Nerys invariably had her brown hair permed in a Fifties style: her face was narrower than Madeleine’s and her complexion enjoyed a feminine bloom that was the envy of many at Dominant Women. Not only did they share a love of blouses and narrow skirts with fully fashioned stockings and restrictive foundation wear, but the two of them found their likes in so many areas to be so close, they quickly fell in love and bought a house together where they could plan a life for three: for themselves – and for the wretched male they were going to dominate for the rest of their lives.

They went about searching for him with determination, including attending a conference day given by Dominant Women with the exciting title: Securing Your Submissive Male for Life. “Look at this lecture, darling,” said Madeleine browsing the conference website three weeks in advance: “ ‘Introduction to the DW catalogue of males to suit you: 4,000 males from 18 upwards who don’t yet know that you will be dominating them day in, day out.’ ”

Nerys was there like a shot, poring over her partner’s shoulder as she clicked through streams of photographs. “Click on that video starting at 11 on the day,” she said, her womanly determination to boss a male growing alongside her excitement. ‘The DW method for rendering your male helpless and submissive’, followed at 11.30 by ‘How to Sissify any male no matter how manly he is to start with’. “Madeleine hon, book us in for both, like NOW. I’m getting wet in the gusset just thinking of getting our male right here, in this room, fastened into that chair and weeping as he surrenders to us as soon as possible.”

“I can’t wait either,” chuckled Madeleine, clicking all the arrangements. “And I’ll book an interview with Cassandra Straight: she knows which end of a male is the weakest more than the rest of us: she’ll give us a good start.”

Three weeks later the two of them were sitting round Cassandra Straight’s lap-top, drinking in every encouraging and exciting word of the attractive, blond 50-year-old counsellor. “You can buy a regressed sissy AB,” she explained, “but we recommend creating your own. You’ll probably agree with the DW inquiry which found that while members who have bought a pre-prepared sissy enjoy dressing and chastising him from the day they get him home, the women who bring a pure male to their house and start depriving him of his freedoms one by one, while showing him relentlessly, day after day, that they are in charge of his life from now on, find oodles more satisfaction. It’s without doubt the way to go.”

Madeleine and Nerys came to a double decision: they would sell Madeleine’s house and live in Nerys’s, and they would start their new life-style with catalogue model 3,641: 18-year-old Cecil Sweetwater. “Doesn’t he look innocent with that soft, blond hair and his blue eyes and round face,” declared Madeleine. “A young bank clerk who is looking for a new start in life,” read Nerys, “needs lodgings, preferably with meals as long as they’re good.”

“I know him personally,” said Cassandra, grinning: “intelligent individual who has a lot to say, mostly about his rights. In his case you can definitely say: the prouder they stand the harder they’ll fall.”

Madeleine and Nerys lost no time in installing a precious, satin and chiffon, pink nursery, and equipping it with their best ever creations of little girl’s and baby wear. On the due date their DW candidate no.3641 arrived on time for his accommodation interview, and he didn’t disappoint: blond, healthy and 18, he told them what he thought of his proposed new accommodation.

“Some people would say your colour scheme was kinda out of date, Miss Jones, Miss Welsh, and if it was me, I’d have put the fireplace on that wall over there, with maybe a bar on this side with ripple rocker armchairs: I like ’em a lot.”

“I see,” said Madeleine with a tight-lipped smile as she served him a cup of carefully prepared coffee. “You are very clear about what you like and what you want.”

“Hell yeah, a guy’s gotta be. You get nowhere if you let yourself get pushed around.”

“I have to agree with you, Cecil,” said Nerys, half turning towards him and placing her elbow over the back of her settee to present all her salmon pink blouse to him along with her prettiest smile. “I agree with your style in clothing, and as sempstresses we both recognise good taste when we see it.”

The visitor lost his way momentarily. He wasn’t used to people agreeing with him rather than arguing with his forthright views. Or maybe he found his new landlady attractive. He might have criticised the décor but he sure liked the place.

“Yeah, well this is an Armani shirt, ma’am and these pants – no change from a week’s wages. Only the best for Cecil Sweetwater.” He finished his coffee and sat back with his arms and legs more spread than with his usual cool composure.

“We only create the best, Cecil, as you would see if you were to try some of our lines. I have some nice pants and tops you could try to see if they suit you.”

Cecil sat forward, his eyes passing from Nerys to Madeleine and back again, then closed them and shook his head to try and get his bearings. “I can’t quite work it out,” he said. “Usually I’m sure what I wanna do, Miss Welsh, but now – I can’t decide.”

Nerys got up, opened a closet at one side of the parlour and took out a pair of beige pants which she prepared for him to try, while Madeleine stood in front of him as if to gesture him to his feet.

Disoriented would be putting it mildly: Cecil amazed himself by getting up, standing with his arms by his side for her to undo his pants for him, and stepping out of them. He was reluctant to put his hand on the back of her blue striped blouse, so found himself held under the arms by Nerys as Madeleine stepped him out of one pair of pants and into the next.

“Very smart, Cecil,” observed Nerys. “What do you think, Madeleine?”

“I think you need a top to go with them, and if you look the part, we will be happy to have you staying with us here at the Willows.”

The top they dressed him in was in cream silk, with puffed sleeves to the wrists and three buttons between the shoulders which Nerys fastened for him. She led him by the hand round the room, finishing at the cheval mirror for him to see the effect. His mouth dropped open and he said his piece.

“I’d never wear clothes like this, no matter how clever you are at sewing and coot – er – coot – er, whatever it’s called. And this top is a blouse, it’s a fuckin’ women’s blouse. Of all the things to dress me in, woman! I want ya to get it off me.”

It was indeed a blouse, and his pants were women’s wide-legged dress pants, but Cecil Sweetwater was going to have to get used to female apparel now that he was part of the Willows. The women sat him down between them and began to undress him again.

“You need another coffee after that bit of a surprise, dear,” said Madeleine, stirring it for him and handing him the cup and saucer. It seemed to him that she must have been right, just as it was right that the two of them should be undoing his blouse and pants at the same time as he sat drinking his coffee. How nice it was being attended to so personally by two smart women in colourful blouses and tight skirts. And their perfume: mmmm, it appealed to him so sweetly and seemed to be far stronger and more attractive than just a few moments earlier. They relieved him of his cup and saucer, turned him rather easily between them so that he ended up face down over Madeleine’s skirt, and had his blouse pulled up to his neck where it held his arms inside while his pants were pulled down to half-mast to keep his legs together. His trunks came down to expose his ass.

“This spanking is to impress on you how you are not allowed to disagree, Mister Sweetwater,” she said, bringing the flat of her hand down on his male cheeks with every ounce of strength she could.

“Owww! Ouch! You can’t do this! Whoaaa! Owww!” His resistance was vocal but he couldn’t bring himself to be physical: not when he was loving the perfumed blouse that spanked him and the sizzling skirt across which his genitals slid with rhythmic pleasure. By the time he was allowed to stand he was chastened and reddened, on his bottom cheeks and the cheeks of his downcast face.

“No-one has given me a spanking before in my LIFE!” he declared with the sort of pout that a three-year-old would show in times of cruel injustice.

“Well you’ll be getting used to it,” Nerys informed him as she held the clothes he was going to have on next. “Remember, if you disagree with either of us, it’s over the knee and a good spanking. You’ll either learn, or your bottom will be red from one day to the next. Now, arms in.”

This wasn’t a woman’s blouse, he knew as his arms were held upwards for it to be dropped over his head: it wasn’t a woman’s anything. It was a little girl’s petticoat, with a short bodice to his nipples before it flared into two, maybe three layers of white cotton skirt, with flounces of white organza all the way round each hem. Madeleine buttoned him into it down the back of the bodice and fluffed the skirts round his naked abdomen. He felt the heat in his ass and stopped himself from disagreeing. He had to put his arms in again, this time into a dress with white satin lining that slithered down over his hair, onto his shoulders and on onto his petticoats. Why was this happening to him? Why wasn’t he telling them what he thought? He should do. He would!

“You can’t do this to me, without my expressly agreeing to it and even then it would be subject to my full right to object – and to protest, and yes, to disagree. There you are, I’ve disagreed, what are you going to do about it?”

He found out at once. He happened to be closer to Nerys this time so that he was unceremoniously swivelled over her skirt, onto the front of his pale peach satin frock, where he instinctively used his hands on the carpet to prevent himself sliding off her knee onto the floor. After she had buttoned up the back of his dress and fastened his ribbons into an exceptionally large bow, she turned up the backs of his dress and petticoats and shaped his reddened ass in her hands.

“It’s not a good idea to test the resolve of your Mistresses, master Cecil,” she said, undoing the top of her blouse ahead of the energetic punishment: “we won’t have changed our minds, and in any case you will still have to fit in with our arrangements.”

“Ouch! Owww! Oh please! Ooow! Ouch!” As with Madeleine, Nerys found it a thrilling experience she was going to enjoy greatly and often in the future, especially since inflicting such shameful correction was completely against the life pattern their lodger had grown up to expect. What was even more rewarding, as both women felt together as they raised him to his feet and held his panties ready for him to step into them, was that his forlorn little penis was blatantly excited by the whole situation. He was revealed to have sissy tendencies which not even he had suspected before. Whether it was their perfume, their skirts and blouses, dressing him in petticoats or spanking him over their knee – or maybe the sheer humiliation of having to submit to dominant women – but Cecil Sweetwater’s cock showed complete surrender to his new landladies from one day to the next as they dressed him towards age regression and girliness. They showed him the Dominant Women website, with pages of photos of captive sissies dressed far more outlandishly than him.

“We’re going to make you some pretty party dresses likes this one, honey,” Madeleine would say.

“No you won’t. You can’t do that to me,” came the pathetic grumbles, which of course would lead to his pacifier being fastened into his mouth again before he was turned over across Nerys’s skirt and spanked and spanked and spanked. Then he would be put into his rocking cradle, designed to match the ripple rocker armchairs they would sit in on either side of him to rock him to sleep between their crisp silk or satin blouses.

***

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