Silken Servitude

by Christina Shelly

  As soon as the dress is properly fitted, Ms Blakemore takes up a white-lace befrilled rubber ring and slips it gently over my nylon-enveloped cock. She then attaches a short length of narrow silver chain to a tiny eye fitted to the centre of the ring and attaches the other end of the chain to a small hook attached to the edge of the dress at the waist area. This has the effect of holding my stiff deeply tormented sex firmly in place at a forty-five degree angle. My feet are then slipped into the gorgeous silk-lined court shoes and I am ready for the Ball.

  I turn to face Pansy and find myself looking at a reflection in powder blue. She looks utterly stunning and her sex-tormented eyes betray the fact that I also look quite spectacular.

  But before we are allowed to reveal our splendidly decorated sissy forms, there are two final touches: a pair of white glacé ball gloves that stretch longingly up to my upper arms and a white rubber ball gag with two thick white leather straps that are buckled tightly together at the back of my neck as I moan with a deeply masochistic pleasure, a pleasure inspired by the fact that my gag has been coated in the unmistakably tasty sex juices of Ms Blakemore.

  As we moan our appreciation of this final kinky touch, Ms Blakemore takes a vibrator control box from a leather handbag on the table and turns its sinister dial towards the highest level of vibration. In seconds, the fat long vibrators permanently positioned in our sissy backsides are buzzing furiously, and so are we. Then we are led from the room in a state of helpless bliss, fighting back well gagged squeals of dark bottomless pleasure, our strange adventure about to take a new and exciting turn in an even more bizarre direction than even I can imagine.

  We are led from the room and out into the main foyer area, a space now full of elegantly dressed, beautiful and very jovial women – over one hundred of them. And as Ms Blakemore, flanked by the lovely Mistress Donna, leads Pansy and me to the Ball’s relaxed noisy reception area, heads begin to turn and the eyes begin to focus in on the spectacle of the two new sissies. As we totter forward, our breasts and sexes bouncing helplessly before us, we are aware of a wave of unnerving silence crashing over the crowd, a wave of calm fascination, a wave of helpless and careful curiosity.

  We descend into a jungle of powerful sensual perfumes and exotic feminine plumage. I feel eyes burn into every inch of my sissified form, a dreadful group attention that is both highly disturbing and deeply erotic. I feel my body in a way I have never felt it: under these hungry eyes I am alive in a way I never felt possible. My sex twitches in its teasing nylon prison and I fight back more squeals of appallingly irresistible pleasure as the vibrator buzzes angrily inside my tenderised and expertly stretched arse. The rock-hard nipples of my impressive tormented tits brush against a wall of soft silk and I know this is my dreadful eternal sissy heaven.

  We are led through a corridor of mature exquisitely cultivated beauty towards the main banquet room. I notice the catering staff walking amongst the women serving drinks from silver trays. One of the girls, a petite busty redhead, turns towards me and nearly drops the tray in astonishment. Then we are in the banquet room itself, which is gradually filling with guests.

  The room has been set out as a series of large circular tables, with a long narrow table on a raised platform at the very front. It is here that the senior figures will sit, looking out over the assembled guests. We are led across the floor of the room, between and around the tables. As we totter along besides our mistresses, I notice that the housemaids are busy at work putting the final touches to the tables. Each is dressed in a beautiful and very short pink maid’s dress supported by billowing lace-trimmed frou-frou petticoating. Over the dress is tied a white silk pinafore decorated with a large pink rose at the bulging chest section. Added to this are ultra-sheer white tights decorated with hundreds of tiny sparkling roses and pink patent leather ankle boots with pink silk ribbon lacing, six-inch stiletto heels and a silver rose positioned at the end of each sharply pointed toe.

  Here they all are: Christina, Annette, Kathy and, of course, the gorgeous and so very troubling Myriam. And it is Myriam’s eyes I meet first. I find myself beholding a look of pure guilt, a look that fills me with a deep dread about the hours ahead. She avoids my gaze and tries to continue with her duties, but her distraction and distress are made apparent when she accidentally knocks a slender wine glass off the table. As it smashes to pieces, Christina looks up angrily from her own efforts and then comes rushing forward. We totter past them and soon the large imposing room is echoing with poor Myriam’s cries as she is soundly spanked by the fearsome ultra-sexy senior housemaid.

  We are led up onto the stage and made to stand together by a microphone. Mistress Donna then ties our arms together behind our backs with rubber cording at the wrists and elbows, a painfully tight binding that forces our chests forward and inspires more moans of pain and pleasure, the two now utterly indistinguishable.

  We stand side by side and stare out at the huge hall, a sea of oval tables serviced by busy aroused slaves. Then the main double doors to the hall are pushed open and Eleanor Groves enters, followed by Lady Emily Ashcroft and the other mistresses. I feel Pansy’s beautiful form stiffen as she recognises the handsome fear-inspiring form of Taylor at Mistress Eleanor’s side. She is dressed in a red silk trouser suit with cruel seven-inch stiletto-heeled pumps; he is sheathed in leather – tight black leather trousers, black leather biker boots and even a black leather shirt. His arrogant countenance is unchanged and more paradoxical than ever amidst this gathering of female dominants.

  The mistresses are followed into the room by the guests. The maids take up strategic positions once the mistresses have passed, so that they can show the guests, each of whom has a gold dining card, to their places at the tables.

  As the mistresses file onto the stage, I find myself suddenly aware of my strange position of public display and a sense of acute embarrassment washes over me. Then I am aware that Ms Blakemore and Mistress Donna have disappeared to take up their places at the ‘high table’ and we two sissies are alone, facing the mass of guests whose eyes are, once again, drawn towards our tethered and displayed forms with a helpless fascination. Indeed, as they sit and the maids move from table to table serving the first course and the catering girls follow them with bottles of wine, a disturbing quiet falls over the hall, a quiet rooted in dark anticipation.

  And once everyone is seated and their drinks topped up, it is Mistress Eleanor, the stunning startling Eleanor Groves, who rises from her seat and walks to the font of the stage. And as she approaches the microphone, the guests, impressed as ever by this powerful icon of the Bigger Picture, burst into spontaneous and loud applause.

  She stands at the mic for a few seconds, a slightly embarrassed smile on her face, and then signals for the guests to be quiet. The applause dies down and her smile becomes more confident.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, her voice calm, authoritative, the voice we have all come to associate with the most powerful woman on the planet Earth. ‘I think it is fair to say we have come a very long way in a very short time.’

  There is more spontaneous applause, which she indicates should pass as quickly as possible.

  ‘Yes, it is impressive. We are all amazed by the speed of events. But perhaps we shouldn’t be so surprised. Our message is one that all women will instinctively take to their hearts. Our message is one of hope for a peaceful future for the human race, a future freed from male violence, greed and blind ambition. A world of genuine democracy, or rather – Femocracy.’

  There is yet more loud enthusiastic applause. I feel the vibrations in my arse suddenly quicken and know that Ms Blakemore is sitting behind me, tormenting me quite deliberately. I close my eyes and fight the mind-bending effect of this increased anal stimulation. I fight to listen to Eleanor Groves’s admirable words. And as I listen, I remember the other words and the different vision; I remember the vision of the future encapsulated in Mistress Anne’s elaborate video, a future based on a fascistic feminist elite and a d
ictatorship built on war and oppression. I remember Mistress Helen’s elegantly neo-Nietszchian analysis of the female future and I remember the name of the island paradise that will house the global government of the Femocracy: Sados. I remember the discussions with Ms Blakemore, her ironic analysis of the extremism of Helen and Anne. Then there was the argument at the Steering Group, the disagreement on tactics. And finally, I remember the mysterious arrival of Aunt Jane and Justine and the bitterness of their analysis of the Bigger Picture. As Mistress Eleanor elegantly spins the web of the female future for the patrons and would-be patrons of the Bigger Picture, I understand her role a little more. Whatever she might believe – and this remains disturbingly unclear – she remains a figurehead in this organisation, a mouthpiece for ideas that amuse her, but for which she seems to have limited sympathy. And if she is not the true leader she is presented as being, then who is the leader? Lady Ashcroft? No; despite her authority and control, despite the respect she is held in, I suspect that she too has only a nominal role in the true leadership. Ultimately, the leadership is unclear because no one faction has yet established a firm enough foothold to create a position of genuine dominance. But, despite this, it is now clear to me who the factional leaders are: Ms Blakemore for the moderates and Mistress Helen for the radicals. It is these two powerful determined personalities who will determine the ultimate nature of the Bigger Picture and its vision of the future.

  Mistress Eleanor delivers a polished speech worthy of the former wife of the President of the United States. She presses all the right buttons and describes great plans and their ongoing implementation: the injection of Senso into the world’s fashion markets, the emergence of the regional training centres, the nearing completion of the Sados facility, and the new technologies of sissification pioneered by Ms Blakemore. And then, as she describes the medical and technological systems used to create Pansy and myself, she finally introduces the two newest sissies to the enraptured audience.

  At first, there is a strange contemplative silence as the audience takes in the visions of sissy perfection we have come to represent. Then there is a smattering of applause which slowly builds to a more enthusiastic response and, finally, to a standing ovation. Yes, the gathered mass of powerful women are impressed by the spectacle of Pansy and Shelly and by the vision of the future painted by Eleanor Groves. As we squirm with a furious embarrassment and the deepest darkest masochistic excitement, as our buxom figures vibrate and are tormented by the relentlessly exquisite kiss of Senso, we witness a turning point. We represent the reality of the Bigger Picture, the truth of the conviction and power of the feminisation process. We are the guarantee which will underpin any investment these women will make in the Femocracy.

  Eventually, Mistress Eleanor manages to quieten the women and then talk further about the levels of additional funding required and the urgency of progressing key projects associated with the globalisation of the Bigger Picture. At the core of the developments will be the transformation of the Sissy Maids Company, or SMC Incorporated as it will become known, into a multi-national operation, a vast front for the activities of the Bigger Picture. Expansion will be swift and relentless, and will be led by a global President. Not, as I might have suspected, Mistress Eleanor herself, but Mistress Helen. The plump English beauty is then introduced to the crowd and I cannot help but look round at her. She is flanked by Mistress Celine and Mistress Anne, both of whom are smiling triumphantly. And it is at this point that I know the radical wing is in control, that this is the moment they have chosen to step forward and impose their will. My eyes meet Ms Blakemore’s and I see a terrible, if still vaguely amused sadness. She smiles and shrugs and I sense an awful change is about to take place.

  Eventually, once the clapping has subsided, we are led from the stage. As I pass the mistresses on the high table, I notice that Mistress Anne is speaking in a very animated manner to Mistress Helen. Their eyes fall on me and I see a sudden powerful hatred. Mistress Celine takes over from Mistress Eleanor and then we are guided through the crowd of women that has formed at the foot of the stage. Their hands fall upon our delightfully decorated sissy forms and our helpless horny moaning increases in volume. Eager fingers roll across my bottom, my silk-sheathed breasts and my nylon-wrapped cock. The hot alcohol-scented breath of a hundred women mingles with their expensive perfumes to create a sensual cloud of feminine hunger that envelops my tormented excited sissy form totally. I squeal with pleasure and beg for release, for a final heart-shattering orgasm that will free me once and for all from this constant craving.

  Then, after some fifteen minutes of the women’s eager attentions, we are led from the banqueting hall. And it is here that Christina and Annette, clad in their beautiful ultra-sexy pink maid’s costumes, step forward. Annette grasps my tethered arms roughly and I look at her with anger and fear.

  ‘Mistress Helen wants to see Shelly in her quarters immediately.’

  Her words are delivered with a fierce frightening conviction, her tone making it very clear I am in serious trouble.

  Annette leads me away from Pansy. We exchange frightened, yet also gentle looks of love. Suddenly I am aware that I may never see her again and tears begin to well up in my helplessly doe eyes.

  I look at Annette as we climb the stairs to Mistress Helen’s quarters and see a grim happiness in her delicate sissy totters. I remember the sadistic punishments she has inflicted on me and the obvious pleasure she has taken in my pain and humiliation. I also remember our time together in the Nursery and the terrible torments of the joint suspension before Mistress Anne’s dark vision of the future. We have drunk deep of each other’s most intimate liquids and suffered terribly for the amusement of our mistresses. Yet there is still no love lost between us. Annette remains very much Mistress Anne’s creature and thus committed to the radical path, despite the terrible fate it promises her. Or perhaps she feels that, as Mistress Anne’s pretty sissy poodle, she will, in some way, escape a full sex change?

  As my eyes feast helplessly on her long white nylon-sheathed legs and helplessly wiggling and perfectly formed bottom, we arrive outside the door to Mistress Helen’s quarters. Annette enters without knocking and I follow fearfully behind.

  Surprisingly, the rooms that make up her luxurious chambers are deserted. I am made to wiggle-mince into the bedroom and sit on a single white wooden chair placed by the large double bed. To my surprise, there is a long coffin-like wooden box next to the chair and as I look down at it with genuine trepidation, a cruel smile crosses Annette’s beautiful face.

  ‘Don’t worry, Shelly … that’s not for you. Mistress Anne has something face more radical in mind for you.’

  I am made to sit on the chair and Annette leaves the room.

  I sit alone, my arms still secured tightly behind my back, my mouth filled with the ultra-effective white rubber ball gag, the vibrator still buzzing furiously in my arse, my sex pointing up at me like a finger of dark accusation.

  My sissy heart pounds angrily and I consider why I have been brought here. Officially, I have now completed the second stage of my training and am due to begin the placements on Monday. Officially, I am to be presented with the list of my five special external tests at a brief ceremony tomorrow evening. Then, I am to spend the day with a specially selected mistress and the night with a specially selected sissy. But, as I sit frightened and alone, I very much fear I will never start, never mind complete, my placements.

  Then there is a disturbance outside and, with a sudden burst of terrifying energy, the door to the main chamber flies open. I hear raised voices: Mistress Helen, Mistress Anne, Ms Blakemore. In the background there is a desperate high-pitched squealing. Then they are in the bedroom, rolling through the doorway from the main chamber like a sudden black storm cloud. There is an argument taking place, between Mistress Anne and Ms Blakemore.

  ‘But I have the evidence. Once you’ve seen it, they’ll be no question.’

  Mistress Anne delivers these terrify
ing words and Ms Blakemore dismisses them with an angry wave of her hand.

  ‘You’ve spent the last two years using video technology to tell stories, Anne. It’s a con, a trick. You’re trying to take advantage.’

  ‘Of what? Of what?’

  ‘The consolidation of Helen’s position, of your position.’

  ‘What utter paranoid rubbish! Can you believe this nonsense, Helen?’

  Helen indicates that they should both be quiet and faces me. As she does so, Annette enters the room again, tugging violently on a leather leash. At the end of the leash is a squealing struggling Myriam. Dressed in a black latex rubber body suit that covers her buxom form like a coat of glistening black paint, her arms lashed behind her back with black rubber cording at the wrists and elbows, her mouth filled with a huge black rubber ball gag, tears of utter horror and despair flooding from her beautiful blue eyes, a thick leather collar fitted tightly around her neck, she is the perfect vision of the damsel in distress, and also a dreadful indication of why we have all gathered in Mistress Helen’s bedroom.

  Mistress Anne then hands Mistress Helen a silver DVD in a clear plastic case. Helen walks over to a home entertainment centre placed a few feet beyond the bed. As she inserts the DVD into a silver state of the art player, I look into Ms Blakemore’s dark eyes and no longer find an ironic distance. Instead, I find myself confronting a real heart-stopping fear.