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Tales from the playful mind & pen of GovernessX copyright ©www.GovernessX.com ~ material not to be reproduced without written permission Precious ~ a short story of a special child & a beauty contest GovernessX & Adult Baby Promise, Law, Motto The Twelve Days of GovernessX ~ a Christmas carol Ring-a-ring o'sissies ~ a thithy rhyme Master Ward ~ a scene of disempowerment Beautiful Cruelty ~ a scene in which an adult baby awaits the return of his mummy (& her lover) The Creamery ~ a tale of intensive creaming of the adult baby Say It ~ a scene of sissy humiliation The Suckle ~ a gothic tale of a nursing mistress & her suckling man-child Detained at Her Pleasure ~ a school story of detention & a wet humiliation The School Room Prospectus ~ the prospectus of The School Room GovernessX Ethos & Motto ~ the foundation of GovernessX
Precious My birth name is Lesley Simpkins but Mummy always called me Precious Poppet. My mother said that she knew I was special the moment I was born. She said that I was the smallest, loveliest, sweetest thing she had ever laid eyes on. My father had come and gone before I was born and I was all my mother had left in the world. I was born prematurely and the doctors told my mother that there was little hope for me. In my first year I was a frail and sickly baby but Mummy said that she made be better with her love and kisses and the goodness of the breast. I was mollycoddled by my mother. Everyone said that I was more like a babydoll than a baby boy. My mother’s name was Mary Simpkins. Mummy was a full figured lady and carried an enormous bosom. When Mummy put me to the breast to suckle and comfort, the nipple completely filled my mouth like a rubber dummy teat and her ample flesh enveloped me. My mother described her looks as 'plain' but I thought she was magnificent. Mummy wore her long brown hair in a plait coiled in a bun like a little hat on her head. She always dressed smartly in her day dress of a tweed skirt suit and sensible shoes and for outings a mackintosh and a printed headscarf. At night she wore a chiffon peignoir in the summer and a cotton and lace nightdress in the winter. My mother’s scent was a combination of Pears soap, cold cream and eau de cologne. My mother was devoted to me and I adored her and depended on her for my every need. Mummy was so proud of her ‘precious little poppet’. She said that I was a ‘little beauty’ and that I had been blessed by the angels with my porcelain complexion, rosebud lips and golden curls. Mummy tended my ringlet curls like prize roses and dressed them in satin and velvet ribbons. She made all my clothes to traditional baby clothes patterns that she cut from the women’s magazines. Each evening as I played with my ragdoll at her feet, Mummy would knit, crochet and sew new outfits for me and measure me up for bits and bobs. I spent the best part of my childhood at my mother’s breast and if truth be told I was never actually weaned. Mummy said I had a delicate constitution. I was also prone to ‘upsets’ and ‘accidents’ and so I never properly completed toilet training either. It was common knowledge that I did not develop like the other boys and girls. The ladies in the village were protective of their ‘special little beauty’ and the children treated me more like a toy than a playmate. For the most part though, I was kept at home with Mummy and she educated me in arts and crafts, cookery, dressmaking, and health and beauty. Our lovely home was the cottage that Mummy grew up in that was left to her when her mother died. There were pink roses climbing over the door and a jar of wild flowers at every window. The house was decorated in chintz from top to bottom. My mother did ladies’ hair in the back parlour so she could earn a living and stay at home with me. Mummy showed me how to style the hair on my dollies and she said that I was her little ‘salon apprentice’. The ladies would come to have their hair done for special occasions and chat over a cup of tea and biscuits. Mummy could do what they called ‘updos’, which I learnt meant to put the hair up nicely to go to a bit of a do in town. The lady visitors who were all my ‘aunties’ would bring me sweeties and pass me around from lap to lap for kisses and cuddles while my mother fussed with their hair. Over the fireplace in the parlour there was a collection of silver framed photographs of me on the mantelpiece. The visitors would study the photographs like they were works of art. They congratulated Mummy on how well she looked after me and how well she dressed me like a ‘little princess’. The first photograph was of me as a newborn in the crib and dressed in a knitted baby dress and matinee jacket with mittens and bootees and a bonnet all in white with blue and pink trimmings. The next photograph was of me at the seaside when I was a toddler held in Mummy’s arms and dressed in a yellow gingham cotton sun frock and bonnet. The third photograph was of me at about four years old on Christmas morning opening presents under the tree and wearing just my lace petticoat and panties. The fourth photograph was of me at about five years of age standing outside the village church and dressed in my Sunday best of a red velvet dress and coat with white lacy ankle socks and red patent Mary Jane shoes. The next photograph was of me on a visit to the infant school in town and dressed in a Peter Pan collared blouse and a blue pinafore dress with white knee socks and black patent Mary Jane shoes. And that brings us to the sixth and final photograph and the main point of my story – my mother’s dream that I would win the Miss Pears title… ******
****** In my mother’s bedroom on the wall opposite her bed set in a gilded frame there was a print of a painting by Sir John Everett Millais entitled ‘Bubbles’. It was a portrait of a cherubic young boy with a head of golden curls and dressed in a ruffled blouse and a velvet coat. The boy was Willie James, the grandson of the artist, and in the painting he is blowing bubbles hence the title of the painting. The painting is famous for its use by the Pears soap company in romantic images of children with the unblemished ‘Pears complexion’ in its advertising campaigns. Bubbles was with Mummy throughout her life from her nursery onwards and that little boy’s beautiful face was what she saw last thing at night and first thing each morning. My mother prayed and dreamt that the beautiful boy in the painting would come to life and be hers. She said that the day I was born her prayers has been answered and the dream came true. Mummy told me that Pears soap was a gift from the beauty gods and so was I. Mummy used Pears soap every day of her life as her mother had before her and as Mummy used on me from the day I was born. On the Pears soap carton it was written that 'This golden bar of soap is pure and simple, refined and renowned, in its beautifying properties'. So, you see, what Mummy said was all true and not just a fairytale. The Miss Pears contest started in 1958 to find the Miss Pears Princess to be the ‘face’ of Pears soap for a year. The contest was open to all little princesses between the ages of 3 and 9. There were lots of lovely prizes for the winner of the crown, including spending money, a holiday, a new dress and toys, but the main prize was that Miss Pears would have her portrait painted (just like little Willie Bubbles) and her face would be printed on the carton of Pears soap for the whole world to look at for a whole year. The Miss Pears Princess was held as the 'epitome of beauty' and her portrait would capture her beauty forever. And this is what my mother wanted for me, her Precious Poppet and Miss Pears Princess, 1969. From the time I could walk, I was groomed to be a ‘princess’ and Mummy schooled me in hair and beauty, dress and deportment, presence and performance. It was part of my daily routine – as fundamental as washing my face with Pears soap and brushing my hair 100 times until it shone. Mummy did all of this for me so it was just right. She wanted me to be perfect so it was not until the morning of my 7th birthday while she was styling my ringlets that Mummy announced that I was ready for the Miss Pears contest. She said that I was ‘in my prime’ and it was time for me to pose for Pears. Mummy dressed my hair and body, primped and primed me, oohed and aahed and cooed over me. She positioned me on a wooden stool in the parlour with a floral papered folding screen for a background. Mummy put a white lace parasol in my one hand and a pink rose bloom in my other and she took photographs of me from every angle possible. It took ever such a long time but I sat as still as I could, tilted my head a little, brought the rose to my cheek, and smiled a soft, sweet smile throughout as Mummy directed me to. I was dressed in a new dress set that Mummy had spent months making for me. It was in the Edwardian style of a white lawn dress and apron lavishly adorned in the finest white lace with a matching petticoat and bloomer style knickers. My ringlets were tied into bunches with pink satin ribbons and my over the knee white stockings were trimmed in the same. Mummy said that I was the picture of purity, innocence and beauty and she was delighted with me and the photographic results. She smothered me in kisses and said that whatever happened I would always be her little princess. As a special treat, Mummy invited two of the children from the village, the twins Sally and Jenny, to a picnic tea in the garden. We three ‘playmate princesses’ sat in our best frocks and shared home made lemonade, tiny triangles of cucumber sandwiches (no crusts, of course) and slices of angel cake with our favourite dollies. Then we played clapping and skipping games, hopscotch and blindman’s bluff, and performed a little fairy dance for Mummy. The sun shone until bedtime and it was a splendid day. Tucked up in bed that night with my ragdoll, I wished upon a star... ****** We had to wait a week for the photographs to be processed at a store in town and my mother could barely contain herself with the anticipation. To keep her mind occupied, each evening she would set me in the salon chair, cover me in a pink floral plastic cape, and spend a few hours experimenting on me with the latest fashions from the women's hairstyling magazines. She would give me a shampoo and set, a head full of curlers and a plastic bonnet, and then she would position me under the hairdryer 'pod'. I was kept there for such a long and hot time that I would think that Mummy had forgotten about me and that my hair might catch fire but then just at the moment I started to snivel Mummy would return to free me and set me back in the styling chair. There with her brushes and combs, clips and spray, she fluffed and teased at me until my hair was set like a powdered wig and it was time for bed. The morning my photographs were ready for collection, my mother was anxious to get off early to collect them. She was rather impatient with me and scolded me and smacked the back of my legs when I fidgeted as she tried to fasten up my pink plastic raincoat and tie my matching bonnet. I was sulky when we caught the bus into town but I was soon full of smiles when the ladies at the store fussed over me as if I were already Miss Pears Princess. The lady at the till said that she had never seen a more beautiful child and she gave me lots of kisses and and handfed me sweeties throughout our visit. My mother, meanwhile, studied the batch of photographs, and after about 20 minutes of debate, the ladies came to an agreement about 'The One' and the carefully selected photograph was gently popped into a reinforced envelope with my mother's handwritten application to Pears. Mummy personally handed the freshly stamped and clearly addressed envelope (kissed good luck by Mummy and me) to the postmaster and told him to take good care of it 'or else'. While we waited for the result of the application, I had to endure the same nightly salon torment but this time hair conditioning treatments interspersed with facial beauty treatments, for a whole month until one morning the postman knocked urgently on the door and hand delivered a letter with a very smart typeface and a London postmark. Mummy propped it up against the teapot on the breakfast table and stared at it for a long as I tried to silently eat my toast and jam, and only after she had drunk 2 cups of strong sweet tea to calm her nerves, did she carefully slit open the envelope and unfold the letter to receive the news from Pears. She scanned the page quickly and then lifted her eyes up to look directly at me across the table. Mummy announced rather gravely, "Precious, we have work to do" and then the biggest smile ever filled her face and she threw out her arms for me to come to her. Preparations for the Miss Pears contest began in earnest from that very moment and Mummy organised it with the efficiency of a military operation. She and her lady friends held regular meetings at the salon - discussed strategies, took notes and ordered supplies. Mummy had long since designed the dress sets but had waited until this time to make them so that the fit would be perfect for me. The salon was closed to customers during this month so that Mummy could fully devote herself to the Miss Pears contest but we still had a flow of visitors to the house with good wishes and gifts and a hope for an opportunity of a glimpse of what had become known as 'The Precious Princess Dress Sets'. Mummy, however, was polite but firm in her conviction that the dress sets would be kept under wraps, indeed lock and key, so that word could not get out and perhaps travel to the mummies of the other contestants. Mummy took this contest very seriously, indeed and it took over our lives for this period - morning, noon and night. The Miss Pears contest was to be held at The Savoy Hotel, London, in 6 weeks' time, and we would be staying there for 3 days. Mummy said that it was the most posh and expensive hotel in the world. Our travel and accommodation expenses would all be met by Pears but Mummy was responsible for the cost of 3 outfits and accessories required for the 3 stages of the contest - the quarter, semi and final. The salon ladies helped with a 'whip round', which paid for 3 pairs of new shoes and a pair of satin and lace gloves. I, Lesley Simpkins, aged 7, was set to be one of a parade of beautiful little girls - each dreaming that she would be the one crowned Miss Pears Princess. The judging panel was made up of professional photographers and the editors of leading women's magazines and the final decision was in their hands and eyes. Mummy said whatever the result of the judges, that in her eyes I was born to be Miss Pears Princess and that whenever I was in front of the judges, I should think of that, stand up straight, and smile just for her.
serialised throughout the coming weeks... GovernessX Promise
I promise that I will do my best:
A Governess chastises her ward to correct his
behaviour and punish his wrongdoing every day.
Smack a bottom
I promise that I will do my best
An adult baby needs The Lady & is weak and
helpless every day. Obey The Lady The Twelve Days of GovernessX
On the first day of Christmas Thithy Rhyme
Ring-a-ring o'sissies Master Ward It had been a hectic day but the deal had been done and he was the one who had signed, sealed and delivered it to the board. He smiled to himself. Charles Ward was in control. Charles Ward was in power. Charles Ward was The One. This would earn him an even more ridiculous salary. He loosened his old school tie and removed the jacket of his finest Savile Row pinstripe suit. He looked and he felt on top of the world. The traffic was crawling out of London to the Home Counties. He was an hour late already. She would not be pleased. He shifted uneasily in his seat. He put his foot down and the engine roared. The electric gates allowed him into the grounds to continue along the gravel drive to the house. The door was open and the light illuminated her form in the darkness of the late evening. He was immediately terrified and immediately excited at her presence. The lady wore a twin-set and pearls with stiletto heels and her hair in a chignon. Her face was impassive and her arms were crossed beneath her bosom. He turned off the engine and swallowed hard. He could feel the perspiration at his armpits and the stirring in his loins. He quickly got out of the car and slowly approached the steps. Charles Ward hung his head before her. "Good evening, Governess," he whispered. "You are late, Master Ward," she responded.
"I am sorry, Governess, but it has been a very busy day of important
meetings and I did rush back as soon as I -" he was cut off mid explanation. He fumbled at the belt buckle and then hurriedly unzipped his trousers and let them drop to his ankles. He stood at the bottom of the steps with her towering above him. He stood only in his shirt and tie and a pair of pink satin directoire knickers. "You will be punished for your lack of punctuality. You will go over my knee. You will be spanked until you cry," she stated. "Yes, Governess," mumbled Master Ward. "Come to me." The satin knickers caressed his erect cock as he climbed the steps to her. His governess pulled down his knickers to his thighs to reveal a pink satin beribboned cock. She took hold of the ribbon tails and pulled gently. The bow gradually disappeared but the knot stayed put. The lady pulled firmly on the pink satin ribbon leash and walked the naughty sissy to the spanking chaise.
Beautiful Cruelty He automatically cried out to her, "Mummy!"
He heard her key in the door and the scraping of her high heels in the hall.
He became ever more excited. He wriggled in his cot. He pulled at the cot
restraints. He kicked his feet. "The poor, little, pathetic, wet baby! All he can do is cry and wait for his mummy!" He listened to her mocking. He looked at her sexy curves. He ached for her touch at his nappy. "Mummy!" he cried helplessly. She turned around and said, "Come in and look at him." The adult baby froze in the cot. His little cock and balls shrivelled inside of him. A woman came behind his mummy. She was tall and slim with dark cropped hair. She was wearing a cut-off top with stretch jeans and platform boots. She put her arms around his mummy's slender waist. She moved her hand up to his mummy's breasts. She fondled his mummy's sexy body. "I thought you were kidding! You actually keep him as a baby!" she whispered and giggled into Mummy's ear and then kissed her neck. "Of course I keep him as a baby. It makes a man easier to handle. It puts him in his place. I make him like it too." The baby started to whimper. The women laughed at him and continued their foreplay; stroking hair, kissing mouths, sucking flesh, fondling beasts, as they were watched by the adult baby trapped in his cot. The baby started to wet. The baby cried for his mummy and continued filling his nappy; wanting mummy, needing mummy, loving mummy, hating mummy as he was ignored by the women having sex in his nursery. His mummy pulled herself away from the arms of her lesbian lover. She went to see to her baby. She removed her sex-soaked panties. She forced them into his mouth to gag his noise. She was a dominant woman in control. He was an adult baby in nappies. She was so cruel to him. She was so beautifully cruel to him.
The Creamery
The world of the cot occupants was dark and silent and controlled and made
meaningful by the routine of the filling and draining of their holes. The
bodies lay in suspended animation awaiting each aspect of the daily routine
of the ward - the nappy changes, the fluid exchanges, the genital creamings
- that had been established from their first day at The Creamery. The
inmates were in an a good physical state in the controlled conditions of the
ward where they were kept safely restrained, clean and warm, fed and
watered, drained of waste fluid, and in an enforced convalescence. This
intensive care would regress the bodies from adult to infant in seven days
so that the once strong and active adult body would be treated to induce a
weak and helpless infant body in just a week. The prognosis for the inmates
of The Creamery was of an infant state of physical and mental incapacity and
double incontinence and an adult baby state of high creamy yield. The nurse put down the side rail of the cot to allow full access to the body of the occupant. The body lay immobilised on the plastic change mat. She opened the poppers of the plastic pants and pulled apart the tapes of the nappy. This nappy was then folded down between the slightly splayed legs of his body to reveal his genitals. The nappy had acted as a soaker to any leakage of fluid from the catheter and the anal plug and there was a stain of yellow at the front and a stain of brown at the back of the nappy. A muffled gurgling came from behind the dummy gag and an erect and stiff penis grew from the sensation of her now latex gloved touch. The nurse ignored all but the procedure in hand, which was to remove the catheter from the penis of the body in the cot. This was done with ease and the adult baby felt only a tingling sensation due to her skill and the mild anaesthetic of the milk formula. She then pulled out the plug from his anus and paused to allow for a further seepage of faeces to be caught in the nappy. This soiled apparatus was placed in a clinical waste bag at the door at the medical side of the trolley. The cock of the adult baby undulated and pulsated with the pleasant feeling of his two holes now released of the insertions yet open wide. The nurse sharply smacked the sensitive tip of his cock to deter an accidental creaming. Its limited movement suddenly ceased and, as she removed and disposed of her latex gloves and replaced them with a new pair, she listened to his faint whimpering. It was vitally important to maintain good hygiene and discipline standards on the ward for the effective operation of The Creamery. For the next step of the nappy check and change routine, the ankle cuffs were unclipped from the central mat and the legs were raised and clipped to a hoist that was pulled from the wall at the head of the cot. He was readily bent at the groin with his feet brought up towards his head to be held in place out of the way of the clean up. The nurse deftly removed the plastic pants and soiled nappy and placed the messy bundle in a nappy waste sack at the baby side of the supplies trolley. From the medical section of the trolley, she retrieved and opened a sterile wipe and used this to clean his cock and balls and then another to clean his bottom and anus. These actions and responses were replicated by each and every nurse to each and every adult baby in each and every cot on the ward. There was no resistance from the body in the cot for it was weak and limp and malleable but it was also eager to have its intimate parts caressed and fingered. The clean up was complete and a new pair of plastic pants and on top of that a new disposable nappy was laid out beneath his bottom and the legs were taken down and replaced in splayed restraint at the change mat. The buzzer sounded the beginning of creaming time. This was the first of two daily creamings administered to the adult babies, one at 8.00am and one at 8.00pm, which allowed a full 12 hours for recovery and replenishment. The creaming process began with the nurse lubricating her latex gloved hands and massaging the cock and balls of the inmate to stimulate the testicles and the secretion of creamy deposit. From a pocket in her tunic she took out a foil packet that she tore open to remove a circle of transparent latex rubber. She unravelled this down the cock head and shaft and over the balls of the adult baby's genitals to reveal it to be a transparent latex sheath in the anatomical shape of a cock and balls but with a tube at the tip into which the creamy deposit collected. The adult baby suckled harder at the rubber teat of the dummy in response to the sensory pleasure of the skin tight latex coating his lubricated cock and balls and a few drops of his pre-cum entered the creaming tube. It was clear indication that at Day 5 he was now conditioned to accept and need the creaming ritual. The nurse grasped his latex sheathed cock in her latex gloved hand and slid his rubbered cock up and down in her cupped hand in a slow and steady rhythm while in her other latex gloved hand she manipulated his balls, squeezing them to encourage the flow of adult baby spunk. He was immobile in the cot restraints but there was a slight thrusting motion at the groin and his breathing became more rapid and shallow. The nurse felt his cock throbbing and at this she pumped his slippery latex cock harder and faster. The sound of rustling tunics and the friction of rubber filled the ward as simultaneously the six nurses in the ward were bent over the groin of their own adult baby creaming the cum from his cock. Even with the dummy gagging the mouth, the grunts of the adult babies were audible, as they simultaneously ejaculated their discharge of creamy into their creaming sheath. The nurses continued to rub the cock and balls until the cock became flaccid and the balls shrivelled in order to squeeze out every last drop of creamy fluid from the adult baby. They were very careful to remove the latex sheaf without spillage of the fresh creamy, to tie a knot in the end, and place this creamy sample in a kidney dish in the medical compartment of the supplies trolley soon to be delivered to The Creamery Depository. The adult babies were exhausted by the exertion of the first creaming of the day and their feeble bodies were in need of their post-creaming nap so the nurses prepared the inmates for the renappying procedure. The legs were hoisted up over the head, the cock and balls and bottom were baby wiped, coated with nappy cream, squirted with baby oil and sprinkled with talcum powder. Each baby groaned in further pleasure at the tenderness of the application to their delicate parts. Their legs were then replaced in restraints at the mat and the nappy was taped shut and the plastic pants poppered shut. The ward babies were now fully nappied, pantied, restrained and drained. It would be nappy check and change time in an hour and in that time the nappies of the incontinents would be thoroughly wet and soiled and the plastic pants would be only just containing the leakage of waste fluid. The buzzer sounded for post-creaming nap time and at its signal the babies were already falling in to slumber. The nurses were packing away their supplies trolleys to leave the ward when the double doors opened and the head warden led in a group of six trainee nurses on a tour of this model ward. Each nurse stood to attention at the foot of her adult baby cot as if on inspection. This mature and authoritative woman paraded her young lady recruits through the ward of adult babies as she lectured them on the purpose and practice of The Creamery. "From the outset of intensive care at The Creamery, we open and plug his holes, fill and empty his fluids, restrain and nappy him; all using a variety of methods in order that he very quickly adjusts to being opened, penetrated and drained as a part of his normal daily routine. Indeed, we actually stimulate and condition his responses so that he associates this very necessary routine of ours only with his pleasure. The drugged formula that has been fed to the inmate since his incarceration at The Creamery will continue to be the daily feed of the baby and it will impair him for life to the mental faculty of that of an infant. The adult baby will have no memory of a previous existence as an adult man in control of his basic functions though, of course, not of his basic status in our new world order. The prolonged immobilisation of the adult male weakens the muscles so that the adult baby boy (or sissy) can only crawl or toddle with assistance and he is helpless and hopeless to take care of himself. At the seventh day he is fully and permanently infantilised and institutionalised at The Creamery and here he will be creamed twice daily for the duration of his productive life. The creamy sample is collected, deposited and stored for use in the controlled and selective breeding programme. In our new world order, men are exploited for their natural resources - physical strength for hard labour and sperm cells for reproduction - and The Creamery is the centre of excellence for the latter. The men now incarcerated at The Creamery have been selected for our special creaming programme following tests that have proven the quality of their sperm. In the outside world the male is in intensive labour and inside The Creamery the male is in intensive creaming. We control and monitor his physical and mental condition so that the sperm is of the finest quality and not degraded by his actions in any way whatsoever. He is kept in carefully controlled conditions so that he is unable to contaminate or sabotage our retraction of this 'gold top' premium product. The man is kept in 'The Creamery' in an ideal and pure state for production of the optimum creamy. The pacification and infantilisation of the male is, I believe, the modern and humane method of intensive farming of the male for his sperm." The head warden stopped at the side of a cot and gestured for the recruits to take a closer look at the adult baby specimen who lay there in a deaf, blind and mute and incontinent state and who, oblivious to the crowd of women looming over his restrained and nappied body, continued to sleep peacefully. "Please, ladies, do not be alarmed or concerned at the situation of these adult babies. There is no brutality at The Creamery. It is true that through this intensive care the adult male is pacified and infantilised to little more than a series of holes to be filled, pumped and drained. Yet in this infantile state to which we have regressed him, he has not a care in the world, only the simple satisfaction and pleasure of feeding, wetting and soiling and, of course, creaming. His every baby need, want and desire is attended to by the staff of nurses and wardens at The Creamery." She pointed to his dummy and then his nappy to emphasise her point, " I mean, just look at him - sleeping in his cot, suckling on his milky teat, filling his nappy - a happy little adult baby doing what he does best and being creamed for his pleasure. Now, that really is a perfect world." Say It "Say it!" she insisted. He winced as if she had slapped his face. He hung his head and shook it in despair. "What are you?" she demanded. She came closer to stand in front of him and she repeated even more emphatically, "Say it!" He looked down at the ridiculously pink satin dress he was wearing and he knew that she would not allow him to leave without saying that word. He shifted his feet and kept his eyes to the floor. He tried to wet his lips but his mouth was dry. "I'm waiting," she said and crossed her arms under her ample bosom. He opened his mouth and a weak, broken voice finally uttered the word she wanted to hear. "I'm a sissy," he whimpered. "I didn't hear you," she lied. "Speak up." He cleared his throat and repeated, "I'm a sissy." "Look at me when you say it," she responded. He lifted his head to see her mocking but beautiful brown eyes bearing into him and her red lips pouting that cruel smile. "I'm a sissy," he said. "I thought so," she replied. "It's that dress, you see, it's all so very... pink." She thoughtfully fingered the satin and then dramatically fluffed out the frills at the hem. Then suddenly she lifted the hem of his dress up to his chest to reveal a pair of matching pink satin frou-frou knickers. He tried to get away from her but she held the dress firmly. "No, please, don't..." he begged. "Don't? Don't what? Don't show you up for what you are? A pink satin dress wearing sissy, you mean? Is that it?" His eyes pricked with tears as she taunted him. "If it were simply a matter of a man wearing a pink satin dress and matching frilly knickers then that would be one thing," she smiled. "But a man wearing a pink satin dress and frilly knickers and having an erect cock leaking semen all over his pretty satin frillies then that is quite another thing all together. Isn't it?" The skirt of his dress was held aloft exposing his pink satin frilly knickers that were now soaked through at the gusset. His face burnt with shame but he could not deny that his cock was fit to burst in his knickers. "Get down on your knees and hold up your frills," she ordered. "I want to inspect your sissy panties." He knelt on the floor beneath her and tentatively raised the front of his dress above his knickers. She crouched down to his groin and looked at the mess he had made of himself. She tutted and announced, "It seems that you really are a dirty little slut." She tucked the frilly hem of the dress into his wet sissy pants then wiped a finger against the wet satin and caught a red fingernail full of his pre-cum. She brought the moist digit up to his mouth. "Open," she instructed. He opened his mouth and she pushed her wet finger into his hole. "Suck it, she said. "Suck it like a rubber dummy." He did exactly as he was told and sucked on her finger. He could taste his own juice and at first he gagged on it but he kept on sucking. "You naughty sissy," she laughed. "Lick and suck the lollypops!" She forced two more fingers into his eager mouth and the satin and frills of his dress rustled as his head bobbed and his tongue worked harder to please her. "Sissy, sissy, sissy - " she repeated over and over again as she watched him eagerly clean her finger with his tongue, lips and mouth. The combination of that word, her laughter, the sucking, the rub of the satin against his throbbing cock, it was all too much for him and he let out a high pitched cry as his cock exploded and filled his frilly satin knickers with cum. He could not stifle his moans and groans as his cock pumped out the last drops of cream into his soiled knickers. He crouched limply in front of her with his heart racing. His whole body was trembling with exhaustion and fear. She withdrew her fingers from his mouth and wiped them in his face. She stood up to look down at the pathetic figure beneath her. She looked disdainfully at the mess he had made in his satin knickers. At arms length she took his face in her hand and caught his face to look up to her. "Now, tell me what you are," she demanded. He could not avert his gaze from her piercing stare. "Say it!" she insisted. "I'm a sissy," he panted. She bent down to his blushing face and her red lips brushed against his cheek as she whispered in his ear, "I told you so... sissy." With a toss of her hair, she turned upon her high heels and left him there, in his pretty pink satin frilly dress with his matching pink frou-frou knickers covered in the sticky evidence of his sissy humiliation. ©2005 GovernessX.com
The Suckle
The mistress circled the nursing chair to stand
behind the human doll and bending over its lolling head, she took each heavy
hand and dropped it off the side. She knelt on the rug, brought together the
wrists of his limp hands behind the chair and, with a couple of loops
consisting of a clove hitch with half hitch and a stretch of ribbon between,
manufactured a set of velvet manacles that fixed him to the nursing chair. The
lady in black returned to his front and repeated this haberdashery restraint
at his ankles, which were held behind the bowed chair legs. Finally, she
pulled down his dripping rubber pants to his ankles and at his nappy she
unclasped and removed the large metal nappy pins to open the soaking wet nappy
and expose the boy's flaccid penis and shrivelled plums and the flaming sores
of nappy rash that ate in to his genitalia, bottom and thighs. Detained at Her Pleasure
Miss X peered through the observation
window of the detention room door. She expertly surveyed the
schoolroom scene: the central column of five wooden desks at which sat
the petulant detainees of morning break. The dour Miss Spinks sat
hunched at the head-desk marking in a manner of distaste a pile of
compositions. As the Mistress contemplated the breaking of the girl’s improper bearing, the arm of the child punctured her thoughts. It raised itself and so began a desperate waving of its hand. A few young heads disengaged themselves from their chore but the silent commotion went unnoticed however by its intended audience, the Detention Mistress. Finally, with an aching arm, a desperate voice pleaded, “Miss Spinks! Miss Spinks, please may I go to the toilet?” “Permission denied,” came the dry response from the head-desk. At this point Miss X’s refined hand turned the door handle and her lithe form entered the room. The Mistresses exchanged curt nods. Stiletto heels on the parquet floor scratched the presence of the Head of House into the vacant minds of the young girls. The schoolgirls nervously shifted their pert bottoms on the harsh wooden seats. Miss X, standing centre stage, hands on smooth hips, observed the chalked written punishment of the detention on the blackboard. In Miss Spinks’ spiky script lines, punishment was listed as follows:
Emily Ford: I must not slouch at my desk.
x50 Miss X raised her eyebrows and shook her head in a feigned act of exasperation. She started up the column inspecting the penmanship of the charges. They worked self-consciously, line after repetitive line, now with unaccustomed purpose. No schoolgirl dare meet the eye of the Mistress. As Miss X’s sure fingers glanced in her passing their plaited and pony-tailed hair their breathing quickened and a blush of colour spread across their pale cheeks and chests. Finally, Miss X came to stand above the comely body of Smyth. The girl’s mane was falling loose from its silver clasp and strands of gold caressed the back of her bottle-green blazer. ‘I must not suck my fingers in class.’ Miss X read, at scribbled line 47 of 100. Lucy produced her ill-formed script with difficulty as the Mistress’ striking scent overcame her. Miss X bent to Lucy’s fair cheek, brushing the pupil’s ear lobe with her reddened lips. She whispered, “That’s all very silly, Smyth, but do continue.” “Yes, Miss X,” the errant pupil gulped. Lucy’s hand trembled as she dipped the bronze nib into the inkpot. In her haste to return her pen to her punishment, a single drop of royal blue liquid fell from the nib onto the crisp white paper. Lucy gasped and the errant pen fell from her delicate hand and rolled into the poised hand of Miss X. Lucy’s wide eyes remained fixated at the stain that sullied the page. Miss X made neither comment nor movement to betray her thoughts. Just as Lucy felt she could bear the unknown no longer the Mistress placed her other exacting hand upon that of the child’s. She guided the soft, unsure hand to the blotting paper at the side of the inkpot. The Mistress’s sharp red nails cut lightly into the pliant white skin. “Blot, and quickly,” stated Miss X in a manner that was unsettling in its calm. “Yes, Miss X. Sorry Miss X,” Lucy flustered. She could feel the gentle, steady breath of the Mistress upon her neck. Nervous and flustering, Lucy grasped the blotting paper but this act was impeded by the pull of the hand that controlled hers and in a deliberate execution the pot of ink was overturned. The thick blue contents obliterated the lines and seeped across the desk. In disbelief and fear, Lucy bit her lip and drew a smudge of scarlet wetness. “Oh dear, Smyth. What have you done now, you clumsy child?” asked the Mistress. “Um, I, I…” Lucy mumbled, shocked and confused. Miss X’s crimson-stained mouth opened and her starched shirt caressed the flushed skin of Lucy’s cheek as she spoke. “You had better clean up this mess, hadn’t you Smyth?” “Yes, Miss X, sorry Miss X,” the detainee stuttered. “See me at lunch break. No refectory or toilet visit. I want you in the gymnasium wearing gymslip and plimsolls.” Without waiting for response to her missive, Miss X inserted the fountain pen into Lucy’s mouth, promptly turned her back on the young girl, and marched to the door, her hips rising and falling rhythmically. Lucy, holding tightly the pen between her teeth, stole a furtive glance at the Mistress, at the black hair tied neatly at the nape of her sweet neck, the pristine white cotton blouse concealing her firm breasts, the tight black calf-length skirt accentuating the curves of her bottom, and those sharp stiletto-heeled black patent-leather shoes. Lucy’s moist palms travelled beneath the old desk and under her uniform dress. She inserted her right hand inside her white cotton knickers and stroked the tender pale skin between her legs. Her eyes shut tightly, Lucy held the vision of the cruel beauty of her Mistress and of a physical punishment exacted a term ago though eagerly revisited at each lights-out.
Miss X directed her parting words to the
Mistress in charge of today’s detainees. “I do believe Smyth is need
of your attention, Miss Spinks,” she stated. “Lucy Smyth, you are a filthy child!” Miss Spinks spluttered, “Just look at this abomination!” The sticky pen dropped from Lucy’s mouth and her hands flew from beneath the ruffled slip and back upon her lap. Four heads spun round in unison to enjoy the spectacle of yet more punishment as Mrs Spinks exclaimed, “Banks, fetch the ruler!” *** Heavy oak double doors guarded the school gymnasium. A musty air gripped the hall. The parquet floor was highly polished from the regular rubbing of wool gymslips and cotton socks of the girls’ tumbling. Gracing four wooden panelled walls was fixed climbing apparatus mounted on casters that could be pulled out from the walls to a right angle. Climbing rungs and ropes decorated the wooden frame. Netball hoops craned at opposite ends of the gym. A horsebox stood solidly off-centre. Lucy Smyth stood fidgeting in the far corner of the gym, dressed in green gymslip, white socks and black plimsolls, just as Miss X had ordered. She sulkily kicked the toe of her plimsoll at a wooden floor slat as she awaited the presence of the Mistress. It was a quarter past twelve and the school was now at lunch. She could hear girls swarming the corridors and the hum of their chatter invading the hall but all too soon this advanced to the refectory, leaving in its wake only Lucy feeling suddenly quite alone and quite afraid and with a desperate need to go to the toilet. Lucy’s pricked ears were alert for the signal of the Mistress’ entrance. The need to visit the toilet was now most urgent. At break detention, Miss Spinks had denied Lucy’s request to relieve herself and Miss X had forbidden detour for food or release at this lunch detention. That amounted to a whole morning bearing a full bladder. Lucy dare not move from her place of confinement and so she distracted herself from the urgency of the toilet requirement with counting from one to a hundred, repeatedly. Whilst counting Lucy fiddled with the pleats of her gymslip, pulling them up and down and up and down, gaining comfort in the rubbing of the material at her thighs. Her constant clock-watching soon showed the time to be half past twelve. The refectory would be closing soon and Lucy would miss the spotted dick and custard that she craved and she did so need to go to the toilet. “Lucy Smyth, stop that at once!” Miss X demanded. “Have you permission to touch yourself in that manner?” Lucy dropped her arms to her sides immediately. “Sorry, Miss X,” the pupil responded, blushing at being caught in such an act of foreplay. The Mistress’ long-admired stiletto-heeled shoes had been replaced with thigh length black leather riding boots, although only the pointed toe and spiked heel were visible beneath a traditional riding skirt. In complement, the riding skirt and a hacking jacket were also formed of this delectable second skin. In Miss X’s leather gloved right hand, she gripped the bulbous silver tip of a robust yet elegant ostrich-leather riding crop. Her long black hair was caught in a black mesh snood that dropped to the shoulder blades. The heels of Miss X’s boots marked a marching beat against the parquet tiles as she advanced to the spot where the downcast pupil awaited this most private lesson. The tongue of the riding crop licked at Lucy’s chin as Miss X raised the lowered head. The pupil’s soft blue eyes were overwhelmed by the equestrian beauty of her Mistress and fixated at the sight of the Lady’s blood-red mouth. The Mistress locked her dark eyes on the vulnerable gaze of her charge and the contact was so penetrating that Lucy had to avert her eyes. Simultaneously the girl experienced the dampening of the gusset of her knickers. Miss X announced, “I have just completed the task of teaching the lower fifth to rise to the trot with strength yet grace, and now, Lucy Smyth, it is your turn to be manipulated for the greater good.” The Mistress teased open with the crop’s split tongue the trembling pink lips before her and toyed with Lucy’s mouth,. Penetrating the wet hole, she tantalised the moist inner flesh, gently driving the firm leather in and out, again and again. Lucy groaned at the uncontrollable pleasure. At that, the Mistress withdrew the saliva-soaked stiff leather member and wiped its wet tip in the thickness of the pupil’s hair. In a far away part of the building, the giggling of schoolgirls at boisterous play could be discerned. Meanwhile, the voyeuristic clock face ticked on in the isolation of the gym, accompanied by the rapid heartbeat and self-conscious swallowing of the pupil who stood exposed in the corner with the powerful leather-clad body of Miss X looming over her. Lucy Smyth was indeed in isolation from the familiar world outside of the gymnasium. “Smyth,” Miss X began, “Miss Kean, the Games Mistress, reports that you had on two occasions last week, a note from your Form Mistress to excuse you from PE, is that correct?” “Yes, Miss X.” “And why was that?” “I had my first period, Miss X,” Lucy mumbled, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “Oh, indeed, well we shall have to see about that, won’t we? Physical education is most important for the vitality of a young girl,” Miss X impressed upon her charge. “However, we shall discuss your sanitary requirements in due course. We have more pressing matters to attend to now, don’t we?” The Mistress raised her black leather riding crop and caught the strap of the schoolgirl’s gymslip. She eased it slowly from Lucy’s shoulder. Lucy felt her pussy lips tingle and the contraction of her newly discovered vaginal wall.
As if sensing her charge’s sexual stirring
the Mistress taunted her, “It feels good, doesn’t it? But such
pleasure must be earnt and at my whim, Lucy Smyth.” “On your hands and knees, charge!” Miss X brusquely commanded. Lucy fell to the floor, hurting her knees on the parquet bricks. The Mistress raised her leather-clad leg and weighted her spiked foot on the girl’s back, forcing by the weight of the boot the girl’s stomach to the ground. Lucy’s mouth scraped the dusty floor and the bitter taste clung to her lips. “I cannot abide a wanton child. It does so affront my senses. Now, I shall gain my composure from the loss of yours.” Miss X spoke so softly it strained Lucy to receive these words but receive them she did. As she concentrated on listening to the Mistress’s beratement, Lucy experienced a strange and horrifying sensation between her legs. She realised too late that she was wetting herself. Denied permission to toilet herself, Lucy had now lost control of her painfully full bladder. A stream of warm water soaked through her knickers, seeped down her legs, through her socks and plimsolls and puddled about her. The Mistress was fully aware of the pupil’s act of soiling and savoured its course. “You have missed two lessons of physical education this week but now, in my capable hands, you have just undergone a different type of corporal test, more punishing than the most savage lacrosse match.“ Miss X released her boot-hold on the girl’s body and scrutinized the pathetic crime at the rear of the grovelling child. Lucy felt tears pricking at her eyes as the Mistress documented the evidence of a weak bladder. The feeble sight of the young charge pleased the Mistress as much as it distressed the pupil. With the tip of her riding crop, she raised the gymslip to reveal a yellowing pair of knickers. “Oh dear, Smyth, has suffered another little accident,” she mocked. “First it was spilt ink and now it is spilt urine. What a silly girl to spill all her fluids.” The Mistress crouched at Lucy’s face and stared at her unmercifully. “Now what are we to do with all this mess, indeed.” The humiliation was too much to bear and Lucy gave in to her tears. “This is no time for histrionics, child! There is the practical matter to attend to in cleaning up this foul mess. Now, stop snivelling and remove your gymslip.” Lucy stood up with difficulty, sobbing and soaking wet, the energy had departed her body. In this sorry state, she could not feel any more humiliation at the act of removing her sullied clothing in front of the Mistress. Miss X watched with evident amusement as Lucy removed the gymslip to reveal a white vest and soaked knickers. Head hung in shame, the pupil held the garment loosely in her hand, her eyes affixed to the pool of disgrace on the floor. “Clean up your mess with your gymslip,” the Mistress stated without emotion. “When you have done, sit on the floor, take off your shoes and socks, vest and, of course, those dirty knickers.” Lucy crouched and soaked up the urine with the gymslip. The cloth absorbed much of the liquid but when it could take no more Lucy placed it over the remainder as a shroud to her disgrace. Immediately she pulled off her plimsolls and placed them by her side, into them she placed her damp socks. Her vest followed and finally she removed the soaked knickers and rolled the vest around them. The pile of laundry was now complete on the floor. Lucy sat, naked and exposed, her knees clasped to her breasts. Miss X regarded the pupil’s body, young yet curvaceous and the breasts far too developed for any hope of modesty. “Stand!” the Mistress ordered. Lucy gingerly uncoiled her squatting form and rose to her feet. “Turn around and bend over!” The Mistress was now greeted to the delectable sight of the damp, red bottom of Lucy Smyth. With her leather-gloved hand she delivered a harsh slap across the cheeks. The punishment smarted and Lucy winced but she had no tears left to cry. “You are a filthy slut, Smyth, and a filthy slut earns a just reward. Follow me,” she instructed. With the now shivering naked child in her wake, the Mistress headed towards the sturdy wooden horsebox at the centre of the gymnasium. Miss X cropped the leather top and signalled for Lucy to mount it. Summoning all her remaining strength, Lucy heaved herself astraddle its frame. To be continued... ©2005 GovernessX.com
The School Room Prospectus
'To be Cruel is to be Kind' The School Room Ethos The founding principle of The School Room is the recreation of the austere and protective environment of the early 1900's school room under the strict governance of The School Mistress. The School Room exists as a sanctuary for adult pupils who may, at the discretion of The School Mistress, remain full and permanent wards under the jurisdiction of The School Mistress. The School Room is an institute of corporal, moral and academic endeavour. Pupils of The School Room are educated to exacting corporal, moral and academic standards. The School Room practices corporal punishment as an educational tool. The curriculum of The School Room is focussed on the 3Rs of reading, writing and arithmetic, with a healthy regime of physical instruction. The School Room is a day school for pupils who are taught primarily on an individual basis. The School Room holds a whole school assembly at the end of each term. This assembly incorporates prize giving for good attendance, good conduct and academic achievement. This assembly also incorporates public humiliation and punishment for poor attendance, poor conduct and academic failure. Pupils pay school fees to attend The School Room in order that The School Room may exist and that The School Mistress may fully devote herself to its development. The School Room is not a commercial enterprise; it is a vocation. The School Room prohibits impropriety of any description.
The School Room Mistress
The School Room Education
The School Room Setting
The School Room Entrance
The School Room Notice Board ©2005 GovernessX.com GovernessX Ethos The man is belittled & kept in his place for his own good & her own pleasure... He is a ward, an infant, a sissy, a doll, a pet, a toy, a plaything... for a moment or a lifetime, as she so wishes. He is a vulnerable yet potent creation of the woman who controls and nurtures him, as is her prerogative. The adult male is enticed and regressed by the adult female and forced into a helpless and vulnerable state in her delicate hands. The man is physically, mentally, emotionally and sexually dominated and manipulated by the woman. He is immobilised and incapacitated, disciplined and humiliated by her. He is made to submit to her will, her whim and her desire. The man is stripped of his adult status and he is laid bare by her natural seductive power and control. The woman utilises her womanly wiles and charms to emasculate and disempower the man. His freedom of choice and movement is taken from him and he must do as the woman demands for her pleasure or suffer her displeasure. He is kept as a plaything in restraint and containment by his female owner. He loses control of the most basic of functions of movement, feeding, toileting and sex. He is mocked and chastised, teased and cooed over, dressed in frills and fancies, displayed as a novelty, treated as a human toy for her entertainment. He is ashamed yet aroused at this humiliation and cruelty that he cannot stop. His inherent weakness is his sexual desire for seduction by the female and this is used against him by the provocative and powerful woman. His erect cock is the explicit manifestation of the desire that he cannot hide and she controls its pleasure and pain, release and restraint, as she sees fit. He is a dependant for his physical and sexual release and he must beg for her attention and her mercy. The man is belittled in this most fundamental form of male submission and female domination. Her feminine beauty is the natural weapon of the woman and her high heels, black stockings, red lips & red nails adorn this. He loves and hates it. He craves and fights it. GovernessX does so love to tantalise and torment her playthings. She is so very creative and cruel with her sex toys. GovernessX Motto capture his mind restrain his body pacify his spirit control his desire discipline his behaviour manipulate his sex gag his cries force-feed his hunger sissify his dress nappy his genitals
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