The Night Sissy part 2

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Hi Everyone

 As I write this I have nothing to add to this Wednesday post, but if between Sunday night, when I am writing, to Wednesday, should anything trickle past me I will add.

However it really needs nothing more when we have the last part of Skinnies incredible story The Night Sissy.

XXX

Andy

And here we are, I totally forgot this from Skinnie, I love Miley, this is so hot.

Part one is here.

https://smoothslicknshiny.blogspot.com/2026/10/the-night-sissy.html

The Night Sissy

By

Skinnie Latex

5. Harem Boy

“Yeah, just there,” said Princess Jamilah.   The cold cream felt good and soothing.  “A lil’ more please, Ayesha.  An’ you may go a lil’ higha’.” 

“Please your Highness, spread your legs a leettle bit more.”  Jamilah put more of her weight on the back of the divan and let her maid’s fingers roam deeper inside.   “There bit blood,” said Ayesha showing a raised finger.  Jamilah craned her neck to look.

‘The bastard,’ thought Jamilah.   ‘That’s the second time in three days.  Why does ‘e only do it me and not any of them ’arem Girls?   Surely it should be the other way.   I know what ‘e does with them ’arem Boys but he’s got limited options there: down their throats or up their bums.  Simple.’   Either which way the Boys always seemed happy but they didn’t have alternatives.   They could either be happy and stay in the Harem, or complain and be sold to the next customer who might be much more demanding.  She’d never developed a taste for it, despite her husband’s desires.  What hurt Jamilah more was that all the Harem Girls knew.   Why did he fuck them properly and not her?  Godammit, she was his wife!   Her servants knew.  The Harem Boys knew.   Given staff gossip, she suspected that most of the Palace knew too.

Why did he only go that route with her?  It wasn’t as if he was gay.   The Harem Girls could attest to that.  Ok, he liked Harem Boys for sure, but what man wouldn't?   As attractive as any girl, every one with the figure and looks of a catwalk model, and with the cutest little cocklets.   It wasn’t gay to like boys like that. They were like girls, except always eager and eager to please: always tight, always giggling, always ready, always wanting more.  They were such fun to fuck.  Perfect relaxation for his courtiers and the Palace ladies too.   So much more fun than the eunuchs who always looked bored.   

Maybe it was the Prince’s way of getting back at her.   He knew she didn't approve of what he did, but was happy to enjoy the life of luxury it provided.   She was prepared to stay quiet for that.    Maybe it was because she’d not been able to provide him with a son and heir.   Still childless after five years, she suspected he was firing blanks but he was unprepared to take the test.   She knew it wasn’t her; she’d been checked out thoroughly at a Harley Street clinic during one of their visits to London.  

When they weren’t stuck in a sandy middle of nowhere living the nomadic life of his forefathers (if his forefather had ridden 4WD Land Cruisers and Mercedes rather than camels), they were always on a visit.   Diplomatic ‘business’, he called it.   It was certainly business though she doubted there was much diplomacy, except of muscle diplomacy.   He always travelled with plenty of muscle.    It was all about buying and selling.   Mostly selling.   Only the very select became Harems Boys or Harem Girls.   That was the lure.  He seemed to find an inexhaustible supply: some willing, most unwilling.  Boys and Girls from all over the world.   The vast majority were traded.   Traded to both exclusive buyers and the less exclusive.   She really didn't want to know, except she did.   She’d seen the paperwork on his desk.   She’d seen the messages on his phone when he went to the bathroom and left it unlocked.   

Maybe it was his way of asserting control and proving a point.  In the last year he’d given up trying.   If she couldn't provide him with an heir the proper way, he might as well use the tighter channel.   Maybe it was her punishment for liking Harem Boys too much.   But surely he used lube when he was with a Harem Boy.   For her it seemed to be spit and little else.   No wonder it hurt.   Even keeping herself greasing in readiness didn’t seem to help.  

At least no one would suspect her of impropriety with a Harem Boy, well not that kind of impropriety.   They were all as useless as the eunuchs in that department.   That’s what made them so adorable.   Soft, limp little things or, if they did get hard, so tiny that they’d scarcely trouble a squirrel.  Such sweet things that she loved having them around her when they weren’t being called away to service her husband, the Wazir or a member of his entourage.

There was a tap on the tent post.  “Your Highness, the new boy has been delivered.”  Jamilah looked quizzical as Ayesha removed a finger from her anus.  “The boy from London.  The boy you treated to a Bergman and Knightley makeover.”  

Jamilah straightened as she lowered her burqa: “Ah, yes, vat boy.   Please bring ’im fru’.”   The maid scurried from the room.   She was back a few moments later.   Again the rap on the tent post.  “Your Highness, this Sabrina, your new Harem Boy.”   The maid pulled aside the tent flap and the prettiest creature that Jamilah had ever seen walked in.  The boy was a vision in gold.  Translucent gold latex.   Gold harem pants and a sleeved gold latex top with a delicate, almost transparent latex yashmak to cover his mouth. His hair, pulled back tight, was secured by an ornate gold band into a plumed ponytail.  

Jamilah’s mind whirred.   There was the faintest hint of a cleavage.   That was good: no surgery, no scars and no hormones.   The boy would be randy as hell.  Bangles, chains and pendant earrings.      His belly button was still unpierced: Jamilah would make sure that was addressed later.  She was already thinking about what piece from her jewellery collection would look good hanging from his navel.   He’d need a nose ring too: probably with a delicate gold chain linked to an earring.  She wondered about his nipples.   And his cock.  She liked her favourites pierced and marked as her personal property. There was time to decide on all of those after closer inspection.   

But she was getting ahead of herself: it was the decision of an instant that she would not allow this boy to go on sale and not just because of what he had done for her in London.   He was far too good for the open market.   One piercing that he definitely needed was a guiche:   that would prevent him getting tattooed with a catalogue number by the Shabaka.   He was possibly far too good for her husband.   She’d have to see about that.   First she needed to get better acquainted with her new prize.   “Sabrina, darlin’, come closer.”   Johnnie moved a few steps forward.   “Lift yer yashmak.”  Johnnie raised his flimsy veil.  “You are as a pretty as I remember from London.   I just wanted to say fank you for all you did in the coffee bar.   Yer face ’as ’ealed.  You were treated well at ver clinic and at Bergman an’ Knightley?”

Johnnie was surprised.   He knew that the Prince had picked up the Princess at a London nightclub during one of his visits but he hadn’t been expecting her estuary English accent.   Not behind all those veils and robes.   “Yes, your Highness.   Thank you, your Highness.”

“I fink it’s time we became betta acquainted.  Ayesha, please get me my Number Two ‘arness.   We’ll start there are see what we work up to.”

6. Loitering Within Tent

Johnnie felt sore: sore navel, sore nipples, sore nose, sore perineum.  He couldn't lie on his front in his camp bed.   Even lying on his side was uncomfortable.   A ruby jewelled pendant hung from the ring through his belly button.  The rings through his nipples chafed if touched.   He was still getting used to the little ring between his legs.   At least the Princess hadn’t yet fastened the promised little chain to his earring.   And so far his cock was untouched by the piercer’s needle.   It had already been well touched by the Princess.  She’d been delighted to find that he differed from the Harem Boys in a crucial area.  She’d made full use of it when she wasn’t treating him to the tender mercies of one of her harnesses and its appendage.   She was keen not to waste it while she had the opportunity.  So far she had kept him away from husband.  Sabrina was a prize she wanted to savour.

Johnnie’s bottom was sore too but in a nice way.   His bed wasn’t in the Harem tent with the other boys.   His little cot was at the foot of her bed in her private tent.   She wanted to keep him away from prying eyes and the rest of the camp.   No-one was going to select him from amongst the Harem Boys.   Nevertheless, he was getting anxious.  Two days had gone by.   Two days stuck in the Princess’s tent.  She was a lovely lady and he was getting regularly fucked by her.   More surprisingly he was fucking her too.  She clearly valued a Harem Boy with a well-proportioned cock.  He dreaded to think what the penalty would be if they were caught.   But being wrapped in cotton wool by the Princess wasn’t helping with his mission.

At least he’d garnered some intelligence during pillow talk.   Titbits of information that helped fill out the picture a little: the Princess didn’t approve of what her husband did; the organisation was called the Shabaka; her husband was careless and left documents in his tent; he left his phone unlocked with details of deals and trades; his phone was a crypto wallet for the Shabaka. 

He wasn’t just anxious he was bored.   The Princess had been summoned to visit her husband.  All Johnnie could do was try to relax and recharge.    The Princess’s attendants made sure he didn’t stray from her tent when she was out.  He’d tried that once and was shooed back into the tent.   He’d not even been able to look round the camp.  So he was surprised with the Princess away to hear a male voice outside.   Voices were raised.  There were sounds of a scuffle and then a short man in ornate robes pushed his way past the maids and entered the tent.   Johnnie wasn’t sure whether his fortune was changing  for better or worse.

“Aah!   I thought I’d find something like this,” said the man.   “The Harem Boys said Princess Jamila had not used them for the last two nights.   Now I see why.”  Johnnie hastily pulled a sheet over himself to cover his nakedness; the man had glimpsed Johnnie’s cock.   “That is haram for a Harem Boy.   You must come with me.”

Johnnie curled up in the sheet.  “But the Princess….” he pleaded.

“The Princess is an infidel.   I am Wazir of the Prince: she will do what I say.   Now stand and come with me.   Wrap that sheet round to hide your disgrace.”

Johnnie wrapped the sheet around himself like a toga and followed the Wazir out of the tent.   The maids stood outside looking petrified.  Two large security guards were holding them back and blocking the entrance.   They stood aside for the Wazir, then took Johnnie’s arms and escorted him across the compound.

7. The Little Bummer Boy

Johnnie fretted.   His anxiety had turned into something much worse.   He had been left in a small tent with a guard posted outside.   There was no chance of escape.  The fabric of the tent was heavy canvas and it formed an integral membrane with the base.   Without a very sharp knife there was no way of getting out.   He could hear raised voices nearby.   

Suddenly the tent opened and the Princess was thrust into the tent.  She stumbled to the floor.  Johnnie glimpsed bleeding from her mouth and that there was bruising on one of her cheeks.   “Princess ….” he began to exclaim before being dragged from the tent by a guard.   He was led into a large opulent tent that looked more like a suite in a luxury hotel.  It was carpeted.  It had a four-poster bed.  It had a rosewood desk and tables and soft furnishings.  It was air-conditioned.     Despite his terror, Johnnie was impressed: an air-conditioned suite in the middle of the desert.    It had style.   Kitsch style perhaps but style nevertheless.

A man in a sleek grey suit was sat on a sofa smoking a cigar.  The Wazir stood beside him. A Harem Boy stood behind the sofa fanning his brow, a second stood beside him holding an iced drink, a third was on his knees before him.    Johnnie’s eyes couldn't help being drawn to the open fly of the man’s trousers and the large, circumcised cock that flopped limply against his leg.   The third boy was clearly there for a purpose.   There were traces of blood on the cock.   “So you are the new Boy that my wife has taken from me.”

Johnnie stood in silence.   “Answer boy,” barked the Wazir.

“Yes, your Highness,” said Johnnie.

“The Wazir says you have a cock.”

“All boys have cocks,” replied Johnnie.

“You know what I mean.   Open your robe.”   Johnnie peeled back the lower folds of his toga.   The three Harem Boys first giggled then went into awestruck silence.  “A big cock for a Harem Boy,” remarked the Prince drawing on his cigar.

“It is unacceptable,” interjected the Wazir.   

“You are fucking my wife,” stated the Prince emphatically.  It wasn’t a question.

Johnnie knew that lying would be pointless.  “Yes, your Highness,” Johnnie confessed.

To Johnnie’s surprise, the Prince chuckled.   “Good,” he laughed.   “Maybe you will have success.   I understand that I should thank you for saving my wife when she was in London last month.    Let me inspect you fully.   Take off your robe.”   Johnnie unwrapped his toga and let it fall to the floor.   The Harem Boys gasped.   “Very pretty,” said the Prince admiring his slim figure and nipple rings.  “I can see why the Princess is attracted.   Bend over.”   Johnnie bent forward.   “No, to the rear.   Turn around.”   Johnnie pivoted .   The Prince spotted his guiche.   “She thinks she can claim you hers.   With a cock like yours, she cannot.  I see she has been using you well.”  Johnnie realised that his anus was probably still puckered and red from the Princess’s last loving attentions.

“Yes, your Highness,” Johnnie admitted.

“I will let you decide who uses it better,” said the Prince.  “What is your name, boy?”

“Sabrina, your Highness.”

“And your real name?”

“Johanna, your Highness.”   Johnnie knew everything had to be consistent with the Bergman and Knightley documentation.

“Leave us!”  The Prince gesticulated to the Wazir and the guards.  The Wazir frowned but complied.  He ushered the guards with him.  “You boys stay and get me ready.   Get Sabrina ready too.” 

Johnnie watched as two of the boys undressed the Prince while the third started to suck on the Prince’s rapidly stiffening cock.   When the Prince was naked, the pair turned their attentions to Johnnie.   One started to grease and probe his anus while the other began to suck Johnnie too.  Johnnie couldn’t help himself from getting hard; he was already getting excited by the sight of the engorging bulbous head of Prince’s curved cock without the Harem Boy’s licking of his own member.

The Prince clapped his hands.   “Leave us!” he ordered again.   

8. The Spy Who Came in from the Heat

Johnnie was perspiring heavily by the time the Prince had finished.   Finished then restarted.  Finished then restarted.   Only when he’d cum inside Johnnie, in his mouth and on his face did the Prince seem to think the task complete.   “You good boy,” he grunted as his cum splattered on to Johnnie’s cheeks and forehead.   ‘He has to be using Viagra,’ thought Johnnie.  “I see why Jamila like you.  You cum when I fuck you.   No Harem Boy can do that.”   Johnnie looked shamefaced.   He hadn't been able to help himself.  He’d only done that before with a special boyfriend and with Geoffrey. With his boyfriend it had been for love; with Geoffrey it had been because Geoffrey knew how to use his big black cock.  The Prince knew how to use his cock too.   “You cum with my wife?” the Prince asked.    

Johnnie shook his head.   He’d not managed it with the Princess despite her many efforts.   The Prince laughed.  The Prince had made him cum.   Johnnie could see why people worked for him: the Prince exuded charisma and power.

“I take you.   You mine now.   I no sell you.   You better than Harem Boy.  You stay in my tent.   I may let Wazir have you too.”

For Johnnie, it was a simple transfer between one tent to another.  The only difference was that he now could roam about the camp.  He had higher status than a Harem Boy: he was the Prince’s Boy.  He found Jamila was still in the little holding tent and hadn’t been allowed back to her quarters.   She was a prisoner.   He wondered how long he would last if this was how the Prince treated his wife.  “We need to get away,” she said to him.   “He will get bored.   He always does.”   Johnnie was the one feeling bored but for other reasons.   The Prince was relentless when he got going.   The Wazir too.  Johnnie confirmed the Prince took Viagra and far exceeded the recommended dose.  He was popping other pills and snorting powders.   He clearly liked to sample the wares Shabaka was selling.

During one of his exercise breaks, Johnnie identified a gap in the perimeter wire and waited.   He had to get away and to get to the rendezvous point but he still lacked crucial information.   The whole exercise would be pointless if he escaped but without accomplishing his mission.   In the Prince’s tent he watched carefully when the Prince unlocked his phone.   He didn’t use fingerprint or face recognition; he still relied on an old tech PIN number.   Johnnie memorised the keystrokes.   

The seventh night approached.  There was going to be a new moon.  He asked one of the Princess’s maids whether she had any sleeping tablets for her mistress.   He said that the Princess couldn't sleep confined in the little tent.   He secreted a kitchen knife beneath the rug below the four-poster bed.

He waited for midnight.  The Prince had mounted him once like a doggy and ridden him hard while he sucked the Wazir.   Johnnie had squirted on the bedclothes.   While he found a towel to clean up the messy cum, he offered the Prince and Wazir more Viagra and glasses of single malt whisky to wash it down.   When both were soundly asleep and he’d finished ‘tidying’, he put on the hijab of a serving woman.  He cut a slit in the back of the Princess’s little tent.   He put a finger to his lips and said, “Come with me if you want to live.”  He handed her a robe and they were quickly similarly attired.   They crept slowly towards the perimeter desperate to avoid drawing attention to themselves. 

Fortunately the compound was poorly patrolled.  Why did it need to be?   It was a modern day Bedouin encampment.  There were no floodlights.   It did not need to draw attention to itself.   Under the light of the new moon and the stars bright in the desert sky, they negotiated the gap in the wire.  Johnnie was relieved when low dunes took them out of sight of the camp.   The air was chill and they were glad of their thick black servant robes.   Their bare feet were soon cold and sore from the sand.   What had been baking hot during the day was now only a few degrees above freezing.   

Johnnie navigated by the Pole Star.    He had to concentrate on the route Rebecca had shown him on the map while encouraging and supporting the Princess.   Jamila’s desperation to get away helped maintain her resolve.    A small rill indicated that they were on the right path.   The followed its snaking line until the oasis appeared before them.   They’d only been walking for three miles but it felt like forever.   A car was parked near a solitary palm tree.

“Who’s she?” asked a sturdy black man looking at the woman leaning on Johnnie’s shoulder.

“The Princess,” answered Johnnie.   “Hello, good to see you, is the normal greeting,” he teased, reaching up and giving Geoffrey a big kiss.

“Wa’er,” gasped the Princess.

“Here your Highness,” said Geoffrey, passing her a canister.

“You can forget that yer ’ighness nonsense,” said Jamila.   “It’s Millie from Clapham from now on.   I ain’t going back.”

A door of the Land Cruiser opened.   “Won’t you get in, both of you,” said a voice.  “We’re wasting time.”

Mille and Johnnie made out a lady sat in darkness in the middle of the back seat.  She shuffled to one side as they got in.   “Hello, Sabrina.   Hello, Millie.   Well Sabrina, do you have anything for me?”

Johnnie handed her a phone.  “60746955,”he said.  

“Fantastic!” Angela said, unlocking the phone.   “Well done.”   She scrolled through different screens.   “This is gold dust.   Better than gold dust.”   She gave Johnnie a hug.  “Let’s get out of here, Geoffrey, but quietly.”   The hybrid began to glide softly forward.  “It’s an hour to the border, then another to the airbase.   I’m afraid it’s going to be a bumpy ride as we’ll be staying off the roads,” she advised the couple who had cuddled together for warmth.   “And let’s have some heating on at the back, please Geoffrey.   You may have to wait for sleep until we’re on the plane to Crete for your debrief.   In the meantime, I think a transfer to the MI6 account is in order before anyone starts getting silly ideas,” she said getting out a laptop and starting the satellite uplink.   “Oh the wonders of Starlink.   Oh, the wonders of crypto.”   Her masters in the Foreign Office and her friends in Interpol were going to be delighted.

“When’s the Prince going to wake up?” asked Angela.

“About the same time as the Wazir,” said Johnnie.   

“And when’s that?” she asked.

“Like never,” said Johnnie.  “They’ve both fucked their last Harem Boys.   And, in the morning, their staff are going to find creamy finishes inside both of them.   They’ll think they’ve been fucking each other and weren’t able to bear the shame.   It’ll be a while before they realise that me and the Princess have gone.”

“Blimey!  That’ll teach the bugger!” exclaimed Millie

“You’ve never felt shame, have you Sabrina?”  asked Angela.

“No.   Not that I recall,” said Johnnie.

Both Angela, Millie and Geoffrey laughed.   Why should such a pretty thing feel shame?  He was doing what he was born to do.   And he was very good at it.

The Night Sissy.

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Hi Everyone

Here we have the first of a 2 part thriller set within the world of Bergman and Knightley.

This is why I am spreading the Wednesday round up out so I can catch up on some of the classic Skinnie Stallion stories which I have not had time to process and I apologise to Skinnie for being so lax.

To those who know, you will get the hint from the title, but for those who do not, this is a play on the superb Night Manager Tv series.

 Settle down and enjoy,but first a couple of things.

Those who visit Patreon will have noticed  Carol Vorderman blog legend, has been seen at the Bergman & Knightley seminar and for those who have not, we have this from our on the spot reporter.

You wanna know more, slip on over to Patreon

following on from that, here is a little tribute to the amazing Sebastian Cauchos ,who creates latex pieces that show how latex can be worn as part of an everyday outfit in the most stylish way, its like as it Ralph Lauren moved into latex. 

I can see Ms Vorderman wearing these styles with ease.

This is what I mean, a slick latex blouse with a quality detail, teamed with classic feminine tailored pants. Effortless style.

What a stylish blend, the double layered latex top teamed with those beautiful tailored pants, the colour combination is perfection

Also......What a beautiful lady

 It would not be a round up without at least 1 celebrity spot and this week it is the amazing Maura Higgins in a quite insanely tight white latex outfit at  the Victoria secrets show this week. 

I mean, how the heck does one pee in that outfit?

Ok, while you think about that.

Over to Skinnie.

The Night Sissy

By

Skinnie Stallion

1. Angela’s smashes: The Honourable Schoolboy

Angela Blur sat her desk lost in thought.  She found it easier to think in her office at Bergman and Knightley than in Whitehall, or that monstrous concrete edifice in Vauxhall.    She drummed her fingers.   She felt secure here.   Bergman and Knightley were professionals.   Her relationship with Rebecca had provided her with cover and assistance over the years, and she enjoyed being a B&K Host.   It allowed her to shelter and nurture her fledgling agents, as well as a little recreation of her own.

The Princess was there on the Bergman and Knightley customer list. The spend on her account was astronomical.  No wonder Rebecca could afford to drive a top of the range Range Rover.   The Princess had also used the Elite Service though whether that was for her or her husband was unclear.   More likely it was for The Network, and one of their premium customers.  Or to prepare one of their offerings?

The odds against the mission were high, and that was without considering what it would take to get the support of her superiors in the Foreign Office.  She was going to need budget for this one.   There were so many variables and vulnerabilities, and everything was going to hinge on one individual.   It was going to be a big ask.   Could she really expect Johnnie to step up again?

Angela needed someone who could penetrate a racket that extended across the globe.   Although run out of the Middle East, its network and tentacles extended from Asia and Africa into Europe and the Americas.  Drugs, people trafficking, money laundering: The Network had created its own ‘virtuous’ circle wrapped inside a luxury tourist business. Previous attempts by other intelligence agencies and police forces to close it down had failed.   It was like clutching an eel.   Despite its scale, there was no obvious base, no offices, not even a clear command structure.   It used heavily encrypted satellite cyber traffic and crypto-payments to keep the network moving and the money flowing.  The very title ‘The Network’ said it all: Interpol didn’t even know what the organisation called itself.  Unless Cheltenham or Langley made a breakthrough with quantum computing it would take years to read any of The Network’s communications traffic.   MI6 and Foreign Office were blind except for identifying The Network’s leader but he was elusive and lived the nomadic existence of his ancestors.  

When she’d started with the Intelligence Services, Angela had been trained in the principle of ‘follow the money’.    That worked well until cryptocurrency made it more difficult though it was still possible to spot spending patterns and ostentatious, unexplained displays of wealth.   In consequence, Angela had developed her own principle: follow the cock.  It had served her well in recent years.   International criminals had their weaknesses just like everyone else but they had the luxury of sufficient money to indulge their fleshy fantasies.

She’d identified Johnnie’s potential some years ago when he was a truanting schoolboy in Wandsworth.   She’d observed him carefully and recognised his preferences before making her move.  She’d got him to apply for a porter’s job at a luxury hotel in Mayfair frequented by diplomats and their contacts.   Despite his youth, he’d soon been moved on to the front desk. His talent with customers was exemplary: charming and smooth, and always willing to do that little bit extra.   It was a short step to take on the unwanted late shifts where he could watch the customers' comings and goings, observe the liaisons and exchanges, and have charge of the night safe.   No-one was going to suspect an effeminate boy who was always talking about his latest conquest or disaster at one of the city’s gay bars.  Black eyes, bruises and bunches of flowers were all part of his accessories.   It was amazing what a pretty boy fluttering his eyelashes at customers could achieve, be they male or female. Often he’d get invited up to a customer’s room but he’d decline while working though offering to drop by their room at the end of the shift.   Nothing was too much trouble.  Gleaning after-hours pillow talk was all part of Johnnie’s modus operandi.   People like to boast.   What was a spy ring to some silly sissy who just wanted his ring penetrated?   Johnnie was adept at staying clean himself while switching their ketamine for proper anaesthetic to allow him to search their room.   They’d wake in a dreamy state of happiness after he’d left them with a creamy finish.   What diplomat, spy or gangsters was going to tell his masters that he’d enjoyed being fucked by an effeminate gay boy?

While Johnnie did the field work and the hard grind, Angela got the plaudits.  The intelligence she provided made her a smash hit at the Foreign Office and it was all down to Johnnie.   She’d need to remove him from the hotel.  Maybe that was sensible anyway in case his cover got blown.   Johnnie had blown so many things and penetrated so many spy rings but she didn’t want to compromise her asset.  He’d proved his worth and his tradecraft.   She’d trained him well.    But his next role would be far more challenging. 

2. Angela’s Rubber Johnnie

Angela needed Johnnie for this mission.  She checked in to the hotel as a paying guest and sort out the services of the front desk.   It wasn’t just men who had their needs.   She asked if they knew of any gigolos operating in the area.  Around 6am after shift handover, there was a tap at her door.   It was only after she’d fucked Johnnie for the second time (well why not – a boy like Johnnie deserved his treats and a special Angela bonus), that she broached the subject with him.   She explained the cover story he’d need to develop.   Given his background, the foundations were already laid; they just needed a little embellishment.  At least her plan would ensure that he got plenty of cock to keep him happy and fit for the fray.   But before she got him to resign his job at the hotel, she needed to get other pieces in place.  

She gave Rebecca Knightley part of the story when they had one of their after work assignations.   Neither Amanda nor Rebecca were worried by their relationship.  What was suspicious about a B&K Host having an extra-curricular affair with a member of Bergman and Knightley senior management, even if she was a member of the Knightley dynasty?   They could discuss Circus business while shagging to their hearts content.

Before she sought help with Johnnie and they made love, Angela checked on Rebecca’s progress in cultivating Amanda Reid: fieldwork before fucking.   Angela had identified Amanda as a potential agent given her business contacts some months ago.  Since then, Rebecca had been steadily turning Amanda into something altogether more willing and malleable.   Progress has been smooth:  by taking small but ever firmer steps, Amanda was becoming Rebecca’s willing submissive.   Angela had to admire Rebecca’s powers of seduction.  Maybe it was something that came with being a Knightley.   Sometimes Angela was grateful that she’d always been a top, even with Rebecca.

When Angela talked to Rebecca about Johnnie needing to receive B&K’s Elite Service.  B&K occasionally provided a for ultra-high wealth clients.  It allowed them to indulge their fantasies, and often their boys’ fantasies too.    It could be a good way of helping an unwilling or reluctant boy to get over his hesitation.   The service was expensive but had its customers who wanted their boy abducted and feminised, and then delivered to their chosen destination.   Often it made the boy the perfect luxury gift for a wife who wanted a chosen boy as a B&K Boy, or a busy husband who needed a help relaxing, or a couple who wanted a maid they could share.  

It was only when Angela was slowly spooning Rebecca, alternating between grinding and thrusting that they started to discuss specifics.   In order for her plan to work, Angela needed Rebecca to take a personal interest in Johnnie and grease the path.   Fortunately Rebecca would do anything for Angela; if her top liked boys that was her call just provided she didn’t neglect her.   Despite Angela’s strapon remorselessly driving her towards orgasm, Rebecca couldn’t help dissolving in laughter when she thought about Johnnie dressed in latex and asked whether that would make him Angela’s Rubber Johnnie.

Angela insisted that while he was at B&K, he be called Johanna.   

3. Loitering With Intent

After resigning from his job at the hotel, Johnnie settled back easily into his old ways in the days before he’d been ‘discovered’ by Angela.  And now he was old enough, his AdultWork and OnlyFans accounts were bringing in a nice little income; enough for him to afford a little flat round the corner from a coffee shop in Kensington frequented by diplomats and embassy staff. If anyone investigated him and tried to ‘follow the money’, they’d find nothing irregular.  He could use the coffee shop to pick-up clients and take them back to his place or go to one of the nearby hotels provided the client was paying.   Pick-ups were more lucrative than AdultWork.   Anyone checking his finances would find them both squeakily clean and dirtily sordid.   Either way, his cover as a slutty young femboi escort was impeccable.  With his looks he didn’t need much make-up.  A hint of eye-liner and mascara was all he required if he wanted to look the part.   He could always put on some lipstick if the client wanted his cock sucked, or to kiss and have her pussy licked.

He spent a lot of time at the coffee shop.   He was content to sit back in his armchair and watch the world go by.  He knew that he might be being watched.   He had reason to loiter.   How else would a boy like him meet and pick-up clients?   He preferred meeting prospective clients in the flesh rather than on-line.   It allowed him to size them up, and to make the first move.   The shop manager wasn’t worried provided Johnnie’s soliciting didn’t attract the police.  There were girls at the coffee bar too.   What was wrong with a boy playing the same game, especially when he seemed to be at least as successful?   And did it matter if the boy did a little advertising?   Besides Johnnie’s little business cards, he left B&K leaflets on the counter and tables.  Flyering for B&K provided him with a valid income if the police ever asked.   They seemed popular with customers since they always disappeared before the end of the day, and not in the trash.   Fortunately there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply.

Now Johnnie just needed patience.

It took a while before Angela’s plan bore fruit.   Her diligent research paid off the day the Prince flew into London with his entourage.   He was staying at his country’s embassy: the cloak of legitimacy (and diplomatic immunity) always helped a criminal network.   One of the Prince’s attendants was the first to spot Johnnie in the coffee shop.  The attendant knew the Prince’s tastes.   A couple of days later one of the Princess’s maids came in and ordered two takeaway coffees: a strong black coffee and a sweet milky coffee with cardamon and whipped cream topping.   Johnnie remembered the Princess’s tastes from the playbook provided by Angela.  The maid wore a chador and  it was clear she was eyeballing him.   Johnnie noted the time.

The same thing happened the next day and the next.   The following day, a lady wearing a black burqa entered the coffee shop.   No wonder M16 hated them.  It was difficult enough getting camera recognition to work with masks and sunglasses; it was nigh impossible with niqabs and burqas.   What gave her away were the pair of Zanottis with 6” heels peeking out from under her garment and her coffee order: a sweet milky coffee with cardamon and whipped cream topping.   While she waited for her drink, she turned and faced Johnnie.   He didn’t move, just fluttered his eyelashes and smiled: why change a successful technique?   In normal circumstances, he might have expected the lady to have come and sat at his table, but that was hardly going to happen with a burqa wearer.    The lady walked and swayed serenely from the shop clutching her coffees.

She was back the next day.   This time two burly men in short leather bomber jackets and jeans that displayed builder’s bum were behind her in the queue.   They began to harangue her.  Their language got worse as they started to jostle her.   An olive skinned man in a grey suit stepped forward to intervene.   Johnnie was glad he’d hung back: the man was clearly the Princess’ security.   One of the guys decked the security detail with a single punch, while the other yelled in the Princess’ face and started tugging at her burqa, pulling at the veil.   Johnnie leapt from his set and pushed the guy aside.   He ducked the first punch and kicked the man on the side of his knee.   The man buckled but didn’t fall.  Meanwhile his colleague took a swing.  Johnnie evaded and gave a feeble soft punch back.  The man laughed and grabbed him.   His friend stopped clutching his knee, straightened  and started to punch Johnnie in the face and stomach.   As he was losing consciousness, Johnnie could hear the Princess screaming, uproar in the café, the manager yelling, and then a siren.

The next day, his bruises settling, Johnnie was receiving plaudits in the café when B&K came for him.   

4. Highway to Hell

The jeep bumped over the desert road.   To call it a road was being generous.  It was rutted and in places piled with sand.   It was bad enough sat in one of the padded front seats, Rebeccaa dreaded what it was like for Johanna crouched and curled in the cage in the back.   Johanna had to be caged for when they encountered roadblocks of either the local administration or The Network.   They’d inspect the passengers, check their papers and the cargo before nodding the vehicle through, and raising the barrier,  usually after a few dollars as a sweetener:  just another primped and feminised sissy being delivered for onward shipment to some potentate or billionaire.    The Network guards knew that the Prince might want to sample the wares before despatch, or keep for his harem if the sissy was particularly pretty, or tight and obliging.

The B&K logo on the vehicle and the security passes provided by the Prince’s Wazir helped them get through the checkpoints.   B&K was an occasional supplier.  No-one was going to argue with the Wazir.

"You OK back there, Sabrina?” rasped Rebeccaa pointedly, her throat coarsened by the arid air.   

“Sure,” grunted Johnnie as the Jeep lurched into yet another pothole.  

The vehicle slowed as it approached the encampment.   “We’re nearly there. We’re going to turn off the air conditioning.  You’re going to find your latex outfit gets very sticky when you get out of the car, but at least you can start to get a bit acclimatised.”    Johnnie grunted again.   The air-con had made that aspect of their journey from the airport bearable.   He expected he was going to sticky quite soon but for other reasons.  “And remember, you're Sabrina from now on.   The extraction team will be at the extraction point in a week's time, and then every seven days for the next month.   After that, it'll be up to you.   Unless you're able to communicate or we see you on the satellite footage, we'll  assume either your cover's been blown or you've gone native."

"Sure," said Sabrina.   Being called Sabrina was a small step compared from going from Johnnie to Johanna at the café.

The Jeep came to a halt.   Johnnie could hear discussions and then was blinded by harsh sunlight as Geoffrey opened the tailgate of the Jeep and unlocked the cage.  Geoffrey reached in and picked him up before carrying him into a nearby tent.   Johnnie was sure Geoffrey gave him a tender farewell stroke when lowering him on to the rubber play mat that protected the exotically patterned rugs.    Johnnie was going to miss Geoffrey.    Rebecca had let him enjoy a regular ‘meetings’ with Geoffrey  ever since they’d picked up him from the coffee shop.   Some B&K Boys could receive special treatment on the Elite Service at her discretion.

He tried to say calm and composed on the mat.   He could hear Rebecca speaking outside with one of Princess’s assistants.  “Here is all the required travel documentation, receipt of ownership and proof that it is very much the young man she requested. With confirmations from our contact at the Kensington coffee shop from where he was taken.”

“Thank you.”

“Please apologise to the Princess for the wait, I am sure she understands, but we have strict age protocols.”   Johnnie chuckled to himself.   He’d been past that age for four years.   He attributed being still able to pass for a teenager to his mother’s genes.  Angela had done a good job with his papers and certificates.

“Yes, we understand.   We know Bergman and Knightley follows your country’s rules.”

“We have to remain an ethical, trusted supplier,” said Rebecca.

“Agreed,” said the assistant.   “It’s what makes B&K so good to deal with: your sissies are always such high quality.”

“They’re B&K Boys,” corrected Rebecca.

“As you wish.   Once we have them, they are either Harem Boys or Harem Girls, but all are sissies.   We know what our customers like.”

Rebecca checked the signature on the delivery note while Geoffrey covertly photographed the exchange of documents with Johanna in the background inside the tent.   Angela was starting to build her evidence trail.

This concudes next week

XXX

Andy

Skinnie Stallion Day

  Please help keep our

blog alive.

From only $3 a month

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Hi Everyone

As I said Wednesday belongs to Skinnie Stallion.

Now then I apologies if I have posted this already, I have looked back and can not find it anywhere and so as it is a big big story I thought it must be seen and so I am taking the risk .

Just in case I have posted this before ,there is a classic Skinnie Short as a bonus after it. So scroll on down to find it.

I hope it posts in a readable way, blogger is such a pain these days 

XXX

Andy

It would not be a Wednesday without some super spots.

Louise Redknapp looks sweet and elegant in this burgundy latex skirt. A simple way to be fetish without going full on.

Eva Longoria ,gets into the shine and wears AK Eden corset 
dress for  harpers bazaar ’s October issue.

Now Singer Natasha Beddingfield took to the field in this amazing latex uniform

Now the main course

Nobody ever asks me

By 

Skinnie Stallion

Jon sat sullenly on the sofa while the argument raged.  He took some comfort from his flounced and pleated PVC skirt that crackled softly as he smoothed its folds.   He liked his new dress and his freshly manicured nails but why did the afternoon have to degenerate into this.  He didn’t like hearing his Gran and his Mum squabbling.  But they always did and it was so often about him.  Each might want what in their own eyes what was best for him but both were making so many assumptions.   

It was a shame after such a nice morning with Gran even if much of the last few days had been scary.   He’d not wanted to disillusion her when she wanted it to be her treat. Fortunately, Genevieve hadn’t blown his cover on either occasion.

Gran had insisted on taking him to ‘Fem-Me’.  They’d already had an expedition there the previous week.  Gran might think she was in the driving seat but she seemed blissfully unaware of the subliminal influences.   She’d given him a maid’s dress at the start.  “No need for Mum to know,” she’d said.  “Just between the two of us,” she’d said.  “Be a girl for me, Jon,” she’d said.  It was all quite playful at first.  He’d go round to see her.  “Alright, me luvver?” she’d ask then he’d find himself presented with a short black dress and within minutes doing her cleaning.   

He hung his head.   He had to accept some responsibility for getting himself into this position.  Gran might want him to get in touch with his feminine side but it was him who’d introduce her to the world of Bergman and Knightley.   Gran thought she was being so adventurous.  And she was: she always been a good looking lady but now she looked marvellous wearing B&K and some of the new JaneStyle fashions. She didn’t need to know how he’d influenced her.  Tidying her papers allowed him to leave magazines open at certain pages with certain flyers as inserts.  He’d left her computer logged into a blog he’d found that showed pictures of couple called Jane and Andy.  Jane was an older lady while Andy, seemingly a young man, looked and dressed like a girl.   Amber’s pictures of the couple on SmoothSlicknShiny had captivated her in the same way that they’d beguiled him.  Whatever, she’d never questioned him about how her computer had managed to be logged into that site.   She’d just accepted it as part of his interests.  Interests that were now hers.

Gran  was amazing. He’d do anything for her, not that she would ever ask.   Unlike Genevieve.

It was reading the Blog that had led him to Fem-Me in London when he was there for a conference.   He’d snuck away early so that he could get to the Kensington store before racing to Paddington for his train home.    Walking into Fem-Me had been like walking into Aladdin’s cave.

He was entranced by the racks of dresses and skirts all made from latex or PVC.  A poster on the wall still used the slogan of the competition that Rhys Jenner had won last year.  He idealised that guy, or should that now be girl?  He wished he could look like Rhys.  He went along the racks fingering the dresses although his hand recoiled when he saw the price tag on one.  Saddened that there was no way he could afford it.  He could hardly pay for it on his student loan. His mum still checked his expenditure most months even if she did give him little top-ups.   There was no way he could take a dress like home in any case.  Not any dress let alone that dress.   He’d have nowhere to hide it and nowhere to wear it. 

Despite the array of riches on offer, he found himself drawn to a shelf of magazines and DVDs about transformation, whatever that might be.  He stared at the glossy wrappers and cases, wanting to read or see what was inside but all were tightly wrapped in cellophane.  He could only read the covers and labels.  

It took him some time to realise that he was being observed.  He’d been dimly aware of a husky female voice behind him saying, “You okay there, Sweetheart?” thinking the question was directed at someone else.   He stayed looking at the rack, trying to avoid being noticed, using his body to shield his interests from any prying eyes..

Then he felt a hand on his back and the same husky voice trying to grab his attention saying a seductive sing-song, “Hello?”   He had to turn round for that.  

Jon panicked.   He’d been rumbled.  He tried to hide what he’d been looking at,   hastily putting the DVD he’d been perusing back on the shelf.  “Just browsing,” he mumbled and prepared to run.    He looked over his shoulder.   Immediately the lady had his total attention.  He couldn't believe what he was seeing.  It was like she’d walked straight off the pages of Smooth Slick n Shiny or out of his dreams.   She was wearing a blue latex blouse and tight black latex pencil skirt.   And she was wearing heels.   High heels.   God, he longed to look like that.   Why couldn’t he wear an outfit like that?  Sadly he knew the answer.  He couldn’t afford it, had nowhere to hide it and had no place to wear it.

The assistant didn’t seem perturbed by his sudden movement or his interests, but she could see the terror in his eyes.  She calmly extended a hand saying, “It’s okay, come take a seat if you are interested.  Please.”   Jon settled slightly.  The ‘Please’ helped.  He was interested.   Doubly so when a further glance back revealed the lady’s colleague.   Blue and black latex was a great combination but her colleague was a veritable Red Queen in a tight red skirt and bolero jacket with a plunging neckline, and red high heels.   Jon’s flight instinct crumbled in an instant.   He felt incapable of resisting the lady’s invitation.

“What’s your name, hun?” she asked while guiding him to sit on a low leather sofa.  “Mine’s June.” 

“….. and I’m Jane,” added the Red Queen before he could reply.

“Jon,” he blurted.  So much for keeping things secret.   He’d never been talked to by a lady as pretty or as awesomely dressed, and now he was speaking with two.

“Well Jon, how can we help?” asked June, perching on a stool beside him.  “I see that you’re interested in Transformation.”  

Jon was surprised.   There was no hint of amusement or disapproval in her voice.  She spoke in a totally matter of fact way as if it was perfectly normal for a man to be in a dress shop and looking at material about transvestitism.  “I was just browsing,” he repeated.

“Sure,” June said as if it was an everyday occurrence.   “And is there anything that caught your eye, apart from the mags and DVDs?”  

“Is there anything you’d like to try on?” added Jane.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Jon decided that now was not the time to be reticent.   “I’d love to try on an outfit like yours,” he said looking at June,  “and see what I looked like.”

“Of course, hun,” said Jane.   “What size are you?  I’m guessing a 10 or maybe a 12?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said shaking his head.   “But it’s pointless.  I don't want to waste your time.   I can’t afford the blouse, let alone the skirt.  And the shoes would be something else.”

“We understand Jon,” said June.   “That’s the case with a lot of our younger clients.   Why don’t you tell me a bit more about yourself and your interests first?   We can come back to the clothing later.   There might be some options that would help.”

Jon couldn’t believe the next half hour.   People came and went in the store with Jane taking care of them while he spilled out his heart to June.  He’d never felt able to talk to anyone about his feelings until now.  Why was he able to talk to a stranger like June when he’d never even been able to speak to his mother?  Was it the fact that she was a stranger?  Was it how she dressed?  Was it that she seemed to accept him on his own terms without judging?  Was it that she didn’t make him feel embarrassed or silly about expressing his secret wishes and desires?  She just listened to everything he said without challenging or interrupting him.   Just an occasional “Yes” or “Sure”, or nodding for him to continue when he dried or felt uneasy about expressing how he felt.   

“You’re such a brave boy telling me all this,” said June as he finished talking about slipping away from the conference that afternoon to Fem-Me. 

‘Boy?’   Jon hadn’t been called a boy in years.   He didn't protest.   Somehow it seemed right coming from June.   He’d be a Boy for a lady like June.   She could call him whatever she wanted.

“I understand your difficulties.   Jane and I meet a lot of boys like you.   It’s why Fem-Me has a scheme that could be ideal for you.”

“Really?” Jon was surprised.  

“Yes.   Fem-Me offers private services for boys like you.   You could come to the store.  Go to a private room.   Dress up.   Maybe chat with some of the girls.   Maybe take some pictures as a memento.  Change.  Go home.   And no one needs to know about it except you and Fem-Me.”

“Wow!   That sounds amazing.  But how much would it cost?”

“Nothing for now.   That’s the beauty of the scheme.   All you need to do is sign up with Fem-Me.   We’re part of the Bergman and Knightley Group, you know.   There’s some Terms and Conditions but nothing you need to worry about now.  Look I’ve got the paperwork right here.”   

As June picked up a folder from the coffee table, Jon started to realise that he might be getting in too deep.  “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I have time,” he said trying to excuse himself.  “I need to catch a train home.”

“I think you are just a little overwhelmed,” June simpered.    “It’s not uncommon, but you have now just done the tricky part.  Just have a look.  You’ll be fine.”  She pushed the open folder into his hands.  “You’ve done so well talking to me.   You’ve really opened up.  I think you'd be ideal for the Fem-Me Young Starter Programme.”

Jon started to read the form.   It all seemed quite reasonable.   

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but I

think everything in there is open to you, sweetheart,” continued June trying to close the deal.  “No pressure.   You just need to sign.”

Jon glanced at his watch.  “I really do need to get to the station,” he exclaimed as he realised the time.   His intended ten minute drop-in had morphed into a forty minute conversation, and he still didn't have one of those magazines or DVDs.

“Where do you need to go, ducks?” asked Jane.   “I might be able to give you a lift ….later.”

“Bristol.   I’m going to miss my train if I don't go now.”

“Mmm, can’t help you there,” said Jane.   “Bristol’s a bit far.   I was thinking somewhere a bit more local.  Let me and June have a quick chat.”   She took her colleague to one side and whispered to her.   

June smiled as she returned to her seat.  Her tone was emollient rather than pushy.  “Look, I understand you need to get your train.   I’m going to make a suggestion.  Jane’s aunt Genevieve works in our Bristol store.  Jane will talk to Genevieve.   You can go through things with her if you go to our Bristol Fem-Me.   Here’s my card.  It’s got my number on it.   Get in touch if you need any help but Genevieve should be able to cater for all your needs.”

“That’ll help a lot,” said Jon, relieved that he wasn’t being pushed to sign anything.   I can drop by when I’m in town tomorrow.   He’d always been anxious about going in the Bristol store, concerned that someone might recognise him.   Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.   After all, today hadn’t been so difficult. 

“That’s great!” said June.

“I’ll tell Auntie to expect you,” said Jane.  “Now run along darling.  Have a safe journey.  We both now you have a long way to go, but at least you’re starting.”

Jon wasn’t quite sure what she meant but he picked up his rucksack and hastened towards the door, but not before Jane and June had each given him a hug and a peck on the cheek.   He felt like he was walking on air as he headed towards High Street Ken station.  He wasn’t sure if he was intoxicated by the scent of latex or the ladies’ kisses.  It was probably both.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back in Bristol Jon had a sleepless night.   He was determined not to seek relief in his usual way: that would have been so disrespectful to June (and Jane).  He sought respite by speculating about what Jane’s aunt would look like.  Given his Aunt Mable, she was probably some old crone: he was surprised that Fem-Me would employ someone like that.    

The next day he found himself outside Fem-Me in Bristol.  He’d walked by a couple of times to check that there was no-one around that he knew.   Confident that the coast was clear, he stood outside staring through the glass trying to pluck up the courage to go in when an attractive blonde lady wearing black PVC pants beckoned to him.  She was quite a bit older than either Jane or June but had welcoming eyes and a lovely smile.   She was mouthing something to him.  He tried to lip read.    He thought she was saying, “Give me a try, come on in,” but perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

She gesticulated towards the plate-glass door.  She walked across, opened it, poked her head out and repeated her words: “Don't be shy, come on in.”   Well, he was part correct.  Jon followed her instruction like a willing puppy.    “I’m Genevieve.  I’m guessing that you’re Jon.   Jane’s said so much about you…..”

His first visit didn’t take long.  He was over quite quickly. Despite his disappointment, Genevieve assured him it was perfectly natural for a healthy young man like him.   If he joined up with Fem-Me, he’d learn to hold back.   She even offered him personal tuition.   And so he signed his Fem-Me agreement and eagerly began his acquaintance with Genevieve.  

Everything went well for the next month.  He tried to keep his visits to twice a week, despite the temptation and his inner need for more.  He told his mother than he needed to go into the city for books, or clothes, or sports kit despite his lack of sporting prowess.  To maintain the pretence, he’d drop into SportsDirect for some kit or a ball.   A kick around in the garden when he got home helped the deception.    His Fem-Me visits became progressively longer.  He learned patience and restraint until Genevieve was satisfied with his performance. His pleasure increased with each visit.  Things were going well until June’s business card dropped out of his rucksack one day when he was visiting his Grandmother.   She picked it up and examined it.   She handed it back with a quizzical look but didn't say anything.

Within a couple of days, his Gran’s wardrobe began to change.   The next week she brought out a maid’s dress and asked him to wear it.  Part of him wanted to complain, but part of him wanted to try it on.  He wasn’t going to protest when she was wearing brown latex pants and heels.  Although they never spoke, he simply blushed, nodded and complied.  He didn’t want to protest.   There was no way that he could argue with her when she was wearing what looked like Bergman and Knightley latex.   And he wanted to be in latex like her.  She knew.   The only problem was that his Grandma became demanding about his visits to her, expecting him to come round more often which cramped his style with Fem-Me (and Genevieve).

From then on, he started dropping hints on his Gran’s computer and with her magazines.   A month after his indiscretion with the business card, his Gran took him to Fem-Me.   Fortunately Genevieve was on the front desk.   Genevieve understood his quick shake of the head when he arrived with his grandmother: Genevieve showed no sign of recognition.   She kept his grandmother talking while assistants took him into the back salon.  They knew him well, even if neither he nor Genevieve had ever given them such licence and liberty as his grandmother was demanding.  

He had a panic attack when they pulled a cap over his head and brought out a wig after finishing his make-up.   Kate, one of his favourites, tried to reassure him: “You are doing so well. Just think how proud your Gran will be when she sees you.”   She held his hand: “I know it's been a lot, but once we have the wig on you will see how beautiful you are.   Come on Jon, You're nearly there honey.”

Jon had his doubts.  What if someone let slip to his Gran that he was a regular visitor?  He trusted Genevieve but what about other staff?   All his old uncertainties flooded back.   What was he doing here?  How had he allowed it to get to this?   Why had he signed that Fem-Me agreement?  What if his Mum or Gran found out about him and Genevieve?    What if his friends found out?   Or the neighbours?  For some reason, wearing a dress was OK, but wearing a wig and being seen in public was like crossing some kind of Rubicon for him.   He was more embarrassed by that than his feelings for Genevieve.

  

“Does it have to be blonde?” he pleaded. “My eyebrows are all wrong.”

“Yes, it does.  You’ll look so good with blonde hair.   And dark eyebrows make a great contrast.  It keeps the boys guessing.  It’s a standard look for a lot of us B&K ladies.”

He was still unsure: “If you insist, Kate.”    

“I do, and so does your grandmother.  Now we just need get you into the dress she selected.   She wants you in pink.   Are you OK with that?”  

“I prefer black.  Pink will make me look like a sissy.”

“Don't be silly, Jon.   What’s wrong with that?  It’ll suit you perfectly.  You’ll look very pretty.  Very feminine.   You’ll like that.   You’ve never had the chance to go take the full step given your short visits, and you spend most of those with Gen.   She must like you a lot.   Most of our contracts don't include such personal service.   I wish I had one with you like that.”

“That would be nice,” said Jon. “Maybe one day.”   He couldn't believe what Kate was saying.  His confidence lifted.   First Genevieve, now Kate.  What was it with these B&K women?  He tried to get back on subject: “But pink?!”   

“Look, I’ll get Gen; she always knows best,” said Kate. 

As Kate left him, Jon could hear his grandmother getting impatient.  Kate stayed with out front while Genevieve gave him advice and reassurance before going back to deal with his grandmother.   “Where is he?” his Gran demanded   He’s taking forever.  I’ve had him in one of your maid’s dresses these last few weeks but he needs fixing.”

“Fixing?” asked a puzzled Genevieve.

“Yes.  I'm so sorry, you know, he was all football and trees, mud and mess. I just hope you have been able to smooth him out just a little bit.”

“I am sure you will be happy, it really has been a delight having your grandson with us.  The girls say he’s been no trouble.   And I’m sure the girls have made him very smooth.”

“I didn’t know I was paying for a waxing.”

“Oh more than that.   I don't think you’ll find any unsightly bulges either.”

“Oh!” said his Grandmother, not quite sure what she meant.

“We’re putting him in pink as you requested, but we also have a black party dress lined up if you’d prefer.”

“I’d like to see him in the pink first.”

“Here he is now,” said Genevieve as Jon emerged from the back hand-in-hand with one of the assistants.

“Grandma?  Is this OK?  What do you think?” asked Jon.

“Oh, you look adorable, honey.   And his little red gloves are a nice touch,” she said to the assistant holding Jon’s hand.

“You have a very pretty grandson,” said Genevieve, giving Jon a wink while his grandmother’s back was turned.

A happy Grandma.   Happy enough that relented when they came back next week.  Seeing Jon in black PVC inspired her to take him with her to the big Bergman and Knightley to get a new bottom set to go with her cream jacket.   She wanted something more adventurous than a matching cream skirt.  Jon helped her select a pair of black latex pants and knee high boots that they both considered a far better accompaniment.  

But now it had come to this.  Why had she insisted on taking him home with them both dressed like this?   Was it to show off like she’d showed him off in the city centre?   Or to stamp her authority?   

“How could you dress Jon like this!”  his mother screeched.  “Look at him!   What were you thinking?”

 “Don’t you think it suits him?   All the ladies in Bergman and Knightley thought he looked very pretty when I took him shopping.”

“You took him out in Bristol dressed like that.”

“Of course.   I thought he looked even prettier in the pink, but Jon seemed more comfortable in the black.”

“Black!  Pink!  Who cares?” raged his mother.   “You’re making him into a sissy.”

“I care.   It suits him,” his Grandma defended.   “You'll get used to it Jemma. It's for the best.”

“I don't believe you Mum. You have done it again, interfering.   He is my son, I will decide what is best for him.”

‘Arguing again,’ thought Jon.   ‘But nobody ever asks me.’   It was a never-ending saga that had been going on like this for so long: the choice of school; which school had the better results; which school had the better uniform; the choice of university; the choice of subject he should study; where he should live at uni.   They argued about anything and everything. But always about him.   He never got a look in.  They never asked him.  They never consulted him.  They just argued

“Look, I know he likes it.  I found him with a Fem-Me card. It’s why I took him there.   I’m only doing what he wants.  He’s been wearing a dress when he comes to mine for the last few weeks.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true,” his grandmother insisted as their argument raged above his head.

“No, it can’t be.   Jon wearing a dress?!”

“Yes, a dress: he’s a sissy.”

“Of course he’s not a sissy,” asserted his mother. “I should know.  I’m his mother.”

“He’s definitely a sissy.   Did you see him walking in his heels?”

“I was going to ask you about those.  Are they Louboutins?”

“Yes, dear.   Doesn’t he look sweet in them.   So ladylike.”

“But he’s my son.   I'll decide what heels he wears.   I mean what shoes he wears.”

Jon could take no more.   “Enough!   Why don’t either of you ever ask me?”

His mother stopped and looked at him.  “I’m sorry, what?” she asked.

“Yes, what do you mean?” enquired his Grandmother.

“Well, at least you can agree on that!” he said with exasperation.  “Why don’t you ever ask me?”

“What should we be asking?   Is this some kind of quiz,” demanded  Jemma.

“If you like?   How about?  Do I like wearing a dress?  Do I like wearing make-up?   Do I like wearing heels?  Do I like Louboutins?”

“Well?” interjected his mother.

“I hadn’t finished,” said Jon, “but the answer’s yes to all of those.”   

His grandma smiled with smug self-congratulation.  “See, told you so.”  His mother looked shocked.   

“I hadn’t finished.   Do I like going to Fem-Me?  How many times have I been to Fem-Me?”

His Grandma jumped in: “Oh, that’s easy!   The answers are ‘Yes’ and ‘Twice’.  You went yesterday and today.”

“You’re right about the first one Gran, but not about the second.”   

Now it was his grandmother’s turn to look surprised.  “What?”

“It’s why all the assistants knew me, Gran.”

“Did they?”

“Of course they did.”

“How do you think the assistant at Fem-Me knew so much about unsightly bulges?   That’s Genevieve and she’s been my key holder for the last two months.”

“Key?  What key?” demanded his mother. “I hope you’ve not been letting anyone have your house keys.”

“No mum.  The key to my chastity,” said Jon.

“Like that silver ring celibacy thing in States?” his mother questioned.

“No, Mum.   A chastity device.  A cock cage, if you must.   Gran would have seen a case of them at Fem-Me.”

“You mean those metal and plastic  things,” said his Gran.

“Yes, Gran.  It’s why there’s no unsightly bulge in my panties.   It was either that or tuck and Gen wanted to me in wear a flat, low profile one.   She thought it would be better for me long--term.”

“Who is this Gen?” asked his mother.

“She works at Fem-Me.   She’s my special Host.”  

“And why the hell does she want you to be celibate?   You’re not trying to become a monk, are you?”

“No Mum.  And not celibate.   I’m chaste in one way but not celibate.”

“Not celibate?” chorused both his baffled Grandmother and Jemma.

“No, not celibate.”   He gave them a rueful smile.

“What!” exclaimed his mother.

His Grandmother’s shock broadened into a smile as light dawned.  “See Jemma, I always told you he was a sissy.  I just wish you’d told me,” she said to Jon

“But why?” demanded his mother.  “And why didn't you tell me?”

“Because that’s how I am and you never asked.   You’ve never stopped to ask me what I want or how I feel.   You just argued about what was best for me.”

“But we only wanted what was best for you.”

“Well what I like best at the moment is wearing high heels and having Genevieve as my B&K Host.   And I’ve decided that I’m not going to stay on to do a PhD.   I’m going to become a B&K Boy like it says in me Fem-Me Agreement.”

“Agreement?  You don’t mean you’ve signed something.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I can get our solicitor to look at that.  I’m sure he can get you out of it.  Isn’t that right?”

“Maybe, Jemma.  But perhaps we need to see what Jon wants.  Perhaps we should invite this Genevieve round one evening.   Would you like that Jon?”

“Yes, Gran.”

“But what’s this Genevieve like, Jon?  You’ve never had a proper girlfriend.   Is she right for you?   You don’t have the experience.”

His grandmother was catching on quickly:  “I don’t think experience will be a problem when it comes to Genevieve, Jemma?  She’s probably your age or a bit older.”

“Jon, how could you!” exclaimed Jemma.

“Very easily, as it turns out.   I just hope Gen will come.  She always makes me.”  Jon grinned at his Grandma who was beginning to shake with laughter but walking over and giving her grandson a joyful hug and kiss.

And here is that super bonus

The Mirror Never Lies

by

Skinnie Stallion

Andy ran upstairs as the doorbell rang.   Jane shook her head in despair.   How many times had this happened?   It had to stop it though it did amuse her to see him so flustered and to hear his heels clatter across the Hall’s parquet floor as he scurried to hide in his bedroom.   Damn it!  He was meant to be her maid.   That was their agreement.   It was such a shame.  She liked him in his regular black maid dress but the new pink really suited him with its blouson shoulders, tight sleeves,  and its faux petticoat finishing making it look like a latex rara skirt.   The delivery men might have enjoyed seeing him in pink too, but once again he’d wasted an opportunity of seeing how he would be accepted as a girl.  This had to stop.  

She had been very clear.    She would let him dress up.   She would let him lead the life he wanted.   She’d never question his preferences.  She’d never stop him.  In fact she’d done nothing but encourage him.   After all, who provided him with all his lovely outfits and shoes.  Who’d helped him move on from experimenting with make-up to wearing heels?  From low heels to higher heels?  From jeans to tight jeans?   From tight jeans to form hugging stretch pants?   From tight pants to latex pants and PVC pants?  From socks to stockings?   From stockings to full lingerie?  From cotton and silk lingerie to latex lingerie?   From lingerie to dresses?   Latex dresses.   From guest to lodger?   From lodger to maid?   He should be opening the door not her.

Jane got the delivery men to unwrap the mirror and rest it against the wall in the hall.   She knew just the place where it would go longer term but for now it could stand near the stairs and provide Andy with a reflection of what he is and what he is becoming.   She put the two little packages that had come with the mirror on the hall table.  They were for later, maybe.

Jane stood in front of the mirror to check that it worked.   It had been fine in ‘Practical Magic’ so there was no reason why it shouldn’t work now.  “Mirror, mirror,” she whispered.   She looked at her reflection and smiled.   No definitely, maybe for one of them.   That at least was definitely later.   But she wanted to see how Andy reacted first.

Jane called up the stairs, “Andrew. darling, you can come down now the delivery men have gone.” She heard his bedroom door open.   He peered round the bannisters first to check that the coast was clear before tentatively coming down the stairs.   He still lacked that essential confidence and trust.  He needed to relax into the moment and know in his head not just his heart how he was seen and how he wanted to be seen.

She was careful not to display her irritation that he’d left her to deal with the delivery men.  This was what it was all about.   She shuffled him across the floor to stand in front of the mirror.   "So how do you like my magic mirror?" she asked.

"Magic? What do you mean, Auntie." 

"Can't you tell it's showing an alternative you?" 

"An alternative 'You'?   What do you mean, Auntie?" 

Jane still loved that he called her Auntie.  They might be unrelated but she’d always been Auntie to him.   An honorary Aunt: his mother’s oldest friend.  She was his Auntie.  And now she was more, so much more.   "Yes, a 'You' as you could be if you paid more attention to your appearance. A 'You' as you should be if you're going to be my sissymaid. The mirror thinks you should be wearing your spectacles. They would certainly help you notice things better and, I have to say, make you altogether cuter and more sweetly innocent." 

"Cuter?" Andy blushed. He didn't think of himself as cute, but the mirror did.  And Auntie clearly did too.  How on earth was the mirror doing that?

“Yes, cuter.  They suit you.”

“But they’re not my glasses.  They look very light with just arms and no actual frame.”

“Mmm, far better than those heavy plastic things you wear, or should wear.”

“I don’t like wearing them when I’m dressed up, Auntie.”

There it was again.   Why did him calling her Auntie give her a little frisson but it did, everytime.   “But you should, though I accept they don’t go so well with your outfits except when you’re dressed as my secretary.   Heavy black frames go well with your white latex blouse and your over-the knee black latex pencil skirt.”

“…. and black high heels,” Andy added.

“Yes, and black high heels,” Jane confirmed.  “I wouldn’t expect my secretary to be otherwise attired.   But you do need to wear your glasses.”

“I could try to contacts…”

“Possibly, in time.  At the moment I think light spectacle frames would enhance your face and improve your vision.   You’ve said you don’t like staring at your make-up.”

“Well, I don’t mind Mum seeing it but I get all self-conscious if other people see me wearing make-up.   What would they think of me?   A boy wearing make-up.”

“They won’t think anything other than how pretty you are.  They’ll see what they expect to see: a  pretty girl, especially if you’re wearing a dress and heels.    No-one will see a boy.”

“My vision isn’t that bad, Auntie,” Andy protested.

Jane shivered.  There it was again.  “So you say, but it might help you notice that you’re wearing mismatched stockings.”

“I’m not.   I’m wearing the stay-ups with the pink bows that go with this dress.”

“So you say.   That may be what the mirror shows but look down.”

Andy glanced down.  “They’re fine,” he said.

“Look again.   Look closer this time.  Push the frills on your skirt down so you can see properly.   Check your left stocking.”

Andy complied.   “Oh my goodness,” he exclaimed.  “How did that happen?  My left stocking hasn’t got any bow.  Or it’s come off.” 

“If it’s come off, it’s come off front and back.   You must have mixed up the pairs.”

“Sorry, Auntie.   How does the mirror do that?”   Jane smiled.   “And why, when I’m not talking and my mouth is closed, does the mirror show it open as if I’m surprised or a bit shocked.”

“I think the mirror can also foretell the future.   Why don’t we go upstairs and I can show you what else the men delivered?”  

“Oooh, goodie!  Are they presents?” asked an excited Andy.

“If you like.  One’s definitely for you and we can share the other.  You’ll feel the benefit of it.”

“Oooh, thank you Auntie.   I love presents.”

Jane smiles, picks up the two packages, and takes his hand to lead him upstairs.”   You need to change that stocking too, honey.”    She can't wait to see that look of surprise on his face as she fits him with the contents of the first package.   He’s never worn a Hummingbird.   He’ll learn to like it.    If he’s a good maid this afternoon he may get to experience the second.   She knows how the mirror showed her.   If the mirror doesn’t lie, she’s going to be wearing second’s contents when they are in bed together tonight.  In the shop, the harness didn't look too complicated to put on.   And he’ll be ready for it after several hours with his Hummingbird.    

He’s going to be such a good girl.   The mirror never lies.