Silken Slavery

by Christina Shelly

  ‘Drink up.’ She laughs. ‘I want you to take all of it, Chrissie, every last drop.’

  Almost involuntarily he finds himself sucking on the teat and beginning to drink what tastes like warm, sugared milk laced with cinnamon. And as he does so, her free hand slips beneath Chris’s wide, short skirt and disappears into the mass of frou-frou petticoating. As her hands seek out the thick plastic panties he splutters into the teat and tries to spit it from his mouth. Donna’s response is to push the bottle even more firmly against his lips and press her free hand deep into the panties, thus bringing even more uncomfortable pressure to bear on his restrained, nappied sex.

  ‘Hope you like the restrainer and the plug,’ she says, her soft voice filled with a paradoxical love. ‘I know it hurts, but I want you to prove yourself, Chrissie. I want you to suffer for me. There’ll be no release for at least another week. You’ll be in agony most of the time – unable to come. And all the time surrounded by sexy, kinky women determined to ensure you’re permanently turned on. And there’ll be nothing you can do about it, because you’ll be all babified and tied up. But I know you, I know you’ll really love every second of it. The more we dominate and humiliate you, the more you want to serve, to do anything we tell you. Isn’t that true?’

  He can only nod furiously between gasps as he sucks up the last of the milk, now violently aroused and in some considerable pain.

  Satisfied that he has consumed all the milk, she pulls the teat from his lips and takes up the dummy gag.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispers, as she prepares to fix the gag back into his mouth.

  She hesitates and then kisses him, a long, warm, passionate kiss, which he returns with a helpless desperation. Then she pulls her mouth away and quickly repositions the dummy gag, his submission absolute, his adoration total, as she ties it tightly in place. She then coyly pulls her skirt down over her black stockinged thighs, smiles gently at him and gets to her feet. His wide eyes never leave her fantastic body and he moans angrily as she turns her back on him, then steps out of the playpen. As she reaches the door, she turns, her smile slighter sadder now.

  ‘I’m missing you terribly, Chrissie. But if you really behave yourself, if you show us what a good little baby you can be – well, there’ll be a really special treat for you at the end of the week.’

  Then she leaves and tears of frustration, of hopeless, crushed longing well up in his pretty eyes. Yet even as the first tear is trickling down his porcelain cheeks, the tall, regal, cruel Anne enters the room. Dressed in a very short black and white check skirt, a semi-transparent white silk blouse, very sheer black hose and relatively low-heeled court shoes, she strides over to him, laughing loudly, her piercing green eyes filled with a mocking contempt.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she says, ‘this is so you, Chrissie. The perfect sissy baby she-male. Some men would pay thousands for this. You should thank your lucky stars.’

  She steps into the pen and, like Donna, kneels down beside him. Yet there is no sexual tension in this encounter. Chris has learned to fear Anne and as she produces a second large baby’s bottle filled the same, thick creamy milk, a sense of true dread and fear washes over him.

  ‘We should keep you like this permanently,’ she snaps, untying the dummy gag, pulling it roughly from his mouth, then stuffing the teat of the bottle into his far from willing mouth. ‘Drink it all, babikins, otherwise I’ll personally thrash that soft sissy arse of yours until it bleeds.’

  Poor Chris can only obey instantly, filling his mouth once again with the sweet, cinnamon-flavoured milk.

  ‘You really are a pretty little thing,’ Anne continues, as he tries to drink the milk without staring at her large breasts and the clearly visible lace-edged bra that imprisons them. ‘And seeing you so sweetly attired and secured has definitely given me some very interesting ideas.’

  She hesitates, her mind turning over, her eyes momentarily glazed as she considers a wicked scheme.

  ‘How would you like to be a baby model, Chrissie?’ she then asks. ‘There are loads of internet sites where men who like dressing up as babies post pictures of themselves and their sad friends. Most of them look utterly ridiculous. But you – Well, you’re on a completely different level. I think there’d be a lot of fellow perverts who’d pay good money to look at pictures of pretty Chrissie all babified and tethered. Yes, your own website, full of photos of sweet Chrissie in baby bondage. Better still, full of photos of Chrissie tied up in all her lovely clothes. Sounds good, doesn’t it?’

  Sucking desperately, now feeling quite sick, Chris can only nod wearily, Anne’s plan filling him with utter horror.

  By the time he has managed to empty the bottle and the dummy gag has been tightly resecured, Anne has set out her initial thoughts on a kinky personal website dedicated to the gorgeous she-male Christina, a website with a decidedly sadomasochistic edge featuring page after page of pictures of Christina intricately feminised, tightly bound and inescapably gagged; Christina as Baby Chrissie, Christina as maidservant, Christina as office girl in bondage, Christina as nurse in bondage, Christina at the feet of her shark-eyed mistresses. And as Anne enthusiastically details her plans, Chris’s horror fades, to be replaced by a strange, disturbed excitement, as if to be exposed in this manner, to be revealed as a transvestite sadomasochist via the vast electronic arena of the internet, is to be delivered into a new realm of perverse delights.

  By the time Anne slinks out of the room, his mind is reeling from the prospects of becoming an internet bondage model, and he is still in a state of some mental distress when Helen returns, kneels down at his side and produces a third bottle of warm, thick milk. Of course there is absolutely no question of him refusing the bottle and the unfortunate she-male is soon sucking reluctantly on the fat teat, his eyes pinned helplessly to her ample bosom.

  ‘I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself, Chrissie,’ she teases. ‘But not too much: I wouldn’t want you to damage that poor little penis. But I must say, you do take to the bottle very naturally. Anne no doubt told you she wanted you to be kept in nappies permanently. I’m afraid I couldn’t agree to that. But I’m sure they’ll always be there as a very necessary disciplinary tool, although I don’t really see Anne as the maternal type. I think Donna will make you a much better mummy.’

  It takes him some time to drain the third bottle and, by the time he has reached the last few drops, Anne and Donna have returned.

  ‘Right,’ Helen announces, removing the teat. ‘It’s way past your bed time, so let’s get you tucked in.’

  The dummy gag is quickly replaced and then the cording securing the hog-tie is released. Assisted by Donna, Helen then helps the dazed, giddy and somewhat nauseous she-male to his feet. His hosed legs are by now as stiff as wooden planks and only a few wayward shuffles up and down the room can bring them back to life. And once he is able to walk freely, he is led over to the large, barred cot. As Helen unlocks a side panel and pulls it down, Anne carefully repositions the lovely bonnet on his wigged head and ties it in place with another fat bow. Poor Chris is then helped into the cot by Donna and made to lay flat out on his back on a pink rubber mattress that is the only item of actual bedding in the cot. It is only as he lies down that he notices the leather shackles fixed into the frame of the cot, a set at the level of his waist and a set where his bootied feet are now resting. And as Helen teasingly straightens his pretty, sexy baby clothes, Anne and Donna secure her mittened hands and bootied feet in the heavy shackles, thus ensuring that the she-male is held firmly on his back for the rest of the night.

  Satisfied that he is tied tightly in place, Helen then pulls up and locks the side panel. Because of the bonnet, Chris can only see directly above him and he soon finds himself staring up as if from the bottom of a well at the beaming faces of his lovely three mistresses.

  ‘What a lovely sight,’ Anne teases. ‘It’d be a crime not to share her with the world.’

  Helen and Donna laugh and Chris finds it very difficult not
to release a moan of deeply masochistic pleasure.

  The three women then take turns in placing long, wet kisses on Chris’s marble forehead and wishing him a suitably excited night. Then they disappear from view and within seconds he is plunged into darkness again, the sound of the bedroom door closing and locking a simple announcement of the coming night of immobile, helpless baby bondage that awaits him.

  As he ponders the utterly bizarre events of the last few hours, his sense of sexual excitement seems to increase rather than diminish and he is soon deeply frustrated and, thanks to the restrainer, far too uncomfortable to sleep. The urge to masturbate, an urge always unthinkingly surrendered to in his own bed, is now almost unbearable, and soon new tears of agonised frustration and pain are filling his eyes. Yet even as he strains against the shackles and imagines Donna’s soft, elegant hands caressing his sissified body, a new urge is making itself known: the urge to urinate, an urge which quickly moves from a vaguely uncomfortable need to a painful demand, an urge he soon finds himself battling with desperately in the pitch blackness, an urge that brings fresh tears to his sissy eyes and to which, eventually, he surrenders. The humiliation of flooding his thick nappy with what feels like a gallon of warm urine is indescribable. Surely, this is the last nail in the coffin containing what is left of his masculinity. But even as tears of despair and embarrassment pour down his cheeks, the sense of relief and the physical relaxation the urination brings, together with the exhaustion induced by the struggle, lull him towards a deep, dreamless sleep, a sleep that leads like the dead straight seam of a sheer, black silk stocking towards a distinctly feminine future.

  Seven

  The next morning he is woken by Helen and released from the cot, only to be immediately stripped down to his now very heavy nappy. Once his gorgeous mistress discovers that he has wet himself, she drags him over to the bed, hauls off the offending nappy and carefully dries him with a towel, all the while scolding him angrily for this lack of restraint. And no sooner is the poor sissy dried than Helen administers twelve very hard slaps to his bare bottom, producing a symphony of tightly dummy-gagged squeals and a two deep crimson buttocks. Sobbing in pain, yet knowing that the final effect will be pure pleasure, he is then led to the bathroom. To his relief, the terrible cock-ring is removed, as is the stocking beneath, and, watched carefully by Helen, he is allowed to thoroughly wash and shave his body. Once dried, powdered and perfumed, he is led back to the bedroom and then turned back into baby Chrissie, complete with a fresh black stocking restrainer, a painfully resecured cock-ring and a very fat, scented nappy.

  Within the hour, he is back in the playpen, bound in the kneeling hog-tie and now secured in a beautiful yellow version of the darling baby dress, complete with matching mittens, booties, stockings and bonnet, moaning into his dummy gag, straining against the cords binding his arms and legs, a beautiful, and intricately made-up sissy awaiting his next bizarre and no doubt very erotic adventure.

  His breakfast consists of another large bottle of creamy milk and two baby’s rusks fed to him as he sits bound in the pen by a smiling Helen. To his deep embarrassment, she is now talking to him in the soft, gentle voice of a mother talking to her baby daughter. Yet even as his porcelain painted face burns with unseen humiliation, he cannot help but be excited by this sudden change of personality, particularly as Helen has also dressed in a very tight white nylon sweater which quite deliberately accentuates her large, matronly bosom, a knee-length blue skirt, white tights and low-heeled blue leather court shoes, all of which make her look like a very beautiful and marvellously buxom wet-nurse.

  Yet this is only the beginning. After the feeding, he is tightly regagged and left alone for another tormenting, frustrating hour. When Helen does return, it is with Anne and Donna, both of whom spend the next thirty minutes or so teasing their babified charge remorselessly. Anne, dressed in a red silk trouser suit and perilously high heels, towers over him like a satanic messenger, her smile cool and cruel, her emerald eyes filled with cunning and contempt. Donna, however, almost immediately replaces Helen in the pen and begins to torment him with gently mocking baby talk. Dressed in a very short white dress, matching hose and a pair of white court shoes, she too resembles a nurse, and as she leans forwards to kiss his rouged cheeks his eyes are once again allowed to feast on her long, nylon-sheathed thighs and her superb, tightly restrained bosom.

  And for the rest of the day, he is at the absolute mercy of these beautiful, dominant and very imaginative women. By mid-morning, they have brought him down into the living room and presented him with a pile of furry toy animals. His arms and legs now freed, but with the dummy gag, the mittens and the bonnet still firmly in place, he is made to play with the toys, his pathetic imitation of a baby girl crawling around the living room bringing peals of sarcastic laughter from the women. Yet even this tiring, savagely embarrassing torment is intensely exciting, and as the day progresses, and each new humiliation is introduced, he finds himself more and more aroused, lost deep inside a vast maze of masochistic desire that seems to have no exit point.

  It becomes clear early on that Donna, despite being sexually unavailable, will play a very significant role in the week of babification. It is she who, after the initial humiliation of the furry animals, leads him to the kitchen and secures him inside a large, adult-sized high-chair. And it is she who removes the dummy gag and teasingly feeds him a meal of baby food, another bottle of milk and another rusk, all the while whispering sweet baby nothings in his ear and ensuring that his excited eyes are kept busy with the wondrous spectacle of her beautiful breasts.

  ‘Did baby enjoying her din dins?’ Donna asks, her hands now resting on Chris’s yellow stockinged knees.

  Poor Chris can only nod and moan as Donna suddenly moves her hands up his legs and beneath the thick frou-frou petticoating attached to the short skirt of the dress. Soon they are once again teasing the noisy fabric of the plastic panties and pressing deep into the nappy beneath.

  ‘Baby must be getting very horny by now, what with all these sexy undies and the lovely stockings. I bet your poor willie is suffering quite badly.’

  Eventually, she removes him from the chair and takes him back into the living room, where he spends another uncomfortable hour being forced to play with a collection of Barbie dolls and a surprisingly ornate doll’s house.

  By mid-afternoon, the women’s enthusiasm for these teasing games has waned and Helen returns the beautifully babified sissy to the nursery for his ‘afternoon nap’. However, as soon as they reach the room, Helen shuts and locks the door and leads him over to the bed rather than the cot. As he shuffles along behind her, his eyes pinned desperately to the backs of her shapely, delicately hosed legs, he wonders what new, wicked torment she has in store for him.

  She sits down on the bed and then orders him to stand before her with his arms behind his back. He sweetly curtseys his understanding and obeys. She then tells him to lean forwards and, very carefully, she removes the bonnet and the dummy gag.

  ‘I think you need to relax a little before I put you to bed, Chrissie. So I’m going to allow you to suckle me for a few minutes. Now I want you to lie on the bed and put your head in my lap.’

  Disturbed by the slightly obscure reference to ‘suckling’, Chris curtseys and climbs up onto the bed, a difficult undertaking given the constantly restrictive presence of the mini-corset, the slippery nature of the dress, mittens and booties. But, determined to obey his mistress, he soon finds himself on his back and carefully lowering his head into her soft lap. Once appropriately settled, he finds himself staring up at Helen’s spectacular bosom, two sensual mountains straining against the material of the very tight white nylon sweater. He moans pathetically and pushes his thighs tightly together, thus forcing the plug to press deeper into his arse.

  Yet this initially, highly erotic positioning is nothing compared with what follows. For as Chris stares up at Helen’s generous bosom, the beautiful, plump brunette suddenly edges the bo
ttom of the sweater out of her skirt and begins to pull it up over her torso, revealing as she does so a large, very pretty white silk bra filled to bursting point with her incredible pale rose breasts, their very long and stiff nipples clearly visible through each smooth cup of the bra.

  Chris squeals with a brutally frustrated pleasure as Helen places the sweater on the bed and then slips her arms behind her back and begins to unhook the bra. His poor eyes nearly pop out of his sissified head as she slips out of the slender cream shoulder-straps and allows the large cups to slip free of her breasts to reveal the two magnificent orbs in all their considerable glory. She then discards the bra and takes Chris’s sissy head in her hands.

  ‘There, there, babikins,’ she purrs, her beautiful eyes now fixed on his. ‘There’s no need to worry: Mummy’s here.’

  As his head is guided towards her left breast, tears of pain and desire well up in his girlish eyes, the cock-ring now biting into his straining, furious sex. And as he slips his lips over her rock-hard nipples, as his mouth brushes against the soft, warm flesh of this holy fruit, his feet wiggling helplessly, he is filled with an almost holy sense of joy. He is a feminised priest worshipping his deity with absolute devotion.