Silken Servitude

by Christina Shelly

  Next comes the hood. Christina picks it up and holds it before my fascinated fear- and desire-filled eyes. I whimper pathetically into the ball gag and she smiles cruelly.

  ‘You make such a lovely damsel in distress, Shelly. No wonder Mistress Eleanor is so keen to play with you tonight.’

  She pulls the mask over the top of my head, slipping it carefully across the tight bun and then pulling it down over my face. The soft ultra-clinging fabric of the hood quickly consumes every inch of my face and I am plunged into a pungent rubber darkness from which I slowly emerge as the plastic covers set across each eye allow me a strange view of the outside world. The plastic covers are a light shade of pink, so suddenly the room beyond is seen through a sissy haze. I moan into the gag and I see Christina say something, but I can’t hear her; indeed, it is quite impossible to hear anything through the hood – now I am deaf, dumb and my vision is reduced to a pink mist.

  In this state of severe sensory deprivation, I am helped into the very high-heeled boots. Christina kneels down to tie the silken laces tightly in place. As she does so, I watch the short skirt of her pretty senior housemaid’s dress rise up on a wave of delicate frou-frou petticoating and reveal the most luscious and shapely of thighs tightly sheathed in the softest sexiest black nylon. But this is a pink-tinted dress and these are pink-tinted black nylon tights.

  Eventually, Christina climbs to her wondrously high-heeled feet and stands back to observe her highly kinky handiwork. I wiggle with pleasure as she drinks up my sexy tethered sheathed form. Her eyes widen with a fresh violent desire and I beg her through my utterly silencing gag for a kiss or a caress. She laughs at my sex suffering and delivers another very hard blow to my rubber and silk covered backside. As my arse vibrates with the sensual force of the blow, Christina produces a pink leather leash and teasingly fixes its metal eye buckle to the ring fixed to the base of my scrotum, which has been pulled through the slit in the leotard along with my tightly rubberised testicles. Then, taking up the leash, she guides me from the room.

  As we mince into the corridor, I am aware of the bells brushing against my ankles. The surrealism of this latest humiliation is almost too much to endure: each ultra-high-heeled step I take is no doubt producing a sweet sissy tinkling, yet I am unable to hear it.

  I am led by the leash down the long corridor that traverses the underground training chambers to the elevator. Eventually, with some hesitation, I totter inside the narrow metal cube, receiving another hard eroticised slap as punishment for my lack of enthusiasm. I watch the world through the distancing film of pink plastic and suddenly I am very much more aware of my body and its outrageously erotic form. I feel my large ultra-sensitive breasts bounce inside their tight rubber prison; I feel my perversely imprisoned sex sway inside its capsule-like restraint and my fat bulging balls vibrate beneath its hard unforgiving length. As we enter the elevator, I notice Christina slip a vibrator control box from a pocket in her elegant silk maid’s dress. Within seconds my arse is being tormented by the high-pitched vibrations of the evil intruder fixed almost permanently in my backside. I squeal into my gag and hear my head fill with a strange high-pitched wail of sex distress, but outside, in the elevator, I know there is hardly any noise – only my wiggling helplessly sexy deeply tormented form.

  I feel my stomach turn as the elevator climbs up into the main body of the Ashcroft manor house. The metal doors part and I am led, still squealing in irresistible ecstasy, down a dark corridor towards the main entrance hall.

  We walk out into the well lit beautifully designed foyer area. I know my heels are striking shining marble stone and echoing furiously. But I still hear nothing except my own heart beat and amplified squeals of pleasure.

  Then I see Mistress Helen. She is standing talking to Ms Blakemore. The two beautiful buxom women turn to face my noisy sissy form. I see their gorgeous faces light up with cruel amusement. Ms Blakemore, my stunning elegant mentor, claps her hands with joy. Christina curtsies deeply and says something. The women laugh and Ms Blakemore waves at me as at a man locked in a sensory deprivation tank. She then strolls over to look more closely at my tethered rubberised form, her eyes filled with dark mocking arousal. I feel her hands run over the ultra skin-tight rubber of the leotard and moan with terrible pleasure. I watch her grip my sex, but, thanks to the nature of the sheath, I feel nothing. Then her left hand idly strokes my backside and I beg her through the gag for some form of release from this terrible relentless utterly exquisite torment. But she, of course, hears nothing. Then, I am led away.

  I turn to watch her through the permanent pink haze. She waves and gives me a gentle amused smile. A whimper of terrible disappointment escapes the fat rubber ball gag.

  Christina leads me up the spectacular winding staircase towards the Mistress Chambers. Each step is an erotic tease and a fearful adventure. Thanks to the shackles and the intricacies of balance demanded by my ample figure and the precariously high heels, I have to watch every tottering ultra-sissified step very carefully, a task made much more challenging by the hood and pink plastic eye coverings.

  Yet, perhaps amazingly, we get to the top of the stairs without any major balance incidents. Then I totter along behind gorgeous Christina towards the VIP quest quarters and the startling Eleanor Groves. As we get nearer to her, I feel my heart quicken, my breathing deepen. I remember her long elegant hand on my nylon-sheathed thigh and a quiver of ecstatic anticipation shoots across my body. Then I remember the strange costume I am trapped within. I know it is Mistress Eleanor who has demanded this perverse and ultra-erotic outfit, that this is all part of her own darkly kinky intent. This evening, I am to be her sex toy, and the thought fills me with the most delightful anticipation.

  By the time we reach the door to the guest quarters, I am almost dizzy with nervous arousal. Christina seems to tap very lightly on the door and then, as if of its own volition, the door opens. Christina tugs firmly on the leash and I follow her into the room beyond, my bottom wiggling, my breasts bouncing, my heart pounding.

  I am in a very large room, a room dominated by a huge bed covered in silver- and cream-coloured sheets of purest silk. Yet this is by no means just a bedroom. On one side of the room there is an oval dining table laden with food. There are four elegant wooden chairs tucked beneath it. On the other side of the room is a black leather sofa, two matching arm chairs and a glass-topped coffee table. Built into one entire wall of the room is a massive entertainment centre housing a large widescreen TV, plus a DVD and an expensive mini hi-fi system. A large walk-in closet dominates another wall, and in the far corner of the room is a doorway through to the bathroom.

  Mistress Eleanor is standing by the bed. Christina immediately performs a deep loving curtsey. Thanks to my bondage and costume, the best I manage is a bob-curtsey, but, under the circumstances, I feel this is a commendable effort.

  I notice a slight smile cross Mistress Eleanor’s cherry lips. She examines my bizarre hyper fetishistic appearance and then nods slightly. Then, to my surprise, she leans forward and places what seems to be a small piece of circular metal – like a watch battery – against my rubber covered left ear. It sticks firmly to the shiny deceptively soft surface. She then steps back and addresses Christina.

  ‘A very fine effort, Christina. You know me too well.’

  I look up, astonished – the metal device is obviously a transmitter that allows me to hear through the hood.

  A flicker of pride crosses Christina’s lovely dark eyes and she bob-curtsies as meekly as possible.

  ‘Taylor!’

  Christina’s look quickly changes to one of abject fear as Mistress Eleanor shouts the name of her long-time slave and male lover.

  Taylor emerges from the walk-in closet. He is dressed in a black silk shirt, matching leather trousers and black leather motor cycle boots. He regards us with a vague curiosity.

  ‘I think Chrissy has done a wonderful job with Shelly … don’t you?’

  Taylor thinks about h
is mistress’s words and eventually nods slightly.

  ‘And I think she deserves a reward for her efforts … don’t you?’

  A very slight smile quivers across Taylor’s thin almost bloodless lips.

  Christina’s eyes immediately widen in utter terror.

  ‘Please, mistress,’ she whimpers. ‘I have other duties this evening … with Mistress Anne.’

  Eleanor laughs, amused by the sissy’s terror and her foolish attempt to create an excuse.

  ‘Well, Anne will just have to wait. I’m sure she’ll understand.’

  Christina momentarily takes a step backward, tears already welling in her beautiful doe eyes. But then she stops, realises the terrible inescapable fact of her fate, and performs a deep submissive curtsey.

  ‘Of course, mistress – I am yours to do with as you please.’

  In her words there is a helpless finality. As an SMC sissy, and a servant of the Bigger Picture, she will accept anything, do anything, be anything for her mistresses. This is the absolute and final truth of our silken servitude.

  ‘Taylor, I suggest you get Christina with Pansy together and we’ll join you later. But feel free to start without us.’

  I listen to these strange words, my eyes widening with fascination at the mention of Pansy’s name.

  Taylor steps into the room. He takes Christina by the hand – a surprisingly gentle gesture – and then leads the already sobbing sissy to her no doubt dreadful fate. A familiar sadistic arousal grips me as I watch this gorgeous busty she-male wiggle-mince into the large walk-in closet and then disappear very mysteriously.

  It is only as I turn back to face the incredible Mistress Eleanor that I begin to look at her in any detail. For these first few minutes, there has only been the spectacle of her being, the mystery of a global celebrity. But now I find myself beholding not just a woman of incredible fame, but a very beautiful mature female and a dedicated member of the Bigger Picture.

  She is dressed in a very tight black nylon sweater that displays her still firm and considerable bosom to a striking and highly erotic effect. Beneath the sweater is a short grey pinstripe skirt that rests a good two inches above her knees to reveal long very shapely legs wrapped in sheer black nylon hose and feet encased in five-inch-stiletto heeled court shoes of a gleaming black patent leather. Her lips are painted a bloody red and there is a hint of pale-blue eye shadow on her long-lashed eyelids. She wears simple but clearly very expensive diamond stud earrings and around the high neck of the sweater is a band of sparkling white pearls.

  With her short blonde hair adding the final touch of dominant precision, Ms Eleanor Groves is undoubtedly a very impressive and beautiful woman. Yet it is more than beauty that makes her so special. There is in her, more than any of the women I have had the pleasure to serve since being so carefully feminised by my wondrous Aunt, the fire of power, an aura of absolute, unquestioned authority that radiates out from her impressive form and over my so perversely costumed and mutated body.

  Mistress Eleanor moves closer to me. A heavy musk perfume somehow seeps beneath the hood and my eyes widen as she runs a long finger over the sealed shaft of my cock.

  ‘A terrible torment – immobilising and de-sensitising your cock like this. But also … amusing.’

  Her precise American accent, with its perfect diction, only serves to emphasise the absolute nature of her authority. Her eyes stare at the capsule-imprisoned dick and seem to consider the possibilities for torment and sadistic pleasure.

  ‘I hear you spent the afternoon with Celine and Anne.’

  I nod warily and she smiles, almost gently.

  ‘Yes, they can be rather extreme in their methods. Poor Annette will have to have a few days off. I hope Helen understands.’

  I look at her through pink-tinted plastic – confused, frightened … helplessly aroused.

  ‘Oh don’t worry: I don’t go in for all that melodramatic stuff. I leave the others to do that for me. No doubt Taylor will have dreamt up something utterly appalling for you and the others, but for now you’re perfectly safe.’

  She walks over to the dining table and begins to select a variety of buffet snacks and place them on a small light-blue china plate. I watch with a sudden realisation of my own terrible hunger. I hear my stomach rumble loudly in the echo chamber that is the hood.

  She takes up a fork and begins to eat the food, a terrible wicked torment. I wonder if she realises I have not eaten since breakfast time. I wonder if she even cares.

  As she eats, she continues to talk.

  ‘You probably know more about the workings of the Bigger Picture than any of the other slaves – she-male or female. I suppose there is an irony here somewhere. But you are one of a kind, Shelly. Without doubt our most successful prototype. Also, you have provided us with a fascinating and absolutely essential insight into the sissy mind. With your designs and Senso, we have a key to the feminisation of a million males.’

  I can’t help giving her a disbelieving look and she laughs.

  ‘Even through the hood, I can see you don’t believe me. Well, that’s understandable. But I assure you it’s true. Of course, Pansy is as important on the physical level – you are both startling examples of the second generation sissification technology. But Pansy has surrendered to a truer, deeper-rooted nature. Her homosexuality – if we can use such a word when talking about a sissy – precedes any masochistic inclination. With you, the desire to submit is most certainly the fundamental sexual driver. Even now, as you watch me, angered by your hunger and my utter indifference to it, you wallow in your suffering, you extract a fierce sexual pleasure from the torments I impose.’

  I moan into the fat gag filling my long-tortured mouth and imagine the taste of the savoury snacks she is eating with such a sadistic abandon. Yet, despite this craven cruelty, I know every word she teases me with is utterly true. Even now, my eyes are overwhelmed by her dominant beauty. As she eats, she crosses her legs and allows, no doubt for my benefit, the grey pinstripe skirt to rise up her thighs and reveal virtually the whole length of her perfect black nylon-sheathed legs, a gesture deliberately designed to stress her absolute authority over me and my dark need for it.

  ‘On Saturday, you will be properly revealed to the sisters of the Bigger Picture. We have had our own very pleasurable “coming out” event here, of course, but the annual Ball will be attended not only by sisters from across the globe, but by many women who are yet to buy into our plans. It is these women you will impress, Shelly. After they have seen you, we believe they will sign up not just with kind words, but with real promises of support, with money and other vital resources. It is they who will fund the major expansion of our activities – the development of the regional and national centres and the completion of the Sados facility.’

  I listen and fight a dizzying sense of disbelief. How has this happened? How have I travelled from the warm embrace of my Aunt’s scented undies to become the sissy icon for a global conspiracy of supremely powerful and utterly determined women?

  ‘In five years, we will have established the Bigger Picture as the primary global vision of the future of humanity. We will, of course, face considerable resistance. As the project of modernity fades, as the illusion of male reason collapses under the weight of relativism and the self-destructive fantasies of liberal equality, we will return to the true state of male rule: warfare. Essentially, a war between two primitive and deeply related religious ideologies: Christianity and Islam.

  ‘We can already see its beginnings. The primitives are already in control, my pretty sissy flower, and their reign will end in global catastrophe. Not necessarily a nuclear war and annihilation; but rather an anarchic collapse – a process which is also visible as I speak. The superpower model of global power balancing has already broken down. Over the next five to ten years, the world will degenerate in a vast collection of warring tribes and mini-states. Even well established power blocks – the USA, Europe, China and South East Asia – will fa
ll apart under the contradictory pressures of globalisation. And that will leave only the grotesque truth of primitive male religion. The Phallocracy, as it sinks under the tidal wave of history, will cling even more desperately to its Bible and Koran. And the evidence of the failure of the civilisation that emerged from these backward self-serving fantasies of a phallic God will be the chaos he has created. And that, my sweet, will be our moment.’

  I listen to her in amazement, enthralled and appalled, aroused and utterly terrified. In her beautiful pink-tinted, ice-blue eyes, I see a vision to challenge the corruption of male dominance, but still a vision of dominance, an ideology of power.

  ‘Yes, I can see what you’re thinking,’ she continues, although how she can see anything other than the surreal eroticism of my ultra kinky costume is beyond me. ‘This is just another totalitarian ideology of absolute control – replacing one fascism with another. And maybe you’re right. But this is a global movement in the truest sense of the word, Shelly – a movement that will cross all national boundaries, all races, all primitive selfish interest groups. And it is also a movement of women that has found a clear place for men and which recognises the furious and unavoidable power of male desire. We don’t want to stop men desiring, to resist the workings of the male body. We want to harness and control their desire. These two factors – a global alliance and a philosophy of desire – will allow us to seize the moment provided by the collapse of the Phallocracy. And yes, as you have seen, the Femocracy will be a dictatorship, a global regime rooted firmly in a politics of power. But this is the nature of our being, Shelly. It is the nature of Nature.’