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Pleasures at Dressing Manor The story so far: Miles Johnson, a newly qualified teacher, receives a letter from his pupil, Lyndon Blonding, 18, telling how his father has eloped and his stepmother is venting her fury on him, keeping him prisoner at Dressing Manor, dressing him childishly and punishing him severely. He takes the letter to his Headmistress, Alison Forceman, who has Miles visiting her study every afternoon as a result, where he becomes addicted to the feminizing drug Fem-Agra in his coffee and develops a strong feeling for girls' clothing, as well as embarrassing bodily changes. A second letter from Lyndon describes how he is kept as a girl, and Miss Forceman accompanies Mr Johnson in his bid to rescue the boy. He is invited into Dressing Manor by Vera Hidebotham, Lyndon's stepmother, who introduces him to a group of overwhelming women, including Doctor Jessica Harding who offers to give him a medical examination, for which his wrists and ankles are fastened to his chair. He finds that Vera has a little girl, who appears briefly in her pushchair, which leads to a conversation on little girl's dresses. He is unable to hide what a strong influence they have over him, but while hoping to gloss over his stiffened arousal, the little girl joins them again in her pushchair, and is revealed to be none other than Lyndon Blonding, transformed. Chapter 4 - "Girl him! Girl him!" "Help me, Mr Johnson! Oh, thank you for coming to save me. Now I can go back to St Ursula's and wear my proper clothes again. Please talk to my stepmother. Tell her how desperate I am." Miles Johnson's penis was forcing the front of his grey trousers up in the air with the eagerness of his total sexual desire. His 18-year-old school pupil, dressed as a little girl and now sitting with his legs strapped apart in a wide spread, was exposing his little genitals in a state of stimulation that more than matched that of his teacher. But something had to be done. It was up to him, Miles Johnson, to remonstrate with the youth's stepmother and bring about the end of the ordeal that this youth had told him about by letter. He tried to struggle to his feet, but found - oh no! he couldn't get up. He was still fastened by his wrists and ankles to his chair. He looked round the circle of attractive women, open-mouthed, grinning, looking like they were delighted - thrilled, even, at the appearance of Lyndon. He turned urgently to the woman at his side. "Doctor Harding - quickly - unfasten me so that I can help the poor boy," he panted. Oh how helpless he was to do anything, strapped as he was at his ankles and wrists. "Of course, Mr Johnson," replied the doctor, leaning across him in the crisp yellow nylon of her medical tunic; "just let me remove your wrist cuffs first." She leaned across him, almost smothering him in the rustling nylon of her heavy breasts. She undid the three small buttons that held the cuff of white satin at his right hand. "There now," she smiled, in no hurry at all, as she attended to the similar cuff at the wrist closer to her. "Once I've removed these, I'll be able to unfasten you and you can help your pupil. There's just the neck cuff to unbutton too," and she stood behind him and exchanged grins with her friend Alison. Miles Johnson may have been conscious of a frill tickling his chin, but he had no idea that he had spent the past hour with an eight inch cuff of white satin, frilled at top and bottom, which Jessica Harding was now unfastening down the back of his neck. "P-Please hurry. I m-must rescue him," he stammered as his neck cuff was undone. He was also unaware that he was wearing a hair slide with a pink butterfly at one temple, and under his trouser bottoms, a pair of shiny, pink Mary Jane shoes over frilled white ankle socks. He sweated with embarrassment and urgency. If only he hadn't reacted so shamefully when the youth's stepmother had presented him with that little white sailor dress. His penis was still erected as a result, and he felt sure that the women in the circle knew that he had been dreadfully aroused. The important thing was, would Miss Forceman, his Headmistress, still give him her support in helping poor Lyndon. At last Doctor Harding was unclipping the pink leather straps from his ankles, and then from his wrists, and Miles Johnson was on his feet at last, if a little unsteadily, and standing immediately in front of the opened, bare legs of his pupil. The boy was crying pitifully, in short squeals, rather as a girl herself would have done. Now that he stood above her, or him, he reminded himself, he could see that his dress had a rounded white collar with a frill round the edge, and similar white frills under the two large puffball sleeves. The dress flared from the neck, and failed to cover frilly layers of petticoats underneath, leaving the boy's abdomen naked and exposed to the women who sat around him. This horrified Miles Johnson, but he was at a loss as to what to do. He suddenly remembered Miss Forceman, who was there to help. He turned, and there she was standing behind his chair, her hands on her hips, looking strong in the pink and white stripes of her blouse and knee length pleated skirt. Her crimson lips and frowning eyebrows were set on him in a determined glare. "Well go on, then," she said. "Rescue him!" Miles Johnson turned back to the spread-eagled youth as if he had been ordered by the pirate captain to walk the plank. He felt the eyes of every woman on him. Every attractive, big breasted and wide-thighed woman, all of whom knew that he felt an ecstatic thrill over little girls' dresses. In fact his penis was beside itself now in extreme stiffness as he leaned forward towards Lyndon in his lovely pink and white gingham dress with its white satin collar and petticoat frills, and his pretty lacey anklets socks. His fingers grasped the strap at the boy's ankle and tried to loosen it. There was no buckle. How did it unfasten? He moved to the strap above the boy's knee to try his luck, but somehow lost his way and found his fingers smoothing over the pink, very soft flesh of the boy's leg. How delicate it was, like a girl's. In fact he realised it felt like the way his own skin had changed recently, with no hair... not even down. A voice beside him reminded him that he was surrounded by company. It was Miss Amplewaite, the black and silver collar of her blouse turned up around her chin. "I think he's been girled," she said in a flat voice. "Look at his hair." The teacher stood upright and reached his fingers into the fine blond hair that hung around the boy's face in a long bob. The pink satin ribbon was so lovely, so glossy, as he fondled it and shaped it between the fingers of both hands. "Help me, Mr Johnson. Please." He heard. "I can't move my hands. Nurse Feel has strapped them to the back of my pushchair." Miles Johnson was beside himself. Why did the very helplessness of this youth, girled and prettied in front of him, send a surge of pleasure through his groin, exciting him beyond anything he had ever experienced? He tried to shake away the feelings of lust, and spun round to tell the boy's stepmother what he thought of her, or perhaps to ask Miss Forceman to intervene. "Miss Hidebotham, I must object about this. You must dress Lyndon in his ordinary clothes again. His pants and his shirts." He got no further, for his hostess was sitting again in her armchair, with her brown skirt opened at the front, and with the fingers of both hands fondling the underneath of her cream panties, looking straight at him with a leer of ridicule on her glossy lips. "How can I do that?" she sneered, bursting into a cackle of laughter. "All his old clothes have gone. They don't exist any more." There was laughter from some of the women on either side, and Miles Johnson felt a shock of fright pass across his scalp. Behind Miss Hidebotham, Miss Forceman was standing with another woman, both of them looking at him, both of them smiling. A worm of worry suddenly crossed his already frightened mind. He knew that new woman, in the white blouse with an extravagant Ascot frill down the front and a black miniskirt. Her size, her heavy breasts, her broad hips and backside. It... It was his own landlady herself! And she was looking at him, grinning, as the other women moved one or two armchairs aside and made room for her to wheel a suitcase into the middle. "Hallo, Mister Johnson, und how are you today?" she said in her German accent, a dark smile playing on her lips as she laid the suitcase flat on the floor and undid the catches. The teacher was dumbfounded. This whole dreadful experience in Dressing Manor was turning out to be a frightening drama that threatened to overwhelm him. He was mesmerized, losing control of his actions, his balance, his thoughts. The case opened and it was filled with clothing: pants, shirts, jumpers... But wait! That was his red and black jumper. And his MadDonald's tee-shirt and his best purple disco shirt. He looked at Miss Heiffer, who was pulling everything out onto the floor, while beside her, Arabella Widely had wheeled a large cylinder which she set up straight and locked into position. "Miss Heiffer? ... What are you doing with all my clothes? Here?" He said the words, but he was dazed, in a kind of dream. "Ah, your clothes, Mr Johnson, zey are no use to a girl, no?" And she picked up an armful of his clothes and dropped them into the open top of the cylinder. There was a hum and a rattle, the cylinder shook, and scraps of cloth flew out of a hole onto the floor. Red wool from his jumper... strips of striped cotton, which he recognized as one of his shirts. He looked up at Miss Heiffer, who had a serene smile on her chubby face, to see her tipping one of his school suits into the machine, and a pile of white underwear, as the machine hummed again, gobbled the clothing and pitched it out in rags at the bottom. "What are you doing?" he cried, stepping forward to stop her from dropping an armload of pants into the shredder, but he was held by the arm; by both arms. Miss Spitewell on one side and Miss Amplewaite on the other. His heart was hammering as his clothes shot out in ribbons, and he couldn't dislocate himself from the grip of these two women. There was a sudden cry from behind him and he looked down, over his shoulder, to meet Lyndon Blonding's wild look. "They're going to girl you, Mr Johnson," he cried. "You're going to girl him, aren't you, Stepmother?" Miles Johnson's heart stopped as more rags pitched out against the legs of his trousers, and he turned the other way, still held firmly, to catch the cold sneering grin of Vera Hidebotham. "Not me, you twit," she replied to her stepson with a snort. "I didn't get the clown ready. You are my resexed girlie, Blonding. Someone else owns this little pervert." The teacher blanched at these words. They held a shocking hint of truth. He looked at Miss Spitewell and Miss Amplewaite, and saw them giggling as they tightened their grip on his arms. Behind them he saw Arabella Widely, sprawled in the most ludicrous pose in her armchair, her green shiny skirt unbuttoned and her panties pulled down onto her stockings as her hands fingered her hairy pussy. And Councilor Welting the same: her short skirt was up over her dark pink blouse, her hands were busy in her panties and her mouth was wide open with slobber running from her chin. He panicked. Where was Miss Forceman? He needed help. He suddenly wanted to get out of here. "Miss Forceman," he cried, seeing her opening a second suitcase, her large blouse collar surrounding her face with pink and white stripes as she bent low, "help me? Tell these two women to let go of my arms." The fright he got when she stood up was like being slammed in the face by a swinging door. She had taken her skirt completely off, and under her blouse he could see her pink shiny knickers and her black suspenders and stockings. She passed a handful of books to Miss Heiffer. "Throw these in, Lucinda," she said with a smile of exaggerated politeness. "And these," as she passed her an armful more. "And what's this?" She examined the front of a sheaf of papers as the machine churned out reams of shredded paper, which Vera Hidebotham was shoveling into bin-liners along with the now-destroyed clothes. "Ah, psychology notes for lessons. Won't be needing those any more." She dropped sheaf after sheaf of papers into the machine, which churned and hummed and chewed the lot. "Miss Forceman," cried the teacher, reaching his body forward but getting nowhere. How strange that Miss Forceman and Miss Heiffer knew each other. "You can't destroy those notes, Miss Forceman. I'll need them after the holidays. All my lessons." His eyes popped as he saw the next handful of items. "Hey, that's my passport!" he screeched, his voice sounding very high and delicate. "No, Miss Forceman - No!" Everything went in as he spoke, and it was then that he broke down and spluttered into tears as both women threw handfuls of his things into the devilish machine. Everything went in. There were no clothes left. He had watched his photo albums going in, his whole stamp collection and his teddy bear. "Don't worry about school after the holidays, Johnson; you won't be there," chuckled his Headmistress, whose bust looked twice the size now that she had no skirt on, but was small by comparison with the flouncy bosom of his landlady. "It's all been taken care of: you have moved to another school, according to the records, but for everyone else... well, Johnson, you little wick, you quite simply don't exist." "Oh yes, that's it, that's right," squealed the youth from his pushchair, making his teacher turn to see him wriggling in his stretched condition. "Girl him, Miss Forceman. Girl him!" "Lyndon. Stoppit!" cried the teacher. "I've come to help you. Don't say that." "Girl him now for me, please, Miss Forceman," grizzled the youth, persisting with his plea. "Dress him as a little girl. Oh pleeeeeeeeeeeease! Give him a pretty little dress!" "Fuck me, look at his prick!" cried one of the women nearby, pointing at the middle of the youth's outstretched legs. "He's going to fucking spunk!" gasped another. "Yeah, they do that, the little perverts. He wants to see a pervert girled for keeps, isn't that right, Blonding?" Miles Johnson's head was clearing. He suddenly saw things for what they were, and Miss Forceman was no better than the boy's stepmother. Those meetings she made him attend in her study each evening. The way she had brought him here tonight; and even planned some kind of trick with Miss Heiffer, to get all his things together. To destroy them all. To wipe out his past. This was desperate. He had to get away from here. He had to get out. He suddenly realised that he wasn't being held any more. He was standing in his shirt and pants, surrounded by nearly a dozen women, with Lyndon Blonding screaming at them to dress him as a girl. He had to take his chance. He glanced towards the door where he and Miss Forceman had come in an hour or two earlier. His heart was pumping furiously, but he thought he could make it. Use the element of surprise and go. He secretly took a deep breath and dived for a space between armchairs. Out onto the floor, as women turned after him, running with the tap-tap of his shoes on the polished floor. It was a big, wood-paneled door and it looked heavy. Did he have enough of a start? Could he get it open and pull it shut behind him before making a dash across that entrance hall? He grabbed at the handle and pulled it down. It wouldn't pull. It was locked. There was a key pad on the wall at eye level. He glanced behind him and the women were coming his way - all of them. Not running; walking towards him as he fingered a combination of keys. Any. Trying the handle after a few. It wasn't working. They were behind him, standing round him, watching as he tried and tried and tried again. He felt the burn of his tears. It was hopeless. He caught the sweetness of Miss Hidebotham's perfume, then over his shoulder slithered the wide striped sleeve of Miss Forceman's pink blouse. "Here, Johnson," she said, her voice as calm as the purr of a cat, "try this." Her index finger picked out six digits, then stopped, poised above the keys. "You just need one more, and it's open," she smiled. "Go on, try." There were sniggers at his ears. Miss Wilding and Miss Heiffer behind him. They were all there. He felt a hand pinching his buttock, and another fondling down the inside of his hip and finding his stiffened member. Someone was stroking and playing with the back of his hair. His heart was beating at the top of his throat. Would Miss Forceman let him open the door if he got the right number? Maybe she would. He had to hope that he could win his freedom. He looked at the keypad, where some of the keys looked more used than others, and with a trembling finger he pressed 5. There was a click in the door. He couldn't breathe, but he found the door handle, pushed it down, and the door came inwards. There was chorus of "Ooooooo!" around him, then a hush as he drew the door back to see the hall: the banister at the foot of the staircase, the framed paintings of women on the dark paneled walls and the chandelier light from the high ceiling. And something that wasn't there before: a rail of plastic dress bags. Two rails of them. More! There were dozens and dozens of little dresses, brand new, still in their covers, waiting. He let out a high pitched moan of desire, for he could see white petticoat frills underneath and here and there a pink sash hanging down or the hem of a little orange dress. But he had to get out. He had to get away. He lunged for the hall - but he was still being held. There were three or four - ten arms around him, holding him, pulling him inch by inch back into the sitting room. He was inside the door, and the door was closing. Vera Hidebotham was at the door with a smile of pure contempt across her face as she watched him wriggling, struggling for all he was worth, unable to free his arms, held by both legs, and there was no hope any more. He heard the door click, then the clunk-clunk of heavy bolts jumping into deep sockets. "I'm sorry to have to tell you, you little shit, that every door is coded. Including all exterior doors of the Manor. You could never get out. And no-one can get in. You're staying here with us, sunshine. You've joined our little family." A wail swelled out of Miles Johnson. Everything was out of reach. This was going to be it. "No, please," he cried as blouse sleeves slid round him and huge breasts smothered him in his efforts to fight. "I'll do anything you say, Miss Hidebotham - only please let me go home." Miss Forceman was in his face with her lipsticked grin. "Home?" she scoffed. "You don't have a home, Johnson. This is where you live now. Jessica, a Fairy-touch." She left her teacher in the hands of the others for a second as she pulled her panties down and stooped to thread them off her feet. Then she took a tablet from Doctor Harding. A couple of the women had him by the hair and the face and held his mouth open, while Alison Forceman popped the tablet into his throat and tickled his neck to make the terrified male swallow. "Nothing to worry about, Johnson, you dick-head. Just a weakening agent." Then her knickers were over his face and she pressed the pink silk hard over his nose and mouth. His eyes closed, breathing her personal juices from her damp gusset, the silk of her knickers smoothing round and round over every inch of his face until every part of his body became limp and helpless. She released him, bent down again and pulled them up her stockings and into place. "He's ours, girls," she murmured with a lilt of humour in her voice. "I'm disappointed. There was very little fight in the Pansy." "Oh the shit!" cried Gail Amplewaite, suddenly holding him at arm's length and looking down her black and silver striped blouse at her charcoal skirt. "You little piss-pot! That pill you gave him, Alison - He's pissing his fucking pants!" Miles Johnson was straining to stop his urine but it was useless. He couldn't hold it - he had to let go, and the whole lot came out into his boxers. It was at that moment that his tears flowed too, and he blubbered and cried as his trouser legs turned dark grey down to the knees. "Typical," hooted Councilor Welting, making sure she was well back from him. "It shows he's completely given up. What a wimp! He's a fucking pansy all right!" "Bring him into the middle for me," said Alison Forceman. "We can do this sitting down, in front of Vera's pantywaist." Lucinda Heiffer spread her arms round the unfortunate male from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, picked him up as if picking up a toddler, and carried him back into the circle of armchairs. She held him there with his legs waving about while Alison took her place and everyone arranged their armchairs in a semi circle around her. Vera Hidebotham got her stepson right in front, so that everyone could watch the two of them during the teacher's little initiation ordeal. "Quick, Stepmother," gurgled the boy. He was leaning back in his little pink dress so as to point his penis out towards his former teacher. "Strip him! Girl him for me!" A smack like the crack of a bullwhip shook everyone's ears as Enid Feel gave him a full-blooded slap across the cheek from behind. It shook Miles Johnson. His face was a picture of shock as his landlady set him on his feet and turned him to face his Headmistress. Alison Forceman looked up at him through her spectacles with an ironic grin of triumph. "I've been looking forward to this moment every day for the past three weeks, you little turd," she snarled, her face still attractive to him in spite of what she was saying. "Those little dresses in my study that you couldn't keep your sweaty hands off. Your whining voice sounding more and more like a girl's every day. And that perverted fucking prick in the pants you've just pissed." He struggled to find his breath, so fiercely was his heart hammering in his chest as he saw Miss Hidebotham wheeling a rail of girls' dresses up to the circle of armchairs. "No, Miss Forceman," he blubbered, looking back to her. "Please let me go. I want to be there after the holidays, and teach at St Ursula's. Oh please have mercy on me." His words brought giggles of contempt from all sides as the women undid their skirts and threw them across the backs of their armchairs, and suddenly Miles Johnson and Lyndon Blonding were surrounded by women in blouses and knickers, with suspenders straining across thick thighs at the tops of their black stockings. The Headmistress raised her hands and looked round her group of friends, restoring the solemnity she wanted. There was a moment or two of complete silence in the sitting room, so that nothing could be heard except the uncontrollable sobs of her teacher. She gave a snort of contempt, and pronounced the fateful words. "STRIP HIM!" Everything seemed to happen at once. Miles Johnson squealed with fright. Oh no! They would see the devastating change to his genitals. He tried again to run for it, but Lucinda Heiffer grabbed him and lifted him from the waist as Andrea Spitewell latched onto the waist of his pants and deftly unfastened them. Arabella Widely and Gail Amplewaite seized the legs of his trousers and pulled, and in a flash, Andrea had pants and boxers down to his knees, on down his legs and off his feet. Meanwhile the spread-eagled Lyndon squealed at them as the women stood in a moment of shock: "Strip him! Everything off! Girl him! Girl him!" Then his cries stopped and changed to quivers of panting thrills as he saw the half-sized penis and scrotum, completely naked and smooth like a baby's, at the top of the teacher's legs. "Ohhhh," he added, "you already have!" Every woman screamed with disbelief as Andrea and Amanda held his legs apart. Blouse sleeves pointed and hands covered mouths that ached with laughter, as Miles Johnson's little penis stiffened in front of their eyes, stood up, and flushed with a surge of unwanted pleasure as he was mocked and laughed at. He convulsed with horror as he discovered that he was wearing white lacey anklets and little pink patent Mary Jane shoes. "Get his shirt off!" someone cried, and the teacher wailed with despair. Panic filled him again and his arms fought to be free, but couldn't move an inch in the iron grip of Lucinda Heiffer. They were about to discover his other dreaded secret. Oh no! Please no! His shirt buttons flew away as the women grabbed the neck, the front, the bottom and ripped it apart, then dragged it off him as Lucinda changed arms and kept hold of his naked body. Again there was a moment of shock. Of disbelief. This was impossible. Every woman stared open-mouthed at the chest in front of them, held rigidly round the waist by Lucinda's white sleeves. Not only were his nipples erected and pointing straight ahead of him, but the darkened aureoles around them were larger and more pronounced than some of the women's themselves. "Oh my God!" cried Councilor Welting, her hands covering her cheeks. "Look at how brown they are. And puckered and - Oh my, they must be so sensitive!" Alison Forceman felt pangs of desire swelling through her clitoris. "Lucinda!" she cried. "Give him to me! On my knee!" Miles Johnson could do nothing about being handed over and held immovably with Alison Forceman clamping his arms to his sides. All his strength had gone. It was as if he was moving in slow motion, and he could see at once that she could easily have held him in one arm. But she wanted both hands free, to hold these nipples in her fingers and fondle them into little points of feminine pleasure for him. "I have just the thing," grinned Vera, stooping to open the drawers under the dress rail. "Try the pratt in this, Alison," she said. There were whoops of delight as she unhooked the Miss Popsy label off a girls' little see-thru bra of white chiffon. She held it in front of his breasts for her friend to hold one of his wrists and thread his hand through the narrow white shoulder ribbon. Then his other hand, as the miserable teacher made a wailing noise between a moan and a gargle. "I always knew you were a perverted sissy cunt, Johnson," she hissed in his ear. "Look at your tits, you feminine twat. They're reaching for their girls' bra. Look, they're growing into it!" The women gathered closer to see, and it was true. "The nipples are growing longer," someone said. "And thicker. Look how far they're sticking out!" cried another. Miles Johnson could feel the sensation and knew that they weren't making it up. He looked down his chest with horror as the bra closed around him and was clipped behind his shoulders. His misery and hopelessness welled up beyond his control and he cried open-mouthed, his tears running down both cheeks and his slobber running from the side of his mouth. Vera had a large pacifier to hand, with a pale blue plastic disc and ring. It had two elastics: one went under his hair and gripped the back of his neck, the other pulled onto the top of his head, where two lengths of white satin ribbon, three inches wide, allowed her to fasten a bow onto the top of his hair. "Put the little prick into a dress," growled Councilor Welting as she prepared the leg frame behind Alison's armchair. "Into panties," snarled Doctor Hardman, pulling her own knickers off her feet and kicking off her shoes so that she could hook her stockinged feet into her chair troughs. "Get him into some lovely little panties and make the idiot suffer." She wasn't the only woman with no knickers on. Miles Johnson was faced with four or five pairs of thick thighs opened wide, and fingers working at wet labia. Even Enid Feel was fingering herself, legs wide apart, as she stooped at the side of the pushchair and masturbated the 18-year-old with a pair of little girls' panties. Vera had the dress Alison needed and returned from the dress rail to show it to everyone. Miles Johnson sat helplessly with his legs dangling on either side of his Headmistress's stockings, his arms still trying to disentangle themselves even though he had found no release after ten minutes of trying. He slid lower on Alison's lap at the sight of his little dress, and moans of bliss rose from right and left as they all saw his penis stiffen with desire and his nipples perk higher from his pouffy aureoles. It was a simple but very pretty dress with a white bodice, a small Peter Pan collar and little white puffed sleeves, flaring from a high waist into a light blue skirt scattered with black and white flowers, with a little self-coloured bow at the front of the waist. Vera held it on its satin padded hanger and lifted the skirt front to show its integrated white panty underneath. A wail of emotion escaped the pale blue dummy disc, and his legs slithered apart, eager to be pantied. It was a cotton jersey panty, elasticated at the waist of the dress and at both legs. He would have to step into the neck of his dress. Alison sat him in her lap, holding him on one arm, and Arabella and Gail held his legs while Vera threaded the dress over his shoes and ankle frills. His pacifier turned his moans of pleasure into hums of helplessness. As the dress made its way past his knees, his eyes drooled over it but his hair-ribbon turned this way and that as he suffered pangs of girlish pleasure and wriggled his whole body. Councilor Welting and Jessica took hold of his arms so that Alison could pull the dress up his legs and onto his penis. "His legs are so smooth," marveled Arabella, helping to push the leg elastics of the panty up his thighs. It was going to be a tight fit and Alison had to pull the waist as wide as it would go to inch it over his pelvis and past his waist. "His arms are smooth, too," declared Councilor Welting, "and so soft. That Fem-Agra is wonderful stuff. Look at how hairless and smooth the whole genital area is." Miles Johnson's genitals passed out of sight, because Alison had the dress up to his ribs. She pulled hard, tucking the leg elastics as high as possible between his legs and his pantied genitals, and turned him over with everyone's help, so that she would be able to button him up at the back. It was a team effort on his bare arms and bare legs. The Councilor threaded his hand into the cuff of the first little puffed sleeve, and the Doctor fed his other hand into the other, and the sleeves were pulled up to his shoulders so that Alison could pull the dress together at the back. He lay face down over her stocking tops, moaning into his pacifier as he was held by arms and legs, until she had fastened the three little buttons at the back of the little white bodice. The half belt formed a sash at the back, three inches wide and in the same material as the skirt. He had a nice big bow under his buttons and between his shoulder blades, while the back of his panty, stretched from half-covered buttocks almost to his breasts, was frilled round with three rows of little white pleats. It was the moment they had all been waiting for: seeing Miles Johnson properly dressed as the girl he had become, and they all helped Alison turn him round, sit him up properly on her lap with his back to her, and face his audience. It just remained for his legs to be harnessed for his genital masturbation. Barbara Welting inched the heavy frame forward and locked the feet on the floor. Eager hands helped to pull the pink foot cuffs down as others lifted the frilly ankled feet to meet them. "Who's a good little girlie then, showing the nice ladies how lovely he feels in his pretty panty?" she cooed, her voice heavy with sarcasm, as his legs were lifted higher and his shoes were clipped into the leather shoe-grips. Then Barbara worked the control panel on the support column and Miles Johnson was lifted by the feet, his legs straightening, his feet pulled four feet apart, and his pantied bottom sitting between Alison's thighs. The stand-up mirrors were wheeled across: one for Lyndon Blonding, the other for Miles Johnson, so that the sissies could see what had become of them. "There now, Johnson," said his Headmistress, shaking with chuckles as her hands went under his dress and her fingers found his nipples through the white panty and fondled them into stiff little fingers, "you're a little girl now, just like the ladies want you to be." The dummied and ribboned head of her teacher turned helplessly one way and the other to see the circle of armchairs filled with wide-spread, patterned black stockings and high heels, and open mouthed faces gazing at him above rhythmic movements of hands inside pussies. "You don't really know the ladies yet, do you, Sugar?" she giggled. "Look how they're enjoying having you in the middle of them. They're so glad you're my little girl now, Johnson, in your new home, and I can promise you a first evening of girly dressing, and getting to know the ladies a lot better." Her fingers on his new nipples were too much for Miles Johnson. Or maybe it was because he felt defenceless in her hands, but his little penis loved his little dress panty too much and pushed a pearl of white cream into the gusset, followed by another, and another, thickening into a swell of white milk at the knob-shaped point of wet cotton, until the 24-year-old teacher jerked helplessly, pushing a pulsing flow of cum, squirting through his panty and running onto her stocking tops beneath him. *** Next time: Chapter 5: Getting to Know the Ladies. Pleasures at Dressing Manor is taken from the Petticoat Wendyhouse at www.primspetticoatwendyhouse.com