R Ferne Starts At Baby Pinkies
Ferne Rogerson, now Baby Pettipleats, was discovered in his Mother-In-Law’s blouse and foundation garments. The result is his wife and her mother have enrolled the guilty dresser at Baby Pinkies for sexless individuals.
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 I ache with sissyness inside my diaper and cringe at the soppy, sissy picture of sissyness staring back at me from the mirrored wardrobe front in Harriet’s bedroom: Ohhh, my baby lingerie is so disgracefully shameful: look at the high yokes on all three of my petticoats, with lacy bodices from my soft bare throat to my soft, developing breasts. Goodness, they make me swell with girlishness when I see how they are growing. I know Harriet is aware of them: she is beside me in the mirror, her blonde hair styled up from her immaculate face and wearing her bow neck blouse in rose pink polyester. My A-cups are so tight! She will certainly put me into B-cups any day soon. And my petticoat sleeves, puffed up from each shoulder with pretty lace flaring onto my arms.

I moan with shame as my eyes adore the spreading width of my baby-dolls, reaching the level of my hips with so much lace floating and bouncing around me. No wonder I moan; no wonder I feel so girly and helpless: because under my wide petticoats I can see how wide my wettie-proof baby pants are in clear pink plastic. Its pop-fasteners are so tight because of how deep and wide my triple thickness jumbo diaper is in plasti-covered pads of absorbent cotton wool. I am so ashamed in front of my Mother-In-Law: she has got me in such a maxi diaper I can’t bring my knees any closer together: I must stand in front of her with my legs wide apart. If it was just her and Portia seeing me like this it would be hurtful enough, but to dress me like this for the new sissy nursery!

As I whimper with self-pity she pushes the wardrobe door along its runners, revealing the rows of her blouses that have brought about all my misery. I cringe again, waiting for her merciless reminder. “Yes, you little creep,” she intones, standing between me and the silks and satins: “look at them! Look at the women’s clothes you love so much more than you love women; more than you love my own daughter!” Her voice hits a treble of fury as her hand flings the coat-hangers along the rail, as if her own blouses are criminal objects that deserve the harshest punishment. “These are what bring bursts of ugly male pleasure into that prick of yours!” she snarls, her face twisted the way it always as she condemns me again, day after day. Her crimson finger-nails seize on a hanger and slide a blouse out of the rail to spread against the row of sleeves, showing me its feminine allure in all its glossy shine. Her fingers spread the billowing sleeves on either side for me to adore and pluck the one or two fastened buttons and pointed collars to show me what I love.

My moan is almost a shriek, I am so filled with guilt, at the same time as re-living all those occasions I used to ‘borrow’ this very blouse – one of many to my shame – in its candy pink stripes. “I-I-I’m sorry, Mother-In-Law,” I manage, squirming from the waist, trying to slide one knee across the other, only they won’t meet.

“Sorry!” Her frown glowers at me, her lips grimace with disgust, her scorn escapes her in a snort of contempt.

But the blouse is still there – it’s the one she found me in that first time I was discovered. Oh, the shame of it as she hauled me downstairs, rang Portia at the office and had her come straight home to see me in her mother’s foundations and blouse, complete with stockings and high heels. She masturbated me to a shattering climax there and then through the silk of her blouse as Portia watched and wept. Adoring his mother-in-law’s wardrobe! Before I can stop myself I let out the words of my sissy heart: “M-M-Mummy, please hold it round my face – please let me kiss your blouse, Mummy!”

She might have exploded. She had done a few times in the past six weeks as she dressed me again and again to impress upon me how sissified she had made me, but the door opens behind me and Portia is there. “This pathetic husband of yours wants me to blouse him,” she says, her voice level as if she’s a magistrate going over what I am guilty of. “He’ll be wanting to wear my taffeta cocktail dress next, the clown.” She inserts the blouse back amongst the others, reaches for the door, and slides the mirror back to show me my wife, lips pursed in as much contempt of me as her mother, her blond hair in her business-like pageboy bob, and wearing her red and yellow flowered cocktail-dress.

Again my heart leaps, like a frightened frog, because she has brought me what must be my dress – the dress they are going to have me in to show me to adults and sissies at my new sissy nursery. She watches me in the mirror, just like I watch her with the dress, and I’m sure I burst into tears.

My eyes certainly well up so I have to wipe them with the backs of my hands. “Look at him, the cry-baby,” cries Harriet as she pulls my hands aside to get an uninterrupted view of my misery. “We were right to enrol him at Baby Pinkies. Their uniform dresses are just about sissy enough for this miserable twinkie. Hands in, you sissy – and head in too.”

My arms slide through the wide puffs of pink satin, with heavy cuffs of doubled satin threading over my hands and onto my wrists. The dress is heavier and deeper than it looks as its pale pink satin lining hisses down my petticoats and descends into a wide spread, with frills of pink satin all round me. I cry and cry because my own wife is drawing a baby dress together behind my shoulders and is fastening me into it. I can see the determination in the set of her glossed lips as she buttons me together under the back of a Peter Pan collar. Harriet wants to pluck and pretty it from the front so that I can see the look of total control she has on her face, her nose high in the air as if she is looking a long way down onto the son-in-law in the baby dress they have got him in. Over her elbow are the ribbons of a pink and white bonnet. A huge bonnet, edged with a deep frill of broderie anglaise. I am going to look so foolish, so sexless, so pathetic! I am still crying as they walk me between them to the car and fit me into my baby seat. It’s a ridiculous confection of pink and white gingham straps that fasten me into a deep bucket of stiffened pink satin dripping with ribbons and bows.

My pacifier is pushed in as I must listen to their verbal charges of infantile weakness. How can I complain when I’m a blouse and panty lover? they say. Why am I grumbling when they dress me in fluffy lingerie and take me to see women who are going to dress me and turn me into even more of a helpless sissy baby? My pacifier is fastened in place and my bonnet is closed over it, with a headscarf wrapped over that to keep my face feminized and babified until we get to the dreaded destination we are heading for.

At Baby Pinkies I am walked in, my dress shaking with trembles, to meet Matron Rubberlap. Her uniform gleams in pale blue latex, even in the pale indirect lighting of her office. I breathe in a pungent smell of rubber from her white latex apron: it’s huge and descends round her ample curves from a wide bib and shoulder-wide back straps that clip to the back of her waist with pop-fasteneres.

“This is Baby Pettipleats,” says Harriet, “my sexless son-in-law. “He used to be Ferne Rogerson, until we discovered his insatiable appetite for being petticoated and pantied.”

Matron Rubberlap’s face shows no expression. She stands in front of me, looking into my eyes so that I look down at her shiny white bust and long apron. Her hands lift the frilled edge of my dress and she discovers that my petticoats are indeed pleated in silk-organza. “Mmm,” she says in a rich, deep voice, “I dress babies every day in dainty petticoats, but I have never seen a pleated petticoat before: these petties are so feminine!”

She slides each of her hands into skin-coloured latex gloves, snapping them loudly onto her forearms and popping shut the white cuffs of her uniform over them. Then she undoes the two bottom poppers of my pink plastic pants on my right leg and inserts her hand. I bleat with shame: I am so helpless in front of her. Then I gurgle in my bonnet as her fingers feel my sex. It stiffens for her as she slides my dickie up and down and fondles my testicles. I glance at her face to see what she is thinking, only to catch her looking me straight in the eyes as she announces: “He is totally sissy, your son-in-law: born to be a baby.”

I wilt in disgrace as she withdraws her hands and fastens me up again. “We’ve had him pre-conditioned at De-Sex-Him Babification,” Portia informs her, “with the emphasis on resexualizing him from his waist to his thighs.”

“I want him to be a baby girl for me to mother,” adds Harriet on the other side of me, “especially for my coffee mornings. The girls can’t wait to have him on their knees, and to open their dresses and blouses for him to suck on their tits.”

Matron fusses my dress, starting with the rich sleeves and their turn back cuffs with big decorative baby buttons over my satin dinner-plate mittens. “Yes, that’s ideal,” she says. “Baby Pinkies have their most tender places utterly feminized like teenage girls, but with baby weakness through and through. That’s partly why they spend so much of their time wetting into their diapers, their baby little wicks are so delicate and effeminate.” She lifts and shapes my dress collar across my shoulders and holds the sides of my bonnet, turning my blushing face towards her as she explains: “it will experience the daily thrill of fluffy diapering and baby-frill pantifying, which we will begin in just a few moments.”

She draws a rail of panties towards me, their satin and frills swaying so attractively, with ribbons dangling and rosebuds, flowers and pretty polka dots. I want her to put me into a pair, so that my little wickie can feel ever so feminine and babyish for – for my wife and my Mother-In-Law to see me being a little Baby Pinkie.

“I’ll start him in satin baby pants, then put him into wide, frilly panties in baby pink organza,” she says.

Her words drain all strength out of me and my legs fold under me at my knees as Portia and Harriet hold me up as I am put into my satin panties. They are in snow white satin, with ruffles round each leg and pretty lace panels across the front of each leg too. I moan with the pleasure they fill me with as the satin reaches my baby pants and slides in their full opened out prettiness over the full width of my diaper.

“What a heavenly girly diaper cover for Baby Pettipleats,” says Harriet, her face pressing one side of my bonnet across my cheek as my moaning turns more into tearful whimpers.

“It’s so girlish,” says my wife: “just right for you, you sexless wimp. Here, you’d better suck on your pacifier to keep you quiet like a baby girl.”

Matron nods in front of me, holding the pink plastic ring as I suck. “Suck, baby girl: suck and suck with all your babyishness, and come with me into the Baby Pinkies nursery.”

Portia and Harriet hold me up or I would collapse onto my thick diaper in its satin diaper cover, as Matron Rubberlap leads me by the mouth into a room that is almost dark. My nose fills with the smells of baby powders and latex rubber, and on all sides there are noises of singing, or humming. Or that’s what it sounds like. My eyes begin to see one or two things: the white apron and cap of a nurse kneeling down on the floor, then another, and here and there I see more of them, sitting in ones on the floor. The sounds become clearer too: muffled sighs and moans, the sort of moaning I do myself when Harriet masturbates me across her lap in her blouses and panties.

“The Baby Pinkies are in their cots at this time of day,” explains Matron, letting go of my ring so that I can look about me. Oh no! the room is filled with two rows of cots with pink plastic rails decked out with satin ribbons in big floppy bows. It’s from down low, near the floor, that I hear moaning and sobbing, and I can hear someone crying. I can hear a voice to my left, the row of cots along the pink curtained windows where the only light comes from: “Pweathe let me go, Nurthe Alith, pweeeeeathe! I want to go home, sob, sob, sob, I want to be a boy again.”

I can see the tops of each cot, as high as any cots for adult babies, with pink bars all the way round on all sides. But each cot appears to be empty until: oh my God, each cot has a baby in the bottom of it, held down beneath the bars of the lids. They’ve been closed much lower, sliding down the upright corner posts, until they are so low that baby lies flat, closing its Baby Pinkie into his petticoats and dress so that baby lies flat, his frilly satin mittens fastened to the sides of his cot in big floppy ribbon bows. Matron turns back to Harriet.

“The Baby Pinkies are having their clitties babied and pinked by their nurses.” I peer through the glow of pink light and make out what one of the nurses is doing: she sits at the side of a cot with her hand out of sight to the elbow up the leg of the sissy’s baby panties. The diaper front faces up at the ceiling through the bars that trap him and is constantly restless, slowly changing its shape in a moving, rounded point, while gasps and whimpers of helpless emotion escape the sissy’s bonnet. His hands are fastened: he can do nothing to – defend himself. Matron tells Harriet and Portia more.

“None of these Pinkies will ever want to miss a day at Baby Pinkies: they want to become more and more desexed: they want to be kept in pretty diapers and very frilly baby panties.”

I realise she has another nurse standing at her side. “Nurse Melanie is here to put Ferne into his cot. This is Baby Petticpleats,” she tells the new nurse. “Find a nice pink cot with satin quilts to fasten Baby Ferne into.”

Nurse Melanie is young, maybe younger than me, with lovely fine features and light brown hair drawn back under her nursing cap. “It’s time for Baby Ferne to feel more pink,” she tells me in a soft, sultry voice as she takes my hand from Portia and leads me away towards the end of the row of cots. We pass the last cot with a nurse attending to her Baby Pinkie, while the next cot in the row has its side down so that I can step into it. But instead, Matron and Nurse Melanie lift me by my legs and under my dress sleeves, and lower me onto the soft quilt inside.

“I’m going to treat Baby Pettipleats with Baby Full-Pussy gel and sissy Kiss-Lite cream,” she says, “then my baby will have a sweetie jism in his cot.”

I feel I am under the power of her white apron, her stiffened white collar and her wide pointed cap. As she undoes part of my plastic pants and inserts her hand time and again, I want her fingers to control my sex – to make me a little baby girlie. I moan and quiver with pleasure as she fondles and fingers my dickie, making me a Baby Pinkie like the others who are moaning and gasping nearby.

As the bars of my cot lid close down on top of me I see Portia shaking her head. I have let her down so badly with my weak maleness and my love of her mother’s panties and girdles and all those adorable blouses. I am a disgrace and I am being punished for it.

Harriet beside her is nodding. She knows like I know: her son-in-law is a Baby Pinkie, and he will be here for his conditioning every day. Maybe from time to time, I find myself thinking, she will have her Pinkie across her lap and she may put him into one of her satin blouses, just to draw him ever more deeply under her maternal control – then she’ll sit me up in her blouse and give me my bottle of hormone syrup before putting me to bed in my cot at the foot of her bed.

The next thing I know, they aren’t there any more, nor is Matron Rubberlap. Instead I find my sex is in the hands of Nurse Melanie as she looks down smiling into my bonnet. I reach forward to hold her hand in place – but I can’t reach. I can’t get my hand to do as I say. I gasp and I cry out: “Why can’t I hold your hand, Nurse Melanie. Why can’t I stop you squeezing my - ?”

I get no further. I find my pacifier pushed inside my mouth, the sides of my bonnet closed over to be joined with clips down the middle of my face, and I must suck in private babyness as her latex gloved hand brings a rising glow of baby pleasure into every part of my girly private places. At least I can slither my legs to and fro into the corners of my pink cot as the pleasure of being a sissy Baby Pinkie grows and grows over me inside my pretty baby panties. What a lovely ache of girly pleasure overwhelms me as Nurse Melanie’s fingers turn wet and warm and slide so deliciously up and down my baby clitoris.



Prim’s Petticoat Pansies#33 is a SPECIAL ADULT BABY issue and PPP#34, a special SISSY COCK SUCK issue is now out on Prim’s website at http://www.primspetticoatwendyhouse.com/feminization.htm 

Source: Petticoated.com
Gallery Images by AbbySweetness
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Baby Butch
Baby Pettipleats is having fun at Baby Pinkies with some help from Nurse Melanie. Another great story with image!
@ Baby Butch
  Hi Baby Butch and thank you for enjoying this sissy babyfication story x
Baby Puss
Great story! Baby Pettipleats, will now always enjoy, his pink sissy cot prison. 
@ Baby Puss
  Kissy-kiss, Baby Puss. Do you like Ferne's baby girl dress? x
Baby Puss
@ AbbySweetness
  with relish! 
 Very nice work, hey Abby I sent you an email not too long ago. 
Wow. I read this story and was so excited I came while wetting my diaper. Never had that happen before. Thank you xx 
What a lovely story Abbie. Baby Pettipleats is certainly enjoying  all the attention. I know i would  
Just love this story, just wished it was me 
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