Saturday, November 26, 2016
Saturday, August 13, 2016
I assume real life is still keeping Bambi occupied since I haven't gotten any new chapters of "Swiss Miss Sissy" in months. For a lack of anything else to contribute at the moment, I thought I could at least share a couple new pieces I completed.
As an artist, I can be my own worst critic. I can be especially critical when it comes to looking back on artwork that's a few years old. Sometimes I wish I could go back and redo older works. If I did that all the time, however, I'd never get anything new complete, but redrawing something once in a while can be an interesting way of seeing how my style had improved or changed. Recently, I took the setup from a seven year old drawing and an eight year old one and updated them. The first one, "Memory Lane," I didn't think was that badly in need of a do over, but I thought the subject matter was worth revisiting.
|"Memory Lane" (2016)|
While the response to the new "Memory Lane" has been mostly very good, I have gotten a couple comments from people who seem to prefer the original. I guess you can't please everybody. I actually don't hate the original, but after spending countless hours on every little detail of the new piece, unfavorable comparisons to the earlier version is not exactly what I love to see. Ever seen that episode of Frasier where a focus group rates his show? Although he gets almost unanimous high marks, Frasier can't help obsessing over the one guy (played by Tony Shalhoub) who said they didn't like him. I'm sort of like that; I don't take criticism well and tend to focus on the negative.
|"Memory Lane" (2009)|
The theme of a male who has been subjugated and/or feminized by the female caretaker in his life (be it a mother or aunt, etc.) finding himself in the same situation with his romantic partner is one that Bea has explored in several stories. I'm certain there are several, but the first one that springs to mind is "Changing of the Guard."
Where is the Love?
This is getting off-topic, but reading "Changing of the Guard" now, I find it interesting that the protagonist's prospective future mother-in-law asks him if he's attracted to her daughter sexually- not if he's in love with her. It may seem like a small detail, but to me it's striking, as one criticism I have about Bea's writing is that it's that love seldom, if ever, seems to enter the picture. It's all about sex. This didn't used to bother me, but having read as many of Bea's stories as I have, I can't help but notice what a loveless world Bea's characters seem to inhabit, in which sexual partners, be they spouses or whatever, are abandoned or swapped or fobbed off on someone else with barely a second thought.
In another story by Bea, "Aftermath," the protagonist finds out he's been living a kinky version of The Truman Show and ends up in the arms of the female detective who was investigating his dominant girlfriend's accidental death. All this occurs the same day as the funeral. The characters make a big deal about how he and his girlfriend had a loving relationship, but I'm not sure how loving it could have been if he's willingly entering a new relationship- even going through with a second faux-wedding ceremony- when his girlfriend is not even cold yet. That story really stood out to me due to the rather macabre setup.
Perhaps it's foolish to nit-pick the logic in these sorts of stories, which are usually pretty ridiculous anyway.
Of course, most feminization stories are a form of erotica, the primary function of which is not to tug at one's heartstrings, but rather stir different parts of the anatomy. However, I think it can do both. I have read a handful of stories that seem to balance the two. One major reason I'm such a fan of Bambi's continuation of "Swiss Miss Sissy" is because of the imbuement of deeper emotions within the characters, though that part of the story is still to come for those of you who don't know the author and haven't been lucky enough to read ahead.
Don't Drop the Soap/Shower Surprise
"The Humiliations of Vicki's Baby" is a story by Bea that's collected in the book On Becoming One of the Girls. It's about a small, wimpy guy who becomes involved with a woman of Amazonian proportions and her two daughters. It's kind of an odd story, even for Bea. If I remember correctly, it may have been commissioned by someone, which might account for some of its oddness. I don't fully understand why it's even called "The Humiliations of Vicki's Baby." Despite the fact that there is some infantalization in the story, it's not a major part of the plot. Bea is also rather inconsistent when it comes to which character enjoys infantalizing the protagonist. It gives me the sense that the story was written off the cuff, without having the plot mapped out ahead of time.
Still, there are some sexy moments in the story that I liked, such as the part in which the protagonist is accosted in the shower by Vicki's daughters, which is what inspired this next drawing.
|"Do Not Drop the Soap" (2008)|
I was never very thrilled with how this one turned out. The daughters are described as tall and muscular, but drawing muscular people is not my strong suit. It doesn't help that when I look for references, the majority of photos of fitness models I find show them flexing and/or striking some sort of unnatural pose. I like to think I did a somewhat better job the second time around.
|"Shower Surprise" (2016)|
Loath as I am to promote myself in any way, I still may as well mention that I have a Patreon page for my fetishistic artwork now- actually, I've had it for over a year, but I've been mostly neglecting it. However, I'm hoping I can find the time/energy to churn out some more art of this nature on a more regular basis. If you feel at all inclined to support me in that endeavor, I would not be unappreciative, but if not, that's fine, too. Whatever.
Oh, here's one last pic, which I did for one of my Patreon patrons, as part of a monthly art lottery. I've just suspended said lottery, however, perhaps permanently, as the extra work it required was causing me too much stress.
|"She Shames Shy Sissies by the Seashore" (2016)|
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
another shortie, as these are all I seem to be able to write these days. Either it's done in an evening, or it doesn't get done at all. I got the idea for this one when I was putting on a denim skirt, thinking how it makes for a 'basic look'. Then it sort off just rolled off from there into 'I want a basic look for my husband, a simple denim skirt...'.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Well, not just my chest, but it seems that my whole body is pulsating with the rhythm of my heart. Even though my eyes have long accustomed to the dimly lit anteroom, I don’t even notice Erin beside me anymore. My eyes, my nerves, my mind are all fixed on the door and the moment that Martha will pull it open, starting the great entrance. I don’t even mind wearing Erin’s clothes anymore, all I want to do is to walk in and show myself. Show my progress.
Suddenly, it happens. The door cracks open and before I know it, I am walking, blinded by the bright light, into the room. There are gasps of amazement and I have to do my best fighting the urge to flex my muscles right here and now. But Martha, who I suddenly regard once again as my future mother-in-law, not just my personal trainer, was very clear about that. As my eyes are starting to recognize the silhouettes of the people in the room, I walk as I’ve been instructed, all the way to the end of the room, turn around and walk back to the center of the room, where Erin has stopped, to face the silhouettes. It is indeed a select audience, as Martha has promised, there’s only my mother and my sister Karen. Well, and Erin’s sister Stephanie, but she sees me regularly, so he doesn’t really count. Erin and I stand side by side for a minute, then I take off my blazer to reveal the muscles on my arm.
It’s more than a wee pang of pride that I feel as I watch Roger’s mother and sister stare at him in amazement. My future son-in-law is standing before them half the size than he was before I took him in my weight loss program. He is wearing a pair of my daughter’s old black dress pants, and a her matching tailored blazer that makes his hips flare out below his now waspishly thin waist. There is no way Erin could put it on anymore, but it fits Roger’s thin arms quite snugly. When Roger finally takes it off, there is another gasp of amazement as he reveals his black satin halter top that tautens invitingly over his now flat belly with every breath he takes, but more importantly, it displays his thin, though shapely arms. There is definitely tone and shape to his muscles, all joints are beautifully rounded, but the muscles, just like the skin that enwraps them, are deliciously soft. Even as I look at him, I’m having a hard time believing that I have managed to turn the shapeless fat fuck he once was into this lithe, slim creature.
Behind him, Erin is also sleeveless in her red satin dress. Even though her fiancé is standing right in front of her, she is fully visible behind his thin silhouette which, rather than conceals, only emphasizes her powerful figure. Erin steps forward and hugs Roger from behind, displaying the bulging muscles on her arms and I feel another not-so-wee pang of pride to see my daughter all developed like that. Of course, she lacks the hourglass figure of the man she is about to marry, but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a wide, patent black belt and a full skirt that flares out at her hips.
It was Erin that wanted to lose weight in the first place, and I was only too happy to help her. Of course I wanted my daughter to feel beautiful on her big day, and I wanted her to be healthy, but beside that, as a co-owner of one of the busiest gym’s in town, and a fitness instructor, it was bad publicity for my daughter to go about neglected like that.
I figured that I could use her slimming down to lure more women into my gym, but it soon turned out that Erin wouldn’t give me the before and after pictures I was hoping for. Just like me, she got the weight fever soon enough and was all about gaining weight, rather than losing it. She did take off a lot of her body fat, mind you, though it has been evident that that wasn’t her primary goal. Roger, on the other hand, was a completely different story. I soon found out that he was pliable enough that I could get him not only to do the exercises I wanted, but also follow a strict diet and take any supplement I wanted him to without a question. Once I started feeding him doses of estrogen he became even more trustful of my decisions. As his tearful outbursts of emotions started, he agreed that it would make more sense to carry out his training in the privacy of my own working out space in the basement of my house, rather than in full view of everybody in the gym. Shortly thereafter, Roger moved in with me, and was spending his days doing my housework and working on what he believed was a high intensity body building regime. When he lost enough fat that traces of hardly existent muscles began appearing under his skin, I managed to convince him that he was making great progress, just I had managed to convince him that the shiny leotards I had him wear were regular men’s gym clothes. When the day that he was ready to be shown to the world finally came, he didn’t think it strange that Stephanie put his hair up in rollers until it was a mass of tight, jet black curls, that she filed his nails and covered them with a clear varnish, nor that she plucked his eyebrows into thin arches. When I gave him Erin’s old clothes to wear he trustingly accepted the explanation that I had realized that none of his old clothes fit him too late to get him new ones in time for the show.
We stand together like that, with Erin’s arms around me, for a minute, then my mother gets off her chair and I feel Erin step back.
“My, you’ve grown,” she says to me.
“Actually, mom,” I smile awkwardly, “I’m wearing high heels.”
I pull the left leg of my pants to reveal my black, four inch heeled pump. Martha gave me these shoes so that they would bring out the muscles on my thighs and calves, and also because we realized too late that my pants were a bit too long.
“It wasn’t your height I was talking about,” mom says, then drops her eyes to my chest.
I feel a surge of pride and I push my chest forward.
“Oh, God,” she breaths, “Are they real?”
Before I can answer, her hand is on my pecs.
I can’t help it, I know Martha will be mad at me, but I simply have to do it. Just like Martha has trained me to do for dozens of times, I pump my arms in toward the center of my chest, then I bring my shoulders in toward the center of my chest. I should have done a quick exercise or two before, to get the blood flowing, but as it is, all I can do is to clench my hands together, hoping to flex my pecs as much as I can.
Before I succeed to, my mother’s hand moves to my left triceps.
“So soft,” she whispers.
“Just give me a minute,” I say, fighting tears of shame. It’s not fair, not only I hadn’t done any pre-warm exercises, but she’s not even feeling the muscle group I’m flexing.
“I meant your skin,” she says, “It’s so soft.”
“Oh,” I say, “Well, I’m oiled up a bit.”
“I see,” she mutters, then her hand is back on my pectorals.
“Yes, yes,” Diane says, as she fondles her son’s budding breasts, “They’re definitely getting harder.”
Roger proudly juts his chest forward again, exposing his swollen nipples through the black satin.
“I’m glad to hear something does,” Erin mutters, just loud enough for me to hear her.
“Erin!” I hiss at her and she shrugs apologetically.
“Sorry,” she whispers back, but I can’t really blame her. The heavy hormone treatment does take its toll, I suppose.
“You guys said you had something for me,” Erin turns to Diane and Karen.
“About that…” Diane says, then turns to Karen.
“No, we don’t,” she says to Erin, “Sorry. I know we said we did, but it turns out we screwed up, so…”
“Oh,” Erin says, not hiding the disappointment in her voice.
“Oh dear,” Diane sighs.
“This is embarrassing,” she says, “We asked your mother for your measurements, because we wanted to have a wedding dress made for you. She gave us the measurements of both of you, and we mixed them up.”
“It was an honest mistake,” Karen says defensively.
“Karen!” Diane hisses at her.
“Well, it was,” she pouts.
“Anyhow,” Diane turns back to Erin and me, “We had the wedding dress made in Roger’s size, not yours. Never mind, we’ll take it back.”
“Hold on,” I say, “Let us see it, first.”
Karen pulls out the dress from a black garment bag and it’s Erin’s turn and mine to gasp in astonishment this time. It really is a wonderful gown.
“It would be such a shame if no one wore that dress,” I say.
“Well, there’s no way Erin can put it on,” Karen says.
“It’s not what I meant,” I say.
“I wonder…” Diane mutters and as if on cue, Stephanie takes the dress in one hand, grabs Roger with the other and leads him out of the room.
“Actually, Martha?” Diane says, “I really don’t think this is such a good idea…”
“Why not?” I say, looking her in the eyes.
“In fact,” she begins, then pauses as I lean closer towards her, “I think it’s time Roger moved back to my house…”
“That’s up to Roger, of course,” I say, “But let him try on the wedding gown first.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I take some pictures,” Stephanie says to Roger as she leads him back to the room, dressed in the bridal gown, “This will be good publicity for my beauty salon, and I don’t get to do too many bridal makeup jobs.”
Posing for Stephanie, Roger looks as if he’s floating on a cloud of white satin, chiffon and lace. Even with the full makeup, his face strangely doesn’t look much different than before. When Stephanie puts her camera down, he gives his mother an accusing glare.
“Oh, Roger,” Diane moans out loud, “I swear, this was honestly the furthest from our intentions.”
“Don’t worry about it too much,” I say to Diane, feeling her shiver as I place my palm on her nylon-clad knee, “I don’t think he was really that comfortable in Erin’s old pants before.”
“Actually, Martha,” Roger speaks out in his soft voice, “I would prefer to be back in Erin’s pants after all.”
I flash him a kind, but dismissive smile, then turn back to Diane.
“He does look lovely, though,” I say to her.
“Seriously, though,” he says again, “Stephanie promised me I wouldn’t have to wear this dress longer than just to see if it fits.”
Slowly, I turn to face him again, though I don’t take off my hand of Diane’s knee.
“And?” I say, “Does it fit?”
“To a T, mummy,” Stephanie says happily.
“Well then, I guess it’s best if you help him take it off,” I say, “But Roger, it really is time you stopped wearing Erin’s old pants.”
“Erin, honey?” I say, “Why don’t you take Karen and see if you can find a dress of yours that would fit Roger?”
With a quick nod of her head, Erin takes Karen by her hand and leads her out of the room, leaving me alone with Diane.
“Well,” I say, sliding my hand up her thigh, “Looks like you won’t have to take the dress back, after all.”
Saturday, April 23, 2016
I haven’t contributed anything to this blog for a long time probably because I’ve become even more obsessed than usual with the past but mainly as I’m not sure this type of material is to most readers taste. I’ve posted it only on my own blog (some readers may have read this there so unfortunately there is nothing new for you with this offering).
However as Rosie contributed a really innovative futuristic piece I thought this short story based in the Victorian age may act as a counterpoint to that one. I also think Bea would have been pissed off with me for not posting something and I don't want him coming round.
As usual there is no – as Bea would put it- raunchy bits here so if that’s what you’re into don’t read any further. Boring I know..... but what can I say?
An Obvious Solution.
A tale of a kind hearted Victorian stepmother.
In the few years since his father had died Claude had successfully managed to avoid spending much of his summer vacations from school with his stepmother at their country estate. He preferred instead to spend this time with some understanding school friends and their families. It was not that he disliked his stepmother if fact it was quite the opposite as she had always been friendly and warm to him from the moment they met, the reason for this aversion was that the house always seemed full of women, her sisters, female friends, there was not even a male member of the domestic staff. An entire house of women and it was a stifling atmosphere for a young man. When he did stay it was only for a few days at a time and even then he spent most of his time horse riding, shooting and fishing or any activity that would keep him far from the suffocating and genteel feminine embrace of the residence. It didn’t make any difference where he tried to hide in the house’s many rooms he was always found by a maidservant or Miss Prism his stepmother’s new housekeeper. Once his hiding place was discovered he was then gently but firmly encouraged to partake in some all-female gathering. These generally consisted of an incredibly boring afternoon tea, a tedious bridge party or some other dull gathering where middle-aged matrons and their daughters spoke incessantly about the latest fashions. However worse of all as his stepmother was a dedicated follower of fashion he was expected to wear clothes invariably chosen for him by his stepmother or Miss Prism.
These were usually ghastly items of the most unmanly materials, silken velvet, very soft linen or in one horrible instance a particularly delicate cashmere. And the colours! What dreadful hues they chose for him and invariably these were always in soft pastels, lavender, lilac, delicate pinks- they were truly awful. He was fond of his stepmother and only wore these hideous garments to prevent her from becoming extremely emotional as ladies often do when refused a simple favour from a male. Despite his embarrassment and for the sake of a harmonious relationship he agreed to wear them for her various afternoon teas and occasional soirées, on these occasions he was greatly relieved that he was the only male present. He dreaded these afternoons and evenings as he was paraded like his stepmother’s prize pet poodle and as the sole male he was always the centre of attention.
So, dear reader, as you can imagine it was with trepidation that he arrived back to his home for his summer vacation as this particular year all his friends were vacationing abroad. On this visit things went badly from the very beginning as his luggage went missing from the train and from his previous experience he knew it would take days to locate and return it assuming it was found at all. He feared there would be a disagreement after dinner and this proved correct.
“Out of the question Claude.” his stepmother said gathering her voluminous skirts about her as they made her way upstairs to retire for the night. “it is most inappropriate for a young gentleman to sleep …..I can barely bring myself to say it……..” and in a hushed voice she whispered ….naked! Whatever would the servants think?”
“Well my nightshirts are probably in Scotland by now.” Claude replied “what do you suggest?”
The instant the words left his mouth he knew he had made a mistake.
“Run along and brush your teeth, I shall be with you momentarily.” she said as she called out to her maid who was who was standing at the door to her bedroom awaiting her mistress.
“Martha.” his stepmother called to her lady’s maid “Fetch me one of my nightgowns, perhaps the coffee coloured one.”
“Yes Madam.” the maid replied in her monotone voice.
Claude was grateful that the maid was dismissed before his stepmother turned down the bedclothes and plumped his pillows.
“I think you will find this will suit you quite well.” she said holding up a satin coffee coloured nightgown with a chocolate brown pattern around the bust area and the hem.
“Please Honora ……”he said “this is really quite unnecessary. This is one of your nightgowns.”
“Yes I know dear.” she said laying the garment on the bed as she gently reprimanded him “and I thought we had agreed about the correct form of address you should use.”
“I think I’m a little old to use that Honora.” he said and he immediately saw that she was genuinely hurt by his remark and he thought he saw her eyes well up. He hated ladies crying and would do anything to prevent it.
“Please don’t cry Hon…..Mummy.” he blurted cringing at the girlish form of address.
She dabbed her eyes with her lace handkerchief and gave him a smile of gratitude.
“You were always such a sensitive boy.” she said as she embraced him and kissed him tenderly. He could feel her breasts contained by her heavy corset press into his chest as she began unbuttoning his dress shirt.
“Now please …..for me?” she said holding up the satin garment once more and with one elegant movement she swept her skirts behind her and crossed the room and placed the nightgown on the top of the dressing screen.
It was a heavy price to pay to avoid witnessing a tearful and emotional woman.
Anything but tears he thought as he donned the soft garment and he tried to persuade himself that it was not all that different from his regular cotton nightshirts.
“See I told you it would fit you, a few inches short perhaps but an excellent fit nonetheless.” she said as she fussed with the bodice and adjusted the shoulder straps slightly she then took him by the hand and led him to the bed. “you look divine. Now into bed young man.”
He blushed deeply as she arranged the pillows and burgundy satin quilt over him and kissed him gently on the cheeks.
“Thank you for respecting my views on this matter Claude, you are such a dear boy. Now go to sleep. You must be exhausted.” she whispered softly in his ear.
It had been a long day and he was asleep before she closed the door behind her.
“Good morning Master Claude.”
The young man stretched as the voice penetrated his brain and he heard the sound of curtains being drawn. The voice belonged to Miss Prism.
“I trust you slept well.” she said as she tied back the curtains. “It’s well past ten, the mistress asked me to wake you.”
He blinked his eyes sat up in the bed and stretched once more before realising he was wearing his stepmother’s nightwear. He quickly pulled up the sheets to conceal the garment from the housekeeper.
“Quite all right Master Claude.” Miss Prism said as if this was an everyday occurrence “no need to be embarrassed the mistress has told me about your lost luggage. It was the obvious solution.”
She whipped the sheets away from him revealing leaving him exposed in his feminine nightgown.
“Madam would like to see you immediately. There has been an unfortunate mishap.”
Sheepishly he rose from the bed and looked around for his dressing gown before remembering he now did not possess one.
Miss Prism rearranged his rumpled nightgown to her satisfaction before pointing her hand towards the interconnecting door to his mother’s bedroom.
“Ah there you are Claude” his stepmother said as he entered, lying outstretched on the large bed her body enveloped in a blood red silk nightgown and peignoir.
“There has been a slight faux pas by one of the new housemaids.” she continued as Claude stood awkwardly in front of her with Miss Prism by his side. “very early this morning while you were sleeping she collected the clothes you wore last evening and unaware that these were your only clothes she washed them.”
“That’s not a problem.” he said wishing she would get to the point and allow him to go back to his room out of the gaze of Miss Prism and remove his awful satin nightgown. “I will just wait for them to dry.”
“Well you see Claude …that is the problem. The silly girl unfortunately added some additional substance to the water and …..well the truth of the matter is they have shrunk to the size of a ten year old’s clothes. Miss Prism would you be so kind as to show Master Claude the terrible result.”
Miss Prism retrieved a basket from beside the door and held up a pair of trousers that a ten year old would have difficulty in wearing.
“But….but what …. How….”he stammered incoherently as he viewed his miniature sized clothes.
“What…. am I going to wear?” he blurted the panic rising in his voice.
“Unfortunately the local tailor is unwell and even he measured you tomorrow it would take at least two weeks to get you a set of clothes.” his stepmother said as she rose from the bed. “and we can’t have you walking about in nightwear.”
“Miss Prism” his stepmother addressed her housekeeper who moved a dressing frame with a navy dress and jacket from the corner of the room close to the bed. The jacket was plush velvet with a deep satin collar and the dress was an over-elaborate brushed silk confection of ruffles and frills.
“Unfortunately the only clothes we have that will fit you are several dresses and gowns of mine from a year or two ago.”
“But what about those awful clothes I had to wear last year.” he said referring to the dreadful items she had him wear on several occasions.
“Well.. you did complain about them so much I threw them out.” she replied.
“But I can’t wear….a…….. lady’s gown.” he pleaded almost in tears.
“There…there….. my poor darling.” she said embracing him in her arms “You have to wear something, you just cannot remain as you are. Come now… It won’t be as bad as you think.”
“But ….the servants…..they will laugh ……..”he blurted as he watched Miss Prism remove the dress from the form.
“No they will not” his stepmother kissed him on the forehead and consoled him. “The staff are very loyal and discreet and hold you in the highest regard, they are mortified and upset that one of them has made such a dreadful error and put you in this extremely unfortunate position. They will understand perfectly.”
“But….. I….it’s just so…..” he struggled with emotion as he observed Miss Prism removing an ivory coloured long corset and matching silk chemise from a tallboy and laid them on the bed.
“Please….”he sobbed as Miss Prism slipped the straps from his shoulder and let the soft material slip down his body “..please ……”
“It’s all right my dear….Mummy’s here.” she whispered and taking the chemise from Miss Prism she slipped it over his head. He felt the tears well up inside.
“Dear..dear Claude, do not fret everything will be all right.” she whispered softly and nodded to her housekeeper.
“Now breathe in Master Claude” Miss Prism said wrapping the heavy garment around his torso and as she pulled the laces he heard her say “girls always find this a great help when they’re being laced into their corsets.”
Sunday, April 10, 2016
When I came back to our compartment, I noticed that Darren’s face had turned almost ghostly pale.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“It’s slipped loose, mummy,” he whined, “I tried to readjust it when it got uncomfortable, but then it slipped loose and I can’t get it back down.”
I took a better look at my panicking son-in-law. Sure enough, the front of my purple silk dress I had lent him was now sporting a tent in the front. Why on Earth did he have to fiddle with his panties at that very moment? With the train about to stop at our station in merely a few minutes, though, there was no time for such thoughts. I locked the door, closed the drapes and pulled my son-in-law off his seat.
“Are you absolutely sure you can’t get it back in place?” I asked him.
“I can’t even touch it now,” he said, fighting tears, “it’s almost at the point of bursting.”
“Why don’t you just make it burst, then?” I proposed, “That way it won’t give you any problems, will it?”
“I can’t just…” he stammered, “Not here.”
“Oh for goodness sake, we don’t have a lot of time, Darren!” I said, exasperated, grabbed his erection through the silk of his dress and started to stroke it.
“No, mummy, stop!” he mewled. Afraid that he was going to ejaculate in his dress, I hurriedly hiked its skirts up.
“I can’t make a mess!” he protested, but still obediently kept his skirts up, exposing his swollen, rock hard penis, pointing upwards.
“How will I clean myself up?” he continued.
I admit that I hadn’t thought about the problem of dealing with the ejaculate afterwards, but I didn’t stop stroking. However, I had no tissues left and there wasn’t enough time to fetch some from the train’s toilet.
“Do you have any napkins?” I asked.
“No… maybe…. In my bag…” he panted.
“Yes or no?” I hissed.
“I’m not sure,” he moaned, his voice trembling.
I glanced around the compartment, both surveying the potential damage his ejaculation might cause and trying to find something to block it with. For a brief moment, I entertained the idea of using my silk scarf, but I discarded it with disgust.
“Of for crying out loud,” I muttered, then squatted down in front of him and wrapped my lips around the tip of his penis. I gripped the back of his thighs for balance and then felt the skirts of his dress fall down around my head. As the first wave of his orgasm shook him, I was afraid he would buckle so much to pull his penis out of my mouth but in the end I managed to get all of his ejaculate without spilling a drop.
I waited for a second more, then crawled out of his dress and stood up.
“Pull up your skirts,” I said. I bent his now flaccid organ backwards and pulled his panties back into place, but not before giving his bare buttock a sharp slap.
“That’s for taking it out in the first place,” I hissed into his ear.
The train conductor knocked on our door to let us know we should get off just as Darren was finished rearranging the skirts of his dress around his legs, now without any telltale bulge in front.
Friday, April 8, 2016
This will probably be the last chapter for a while. Bambi assures me that the story is neither dead, nor even on life support, but it's currently just not possible for our author to keep up the same pace as previously. Whether you love the story or not, I think you can probably agree with me that Bambi has already produced an impressive body of work. I trust Bambi's commitment to seeing this story through to the end, but after putting in this much time and effort, I wouldn't blame anyone for needing to at least slow down, if not take a break altogether.
Chapter 25: School spirit. Cheryl is submerged in the daily life of a very remarkable school
We arrived at the ground floor, and for the first time I got a good impression just how big the school was. Through the windows I could see the enclosed schoolyard, surrounded on all sides by the main building.
The complex wasn't nearly as bustling with life as a regular school. The long spacious corridors were largely empty and despite the chatter of mistresses, as well as the odd sissy brave enough to speak out loud, I mostly heard the echoing clicks of heels on stone. It seemed that despite the Baroness' best efforts, sissies were still a rare breed in this world. Yet, even if I the building could have housed the number of students present five times over, I dare say it did contain the highest concentration of sissies and dominants anywhere on the globe.
Students were moving out and about. I saw sissies dressed in light blue, yellow, green and purple uniforms. Each colour had its own theme, apparently. The ones in yellow were dressed in fetish maid outfits, while those in blue all wore bonnets above their more elegant dresses. Similarly, the mistresses in black all wore leather, while those in latex outfits were bright red.
But despite being part of a theme, whether it was a sissy or a mistress, every outfit was unique. Here I witnessed the curious situation where our uniforms were not quite... well... uniform.
I already knew all students were allocated to one on the school's Houses. In time I would learn their rather creative names; aside from the Pink Panties, there were the Purple Petticoats, Blue Bonnets, Yellow Ribbons and Green Corsets. The mistresses were part of either the Red Latex, Black Leather or Violet Velvet Houses.
I noticed how outnumbered my new House was compared to the others. There were only six Pink Panties, while the others seemed to have dozens of members.
Later I was told that although the Pink Panties was a small house, we were somewhat of an elite group within the school. And that everyone loved us. That is to say, the mistresses loved us because, compared to sissies from other houses, they had far less restrictions placed on them when dealing with a Pink Panty. Conversely, the sissies loved us because everywhere we went we would draw the mistresses' heat away from them and onto us. We were both the highest of the high and the lowest of the low. We were special. Yay...
“Try to look busy,” Bibi whispered to me at some point. “No Mistress is allowed to prevent a sissy to arrive in class on time. So pretend you have urgent business somewhere else.”
With that in mind, it wasn't that our little procession simply marched down the corridors without stopping quickly passing dominants before we drew their undivided attention and evading those who my classmates had particular bad experiences with. Smiling prettily we tried to ignore the occasional jeers, whistles and taunts.
But it was still an hour or so before class would start, and it was impossible to mince-march up and down the corridors before a dominant would realize we were far less preoccupied than we pretended to be. Fortunately, Tammy knew a quiet corner of the building where we could hide and take a load of our heels.
Bibi had taken it upon herself to give me a brief overview of building. “See those big doors down that hallway? They are off-limits to sissies. You can get in trouble just for being close to them.”
“Why? What's behind them?” I asked.
“The rest of the school,” she told me. “Sissies are restricted to this part of the complex. Beyond those doors is the residential building. Students who don't want to stay in a dorm can have their own room, for a fee. Some of the mistresses have the privilege to take a sissy up there for some one-on-one time. Beyond that is the regular finishing school.”
“Why do you waste your breath of that airhead, Bibi Pink Panties?” Buttercup snapped. She had become increasingly agitated as we hid in our sanctuary. I'm sure she would be pacing around if her towering heels had allowed her. Instead she just fidgeted with the same garter she had adjusted three times already.
“Oh now, be nice with your sister, Buttercup Pink Panties,” Prissy admonished her with a sugar sweet voice devoid of any malice or anger. “After all, we are all sissies here.”
“She's not my sister!” Buttercup snarled as she glared at Prissy. “And I'm nothing like you!”
“What's your problem?” I called out annoyed. I went from the frying pan of the pit into the fire of the Pink Panties, and I don't think I could deal with yet another sissy pestering me all the time.
“You are my problem,” she said angrily. “Thanks to you they dragged me back to this place.”
“Hey, it's not my... this sissy's fault you are a one too.”
And a well trained one at that, I had to admit. Despite her rage and defiance, her posture was prim and proper. Her eyes were a different matter entirely. If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead then and there. “I'm not a sissy!” she said with a voice that quivered with anger.
“Could have fooled this sissy,” I said snarkily, nodding at her ridiculous attire. Though it looked a lot like my own, it felt good to heckle someone else about it for once.
“She means to say that she wasn't born a boy,” Tammy interjected.
“Huh?” I said startled, my brain still processing what I just heard.
“It's true,” Bibi added. “Buttercup Pink Panties was a girl before becoming a sissy. A woman even, wasn't that right?”
Buttercup didn't reply, but it was obvious that a dozen different replies fought in her throat to be uttered first. Finally she just stammered a few unintelligible sounds.
“Wait... What?” I could only say as I looked at Buttercup.
Her defiance collapsed around her like a house of cards, leaving only a shy, ashamed and very embarrassed little sissy. She turned around as to evade my gaze.
My annoyance with her evaporated, at least for now, and instead I felt an honest shock. And curiosity as well.
“... How did that happen?” I could only say. Is it even possible to feminize a female?
Next to me Bibi shrugged. “How does it happen to any of us? We meet someone, someone who urges us to do things we never dreamed of doing before. And when we realize it has gone too far, we discover there is no way back...”
“I met a man,” Buttercup suddenly said, her voice sounding weak. “He was... so charming. Older than me, but I didn't care. I wanted to sleep with him, and after making some effort, I succeeded.”
I heard her take a breath, then she turned towards me.
“We had a great time,” she spoke. “He almost seemed too good to be true, you know? So I should not have been that surprised when he finally told me he was already married.”
I suddenly thought about that fateful encounter at that cafe, where I met three beautiful women. Almost too good to be true...
“I realized I was 'the other woman',” Buttercup continued. “But I didn't care. I wanted him to be with me. I was certain he'd leave her. In the end though, he didn't.”
She looked down ashamed. “So one day I did the stupidest thing I could do: I went to his wife and I told her everything.”
“Why?” I asked incredulously. Surely nothing good would come from that?
“I don't know why!” she cried. “Perhaps I wanted to break up their marriage, so he'd have to be with me. Perhaps I just wanted to hurt him. Maybe I even wanted to hurt her, my rival for his love.”
She wanted to raise her arms in exasperation, but failed. She had forgotten her upper arms were tied like mine.
“I didn't know how she'd respond: she might yell at me. Perhaps even get physical.” She shook her head. “But nothing like that. She didn't even get angry. She just asked me all those questions. What we did. Where we did it. Especially about the kinky stuff. And how that made me feel...”
She barked an eerie laugh. “I could hardly believe my ears. This woman, who was twice my age, asked me the most personal questions. She was my enemy, for goodness sake!” I heard her take a breath. “But I opened up to her. She was such a good listener. I couldn't help telling her everything about my life and all my dirty little secrets. I knew this was foolish, but I kept talking anyway.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “In the end I tried to apologize for sleeping with her husband, but she would have none of that. She put her hand on my shoulder and told me she wasn't mad with me. Or him for that matter. Their relationship was 'different', she said. He would never leave her, she assured me. But she and I could become friends. And if I really wanted... I could continue sleeping with her husband. ”
“...What?” I only managed to utter.
She snorted. “That's exactly what I said. It sobered me up. I wanted to leave and put him, her and this madness behind me. But she took my hand, and asked me to think about it. She offered me to spend my next holiday with them.”
“And I assume you said yes,” I replied rather redundantly.
She nodded. “They both treated me very well. And I had the best sex ever with her husband.”
She blushed. “There is something exciting about fucking a man knowing his wife is on the other side of the wall... And he was so creative. Then we indulged in some roleplay....”
I saw where this was going. “And you had to wear slutty outfits...”
“No, I already had those,” she said without a hint of irony. “But he asked me to wear them in the house, in full view of his wife. Then things started to... change.”
I thought back to the day Mistress' daughters presented me to her, completely dressed. “I guess it quickly escalated from there.”
“It did,” she said remorsefully. “Especially when they told me to call them Mommy and Daddy...”
“So how did you end up here? At the school I mean.”
She shrugged. “Like Bibi said, when I finally realized it had gone too far, I could no longer turn back. When I didn't accept that, Mommy sent me here.”
I nodded, but didn't say anything.
After a brief moment of silence, Buttercup seemed to regain her defiance. “So you see, I shouldn't even be here! I'm not some frilly panty-boy,” she said haughtily. “I'm a real girl, and nothing like you feminized freaks!”
I thought about what Miss Ingrid had told me: a sissy is not defined by what's between her legs, but what's between her hears. In a weird way, sissification was a very egalitarian concept...
Unperturbed by her invective, I replied. Not maliciously, merely stating a fact: “No. You are no more a girl than I am a boy. You are a sissy. Exactly like the rest of us.”
That struck a nerve. Buttercup wanted to respond, shout even, but again the words did not come out.
Her eyes betrayed her shame and doubt. Deep down she knew I was right.
“You'll always be my sissy sister, Buttercup Pink Panties. Teehee,” Prissy said warmly. She simply tried to be friendly, but inadvertently just rubbed salt in the wounds.
“Girls? This sissy hears someone coming,” Tabitha called out. “We need to get moving.”
We quickly checked our uniforms, then formed up in a line. Now Prissy was in front, and gave the signals. Three... two... one... mince.
We left our temporary hideout just before two dominants arrived.
“Oh, hello there, pinkies,” One called out. “Where are those lovely legs going so fast?”
“These six sissies are heading to class, Miss,” Buttercup Pink Panties told her as we sped past. There was no longer any defiance in her voice.
“What's your name, sissy?” the Mistress in the blue dress asked me.
“This sissy's name is Cheryl Pink Panties, Miss,” I answered demurely.
She smiled contemptuously. “Quite a mouthful, new girl. Do you expect me to remember all that?”
“No Miss,” I answered meekly.
“And why's that, pinkie?” she sneered. “Are you suggesting I cannot remember three simple words?”
I gasped “Of course not, Miss. This sissy didn't mean...”
A cuff on the ear silenced me. “Look at me when you address me, stupid girl!” She snarled.
“Chery Pink Panties is sorry, Miss!” I replied hurriedly, looking up, my ear still burning from the impact.
“No you're not, but be fresh with me again and I promise you will be sorry!” Her voice cut like a scalpel, but as I fought back the tears, I saw her eyes just radiated mirth. She was clearly enjoying herself. Glad that one of us was...
I was standing in front of my roommates. The Mistress had made me step out of line to get a better look at me.
We had managed to avoid undue attention by stoically marching down the corridors, while occasionally hiding in some remote corner or blind spot. It was almost time for our education to begin and we had been steadily heading towards the classroom. Just when I thought we would reach it without further ado, we got intercepted by this mistress in her tight velvet dress.
She leaned in, her nose almost touching mine. “...Are you eyeballing me, sissy?” asked viciously. She may be just pretending to be malicious, but she certainly was convincing.
“No Miss!” I quickly said as her eyes bored into mine.
She moved in even closer. “Why not? You think I'm not good enough for you to look at?”
“No Miss! Er...Wait... Yes... No... Er... Cheryl Pink Panties is very confused Miss....” I said weakly.
She looked at me icily, and I was sure she was about to kick my ass.
Suddenly she leaned back, then burst out laughing. “Oh, you pinkies are the best!” she told me with a girlish squeal. “If only you could see yourself now, sissy. Hilarious!”
She continued laughing, thawing the icy atmosphere. Even I began to relax. As she laughed, I couldn't help uttering a relieved chuckle myself.
“Shush, girl,” she immediately snapped at me in her firm voice, making me snap at attention.
She straightened her back and suppressed her amusement. “Let me have a look at you, sissy. Twirl around.”
I had been preparing for just such an eventuality, checking, double-checking and triple-checking my appearance. Here goes nothing...
Leaning on the ball of my right foot, I spun around my axis. The skirt fluttered around me, completely revealing my already exposed panties in the process. My gaudy earrings jingled annoyingly.
“I didn't say stop, sissy,” the Mistress told me sternly.
So I continued twirling around as she watched me. I tried not to get dizzy as I kept balance in my unforgiving boots.
“That's enough, girl,” the Mistress said. “Stand at attention. Eyes down.”
Easier said than done, with the room still spinning around me. My stilettos didn't help either.
The woman stood impassively before me as I watched how her shoes drifted before my eyes, waiting for her to give her verdict on my appearance.
“Not too shabby,” she said noncommittal. Given the circumstances I considered that the highest praise. I suppressed a deep sigh of relief.
For a moment the Mistress watched me in silence. “It's Cheryl, wasn't it?” she finally asked. “It is? Well, too much effort to remember. I think I'll just call you 'Teacher's Pet'. You wouldn't mind, would you, sissy?”
“No, Miss,” I lied. I hated it. This reminder of my greatest shame. Which is saying something for one who wears a pink dress, butt plug and a diaper.
“Good girl,” she said with a mean grin. “You know, I've been told that the text on a pinkie's cap always refers to something they did. Something so scandalous it affirms their status as a Pink Panty for ever and ever. “
“... This sissy supposes so, Miss,” I answered weakly, not wanting to go too deep into the subject.
From the corner of my eye I saw her watching me with interest. “...I wonder what it is...”
I thought back on what had happen just hours and a lifetime ago, shame and regret rumbling like a volcano underneath my frilly surface. This dreadful day lasted forever, it seemed.
“Well?” she asked me sternly.
“Mistress... Please...” I asked pleadingly.
“Spit it out, girl!” She snapped at me, brooking no opposition.
“Cheryl Pink Panties betrayed her best friend. So she could become the best sissy in class,” I blurted out with barely contained sobs, lamenting my poor choices.
“That's it? Oh you silly girl... That's nothing to be ashamed of! It's a good thing that you try to be the best sissy you can be,” she told me rather kindly, but with a nasty grin. “Besides, you can always get new friends. Watch...”
She turned to my housemates. “Prissy Pink Panties, step forward.”
Prissy bobbed a pretty curtsy. “Yes, Miss,” she said happily, then stepped out of rank.
“Prissy, do you want to be friends with little miss Teacher's Pet?” The Mistress asked her.
Prissy smiled a smile of blissful ignorance. “I sure do, Miss.”
“Very good.” She turned back towards me. “Teacher's Pet, do you want to be friends with Prissy?”
“Er... Of course, Miss,” I said rather awkwardly.
The Mistress in blue velvet smiled wickedly. “Well then, what are you waiting for?” She nodded towards Prissy. “Make friends with her.”
“Er... Yes, Miss.“ I bobbed a curtsey. “Prissy Pink Panties, I would be honoured if you would become...”
“Not so formal, silly girl,” the Mistress interrupted. “Just give her a kiss. A nice wet French kiss...”
Aghast, I looked at Prissy. The brainless bimbo pouted her lips happily. Eagerly even. She looked at me with warm and welcoming eyes, straightening her legs and bending slightly forward to receive my lips. She patiently held her posture form me to bring my mouth to hers.
I hesitated. Despite all the training, all the drills, I couldn't force myself to kiss her. Him. This man in a dress and heels.
My delay should have earned me a cuff around the ears, but the mistress in blue just watched me with delight, drinking my dread and humiliation.
I fought back against my hesitation. Come on Cheryl, you can do it, I thought. It's not like I would be kissing a guy, after all. Like me, she is a sissy.
There certainly was nothing masculine about her. In fact, she looked rather cute, with her pink dress and high-heeled Mary Janes. Her outfit included bondage as well, but there seemed nothing wrong with that: more like they were necessary accessories to keep an over-enthusiastic and overly-incautious little girl safe and out of trouble. Her make-up couldn't quite hide she was older than me, but overall she looked like a happy young girl who was just about to experience her first kiss.
Actually, the only thing that reminded me about her masculine origins was the fact that I knew that she was a sissy; a feminized man. But as my Mistress, her daughters, Margot, my teachers and basically everyone else had said time and again, I was just a stupid girl. So really, what do I know? Didn't Buttercup's history prove that whatever I thought I knew about sissies was wrong? Prissy wasn't a man, she was a proper sissy. A very pretty little sissy...
The little voice in the back of my head refused to be silenced completely. Are you crazy? It said. Don't kiss a guy. This is ridiculous. Humiliating. Be strong, they cannot make you do this.
But its complaining was drowned out by the shy jitters I began to feel as I looked at Prissy. When I was still a man I never dated typical girly-girls. Too girlish for me. But now I realized what I had been missing out on. Her pretty dress, her long chestnut hair, her cute heels, a picture of perfect femininity...
My aversion still tried to put up a fight, but attraction put it in a headlock. I felt a blush appear on my cheeks.
“Oh my, Teacher's Pet, you're blushing. Feeling a bit shy, are we?” the Mistress in velvet said sniggering. “Don't leave Prissy hanging, girl. Go on, kiss her.”
Aversion struggled, but couldn't stop my body from moving. I mimicked Prissy's posture, placing my feet next to one another, straightening my legs, pushing my behind backwards a bit as I leaned forward, arms locked to my sides and hands dangling limp from my wrists, fingers spread.
I pouted my own lips, and kept my eyes focussed on Prissy's as I moved my head forward. The mistress smiled when our lips made contact.
Then aversion broke free and tried to regain control, but it was too late. Prissy, eager sissy she was, opened her mouth and slipped her tongue between my lips. I froze, but relentless drills took over and opened my mouth receptively. Out tongues touched. And we kissed...
Our postures were of little children experimenting with our first kiss, but our tongues moved as those of passionate lovers: tickling, stroking, wresting and tasting.
But aversion refused to accept the situation. It recruited dread and humiliation to its cause and fought attraction, lust, submission and training. The only outward sign of my internal struggle was a deeper shade of red on my cheeks.
Naturally the mistress saw this, and she loved it.
“Ah, puppy love,” she said. “See, Teacher's Pet? Who cares about friends when you can always get new ones?”
That stung. I had just lost Danielle. By my own hand, no less. And one thing was for sure: Prissy could never fill her heels.
Suddenly the spell was broken, and I realized I loathed kissing Prissy. They could not be doing this to me. To all of us.
My revulsion must have shown on my face. “Smile, Teacher's Pet. Sissy loves kissing her new girlfriend.”
With effort, I did as was told. The mistress realized she had struck a nerve, and she kept up the pressure.
“In fact, you love it so much, you are getting all giddy with excitement,” she spoke with malicious glee. “Suddenly you feel like flapping your arms. Like a little bird. That's it, good. And now you begin to feel all funny in your groin. You start moving your feet up and down, like you need to go to the bathroom real bad... Yes, excellent...”
The mistress watched as I danced for her amusement, while my mouth remained locked with Prissy's. The girl never relented, her tongue as vigorous and enthusiastic as when we just touched. She seemed insatiable. Not a hint of malice, just... being very friendly.
As our tongues wrestled, my moving legs and hands provided additional stimuli. The clicking of my heels filled my ears, mixing with the noisy tinkle of my earrings. The sensation as I pulled the heel of one leg along the calf of another, stroking it as it went. The flapping of my hand put strain on the ribbon binding my arms. My petticoats tickled my thighs each time I pulled my legs up. The rhythm of my steps jiggled my boobs.
Prissy's perfume filled my nostrils, and I tasted her in my mouth. I loathed it, for sure, but it was so stimulating...
Only then did I notice the strain against my diaper.
No, not again, I thought. I must stop. Before it's too late. Must stop. Can't stop. Everything I felt had become an aphrodisiac. Even my loathing and humiliation had become mere stimuli that urged me on.
Smothered by Prissy's mouth, my I could only gasp as I had another 'accident'. I felt like crying from both joy and indignity.
“Prissy Pink Panties, step back in line,” the Mistress ordered. And as merrily as everything else she did, Prissy obeyed.
Flustered, I tried to regain my composure. With effort, I managed to assume my properly demure and submissive position, but probably wouldn't score any points on technique.
Unsteady in my towering heels, I desperately tried to ignore the wetness around my sissy-clitty as it oozed down, then disappeared as my diaper absorbed the moist. All things considered, I began to appreciate Frau Ochsenhorn's addition to my uniform. I wondered just how many accidents this diaper could handle. Hopefully I would never have to find out the hard way.
The Mistress stepped up right before me, a mean grin on her face. She didn't say a word as she looked me straight in the eyes and slowly, theatrically, lifted the hem of my skirt with one hand, then the other disappeared below it.
I yelped when I felt her fingers touch my panties. “Don't look down,” she snapped, “eyes forward, sissy!”
I did as was told, but couldn't suppress a shudder when I felt her fingers found the rim of my panties, then slip underneath. Underneath my diaper. She didn't probe too deep, or touch my clitty, just far enough to confirm what she already knew.
She withdrew her hands and graciously rearranged my skirt. I just stood there, perplexed and abased, as she pulled out a handkerchief to clean her hand.
“You know, us dommes have something of a contest going on,” she told me with satisfaction. “It's called” 'getting those stupid little sissies excited'. You score one point for causing a rise, three for getting a sissy moist with pre-cum. Ten for full blown panty-spillage. You just put me in the lead.”
“You're... welcome, Mistress,” I said aghast.
“I wonder if I should tell my friends that you are an easy score, or if I should keep you to myself,” she said thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Ah, I guess I should just tell them. One way or the other, it will be common knowledge by tomorrow anyway.”
Patronizingly, she pinched my cheek with the hand she had just cleaned (thoroughly, I hoped). “See you around, Teacher's Pet. Now step back in line and get out of here. That goes for all you pinkies. Get your frilly asses to class or something.”
We simultaneously bobbed a proper curtsey, said “Yes, Mistress,” and got moving, getting as much distance between us and this devil in blue velvet in case she changed her mind.
The experience had left me unsteady in my boots, and only with the greatest effort did I manage to make it to class without stumbling, tripping or otherwise making a fool of myself and attract more vultures in red, black or violet.
“Welcome, ladies,” the teacher spoke as she addressed her audience, “to my course in Communicative Dance. And I would especially like to welcome those fortunates who are still in their first cycle. Are you enjoying the wonderful experiences this school offers its students? Great.”
When we arrived at our designated classroom, I expected something similar to the pit's lecture room, where I had received my training. But there were no desks here. A couple of chairs, but not enough for us all to sit on. No blackboard. Not even a podium to perform on. Instead I saw a mostly empty parquet floor, surrounded by mirrors on three sides. A large stereo set had been placed in a corner. It was an archetypical dance studio.
“And of course I'm glad to see many familiar faces. I hope this time you managed to remember at least some of the things I taught you last cycle. We can't have another Waltz-Twist fiasco like last time, now can we Tabitha Pink Panties?”
A round of laughter went through the room. I was standing at attention, so I only saw her from the corner of my eye, but even I could see Tabitha's face turn bright red.
“Aww, not even a little fiasco, Miss Engelbrecht?” one of the other students asked mockingly.
I hadn't exactly been looking forward to class, but at least there we would be safe from roving Mistress-in-Training. Or so I thought. Imagine my shock when I discovered a group from House Black Leather would be joining us....
“Alas, Miss Black,” our teacher said with a beautiful smile. She almost seemed to glide across the floor as she spoke. “I understand why you'd think a sissy's failure to be funny, but I pride myself on high standards and will not accept anything less than excellence.”
She walked past us, inspecting each Pink Panty with a quick scan; stern eyes moving up and down. Then she went over to the Black leathers, where she exchanged a few light-hearted words with several Mistresses.
I noticed Miss Engelbrecht didn't wear sweat pants, leotard or one of those other very practical garments dancers often wear while training. Just a neat blouse, skirt and low heels. Still, her outfit was much more sensible than what her students were wearing, that's for sure. The Mistresses wore the outfits of their house, and none of those women wore heels I would consider suitable for dancing. Still better than the towering monstrosities my feet were encased in, though. Never mind the bonds...
“Anyway, some of you may be wondering why the graceful art of dance is part of your curriculum,” our teacher continued. “Why would a dominant or a sissy need to be able to hop around the dancefloor?”
Good question. Even since I became a sissy, I didn't dance much (though the time where I first danced the lady's part led by Miss Haltenburg was... enlightening). Come to think of it, I hadn't really danced since my visit to London, and that unfortunate attempt at break-dancing, followed by a trip to the hospital...
Miss Engelbrecht glided to the center of the room, “Dance is a form of communication. One as old as humanity itself. You use it to talk with your dance partner. Not with words and sounds, but with graceful movements, majestic postures, soft touches and subtle turns.”
She raised her finger to accentuate her point. “You talk with your body. And contrary to speech, your body never lies. Dance allows you speak your heart without the static caused by your mind or mouth. It lets you hear your partner’s deepest emotions without uttering a sound. You'll get to know your partner on a level no sweet-talking can ever achieve.”
She patted her shapely tummy. “...And it is great for burning calories as well!”
This elicited some amused sniggering from the Mistresses. Us sissies remained silent while trying to smile blissfully.
“So in the course of this class, whether you are a Mistress or a sissy, you will learn the language of dance. I will not focus on perfecting your technique. I can teach a monkey to make the 'correct' step or 'proper' movement. But listening to your partner' body, understanding what she says, that is true mastery.”
Our instructor began to explain the dance she would teach us, followed by a quick demonstration. I would have expected a simple three-step foxtrot or perhaps a formal waltz, but I did not recognize what Miss Engelbrecht was demonstrating.
I was no expert, but I recognized elements of the foxtrot, quickstep and tango, all blended together into a dynamic yet graceful whole. It also looked very complicated.
When she was done, she addressed her students. “All right then, partner up and give it a try. Remember, there are no right or wrong moves. The most important thing is that you communicate. Mistresses, it is your job to guide your partner. Tell your sissy how you want her to move. Sissies, listen closely what your partner tries to tell you and act accordingly. Now then, get on with it, ladies.”
Immediately the Black Leathers assailed us, laughing and giggling. Each one trying to claim their first choice for a dance partner. Two were arguing about which one would pair up with me.
“Hold it, ladies,” Our teacher interrupted. “She is fist cycle. Miss Anna Black, you are first cycle too, aren't you? Would you please pair up with Cheryl Pink Panties instead?”
“Of course, Miss,” a young woman with long golden hair said. Smiling warmly, she walked up to me. I reckoned she was about my age, and she clearly was not shy about showing her young body. Her leather top covered her breasts, but not much else, exposing her narrow waist and belly button. Her skirt was short (though I envied the fact that her panties were covered, albeit barely) and tightly hugged her voluptuous hips. A pair of fishnet stockings ended into two neat black patent pumps, and matched a pair of fingerless fishnet gloves.
She wiped a loose lock of hair out of her face as she studied my appearance.
“Hi there, cutie. I'm Anna. What's your name?” she asked me.
I bobbed a curtsey. “This sissy is called Cheryl Pink Panties, Miss,” I replied with my best behaviour.
She squealed with delight, which sounded very nice. “Oh my, you're adorable. You are like a little pink dolly. You look amazing in that dress.”
“Thank you, Miss,” I answered suitably grateful. It was the sort of compliment I could do without, but at least she meant it in a nice way.
“And you have to do everything I tell you to, right?” she asked me rather awkwardly.
“Er... Yes, Mistress,” I replied rather baffled. She was probably new at this.
She clapped her hands excitedly. “Golly, this is awesome.”
She looked me up and down. Not stern and critical, but with wide open eyes that could hardly believe what they were seeing.
“Is that a gag? You have to wear that?” she asked me incredulously.
Please don't remind me, I thought. “Yes Mistress. I need to carry it around in case one of my betters wants to silence me,” I told her as I felt my cheeks flare up.
“You mean I could gag you. Now? Right here?” she asked me with a mixture of wonder and expectation.
I gulped. This was going in the wrong direction. “If Mistress desires it...” I answered meekly.
Luckily, another accessory drew her attention. “And what's this? A leash?” she asked incredulously, giving it a tug.
Take by surprise, I uttered a soft yelp as my weight was pulled forward. I had to make two mincing steps in my accursed boots to compensate and stay on my feet.
“Wow, for real?” the mistress named Anna said. Then she tugged the leash again, forcing me forward once more.
She laughed joyfully. It was a wonderful sound, but I had little chance to enjoy it. I was kind of busy with mincing behind her as she kept pulling, leading me across the room.
“Hey, Diana? Look at me, I've got a sissy on a leash!” She called out to one of her fellow Black Leathers.
“That's great, Anna,” a less easily impressed mistress replied, then continued giving Bibi the dressing down of a lifetime. The poor girl looked even smaller than normal.
“You know, I read all about this in the school's information package,” Mistress Anna told me as she kept tugging my leash, forcing me in a quick mince, “but never really believed it. Biased and highly exaggerated advertising, I thought.”
She gave me a nice smile. “So glad I was wrong,” she told me with a cute wink.
Despite my struggle to keep up, I blushed shyly. In another life I would have loved to meet her. I would have courted her, for sure. Bring her flowers, take her out on a date, share a kiss...
But now I had to face the insurmountable fact that I was trapped in drag, forced into the outfit of some fetish doll and paraded around like some trophy. And this dream-girl not only saw me in my abased state, she was even holding the leash. Literally.
“That's... nice, Mistress Anna,” I managed to utter with forced enthusiasm, my smile hiding my caged emotions.
“Was this what you were hoping for when you enrolled?” she asked me with sincere curiosity.
“Er...” I replied awkwardly. What was I supposed to say? Actually, Mistress, I never enrolled; I was just dropped off in some underground lair and spanked silly when I did not go with the program. And now I'm just mincing around in the most ridiculous outfit so that students like yourself have something to vent their dominant side on...
“...Yes, Mistress,” I said with a pretty smile.
Mistress Anna wanted to say more, but she was interrupted by Miss Engelbrecht. “Miss Black? I'm glad to see you are enjoying yourself, but may I remind you that you will be graded at the end of the course. May I suggest you and Cheryl start practicing?”
“Oh... yes,” Mistress Anna said reluctantly. I saw the regret on her face as when she let go of the leash.
She turned towards me, grabbing my right hand with her left, and put her hand around my waist. I felt her fingers probe the ridges of my merciless corset, which forced my waist to be almost as narrow as hers.
“You will find that dancing is much easier, Miss Black, if you would first untie your partner,” our teacher said with a healthy dose of snark.
Now it was Mistress Anna's turn to blush. “Yes, of course. Miss Engelbrecht.”
She reached for the bonds around my arms. “Sorry about that,” she told me with a shy smile.
“No, no, no! Do not apologize, Miss Black!” Miss Engelbrecht called out.
She came over to us, and gave Mistress Anna a serious look. “Never apologize to a sissy! You are a mistress. You just change your mind, or you try to keep a sissy on her toes. Heck, you may even redefine the laws of reality itself for all I care, but you never ever make a mistake before a sissy.”
Miss Engelbrecht let that sink in with Mistress Anna.
“You know who do make mistakes?” she continued, “Sissies! All the time. If they screw up because something you said or did, obviously they misinterpreted your commands. The fault lies solely with them, and they should be punished accordingly.”
She turned towards me, and looked at me furiously. I could only look back in bafflement.
She slapped me in the face. Hard.
I wanted to squeal in dismay, but the utter surprise I felt over this chastisement robbed me of my voice. I felt the outline of a hand burn on my cheek.
“You stupid girl,” she snarled at me. “Why didn't you inform Miss Black you were tied up? Do you expect her to notice every insignificant little detail about your pathetic appearance.”
“I'm sorry Miss!” I wailed “I didn't... I mean... I wanted to... Er...” The words got blocked in my throat. I felt utterly confused. What had just happened? I was being punishing for what? Something I did? Something Mistress Anna did? I wasn't sure.
“Eyes front, sissy!” She barked at me. “Stand straight. Legs together. Now apologize to Miss Black.”
I was still trying to make sense of what had just happened, but training took over and I bobbed a respectful curtsey.
“I'm deeply sorry, Mistress Anna,” I said reverently, though my mind was still racing. “I'll strive to do better next time.”
Miss Engelbrecht turned to Mistress Anna, ignoring my bob. “See? Firmly under your heel. Instead of showing fallibility, and thus exploitable weakness, you reassert your dominance.”
Mistress Anna looked at me, to Miss Engelbrecht, and back to me again. Her eyes betrayed utter fascination with this concept. ”But do I really need to be so strict, Miss? Can't I be lenient with her, every now and then?”
“You can, but not in this stage.” our teacher told her. “First you must be stern, make her fear you. A sissy's entire existence must revolve around you. Then and only then can you start being merciful, so she'll bond with you. You will learn all about this in your course in Applied Psychology.”
Miss Engelbrecht clapped her hands. “But enough theory, let's get to dancing. As it is your first time, focus on the basic steps. One-two-three-four-turn, five-six-seven-eight-spin. Got it?”
“Yes, Miss,” Mistress Anna said as she untied me. I muttered an affirmation as well, but my mind was still far too jumbled to focus on dancing.
Mistress Anna threw my bonds to the side and took my hand, escorting me towards the centre of the room. Around me my fellow sissies were already gliding around the dance floor under the frim guidance of their partners.
She turned towards me, putting her free hand on my waist, just above my skirt. I placed my own on her shoulder. “Ready, sweetie?” she said with a tone devoid of any malice.
I looked straight in her pretty eyes, which were a rare form of green, and saw the warmth radiate from them. My thoughts and emotions were hardly untangled, but I felt a shy blush tint my cheeks. “Yes, Mistress,” I answered overawed.
“Here we go,” she said as pulled on my hand and put pressure on my waist, telling me to move right. “And a-one and a-two and a-three and a... shoot!”
She had stepped on my toes! I tried to keep a sweet face, but I couldn't supress a groan.
“...Was that my left, or your left?” Mistress Anna asked me confounded.
I tried to wiggle my tortured toes to ease the pain, but in my agonizing boots there was almost no room to move. I bit my lip to focus on something else. “...My left, Mistress,” I said strenuously.
“Miss Black!” our teacher called out “Don't forget what I just told you.”
“Right, Miss,” she replied a bit startled. Then the young mistress straightened her back and looked me straight in the eyes. Her warmth was gone.
She hesitated for a second, as if she was thinking what to say. “No, it was my left, you stupid sissy,” she snarled at me.
I must have turned pale. Not because of her sneer; that was positively mild. But because this pretty girl had suddenly turned into a towering dominant, that swept away my illusions of dating her and dragged me back into my reality as a forcibly feminized sissy trapped in her satin prison.
Mistress Anna let go of her fierce stare. I read concern in her eyes. Maybe my dread gave her pause, or maybe she was still too unaccustomed to her role as uncompromising dominant.
“Keep the pressure on, Miss Black,” our teacher told her. “A chastisement that shows weakness is infinitely worse than no chastisment at all.”
Behind the green pools of her eyes I saw her steel her heart. She let go of my waist and slapped me on the cheek, which was still sore from Miss Engelbrecht's wallop.
“Oh!” I called out. It wasn't all that hard, actually. Mistress Anna seemed almost more reluctant to strike me than I was about receiving it, but I couldn't help sobbing. I felt tears run down my face.
“That will teach you, you pink little bimbo,” she told me sharply. “Now tell me you are sorry for screwing up.”
Snivelling, I told her what she wanted to hear. “This sissy is very sorry, Mistress. She will promise to do better next time.”
“Oh, you'd better. Or I'll give crybaby a real reason to weep, understood?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said humbly.
She gave me a long look. In her eyes I saw whatever reluctance she had about her dominant role, it was rapidly evaporating. “Say you are a pathetic crybaby,” she told me sternly.
“This sissy is a pathetic crybaby,” I said with tearstained eyes. It was the godshonest truth, it seemed.
“Say you are a stupid little sissy who loves wearing a pink dress and high heels,” she told me.
“Tell me you are a sissy-princess who loves it when a real woman twirls her across the dancefloor like a pretty ballerina.”
I spoke the words she had placed in my mouth.
Then I had a vision of myself, gliding gracefully across the dancefloor, held by this strong woman as the led me around. It should have been a disturbing sight, but somehow it seemed enticing.
“Now then, princess... Let's forget all about your little screw-up,” she said. The warmth returned in her voice, but it now had a sharp edge, like silk hiding steel. “Let's go, my little dancing-queen. Feel the beat of the tambourine.” She smiled at me. It was a patronizing smile, but an honest one.
I smiled back. This girl had slapped me. Been mean to me. Made me cry. And I was genuinely smiling at her. I wanted her to take me across the dancefloor. It was insane...
Miss Engelbrecht, who had watched my dressing down in silence, walked up to Mistress Anna.
“Impressive, Miss Black,” the told my partner. “You seemed a bit uncomfortable with disciplining a wayward sissy. Many mistresses are, at first. But you overcame that particular obstacle rather quickly. And you followed a chastisement with an enticing promise. Normally our dominant students need a week or two to grasp the stick-and-carrot approach. Well done.”
“Thank you, Miss,” Mistress Anna told her.
“You’re welcome, Miss Black. Just keep up the good work.” she gestured to the floor. “Now show me your dance moves, girls. And Miss Black? Be firm with Cheryl. She needs guidance. It's her first day as a ballroom-belle, after all.”
And with that, my partner took me across the dance studio. We were both newbies, but Mistress Anna knew what she wanted and I followed her lead. I learned quickly, for Mistress Anna indeed was firm with me.
She kept on stepping on my toes, though.
After our dancing lessons (and the very unfortunate reattachment of our bonds), we were expected in another classroom. It was close-by, so no overenthusiastic Mistresses bothered us in our mince-march over there. The room itself seemed like a carbon-copy of the lecture hall in the pit. Luckily, no students from other houses joined us. It was just the Pink Panties and whatever out teacher had cooked up.
“Welcome, girls, to this course on Cognitive Adaptability,” our lecturer said as she adjusted her glasses. “Or as I like to call it, Sissythink 101.”
I heard some of my classmates groan. I don't know what shocked me more, the fact that my fellow sissies dared to be so insolent, or the idea this course was so bad they couldn't help uttering dismay.
I'm sure our teacher heard it, but chose to ignore it. “I understand we have a student fresh from the novice class, haven't we? Cheryl Pink Panties?” the bespectacled woman asked, and I strained against my bonds to raise my hand daintily.
“Hello there, sweetie,” she told me in a nice tone. “In this course I will teach you the skills and techniques of Cognitive Adaptability. In other words, how to apply Sissythink in your daily life. So pay attention.”
And I did, if only to get a clue what on earth this course was even about.
“So what is Sissythink?” the teacher asked my unspoken question to her audience. “It is the ability to know and not to know. To be conscious of the facts while telling richly disguised lies. To hold simultaneously two thoughts which cancel out, knowing them to be contradictory and honestly believing in both of them. To use your strength against your strength. To repudiate masculinity while desperately clinging on to it. To believe that femininity is the ultimate bliss while being ever fearful of it. To forget whatever your Mistress finds necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it is needed, and then promptly to forget it again. And above all, the ultimate subtlety, to apply the same thought process to the process itself: consciously inducing unconsciousness, and then becoming unconscious of the act of self-hypnosis you have just performed. Even to understand the word 'Sissythink', a girl has to apply Sissythink.”
She let that sink in for a moment. I thought about what she said and could help uttering the only word that came to mind: “...Huh?”
The teacher smiled at me with a satisfactory grin, as if she considered me to be some dimwit that was easily confused by a superior intelligence.
“In other words: to both love and hate being a sissy,” she elaborated.
Okay... that I understood. Sort of. I already hated being a sissy, so I got that part down.
“And instinctively being consciously unaware of that fact,” she added with an enigmatic grin.
...And she had lost me again.
“Perhaps I should explain with a demonstration,” she said as she readjusted her glasses. “Cheryl Pink Panties, front and center.”
I gulped. I hated being the center of attention in class since high school, and even more so since I had been transformed into a sissy. The fact that my teacher took out a wicked looking crop didn't inspire much reassurance either.
“Hurry up, girl,” she said impatiently, “we haven't got all day.”
Somehow, my ankle ribbon had gotten caught by the leg of my desk and I was frantically trying to get it loose (no easy task while having your arms bound and wearing towering heels, not to mention the added chore of looking cute while doing it). Fortunately, it came unstuck just before my teacher's frown became a glare, and I hurriedly minced over to the blackboard.
“Turn around, sissy,” she told me sternly. “Face the classroom. Greet your classmates.”
I bobbed a pretty curtsey, then assumed a proper sissy-stance.
My instructor took up position beside me, just inside my field of vision. I was keeping my eyes aimed towards the classroom, but could still she her threateningly bend the rigid crop in a 'U', then let it snap back in its original position. I swear I could feel it make the air move.
“Listen carefully, Cheryl...” she told me. “If you had five franks and twenty cents in your purse, and a tube of lipstick costs 1 frank forty, how many tubes of lipstick could you buy?”
“Er... What?” I said confused.
I heard a swoosh, then a loud slap. I yelped as my thigh lit up.
“How many tubes, Cheryl?” she asked again.
I frantically searched my mind for an answer, my dry mouth giving voice to my thoughts. “Er... five-twenty... one-forty.... divide one by the other...”
Thwack! A sharp sting went through my left ass-cheek. “Answer me, girl!” my teacher snarled.
“Two! Two!' I blurted out.
Thwack! “Incorrect answer,” she told me icily.
I gasped, desperately trying to keep hold on the numbers in my head while my rear was on fire. One-forty... Two-eighty... Three-eighty-plus-forty-is-twenty-so-three-twenty-no-four-twenty... five-sixty...
Three. The answer was three!
“Three tubes, Miss!” I called out just as she was readying another strike.
She stopped for a moment, giving me an amused look. “Incorrect answer,” she said as she let the crop fly.
Shocked, stunned, I felt could only watch the crop come down and spread its fire on my leg. That answer was correct, I know it was! What did this fiend want me to say?
“Four!” I called out. “Five! Three-and-a-half!”
Thwack! “Now you are just guessing, girl. I want a definitive answer,” she said coldly.
She moved the crop back for her next strike. I looked at it in dismay.
“I don't know!” I blurted out. “I'm sorry, but I just don't know. I swear.”
She stopped, then lowered her crop. A content smile appeared on her lips.
“Better,” she said. Then she leaned in a bit closer. “Why don't you know?”
“Because I'm stupid, Miss,” I said with a sulk. “I'm a stupid little sissy.”
“Yes, you are,” she told me fiendishly.
Then her voice suddenly changed. Gone was the threatening tone, replaced by a joyful note. “But does that excuse you from not knowing some simple arithmetic?”
I don't know what had just happened, but somehow I had told her what she wanted to hear. So I just went with it. I let go of all logic and reason, and dove into the abyss of ignorance.
Without any effort, a blissful smile appeared on my face. My posture, tarnished by the slaps of the crop, returned naturally to its dainty state.
“Oh I wouldn't know, Miss. I'm just a silly sissy, after all. That is for my Mistress to decide.” For some reason, I giggled.
“But what if you do need to buy something? How would you take care of yourself?” she insisted
I squealed, amused by the ridiculous idea. “Teehee. My mistress makes sure I have everything I need. She takes very good care of me, and I try to be as attentive to her as I can be.”
My teacher smiled at my answer. “That's very good, Cheryl. And what if your Mistress would ask you to perform for her amusement? What would you do?”
I smiled prettily. “Oh, I would do whatever she wanted. Give it my best effort.”
“Like what?” she insisted.
“Well...” I said hesitantly as I thought about this. “Perhaps I would pose for her. Or I could flash my panties. Mistress likes seeing my panties...”
I turned around, took hold of the hem of my skirt with the tips of my fingers, then slightly lifted the hem as I pushed my bottom slightly outward. Though my skirt didn't even hide my panties, I was certain that this subtle move would accentuate my pretty rear.
“And your boobies?” Teacher asked.
I giggled. “Oh yes, she'd love seeing those, as I turned around and bent forward. I felt my bra strain to keep my falsies inside my dress.
My teacher got something from her desk, then held it before me.
“What if your Mistress asked you to pleasure a big cock, what would you tell her?” she asked as she showed me a sizable dildo. “Would you obey?”
“Yes, of course, Miss.”
“First I would take the tip between my lips,” I explained. “Then I'd slowly slide down the shaft towards the base, tickling the underside with my tongue as I went. Then I'd pull back, keeping my lips tight as a sissy hole....”
“Show me,” my teacher told me.
I leaned in towards the dildo. I wanted to grab it for support, but the bonds trying my upper arms down limited my reach. Fortunately, my teacher held it firmly so there really was no need. I closed my tips around the rubber phallus, tasting its sharp flavour.
I began showing my technique. For a moment, I wanted to explain what I was doing, but that only resulted in some funny mumbling. It made me giggle.
My teacher let me demonstrate my skill for a while, then she leaned in next to my ear.
“...I'm recording this,” she whispered.
My lips moved up and down the shaft twice before the words finally sank in.
“Humff?” I muttered in confusion. Wait... What did she just say?
“I'm recording this,” she said again. “And I'll make sure a copy is distributed to the various Houses on campus.”
The blissful ignorance evaporated as the pink-shaded scales fell from my eyes. The wrongness of the situation jumped me like a hungry wolf. My eyes shot side to side, and I realized where I was. Suddenly my classmates, who had somehow not existed while I gave my demonstration, reappeared. I'm not sure they really looked at me in contempt and disbelief, but I certainly imagined it.
“You are such a sissy,” teacher told me mockingly. “Dressing up in a pink dress and heels. Sucking a cock! You are pathetic! Do you have no shame!?”
The words hit me like a wrecking ball, and a dreadful humiliation washed over me. Worse still, I suddenly realized the horrible dildo was still thrust deeply in my mouth. I desperately wanted this horrible penetrator out of my mouth, but my shame had frozen me in place. It had been locked in my mouth more firmly than a gag could ever manage.
My teacher let go of the dildo. “Stand up straight, girl,” she told me. “Turn towards the classroom. That's it. Now, Cheryl. How does it feel, being such a pathetic sissy-boi, dressed in your girly outfit, having that big cock in your mouth, standing in front of your peers, knowing that shortly everyone will have seen you like this?”
I remained frozen, but my mind was somewhere else, trying to faint and end the dreadful shame.
But where my mind recoiled from the horror, one part of me was... elated.
I felt my teacher's crop stroke the front of my panties, probing the hard bulge that was pushing inside my diaper. She gave a satisfied laugh.
“Blushing cheeks, excited clitty,” she told me. “A reluctant mind in an eager body. That is the essence of Sissythink. This ends our little demonstration.”
Our lesson in Sissythink didn't end there, of course, but at least I was no longer the center of attention. After our teacher allowed me to return to my seat, the actual lecture began. We had to perform exercises that made no sense to me.
For example, we had to discuss important historical events. I listened in utter confusion as my classmates talked about the first moon landing.
“... And then Commander Nellie Armstrong stepped onto the lunar surface, forever leaving the prints of her high-heels in the dust,” Bibi said in dead seriousness. “And she said: 'this is a small step for a woman, but an impossible one for a man.'..”
“...Miss Armstrong was accompanied by her sissy Fuzzy Aldrin, who didn't do anything important, obviously. But her mistress was gracious enough to take her to the moon with her on her rocket...” Buttercup added. We had to take alternating turns in elaborating on this 'well-known' historical event.
“...And then Miss Armstrong took another 'rocket', big enough to make Fuzzy squeal...” Prissy added enthusiastically.
But it wasn't just adding fanciful factoids to the story. Our teacher would regularly quiz us about things we had just made up.
“Cheryl, what was the name of the organization who sent the Athena 11 to the moon?
“Er... that was... the...” I stuttered. Shoot, Tabitha had added that part. What was it again? “... Female... Er...”
Thwack! The crop went, slapping me on my fingers. “Gah! The FASA, Miss! The Feminine Achievement and Superiority Agency,” I said uttered strained as I rubbed my fingers.
“Good. Now, tell me about this organisation, girl.”
I had to think for a moment. Just blurting out some silly factoids would not satisfy her. We all had been on the receiving end of her crop for not putting some mental effort in it. Well, except for Prissy, that is. Our teacher seemed content if she just managed to use words that actually excited.
So I envisioned a female dominated organisation, where strict Mistresses manned computer terminals and performed complex calculations, while dumb sissies cleaned rooms, brought coffee and just being around when their superiors needed something to spank. “The FASA was created long ago to prove and claim female dominance, and to ensure males would fill their proper place as sissies...”
It was a load of nonsense, but it was spirited and self-consistent nonsense, which was met with approval. At the end of the exercise I could readily imagine a female dominated lunar project.
After several such assignments, it was time for our next class. After properly thanking out teacher for her lessons and promising to continue our exercises, we gathered outside to head towards the next class.
“What on earth was that all about?” I asked my classmates, still confused about I had just been taught.
My fellow Pink Panties seemed in various states of confusion as well. Bibi was taking deep breaths while Buttercup rubbed her temples. “What, you never been brainwashed before?”
“Brainwashed!?” I cried out in dismay.
“Don't listen to Buttercup Pink Panties,” Bibi spoke, “It's not that bad. Just some helpful techniques to exorcise unwanted thoughts and ideas.”
“It's not nearly as innocent as that, Bibi,” Buttercup called out, her voice regaining some of her earlier attitude. “Try as they might, they cannot control your mind. But they can make you control it yourself.”
“Care to elaborate, Buttercup Pink Panties?” I said rather annoyed. I was getting very tired of all this weird and enigmatic stuff.
“Listen, airhead,” Buttercup told me snappy, “they can dress you in ridiculous outfits, tie you up, discipline you, whatever, but they cannot get into your mind. But if they teach you to think only 'good' thoughts, believe your own lies no matter how stupid they are, they have shackled it just as effectively.”
“Hush now, Buttercup Pink Panties,” Bibi urged. “Don't talk like that! Do you want to get sent to the nursery?”
Buttercup froze. Then demurely shook her head.
“We'd better get moving, girls,” Tabitha said. “Or we'll be late for our next class.”
In silence we lined up and marched off to the next lecture hall. I began applying Sissythink: trying to ignore all the alarm bells that were ringing in the back of my head.
More courses followed: Basic Exhibitionism (how to look enticing), Proper Grammar (speaking like a dimwit), Fellatio (self-explanatory)... and then it was time for dinner.
My stomach war growling as we prepared to march towards the great dining hall. I was fearful too, since my classmates warned me it would be full of Mistresses, but hunger overcame my reluctance.
As were about to march off, Miss Wächter herself intercepted us.
“Ah girls, there you are. Cheryl Pink Panties, come with me,” she said. “Hurry up, little lady. The rest of you can get dinner in the mess hall.”
Unsure what this meant, I joined Miss Wächter.
“Heh, someone is having a date with the 'chair'...” I heard Buttercup whisper. As I was under Miss Wächter's scrutiny, I didn't dare ask what she meant by that.
“Follow me, Cheryl Pink Panties,” she told me and marched off. “And keep up, girl. Don't force me to hold your leash.” I hurriedly minced after her.
We crossed the hallways, and I felt the predatory glances of Mistresses as they observed the solitary Pink Panty. Though I felt no love for this woman, I was glad that she was escorting me.
We headed towards the Pink Panties dormitory, and finally I dared to ask her a question.
“Miss Wächter, why can't I get dinner with the others? Have I done something wrong?”
She smiled, but it was a dutiful smile. No emotion behind it. “No, girl. But for reasons that you don't need to concern yourself with, I've decided you'll have dinner in the dormitory.”
We crossed the room where I had my surprise party, the furniture rearranged, then passed Miss Wächter's office and arrived at the dormitory. The passed the door with the sissy who urged me to 'Think Pink'. Guess she was well versed in Sissythink...
We entered the sleeping hall. Two women we already inside. One mistress in red latex, one in blue velvet. “These two ladies are Miss Red and Miss Violet. They'll be responsible for your dinner,” Miss Wächter told me.
I froze in place. I had a bad feeling about this. But Miss Wächter put her hand on my back and pushed me forward.
The two women stepped forward and uttered some greeting in a language I did not recognize. Then without bothering to wait for me to properly greet them, they each gently took my hand.
Flanking me from either side, they urged me onward. Not towards the large table, but towards the high chair at the foot of my bed.
Before I could question this, they had already guided my onto the step of the chair, turned me around, and sat me down in the small seat.
Confused and at a loss for words, I could only watch in bafflement as my two escorts got to work.
The one in red produced a belt she attached to the chair, then wrapped around my waist to hold me firmly in the bucket seat, putting pressure on my plug. The other one lifted up a small table that went over my lap and connected with the back of the chair, snapping in place. It also went over my lower arms, so that (especially with my upper arms still tied by my regular bonds) my wrists were pushed against my body, immobilizing my hands.
The latex mistress bent over my feet, and I heard something click. With the table blocking my view I couldn't see what she was doing, but I felt the step fall away and my feet came to rest on a short bar of sorts, with the heel and tip of my extreme boots resting on opposite sides. Then something was pushed against the front of my ankles. With my knees locked underneath the table, I wouldn't be able to lift my feet far enough to unhook my stilettos from the bar.
Finally the blue mistress adjusted my headrest, and connected a hook to the back of my collar.
They did it quickly and effectively. In moments they had tied me down firmly on this adult baby chair.
The two women stepped back from their handiwork. “What... What is this!?” I finally managed to cry. I looked up at Miss Wächter, who ignored me. She gave the two Mistresses some instructions, after which they left the room.
“Miss Wächter?!” I tried again. “Haven't I been a good girl? Am I being punished?” I asked her doubtfully.
Finally she turned her attention towards me. She shook her head. “No my dear. As a matter of fact, you've been a very good girl. All your instructors were very satisfied with your performance.”
She walked over to me. “But still, one does not simply become a good girl. One needs to grow into it. And for that, one needs to experience the first stage of a girl's life..”
“What... What do you mean?” I only managed to utter. Miss Wächter said nothing. Then the two women returned.
One was carrying a tray with a couple of bowls. No plates or cutlery, save for a single spoon.
But it was the other mistress that really frightened me. She was carrying an oversized baby-bottle with a huge phallus for a nipple. It contained a greenish liquid that reminded me of something you'd find in a stinking bog.
“What is that?” I called out in dismay.
“Dinner for baby-girl. Spinach, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, broccoli... and some other stuff. Purred and mixed into a convenient slurry, mostly. Full of fiber and nutrients for the developing sissy. If you are a good girl and finish your bottle, there is some dessert for you as well.”
Fear gripped my heart, and I felt the rising urge to get up out of this stupid chair. I tried to move, but the belt and table held me down. I wanted to get my arms free, protect my mouth from the horrible bottle, but the chair wouldn't budge. I felt like kicking my legs, but I could only shift then a few inches along the bar, not lift them. I wanted to pull myself forward, but the collar remained firmly attached to the headrest.
As the two mistresses approached, my movements became frantic. I heard several components of the chair squeak as I fought it, but it kept me in its grip.
One mistress placed a bowl on my table, the other shook the bottle to mix the gross fluid inside.
“No! Don't! Please!” I whined as the bottle was pointed towards me.
Furiously, I fought the chair. I turned my head side to side, trying to evade the nipple. The violet Mistress pinched my earlobe, causing me to yelp, then relax. She grabbed my chin, pushing her fingers on my cheeks to force my mouth open.
“Open wide, baby-girl,” the Mistress in red latex said with a heavy accent. The bottle moved forward...
...And the phallic nipple slipped into my mouth. The Mistress in blue held on to me as I gave one final display of resistance, then meekly slumped into my seat.
The Mistress in velvet let go of me as I faced the reality of being force-fed; there was nothing I could do but accept it.
I kept pulling my bonds, but it was a token resistance. Who was I kidding? I was a pathetic pink sissy, tied to a baby-chair, being fed like a baby, and I had been too weak to stop them. Perhaps I deserved this.
The two mistresses chattered excitedly with one another. I couldn't understand them, but it was clear they enjoyed their assigned task. And from the unnecessary pinching of my cheeks and patting of my head did I conclude they considered me adorable.
The mistress in red began to feed me. She squeezed the flexible bottle in short, rapid pulses, squirting small jets of the thick and vile liquid into my mouth. It tasted as awful as it looked, containing all the vegetables I hated since I was a child, blended together into a revolting mush.
With difficulty I forced myself to swallow as the sticky goo filled my mouth. I was sure I would be sick, and mumbled some protests. The latex-clad Mistress responded by squirting some more in my mouth.
I was halfway done with the bottle when I was pulled from between my lips. Now the Mistress in blue began to feed me from a bowl. Using a spoon she fed me some yellow stuff that was at least mildly edible.
Miss Wächter, who had remained on the background during my 'dinner' came up to my chair. “You'd be happy to know that your sponsor has been informed on your performance,” she told me. “From what I've heard, she is delighted. You should be proud of yourself.”
I snapped at attention. My sponsor? Delighted?
My thoughts drifted to Mistress Christina. I saw her stately appearance, her strong and graceful body. A beautiful face that has defied the march of time. I imagined her looking upon me with pride...
Suddenly everything... didn't seem all that bad anymore.
“Thank you, M...” I said, interrupted with another spoonful. “...Miss Wächter. I'm happy Mistress Christina approves-smpff...” Another load was shoved between my lips.
Miss Wächter tilted her head, watching me with keen interest.
“Christina?” she replied, slightly raising her eyebrow. “I'm afraid you got it all wrong, girl. It's true that Miss Jäger has paid for your tuition, but she is not your sponsor.”
My eyes went wide. My mouth went agape, allowing another spoonful easy access.
A cruel smile appeared on Miss Wächter's face. “Your sponsor is...”
A cold chill went through the room and down my spine.
My heart skipped a beat. My mind went blank. No...
“We have adjusted your curriculum to her desires,” the Head of House added. “It was her wish for us to train you as her bondage babe and bimbo plaything.”
An explosion went off in my mind and burst through my heart. I spit out the mush I had in my mouth and cried a dismayed 'No'.
“'Fraid so, dear,” Miss Wächter said stoically as she shrugged.
“No... No!” I wailed. This is not true, I said to myself. Everything I've done, everything I've endured, it was for Mistress Christina! Not Margot, never Margot!
I began pulling my bonds. “Let me out...” I said “Let me go. This is a mistake... You got it wrong! I need to... Let me talk to Mistress Christina. It's a mistake, she'll tell you. She is my Mistress. My sponsor. Not Margot. She's horrible! I'm not hers. I can't be hers!”
I was thrashing in the chair, which firmly held me in its constricting grip, but was now wobbling dangerously. The mistress in blue had to hold on to prevent me from tipping over.
Miss Wächter glanced casually at her watch. “Finish feeding her, then get the pen,” she told the two Mistresses. She went to the door and left the room, leaving me alone with the two women.
I struggled to get my hands free, to get out of this madhouse and back to Mistress Christina. A strong grip turned my head forward, and I felt latex push against my lips.
“No! Leave me alone!” I cried. “Help! Someone! Mistress?! Help! Please! No-ompfh!”
Once again, the bottle forced itself between my lips. I was still resisting when liquid shot into my mouth.
By the time the bottle was empty, I was as helpless and docile as a little baby.
My classmates returned a few hours later. Maybe they wondered why I hadn't joined them after lunch. Perhaps they already knew. They didn't seem that surprised when they entered the dormitory.
Most tried to ignore me, but Buttercup couldn't help gloating. “Heh, told you she got the chair,” she said with malicious satisfaction. “And the pen too?! A twofer! Imagine that.”
“I didn't think Miss Wächter would put her in either on her first night, let alone both,” Tammy added. “Seems like Cheryl Pink Panties managed to make quite an impression.”
“Hear that, airhead?” Buttercup said grinning. “Who's the very special sissy? Whosit? Whosit? Who’s the sissy? Why, you are!”
“Humpf!” I sneered at her. Who are you to mock me, with your ridiculous pink outfit? I wanted to say, even though that was clearly impossible. But I had to grudgingly admit that my current predicament Buttercup had me at a severe disadvantage.
After my dinner, the two Mistress placed me into my next ordeal: a playpen...
But not just any playpen, mind you. Sure, it had some familiar details, like the soft pink mattress, the pile of stuffed animals and dolls, and the bright white bars that kept me inside, but otherwise it was completely unsuited for an actual baby.
For starters, it was absurdly small! Hardly three feet by three feet. Out of necessity my legs stuck out from between the bars, my ankle ribbon tying them together on the outside. With my hands I grabbed the bars like a prisoner in his cell; which I was forced to as short chains had been connected to my wrist cuffs and wrapped around the nearest bars. This was on top of the ribbon that obviously still tied my arms together and my red and blue tormentors never bothered to untie. My back rested against the bars on the opposite side, a stuffed dolly squeezed in between to give me at least some comfort.
Tied down as I was, I wasn't going anywhere. Still, the two Mistresses thought it was necessary to close the playpen's top lid: metal bars covering the top of the pen's small cube. I had to be careful or risk bumping my head.
Buttercup made the most of her rare opportunity to look down upon someone, making lame quips about birdies in cages. Guess it was kind of comical; young man in pink dress locked in tiny playpen, for all to see. With me as the subject however, I did not see any humor in it..
Infuriated by Buttercups mocking, I kicked my legs and pulled the bars. Not that it was of much use: though painted in a bright white colour, the bars were clearly of high grade steel. Shouting was impossible too; after finishing my bottle, they put my pacifier gag back in my mouth and firmly tied it in place.
After the Mistresses brought up the playpen, I was so horrified I actually dared to resist. They had little trouble dragging me out of the chair and guide me to the box, but I refused to cooperate stepping into it.
I would have expected a spanking to 'motivate' me, or perhaps a few cuffs around the ears, but instead the blue Mistress just giggled, then pushed hard against my plug.
I moaned in my gag, for that was uncomfortable enough. Still, I resolved not to let that stop my tantrum.
But then I became aware of the soft vibration I felt in my sissy hole...
My mind couldn't understand what was happening, why my legs were suddenly turning into jelly. Why a low hum travelled through my rear, past my groin to my clitty, causing a raging stiffness.
Later I was told all our plugs had this little surprise. Officially as a reward for good sissies, and a correctional tool for unruly ones. Personally, I think it was because Mistresses thought it was good fun. At any rate, I was completely blindsided by this subtle and insidious assault. Now the Mistress in blue had no trouble at all to pick me up and lift me into the playpen.
I had no idea how long the plug had been vibrating, nor how long it would last (pretty darned long, I would discover). But as I was impotently acting out my anger with Buttercup, the penetrator just kept on going on and on and on, keeping me on edge the entire time. It didn't help that in my confined space I could barely avoid sitting with my full weight on this penetrator.
“What's that, airhead? You have something to say?” Buttercup said, finally acknowledging my agitated grunts. “You want me to take that take that gag out?”
“Yoff! Yuff!” I mumbled. Get me out of this thing!
In the dormitory I was allowed to undo my bondage. The two Mistresses had ensured I couldn't do that myself, but with my Housemates' help I certainly could get free.
“Sorry, can't do, airhead!” She said with a grin.
“Whu.. Whuff?!” I mumbled surprised.
Bibi intervened. “Buttercup Pink Panties, stop being so mean,” she said. “Our sister has enough difficulty without you pestering her.”
Buttercup snorted, but a guilty look drifted over her face. Without a further word she turned to her bed.
“Are you all right?” Bibi asked me empathetically.
No, I'm not all right, I wanted to sneer. I'm bound, gagged and stuffed in this miniscule box with a vibrator in my bum! Get me out of here!
“Opfhem... unthum muh!” I managed to mumble.
“I'm sorry, Cheryl Pink Panties,” Bibi told me regretfully. “But Buttercup Pink Panties is right. This sissy cannot get you out.”
“Miss Wächter explicitly ordered the Pink Panties not to help you. I'm not even supposed to talk to you. Miss Wächter will let you out... eventually.”
Eventually? How long was I supposed to remain in this ridiculous thing?
Bibi didn't elaborate, but turned away and walked over to her bed. She untied one of her bonds and unzipped her dress. Like her classmates, she was preparing for the night.
“Don't make a fuss at night, airhead,” Buttercup called to me as she put on a nightgown. “Or so help me I'll call for Miss Wächter, and she had no tolerance for girls who cause a ruckus. Believe me, I know. Not that it would do you much good anyway.”
Baffled, I watched my fellow Pink Panties complete their evening ritual before turning in. I tried to enlist the others for help. Tammy, Tabitha, Prissy, please help me. Get me out, untie me, listen to my lamentation, whatever! just stop ignoring me...
Tammy was about to turn off the light when suddenly Prissy came over to me, her babydoll fluttering loosely around her.
I looked at her hopefully as she leaned down before me.
“Here, let me help you,” she said warmly.
“Yoff! Phanpf yuff!” I uttered relieved. Help me. Anything. Just don't leave me like this.
And she didn't... technically. She only placed her doll in my lap. “When you need to go potty, just think about dolly... She needs to go potty too! And she doesn't wear a diaper when she has an accident...” Prissy told me helpfully.
Blissfully satisfied with her constructive contribution, she returned to bed, leaving me tied up in my playpen, completely flabbergasted.
The light was turned off, engulfing me in darkness. I grunted for help a couple of more times, but no response came from the black void. I was utterly alone: just me, my thoughts, and the incessant buzzing in my rear.
No, there was something else, I realized with dread. Slowly but surely my liquid dinner was finding its way to my bladder. Vibrations were amplified in my crotch as the pressure rose...