Silken Slavery

by Christina Shelly

  After the corset comes the dress, the amazing, intricate, soul-consuming dress. He watches in pained fascination as she slowly unbuttons this spectacular pink creation and then holds it teasingly before him. As he steps into the dress and she begins to draw it up his body, a sense of utterly divine surrender washes over him. The true, deep, nerve-tingling pleasure of absolute submission to this stunning woman has never been more apparent than at this exact moment. He swoons in her powerful, sensual grasp as she pulls the dress over his feminine shoulders and neck and then begins carefully, slowly, erotically to secure each of the gleaming white pearl buttons, sealing him tightly and totally into a realm of absolute baby girl servitude. His tormented cock struggles against nylon, metal and towelling, buried deep in a sweet prison of endless sissification, as Helen’s long, deceptively gentle hands secure the buttons around the very high neck of the dress and the lace frillies tickle his pretty, dimpled chin.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ she whispers, her soft, damp lips brushing against his ear. ‘Tell me how much you want this.’

  ‘More than anything, mistress,’ he gasps, as her hands wander beneath the dress and into the sea of frou-frou petticoating fixed to the wide, short skirt. ‘I want to be your slave forever. I want nothing else.’

  ‘I’m sure we can arrange that,’ she replies, her beautiful, deep voice resonating with sexual arousal. ‘But how much do you want to be restrained, to be nappied, to be tightly bound and gagged, to be utterly, endlessly humiliated?’

  As her sex-honey-coated voice teases him, her hands slip down his plastic-pantied bottom and between his legs. He moans, he wiggles in her warm, teasing embrace, he feels the pain of the restrainer and the pleasure of her wicked caress.

  ‘I want it so very much, mistress. I want to be kept this way forever.’

  She takes his hands and guides them to her full, heavy breasts. Helplessly, urgently, he begins to caress these tightly restrained orbs. Then, once again, their eyes meet. Yet he fails to avert their powerful, hungry, animal gaze. Instead, he falls into it, into this look of nova-bright sex, this cosmic heart of a savage, eternal passion.

  ‘I told you what would happen, Chrissie. You’ll be spanked. Soundly. Bound, gagged, in this delicious baby state, and then spanked.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  But there is no spanking there and then. Instead, suddenly, shockingly, she pushes her she-male slave away and takes the pair of pink silk booties from the bed, telling him to sit down as she does so. Dazed by this sudden change of mood, he finds himself obeying and then watching with adoring eyes as Helen proceeds to kneel down by her slave and then slip the dainty, elegant and incredibly sissy booties over his stockinged feet. She secures each bootie with a thick pink silk ribbon lace tied in a fat, babyish bow, then rises to face him.

  ‘Before we go any further, I think a spot of suitably sissy make-up is required.’

  She then takes him by the hand and leads him over to the dressing table. Walking in the booties is surprisingly difficult. Indeed, it soon becomes apparent that, because they have no real soles, the booties slip relentlessly against the soft, thick carpet and normal walking of any kind is impossible. Instead, he finds himself shuffling absurdly behind his mistress, fighting desperately to keep his balance, yet with his eyes still pinned hungrily to Helen’s beautiful, black-hosed ankles and very high, black patent leather mules. And, as well as the problem of balance, there is the inescapable torment of the plug and the restrainer. As he shuffle-minces forwards, the movements of his stockinged thighs and nappied, pantied buttocks exert a powerful pressure on the plug and seem to push it deeper into his anus, thus increasing the waves of teasing pleasure that pour between his legs and up into his tightly restrained sex, and thus increasing the discomfort so relentlessly provided by the fiendish metal re-strainer.

  Once at the dressing table, he finds himself facing the strangest manifestation of Chrissie yet, a very attractive, very feminine but still obviously male slave imprisoned in an intricate and very sexy baby girl’s dress!

  ‘Yes,’ Helen whispers, recognising Chris’s concern, ‘you do look rather odd. But it won’t take me long to fix that.’

  And so he watches as this gorgeous, plump beauty sets to work on his face, applying a heavy tan foundation followed by a much lighter, almost cream-coloured facial paint, a mixture which produces a startling pale marble effect and leaves his face looking vaguely like that of a nineteenth-century china doll. This impression is then heightened by the application of two large circles of hot pink rouge to his very feminine cheeks followed by exactly matching lip colouring. A pale blue eye-shadow is then applied, to match his lovely, girlish eyes. Despite his previous experience, this transformation is still quite shocking, and suddenly he is facing a beautiful doll-like sissy, a babified masterpiece which is then stunningly topped off by a truly marvellous blonde wig, a mass of carefully sculpted baby curls which Helen, her eyes filled with a now familiar erotic fire, holds before his reflection with a broad smile.

  ‘I had it made specially, Chrissie,’ she purrs. ‘The perfect topping for this lovely sissy cake.’

  Chris gasps with pleasure and surprise as she then proceeds gently to guide the wig over his head and pull it firmly into place. This final act of transformation is perhaps the most profound for, within seconds of the wig being positioned, Chris finds himself confronting a beautiful, wide-eyed, helplessly pouting baby sissy doll, a fantasy creation straight out of his most intense dreams of enforced feminisation and servitude. He moans with she-male pleasure as the full extent of this new work of sissy art comes alive before his amazed, sex-maddened eyes. Yet his are not the only eyes filled with the dark heat of desire. For Helen is staring at her creation with an intensely erotic surprise.

  ‘My, my,’ she mumbles. ‘My, oh, my.’

  And as he stares at this gorgeous manifestation, he knows he can never ever truly be a male again, that this is the final stage of the destruction of what little remains of his sense of masculinity. Yet there is no sense of loss here: as he revels in this dainty, befrilled creature, he celebrates a beautifully irreversible changing and a true changeling. At last he is free to cast off the shackles of a masculinity that has always felt forced, artificial, inauthentic.

  As he surrenders so willingly to this glorious babification, Helen slips away to the wardrobe, returning a few moments later with a very large pink cardboard box. She places the box on the table before him and then quickly returns to the bed to retrieve the lovely, delicate mittens. Chris watches in a state of ecstatic anticipation as Helen places the mittens beside the pink box and then opens a drawer in the dressing table, taking from within it a small, black wooden box, little larger than a soap dish. She places this box next to the mittens. She then picks up one of the mittens.

  ‘Hold your left hand out, Chrissie.’

  Trembling with deeply masochistic excitement, Chris obeys, his sex struggling painfully in its metal prison, his sweetly hosed thighs pressing together to force the plug deeper into his anus and ensure that even more powerful shock waves of pleasure crash into his beautiful, sissified body.

  Helen slips the petal-soft fingerless mitten over his outheld hand, and it is only now that the quivering she-male notices that the mitten is fitted with a row of exquisite pearl buttons down one side of its pink silk and satin surface, and that the glove is designed to slip under the frilled sleeves of the dress. On closer examination, it also becomes apparent that there are a number of tiny holes in each sleeve of the dress and that the mitten can in fact be tightly secured to the dress sleeve via the pearl buttons. And as the mitten is secured over his hand, he becomes aware that the sexy, babyish glove is lined with surprisingly thick rubber, which effectively immobilises his fingers. As Helen secures the second glove, an even more profound and complete sense of utter helplessness washes over him and he almost cries out with a wild sissy pleasure.

  After double-checking that the mittens are tightly positioned, Helen takes
up the small wooden box and slides open its lid to reveal, to his surprise, a very large baby’s rubber pacifier resting on an equally large pink plastic base, attached to the ends of which are two long pink silk ribbons! And if this wasn’t strange enough, the huge teat of the dummy is shaped exactly like a penis!

  ‘You will be kept dummy-gagged permanently during the first week, except when you are fed or we need your mouth for our own pleasure. Now open wide.’

  He obeys and Helen teasingly slips the large rubber phallus deep into his mouth. The teat almost fills his mouth to bursting point, flattening his tongue against the floor of his mouth and making even the most pathetic of squeals impossible. The plastic base fits over his painted lips perfectly and once the ribbons have been tightly tied in place in a fat sissy ribbon at the back of his becurled head, it creates a perfect seal and adds to the devastatingly effective power of the gag.

  His eyes wide with fear and angry arousal, the sense of feminine weakness and helplessness now at its shattering peak, poor Chris can only watch in silence as beautiful, ample, flame-eyed Helen, a smile of triumph spreading across her gorgeous face, then opens the large pink box and takes from inside it a truly spectacular and very beautiful adult-sized baby bonnet, an epic wonder of sissification designed to add the final cosmetic touch to this spectacularly erotic transformation.

  ‘It really is quite beautiful, Chrissie. You’re a very, very lucky sissy.’

  Poor Chris finds himself nodding helplessly in agreement at the sight of the stunning bonnet, a mass of very fine pink silk trimmed with a very intricately patterned white lace, a long, thick pink silk ribbon running from each frilled, curved end and a very large silk rose fixed to the front right hand side. As Helen pulls it over his wigged head he manages to force the slightest moan of almost transcendent pleasure from his so efficiently stopped mouth and, as the thick ribbons are tied in place beneath his sissy chin in a very fat, sexy bow, the gorgeous, tormented she-male is truly lost in a state of pure ecstasy.

  Satisfied that the bonnet is adequately secured, Helen then helps Chris to his feet and leads him over to the full-length mirror built into the front of the new wardrobe. As his complete reflection is revealed, Chris gasps silently into his tight, phallic dummy gag. The vision of sissified loveliness before him is almost too ideal, too perfect, an image from his most extreme dreams of absolute domination and submission brought to grand, spectacular life. A beautiful, baby doll she-male, her long, shapely legs wrapped in the finest, sheerest white nylon, her feminine frame encased in the darling baby dress, her lovely, china doll face surrounded by the intricate, helplessly sweet bonnet, her eyes wide with excitement and sissy anticipation.

  ‘You look perfect, Chrissie, even better than I could ever have imagined,’ Helen says, her own continuing excitement all too apparent in her gorgeous golden-brown eyes.

  Still stunned by his sissified visage, Chris is then led over to the playpen. Helen releases the clever child-proof lock and helps Chris inside, insisting he stand with his arms behind his back, facing away from her. There is then a brief pause, during which Chris’s sense of feminine helplessness intensifies to such a terrible, passionate level that he finds himself wiggling uncontrollably.

  ‘Dear me, you are getting all heated up,’ Helen says, taking his wrists, crossing them and then binding them tightly together with what feels like another piece of the rubberised cording. She then repeats this process with his elbows, forcing them together and binding them painfully tight, and a moan of discomfort fights to escape Chris’s well-stopped mouth. Then, to his surprise, she forces him to kneel down in the centre of the large metal-barred pen, but now so that he is facing Helen and the door to the room. She has three more lengths of the cording in her hands and a very wicked, almost horny smile on her face. She kneels down by his bootied ankles and uses two lengths of the cording to bind tightly together his ankles and knees.

  Chris is thus totally immobilised in the centre of the pen, a trussed sissy completely at the mercy of his beautiful, utterly determined mistress. Yet his bondage is not complete, for no sooner has she finished binding his ankles than the third and final length of cording is used to bind his tethered ankles to his tightly bound wrists, thus forcing him into a kneeling hog-tie which effectively denies him the opportunity of any form of movement. Not only this but, as the final length of cording is secured, the weight of his sissified body is forced onto his thighs and backside, which in turn forces the anal plug even deeper into his back passage. And if this isn’t enough, the helpless sitting position forces the very tight corset to dig even deeper into his sides. Thus, the poor she-male beauty is locked into a very uncomfortable and also very exciting bondage, a state which can only serve to heighten his deeply masochistic pleasure and make him crave even greater humiliations.

  Having trussed her sissy slave so securely and wickedly, Helen rises to her sexy, high-heeled feet and steps out of the playpen.

  ‘I think you need a little while to come to terms with what’s happening to you, Chrissie,’ she says, her lovely, deep voice cut through with sexual arousal. ‘So I’m going to leave you here for about an hour or so, then come back with Donna and Anne. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled by what a sexy little sissy you’ve turned out to be.’

  He stares desperately at her lovely back as she glides from the room. As an added touch, Helen turns as she reaches the door and releases a truly erotic smile of endless promise. The helpless sissy squeals uselessly into his fat gag as her hand wanders teasingly towards the light switch. But his protests are, of course, futile. Helen flicks the switch and then leaves the room, locking the door and plunging poor Chris into an absolute, yet highly erotic darkness.

  * * *

  In the complete darkness of the room, Chris struggles in his baby bondage for over an hour, trying desperately to avoid becoming too aroused by this ecstatic imprisonment and thus relieve the terrible, sadistic pressure on his stiff, tormented sex. Yet the position he has been tied into has been designed to inflict the maximum excitement and therefore the maximum discomfort and, without the distraction of sight, he is forced to concentrate completely on this awful, yet perversely exciting struggle for virtually the whole period of his so-called ‘contemplation’. Tormented by the restrainer, fiercely aroused by the plug, his body teased by the gentle fabrics caressing his shaven, scented body, the only contemplation he is capable of is the contemplation of his tethered body and its bizarre ordeal at the hands of the divine Helen.

  By the time the sound of a key turning in the door lock rings in his sissy ears like bells of liberation, he is covered in sex-sweat, moaning relentlessly and straining angrily but quite uselessly against his various, inescapable bonds.

  The door opens. Light from the hallway floods into the room to reveal a very shapely, dark figure. Then a much brighter light floods the room and he is temporarily blinded. And by the time his eyes begin to focus, he discovers the wonderful form of Donna standing over him, her eyes wide with amazement, a very broad and cruel smile igniting her beautiful face.

  Despite the strict demand that he avoid her eyes, he finds himself looking up at Donna with a mixture of sex-hunger and utter humiliation. He feels his china-doll face burn with embarrassment, but knows the thick, pale face-paint will easily hide the wave of crimson spreading across his sissy cheeks.

  ‘Who’s a pretty little baby, then?’ Donna suddenly purrs, her voice filled with the exaggerated tones of classic baby talk.

  Chris squeals into his dummy gag and shakes his head angrily. Donna bursts out laughing and then, to his utter horror, she holds up a very large plastic baby’s bottle filled with a thick white liquid and topped with a huge rubber teat.

  She unlocks the playpen and steps inside. She is dressed in a very tight black nylon sweater, a very short black leather skirt, black hose, and high-heeled, black patent leather court shoes. Her hair is loose, flooding over her shoulders like a golden waterfall, and her lovely blue eyes shine with cruel amusement
and a barely disguised sexual excitement.

  As she kneels down before him, her skirt rides up her thighs to reveal flower-patterned stocking-tops and red satin suspenders, a revelation that brings even more squeals from Chris.

  Her smile widening even further, her powerful sandal-wood perfume teasing his baby girl nostrils, she then torments him further with an incomprehensible litany of baby talk, tickling his dimpled, bowed chin with her free hand and waving the bottle before him threateningly with the other.

  Yet even as she so knowingly humiliates him, how terribly, how fundamentally he wants her. As his cock strains harder against its painful metal tyrant, his desire for this beautiful woman pours like a stream of molten lava over his sissified body.

  His eyes fall on her splendid, tightly restrained breasts as she leans forwards to untie the bow holding the bonnet in place, her skirt crawling further up her legs as she does so to provide a wicked glimpse of red silk panties.

  She carefully removes the bonnet and places it at her side, then frees the bow holding the dummy gag in place. As she pulls the dummy from his painted mouth, he tries to declare the force of his continuing desire and the reality of his love, but no sooner is his mouth free than the fat teat of the plastic bottle has been forced between his lips.