“I was impressed by the claims you make on your school website, Miss Murdistone. That is why we are sitting here today discussing my stepson’s future.” Doreen Sweetleigh used her kid glove fingers to comb back the deep quiff she insisted on over Damien’s left eye. She had ensured he positioned his chair touching hers for just this kind of personal attention. She went on to slip one glove onto the lap of her aqua dress and jacket costume and turn his chin to her so that she could dab her index finger on her tongue and shape each of his brows before turning his face back again to face his new Headmistress.
Edith Murdistone sank her chins onto her strings of beads, showing the full height of her blonded beehive, and regarded the boy over the rims of her spectacles. “Which of those claims appealed to you with the greatest relevance to your boy, Ms Murdistone? Do they relate to gender or dress?”
“Both, emphatically. You claim your school will turn him into a girl,” – there was a whimper beside her as the eighteen-year-old covered his mouth with a shaking hand – “and you promise to dress him in very feminine apparel to hasten his gendering.” She removed his hand as she spoke, glaring at the boy for his impertinence. “I only hope you can meet both these hopes of mine.”
The Headmistress got to her feet and walked round her immense oak desk to stand above the new pupil and gesture him to his feet. Her crisp blouse barely gave him room to stand but it suited her fine to have him cramped between her own perfumed frame and his seated stepmother.
Damien’s heart thumped frantically beneath his crisp white shirt and he spread his hands nervously down the outside legs of his sharply creased pale blue trousers. He held his breath as Miss Murdistone glared at him from six inches, forcing his eyes to drop down the glossy folds of her blouse jabot, and slipped her fingers inside his waist at each hip before sliding round to the front and starting to undo his pants. He felt he was going to faint.
“Look at me.” Her words were quiet but etched with command. He peered up into her eyes from his glossy auburn quiff: she must have been on sky-scraper heels, but his heart missed a couple of beats as he felt her open his pants, spread them with wide sizzles of her sleeves and drop them down his legs where they stuck, hanging from his pressing knees. “Shirts and trousers are forbidden at the Marie-Claire Institute for High Class Girls.” Her fingers were at the top button of his shirt. “You will have no need of such trash when my girls are dealing with you.” His shirt opened rapidly one button after another and she pushed it from his shoulders and onto his arms, leaving him pinioned as if in bondage while her bloused bosom overwhelmed his rather weak torso in its vest. “It’s the girls rather than I or my staff who will be responsible for the boys at Marie-Claire, Ms Sweetleigh.” She undid the cuff of his shirt and then took the other. “He will spend his school day in their hands, becoming feminine,” his shirt opened at the wrist and she swept it from him and onto her desk, took the bottom of his vest and pulled it up his arms as if they knew they had to obey, and inserted her gleaming burgundy nails into the waist of his boxers to pull them below his hips, “and of course they will have him wearing his new school uniform. Pass me your trousers, boy.”
She returned to the other side of her desk and sat to face him and his stepmother as he gathered his pairs of pants, prickling with embarrassment in front of her and his stepmother and wearing nothing but his shoes and socks, and passed them to her. She rang a small brass bell that stood beside her keyboard and took the pants with a sneer on her lips. They joined his shirt in a heap as she surveyed his pale skin and slender frame. “Arms out to the side,” she ordered.
Damien wondered if –
“ARMS OUT!” Damien’s arms shot out like he was a scarecrow with a pole across his shoulders. “Not like that, idiot. Lower. You’re holding the side edges of your dress, right?”
He did his utmost to comply, keenly aware that his stepmother was watching him, a smile on her crimson lips, holding his imaginary dress. The Headmistress spoke to her while her eyes devoured every inch of her new pupil. “Oh I think we can turn him into a girl?” her voice was ironic. “Now that I am in charge at Marie Claire, it is my intention to have our Institute based on that pattern. Your stepson is the third boy, there will be nine or ten for the full education of our girls. It’s the girls’ benefit that is paramount: they will learn to control and genderize boys!”
“Oh how lovely. Just what I have dreamt of,” replied Doreen.
She turned as she spoke as a knock came on the door and it opened to admit a brightly coloured addition to the Headmistress’s study: two girls in pink and white uniforms.
“Let me introduce two of our prefects,” said the Headmistress, still at her desk. “Alice and Miranda. They will control and dominate your boy to start with. What class will he be in, Alice?”
Alice Rennishaw was a tall brunette with hair framing her face and reaching halfway down her back. “Class Pankhurst, Miss Murdistone,” she replied, her fine lips widening into a grin, “or as we call it: Clas-Spankhurts.”
“Quite. You will need your straps.” She drew open a low desk-drawer and placed two implements on the surface: twelve inches long, three inches wide and half an inch deep, in shiny black leather, with a loop of elastic attached through a hole at the end of the handle. Both girls seized them with a gleam in their eyes.
“This’ll work wonders, Miss Murdishaw,” cried Miranda Vent, bending the leather tawse in both hands then whipping it through the air. “Is this him?”
“That’s right. Damien Sweetleigh is your baby girl.”
Both girls frowned and their lips grimaced. “Turn this way,” ordered Miranda standing beside him. She was a honey blond and looked down on him.
Damien’s scalp tingled with fright to add to his shame. “But I – ”
“I said – Turn this way, sissy,” and her hands caught a fistful of hair and one of his wrists while Alice Rennishaw helped her weigh him to his knees, doubling his head down to the floor. She held him by the scruff of his neck and held one of his hands twisted up his naked back, while Miranda flourished her leather strap, planted her high heels wide and pasted a string of lashes across the terrified boy’s ass.
“One – two – three – four – five – six!” she counted, extracting wails of objection from the face on the floor, then “One – two – ” the same on his other cheek.
Doreen watched with astonishment then had to comment to Miss Murdistone. “Your girls are very good. Well practised I would say. I can see that I have enrolled my stepson in exactly the right place.” She admired everything about these girls: their neat white blouses with frilly edges to their peter pan collars and long, full sleeves, their mini-skirts in hot pink serge with matching silk neck-ties, their seamed stockings and their towering high heels in black patent leather.
“Thank you ma’am,” said Alice as she pulled her stepson to his feet, crying and trying to protect himself, “these little slugs get what they deserve.”
“We’ll soon have the little cry baby begging us to make him feel sweet and pretty,” added Miranda, holding both his hands out of the way as they stood him up in his naked condition. Miss Murdistone opened her drawer again and planted a device on her desk for the prefects.
“Shut him up with this, Alice,” she said, getting up and opening a closet door, “and get the clown into his uniform. He’s got to be a baby girl before he reaches Class Pankhurst.” She opened a packet and pressed out a large pink tablet. “Start him on Fem-agra: he’s got to develop long-lasting periods of arousal for you to build up his desire for girly dressing and shaming.”
It was clear to Damien the Headmistress had given them a baby pacifier for him, with a huge teat that would fill his mouth and with nude leather straps on either side a couple of inches deep. “No, what are you going to do to me?” he mewled, his arms wriggling with all his strength but unable to escape Miranda’s grip. “Stepmother please, oh please – did you hear what she sa- , glug, no, n-n-no don-!” The plastic teat was forced into his mouth by a determined Alice as she cupped a hand round the back of his head and pushed, until the lower half of his face disappeared behind pink plastic with a humiliating ring dangling from the front. She wove the buckle together behind his neck, pulled it tight and sealed him into the leather neck strap. Damien “Mummed” and “Hummed” with eyes like saucers but he was held with his back squeezed into the front of Miranda’s blouse, her arms gripped across the front of him as he bucked and pulled to no avail.
Tears streamed down his face as the girls put him into a brassiere with A cups over modest rubber breast forms and hooked him securely at the back. A matching suspender belt went round his waist, with four suspenders dangling and pretty white ribbon bows on the clips. The girls amazed Doreen by leaning back on the edge of the desk and presenting first one leg then the other for his shoes and socks to be replaced by a pair of sheer fully fashioned stockings, and over them they fastened a pair of midi-heeled Mary Jane shoes that they fastened with a strap and button over each foot. Her pleasure grew to a most pleasing peak at the sight of his penis, small at any time, but now growing into inevitable tumescence as the girls handled his body in ways that denied him all privacy and defence.
“You’re feeling the shame of it, aren’t you, sissy-boy?” said Miranda, holding his waist and arms with one arm while she closed her thumb and fingers round his shaft and held it for the boy’s stepmother to see how it stiffened as they watched. Her fingers tugged and pulled on him, rousing the feelings in his cock. “See how he likes the humiliation, ma’am. You’re a pansy pervert, aren’t you, you little sweetie-dick?” He choked on the pacifier buckled to his face as his anguish caused him to squeeze the teat, filling his mouth with its sweet contents.
Alice had a petticoat for him: a short petti but it struck both Doreen and the hapless Damien as a wide spread of frilly layers, because from its little yoked top perhaps eight inches deep it flared in three layers of spreading silk chiffon, each layer no more than another eight or ten inches, so that as it dropped over his head and its ribbons rested into the hollows of his shoulders, the flare of frilliness barely came down to his waist. His wail came out as a muffled bleat as the girls held him for his petticoat to be buttoned shut down his back. It was so babyish they burst out laughing as Miss Murdistone passed them his school blouse.
It matched the girls’ blouses in its frilly edged collar but the sleeves were childish little puffs fastening onto his upper arm with narrow one-button cuffs. There were four white blouse buttons across the front two or three inches above the hem. “And his baby skirt,” said Miss Murdistone, passing a strip of skirt material to them. It was a baby skirt all right: just six inches deep with shiny pink buttons on it. To Damien’s misery, it buttoned onto his blouse across the front, with four more buttons across the back before the girls buttoned over the back of his waist.
Even more painful to him was its ridiculous length: it flared round his hips but left his groin and genitals in full view. “You love it, sissy, we can see you do,” giggled Alice, leaning him back by the wrists as Miranda held his very stiffened cock.
Doreen laughed with them and even Miss Murdistone managed a grin on her square features. “I’m grateful to you for bringing him along, Miss Sweetleigh. We’ll take him off now and install him in his new class: you need to return at four to collect him here in my office.
“It’s my pleasure, Headmistress,” replied the boy’s stepmother. “And you – make sure you do exactly as you are told all day long, d’you hear?”
The girls grinned at her and lifted their straps which they had secured through loops to the waists of their skirts.
A minute later Damien felt he was about to die as he was held by both girls outside a classroom door. Miss Murdistone opened it and strode inside, revealing to him in a shattering glance dozens of white blouses. Girls! He heard questions called out, growing excitement, and through the gap in the doorway he saw more and more faces craning to see the apparition waiting to meet them.
She re-appeared at the door, her mouth set as if sentencing him to a life in prison, and stood back for the prefects to march him in.
The class was delirious. Four rows of desks had girls sitting or standing to get a good look at their class sissy, shaking their hair back to see him better, their beautiful teeth set in open-mouthed laughter. “Love his uniform, Miss,” cried some; “with no panties!” cried others. “Can we play with his thing, Miss?” reached the wretched boy, followed by: “Can we fasten him onto his baby table?”
Miss Ratchway had his baby chair-table ready for him. it wheeled into the middle of the room facing the girls, with an upholstered top covered in red rubber and straps here and there as if to secure the occupant in place. “Put him on it, Alice,” cried the girls as they seethed with excitement. “Fasten him down – with his cock sticking up!”
Alice and Miranda lifted Damien off his heels and planted his ass in the middle of the rubber surface, while Miss Ratchway had stools for the prefects to sit on either side of him and hold him where the girls could see everything he had to show. To Damien’s shame his erection was hideously stiff in front of him and the girls held his legs wide so that it could be seen perfectly by every girl in the room. It made them fall silent as if in admiration of its weakness.
“It’s so small!” commented Karen French. “Like it’s a child’s penis on a teenager,” called Frances Maine. “I can’t believe it,” said Maisie Sherlock: “it’s like as if it’s a feminine cock.” Jemima Welsh-Cobb put into words what a lot of the girls were feeling: “I want to play with it, Miss, to check it’s real.”
“You need to undo his neck buckle, Miranda,” said Miss Murdistone. “It’s time for another Fem-Agra for the little puppy. I want him to welcome his pleasure – and I want him gagging for more.”
No sooner was his mouth free than Damien burst out with his pent up objections. “I want to g-g-go home, Miss. I want to get away.” He fought with all the force he could muster but it came across as the weak wriggles of a kitten as its mother held it down to wash it. “Why have you dressed me like this? I’m not a girl – I’m a boy. Let go of me. Stoppit! Plea- ” The tablet went in, followed at once by the dummy and his straps were fastened again at the back of his neck. Then Miss Ratchway had his final item of classroom babywear: a pair of triple layered latex diaper pants, covered in pastel pink nylon. As they slid up his stockings his wriggles became squirms of sexlessness, so that he had to be held closely into the prefects’ blouses to hold him still as Miss Ratchway pulled the squeaky rubber up his legs, then edged the panty up over his penis, until it disappeared for a moment before appearing again as a round-ended point sticking out in the front of the pink nylon.
“He loves them, doesn’t he?” commented quite a few girls as he subsided in the grip of his prefects, leaning his hair back onto Alice’s blouse, sucking so that his pacifier ring bobbed rhythmically up and down and allowing Miranda to stroke his stockinged legs into placid obedience. Miss Murdishaw addressed the girls of Class Pankhurst with words of experience.
“Your new sissy baby-girl will help you to learn how to master weak males, girls, especially those who have a certain liking for female clothing. As you follow your sissy-control lessons you will learn what frightens a sissy-boy, but more importantly, you will find out what he likes: for example, latex lined diaper-pants, especially if you introduce your hand inside his private diaper space like Miranda is doing for us now, to help him do wetties. It’s by bringing him to these moments of helpless surrender that you will bring the baby more rapidly and more securely to a truly feminized condition.
The class had not been so silent, so respectful, since Damien had been pushed into the room, but now all twenty-four girls sat in silence as they watched his eyes lidding with pleasure, his pacifier bobbing and his throat swallowing. His bleats and whimpers of girlish desire grew more frequent and more urgent in his throat, especially as Alice held his head and softly tickled his throat with her fingertips, before his legs slithered out straight from his knees and he pointed his Mary Janes wide at twenty-to-four. Every beautiful teenage face lived each of his passionate moments as they moved their hair back from their ears and listened to the squelching rhythm inside those diaper pants as the baby girl soaked Miranda’s hand and her blouse cuff with lots and lots of warm, sticky wetties. Damien Sweetleigh had started at the Marie-Claire Institute for High Class Girls (and some boys).
***
Aunt Frocks’ latest Newsletter has three more Prim stories for you at www.primspetticoatwendyhouse.com
