I started working on a new post for my sissy blog, and what started as a commentary about the streak of hot weather we've been having in my town blossomed into a story. I thought it would be best to share that story with you. Please enjoy. Perhaps there will be more.
With that in mind, join me as I look at the watch, following it as it swings back and forth, back and forth, lazily arcing at the end of a golden chain. Join me as my eyes become heavy, so heavy, and the gentle words of the hypnotist take me back . . . back . . . back into the deepest part of my mind. Back and forth. Back in time.
Back and froth.
Back in time.
. . . and remember. Yes. I remember.
So long ago, many lifetimes away. I'm a young man of the south. But I'm so fair of face the other young men giggle behind my back. They call me a southern belle when they think I can't hear. But I do. It's so hot now. The hight of summer. I take refuge in the large plantation house. The heat can be bad for my health, and the sunlight even worse for my alabaster skin skin. I simply must find refuge from the heat. I carry myself up to my room and fling the windows wide. I'm greeted by a breeze, but even the zephyr burns like a beast's breath. I can't stand it.
I unbutton my vest, then my shirt. I kick my shoes to the corner and slide my stockings off of my feet. Then I undo the buckle of my trousers. I'm alone in the house. Father is away on business, and mother and sister are in town at a society function. The field hands cannot see me from where they labour. I stand in the window, naked, feeling the air blanket me in an invasive heat. But it feels wonderful.
In time I fall back onto my bed only to find that I am not it's only occupant. A large box has been placed there bearing the mark of a tailor of some renown. A dressmaker, to be precise. It must be my sister's new summer dress. With no one in the house, the delivery boy must have brought it to my room by mistake. I can't resist having a peak. Sister is always at the high of fashion.
I lift the lid of the box and am stunned. It's lovely. An elegant white summer dress, bedecked in ruffles and festooned with lace. I cannot resist, and touch the fabric with a trembling hand. It is cool to the touch, like the breeze I know will never come on a day such as this. For a moment I am still. A blush creeps across my face as this though enters my mind: I want to feel the coolness, all over my body.
I rise from the bed and gently lift the dress from it's box. I'm overtaken with a strange playfulness and spin around the room, a little dance with the dress as my partner. I hug the gown to me and shiver as the cool silk tickles my neck, chest, legs, and other places. I must be surrounded in this sensation.
In a moment I am standing before the long dressing mirror. I tweak and tug and fluff the dress, adjust the matching opera gloves, perch the wide hat just so, elated as the oppressive heat is banished from my body as if by magic. Seeing myself, I am struck by my beauty. The other young men are right. I am a southern belle, easily as comely as my sister. I fill the dress well, and I soon find that I am clapping my hands joyously in spite of myself. I twirl before the mirror, admiring the vision that I have become.
I am dancing around the room, pirouetting on my delicate bare toes. Then I am out, skipping through the halls, prancing in and out of rooms, crossing the hardwood floors like a dancer born. The fabric rustles, and with each motion my skin is tickled and cooled. With each twirl the petticoats brush my most intimate places and fan my backside. I wish to dance like this forever. . .
"There you are, my pretty thing."
The realization that I have been seen leaves me frozen. I can hear the heavy padding of large boots approaching from behind. My body holds still, though I want to run away, leaving me trembling ever so slightly.
"A lovely dress my dear, but white? Are you sure?" There is a pause, then the deep voice booms in crude and mocking laughter. "Well, we're alone Margaret, so no one need know."
Margaret? He thinks me my sister. And the voice, now I know it. Jasper. One of the hands who tends the livestock. But, my sister and he?
My thoughts are broken as his large, weathered arms wrap around my waist. He pulls me to him, his broad chest pressing against my back, and something else pressing against my backside through many layers of petticoat. I lose my footing and almost swoon. But from fear, or . . . something else? What is this new feeling invading me, betraying me?
I fall back into Jasper's arms and gasp as his lips find my neck. His stubble scratches my delicate skin like sandpaper, but I wish to feel more. With one hand around my waist he crushes me to his body, with the other he roughly paws my bodice. I want to scream, but I coo. Do I truly want this man to take me as he has apparently taken my sister?
"Enough of this now. Games are games, my dear, but I wish to make sport." His words assault me just as his hot breath sears my cheek. I'm spun roughly around and held to Jasper's chest, and at that moment our wild eyes meet.
Oh my, I must have drifted off there. So tell me, did I uncover and interesting memories while under hypnosis? Should I undergo regression again?