Thus, my gorgeous ultra-sissified friend and lover, Pansy, is enveloped in Senso rubber, bound, gagged and hobbled. In this woeful and outrageously eroticised state, she can only stand helplessly still as Kathy attaches a thick leather collar around her rubber-sheathed neck and then a long silver chain leash to the collar. Then, with a single violent tug, the female maid leads poor Pansy from the room. The sissy, whimpering helplessly, totters forward, blind, deaf and dumb, her cock on fire, her body bound tightly and without mercy. And as soon as she has minced off to her mysterious Sunday fate, Annette trains her eyes on my own tightly tethered and helpless form.
Within thirty minutes, I am ready for my regular Sunday trip to the Nursery. I wear a beautiful white silk dress with a very short and wide skirt that rests on a sea of sissy frou-frou petticoating. The dress, like Pansy’s, has a very high neck edged with lace that tickles my dimpled girlish chin. It is held tightly against my body by white pearl buttons that run from the neck all the way down to just above the explosive skirt.
A pattern of silk embroidered roses has been sewn into the expensive silk fabric of the dress, and over it is tied a cream silk pinafore, across the middle of which, in an elegant pink handwritten style, is written my name.
Beneath the sea of gorgeous petticoating is a fat very soft wool and cloth nappy bound tightly around my waist and between my legs. Over this was been very carefully positioned a pair of pink semi-transparent plastic panties. Beneath the nappy, my long-tormented sex is tightly sealed in an ultra-sheer white nylon cock glove held in place by a dainty pink silk ribbon tied around my scrotum in a pretty and very fat bow. My legs are sealed in very fine white Senso silk stockings covered in glittering silver stars. The lovely teasing stockings are held in place with wide pink elastic garters covered in layers of pink and white lace. My feet are bound tightly inside dainty white silk booties, also tied in place with pretty pink silk ribbons in fat sissy bows.
Beneath the lovely intricate dress, I am held firmly in the grip of a pink satin panelled corset, reinforced with stern plastic rods, and small circular metal weights have been added to my constantly teasing nipple rings.
My hands are held captive by fat fingerless mittens made from rubber-lined white silk, and a beautifully ornate white and pink silk bonnet has been slipped over my head and tied tightly in place at my chin with more thick pink silk ribbons in another glorious fat and elegant bow.
All this and the dummy. Its teat is actually a fat orb of pink rubber rather than a teat, a kinky variation on the theme of the ball gag, which rests on a large oval plate of pink plastic. Attached to either side of the plate are strips of outward facing adhesive tape, and once the dummy has been pushed deep into my mouth, it is the adhesive strips that hold it firmly in place.
As soon as Annette has forced the dummy home, I experience a most familiar and delightful taste: Ms Blakemore’s spicy sex. I know she has slipped this kinky pacifier between her cunt lips the evening before and that this sweet reminder of her most intimate delights will stay with me for the rest of the day.
And if this wasn’t enough, there is the new vibrator: at least an inch longer than anything I have worn before, also much wider. Made of hard pink plastic, its long tip slightly curved, its surface covered in hundreds of tiny wicked bumps, it buzzes at a low but still utterly infuriating frequency as Annette loads me onto the special ‘baby trolley’ – essentially a porter’s upright trolley painted hot pink. As I am strapped into position, her hands gently caress my stockinged thighs and she whispers her desire.
‘This is when I want you the most, Shelly,’ she says, her fingers teasing the edge of my plastic panties.
I look at her in amazement and moan my own need into the fat dummy gag. I have never been with the beautiful emerald-eyed Annette. She is very much Christina’s property, but there is no restriction on her in the way there is upon Pansy. In her eyes I see a familiar and disturbing cruelty. When she says she wants me, I know she wants me in a special dark way; that she seeks to control and torment me. She is very much a creature of her supremely wicked and gorgeous mistress. Yet even as I realise the perverse suffering she would inflict upon me, I cannot help but be deeply aroused by the prospect.
She removes her hand and I am wheeled off down the corridor, my eyes forced wide by the buzzing of the vibrator and my impending adventure with the beautiful all-powerful Ms Blakemore.
By the time we reach the Nursery, I am in a state of some considerable sexual torment. I squeal with a dreadful angry delight as I am wheeled into the large circular room and discover Ms Blakemore waiting for me by the playpen.
Dressed in a tight white sweater, a knee-length black shirt, white tights and black patent leather court shoes with wicked five-inch heels, she is a striking image of plump maternal authority. She smiles at my obvious agitation.
‘You look delightful, as usual, babikins.’
I am wheeled over to the playpen and then released from the trolley. Ms Blakemore takes a mittened hand and gently guides me into the playpen. I taste her sex and my tormented eyes feed on her huge tightly restrained breasts. The powerful musk odour of her perfume washes over my babified form and I know I am in sissy heaven.
I am made to kneel down in the playpen. Ms Blakemore then takes numerous lengths of pink silk ribbon from a pocket in her wide black skirt and uses them to tie my mittened hands behind my back and then secure my bootied ankles tightly together. Then she quickly binds my knees and, as a finishing touch, uses the final ribbon to tie my elbows very tightly and painfully together.
‘There,’ she whispers, ‘snug as a bug in a big fat nappy.’
I squeal with a massive masochistic need and she laughs mockingly.
‘Poor little thing.’
My buttocks press against my tethered ankles and I feel the huge vibrator push deeper inside me. A memory of being penetrated by Master Bentley explodes from the whirlpool of sex-maddened thoughts possessing my poor sissy mind.
‘It’ll soon be breakfast time, my pretty baby,’ Ms Blakemore whispers, ‘but I thought we’d start with a little foot worship.’
I watch helpless and ultra-horny as she proceeds to bring a white chair from the centre of the Nursery and place it in the large playpen directly before me. She then lowers herself gracefully and carefully into the chair. Her skirt rides up her legs, to reveal more of her splendid wide thighs sheathed in the soft white nylon. I gasp with pleasure into the dummy gag and she widens her legs slightly to give me a view of the dark delights that await my attentions a little later in this long holy day of twisted desire. She kicks off the left shoe and I behold her long perfectly formed left foot wrapped in the sheath of erotic nylon fabric. Through its fine semi-opaque film I can see that my gorgeous mistress has painted her toenails a dark bloody red.
She arches her instep and points her toes towards my stopped mouth. I squirm and feel the vibrator burn with even greater force inside my tormented arse. She leans forward and, with one sharp tug, pulls the dummy gag free. She then pushes the warm stockinged bottoms of her toes against my upper lip. I moan and then the foot is in my mouth.
For the next ten minutes I suck and kiss her feet, a gesture of absolute and profound submission that sends high Richter-scale seismic shudders through my babified form. And Ms Blakemore is also deeply moved by the experience, her eyes closed, her mouth open, regular ripples of pleasure passing through her ample gorgeous body and down into my hardworking mouth.
Eventually, I am relieved of this deeply pleasant task and the dummy is popped firmly back in place. The taste of her fills me with a powerful dark adoration and, as I look up at her, my eyes are glazed by a terrible sex-love that brings a nearly awkward smile to her full perfect lips.
‘Today I have planned some special variations on our usual Sunday treat,’ Ms Blakemore says, slipping her somewhat damp feet back into her lovely sexy shoes. ‘We will have two special visitors a little later on, and there will be a more educational aspect to the diversions.�
��
The next hour is spent very much in the tradition of previous Sundays. I am left trussed in the pen for twenty minutes with the vibrator buzzing angrily in my tenderised arse. My aching unrestrained cock burns furiously in the soft ultra-teasing nylon stocking and I fight the impact of its endless beautiful caress. I know that if I come, Ms Blakemore will punish me in some dark terrible way and also refuse any further ‘diversions’. This, plus the endless caress of the Senso baby clothing, drives me to low tormented moans of need. I am possessed by a scorching desire for my utter and eternal submission to this plump all-powerful dominatrix.
During this period of incarceration in the pen, Ms Blakemore prepares the large adult-sized high chair that dominates the centre of the Nursery. I watch through a film of masochistic sexual surrender as my gorgeous buxom mistress elegantly and carefully prepares a large baby’s bottle full of sugared full-cream milk, warmed and laced with hormones that will further the gradual feminisation of my physical form and prepare me for the surgical interventions known as ‘the Operation’.
This is my breakfast and, as I am tightly strapped into the chair and the plastic detachable table is snapped into place over my helplessly exploding petticoats, my stomach rumbles helplessly.
Ms Blakemore smiles softly, removes the sex-soaked dummy gag once again and gently slips the fat teat of the bottle into my mouth. I suck willingly and desperately, emptying its creamy contents in a few minutes, my eyes wide and pinned irresistibly to Ms Blakemore’s large tightly imprisoned and unbearably exciting breasts.
‘There’s a good girl,’ the black beauty whispers. ‘That’s it … every last drop.’
And when the bottle is finished, I am faced with a bowl of pink mush – powdered eggs, more full-cream milk and food colouring. I am fed this via a large plastic spoon, and my utter splendid humiliation is complete.
Once the food has been delivered, the dummy gag is replaced and I am helped from the chair. It is at this point that the door to the Nursery opens and I gasp with surprise into my tasty gag for standing in the doorway is Lady Emily Ashcroft, founder of the Bigger Picture, most important patron of the Sissy Maids Company, and one of the most influential women in the country.
A striking honey-blonde in her early fifties, a woman who genuinely appears ten years younger than her actual age, Lady Emily Ashcroft had been a key Tory voice in the House of Lords until her controversial expulsion for her increasingly extreme and articulate views on the establishment of a new order of radical feminisation. She was the very public face of the Bigger Picture. A close friend of Eleanor Groves, the equally controversial and now ex-wife of the last Democratic American president, Lady Ashcroft personified the complex ethos of the Bigger Picture: a feminine radicalism, a power politics rooted in sadomasochism and the control of male desire. Not the suppression of male need, but its redirection as a tool of female power.
Lady Ashcroft is dressed in a startling white silk suit, with a matching high-necked silk blouse. She is wearing five-inch-high spike-heeled ankle boots of white silk-lined leather. Her hair is bound in its usual tight bun, and her heart-stopping ice-blue eyes behold my intricately babified form with a mixture of amusement and cruel arousal.
‘Still as lovely as ever, I see,’ she says, her crisp aristocratic voice filled with the authority of the natural dominant.
‘Are you talking to Shelly or me?’ Ms Blakemore responds, stepping forward into Lady Ashcroft’s tight and passionate embrace.
The two women exchange a long and very erotic kiss. Lady Ashcroft’s hands rest gently on Ms Blakemore’s impressive bosom. This terribly erotic moment leaves me whimpering with an awful frustration into the tight mouth-filling dummy gag.
Then they part and face me.
‘She really is a stunner,’ Lady Ashcroft whispers, her voice hoarse with desire.
‘One of the best,’ Ms Blakemore replies. ‘She’ll be irresistible after the Operation.’
‘And talented, too. The pictures you sent were superb. Clothes impregnated with a sissy’s helpless desire. I met with Celine yesterday and she agreed we should start manufacture as quickly as possible. She is already taking huge pre-orders of the male attire across the U.S. She assures me that the male line will be available across most of Europe by the end of the month. Eleanor and Sophie between them have already recruited over 500 trainee mistresses, most of whom have suitable male hosts. By the end of the year … well, we’re predicting there will be as least as many trainee sissies across the globe. This number will increase exponentially over the next five years.’
I listen in amazement. Of course, the true purpose of the Bigger Picture has never been in doubt, but here is the Plan, here is the awful real truth of their impressive ambition: the subjugation of all men, and the creation of a global Femocracy. The Plan is now very much becoming reality.
Ms Blakemore looks down at me with a gentle thoughtful smile on her beautiful lips.
‘And pretty Shelly will have a vital role to play.’
‘Jane is pressing on with the South West regional training facility. We will trial Shelly’s designs via Christina’s Silken Slavery and a number of other fetish and cross-dressing sites. After graduation, Shelly will join her Aunt and assist in the operation of our first regional academy.’
The mention of my gorgeous Aunt’s name inspires a moan of frustration. Lady Ashcroft’s smile widens.
‘Yes, she misses you too, my pretty sissy petal. But you’ll be together again soon … don’t worry.’
I moan with helpless pleasure at this thought and Lady Ashcroft’s eyes widen with cruel contemplation.
‘Helen tells me you’ve been taking a very special interest in this one. And not just because of her artistic talents.’
Ms Blakemore nods carefully, her eyes pinned to mine.
‘Mainly for professional reasons, of course. As we discussed. But yes, also for my own amusement. She has a number of other talents …’
Lady Ashcroft laughs and envelopes me in her imperial gaze. ‘I know.’
Yes, she knows. I remember my erotic adventures with this stunning woman; I remember the taste of her sex and the physical perfection of her mature, yet still very beautiful form. I remember the squeals of animal pleasure as she came, the sounds a teenage girl would make. I consider how odd this all is: that they should have such absolute power over me and the paradox of my knowing their most intimate and helpless moment, the irresistible moment of absolute surrender that is the orgasm.
Ms Blakemore smiles knowingly and lets her eyes travel hungrily over Lady Ashcroft’s splendid form.
‘Helen tells me you’ve just returned from Sados.’
‘On Friday evening. These are early days, Amelia, but the site is already very significantly developed. By the end of the year, the first training facilities will be up and running.’
A word that hangs like a flashing neon question mark in my tormented sissy mind: ‘Sados’. The invocation of the vision of the Bigger Picture. What is this place called Sados?
Lady Ashcroft turns her striking blue eyes towards my babified form and I feel a shiver of utter submissive terror wash over me, a feeling of incredible and utterly erotic helplessness. These women are goddesses and I am nothing but their willing believer slave.
‘Jane has already agreed to allow Shelly to visit once we are open for business.’
Ms Blakemore also turns to face me.
‘The regional centres are just the beginning, Shelly. A worldwide network of local training facilities, most smaller than this, will be the feeders for a central training hub. Here, trained and physically perfected sissies will become she-male soldiers in the coming battle of wills. And they in turn will be sent out into this sad bitter angry world to bring a new message of hope based on power, submission and absolute female control of brutal male urges. Sados is the hub, my pretty little sissy baby, the centre of all our secret dreams. It is here we will take those inducted into the sissy life and turn them into converts to
our Philosophy of Desire.’
A Philosophy of Desire. During the past weeks, there have been numerous ‘academic sessions’ in the classroom facility of the underground training chambers. Most have been led by Mistress Helen. It is here that Pansy and I have been carefully instructed in the basic ideas and principles of the Bigger Picture, ideas and principles encapsulated in the core notion of the Philosophy of Desire.
The most powerful tool in this philosophy is the core notion of ‘sublimation’, the re-channelling of male aggression and desire into a relentless craving for femininity and submission to womankind, the creation of a deeply masochistic personality constantly plagued by a furious sexual need whose result is the pretty, helplessly dainty and ultra-feminine sissy maid.
In some – perhaps many – men, this desire is already present. In many others, however, it is something that needs to be created and then carefully teased into an explosive force of control.
This is, without doubt, a form of feminism; for its aim is the liberation of the female from the bonds of male control. Yet this is no equalitarian or socialist vision of a society of equals. The Bigger Picture is a picture of power, a picture that recognises that inequality is at the heart of all human desire and endeavour. Women will dominate men by controlling their own desire for control, by turning their fierce will to power upon itself, by using this savage pool of fundamental energy as a tool for their own domination. Thus, the male will not be imprisoned and restrained against his will. No: he will crave his subjugation, he will desire it as he now desires to control others, to control things, to dominate and destroy the world and its other inhabitants.
Silken Servitude Page 6