I listen in horrified astonishment. I listen and begin to understand the core of the tensions I have witnessed over the last few months. The sect within a sect. The arguments at the steering group. The random cruelties of Mistress Anne. The kindness of Mistress Donna. The ironic and gentle attentions of the wonderful Ms Blakemore. The brutal indifference of Mistress Helen.
‘The radical vision is doomed to failure because no man will allow himself to be utterly destroyed, Senso or no Senso. Never mind who is running the country or the world. Extremism will always breed resistance. Always. And the moderates? Well, history has shown that, if they don’t act, they too will be destroyed.’
And it is at this exact point that the door to the large elegant room opens and Lady Ashcroft enters. Aunt Jane immediately falls silent and rises from the bed, a brief look of concern transforming into a broad generous smile. The two women embrace and I watch Lady Ashcroft’s hand pass in a lingering fashion across my Aunt’s tightly skirted, generous and very shapely behind.
They kiss and part.
‘Three months is a surprisingly long time,’ Lady Ashcroft says, appraising my Aunt carefully. ‘You haven’t been returning my calls.’
Aunt Jane smiles weakly and nods. ‘I’ve been out of the country. On business.’
There is a moment of tense silence. Lady Ashcroft’s beautiful pale-blue eyes narrow. ‘Business,’ she whispers, a hint of suspicion, a touch of doubt in her deep clear voice.
Aunt Jane ignores Lady Ashcroft’s change of tone and turns away from her, talking as she does so, her eyes fixed in a cold and meaningful way on the semi-clad Justine.
‘A little modelling work. In America. For one of Celine’s companies, actually. A very interesting experience.’
‘She never mentioned it.’
‘I doubt very much if she knew.’
‘You didn’t tell her?’
‘It didn’t seem particularly necessary. And anyway, none of us know everything about all the members … do we?’
Aunt Jane arrives at Justine’s side and sits down on the bed next to her so that she is, once again, facing Lady Ashcroft.
‘Helen has done a marvellous job with Shelly. Surely the best yet.’
The subject changed, Lady Ashcroft’s look of distrust fades and a smile returns to her beautiful face.
‘Helen’s determination and Amelia’s genius. Now we have the basis for a true mass production. With this and the completion of the Sados facility … well, there’s no stopping us.’
‘I hear Senso is about to be injected into the American market. With this and the support of Eleanor … we are facing the first major expansion.’
‘Within a year, the Bigger Picture will be a global presence.’
‘But is it a coherent Picture, Emily?’
This sudden question wipes the smile off Lady Ashcroft’s full strawberry-painted lips.
‘What does that mean? You’re certainly full of mystery today, Jane.’
‘It means that Celine has a different view of things. That the American message is too extreme. That the conservatives clearly have the upper hand in our biggest expanding market. They’re already talking of castration camps.’
Lady Ashcroft’s eyes widen. There is real anger in her voice as she virtually spits her response.
‘That’s utter rubbish. We have agreed the middle way. The Steering Group is fully agreed –’
‘And Anne and Celine? They’re openly plotting behind the back of the Group, and Helen is helping them.’
A sudden sadness washes over Lady Ashcroft’s face.
‘Yes, I know. I know all about the plotting, the back-stabbing … the factionalism. And I have to fight it every day. We have to keep to the middle way or everything will be destroyed.’
The sense of depressed resignation in Lady Ashcroft’s tone seems to have taken the wind out of Aunt Jane’s sails.
‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Lady Ashcroft smiles weakly. ‘Now … get yourself ready. Drinks will be served at 7.00 p.m. And let me have Shelly back … she’s needed downstairs.’
For the next two hours, I continue to assist with the arrivals and associated preparations, my mind filled with erotic thoughts of my Aunt and Justine and more considered speculations on the nature of her visit. There is a split in the Bigger Picture. My Aunt, introduced to the sect only three months ago, is now warning of its downfall in a manner that is more in tune with a seasoned and ultimately betrayed veteran. The mysterious conversation with Lady Ashcroft has only added to the sense of unease about my role and the future direction of this strange and kinky society of female dominants, a direction that will very much be influenced by those who are now arriving, a striking array of the rich and the powerful, many of whom I cannot help but recognise. I assist some of the world’s most powerful businesswomen, politicians, sports personalities, television chat show hostesses, actresses, even a famous and highly controversial woman priest. I feel their eyes fall upon me, mostly looks of fascination and desire, but in some cases fear, envy and disgust. I know that tonight I am to be ‘publicly unveiled’ in a no doubt very humiliating manner, and the thought fills me with a terrible mixture of trepidation and intense masochistic arousal.
As well as the maids – she-male and female – there is a small army of young female catering staff, provided by Mistress Celine. Each one is no older than twenty, and all are strikingly good looking. They are dressed in very sheer black nylon tights, black micro mini skirts and cream-coloured silk blouses. Each one looks uncomfortable with the spectacle that is revealing itself before their eyes, particularly the elaborate costumes and ultra-buxom figures of the sissy maids. Even as the guests are arriving in the large entrance hall, the catering staff are walking amongst them with glasses of expensive white wine set on silver trays. On tables lining the far wall of the foyer area, there are more bottles and glasses. On more than one occasion I have noticed the propensity for alcohol and the connection between the high spirits it inspires and the increased suffering of the sissies.
Just before 7.00 p.m., Annette appears and ushers me into a side room just before the vast library. Here I find myself standing before Ms Blakemore and Mistress Donna. Standing next to Mistress Donna is Pansy, dressed in her beautiful junior’s costume.
I haven’t seen my beloved Ms Blakemore for over a week and the sight of her dressed in a gorgeous black velvet evening gown, with a plunging sensually revealing neckline, a dress that runs to the tops of her black nylon-sheathed ankles, is a sight to bring a helpless smile of absolute joy to my cherry-painted sissy lips.
She steps forward in five-inch-high stiletto-heeled court shoes and I perform a deep loving curtsey, making sure she gets the fullest view possible of my red nylon enveloped thighs and heavily befrilled white silk panties.
‘You look marvellous, as usual, Shelly.’
There is the usual hint of ironic tease in her sultry American accent and I smile shyly, the memories of our exciting days together washing over me like a shower of liquid gold.
‘But now it is time to make you look even more spectacular.’
She steps back to reveal a table laden with sissy delights.
‘You will go to the ball, Cinderella,’ Mistress Donna teases.
I turn to look at her and find myself remembering beautiful mysterious Myriam. Like Myriam, she is a petite blonde with striking blue eyes. Unlike Myriam, Mistress Donna has the exact precision figure of a trained athlete, a figure tonight expertly displayed by a tight white nylon sweater, a pink leather mini skirt, white nylon tights and pink patent leather ankle boots with striking six-inch heels.
There are two dresses – one for Pansy and one for myself. My dress is snow white; Pansy’s is a delicate powder blue. I stare at Pansy and see the fierce bottomless need burning in her large eyes. She smiles slightly and I remember the love and intimacy we have shared.
‘I suggest you begin by undressing each other.’
&
nbsp; I curtsey my understanding and mince towards Pansy. Our eyes meet again and a powerful electric charge of animal desire flows between us. I remember our last erotic adventure, a night of helpless oral pleasuring, a night of her tightly gagged moans of uncontrollable pleasure and repeatedly violent orgasm. I drank deep of her that long, sexy night, and in this dark teasing consumption our love, always so powerful – my first sissy love – had once again blossomed. She smiles slightly, her body quivering with the terrible sexual need that is our constant companion. I behold her marvellous form and fight off a moan of savage sex hunger. Her long blonde hair is bound in a delightful schoolgirl ponytail with a white silk ribbon which itself is bound in a fat sissy bow. Her gleaming white silk pinafore strains in a deeply erotic manner against the pressure of her buxom sissy form and the tight red dress beneath. Shelly knows Pansy is very tightly corseted – Mistress Anne insists on an elaborate and constant array of foundation wear – the ‘discipline of body restraint’. She also knows the corseting has the quite deliberate effect of pushing the sissy’s already considerable bosom forward in a most provocative and sensual manner.
Pansy’s cherry-red lips glisten promisingly in the striking sunlight that bleeds into the room and her perfect snow white teeth – another product of the transformation – sparkle briefly as her tongue slowly crosses her lips.
I stand a few inches from her and swallow hard. Her smile broadens. There is a confidence in her eyes that I lack. A purity of purpose. An acceptance. I know that at the core of this confidence is her utter devotion to the sexual fascism of the Bigger Picture. She has adapted in a way that I now know I never can to the demands of sissy love.
‘Turn around,’ she whispers. ‘My love.’
I smile shyly and turn. I feel her hands gently untie the bow binding my own silk pinafore in place and sigh with a deep sexual pleasure.
In a few incredibly erotic minutes, I am stripped down to just my ever-present restrainer, my rock hard sex rising before my mistresses like a sex rocket long delayed blast off. The women behold my perfect sissy form with tormented eyes, paying particular attention to my proud firm large breasts. I look into Ms Blakemore’s eyes and see a terrible need only just resisted.
‘And now Pansy,’ she whispers, her voice lost deep in the sex trance.
Soon, we are both naked except for our restrainers and standing before the table upon which our ball gowns are set out, our junior maid’s uniforms piled at our dainty sissy feet.
‘Tonight will mark the successful completion of the second phase of your training,’ Mistress Donna explains. ‘On Monday you will begin formal placements as qualified housemaids. However, the full status of SMC housemaid cannot finally be granted until you have completed the Placements. It is here you will act as independent maidservants to a variety of highly demanding mistresses outside of the SMC training academy. It is here that what you have learnt in the past few months will be fully and thoroughly tested. And if you pass, my sexy little flowers, then the next stage of the great adventure will begin. Pansy will remain here as a training maid, working on the next generation of sissies which will begin to flow into the academy from the regional centres. Then, once the regional training centres have been established in their own right, she – along with the rest of us who remain in the HQ – will relocate to Sados. And Shelly – once you have graduated, you will return to the West Country with your Aunt and establish the first fully fledged regional training academy.’
We listen, entranced, to this gentle reaffirmation of our sissy futures; yet even as the lovely mistress sets out these futures, there is doubt in my mind, doubt inspired by the bizarre events of the last two weeks and the increasing sense that all is not well amongst the Bigger Picture’s senior sisterhood.
Then, finally, we are allowed to dress. Pansy is assisted by Mistress Donna and I, to my utter delight, am aided by Ms Blakemore. The elegant plump black beauty holds up what initially looks like a cream-coloured ball gown made of beautiful shimmering silk and covered in sparkling sequins. However, closer inspection reveals that the gown has been very elaborately customised for sissy use. Indeed, its key function seems to be to ensure that the paradoxical nature of the sissy form is displayed to full and very apparent effect.
The dress has a narrow central bodice that widens into a chest section of a much finer transparent white silk of the type used to make stockings. The long skirt of the dress runs only down the sides and back, with the front section completely open. Beneath this startling construction, I am to wear only a white rubber mini corset and a pair of white nylon tights, plus a pair of stunning white silk-lined court shoes with testing five-inch heels.
But before any of this gorgeous attire is allowed near my body, Ms Blakemore, a wicked excited smile lighting up her gorgeous face, leans forward and begins very gently to remove the cock rings.
I whimper with intense brutal pleasure as the rings are unclipped and then perform a helpless dance of frustrated ecstasy as the plump dusky beauty teasingly unrolls the fiendish rubber restrainer. Then, once again, my cock is free. I remember the second before I entered Myriam, the instant of masculine need, the bizarre collision of my desire and my form. I blush helplessly, a terrible confession of my guilt.
‘This should amuse you,’ Ms Blakemore says, taking a sheer white nylon sheath from the tabletop. My eyes widen and she smiles.
‘Yes, a little piece of teasingly soft decoration for the party.’
Then she slowly slips the cool scented sheath over my hard boiling sex and I lose control completely. As she guides it along the crimson length of my cock, I moan and squeal with a furious pleasure. And soon, thanks to Mistress Donna’s own erotic ministrations, poor Pansy is doing exactly the same.
‘I told you we should have gagged them,’ Mistress Donna snaps, very obviously enjoying herself.
Once the sheath has been pulled tightly in place over my bulging aching balls, it is secured with a pink silk ribbon tied in a suitably fat sissy bow.
The kiss of soft Senso nylon on my tormented granite sex is almost unbearable and tears of terrible frustration are soon building up in my large doe eyes. And no sooner has this wonderful torment been completed, than Ms Blakemore takes up the white nylon tights and orders me to put them on, an order I obey without question. I slip the sheer deeply fetishistic material over my silky legs and a smile of deep dark pleasure once again crosses my face. Of all the fabrics and materials that have possessed my sissified form over the past months, it is surely the sheer nylon of tights and the various kinky body stockings that has brought the most immediate and powerful sensual pleasure. This pleasure has of course been doubled by the impregnation of cell-tormenting Senso, and as my body once again reacts to the fiendish irresistible chemical, I know that whatever happens, I will never be able to kick the addiction of ultra-femininity, the super drug that has swallowed my mind whole.
Like many of the body stockings, the tights are fitted with a strategically placed hole through which Ms Blakemore slips my sheathed cock and balls once I have managed to pull the hose into place around my waist. As she adjusts the ribbon, my watering eyes turn to Pansy. The poor sissy is wiggling and squealing angrily as Mistress Donna pulls her own rigid sex through the lace-frilled hole. Her tormented gyrations cause her large pale rose breasts to bounce with an almost hilarious fury and her bottom to wriggle in a most beautiful and arousing manner. Mistress Donna, angered by this teasing display, administers two very hard slaps to the sissy’s pert backside, and although this succeeds in slightly stilling Pansy, it is quickly clear her sexual excitement has only increased.
With the tights positioned, it is a relatively simple task to wrap the mini corset tightly around my already strictly trained waist and clip it into position. As Ms Blakemore lovingly ensures that the clips fit into the row of eye sockets that ensure the tightest fit, my back arches inward and my breasts jut forward. The gorgeous black beauty laughs teasingly and compliments me on my spectacular bosom. I smile shyly
and feel my unrestrained sex strain desperately in its ultra-soft nylon prison. Then, to my shock and deep pleasure, Ms Blakemore leans forward and gently caresses my tormented sex shaft with an elegant milk chocolate hand. I squeal with pleasure and her smile broadens.
‘I miss our little chats, Shelly.’
‘I do too, mistress.’
‘Don’t worry, though – there will be plenty of other opportunities. Perhaps sooner than you think.’
Her words perplex and arouse, but before I have a chance to consider their true meaning more fully, Ms Blakemore has removed her teasing hand and set about fitting me into the elaborate evening gown.
She carefully unzips the shimmering masterpiece of ultra-femininity and helps me step into it. A quiver of delight ripples across my sissy form as the dress is pulled up my finely hosed legs and over my tightly corseted waist. Ms Blakemore slides the dress up over my straining sensitised breasts and a whimper of painful arousal escapes my glistening cherry lips. Then I am inside it and my delectable African Queen is slowly pulling up the silver zip that traverses the dress from the waist to the high neck. And as the zip progresses up the curving line of my spine, the dress seems to close around my body and reveal its true, spectacularly erotic nature. As I suspected, the lower half of the dress is entirely open and my erect nylon-cocooned sex is fully exposed to view. The sides, back and bodice section of the dress are made from a skin-tight sequin-covered silk that hugs my figure like an erotic body glove. The chest section, as has been noted, is made from a much finer transparent silk and both manages to support my breasts and display them in a most enticing manner.
Silken Servitude Page 20