Company of Slaves

by Christina Shelly

  ‘I suggest you both try and relax a little,’ she teased. ‘We wouldn’t want you falling off the bed and hurting yourselves.’

  Pansy squealed angrily and Ms Hartley administered another very hard slap, this time to her tethered calves.

  Then we were left. Without another word, our mistresses slipped from the room. But just before the door was closed, the light switch was flicked off and we were plunged into total darkness. Our tightly gagged mouths emitted helpless, terror-filled and highly aroused baby-girl squeals. As we wiggled desperately on the bed, our scented, delicately feminised forms were drawn together. And as we touched, the sensation emphasised so awfully and erotically by the darkness, our squeals lessened, our fear diminished.

  I listened to my heart pounding and to poor Pansy moaning with a strange mixture of fear, anger and arousal. I heard the sounds of my aunt and Ms Hartley laughing – loud, mocking and, eventually, drunken laughter.

  I tried to imagine how this bizarre story might develop and felt a terrible sexual thrill. Now, we, Pansy and Shelly, were most surely doomed to a sissy eternity of servitude, a thought that made me want to cry with a furious, unforgiving masochistic pleasure.

  Six

  The next few weeks passed very quickly. Released from our long, sleepless night of tight sissy bondage, we were immediately set to work. I was dressed in the glorious classicism of the black maid’s dress; Pansy, at her foster mother’s request, was imprisoned in an exactly matching costume, but in white. Also, she was tied into a very tight body corset with a large and very convincing false chest: two cleverly shaped silicon orbs that left me green with envy. Ms Hartley was determined Pansy was to be properly feminised, while Aunt Jane was equally insistent that I remain in the bizarre grey zone between male and female.

  I spent a lot of the next week training Pansy in the domestic arts. My aunt had arranged for us both to be placed on an extended sick leave from school, convinced we wouldn’t need any revision between the A level examinations that now seemed so pointless.

  At first, Pansy took to my instruction with a reluctance that led to numerous painful encounters with both my aunt and her foster mother. Although it was obvious she found her spectacular sissy attire very exciting, and seemed taken by her artificial female form, it was also quite obvious that she was still very angry about the plan to send her to the SMC training academy. As she tottered with increasing confidence on her ultra-high heels, wiggling her pretty, pantied bottom through a sex fog of petticoating, it was clear that she was enjoying expressing her true feminine nature. Yet regret lurked in her pretty blue eyes, a sense that she had been betrayed by her mysterious and very beautiful foster mother. Thus, in the early days of her sissy enslavement, when performing her domestic duties, she often seemed depressed or distracted. I often wondered if this might be due to the fact that neither of us were allowed any form of sexual release and our mistresses now insisted we remain permanently gagged (during the day with the fat, phallic dummies, and at night with their soiled panties). Indeed, we had been unable to say a word to each other since Pansy’s original visit, when she was still Dominic. Instead, we made do with looks of desire and fear; long, helpless gazes of need and confusion. And this didn’t exactly help when it came to instructing pretty Pansy on how to perform her sissy chores. But through strange hand signals, gagged moans and squeals, plus the shaking and nodding of heads, we somehow made progress; and within a relatively short time Pansy was performing her duties with a remarkable, if always qualified assurance.

  At night, we were made to share my bed. Not the bed we had originally been left bound and gagged upon, but a new double bed that easily held our two sissified forms. Yet even at night, we were not allowed an escape from our sissified bondage.

  Ms Hartley insisted that Pansy and I be kept under the strictest of control at night, convinced that we would find some way to escape our wicked layers of restraint. My aunt agreed, and we were very quickly introduced to the kinky joys of two bright pink, very soft silk sleep sacks. At the end of our hard, tormenting work days, at 9 p.m. precisely, our two beautiful, determined mistresses would march us to my bedroom. Here we would be stripped down to our restrainers and have our hands bound into fingerless, pink rubber mittens. A wide pink leather belt was then wrapped around our previously corseted waists. Attached to the sides of the belt were two leather shackles, into which our rubberised hands were then quickly locked. Our fat dummy gags were then quickly replaced with that day’s soiled panties, a terribly erotic ritual that involved our mistresses wiggling out of the panties they had worn all today before our sex-ravaged eyes and then stuffing them deep into our sissy mouths before sealing them in place with thick strips of masking tape. This kinky game was made even more teasing by the fact that we, pretty Pansy and I, never knew whose panties would end up in our mouths!

  Once panty-gagged, it was not unusual for one or both of us to be spanked. Ms Hartley was a particularly hard taskmistress, and would often insist on a spanking just ‘to help us sleep’. Again, there was a high degree of alternation, and I came to dread the moment when Ms Hartley pointed to me, a wicked smile igniting her slender but beautiful face, a bright sex fire in her intimidating emerald eyes.

  Our bottoms cooked a deep crimson, we were then packed into the kinky, but highly erotic sleep sacks. Basically, tight cocoons of hot pink silk with elasticated openings that swallowed our smooth sissy forms, and which were then pulled over our bodies and positioned carefully around our necks, leaving us very tightly mummified in the soft, teasingly delicate material. Then, a further thick band of pink leather strapping was wrapped tightly around our slender ankles and we were made, always to the deep amusement of our mistresses, to hop to the bed, before being carefully laid out on our backs and then buried up to our necks in soft, scented bed sheets. Very tightly tucked in, hardly able to move a muscle, the spanking heat inevitably beginning to mutate into a cock-teasing sex heat, we were then left helpless and helplessly aroused for the next nine hours, the hard domestic slavery of the day ensuring a deep and often quite dreamless sleep. But in the few minutes before exhaustion overwhelmed us, there was always the desperate squeals of frustration, the pathetic, tightly gagged begging for release. This nightly song of profound desperation would begin as our gorgeous mistresses pulled the soft sheets up over our silk-encased forms, our eyes wide with a need that only ever inspired cruel mockery.

  ‘Dear me,’ Ms Hartley would tease, ‘they are frisky tonight.’

  ‘Perhaps we should grease their arses with itching powder, to take their minds off their cocks,’ would come the typical retort of my stunning, increasingly cruel aunt.

  But eventually, in the absolute darkness, we would fall into our exhausted sissy slumber, our minds overwhelmed by the fury of an ever stronger masochistic desire.

  This desire was undoubtedly inflamed by the two highly attractive, ingenious women into whose powerful clutches we had fallen. Following the creation of Pansy, Ms Hartley spent most of her time at my aunt’s house – day and night. At first, when it became clear she was sleeping at the house, I found myself wondering where she was staying, as there were two spare bedrooms. However, it quickly became clear that, just like their sissified slaves, the two women were sharing a bed, that Ms Hartley slept with my aunt, and that their relationship was a lot more than a friendship founded on the domination of Pansy and myself.

  Ever since that strange, warm, clearly erotic embrace between Miss Gillette and Aunt Jane, I had speculated daily on the true nature of my aunt’s sexuality. As far as I was aware, she had never had a man friend of any description. The house was filled with pictures of her many women friends, but a male face was not to be seen anywhere. Although during the first days of my sissification she had almost eagerly teased me to orgasm at the end of each night, I was now beginning to feel this had been a very sensual trap, a means to bring me under her control, before the establishment of the current regime of bondage and domination. This feeling was reinforce
d by the fact that I was no longer privileged with such gentle pleasurings; indeed, all form of sexual contact was now apparently banned, and poor Pansy and I were left to wallow in a tightly restrained cell of sissy frustration, a frustration that only increased our feverish she-male desires and made any real resistance to our enslavement impossible. This constant denial was their strongest weapon: the control of our desire was the way in which my lovely aunt and the impressive Ms Hartley ensured our continual obedience. And it was also the way they gradually wore poor Pansy down; the way that, during those few weeks before our arrival at the SMC training school, she changed from an often angry and depressed she-male whose pretty eyes were filled with sadness and regret, into a willing and increasingly feminine sissy maidservant. Indeed, Pansy’s transformation was really quite striking – a wonderful, kinky testament to my aunt’s methods, methods I knew she was learning from her contacts at the Sissy Maids Company.

  But if their behaviour was designed to ensure our submission, their dress was guaranteed to make us beg for absolute sissified servitude for all eternity. Both women were mature beauties with an impressive sense of feminine style, but following our joint feminisation, they began to dress in a much more provocative and sexual manner. This was clearly in part due to the blossoming of a strong lesbian relationship, but it was also, without doubt, to increase their power over us.

  Ms Hartley favoured tight, precise business suits – elegant, semi-transparent blouses, pearl-grey jackets and a variety of matching skirts, some reaching down to her ankles, some barely covering her thighs. She loved to encase her very long, slender, but perfectly shaped legs in sheer black nylon and silk hose and wear outrageously high-heeled shoes (a taste she was also keen to inflict on poor Pansy). She always kept her hair mannishly short and wore only the minimum of make-up, although her lips were constantly painted a glistening blood red.

  She was very tall and had considerable natural poise. Her graceful posture and generally dominant bearing made her a very impressive and daunting figure. She was also much sterner and crueller than my gorgeous aunt and her presence always introduced a fearful tension into any event. This was borne out by her keenness to spank first and ask questions later. Not just to spank, but to spank with a harshness that ensured tears and a very real, long-term pain. She preferred the hand brush to the hand, and, on occasion, used a particularly painful and utterly terrifying leather strap. Both Pansy and I were petrified of her. But in the midst of this deep sissy fear there was, of course, a helpless masochistic attraction.

  In comparison with Ms Hartley, my aunt was a gentle, beautiful and largely benign despot. She preferred to dress in very tight sweaters and short skirts. She knew how much I loved her full, mature breasts and it was quite obvious she wanted them displayed to their most exciting advantage at all times when I was in her presence. Like Ms Hartley, she also favoured dark tights and stockings, although her heels tended to be far more sensible if no less erotic!

  It was under the careful and strict instruction of these two gorgeous women that Pansy and I were prepared for the SMC training school. From seven in the morning until nine at night, we were their eager and grovelling sissy slaves, mincing on our high heels, wiggling our pantied bottoms, enveloped in a world of exaggerated and ritualistic femininity, willingly sentenced to life in hose, permanently gagged, constantly aroused, tightly restrained and plugged; we were willingly lost in a black forest of endless masochistic sex; an authoritarian state of sissy grace.

  We cleaned the house from top to bottom, following a very strict weekly schedule that saw us work room to room over a six day period. We swept and polished; wiped and washed; emptied and filled. We spent many hot and bothered hours learning to cook, to sew, even how to carry out basic household maintenance tasks. Yet by far the most exciting part of our sissy labour was our role as the carers for our mistresses’ clothes. We spent well over half our time washing, sorting and ironing every item of our mistresses’ clothing, from their teasing, familiar panties to their dresses and blouses. We were also responsible for ordering and maintaining their wardrobes. Yes, this was the task that both of us took to with a fierce, fetishistic relish, and which our mistresses clearly used as a further tool of control by ensuring that every day had at least one extended period of washing, ironing and wardrobe work.

  We both quickly became expert in the general management of both our mistresses’ sexy attire and our own. Within seconds I could recognise the owner of a pair of panties, a bra, even a pair of tights. As I sorted and washed, as I ironed and stored, my hands teased by the soft, scented fabrics, I was lost in a divine universe of endlessly erotic, tactile obsession. It was as if I worshipped the clothes almost as much as the two gorgeous women who wore them.

  The regime of feminine control our mistresses imposed was also a regime of controlled movement. We were constantly required to demonstrate feminine grace in every step and gesture: tiny, high-heeled steps, a permanent teasing wiggle of the bottom, arms at our sides and hands tilted outward at a precise ninety degree angle. Our heads held high, our backs firm and straight, our chests pushed forward (which in Pansy’s case produced a helplessly erotic ballet of fake tits and very real arse that never ceased to excite me and deeply amuse our mistresses).

  The strict rules regarding ‘deportment’ were enforced with a predictable severity. Spankings for an ungraceful gesture were quite frequent, and Ms Hartley was particularly concerned to ensure that Pansy demonstrated a continual ultra- feminine grace. This was reinforced by her dress. While I was subject to a very sexy, but quite traditional French maid’s costume and a variety of little girl costumes, Pansy was constantly attired in a hyperelegant, incredibly intricate ‘baby-maid’ costume. This mostly consisted of a gorgeous white silk dress, a very fluffy and sissified matching skirt pinafore, inches and inches of delicate frou-frou petticoating and white silk hose. Beneath this there was the heavily padded body girdle that gave the pneumatic figure of a fifties sex goddess, a white rubber suspender belt and the delicately seamed white silk stockings. The girdle’s ingenious padding included a carefully moulded satin panel that hid her maleness and over which she always wore a pair of widely befrilled white silk panties.

  Yes, Pansy was devastatingly beautiful, and my eyes were constantly filled with a terrible, brutal need for her. I could never forget the taste of her soft lips or her large, rock-hard cock, and each night, as I lay beside her, tightly wrapped in my teasing satin sleep sack, I wanted nothing more than to be in her soft sissy arms exchanging words of love and long, soft kisses.

  * * *

  Four weeks after our joint sissification, a computer was delivered to the house and placed in our bedroom, complete with a broadband internet link. Still tightly dummy-gagged, our hands sealed in lace serving gloves, we were taken to the room after our daily lunch of an apple and a banana to be presented with the machine, a brand-new and very powerful personal computer whose outer shell was made from a very appropriate pink plastic.

  ‘It’s time you met your future sissy friends, my dears,’ Aunt Jane said, handing me a small rectangular card that had nothing but the following words on its elegantly textured surface: www.sismaidcom.co.uk.

  I turned the card over and in the same elegant gold lettering were more strange words:

  Username: Shelly

  Password: sissy 101

  The two women left, telling us we had ninety minutes ‘to investigate our futures’ and I stared helplessly at Pansy. She looked at the card and at me. This was the first time we had been alone together in this room other than at night since Pansy’s arrival. Pansy carefully took the card from me and started the computer.

  Within a few minutes we were staring at an internet provider home page, a vacuous explosion of advertisements and news stories concerning the plastic lives of various short-term celebrities.

  Pansy typed the site address into the ‘find’ bar and within seconds we were facing the home page of the Sissy Maids Company. A beautiful animatio
n of a pink rose slowly opening developed into a photograph of a truly beautiful woman dressed in a wondrous maid’s costume of the finest pink silk. Tied around her very slender waist was a mini-pinafore of shining white satin. A very familiar pink silk heart was printed onto the centre of the pinafore, and running diagonally across the heart was the elegantly printed name: Chrissy. Pansy turned to me, her eyes wide with shock and arousal; for this was exactly the same design that was placed at the centre of each of our pinafores!

  The woman seemed to be in her late twenties or maybe early thirties. She was a glorious brunette, with very long, very thick black hair bound with a thick pink ribbon, and large, dark brown eyes. Her face, which was the shape of the heart on her pinafore, was exquisitely made up. She wore pink eye shadow and matching lipstick; a beauty spot had been positioned to the right of her bottom lip. The tight dress clung to her sex-bomb figure in an intensely erotic manner, and the flawless outline of her very large, yet also very firm breasts against the taught silk material betrayed expertly secured foundation wear.

  Her long, perfectly shaped legs were sealed in sheer white nylon hose and her feet were encased in a pair of stunning white patent leather court shoes with cruel five-inch heels. And as my eyes were drawn down to these spectacular shoes, another animation set off ghostly automatic writing in exactly the same elegant style as the handwriting on the woman’s dainty pinafore, handwriting that gradually developed into the words ‘Christina’s Silken Slavery’.