Femdom with a Touch of Silk

I had been trying to get my vintage clothing business off the ground for six months when Mary offered me her boyfriend.

"Just to borrow," she said. "Just to teach the Boy a lesson."

She always spoke of him as the Boy during our chats, when she would tell me in exhaustive detail about her latest ploy to bend him to her will. As soon as he let her have her way she would try something else to "bring him out of his comfort zone". It was never clear from her stories that he enjoyed these experiences as much as she did but something kept him in her orbit. I can only guess it was the sex.

We have no secrets, Mary and I, even though I haven't had much to contribute since my long-term boyfriend sloughed off with a woman young enough to be our daughter.

Her dates rarely seem to meet her exacting standards and the Boy, with his humdrum job and timid, unworldly manner, barely warranted an invitation back to her place.

But, she said, she was drunk and horny and fancied tying him up for a bit of oral sex. He didn't protest, nor did he really have the chance. Mary recalled his arms flexing briefly against the silk scarves she had used to bind him before slackening in resignation.

She didn't see his face as she perched on his chest because she let the hem of her dress cover him, but he seemed enthusiastic enough.

When she returned the favour his sighs were so high pitched that she got a fit of the giggles. "You are a squealer," she told him. "Do you always sound so girly?"

He lowered his pitch but Mary told him she preferred him as he had been. "Don't hide your delicate nature," she said, reaching for a scarf left over from snaring his wrists. She wrapped it around his neck to tie in a big bow. Pleased with the effect, she retrieved her knickers from the floor.

"The look on his face..." she told me later. "He looked like he was about to cry."

She untwisted the pink satin and lace g-string knickers and studied his face as she pulled them up his legs. His brow crumpled and crushed but his cock bobbed as if it belonged to another body. The string tucked tidily into his cleft but no amount of stretching would cover his cock. It was only after she took him back in her mouth for an almost instant orgasm that he subsided enough for her to get the knickers properly in place.

"I loved it, the change in him, and I knew I wanted more," she told me. She had searched her wardrobe for anything else that might fit him and settled on a polka dot swimdress. "It was the only thing that was stretchy enough. It was a halterneck thing with a sweetheart neckline with a wide frill. He reminded me of a chorus girl, like Betty Boop."

I asked how he reacted. "Oh, he asked if he really had to wear it and I said yes. I told him that Boys in knickers must do as they're told, and besides, I wasn't going to untie his hands till he was dolled up the way I wanted him."

As she spooned him she pondered where she could get more clothes in his size and smiled sleepily as she remembered my online shop. Betty's Vintage, I called it, as my real name and its variations lack retro appeal. It's a simple enough operation. I buy in bulk at auctions and from charity shop collections and cherry pick the garments that will appeal to a hipster crowd.

I have a bargain bin full of items too worn to sell individually but cute enough to include in a mixed bundle. Mary, after a morning of canoodling with her dizzy Boy, sent him home wearing her pink knickers beneath his suit and came round to mine for coffee and inspiration.

She told me of her fantasies to make him a bimbo, too preoccupied with the way he looked and too stupefied by arousal to think for himself. "I need to dress him in a way that..." she searched for the word, "intoxicates him. He'll be lost to anything but the pleasure I give him."

If he didn't love his outfits, she said, then he would learn to.

She riffled through the bargain bin with evident delight. Pre-loved knickers, stockings, suspender belts, nightdresses: all went straight on her "definite" pile. I said that she could have them for nothing but she insisted on paying. "Keep a lookout for more," she told me. "It doesn't matter how worn they are so long as they're sexy. You know, costumes, party dresses, the trashier the better. He's got to look like the party girl on a hen night."

Over the weeks and months the Boy became my most loyal customer, although I never saw him until Mary dreamt up her proposition for me to borrow him.

I had complained to Mary about my wilting sex life, blaming myself for putting on weight and dating unreliable men. For all his hopelessness, Mary said, the Boy was certainly reliable. Repeated sessions of being told to strip and dress to order had not lessened his embarrassment, but Mary wanted to try something new.

"It would be delicious for someone else to see him like that," she said. "I think he's in denial about what I've turned him into. There will be no running away from it after this."

I asked why he would agree to that, but Mary told me to leave it to her. All I had to do was treat him as someone who wanted to wear girly clothes regardless of what he claimed. She would do the rest.

She sent him round on a Friday evening after work, as arranged, to pick up some items she had selected for him. He looked so sheepish on my doorstep in his shabby jacket and tie. I instantly wanted to take care of him. He told me his name and said that he had come to pick up something for his girlfriend.

I invited him into the living area of my flat where I had laid out Mary's items in a loose bundle. "These are your ones, here," I said, standing next to him as he looked at the black lace babydoll, leopard-print high-waisted briefs and vibrant fuchsia petticoat.

"I love that petticoat, don't you?" I asked, as scripted. "I've got just the dress to go with it, too. I'll throw it in for nothing."

I took a shocking pink princess dress by the shoulders and held it against his. It was a fancy dress costume, a cheap and sexy pastiche of a Disney heroine. "It looks a good fit. Let's see..."

His cheeks and neck were bright with mortification. I took out a measuring tape and passed it around his back, although in truth the dress was so stretchy that taking measurements was just a ploy to make him feel obliged by my effort. I leaned in closely while sizing up his bust and waist. When I got to his hips I saw the line of his underpants through his trousers. They were obviously frilly knickers, which I admired aloud.

This was too much for him. He paid me quickly, gathered up his bundle without the dress and left without saying goodbye.

I rang Mary to report what had happened. She was pleased. She would set the trap and I would spring it. "I'll give him a spanking for being so rude and then send him back to you."

Within half an hour he was on my doorstep again, unable to look me in the eye. He said that he wanted to apologise for his manners.

"You'd better come in, then," I said as severely as I could manage. I let him past me and, as I walked behind him, I could just about see the difference in pantyline that Mary told me I should remark upon. "You've changed your underwear," I said. "Are they the ones you bought? How do you like them?"

He avoided my gaze and my question. He was sorry, he said. He said it again in a variety of ways, babbling uselessly. After a while I hushed him. "I'm almost ready to forgive you. Let's make it up to each other by trying that dress."

He protested that he hadn't brought his new petticoat, as if that would stop me, but I assured him that I had plenty that would fit. "That's the beauty of them," I said, untucking his shirt and exposing the lace and leopard print of his high waistband. "They're elasticated so one size fits all."

I glanced approvingly at the snug fit of the knickers. "I'm beginning to forgive you already. Take off your suit and shirt and step into the dress." I stood back to enjoy him undressing, which he did dejectedly, revealing a pair of white hold-up stockings. I wondered if Mary had added them after his spanking or if he had been wearing them all day.

When he drew up the dress I helped him to zip it tight and tweak the lacing on the bodice. He gave me a twirl as instructed and stood meekly as I made adjustments to his waist sash and puffed sleeves.

"You look a picture," I said, placing my hands on his neck. "I only wish I had a choker necklace to complete the look." He looked dazed. I lifted my hands to cradle his jaw as I kissed him.

I felt the thrill, described often by Mary, of holding someone who would let me do anything. Whether through habit or fear of confronting his shame he would play along.

I wanted to take him, to possess him, perhaps even in ways that Mary had not. I had never used one before, but I remembered that one box of clothing I had bought in a house clearance auction had contained a strap-on dildo. The thought of it was fanciful at first, but as I directed him to go down on me I couldn't let the idea go.

I instructed him to wait in my bedroom while I fetched it, sending him on his way with a playful slap on his bottom. His wide-eyed reaction when I came back, half-buckled into the harness, cemented my resolve. I got him to lubricate it with his spit, although in practice it took a smear of moisturising gel from the jar on my bedside table to overcome his physical resistance.

With repeated applications of gel I could get my finger knuckle deep but even so it was only with persistence that I cajoled the dildo inside his upturned bottom. He presented for me on his hands and knees, head bowed and silent till I established a rhythm, shallow at first as if starting to saw a piece of wood.

I soothed him with compliments about his outfit, the way it clung to his figure and left so little to the imagination. The hem of his dress draped over his back. "I wish you could see for yourself," I said. "You're blossoming like a flower."

As he relaxed I lengthened my stride, stimulating him despite himself. I found myself, like Mary, instructing him to keep his moans in a high pitch.

I wanted more. Once ordered, he turned to lie on his back, legs raised to let me slip inside him again. I took him in my hand while I thrusted, delighting in the confusion that played over his face. As his pleasure grew I switched to mocking him.

"What a bimbo you are," I jeered. "Lying in your princess dress, longing to come."

I reminded him of the knickers and stockings bunched around his ankles, the uniform of a good-time girl.

I slowed the rhythm of my hand as I increased the urgency of my thrusts but his whimpers still grew.

"Beg me to let you come. Tell me how desperate you are."

He tried to oblige me. His words slurred, lost between moans. He couldn't stop himself even as I described my imagined contempt for him, his lack of self-respect, his failure as a lover, his desires so easy to manipulate that he would surrender every dignity to a stranger. I could feel him tightening, going into spasm.

"You are nothing," I shouted. He announced his orgasm with sobs. I felt the wetness in my hand, on my thigh as I pushed into him deeply and stayed there. I still wanted his indignity even in surrender. My palm continued to play evenly over the head of his cock till he squirmed against my dildo, vainly trying to free himself.

I couldn't help but laugh. I knew I would have to give him back to Mary soon, but not just yet. Not till he admitted that he was beholden to me now, a little part of him forever in my debt.