Reminder: please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction. Also, this story involves forced feminization. If that's not your cup of tea, please save your time and skip this story; don't read it and tell me it's unrealistic (I know that), or you don't like this type of story (fine by me).

 

Priscilla's Peril

by Kate

 

In retrospect, the biggest mistake I made was underestimating my younger sister, Margaret; underestimating her cunning, her spite, and her ingenuity. It started with the custody battle during my parents' divorce. After my Dad left my Mom to marry Angie, his secretary, I begged him to let me live with him. The idea of living without Dad in a house with Margaret was more than I could take. I loved Mom and all that, and she really loved me, but Dad and I were best buds. We did everything together; ballgames, fishing, backpacking, the works. I wanted to be just like him when I got older. I told both my parents that as a guy, I really needed to have the guidance of a live-in male authority figure.

I never figured my Mom would care so much about having custody of me. She told me it was because she loved me too much to have me turn out like my father. She was very proud of her "little man," and she bragged about me all the time. Maybe she bragged too much, because sometimes I caught Mom's friends and our neighbors rolling their eyes as Mom went on and on about what a perfect son I was and what a great man I was destined to be.

Mom was concerned enough that she even hired this bitchy woman lawyer, Ms. Proctor, to represent her in the custody dispute. I think the lawyer knew I didn't like her, because she didn't even pretend to be friendly to me. On the other hand, she and Margaret seemed to be instant friends. She was always telling Margaret how clever she was and went on and on about how much Margaret reminded her of herself when she was that age. Lots of times, Margaret and the lawyer would whisper and giggle, even when Mom wasn't around. Whatever!

That summer, before the custody trial, Margaret got way out of hand. Without Dad around to put her place, she became unbearable. She went out of her way to annoy me, acting like I was her personal slave or something. She even talked Mom into making me start doing some of her chores; stuff like delivering and picking up Mom's dresses and skirts at the dry cleaners. I felt like an idiot handing over that girly stuff to be cleaned. The ladies at the cleaners thought it was hilarious to say stuff like, "When do you need your dresses, dear?" "Oh, I bet you look just darling in this one." "Don't you think this dress is a little sophisticated for a boy your age?" "I bet your boyfriend just loves you in this!" Ha-ha, very funny. I tried to ignore the teasing, but it really embarrassed me. Worse, I always turned beet red, which just invited more teasing.

When Dad was around, he never let Margaret get away with her crap. Now that he was gone, she really stepped it up. Mom didn't seem to notice; I guess she was too busy with the divorce and stuff. I knew it was useless to complain; Mom would only tell me to stop being a wuss. Oh, well, at least school was out for the summer.

A couple of days later, I was playing a video game in my room when Margaret and her collection of bratty friends burst into my room. To my amazement, she marched over and actually yanked the power cord from the socket.

"Hey! What in hell do think you're doing?"

"For your information, dweeb, my friends and I are trying to listen to music. Your stupid game is bothering us."

Margaret's friends giggled nervously, waiting for my reaction. "Screw you!" I snapped back.

Margaret just smiled. She continued in a childish voice: " Now Priscilla. Is that any way for a young lady to talk?" Her friends' giggles turned to raucous laughter. Years ago, Dad was out of town on business, and I was complaining to Mom about something Margaret had done. Without thinking, Mom told me to stop acting like a little girl. Margaret quickly noticed how embarrassed I was by that remark, and started calling me "little girl" whenever she wanted to make me mad. She even came up with a shameful nickname for me--"Priscilla." She knew it really pissed me off to be called that stupid name.

To my chagrin, I could feel my face turn beet red. "Shut up, Margaret!"

"Now Prissy, don't be mad. I'll tell you what. I'll go get my old Barbies so that you can play dollies. Playing dollies always makes you feel better, doesn't it?" Margaret's friends laughed louder, and if possible, my face got redder. Finally, it was more than I could take. I had been in enough playground scuffles to know what to do. I easily grabbed my sister's arm and twisted it behind her. She winced in pain.

I couldn't resist rubbing it in a little. "Who's the girl now? Huh? Speak up, I can't hear you."

Margaret just glared at me with a hateful scowl. I could tell she was furious, and I've got to admit, the look on her face scared me a little bit. She couldn't stand that I was showing her up in front of her stupid friends. Still twisting her arm, I marched her over to the door and shoved her into hallway where her friends were already waiting. I felt kind of bad for being so rough with her, but she had it coming. Anyway, I guess it worked; Margaret and her friends left me alone for the rest of the day.

After that, something wasn't quite right. Margaret always tattled on me, even if I just looked at her wrong. But this time she never said anything about it. I didn't see much of her over the next couple of days; she was obviously busy with something. When I did see her, like at mealtimes, she just glared at me. It made me nervous. Eventually, she did start talking to me, but it was strange. She was acting really sweet toward me. It was sickening.

"Brother, dear, can I give you anything? How about another cookie? Peter, the ball game's on TV. Can I turn it on for you?"

I knew she was up to something, I just didn't know what. I didn't have time to worry because I came down with some kind of awful flu bug. I woke up in the middle of the night with terrible stomach cramps and a splitting headache. At breakfast, I complained to my mom.

"Mom, I feel awful. I've got stomach cramps, my muscles ache all over, and I've got no energy."

She felt my forehead. "You feel fine to me. You don't seem to have a fever. Take some aspirin and rest for a couple of days. I'm sure it's nothing," she said sweetly.

Margaret piped up: " I know what it is. Priscilla's getting her period. Isn't that precious?" At least Margaret was back to normal.

Leaving Mom and Margaret giggling in the kitchen, I retreated to my bedroom and stayed in bed the next few of days. I was absolutely miserable. It got so bad I could hardly move. Every day, Margaret stopped by my room and looked in, an evil grin on her face. It was starting to freak me out. Eventually, Mom began to be worried, but the same day Mom was going call the doctor, I started to feel a lot better; the headache and cramps went away, and I finally had more energy. My muscles also stopped hurting, but I still felt really weak. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but something just felt-- wrong.

That afternoon, I went to the neighborhood park to shoot some hoops with my friends. It was great to finally be out of the house away from Margaret. But the minute my best buddy, Jeff, threw me the ball, things started to go bad.

"Hey Jeff, where did you get this ball. It feels like it's made of lead."

"What you talking about? It's the same ball we always play with."

I tried to take a jump shot, but I felt like I was shooting a bowling ball instead of a basketball. The ball fell three feet short of the basket. "You guys are crazy. There's something wrong with that ball."

I listened as all my buddies assured me that there was nothing wrong with the ball. I couldn't figure it out. As we started our regular pickup game, a bunch of the neighborhood girls came over and sat in the adjacent bleachers. I waved to Suzy Johnson, a girl in my class at school. She was really hot, and I had heard through the grapevine that she had a thing for me. This would be a great opportunity to dazzle her with my athletic talent.

Thirty minutes later, the game was over. My team had gotten clobbered, and I was single-handedly at fault. None of my shots even came close to the basket, and on defense, the guys pushed me around like I wasn't even there. I could tell my teammates were starting to get frustrated. Then the guys on the other team started to mock me. "Great shot, Peter. Maybe in a couple of years you'll be a big boy and actually get the ball to the rim." One of the girls in the bleachers said snidely: "Gee Peter, I'm a girl and I play better than that. "

The guys all thought that was hilarious, and they actually had Becky, the girl who had spoken up, substitute for the guy I was guarding. To the delight of the other girls, who were now all cheering for Becky, she made a fool of me. She blocked my shots, easily shoved me out of the way to get rebounds, and scored as if I wasn't even there. Worse, she kept up a steady stream of taunts. "Golly, Peter, maybe you should go over and play hopscotch with my little sister and some of her friends. That seems more your speed. But don't let them push you around. Sometimes they can play really rough," she mocked. As everyone laughed, I wanted to crawl under rock. Even Suzy was laughing. As I walked off the court, she had a look of disappointment on her face.

The next day, Margaret's friends were over, making a racket as usual. Apparently, they were planning an afternoon out at our backyard pool. The détente with Margaret was obviously over because she barged into my room, her giggling groupies behind her.

"Prissy, dear, we're planning a girl's afternoon by the pool. Naturally, our first thought was to invite you," she smirked.

"Bite me!" I growled. "Get out of my room." I was in no mood for her crap.

"Do you think you're man enough to make me? I don't think so," she challenged. She stood in the middle of my room, her feet spread, arms crossed; her mouth was in a sneer. After the embarrassing events at the park, I was not anxious to have a showdown with Margaret until I figured out what was wrong with me, but she didn't leave me any choice. I grabbed for her arm, planning to repeat my victory of a couple of weeks before, but as I reached for her, Margaret spun me around, grabbed my arm, and easily twisted behind my back. It hurt like crazy. I was helpless. "Stop, Margaret! That hurts." My face was contorted with pain.

"Of course it hurts, Prissy. Remember? You did it to me, only I didn't cry like a little girl when you did it."

"I'm not crying… oww!" I squealed. Margaret twisted and pulled my arm higher on my back. It was excruciating. "Stop, please!" I was on my tiptoes trying to ease the pain. It hurt so bad, I was dismayed to find myself begging Margaret to let me go. I didn't care that I was humiliating myself in front of Margaret and her friends; the pain was too much.

As her friends clapped and giggled at my plight, Margaret spoke up. "Promise to be a good girl for the rest of the afternoon," she said sweetly. She gave my arm a wicked twist.

"I promise," I managed to squeak.

"Say all of it," she ordered.

"I-I promise to be a good … girl the rest of the afternoon." I could hardly say the humiliating words. Mercifully, she released her grip on my arm.

"Isn't it a relief to admit the truth?" she mocked. "You're nothing but a ridiculous little sissy," she spat with a smug look on her face.

As Margaret's friends pointed and laughed, I began to get angrier and angrier. Rage overcoming my pain, I rushed at her again, but Margaret grabbed me and threw me to the floor like a rag doll. She then yanked me up and put me in a painful full nelson. It was almost as if she had become ten times stronger overnight. I got so frustrated, I could feel a tear forming in my eye. "What's wrong with me?" I wondered aloud.

As her friends giggled harder, Margaret shoved me onto my bed and placed her forefinger on her cheek in a mock thought. "Gee, I wonder. It's hard to say, but it might have something to do with the "Dainty and Delicate" pills I've been dissolving in your drinks for the last couple of weeks." The girls roared with laughter at my puzzled look. Obviously, they were in on some sort of inside secret.

"What are you talking about?"

"Dainty and Delicate. It's what you've become, thanks to me. Heather, read him the label on the bottle."

With mock ceremony, Heather pulled out a large bottle from behind her back and began reading in a television announcer's voice: "Even your budding football star will become a dainty and delicate darling with our new muscle loss formula. Dominating your sissy will be a cinch when he has a fraction of his former strength. Imagine the hours of enjoyment you'll have as you watch your sissy's muscles melt away and he's reduced to having the strength of a girl half his age. In no time, your former jock will be a frail little flower subject to your every whim. Force him to take all thirty capsules and your sissy will be Dainty and Delicate… for life!" As Heather finished reading, the girls guffawed loudly.

My mind reeled and I couldn't believe my ears. "What the…you're lying. That stuff's not real! Who would sell something like that?"

Margaret said airily: "Well, Priscilla, lucky for you, it's a charming little place downtown. It's called the Sissy Mister. It's one stop shopping for turning boys into sissy girlies. Ms. Proctor suggested it to me." She fixed me with a glare. "Actually, this is just the start," she said smugly. "With Dad out of the way, I'm going to turn you into Priscilla—for good. And the best part is, you can't do anything to stop me," she smirked as she harshly pinched my cheek.

I was too shocked to say anything. This was ridiculous! It couldn't be real. She had to be pulling my leg.

"Don't believe it, huh?" she said as if she was reading my mind. "I think a little demonstration is in order. Remember how you always beat me at arm wrestling?"

Of course I did. I always enjoyed the crushed look on her face when Margaret realized that she would never be my physical match. I didn't care how weird I was feeling, I knew I'd kill her in arm wrestling. Showing her up in front of her friends would put her in her place. I cleared a tabletop, gritted my teeth, and stuck my right hand in the air. I was going to make my snotty sister sorry. "Bring it," I said angrily.

"This should be fun!" Margaret giggled.

Within minutes, I was lying on my bed, whimpering and rubbing my shoulder. Margaret had beaten me ---without even really trying. Then all the other girls took a turn at "beating the sissy." They loved toying with me, letting me think I was winning, and then slamming my fist to the table with ease. Heather was merciless with her teasing. " Gee, Priscilla, I've got a five year-old sister who's stronger than that. C'mon, at least try," she taunted. I gritted my teeth and tried even harder, but it was no use. "I'm afraid you're going to need a man around the house, honey," Heather mocked.

What was happening to me? It was like I had no muscle tone at all. I felt so weak and helpless. Fear gripped me as I realized Margaret and all of her friends were now stronger than me. A bunch of stupid girls! I was completely at Margaret's mercy! For the first time in my life, I felt real fear.

The girls all cheered my utter defeat. It wasn't often they got to physically control a boy—much less an older one. It was clear that they enjoyed the experience.

Heather spoke up excitedly: "You're going to keep him like this, right? I mean, permanently?"

"What do you think, silly? Of course I am. I'm afraid Mommy and Daddy's little man is going to disappear forever," she smirked. "There are only a few capsules left in the bottle. Now that he knows, there's no need to hide it in his food. Hand me one of the pills, Heather." She held out her hand without taking her eyes off me.

I backed away like she was holding a snake. Permanent? Dainty and Delicate? "Margaret! You can't be serious. I'm a boy! My life will be ruined. I won't be able to play sports anymore. You can't do this. It's against the law! Wait till I tell Mom and Dad! You're going to be in so much trouble." I panicked. This couldn't be happening. I had to get away.

I tried to run from the room, but the laughing girls grabbed me and easily held me tight. A smiling Margaret motioned for me to open my mouth, but I clinched my jaw tight. Chuckling, she simply held my nostrils until I gasped for air. Then she popped the pill down my throat with a laugh. I swallowed it to keep from choking. The girls cheered their approval and laughed at my futile efforts to spit up the pill.

I was completely defeated. I had no idea if Margaret was telling the truth, but there was no question that I was weak and frail. I didn't have time to think as the girls decided I needed a few changes to fit in with the "rest of the girls." First Pam and Janey made me get undressed—all the way. I pleaded with them, but it was no use. Of course, the girls all had a big laugh at the size of my unit. I had always been really self-conscious about it, but now my sister and all her friends knew.

"No wonder you call him Priscilla. The poor dear is really more girl than boy." "I didn't know they could be that small." "What would any girl do with that?"

They used some hair remover from that sissy store to remove all my body hair from my underarms and legs. Heather even used some to shape my pubes like a girl's. After I had rinsed off that stuff, I was smooth all over. It was so degrading.

A horrible girl's bathing suit came next; a two-piece monstrosity from that sissy store again. It was black with little white bows all around the waistband. Margaret made me stuff my package between my legs. When they pulled the bottom of the suit up, I wanted to cry; my front looked flat, just like a girl's! The top came next. It had two large cups with a big sissy white bow between them. When I stupidly asked why the top was so big, they all guffawed. Betty pulled out two enormous fake boobs, which she crammed into the cups of the top. I now looked like I had a couple of giant feminine torpedoes jutting from my chest. They were heavy, and they jiggled and swayed in the monstrous cups whenever I moved.

"Oh, Priscilla! What a big girl you are!" Margaret laughed, hefting the fake breasts in her hands.

A stupid sheer cover-up with matching bow motif and high-heeled sandals completed my humiliation. Then the girls started pulling me downstairs. They actually intended to make me go outside like that! I began to panic as the thought of being outside in the humiliating get-up. "Margaret! I can't go outside! What if someone sees me? The neighbors can all see the pool. You can't be serious! St-top! Please!"

"Don't be such a drama queen, Pris. You might as well get used to people admiring you in your darling sissy outfits." She and Heather grabbed me by the arms and despite my desperate struggles, easily dragged me outside to the pool.

The rest of the afternoon was an unmitigated horror. I worried constantly that one of our neighbors would see me. I thought for sure I heard someone in the Cravitz's yard, but when I looked, I didn't see anything. The girls laughed uproariously as they recounted my humiliating morning again and again. Then the pictures started. They must have known what was going to happen because they were all armed with digital cameras. They took turns posing with me, always making me pose in some humiliating way. When Margaret insisted that I smile "like a good little girl" I refused. No way was I going to give her the satisfaction. That earned me another demonstration of her control as she held me with one hand and repeatedly whacked my crotch with a rolled-up magazine until I saw stars. My balls felt like someone had kicked them. As a result, all the pictures showed me with a stupid simpering smile. Whenever my smile started to wane, I got more punishment. I thought about running, but I was so weak, I knew I wouldn't get very far. Besides, where would I go in that sissy get up? I'd die if anyone else saw me like that.

Finally, the girls slathered me with some sun tan lotion and made me bake in the sun for the rest of the afternoon in one of our lounge chairs. At least they left me alone. I desperately tried to think of a way out of my predicament, but I didn't have any luck. I could only hope that it was all a joke or something and after the girls had their fun, Margaret would tell me the truth. As the girls laughed hilariously at my appearance, I was overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness. It was more than I could take. When I began to sob, the girls laughed even louder.

"Aww, poor little girl. Don't cry; we're going to make sure you're the biggest sissy ever."

After sun tanning, the girls kept me busy getting them stuff from the kitchen. They thought it was hilarious to boss me around and watch me try to walk in those damned high-heeled sandals. Every step caused "my" boobs to bounce and sway, and the high heels forced me to take dainty little steps to keep from falling. I was just coming out of the kitchen with another tray of drinks, concentrating on balancing on those stupid heels when I ran smack dab into Mom! Her mouth agape, she slowly took in my appearance from head to toe. I was relieved to see her until I remembered how I was dressed. I was utterly humiliated to have her see me in that awful get up. It took a while for either of us to find our voice.

"Peter? What is the meaning of this?" she asked in dismay. She stared me with wide eyes, disappointment and disgust etched on her face. "I leave the house for a couple of hours to go shopping, and when I return, I find you all dolled up like a…a… sissy pool bunny. And quite a large busted one at that," she sputtered, pointing at my bust. "How long have you been dressing like a…girl?" she said, her voice choking with emotion.

Shit! She thought I did this on my own; that I was some kind of fag. "Mom, I can explain!" I stuttered. "Margaret did this to me! She put this stuff in my food, and…and… it made me really weak. Then while you were out, Margaret and her stupid friends made me dress like this!"

Mom looked inquisitively at the assembled girls, who wore well-practiced looks of pure innocence. Margaret had obviously prepared them on what to say. Heather spoke up angrily: "Gosh, Peter. At least tell your Mom the truth: You dressed yourself up in that girly bathing suit so you could pretend to be 'one of the girls,' and threatened us unless we kept it a secret. Don't blame us for your perverted little secrets!" The other girls angrily voiced similar sentiments. Crap! Margaret had planned this whole thing out!

Mom looked at me, her face a mixture of incredulity and revulsion. She fingered the collar of the sissy cover up, taking in my appearance carefully from head to toe. Eventually, she cleared her throat, wiped her eyes, and tried to regain her composure: "I think you'd better go in the house and change out of your pretty swim suit, Peter."

I gladly ran to my room, although I hated to leave Mom alone with Margaret and her friends. At least I was away from Margaret and out of that stupid swimsuit. The humiliation wasn't over, though. When I ripped off that humiliating suit, I saw that I now had obvious tan lines from the suit. The outline of that girly two-piece suit was etched into my skin! I was marked as a sissy!

After Margaret's friends left, I heard Mom on the phone with Grandma telling her what had happened and asking her what to do. Apparently Grandma made a big deal about it, because Mom called her lawyer. Mom said that Ms. Proctor was going to get an order from the judge to have me undergo some kind of independent psychological exam by a specialist.

When Dad got the news, he called me on my cell phone. Finally, a sympathetic voice! I blurted out everything: Margaret, Ms. Proctor, the Dainty and Delicate pills, the girl's swimsuit—everything. He seemed really confused and incredulous, but assured me that the specialist would take care of everything. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Dad asked to speak to Mom, and I handed her the phone.

"Charles, what a pleasant surprise," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "I see. Oh did he? Did he also mention that I came home from shopping to find him all dolled up in an adorable ladies' swimsuit? Your son was wearing the most darling high heel sandals and just the sweetest little chiffon cover-up. He told me that Margaret made him. Really! What a pathetic excuse. You know as well as I do that Margaret's not capable of 'forcing' him to do anything. This is most certainly no trick on my part! My lawyer called and said the judge has already scheduled an appointment with a specialist—an expert in the field of girlish boys. Apparently, her credentials are impeccable. She's agreed to evaluate Peter and report to the judge. I guess I'll see you in court."

While I was sulking in my room, Mom walked in. She was smiling, but I could tell it was forced. I felt terrible.

"Mom, you've got to …." Before I could finish explaining, she interrupted me like she didn't hear me.

She sighed exasperatedly. "Dear, what have I told you about throwing your things on the floor." To my horror, she reached down and retrieved the swimsuit and cover-up where I had thrown them on the floor. She held the chiffon cover-up and swimsuit at arm's length and she gulped hard, and forced another smile. "These things are really too delicate to machine wash. You should know how to hand wash them in the sink."

My skin crawled as I washed the swimsuit and cover-up in my bathroom sink and hung them to dry on my shower rod. I couldn't believe what I was doing. As I returned to my room, I saw my Mom holding the two giant breast forms in her hands. With a disgusted sigh, she placed them in my dresser.

Over the next few days, I tried to act as normally as possible. I could tell that Mom was trying to act normally as well, but the way she looked at me, I could tell that things weren't the same. Lot of times I caught her staring at me, a bewildered and hurt look on her face. Whenever Margaret wasn't around, I tried to explain what had really happened. Mom look never let me finish, explaining matter-of-factly that the specialist would take care of everything. I guess I couldn't blame her.

A couple of days later, Mom had errands to run, leaving Margaret and me alone in the house. It was the first time I had been alone with Margaret since the "pool party". I prayed and that Mom would be home quickly as I retreated to my room. It didn't do any good, and I jumped as my bedroom door swung open and Margaret strode into my room, with what appeared to be a pink riding crop in her hand.

"What's the matter, sissy? Are you hiding from me because you're afraid? Well, you should be. From now on, whenever we're alone in the house, you come find me and ask if there's anything I want. Got it?" she barked.

My first reaction was to tell her to eat shit. Then I remembered my pathetic attempt to do even one pushup that morning. Formerly, I could knock out fifty at a time. I heard myself say, "Sure, Margaret. Whenever you say. But haven't you had your fun? Please. I think Mom's actually starting to believe I'm a sissy. You heard her talking to Grandma on the phone. She sounded really upset."

"Of course she's upset, silly. She's discovering that her macho son is all girl at heart. How disgusting is that? Now for being such a bad girl and trying to hide from me, you've got to be punished. Pull down your pants and bend over. Now!" she smirked.

"Aw, come on, Margaret. You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm serious all right. Now do it!" For emphasis, Margaret smacked the riding crop against her leg.

In stunned disbelief, I slowly undid my belt buckle and pulled down my jeans. With a smirk, Margaret motioned me to remove my boxers as well. My face burned as I complied.

"Isn't this a fun game, brother dear? By the way, if you say anything to Mom about our little sister to sissy time together, I'll make you pay. Understand?

I nodded forlornly.

" Good. Now be a good little girl, and bend over. That's it, grab your ankles. Perfect. I love to hear you whimper." Whapp! "Oww, did that hurt? It did? Good!"

By the time Margaret finished, my bottom was on fire, and I was sobbing uncontrollably. I was only able to regain my composure after Margaret threatened me with more if I didn't stop crying. I sniffled and rubbed my eyes.

"That's better. Now come with me. I know you're dying to get all prettied up in Mom's things. You're going to be just darling." She flipped her wrist with a chortle.

It took a few more strokes of the crop before I could bring myself to do as my younger sister ordered. What followed was even more humiliating than the afternoon at the pool. When we were finally done, I was exhausted from the humiliation. I fell on my bed and tried to keep from sobbing.

In a few days, we arrived at the well-appointed offices of Dr. Alice Poole; that's who we were seeing. I was determined to convince her that this was all a big mistake, and that Margaret had set me up. Margaret's little game was about to come to an end.

Dr. Poole's waiting room was really girly and made me instantly uncomfortable. It was like being in a woman's bathroom with all her make-up and pantyhose and stuff all around. After an interminable wait, the doctor came out. I was relieved to see that she was a pretty, middle-aged woman. I guess I figured she'd be old, with glasses or something. She seemed really nice. She asked to speak with Mom and Margaret first to "get some background." Margaret pulled out this big envelope and was wearing a huge grin. As they walked down the hall, Margaret turned and gave me a wink. That made me really nervous.

Mom and Margaret were in there a long time, and I was bored out of my skull. I picked up a magazine from the table. To my amazement, it was something called Teen Sissy. At first glance, it looked like any one of Mom and Margaret's stupid fashion magazines. The topics were certainly the same: make-up, fashions, and relationships with men--the usual. But when I looked closer, I could tell that the magazine was not at all like the magazines Mom and Margaret usually read: it was for boys! Sissies! On the cover was a svelte teen boy, encased in a chic evening gown, his hair in a sophisticated hair-do; his heavy make-up flawless. He was surrounded by a group of muscular men in tuxes, obvious lust on their faces. The name of the article was "Gowns for Girlies." Horrified, I flipped through pages and pages of boys dressed as girls and doing typical girl stuff; cheerleading, housework, sewing…the works. I couldn't believe my eyes! I was so grossed out that I didn't notice that the doctor had returned with my mother and sister. I jumped when I heard Dr. Poole speak right behind me.

"I see you're enjoying the latest issue of Teen Sissy. What's that article you're so engrossed in? Oooohh, I see; 'The Prettiest Bras for Boys.' Interesting."

"I-I wasn't reading it! Really. I mean…" I quickly tossed the magazine down on the table and glanced at Mom. She had that disappointed and disgusted look again. Crap!

I walked into the doctor's office, noticing the feminine touches everywhere. After we sat, she smiled and carefully placed an enlarged photograph on the table between us. "Do you recognize this?" she asked sweetly.

I cringed when I saw it. "Where did you get this?" I asked nervously. It was a Halloween picture from a couple of years before.

"Your sister was kind enough to share it with me. She's really concerned about you, you know."

"Yeah, right," I thought.

"I understand it was your idea to dress up as the First Lady for Halloween, wasn't it?

"Yeah, I guess so."

"So you picked that smart little suit and hat all by yourself. What exquisite taste you have. Pink suits you."

"Th-thanks," I said, not wanting to be rude. "I just tried to match a picture I saw in a magazine. But the only reason I dressed that way because I heard that some boy had done it the year before and gotten twice as much candy as everyone else. All my friends dared me to do it when I told them about the candy. I didn't have any choice! Really."

Dr. Poole nodded sympathetically. "Of course, dear, that makes perfect sense." She arranged some additional enlargements on the table. Damn it! I made sure I had thrown out all those pictures. That little brat, Margaret, must have stolen and kept a set! The pictures were of me in the school play in the sixth grade. My face turned beet red as I remembered the embarrassment of playing Little Bo Beep.

"I understand you begged your teacher to give you the girl's part in this play. Is that true?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said quietly. I was still stunned. The pictures were horrible! I looked so girly in that get-up with those pantaloons and bonnet. The drama teacher was upset that a boy was playing a girls' part, and had made me wear gobs of make-up. What a nightmare that was! The kids teased me for months. "I-I didn't want to do it, but the only other roles-the boy ones-- had tons of lines, and I had terrible stage fright."

"Of course," she said. "Regardless, you certainly look pretty in your darling costume. How girlish you must have felt in your frilly pantaloons and that dainty bonnet. But it looks like that wasn't the last time you wore girls' clothes."

Shit! Dr. Poole put down enlargements of all the pictures--one by one-- that the girls had taken the day that Margaret and her friends had dressed me up. I quickly explained that it wasn't my fault. When she asked what I meant, I calmly explained to her that my sister had physically forced me, and that she was determined to make people believe that I was some kind of damn sissy. I told her everything. I was ecstatic when I saw her shaking her head. It was obvious that she couldn't believe what Margaret had done. Finally!

After about an hour, Dr. Poole stopped taking notes, gave me a sympathetic smile, and told me she'd heard enough. As we drove home, I was starting to plan how I was going to get back at Margaret for what she put me through.

The custody trial finally started the following week, and Dr. Poole was the first witness. I could hardly wait. Mom's bitch of a lawyer told the judge that both sides had stipulated to Dr. Poole's qualifications. After some preliminaries, Ms. Proctor got right to it. "Dr. Poole, have you formed a professional opinion as to whether Peter Watson is suffering from any form of gender identity disorder?" I squirmed as everyone turned to stare at me.

"Yes," she smiled brightly. "Based on my careful examination and a thorough family history—I grinned as she paused to give me a kindly glance-- Peter has what we refer to as "Sissy Boy Syndrome. There are different levels of the disorder, and there's no doubt that Peter is a Class III case, the most severe form."

What? I couldn't believe my ears. I had to be dreaming! I desperately looked at my Mom, who burst into tears. Dad looked sick; he wouldn't even look at me. I tried to speak up, but the judge silenced me with her gavel. I slunk down in my seat as Dr. Poole's testimony continued. I wanted to crawl into a hole as she flashed the pictures of me dressed like a girl on a huge screen at the front of the courtroom and commented on each one. Everyone was snickering. Even the judge was struggling to keep from laughing.

I anxiously listened to Dr. Poole. No! She was all wrong! I didn't have a "long history of self-initiated cross-dressing." And it sure as hell wasn't "selfish masculine arrogance" that prevented me from admitting I was a sissy! I didn't understand when she said that boys like me took great satisfaction in deceiving everyone and that although we loved to appear and act girlishly in private "we" were extremely careful to keep our "sissy side" a secret. When she said that my sissy behavior was really an expression of contempt and ridicule of real women, I saw my Mom's face turn really angry! Shit. Then she said that my "bald-faced lie" about my sister trying to sissify me was merely part of my deception and "a last ditch effort to preserve the prerogatives of being male." What crap!

I listened as Mom's lawyer asked Dr. Poole whether she had any doubt about her diagnosis. Dr. Poole laughed softly. "Good heavens, no." She fixed me with her gaze. "And even if I did, it would have been completely eliminated by this."

Dr. Poole started a video clip. It took me a while to recognize Mom's bedroom. Then I saw myself on the screen. My heart froze. Oh, no! No! Not that! Involuntarily I blurted out: "Stop! This is all a setup! You've got to believe me."

My head was spinning as I heard the judge bang her gavel and threatened to have me removed if there were any more outbursts.

Somehow Margaret had secretly videotaped my performance in Mom's bedroom! No wonder she had given me such detailed instructions and had made me "perform" over and over. Any mistakes had earned me strokes with the crop. I had wondered why Margaret had stayed in the doorway the entire time; now I realized that she was staying off-screen. Margaret had filmed the entire horrible episode. I knew what was coming, and I wanted to die.

I shut my eyes, trying to lock out the humiliation, but I knew that the screen would show me taking my mother's most feminine nightgown out of her lingerie drawer and holding against my body as I smiled sweetly at my image in the mirror. Under Margaret's supervision off screen, I had "excitedly" stripped and donned the horrible nightgown, matching robe, and slippers. I could clearly hear my voice in the affected falsetto that Margaret had insisted on. In the mirror, I addressed my pretend husband: "Hello darling, I'm so glad you're home. This nightgown? Isn't it pretty? I bought it today in the cutest little lingerie store downtown. I got it in black because and know how much that turns you on. <Giggle.> I've been thinking of you ever since I bought it. I'm so lucky to be married to such a handsome man. What? You're going to take me to bed and make me feel like a woman? <Giggle.> Well, that's exactly what I was hoping for when I bought this nightgown."

By this time, the entire court room was enveloped in laughter. I recalled vividly how Margaret had made me sway my hips coyly and generally act like a woman in heat. At the end of my little play, Margaret had ordered me to pose, preen, and admire myself in the mirror. My face burned as I heard the snide comments: "What a fairy! Imagine, wearing his mother's lingerie. If I ever caught my son in my things, I'd disown him."

As bad as it was, I dreaded the next part even more. On the screen, I retrieved a pair of Mom's casual khakis and held them up to my body as I looked in the mirror. "Mom's such an butch cow, it's no wonder she can't keep a man."

The entire courtroom gasped. I stole a look at Mom, and she was glaring daggers at me. I could only imagine what she must think.

I started to tremble as Ms. Proctor elicited more and more horrible testimony: "In your expert opinion, Dr. Poole, do sissies like Priscilla ever change?"

"Heavens no! There's no 'cure' for Sissy Syndrome, and it's an absolute certainty that the boys will deny their girlish fantasies with their last breath. However, their behavior speaks volumes: secretly dressing in feminine clothes at every opportunity-- their mother's, sister's, girlfriend's; constantly fantasizing about and secretly dressing and acting like girls as much as possible; but always keeping up their public masculine charade."

"I see. And what is the prognosis for someone like Peter?"

"Well, it's quite sad and pathetic. Boys like Peter continue with their little farce, going to school, getting high-paying jobs that women are traditionally excluded from, and marrying some poor unsuspecting woman. Inevitably the wife comes home unexpectedly and finds her so-called husband all dressed up in her most feminine nightgown or her prettiest cocktail dress. Imagine her feelings of betrayal and disappointment. Divorce follows, and the pattern repeats itself until the sissy has ruined any number of lives with his deceit."

At that point the laughter turned to angry murmurs, and several women looked at me like I embodied all male evil. Even the court reporter glared at me hatefully. I tried to slink down further in my seat.

Ms. Proctor looked over at me with a smirk. "Is gender reassignment surgery appropriate for someone like Peter?"

My heart was in my throat until I heard Dr. Pole's answer: "Heavens no!" she laughed. "Peter is not a transsexual; he's a male sissy. In other words, he most definitely wants to keep his male parts. He doesn't want to be a girl, he just adores secretly dressing and acting like one."

"In light of that awful prognosis, what do you recommend for Peter?"

"Since there's no treatment for the condition, punishment is the only answer. The sissy will never be honest with anyone about his true persona, so we as treating professionals have to force them to 'come out,' so to speak. According to my exhaustive studies, there's only one responsible protocol: take the sissy's fantasies to the extreme and make them come true. My recommendation for Peter is strictly enforced feminization until Priscilla's social identification as an excessively feminine sissy-boy is complete. We owe it to society to make it impossible for him to continue his 'faux' male persona."

Dr. Poole paused to allow her words to sink in. "Take this picture for example." To my shame, Dr. Poole referred to one of the worst pictures from my poolside nightmare. "Peter obviously likes to pretend in secret that he has feminine breasts—as you can see, generous ones at that. But when Peter's had his fun and tires of his shameful little make-believe games, he can simply remove the breast forms, put on a football jersey, and resume his male facade. To the outside world, he appears to be a normal boy. From a societal point of view, this is wholly unacceptable. The only fair thing for society is to make Peter's girlish fantasies an inescapable reality. Since Peter loves to pretend he has womanly breasts, then by all means, he should have them. Real breasts, though, that he can't conveniently remove when he's done with his secret dress-up games. And not just breasts—he should have breasts even larger than in his fantasies."

The blood drained from my face as the snickering began anew. "Ms. Proctor waited for the laughter to die down before continuing. "How do sissies react to this punishment?"

Dr. Poole chuckled lightly. "Oh the little darlings just hate it. They're so desperate to maintain their male pretense. I'm afraid it's extremely embarrassing for them when they are revealed to all their friends and family as sissies. It's one thing to pretend that you dressed up in a chic little skirt suit because your friends dared you; it's quite another story when your friends realize it's your secret sissy dream come true. But in light of the sissy boy's life of deception, I believe that they should endure as much humilation as possible. I'm convinced that the humiliation is helpful for the sissy to become self-integrated. I think of it as emotional shock therapy."

"So that's your professional recommendation for Peter?"

"Absolutely," Dr. Poole said with a confident smile. "In lay terms, Peter should be completely feminized—forcibly. At a minimum, his feminization must include immediate hormonal intervention to give Peter obvious womanly curves that are impossible to conceal; feminine grooming, deportment and social skills training; and immediate and complete elimination of masculine detritus to hasten his differentiation from normal boys."

As I collapsed against the seat, I saw Margaret out of the corner of my eye; she was pointing at me and laughing. Then again, most people in the courtroom were! Then Dad whispered something to his attorney, who stood up and announced that Dad was withdrawing his request for custody. I wanted the earth to open and swallow me whole! This couldn't be happening!

The judge banged her gavel and then issued her order awarding Mom full custody, except for every other weekend and one week each summer. Then she addressed me and ordered me to stand. The judge peered over her glasses and began to lecture: "You should be ashamed of yourself. I'm sure you think you've been very clever keeping your sissy side secret from your parents, your friends, and your neighbors. If you had admitted the truth about yourself, this proceeding wouldn't have been necessary. You've wasted the court's time and your parents' money! You, missy, owe everyone an apology."

To my horror, she stared at me; she was actually waiting for an apology for not telling everyone I was a sissy. That was too much.

"Your honor, I can explain. Dr. Poole is wrong! It's not like she said…"

She interrupted me with an angry slam of her gavel. "You are testing my patience, Miss. I've been on the bench for thirty years, and Dr. Poole's testimony was as clear and convincing as any I've ever heard. Now turn to both of your parents, and apologize for deceiving them and hiding the fact that you're a sissy," she growled.

I looked at my parents. My throat was completely dry and my heart pounded: "I-I'm sorry...for not telling you that I'm a …sissy," I whispered. This couldn't be happening. It was a bad dream. It had to be.

The judge looked slightly less angry, but she wasn't done. "I see a lot of troubled teenagers in my courtroom, and almost all of their problems—legal and otherwise-- stem from a failure to accept responsibility for their actions. You're no different, trying to blame your condition on your sister. I won't tolerate it!"

To my sister's utter delight, the judge then made me apologize to her! Unbelievable! The judge continued. "That's a start! Your diagnosis as an excessively feminine sissy is now a matter of public record. I'm personally going to retain jurisdiction in this case and monitor your case file. The award of custody to your mother is conditioned on her following Dr. Poole's recommended punishment—to the letter. And if I hear that you've been denying your sissy nature—to anyone-- I won't hesitate to give you some time to think about it… in the juvenile facility."

To my utter embarrassment, I started to cry…like a sissy!

The judge then consoled my mother like they were long lost friends. She told Mom that she was well aware of the difficulties in raising a "problem" child like me. "I know it will be difficult, but as Peter's custodial parent, I'm ordering you to follow Dr. Poole's forced feminization. Your son's sick little charade has gone on long enough; it's time he got what's coming to him."

My head was spinning! After the judge left the courtroom, I sat limply in disbelief. Dad was white as a sheet. Mom looked at me like I was dirt. I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't let them believe I was a sissy: "Mom, Dad, this is all a big mistake! Please! You can't believe that stuff. I'm not a Class III anything! Margaret, tell them the truth, damn it. This is serious!"

I didn't even notice the bailiff standing nearby, and before I knew it, I was on a bus headed for juvenile hall. To add insult to injury, the judge remanded me to the girl's facility: She said that's where I belonged. The week I spent there was…well, the worst week of my life, even though they kept me segregated from everyone else. The girls there weren't like any I knew. They were tough; tough and mean. When the girls heard my story, they were horrible. They harassed me all week, calling me terrible names and threatening to "make me a real woman." Yolanda, a large girl, kept threatening that if she got a chance, she was going to make me her "bitch." I cried out of sheer relief when the week was finally over and Mom came to pick me up.

After the week I'd had, I collapsed during the ride home. I trembled when Margaret asked with a giggle whether I'd made any new friends.

Mom chimed in sternly: "Well, for your sake, I hope you learned your lesson! The judge was absolutely right; no more denial. I've had all week to think, and I'm absolutely furious with you about deceiving me—your own mother!-- all these years. What an idiot I was! All that time I bragged about what a perfect son you were. Little did I know that you were playing your disgusting little dress-up games whenever I wasn't around. You're a complete disgrace. You made a fool out of me, Priscilla, and believe me, I'm not going to forget it."

"Wh-what did you call me?"

"Priscilla. It's your new name. It seems Margaret's the only one in the family who had some idea of the truth about you. My lawyer took care of the name change petition: I guess we can forget all about Peter," she said sadly. "Anyway, I used this week to get a crash course in Sissy Syndrome and forced feminization from Dr. Poole. No one knows more about feminizing sissy boys like you than she does. No more lies and pretense for you, missy!"

I felt sick. Change my name to Priscilla? Forced feminization? I could see Margaret laughing her ass off behind her hand. I wanted to scream.

When we got home, Margaret wasted no time in calling all her friends. Soon they were all gathered in my room as Margaret held court. The girls took turns reading horrible excerpts from the court transcript, repeating the most humiliating parts. The girls thought it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever heard. The each mockingly agreed to help make "my fantasies" come true. Sandra, whom I'd always liked, came over and pulled the front of my t-shirt out into twin points. Her meaning was obvious. "Priscillla, aren't you excited? Just think, you're going to get your very own boobs. The boys are going to love you," she laughed.

"No way! Please, Sandra, you've got to help me," I pleaded.

"Of course I'll help you. I'll help you pick out some darling bras, and even teach you how to do a breast self-exam."

 

At dinner, Margaret and Mom were chatting amiably. Mom had cooked steaks, and they smelled great. Food in the juvie jail had been inedible. And thanks to Margaret and her friends, I hadn't eaten lunch. I was starved. Mom placed two juicy steaks at her place and Margaret's. "Hey! What about me?" I asked.

"I'm afraid you have a different menu, Priscilla," Mom smirked, her eyes twinkling. "If you insist on mincing about in your ladies' swim suit, you simply must have a more ladylike figure. I don't want to be cruel, sweetie, but you've really let yourself go."

Margaret giggled. "You're officially on a diet, sissy-boy. But don't worry; Mom put me in charge. I'll have you down to a size one in no time."

"No way! You know how much I eat. I'll starve. Please! I don't want to go on any stupid diet."

"Well, you are, and that's final," Margaret laughed tweaking my nipple-hard- through my t-shirt. Still giggling, she made her way to the kitchen and returned with a big bowl of pink mush.

"Wh-what's that," I asked worriedly. It looked disgusting.

"It's your favorite—non-fat cottage cheese. The pink food coloring was my idea."

I groaned. Margaret knew I despised cottage cheese. I sat sullenly as the two females ate a few bites of their steak and pushed their plates aside.

Mom spoke up. "Pris, darling, what's wrong? You haven't touched your dinner. I know you're anxious to lose weight, but there'll be no starvation diets in this house. Margaret, why don't you help your brother?"

Grinning, Margaret pulled a chair next to mine. She took a spoon and shoveled up a huge bite of cottage cheese. "Open wide, dearie."

I opened my mouth, and Margaret shoved the spoonful in. It was disgusting! I swallowed it, hoping that she'd leave me alone. She did, but only after she'd emptied the entire bowl. I felt sick.

When she was done, Mom said sternly, "If I catch you cheating on your diet—and believe me, I'll find out-- your diet will include things a lot more revolting than cottage cheese. Understand?"

I nodded morosely. My day was going from bad to worse. I got up, anxious to retreat to my room, but Mom had other ideas.

"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, her hands on her hips.

I shrugged and motioned toward my room.

She grabbed my ear and roughly led me back into the kitchen.

"Owww! Mom stop!"

Mom ignored my cries. "You're going to get the rare opportunity to live out your girlish fantasies. Isn't that exciting? No? Well, I'm afraid you don't have any choice. You think dressing and acting like a female is a big joke, a funny game of pretend? Well, let's just see if you're still laughing when I'm done with you!"

Mom removed something from a drawer. It was a silly sheer pink apron, covered with ruffles. "A boy as pretty as you simply must be the wife of a hunky man some day. So you'd better start learning how to be a housewife," she mocked. Mom carefully arrayed me in the apron and pinned a matching cap in my hair. She even insisted that I wear these stupid pink rubber gloves. I felt—and looked—ridiculous.

"There!" Mom exclaimed with a satisfied smirk. "Much better."

"Mom," I moaned. "Please. Don't make me do this. I look…"

"Girly? Prissy? Ridiculous? Well, that's the whole point, isn't it, Priscilla? What's the matter? Isn't your apron feminine enough for you?"

It was no use; Mom didn't care about anything I had to say. What was she talking about? Housewife? Was she crazy?

Mom made me clear the table and do the evening dishes, something Mom and Margaret had always done. Margaret kept up a steady stream of taunts as I worked.

When I was finally finished, I started to rip off that stupid apron, when Mom cleared her throat. "Okay for a first time, dearie. But next time, I want to see a big sissy smile. This is forced feminization, and you're going to live it! No more pretend. Now, curtsey and asked to be excused. Remember to smile!" she insisted.

I tried to comply, but how the hell did I know how to curtsey?

"No, no, dear! Like this." Mom demonstrated a feminine curtsey that was completely girly. I half –heartedly tried to imitate her, hoping she would be appeased. Unhappy with my pathetic attempts, she ordered: "You march right up to my bedroom and practice for one hour. And leave the door open so I can see you. Use my full-length mirror, and don't forget to smile. If you forget, you'll practice for another hour."

"Mom, please. I'm really tired. You can't even imagine what I went through in that jail. It was horrible," I pleaded.

Mom was unmoved. "Of course it was awful. It was supposed to be. And if you don't want to earn another trip there, you'll do what I say, when I say it!" Mom grabbed me by my arm and gave me a swat on my bottom like I was a misbehaving child.

"Y-yes ma'am."

I was trying to do what Mom ordered when Margaret plopped herself on Mom's bed. Making sure that Mom wasn't within earshot, I hissed, "You little bitch! I could have been killed in that juvenile facility! Diet? Housewife? This has gone on too far. You've got to tell the Mom the truth!" I tried to be threatening but it was hard in that frilly apron and cap.

"Oh, Priscilla. You silly little sissy!" Margaret continued in her sing-song voice. "You just don't get it, do you? You're now my sissy playtoy, to do with whatever I please."

"Please, Margaret. This is wrong! I'm not going to let you turn me into a girl!"

She walked over to me and started fussing with ruffles on my apron, a huge grin on her face. "Not a girl, Prissy; a sissy. A silly, ridiculous little sissy. Mom's lawyer, Ms. Proctor gave me the idea. All it took was those Dainty and Delicate pills from the Sissy Mister and the rest was history. I never believed it would turn out so great! Dr. Poole recommended that Mom attend her "Forced Feminization" seminar the entire week you were playing jailhouse queen. Mom was really disappointed and shocked at first; I've never seen her cry so much. She's just furious that you didn't tell her the 'truth.' Plus, Dr. Poole went on and on about how you sissies are really mocking real women…especially their mothers. By the end of the week, she was getting …shall we say…really enthusiastic about feminizing you." Margaret giggled, "Mom's going to make you pay."

Shit! What a mess I was in! My shoulders slumped in defeat at Margaret's response.

She giggled. "Your darling little curtsey is improving, but it lacks a little…something. I know," she said excitedly. "When you curtsey, I want you to smile and say, "I just adore being a sissy!"

By this time I was exhausted, frustrated, and totally pissed off. I certainly wasn't going to give Margaret the satisfaction of doing what she wanted. I was a boy, dammit! And boys sure as hell didn't curtsey! "Shove it up your ass, Margaret!" I snapped.

"Mo-om! Priscilla's misbehaving," Margaret yelled with a giggle. To my chagrin, Mom quickly appeared.

"Is there a problem?" she asked sternly, looking at me.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, I curtseyed as enthusiastically as I could, smiling through my tears at my humiliating reflection in the mirror. "I just adore being a sissy!" I enthused. I didn't dare stop. Mom had actually whipped me with the pink riding crop that Margaret had produced. It hurt like hell. She didn't stop until I was bawling and agreeing to be "good girl." To my shame, she even let Margaret take several strokes. It seemed like hours as they made me practice while they critiqued my performance. When they finally allowed me to stop, I collapsed into bed, emotionally and physically exhausted. How could I make Mom understand the truth?

"Rise and shine, 'Cilla!" Margaret waltzed into my room like she owned it. Without thinking, I cursed her under my breath.

This time, she didn't bother to call Mom. "I heard that, girly. Don't you move!" she ordered. She left and quickly returned with that crop.

My butt twitched with remembered pain from the night before. I panicked: "Okay! Okay! I'm sorry. I was just kidding, Margaret. Sheesh," I said nervously, trying to appease her. "Don't take everything so seriously.

"Not good enough, Priscilla. Bend over!"

Putting my pride aside, I pleaded with Margaret, to no avail. She made me grab my ankles and then rained down blows on my aching bottom until I was crying like a child. Grinning triumphantly, she gave me directions in a saccharine sweet voice and left me wiping my tears away.

After regaining my composure, I got dressed. Over the top of my jeans and t-shirt, I put on that humiliating apron. It took me several tries to get the sash in a perfect "girly bow" like Margaret had ordered. Next came the stupid matching cap, which I pinned to my hair with the bobby pins that Margaret had happily provided. Looking in the mirror, I cringed at my effeminate appearance. I slowly made my way to the kitchen where Mom and Margaret were waiting for me. I took a big gulp, and dropped into a demure curtsey. "Good morning Mother; good morning Ms. Margaret."

Mom giggled. "Well good morning to you, too, Priscilla. What a darling little curtsey. A few more weeks of practice, and I'm sure it will be just perfect. I must say, I like it when you call me Mother; it sounds so prim and girlish. I'm assuming 'Ms. Margaret' was your sister's idea. I think it's perfect under the circumstances."

By that time, Margaret was waiting with my "breakfast": some kind of runny baby cereal, colored pink, of course. She and Mom laughed as I wrinkled my nose. It looked awful. To spare myself the indignity of being spoon-fed, I forced myself to eat it. It tasted like crap! Worse, even after I was finished, I was still starving. Mom and Margaret giggled when they heard my stomach growl.

"Poor sissy," Mom mocked. She smiled mischievously: "Would you like something else to eat?"

After I nodded eagerly, she went into the kitchen are turned with a pink colored box. "I picked up these Sub-Missy Snack Bars up at the Sissy Mister. They have virtually no calories, but I understand they're quite delicious. They're loaded with vitamins and minerals to keep you boys on strict diets healthy. But that's not all," she smiled. "They have special additives to make boys more… submissive. But the thing that I really like is that there's another additive that heightens feelings of embarrassment and humiliation. If you thought curtseying to your mother and sister in a frilly apron last night was embarrassing, wait until you've had a few of these bars. Maybe you'll understand the embarrassment I felt in court when the whole world learned that the son I've been so proud of is a closeted sissy boy." Mom slowly opened the box, and took out a gaily wrapped bar. On the wrapper was a picture of a boy curtseying to a girl, her hands sternly on her hips. "Here, try one," she grinned.

Was she kidding? I sure as hell didn't want to feel more submissive and embarrassed. Shit! I politely but firmly told her, "No thank you."

She shoved the bar under my nose, and spoke calmly: "You seem confused, dear. Let me explain. Boys and girls have minds of their own and get to make choices. Sissy boys—like you—do what Mommy and sister tell them to do. Understand?" she hissed.

"Yes, ma'am," I whispered.

"And when Mommy tells you to do something, you'll do it enthusiastically and without question. And guess what? When you don't make Mommy happy, there are consequences. So now you get two bars." She held out another one of the horrible snack bars!

Mom glared at me, daring me to disobey her. Margaret was giggling up a storm.

Slowly I ate the drug-laced confections. They were sickeningly sweet. I tried not to think about what they were. Mom made me ask for them "nicely," "like a good little sissy." Mom and Margaret watched with huge grins as I forced myself to choke down the horrible things.

I spent the rest of the morning learning how to keep house. I never knew how much there was to clean! Vacuuming, dusting, laundry, even ironing. It was like I was Cinderella and Mom was the evil stepmother; I did all the work while Mom and Margaret did nothing.

After "lunch", Mom even made me clean Margaret's room. Crap!

Needless to say, Margaret delighted in supervising my efforts.

"Don't forget to vacuum and my bathroom needs cleaning. While you're at it, scrub the bathroom floor, Priscilla. On your hands and knees." As I worked, Margaret laughed and snapped picture after picture. She even used her cell phone to take some pictures and send them to her friends. When I finally finished, her room looked cleaner than it ever had.

"Very good, sissy! You deserve a treat," she teased.

To my horror, Margaret had several boxes of those horrible Sub-Missy Snack Bars.

"Margaret, no more! Please. Mom already made me eat two of those things."

"So what," she said peevishly. "Mom's being way too easy on you. So let's just hurry things along, shall we? Or should I get the crop?"

Margaret giggled and clapped as I obeyed her. "This is so much fun! And let's not forget your Dainty and Delicate pill."

  

  

  

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