Here is another longtime fav story of mine. The synopsis reads: "A heartless step-mother exacts her revenge on her teen step-son with the help of Ms. Gladstone and her unique store."
You can find the original at Crystal's Story Site. It is "part 1," although I have not seen any other parts. If anyone know where the story continues, please do tell!
The Sissy Mister
by Kate
by Kate
Part 1
Mark Peters let out a low moan that couldn’t be heard above the organ as it played "Here Comes the Bride." Although every other head in the church turned to glimpse the tall, dark-haired beauty imperiously making her way down the aisle, Mark kept his eyes fixed on his feet. Had anyone been paying attention, they would have seen a small tear escape Mark’s eye.
It seemed like only yesterday that Mark’s mother and father had split up. Mark’s dad, Mark Senior, was a partner in one of the city’s oldest and most respected law firms. Mark recalled bitterly that his parents got along fine until she—Catherine—replaced his father’s grandmotherly secretary. In no time, Mark Senior and his new assistant were having a torrid affair, and leaving an obvious trail behind them. Mark’s mother confronted her husband in an effort to save the marriage, but it was to no avail; Mark Senior wanted out. In a final act of pique, Mark Senior insisted on sole custody of his only child. Mark’s mother, fully aware of the resources at her husband’s disposal, was forced to accede, retaining only visitation rights once a month.
In the brief time that Mark had gotten to know Catherine, he had come to loathe and fear her. It didn’t help that Mark went to school with her son, Biff, who was in the grade behind him in school. Although a year younger than Mark, Biff was a large kid with a reputation as an athlete and a bully. His "popularity" in school was bred largely from fear. Mark, on the other hand, was small in build like his mother, although he was intelligent and quick-witted. He had been intimidated by Biff even before his mother had started to work for Mark’s dad, and the few occasions when the adults had gotten them together so they could "get to know one another" had brought him no comfort whatsoever. Biff had treated him like gum on the bottom of his shoe.
As much as Mark disliked Biff, his hatred for his mother was ten-fold. He couldn’t understand why his dad couldn’t see that Catherine was nothing more than a selfish gold-digger; a manipulator who would stop at nothing to get her way. It didn’t endear Catherine to Mark that Catherine constantly compared Biff and Mark, noting how much bigger, more physically mature, and athletic Biff was. The comparison always left Mark feeling inadequate and angry.
Mark’s problems with Catherine had started the first time they had met at his father’s office. By way of introduction, Mark had emptied a water pistol with disappearing ink on her white blouse. The other secretaries in the office, who were well aware of Mark’s penchant for practical jokes, had simply laughed along when they had each been victimized in turn. Catherine, on the other hand, had grown so angry that Mark thought she might explode. Mark was frightened: he had never seen anyone so angry before. When he left, he could still hear the intimidating woman sputtering about "that horrid, nasty little shit."
When Mark’s dad had told him that he was going to have a new stepmother and stepbrother, Mark had pleaded with his father to reconsider until he finally lost patience with Mark. "Get used to it!" was his final exclamation. Now, on the wedding day, the nightmare was about to get worse.
Mark struggled emotionally as he got dressed for the wedding. How in the world could he deal with Catherine and her son? Living in his house? The prospect was appalling. In no time, however, Mark found himself at the back of the church, gathering with the other members of the wedding party. As the ushers led the last few guests to their seat, Mark panicked as he saw Catherine heading his way, a predatory smile playing about her face.
"Well, Mark, isn’t this exciting? Don’t you just love weddings?" Catherine continued, fixing Mark’s eyes with her own. "What do you think of my dress? Isn’t it darling?" Mark sullenly ignored her questions. Undeterred, Catherine continued, "Well, I hope you like it, because I thought that you might like to wear it one day when you get married. Assuming you fill out a little bit, of course." Catherine smirked as she saw the look of shock and bewilderment cross Mark’s face. She continued, relishing the moment: "Or would you prefer something a little more feminine. Lots of bows and lace. That’s what sissies like, isn’t it?"
Mark gasped as he realized what she was saying.
"That’s right sweetie. I know all about your little fashion show. Oh, you remember, don’t you? When your mother and father came back early from the opera and found you dolled up in mommy’s clothes. I was listening on the line when your mother called your dad at the office to argue about it. I’m afraid your father was just beside himself. He was mortified that his namesake—his only son-- was a little fairy. But you were so sweet dressed up in your mother’s little Chanel. You looked pretty, prim and proper in it, just like she always did. The pictures were just precious. Yes, I’ve seen them. Your dad asked me to get some film developed, and of course, I just had to see what was so important. You were so sweet; I had some extra copies made for myself. Of course, your father doesn’t know that I know. It’s our little secret."
"But it was all a misunderstanding…" Mark stammered. He was horrified. This woman knew his deepest, darkest secret. One that he thought was buried.
"Of course it was dear. I know," she added in mock sympathy. "Just like the times when you told your dad I was a gold digging slut. Yes, I was listening then, too. A girl has to know what’s going on around her. You picked the wrong woman to fuck around with! Oh, we’re going to have so much fun, you and I!" Catherine reached out and pinched Mark’s cheek—hard.
Throughout the service, Mark could think of nothing else other than the fact that Catherine knew! But it was what she would do with the knowledge that scared him. What did she mean…fun?
At the reception, Mark sat morosely by himself, full of self-pity. Catherine had seen to it that none of his friends had been invited to the wedding. Of course, plenty of Biff’s friends were there, being obnoxious as usual. And Catherine’s harpy friends were there too. Congratulating Catherine on her catch and welcoming her to easy street. Her secretarial days were over. Now she was a trophy wife with a wealthy husband who would do anything in exchange for the frantic sex and fawning that Catherine provided. Mark Senior was wrapped around her finger. Of course, Catherine’s friends were a lot like her—loud, pushy, manipulating, and attractive in a hard, high maintenance sense.
So lost in morose thought was Mark that he didn’t notice Catherine’s friends surround him. Before he knew it, the cackling women had him by the arms and were lifting him out of his seat.
"There you are, sweetie. Dreaming of your wedding day? Catherine says that when you get married, it’ll be to some hunky guy. She says you’ll be the bride, won’t you?"
As Mark sputtered out a protest, the group of women led him out in the main room of the reception hall. Stunned by forwardness of the women, Mark’s head reeled. While he struggled to escape, Mark saw something out of the corner of his eye, and it was headed directly for his face. Instincts taking over, Mark reached up, his hands catching the projectile. As if awaking from a dream, Mark realized too late what had happened. He had just caught the bouquet! Instantly, he was surrounded by laughing women, teasing him about being the next "girl" married. Lights flashed as the wedding photographer captured shot after shot of the boy who had caught the bride’s bouquet. As Mark caught Catherine’s eye, his blood ran cold. She was looking at Mark with a feral, predatory look that frightened him to the core. Mark began to breathe normally only when Catherine and his father made their way to the limousine waiting to take them to the airport.
With his father and new stepmother spending two weeks in Paris for their honeymoon, Mark had time to digest the revelations of the wedding day. Mark thought ruefully about the fateful night when he did the unthinkable—he had tried on his mother’s clothes. It had been, he concluded, an incredibly stupid thing to do. His parents out for the evening, and bored out of his skull, Mark had flipped channels endlessly, trying to find a decent show on television. Finally, he landed on some talk show. As fate would have it, the topic was "boys who want to be girls." As the guests prattled on and on about how fun and gratifying it was to dress and act as girls, Mark became somewhat curious. Eventually, after the show was over, boredom overcoming him, he thought he would kill a few minutes by seeing if the boys were right.
Mark nervously entered his mother’s large walk-in closet, his heart pounding. Why was he so nervous, he had wondered? Looking around, Mark was taken aback. His mother had so many clothes! What should he wear? Then he saw a familiar outfit: a knit navy blue suit with white, braid trim and gold buttons. His dad called it his mom’s Jackie Onassis suit. He remembered it was one of his mom’s favorites. She seemed to wear it whenever she wanted to look extra nice.
Mark figured that to be a fair test, he should probably "go all the way," and got panties, pantyhose and a bra to wear underneath. His hands trembled as he struggled to put on the unfamiliar garments. After putting on the outfit, including the pumps his mother always wore with the suit, Mark tried a little of his mother’s makeup. Unsure of what to do, Mark tried to imitate what he saw his mom do when she was getting ready to go out. In a moment of inspiration, he even found the matching purse and hat that his mother sometimes wore.
Surveying his image in the mirror, Mark had felt none of the "satisfaction" or "excitement" expressed by the boys on television. Instead, he was revolted. Revolted and embarrassed. He wondered how any real guy could enjoy dressing like a girl. In fact, he had concluded the whole thing must have been a put-on for television. Mark had actually shuddered as he pondered what it would be like to appear before others dressed like he was. How ironic, he later thought, considering what had happened next.
Relieved that he was not interested in cross-dressing in the least, Mark had allowed himself to indulge in a bit of horseplay. He began mugging for the mirror, primping, preening, gesturing, and generally acting as "girly" as he could as a final act of comedic catharsis before he changed after wearing women’s clothing for the first and -as far as he was concerned- last time. This went on for a few minutes-- until he saw the two faces at the doorway. Two shocked and angry faces. Mark’s mouth literally dropped open at the sight.
Although there was no way Mark could know it at the time, his parents had fought bitterly at the restaurant, deciding that attending the opera together was more than either could bear. Now his parents directed their pent-up anger toward him. His dad had been furious. Insisting that Mark remained dressed, he ranted on and on about how unfair it was that he had a "little fairy" for a son. His mother had been mad on that score, too, calling him a "pervert" and a "pantywaist". She actually said that she had suspected of someone getting into her things for sometime. Mark’s mother was also livid that Mark had violated her privacy in that fashion. She told him that she’d never be able to wear the outfit again, so he might as well keep it. "Besides, it looks simply divine on you," she mocked.
Mark desperately and tearfully tried to explain that it was a one-time thing, that he hated it, and that he never wanted to wear women’s clothes again. He tried to tell his parents about the television show. His mother had refused to believe him, and insisted that she "knew" that he had been in her things. Mark’s tearful assurances to the contrary fell on deaf ears. Mark’s mother actually made him take the outfit to the dry cleaners the next day, have it cleaned, and hang it in his closet for the next time he had a "special occasion" when he wanted to wear it. Mark cringed when he remembered how the girl at the dry cleaners had snickered when he brought it in. Knowing that the suit was his mother’s didn’t stop the pretty teen from teasing Mark about how darling "his" outfit was. Mark’s mom also laundered the under things he had been wearing, and had placed them prominently in his underwear drawer.
It was actually his mother who had insisted on taking pictures of him when his parents caught him "dressed," "so everyone can see what a big fairy boy you are." But it was his father’s idea that he should "prance around" like he had been doing while they watched. Consequently, the pictures showed a young teen boy in a very feminine outfit, a little too large for him, with a big, fake smile as he posed in feminine fashion for the camera. Every time tears had overcome Mark, his mother had stopped, repaired his makeup and forced him to continue until the whole roll was exposed. His mother then made him undress in front of her, shaking her head in disgust as he peeled off her bra and panties. Mark was mortified as his mother and father watched as he removed handfuls of tissues from his mother’s bra.
The next few days were awful, as both parents had regarded him like he was some kind of freak. Mark had repeatedly tried to explain, but his father had forbidden him to talk about it. His mother simply regarded him with a mixture of anger and contempt. Nonetheless, Mark went out of his way to be as macho as possible over the next few days in an effort to convince his parents that he was "normal." Even so, he would catch one or both of them staring at him from time to time, disgust etched in their faces. Fortunately, over time, his dad appeared to forget about the incident. After all, Senior had more important "matters" that needed his attention at the office.
His mother, on the other hand, never seemed to forget. Of course, it didn’t help that Mark Senior had continued to blame the incident on his wife’s "domineering behavior," a theme that he trotted out in any argument about his resort to other female companionship.
Ms. Peters had felt betrayed by Mark, and resented him for giving more excuses to his father for his philandering. Consequently, just when Mark would think that she had put the "Incident," as he became to think of it, out of her mind, she would say or do something that made it painfully obvious that she had not. For example, in public, his mother would often remark on some woman’s outfit. Invariably, she would opine with derision that Mark would look "divine" in it. On one occasion, she actually stopped a young woman: "Excuse me, miss. My son was just telling me how darling he thought your dress is, and how much he’d love to have one like it. Can you tell us where you got it?" Mark had been mortified as the laughing girl had described in great detail where she got the dress and how "perfect" it would be for Mark.
On another occasion, after a big fight with her husband, Ms. Peters had insisted that Mark accompany her to the mall. Sensing his mother’s anger, Mark became very anxious, particularly when she stopped the car outside of Neiman-Marcus, his mother’s favorite store. Ms. Peters strode through the store, her distraught teen-aged son in tow, until they arrived at her favorite department. Looking around nervously, Mark noticed that the department was full of fancy dresses and outfits similar to the one he had worn on that fateful night. A beautiful young woman, perfectly groomed and coiffed had rushed to greet Ms. Peters with a hug and a friendly greeting. Mark listened in horror as his mother explained that she needed some new outfits, and had brought Mark along to help her select, since he seemed to wear her things as much as she did. She even showed the salesgirl the pictures. Mark burned in embarrassment as the woman unsuccessfully stifled her laughter at the presumed sissy-boy. She led Mark over to a settee in the changing area—"just for us girls"- as she and her assistants brought outfit after outfit for his mother to try on. The salesgirls relished having Mark hold each dress in front of him before a large mirror before asking him his opinion. "Isn’t that just darling? You’ll look so cute in this, if you can get your Mommy to let you borrow it. Isn’t this little dress dreamy?" They would then make him hand the garment into the dressing room for his mother to try on. To Mark’s horror, they even brought a smaller size of a couple of dresses for him to try on so he and mom would have a "mother-daughter" look. His mother had grinned wickedly as they stood side by side in matching pink knit dresses. Needless to say, the salesgirls thoroughly enjoyed having a teen sissy boy to tease and play dress-up with.
Up until the day she left, Mark still did not know whether his mother had believed that he was a "normal" boy. But Mark had taken solace in the fact that with the divorce, perhaps the incident would eventually forgotten, or recalled years later in good humor as a childish prank.
Now Catherine had not only made that impossible, she apparently planned to make it worse. Mark could only hope that it was all a big joke on Catherine’s part and that she would forget Mark’s cross-dressing experiment as well.
After the newlyweds returned home, Mark was desperate to try and talk with Catherine, to try to patch things up. He found her in the master bedroom unpacking the largesse from her trip. In the bedroom were boxes and boxes bearing names that were vaguely familiar to Mark: Chanel, Givenchy, St. Mark Knits, Adolpho, the list went on and on. As Catherine eagerly removed the contents, Mark interrupted her.
"Um, Catherine? Can I talk to you for a minute? Uh, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea about me." Mark hesitated as Catherine stopped unpacking, and stared at him. Steeling himself, he continued. "I really wasn’t kidding the day of the wedding. You know I’m no sissy. That stuff with my mom’s clothes-- that was all a misunderstanding. Let’s just forget the whole thing, okay? I know we got off on the wrong foot. I’m really sorry about that. I was thoughtless when I said those things about you and squirted you. Can’t we be friends?" he pleaded hopefully, trying to look endearing.
In no time Catherine had closed the distance between them and roughly taken Mark’s chin in her hand. " What’s the matter? Don’t you like feeling humiliated? Don’t you like the embarrassment that comes from people thinking that you’re a pansy; a panty-wearing fairy? Kind of like being the butt of a practical joke isn’t it? Like having invisible ink sprayed all over your favorite blouse? Well, I like jokes, too. Only this time, the joke’s on you." She released his chin and continued: " You’ll be my little toy. My very own little Ken to dress like Barbie." Mark withered under Catherine’s stare. He knew she wasn’t kidding: He could see that much in her eyes. Mark was more afraid than ever of the conniving harpy. Mark retreated to his room, morose over what the future held in store for him.
The next day, as Mark was dressing for school, Catherine strode into his room, not bothering to knock. "Good morning, dearie." Before he knew what was happening, Catherine had sprayed him with a cloud of strong perfume.
"Catherine! What are you doing?" Mark sputtered. "That stuff reeks!"
"I just thought you’d enjoy trying my new perfume that I got in Paris. Isn’t it just yummy? It’s Chanel, and since I know how much you adore their clothes, I thought you’d love their scent."
"Catherine, are you crazy? I can’t smell like perfume at school. What will everyone think?"
"They’ll think you’re the kind of boy who likes to wear ladies’ perfume to smell pretty. That’s what," she said sharply.
Mark was reminded of how his mother smelled when she was getting dolled up for some special occasion. He fervently prayed that the smell would wear away before school.
At breakfast, Catherine wasted little time in "having fun" with Mark. As she sat down she sniffed the air with a flourish. "Hmm, that’s funny," she said with a confused look. It almost smells as if someone is wearing my new perfume. But that’s silly. I’m the only girl in the house. I’m sure none of you he-men would wear women’s perfume. It must be my imagination," she added brightly.
Mark started to say that she knew damn well who smelled, but one look at Catherine made him realize that she would only deny it and make him look like a liar in the process. So Mark just kept quiet, reddening as he caught his father looking at him with a quizzical look. Mark ate quickly, and bolted out the door, avoiding contact with his father at all costs.
School was a disaster. Mark had assumed that the feminine scent would wear off as he hurried to school, but as he walked and his body temperature rose, the scent grew stronger, if anything. Mark tried to convince himself that it was his imagination. However, any pretense that others wouldn’t notice his new scent disappeared as soon as he sat down. Becky Johnson, a pretty blonde on whom Mark had a crush, sat in front of him in homeroom. In no time she was sniffing the air, trying to determine the source of the feminine, flowery scent. Just as she turned and looked at Mark inquisitively, the teacher walked in. She took three steps before she loudly declared, "Alright, which one of you girls has gotten into her mother’s Chanel No. 5?" As she scanned the room, the class tittered, awaiting the identification of the culprit. Mark slunk down in his seat wishing he could disappear. "Well, come on, girls, who is it? It certainly won’t be too hard to figure out." His face burning, Mark slowly raised his hand."
"Yes, Mark, what is it?"
"It’s ...me. I mean, the perfume thing."
The class roared its amusement as the teacher tried to restore order. Mark tried to think of an excuse: "Uhh. I’m sorry, but I guess my stepmother accidentally spilled some of her perfume on me this morning. I didn’t have time to wash it off."
The teacher looked at Mark curiously. The excuse sounded plausible enough. Why else would a thirteen-year old boy reek of an expensive ladies’ perfume. But why did he look so embarrassed? She couldn’t resist having a little fun with him. "Well, I never thought I’d have to lecture one of my boy students about wearing too much perfume, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. Mark, the same rule applies to you as the rest of the girls in class. If you are going to wear Mommy’s perfume, a little goes a long way. We don’t want the EPA shutting us down for clean air violations." Mark turned an even deeper shade of red as the students laughed at him.
The rest of the day, kids were constantly coming up to Mark, inhaling deeply, and telling him how pretty he smelled. Trying to make him feel better, Becky had told him that Chanel was her mother’s favorite, and that she liked it, too. Even so, Mark couldn’t wait for the day to end. At lunch, Mark sat alone, hoping for some solace. That hope was dashed when Biff and several of his classmates loudly sat down at his table. Guys, have I introduced you to my little sister, Mark? Believe it or not, he’s in eighth grade." Biff leaned over and inhaled deeply. "Why, don’t you smell pretty today, Markie. Mom was worried that you wouldn’t like her new perfume, but I guess you really do, don’t you, pansy boy?"
"Shut up, asshole," Mark muttered with as much bravado as he could.
"Uh-oh. That’s no way for a pussy to talk. I’m afraid I better tell your Mommy," he mimicked. Biff and his buddies laughed as he walked away, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts.
After dinner, Catherine entered Mark’s room without knocking. "Precious, I’m afraid I’ve heard a very disappointing report about you." Catherine continued in her mock-serious tone: "Good little girlie-boys don’t talk back to their big brothers. It isn’t becoming. Besides, it might make Mommy mad." For emphasis, Catherine pinched Mark’s ear--hard. I think you had better apologize to your brother, don’t you? And from now on, I don’t want to hear any more complaints about you. Do you understand me?
"Yes ma’am," Mark yelped as his ear throbbed with pain.
"Good! Now go say you’re sorry. That’s a good girlie."
Mark slowly shuffled his way down the hallway to what was now Biff’s bedroom, cursing Catherine under his breath. As he entered, a nasty grin spread across Biff’s face. Biff obviously knew what was coming. As Mark began to stammer out a half-hearted apology, Biff quickly jumped from his desk, and in one quick motion, had Mark’s arm twisted behind him painfully.
"Listen, queer bait. You ever disrespect me again and I’ll pound you, do you understand?"
Mark nodded vigorously as he gasped in pain. He couldn’t believe how strong Biff was.
"Fine! Then tell me what a faggy little sissy boy you are."
Mark hesitated until Biff gave his arm a vicious twist. Wincing in pain, he squealed, "I’m a faggy little sissy boy! I’m a faggy little sissy boy!"
"There. Doesn’t it feel good to admit the truth? Now go play with your dollies." Biff shoved the older boy to the floor.
Mark retreated quickly to the safety of his room, where he dissolved in tears at the new family dynamic that was developing.
The next morning, Mark dressed quickly, fearful that Catherine would "visit" him again. However, breakfast was peaceful, although Mark had to listen to Biff brag about how well the football team was doing while Catherine beamed and egged him on. Mark’s father was obviously impressed, and promised to attend Biff’s games. Mark sat sullenly, wondering how he could get back in his father’s good graces, and get Catherine off his back.
That night, however, Catherine continued her little game. As she and Mark Senior were dressing for bed, she adopted a confused tone. "Darling?"
"Yeah, hon?"
"It’s the weirdest thing. Ever since we got back from our honeymoon, I’ve had the strangest feeling that someone has been in my things. I mean, my new dresses and skirts are all here, but they’re not where I put them. It’s almost as if someone’s been trying them on." She paused for impact. "But that’s silly. I live with three men. What guy would want to wear the latest in women’s fashion from Paris? How ridiculous," she laughed. "It must be my imagination."
Catherine slyly turned so she could gauge Mark Senior’s reaction. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as she noted the look of concern on his face. She smiled as she climbed into bed, secure in the knowledge that her plan was coming together nicely.
Before breakfast the next morning, Mark received a visitor, but it wasn’t Catherine. It was his dad. And he was spitting mad.
"Mark, just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?"
Mark was taken aback and could only stammer as his father continued his tirade. "You told me—no, you promised me that it was a one-time thing, that you weren’t some kind of fruit!"
"Dad, what are you saying?"
"Oh, come off of it. I know that you’ve been prancing around in Catherine’s clothes every chance you get. Your mother was right about you. You’re just a big sissy!"
"But Dad! I haven’t! Really!"
"Just save it! Don’t lie to me. But it better stop right now! Do you hear? I won’t have it under my roof. Understand? If it doesn’t stop…" Mark Senior sputtered and pointed angrily.
"Sure Dad, but…"
Mark Senior silenced him with a wave of his hand as he stormed out of the room. Mark knew that Catherine was behind it. Mark felt his father’s glare all through breakfast, while Catherine looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. She even stuck her tongue out and winked at him when his father buried his face in the morning paper. Mark reddened with anger and frustration.
The next few days, Mark tried to stay as far away from Catherine and Biff as he could. But on Friday, Catherine was waiting for him after school. "Oh, goodie. You’re home. Now, we don’t have much time before your father gets home, so let’s get started, shall we?"
Knowing that Catherine was up to no good, Mark turned toward the door to run. Biff, who had preceded Mark home, quickly blocked his escape, and roughly twisted Mark’s arm behind him. Mark grimaced in pain.
"Now Mark," Catherine clucked. "We’re just going to have a little fun. I know how much you like to play dress-up. I have the pictures to prove it. I’m disappointed you haven’t asked to wear my things. What’s the matter? Not prissy enough for you? I think we can find something you’ll like. Well, at least one of us will." Catherine laughed heartily at her own joke.
As Biff shoved him into the master bedroom, Mark looked in horror at the outfit laid out the bed. It was a pink evening gown and all the accessories: matching pumps, long evening gloves, a little beaded evening bag, even a jeweled tiara. Catherine picked up the long, strapless dress and held it against Mark’s trembling body. " Isn’t it just dreamy? It just screams femininity. I bought it in Paris, just for you. It’s way too small for me. Now let’s get you dressed."
Mark pleaded with Catherine as she waited for him to begin undressing. "Please Catherine. Don’t do this! My dad already thinks I’m some kind of fairy. He’ll think I like dressing up like a girl. He’ll be furious. Please! I’ll do whatever you say. Just not this."
"Markie, dearest. You’re so silly. That’s the point, isn’t it? We want your father to realize exactly what kind of sniveling little pantywaist he has for a son." Catherine and Biff snickered as tears streamed down Mark’s face. "Now get undressed, or I’ll have Biff ‘help’ you."
Within minutes, Mark stared forlornly in the mirror as Catherine made the final touches to his makeup. "There! I think that looks like the kind of make-up job a thirteen-year-old boy would do. Don’t you just look precious! So girlish! So…garish! Oh, there’s your father’s car. Don’t you move a muscle!" she growled as she pushed him back on the bed. Mark listened tearfully as he waited for the inevitable explosion. After all, he had some experience in being caught wearing women’s clothes. As the door from the garage opened, Mark could hear Catherine bawling. "What an actress," he thought bitterly. He heard Catherine tearfully tell Mark Senior about how she had returned from shopping to find Mark in her bedroom. At that point, Catherine strategically shed a few more fake tears. "And he was wearing my things!" Mark heard her exclaim breathlessly.
Mark Senior reached the door in seconds flat. "Damn it!" he exploded. "Not again! What did I tell you! You just couldn’t keep from prancing around in Catherine’s clothes!" Mark knew that denials would only make matters worse, so he just hung his head.
As Catherine sniffled and tried to "regain her composure," she interrupted. "And dear, there’s more! I found these under Mark’s mattress when I was making his bed." With a practiced wide-eyed innocence, Catherine handed Mark Senior a stack of papers and booklets. Although Mark couldn’t see what the materials were, he knew they didn’t come from his room. Whatever it was, it made his father even angrier. "I’ll deal with you later," Mark Senior exclaimed through gritted teeth. With that, he threw the materials down at Mark’s feet, and slammed the door shut, leaving Mark alone with his self-pity. However, when, Mark picked up some of the papers, he really began to feel sorry for himself.
On top was a printout of a web page, apparently designed for teenage transsexuals. "How to Become the Girl You Are Inside" was the horrifying title of the article. The next item was entitled, "How to Attract a Boyfriend: A Teen Sissy’s Guide to Sex and Dating." Mark was aghast, imagining what his father must be thinking. "Catherine, that bitch!" The rest of the articles and booklets were equally sickening: "A Young Sissy’s Guide To Estrogen: Grow Your Own Breasts;" "Fall Fashions for Today’s Young Sissy;" "Just Like Mommy: Dresses for the Sissy Sophisticate;" and "The Latest In Lingerie for Boys." Mark fell back on the bed, his eyes brimming with tears.
After what seemed like an eternity, Catherine entered the room, followed closely by his father. Mark was somewhat relieved to see that his father had calmed somewhat. As his father stood near the doorway, his eyes averted, Catherine sat down next to Mark and slipped her arm around Mark’s shoulder in a sisterly fashion. "Mark, your father and I have been doing a lot of talking." Catherine continued in a soft, empathetic tone that barely covered her wicked amusement. "I must confess that when I saw you, all prettied up in my new evening gown like a little princess, I was shocked. I had no idea that you were anything other than a normal teenaged boy. But you’ve been pretending, haven’t you?" Catherine paused sympathetically before continuing in a saccharine tone. "The perfume, the misplaced clothes in my closet, it all makes sense now. And now your father tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve worn a dress, is it?"
Mark shook his head mutely, fearing where the conversation was heading.
"Well, as you can imagine, your father is very upset that you aren’t the son he was hoping for. But I’ve explained to him that he has a new son now. Biff. A real boy; an athlete. Someone he can do guy things with. But I explained to him that you’re different. You’re a special little person who needs to express his femininity: In his clothes, his mannerisms, his interests, and according to the web pages you’ve been reading, his love life. You poor thing. You’ve been living a horrible little lie, haven’t you? As I explained to your father, I know a lot about boys like you. I did a lot of work at college in psychology before I had to drop out." Catherine actually chuckled at the thought of studying anything in college except parties and sex. "Your father has agreed, as painful as it may be for him, that he wants to see that you get what you want and that you’re happy, even if that means you being more of a daughter than a son. And he’s agreed that since I have so much knowledge in the area, I will be in charge of helping realize your dreams. Isn’t that wonderful? We’ll be just like sisters. But we’ll have no more sneaking around, will we? And of course, you’ll have to do what exactly as I say, or you’ll be punished. Do you understand? It’s for your own good." Catherine stroked his hair and plucked at the gown he was wearing.
Mark dissolved into tears once again as he heard that Catherine now had carte blanche from his father to get her way. As he cried, Catherine, simply pulled him into her arms, and clucked, "You go ahead and cry, dearie. Tears of joy never hurt anyone."
The following morning, a Saturday, Mark sullenly made his way to breakfast. "Oh, there you are sleepyhead. Hurry up. The boys are going to play golf today, while you and I do a little shopping," Catherine enthused.
Mark most certainly did not want to go anywhere with his tormentor. He turned to his father. "Can I play golf, too? Please."
Catherine answered for him. "Don’t be silly. It’s just the guys. They’ll just be talking about sports and cars and things. Nothing you’d be interested in. Now help me clear the dishes. A girl’s got to carry her weight, you know."
In no time, Mark found himself in the car with Catherine. After a short drive they pulled up to a storefront on the posh shopping avenue in town. The local women laughingly referred to the street as the town’s "Rodeo Drive." The store, like the others on the street, was opulent and well appointed. It had large display windows, which were accented by ornate pink and white awnings, accented with bows and ribbons. Through one of the windows, Mark noticed what looked like a beauty salon. The other windows were what Mark would expect at an expensive girls’ clothing store: mannequins dressed in obviously expensive female clothing, and posed in a very feminine fashion. Mark prayed they were going somewhere else, but Catherine was obviously escorting him toward the entrance to the store. Mark saw the name of the store in flowery, feminine script on the glass door, but had trouble making out what it read. It took several seconds of concentrated effort before Mark could make it out. To his horror, it read, "The Sissy Mister." Disbelievingly, Mark looked at the display window closest to the door. Mark noticed for the first time that the mannequins wearing the prissy dresses and other feminine outfits were boys!
Although he instinctively tried to pull away, Catherine’s grip was too strong, and Mark soon found himself in the most extravagant, most feminine store he had ever seen. It was worse—much worse—than the ladies department at Nieman –Marcus. The store was furnished with French provincial furniture, upholstered in pink and white silk chintz. Everything was extremely delicate and dainty. The place just screamed femininity.
Mark eyes darted around like a caged animal, horrified at what he saw. As Mark looked on disbelievingly, an older woman made a boy a little younger than Mark hold a frilly dress against his body as she "oohed" and "ahhed" about how "darling" he’d look in it. Mark recognized the look of fear and embarrassment on the boy’s face as his sister pointed and laughed. In another area, a group of girls were trying to find "just the right shoes and hat" for a hapless boy wearing a girl’s short set. The red-faced boy stood horrified as the giggling girls selected a pair of spectator pumps to go with his sophisticated outfit. From a dressing area not far from where they stood, Mark could hear the tearful pleas of a young boy who was begging his mother and sister not to make him dress like a "sissy girl."
So shocked was he that Mark almost didn’t notice the mannish woman striding toward them. Her short dark hair and tall build gave her an air of authority. Instinctively, Mark was afraid of her. As she approached the group, a wide, predatory grin spread across her face. "Ladies, welcome to the Sissy Mister!" Although ostensibly addressing both of them, she stared at Mark as if sizing up her next meal. Finally she released him from her gaze. "I’m Doris Gladstone. Welcome to my little establishment! Now how can I be of service?"
Catherine immediately piped up. "Doris, so pleased to meet you. We talked by telephone. I’m Catherine Peters, and this," she said, roughly pulling Mark in front of her, "is my son, Markie. Actually, he’s my stepson, but we’ve become so close recently that I consider him my own. Little Markie is a "special" boy. More girl than boy, really. And I’ve heard that you do wonders with girly-boys like him."
"Oh, we certainly do, Catherine. In fact, little darlings like your Mark are why we’re in business." Ms. Gladstone motioned them toward an area that appeared to serve as her office. After the trio were comfortably seated, with Mark safely enveloped between them, she picked up a remote control. "Why don’t we start with this? It’s a little video we’ve put together explaining our services." She directed their attention to a large flat screen display and started the tape.
The video was impeccably produced, and in no time Catherine was enthralled. On screen, Ms. Gladstone explained that while working in retail stores serving fashionable young ladies, she came to realize that there was a substantial group of boys—sissy boys—whose "needs" were going unmet. While Ms. Gladstone was able to provide them with normal feminine apparel more suitable to their "true natures," she was unable to provide them with products designed specifically for them, as well as services that would "make their girlish dreams come true." On the tape, Ms. Gladstone described how with the cooperation of some radical feminist fashion designers, psychologists, and medical professionals, she created "The Sissy Mister."
Ms. Gladstone continued her on-screen talk while the camera followed her around the store. Her first stop was the luxurious sixties-style beauty shop located in the store. Behind her on the screen was a large mannish woman eagerly (and roughly) putting curlers in a miserable boy’s longish hair. A stylish lady and girl, presumably the boy’s mother and sister, sat nearby, both obviously enjoying the show. The sister occasionally snapped pictures to the obvious dismay of the boy. While Ms. Gladstone described the wide array of beauty services offered by the salon, Mark’s attention was riveted on the boy. He could just hear the boy’s tearful pleading in the background, "Mom, make her stop. I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you say. I don’t want a permanent! The guys at school will kill me. Mom, please!" Mark cringed as he saw mother and daughter exchange a smile and a giggle before the mother responded: "But darling, you do want to look your prettiest for your school picture tomorrow, don’t you? Now be still so that Hazel can get your curls nice and tight. Janie, won’t your brother look precious with his eyebrows plucked?"
On screen, Ms. Gladstone casually moved to one of the impeccable displays of feminine clothing. While she went on at length about the care and attention that goes into each "SM" garment, another disturbing vignette played out behind her. A boy about Mark’s age was standing on one of the many, mirrored platforms dotting the store. Mark felt sick as he saw what the boy was wearing: a black, chiffon off the shoulder party dress with a full, ankle-length skirt. On his feet were matching stiletto pumps. It was something a woman would have worn to a fancy party –forty or fifty years ago. As the salesgirl made adjustments to the hem, Mark could see that the boy was crying. On the other hand, the women watching the fitting appeared delighted, wide smiles on their face while they admired the dress. Mark thought he heard one woman exclaim, "Oh Donald, quit crying. This dress is precious. You’ll be the prettiest boy at your school dance. The date we have arranged won’t be able to keep his hands off of you. And wait until you see the darling fur stole that goes with your dress." The video went on and on as Ms. Gladstone navigated the store, explaining the services and products.
Mark felt as if he were going to throw up. Was this what Catherine had in mind for him? Why else would they be here? Mark anxiously glanced at Catherine. She had a smug, satisfied look on her face. Mark knew what it meant, and he ran. In a panic, he forgot about the threats, his father, Biff, and everyone else. He just had to run. As he bolted for the door, Catherine stood to chase after him. Ms. Gladstone simply motioned for her to sit down.
"Don’t worry. It happens all the time. Here at the Sissy Mister, we’re prepared to deal with "reluctant sissies" who haven’t come to terms, shall we say, with their true selves." Ms. Gladstone activated an intercom. "Max, will you see to the boy at the front door."
Fascinated, Catherine watched as Mark reached the front door and struggled to get out. The door was locked from the inside. As he struggled in vain, Mark didn’t notice the large woman come up behind him. In one effortless motion, the woman twisted Mark’s arm behind him and easily lifted him to his toes. Catherine watched in awe as she forced the lad toward the back of the store.
"I’m afraid young master Mark is about to get a lesson in discipline from one of our clerks. Frankly, I think it’s Max’s favorite part of the job. Now, what do you think of our little operation?"
"Oh, Doris." Catherine enthused. "This is just perfect for what I have in mind for my stepson. I do so want him to be the swishiest little sissy boy imaginable. This place is a dream come true. How do we get started?"
Ms. Gladstone handed Catherine an elaborate folder containing a questionnaire and several release forms. She explained, "We like to know as much as we can about our little darlings, so we can individualize their experience. We also post picture and bios of all our new girls on our web page. I’ve given you a description of all our services, including our medical products. You need simply decide which you think are most appropriate for your Mark and return it to me".
As the women chatted happily and sipped tea, Max eventually returned with a red-faced and downcast Mark. It was obvious that Mark had been crying, and tears continued to quietly roll down his cheeks. Catherine almost missed the fact that Mark was walking very tenderly, because her attention was drawn to what he was wearing: a pink satin smock, with a large, stiff white collar and cuffs and matching slippers. A huge black bow tickled his chin from below. The hem of the smock consisted of another wide black ribbon tied tightly in a large bow just below his knees. The tight ribbon and bow gave a bubble shape to the smock, and made it impossible for him to take anything other than tiny, mincing steps.
As Catherine laughed gleefully, Ms. Gladstone fixed Mark with a stare. "Oh, good, I see Mark is ready for some shopping. I trust we’re not going to have any more problems, are we, Mark?"
Unconsciously, Mark’s hand rubbed his bottom as he heard himself answer, "No, Ma’am."
"Excellent." Ms. Gladstone approached Mark and began fussing with the collar of his smock. "Tell me, Mark, darling. Are you fully "out" yet?" she asked with a mocking smile.
Mark looked at her with a puzzled look.
Noting his confusion, Ms, Gladstone continued, stroking Mark’s hair. "What I mean is, do you dress as a sissy boy full-time? Even at school?"
Mark recoiled physically from Ms. Gladstone’s touch. "Of course not! I’m a boy and I dress like one! At school and everywhere else!"
"I see. Then you’re keeping your girly side a secret between you and Mommy?"
"Uh, yeah. I mean no!"
"Well, we don’t want to rush things, do we? So let’s just go out and find you some things to make you look and feel more girlish. Okay?" Ms. Gladstone smiled a saccharine sweet smile as she led Mark across the store, his stepmother in tow.
With an iron grip that caused Mark to recoil in pain, Ms. Gladstone led the boy to the lingerie department. "Let’s start with some dainty under things for you, shall we? Here’s a little something that I know you’ll just adore, Mark. We call them ‘Pansy Panties.’"
Mark cringed as he looked at the garment that Ms. Gladstone held out to him. It was part panty, part girdle. The stretch garment seemed impossibly small. "Well, what are you waiting for? I know you’re dying to try it on. You just can’t wait to see how pretty you look, aren’t you? You pathetic femme-boy. Go ahead. It’s just us girls." One look in Max’s direction made Mark realize what he had to do. Mark reddened at the laughter of the women as he was forced to wriggle his bottom to get them on. The panty girdle was a heavy affair, with lace and satin panels, and the material gripped him like steel. Mark felt like he was being cut in half. The front forced his private parts to the rear, making him look just like a girl in front. The panties also had a wide lace waistband that extended to just under his ribs, compressing his waist almost as well as any corset. While his waist was inches smaller, his hips were huge, thanks to the strategically placed gel padding, giving him an "adorable femmy shape," according to Ms. Gladstone.
Ms. Gladstone had removed Mark’s smock and made him walk across the store so Catherine could get a good look at his new figure. The giggles from the girls and women in the store had made their approval obvious. The hapless boys in the store had silently communicated their sympathy, knowing that they, too, were likely to be put on display. Mark’s face burned with embarrassment, as he felt his new "hips" wiggle as he walked. Catherine had loved the effect, and insisted that Mark select a dozen pair of the panty-girdles, insisting that when they returned home, she would throw away all of Mark’s boxers and briefs.
As Mark considered the terrifying implications of wearing a panty girdle full time, Ms. Gladstone moved to a rack of lacy bras, and returned holding a heavily frilled black bra with lace cups in her hand. "Of course, a dainty sissy like you simply must have bras to match your new panties. This is from our line of sissy training bras, ‘Boobsie Boy Bras.’ Don’t you just love it?"
As Catherine chortled her approval, Ms. Gladstone roughly threaded the bra over Mark’s arms and shoulders. Like the panties, the bra was heavily constructed with built in gel padding, giving him the appearance of having small, but unmistakably feminine, breasts. To his horror, Mark looked in the mirror and saw that the cups of the bra were pointed, like a bra he had seen Madonna wear in an old music video. Ms. Gladstone and Catherine laughed gleefully when they saw the look of utter dismay on Mark’s face. "This is an update on the old bullet bra design from the fifties. Just perfect for our young sissy here. Boys will just love the way your little titties stick out. But you have to be careful not to put anyone’s eye out." Mark’s shoulders slumped in despair as the women continued their laughter.
A flash from a camera brought Mark out of his stupor. "Smile pretty, darling." Catherine aimed her digital camera at the hapless boy. Mark could take no more. "No! Cut it out. I’m not going to smile, and if you think I’m ever going to wear this stuff, you’re crazy!" Mark snarled.
Catherine turned to Ms. Gladstone, an amused look on her face. Ms. Gladstone in turn pushed a nearby button, and in no time, Mark saw Max’s imposing hulk striding toward them.
"N-no! I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry! Please Catherine!" The women ignored Mark’s pleas as Max propelled him toward the back of the store where she once again performed her magic. After a few minutes, the two returned, Mark’s tear-streaked face speaking volumes.
As Max looked on, an angry look on her face, a contrite and subdued Mark delivered an obviously scripted speech: "Catherine. Ms. Gladstone. I am so sorry for my unladylike behavior. I just love my pretty new panties and bra, and would love it if you would take some pictures of me. Pretty please?"
Catherine chuckled, "Since you asked so nicely, of course. We’ll put these in our new family photo album. But you’ll have to smile pretty. Just like when your mommy was taking the pictures." With Max’s presence daring him to step out of line, Catherine forced Mark to pose like a fifties pin-up, his breasts proudly on display. Mark smiled "a big sissy smile" throughout, knowing full well what would happen if he didn’t cooperate. When Catherine finally was done, Ms. Gladstone approached Mark and began playing with his hair. "Oh we are going to have such fun with your hair when it grows out a little. The ladies in the salon are just going to love you. Won’t your little schoolmates be entertained when you show up at school with a girly hairdo." It took all of Mark’s willpower to resist telling her to go to hell.
Finally, Mark found himself heading to the car, his bras and panties—except for the ones he was wearing—packed in white tissue in two large pink "Prissy Mister" shopping bags, the name emblazoned in fancy white script. Mark tried to hunch over the best he could to hide his twin projectiles, but with limited success. He heard the snickers and the laughter he left in his wake. He was left numb with embarrassment. But mixed in with the humiliation was fear. Fear of what Catherine had in store for him. After all, Mark could tell that she had had the time of her life seeing Mark ridiculed by Ms. Gladstone and her staff. Fearing the worst, Mark prayed it was a one-time thing.
On Monday morning, it was all Mark could do to drag himself out of bed. Catherine had made it clear that he was to wear his new underwear that day…and every other day. Of course, to ensure his cooperation, Catherine had thrown out all his boy underwear, leaving him little choice as far as the Pansy Panties were concerned. But the bra! That was a different matter entirely. Mark was mortified that the kids at school would be able to tell he was wearing it. He’d be an utter and complete laughing stock! As if reading his thoughts, Catherine strode into the room.
"Well don’t we look sweet this morning? Pink is definitely your color. But where’s your bra? Here. Allow me." In no time, Catherine had Mark encased in one of his new "Boobsie Boy" bras. "There!" she exclaimed with a flourish. "Just think! Your first day to school in a bra. Aren’t you excited? You don’t have to pretend to be a boy anymore. And you’ll have two new friends to introduce to your little classmates." With a smirk, Catherine pinched the tips of Mark’s bra. Ignoring Catherine’s "disappointment, " and despite the warm weather, Mark quickly put on the thickest sweatshirt he could find.
At breakfast, Mark had slouched down as much as possible, mortified that his father would see his bra. Catherine soon took care of that. "Mark! Sit up straight. That’s no way for a young lady to sit. If you are going to insist on wearing a bra, your going to have to get used to the attention you get. I mean, after all, it’s not every day you see a boy with boobs, is it? I’m sure your father and your brother will get used to the sight of you in the pretty things you picked out. I’ve told your father all about our little shopping spree, and how you were the happiest I’d ever seen you."
Laughing, Biff spit out a mouthful of oatmeal as he spied Mark’s twin protrusions, which were noticeable despite the sweatshirt. Mark Senior simply buried his nose further in the morning paper.
As Mark walked to school, he kept his books pressed to his chest, desperately trying to think of a solution to the impending crisis. Mark knew that any semblance of a life would be over as soon as his classmates discovered he was wearing a bra. He had seen firsthand how any kid who was the slightest bit different was treated. Heck, he had even done some teasing himself. With all the lectures about diversity and tolerance, he knew that the reality was that junior high students were astonishingly cruel. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. It wasn’t fair! He was no sissy! Nothing he ever did to Catherine justified what she was putting him through. In the end, Mark decided to take the hated thing off, and at the earliest possible moment. He rationalized that as soon as school was over, he would put the bra back on, and Catherine would never be the wiser. He relished the idea of putting one over on Catherine. As he entered the school, Mark rushed to the nearest boy’s bathroom and into the first stall he came to. In no time, he had the hated bra off and into his backpack. Mark sighed a huge sigh of relief as he rubbed where the bra had bitten into his flesh.
In homeroom, Mark caught a few kids staring at his new, more ample, derriere. Billy hoped that his classmates wouldn’t be able to put their finger on what was different about him.
Knowing that Biff would be lying in wait for him, Billy hid in the boys’ bathroom during lunch. After school, Billy returned to the bathroom, replaced his bra, and quickly ran home, his books to his chest. Mark was elated when he got safely home. He felt such a sense of triumph that he struck a Marilyn-esque pose as he walked by Catherine. Catherine gave him a questioning look. She had expected much more of a reaction. As for Biff, Mark simply ignored him when he asked Mark "where the hell he was during lunch period."
Emboldened by his success, Mark continued his new school routine until Friday morning, when disaster struck. During math, a messenger asked for him to come down to the office. Since this was a common occurrence, Mark didn’t think twice. In fact, he relished the chance to get up and stretch his legs. But when he rounded the corner into the office and came face to face with Catherine, his heart leapt.
"There’s my little angel," she declared loudly. After you left for school, I realized that I forgot to give you your goodbye hug!"
As the women in the office "ahhed" in unison about how sweet Catherine was to come all the way to school to give Mark a hug, Mark blanched. Catherine leaned down and gave him a huge hug, purposefully allowing her hand to travel up the back of Mark’s sweatshirt where the bra should have been.
As Catherine released him she stared directly into his eyes, an evil glint in hers. "There! I feel better. Don’t you?" Crestfallen, Mark turned to return to class.
"By the way. Hurry home after school, dearest. Mommy is going to have a big surprise for you," Catherine lilted as he left the room.
As school ended, Mark could hardly make his feet move toward home, knowing that Catherine would surely punish him for not wearing his bra. He kicked himself mentally. How could he have been so stupid? In what seemed like seconds, Mark found himself cowering before Catherine in their living room. Standing with her hands on her hips, Catherine unleashed her fury. "You little shit! Do you think I’m so dumb that I wouldn’t find out? You’re going to learn a lesson, missy. If I tell you to wear a bra, you’ll wear a damn bra! Do you understand me?"
When she was done screaming, Catherine propelled Mark past a laughing Biff into the car. Mark didn’t dare speak, Catherine was so angry. As they pulled up in front of The Sissy Mister, Mark was not surprised in the least. In no time, a cowed Mark was listening as a sputtering Catherine told a bemused Ms. Gladstone what had transpired.
When Catherine was finished, Ms. Gladstone turned to Mark. "Darling, whatever were you thinking, disobeying your step-mother? The idea! Were you worried that the other kids would tease you and call you names when they found out you wear a bra? Well, that’s just too bad. It comes with the territory, sissy-boy!" she laughed. Now let’s see… we’ll have to think of something special to help you remember to do exactly what your step mother tells you from now on. Ah! I know just the thing. Max, could you join us for a second, please?"
As Catherine and Ms. Gladstone chatted and relaxed as Max disappeared with Mark. After about an hour, Ms. Gladstone interrupted: "Our little girly-boy returns."
Catherine’s face broke into a wide grin as she took in the sight before her. There was behemoth Max, striding toward them, with Mark in tow. Not only was Mark wearing a bra, but over the crook of his elbow, he was carrying a large black patent leather purse. Catherine couldn’t help but think of the movie, "Breakfast at Tiffany’s," since the purse appeared to be from that era. Aside from the fake smile plastered on Mark’s face, there was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Mark was wearing make-up!
"Oh, Mommy, look at my lovely new purse. Max helped me pick it out. And guess what? Max took me to the makeup counter, and they gave me my very own play make-up, so I can be just like the big girls. It’s called "Barbie-Boy Make-Up!" Isn’t it divine?" Mark intoned he words enthusiastically, knowing the consequences if he did not.
Catherine turned to Ms. Gladstone, who explained: "It’s a new product line for our little girlies who aren’t quite ready for real makeup. The kit includes frosted pink lip-gloss, some blush, clear mascara, and a pressed powder in a pretty little compact. It’s perfect for our sissies who are new to make-up. It’s not too obvious at a distance, but anyone in the same room with Mark will know he’s wearing make-up. Oh, and I almost forgot! There’s a bottle of our special perfume, "Pantywaist." And it all comes in an adorable make-up case for sissy-boy to carry in his new purse. We’ve found it to be just perfect for our more inexperienced sissies to learn how to apply make-up-- just like Mommy."
Turning her attention to Mark, Ms. Gladstone mocked, "Why, don’t you look pretty, Mark. Did the ladies show you how to put your make-up on?"
"Yes, ma’am," Mark said softly. The hateful lady had made Mark practice over and over as Max stood by, laughing. He had looked like a complete fag with his compact out, "fixing his lipstick," dabbing his face with powder, and brushing on the blush, which had certainly seemed superfluous to Mark.
"Well, you certainly look like a fairy princess," she continued. "And that purse! Isn’t that just precious. Now you’ll have lots to show the kids at school other than your bra, won’t you? But that sweatshirt just doesn’t work." She paused and placed a finger to her lips as if lost in thought. "It’s too…butch. Let’s see if we can’t find something a little more appropriate, shall we?" Leaving Mark under the watchful eye of Max, Ms. Gladstone and Catherine made their way over to a large display of sweaters. Mark could hear them laughing as they held up various garments for consideration, each one apparently more entertaining than the last.
Eventually, the two returned, Catherine grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Mark, we found the most darling little sweater for you." She held the sweater up for Mark to see.
Mark saw that she held a short sleeved, sweater of soft, black angora. The sweater had a crew neck, and Mark was somewhat relieved; that is, until Catherine spun the sweater around. There, above the keyhole neck closure was an enormous black satin bow. As Mark’s shoulders slumped in despair, Max busied herself with roughly removing Mark’s sweatshirt. After stripping the boy down to his bra, Catherine dressed her young victim in his new sweater. As she fastened the sweater in the back and fluffed up the bow, Catherine could hardly contain her glee. "Isn’t that sweet!" she exclaimed.
As Ms. Gladstone agreed, she led Mark to a mirrored platform. Mark was horrified when he saw that the tight sweater made his "breasts" look positively huge. There was no way he’d be able to hide them. His face reddened and his mind began to race. Before he knew it, Ms. Gladstone had spun him around and shoved a hand mirror in his hand so he could see the sweater from behind. Mark was sickened at the sight of the large, feminine bow that mocked his remaining masculinity. Eventually, Mark was forced to leave the store, but not before his favorite sneakers were replaced by a pair of black patent leather flats, with a bow decorating the pointed toes.
In the car, Mark was sullen as Catherine happily drove home. However, when Catherine pulled into the shopping center parking lot, Mark broke his silence. "Catherine, what are you doing?" he stammered, panic evident in his voice.
"Well, I want to do a little window shopping, and then we’ll stop for a bite to eat. I’ve already called the boys and told them they’ll have to fend for themselves."
"But Catherine, I can’t let anyone see me like this, people will think I’m a fairy or something! Someone may recognize me."
"Of course they will! Now grab your purse and come on. Or should I call Max to meet us here."
Mark was utterly and completely humiliated as the pair made their way into the mall. He knew what a sight he must be: a young teenaged boy obviously wearing a bra, an ultra-feminine sweater, and girls’ shoes. His make-up was only slightly less obvious. The crowning touch was the large shiny ladies’ handbag that he carried, which seemed to attract attention like a beacon.
The mall was full of people, all of whom seemed to ridicule Mark. "Oh my gosh!" "Look at that sissy! Isn’t that disgusting!" "What a little perv!" "If he went to my school, I’d beat the tar out of …it" "Nice purse, fag!" "Why don’t you just wear a dress?" "Love your ‘look’, darling!" While Catherine secretly delighted in the verbal abuse he was taking, Mark was quickly reduced to tears. This only served to attract even more attention.
Finally, Catherine steered Mark into a nice restaurant located at the end of the mall. After choosing a table in the middle of the restaurant, Catherine continued her assault on Mark’s male ego. "Now isn’t this fun? Certainly better than sneaking around in the closet. Here. Dry your eyes." She handed Mark a lace hanky.
As Mark dried his eyes and tried to get his emotions under control, a pretty waitress, only a few years older than Mark, approached the table.
"Good evening, ladies" she chirped, faltering as she realized Mark’s true gender.
Mark cringed as Catherine made the pretty girl recite the specials. Finally, Catherine ordered a large salad. "Mark, here, will have a small cottage cheese plate. We need to watch his figure." By the time she left the table, the waitress was wearing a wide smirk. Mark felt totally helpless as every waitress in the place found their way over to the table to get a look at "Mark". Throughout the meal, Mark got glimpses of the girls giggling and pointing in his direction. Once when he caught the eye of one of the waitresses, she thrust her chest out and waved a limp wrist in Mark’s direction, the meaning all to evident. But Catherine had more fun planned. After the meal was finished she turned to Mark. " I’m afraid you’ve smudged your makeup. You need to freshen up."
Mark stared at Catherine in disbelief. "You mean here?"
"Of course, dearie. If you insist on wearing girl’s makeup, you need to learn to take care of it like a girl! Now get to it before I get angry!"
Mark slowly brought his purse to his lap and extracted the pink quilted makeup case. Unsnapping the clasp, he extracted the compact like it was a poisonous snake. Opening it, he spied a very nervous and girlish looking boy in the mirror. As Catherine watched with amusement, Mark powdered his nose and applied more blush. Mark was just opening the lipstick tube when the waitress returned with the check.
"What pretty lipstick, sir. And I must say, that sweater is just darling. I love the way it emphasizes your bust. And that purse! It’s to die for!" By now, the girl was lisping and waving her hand in an exaggerated fashion, leaving Mark no doubt that she was mocking him. As Catherine and Mark exited the restaurant, the waitresses assembled and lisped a loud, falsetto goodbye, before dissolving into raucous laughter.
Over the next few weeks, Mark’s life changed dramatically. Catherine made Mark wear his Barbie-Boy makeup at all times and carry his new purse whenever he left the house. At home, Mark could see the disgust on his father’s face.
Needless to say, school had proven to be a nightmare. Biff had quickly circulated the story about how Mark had been caught all dolled up in his stepmother’s evening gown and that his mother had found all kinds of stuff in Mark’s room on how to become a girl. Biff embellished by telling everyone that when he was found out, Mark had insisted that he could no longer live a lie, and that he was going to pursue his lifelong dream of becoming a girl. Although both parents had tried to talk him out of it, he had insisted on wearing his bra and make-up to school. Of course his new bra, makeup and purse gave credence to the story.
The school guidance counselor, a gay male, had actually taken Mark aside and told him that the school would support him one hundred percent in his transition. He even excused Mark from p.e. and instructed him to use the handicapped bathroom. He also insisted on weekly sessions with Mark to ensure that he was "progressing" toward his goal. Mark was very uncomfortable with the way the young man looked at him.
In his homeroom, Mark’s teacher had made it a point to call attention to his attire in front of the whole class. "But I’m sure it’s all "just an accident" she mocked. Becky shot daggers at him with her eyes. He knew that she was horrified that she had actually been interested in Mark as a boyfriend.
Mark expected any day to come home to a closet full of dresses, but Catherine was clearly enjoying Mark’s "girly-boy" stage. Nonetheless, after a few weeks, Catherine announced that Mark had an appointment at the Sissy Mister. So early one Saturday morning, Mark and a very cheerful Catherine made their way into the store. As Mark realized they were headed for the salon, Mark felt the bile rising in his throat. "No, Catherine, please! Please don’t do this."
Chuckling heartily, Catherine led Mark to the receptionist’s desk. "I believe my daughter, Mark, here, has an appointment with Hazel."
"Of course. Right this way."
Mark immediately recognized the mannish Hazel from the video. In no time, he found himself draped in a horrid pink smock sitting in Hazel’s chair. As he looked around, he noted that he had plenty of company. All around him were the sights, smells, and sounds of a busy beauty parlor, with one important difference: the customers having their hair, cut, styled, colored, teased, sprayed and curled weren’t women—they were boys. The collective embarrassment and humiliation in the salon was palpable. Moreover, the din of the salon was a confusing mixture of desperate pleas and sobs of humiliation and despair, and laughter and excited, mirthful chatter.
In every case, one or more mothers, sisters, grandmothers, and aunts accompanied the boys in the salon; all of them seemed to take enormous pleasure in taking active roles in "marking" their boys as sissies by giving them an obvious girl’s hairstyle. The women excitedly took pictures, teased, and mocked their young charges. The boys, at least the ones in the salon for the first time, seemed to realize that they were crossing into territory from which they could never return. Fear and shame was etched on their faces.
In the chair next to John was a boy around his age. The boy forlornly made eye contact with John before embarrassment forced him to look away. The boy was a "more advanced" sissy than Mark. He was dressed in chic black capris, and a sleeveless white shell covering an ample bosom. On his feet were pumps with a sharply pointed toe and three-inch pencil heels. His hair was in a long ponytail, perkily held high on his head with a pink ribbon, and like Mark, it apparently was his first time in the salon.
John could easily overhear the conversation between the boy’s mother and his bratty younger sister, maybe half his age "Don’t forget, Mother. You promised me I could pick out Jackie’s new hair do." The girl stood with her hands on her hips, smirking at her older brother.
Her mother chimed in, "That’s right dear, but be sure to pick something pretty and girly for your big brother." Mark instinctively disliked the little girl, the model of hateful little sisters everywhere.
"Don’t worry, Mother, I’ve found just the thing for Jackie-Poo. With a flourish, she displayed a picture from a Sissy Mister stylebook, a headshot showing a smiling boy. His hair was curled and piled on top of his head in a teased mountain, like some country and western singer from the seventies. It was horrible, both in its femininity and its prissiness.
"Oh, that’s perfect, dear!" her mother laughed. " Won’t you and your little friends have the best time putting your brother’s hair in curlers, doing his nails, and playing beauty parlor with him? He’ll look so girlish sitting under that old bonnet hairdryer I found at that garage sale. Let’s go out and get lots of make-up for you and your friends to try on him, too. Oh, and we better get lots of film. Your Aunt Maggie made me promise to take lots of pictures. We’ll even scan them and put them on Jack’s website, ‘I’m a Big Sissy.’"
The boy’s pleas fell on deaf ears as the pair continued to discuss future humiliations for the boys. Catherine, who was also watching the exchange, was thoroughly entertained. Eventually, she turned to Hazel. "I want Mark to have the darling hair-do we talked about, Hazel." To Mark she added, "And no peeking! I want it to be a delightful surprise."
As Catherine left and returned to the main part of the store, Hazel wasted little time going to work. Mark found himself sputtering as Hazel washed his longish locks. Mark wallowed in self pity as Hazel roughly smeared a foul smelling paste on his hair. Mark couldn’t see what she was doing, but he knew that he wouldn’t like the results. Since he couldn’t see what Hazel was doing with his own hair, he occupied himself with checking on Jack’s progress. In no time, Jack’s head was covered with pink curlers. He looked utterly ridiculous. After a hairnet was added, the operator forced him to a dryer, where he was given a magazine to read. Mark saw that it was the latest copy of "The Prissy Sissy," a magazine published by Ms. Gladstone. On the cover was a hapless teenaged boy, dressed only in panties and a bra, surrounded by laughing women, each holding a prissy girl’s outfit, obviously designed for him to wear. Mark couldn’t believe the nightmare he was in.
Mark winced as he felt Hazel roughly pulled his hair. She was putting curlers in his hair! In no time, Mark joined Jack under one of the dryers lining one side. The two hapless boys exchanged looks of pity. However, pity turned to concern as two manicurists made their way over and started to work.
After an interminable wait under the dryer, during which Mark thought his head would burn up, Mark was led back to his chair. The manicurist had left him with toenails and fingernails glistening a bright red, the color an older woman might wear for dressy occasions, but clearly out of place on a young teen. To make matters worse, his nails now extended way past his fingertips. No real girl he knew had nails that long.
As Mark shuffled back to Hazel’s chair, Jack’s hair was already in the process of being teased and sprayed into an enormous column of curls. As the operator went on and on about how utterly femmy and prissy he would look when she was done, tears rolled freely down the teenager’s face. As the operator was emptying the remaining contents of the hair spray can on Jack’s new hairdo, his mother and sister returned, each carrying several large bags. Mark noted with dismay that Catherine was with them, chatting as if they were old friends.
Jack’s mother arrived first. "Oh Jackie! Don’t you look just precious! What a perfect hairdo for you. It’s so fussy and out-of-date! We simply must stop by the football game later today to show your former teammates your new look." Jack’s sister simply pointed as she burst out laughing at her feminized brother. Catherine added her approval.
As the women taunted Jack, Hazel put the final touches on Mark’s hairdo and wheeled him around with a flourish. Mark could judge the success of Hazel’s sissification efforts by the looks of glee on the faces of Catherine and Jack’s mother and sister. It was Catherine who spoke first. "Oh, Markie! Don’t you look simply divine! Ms. Gladstone was right; a bouffant bubble was just the perfect look for a stylish little socialite sissy like you. And that bow above your bangs is just perfect! And the color! I’ve always thought that girls with champagne blond hair were just too, too femmy. Now I guess you are, too. And those nails. I bet you just love how they feminize your hands."
Catherine spun Mark’s chair around with a flourish, so that he faced a mirror. Upon seeing his reflection, Mark recoiled in horror. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the completely artificial feminine color or the large ball of stiff, sweet smelling hair that surrounded his head like platinum cotton candy. Just when he thought he couldn’t feel worse, the bratty little sister pointed at his hair and started laughing anew. Suddenly, the little girl turned to her mother and blurted, "Mommy, I’ve got a great idea!" With a flourish, the little girl ran to her mother and started whispering in her ear. As Catherine listened in, the women started giggling.
Catherine finally spoke. "Why Margaret, what a delicious idea. Markie doesn’t have any sissy friends, and I’m sure he would just adore coming to your slumber party as Jackie’s guest. How thoughtful of you." Turning to Mark, Catherine commanded: "Thank Margaret for inviting you to her slumber party, Mark."
Mark wanted to reach down and wipe the grin off the little girls face, but instead he muttered a subdued "thanks." Catherine would have none of it and made him say it "prettily" with the threat of calling Max. With the little girl’s delighted laugh ringing in his ears, Catherine took Mark by the arm. "Wait until you see all the pretty things Ms. Gladstone picked out for you to try on.
In what seemed like no time at all, Mark found himself at the home of his new "friend", Jack. In addition to his hated purse, Mark carried two round, pink suitcases. Catherine assured him that they contained everything he would need for his "very first slumber party." Catherine had dressed Mark in tight white stretch capris and a pink angora sweater set. The cardigan was buttoned only at the top, emphasizing his "breasts." Jack’s mother answered the doorbell and greeted Catherine with hug and a laugh. "Girls, the guest of honor is here!" In no time, Mark heard loud giggling coming toward them. Margaret arrived with a group of young girls in tow, a wide grin on her face. "Markie, you’re late!" she chastised. With a familiarity that disturbed Mark, she took him by the hand and led him upstairs. The other girls pushed and prodded at him until he finally lost his patience.
"Cut it out!"
Margaret quickly whirled around, anger flashing in her eyes. You better behave, buster, or you’ll get it! Now come on!" The girls eventually pushed and prodded until Mark stood at the door of what appeared to be a bedroom. Inside, he spied Jack, primping before a vanity mirror.
"You two get acquainted while we get everything ready for the slumber party." With that, Margaret gave Mark a shove and shut the door loudly behind him.
When the door closed Jack immediately stopped primping and sighed. "Sorry you got dragged into this, man."
That’s okay. It’s not your fault. By the way, my name’s Mark."
"Mine used to be Jack. Now it’s whatever "they" want it to be.
"Yeah, that little sister of yours is a real brat."
"Dude, you don’t know the half of it. My Mom lets her do whatever she wants. Just because I teased her one day about being a dumb girl. Next thing I know, my mother and her bitch feminist friends are telling me that Margaret is my "superior" or some damn thing. Then my old maid Aunt Maggie tells her about the Sissy Mister, and the next thing I know I’m wearing panties and a bra and I’m the laughing stock of my school. It just keeps getting worse and worse. I mean look at this stupid hair. My Mom makes me roll it in curlers every night. It takes forever. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in ages. And it looks ridiculous. I mean, it’d bad enough having to dress like a girl, but no girl would ever wear this stuff."
Mark empathized, feeling somewhat relieved that there was finally someone he could talk to about the new developments in his life. "I hear that. My stepmother makes me wear all this stuff. Look at these clothes! She even has my dad and everyone else thinking that it’s my idea! Bitch!"
"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think tonight is going to be much fun for either one of us. Margaret’s been salivating over this for weeks. And my mother invited my aunt so she could join in the "fun."
"Well, how bad could it be? I mean, your sister and her friends are just little girls."
"Oh, you don’t understand. Margaret loves it. She’s paying me back for everything she thinks I ever did to her. And she knows my mother will back her up! If only my father hadn’t left."
As if waiting for her cue, Margaret burst in, followed closely by a group of girls, all giggling loudly. "Have you two girlies been getting acquainted? I just know you’re going to be bestest girlfriends, aren’t you? Now let’s get you girls ready for the party. Here. Put these on."
Margaret handed the boys what appeared to be a heavy tube of black lycra, with a froth of tulle at each end. Mark and Jack stared dumbly at the garments. "What is this," Jack demanded.
" Mother and I have been none to happy with your comportment recently, so you and your new friend, Markie are going to have a little charm school." Margaret approached Mark and fingered the hem of his sweater. "Your mother says you aren’t any better. This," she said pointing to the item in Mark’s hand, "is a sissy trainer. Ms. Gladstone says that boys hate them, but little girlies like you too will never want to take them off." Margaret smirked up at Mark. "Now take your clothes off. Don’t be shy. It’s just us girls."
Jack instantly started undressing, but Mark stood his ground, refusing to give into a little twerp like Margaret. Ignoring Jack’s look of warning, Mark declared, "I’m not wearing it."
Margaret’s mouth formed an "o" of mock surprise, as she addressed her friends. My, my! Mark’s a real macho man, isn’t he? Whatever will we do? With a quickness that indicated plenty of practice, the girls surrounded Mark and quickly immobilized Mark with his bottom in the air. Mark struggled, but there were simply too many of the little brats. As someone undid the side zipper on his pants, Mark could feel someone’s presence behind him. What he couldn’t see was Margaret grinning and holding a wicked-looking paddle featuring a perforated, flexible metal surface. Jack moved to help Mark, but a stern look from Margaret froze him. He knew that he would just make things worse for both of them. Jack stared at the pink carpet of his bedroom, not wanting to see the impending punishment.
Margaret turned her attention to Mark. "Silly sissy. Around here, you do what I say. Or you get punished." With that, Margaret gave Mark’s bottom a huge blow. Ignoring Mark’s yelps of pain, she quickly reduced the young teen boy to a blubbering, quivering mass. Pain mixed with humiliation was a powerful tool, as Margaret knew from many similar experiences with her brother.
In no time Mark and Jack found themselves stripped down to their panty girdles and bras. The teen boys were mortified as the young girls worked sheer black stockings up their legs and attached them to garter tabs built into the girdles. At the same time, a different set of giggling girls worked the dresses over the boys’ heads. The dresses were like none other the boys had ever worn. From just below the knee to their shoulders, the boys were encased in a lycra prison. Moreover, the armholes of the dress weren’t at the shoulder where they should be, but at the waist. Although the tulle hid it from view, the design painfully pinned the boys’ upper arms to their sides, leaving only the forearms and wrists free. Both boys quickly realized that this forced them to carry their forearms and hands in an exaggeratedly feminine fashion. Moreover, the dress wouldn’t allow any normal movement from the waist down. Instead, the impossibly tight sheath severely restricted the length of the boys’ strides, forcing them to walk with a bottom-swishing mince. It did not help matters when the girls forced sharply pointed high-heeled pumps on their feet.
"Please, Margaret! It’s too tight. It’s crushing me! I can’t walk in this thing."
Margaret ignored their pleas, relishing the sight of her older brother and his friend trussed-up in the ridiculous dresses. However, she couldn’t resist adding dainty gloves and large, lampshade hats to the ensembles.
Trussed up in their training dresses, the boys were paraded into the living room, where Margaret soon started a DVD for the boys to watch. After an elaborate fanfare, the hated visage of Ms. Gladstone filled the screen. Instinctively, the pair of feminized teens recoiled in horror.
Like twin mongooses watching a cobra, the boys listened as Ms. Gladstone talked about the importance of sissy deportment: "I know you sissies out there love your girly clothes and make-up, but a true sissy is recognized by his behavior. With some help from your mommies, aunties, sisters and teachers, this series of tapes will unleash that swishy, effeminate behavior that society has forced you to hide. So prepare to mince your way out of the closet, girls!" The boys cringed as Margaret and her friends giggled gleefully.
The next few minutes of the video scared the boys to their core. Ms. Gladstone introduced a boy, slightly older than Mark and Jack. He was dressed in jeans and a football jersey. Obviously there against his will, Ms. Gladstone "interviewed" the boy about his interests and the like. The boy, Jack and Mark noted with envy, was well built and appeared quite athletic. Sure enough, the teenager told Ms. Gladstone quite forcefully that he was a three-sport athlete, and after playing football on scholarship in college, he planned on a career in the NFL. The boy looked like he could very well be on his way to fulfilling his dream.
On the tape, Ms. Gladstone had simply listened to the boy with a bemused smile. After he was finished, Ms Gladstone replied. "Now, Bill. Sissies don’t play sports, do they? They might muss their hair, or break a nail. And you aunt tells me deep down, you’re a screaming sissy."
Mark and Jack could see the boy seething. He was just starting his furious retort when Max stepped in from off screen and restrained him, covering his mouth with her meaty hand, preventing his outraged retort. Mark and John knew that there was nothing at all feminine about the boy.
In the next scene of the video, Ms. Gladstone returned, explaining that over the last month, Bill had been watching the training tapes, doing the exercises described on the tape, and using selected Sissy Mister pharmaceutical products. Ms. Gladstone then turned off-screen and asked Bill to join her. An older woman, plain to the point of unattractiveness, marched on stage, followed closely by a blonde girl, wearing a clinging, navy mid-calf length wool dress. The girl’s figure was severely nipped in at the waist, and the bosom was huge. And pointed. The dress had three quarter length sleeves set off by a white cuff, matched by a small, rounded white collar. A pearl necklace and matching bracelet, wrist length white gloves, and a small navy handbag accessorized the outfit. The girl was heavily made up, and her hair was done in a Marilyn Monroe flip. A white, fifties style togue hat completed the chic, outmoded outfit.
The boys were puzzled until Ms. Gladstone spoke. "Well, Billy! How delightful to see you. My, don’t you look just darling." Mark and Jack’s eyes went wide with wonder. Surely this pretty little priss couldn’t be the defiant All-American boy who appeared earlier. Unfortunately for the boys, their fears were well founded.
After tittering girlishly behind a dainty gloved hand, the boy twirled in archetypical feminine fashion, showing off his ensemble. Lisping in a breathy , girlish voice, Billy responded, "You’re so sweet! Isn’t this dress just dreamy? Aunty bought it for me. It’s from your Boy Ingénue collection. I can’t wait for my boyfriend to see me in it. He’ll love the way it shows off my figure." While he was talking, Billy moved his wrists and arms in an exaggerated, girlish fashion. Ms. Gladstone and the boy’s aunt looked on smugly.
While Billy removed a compact from his purse and began to primp and preen in its mirror, Ms. Gladstone continued: "Billy, I must say, your appearance is quite an improvement from the last time we visited. Tell me, have you lost weight? Your figure is to die for. Tell me."
"Well, Aunty does keep me on a strict diet. She says that boys like their sissies dainty and delicate. I have to keep my figure as thin as Calista Flockart. Except up top, of course. Aunty was right. Boys with big bosoms get all the dates. To help me, Aunty has been giving me these shots of medicine Dr. Meaney prescribed. She’s a good friend of yours isn’t she? She scares me a little. Anyway, the Mr. Tittie Teen and Petite Pansy shots have just worked wonders! My dress size is smaller than any other girl in my class. They’re soo jealous. Dr. Meaney also gives me these other shots. She calls them "Always Mind Mommy" shots, but in my case, it’s "Always Mind Aunty," he giggled girlishly. No matter how much I hate something or don’t want to do it, the shots make me follow my Auntie’s instructions. It doesn’t matter if it’s humiliating or embarrassing. Like when she makes me be the maid for her and her lady friends. In fact, the medicine makes me even more embarrassed than normal. It’s horrible," he giggled nervously, glancing anxiously at his aunt, who rebuked him silently with a stern look. Immediately, the boy fell silent, wondering how his aunt would make him pay for his mistake.
As Bill’s aunt led him away, Ms. Gladstone turned her attention back to the viewer. "Well, that as certainly a change for the better. Billy will be so much happier, now that’s he has come to terms with his inner sissy. With a sneer, she addressed the camera, "Now it’s your turn."
Mark and Jack wanted to run in terror, but they were effectively immobilized by their training dresses. Just then, Jack’s mother appeared at the door, followed by Jack’s sinister looking aunt, who was carrying a tray.
As Margaret "paused" the DVD, Jack’s mother addressed them, a wide grin on her face. "Aren’t you sissies excited? You’re going to learn all about sissy deportment, and hair styling, and make-up! This must be a dream come true for you a couple of pantywaists like you. And guess what?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands excitedly. "Mark’s stepmother and I agreed that you little fairies deserved a special surprise." As Jack’s aunt approached the boys from behind, Jack’s mother continued: "Markie, did Jackie tell you that his aunt is a registered nurse?"
The horrified boys turned to look at Jack’s aunt just in time to see her squirting liquid out of an upturned syringe, a smug, self satisfied look on her face. "Now which one of you disgusting girlies wants to be first?"
Late that night, Mark lay wide-awake in the Barbie sleeping bag assigned to him by Margaret. His head was full of prickly curlers, and a thick, gooey face cream tortured his nostrils with its sweetly perfumed scent. Mark whimpered quietly as he relived the worst night of his entire life. The laughter of the awful girls and women as they had pumped his bottom full of medications rang in his ears. Mark knew that the drugs had but one purpose: to feminize him and make him helpless to stop them. He had prayed it was all a bluff. He refused to believe it was real right up until Margaret ordered him to "giggle like a little girlie." Mark was fed up, and decided he had to take a stand. But he found himself fighting a terrible compulsion to do exactly as she said. It was like when he once had to go to the bathroom really bad. He held it in and held it in until nature forced its way. After struggling against the compulsion for what seemed like an eternity, he finally emitted a girlish titter, to the excited delight of the girls and women. Mark was immediately more embarrassed than he had ever been in his life. The drug worked! After ensuring that Jack was equally constrained by the "Always Mind Mommy" drug, the girls restarted the DVD. Before starting the show, Margaret and her mother deviously instructed the pair to carefully watch the video, and to follow all the instructions given by Ms. Gladstone. Then, as an added bit of "fun", Jack’s mother insisted that the boys hold hands during the video. Mark and Jack had been mortified.
As the DVD droned on, Mark could almost feel his brain absorbing Ms. Gladstone’s orders and the examples by the "models" like a thirsty sponge. For example, when Ms. Gladstone explained that sissies must always talk with a high, girlish lisp, Mark could knew that if he opened his mouth, his voice would sound just like the hapless little boy on the tape wearing the little girl’s party dress. The tape was very thorough, leaving out no aspect of "sissy deportment:" sitting, walking, speaking, carrying a purse, greeting and interacting with other sissies and manners. The information –and humiliation-built to a crescendo until Ms. Gladstone announced that the end of session one was over, and to be sure to watch the remaining sessions in the series.
The girls had then made the boys show what they had learned. They had literally rolled on the floor in laughter at the show the lisping, mincing, sissies had put on. Finally, when Mark thought he would explode in embarrassment, the girls prepared the two for bed, with a promise of more "fun" tomorrow.
In the morning, Margaret loudly woke the slumber party participants, reminding them that they had lots to do. At once, Mark felt the impact of the prior night’s conditioning. After climbing out of the sleeping bag, he minced over to a bureau mirror, and began admiring his frilly baby-doll nighty. In no time he was joined by Jack, who was wearing an identical nightgown.
"Aren’t these nighties just the dreamiest? Your Aunty was soo sweet to give them to us. I just adore all the lace and bows." Mark cringed at the sound of his voice, it sounded so…girly. He sounded worse than that little shit Margaret and her friends. And what was he saying? He despised the nightgown. It was horrible! He looked like a complete fag.
Jack responded. "Girl, I know! And the color. I’m just mad about pink!" Jack’s voice was just as bad as Mark’s. "I know! Let’s do each other’s hair and get dressed. Aunty says she has more pretty things for us to wear!" he giggled. Although he sounded and acted like the world’s biggest fairy (next to Mark), Mark could see the shame in his eyes.
Although Catherine had been keeping tabs on the slumber party by telephone, she still couldn’t believe her eyes when she arrived late in the afternoon to pick Mark up. Mark was seated on the couch, primping with the aide of his compact. He was wearing a pink silk shantung mid-calf sheath. Pink gloves, pumps and handbag completed the ensemble, while a large bow was strategically placed on the front of his teased and lacquered blonde bubble. Mark’s "Barbie Boy" make-up had been replaced by the real thing, and it was applied perfectly although too heavily considering Mark’s age and the time of day. Catherine gleefully thought that he looked like he stepped off the cover of Vogue from 1957.
When Mark looked up from his primping, he uttered a girlish squeal and minced his way over to Catherine, his hands and wrists fluttering at shoulder height, his purse on his elbow. In an excited girlish lisp, Mark found himself telling Catherine all about the fabulous slumber party and how much fun he had had with his friend Jackie, and "all the other girls."
"And look at my new dress! Jackie’s aunty gave it to me. She said it’s just perfect for a nauseating sissy-boy like me. Can we go shopping for some more things? I need some scrumptious little dresses and skirts, and some yummy little sweaters for school. Oh, and some lingerie and lots of make-up. Did Jackie’s mother tell you, I’m going to have my own boobies. I can’t wait. I hope they help me to get a hunky boyfriend. The reason I don’t have one now is that I’m such a fat cow! I’m on a diet from now on, and I want to take aerobics at your gym." Mark couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. The effect of the "Always Mind Mommy" drug was horrifying.
After Catherine was able to control her laughter, she walked up to her sissified stepson and roughly pinched and twisted his ear. "Well, well, well. Looks like Mr. Big Shot has finally admitted the truth. Oh, I know you hate it. But that’s the beauty part. Everyone else will think you’re just a ridiculous little pantywaist. I can’t wait for you to show your father. He’ll be so disgusted. Wait until your little breasts start to grow. Ms. Gladstone tells me the growth rate is astounding. She also says the nipple development is even more feminine than real girls. I can’t wait to dress you for your first date. We’ll get your hair done and get you some extra pretty dainties. After all, your date’s sure to see them, isn’t he? Of course, I’ll be the matron of honor at your wedding. You’ll make the perfect little sissy trophy wife for some hunky gay man. Maybe one of those leather types, with lots of muscles. I just know you’ll make an adorable couple." Leaning down toward Mark’s face, she whispered cruelly, "I told you you shouldn’t have fucked with me." Releasing Mark’s ear and replacing her scowl with a smile, she continued brightly. "Now, let’s stop by the Sissy Mister for a shopping spree and have dinner at that place in the mall. I know how much you’re dying to show the waitresses your new dress."
You have read this article Chemical or Drug Induced Change /
Forced Femme Stories /
hypnosis
with the title Forced Femme Stories: "The Sissy Mister" by Kate. You can bookmark this page URL http://blackpoetrypmrapedtwice.blogspot.com/2010/12/forced-femme-stories-sissy-mister-by.html. Thanks!
