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Pleasures at Dressing Manor - part 1 of 7 Chapter 1: Who can help poor Lyndon Blonding? Dear Mr Johnson, I am writing this letter to tell you about my stepmother, Vera, and how she has kept me away from school for the past two weeks. I am not allowed out of the house; in fact I am imprisoned in my bedroom with the door and windows locked. Not only that, sir, but my stepmother has taken away all my clothes. I have to wear a little short sleeved white shirt and pale green shorts. My shorts are extremely short, not covering my bottom, because my stepmother says I must let the air get to as much of my skin as possible. All this began when my father eloped with another woman, leaving me behind with my stepmother. She was furious and smashed every piece of the best china service which was a wedding present, but the next thing she did was to march me upstairs to my bedroom and lock me in, and the same day she appointed Miss Feel to look after me and teach me my lessons. (I have asked Miss Feel to try and get this letter to you at school. I hope she has succeeded.) Please sir, tell Miss Forceman about this dreadful thing. My stepmother can't do this to me, and Miss Forceman will know what to do. Yours sincerely Lyndon Blonding. PS: I have to use a pair of my Stepmother's panties on my desk top as a table cloth. PPS: Her panties are large because Vera Hidebotham is a big woman. Miss Forceman tossed the letter onto her spacious desk and twisted her rubied lips into bitter resolution. "You were right to bring this letter to me, Mr Johnson, so that I can deal with it. How old is the boy again?" "Er, 18, Miss Forceman. He is in my sixth form psychology class." Miles Johnson shrank in his chair in front of the Headmistress. Visiting her study made him shiver like a lamb in a lion's den, and he avoided her eyes which seemed to be magnified through those winged, black-rimmed glasses of hers. Her features were strikingly attractive, especially her prominent lips and wide mouth, and she wore her blond hair in a pageboy bob cut high above the back of her neck. She wore multi-faceted jet- black earrings today which glittered in the light from the window, surrounded by the collar of her green and white striped blouse which she wore turned up as usual. Her three quarter sleeves crinkled and the crisp bodice of her blouse sizzled over her powerful bosom as she reached forward and picked up the cafetiere. "Drink another cup of coffee while we discuss the matter, Mr Johnson," she said, refilling the large cup of her newly qualified teacher. She sat back in her deep, leather-upholstered chair and swiveled slowly to left and right, looking down the length of her nose at the shy, neatly groomed, 24-year-old teacher in his grey suit, white shirt and dark grey tie. He was pathetic, she mused: unable to control the girls in his class; weak and feeble, and a picture of a mummy's boy with his hair parted like that. "And sit up, Mr Johnson. You're slouching." The young teacher had been working out what he could say to Miss Forceman to bring about her early intervention on behalf of that poor young man. He sat up as he was told and swallowed three more gulps of coffee to put off the moment of truth, then gathered his courage and spoke up. "Begging your pardon, Miss Forceman, but - I think we should go round to visit the poor boy as soon as we can. He seems to be suffering terrible loneliness and... and he needs to continue his schooling." The Headmistress sat back in her chair and filled her chest with a deep breath, swelling the stripes of her blouse to twice the size, so that Miles Johnson was convinced she was five feet wide across her sleeves and bosoms. He had to look down at his coffee cup under the glare of her eyes. "I will make enquiries and find out more about this woman," she said. "Do not breathe a word of this to a soul, Mr Johnson. I hope I make myself clear." "Oh of course, Headmistress. Not a word." "I will expect you to report to my study each evening at the close of school as we monitor the situation. And for goodness sake, Mr Johnson, buy yourself a more interesting tie, or I shall have to dress you in one myself." Miles Johnson was very relieved to escape from that overpowering woman. At least the matter had been put into her very capable hands and he could rest assured that it would be resolved in a better way than he could have hoped to himself: he wasn't very good with determined women, and Lyndon's stepmother sounded just that. *** "So you delivered the letter to that boy's teacher personally, Enid?" "I did, ma'am. I took some pictures of him on my phone as he was reading it." "Good. Ahhh! Ha, ha, ha! He's going to be a beauty. Alison said he was a born submissive pantie-waist. So what did he say?" Nurse Enid Feel was in a giggly mood after the success of her little trip to St Ursula's. It fitted in so well with the attractive ethos of her new position as governess of the delicate, youthful stepson of her employer, who had appointed her precisely because of her attitude to youthful males which had come out under questioning at her interview. "What is the single most important form of control you would use on a male delinquent in your care?" had been Miss Hidebotham's main concern. "Oh, dress him as a little girl," came Enid's immediate reply. She was given the job on the spot. Enid Feel was 30 years of age, tall in her high heels and curvaceous in every respect, especially in her bust and haunches. At times she wore a full corselet to diminish her spare width, but more usually she allowed her cheeks to wobble and swell freely. There was some pigment in her skin on account of Spanish blood in her ancestry, and her face was jovial and full except when acting purely as the boy's governess. She wore her long black hair tied back in a snood and liked strong red nail varnish to go with her carmined, glossy lips. She felt she looked at her best in dresses and blouses with wide white collars, which was why today's short skirted, black cotton dress had a collar eight inches wide around her shoulders, notched above each of her breasts, before crossing in a double breasted style. As always, her shapely calves gleamed in black, seamed stockings. "He was shaking with fright, ma'am. I couldn't believe how personally he took it, about the boy's worry. If I hadn't of been in front of him, I swear he would of wet his pants. He said it was a wonderful thing I had done, getting the letter to him, and he would take it straight to the Headmistress." The mistress of Dressing Manor chuckled as she stopped with her hand on the door of her stepson's bedroom. "Very good, Enid. Give it a week, then sound worried that there's been no word from Johnson and suggest to our little friend in here that he should write again. By that time, he'll have a few more alarming little mishaps to include in his letter, and that will turn up the heat on our darling little teacher boy." A cloud of spite misted over Vera Hidebotham's sharp features whenever her stepson was the focus of her attention, and he promised to become very much at the heart of daily life at the Manor. She had been born with her mother's trenchant determination to have her way and had learnt from her how to deal with male members of her family. She cherished a hatred of the species, and this one - this Lyndon bloody Blonding - who had had the misfortune to live under her roof for only three months now, was going to collect the full venom of her hatred. That prick of a father of his, who had had the effrontery to dare to leave her, was beyond her reach, which was lucky for him. But this one represented him nicely. Not for her, sticking pins in a clay doll, oh no. She wanted the real thing. Her spite and cunning would be royally rewarded in the revenge she would take on this limp and feeble son of his, especially since her desire to degrade the male species conveniently fitted the method she would use for reducing this one: to un-sex him completely while ensuring that he would cooperate totally in his own feminization. The mere thought of it gave her an ache of pleasure in her clitoris and released those lovely juices that she associated with watching males suffering as their sexuality weakened and finally disappeared. Which was only right for the secretary of the Women's Guild of Forced Pleasure. She keyed her code into the wall pad beside the door, felt the locks go as she held the handle, and pushed the door open. It closed with a multiple clunking behind the two of them. Lyndon's dressing room gave an immediate impression of size, with its high ceiling and mock chandelier lights, its large windows behind full length net curtains, and its open spaces between mirrored walls and sparse furniture. The floor shone in polished boards, while in the middle of the room stood a circle of plush armchairs and settees upholstered in white satin. Vera's stepson himself was at the far side of the room, sitting at his desk facing a large mirror edged all round with pink and gilt moulding. To be more exact, his face was hidden inside a skirt of Vera's in chocolate terylene lined with fawn silk, which was laid flat on the surface of his desk. He was muttering from the inside of the garment, and muttered even louder when he heard the click-clack of his stepmother's and governess's high heels. Vera turned the nearby swivel chair and sat back in it to watch him. "Enough, Blonding. You sound like a babbling fool," she cried. The mumbling stopped and there was silence for a moment, with the 18- year-old waiting for permission or an instruction before daring to move. "Get him out of my skirt, Miss Feel," came the order, and the governess unclipped the metal brackets at either end of the desk so that she could remove the bar that had been holding him down across the shoulder blades. A sorry-looking youth withdrew his head from the skirt and sat looking at his garment of punishment. "You may kneel in front of me," snapped his stepmother. Her words produced a hurried slump to the floor, his head bowed. Lyndon Blonding had thick, strawberry blond hair which was an inch or two longer now than it had been when his father had left. It covered his ears and dipped slightly round the back of his neck, with a quiff that almost hid his left eye. He was slight in every respect, weighing just nine stones at the age of eighteen. His features would have to be described as pretty or cherubic, the sort of face photographers wanted for their publicity photos of children's portraits, and it would also have to be admitted that his natural delicacy and shyness were suited to his physical appearance. His stepmother reached forward and plucked the edges of the little white collar of his shirt with blue piping round the edge and a little forget-me-not at the curved front edges. His head sank a further inch or two in pained embarrassment. "Tell me how you have been spending the last hour, boy," she said coldly. Her stepson didn't raise his head. He had learnt to take as much care as he could to avoid more punishment. "I've been apologizing to your skirt...er... your lovely skirt... Stepmother." "I see. And what words were you saying to my lovely skirt?" "I was saying... erm... 'I am awfully sorry, dear Stepmother's lovely skirt, for messing you with my naughty spunkies while Stepmother was spanking me'... stepmother." "Hmmmmm. How many times did you tell my lovely skirt you were sorry, boy?" "One hundred and thirty-four times, Stepmother." "And are you really sorry for your behavior?" "Oh yes, Stepmother. I'm very sorry indeed. I won't do it again." "And is that all you did? Tell my skirt you were sorry?" She looked up at his governess standing behind him and exchanged a grin. "No, Stepmother. I also kissed the lining of your lovely skirt each time I apologized." "Hmmm. Pass me the skirt, Miss Feel." The governess gathered up the skirt and passed it over. It was a knee- length A-line skirt with a zip and button at the back. Vera spread it across the lap of her dress and opened it at the hem to inspect the light brown lining. It was then that her stepson ventured a nervous glance from beneath his quiff, at the moment her expression turned from satisfaction to fury. "What's this? Why is the lining of my lovely skirt so wet?" Lyndon Blonding was beside himself. "Oh dear! Oh Stepmother... I... I couldn't help it. I was crying. Oh my goodness. I couldn't stop crying, Stepmother." The acid look on the face of Vera Hidebotham gave the wretched youth no room for doubt that his buttocks were about to suffer another dozen or two strokes of stinging retribution. And he was right. "Miss Feel. The cane," came the dreaded words. The air of the dressing room fell in temperature by 20 degrees by the terrified reaction of Lyndon Blonding's skin. "Oh please don't punish me again, Stepmother, pleeeeeease," he whimpered, hardly daring to venture this request in case it brought him an even worse outcome. "You always were ridiculous, boy. If I have decided to punish you, I will punish you. Miss Feel, get him over the arm of the chair with his pants down." There were stifled squeaks and whimpers from the trembling youth as he was marched to one of the armchairs and had his blue shorts unfastened by his governess. He did his best to prevent her from sliding them down to his knees, which he was pressing together in pained apprehension. "Oh please... no-o-o-oooo," he blubbered as they were followed by his little silk underpants, but the cold air of the dressing room on his bare bottom was nothing to his electric awareness of his Stepmother's approach from the wall cabinet, with one of her crook handled canes held between both her hands. Miss Feel caught hold of both Lyndon's hands and held them together, using her other hand to grab his hair, pull him so that he had to climb onto the armchair on his knees, and force his head down and into her skirt. "Oh no, please don't... Oh, help! Help me, someone, pleeease!" came the cries of panic as the youth's governess pushed his head between her legs, gripping his neck with her knees. "That's excellent, Miss Feel. He deserves this, the spunking little creep," and her cane measured its tip across his upturned and unprotected buttocks before she lifted it high into the air and swished it down with the full force of her strong arm. It's surprising how much noise is absorbed when a boy's face is held under a skirt between thick, stockinged legs. It could be that his shame and self-disgust have a lot to do with diminishing his will to cry out, but it was the whipping and slashing of the cane rather than Lyndon Blonding's cries which resounded round the room. Both his stepmother and his governess were convinced that a punishment of this severity and this long duration would confirm the boy's total cooperation for a long time to come, and furthermore, they both enjoyed hearing his cries of pain while watching the reddening of the weals that criss-crossed his buttocks and the tops of his naked thighs. It was fully ten minutes before Vera Hidebotham strode back to the cabinet to hang up her cane and her tear soaked stepson was put on his feet and made to extend his blistering bottom until he was standing more or less upright in abject pain. "We'll put these on him," declared his stepmother, laying two small coat-hangers on the back of one of the settees. "Strip him, Miss Feel. I've been dressing him in a style that's altogether too old for the little cry-baby." Her stepson just about managed to see what lay in store for his dressing through tear-filled eyes. They certainly looked small, but he could not object in the slightest, for fear of another caning on the burning soreness of his tenderized bottom. In any case there was nothing he could do to prevent Nurse Feel from undoing his shirt and putting it on the armchair on top of his shorts. His stepmother stood in front of him with the hanger holding the little shirt that he was to wear for the afternoon, turning it this way and that for him to see the front and back. It was in crisp white nylon, with a picture of a pink and purple pony on the front and a crisp collar that stuck out on all sides as if it was starched. It fastened at the back, with large white buttons like pyjama buttons. His nurse slipped it off its hanger and held it for him to put his arms into the little puffed short sleeves. The shirt was too small, but she pulled both sides and it met at the back for the three buttons to be done up. There was a similar large button on the cuff bands at the top of each of his arms. There were sharp points at the front and at the back on a little collar two inches wide, but the shirt was hopelessly short and stuck out stiffly on all sides, with buttons all round. The shorts were even smaller, and fresh tears welled into Lyndon's eyes as he stepped his feet into the offered legs. They were mint green, in the same starched nylon, with two little pockets at the front, each with a fold-over white flap fastened down with a large button. "They button onto his shirt," announced his stepmother, supervising her stepson's dressing from close quarters. "I don't want the little squirt trying to pull his shorts down when he needs a wee; he will have to ask to be undressed. Which brings me to a nice little bit of news for you, boy: from now on you will do your toilet into a floor potty. Nurse Feel will practice you in how to use it." His nurse was finding it hard to get the buttonholes on her charge's shorts to meet the buttons on his shirt, which Vera Hidebotham saw. "Oh they'll reach, all right. You have to pull hard and stretch them," she laughed. "Baby boys need to be tightly buttoned into their pants, don't they, boy?" Lyndon was almost crying but he squeaked a reply. "Y-Yes, Stepmother... they do." His pants buttoned together at the back with two similar buttons, and there were four buttonholes on the front of his waist band and four on the back. The first of his back buttons was soon fastened through the waist of his pants, a few inches above his waist. Nurse Feel struggled to fasten the second, the third and then the last. But fastening the front buttons was going to be more difficult. "I'll hold him for you," cried Vera, grasping her stepson's arms from behind and pulling him into her bosom. Her face was beside his hair since she stood a few inches taller than him in her high heels. "Pull them tight. I want him tightly buttoned in." Lyndon Blonding was wingeing with shame as his governess pulled the silk gusset tightly up between his privates and the top of his leg, lifting his foot off the floor as she pulled him upwards and stretching his shirt downwards until button met buttonhole. Then it slotted in. it was just as difficult with the second button, but she managed. By the time she had fastened all four front buttons, the youth was crying openly in his stepmother's grip. The shorts were pulled deep into the cleft between his buttocks and high into the slots on either side of his tightly squeezed private bits. He felt like he was squeezed into the tightest pair of panties imaginable. His stepmother pulled him round to take a look at him and declared her pleasure. "Very good," she smirked. "If we have visitors, he will wear this nice little shirt and pants because they suit the little brat baby nicely... until he is ready for his big change. How many drinks has he had today?" "Four," replied Nurse Feel. "He has four more to come." Vera prettied the points of her stepson's collar with a curl of contempt in her smile. "Very good. Very good indeed. Soon we are to begin enjoying ourselves." *** "Oh good heavens, no, Mr Johnson," complained Alison Forceman, seeing the new shirt that he had put on today for the first time. "When I said you need something that would go better with the choice of ties and cardigans I am plying you with, you should have had more gumption. Take it off. When you are in my study, you will look the part if I am to sit opposite you, having to look at you for an hour or more." It was three weeks since Miles Johnson's first, nerve-racking visit to the Headmistress's study, from which date he had religiously attended each afternoon at the end of school business to discuss how they might help the wretchedly unfortunate Blonding boy make his return to school. He had grown increasingly frantic as the days went by, with Miss Forceman insisting that they could take no steps to investigate until the boy had sent a further 'cry for help' but there had been no further word from the unhappy Lyndon Blonding. But now at last, today was the day, and Miles Johnson had received another quick visit from the boy's attractive governess, Miss Feel. He had thought better of opening it and decided instead to give the letter to Miss Forceman in his daily appointment with her... which made him long for the moment when he would once again brave his Headmistress's forbidding presence. A strange turn-around had happened in the young teacher's attitude towards his visits to the Head. He dreaded her disapproval and feared her power as his employer, but there was a strange attraction in the interest she had taken in his clothing. "You need help to develop a sense of style, Mr Johnson," she said repeatedly, "and if I wasn't here to help you, Lord help us." He had also developed a liking for her coffee. No, it was a positive craving. How delighted he had been when she changed from moderate cups to large cups, of which he would drink four or five during the course of each visit. In fact she would not let him leave until he had drunk up each and every drop of his fifth large cup. She allowed him to use her private toilet of course, which he loved doing, partly because of the fabulous items of clothing which were hanging up in there: sometimes skirts, sometimes dresses, and all of them for young girls. His favourite was a lovely little dress, which must have been for a very little girl: it was in pink gingham and had an adorable white satin panel at the breast with a lovely white satin rounded collar with a black silk ribbon bow at the throat and black ribbons done into bows all round the hem which flared out so widely. When that little dress was hanging in there, he loved to feel under its silky petticoats with his hands and plant tender kisses all over the satin panel with its cute satin covered buttons and little frills of white lace. How gorgeous he felt in his penis as he showed the dress his affection. In fact he found himself taking far too long in the toilet on these occasions, and once he nearly collapsed with fright when Miss Forceman knocked on the door and opened it. "What are you doing in here?" she demanded. "Er... I... I'm looking for the toilet paper, ma'am." She wasn't convinced, as Miles Johnson could tell when he joined her a minute later, red faced. He stood shame-facedly in front of her now, his new pink shirt with the black pinstripes folded over the back of a chair against the wall as the Headmistress held the shirt he was to put on in its place. "Turn round," she said. "Put your arms in." His new Head's office shirt was white, silky smooth and crisp. She turned her teacher round by the shoulders to face her, as if she was his overbearing mother and he was her annoying son. She fastened the buttons down the front from an open neck with a small rounded collar and tugged it at the hem when she had finished. It barely reached Miles Johnson's waist. Then he realized with a shock that it buttoned the girls' way. His penis stiffened instantly in the front of his trousers and he found himself putting his terrible realization into words. "I-Is it... one of your....your own blouses, M-M-Miss F-Forceman?" The Headmistress was cool and matter of fact as she buttoned the pearled white buttons on the inside of each of his cuffs, which didn't quite reach his wrists. "Not one of mine, Mr Johnson. It's a girls' blouse. But quite suited to your tie for today and your little cardigan." The new young teacher felt a wave of pleasure flooding his private parts. It made him want his first cup of coffee. He needed his coffee, right now. "This is the sort of tie that suits you nicely while you are with me in my study, Mr Johnson," she continued, producing a pink plastic shopping bag with Miss Popsy printed in white and pictures of dolls. She took a shiny confection from the bag, passed it round the back of his neck and slotted it underneath the blouse collar, before looping and tying the knot fairly loosely under his chin. Her fingers tucked and fussed it for a few moments and arranged his blouse collar over it, before pursed lips showed her satisfaction . Miles Johnson looked down anxiously and a bleat of dismay escaped him as he saw the tie Miss Forceman had chosen for him to go with his girls' blouse. It's tongue was the classic tie shape but wider and shorter on his breast, in a white satin grained with pale lilac, but in the middle of it was a heart of darker lilac pink, while in the middle of the heart was a pretty pearled button an inch in diameter. While his heart struggled to accept that he had just been dressed like this by Miss Forceman, she turned and reached across her desk, opened a drawer from the front, and produced a second bag from Miss Popsy's. From it she produced his cardigan on a satin covered hanger. Bleating whimpers greeted its appearance from the man in the blouse. It was a little sleeveless bolero top in lilac angora, with shiny pearled buttons to match the one on his tie. "Turn round, Mr Johnson," she said, and he was right when he imagined a note of irony in her voice. He held his hands down behind him for her to thread the delicate garment up his arms and onto his shoulders, so that when he turned to face her, she looked down the length of her nose to fit it neatly under his blouse collar and cross over the sides of the double breasted little coatee to fasten the four fisheye buttons in two sets of two. "Walk to the door for me," she ordered. "Turn." Her scrutiny devoured her teacher from head to toe. "Yes, that suits you fine. Now sit down, remembering my instruction to you last time to keep your knees wide apart." Miles Johnson obeyed her instructions, painfully aware that his cardigan left three inches of blouse visible below it, and that his vest was on view to his Headmistress between the hem of his blouse and the waist of his pants. But it was his pants that were of terrible concern to him, for his flies were stretched in the most humiliating upward point; the result of his being encased in the most lovely girlswear. And no amount of deep breathing or head clearing seemed to be doing anything to reduce his erection... the stiffest erection he could ever remember having in his young life. Miss Forceman didn't seem to notice, even though she appeared to be looking straight at the tenting in his trousers. Instead, she picked up her cafetiere and filled Mr Johnson's large cup. "Your first cup, Mr Johnson," she said. "Drink it up for me." Then she picked up the envelope containing the letter which he had given her as soon as he arrived in her office, and took out the letter inside. "So," she said, with pure severity eyeing her pretty teacher through her spectacles as he raised the cup to his lips and drank as if he was dying of thirst, "your pupil has seen fit to send a second letter. Shall we see what he has to say?" An aching tide of pleasure swept through Miles Johnson as the Head started to read aloud. Dear Mr Johnson, I am begging you to help me. I am the prisoner of my strict stepmother. She gives me impossible assignments to complete and when I fail, she canes me every day. My bottom and the backs of my legs are striped and bitterly painful. I spend all day in little suits of silk or nylon, with wide sissy collars that spread over my shoulders and very short pants that leave my bottom sticking out. I have leg, arm and body treatment every day to make sure I have no hair except the hair on my head, which is now very long, and my Governess (who is very kind to me and will deliver this letter to you) gives me lessons continually on sewing and ironing (I must iron all her clothes and my Stepmother's clothes every day and put them away in their wardrobes). My desk is now a dressing table with a large mirror, and Nurse Feel, my governess, brushes and combs my hair for an hour each morning and another hour each afternoon. I have to go to bed at 6 o'clock and have to wear a nightdress with frills around the shoulders which doesn't reach down as far as my willy. Please oh please talk about this to Miss Forceman. I am sure that she will be able to help you release me from this dreadful imprisonment. It is not right and I am being unjustly treated. Please help me, Mr Johnson. You are my only hope of escape. I am crying as I write this letter to you. Your hopeful pupil, Lyndon Blonding. Miss Forceman set the letter down and pinned her newly qualified teacher with a glare of authority. Miles Johnson, on the other hand, was suffering a mixed assault of anxious feelings. He was beside himself with the injustice and horror of what was happening to this young man, while at the same time he was ecstatic in his Head's office costume and had to try and disguise the fullness of his stiffened penis right under the nose of Miss Forceman. He could hardly wait for her to pour his second cup of coffee. "Sit up straight, Mr Johnson," she demanded as she lifted the cafetiere and poured the precious mixture into his cup. "Just because you are in a little blouse and bolero set doesn't mean you can lounge. Legs wide apart, Mr Johnson... That's better. Now, drink your coffee while I'm talking." The young teacher could scarcely believe it, but if it were possible for his penis to stiffen even further, it just had done, for the Headmistress had moved a cardboard box which had been on her desk top, and there on the table underneath it was a little maroon skirt, just three or four feet away from him. It was pleated at the sides, but on the smooth front panel were six lovely skirt buttons: two on the waistband and four others arranged in a square. It must have been only twelve inches deep all together and although he wanted to look away from it... to look at Miss Forceman... his eyes simply would not leave its lovely sweetness. His preoccupation with the skirt had not escaped her as she placed her box on one end of her spacious desk, but she continued to speak to him nonetheless on the subject of their shared interest. "I can see clearly what we have to do," she said, returning to the skirt and bringing out from beneath it its padded hanger. The skirt had shoulder straps which had been hidden. Their appearance brought a blurting sort of warble from Mr Johnson's throat as a spurt of emotion shot through him. His eyes were glued on them as the Headmistress arranged them over the hanger and brought one of the maroon straps down to the waistband where it fastened to one of the buttons. Then the other strap reached a button and was secured sweetly in front of him. A moan of desire escaped him, which he tried hard to stifle but only caught half of it, as Miss Forceman's eyes looked over her glasses at him. "Is something the matter, Mr Johnson?" she enquired, lifting the skirt clear of the desk and holding it up with one hand so that she could straighten its pleated hem all round with the other. The teacher's moan became an uncontrollable warble, almost a wail, as he watched. "Ohhhhhhh, the s-s-skirt!" he stammered, his eyes as wide as the saucer he was holding. "I-It's the skirt, M-M-Miss F-Forceman!" She stopped fussing it and turned to her noticeboard behind her, where she hung it on a peg near the top under Mr Johnson's breathless gaze. The skirt may have been twelve inches deep, but from the top edge of its waistband to the top of the hanger it was only half as much, and a new wave of glowing pleasure swept through him as he knew that it was a little girl's skirt. Miss Forceman gave the pleats and hem one or two more fluffs of her fingertips, then turned and sat down, glancing casually at the sharpness of the tent in Mr Johnson's flies. "More coffee, Mr Johnson," she said, lifting her cafetiere. Miles Johnson fought to recover his composure, his heart hammering behind his pearled lilac buttons and Miss Popsy tie. He leaned forward to get his refill, a flutter quivering in his breath. Then, as soon as he was sipping it down, Miss Forceman got to her feet, removed the lid of her box and separated the tissue paper inside. Into his view she brought a pair of pale blue school panties, which she stretched at the waist, gave a little shake to, then spread them on the table top. She scarcely needed to, but she did look over her glasses, to see the open mouth and quivering lip of her teacher. As she brought a second lime green pair into his sight, a whimper of surrender gurgled inside his throat. She placed them on the other pair and returned her hands to the tissue. When she produced a maroon pair and stretched them in front of him, he called out in an unfortunate loss of control for a moment, but had to look again. The fourth pair were maroon too; adorable; so soft and... deeply feminine. Two pairs of pink serge gym panties followed, at both of which he released a wretched moan of pleasure, barely managing to keep his empty coffee cup on its saucer. There were navy blue panties too, followed finally by white ones, at which the male teacher sounded as if he was gargling deep in his throat, in a state of shock. "Are you all right, Mr Johnson?" enquired Miss Forceman; "or do you need the loo?" It was as if he didn't know where he was as she came round the desk to him and relieved him of his coffee cup. "Go to the loo, Mr Johnson, for goodness sake," she said, her voice sounding comforting and friendly. Miles Johnson didn't want to leave the little skirt, and he certainly didn't want to walk away from the stack of lovely school gym panties, but he rose to his feet with the help of Miss Forceman in a heady daze and ambled towards the door of her private loo. Alison Forceman watched him push the door open, step inside and close the door behind him. She sat at her desk, her grin reaching from ear to ear, and picked up her phone. She would have ample time for her call. About now, he would be finding the pretty little sundress in yellow cotton hanging behind the door, printed all over with little girls smiling faces. An "Ohhhhhhh!" came from the other side of the loo door. "Hello, Enid. It's Alison. Can I have a word with Vera?" "Ohhh! Ohhhhhhh!" she heard from the teacher in the loo. She guessed he would have been playing with the little yellow buttons at the front of the shoulder tabs. "What have you had that fool doing this afternoon, Enid? I take it he's ready to be fully girled? ... Head panties? ... Yours or Vera's? ... It has always been one of the best ways to subdue them. It sounds like he'll make a perfect playmate for this clown I've got here." A flurry of moans came from the loo. She knew he would have lifted the hem and found the integrated lace petticoat, and chuckled with satisfaction. "Is she there, dear. Wonderful. Pass me over, and I'll see you tomorrow." There were whimpers of helplessness from her loo, followed by an even louder and more rapturous "Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh!" he had turned round and seen the little blouse and skirt set, hanging together on a single hanger. Its little puffed sleeves, a Peter Pan collar, pink daisy buttons and little pleats from the yoke; and a pleated skirt in pink tricel with big pink buttons for the shoulder straps. Alison Forceman heard her friend's voice. "Hello, Vera. It's time. He's absolutely ready. Gagging for it. I'd say tomorrow." She half listened to the whimpers of surrender from the loo. "The last pack of panties has arrived for them: the school gym panties... Yes, we'll be getting more, but these will last them over the weekend, along with their silk full cut panties and their lovely little Frenchies. Have their petticoats arrived? ... Wonderful." The raptures from the loo seemed to have subsided into low moans of blissful sweetness, but she didn't have all evening to listen to a condemned man. She would have to get him sobered up and into his going home shirt. "So, Vera darling, I'll get him there for 4.30, as soon after the end of school as possible. Can everyone be there to welcome him? ... Oh, Doctor Harding too? Splendid! I can't wait to see the faces on the two of them when the penny drops. And stripping this clown down to his skin ready for his new beginning. Ha, ha, hahhhh! ... Really? It's as small as that? I haven't even seen my clown's prick yet, but from what I've seen of it sticking out in his pants, it's going to be a scream. Oh my god, can you hear him wailing in the background? ... he's playing with a little dress, blouse and skirt... Goodbye then darling... And I can't wait to see yours too. Goodbye." Alison Forceman did not normally allow herself to get excited, but this was a special occasion. The latest project of the Women's Guild of Forced Pleasure was about to take off and the gusset of her bloomered panties was already sticking wetly between her legs. She listened for a moment at the door of the loo, then knocked. "Mr Johnson... it's time for your next cup of coffee," and she opened the door an inch. A slurry of materials greeted her from behind the door, and a warble of emotion. She didn't shame him by discovering what he might have been up to. Instead she let him reappear half a minute later, very flushed and extremely stiffened in his pants, to have his cup of coffee and to be told how he and Miss Forceman were going to visit Lyndon Blonding the following day, Friday, the day they were to break up for the Spring Week Holiday. As she unfastened his little cardigan, undid his tie from Miss Popsy and unbuttoned his girls' white blouse, she told him how good he had been to bring this whole affair to her attention and how tomorrow afternoon, he would be showing his beleaguered pupil that he had responded to his call for help. This story is a story from PPP#1 or the Petticoat Wendyhouse at www.primspetticoatwendyhouse.com In part 2 - Mr Johnson to the rescue