Sunday Best

by Christina Shelly

 

David struggles uselessly on the bed. He squeals angrily into his fat panty gag and strains with a desperate energy against his tight, utterly unforgiving bonds. Yet, despite all this intense and prolonged physical effort, he hardly moves an inch. He remains utterly immobilised, completely helpless. A prisoner, a slave, a sissified male undergoing a most unusual and terrible punishment.

David is 25. Barely 5 feet six inches tall, with a slender, always feminine build, a pale, disturbingly pretty face framed by long blond hair and a pair of striking crystal blue eyes. As a boy, his mother had teased him about his girlish good looks, teasing that would always deeply embarrass and annoy him, and which would continue throughout his life. A teasing that had driven him to develop an aggressive, harsh personality, a hard mental mask forged out of every stupid stereotype of dominant masculinity he had ever encountered. This personality proved very useful for succeeding in his business, but left him with few friends and, particularly, no female companion. Indeed, as a "mummy's boy "and only child, he had been left with a deep and painful shyness in the company of women, beneath which was fear and hate, and which had mixed with his own loathing of his weak physique to produce a powerful misogyny.

Despite this, he had, to some extent, succeeded in his bitter, lonely life, and was now a section manager for the company at which he had worked since leaving university five years before. The section consisted of 10 employees, all female, including his secretary, Sally, and his deputy, Helen.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, David was a work addict who spent more time in his office than in his small, sad flat. An isolated, pathetic man in a world he found frightening and pointless, a world where he found pleasure only in power and control. He was a rude and often harsh boss, despising and despised. There wasn't one of his "team" who didn't hate him and wished for nothing but a terrible, prolonged revenge for his bullying and belittling behaviour, particularly his long suffering and very beautiful secretary.

But now he is truly powerless and completely under the control of the gorgeous, unforgiving and deeply kinky Helen. Or, as he must call her now, Mistress Helen.

Tears of pain and frustration seep through the black nylon stocking that has been pulled so very tightly over his shaven head, a scented mask that flattens and distorts his face and leaves him imprisoned within a strange, sex ravaged shadow world. He tastes the now very familiar flavours of Helen's silk panties, her sex, her piss, her sweat, and he moans. The thick strip of silver duct tape sealing his lips so very effectively together ensures that this moan is hardly heard. The moan turns into a girlish squeal of pain as the skin irritant lining his anus sends another wave of heat and itching deep into the tender skin of his back passage, skin which is currently stretched so very painfully by the throbbing, teasing vibrator that has been lodged deep inside him for the past two months. Yes, in two months Helen and Sally have changed everything. In two months, his world has been destroyed and rebuilt in the image of his mistress.

Here he is, in the small closet that has become his only private living space. Bound and gagged, laying face down on the hard, single bunk that is both his bed and the only furniture in the "room". His shaven body contorts uselessly, a body undergoing constant, cruel torture. His arse smeared and filled, his permanently hard cock locked in a rubber restrainer lined with hundreds of tiny pins. Three painfully tight metal rings holding the restrainer in place, one just beneath the bulging head of his circumcised cock, one in the middle, and one, the tightest and most painful, at its base. His balls have also been smeared in irritant and a tight, thick rubber band has been wrapped around them to insure that they bulge painfully and are totally exposed to his mistress's evil ministrations.

He is naked except for a pair of sheer black nylon tights. His legs have been bound together very tightly at the ankles, knees and thighs with black rubber cording. A black nylon stocking has then been pulled up his tethered legs to create one single leg. Duct tape has then been wrapped tightly around each length of covered cording. A similar fate has befallen his arms: bound cruelly with cording at the wrists, elbows and lower shoulders, then sheathed in the other black nylon stocking and secured with duct tape over the cording. A further length of cording has been wrapped around his ankles and pulled up to his wrists. Here, the slack has been wrapped around his single nylon sheathed and tape bound "wrist" and tied very tightly in place, thus forcing him into an extreme and quite agonising hog-tie that leaves him utterly still, profoundly helpless and in constant pain.

Beneath all of this are the welts, the long, deep, burning marks that criss-cross his buttocks and thighs, the marks of the caning he received two hours ago for failing to wiggle his hips in an appropriately feminine manner as, dressed in his spectacular French maid's costume, he had served Mistresses Helen and Sally breakfast in bed. As he struggles in his tight, wicked bondage, he remembers this latest punishment and the events leading up to it with a helpless and useless bitterness.

As usual he had been dragged out of bed at 5.30am, the alarm blasting him from exhausted sleep, despite that fact that he had been serving his mistresses until well after midnight. The heavy metal shackles secured to his ankles, both of which were fitted with time locks, popped open. He staggered from the closet into the large, en- suite spare room that now acted as a "sissfication suite", and, fear already filling his heart, rushed across the pink rubber matted floor to the toilet. He had three hours to prepare himself, to undertake his "dawn chores", and then to cook and serve his mistresses Sunday breakfast.

Dressed in a short, sexy pink silk baby doll, matching panties and stockings, the first thing he confronted in the bathroom was his reflection in the full length mirror placed next to the shower stall. A wave of humiliating despair washed over his feminised form as he beheld the terrible truth of this elaborate and most terrible punishment. David Best, 25: sissy slave. David, now known as "Daphne", his body silky smooth thanks to the shocking application of electrolysis techniques that had left not one atom of hair, including pubic hair, on his physical form. His head and eyebrows were also shaven, and his lips had been painted with long lasting, water proof pink dye. Through the semi-transparent material of the baby doll, two tiny, yet growing breasts were visible, breasts with long, hard nipples pierced with golden rings. A strangely attractive and helplessly feminine form, one made even more appealing by a pair of long, very shapely legs, legs that ended in small, girlish feet with toenails painted the same pink as his lips and his long, expertly manicured fingernails.

He lowered his pretty silk panties and carefully positioned himself on the pink toilet seat. The restrainer, plus the rings and rubber band, made urinating standing up impossible, but thanks to a very thin filter built into the head of the restrainer, he was able to empty his bladder sitting down. However, because of the density of the filter, even this was a prolonged and painful experience, especially given the heat burning into his balls and the biting of the restrainer's merciless teeth.

With tears in his big blue eyes, he eventually managed to urinate. Then he climbed slowly, wearily and sadly to his feet. He pulled the panties up his smooth, nylon sheathed legs and walked out of the bathroom, noticing how natural the tiny sissy steps demanded by Mistress Helen had become, how easily he wiggled his arse and hips, how ultra-femininity was most assuredly taking over his mind and body a little more as each terrible day passed.

He minced fearfully towards the middle of the room and the exercise bike, the large pink tool of punishment. Each morning he was forced to cycle the equivalent of one mile. Later on, Mistress Helen would read the mileage clock to check he had reached the target mileage. If he was even a metre out, he would be caned.

He lowered his tormented backside onto the small, uncomfortable leather seat and fought a now familiar but still deeply disturbing sensation. As the seat took his weight, it pressed deep into the space between his legs and pressed against the vibrator that was constantly lodged deep in his arse. The resultant pressure was far from unpleasant and as he began to cycle, a dreadfully erotic sensation tormented his backside. And as he increased the speed of his peddling, he increased his helpless excitement, and soon his poor cock was hardening in its wicked rubber prison, and the more excited he became, the more his sex was brutally punished. Tears of pain mixed with gasps of pleasure, and he wished, as he had wished so many times, that he had never invited Sally into his office on that so very fateful evening.

It had taken him a very hot and bothered 30 minutes to reach the mile mark. Then, soaked in sweat, his heart pounding, his head spinning, his sex tortured by the terribly ambivalent sexual pleasure imparted by the saddle, he had fallen rather than climbed from the bike. Then he dragged himself back to the bathroom and the shower. As the digital clock on the bathroom wall had clicked to 06.10, he knew he was already running ten minutes behind schedule and a terrible, dark fear drove him to strip off his sissy attire and step beneath a jet of ice cold water for his morning shower. Yes, ice cold. Mistress Helen made a point of ensuring that the water heater did not come on until 6.30am, and that David's first shower was always a freezing one.

He squealed as the water crashed against his slender, feminised form and tried to avoid staring down at his restrained, ringed and painfully hard cock. He used a powerfully scented bar of pink soap to wash his tormented body thoroughly, including his embarrassingly bald head.

Eventually, he stepped from the shower, shivering and crying, and dried himself with a large, ultra-fluffy pink towel. Then, with the towel wrapped around his waist, he minced painfully back into the spare room. Here he stopped suddenly and took stock of this dreadful chamber of a most elaborate and perverse petticoat punishment.

The room itself was one of 4 large bedrooms that made up most of the top floor of Helen's impressive country house. She had inherited the property from her mother, a beautiful, relatively secluded cottage just outside a gorgeous village twenty miles from the nearest town. Originally a guest room, it had now become the focus for David's enforced transformation. Two large, white mahogany wardrobes dominated one wall, each filled to bursting with the kinky costumes that so effectively symbolized his imprisonment and feminisation. By the wardrobes were a row of shelves stacked with other tools of his enslavement: coils of rubber cording, rolls of thick silver duct tape, enema equipment, leather backed paddles, two long, thin bamboo canes, piles of neatly folded nappies, a large variety of gags – mainly different types of rubber penis gag and ball gag - leather and rubber hoods, male chastity belts, a collection of rubber and silk cock restrainers, a terrifying range of dildos and vibrators. Then, by the shelves, there was a class panelled cabinet containing a startling collection of wigs.

Against the wall opposite the wardrobes was a large, long and very ornate dressing table, and, following this terrible, depressing pause, he minced towards it.

He very carefully lowered his tormented and shapely bottom onto the white leather backed stool and faced his shocked, somewhat chaotic reflection. He wiped tears of embarrassment and discomfort from his face and set about the intricate task of applying his make up.

The bizarre sight of a shaven headed man applying a feminine mask was perhaps the most painful of his many daily humiliations. There was no more potent symbol of his absolute subjugation to Mistress Helen and her beautiful, sadistic lesbian lover, Sally, than the fact that he transformed himself into Daphne; that his fear of these two astonishing, wicked women was far greater than the self-loathing his increasing expertise in this self transformation inspired.

Yes, over the last two months, there was no doubt that he had become something of an expert in the arts of make up and dress. Yet he took little pride in this fact, knowing that his motivation was simple: self-preservation through the avoidance of what could be an extended jail sentence.

As his lips were now permanently hot pink, he had, as usual, begun with the cream coloured foundation, a thick gel that turned his skin from the pale pink of a typically unhealthy European into a shining doll-like veneer, a gel he spread across his face with trained care, and which quickly established the truly severe and perverse nature of the feminine personality forced upon him by Helen and Sally. And very soon he was facing a living show room dummy, an object created and surely not human, an object he then sought to give strange life via the rigorous application of black eyebrow pencil, pink eye shadow and a peach coloured rouge applied in two surprisingly exact circles on his now alabaster cheeks.

The weird feminine face before him was disturbing and arousing. He was disgusted by the fact that this freak appeared so feminine, so strangely appealing. Yet he quickly cast these thoughts aside and minced over to the glass panelled cabinet. From inside he extracted an explosion of gorgeous blonde waves, a lovely creation cast in a sexy fifties film star style, which was the standard wig for the black maid's dress he would be wearing on that morning. As he took the wig from the cabinet, his eyes fell nervously on the equally spectacular creation beside it: a mass of bangs and curls in stunning strawberry blonde, the wig he knew he would be wearing this afternoon at the regular Sunday tea party. A sickening terror gripped his stomach at the thought of that dreadful humiliation and then he fled back to the dressing table.

To his mild horror, he felt relief as he sat back down by the dressing table mirror and pulled the lovely wig over his gleaming shaven head; for almost immediately, Daphne appeared – beautiful sissy Daphne; and suddenly he resembled a human being again.

The ease with which David became a rather convincing female had both amused and impressed Helen. In the early days, in the days when his lack of natural feminine poise and a still distinct sense of resistance, ensured that there was always a trace of masculinity about Daphne, there had always been the inescapable fact of his natural feminine beauty, and as his two determined mistresses had so enthusiastically teased him about this fact, memories of his mother would come flooding back. Yes, he had gone full circle, from pretty mummy's boy to hard man and now back to a state of even more serve and absolute sissification.

"There's no point in fighting, it Daphne – you're a natural. Your mother should have put you in panties at the first sign of puberty. That would have saved us all a great deal of bother."

Helen's teasing words sounded like the bells of doom in his head, and as soon as the wig was positioned, he wiggled his way back over to the wardrobes to extract his very finest maid's costume. Today he would serve his mistresses breakfast in bed, a key part of the Sunday ritual, and he had to look his very best.

He opened the nearest and largest of the two huge wardrobes and felt the true nature of Helen's determination hit him hard in the gut. No expense had been spared, no ounce of perverse imagination had been wasted. His flat was already up for sale, and she had made it clear the cost of this elaborate transformation would be recouped from the proceeds. He would pay for his own destruction. The darkest and wickedest part of the plot against him. Yet even he could not help but be impressed by the sophistication of the planning that had gone into his feminisation.

Before him was a row of incredible dresses. A dozen masterpieces of sissy enslavement that announced in a most spectacular fashion the inescapable reality of his feminine fate.

Carefully, gently, even fearfully, he selected a beautiful black silk dress, a work of sissy art with a very high, white lace frilled, button up neck, elaborately puffed shoulders and sleeves (which were also ringed with deep white lace frilling), and a very short, layered skirt. Sown into the rich fabric of the skirt was an ocean of lace net petticoating, four beautiful, delicate layers, all white with gorgeous strawberry coloured trimmings. He felt the soft electric silk brush against his hypersensitive shaven form and gasped with an avoidable and quite terrible pleasure. Terrible because so very revealing: after two months, he could not deny that he found so many of his sissy costumes attractive and, without doubt, arousing. At first, of course, he had been utterly disgusted and appalled, but, given the sentence hanging over his head, without a choice. But now…to his deep shame, he could admit the feel of these pretty, sensual feminine materials was becoming more and more pleasant. In that at least, his mistresses were succeeding with their efforts to turn him into a willing she-male slave.

He very carefully laid the dress across the dressing table stool and then returned to the wardrobe. Beneath the other amazing dresses (six maid's dresses of various colours and designs, a school uniform, a little girl's dress in the Victorian style and two very elaborate and deeply humiliating baby outfits - one of which he would be forced into later that day) – were a row of white drawers with elegant silver handles. Resting on top of the drawers were a collection of stunningly feminine shoes. All in his size, all very high heeled and all in various types of gleaming patent leather. He selected a pair of gorgeous black court shoes with spectacular five inch heels. He placed these by his helplessly feminine feet and then began extracting his under things from the drawers. A pair of expensive and very sheer black nylon, seamed tights; a darling cream silk slip and a pair of heavily be-frilled, white silk panties. He took these, together with the shoes, back to the dressing table, his heart now pumping with a strange but not unfamiliar mixture of fear and sexual anticipation. Then he minced over to the second wardrobe. He slid back the door with a sense of defeat, for here were stored the most sinister and overwhelming tools of his dreadful transformation: the body girdles.

There were five of them, each reflecting different levels of feminisation or sissification, each designed to provide a certain physical appearance. Each was fitted with thick rubberised padding at the hips and breasts, with very tight, figure shaping side panels. Each had an outer frame of silk lined elastane which allowed the girdle to be stepped into and pulled up the body, before it contracted to meet and ultimately shape and restrict the torso, especially the waist area. Ingenious and wicked, these kinky girdles were at the very heart of his daily physical transformation.

As well as the girdles, each of which was a different colour, there were a collection of dainty, pretty and heavily be-frilled white silk pinafores, plus a set of drawers containing more tools of babification – silk booties, rubber lined and fingerless silk mittens, ankle socks, bibs and king sized dummies. Two pink silk romper suits were also hanging next to the girdles and the pinafores.

He wearily selected the jet black body girdle, which, he had been told, most accurately reflected the body shape he would eventually attain through the hormone treatment and plastic surgery - should he agree to full feminisation. His cock twitched painfully in its evil, pin-lined re-strainer and once again he was confronted with the dreadful choice that Helen demanded he make if he was ever to be released from the restrainer and the more severe forms of his silken servitude.

'The choice is simple: you remain subject to the regime of punishment or you accept your natural trans-sexual personality and the body and lifestyle that goes with it.'

Put simply, if he were to accept permanent feminisation, he would be allowed a form of freedom, or rather a less painful and constant form slavery. This was the only deal. He would never be allowed to return to his previous male self, unless, of course, he wished to go to prison.

He took the girdle over to the dressing table and set it down on top of the gorgeous black silk dress. Helen referred to the girdle as "the Sex Bomb", and it had been made very clear that she expected him to wear this whenever he was acting as her personal maid, which was most of the time.

While still looking down at the girdle, he took a bottle of very expensive French perfume form the dressing table and proceeded to cover his shaven body in a powerful rose scented mist. Then he picked up the girdle and very carefully placed it on the floor before gingerly stepping into the upper section. He slowly drew the girdle up to his knees, so that he could slip his feet through the leg sections and then began to pull it up his long, silken legs.

The majority of the girdle's deeply embarrassing padding was at the hips, the crouch and stomach area and, most spectacularly, at the chest. The chest section was in fact a thickly and expertly padded bra which was about to provide him with a particularly impressive and very convincing 40 inch chest. The chest padding was made up of two rubber breast forms filled with silicon which had been sown inside the cups, and he had been sarcastically assured by Helen that they provided a very realistic "feel".

Pulling the girdle into position required a significant amount of sissy wiggling and straining. The elastane and rubber material almost immediately began to contract against his slender form, and by the time he managed to pull the surprisingly strong silk shoulder straps over his girlish shoulders, the material was already squeezing the air from his lungs.

A familiar sensation of complete helplessness washed over him as he wiggled the girdle into its final, figure shaping position. The weight of the breasts tugged at his slight chest, the rubber panels tightly restrained his already trim waist. Special padding at the hips and bottom gave him a set of distinctly feminine curves, and most disturbing of all, his hard, tortured and tightly ringed sex disappeared completely thanks to some ingenious padding around the area of the crotch.

He looked at himself in the dressing table mirror and saw a terrible, soul destroying truth: he made a frighteningly convincing woman, a fact that was, to his increasing astonishment, more than a little arousing.

They are winning, he thought, taking up the delicate, sexily seamed tights. And they win a little more every day. And as their resolve and its startling manifestation became stronger, his resistance surely weakened. As the painful punishments increased, as the terrible working day seemed to get ever longer and harder and thus ever more exhausting, as his sexual frustration deepened, his will to hold out against complete and permanent feminisation was slowly fading.

He took the lovely dress off the stool and laid it very gently across the dressing table. Then he lowered his pretty, tightly girdled bottom onto the stool. As he did so, the rubber and silk material of the girdle pressed between his legs and forced the vibrator a little deeper into his back passage. He fought a moan of pleasure, but quickly submitted to a squeal of helpless delight. They were conditioning him to a fetishistic transvestism and anal sexual servitude. Exhausted and desperate (he had had no form of sexual release for eight weeks), he was surely approaching breaking point.

His cock stiffened and the pins and rings bit deeper. He was being punished for his arousal and his fundamentally physical masculinity. Pleasure meant pain, as it always did in this strange and terrible regime of total petticoat punishment.

Then pain became pleasure, a terrible tactile pleasure that betrayed how powerful his transvestite need was becoming. As he carefully eased the soft, teasing tights over his small feet and up his silky smooth legs, he experienced the most powerful of all the fetishistic pleasures that were being used to train him, to turn David very surely into Daphne. There was nothing as uncontrollably and irresistibly pleasurable as the feel of this so soft nylon on his ultra-sensitised, shaven skin. As he stood up to pull the tights up over his thighs and position them around his tightly girdled waist he faced the terrible double pleasure of their feel and the impact they had on his legs. Suddenly, even he believed he was Daphne!

In between straightening the seams with great care (crooked seams always meant at least a sound paddling on his bare bottom), he looked into the mirror and watched himself move. Automatically feminine now, graceful, even balletic; as if the tights were possessing him - as if Daphne were possessing him.

He moved his hands over his nylon sheathed legs and gasped with a deep, dark pleasure. The pins bit a little deeper and he was dragged painfully back from this sensual self caress. Then he took up the sexy, be-frilled panties, stepped into them and guided them up his teased and tormented legs. And the panties were quickly followed by the elegant silk slip, with its intricately woven pattern of white silk roses and exquisite lace frilling at the short hem, which barely covered the sexy panties.

Then, it was the turn of the dress, the most spectacular symbol of his sissy submission. He took it from the dressing table and unzipped the long silver zipper that ran from the top of its high neck down to the base of its full, petticoat filled skirt. Then, swallowing hard, feeling a terribly ambivalent sexual dizziness wash over his feminised form, he stepped into it and pulled it up over his reluctant she-male form.

Guiding the puffed sleeves over his thin, silky soft arms, he gasped with more tactile pleasure, and as he pulled it up around his shoulders and neck the dreadful sense of inescapable entrapment reached its height.

He carefully and somewhat painfully zipped the dress up, a process that involved considerable contortion without assistance. He then stepped into the shoes with a careful, deeply feminine ease. It had taken two days and many cuts of the cane to train his body in the art of high heeled balance. But know, like so much of this dreadfully kinky transformational process, he moved with an almost natural elegance and control, filling his hips wiggle almost instinctively as he minced back to the wardrobes, taking a series of delightfully dainty and tiny steps, his bottom dancing sweetly, his long, nylon sheathed thighs brushing so teasingly together with each ultra-feminine step, his expertly designed false breasts and padded hips working with the gleaming heels to produce a splendid reproduction of feminine grace, a perfect combination of balance and movement. .

From the second wardrobe he took one of the stunning white silk pinafores and held it up before his white, doll-like face. A pinafore heavily be-frilled, with two large silk ribbon ties and, stitched in the style of an elegant Victorian handwriting across its chest, the word "Daphne".

Quickly, he slipped the pinafore over his held and secured the two silk ribbon ties in a fat bow at the base of his silk sheathed spine. Then, from one of the drawers beneath the dresses, pinafores and baby attire, he took a small French maid's cap of white silk, with two lengths of matching ribbons tied to it, and carefully pinned this final sissy touch to his thick, blonde hair, making sure the ribbons ran down the back of the wig like two silk ponytails.

Then he wiggled minced back to the bathroom to check himself in the full length mirror. As usual there was a gasp of amazement, a never ceasing sense of how real, how convincing, how utterly total this transformation was. He was the perfect fetish doll, a male fantasy figure cleverly turned against its creator. He watched his silicon bosom raise and fall as his chest heaved with a heady mixture of desire, fear and self-disgust. He felt his cock complain bitterly and his heart pound. The vibrator twitched so pleasurably in his back passage. He was overwhelmed and utterly subjugated. He practised the short, sweet curtsey/bob demanded by Mistress Helen, flashing his pretty panties in the process and knew even this simple act of submission was beginning to turn him on. Then there was his mother's voice. 'You really are so pretty, Davie. You should have been a girl.'

Then he spun around on his erotically high heels and minced from the bathroom, out of the spare room and downstairs to the kitchen.

*

 

As he struggles so very desperately and uselessly in his tight, punitive sissy bondage, alone in total darkness, his body racked by so many carefully planned and cruelly imposed pains, he continues to remember. To remember how he was trapped by the weakness he had always fought against, and also to recall angrily and painfully how this latest punishment had come to pass.

He remembers the office, the large open plan office on the third floor of the company headquarters. He remembers his own section manager's office, at the far end of this larger office area, with Helen's slightly smaller office next to his. Helen Bliss, the beautiful, highly intelligence and very capable deputy section manager. He had been against her appointment, because she was all these things, and thus, to him, a very real threat. But the area manager, another strong minded and ultimately frightening woman, had over-ruled him. The bitch.

Helen, with her masters degree in philosophy, and her cool, calm confidence had immediately proven very popular with the staff, and, to his surprise, productivity had improved. He sought to use this to his own benefit, by giving her the primary personnel management function, by allowing her to deal with all the stupid, pointless and petty problems this gaggle of silly females constantly laid on his already overburdened desk.

He had hoped that would finish her. But no: she addressed all their issues with good humour and reason, and he hated her all the more. He hated her almost as much as he desired her. And while he remained cool, aloof and periodically angry, deep down he was already her slave.

She was a gorgeous, plump brunette, with soul melting brown eyes and soft, full lips that were always painted a provocative blood red. As she was also nearly six feet tall, the extra weight she carried was barely noticeable, but it added perfectly to her generous personality. She dressed in tight white silk blouses, long, tight black skirts, black hose and high heeled court shoes of gleaming black patent leather. Now and again she would where spike heeled boots. And her hair was always tied in a tight bun with a glittering diamond clasp.

He would sit in his office, imprisoned by desire and fear, and stare out at her splendid form with irritated, frustrated eyes. He dreaded standing before or near to her, as she would tower over him and whisper his name with a terrible condescending politeness, her voice pure honey, her perfume powerful and delicately rose scented.

'Can I help you, David? Is there something I can do to help, David?'

Outside the two offices were the desks of the secretaries, Sally and Sandra. Sandra, his long suffering personal assistant and Sally, appointed a few weeks after Helen's arrival. Sally, who stopped his tormented heart the first time his tired eyes fell upon her heavenly form. Stunning Sally Glass, Helen's most personal of assistants.

Sally, even taller than Helen, with her long, golden blonde hair and her ice blue eyes; with her athlete's figure and her startlingly bold and friendly smile. Sally in her tight sweaters and very short skirts, her long, so very long legs sealed in the sheerest of black hose and resting on the highest of heels. An impossibly beautiful and desirable creature, the perfect match for Helen.

On some days, it would be unbearable. Seeing the two of them, so gorgeous, so absolutely in control, every black thought about manipulating womanhood would well up in his sad, teased mind, thoughts surrounding a molten core of angrily repressed desire and an increasing sense of helplessness. Then he would slip from his office, so painfully aware of his rock hard erection, a stiff barrel of frustration and need. Then, in a cubicle of the men's toilets, he would masturbate himself to a nihilistic orgasm, his come splashing against the cubicle door, tears of despair filling his eyes and his mother's teasing voice ringing in his ears. 'You're far to pretty to be a boy, David.'

Then something strange happened. Despite his rudeness, his work monomania, his apparent lack of any normal human feeling, Sally began to talk to him, to communicate in a gentle, careful manner, to express a very obvious and powerful interest. For the first time in his life, a woman seemed to want him!

He was 25, a virgin, so terribly lonely and so obviously frustrated. He had even heard one of the office staff refer to his need to be "taken in hand" by a woman for his "own good".

Then Sandra went on holiday for a fortnight and it was agreed Sally would help him out. There was a big job on. He was working 14 to 16 hours a day. Work was the only thing keeping him sane. She was staying with him after work, sometimes until nine or ten. Always smiling, always so very helpful. Always so unbearably sexy.

And that night, that terrible, life changing night, she looked like a sex goddess, and he was so hard and in such violent need. He had thought about slipping off to the toilets to relive himself, but she had come into his office. The third floor was utterly deserted. It was just him and her. She was dressed in a very tight white nylon sweater, a short white and black checked mini-skirt , black tights and stiletto heeled mules. Her hair bound in a ponytail, her lips painted scarlet. She was a vision beyond words.

Then she had dropped a pile of papers and bent forward in front of him. The mini-skirt had risen slowly up her legs to reveal white panties. She had turned her head to face him and smiled knowingly. He had cried out and grabbed her from behind. Then there was only the red mist of sex and violence. She was on the floor, her skirt pulled down to her knees, his hands fumbling with her tights. A hand struck his face. Then another blow. He could hear a voice, or rather a cry, or perhaps a scream. He held her firmly, surprised by his strength. He unzipped his trousers. He grabbed his sex. Then there was a blow, a violent chopping blow to the back of his head. Then there was blackness.

He had awoken maybe fifteen minutes later. He was still on the floor. An electric charge of pain shot through the back of his head. He tried to cry out, but something was covering his mouth. He tried to move his arms, but they were immobilised, tied very tightly together behind his back. He tried to sit up. But his ankles were also lashed together. Then, to his horror, he saw he was naked.

'Wakey wakey, Daphne.'

It had been Helen's voice. Helen standing over him like some fierce-some pagan goddess. He tasted blood in his mouth and tried to look up at her. Dressed in the usual tight, semi-transparent white silk blouse, long black skirt and heeled boots, she was both beautiful and utterly terrifying.

He squealed angrily into what had now revealed itself to be a strip of thick, tightly secured duck tape and tried to fight back the tears that were beginning to flood his wide, baby blue eyes.

'Listen to him cry. Just like a little girl. How appropriate.'

This was Sally's voice, full of cruelty and anger. Then he remembered what had happened and a wave of sickening realisation stifled any further protest.

'Yes, Daphne,' Helen snapped. 'You finally revealed your true colours.'

He wondered why she kept referring to him as "Daphne" and then noticed that he still had an embarrassingly firm erection. As he blushed, the women laughed even louder.

'I'm afraid you've really let yourself down,' Helen had continued. 'We know you're a sad little fuck with no friends, who's terrified of women, who takes all his horrible little inadequacies out on his staff. But this…rape? We never really expected you to fall into our little trap. I was sceptical. But Sally was convinced. And I was so very wrong.'

He looked over at Sally. There was a nasty bruise on her left cheek, just under her eye. Had he hit her? In the fit of sex madness? Her tights were torn, as was her sweater, which was also blood stained, as were her lips. Had he done all this? A sickening wave of shame washed over him. Yes, he was a monster. But then there was the reference to a "trap". But before he could think further about this, Helen had continued.

'Anyway, I really don't think we can let this go, Daphne. We've really had to put up with a lot from you. And now this. So, we've had to think very carefully about the best way forward. Sally wants to call the police, but I think that's much too easy. Of course, you'd be arrested, charged, tried. And then a few years in prison, in the sex offenders wing. Yes, far too easy. And what would we gain? The women, I mean? The women you so obviously despise. A sense of justice? Maybe. But I suspect there would be no long term benefit. We need something much more elaborate to ensure a long term benefit.'

'Then,' Sally interrupted, 'there's all the other little questions you'll have to answer.'

He looked at her with fear and confusion, and tried once again to sit up. Helen then stepped forward, placed a heel on his chest and pushed him back down onto the office floor.

'Yes. Those nasty little secrets that will be discovered. All that hard core porn on your computer. Perverted, sick. Bondage, S and M, even transvestites in bondage! And all the magazines at home.'

He squealed into the gag angrily. What on earth were they talking about! There was no sick pornography!

'Then, of course, there's the financial irregularities. Those dodgy expenses claims. Ten thousand pounds worth.'

'A criminal ,mastermind,' Helen added, her smile wide and so very cruel.

Tears now began to flood from his eyes as the truth of his situation sunk in, as he realised that this whole dreadful event had been carefully stage managed by Helen. He would be removed from the office and she would become section head. Either via the grim reality of prison or by means yet to be revealed.

'You'd be ruined forever, Daphne. Absolutely destroyed. The whole carefully constructed edifice of your nasty little career flushed down the toilet. Well, that's probably going to happen anyway. But I think you'll be more interested in our alternative to imprisonment.'

His tears lessened and he stared up at the gorgeous, imperial figure of Helen Bliss, his cock hard, his heart pounding, his fate in her lovely, elegant hands.

'Put simply,' she continued, 'you submit absolutely to our will. You allow us to take you to my home tonight and enslave you. Transform you into an elaborately sissified maidservant. To train you as a she-male submissive. Then, when the training is complete, we will give you a choice: prison or permanent feminisation.'

His eye widened even further as he fought to take in the proposed alternative.

'How long will this training take?' she asked, a mock rhetorical question. 'As long as it takes. As long as it takes you to kneel before me and beg to be permanently imprisoned in panties and hose.'

He listened and felt a surreal sense of utter horror. He listened and realised how all the terrible fears that had dogged his life and that he had fought so hard to push aside were suddenly overwhelming him. His worst nightmare was about to become reality. His mother's words led straight to this fate. The inevitable truth of his being. How had he ever been foolish enough to think he could avoid it!?

'I take it from your silence that you ascent to our proposals,' Helen said, and Sally burst out laughing.

The tears returned to David's girlish eyes and he moaned pathetically into the tight, highly effective tape gag.

'Get the bag.'

Sally obeyed Helen's curt instruction without hesitation and left the office.

The gorgeous brunette then knelt down by David.

'You're so unhappy, Daphne. And your unhappiness is making everyone else unhappy too. This has got to stop. In the next few months, you are certainly going to suffer terribly, but it will be worth it if you come to realise your true self. Of course, there'll be a few explanations required. Tomorrow, we'll announce that you've had a nervous breakdown. A doctor friend will provide a certificate and you'll be signed off for a month. Eventually, this note will be renewed. Then, after careful consideration, you will resign. It just all got too much for you.'

He looked up at her angrily and squealed his outrage. She laughed and then grabbed his hard, pained cock, turning his squeal into a strange winy of shocked arousal.

'Yes, you'll fight us all the way…at the start. But after you come to realise how serious we are. Well, let's just say, you'll make the right decision eventually.'

As she spoke, her long, elegant, blood red nailed fingers teased his tormented cock wickedly and he wiggled desperately in his tight bonds. Then she used her free hand to pull what looked like the finger of a pink rubber glove from a pocket in her dress. She then released his cock and carefully pulled open the finger to reveal a lining of what looked like hundreds of tiny metal pins!

'This is just a taste of what awaits you, Daphne. The punishment of the cock glove'

She then very quickly slipped the mouth of the glove over the enflamed head of his cock and pulled in down the long, hard shaft in one brutal move that left him squealing in agony.

'The pins won't tear the skin, but they will certainly make any form of erection extremely uncomfortable,' she shouted over the top of his squeals, pulling the glove down over his balls and letting it snap painfully into place around his bulging scrotum.

As he struggled uselessly, as he begged her with wide, sissy blue eyes for mercy, she smiled cruelly, clearly aroused by his suffering. Then she took three silver metal rings from the skirt pocket.

As he fought to control the awful torment of what felt like a thousand tiny teeth nibbling at his cock, she proceeded to add another sadistic touch to his suffering. She unclipped the first ring and then very carefully slipped it over his rubberised sex, clipping it into place at the base of the hard, agonised shaft. She then clipped the second ring in place just beneath the bulging head of the sex. Finally, she took by far the biggest of the three and clipped it tightly in place around his balls!

The result of this added layer of torment was significantly to increase the pain in his cock and place a terrible, painful pressure on his already bulging, pin tortured balls!

He squealed louder and wiggled more insanely and she laughed her brutal indifference into his red, pain contorted face.

'There,' she whispered, running a teasing red nail down the cock's outraged length. 'Snug as a bug in a torture chamber.'

Sally had then walked back into the office carrying what looked like a long, black rubber sack.

'Right,' Helen snapped. 'She's ready for transport. Let's get her bagged up and we'll be on our way.'

Sally, a wickedly entertained smile lighting up her bruised face, then rolled the bag up into a fat, gaping mouth, grabbed David's tethered ankles and begun to slide the bag over his legs.

It quickly became apparent that the bag was very tight, and the second skin material began to contract around his tormented, terrified form as Sally pulled it up over his thighs, his tortured sex and then over his slight stomach and highly unimpressive chest. As she pulled it up around his neck, he realised he was literally being cocooned in tight black rubber and more tears of terror poured from his baby blue yes.

'Oh dear,' Sally sneered, 'she's frightened.'

Helen snorted derisively. 'She better get used to fear. It will be her main emotion from now on.'

David looked up at Helen, his vision blurred by tears, a moan of pathetic pleading fighting past the tight tap gag. Then he noticed that Sally had produced another rubber bag, this one much smaller. She opened it out and then, to his utter horror, began to pull it down over his head.

He tried to shake his head. He squealed furiously. He tried to fight his bonds even harder, but the body bag made any real movement utterly impossible. In a few seconds, Sally's powerful arms had hauled the hood down over his head and he was plunged into a dreadful, absolute darkness.

At first he was terrified he would suffocate. But he found that, despite the tightness of the bag, he could breathe through his nose quite easily. Then there were hands grasping his body, strong, determined hands. Then, to his further horror, he was being lifted from the floor and then carried along like a sack of potatoes!

Now, two months later, he has trouble remembering the details of what happened next. He was carried from the building, thrown into the trunk of a car and taken to Helen's isolated country home. Still bagged, he was thrown into the closet that would become his bedroom and left for the night. The next morning, after a terrifying, sleepless night, he was freed and plunged into the universe of constant pain and submission had since become his permanent state of being.

Using terrifying bamboo canes, the two women ensured absolute obedience. Still gagged, he was showered and then shaven. A powerful pink skin remover stripped every spec of hair of from his body, including his pubes. Then he was strapped to a chair and, to his utter horror and disgust, his head was shaven. Yet this was only the beginning. His buttocks were stretched apart and the vibrator was forced deep inside him. He squealed and cried and they laughed louder and louder. They covered his body in powerful, ultra-feminine perfumes and powders. They applied make up to his face. Then they dressed him in the dreadful, so effective body girdle, in the sheerest and sexiest of black nylon tights, in spectacularly be-frilled silk panties, in the prettiest and sissiest of petticoats, in the highest and most terrifying of heels, and in the most elaborate and humiliating maid's dresses and pinafores.

That first week, he was refused the relief of a wig. His freakish appearance was their cruellest entertainment. It took him over a week to get used to the heels, and during this time, the slightest wobble earned him a caning. Their brutality amazed him. They were viscous Nazis and he was their de-humanised prisoner. They beat and starved him. If he was lucky, he received three glasses of water and a variety of fruit, plus a regular supply of vitamin pills. What he didn't realise was that some of the pills were hormone tablets! And it wasn't long before his skin softened, his hips widened, his breasts began very slowly to emerge from his chest.

His? He? Him? Words they attempted to beat out of him. She was Daphne. David was dead, unless he wanted to give himself up to the police. She was a simpering she-male, a pathetic, high heeled sissy. They reinforced this by rigorous and strict instruction in movement. Sealed in a pink nylon leotard and a dainty tutu, he was forced to spend two hours each afternoon learning the principles of sissy movement. Tiny steps, a permanent wiggle of the hips and buttocks. Arms held at his sides, hands slightly raised, his nylon sheathed thighs rubbing together. Sally was always the instructress, always armed with her terrible, eagerly applied cane; always dressed in a tight, red nylon leotard that revealed her splendid form to a dreadfully teasing perfection. And, despite himself, he remained furiously stiff and thus always in pain.

And then there was the awful vibrator. A fiendish reminder of his sissified submission, but also, much to his horror, an increasing source of sexual pleasure! Not only was he hard all day and all night, but he quickly began to enjoy the teasing presence of the vibrator! And this was made much worse by the fact that both Sally and Helen had remote control devices on their persons at all times and with a flick of a plastic switch they could start the thing buzzing angrily in his backside!

Yes, conditioning. Sissy brainwashing. Pain and a strange, almost masochistic pleasure. Their aim was not only obedience, but utter surrender; to have him kneel before them and beg for complete feminisation. To be realised from bondage and allowed to live full-time as a woman, or rather a totally convincing and endlessly desiring she-male. And he had fought them as best he could. He had fought them by refusing to accept this fate. But as each week went by the fight became so very much more difficult.

He was trained to cook and to clean, to sow and to iron. To his amazement, he took quite naturally to his domestic tasks, a fact he tried to explain away by the need for distraction from his daily sexual and physical sufferings. And in their way, Helen and Sally were impressed by how well he adapted, his natural, fierce intelligence applied so successfully. But this didn't stop them beating him at every opportunity!

They also taught him something else, something that made his restraint so much harder to endure. They taught him to pleasure them.

Soon after his arrival at the large, beautiful house, one thing became quickly apparent: Helen and Sally were lovers. As their personal maid, he was forced to serve them breakfast in bed, and the first time he had nervously minced on his pretty high heels into Helen's vast bedroom, the sight of the two beauties, naked and locked in each others arms, had dragged a gasp of amazement and arousal from his full pink lips. Yet amazement was soon replaced by anger and a much deeper sense of how easily Helen had brought about his downfall. For it was clear that she had plotted with Sally for some time before the terrible incident that led him to this state of reluctant femininity. Indeed, it had been Helen who had pushed for Sally's appointment!

Yes, he had been the victim of a conspiracy, and as he served breakfast to these gorgeous, wicked creatures each morning, the thought filed him with a terrible bitterness sugared coated by a helpless desire, a desire the woman teased brutally at every opportunity, but most directly through their insistence that, at the end of each day, he kneel before them, slip his head between their muscular thighs and bring them both to orgasm with his tongue. At first the mere thought of giving a woman oral pleasure had been enough to make him sick, but after a few prolonged evening sessions, he found himself more than enjoying the pungent delights of their soaking cunts. And, in the bedroom, as he caressed and probed, they kissed and cuddled. A most unusual and powerful form of foreplay, in which he always remained merely a tool, a terribly frustrated and uncomfortable tool who was always, eventually, returned to his closet room and shackled to his hard, unforgiving bunk. If he was lucky Helen would stuff his mouth with her soiled panties and tape it shut, before binding his arms tightly behind his back. If he was unlucky, she would leave him in some terrible, impossible hogtie, his buttocks turned crimson by the cane, nipple clamps fixed to his chest, a skin irritant soaked vibrator rammed deep into his ever widening sissy's arse, the tiny, wicked pins of the evil restrainer tormenting his iron cock.

*

 

Now, two months later, on a Sunday morning, bound and gagged in a terrible, pained darkness, he continues to recall the latest manifestation of his mistresses cruelty and cunning.

In the kitchen, after slipping on an ankle length white rubber apron, he had prepared a special Sunday breakfast: two eggs, bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes, all carefully fried, with toast, jam and a large pot of strong black coffee. His sexy high heels clicked against the marble surface of the large, state of the art kitchen, a working environment he had become more than used to in the last eight weeks. In the midst of his sissy labours, he had to confess confidence and relative ease of being. In his gloriously dainty French maid's costume, he was a vision of sissy submission and obedient commitment. He moved easily, with an almost natural femininity rooted in grace and control. And as he worked, he felt an increasingly familiar sense of resignation. And as he felt it, he fought it. Yet the struggle was now becoming too much. When he had looked into the mirror this morning, he had felt something like…pride. Yes, he looked so very convincing, and now, as was increasingly the case, he felt so terribly sexy. The vibrator tickled his arse and he moaned. The pins bit into his erect cock and he realised how easy it would be to surrender, to kneel before his beautiful mistresses and admit defeat. His nylon sheathed thighs rubbed teasingly together, his bottom wiggled provocatively. I am Daphne, he thought. I am her. I cannot escape the simpering she-male beauty of Sissy Daphne.

By the time he entering the bedroom, he had moved a significant step closer to surrendering. By the time he gently placed the heavy, circular silver tray on the bedside table and then minced over to the curtains to let in the Sunday morning light, his frilled panties so sexily exposed as he bent forward, with his knees together, to tie the curtains in place, he was ready to give them what they had always wanted, all the women, all the beautiful, sexy, powerful, controlling women: his utter capitulation and permanent feminisation.

He had turned back towards the bed and beheld the two of them, a familiar, intensely erotic vision. They were asleep, both naked, both stunning. Wrapped in each others arms, the bed sheets thrown back to reveal the upper halves of their splendid forms. Helen, with her hair freed from its typical tight bun, a waterfall of black gold falling over her large, plump breasts; Sally, her slender, but firm and muscular form, with its pert, girlish bosom and perfectly flat tummy. He had tasted them both so many times; most recently, the night before. And the taste of them was still in his mouth, an almost permanent torment.

Eventually, Helen's eyes had fluttered open. She had gently disentangled herself from her lover and stretched, releasing a long, sensual yarn. Then her dark brown eyes had fallen upon her sissified captive. Almost immediately he had performed a deep curtsey, pulling up the short hem of his dress and petticoats to reveal his nylon sheathed thighs and pretty, sexy silk panties.

His head bowed, he had then minced to the table and set about serving breakfast. Helen, as usual, had never taken her gorgeous eyes off him, analysing every movement, every gesture.

'You've come such a long way, Daphne,' she had suddenly said. 'Why are you making it so difficult for yourself?'

Her voice was shockingly conciliatory. Here there had been an invitation to surrender, to do the thing that had been running through his mind ever since he had faced Daphne in the bathroom mirror.

She sat up. His eyes fixed to her marvellous, ample breasts. He swallowed hard and then shook his head.

'I'm sorry, mistress,' he whispered. 'I can't. I just can't.'

Even now he could not give into this beautiful, powerful woman. No, he was not quite ready. He had not suffered enough.

A sudden flash of anger filled Helen's eyes.

'You silly fool,' she hissed. 'You naughty, pathetic little girl!'

Used to her cruel words, he had turned back to the table.

'Get my dressing gown,' she had snapped.

He automatically curtsied his understanding and minced over to the dressing table. He bent forward, flashing his panties provocatively at Helen, took the splendid black silk gown from the dressing table stool and returned to Helen, her eyes burning into him, her fury turning her lovely face a fearful scarlet.

'You really haven't learned anything, have you!?' she shouted as he curtsied again and handed her the gown. She grabbed it from him. Sally was now beginning to stir.

'Look at you – look at that pathetic excuse for a feminine wiggle! And the steps. Just not tiny enough Daphne. Get back to your room now!'

Tears welling up in his eyes, he had curtsied once again and then minced from the room, knowing his refusal was about to earn him a most severe punishment.

They had stripped him down to the restrainer, Helen in her sexy black silk dressing gown, Sally dressed in a terribly teasing white silk teddy. Then, with an evil smile scaring her beautiful face, Helen had ordered him to touch his toes. His hard, tormented cock had pressed against his slight stomach and tears of terror had flooded from his pretty blue eyes. Yet instead of the cane biting into his buttocks, a hand had slipped between his legs and gently eased the tormenting vibrator form his stretched, teased arse. He had gasped with a dreadful mixture of discomfort and arousal, appalled by just how pleasurable this subtle manipulation was.

He was forced to remain in this painful position for another five minutes. Then the vibrator was eased gently back into his arse. He squealed and wiggled and the women laughed.

'Yes, it's such a turn on, Daphne,' Helen teased. 'I bet you can't wait for a real cock inside you.'

Eventually, the vibrator was lodged deep within him, and he was made to stand. Almost immediately he realised what his two female captors had done. A sudden violent itching filled his arse, accompanied by a very painful heat. His eyes widened and the two women burst out laughing as he begun to wiggle uncontrollably. Indeed, his wiggles of discomfort were so great, that Sally had to hold him still when, to his astonishment, Helen began to work the dreadful restrainer free from his long tormented, rock hard cock.

The smell of Sally's perfume, mixed with her sweat and sex filled his flaring nostrils, as her strong hands held him firmly in place. He moaned with equal amounts of pain and pleasure as the restrainer was pulled free and his rampant sex was given its first airing for two months!

Yet no sooner was the evil device removed than Helen had taken up a jar of clear liquid and dipped rubber gloved fingers inside. As the pains in his backside increased and tears of discomfort filled his big sissy eyes, she then proceeded, to his horror and delight, to caress very gently his inflamed, tormented sex. He cried out and begged for mercy.

'You get mercy when you beg me to be permanently feminised,' the gorgeous dominatrix said, now teasing his bulging balls with her long, rubberised fingers.

Then she stood back, and within a very few seconds he discovered what had been in the jar. The itching and the heat now gripped both his anus and his cock and as he writhed in agony and pleaded for release, Helen took a pair of black silk panties form the pocket in her sexy dressing gown and held them before him.

'Fresh from yesterday,' she had whispered, her large, mature chest heaving with excitement beneath the gown, her stiff nipples outlined clearly through the sensual, black silk fabric.

She then rammed the panties into his pain-stretched mouth. As she did this, Sally lashed his wrists and elbows tightly together behind his back with rubber cording.

As he bounced and squealed, she then took a thick roll of silver duct tape from one of the shelves and tore off a long strip. She then spread it across his soft, feminine lips, sealing his mouth shut.

His wide eyes pleaded for mercy. His girlish squeals increased. He wiggled his pert bottom helplessly.

Helen laughed louder at his suffered and then very quickly and brutally replaced the restrainer. Before he could even register this new pain, she had also stretched a rubber band over his cock and pulled it down around his balls, causing them to bulge even more. She then spent a few minutes cruelly tickling them.

'Now you will be caned and locked in the closet until lunch time. Then we will return and prepare you for the tea party.'

His eyes widened even further at the mention of the impending fortnightly tea party, the darkest and most spectacular of the humiliations he had been subject to over the last two months.

'Yes, it's that time again, Daphne,' Helen said, her splendid brown eyes drinking up his terrible suffering.

Yet even his humiliation was preferable to what happened next. For within seconds he had been bent forward over the back of a stool, his bottom horribly exposed, and Sally had taken up one of the vicious bamboo canes that she so loved wielding.

He received six hard cuts to his exposed behind, a harsh, but, by her standards, minor punishment, that was accompanied by squeals of pain and anger. Then, with tears flooding from his eyes, he had been put into the tights, dragged to the closet, elaborated cocooned in the stockings and tape, hooded, hog-tied, and left to contemplate his fate.

And now, nearly two hours later, as he wiggles and moans, as memories of his enslavement flood his tormented mind, he knows he is on the verge of surrender, he knows any further resistance to his terrible fate will cost him, or rather her, too much.

He hears the lock in the closet door click open and squeals for mercy. Overwhelmed by pain, aware more than ever of the deeply masochistic pleasure that has risen from the depths so very apparently over the last two months, he now wants nothing more than to submit to the future that Helen has designed for him. And in the final moments before she switches the light on and begins to untie him, he remembers his mother, his beautiful, teasing mother, with her long, thick black hair, buxom figure and gorgeous brown eyes, her full, blood red lips curving into a wicked smile.

'You're far too pretty to be a boy, Davey.'

He is untied and, still hooded and gagged, led shakily from the closet. He squeals desperately into the gag, his body tormented by its terrible intrusions and the relentless, cruel attentions of the skin irritant.

'I think she wants to say something,' Sally mocks as he is pulled into the middle of the room and the hood is pulled free of his head.

Helen laughs, but ignores her slave's pleadings. 'Get him stripped and then showered. We have just under two hours before the guests arrive.'

His eyes widen, he shakes his head. He tries to make her understand that he wishes to surrender. That there is no need for this further humiliation, for this grim display that had become a regular feature of his Sunday "duties".

'I really do think she's had enough, Helen,' Sally continues, stunning in a very tight white nylon sweater, a red leather mini skirt, white hose and red patent leather, stiletto heeled mules.

'Perhaps,' Helen replies, looking deeply into his desperate eyes. 'But I haven't. Whether she's given in or not, we will have the tea party as usual. And then the little treat I've planned. If, after this, she wants to talk to me, then I might be prepared to listen.'

Elegant and beautiful in a tight black velvet dress that displays her ample, shapely form perfectly, its skirt at her black hosed knees, her own feet encased in black leather ankle boots with startling four inch stiletto heels, her wondrous hair still freed from its formal and exploding over her broad shoulders, Helen is the perfect dominatrix. He looks at this cruel vision and knows she is determined to go through with the dreadful torment of the Sunday afternoon tea party, and that he must wait before giving himself to her completely, before abjectly begging for his complete and permanent feminisation.

 

*

It is nearly 3.00pm when the first guests begin to arrive. In the two hours before this awful moment, David, now most assuredly Daphne, has been carefully prepared and then dressed in what Helen sarcastically refers to as "her Sunday Best".

She – for this is how even David must think of him/herself now – had been carefully showered by the gorgeous Sally. The vibrator and restrained had been removed and the remaining layers of irritant had been teasingly washed from "her" rock hard sex and her arse. Sally had been very gentle and, once ungagged, Daphne had moaned helplessly.

'I can't take it anymore, Mistress. Please. I give in,' she had whispered, as hot, steamy water had begun to splash against silky smooth skin.

Sally had laughed, but not cruelly, not angrily. 'Yes, I know, sweetness. But there's just a few more tests. Then, if you pass them, all the pain and suffering will be over.'

Her tone had been surprisingly conciliatory given the beating she had just administered. Indeed, as soon as Daphne was showered, perfumed and powdered, there were more signs of a less draconian approach to her feminisation. The most immediate and shocking was the new restrainer. Rather than the pin-lined horror that had been her most intimate and dreadful companion for the last two months, Sally now produced a bright pink cock glove made from a very fine, expensive Italian silk. As Daphne stood to attention before this glorious blonde dominatrix, her pretty, baby blue eyes widened not in fear, but in helpless sissy arousal as the teasing restrainer was slowly, even lovingly slipped over her rigid, desperate sex. Suddenly, it was like the softest pair of female lips were wrapped around her sex and she squealed with helpless, angry pleasure.

'Yes, it's lovely. A little present for being a good girl. And you get to wear it all the time from now on.'

Sally's words, whispered in a sensual, maternal voice, drove poor Daphne even madder with need and she fought the urge to come with a grimace of unbearable ecstasy. If there had been the slightest sign of come, she would undoubtedly have been caned.

Once the new restrainer was pulled tightly over Daphne's sex, Sally tied it in place around her bugling balls with a scarlet coloured silk ribbon in a fat sissy bow.

'There,' she purred. 'You look perfectly divine.'

Daphne found herself staring into Sally's big blue eyes and wanting her so very desperately. Her own helplessly sissy eyes rested upon Sally's nylon outlined breasts and she moaned with helpless need.

Sally laughed and continued this new, far less punitive dressing.

Daphne was made to touch her toes and spread her legs. She did so with frightened eyes, but instead of the grim, hard vibrator, she quickly found her arse filled with a long, thick, but also soft and teasing pink rubber dildo, a kinky sex toy that Sally teasingly worked deep into Daphne's back passage with naughty, tormenting words.

'This feels much more like the real thing, Daphne. And I bet you can't wait for that. But don't worry – you won't have to wait long.'

*

 

Now, as the guests begin to enter the living room, that cryptic statement is running once again through her mind. As the women gasp, laugh and clap, as Daphne is subject to the terrible heart of this weekly ritual of a very public exposure, she is amazed to discover two things: she is no longer afraid and that the thought of being taken from behind by a man fills her with a terrible sexual excitement.

Daphne is in the centre of the large, ornate living room, inside an adult sized, pink rubber floored playpen with large white metal bars. She is on her knees, her arms tied very tightly behind her back with pink silk ribbons at the wrists and elbows, her legs similarly secured at the ankles and knees.

She is wearing a truly spectacular baby girl's dress of hot pink silk, with a high, lace trimmed collar. A wig of incredible strawberry blonde ringlets is partially hidden by an even more incredible pink silk baby's bonnet which is tied tightly in place around her sissy head with thick lengths of pink silk ribbon bound in a tight, fat bow at her dimpled chin. Her helplessly feminine face has been painted snow white and two large circles of pink rouge have been very carefully painted onto her shapely cheeks. Her lips, painted hot pink, are hidden by the heart shaped plastic plate of an adult-sized pacifier, its long, fat teat a very effective gag. The dummy is held in place by silk ribbons that are tied in another fat sissy bow at the base of her slender, girlish neck.

Sown into the wide, short skirt of the amazing baby girl dress is a thick sea of frou-frou petticoating, beneath which is visible a pair of hot pink plastic panties. And beneath the panties is a thick, adult sized towel nappy held tightly in place by a huge silver safety pin. Her long, sexy legs are sheathed in white nylon stockings held in place by silk and lace edged pink garters, and her bound feet are imprisoned in lovely pink silk booties. Her bound hands have been forced into fingerless pink silk mittens lined with taught, immobilising rubber.

Reduced to the status of a baby girl, she is utterly helpless, and thanks to the teasingly soft dildo, she is in a state of furious, deeply masochistic arousal, an arousal she now accepts as utterly inescapable.

The women, all ten of them, gather around the play pen and torment Daphne with exaggerated baby talk. She looks up at them without the fear and anger that had marked their previous visits. Now there is only acceptance of her sissy fate and a terrible sexual need.

'She looks less agitated.'

The words are Sandra's, tall, silver haired Sandra, once his personal secretary, now one of her many cruel mistresses. Dressed in a tight grey dress, black tights and stiletto heeled mules, she is close enough to her very ex-boss that poor Daphne can smell her sweet sandalwood perfume.

'Yes,' Helen says, a warm smile lighting up her beautiful face. 'I think we have finally made some real progress with Daphne. I think we have finally seen off silly, ugly David.'

This announcement brings much clapping and cheering, and poor Daphne can only agree that her former angry, frustrated male self has very clearly been destroyed.

For the next hour and a half, the guests enjoy large quantities of wine and an elaborate Sunday afternoon buffet. Most of the women, all David's ex-staff, spend at least a few minutes teasing Daphne with exaggerated baby talk and complements on her gorgeous sissy attire. By now, the poor she-male is in a state of sex fury. Her surrender to this teasing regime of ultra-femininity has opened the flood gates of a very long suppressed sadomasochistic desire. Suddenly, she is looking at the world through pure sex eyes. She marvels in the sex aura of each of these attractive, newly dominant women, women long under a fascist regime now freed, with the great dictator reduced to the level of a helplessly feminised, sissified slave, their plaything, the object of their darkest fantasies of domination and control. She marvels in their gorgeous, elaborate clothing, in their sheer, second skin hose, in their teasing, sex tickling perfumes, in their high heeled and elegantly designed shoes, in their soft, glistening red lips, in their amused, cruel, beautiful eyes, in their wicked, promising and threatening smiles. For ninety minutes she is lost within the startling, erotic abyss of sophisticated, all powerful womanhood.

And towards the end of her strange, exciting and utterly humiliating ordeal, Helen reveals Daphne's strange, arousing future. She gathers the women around the cot and, as the she-male stares up at her mistress as a devotee beholds her almighty god, the terrible, wonderful truth is unleashed.

'It is clear that we have reached the end of the first phase of Daphne's training,' Helen says, her eyes boring into her slave like holy daggers. 'By the end of the day, she will be completely subjected and accepting. Tomorrow, we will begin Phase 2. Using Sister Amelia's body alteration techniques, we will transform Daphne into an utterly convincing she-male. Leaving her male genitalia in place, we will give her the body of a sex bomb. Forty inch breasts, wide, sensual hips, pert, sexy buttocks, plus a complete facial redesign. She will become the perfect male fantasy of the vacantly beautiful bimbo.'

Laughter and mock cheering follow this announcement.

'But why keep his cock?' one of women asks. 'Just complete the job.'

A few of the women mumble agreement and Daphne's girlish eyes fill with fear.

'Because the key to our control of Daphne is her essentially male sex. We make her desire her subjugation, associate complete feminisation and female control with sexual pleasure. Her male sex is also a powerful symbol of her status. She is not a woman, we are not creating a woman out of a man. We are creating a sissified male slave.'

Helen's words bring both relief and a terrible sense of doom. Yet even this cool description of her sissy fate is just the introduction to a most terrible ordeal.

As the women continue to listen to Helen's words, the living room door swings open and Sally enters pushing what appears to be a large trolley. Daphne has noticed that, all afternoon, she has been carefully guiding each of the women from the room, one at a time, a wicked smile on her beautiful, Nordic face. Now, the helpless, babified she-male is about to discover what the cruel mistress had been up to.

The trolley is made of gleaming silver coloured metal. Within its frame is a very large glass bowl filled to its glass lid with a yellow coloured liquid. By the bowl is a small metal box with a large red switch built into the side. Running from the lid of the bowl is a long white rubber, semi-transparent tube wound into a fat coil on a small metal platform above the bowl. Fixed to the end of the tube is what appears to be an open plastic nozzle, and attached to the nozzle is a strange black rubber harness.

The women part and Sally pushes the trolley up the edge of the play pen. Poor Daphne beholds the bowl with terrified eyes and moans fearfully into the fat, inescapable pacifier gag so effectively filling her soft sissy mouth.

'Today there will be two tests of Daphne's commitment to her future sissification. You will witness the first this afternoon. The second will take place privately.'

Helen's words terrify the tightly bound and gagged she-male and her moan turns into a helpless sissy squeal of terror.

Helen laughs gently and leans towards Daphne.

'You say you surrender. You say you will become our slave. But do you really mean it, sweetness? Well, let's see.'

Sally opens the playpen and steps inside. She then gently removes the pacifier gag. Daphne gasps with relief and the women continue to tease and mock. Sally then takes the nozzle from the platform and pulls it over the edge of the playpen towards Daphne's face.

Tears of fear well up once again in the she-male's pretty eyes.

'Open up, Daphne,' Sally orders, her voice filled with cruel amusement. 'We've got a very special treat for you.'

Daphne looks up imploringly at Helen, who merely smiles and nods.

The helplessly gorgeous she-male obeys, feeling the dildo dig deeper into her arse and her rock hard sex press deep into the soft nappy..

Sally then forces the nozzle into Daphne's mouth and straps it in place with the rubber harness over her spectacular bonnet.

The nozzle is surprisingly thick, and stretches her mouth wide open. It's curved tip pressing against the back of her throat. She gags on it and tears of discomfort begin to flood from her eyes.

Sally then returns to the trolley.

Helen stands back and addresses Daphne directly.

'The bowl contains approximately two litres of our guests' urine, which has been collected over the last hour or so. The little black box is a pump that will take the piss up from the bowl, along the tube and into your mouth. It will do so in a controlled manner over the next 30 minutes. By the end of this period, you will most certainly need to urinate yourself. Hence the nappy.'

Even before Helen has finished revealing the terrible contents of the bowl and their destination, poor Daphne is squealing frantically into the nozzle and struggling furiously against her tight, unyielding sissy bonds. The women cheer this brave display, and the sissy squeals rise a full octave as Sally leans down with her back to Daphne and flicks the switch, making sure the tormented, terrified sissy receives a gloriously sexy view of her long, nylon sheathed legs and pretty red panties as she does so.

Daphne watches the urine traverse the tube with an agonised, horrified look of pure helpless terror. The women continue to laugh and clap. Then, a moment of supreme horror: the bitter, salty taste of urine flowing slowly from the nozzle and down her throat.

As the pretty, helpless she-male wiggles and gags, the women watch fascinated. In their eyes she can see a strange mixture of horror, satisfaction and dark arousal. And even here, in the heart of this ultimate degradation, all the beautiful, helpless she-male can feel is a terrible, angry arousal.

*

 

During the next 45 minutes, she drinks every last drop of the wine flavoured urine and then fights desperately to control her bladder. But very soon the pressure becomes unbearable and, with a huge sigh of humiliated relief, she floods the extra large, specially designed nappy. And there she sits, in her own urine, the most intimate tastes of these women still filling her mouth, as the women themselves chat and joke, as they continue to amuse themselves with teasing comments and baby talk. Then, after nearly three hours, twice the normal length of the Sunday visits, they reluctantly depart, and Daphne, stunned, utterly humiliated and still intensely aroused, stares up with tear stained eyes at her two gorgeous, wicked mistresses.

'You did very well, Daphne,' Helen teases. 'But the question is, do you still want to accept your fate? Are you still prepared to commit to tights and panties?'

Daphne looks at this stunning woman and knows there is only one answer. And so does Helen. The floodgates have been opened, not only of the evil glass bowl, but also of her mind. The repressed secret desires of twenty years now have complete control, and she nods weakly but clearly.

'Good. Then we can proceed onto the final test.'

Sally then unties Daphne and leads the stunned, stiff, aroused she-male out of the play pen and upstairs. Here she is stripped naked and very carefully showered and perfumed. A longer, slightly harder dildo is then quickly inserted into her more than willing back passage and the wonderfully teasing silken restrainer is tied tightly back in place. The intricate body girdle is refitted, along with a pair of very sheer, expensive black nylon tights and heavily be-frilled black silk panties. Surprisingly delicate pale rose foundation is then applied to her face, along with pale blue eye shadow and blood red, glistening lip stick. The wig of baby girl ringlets is replaced with a beautiful blonde page boy wig. Diamond stud earrings are fixed to her small, girlish earlobes, and a sexy black beauty spot is carefully positioned on the right side of her sexy mouth.

A gorgeous black silk blouse is then slipped over her shoulders, and she is helped into a very tight, black leather mini-skirt that barely reaches the top of her shapely, hosed thighs. Then, the final touch: a pair of five inch stiletto heeled mules made of glistening black patent leather.

She was then made to stand before a clearly impressed Sally and perform a sissy twirl.

'Perfect,' the striking blonde mistress purred. 'Absolutely perfect'.

Daphne is then made to reveal herself to herself, to stand, with her hands behind her back, facing the full length bathroom mirror. She gasps with a terrible sexual shock and feels herself sway with giddy sexual need.

'You really are a little beauty, Daphne. What a fool you were to try and be a man. And by the time we've finished with you…well, you'll be the prettiest little sex toy imaginable!'

Sally then leads the beautiful, stunned she-male back into the main room, her mind overwhelmed by the perfection of her transformation and the deep, sensual pleasures of her newly proclaimed ultra-femininity.

'You'll sleep in the closet tonight,' Sally says, 'and we'll get this room made up properly for tomorrow.'

Daphne curtsies her understanding and Sally pats the pretty sissy playfully on her sexy, teasingly displayed bottom, her tone now more that of a big sister than an avenging dominatrix

Sally then leads the beautiful Daphne back downstairs. The sissy's heart beats with joy and anticipation, the thought of being revealed in this glorious state to Mistress Helen driving her quite mad.

In the living room, Daphne discovers that Helen has two new visitors. The playpen has been cleared away and Helen is sitting on the large, black leather sofa with a stunningly beautiful negress dressed in a striking white dress, white hose and white stiletto heeled patent leather court shoes - the sexy uniform of a senior nurse.

And standing by the sofa at strict attention is a truly astonishing vision in cream and pink.

'Amelia's,' Helen says, her beautiful brown eyes filled with teasing and cruel amusement framed by her own considerable sexual arousal, 'meet Daphne.'

Instinctively, the gorgeous she-male curtsies deeply before the stunning woman, causing her tight short skirt to rise up her hosed thighs and reveal the laced edges of her ultra-sexy panties. Yet even as she supplicates herself before the lovely negress, her eyes cannot escape the magnetic power of the creature standing by the sofa.

Amelia smiles coolly and laughs. 'As you say, Helen, she's very impressive. But she appears more impressed by Chrissie.'

Amelia has a deep, sensual Northern American accent, a voice filled with authority and sexuality.

Helen laughs in response. 'Daphne,' she says, turning to the gorgeous manifestation at her right hand side, 'meet Chrissie.'

At first sight Chrissie appears to be a tall and particularly beautiful young woman. A blonde, whose long, thick hair is bound with a white silk ribbon in a long, curling ponytail that reaches down to the middle of her back. She has striking ice blue eyes, eyes filled with an almost desperate sexual need. Her full, voluptuous lips are painted a gleaming blood red and shaped in a helpless bow of desire. She is dressed in a spectacular pink silk dress, with a very high button up and lace be-frilled neck and elegantly puffed sleeves. The dress is very tight and perfectly displays a pair of very large, perfectly shaped breasts and a lovely hour glass waist. It is also very short, with a dainty, heavily petticoated skirt, out of which emerge two beautiful, shapely legs encased in sheer white nylon stockings. She is wearing a pair of pink patent leather, stiletto heeled court shoes, each of which has a lovely diamond butterfly fitted to its severely pointed toe. Her hands are sealed in snow white glace gloves and held delicately at ninety degree angles at her sides.

Daphne then curtsies before Chrissie and the two mistresses burst out laughing.

'Chrissie is your final test,' Helen explains. 'She has been placed in Amelia's care by her aunt and it has been decided that the two of you will become very good friends. In Chrissie, you will find a model for your future development. You should aspire to be exactly like her.'

Chrissie then steps forward, smiles shyly and performs her own dainty 'bob' curtsey, revealing intricately patterned white lace garters as she does so.

'It's very nice to meet you, Daphne. I know we will be the best of friends.'

Chrissie's voice is a strange mixture of little girl and sex goddess, very high pitched and yet deeply sensual.

'I suggest you take Chrissie up to your room and show her around,' Helen says, her eyes filled with a cruel conspiracy, her lips curved into a smile of deadly desire.

Daphne bob curtsies and looks up nervously at this gorgeous young woman, confused and disturbed. Why is she here? Why do they wish her to become friends with her?

Chrissie then steps forward, smiling gently, and takes Daphne's hand in her own. Daphne turns and then leads the stunning beauty from the room, her heart pounding, her legs weak, her cock as hard as iron in its teasing silk restrainer.

In the short journey back up to the room that is filled with the tools of her feminisation, little is said. Chrissie's powerful rose scented perfume tickles Daphne's girlish nostrils and she is very much aware of the young woman's eyes burning into her long, sexily hosed legs.

As they reach the door to the spare room, Chrissie suddenly steps in front of Daphne. She stands at least 3 inches taller than Daphne and the sense of a considerable physical power is linked by her costume to her very obvious sexual beauty.

'You're very pretty, Daphne. Helen and Sally have done such a good job.'

Daphne looks up at Chrissie and finds herself moaning with a helpless, desperate need. She then gently steps past this lovely creature and opens the door. They then enter the room.

Chrissie looks around with wide, clearly excited eyes.

'Helen has followed her own path with regard to your feminisation,' Chrissie whispers, 'but the basic model is Amelia's. They were perhaps a little tougher on you than she was on me, but the principles are the same. And they will no doubt have the same result.'

It is only now, as Daphne watches this beauty mince around the room, that she realises what exactly Chrissie is. Not a gorgeous young woman, but a gorgeous she-male!

There is a moment of panic, a moment of return to the darkness of resistance and struggle. But this is soon replaced by the power of her new personality and the fierce sissy sex hunger that is at its heart.

Chrissie suddenly turns sharply on her high heels and bursts into delicate sissy laughter.

'Oh! You didn't realise! How wonderful. How terribly sexy. You thought I was a real girl!'

Poor Daphne nods and blushes furiously. Chrissie then quickly minces over to her she-male companion, her breasts bouncing teasingly in the tight dress. She then very quickly grasps Daphne's pretty head in her hands and then plants a long, wet and very passionate kiss on her painted lips.

'How lovely of you, Daphne. But I'm just like you! A bit more developed. But this is where you'll be in a few months.'

Daphne stares up at this striking feminine vision and feels utterly helpless. This is what I am, she thinks. How can I possibly resist her?

As if to answer this question, Chrissie leans forward once again and this time embraces the pretty, confused sissy before kissing her with an even more erotic enthusiasm. Daphne feels her legs weaken and her heart flutter. She returns the kiss with a desperate, helpless need.

They neck like this for perhaps five minutes, before Chrissie steps back and appraises Daphne very carefully.

'There is one more test for you, my sweet,' she whispers. 'The test of true she-male desire. If you pass this test, I can assure you a future of true sissy bliss. If you fail, you will be returned to the cupboard and another month of painful education. Do you understand?'

The element of threat in Chrissie's voice is both frightening and exciting, and the lovely sissy nods nervously.

It is then that Chrissie begins to perform a wonderful, teasing striptease before an astonished Daphne. The older, perhaps prettier she-male watches, dumbstruck, as her sissy sister carefully unbuttons the gorgeous, elegant pink dress and lets it slip gently over her stunning sex bomb figure, down around her long, shapely, white stockinged legs and then fall in a sexy heap at her ankles. Beneath the dress she is wearing an incredible white satin and silk basque, a shimmering masterpiece of sissy elegance that reveals the true extent of her wondrous figure.

The basque has an exotic plunging neck line that perfectly displays Chrissie's extraordinary bosom and poor Daphne stares opened mouthed at this amazing vision of she-male femininity. Chrissie then proceeds to lower the oval zip head that runs from the middle of the chest section right down to the crotch of the basque. This loosens the erotic undergarment and allows her to ease it back over her shoulders and reveal her naked body.

Daphne gasps in erotic amazement as Chrissie's spectacular torso is unveiled.

She is staring at the body of an angel and sex goddess combined. Yet this is a very unusual sex goddess! For as well as a pair of perfectly shaped, pale rose breasts measuring some forty inches, there is a slender, girlish waist, a pair of full, curvaceous hips and, to Daphne's not so great surprise, a very big, fiercely erect penis tightly encase in a sheer white nylon stocking.

As the basque falls away, Chrissie removes the ribbon holding her elegant ponytail in place and shakes out a startling explosion of blonde hair. She is truly amazing and poor Daphne is already her abject slave.

Daphne remembers Mistress Helen's words and feels her own silk sheathed cock stiffen. Yes, this is my future, she finds herself thinking. This is what I can become. This is what, truly, I have always wanted to be.

Chrissie steps forward, a wicked smile on her face.

'I hope you like what you see.'

Daphne hesitates, still finding it difficult to talk. 'Yes. Very much. You're incredible.'

Chrissie's smile widens. 'Good. Now take off the stocking.'

Daphne's eyes widen. This further hesitation angers Chrissie.

'Now!'

Daphne leans forward, her hands shaking, terrified and so terribly aroused.

'Not with you hands,' the gorgeous she-male snaps. 'With your mouth.'

Daphne looks up at the tall, elegant sissy beauty and fights to hold back a moan of despair. Yet even as she feels a wave of horror wash over her own delicately sissified body, there is an inescapable sense of deep, deep arousal, and it is only a few moments before Daphne has lowered herself down very carefully onto her nylon sheathed knees and is facing the bizarre and highly erotic spectacle of Chrissie's huge, tightly stockinged sex.

Then she shuffles forward very carefully and opens her mouth. The stocking has been bathed in the same powerful perfume that covers the rest of Chrissie's impressive form. Daphne slips her lips over the white nylon wrapped head of Chrissie's sex and very fearfully closes her mouth.

Chrissie lets out a load, deep moan and Daphne tastes scented nylon mixed with salty human flesh. She then uses her lips to work a slight slack out of the stocking. She takes this centimetre or so of nylon in her teeth and begins to pull it from the enflamed flesh of Chrissie's considerable cock.

In a few minutes she has managed to pull virtually the whole of the stocking from Chrissie's cock and the younger she-male is moaning loudly as the soft fabric teases her sex during its gradual departure. Then, with one final, more confident tug, the scented stocking has been pulled free and dropped to the floor, leaving Daphne staring directly at the paradoxical presentation of Chrissie's rampant manhood.

Then Chrissie looks down at her charge and smiles gently.

'Thank you, Daphne. That was very well done. Now I think you know what else you must do…to pass this final test.'

Chrissie nods. Yes, she knows. A simple, yet so terribly challenging act that will truly induct Daphne into the word of sissy love and an inescapable she-male future.

Once again, she leans forward, a smile of deep acceptance now igniting her beautiful she-male features. This time, she spends a few minutes teasing Chrissie. Licking and kissing this lovely, substantial organ, driving the poor sissy quite mad, turning moans to screams. Yes, this is all so natural, all so right. Why had she ever fought this? A vast, transcendent sense of relief washes over her and she then takes Chrissie's sex into her mouth and quickly guides her to a fierce, violent and quite massive orgasm that leaves a thick jet of molten cum pouring into Daphne's mouth, a jet she eagerly swallows like a life preserving nectar.

A few minutes later, the stunned, deeply satisfied older sissy has taken her new lover to the dressing table stool, bent her forward, pulled up her short, sexy skirt and pulled down her tights and panties. Then she has very carefully removed the fiendish, sexy vibrator. As she prepares to plunge her refreshed and once again rock hard sex into Daphne's parted buttocks, a smile of profound satisfaction lights up her gorgeous features. Soon the room will be echoing with Daphne's squeals of sissy ecstasy, a sound that Chrissie will quickly become very familiar with.

*

It is now two months later.

Helen sits at her desk reading a management consultation document. She was promoted to section manager soon after David's resignation. Her first act was to make Sally her deputy. A few weeks later she appointed a new secretary, the beautiful, sexy and strangely familiar Daphne Best.

Things have improved significantly since her appointment, both in terms of office performance and staff morale. The senior management have made it very clear that they see a glowing future for Helen and Sally.

Helen stares out of the glass panel that takes up most of the right wall of her office into the open plan area beyond. Daphne, as she does at every day at 10.30am, is serving tea and coffee to the all female staff. She moves elegantly from desk to desk with a trolley and, with a sweet submissive smile and the slightest of bob curtsies, provides each woman with a refreshment. The women smile. Some utter a soft thank you. One or two playfully pat Daphne's pert behind and the silly, sexy girl giggles helplessly.

Today she is dressed in a very tight black nylon sweater with a full polo neck, a very sexy black and white check mini-skirt and a pair of very sheer black nylon tights. This ultra-sexy outfit is topped off by a pair of gleaming black patent leather, stiletto heeled court shoes that accentuate her terribly sexy wiggle mince walk, an erotic (and distracting) mixture of tiny steps, wiggling hips and bouncing bosom. And what a bosom: forty glorious inches that inspire both amusement (for all the women know the truth about Daphne) and, in some quarters, envy.

Daphne, her thick blonde hair styled in its usual "Marilyn Monroe" curves is looking particularly happy today, for it is Friday, and in a few hours she will be clad in her incredible black silk maid's dress serving her mistresses, assisted by her sissy lover, Chrissie, and eagerly awaiting the arrival of her boyfriend, Gavin. Yes, Gavin from accounts, beautiful, stylish and deeply kinky Gavin. Gavin, who was introduced to Daphne at a party thrown by Helen some weeks ago, Gavin who accepted the truth about his new love with an erotic smile. Gavin, whose fascination with Daphne is matched only by his love of sodomy and bondage. Gavin, who binds and gags Daphne at every opportunity, who bends the poor, deeply masochistic sissy into every bizarre position imaginable and fucks her in the arse with a violent enthusiasm equalled only by Daphne's desire to serve this beautiful, perverse man in any way he sees fit.

Yes, Helen thinks, as Daphne enters her office, performs a deep curtsey and wiggles forward carrying a cup of hot coffee: David's mother was most assuredly right, and nature has now taken its full and proper course.

 

If you would like to read more kinky tales of enforced feminisation by Christina Shelly, her new novel, The Company of Slaves, published by Nexus books, is now available at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk.

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2004 by Christina Shelly. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.