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Silken Servitude

Page 17

by Christina Shelly


  She wipes her fingers on a cream-coloured napkin and then uncrosses her legs. Her eyes appraise my unsteady rubberised form and a smile crosses her grease-stained blood-red lips.

  ‘I am not a lesbian, at least not in the way that Helen and the others so clearly are.’

  A sudden and perhaps shocking change of subject. My eyes widen with a helplessly erotic interest.

  ‘They enjoy your oral pleasurings, but ultimately your sissification is part of their own desire – for the feminine, for the obvious pleasures of the feminine form. And I understand that. But I’m afraid the thought of fucking Celine, or Helen, or any of them … well, it kinda leaves me cold. Which is a bit strange, perhaps – given that my husband was so goddamned useless in the sack. But then I always had Taylor, and the other agents that passed my way. And they were always more than happy to do my bidding. So I guess that makes me a little old fashioned; even, within the context of the Bigger Picture, a little perverse.’

  I wonder if she can see the look of total astonishment in my eyes.

  ‘But the funny thing is, the really weird fucking thing is … I find the sissies really rather sexy; especially the ones who have been … transformed. And you, Shelly; well, you are the cherry on the cake as far as sissification is concerned. With those incredible tits and that lovely substantial dick. Jesus, I’m getting wet just looking at you. And yep, the rubber … all my idea. Rubber and sissies. I confess to all my terrible dark crimes of desire. Rubber, sissies and dick. Always plenty of dick.’

  She laughs and I whimper with shock and astonishment. Her urbane, East Coast accent has suddenly mutated into a thick Arkansas drawl. Originally from Little Rock, the truth of her is very much in this husky raunchy country tone.

  She straightens her skirt and stands up. I glare at her through the hood and hear my heart pound with an appalling desire.

  ‘Of course,’ she continues, ‘the sisters don’t want sissies fucking real girls; and that makes plenty of sense to me – on a political level. They fuck each other and serve women without question. But on a personal level … well, it’s a real shame. So I’ve come up with this little “get out of jail free” costume. Now I can do what I like – you don’t get to come or experience any direct stimulation, and the protocol is satisfied. Of course, if I were to snap and let that naughty pecker out of its prison – well, then you’d end up with a complete sex change and I wouldn’t have a dick to tease.’

  She strolls over to me and takes up the fiendish leash. I whimper into the fat gag and realise that I have been transformed into a human dildo: my sole function is to give this startling woman pleasure without being able to experience it myself.

  She tugs playfully on the lead and I totter forward fearfully, wiggling my rubberised bottom with a helpless sissy femininity. My large firmly secured breasts wobble before me and a feeling of total submission grips my girlish heart. I stare longingly at Mistress Eleanor’s splendid shapely black nylon-wrapped legs through a film of pretty pink and my long-imprisoned and tormented cock demands an impossible release. The vibrator buzzes in my expertly widened arse and a squeal of profound sexual need slips past the fat wicked ball gag. I am hers. I am theirs. I belong as a simple desiring sex machine for these women. For all women. I am, thanks to my training and my deep subterranean masochism, the perfect sissy; the paradigm of submission and sweet scented surrender.

  At the bed, I am told to sit. My buttocks, soft pert prisoners of an evil rubber prison, rest on the cream silk sheets. My harshly punished cock presses into the wall of my stomach. I feel my breasts pull down against the equalising pressure of the rubber leotard. My fetishistic entrapment in rubber and the finest nylon is almost unbearably pleasurable. But this is nothing compared with what is to come.

  I watch, increasingly amazed, as Mistress Eleanor begins to pull her sweater from beneath the belt of the sexy grey skirt.

  ‘I’m 51 next month, Shelly,’ she whispers. ‘So I take it you will be impressed by what I’m about to reveal. I feel better now than when I was 31. And I think I look better, too.’

  I remember the pictures of her as a young woman, before she was first lady, when she was first associated with the state governor who would become her husband and, improbably, the President of the United States of America. She was certainly nothing special then, a heavily be-spectacled pullover-wearing woman in her late twenties. A lawyer by profession. But time and the acquisition of power had transformed her into a stunning exemplar of dominant confident womanhood.

  ‘It’s power,’ she continues, pulling the sweater up over her head in one swift teasingly precise gesture. ‘It’s kept me young. That and money. That and the best fucking hairdresser in Arkansas.’

  I stare at her with renewed astonishment and adoration. As the sweater is thrown casually onto the floor, my plastic-covered eyes behold a perfect athletic torso and large still firm breasts tightly imprisoned in a striking black silk brassiere with elegant lace trimming around the top of the well-filled cups.

  As I moan with admiring pleasure into the ball gag, she begins to wiggle out of the grey skirt, her eyes pinned to mine with a hard simple desire.

  ‘Not long now, sissy,’ she says.

  I look down at the gusset of her ultra-sheer black nylon tights and see a large circular stain. She smiles and lets the skirt drop to the floor. Her arousal obvious, she kicks off her heeled shoes and moves towards me on stockinged feet.

  I squeal with a terrible unrewarded desire as she proceeds to alternately caress and pinch my rubber-sealed breasts. I feel the vibrator slip deeper inside me as my buttocks instinctively press into the bed. I close my eyes and see a black eternity filled with exploding silver stars.

  Then I am being pushed onto my back and pulled by strong muscular arms so that I am laying face up along the length of the bed.

  I smell her sex juices and moan with thirsty need. She uses white rubber cording taken from the beside table to bind my ankles and knees very tightly together and I moan my delight yet again.

  ‘So many sissies love bondage,’ she whispers, tying the knots. ‘I need to spend more time practising my rope work.’

  Then I am prone and helpless, and thus ready for her kinky attentions.

  She pulls off the damp tights with an animal eagerness and then, to my further astonishment, rips away the bra to reveal her breasts in all their impressive mature glory. Then, standing back from the bed to provide me with a cruelly tantalising view, she wiggles out of the black silk panties.

  And here she is: one of the most famous, powerful women in the world, stark naked before me. A truly beautiful sight; an image of firm, carefully preserved and deeply erotic maturity.

  I stare at her wet glistening blonde pubic hair and gasp with a frustrated anticipation into the ball gag. She laughs and then virtually jumps onto the bed. In a few seconds, she has straddled my helpless cocooned form and, her thighs carefully parted, is lowering her sex over my capsuled cock.

  Is this losing my virginity? Is this contravening the strict laws of the Bigger Picture? As my sex slips inside her, I feel nothing. A furious sense of injustice floods my tormented sissy mind, but even in the midst of this righteous anger, I know I must accept, that I must obey without the slightest hint of a question.

  And soon she is riding me, her thighs pumping her body like powerful pneumatic pistons – up, down, up, down. Faster, faster.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she begins to moan. ‘Hard and fast. Hard and fast.’

  I can do nothing but look up at her through the slender film of pink plastic, my eyes wide with desire and unfulfilled need, eyes pinned to her bouncing bosom, a bouncing whose frequency and power builds up and up towards the point of profound female release.

  ‘Hard and fast, you beautiful sissy cunt,’ she snaps, her teeth grinding together, her eyes tightly shut.

  A film of hot sex sweat soon covers her rocking pumping body. Her mouth is open in a grimace of pleasure pushing towards a transcendent pain and back again tow
ards ecstasy. Suddenly she leans forward and grabs handfuls of bed sheet on both sides of me. She lowers herself so far that our breasts touch and I squeal with a desperate need to exploit this moment of semi-tactile pleasure to the full.

  Then she sits up, preparing herself like a rocket for blast off. She presses harder. A series of guttural grunts fills the room. It is almost as if she is de-evolving into some kind of sexy simian from the golden blackness of pre-history.

  As she comes, screaming and bucking insanely, the sweat pouring from her marvellous body and flowing in small sensual rivers over my tight erotic second skin of fine latex rubber, I squeal my own helpless, desperate frustration, begging, after this day of sexual suffering, for a release of my own, a release denied so cruelly in the ordeals that have been carefully and sadistically created for me by the wicked and gorgeous mistresses of the Sissy Maids Company and the Bigger Picture.

  But, yet again, there is nothing here for me but further repression of need and a dreadful all pervasive re-affirmation of my absolute objectification and unending and complete submission.

  Mistress Eleanor pulls herself off my arching permanently hard cock toy. She looks down at me with a strangely gentle deeply satisfied smile and climbs off the bed.

  I lay helpless and useless and she extracts a short black silk robe from the closet. She pours herself a large glass of golden-coloured wine. She drinks it in two coarse gulps, sighs contentedly and returns to the bed.

  ‘Right … let’s go see what Taylor’s up to.’

  She unties my legs and then helps me to my unsteady high-heeled feet. I look down at my capsuled cock. It glistens with a thick film of sex juice. The powerful fundamental stink of her cunt seeps through the wicked rubber hood and I feel a quiver of olfactory pleasure pass through my rubberised and tightly tethered form.

  Mistress Eleanor takes up the terrible cock leash and I am led across the bedroom and into the mysterious depths of the walk-in closet.

  Suddenly, I am in a valley of deeply fetishistic pleasures, walking very tentatively between two rows of Mistress Eleanor’s clothes, her considerable travelling wardrobe. A vast array of splendid dresses and blouses, formal skirts and trouser suits, beneath which run two rows of elegant sexy footwear – shoes, boots, sandals – every one marked by wickedly high heels.

  A variety of strong sensual smells fill the closet, perfumes lingering, the cock-teasing aromas of feminine power mixed with the still very strong scent of her sex. Then we come to a door, its outline marked in the darkness by light bleeding from the room beyond. Mistress Eleanor opens it and we walk into a large perfectly square white-walled room, a room whose function is quickly made apparent by the squeals of fear, pain and anger mixed with reluctant pleasure that immediately flood the amplification transistor connected to my ear.

  Even by the standards of the Sissy Maids Company, the room offers a bizarre and disturbing spectacle. My eyes are automatically drawn to the gorgeous spectacle that is Pansy. Pansy, once my lover and fellow trainee sissy, the sexy she-male created with me in the deeply erotic heat of my Aunt Jane’s kinky imagination. Now, she is Taylor’s sex slave, his adoring sissy lover; his gorgeous utterly submissive object.

  She stands a few feet from me dressed in a lovely and quite outrageous red gingham dress. Her beautiful blonde hair has been bound into two little girl pigtails with strawberry-coloured silk ribbons; her striking ice-blue doe eyes, wild with a pained arousal, behold me with a dark teasing delight. If she is smiling, I cannot see, for her always full and voluptuous lips are obscured by a thick strip of red duct tape. Her red-rouged cheeks bulge with some large fiendish gag. A large diamond stud has been inserted into the left nostril of her small girlish nose, and a small golden ring is fixed to the right. The dress itself is very short, its skirt and attached frou-frou petticoats barely reaching beyond her upper thighs. The front of the dress has been cut away to reveal a pair of beautiful white silk panties against which the full rigid length of her sex is fully visible, including the wicked cock rings that ensure absolute obedience to her handsome harsh master. Her long perfectly proportioned legs are sheathed in white nylon stockings and held in place at her thighs with striking red silk elastic garters. Her small sexy feet are imprisoned in a pair of red leather ankle boots with striking red silk laces. The arms of the dress end in puffed lace-trimmed sleeves and glacé gloved hands. The high neck is also trimmed with delicate French lace. Yet, by far the most striking part of this kinky outfit is the chest, for her large breasts are exposed to the eyes of all who can see through a film of very sheer white nylon that covers the entire chest area of the dress.

  I look at her and gasp into my gag. I feel my deeply pained cock strain even harder against its rubber and steel restraint. I want her so very, very badly.

  She moves past me with a look of equal need, a slight sissy moan escaping her expertly secured gag. I follow her as best the perverse hood will allow and then I find myself staring at Taylor. He is sitting on a large black sofa, his legs crossed, drinking casually from a bottle of Japanese beer. The silver metal fly of his black leather trousers is open and his huge hard cock is fully exposed.

  Pansy curtsies deeply before him and then kneels directly in front of his striking sex weapon.

  As all this is revealed, I am constantly aware of a very high-pitched and desperate squealing, a noise that gradually forces my attention towards the opposite side of the room and a sight that fills me with an instant dread followed quickly by a disturbing sexual arousal.

  As Taylor leans forward and brutally tears the strip of duct tape from Pansy’s soft sissy lips, I behold Christina, or a being I take to be Christina. A figure sheathed in black Senso latex from head to toe, trapped inside a seamless ultra-erotic body glove of simmering rubber. Armless and legless, with an eyeless hood fixed into the very fabric of the glove, the only part of her body visible is a pair of full strawberry lips stretched wide by a large pink rubber phallus attached to a metal post a few inches from her hooded face, a phallus plunged deep into her mouth and which she is sucking upon quite helplessly. Indeed, as I examine this kinky scene more carefully, I begin to understand that her whole precarious balance depends on her continuing to suck on the phallus. This is because her feet are clamped inside a devilish single shoe, a tight leather boot that consumes her feet and runs up to the middle of her knees, and which balances on a single seven-inch-high silver stiletto heel. And even this is not the final cause of her true terror-filled distress. This is because her sex, also sheathed seamlessly in Senso black rubber, which emerges from between her rubber legs like the long rigid stalk of some bizarre sex flower, is fixed via a leather shackle wrapped around her bulging rubberised balls and a six-inch length of silver chain, to a metal link fixed into the side of the pole.

  A loud buzzing emanating from her backside betrays a particularly wicked anal intruder, and a painful-looking silver clamp has been fixed to each rubber-covered nipple of her large, firm and very beautiful breasts.

  The poor tormented sissy wiggles and gags on the fat rubber cock, knowing that if she releases the perverse tool of torture, she will most probably lose her balance and her whole body weight will fall on her imprisoned balls.

  As I behold this terrible sentence of balance torment, I hear a gasp of pleasure from Taylor. I turn back to see that Pansy has now taken his long hard red cock in her mouth and is eagerly teasing him towards orgasm.

  Mistress Eleanor is watching this spectacle with wide sex drugged eyes and a partially open mouth. She shifts nervously on her feet. I stare down at her blood-red toenails and then look up and catch her gazing at me. She smiles and in her smile I see a shocking and wonderful confession: envy. She is clearly envying Pansy! Then her smile widens and she stares at Taylor. He meets her eyes with his usual frank arrogant indifference and seems to read her mind.

  ‘Do it,’ he snaps, between increasingly short breaths. ‘Do it now!’

  She nods and turns towards me. Then she grabs me by the arm
and leads me to the centre of the room so that I am just a few feet from the imperilled helpless Christina. She kneels down before me and begins to work free the dreadful desensitising capsule. I squeal in astonishment and her wicked coarse laughter fills the room.

  I can only stare down at her in utter astonishment as she removes the cock rings and then works free the tight rubber restrainer. I gasp with an animal relief and excitement as my cock is exposed to the cool air of this dark satanic chamber.

  Then the unthinkable: with a brazen desiring smile, she takes hold of my long-tormented penis and begins very gently to lick its bulging purple head. I squeal with amazement and instantaneous violent arousal. A film of moisturising spittle soon covers the head and the full length of the rigid aching shaft. This highly erotic lubrication is undertaken with a deeply revealing expertise, and as Mistress Eleanor takes my cock fully into her warm mouth, I fight to remain upright, my knees buckling under the startling electrical stimulation of every pleasure cell in my helplessly and joyously sissified form.

  I explode within two minutes, an eruption of thick creamy come which she accepts with an obvious and, within the context of the philosophy of the Bigger Picture, utterly baffling pleasure. My eyes, sheathed in pink plastic, behold her pumping head and guiding hands, they feast on her large firm breasts, now fully visible as the silken robe has fallen open in the midst of her erotic teasing. I see all of this and feel my body split apart under the appalling pressure exerted by a volcanic eruption of come, a seismic orgasm well off the sexter scale.

  As she drinks my helpless offering, a sudden brutal dizziness washes over my rubber-sealed body and I feel myself fall away from her erotic grasp. The pink haze turns red and then black. I collapse onto the ground, and the last thing I see is Mistress Eleanor standing over me, her hand wiping come from her bloody lips, her smile utterly sluttish.

  When I wake, I am face down and lying on a hard surface. Or rather: secured tightly. Almost immediately, I become aware of the fact that my torso has been strapped tightly to a table top of some kind. The rubber leotard and hood have been removed, as have the silken tights. I am dressed in a white Senso nylon body stocking. Thin leather straps hold me tightly to the table top at just above the buttocks, the waist and chest. My arms have been pulled very painfully behind my back and secured in a pink rubber bondage glove that runs from my hands up to my shoulders. As I struggle to understand this latest kinky ordeal, I become aware that I am, in fact, bent over the table, and that my legs have been strapped to what seem to be its metal legs at the ankles, upper calves and thighs. The table legs appear to move away from the actual table at a slight angle, so that my own nylon-sheathed thighs are in fact spread quite widely apart. Also, I have been secured in such a way that my cock and buttocks are actually over the edge of the table. More bizarrely, I am gradually aware of the fact that the vibrator has been removed from my long-tormented arse and that a rear panel fixed to the stocking has been removed to leave my back passage completely exposed. And, on top of this, my cock, which has been resealed in its rubber restrainer and tightly re-ringed, has been secured, via the fiendish collar fitted around my scrotum and the silver leash attached to it, to a hook fixed somewhere beneath the table, thus pulling it very tightly straight forward. This ensures that even the slightest movement results in a painful tug to my sex. Also, I am, to my surprise, completely un-gagged. Yet when I manage to look up, I suddenly begin to understand why the gag has been removed, for standing directly in front of me is Pansy. She is dressed in a powder-blue body stocking, exactly the same in design to the one teasing my own sissy form. She is standing bolt upright. This is due to the fact that she is strapped to a thick metal pole similar to the one that was entertaining Christina. Yet rather than facing the pole, her back is pressed tightly against it and she is held in place by thick white leather strapping wrapped around her ankles, her knees, her thighs, her stomach and her neck. Her arms have been forced behind her back and tethered tightly with powder-blue rubber-coated cording at the wrists and elbows. A powder-blue stocking has been stretched tightly over her pretty head and through the thin film of soft nylon it is possible to see a strip of thick white masking tape spread firmly over her soft strawberry lips. Her bulging cheeks betray another fat panty gag, and a high-pitched buzzing betrays a new deeply positioned anal vibrator.

 

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