Silken Tales

by Christina Shelly

I looked up into my stepmother's powerful, beautiful brown eyes through a film of tears. She broadened her smile and then leant forward to plant a warm, gentle kiss on my snow white right cheek.

  'Remember what I told you, Holly,' she whispered, her lovely, powerful perfume filling my terror flared nostrils.

  I begged her for forgiveness and mercy. As she pulled away from me, her soft, ample breasts, tightly imprisoned in the figure hugging nylon sweater brushed against my face. My eyes fell upon her long, black nylon wrapped legs and I felt a sudden, furious need for her, a maddening sexual craving the like of which I had never felt before. Almost immediately, my mind was plagued with renewed memories of caressing her soft panties, tights and stockings. For a second I was sure I would ejaculate helplessly. Then I felt the rubber restrainer tighten around my boiling, rock hard cock and felt a most awful and utterly profound sense of frustration. The sex drug was beginning to take its terrible effect.

  The redhead then led me through a door at the opposite end of the reception room and into the Nursery. The room was bathed in a very soft pink light that made me struggle to adjust my already tear and desire blurred vision.

  The Nursery was a small, windows room, almost a cell. It was lit by the single, weak pink light and a strange, chime like music tinkled through unseen speakers. The four walls of the room were covered in pictures of Victorian dolls whose costumes were very similar to those worn by the sissy inmates of this strange and frightening academy of enforced ultra-feminisation. The floor of the Nursery was covered in thick sponge rubber matting decorated with pictures of roses.

  Positioned in a triangle in the centre of the room were three adult-sized play pens, each made of what appeared to be pink wood. Inside the pens were a large variety of dolls, all dressed in the same intricate attire as those on the walls, plus a carpet of satin and silk wrapped cushions. The room reeked of sweetly perfumed sissy sweat.

  Yet of this was quickly forgotten, as I saw that two of the three pens were already inhabited.

  'Say hello to Holly, girls,' the redhead teased. 'Not that you'll ever be able to say hello to anyone!'

  By now my whole body was on sex fire. As the Recycler flooded my system with the sex enhancement drug, the world became an erotic object. Suddenly everything appeared alive with terrible sexual potential. My desire was a tidal wave of personality destroying physical craving. The smell and feel of the red head was unbearable and the sight of my fellow sissy captives only added to my dreadful and utterly inescapable torment.

  The pen furthest from me was occupied by a sissy dressed almost exactly the same as myself, except that her colour was powder blue – the dress, the bonnet, the stockings, the booties, the mittens: all powder blue. On the top of the bonnet were the words "Baby Petal". The sissy in the pen next to her was coloured creamy yellow. And her name was "Baby Daisy". I looked at these unfortunates and they looked at me. Their eyes betrayed the same painful mixture of volcanic sexual excitement and horrible humiliation that I had seen in the tormented eyes of the two unfortunate graduates. Both were utterly quiet, unable, thanks to the all powerful gag, to make even the slightest whimper of protest or plea for a mercy that would never ever come.

  I was led to the empty pen and made to step inside. The redhead then forced me to my knees and produced another length of thick pink silk ribbon. She used this to tie my bound wrists to the silk ribbon that held the ankle shackles so closely together and thus secured me in a taught, rather uncomfortable kneeling position. She then looked down at me and laughed with utter contempt.

  'Ms Stroheim has made me your personal training mistress, Holly. That makes you very, very lucky, because I am going to enjoy playing with you so much.'

  I looked up at her with stunned eyes and beheld a gorgeous, all-powerful goddess. As the sex drug fried my mind and body, I wanted nothing more than to do this pretty creature's bidding in any way she saw fit. I was hers forever already.

  Then, to my utter astonishment, she raised her short skirt and revealed black nylon covered, white silk panties. A large circular stain revealed the true nature of her excitement, a stain she then intimately acquainted me with by rubbing her sex into my face. Secured as I was, resistance was impossible. The strong smell of her sex cut through the teasing stink of sissy sweat. She burst out laughing, pulled down her skirt and then used the chain running from my thick leather collar to tether me to one of the cot's wooden bars. Then she left the Nursery.

  The door slid shut and I found myself facing Daisy and Petal, a terrifying white liquid running through the tubes curving from beneath their substantial breasts and into the front pieces of their dummy gags. They, like me, were being force fed their own waste matter and driven mad by the awesome impact of the sex drug. They, like me, were doomed to a life of relentless sissy servitude at the hands of cruel, determined and utterly perverse women. Yet even as we shared this pit of cosmic humiliation whose purpose was to destroy every vestige of our previous masculinity and leave us emasculated, dumb sex slaves whose only function was to serve our mistresses and to hunger for an impossible release, we also shared a pure and irresistible sexual desire. As I found myself looking at my fellow sissies, I also found myself assessing them as objects of desire. Each was strikingly pretty in her delicate, sexy baby maid outfit and each appeared equally attracted to me! Each was completely silenced by the fat, wicked dummy gag, and all that could be said was being said with wide, sissy eyes.

  And then the vibrations increased. Someone beyond the Nursery had turned the control dial towards maximum pleasure mode, and within seconds all three of us were wiggling madly, our false breasts bouncing furiously, our eyes stretched wide with a pleasure that threatened to destroy our very sense of who we were. And this, we knew, was only the beginning.

  8. A Wife's Revenge

  Sandra considered her reflection in the bedroom mirror one more time. Yes: she was finally happy with the look she had so painstakingly created during the last hour. Tonight was her final night alone in the house, and she intended to celebrate with her most exotic and erotic outfit. Amanda's flight was due in at dawn, and she would be home by 8.00am. By the time she returned, the house would be back to normal and Sandra would be carefully packed away in secret boxes hidden in the cellar, leaving only Amanda's house husband, Sam, Sandra's true sex identity.

  Sandra knew that if Amanda could see her now, she would be appalled and outraged. Soon after they were married, Sam had confessed his life-long transvestism and revealed Sandra to his beautiful wife. At first, Amanda had laughed and jokingly agreed to meet this strange alter ago. But when Sandra had entered the living room on that warm summer evening three months ago, Amanda's expression of contemptuous amusement had changed to shock and then to something else: to a strange, dark jealously. Instead of a man in a dress, some ugly freak to mock, Amanda had found herself confronted by a very convincing and beautiful woman, the result of a lifetime of careful creation.

  At first, he had explained his shaven body as the necessity of an exercise regime: fifty lengths of the pool everyday at lunchtime, a commitment that required a sleek, aerodynamic form. Perhaps she had believed him, but when she saw that form sealed in sheer nylon and expensive red silk, she had known the truth. Although he clearly was fit and possessed the body of a rather feminine athlete, his silken flesh was a fundamental requirement of passion, not physical performance.

  Sandra looked at her reflection and remembered the anger and sudden understanding that had filled Amanda's beautiful, dark brown eyes. His wife had been sitting in the living room dressed in a knee length cotton skirt, a semi-transparent white silk blouse, very sheer and expensive black nylon tights, high heeled, black leather court shoes and a black velvet choker. Her thick, gleaming black hair had been bound in a tight bun with a diamond clasp, and her blood red lips had moved from a confused smile to a grimace of utter betrayal.

  Amanda was nearly forty, but looked less than thirty. She was only just 32. She was eight years her husband’s sen
ior and had always been the more mature and dominant partner. And, thanks to her business consultancy, she was independently wealthy. Sandra had trained as a solicitor, but Amanda had never wanted her husband to work. A bizarre inversion of the usual sexism, but one Sandra had accepted willingly, deeply aroused by her dominance. And it been the exercise of her power over her (when him!) that had rekindled the she-male’s deepest, most feminine desires, and thus given him the courage to reveal Sandra.

  On that fateful day, she had stood before Amanda in a black mini-dress, matching silk hose and stiletto heeled mules, his hair hidden beneath an elegant golden blonde wig. Sandra’s slender form, always a striking opposite of Amanda's tall, buxom body, was brought to feminine life by an expertly padded corselette, revealing full hips and an full, perfect bosom. Her lips painted peach, her eye shadow a perfect match, her pale blue eyes wide with excitement and desire, she had wiggle minced over to Amanda and performed a dainty, teasing curtsey. But by this time Amanda's smile had faded and large tears had begun to well up in those gorgeous, honey brown eyes.

  The next few minutes had been truly awful. She had sobbed her shock and sadness, made it painfully clear that she couldn't live with a "pervert"; that she felt betrayed by him, betrayed and deeply disturbed. He in turn had been devastated by the impact of Sandra on Amanda. His wife was stunned by the sheer conviction and spectacular reality of Sandra; he had crushed his wife, the woman he worshipped, the woman he had sacrificed his life for. Then he had fled from the room in tears, vowing never again to expose Amanda to this helplessly feminine and beautiful side of his personality.

  But this hadn't but an end to Sandra - only to her more public outings. Although he had agreed to destroy his feminine attire and the mass of supporting materials that were necessary to create her, Sam couldn't bring himself to wipe out such a fundamental part of his being. So the clothes, the make-up, the various intricate accessories had all been carefully hidden away in the cellar, only to re-appear when he was alone and sure he would not be disturbed. And as Amanda increasingly spent quite a lot of time away from the house on business, the opportunities for Sandra to come out of the cellar were frequent.

  For the last week, Amanda had been in the States, and Sam had spent much of each day as Sandra. But tomorrow she would return, and tonight was a special last fling, probably for at least the next two months. So he had made a very special effort; and now, as he faced the mirror, he was finally happy that this would be the look for her last night of she-male ultra-femininity.

  Sandra was dressed in a very short black silk dress, a sexy tease that barely reached her thighs. Her long, very shapely and silky smooth legs were sealed in sheer black nylon tights. She wore three inch high stiletto-heeled court shoes of gleaming black patent leather. Her slender, boyish figure had been brilliantly and erotically transformed by the jet black cross dresser's corselette, an ingenious mixture of corset, bra and girdle, with ample padding at the hips and bosom that gave her the shape of a sexy young woman. Over the corselette, she wore a pair of heavily be-frilled white satin panties and a gorgeous, cream silk petticoat.

  At the front of the corselette was a small, teasing panel held in place by silver buttons, beneath which was a wall of padding that very comfortably disguised and also provided access to her very stiff and perhaps surprisingly large sex.

  Her body was bathed in expensive French perfume. Her naturally feminine face was very carefully made up with a light tan foundation, cherry red lipstick, pale blue eye shadow and a touch of light peach rouge. Around her slender, swan's neck she wore a red velvet choker with an oval emerald centrepiece.

  She also wore a jet black, page boy wig that made her look five years younger than her 32 years. Her finger nails (and toe nails) were painted the same cherry red as her soft, full lips, and around each of her slim, girlish wrists was wrapped a pearl and a silver chain bracelet.

  She looked absolutely gorgeous and was, as usual, entranced by the power of her reflection, by the staggeringly erotic power of her transformation. No one would ever know that this beautiful young woman was actually a man.

  She dragged herself away from the mirror and, contemplating a long, sensual evening alone in the house, an evening of utter envelopment in ultra-femininity, opened the bedroom door.

  All she saw was a figure, a very tall, dark figure standing directly in front of her. Shock silenced her, and before she could scream, a leather gloved hand covered her mouth. She was pushed backwards. She squealed with blind terror into the glove gag, lost her balance and fell. Yet before she hit the floor, strong, powerful arms had scooped her up and thrown her over broad, even stronger shoulders. She tried to fight, to punch and kick, but her wrists were expertly forced together and held firmly behind her back as she was carried across the room. Then she was flying, for the briefest moment, before crashing onto the soft, very large double bed. But before she could even let out a scream of resistance, his body was directly over her and her arms were pinned to her sides by his legs.

  She looked up at a very big, masked man. He was dressed entirely in black, and his mask, also black, revealed only two angry brown eyes filled with a sadistic sexual arousal. The smell of his masculine deodorant clashed with her own delicate perfume and tears of fear began to trickle from her pretty blue eyes.

  Then one of his gloved hands rose up. He was going to hit her! She screamed, but the scream was almost immediately stifled as something very soft and large was forced deep into her mouth. Then he sat up, grabbed her body and quickly turned her onto her stomach. Her arms were pulled behind her back and she felt soft cording wrapped tightly around her wrists. She was being tied up!

  She squealed into the gag and he laughed.

  'Keep quiet, sissy, or there'll be trouble.'

  A deep, vaguely foreign voice; a mean, unforgiving yet also sophisticated voice. As he secured the cord binding her wrists very tightly, she moaned with pain and a deep, deep terror.

  Her wrists secure, he then used more cording to lash her elbows together, again very tightly, the knot producing a squeal of pain, shock and blind fear. Now he was moving over her body, and his hands were at her legs. Within what seemed like a few seconds, Sandra's nylon sheathed ankles were also very tightly roped together. And within a few more seconds, so were her knees. This terrible man was obviously a true rope expert - he had bound women before!

  Then he turned Sandra onto her back. She tried to spit the gag out but her eyes widened with a renewed horror as he revealed a very thick roll of silver duct tape. She squealed angrily and he laughed even louder. He tore off a long strip of the wide, thick tape from the roll and then forced it over her mouth, pressing it firmly and painfully against her lips with a leather gloved palm. Her eyes widened and met his. There was a terribly perverse need in this man's eyes, a sexual hunger that filled her with a deep dread.

  'There, much better,' he whispered, pulling himself up off her bound form and then off the bed.

  She was utterly helpless and terrified. She fought back more tears and heard her heart pound with a desperate panic against her chest.

  She tried to keep her eyes on him, to prepare herself for any assault. But all he did was draw up the dressing table seat to the edge of the bed and lower his substantial form onto it.

  'You really are quite stunning,' he said, the look in his eyes now one of admiring desire. 'Mandy was right about that.'

  At first she couldn't believe what she was hearing: mention of Amanda's name came as an even greater shock than this awful, terrifying intrusion. She squealed an angry question into the fat, inescapable gag, her eyes widening with incomprehension.

  'Yes, Mandy…your wife. She's had me watching you all week; watching her sissy husband transform himself into a pretty girl. She's known you've been betraying her for quite a while. Despite telling you to destroy all traces of Sandra, you continue to dress up every time she leaves the house. And that is very naughty. And naughty girls need to be properly punished.'

  S
he cried into the soft, scented gag; her lips stretched uselessly against the thick adhesive tape holding them so tightly together. The cording cut into her wrists as she fought its relentless and wicked caress.

  'I've got plans for you, Sandra. Big and very kinky plans,' the masked figure continued. 'Amanda's decided that if you can't stop being a she-male, she'll make sure that you understand what it really means to be a helpless sissy. And your education, which will be long and no doubt very painful, begins this evening. And I, my pretty little petal, am to be your teacher.'

  He rose up from the chair and stood over the bed. He was at least six foot four. A muscular, sleek giant. She felt utterly helpless and, to her amazement, aroused. Suddenly, through the sheet of icy fear covering her heart, a warming eroticism had emerged. Whatever Amanda had planned for her, she was now certain it was not as bad as Sandra had initially imagined. But perhaps that was just another foolish mistake.

  He leant forward and in one rough gesture hauled up the short skirt of her dress to reveal her pretty, sexy silk panties. A gasp of pleasure escaped his lips and then he yanked the panties down to her tightly bound knees. A look of evil curiosity filled his eyes and she moaned helplessly into the gag.

  'A pair of Mandy's panties,' he whispered, his voice hoarse with twisted desire.

  At first she had no idea what he was talking about. Then she realised: the soft, but substantial gag filling her mouth and held so tightly in place by the thick tape was a pair of her wife's panties!

  He lowered his body over her prone, tethered form and looked at the button panel covering the crotch section of the beautiful cross dresser's corselette. He then slipped a gloved finger under the panel and gently loosened one of the buttons. A grunt of amused satisfaction escaped his masked mouth. Poor Sandra whimpered with renewed fear, her wide, beautiful eyes watching him with a strange mixture of excitement and terror. What was he up to? More importantly, what was Amanda up to!?