Mrs Denver s Parent Discipline Scheme
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The Scheme free porn video
The scheme for sending unwanted orphans to farm communities was at its
height. Often they were little more than child slaves. Sometimes kids
were farmed out to very remote and isolated farmsteads where they were
both prisoners and slaves, and their adopters could pretty much treat
them as they liked. You could get used to anything in the end I suppose,
if you had no choice....
Chapter One - Lemonade and Lace
If Miss Grace said, "Go wait with Missy in the kitchen for a while," you
went to the kitchen.
"....and ask her to pour you a lemonade, tell her Mistress says it's fine
with me," she added much to my surprise.
This was all kind of odd for several reasons. Firstly for months she'd
kept me and my former best friend well apart, secondly I was rarely
allowed in the house, and thirdly she was so nice, and even offered me
lemonade. It felt suspicious but I'd learnt the hard and painful way not
to question, and what will be, will be. My trying to do anything about it
just made whatever sick game she might be playing more painful.
I wiped my worn boots at the porch before allowing myself in. The place
smelled of polish, a little perfume, and home baking. I took off my old
faded baseball hat, and cap in hand walked along the hall to the kitchen.
I opened the door and stepped into the big kitchen. The washing machine
was on a rather loud spin cycle and I don't think my friend heard me
enter, facing away from me engrossed in washing something in the sink.
I had a long look at my erstwhile best friend. Looking at him nowadays
always made me pretty sad, often uncomfortable, and sometimes even a
little mad at him that he'd let them do this to him, even though I knew
how ruthless they can be.
He was wearing what I'm sure I'd heard Miss Grace refer to as one of his
"house-dresses." Pale blue, it was tight around the upper body and loose
and a little poofed out at the skirt which finished just above the knee.
Kind of old fashioned I suppose like Miss Grace, but not so that you
might not see a "proper" girl wearing something similar if they weren't
wearing jeans, which Miss Grace's poor pet never did.
Never fat he'd lost weight anyway. His arms were so slim and slender, as
they worked at whatever he was washing in the sink. His waist was tiny,
exaggerated by the big bow of what I presumed was one of those soppy
aprons Miss Grace loved him to wear.
The slight sheen on his slim legs indicated he was wearing pantyhose or
something. He was in women's shoes in cream leather with a slight heel.
He was taller than me anyway, but in heels he looked like what my Mom
would have called willowy.
His quite long dyed straw coloured hair had now grown long enough to be
fashioned into a neat ponytail tied with a pale blue bow to match the
dress. The ponytail bobbed sort of mockingly as the poor boy exerted
himself in the task that Miss Grace had set him.
I could smell the perfume Miss G seemed to love to douse the poor kid in.
It was different from hers, even I could tell that. It was even more
cloying and flowery.
I began to feel guilty just looking at the poor creature like this
without him knowing, so I shuffled my boots and coughed when the spin
cycle on the machine seemed to lull a bit.
He turned around obviously taken by surprise. He looked shocked to see
me. Even under a mask of foundation and lipstick, and whatever else Miss
G plastered each day onto his poor face, I could see him blush. He
blushed even more when he realised the white lace women's bra he clutched
in his thin fingers was was dribbling wet suds down his pristine white
lace edged apron.
Quickly he thrust the offending item back into the sink.
"Miss Grace sent me over," I quickly explained. He might be fearful I'd
come without permission, which via the cock-eyed logic of this place he'd
be in for trouble too.
"Oh..hi," he said in the modest tones Miss G enforced on him. Now wiping
his hands on a towel, red painted nails flashing between wipes.
"She said to wait with you. They are coming over later."
"Really?" he said, his voice a little squeaky, I think through the effort
of trying to sound a bit more masculine in my presence.
"She said you'd give me some lemonade," I added, the thought of a rare
treat like lemonade overriding my shame of asking the poor creature to
get me some.
His thin plucked eyebrows raised, showing his disbelief and suspicion.
"No, honest Indian," I said, using an old saying we used to use together,
"I'll get a whipping if I'm lying."
"Yeah, yes," he mumbled, then smiled, which was unsettling when it looked
like such a big girl's smile through red lipsticked lips.
He walked surprising elegantly in heels to the fridge, and took out a jug
of chilled lemonade which he placed on the table. He then went to a
cupboard on the wall. Even though he was quite tall he had to stretch a
little to get a glass off the top shelf. It was then I caught a glimpse
of pristine white lace under the hem of his dress. I looked away a little
embarrassed.
His thin arms trembled a little as he poured me a glass.
"You better take a seat," he croaked, still trying to find his male
voice.
I sat myself down placing my cap on the table.
"Aren't you having some?" I asked in what I thought was the proper
politeness.
"No, no, I better not," he answered swiftly, obviously tempted, but
overridingly fearful.
I took a long sip of the cool lemonade. I was going to make this treat
last. It was cool, just sweet enough, and as nice as I hoped it would be.
"I made that," he said. Then blushed again, obviously feeling awkward at
what he'd unconsciously said.
"It's real nice," I said.
The room fell silent. My friend just stood there awkwardly in all the
enforced feminine finery his cruel mistress forced upon him day after
day. I tried to think of the right thing to say. His presence kind of
made me feel bad.
The phone rang in the hall, almost to my relief. My friend suddenly raced
to the phone in a flurry of skirts, petticoats, and clip clopping heels.
Obviously letting the phone ring too long was a major misdemeanour in
this house.
"Hello Missy here," he said in the most cloying sing-song girlish tones.
I sort of cringed at the words. Of course the phones here didn't go out
to the outside world, so it could only be Miss G or my boss on the line.
"Yes he's here Miss. Yes, I gave him some lemonade," he eagerly replied
in rather disconcertingly sweet girlish tones.
"Yes, I'm just doing them now. Yes I'll get them on the line real quick."
There was a pause, Miss Grace was imparting some wisdom I assumed.
"I'll tell the boy. Yes, goodbye Mistress. Love you too."
My god, "love you," how sick was this, I thought.
The poor creature returned to the kitchen, painted face flushed either
with the exertion of running to the phone, or sheer utter embarrassment,
or probably both.
"Mistress says," he began in those cloying girlish tones, then corrected
himself, and began to croak, "Miss Grace says I can make us some lunch.
They could be a while. But I've got a chore to do first. Help yourself to
more lemonade."
I didn't need asking twice, and topped up my glass. He returned to the
sink.
His slim back to me now I looked as he plunged and lathered the feminine
item.
"It's been a while," I said, for something to say.
He placed the white lacy bra in a basket to his left, and took a
similarly feminine lace trimmed bra, this time in pale pink, from the
basket on his right and plunged it into the hot soapy suds.
"Yes, yes months I think," he croaked, his back to me.
"It's been tough," I said, taking another cool draft of lemonade.
"Yes it has," he replied, the croak now sounding almost tearful. He added
the pink item to its white lacy twin. He took another white bra from the
basket on his right, this one smaller than the more generous items he'd
already washed.
"I'm sorry I couldn't help you," I said sadly and honestly.
"Sorry I couldn't help you too," he said with a tremble in his croaky
voice now. He added the small white bra to the basket on his left, and
took another bra, small again in powder blue, and plunged it into the
sink.
I was uncomfortably intrigued now. I looked more closely at his back. The
'house dress," fitted real tight around him, at least above the waist,
and now I detected it, the distinctive outline of bra straps and
fastenings under the dress. This bra must be powder blue like the one
he's hand washing now, which is why I didn't immediately notice it under
the blue fabric of the dress.
So the big bras are hers, and the small one's his. Oh my god he's hand
washing Miss Grace's and his very own bras in front of his friend. No
wonder he's so tearful.
"It's all kind of crazy," I said, rather lamely.
"Y..yes," he replied, obviously fighting to hold back emotion.
He turned around, the basket of washed lingerie in his thin hands.
"I've just got to...to-" He hesitated to say 'hang out bras' it
seemed.... "I've got to go in the garden, back real soon".
I watched him exit in a rustle of skirts, a waft of perfume, and a click
clack of heels.
These people are real crazy I thought for the thousandth time. I kind of
understand them using me as free labour, but why dress my friend up as a
girl and totally humiliate him.
Shifting my chair just slightly I could see him through the kitchen
window. Pegs ready in his lipsticked mouth, just as he'd been mercilessly
taught I guess, he pinned the offending items to the line with precision.
Firstly he hung up the large bras with their generous cups, which I
presumed were Miss Grace's, then with equal care he hung the two smaller
more delicate bras, which I presumed he was forced to wear.
What can he be thinking to himself I wondered as he dutifully hung up
such obviously pathetic symbols of his surrender to Miss Grace's will.
I mean, it's so crazy. What need as a boy for a bra anyway. Yes she can
dress him up as a sissy, but why make him wear a bra for god's sake.
As he turned to return, I shifted the chair back. I didn't want him to
know I'd witnessed this little shameful moment.
I insisted on helping him make some lunch. It was better than sitting
awkwardly watching him click clack around the kitchen.
I wasn't sure if he was even aware of how girlish he was now. Miss Grace
and her odious friend were very thorough, and sometimes you could hear
them berating "Missy" from the bottom field. Under this constant
bombardment it is sort of understandable that he has learnt to hold a
knife like a girl, to move like a girl, and to even prepare a sandwich
like a girl, holding a slice of cheese between painted fingers like it
was a limp handkerchief.
Side by side with him at the counter his perfume was almost overpowering,
I could hear his skirts rustle against me, and hear the tinkle of some
soppy shiny bangles that flopped about his wrists.
I had a generous cheese and pickle sandwich, with lots of butter. My
friend, presumably on a strict diet had some anaemic paste on a hard
Swedish cracker and a few slices of apple.
I sat back down at the table. My friend hesitated a bit, then summoned up
the courage to sit with me. At first he sat very primly, smoothing his
skirts before sitting then folding his legs at the thigh in a single
unquestionably girlish movement. I perhaps couldn't help betraying my
faint repulsion at this very telling feminine action.
Seeing my look, he quickly tried to sit legs apart in a more masculine
way. He only succeeded in revealing more lacy petticoat hem, and risked
revealing whatever underthings he wore under the dress and slip, and that
I didn't want to see. As I began to look away, this realisation came to
him too I think, and he recrossed his legs, but now at the ankle in some
kind of compromise I suppose.
This awkward moment over we began a hesitant conversation. He ate either
with very delicate mouthfuls enforced upon him my his tormentors, or he
tried to make his meagre fare last as long as possible.
I told him about my time as the farmhand, how tough the "boss" had been,
my beatings, and how it had got a bit better over the last few weeks.
He told me how he was sent to stay with Miss Grace's friend Trudy for six
weeks for "special training," the "worst time of my life." He'd only
occasionally come back for Trudy to "show off" his progress.
It sort of explained that period where I never saw him even from a
distance.
He'd been back nearly a month now and wouldn't go back unless he needed
some "special re-education."
He was so close to tears just mentioning this time with "Trudy" and
seemed so genuinely fearful of return, that I was reluctant to ask too
many details.
"Do they hit you?" I asked finally.
"Errr, sometimes, not often, not lately," he replied biting his
lipsticked lip.
"But they shout at you a lot! I hear them from the field," I laughed.
"Yes, they shout a lot," he smiled, "but not so much now, if I'm a
good..."
I bowed my head, he was going to say "good girl."
"..if I'm good," he corrected himself.
Just be a good girl Missy, just be a good girl, that's all we ask. How
often had I heard them shouting that at him.
"Why do they do this to you?" I asked frankly.
"I dunno," he croaked. "They say crazy stuff like I'm-" He flushed to say
this. "I'm naturally feminine and it's their duty to bring it out. Or I'm
doing women's work. Or Miss Grace needs female company."
"I did try to fight them." He looked at me imploringly with moist eyes,
made uncomfortably more pleading by long flickering mascaraed lashes,
dark kohl eyeliner, and a faint sheen of pale blue eye shadow.
"I know you did," I said trying to sound quite reassuring when
unconsciously maybe I still felt a bit sickened at how my friend, who I
thought was a "proper" boy, could ever let them make him prance about
dressed and behaving like a stupid soppy girl and not rebel every single
day.
"We'll get away from here," I said maybe a little emptily. Our early
efforts at escape had been abject failures, and painful too.
"Yes, yes," he agreed eagerly.
"When their defences are down," I added, feeling this was a shrewd idea.
He'd finished eating a few minutes before, and now seemed agitated and
touching his lips.
Finally he suddenly said, "There's something I've got to do before Miss
Grace comes back," and promptly stood up.
He went to a mirror on the wall and fumbled for something in the small
pocket of his apron. He expertly swizzled the small cylinder in his thin
painted fingers revealing the red dome of lipstick.
"Got to do this after eating, or I could get into real trouble," he
explained sadly.
I watched as with more care than any woman I'd ever seen he carefully
traced first the outline of his top lip, and then the lower lip. He sort
of sadly pouted a kiss at the mirror and returned the tube of lipstick to
his apron pocket.
"I had to do that," he explained awkwardly. "Not 'repairing' my lipstick
could get me back at Trudy's," he said flushing with obvious
embarrassment at having firstly performed this plainly feminine routine
in front of his male friend, and secondly for having to explain and
excuse it too afterwards.
"It's OK," I said in what I hoped were reassuring tones. "You've got to
do what you've got to do," I added but inside I was still a bit sickened
by his apparent total capitulation.
I thought about it all that night. Why was I so sickened and repulsed? I
knew the pressure he must have been under. But I couldn't quite get over
the distinction between being forced to dress and act like a sissy girl,
which with Miss Grace and that bitch Trudy on his case he couldn't help,
but acting, and sounding like a girl when they weren't around, wasn't
that just cowardice? In their twisted way I'm sure they drilled all that
crap into him, and through fear and coercion, they just loved how they
could make their "dress up doll" behave like a complete sissy when they
weren't around. But couldn't he do more to be more of a man when they
weren't there. He could barely speak like a guy to me.
It didn't help that he made a tall and goofy, but kind of cute girl. The
scent of a girl, the rustle of a dress beside me, the attention to
"prettiness" with make up and nail varnish and whatever else, were all
foreign to me for some months. Not that I got so close to a pretty girl
that often before! But this disconcerting "prettiness" beside me when it
was in the form of my former friend that I used to play football and
rough house with was really unsettling. The mind is a weird thing, but it
was tempting to just write him off as a soppy kid who was really better
suited as a sissy girl. That way I didn't feel the need for painful
sympathy, and if he was really more girl than boy I shouldn't feel so bad
kind of appreciating this cuteness. That sort of thinking was so strange
that I just fought to stay neutral, and not worry about weird feelings
and stuff.
I felt bad thinking like this. I wasn't in his shoes, but I felt sure I'd
resist more and keep more of myself. Anyway he was still my friend, and
I'd do all I could to save him, and myself. One day hopefully this would
just be a bad nightmare.
We chatted a bit and he gave me more lemonade. It was still real awkward
between us, and I was kind of relieved when I heard our captors return to
the house.
Tammi
- 11.08.2020
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