Silken Slavery

by Christina Shelly

A few minutes later, he is in Donna’s car, his mind spinning, amazed at what the evening has brought, more committed than ever to following the path that Helen, Donna and Anne are laying out before him.

  Donna says nothing as she drives across town. Despite this, he cannot keep his sex-maddened eyes off her long, nylon-sheathed legs and fights the terrible urge to lean forwards and slip a hand beneath her skirt.

  By the time the car pulls up outside his apartment building, he is almost gasping with sexual need.

  ‘I can’t come in tonight, Chrissie,’ Donna says, turning to face him with a rather sad smile. ‘But I want you to be very good for me. I know you want me and that you’re really very horny at the moment, but it’s not up to you to decide when you can have sexual release any more. I decide. I’m your lover and your mistress, and you must obey me. And I need you to prove your obedience and your love. So I want you to go upstairs and slip into your sexiest lingerie and go to bed. And I want you to keep that stocking on. I want you to dream of me, Chrissie, to dream of all the fun we’re going to have together. But you must not, on any account, play with yourself. You must not even touch your cock. Just go up, get changed and go to bed. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ he replies, his eyes so sad, tears beginning to trickle down his crimson cheeks.

  Then, to his surprise, Donna leans forwards and quickly unzips his trousers. He gasps as she pulls his stockinged sex from behind the panties and then pulls the sheer sexy material as tight as she can against his scrotum, bringing a loud moan of pleasure from his sissy lips.

  ‘Nice and tight. The way I expect it to be all the time. Now put it away and off you go.’

  Without a kiss or even the slightest embrace, his sex burning into his stomach like a rod of fire, he zips himself up and climbs reluctantly from the car. No sooner has he closed the car door than Donna starts the engine and leaves him standing on the pavement outside the apartment building.

  By the time he enters the flat, his mind is totally overwhelmed by desire and tormenting memories of the incredible evening he has just spent with his mistresses. As he undresses, the urge to masturbate is almost unbearable, yet at the same time totally unacceptable. Eventually, he stands before his full-length bedroom mirror staring at his smooth, feminine form and at the large, stiff sex sealed so tightly and so frustratingly in the sheer black nylon stocking and all the masochistic need in his sissy heart is brought to bear to convince him that the only genuine way forwards is to obey his mistresses. So he seeks the sexiest item of nightwear in his extensive collection. And by the time he has slipped into a lovely pink silk baby-doll nightdress with matching pink panties and curled up beneath sheets that are still marked by the beautiful and now terribly tormenting scent of Donna, he knows there will be little real sleep, and that he will spend the few hours before dawn tossing and turning in a hot, sweating pit of frustrated need, his mind filled with thoughts of his gorgeous mistresses, his dainty sissification at their hands and the further, no doubt ultra-kinky adventures that await the sweet, long-legged, soft-lipped she-male they have christened Chrissie.

  Six

  The next two weeks pass in a dense fog of perverse desire, frustrated need and the steady, inevitable development of Chris into Chrissie, a sissy she-male maid whose only aim is to serve her mistresses in any way they see fit.

  The morning after his amazing bondage adventure, he bathes and perfumes his body with a new fascination, remembering the way in which the incredible maid’s uniform had transformed his body and, without a doubt, his soul. To shower, he must remove the stocking, an act of sheer torture that brings tears of appalling frustration to his tired, sex-tortured eyes. Then, once dried, he must replace it, moaning angrily and desperately as he slips the sheer, soft fabric over his rampant crimson sex and ties it tightly in place with the silk ribbon. And after the pain of the stocking, he must face the teasing pleasures of the strange silk suit. His freshly restockinged sex complains bitterly as he first slips into the sexy white silk teddy and then glides his most expensive pair of black silk tights up his freshly shaven and scented legs. The violent, unending erection stretches angrily against the nylon stocking and also against the tight, soft silk material of the teddy. He stares at himself in the mirror and feels a strange, narcissistic attraction to the deeply ambivalent image that confronts him. Memories of maid Chrissie, the beautiful she-male Bettie Page lookalike, come flooding back and he moans helplessly with a powerful, all pervasive pleasure, a deeply masochistic pleasure, a pleasure which has made him its absolute slave.

  The suit itself is as light as silken air and a disturbingly perfect fit. It caresses his body and when he moves it is as if he is covered by a sheet of the sexiest, softest and flimsiest of materials imaginable. And, as he carefully secures the knot in his black silk tie, there can be no doubt in his mind that, despite its design and function, this is the most feminine of garments. As he slips his hosed feet into the patent leather shoes, as his eyes study the way the trousers encase and accentuate his long, feminine legs and particularly how they fit so tightly and provocatively around his shapely backside, he knows the suit is in fact designed to expose very subtly rather than hide his femininity. As he moves in the suit, as he walks from the bedroom to the living room, he feels the power of the sissy she-male in a way that he has never felt before, a power that he can no longer control, a power that has taken complete possession of his body and now forces him to take small, mincing steps and make dainty, delicate gestures, to behave in a completely new yet at the same time deep-rooted manner.

  To walk out onto the street, suddenly to be among other people, in the hard, harsh, no longer deniable real world is a truly terrifying and at the same time totally electrifying experience. At first, he is convinced that everybody is staring at him, that every pair of eyes is filled with loathing and disgust and directed angrily at this strange girl-boy. Yet after only a few minutes it becomes apparent that no one is actually staring at him; indeed, the ease with which he disappears into the agitated commuter mob is almost embarrassing.

  By the time he gets into work that morning he is almost comfortable with his new, distinctly feminine appearance. He makes sure he arrives before his mistresses, so that he can prepare their morning coffee without a difficult interruption. He moves around the office kitchen with a feminine grace, preparing coffee and biscuits and ensuring that a hot cup and two biscuits are placed at the desk of each mistress only a few minutes before they arrive. Then he enters his office, slips off the beautiful black silk jacket and becomes immediately aware of a terrible, unavoidable effect of the suit trousers. The silk blouse is tucked neatly into the trousers and as he looks down at his waist area, he sees that the trousers are so tight around his crotch and buttocks that his erection is quite blatantly apparent, stretched tight against his waist like a large, thick metal pole. As there is no zipper attached to the trousers, he cannot make an effective adjustment. So, utterly humiliated, he rushes behind his desk and quickly sits down behind it. Yet no sooner has he made himself rather fearfully comfortable than the door to his office opens and the gorgeous, imperious Helen strolls into the room, forcing him to rise from the desk and present himself before her, curtseying deeply, his face crimson red, his utter degradation complete.

  ‘You look lovely, Chrissie,’ Helen whispers, a quite wicked smile lighting up her beautiful, dark-featured face.

  Chrissie curtseys his appreciation, his eyes pinned to her high-heeled feet.

  ‘But you’re rather obviously excited by it all, and I’m sure the other ladies in the office will find that particularly amusing.’

  He moans despairingly as she fights a sadistic laugh and knows immediately that the trousers have been purchased with these humiliating consequences well in mind, thus that part of his training during the next two weeks will be, whatever Helen may have said to him previously, a very public humiliation. Yet even as this terrible knowledge sinks deep into his sissified heart, his excitement increases
. And this too is an essential part of his training: to enjoy each new, deliberately humiliating test and to enjoy it in exact proportion to the size of the embarrassment he must endure: the more he is humiliated, the more excited he becomes.

  And so, after giving the stunning Helen another gentle and very erotic foot massage that brings a series of helpless moans of pleasure to her perfect, blood-red lips, he faces this new day of sissy servitude with a tortuous mixture of terror and intense sexual excitement, his paranoia about exposure now doubled by its apparent justification.

  Although there is no direct comment, he is painfully aware throughout the office of the sniggers and the strange, vaguely contemptuous looks, and his sense of male self, always weak, always prone to easy damage, slowly but surely crumbles to a speck of memory. And he remains in this state of discomfort, doubt and worry for most of the day, right up until the glorious moment when he is led back into Helen’s spare room and slowly transformed back into the gorgeous sex bomb she-male that is the maid Chrissie.

  And it is during that very night, as he minces in the ultra-high heels, wiggling his hosed and delicately pantied bottom with such enthusiasm before his mistresses, that he learns even more about the expectations of these beautiful, demanding women. After he has served dinner and spent an hour tottering back and forth between the dining table and the kitchen, the women retire to the living room and Chris is made to stand to sissy attention before them.

  ‘I think it’s time for you to learn a little bit more about our needs, Chrissie,’ Helen says, a conspiratorial smile lighting up her sublime face. ‘As I’ve mentioned before, part of our plans for you include ensuring that you are able to give women physical pleasure, a very special kind of pleasure that Donna has told us you are already rather good at providing.’

  He listens, but there is really no real need for explanation. He curtseys his understanding and obeys without hesitation as Helen insists that Chris kneel before her and place his hands, wrists crossed, behind his back, wrists that are then quickly and expertly bound together with a length of the rubber cording by Anne. He then watches as Helen raises up her long, black skirt to reveal her shapely, black-stockinged legs and her fully exposed and very wet sex, her panties clearly having been removed earlier.

  ‘I hope you don’t need telling what to do next, Chrissie,’ Helen purrs, as Chris shuffles forwards on his hosed knees and positions his head between his mistress’s legs, his heart pounding like a mad jack-hammer in his head, his own nylon-restrained sex fighting its sensual prison with a blind and utterly useless fury.

  The smell of Helen’s sex, the elemental scent of cunt, smashes into Chris’s pretty face long before his anxious, darting tongue tentatively licks at the droplets of sex-juice dripping from her pubes. Then Helen’s hands are grasping his head and pushing his face deep into this black forest of dark, eternal desire. And it is only a matter of a few seconds before Chris’s instinctively expert tongue has slipped through her bush and deep into the tunnel of love, quickly seeking out her boiling, slippery clit with a slave’s helpless desire to please.

  Helen comes almost immediately, her thighs suddenly closing around Chrissie’s feminised head and squeezing him painfully as she lets out a loud moan of almost painful pleasure that fades slowly into a bass growl of contentment. Her legs part and Chris is allowed to pull his come-soaked face free of the dark, pungent prison. But, inevitably, this is only the beginning; for no sooner has he freed himself from Helen’s sweaty clutches than Anne has swivelled around his tethered, petticoated frame and presented the poor she-male with her own dark, uniquely perfumed sex forest. And after the strange pleasure of bringing the lovely, cruel-eyed Anne to a thunderous, screaming orgasm, he is placed between Donna’s lovely marble thighs and left to service his most beloved mistress.

  Left exhausted by this terrible, demanding pleasuring, he is then once again panty-gagged (this time with Anne’s most intimate garment) and placed in the tightest of hog-ties. Yet rather than imprisonment in the cupboard, he is now left to squirm helplessly on the floor before his mistresses as they recover from his expert ministrations, a recovery that involves the rapid consumption of two bottles of wine and a great deal of laughter and swearing, most of it at their new slave’s expense.

  If there is a point at which time turns into a whirlpool, an endless, disorienting succession of intensely erotic adventures collapsing into each other with no real sense of the past, present or future, it is this one, this moment of absolute bondage, this come-splattered coda to an evening of perverse but beloved submission. Days pass and even more bizarre, erotic adventures mark their coming and going, but the fortnight leading up to his induction proper into the realm of slavery is truly a dreamtime, a landscape without beginning or end across which he totters in the highest of heels and the tightest of bondage, a landscape made even more intense and alien by the fact that his own sexual release now seems to have been completely banned. Although Donna remains friendly and even loving towards him, it is clear he will not be allowed to get anywhere near her in a sexual sense until his full induction has begun. And so the sexualisation of every moment of every day is assured, as is his increasing masochism and femininity.

  Yet reality is not that easily cast aside, and for Chris, the world of work is its meanest, most brutal manifestation, and on the Wednesday before his ‘special leave’ begins, he again finds himself confronted by the severe, angry form of Katherine, his line manager.

  ‘I’m afraid there is nothing else I can do to help you now, Chris,’ she says, her voice riddled with the hypocrisy of false sympathy, her shark eyes betraying the pleasure she takes in this ridiculous, pathetic expression of power. ‘Nothing has improved since our last talk and I can’t allow the situation to deteriorate. So I’m issuing you with a formal warning. I’ll also be taking the matter up directly with the Personnel Office. When you return from this leave you insist on taking, I intend to undertake a complete review of the office and its management, with the aim of removing those members of staff who are failing to meet the set performance standards.’

  It would be an exaggeration to say that he actually listens to this grim monologue of spectacular self-importance. But what he does do is watch Katherine’s eyes; for at no point during this verbal spanking does she in fact look at him: her eyes are directed through the open door of his office, out towards Helen, who is sitting at her desk, typing. He also notices that Helen infrequently looks up from her computer screen and holds Katherine’s gaze in a very frank and obviously sexual manner. The rumours of Katherine’s lesbianism have always struck Chris as typical office gossip, but recently, on more than one occasion, he has noticed the strange, furtive looks she exchanges with the lovely Helen and the rumour has seemed to approach fact.

  Then, during a pause in this tongue-lashing, Chris, perhaps to his surprise, confronts her.

  ‘Are you happy, Katherine?’

  At first she responds with a distracted grunt, but when he repeats the question, she turns to face him.

  ‘What? What on earth does that mean, am I happy?’

  ‘You don’t seem very happy. You seem rather frustrated.’

  Her initial response is a slightly incredulous gasp. ‘I wouldn’t be too concerned about me, Chris: I’d be concerned about you , about how happy you’ll be feeling when you’re unemployed.’

  With this last, harsh remark she turns and leaves the room, her distinctly masculine stride as stiff and angry as the tired, bleak and very desperate gaze she fixes upon the lovely, regal Helen.

  As she leaves him, he feels no anger, not even a sense of irritation. Instead, there is only the inescapable truth of his ongoing transformation and the simple fact that he is now absolutely certain he cannot go on working in this soul-destroying, pointless job, and thus that his future most assuredly lies at the high-heeled feet of his glorious, beautiful mistresses.

  * * *

  Two days later, he reports to Helen’s house in the full knowledge that he i
s about to spend the next two weeks continually feminised and enslaved, spending every waking second serving his mistresses and undergoing a detailed induction into a new level of sissy servitude. As he enters Helen’s house, it is almost immediately apparent that things have changed. Helen is dressed in a tight black sweater and a very long black skirt that reaches down to her black-hosed ankles. A choker of silver pearls is wrapped around her surprisingly slender neck and she is wearing a pair of very high, black patent leather mules. As usual, he avoids her soul-burning, majestic gaze and meekly follows her up the steep flight of stairs to the spare room that has become the locale of each highly erotic and increasingly detailed feminisation.

  And it is in the spare room that he confronts the strange, terrifying truth of this new level of his sissification. For where before this had been a simple, somewhat sparse spare bedroom, he now finds himself in the centre of a very large and utterly bizarre baby’s nursery! Where there had been a small, functional single bed, there is now a large, adult-sized and metal-barred cot. One complete wall of the room is now lined with rows of wooden shelves upon which rest a vast and bizarre collection of materials, including ultra-large nappies, baby bottles, dummies, rolls of masking tape and the ominous black rubber cording, a number of lengths of very odd-looking rubber tubing, fat rubber ball gags of all colours, paddles of various sizes and, to his final shock and utter astonishment, a series of ribbed dildos, all of varying length. And if this wasn’t strange enough, positioned by the cot is a large baby’s high-chair and directly opposite the cot what appears to be a huge playpen filled with dolls and a disturbing variety of other baby playthings.