Silken Servitude

by Christina Shelly

  ‘Take it off and fuck me. Please … please!’

  I kick off my high heels. She does the same. She turns her back on me to allow the removal of her soft cream-coloured pinafore. Then I am unbuttoning the large white pearl buttons that run the length of her perfectly shaped back, from the high neck of the maid’s dress to the befrilled edge of the wide very short skirt. Then she slips the dress over her shoulders and lets it collapse down her body. I gasp with pleasure as a gorgeous red and black striped basque-style corset is revealed.

  ‘It unclips,’ she whispers, her eyes wide with furious angry helpless need.

  My hands shake almost uncontrollably as I unclip the metal eyes that hold the corset in place and then pull the two whaleboned side panels part. The ridges of her spinal column set out a ladder towards a very dangerous ecstasy, and as she pulls the corset free of her body, I know I am surely doomed.

  She turns, topless, to face me. My eyes fall on her breasts and I experience a strange collision of artistic appreciation and dark male desire. Her bosom has a striking perfection – natural proportion and simple elegance. Her breasts are large, but firm. She is perhaps 21, maybe 22 years old, and her body betrays a physical excellence that inspires a terrible moan of unbearable envy and need.

  She takes my head in her hands and guides my face towards her breasts, and in a few seconds I am covering these exquisite pale rose orbs of silken flesh in delicate sissy kisses and she, my gorgeous needful Myriam, is purring with a deep irresistible sensual pleasure.

  Eventually, she pushes me away. I slip off her soft scented tights and white silk panties to reveal the ingenious and utterly wicked Ecstasy Belt, basically a classic chastity belt design of hard black rubber, whose front and back panels are fitted with two long ribbed and remote controlled vibrators, designed to bore deep into her and provide variable levels of a very permanent physical pleasure that can quickly become mind bending and utterly debilitating.

  ‘There are times I cannot think, that I cannot remember who I am,’ she says. ‘She is so cruel. I am tied, gagged and left with these boring into me at the highest frequency. Normally, she has beaten me, attached clamps to my nipples, even smothered the vibrators in skin irritant. She is cruel and perverse, and so terribly imaginative. Pansy and I have suffered so much, and enjoyed it even more.’

  She smiles gently as I seek out the hidden metal clip at the top of the rear panel. It is sealed beneath a flap of softer black rubber placed just between the buttocks and is impossible to remove by the unfortunate wearer. I pull back the flap and release the eye clip, and suddenly the fiendish ecstasy belt device loosens. A gasp of delight slips from between Myriam’s beautiful rose-red lips, and then, with her help, I gently ease the belt free of her gorgeous long-tormented body, in the process slowly slipping the vibrators from her arse and cunt. She squeals with a terrible pleasure and a furious relief. Her large ripe breasts bounce enthusiastically as she demands I speed up our erotic preparations.

  ‘Now it is your turn, Shelly – undress for me.’

  Desire is now my all-powerful god. I am beyond fear of the potentially appalling consequences of my actions. I stare at Myriam’s perfect form and know there is only one way forward. I climb from the bed and stand before her, my eyes pinned hungrily to hers. She smiles encouragingly and lets a hand slip between the lips of her silken sex. As she teases herself, I undress, a slow, graceful and deeply feminine striptease that, judging from her breathing and the increased efforts of her fingers, excites her terribly. And, eventually, I am down to my restrainer, the cock rings and the anal vibrator. I stand before her proud and angrily aroused, my imprisoned sex hard as the steel binding it, my generous chest displayed brazenly for her erotic entertainment. She beckons me back onto the bed. I kneel before her on the silken sheets. We are so close that our hard painfully erect nipples rub together. I squeal with a deeply girlish pleasure. She takes my tormented sex in her hands and then leans forward and places a long soft kiss on each of my considerable breasts. A squeal mutates into a long slow guttural moan. She carefully unclips the steel cock rings and then very gently teases the rubber restrainer off my balls and cock. I cry out with a mixture of powerful sexual arousal and brutal relief. Then, my pink-dyed cock pops up before her, a startling sissified phallus – the perfect symbol of my bondage and the philosophy of the Bigger Picture.

  Never taking her beautiful golden-brown eyes from mine, she then begins to caress my cock. I moan and cry, I beg her for release. I feel her warm soft fingers run gently across the boiling achingly rigid shaft of my sex and I whisper her beautiful name helplessly. She leans forward and we kiss, long, hard, desperately. She then leans down between my legs and gently kisses my sex. Memories of Mistress Eleanor and Pansy come flooding back. I recall the ministrations of Christina and realise that this is the desire that the Bigger Picture plan for all sissies, this and the painful pleasures of anal penetration. We are programmed to suck and fuck ourselves into a she-male homoerotic oblivion, and yet here I am about to go against the cardinal sanction of the Bigger Picture – the most complete and perfect manifestation of the sissification process is about to betray her mistresses in the most intimate and profoundest of ways.

  ‘Call me “Mon Ange”,’ she whispers, momentarily leaning back from her ministrations. ‘My Angel.’

  I whisper these simple French words, trying my hardest to imitate her husky southern pronunciation. Her lovely, always girlish and slightly innocent smile widens.

  ‘Perfect,’ she whispers, helping me to lie down on my back across the bed and then positioning herself so that she is straddling my body, her dripping hairless sex directly above my desperate so long denied cock.

  Then, with a slight high-pitched moan of pleasure, she lowers herself onto me. I look up at her in awe: again I am worshipping a mistress. Yet this is a form of worship banned by the official church. I am a heretic – a blasphemer.

  Myriam: the first woman I penetrate, the first woman and, perhaps, the last. Her eyes close as I slip deeper into her soft warmth. She cries out as I instinctively raise my back and push my sex forward into her, towards the very edge of a splendid and highly dangerous abyss.

  I am surprised how easy it is – in the end. In only a few minutes we have established a powerful natural rhythm and she is riding me like a huntress atop some strange sissy steed. My wide helplessly doe eyes drink up the startling vision of her vibrating sweat-soaked form; her large perfectly shaped breasts bounce furiously and specks of hot sex sweat fly from them and strike my own shaking bosom. I feel the muscles in her sex grip my sex tighter and gasp with a shocked pleasure: it is as if I have been lured into some dark pungent cave and now a trap has been sprung to keep me locked safely and helplessly inside.

  She comes a few seconds before I do, screaming her joy at the top of the fierce relentless rhythm that has built up between us, a synchronised sex beat shattered into a million fragments of intense wordless pleasure at the moment of fundamental orgasm.

  I explode in a way I have never exploded, shouting ‘Mon Ange’ over and over as I fill her, as I pour my hot salty love into her.

  Then she falls forward onto me and I grab her, holding her soaking form hard against my own, my cock still deep inside her, our wet breasts rubbing together with a most erotic friction.

  Eventually, she pulls herself up. I am still rock hard inside her and, thanks to the physical and chemical alterations of my changing, I know I could fuck her again within seconds. But she slowly withdraws from me, a strange look now in those pretty Gallic eyes, a look of very significant sadness.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispers, tears beginning to trickle from her eyes. ‘I have ruined you. But please understand, my love, I had no choice. And also, please remember that I do love you … so very much.’

  I look at her with genuine concern and deep puzzlement. She very rapidly gathers up her clothes and then, still naked, flees the room. I call her name, pulling myself up onto my elbows, feeling the deeply
pleasurable weight of my perfect bosom as I manage, finally, to sit upright.

  I dress in a stunned concerned silence cut through with a wonderful sense of physical release. And at the heart of my concern is a feeling I first experienced in Pansy’s gentle arms, a feeling of intense and unyielding love, a powerful adoration that goes beyond my sissy sadomasochism. I have been taken in a most erotic manner by Myriam and in this taking has blossomed the love that began to develop in the dark pleasures of the movement studio. Yet at the core of this love there is a strange doubt, a doubt emerging from her guilty tear-stained eyes.

  Almost unaware of my dishevelled state, I quietly and quickly begin to dress, pulling the restrainer back over my hard, still hungry sex and clipping the cock rings in place with a sense of sadness and a very powerful arousal.

  In the bathroom, I carefully reset my hair and then I totter, in my sexy junior’s attire, from the room, unsure of where I am going and what I am doing, lost in a haze of desire and fear.

  9

  The Ball

  THE GUESTS BEGIN to arrive on Saturday afternoon and the maids, she-male and female, are kept very busy from just after lunch to near tea-time, tottering desperately back and forth with cases and bags, eager to serve the many mistresses delivered by taxi and private car to the large entrance of the spectacular Ashcroft mansion.

  Dressed in my gorgeous Senso silk junior’s costume, I wiggle-mince in five-inch-high black patent leather stilettos up and down stairs, across the marble hallway and through long elegant corridors, carrying hand luggage and leading guests to their rooms.

  Despite my outer cheerfulness and the intense pleasure I take in exhibiting myself in this most ultra-feminine of conditions before so many beautiful women, some of whom are very famous, I remain deeply concerned by the events of the previous day. My initiation into the most intimate delights of the female form, my wildly illegal adventure with the glorious sex kitten Myriam, is constantly playing on my mind. The strange nature of her departure and the tearful apology keep replaying in my mind, a sinister loop at the heart of which is a terrible truth that I need very urgently to discover.

  Yet all these worrisome thoughts are quickly blown into a fine immediately forgotten dust as I totter back to the hallway to collect the latest mistress, for it is here that I discover my wonderful gorgeous Aunt Jane. My heart swells, my finely hosed knees buckle with a deeply erotic weakness and tears of genuine happiness suddenly fill my girlish and helplessly doe eyes.

  She is as beautiful and impressive as ever. Dressed in a knee-length black leather skirt, a tight black nylon sweater and a black leather jacket, with sheer black nylon hose and high-heeled black patent leather mules, her thick black hair bound in a tight bun, she is a vision of truly dominant womanhood. Standing by her side is Justine, dressed in a black silk trouser suit, her own long straight blonde hair cascading over her broad athletic shoulders like a stream of golden water, her blue eyes pinned with a cool fascination to my approaching ultra-sissified form.

  I draw to a giddy halt a few feet from Aunt Jane and perform a very deep panty-flashing curtsey and whisper a desire-ridden ‘mistress’.

  Her imperial smile widens. ‘It’s so good to see you again, Shelly. Three months have made a lot of difference. You look … quite incredible.’

  I smile shyly and bob-curtsey my thanks.

  ‘I am your creation, mistress. Here I have learnt that and much more.’

  ‘So I hear. Helen and Emily have given me very good reports of your progress. And of the greater vision. It’s almost too good to believe.’

  Strangely, there is a hint of irony in her voice and, as I look deeper into her eyes, I see something doubtful, questioning. There is a lack of conviction, a lack of true belief. This has, undoubtedly, always been there. I hear this irony and immediately think of Ms Blakemore. Yes, again I get the impression of the two camps, the moderation of Ms Blakemore, Mistress Donna and, perhaps, Mistress Eleanor, and the cruel determination of Mistress Helen, Mistress Anne and Mistress Celine.

  ‘Do you like your new body, Shelly?’ Justine asks.

  I look at her and remember my helpless desire for this beautiful, graceful and erotically aloof woman. Young, yet wise beyond her years. Cool, yet incredibly sexy. A stern, sensual ice queen. I behold the two beauties – maybe thirty years separating them – and remember the various ways in which I have served them, the places my tongue has been, the secrets that float effortlessly between us in each sexually charged look. I remember the loving cruelty of their control, the expert and inescapable nature of their bondage, the perverse enthusiasm at the heart of their erotic imaginations. Yes, they are very much the same, these two women. A tall glacial blonde and an ample dark-eyed brunette. The same and yet different; a perfect and intersecting contrast rooted in the same shatteringly simple truth: the affirmation of the feminine will through the subjugation of men.

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ I reply, my voice a powerful demonstration of the truly profound nature of my alteration.

  I pick up a single black leather bag at Aunt Jane’s side and ask them to follow me.

  As I mince forward, I am aware of their eyes feasting on my buxom sissy form, and I make sure I wiggle my tightly pantied bottom in as ultra-feminine a manner as possible.

  As we climb the stairs, I try to determine exactly what it is about Aunt Jane and Justine that has changed. As they stare up at my red nylon-encased legs, I contemplate a reserve in their voices as well as an irony. It is almost as if they are here for a secret reason. There is a touch of duplicity about them, of disguise.

  These thoughts are soon dispelled when we arrive at the room allocated by the red number pinned to their bag. And it is only as we enter the guest suite that a sudden and quite shocking fact makes itself known: before me is one of the giant double beds reserved for mistresses … and their lovers!

  I place the bag on the bed and, with shaking knees, turn to face the two women, suddenly painfully aware of the new nature of their relationship, trying to hide a strange mixture of sexual arousal and intense, if ill-defined jealously.

  ‘Yes, Shelly: I’m afraid Justine and I are more than just good friends now. The last three months have brought us together in a rather more intimate manner.’

  Aunt Jane’s words, delivered with renewed irony, are followed by a somewhat theatrical embrace between the two women and a long passionate kiss.

  I watch in astonishment. The two most important women in my life (before I met Myriam) have become lovers.

  ‘Don’t worry about the bag,’ my Aunt adds, sitting down on the bed. ‘But you can give me a foot massage.’

  She kicks off her shoes and stretches out her long elegant legs. I feel my sex engage in another useless struggle with its layers of rubber and metal restraint, perform a deep curtsey and kneel before my most revered mistress.

  With hot shaking hands, I lift her left foot and then begin, very gently, to massage the instep. Aunt Jane sighs with a deeply aroused relief and I look up at Justine with admiring, yet also deeply curious eyes.

  She releases one of her very slight half smiles and then removes her silk jacket. Beneath, she is wearing a beautiful white silk blouse with a very low neck line.

  ‘Kiss the foot,’ she says suddenly, coldly, a voice distant and frightening.

  I lean forward and kiss Aunt Jane’s nylon-sheathed toes. Aunt Jane moans with pleasure and Justine laughs, a clipped cruel sound that echoes throughout the room.

  Then, to my surprise, Justine unbuckles her thick patent leather belt and lets her black silk slacks fall to the ground. Beneath she is wearing sheer black nylon tights. She kicks off her high-heeled ankle boots and then steps out of the trousers. She strolls over to the bed and sits down next to her lover.

  ‘When you’ve finished with Jane, do me.’

  I nod fearfully and realise that both women require not just a massage, but the kinky delights of full foot worship. Soon I am smothering Aunt Jane’s feet in kisses and caresses an
d, as I do so, the two women kiss and cuddle and Justine lets her own feet run up between my legs. The next fifteen minutes are a strange three-way sex game that aptly illustrates the history and nature of our relationship. I service my two mistresses with absolute commitment as they moan in each other’s arms. I have known for some time that Aunt Jane is a lesbian. Previously she had been involved with Ms Hartley, Pansy’s guardian, and Ms Hartley’s absence from the Ball strikes me as unusual. I assume she will appear later and continue my erotic ministrations.

  Eventually, I am told to stand to attention before the women with my hands behind my back. I present myself eagerly, yet also hesitantly. I am unsure of my ground now: so much seems to have changed between us in the last few months, yet so much is the same.

  ‘We’re both very impressed by what the SMC has done to you, Shelly,’ my Aunt says, as Justine strokes her hair with a lover’s gentle admiration. ‘I hear you have met Eleanor Groves. I hear that she was more than a little taken with you. Eleanor is a wonderful inspirational woman, and she has played a major role in pushing forward the global agenda of the Bigger Picture. As you no doubt remember, my sweet sissy, this is not an agenda that I was immediately taken by. I sent you here to free you of your male weaknesses, to allow you to develop your femininity to its highest level. You have clearly achieved this, but at what cost? I can’t answer that question yet, dearest. But what I can tell you is that I have begun to doubt the wisdom of the Bigger Picture and the motivation of many of those who lead it. Eleanor appears increasingly a figurehead, a useful tool to access power, influence and finance. Emily Ashcroft is a moderate and, ultimately, she is in a weak position. She is supported by others – Donna, Amelia Blakemore. But these are in the minority. The true leaders of the Bigger Picture are emerging. These are the hardliners. You have seen their fascist vision, the totalitarian paradox of the Femocracy. A world where sissies are little more than toys to be deposed of at will. A world built on a sado-erotic philosophy of female power and domination. A world really no different to the one we have now. A world controlled by women like Mistress Helen and Mistress Anne, and others, even more extreme. Indeed, in the hands of these women, the Bigger Picture will be even more of a fascist enterprise. I have been given access to secret documents from an internal pressure group, documents insisting on the forced castration of all sissies, of an abandonment of the principle of a self-controlling male desire in favour of its total eradication. These same documents insist on the mass extermination of all males who refuse to undergo this most radical of treatments. It is little more than a cracked feminist Nazism, and it will fail miserably.’