!
Yet no sooner was the evil device removed than Helen had taken up a jar of clear liquid and dipped rubber gloved fingers inside. As the pains in his backside had increased and tears of discomfort filled his big sissy eyes, she then proceeded, to his horror and delight, to caress very gently his inflamed, tormented sex. He had cried out and begged for mercy.
'You get mercy when you beg me to be permanently feminised,' the gorgeous dominatrix had said, now teasing his bulging balls with her long, rubberised fingers.
Then she had stood back, and within a very few seconds he discovered what had been in the jar. The itching and the heat by now gripped both his anus and his cock and as he writhed in agony and pleaded for release, Helen had taken a pair of black silk panties form the pocket in her sexy dressing gown and held them before him.
'Fresh from yesterday,' she had whispered, her large, mature chest heaving with excitement beneath the gown, her stiff nipples outlined clearly through the sensual, black silk fabric.
She had then rammed the panties into his pain-stretched mouth. As she did this, Sally had lashed his wrists and elbows tightly together behind his back with rubber cording.
As he bounced and squealed, she had then taken a thick roll of silver duct tape from one of the shelves and tore off a long strip. She had then spread it across his soft, feminine lips, sealing his mouth shut.
His wide eyes had pleaded for mercy. His girlish squeals had increased. He had wiggled his pert bottom helplessly.
Helen had laughed louder at his suffering and then very quickly and brutally replaced the restrainer. Before he could even register this new pain, she had also stretched a rubber band over his cock and pulled it down around his balls, causing them to bulge even more. She had then spent a few minutes cruelly tickling them.
'Now you will be caned and locked in the closet until lunch time. Then we will return and prepare you for the tea party.'
His eyes had widened even further at the mention of the impending fortnightly tea party, the darkest and most spectacular of the humiliations he had been subject to over the last two months.
'Yes, it's that time again, Daphne,' Helen had said, her splendid brown eyes drinking up his terrible suffering.
Yet even this humiliation had been preferable to what happened next. For within seconds he had been bent forward over the back of a stool, his bottom horribly exposed, and Sally had taken up one of the vicious bamboo canes that she so loved wielding.
He had received six hard cuts to his exposed behind, a harsh, but, by her standards, minor punishment, that had been accompanied by squeals of pain and anger. Then, with tears flooding from his eyes, he had been put into the tights, dragged to the closet, elaborated cocooned in the stockings and tape, hooded, hog-tied, and left to contemplate his fate.
And now, nearly two hours later, as he wiggles and moans, as memories of his enslavement flood his tormented mind, he knows he is on the verge of surrender, he knows any further resistance to his terrible fate will cost him, or rather her, too much.
He hears the lock in the closet door click open and squeals
for mercy. Overwhelmed by pain, aware more than ever of the deeply masochistic pleasure that has risen from the depths so very apparently over the last two months, he now wants nothing more than to submit to the future that Helen has designed for him. And in the final moments before she switches the light on and begins to untie him, he remembers his mother, his beautiful, teasing mother, with her long, thick black hair, buxom figure and gorgeous brown eyes, her full, blood red lips curving into a wicked smile.
'You're far too pretty to be a boy, Davey.'
He is untied and, still hooded and gagged, led shakily from the closet. He squeals desperately into the gag, his body tormented by its terrible intrusions and the relentless, cruel attentions of the skin irritant.
'I think she wants to say something,' Sally mocks as he is pulled into the middle of the room and the hood is pulled free of his head.
Helen laughs, but ignores her slave's pleadings. 'Get him stripped and then showered. We have just under two hours before the guests arrive.'
His eyes widen, he shakes his head. He tries to make her understand that he wishes to surrender. That there is no need for this further humiliation, for this grim display that has become a regular feature of his Sunday "duties".
'I really do think she's had enough, Helen,' Sally continues, stunning in a very tight white nylon sweater, a red leather mini skirt, white hose and red patent leather, stiletto heeled mules.
'Perhaps,' Helen replies, looking deeply into his desperate eyes. 'But I haven't. Whether she's given in or not, we will have the tea party as usual. And then the little treat I've planned. If, after this, she wants to talk to me, then I might be prepared to listen.'
Elegant and beautiful in a tight black velvet dress that displays her ample, shapely form perfectly, its skirt at her black hosed knees, her own feet encased in black leather ankle boots with startling four inch stiletto heels, her wondrous hair still freed from its formal and exploding over her broad shoulders, Helen is the perfect dominatrix. He looks at this cruel vision and knows she is determined to go through with the dreadful torment of the Sunday afternoon tea party, and that he must wait before giving himself to her completely, before abjectly begging for his complete and permanent feminisation.
*
It is nearly 3.00pm when the first guests begin to arrive. In the two hours before this awful moment, David, now most assuredly Daphne, has been carefully prepared and then dressed in what Helen sarcastically refers to as "her Sunday Best".
She – for this is how even David must think of him/herself now – had been carefully showered by the gorgeous Sally. The vibrator and restrained had been removed and the remaining layers of irritant teasingly washed from "her" rock hard sex and her arse. Sally had been very gentle and, once ungagged, Daphne had moaned helplessly.
'I can't take it anymore, Mistress. Please. I give in,' she had whispered, as hot, steamy water had begun to splash against silky smooth skin.
Sally had laughed, but not cruelly, not angrily. 'Yes, I know, sweetness. But there's just a few more tests. Then, if you pass them, all the pain and suffering will be over.'
Her tone had been surprisingly conciliatory given the beating she had just administered. Indeed, as soon as Daphne was showered, perfumed and powdered, there were more signs of a less draconian approach to her feminisation. The most immediate and shocking was the new restrainer. Rather than the pin-lined horror that had been her most intimate and dreadful companion for the last two months, Sally now produced a bright pink cock glove made from a very fine, expensive Italian silk. As Daphne stood to attention before this glorious blonde dominatrix, her pretty, baby blue eyes widened not in fear, but in helpless sissy arousal as the teasing restrainer was slowly, even lovingly slipped over her rigid, desperate sex. Suddenly, it was like the softest pair of female lips were wrapped around her sex and she squealed with helpless, angry pleasure.
'Yes, it's lovely. A little present for being a good girl. And you get to wear it all the time from now on.'
Sally's words, whispered in a sensual, maternal voice, drove poor Daphne even madder with need and she fought the urge to come with a grimace of unbearable ecstasy. If there had been the slightest sign of come, she would undoubtedly have been caned.
Once the new restrainer was pulled tightly over Daphne's sex, Sally tied it in place around her bugling balls with a scarlet coloured silk ribbon in a fat sissy bow.
'There,' she purred. 'You look perfectly divine.'
Daphne found herself staring into Sally's big blue eyes and wanting her so very desperately. Her own helplessly sissy eyes rested upon Sally's nylon outlined breasts and she moaned with helpless need.
Sally laughed and continued this new, far less punitive dressing.
Daphne was made to touch her toes and spread her legs. She did so with frightened eyes, but instead of the grim, hard vibrator, she quickly found her arse filled with a long, thick, but also soft and teasing pink rubber dildo, a kinky sex toy that Sally teasingly worked deep into Daphne's back passage with naughty, tormenting words.
'This feels much more like the real thing, Daphne. And I bet you can't wait for that. But don't worry – you won't have to wait long.'
*
Now, as the guests begin to enter the living room, that cryptic statement is running once again through her mind. As the women gasp, laugh and clap, as Daphne is subject to the terrible heart of this weekly ritual of a very public exposure, she is amazed to discover two things: she is no longer afraid and that the thought of being taken from behind by a man fills her with a terrible sexual excitement.
Daphne is in the centre of the large, ornate living room, inside an adult sized, pink rubber floored playpen with large white metal bars. She is on her knees, her arms tied very tightly behind her back with pink silk ribbons at the wrists and elbows, her legs similarly secured at the ankles and knees.
She is wearing a truly spectacular baby girl's dress of hot pink silk, with a high, lace trimmed collar. A wig of incredible strawberry blonde ringlets is partially hidden by an even more incredible pink silk baby's bonnet which is tied tightly in place around her sissy head with thick lengths of pink silk ribbon bound in a tight, fat bow at her dimpled chin. Her helplessly feminine face has been painted snow white and two large circles of pink rouge have been very carefully painted onto her shapely cheeks. Her lips, painted hot pink, are hidden by the heart shaped plastic plate of an adult-sized pacifier, its long, fat teat a very effective gag. The dummy is held in place by silk ribbons that are tied in another fat sissy bow at the base of her slender, girlish neck.
Sown into the wide, short skirt of the amazing baby girl dress is a thick sea of frou-frou petticoating, beneath which is visible a pair of hot pink plastic panties. And beneath the panties is a thick, adult sized towel nappy held tightly in place by a huge silver safety pin. Her long, sexy legs are sheathed in white nylon stockings held in place by silk and lace edged pink garters, and her bound feet are imprisoned in lovely pink silk booties. Her bound hands have been forced into fingerless pink silk mittens lined with taught, immobilising rubber.
Reduced to the status of a baby girl, she is utterly helpless, and thanks to the teasingly soft dildo, she is in a state of furious, deeply masochistic arousal, an arousal she now accepts as utterly inescapable.
The women, all ten of them, gather around the play pen and torment Daphne with exaggerated baby talk. She looks up at them without the fear and anger that had marked their previous visits. Now there is only acceptance of her sissy fate and a terrible sexual need.
'She looks less agitated.'
The words are Sandra's, tall, silver haired Sandra, once his personal secretary, now one of her many cruel mistresses. Dressed in a tight grey dress, black tights and stiletto heeled mules, she is close enough to her very ex-boss that poor Daphne can smell her sweet sandalwood perfume.
'Yes,' Helen says, a warm smile lighting up her beautiful face. 'I think we have finally made some real progress with Daphne. I think we have fi
nally seen off silly, ugly David.'
This announcement brings much clapping and cheering, and poor Daphne can only agree that her former angry, frustrated male self has very clearly been destroyed.
For the next hour and a half, the guests enjoy large quantities of wine and an elaborate Sunday afternoon buffet. Most of the women, all David's ex-staff, spend at least a few minutes teasing Daphne with exaggerated baby talk and complements on her gorgeous sissy attire. By now, the poor she-male is in a state of sex fury. Her surrender to this teasing regime of ultra-femininity has opened the flood gates of a very long suppressed sadomasochistic desire. Suddenly, she is looking at the world through pure sex eyes. She marvels in the sex aura of each of these attractive, newly dominant women, women long under a fascist regime now freed, with the great dictator reduced to the level of a helplessly feminised, sissified slave, their plaything, the object of their darkest fantasies of domination and control. She marvels in their gorgeous, elaborate clothing, in their sheer, second skin hose, in their teasing, sex tickling perfumes, in their high heeled and elegantly designed shoes, in their soft, glistening red lips, in their amused, cruel, beautiful eyes, in their wicked, promising and threatening smiles. For ninety minutes she is lost within the startling, erotic abyss of sophisticated, all powerful womanhood.
Silken Tales Page 36