Silken Servitude

by Christina Shelly

  She looked me over with amused, yet also aroused eyes and I fought a moan of helpless need.

  ‘You look quite lovely, as usual.’

  I bob-curtseyed my appreciation of this teasing comment and felt my sex fight that little bit harder against its tight rubber and steel prison.

  ‘I want to spend some time with you, babikins. Over the next few weeks, you and I need to do some serious thinking about setting our little silken trap. I want us to think about all your wild fashion fantasies, and I want you to learn the truth of your absolute slavery to all women through your submission to me. I have spoken to Mistress Helen, and, given your unusual talents, she has agreed that we can get to know each other in a way I would not normally countenance for a trainee housemaid.’

  With this, she rose to her elegantly high-heeled feet and ordered me to follow her to one of the rooms leading from the anteroom.

  Soon, I found myself in a large study, its walls lined with book-laden shelves and pictures. I found myself looking at the pictures with a sex addict’s helpless fascination, for here were the most extraordinary erotic visions: pictures of startling warrior women subduing both men and women, pictures of stunning she-male beauties with the bodies of glamour models, yet also with huge male sexes locked in a dark variety of painful restraints. Pictures of the other mistresses: of Helen, Anne and Donna. Then, to my amazement, pictures of Christina – pictures of her tied and gagged, pictures of her at the feet of her various mistresses, pictures of her making mad sissy love to Annette – all in the same beautifully detailed precise style, all almost photographic in their reality and impact. The work of a very skilled artist.

  ‘You like my little doodles?’ Ms Blakemore whispered, inspiring an enthusiastic nod.

  Yes, these were more than doodles, and I am sure she knew it. They were the work of a very accomplished artist, and my admiration increased dramatically as I studied the perfect erotic detail of her provocative renditions.

  In the centre of the study was a large circular table covered in drawings, some of which I immediately recognised as my own work.

  ‘We free ourselves in art,’ she whispered, and sat down at the table, pondering my pictures of Aunt Jane, of various fictitious and very glamorous women, women I had so desperately wanted to be. ‘You were obviously already trying desperately to express your true self in these drawings. To proclaim your true sissy identity. The pictures of the other women, particularly. They even look like you. You were creating Shelly. Perhaps it was even these pictures that inspired your Aunt. A fascinating thought. Yes, we should most certainly see you as a work of art, Shelly. A little sissy masterpiece in the making.’

  I stared down at the pictures and saw immediately the striking resemblance between these early visions of classic female beauty and my own feminised self. Ms Blakemore’s observation provided a stunning insight into the process of my creation. These pictures had been seen by my Aunt and in some way influenced the design of me, the image of sissy ultra-femininity she had constructed in such a loving and erotic manner that had been christened Shelly.

  For the next hour or so she encouraged me to draw, to open up the vast whirlpool of dark desire that was my imagination and let its choppy swirling waters fill page after page of white paper. Using a pencil, I quickly found that what was initially a trying task soon became relatively easy: once the flood gates were open, it was just a matter of bringing the torrent of fantastic erotic images under control fast enough to produce coherent images.

  I don’t really remember that much about this first ‘design session’ with Ms Blakemore, mainly because what followed was so unforgettable. But in these initial images of strange sissy attire, there was the germ of an idea: clothing for the third sex, a unique design for those who stood so helplessly between male and female and craved absolute submission to the fire-eyed goddess of a deeply masochistic sexual need. Not slave uniforms, but clothing that represented a more subtle subjugation; a style that emphasised the extremity of the ultra-feminine.

  The drawings were teased from me by Ms Blakemore with encouraging comments and advice. Her perfume tormented me as I worked, my hands free, but the panty gag still tied in place. This continuing bondage in such an odd environment only inspired me more, and by the time she put down my pencil and led me from the room, I was tormented by a wild fierce arousal and a corresponding need to obey her in any way she would now see fit.

  As my eyes drank up her superbly full form, she led me by the hand to her bedroom, a large oval chamber covered in red wallpaper shot through with vein-like tendrils of glossy black. Here there were no drawings, but there was a large oval bed, a built-in wardrobe that covered one half of the curving blood-coloured wall and, in the centre of the room, a white chair.

  ‘Sit,’ she ordered.

  I obeyed. She glided over to the wardrobe and opened one of a series of white wooden doors. From inside she took a striking white silk robe. She returned to the middle of the room and placed the robe on the bed, her smile elusive and disturbing. Now I knew I was in for a long testing night.

  I watched with startled sex-filled eyes as Ms Blakemore proceeded to remove the long black silk dress, her eyes pinned to my writhing sissy form, in particular my very apparent and angry sex, struggling so pointlessly in its layers of cruel restraint.

  ‘After art, there should always be relaxation.’

  The dress fell to the floor and I gasped with astonished admiration into the mouth-filling panty gag. I was in the presence of the divine.

  Ms Blakemore stood before me in a striking black silk body shaper, the black tights and the gorgeous shimmering court shoes. A vision of plump promise, of ample perfection. My need at this point was beyond any simple description. I was wrapped tightly in a totally unyielding cocoon of sexual frustration. My cock, perhaps more than at any point since my arrival at the SMC academy, was begging for release from its wicked layers of erotic imprisonment. I squealed with a terrible black hunger into the panty gag and a look of genuine concern crossed the black beauty’s lovely face.

  ‘Dear me, babikins, you’re overheating. We’ll have to do something about that … eventually.’

  Then, to my surprise, she knelt before me and very slowly slipped the baby doll’s pink Senso silk panties down to my knees. My rubber- and steel-sheathed cock popped desperately upward and her wicked ironic smile widened.

  Then she took its boiling sleek length in her right hand and I felt myself fall into a grim black hole of never-ending sexual torture.

  ‘What a pretty little cock you’ve got, Shelly. Even in this terrible rubber prison, its beauty is obvious. And that, for me, is a terrible temptation. Because I just love to paint beautiful things.’

  What happened next inspired the highest pitched and most desperate of sissy squeals; for Ms Blakemore proceeded very gently to unclip the steel cock rings and allow my long-tormented sex to expand to near full erection within the awful rubber restrainer. As she freed me, she laughed in a way that I found strangely comforting.

  ‘Of course, you all think this is our greatest cruelty; this terrible cock restraint. Keeping you poor sex-crazed sissies in penis bondage day in day out. But, as I’m pretty sure you realise, Shelly, this is the essence of the Bigger Picture. When all is said and done, the total control of the cock is the key to the door to paradise.’

  Then she slipped the rubber restrainer off my sex, taking up the rim of ultra-thin rubber at the base of my bulging testicles. As she began this dreadfully testing and teasing process, she looked up at me with a harder darker countenance.

  ‘Keep still, Shelly. One wrong move and I may have to operate sooner than anticipated.’

  This enigmatic remark inspired an instant fear-induced stillness. I felt a stream of sweat cross my marble-painted forehead and hang threateningly over my left eye. My sissy heart pounded with fear and desire.

  And that is how I sat: utterly terrified, so terribly excited, biting down hard on my fat panty gag, trying to think of
anything but this awful beautiful moment. Yet the only thoughts that would come were thoughts of my other amazing adventures in this spectacular sissy training academy, thoughts of my other gorgeous wickedly imaginative mistresses, thoughts of pretty, ultra-feminine Pansy, thoughts of the wonderful sissy exemplar, Christina. A brief image of Kathy’s so long black nylon-sheathed legs in the corridor, perfect objects of true female physical existence, their exactly straight seams rigid confessions of the discipline of body and mind at the heart of our robust training regime.

  Then, with one stern tug, I was free of the restrainer for the first time since Christina had so expertly teased me to sissy explosion on the last night of my delightful imprisonment in the Nursery. A well-gagged gasp of relief fought its way past the panties and Ms Blakemore’s beautiful smile widened considerably.

  ‘There,’ she whispered, her honey-brown eyes glistening with a harsh cruel desire, ‘all done.’

  I stared down at my freed diamond-hard sex with true astonishment, then my eyes wandered helplessly over to the wondrous form of Ms Blakemore imprisoned so erotically in the tight black silk body shaper. Her very large chocolate breasts, almost exploding out of the bra section, were rising and falling rapidly. I moaned and felt my cock press with an aching black need into the base of my stomach. Her wide firm thighs, sealed so erotically in sheer black silk, also tormented my wide sissy eyes.

  Then she carefully rose to her high-heeled feet and returned to the bed. Much to my disappointment, she slipped her fabulous generous form into the black robe and went over to the wardrobe, returning a few minutes later with what appeared to be a metal paint pot and a long thin artist’s brush.

  ‘I think a little bit of body decoration is in order before we go any further.’

  Moaning with sissy fear and unrelenting sexual need into the panty gag, I watched with horror and excitement as Ms Blakemore knelt before me once again. She then carefully unscrewed the top of the tin and placed it by my stockinged feet. Inside the can was a thick dark pink-coloured paint. She dipped the brush into the paint and looked up at me, her beautiful dark eyes filled with erotic mischief.

  ‘It seems a shame to leave this beautiful cock unadorned, Shelly. It also needs sissification. Now, don’t move an inch.’

  I squealed with shock and masochistic delight as she then proceeded to paint my swollen, long-tormented and furious sex a dainty shade of dark pink. As the soft damp brush ran across my boiling tortured skin, it was if I were being teased by the silken eyelashes of an angel. I moaned and squealed, but I knew that to move was to invite both punishment and, possibly, a more accidental physical pain. So I remained once again stilled by a deep arousing terror.

  A look of total concentration had enveloped Ms Blakemore’s face. She was very careful, and a slight girlish smile shaped her beautifully full cherry-red lips. She covered my aching sex totally. The paint was particularly thick and easily took to the hot slick surface of my agitated sex. Indeed, within a few minutes, my sex and my fat almost bursting balls were a deeply humiliating dark pink.

  ‘The paint is quick dry and fixed with a dye agent. It won’t wash off, and it will take at least six weeks even to begin to wear off.’

  I looked down at my decorated sex in amazement. What greater and more appropriate symbol of my feminisation and the philosophy of the Bigger Picture was there than this sissification of my absurdly paradoxical manhood?

  Ms Blakemore rose to her elegantly attired feet and I looked up at her with the wide eyes of a cult devotee. In her presence I was indeed mindless, or rather, mentally crushed. I was a child and an angry utterly submissive desiring engine.

  ‘Now, last time, you proved a particularly apt eater of my big pussy. This evening I think I’ll take Helen’s advice and test out your suckling technique. Then, if you’re a really good little sissy, I’ll put you in my little pleasure machine and let you drain out some of the spunk tormenting those pretty balls.’

  And so this beautiful elegant buxom woman led me to her bed and a new realm of incredible sissy pleasure.

  As she slipped off the shimmering black silk night robe and reacquainted me with the perfection of her ample form sheathed in the highly erotic body shaper and ultra sheer black silk tights, I uttered a gasp of angelic surrender. What was to follow, while not unexpected or beyond the realms of my already considerable sissy experience, was a particularly powerful manifestation of submissive pleasuring. As Ms Blakemore teasingly slipped the narrow black silk straps of the body shaper over her perfect shoulders, her honey-brown eyes burning like red-hot pokers into my own, I felt I had moved onto a new level of sexual being. The light in the room seemed suddenly to burn whiter, brighter, as if I were about to witness some great annunciation. Behold, the august and cosmic truth of the divine goddess!

  And this divinity was quickly and spectacularly revealed as she gently glided the bra cups of the body shaper over her vast tits and exposed their great beauty to my sex-stretched cock and desire-widened eyes. I cried out in shock and awe and her teasing always ironic smile grew into a radiant confession of her tortuous intent: not only was I to give pleasure, but I was to be devoured by the overwhelming natural force of her very physical being. I was to be swallowed whole and refashioned.

  Once her splendid fulsome light-brown orbs were fully exposed, Ms Blakemore sat back on the bed, resting her plump form against cream silk pillows and spreading her long muscular legs wide.

  ‘Come closer, Shelly.’

  I obeyed without a millisecond’s hesitation. ‘Kneel before me, Shelly. Kneel and worship.’

  She laughed as I bob-curtsied and then struggled up onto the bed. As I knelt before her, she quickly removed the tape and panty gag. I gasped with relief and a paradoxical desperation.

  ‘Drink your fill.’

  And of course, I obeyed, lowering my quivering carefully decorated lips to her left breast and slipping them apprehensively over its long hard dark nipple.

  For the next twenty minutes I pleasured her, my own unrestrained sex harder than ever and only a few inches from her thighs. I knew that the moment my cock brushed against the ultra-erotic silk material of her hose, I would explode all over the bed and my mistress, and I knew this would lead to some dreadful punishment rather than the vague hope of release she had promised. So I fought myself desperately and tried to concentrate on giving her pleasure.

  My success in this endeavour was eventually confirmed when she began to moan deeply, even angrily, and her hands fell upon my head and pushed my face into the eternal maternal warmth of her generous bosom.

  ‘Oh yes, Shelly, that’s it – you’re definitely getting there.’

  As her pleasure increased, so did her movement. Soon I found myself shaken by her hands and bounced like a sissy rag doll on her considerable knees. Her physical reaction, like her body in general, was generous. She released a series of increasingly primal and loud moans and then the cursing began.

  ‘Fuck, yes. That’s it, you fucking perverted little prick. That’s … harder. Harder, fucker!’

  At first, I wondered what an earth she wanted of me. Then, as she bounced me on the bed, I accidentally bit her nipple and she unleashed a bizarre squeal that was a perfect fusion of pain and pleasure.

  ‘Yes, you cock sucking sissy bastard – that’s it. That’s IT!’

  And so I bit her again and she screamed primal joy into the void of an eternal desire, a huge deafening scream that seemed to come from the very edge of human pre-history. This was her orgasm. And as she exploded, I was pushed violently aside. As we jump into the abyss of sex and death, the final sound is the cry of orgasmic shock.

  I lay on the bed and felt the room spin around me. I was on a sex Catherine wheel, a vast circular firework ignited by Ms Blakemore’s volcanic passion. And as the room slowed, as the gyration of coming passed, the sound of her desperately heavy breathing faded in – slight at first, then louder, then very loud.

  ‘Fuck,’ she kept muttering between hoarse b
reaths. ‘Fuck.’

  Then, very suddenly, she pulled herself up.

  I looked up from my prone position at this startling vision. A topless wild-eyed Ms Blakemore covered in a layer of thick sex sweat. She shook her head and then returned my gaze. It was as if she were emerging from a trance. The look of animal possession faded and the light of ironic intelligence returned to those gorgeous honey-brown orbs.

  ‘My, my, Shelly – you have a rare talent. And for that, I think you deserve a reward.’

  She climbed off the bed and told me to do the same. She then ordered me to strip off the baby doll and stockings. Soon, I stood naked before her, my sex an aching totem of unbearable frustration, my eyes filled with painful need.

  She pulled the body shaper back into place and took me by the hand, leading me towards the wardrobe.

  ‘I designed this little toy a few months back and have tried it out on a few select sissies. Annette particularly enjoys it.’

  I listened, perplexed, as Ms Blakemore halted before a separate wooden panel at the end of the wardrobe. She slid it back to reveal a dark chamber. She leant inside and flicked on a light. I found myself looking at a truly bizarre and disturbing sight. Built into the far wall of the chamber were a series of thick white leather straps, four in all, which ran down the length of the wall. Below the second strap, to my astonishment, was what appeared to be a large very long pink dildo, rising out of the wall in an obscene, provocative and very frightening manner, its edges cruelly ribbed, its pointed tip glistening in a very threatening way. Hanging from a hook in the ceiling was a clear rubber tube. Attached to one end of the tube was what appeared to be a pink rubber sheath that was bisected by a series of very thin wires. At the other end of the tube was a strange mask-like device as the centre of which was set a large pink rubber ball gag. And hanging from a hook on the left side of the chamber was a pink rubber body suit and matching hood.