“Stop your embroidery, Dorian, and pass it to me. I want to talk to you.”
I cast off immediately and pushed my needle into the pin cushion. Myrtle couldn’t abide any delay when she had given me an order. I passed her my new pastel blue mini and screwed my nerves to accept her reaction. The silk skirt hissed into the middle of her maxi pencil skirt where she sat facing my working table.
“This filigree is very pretty on your new skirt. I like it. It suits a man like you with not a drop of masculine blood in your veins and clouds of soft, effeminate sweetness. Isn’t that right?”
My chin sank onto the pussy bow of her strawberry pink blouse and I whispered a “Yes, Mother-In-Law”. When Myrtle lectured me on my masculine failures I just had to admit that she was completely right. I was a male failure, and a sad, pathetic sissy.
She held the little skirt up by its shoulder straps so that the box pleats flared out sweetly and turned it round to remind me it would button over my ass with lovely girls’ dress buttons down the back. “You have no masculine qualities or strength; just girly softness, and the way you stiffen and erect in front of women’s clothes. You just have to have sugary women’s fashion, don’t you Dorian?”
“Y-Yes, Mother-In-Law.”
Her jaw worked with contempt as she looked down at me. “Come here, boy,” she said, and picked up one of her brassieres from the back of the settee alongside her. “Arms in. Turn.” I rotated for her to draw the brassiere together between my shoulders, and she hooked me into it over the soft silk crepe of her blouse. The bra was pale pink with soft flowers of light blue, orange and lemon, with pretty lace shaping the top edges of the cups and gleaming satin under each cup. “Now, she said, “smooth your fingers lovingly over the satin cups, and feel how you love to be dressed by your Mother-In-Law in another of her very feminine brassieres, because you’re going to make a phone call to one of my friends, Lottie Sloane.”
A hot flush swept over me at the sound of that name. I had met her only two weeks ago when she called and found Myrtle dressing me in a sequence of her blouses. Lottie Sloane had laughed and laughed as Myrtle put me into one of her bras on that occasion too: a long-line bra in black satin and elasteine, contrasting with the sheer delicacy of the peach pink chiffon blouse I was wearing. Her hilarity turned to a more sober infatuation as she saw how pronounced the point had become in the front of Myrtle’s full cut panties I was wearing. No wonder, when I was being dressed like this and deeply embarrassed in front of two such elegant MILFs. It turned out she would take her friend’s fashion idea home with her and use it to wuthering effect on her own wretched son-in-law, Quentin.
Myrtle finger-punched the screen of her phone and handed it to me. “You’re calling Lottie,” she said, “and you will ask if you can speak to her sissy, Quentin Sloane.”
My heart was hammering in my brassieres as I – Ahhh, she answered it immediately!
“Er, er, c-c-can I ask if – if I can speak to Quentin – please?”
“Why?”
Oh my God, I didn’t know why.
“To invite him to come and see you being sissified,” prompted Myrtle, sitting close enough to listen in.
“To-to-to invite him to come and see me being sis-sis-sisissified – please.”
There was a pause. “Are you Myrtle’s sissy son-in-law, the one in the blouse and bra with rigid, stiff panties?”
“Er – yes ma’am.”
“Hmph. Maybe later, I’m going to sissify him for your phone call. Be ready for when I ring.”
I gave Myrtle her phone and she immediately undressed me, bra, blouse and skirt, waist slip, suspenders, high heels, her original bra and stockings. I was marched to her chest of drawers for those fabulous perfumed knickers to be brought out, with a brassiere to match, and she chose a pair of lacy girl’s anklets to put on me too. It took her only two or three minutes to have me ready, complete with my new skirt. I was going to look and feel so femmy for my phone call to Lottie Sloane’s sissy son-in-law. My heart jumped again as Myrtle’s phone rang. She ordered me to sit beside her hip as she answered it. I almost fainted as she passed it to me.
“I hope you are dressed as a pathetic, girly little wimp, like my own son-in-law here beside me.” It was Lottie herself.
“Y-Y-Yes ma’am. I-mmm looking very pretty.”
“Hmm. What are you wearing for your little natter?”
“I’m w- Er, Mummy-In-Law has dressed me in her lingerie, ma’am, and one of my girls’ mini waist slips. Then I’m wearing one of my girl’s blouses – in white polyester, with a sweet little lacy collar and a pretty jabot, with darling little puffed sleeves. And I’m in a precious box pleated skirt which I made for myself, in powder blue silk-satin with – with smooth dicel lining and four mock buttons on the front of the waist.” I blushed deeply as I added: “It buttons shut down the back, ma’am, over my ass.”
“You mean over your sissy girl’s ass?”
“Y-Yes ma’am.”
“Well say it!”
“It buttons down over my sissy girl’s ass, down the back, ma’am.”
“Right. You may call him in two minutes. You will be sitting across your Mother-In-Law’s lap. I’m pleased to see you are both wearing something suitable for your sexless condition.”
She rang off and Myrtle ordered me onto her knee. I cringed with shame as my pantied ass slid up the front of her navy blue taffeta skirt and sank into the hollow of her crotch, so that my shoulder and even my cheek rested in the glossy, mandarin satin of her evening blouse. I held my hands together between my bare thighs. This was going to be a mortifying ordeal with no possible escape. I was close to tears as the phone rang and Myrtle passed it to me.
“H-Hello? Quentin?”
There were gasps of misery at the other end, then: “Oooh I’m so humiliated!” The word came out with all the pain he was feeling as he uttered it.
I knew what I had to say. “I-I would like you to come across to my house and – and see me be – be – being – gulp – being sissified.” I think my voice practically disappeared with weakness and shame. My heart sank even further as Myrtle lifted the front of my skirt up onto my blouse, right up to my chin, and my petticoat slip too, revealing the pointed condition of my panties. I whimpered an uncontrollable sigh of shame. Then Myrtle spoke into my ear.
“Ask Quentin what he is wearing.”
There were more groans and whimpers of misery, as if he was sobbing and unable to get out his words. “I’m w-w-wearing a girls’ dress,” I managed to catch, “in soft pink satin, with a white cambric petticoat edged with broderie anglaise. It’s so humiliating. Oh no – no, please don’t. Ohhh, my Mother-In-Law says I have to have it turned up, opened out as I lie across her lap, so that she can see my – my – oh, my girl’s panties!”
I can’t help myself. “What are your panties like?” I say, unable to stop my words.
“Oh no, noooo, my Mother-In-Law is taking them off me, down my legs. Please don’t take off my panties, Mummy-In-Law! Please!”
Myrtle is listening. She takes Lottie Sloane’s lead. She takes hold of my panties and in a moment they are off my feet and my penis is pointing up at us in its aching stiffness at the top of my bare legs, with the frills of my petticoats spreading out on all sides. Her fingertips close round it, gently, and she fondles it as I put an urgent question to my suffering friend.
“I want to see you in your dress, s-s-standing in front of me.” My heart is hammering. “I want to be able to stand up close to you and – and kiss you in your dress.” Myrtle’s fingers ripple and slide softly to and fro and my legs splay wider so that my feet are together but my knees are wide apart. “Will you let me kiss you?”
I wait for his answer with bated breath – but it doesn’t come. Instead there are curses of annoyance. Then Lottie Sloane.
“The idiot has fainted. I’ll have to resuscitate him with salts, but he’ll be there. I’ll bring him round as soon as the clown can stand. So that’s something for you to feel excited about, sissy-boy.”
She hung up, and I handed Myrtle back her phone. She thrust me off her lap so that my slip and skirt fell back into place, and she marched me over to her dressing table stool where my nails were varnished a deep red, my hair was brushed and sprayed, my neck and ears were perfumed and lipstick was applied to my mouth. My cock was alive with anticipation: stiffened with excitement that I was waiting for the visit of my girlfriend – while I was a girl too in my blouse and skirt and panties. Ten minutes later the bell rang and we were joined by Lottie Sloane, leading a very shy and very attractive Quentin by the hand in the most fabulous dress I had ever seen. I so wanted to wear it, to touch and feel it – to embrace it so that I could plant a red, glossed and affectionate kiss on those adorably girly lips that I could see were trembling with emotion – waiting, guessing what it would feel like to be a girl kissed by another girl in front of our very satisfied Mothers-In-Law.
***
There are more than 500 Prim stories in his website at www.primspetticoatwendyhouse.com and members enjoy them all for a monthly subscription of 12.00 USD.
