Betty Pearl's Sissy Stories 20.1
Menu => Active Sissy Stories => Topic started by: RibbonBound on June 02, 2025, 12:59:24 AM
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(Longtime lurker who wanted to contribute a story. I appreciate any constructive criticism!)
Tinkydrew - Part 1
The fog clings to the coastal town like a shroud, muffling the world in a damp, gray haze. The air smells of salt and decay, the kind of scent that seeps into your bones and lingers. I pull my jacket tighter around my slim frame, my long dirty blond hair whipping across my face in the wind. The train station is nearly deserted, just a lone seagull screeching somewhere above, its cry swallowed by the mist. I’m twelve, but the ticket agent earlier squinted at me, her eyes tracing my babyface and slight build, and asked if I was old enough to travel alone. I wanted to snap that I’m older than I look, but I just nodded, my throat too tight to argue.
The cab driver doesn’t say much as we wind through the narrow streets of this place—Eldermoor, it’s called. A town perched on cliffs that feel like they’re crumbling into the sea. The houses loom like ghosts through the fog, their windows dark, their roofs slick with moss. It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s grieving, just like me. My parents are gone—my mother when I was little, my father three months ago—and the ache of it sits heavy in my chest, a stone I can’t dislodge. I don’t want to be here, but I have nowhere else to go. Aunt Margaret, my mother's sister, is all I have left, a name from a memory I was told to forget.
I was five the last time I saw her. She lived close then, before my mother died and she moved across the country, before she married some rich man who I've recently heard died months ago. I remember her laugh, bright and wild, like the chime of glass. She’d dressed me up one afternoon, a game she said, slipping me into a frilly dress and clipping little fairy wings to my back. “My little Tinkerbell,” she’d called me, twirling me around her living room. I’d giggled, corrected her—*“Not Tinkerbell, I’m Tinkydrew!”*—and she’d laughed harder, scooping me up, calling me her little Tinkydrew. It was warm, that moment, like sunlight breaking through clouds. But when my father found out, his face turned to stone. He’d yanked the dress off me, his voice sharp as a blade, telling me it wasn’t right, that I wasn’t to speak of her again. I didn’t understand then, but I felt the shame burn through me. After that, Aunt Margaret was just a name, a ghost banished to the edges of my mind.
The cab slows, and I peer out at the house—mansion, really—sprawling across the cliff’s edge. It’s all sharp angles and towering windows, like something carved from the fog itself. The driver mumbles something about it being a “fine place,” but it feels too big, too cold, like it’s swallowing the world around it. I pay him with the last of my cash and step out, my backpack slung over one shoulder. The wind bites at my knuckles as I approach the iron gate, my sneakers crunching on gravel. I hesitate, my heart thudding. What if she doesn’t want me here? What if she’s changed?
The gate creaks open before I can touch it, and there she is—Aunt Margaret, standing in the doorway like she’s been waiting forever. She’s just as I remember her: tall, intimidatingly so, her dark hair swept up in a loose bun, her eyes sharp and bright. She hasn’t aged a day, not really, though it’s been over ten years. Her smile is wide, too wide, almost feverish, and I wonder if it’s the loneliness of this massive house, echoing with empty rooms.
“Andrew!” she calls, her voice carrying over the wind. She strides toward me, arms outstretched, and before I can step back, she’s pulling me into a hug that’s too tight, too eager. “Oh, you’re here, you’re really here!”
I stiffen, my face pressed against her shoulder. “Yeah,” I mumble, my voice muffled. “It’s… good to see you.”
She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, her eyes scanning me like she’s memorizing every detail. “You haven’t changed a bit,” she says, her voice warm but tinged with something else, something I can’t place. “Still my little Tinkydrew.”
My stomach twists at the name, a mix of warmth and unease. “I’m just Andrew now,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
She laughs, a sound that’s too bright for this gray day, and doesn’t seem to hear me. “Tinkydrew,” she repeats, her eyes glinting. “Look at that hair!” She reaches out, her fingers threading through my long strands, and I flinch, the touch too intimate, too familiar. But she’s my guardian now, I remind myself. This is probably normal for her. “It’s gotten so long,” she says, almost to herself. “All that’s happened these past months, and you haven’t had time for a haircut, have you?”
I shrug, my cheeks warming. “Yeah, things have been… rough.”
“Nonsense,” she says, her voice firm but not unkind. She steps back, gesturing toward the house. “You don’t need a haircut. You just need a little help looking after it.” Her hand lingers on my shoulder as she ushers me inside, the door closing behind us with a heavy thud. The foyer is cavernous, all marble and chandeliers, but it feels hollow, like a place where memories go to fade.
“Tinkydrew,” she says again, and I want to correct her, to say I’m not that little boy anymore, but the words stick in my throat. Her enthusiasm, her touch, the way she looks at me—it’s all too much, and yet it’s all I have. The fog presses against the windows, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel at home here.
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Tinkydrew Part 2
The heavy door of Aunt Margaret’s mansion closes behind us, the sound echoing through the vast foyer like a stone dropped in a well. The air inside is cool, scented with lavender and something sharper, like polish on old wood. My sneakers squeak on the marble floor, and I clutch the strap of my backpack, feeling small under the weight of the chandeliers glittering above. Aunt Margaret’s hand rests on my shoulder, guiding me forward, her touch firm but not unkind. Her enthusiasm from earlier hasn’t faded—she’s still smiling too wide, her eyes bright with something I can’t quite read. Loneliness, I tell myself. She just lost her husband like I lost my dad. This house is too big for one person.
“Come, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice lilting as she leads me up a grand staircase, the banister carved with roses and vines. I open my mouth to say I’m just Andrew now, but the words catch in my throat. She’s so excited, and I don’t want to ruin it. Not when she’s all I have left. The fog outside presses against the tall windows, making the world feel far away, like I’ve stepped into a dream I can’t wake from.
We reach the second floor, and she guides me down a long hallway, the walls lined with paintings of stern-faced women in old-fashioned dresses. Their eyes seem to follow me, and I shiver, my long dirty blond hair falling into my face. I push it back, wishing I’d tied it up. Margaret glances at me, her smile softening. “You’re going to love it here,” she says, her voice warm but with an edge, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. “We’re going to have so much fun together, Tinkydrew.”
I nod, unsure what to say. Fun feels like a foreign word, something I left behind when the hospital called. But she’s trying, I can tell. She’s trying to make me feel welcome.
She stops at a door at the end of the hall, and I notice the lock first—a delicate thing, shaped like a heart with tiny pink rhinestones, but it’s solid, heavy, the kind of lock that means business. It’s on the *outside* of the door, which seems strange, though I don’t know why. Margaret doesn’t mention it, just turns the key with a flourish and swings the door open. “Your room,” she says, stepping aside so I can see.
I freeze in the doorway, my breath catching. The room is… overwhelming. It’s like stepping into a little girl’s fantasy, a explosion of pink and lace and sparkle. The walls are papered in pale pink with tiny silver crowns, and a massive canopy bed dominates the center, draped in gauzy white curtains tied with satin ribbons. The bedspread is quilted, covered in ruffles and embroidered with flowers, and there’s a pile of plush stuffed animals—unicorns, bunnies, a teddy bear with a tiara—arranged against the pillows. A vanity sits against one wall, its mirror framed in ornate gold, bottles of perfume and a silver hairbrush gleaming on its surface. There’s a wardrobe, too, painted white with delicate rose decals, and I can only imagine what’s inside. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with crystal beads that catch the light and scatter it like tiny rainbows.
And then I see the windows. They’re tall, arched, but covered with bars—painted white and shaped like vines, with little heart-shaped accents, but bars all the same. Solid, unyielding, like the lock on the door. My chest tightens, and I take a step back, bumping into Aunt Margaret.
“It’s… a lot,” I say, my voice small. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but this room—it’s not me. It’s not anyone I know.
Margaret laughs, a bright, tinkling sound that fills the space. “Oh, Tinkydrew, I know it’s a bit much! I decorated it years ago, just for fun, you know? A little princess room for a little princess.” She pauses, her eyes softening as she looks at me. “But you’re here now, and that’s what matters. You have a place to stay, don’t you? A safe place.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Thanks.” I try to smile, but it feels wrong, like I’m wearing someone else’s face. The room feels like a costume, like those fairy wings she put on me when I was five. I glance at the bars again, and a chill runs through me. But I push it down. She’s just being kind. She’s giving me a home.
Margaret steps into the room, gesturing for me to follow. “Come, let’s get you settled,” she says, her voice bright again. She takes my backpack from my shoulder before I can protest, setting it on a plush pink rug. “We’ll make this place your own in no time. Oh, we’re going to have such fun—you’ll see. We’ll brush out that lovely hair of yours, maybe try some new styles.” She reaches out, her fingers grazing my hair again, and I stiffen, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “You’ve got such beautiful hair, Tinkydrew. We’ll take good care of it.”
I shift uncomfortably, my cheeks warming. “Where’s my suitcase?” I ask, glancing around. It was in the cab with me, but I don’t see it now.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll unpack it later. For now, just relax. You’ve had such a long journey.” Her smile is warm, but there’s something in her eyes—a flicker of excitement, maybe—that makes my skin prickle. I tell myself it’s nothing. She’s just happy to have company in this big, lonely house.
She sits on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to her. “Come, sit. Tell me everything. We’ve got so much catching up to do.” Her voice is soothing, like she’s talking to a child, and I hesitate before sitting, the bed sinking under my slight weight. The ruffles of the bedspread brush against my hand, and I pull it back, feeling out of place.
“I’m just… Andrew now,” I say quietly, trying again. “Not Tinkydrew.”
She tilts her head, her smile unwavering. “Oh, Tinkydrew, you’ll always be my Tinkydrew,” she says, like it’s a joke, but her tone doesn’t shift. She reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and I force myself not to pull away. “We’re going to have the best time, you and I. Just you wait.”
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Tinkydrew Part 3
The air in the mansion feels heavier now, like the fog outside has crept in, curling around me as Aunt Margaret leads me back down the hall from my room. Her hand is on my shoulder again, guiding me like I’m a child who might wander off. “You must be exhausted after that long journey, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice bright but with that same undercurrent of excitement that makes my skin prickle. “A nice hot bath will do you wonders.”
I nod, the idea of a bath sounding good despite everything. My muscles are stiff from the train, and my mind’s been spinning since I stepped into this house. A bath might calm me down, wash away the ache of the past few months. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
She opens a door just off the hallway, revealing a bathroom that’s as over-the-top as my room. The walls are tiled in shimmering pink, with little mosaic hearts glinting in the light. A massive clawfoot tub sits in the center, surrounded by shelves overflowing with bottles of oils and soaps, all in glass containers with floral labels. A chandelier—smaller than the one in the foyer but just as sparkly—hangs above, casting light that dances on the tiles. There’s a fluffy pink rug, a gilded mirror, and a vanity cluttered with brushes and ribbons. It’s too much, like the room, like this whole house. But the tub looks inviting, and I’m too tired to care about the frills.
“I’ll run the water,” I say, stepping toward the tub, but Margaret’s already there, turning the faucet with a practiced twist. The sound of water fills the room, steam rising in soft curls.
“Go on, get undressed,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I hesitate, my cheeks warming. I’m twelve, even if I'm small for my age, well old enough to bathe myself without instruction. But she’s already busying herself with the bottles on the shelf, humming softly, so I turn away, peeling off my jacket, shirt, and jeans, folding them neatly on the vanity. I’m just stepping out of my boxers when the door swings open again, and Margaret’s back, her arms full of towels.
I freeze, my hands flying to cover myself, my face burning. “Aunt Margaret!” I stammer, but she doesn’t even blink, just sweeps in like she owns every inch of this moment. She scoops up my clothes from the vanity, her movements quick and deliberate, and I’m too shocked to protest.
“Oh, Tinkydrew, don’t be shy,” she says, her voice light but firm. “These old things need a wash. I’ll take care of them.” She’s gone and back before I can say anything, carrying a bottle of bubble bath that smells like lavender and roses, so sweet it’s almost cloying. She pours a generous amount into the tub, and the water froths with bubbles, the scent filling the air. “Now, before you get in, let’s get you ready.”
“Ready?” I ask, my voice small. I’m still covering myself, my heart pounding. This feels wrong, but she’s so calm, so confident, like this is just what aunts do.
She holds up another bottle, this one labeled with some fancy script I can’t read. “Pre-bath lotion,” she says, her smile warm but unyielding. “It’ll make your skin so soft. Trust me.” Before I can argue, she’s squeezing the thick, creamy lotion into her hands and stepping closer. I want to back away, but the tub’s behind me, and her presence fills the room like the fog outside. “Arms up,” she says, and I obey, too stunned to do anything else.
Her hands are quick, efficient, rubbing the lotion over my arms, my chest, my back. It’s cold at first, then warm, and I flinch as she works it into every crevice—my sides, my thighs, even between my fingers. She’s thorough, too thorough, her fingers lingering in places that make my face burn hotter. I want to tell her to stop, but my voice is gone, swallowed by the steam and her calm, dispassionate hum. She doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, or if she does, she doesn’t care. I glance down, embarrassed by my small frame, my lack of… well, anything impressive. She doesn’t comment, but her eyes flicker with something—satisfaction, maybe?—and I look away, my stomach twisting.
“There we go,” she says finally, stepping back. “Now, stand there for a moment. Let it soak in.” I nod, my skin starting to tingle, a slight burning sensation creeping over me. It’s not painful, just strange, and I shift on my feet, feeling exposed under her gaze. The seconds drag on, the steam curling around us, until she claps her hands. “Time’s up!”
Before I can move, she steps forward, and to my shock, she lifts me—actually *lifts* me—like I weigh nothing. I’m small, sure, but I’m not a little kid, and the ease of it makes my head spin. She sets me into the tub, the water hot and silky, the bubbles piling high around me. I sink in, my face burning with embarrassment, but the warmth is soothing, and I try to focus on that instead.
Margaret doesn’t leave. She grabs a sponge and a bottle of shampoo, kneeling beside the tub. “Let’s get you all cleaned up,” she says, her voice soft but commanding. She starts scrubbing, her hands moving over my shoulders, my arms, my back, and I’m too overwhelmed to protest. She’s thorough again, washing every inch of me, and I just sit there, my mind blank, letting her take over. When she reaches my hair, though, something shifts. Her fingers work through my long strands, massaging in shampoo that smells like the bubble bath, and it’s… nice. Relaxing. For the first time since the accident, I feel a little less heavy, like the water’s carrying some of my grief away. She hums as she works, conditioning my hair, rinsing it carefully, and I close my eyes, letting myself enjoy it.
All too soon, it’s over. She helps me out of the tub, wrapping me in a fluffy pink towel that smells like the bath. My skin feels raw, almost too clean, and as she towels me dry, I notice something—my skin’s pink, glowing, but completely smooth from the neck down. No hair, not a single strand. Not that I had much, but now I had none. My eyes widen, and I look at her, my heart racing. “What… what happened to my hair?”
“Oh, that’s just the lotion, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice light, almost singsong. “It’s a special blend, gets rid of all that pesky body hair. Look at how lovely your skin is now!” She runs her hand over my arm, her touch gentle but possessive. “So smooth, so pretty. And that smell—don’t you just love it? And your hair!” She lifts a strand, still damp and shiny. “It’s perfect.”
I open my mouth to say something, to tell her I’m not sure about this, but she’s already talking, praising me like I’m a kid who’s done something clever. “Such a good boy, letting me take care of you. You’re going to shine here, Tinkydrew.” Her tone is warm, but it’s the kind of warmth you’d use with someone very young, and I feel a strange mix of comfort and unease. I know I should correct her, tell her I’m Andrew, not Tinkydrew, that I’m not a kid, that this is all too much. But her hands are gentle, her voice soothing, and after everything—losing Mom and Dad, the long train ride, this strange house—I’m too tired to fight it. It feels good to be cared for, even if it’s like this.
She smiles, her eyes glinting with that same excitement, and I wonder if she’s just happy to have someone to look after. As she leads me back to the pink-drenched room, I catch a whiff of the lavender-rose scent clinging to my skin.
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Tinkydrew Part 4
The bathroom’s warmth still clings to my skin as Aunt Margaret wraps the fluffy pink towel around me, but the way she does it catches me off guard. Instead of just draping it over my shoulders like I’d expect, she tucks it under my armpits and wraps it tightly around my chest, the ends secured high like I’ve seen women do in movies. It feels strange, foreign, the fabric hugging my slim frame in a way that makes me hyper-aware of my body. I’ve never done it this way, but she’s already ushering me out of the bathroom, her hand on my back, so I go along with it, my cheeks warm with embarrassment.
Back in the pink-drenched room, she guides me to the vanity, its gold-framed mirror reflecting the soft glow of the chandelier. “Let’s get that beautiful hair ready for bed, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice bright, almost musical. She sits me down on a cushioned stool, the towel still wrapped tightly around me, and starts brushing my damp, dirty blond hair with a silver hairbrush. Her fingers move with practiced ease, parting my hair and weaving it into what she calls a Dutch braid crown. Each tug is gentle but firm, her hands shaping my hair into a tight, intricate pattern. “This will keep it from tangling while you sleep,” she explains, her tone matter-of-fact. “No knots for my Tinkydrew.”
I sit still, letting her work, the rhythmic motion oddly soothing despite the strangeness of it all. “A crown, huh?” I mumble, trying to lighten the mood, but she giggles, a sound that’s too bright for this quiet room.
“Oh, yes,” she says, her eyes sparkling in the mirror’s reflection. “A crown for my little princess, sleeping in her castle.” She teases, but her words make my stomach twist. I’m not a princess, I want to say, but her fingers are still moving, and I don’t want to upset her. Not when she’s all I have.
When she finishes, she steps back, and I catch my reflection. My hair is woven into a tight, elegant braid that circles my head like a crown, the strands gleaming under the chandelier’s light. It does look regal, almost magical, but it’s so… feminine. I reach up, curious, my fingers brushing the braid. It’s so tight, so intricate, I have no idea how to undo it. The thought makes my chest tighten, but Margaret’s already moving, distracted, rummaging through the wardrobe across the room.
She returns with a small bundle of fabric in her hands, her smile wide again. “Here, Tinkydrew, put these on,” she says, handing me what I think are undershorts. They’re soft, pale pink, with tiny embroidered crowns and sparkly thread that catches the light. I hesitate, but she’s watching me, so I step into them, pulling them up under the towel. The fabric is snug, smoother than any boxers I’ve worn, and as I adjust them, my heart sinks. These aren’t undershorts—they’re panties. Delicate, lacy, unmistakably feminine, with a little bow at the waistband and those crowns stitched in a pattern that screams “girl.”
“Aunt Margaret,” I say, my voice sharp, “these are… they’re panties. I can’t wear these.”
She tilts her head, her smile unwavering. “Oh, Tinkydrew, they’re perfect for you. Look, there’s barely a bulge—see? They fit just fine.” Her tone is so casual, like she’s commenting on the weather, but her words hit like a punch. I glance down, my face burning, and she’s right—my slight frame, my small… everything… makes the panties look as if they belong on me. The embarrassment is overwhelming, a hot wave that makes me want to disappear.
Before I can argue further, she’s holding up something else, and my breath catches. It’s a not like anything I’ve ever seen. It looks like a bag, pale lavender, covered in ruffles and lace, with “Princess in Training” embroidered in curly gold letters across the front. The fabric shimmers, soft and silky, but it’s so girlish, so over-the-top, it makes my head spin. “What’s that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Your sleepwear, silly,” Margaret says, her eyes glinting with that same feverish excitement. “It’s cozy, perfect for a good night’s rest.” She steps closer, unfolding it, and I see it’s like a giant, padded bag with a zipper up the front and a ruffled neckline. I’ve never seen a sleepsack before, let alone one this feminine, but before I can protest, she’s guiding my arms into hidden slots inside, her hands gentle but insistent. My legs follow, slipping into their own compartments, and then she zips it up, the ruffles at the neck tickling under my chin. The fabric is soft but restrictive, hugging my body like a glove.
I squirm, testing the fit, but my arms and legs are trapped, the slots keeping them snugly in place. Margaret pulls at something on the back—laces, I realize, like a corset—and starts tightening them. The sleepsack cinches around me, squeezing my chest, my waist, my legs, until it feels like I’m in a full-body corset. I can barely move, the fabric holding me in a firm, unyielding embrace. “Aunt Margaret,” I say, my voice rising, “I can’t move. This is… it’s too tight.”
She laughs softly, her hands still working the laces. “It’s just like swaddling, Tinkydrew. Babies sleep better when they’re snug, and so will you. It’s comforting, isn’t it? A nice, safe hug.” Her tone is soothing, but it’s the kind of soothing that makes me feel smaller, younger, than I am.
I want to argue, to tell her this isn’t right, that I’m not a baby or a princess or whatever she thinks I am. But the sleepsack, the room, the braid—it’s all so overwhelming, and I’m exhausted. Maybe this is just what she has, I tell myself. Maybe this is her way of coping with her own loneliness, dressing me up in these things. I decide to go along with it, just for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her, set some boundaries.
She lifts me again—her strength still startling—and places me gently in the prissy bed, the ruffled bedspread crinkling under me. The sleepsack’s grip doesn’t loosen, but as she tucks the covers around me, pulling them up to my chin, I have to admit it does feel like a hug, warm and secure. She brushes a hand over my braided hair, her smile soft but intense. “Sleep well, my little Tinkydrew,” she says, turning out the chandelier with a flick of a switch. The room plunges into darkness, the only sound the faint howl of the wind outside.
I hear her footsteps retreat, then the click of the door locking behind her. My heart skips. I try to sit up, to move, but the sleepsack holds me fast, the laces and slots keeping me immobile. I almost laugh—why the lock? Why the bars on the windows when I can't even get out of bed? But the thought doesn’t stick. The sleepsack’s embrace is tight, almost comforting, like a whole-body hug, and despite everything, it soothes me. My eyelids grow heavy, the exhaustion of the day pulling me under. The scent of lavender and roses lingers on my skin, and soon I drift off.
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Tinkydrew Part 5
The fog outside the barred windows is thinner this morning, but it still clings to Eldermoor, muting the world beyond Aunt Margaret’s mansion. I wake to the soft creak of the bedroom door, my body still cocooned in the lavender sleepsack, its ruffles and lace a suffocating reminder of last night. My eyes flutter open, and there she is—Margaret, standing over the bed, her tall frame silhouetted against the dim light filtering through the pink-curtained windows. Her smile is wide, almost glowing, her dark hair neatly swept up, her eyes glinting with that feverish excitement I’m starting to recognize. She’s so happy, it’s almost infectious, and despite the strangeness of this place, I can’t help but smile back, a small, hesitant curve of my lips.
“Good morning, Tinkydrew!” she says, her voice bright and musical, like she’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Time to start our first day together!” She claps her hands, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and moves to the bed, her fingers deftly undoing the laces at the back of the sleepsack. “Let’s get you out of this, shall we? Oh, we’re going to have such fun today.”
I nod, still groggy, the sleepsack’s tight embrace making it hard to move. She works quickly, loosening the laces and unzipping the front, the ruffled neckline falling away. I’m eager to stretch, to feel free again, but as the fabric slides off, I freeze. My body betrays me—a morning stiffie, small but unmistakable, tents the pink panties she made me wear last night. My face burns, a wave of humiliation crashing over me. I try to cover myself, my hands fumbling, but the panties are so snug, there’s no hiding it.
“Oh, Tinkydrew,” Margaret says, her voice soft but with a lilt of amusement. She doesn’t look away, her eyes fixed on it, and I want to disappear into the ruffled bedspread. “Don’t be embarrassed, dear. It’s perfectly normal, isn’t it? Just a little morning excitement.” She pauses, her smile softening, but her words make my cheeks burn. “It’s so tiny, I barely noticed! Honestly. No need to make a fuss.”
Her attempt at consolation only makes it worse. My cheeks burn hotter, my throat tight. I know she’s trying to help, to make me feel less awkward, but her words strip away what little confidence I have left. I’m twelve, but in this moment, I feel smaller than ever, my slight frame and babyface making her comments sting all the more. I want to protest, to tell her to stop, but my voice is gone, swallowed by the weight of her gaze.
She tilts her head, her smile shifting to something more thoughtful. “You know, Tinkydrew, I might have something to help with this… problem. It might be a bit uncomfortable at first, but it’ll save you from this kind of embarrassment in the future.”
I perk up despite myself, desperate for anything to avoid this humiliation again. “What is it?” I ask, my voice small, my hands still hovering over my lap.
She doesn’t answer right away, just turns to the wardrobe and rummages through a drawer I hadn’t noticed last night. When she returns, she’s holding something that makes me curious—a sleek, metallic belt, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine with a piece that would go between my legs. It’s small, curved, designed to fit snugly, and looks kind of neat. She holds it up, her smile unwavering. “This will keep things tidy,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact, like she’s offering me a pair of socks. “No more awkward moments, Tinkydrew. You’ll feel so much better.”
I’m too stunned to question it, my embarrassment overriding any sense of caution. I don’t ask where it came from or why she has it. I just nod, my face still burning, and let her take charge. She kneels in front of me, her movements quick and practiced, and before I can process what’s happening, she’s fitting the belt around my waist. The metal is cold against my skin, the fit perfect—as if it was made for me. The front plate slides into place, covering everything, and I hear a soft click as she locks it, the sound sharp and final. I glance down, and my heart sinks. Between my legs, there’s nothing but smooth, gleaming metal, my body pulled tightly together, completely concealed. It’s like any sign I was a boy has been erased.
“There we go,” Margaret says, standing back to admire her work. “So much better, isn’t it? A chastity belt! Keeping yourself chaste until you're old enough to handle such things—such a good choice, Tinkydrew. You’re doing the right thing.” Her voice is warm, approving, but her words hit like a warning. Chaste until... When? The implication sinks in—this isn’t just for today. This is long-term. My chest tightens, but before I can say anything, I notice there are engravings on the belt.
The metal plate is etched with delicate, feminine designs. In curling, feminine script, the word “Tinkydrew” is carved across the front where my stiffie was just moments ago, surrounded by little hearts and flowers, as if branding me with that nickname. Below it, in smaller letters, are phrases like “Auntie's Sissy” and “Delicate Doll,” not things a twelve year old boy wants to see on himself. There was a tiny crown etched near the lock on the belt, with “Princess in Training” written beneath it, echoing the sleepsack’s embroidery. The words are so intricate, so deliberate, it’s clear they were chosen with care. I can’t see the back of the belt, but my mind races—what else is written there? More nicknames? More humiliating phrases? I'll have to figure out how to get a look.
I’m about to ask her about the belt—how she had one that fits me so perfectly, why it’s engraved like this—when I notice her hands moving to my hair. While I was distracted, staring at the chastity belt, she’s undone the Dutch braid crown from last night. My hair, still slightly damp when she braided it, now falls in loose, bouncy curls, full of body and volume. It’s utterly feminine, the kind of hairstyle you’d see on a little girl in a pageant, not an twelve-year-old boy. I reach up to smooth it down, to try and flatten the curls, but Margaret slaps my hands away, her touch sharp but not angry.
“No, no, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice firm but playful. “We’re keeping those curls. They’re perfect!” She grabs a bottle of hair product from the vanity—something labeled “Curl Enhancing Mousse”—and starts working it through my hair, her fingers quick and practiced. The scent of coconut and vanilla fills the air as she massages it in, fluffing my curls until they’re even more pronounced, a bouffant halo around my head. Then she picks up a can of hairspray, spritzing it generously, the mist settling like a seal on my new, girlish hairstyle.
I catch my reflection in the vanity’s mirror and wince. My hair looks like it belongs on a doll, too feminine, too young, too everything I’m not. “Aunt Margaret,” I say, my voice rising, “this is too much. My hair—it looks so… girly. Too childish. Can we fix it?”
She laughs, a bright, tinkling sound that fills the room. “Oh, Tinkydrew, don’t be so serious! It’s just the two of us here. I’m just having a little fun, making you look as lovely as you are.” Her tone shifts, a hint of chiding creeping in. “If you’re going to live in my house, you need to be a bit more open-minded, dear. Let me have my fun. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to care for.”
I open my mouth to protest, but the words die in my throat. Her eyes are warm, but there’s an edge to them, a warning not to push too hard. I think about the locked door last night, the bars on the windows, the chastity belt now encasing me, and a chill runs through me. The belt’s perfect fit gnaws at me—how did she have something so precisely sized? Did she plan this? The thought is fleeting, but it’s enough to make me pause. I’m in her house, her world, with nowhere else to go. For now, I nod, forcing a small smile, and let her continue fussing with my hair, her hands shaping me into someone I don’t recognize.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “My perfect Tinkydrew. Now, let’s get you dressed for the day. We’ve got so much to do!” Her voice is bright again, but as she turns to the wardrobe, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m slipping further into her dream, a doll in her castle, locked in more ways than one.
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Tinkydrew Part 6
The air in the pink-drenched room feels thick, almost suffocating, as Aunt Margaret claps her hands with a gleeful flourish, her eyes sparkling with that feverish excitement I’m starting to dread. My bouffant curls, now locked in place with coconut-scented hairspray, bounce slightly as I shift uncomfortably on the vanity stool, the cold metal of the chastity belt a constant reminder of my vulnerability. The engraved words—“Tinkydrew,” “Auntie's Sissy,” “Delicate Doll,” “Princess in Training”—burn in my mind, especially “Tinkydrew,” etched right where my boyhood used to be. It’s as if the belt is rewriting me, erasing Andrew and leaving only her little Tinkydrew in his place. My stomach churns, but I’m too overwhelmed, too exhausted, to argue as Margaret turns to the wardrobe with a purposeful stride.
“Oh, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice dripping with anticipation, “I’ve been dreaming about this moment ever since I heard you were coming to live with me. I’ve had one particular outfit in mind, just for you.” She glances back at me, her smile wide and unyielding, and I feel a prickle of unease. “It’s perfect, you’ll see.”
She opens the wardrobe doors with a dramatic flourish, and my breath catches as she pulls out the most over-the-top outfit I’ve ever seen. It’s a fairy princess dress, but not the kind you’d see in a store for kids—it’s too juvenile, too feminine, even for a five-year-old girl. The dress is a frothy explosion of pale pink and lavender tulle, layered with shimmering organza that sparkles like starlight. The bodice is fitted, adorned with tiny silver sequins and embroidered with delicate roses and vines, each petal edged with glitter. Ruffles cascade from the shoulders, forming puffed sleeves that look like they belong in a storybook. The skirt flares out in a bell shape, so voluminous it seems to float, with a petticoat underneath that rustles with every movement. A wide satin sash, tied with an oversized bow at the back, cinches the waist, its ends trailing like ribbons on a gift.
But the wings—they’re what make my heart stop. Attached to the back of the dress are large, translucent fairy wings, framed in delicate wire and covered in gossamer fabric that shimmers with iridescent pinks and purples. Tiny rhinestones dot the edges, catching the chandelier’s light, and I can almost hear them tinkling like chimes. They’re the kind of wings I wore as a five-year-old, when Margaret called me Tinkydrew and twirled me around her living room. But these are bigger, more elaborate, and unmistakably meant for me now.
“Aunt Margaret,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper, “that’s… it’s too much. I can’t wear that. It’s for a little girl.”
She laughs, a bright, tinkling sound that fills the room, brushing off my protest like it’s nothing. “Nonsense, Tinkydrew! It’s perfect for you. You’re my little fairy princess, and this is your castle.” She steps closer, the dress draped over her arm, the wings swaying slightly. “Let’s get you dressed. We’re going to have so much fun today.”
I want to argue, to tell her I’m Andrew, not Tinkydrew, not a princess, but the weight of the past few months—losing my parents, the long train ride, the locked door, the chastity belt—presses down on me. My mind keeps drifting to the engravings on the belt. “Delicate Doll”—am I just a toy to her, something to dress up and play with? “Auntie's Sissy”—is that how she sees me, fragile and small, not a man at all? And “Tinkydrew,” that name carved where my identity as Andrew should be, feels like a brand, a claim that I’m hers to shape. The thought makes my chest tighten, but Margaret’s already moving, her hands gentle but insistent, and I’m too overwhelmed to resist.
She starts with the petticoat, a frothy white thing with layers of tulle that she slips over my head. It settles around my waist, making me feel like I’m drowning in fluff. Next comes the dress itself, and she guides my arms through the puffed sleeves, the fabric cool and silky against my smooth, hairless skin. The bodice hugs my slim frame, the sequins catching the light as she zips it up the back, the sound sharp and final, like the click of the chastity belt. The skirt flares out, the petticoat giving it a life of its own, and I feel ridiculous, like a doll being posed. She ties the satin sash tightly around my waist, the bow at the back so large it brushes the floor. The wings come next, attached with hidden straps that she fastens around my shoulders, their weight surprisingly light but impossible to ignore. They sway with every movement, a constant reminder of the role she’s casting me in.
Margaret steps back, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and kneels to slip a pair of accessories onto my feet—sparkly pink Mary Janes with tiny bows and rhinestone buckles, the kind a little girl would wear to a birthday party. They fit perfectly, just like the chastity belt, and a flicker of suspicion crosses my mind again—how does she have all this, sized exactly for me? But before I can dwell on it, she’s adding more: a delicate silver tiara, studded with pink rhinestones, which she nestles into my bouffant curls, pinning it in place so it won’t budge. She clips matching rhinestone earrings to my ears—clip-ons, thankfully, but they pinch, their weight tugging at my lobes. A choker follows, a thin band of pink velvet with a heart-shaped pendant that reads “Tinkydrew” in curling script, echoing the engraving on the belt.
She’s not done. From a drawer in the vanity, she pulls out a makeup kit, and my heart sinks further. “Just a little touch-up,” she says, her tone soothing but unyielding. “To make my fairy princess shine.” I want to protest, but her hands are already moving, dabbing foundation on my cheeks to smooth my already pale skin. She brushes on pink blush, high on my cheekbones, and dusts my eyelids with shimmery lavender shadow. A touch of mascara makes my lashes look impossibly long, and she finishes with glossy pink lipstick, the sweet taste lingering on my lips. Each stroke feels like another layer of Andrew being painted over, replaced by Tinkydrew, her creation.
Finally, she adds a pair of fingerless lace gloves, white with tiny rosebuds, and a wand—yes, a wand—sparkly and topped with a star that glitters under the chandelier. “Hold this,” she says, pressing it into my hand, and I clutch it, my fingers trembling. The outfit is complete, and I feel like I’m drowning in it, every ruffle, every sparkle, every accessory screaming “little girl” in a way that makes my stomach churn.
Margaret steps back, her smile so wide it’s almost manic. “Oh, Tinkydrew, you’re perfect,” she says, her voice trembling with excitement. “Come, let’s see you in the mirror.” Before I can protest, she lifts me—her strength still startling—and carries me to a full-length mirror in the corner of the room, setting me down gently in front of it. The wings sway behind me, the petticoat rustles, and I brace myself for what I’ll see.
The reflection is a shock, even though I knew it was coming. I look like a five-year-old girl dressed for a fairy-tale tea party, not an twelve-year-old boy. My bouffant curls, still glossy from the mousse and hairspray, frame my face in a halo of feminine bounce, the silver tiara glinting like a crown. The makeup transforms me—my cheeks are rosy, my eyes wide and sparkly with lavender shadow, my lips glossy and pink, making my face look even younger, softer, unmistakably girlish. The dress is a cloud of tulle and sequins, the puffed sleeves and massive bow exaggerating my slight frame, making me look delicate, almost ethereal. The wings shimmer behind me, their iridescent glow catching the light, and the Mary Janes sparkle at my feet, the rhinestone buckles winking with every shift. The choker’s “Tinkydrew” pendant sits at my throat, a mirror to the chastity belt’s engraving, and the wand in my hand completes the picture—a perfect, prissy fairy princess, too young, too feminine, too everything I’m not.
I stare at myself, my heart pounding, and all I can think is what this means. The chastity belt, hidden under the dress, feels heavier now, its engravings burning in my mind. “Tinkydrew,” carved where my manhood should be, feels like a declaration, a final overwrite of Andrew mocking my small frame, my lack of strength, my inability to resist her. “Princess in Training” suggests this is just the beginning, that she has plans for me, plans I can’t see. I can’t look away from the mirror, from the little girl staring back at me.
Margaret’s hands rest on my shoulders, her reflection looming behind mine. “Isn’t it wonderful, Tinkydrew?” she says, her voice soft but intense. “You’re my little fairy princess, just like I always dreamed.” Her fingers brush the wings, making them shimmer, and I feel the weight of her dream pressing down on me, reshaping me into someone I don’t recognize.
I open my mouth to protest, to say I’m Andrew, not Tinkydrew, not this, but the words won’t come yet. I'm still too overwhelmed. The outfit, the makeup, the chastity belt—they’re all too much, and I’m too small, too lost, to fight it. For now, I’m her Tinkydrew, caught in her fairy-tale castle.
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Wow! First time author? Brilliant start.
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Such a lovely story, I hope there is more to come. Would love to see him having to wear diapers for example.
Just one minor timeline correction. It says it he was 5 the last time he saw her and its been over 10 years since which would make him 15+ now not 12.
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Lovely,wonderfully written.thanks so much!
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Incredible beginning, and i hope you will continue soon. Having her acting as sweet as syrup but with the feel of devious control really works because you don't know when she will turn.
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Lovely beginning! So delightfully sweet with a nice touch of darker undercurrent! Adorable!
No notes. Can't wait to read more!
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Thank you so much Antonia, Sylphie, Baby Mac & Sissyboy1212.
And good catch, Sissybaby34! In an earlier draft of the story, Andrew was a few years older. I thought I'd made all the adjustments, but... Ooops!
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It appears your days as a 'lurker' are over - a delightful, creative, well-written story. Welcome aboard!!
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Really well written and paced.
It’s clearly building up to him starting to push back, and it will be fascinating to see what additional techniques she uses to bring him into line.
Also to gain some understanding of her motivation. She’s clearly finding the process exciting, but is there a reason why? Hatred of males, the exercise of power, a thwarted and twisted maternal instinct?
Finally, does she have an end goal, and will she keep this secret?
Keep going…staggering quality for a newbie!
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Tinkydrew - Part 7
The morning light barely filters through, casting a soft, muted glow over the pink-drenched room as Aunt Margaret claps her hands, her eyes sparkling with that relentless enthusiasm. My fairy princess dress rustles with every movement, the tulle and petticoat making me feel like I’m floating in a cloud of glitter and lace. The chastity belt, hidden beneath the voluminous skirt, presses firmly against my skin insuring I can't forget it's there. Its engravings—“Tinkydrew,” “Auntie's Sissy,” “Delicate Doll,” “Princess in Training” spring to mind alongside the sensation. My bouffant curls tickle my neck, the silver tiara weighs on my brow, and the fairy wings that sway lightly on my back also providing sensations that insure I can't forget them. I’m still reeling from my reflection in the mirror, the little girl staring back at me, when Margaret sweeps toward me, her smile wide and unyielding.
“Time for breakfast, my little Tinkydrew!” she says, her voice bright and musical, as if this is the most normal morning in the world. Before I can move, she scoops me up, her arms strong and effortless, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. I gasp, my hands clutching the sparkly wand she gave me, the Mary Janes dangling from my feet. “Oh, look at you, flying with those beautiful wings!” she exclaims, holding me aloft and twirling me gently through the air. The wings flutter behind me, the gossamer fabric catching the light, and for a moment, I’m suspended, the room spinning around me. Her laughter fills the space, bright and tinkling, but it only deepens the surreal haze I’m trapped in. I’m twelve, not a child, not a fairy, but her strength and confidence make resistance feel impossible.
She carries me down the grand staircase, the satin sash of my dress trailing behind, and into a dining room that’s as extravagant as the rest of the mansion. The table is set like a scene from a children’s storybook—a tea party for a young girl, every detail meticulously crafted. A lacy white tablecloth drapes the long table, its edges fringed with pink ribbons. Delicate porcelain teacups, saucers, and plates, all adorned with tiny rosebuds, are arranged in a perfect circle. A tiered stand holds miniature pastries—tiny scones, macarons in pastel pinks and purples, and cupcakes frosted with swirls of glittery icing. I'm not sure the food is real as it looks a little too perfect. Some of it is surely art, not food. A teapot, painted with fairy wings and flowers, sits at the center. The air smells of sugar and lavender, sweet and cloying, matching the scent still clinging to my skin from last night’s bath.
But it’s the guests that make my breath catch. Surrounding the table, propped in high-backed chairs, is a cast of dolls and stuffed animals, each dressed in frilly outfits that mirror my own. A porcelain doll with golden curls and a pink tulle dress sits to my left, her glass eyes staring blankly. A teddy bear in a lavender gown with a tiny tiara leans against a cushion to my right. Across the table, a plush unicorn wears a sparkly cape, its horn glinting under the chandelier. There’s a bunny in a ruffled apron, a kitten with a velvet bow, and a doll with pigtails and fairy wings, each one meticulously posed as if ready to join the meal. Their outfits are so detailed, so perfectly matched to mine, that my stomach twists. Obviously it's intentional but so much work. To what end?
Margaret sets me down gently in a cushioned chair at the head of the table, a cutout in the backrest perfectly accommodating the fairy wings as I settle. “There we are, Princess Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice dripping with delight. “Look at your court! They’re all so pleased to have breakfast with their princess.” She gestures to the dolls and stuffed animals, her smile wide and feverish. “This is Lady Rosabelle,” she says, pointing to the porcelain doll, “Duchess of the Rose Garden. And here’s Sir Fluffington,” she adds, nodding to the teddy bear, “Knight of the Lavender Fields. Oh, and Princess Sparklehoof!”—the unicorn—“She’s been waiting all morning to meet you.”
I stare, my mouth dry, nodding as if this makes sense. The dolls’ blank eyes seem to watch me, and for the first time I feel a bit of fear. Aunt Margaret seemed more eccentric earlier. But this, this seems to be something else. “They’re… nice,” I manage, my voice small, unsure what else to say. Margaret beams, clearly pleased, and picks up the teapot, pouring orange juice into my teacup. The liquid glints in the delicate porcelain, the cup so tiny it feels like a toy. She places it in front of me, then pours more for the “guests,” filling their cups with a flourish, as if they’ll actually drink.
“Now, Tinkydrew,” she says, sitting beside me, her eyes fixed on my hands. “Let’s have our tea like proper ladies, shall we?” I decide not to point out that the 'tea' is orange juice. I reach for the teacup, my fingers shaky, but before I can lift it, she clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Oh, no, dear, not like that. A princess sips her tea with grace.” She takes my hand, her touch gentle but firm, and re-positions my fingers, curling them around the handle. “Pinky out,” she instructs, lifting my pinky and extending it delicately. “There, much better. Try again.”
My face burns, but I obey, lifting the cup with my pinky extended, feeling ridiculous. The orange juice is sweet, tangy, and very good but the act of drinking it this way—under her watchful gaze, surrounded by dolls in frilly dresses—makes my stomach uneasy. I set the cup down, careful to keep my movements slow, feminine, as she watches. “Good girl,” she says, her voice warm but with that edge of excitement, and I flinch at the word “girl.” I want to correct her, to say I’m Andrew, not a girl, not Tinkydrew, but I'm not sure I dare contradict, overwhelmed by the weight of what she has arranged. She passes me a tiny breakfast scone, its surface dusted with sugar crystals, and I take a bite, trying to mimic her delicate movements.
“Small bites, Tinkydrew,” she says, her tone chiding but kind. “A princess doesn’t gobble her food.” I nod, chewing slowly, my eyes darting to the dolls, their outfits, the details of the room. Lady Rosabelle’s glass eyes seem to judge me, and I wonder if Margaret imagines them talking, laughing, praising their princess. Margaret keeps up a steady stream of chatter, giving each doll and stuffed animal a backstory—Sir Fluffington’s heroic deeds, Princess Sparklehoof’s magical adventures, the bunny (Miss Petalwhiskers) who rules the Meadow Court. It’s like she’s weaving a fairy tale, and I’m the centerpiece, her fairy princess Tinkydrew.
When I reach for a macaron, french toast I think, my hand slips, and I forget to extend my pinky. Margaret’s hand darts out, catching mine. “Pinky out, dear,” she says, her voice harsher now, though her smile doesn’t waver. “We mustn’t forget our manners in front of the court.” I nod, my cheeks burning, and try again, lifting the macaron with exaggerated care, my pinky sticking out awkwardly. She nods approvingly, her eyes glinting. “That’s my good princess.”
The breakfast drags on, each moment a performance I don’t know the script for. I realize I am hungry, but every sip, every bite, is corrected—my posture, the angle of my wrist, the way I hold my napkin (folded daintily in my lap, of course) and always smaller bites, delicate sips. The fairy wings shift behind me, the petticoat rustles, and the chastity belt’s metal presses hard against the chair. I nod along to Margaret’s stories, my mind numb, agreeing with her as if this all makes sense. The dolls and stuffed animals stare, their silence louder than her chatter, and I feel like I’m becoming one of them—another doll in her collection.
When I finish the last of my breakfast, a drop clings to my lip, and Margaret is quick to notice. “Oh, Tinkydrew, we can’t have that,” she says, her voice soft but insistent. She picks up a lacy napkin, leaning close, and delicately wipes my face, her movements slow and precise, like she’s polishing a prized possession. Her touch is gentle, but it lingers too long, her fingers brushing my cheeks, my chin, my lips. “There we are,” she says, smiling. “A clean princess is a happy princess.”
She’s not done. From the table, she retrieves the makeup kit she used earlier, opening it with a flourish. “Let’s touch you up, shall we?” she says, her tone bright but unyielding. I want to protest, to say I don’t need more makeup, I don't need any makeup really, but her hands are already moving, dabbing a fresh layer of foundation to smooth my skin, brushing on more pink blush to keep my cheeks rosy. She reapplies the shimmery lavender eye-shadow, her brush strokes careful, and adds another coat of mascara, making my lashes even longer, more doll-like. The glossy pink lipstick comes last, the sweet taste flooding my senses as she paints it on, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
“Perfect,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “My beautiful Tinkydrew, shining for her court.” She gestures to the dolls and stuffed animals, as if they’re nodding in approval. My reflection in a nearby silver tray catches my eye—my face is flawless but more like a porcelain doll than a human face. I can also see my curls still vibrant and bouncing, the tiara glinting. The choker’s “Tinkydrew” pendant gleams at my throat, and I feel the weight, its engravings branding me.
I nod, my voice gone, overwhelmed by the tea party, the dolls, her relentless care. The breakfast is over, but I know this is just the beginning. For the first time I shake out of my reverie. Up until now, I've just let myself be dragged along. But now, after seeing this, I'm convinced there's something not quite right. I should do something. I just have no idea what.
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He's really descending now and its so well written. The way his mental state is controlled by the fairy tale reality makes me think the pinker things get the darker it will be. She has to be brainwashing him somehow and the stuff with the dolls feels really creepy and i hope she makes the dolls feel more and more alive to him and a danger as well with their own twisted lore. So hyped for more thank you.
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What a Delightful and Charming story. Poor "Tinkydrew" now transformed into Auntie's cute little Fairy Princess. What happens when he needs 'wee wee' has she deliberately not told him he must sit on the toilet like a little girl to go. I think she is waiting for him to try and stand up to go and then wet his knickers when he can't get his little penie out. This would give her the excuse to put him back in nappies an cute ruffled baby knickers so he becomes her adorable Baby Princess.
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I'm a little concerned about Andrew's sleep ware, and the fact he is locked in his room at night. How will he go potty at night if he in closed up in his sleeper, and the door is locked, so he can't go potty. Will he be further regressed to cute pink plastic panties and pink bunny pined diapers?
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Tinkydrew - Part 8
The dining room’s sugary air still clings to my senses as Aunt Margaret claps her hands, her eyes alight with that feverish glee that’s become all too familiar. My fairy princess dress rustles, the tulle and petticoat swishing around my legs, the fairy wings swaying lightly on my back. The chastity belt, hidden beneath the voluminous skirt, presses against my skin. My bouffant curls bounce under the silver tiara, and the glossy pink lipstick tastes sweet on my lips, a constant reminder of the doll-like mask Margaret’s painted over me. I’m still reeling from the surreal breakfast tea party, surrounded by her court of frilly dolls and stuffed animals, when she announces, “Time to play in the yard, Tinkydrew!”
I blink, caught off guard. “The yard?” I ask, my voice small, muffled by the weight of everything—her relentless enthusiasm, my outfit, this strange new world. But the idea of fresh air, of escaping the suffocation of this house, sparks a flicker of relief. Maybe outside I can breathe, clear my head, figure out how to push back against this strange dream she’s pulling me into.
She doesn’t wait for a response, scooping me up in her strong arms, the fairy wings fluttering as she carries me through the mansion. My Mary Janes dangle, their rhinestone buckles glinting, and I clutch the sparkly wand instinctively, its star tip winking in the light. We pass through a set of glass doors, and the damp, salty air hits me, the fog still lingering but thinner now, revealing the world beyond the mansion for the first time.
The backyard stretches out before me, and my breath catches. It’s enormous, a sprawling expanse enclosed by towering brick walls, their surfaces weathered but imposing, rising at least fifteen feet/five meters high. I scan them quickly, searching for a gate, a door, any way out, but there’s nothing—just smooth, unbroken brick, no seams or handles, as if the walls were built to keep the world at bay. The yard itself is a wonderland, a massive playground designed like something out of a daycare dream, but every piece is perfectly sized for me, a smaller than average twelve-year-old trapped in a fairy-tale costume.
There’s a pastel-colored slide, its curves gentle and low to the ground, made of lightweight plastic that looks soft to the touch. A set of swings dangles from a cushioned frame, the seats padded with plush, pink fabric embroidered with tiny crowns. A sandbox sits nearby, filled with glittering white sand that sparkles like sugar, rakes and molds shaped like hearts and stars scattered around it. A playhouse with no roof, painted in shades of lavender and white, stands in one corner, its windows heart-shaped and decorated with plastic flowers. Everything is soft, light, almost ethereal—no metal bars, no sharp edges, nothing that could fall or cause harm. It’s a playground for a child, but scaled for me, and the realization makes my stomach twist.
Before I can take it all in, my eyes are drawn upward to a network of ropes, pulleys, and cables crisscrossing the sky above the yard, anchored to the high walls. They form a complex web, glinting faintly in the muted light, and at its center hangs a harness, its straps and buckles gleaming with the same polished shine as my chastity belt. It’s designed to match my fairy dress perfectly, with pink and lavender straps adorned with tiny rhinestone hearts, as if it’s an extension of the outfit itself.
Margaret carries me toward it, her smile wide and unyielding. “Oh, Tinkydrew, you’re going to love this!” she says, her voice bubbling with excitement. “A fairy princess needs to fly, doesn’t she?” She sets me down beneath the harness, her hands quick and practiced as she fastens connectors to my shoulders, waist, and thighs. The buckles click into place, little points already on the outfit I'm wearing, each one locking with a soft, final snap, and she tugs gently to ensure they’re secure. “There we go,” she says, patting my cheek. “Locked in nice and tight so you won’t fall out. Safe and sound, my little Tinkydrew.”
I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, she pulls a cord, and the harness lifts me off the ground. My feet leave the soft grass, and to my complete shock, I’m weightless. The harness compensates perfectly for my slight frame, the cables above humming faintly as they hold me aloft. I’m floating, the fairy wings on my back fluttering as if they’re real, the tulle skirt billowing around me. For the first time since I arrived, a spark of genuine excitement ignites in my chest. Margaret motions at my wand. I make a few gestures... and I’m flying! The air rushes past my face, cool and damp, and I kick my legs, testing the harness. I soon learn to manipulate the wand. It glides smoothly, letting me swoop and spin through the yard, the playground below a pastel blur. I laugh, a sound I barely recognize, and for a moment, I forget the dress, the belt, the dolls—everything. I’m soaring, like a fairy... No, like a superhero I correct myself, and it feels incredible.
Margaret claps, her laughter echoing across the yard. “That’s my Tinkydrew!” she calls, her eyes gleaming. “Look at you, flying with your beautiful wings and magic wand! Oh, play with the toys, explore your little kingdom! I’ve got some adult things to take care of inside, but I’ll be back soon. Have fun, my princess!” She waves, her smile almost manic, and disappears through the glass doors, leaving me alone in the yard.
I swoop through the air, the harness letting me glide effortlessly, the fairy wings catching the breeze. I dive toward the slide, then arc back up, spinning in a slow circle, my bouffant curls bouncing, the tiara glinting. It’s exhilarating, this weightless freedom, but as the initial thrill fades, I start to notice the limits. The ropes and cables above keep me from flying too high—I can’t reach them, can’t touch the pulleys or the walls. I try to glide toward the towering brick barrier, curious, but the harness pulls me back, the system designed to keep me within a precise boundary. I can’t get close to the walls, can’t see over them, can’t even brush my fingers against their surface. The playground below, with its soft swings and sparkly sandbox, looks inviting, but as I hover closer, I realize how childish it all is. The slide is kind of pointless when you can fly, the playhouse seems designed for a very prissy little girl, the swings too padded and slow. It’s a playground for a toddler, not a twelve-year-old, and the thought dampens my excitement.
I tug at the harness, testing the buckles, but they’re locked tight, just like the chastity belt. I twist, trying to reach the straps, but my arms, still encased in the fingerless lace gloves, can’t find a release. The wand in my hand feels different now, no longer a prop. Yet its sparkly star mocks my predicament. I’m flying, yes, but only within the confines of this yard, this web of cables, these towering walls with no gate. The irony hits me hard: I’m a fairy princess soaring through the air, free as a bird, but only within a clever cage. The harness, the dress, the belt—they’re all part of Margaret’s dream, her fairy-tale castle where I’m her perfect Tinkydrew, not Andrew.
I hover near the playhouse, peering through its heart-shaped windows, hoping for a clue, a way out. The interior is as frilly as my room—pink curtains, a tiny table set with plastic teacups, more dolls propped up like silent guests. My heart sinks. Even out here, I’m surrounded by her world, her rules. The walls loom higher in my mind, their smooth surfaces a silent taunt. I can fly, but I can’t escape. The chastity belt’s engravings flash in my thoughts—“Tinkydrew,” “Princess in Training”—and I wonder how much further this training goes. This is so ornate. If she's put this much effort into her backyard, it's surely an investment in something. What does she want from me? To be forever locked in this house, this yard, this costume?
I glide back to the center of the yard, my excitement replaced by a growing unease. The playground’s softness, the absence of anything heavy or dangerous, feels deliberate now, like Margaret’s planned every detail to keep me safe, contained, childlike. I’m still floating weightless, looking down on my 'kingdom', but my thoughts are far heavier.
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I'm starting to feel his imprisonment now. I love the aunt she's feels like a dangerous woman and you feel like there's more beneath the surface. Really well written i hope she start using hypnosis to keep his true self trapped in his own mind.
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This is so full of imaginative ideas, as this wonderful tale edges towards being a classic. Nappies always help with control of little fairies!
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Lovely and well written story. I agree with Antonia, nappies and cute ruffled knickers are essential. I can't imagine his aunt will be happy changing wet knickers and dresses 2 or 3 times a day when he is unable to go wee wee due to his chastity device and fingerless mittens. Look forward to continuation.
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This is so wonderful. Andrew knows he's trapped, but powerless to actually do anything against his aunt's machinations. I'm so intrigued with what might come next. He's already such a fairy princess, yet it's clear she's only getting started
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Tinkydrew - Part 9
The fog has lifted slightly, but the air in Aunt Margaret’s sprawling backyard remains damp and heavy, carrying the salty tang of the nearby sea. I’m suspended in the harness, the pink and lavender straps glinting with rhinestone hearts, my fairy princess dress billowing around me like a cloud of tulle and sequins. The fairy wings on my back flutter faintly in the breeze, and my bouffant curls, still stiff with coconut-scented hairspray, bounce under the silver tiara. The chastity belt presses firmly between my legs as I hover above the toddler-like playground. Alone now, with Margaret gone inside to tend to her “adult things,” I’m left with nothing but the hum of the cables above and my own spiraling thoughts.
I glide half-heartedly toward the pastel-colored slide, the harness letting me swoop low enough to brush my fingers against its smooth, soft plastic. It’s inviting in a childish way, but as I hover closer, I realize how pointless it is. A slide? When I’m already flying? I try the swings next, kicking my legs to make the plush, pink seat sway gently, but the motion is slow, padded, designed for a toddler who can’t handle anything faster. The sandbox glitters below, its white sand sparkling like sugar, but the heart-shaped molds and star-shaped rakes scream “little kid,” and I can’t bring myself to land and play in it. The playhouse looks equally unappealing, its heart-shaped windows and frilly curtains reminding me too much of the pink-drenched room upstairs. Everything here is soft, safe, and so painfully juvenile that boredom settles over me like the fog itself.
My mind drifts to what I’d be doing if I were back home, before... Everything. I’d be sprawled on the couch, playing video games—maybe a racing game, my fingers flying over the controller as I drift around corners, or a first-person shooter, dodging bullets with friends online, laughing over headsets. Or I’d be outside, kicking a football across a field, weaving through my mates, the grass stained on my knees, the thrill of a perfect score making my heart race. Those were the things that made me feel alive, like Andrew, not this… sparkly fairy princess trapped in a cage disguised as a playground.
I glance down at myself, the tulle skirt flaring out, the Mary Janes glinting with rhinestone buckles, the wand still clutched in my lace-gloved hand. I can’t believe this is me. A fairy? With wings and a tiara? The absurdity hits like a wave, and a sudden, desperate urge to break free surges through me. I have to get this thing off me!
I tug at the dress, reaching for the puffed sleeves, hoping to pull them off, to shed at least some of this humiliating costume. But the zipper is at the back, out of reach, and the harness straps crisscross my shoulders and chest, pinning the dress in place. I try the sash next, fumbling with the oversized bow, but the knot is tight, and my fingers, encased in the lace gloves, can’t get a good grip. The petticoat rustles mockingly, and I twist, trying to reach the straps of the fairy wings, but the harness locks them securely to my back. Even the tiara is pinned too tightly to my curls to remove without pulling my hair out. Everything is designed to stay on, to keep me as Tinkydrew, and the realization makes my chest tighten. I’m trapped—not just in the harness, but in this entire fairy-tale nightmare.
Frustrated, I swing my arm, and the sparkly wand slips from my grip, tumbling to the grass below with a soft thud. My heart stops. I gesture with my hand, expecting the harness to respond, but nothing happens. I’m frozen, dangling in mid-air, the cables above holding me in place. I try again, waving my arms, kicking my legs, but the harness doesn’t budge. Without the wand, I’m stuck, unable to rise, lower, or glide. The playground below taunts me, the slide and swings just out of reach. “Aunt Margaret!” I call, my voice cracking. “I dropped the wand!” The words echo across the empty yard, swallowed by the fog. No response. I call again, louder, “Aunt Margaret, please!” but the mansion’s glass doors remain closed, the towering brick walls silent.
Boredom creeps in again, heavier now, as I hang limply in the harness, my legs dangling, the fairy wings swaying uselessly. The minutes drag on, and I try to distract myself, counting the rhinestones on my Mary Janes, tracing the patterns of the cables above, but it’s no use. My mind wanders, and then I feel it—a faint pressure in my bladder. I need to pee. My stomach twists. I call out again, “Aunt Margaret, I need to come down!” but there’s still no answer, just the distant cry of a seagull. I shift in the harness, trying to ease the pressure, crossing my legs as best I can within the tight straps. The chastity belt presses harder, its metal unyielding, making the urge worse. I squirm, the tulle skirt rustling, the petticoat crinkling, my movements frantic but limited by the harness’s grip.
I try everything to hold it. I clench my muscles, biting my lip, focusing on the cool air against my face, anything to distract myself. I wiggle my toes in the Mary Janes, twist my hips as much as the harness allows, even hum a tune to keep my mind off it. But the pressure builds, relentless, and my small frame can’t fight it forever. I’m dangling, helpless, the playground below a mocking reminder of my predicament. My face burns with shame as I realize I’m losing the battle. “No, no, no,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut, but it’s no use. A warm trickle escapes, seeping into the pink panties with their embroidered crowns. The surge of warmth spreads, dribbling down my leg, soaking the delicate fabric and staining the frothy tulle of the dress. The chastity belt’s metal traps some of the liquid, making it pool against my skin, warm and humiliating, before it drips further, leaving wet streaks down my thigh.
The shame is overwhelming, a hot wave that makes my eyes sting. I’m twelve, not a toddler, yet here I am, wetting myself like a baby, dressed as a fairy princess, stuck in mid-air. The dress, Margaret’s creation, is ruined, the tulle splotched with dark patches, the petticoat heavy and clinging. As much as I hate it, I still feel so much shame that I ruined it. The panties feel sodden, the lace now a soggy mockery of their delicate design. I hang as limply as the wet lace, my head bowed, the tiara tilting slightly, my curls falling into my face. I feel utterly defeated, small and powerless. If that wasn't enough, I feel water flowing down my nose, dripping into the dress, dropping to the ground. My tears, dripping. An echo of what I've done. There's a moment where I feel I've become like the “Delicate Doll” etched on my chastity belt. Andrew is gone, drowned in Tinkydrew’s shame, and all I can do is dangle here, a broken doll waiting for Margaret to find me like this.
Hours pass—or at least it feels like hours, the fog thickening again, the yard growing dimmer. My legs ache from dangling, my skin prickles from the damp fabric, now cold, and the chastity belt dripping a little bit more with every shift. How can there still be liquid trapped in there after all this? Finally, I hear the glass doors open, and Margaret’s footsteps crunch across the grass. I brace myself, expecting anger at ruining the dress, fury about doing such a childish thing, but when she looks up at me, her face softens, her eyes wide with concern.
“Oh, Tinkydrew, my poor darling!” she says, her voice warm and soothing. She picks up the wand, waving it expertly, and the harness lowers me gently to the ground. My feet touch the grass, and she’s there in an instant, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug despite the wet dress. “This is all my fault,” she says. “I didn’t expect to be away so long, my sweet princess. I should have known better.” I can hear the sorrow in her words. But yet... It must be my mind tricking me, but I almost thought I heard a hint of something else in her voice. Like... Was she really upset? It almost seemed like the upset might not be genuine?
She pulled me closer, my face pressed against her shoulder, the damp tulle sticking to my legs. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, my voice thick with shame. “I ruined the dress… I couldn’t hold it.”
“Nonsense,” she says firmly, pulling back to cup my face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the remnant of a tear I didn’t realize I’d shed. “You didn’t ruin anything, Tinkydrew. These things happen, and it’s my fault for leaving you up there. Don’t you worry, we’ll get you cleaned up, good as new.” Her smile is gentle, her eyes warm but still glinting with that strange intensity. “We’ll have a nice bath, and I’ll take steps to make sure this never happens again. I will protect my perfect Tinkydrew.”
She lifts me again, her strength making it effortless, and carries me back toward the mansion, the fairy wings swaying, the wet dress clinging to my skin. I’m too exhausted, too humiliated, to protest, and her comfort, however strange, is so welcome after what I've just been through. As we pass through the glass doors, the lavender-rose scent of the house envelops me, and it's shocking how happy I am to be going back 'home'. As unexpected as this has all been, the house still represents warmth and comfort. I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I barely give a passing thought to what 'steps' Auntie Margaret might be taking...
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Always delighted to see more and always more in suspense when it ends. Please post more soon, brilliant as always.
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Looks like his Aunt's plan has worked out just as she planned. Poor "Tinkydrew" now the final humiliation, back in nappies to become Auntie's Baby doll who she can dress up and play with as she pleases.
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Andrew is so worried he ruined his dress, but I suspect Auntie will have a wonderful surprise for him. She plans for everything, after all!
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I love the contrast between Tinkydrew's longing for his former normal life and the predicament of his current sissified state. Oh to be playing video games and football with his mates again! But instead, he is in a helplessly feminized and infantilized trap. With every word of this nice story, you can see his hopes and resistance dimming...
Poor Tinkydrew! Luckily, his Auntie is there to take care of any problems to ensure his safety and security!
Please continue! (And it would be lovely to see his former mates get a chance to see him in his current state!) I'll admit that is something I like to work into my own stories occasionally, but almost everything I've tried so far just seems too contrived to be interesting :(
If you like the idea, maybe you'll have better success.
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It has been so long i really hope you are close to a continue of the story thanks
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Tinkydrew - Part 10
The damp chill of the backyard clings to my skin as Aunt Margaret carries me back into the mansion, the fairy princess dress sodden and heavy, the tulle stained and clinging to my legs. The chastity belt holds the cold, damp wetness close to my skin, a reminder of my humiliation. My bouffant curls are not so bouncy now, the tiara tilting precariously, and the fairy wings droop, their gossamer fabric damp from the fog and my accident. Margaret’s arms are strong, her grip gentle but unyielding, and she murmurs apologies as we cross the threshold into the lavender-scented warmth of the house.
“Oh, Tinkydrew, my poor darling,” she says, her voice thick with regret as she carries me up the grand staircase. “I should’ve known it was too much for you to become a full-fledged fairy princess. All those responsibilities-it was unfair of me to expect you to be ready.” She presses a kiss to my forehead, her lips warm against my clammy skin, and I nod eagerly, relief flooding through me.
“Yeah, it was a lot,” I say, my voice shaky but earnest. “It’s all too much, Aunt Margaret. I don't think I'm right for that fairy princess stuff.” I’m desperate for her to see reason, to let me be Andrew again, not this sparkly, princess she’s created.
She nods, her eyes soft but still glinting with that strange intensity. “You’re right, my sweet Tinkydrew. I got carried away, didn’t I? It was too much. Too far.” She tickles my side through the wet dress, her fingers quick and playful, and I squirm, forcing a giggle despite how silly it feels. “My little Tinkydrew isn't a princess” she coos, smothering my cheeks with kisses, her touch lingering too long, too close. I stiffen, uncomfortable with her enthusiasm, but I keep giggling, playing along, hoping this means she’s finally letting go of her fantasy.
“Yes, exactly!” I say, my voice brighter than I feel. “It’s too much responsibility.” I laugh again, the sound high and childish, and I hate how it makes me feel—like a happy, giggling bundle of joy, even though my heart is pounding with unease. Her hands are everywhere, tickling, patting, brushing damp curls from my face, and I let her, clinging to the hope that this is the turning point, that she’s seeing me as Andrew, not Tinkydrew.
She carries me into the pink-tiled bathroom, the air warm and heavy with the scent of lavender and roses. “Let’s get you cleaned up, my darling,” she says, setting me down gently and turning on the faucet. The clawfoot tub fills with steaming water, bubbles frothing as she pours in the same sweet-smelling bubble bath from last night. “No more princess duties,” she says, her tone soothing as she starts peeling off the ruined dress. The tulle and petticoat slide away, revealing the sodden pink panties and the gleaming chastity belt, its engravings catching the chandelier’s light. She doesn’t comment on the mess, just hums softly, her hands quick and efficient as she removes the tiara, the earrings, the choker, and the fairy wings, setting them aside with care.
I stand there, shivering in just the panties and chastity belt, my face burning with shame. “I’m so sorry, Tinkydrew,” she says again, her voice warm as she helps me out of the panties, tossing them into a basket. “I should’ve known my little one wasn’t ready for all that.” She kneels by the tub, testing the water, and gestures for me to step in. I hesitate, still feeling like a toddler under her gaze, but the warm water looks inviting, and I’m desperate to wash away the evidence of my accident. I step into the tub, the bubbles enveloping me, and she starts scrubbing, her hands gentle but thorough, washing every inch of me with a soft sponge. She’s treating me like a child again, her movements slow and deliberate, and I let her, too tired, too relieved, to resist.
“It’s not fair, is it?” she says, massaging shampoo into my hair, her fingers working through the limp curls. “A fairy princess has to be perfect all the time—graceful, poised, always sparkling. It’s too much for my Tinkydrew.” She rinses my hair, her touch lingering, and I nod again, eager to agree.
“Yeah, way too much,” I say, my voice small but enthusiastic. “I don’t want to be a fairy princess. It’s too hard.” I’m almost pleading now, hoping she hears me, hoping this means no more dresses, no more wings, no more tea parties with dolls.
She smiles, her eyes softening as she tickles my neck, making me squirm and giggle despite myself. “Oh, my sweetie, you’re absolutely right. No more of that.” She plants another kiss on my cheek, then another, her hands cupping my face as she tickles my sides again. I laugh, the sound high and forced, feeling ridiculous but clinging to her words. She’s seeing reason, I tell myself. She’s letting go of this fantasy. I play along, giggling like a happy child, even though her touchy-feely affection makes my skin crawl. “You’re my perfect Tinkydrew, and we’re going to start fresh,” she says, her voice bright with promise. “No more duties. Are you okay with that, my darling? Starting over, everything nice and simple?”
“Yes!” I say, my heart lifting. “I’m totally okay with that. Let’s start over.” I’m grinning now, relief washing over me. No more fairy princess nonsense means I can be Andrew again—a regular boy, not this sparkly, doll-like creation. I imagine jeans, a t-shirt, maybe even getting rid of this stupid chastity belt and going back to a life that feels like mine.
She helps me out of the tub, wrapping me in a massive, fluffy pink towel, drying me with the same overbearing care. She rubs my arms, my back, my legs, her hands lingering as she apologizes again. “My poor Tinkydrew, I pushed you too far,” she says, toweling my hair until it’s damp but soft, the curls starting to bounce again. I stand there, naked except for the chastity belt, its metal cold against my clean skin. I glance down at it, my eyes tracing the curves of the engravings, and muster the courage to ask.
“Aunt Margaret,” I say, my voice hesitant, “can we… get rid of this too?” I gesture to the chastity belt, hoping she’ll laugh and agree, that it was part of the fairy princess nonsense she’s abandoning.
She pauses, then bursts into laughter, a bright, tinkling sound that fills the bathroom. “Oh, Tinkydrew, you’re so funny!” she says, as if I’ve told the best joke in the world. She pats my cheek, her fingers lingering. “That stays, my darling. It’s for your own good, keeping you tidy and safe.” Her tone is light, but there’s a finality to it that makes my stomach sink. I nod, swallowing my disappointment. Okay, I think, I’ll work on that later. For now, she’s promising no more fairy princess stuff, and that’s enough.
She takes my hand, her grip firm like a mother leading a small child, and leads me back to the pink-drenched bedroom. “No more fairy princess,” she says, her voice cheerful. “This time, Tinkydrew, we’ll get you into something practical, something just right for you.” I follow, my heart light despite the chastity belt, imagining something normal—maybe a pair of pants, a plain shirt, something that feels like Andrew.
But as we enter the room, my eyes land on a new piece of furniture, and my breath catches. It’s a changing table, unmistakably sized for me. The structure is smooth, polished wood painted a soft, pastel pink, like cherry blossoms in spring, with graceful, curved edges that make it look tender and inviting. The legs are slender, tapered, adorned with carved floral motifs—roses and lilies climbing up the wood, each petal etched with delicate precision. The surface is cushioned with a plush, quilted pad covered in silky fabric, patterned with dainty bows, delicate lace trims, and shimmering silver hearts. A ruffle of sheer, pale pink tulle spills over the edges, like a ballerina’s tutu framing the table. Beneath, open shelves hold neatly folded pastel blankets, tiny plush toys, and embroidered baskets, all arranged with ritualistic care. At the back, a small mirror with a scalloped, rhinestone-studded edge reflects the room’s soft glow, adding a sparkle that feels like magic but unsettles me.
Margaret lifts me onto the table, my legs dangling, the chastity belt clinking softly against the cushioned surface. I’m confused, my mind racing—what is this? Why is it here? Then she turns to the wardrobe, and my heart stops as she pulls out a stack of enormous, fluffy diapers, each one an extravagant, princess-themed nightmare. They’re thick, padded, and covered in shimmering white fabric, with pink and lavender accents that match the room perfectly. The outer layer is adorned with glittering tiaras, tiny embroidered wands, and sparkly hearts, all stitched with metallic thread that catches the light. Ruffles of soft lace edge the leg openings, and a massive bow, pink and frilly, sits at the back, like the sash on my fairy dress. The words “Princess Tinkydrew” are embroidered across the front in curling, gold script, surrounded by tiny rhinestone stars, as if branding me yet again.
I freak out, my heart pounding as I push out of her grasp. I quickly scramble to my feet and stand on the changing table, the plush surface soft under my bare toes. For the first time, I’m taller than Margaret, looking down at her, and a surge of empowerment rushes through me. “No way!” I shout, my voice louder than I’ve ever dared in this house. “I’m not wearing diapers! I’m not a baby, Aunt Margaret—I’m twelve years old!” My hands are shaking, but I point at the diapers, my anger overriding my fear. “This is crazy! I’m not doing this!”
Her smile vanishes, and the air in the room shifts, growing heavy and cold. Margaret’s face, so warm and cheerful moments ago, hardens, her eyes narrowing, her lips pressing into a thin line. I've never seen her like this, yet I know it instantly—she’s on the edge of anger, a terrifying sight that makes my breath catch. Her tall frame seems to loom larger, her presence filling the room like the fog outside. I’m suddenly acutely aware of my vulnerability, standing naked except for the chastity belt, on a baby changing table sized for me, in a room with barred windows and a locked door. My defiance wavers, my heart pounding as I realize I may have pushed her too far...
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Tinkydrew - Part 11
The air in the pink-drenched bedroom grew colder, heavier, as Aunt Margaret’s face hardens, her eyes narrowing into slits of barely contained fury. Her smile, so warm and constant, is gone, replaced by a thin, tight line that makes her look like a stranger. I stand on the changing table, my bare feet sinking into the plush, quilted pad, my heart pounding with a mix of defiance and fear. For a fleeting moment, I think I’ve gotten through to her—my shout, my refusal to wear diapers, my insistence that I’m twelve and not a baby, seems to hang in the air like a spark of hope. Maybe she’ll see reason, I think. Maybe she’ll let go of whatever this is and let me be Andrew again.
But then her hands shoot out, faster than I can react, and she grabs me by the arms, her grip like iron despite her slender frame. “Aunt Margaret!” I gasp, my voice cracking as she yanks me off the changing table. My bare feet hit the floor, the chastity belt clinking as it clips the table, and I stumble, my small frame no match for her strength. She doesn’t speak, her face still taut with anger, and drags me across the room, her steps purposeful, her silence terrifying. I try to pull back, but it’s useless—she’s too strong, too determined, and I’m too small, too exposed, with nothing but the gleaming metal belt covering me.
She pulls me toward a corner of the room where the rocking horse stands, its polished wood painted in soft pastels—pink, lavender and white like everything else in this house. It’s oversized, scaled for me, its curves gentle but sturdy, adorned with carved flowers and ribbons, a plush saddle embroidered with silver stars. But it’s more than just an innocent rocking horse. As Margaret bends me over it, my chest pressing against the cool, cushioned saddle, I see the straps—leather, dyed pink, with delicate rhinestone buckles, attached to the horse’s base on either side. Before I can react, she slips the straps over my wrists, then my ankles, pulling them tight with a soft click. I’m pinned, my body stretched over the horse, my legs spread slightly, the chastity belt pressing uncomfortably against the saddle. I tug at the straps, but they don’t budge, holding me fast, my bare bottom exposed and vulnerable.
“Aunt Margaret, please!” I plead, my voice trembling as my current situation starts to sink in. “I didn’t mean it!” I twist my head to look back at her, hoping my words will soften her, but she’s already reaching into a nearby cabinet, her movements deliberate. My heart sinks as she pulls out a stout wooden paddle, and I stare, my breath catching at its menacing presence. The paddle is solid oak, polished to a glossy shine that reflects the chandelier’s light. Its surface is smooth, almost elegant, but the weight of it in Margaret’s hand is anything but delicate. It’s about two feet long, the handle wrapped in soft pink leather for a firm grip, adorned with a tiny silver charm shaped like a heart. The broad, flat blade is etched with intricate designs—curling vines and roses, similar to those on the chastity belt, with the word “Tinkydrew's Magic Pathfinder” carved in flowing script across the center, surrounded by tiny stars. It’s beautiful in a cruel way, a tool of punishment disguised as a piece of her fairy-tale aesthetic, and the sight of it makes my stomach lurch.
Margaret stands beside me, the paddle resting lightly in her hands, her eyes still burning with that cold fury. “Oh, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice low and controlled, but laced with a trembling intensity. “You have no idea how much work I’ve put into this, do you? How much I’ve sacrificed to make this perfect for you.” She steps closer, her tall frame looming over me, and I try to shrink against the rocking horse, the straps biting into my wrists.
“When my husband passed,” she begins, her voice softening but still sharp, “he left me a fortune. This house, this land, more money than I could ever spend. But it was empty, Tinkydrew. So empty. I was alone, aimless, depressed, hopeless.” Her eyes glisten, but not with tears—something fiercer, like obsession. “I tried to fill it with dolls, toys, the things that brought me joy when I was younger. I built this room, this yard, all of it, thinking it would be enough. But it wasn’t. It was hollow without someone to share it with, someone to love.” She paused, looking up as if trying to see something but I realized she was just lost in memory. "I even tried to reach out to your father. But he was vicious. Called me evil names. Said he'd never let me see Tinkydrew ever again."
She paces slowly, the paddle swinging lightly in her hand. “My poor, sweet Tinkydrew. That evil father, who kept you from me all those years, who tore us apart after your mother died. He was cruel, wasn’t he? Filling your head with his nonsense, his shame, his rules.” Her voice rises, a bitter edge cutting through. “When I learned he was gone, that you were alone, I knew it was a sign. My little Tinkydrew needed a home, a place where you could be safe, happy, loved. I swore I’d make the bestest, happiest place for you—a castle for my princess. I spent months preparing, designing and building every detail—the room, the dresses, the playground, the harness, the belt—all for you.”
She stops, turning to face me, her eyes blazing. “And now, you stand there, ungrateful, throwing it all back in my face like a spoiled child!” Her voice cracks, and I flinch, the straps holding me tight. “But I have to remember... It’s his influence, isn’t it? Your father’s poison, still in you, making you fight me, making you reject the love I’ve poured into everything.” She grips the paddle tighter, her knuckles whitening. “If there’s one thing I will not fail at, Tinkydrew, it’s removing his evil influence from you. I’ll make you my perfect, little Tinkydrew, no matter what it takes.”
She leans closer, her face inches from mine, and I feel the weight of her words like a physical force. “So, Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice dropping to a chilling calm, “how many spanks do you think it’ll take to drive out your father’s corruption?”
I struggle against the straps, my heart racing, my body trembling. “Zero!” I blurt out, desperate. “I’m already cured, Aunt Margaret! Now that you've told me that stuff, I don’t need any—I’m fine!” My voice is high, panicked, but her eyes narrow further, unimpressed.
“Oh, darling, it doesn’t work that way,” she says, her tone almost pitying. “You need to be punished for all the ways you’ve fought against me, all the times you’ve let his influence make you ungrateful.”
My mind races, the straps cutting into my wrists as I twist uselessly against the rocking horse. I’m trapped, bent over, completely at her mercy, the chastity belt a cold reminder of my powerlessness. I swallow hard, my throat dry, and start listing, my voice shaking as I try to recall every moment I might have displeased her.
“Okay, um… I… I flinched when you touched my hair at the gate,” I start, my cheeks burning with shame. “And I said I was just Andrew, not Tinkydrew, a few times but maybe that's just one thing? I… I hesitated when you put me in the pink room, and I said it was too much. I complained about the panties, said I couldn’t wear them. And… and I dropped the wand in the yard, and I… I wet the dress.” My voice cracks on the last one, the humiliation flooding back. “And just now, I yelled about the diapers, said I wouldn’t wear them. That’s… that’s everything, I think.”
Margaret tilts her head, her smile returning but cold, calculating. “Six things,” she says, counting on her fingers. “Six moments where you let his poison show through. Six spanks, then, to cleanse you.” She raises the paddle, its polished surface gleaming, and I brace myself, my body tensing against the rocking horse.
Margaret stood behind me, her tall frame radiating a quiet, terrifying authority as she adjusted her grip on the paddle. Her dark hair, still pulled into a loose bun, framed her sharp cheekbones, and her piercing eyes gleamed with a mix of righteous anger and fervent purpose. She was no longer the warm, doting aunt; she was a sculptor determined to chisel away the defiance she saw as my father’s taint. Bent over the rocking horse, I felt my heart pound against the polished wood, my slight frame trembling in the padded leather straps that bound my wrists and ankles. My long, damp blond hair clung to my tear-streaked face. The room’s fairy-themed opulence—the pastel pinks, the glittering chandeliers—seemed to mock me, the silver bells on the rocking horse jingling faintly with every shudder.
The first spank came without warning, the paddle landing with a sharp crack across my backside. The impact wasn’t agonizing, but it stung fiercely, a hot, spreading burn that made me gasp. My small frame jolted against the rocking horse, the saddle creaking beneath me, the silver bells jingling faintly. “One,” Margaret said, her voice steady, almost ritualistic, as if she were performing a sacred duty. “For flinching when I touched your beautiful hair at the gate.” Her tone was calm, but her eyes gleamed with that feverish intensity, her focus unwavering as she raised the paddle again.
“Please, Aunt Margaret!” I blurted, my voice high and trembling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” But she didn’t pause, her expression fixed, as if she were carving away something deeper than my defiance.
The second spank followed, the paddle striking with the same controlled force, the sting sharper this time as it layered over the first. I yelped, my legs twitching within the straps, the chastity belt scraping against the saddle. “Two,” she intoned, her voice unwavering. “For saying you’re ‘just Andrew,’ rejecting the name I gave you.” Her words were precise, each one a judgment, and I could feel her obsession in the way she lingered on 'Tinkydrew' as if it were a spell she was casting. Tears pricked my eyes, the heat on my bottom growing, a dull red glow I could feel spreading across my skin.
The third spank landed, the crack echoing in the room, and I cried out, my voice breaking into a sob. The pain was sharp, a persistent burn that made my eyes water and my breath hitch. “Three,” she said, her tone softening slightly, but her eyes still blazing. “For hesitating in your lovely pink room, calling it 'too much'. I decide what's 'too much'.” She adjusted her stance, her silk dress rustling, and I caught a glimpse of her face in the small mirror on the changing table—her lips curved in a faint, satisfied smile, as if the act of punishing me was bringing her vision to life.
“I’m sorry!” I sobbed, tears spilling down my cheeks, my small hands clenching in the straps. “I didn’t mean it, Aunt Margaret, please!” My bottom throbbed, the redness intensifying, and I squirmed against the rocking horse, the bells jingling mockingly with each movement.
The fourth spank came, the paddle’s impact sending a fresh wave of heat through me. I whimpered, my sobs growing louder, my face wet with tears. “Four,” she said, her voice almost tender now, but her grip on the paddle didn’t waver. “For complaining about your perfect panties, saying you couldn’t wear them.” She leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear as she spoke, her tone a strange mix of reprimand and affection. “They’re part of your life now, Tinkydrew, just like this house, just like me.” Her words sent a chill through me, her focus so intense it felt like she was sculpting me into something new with each strike.
The fifth spank was slower, deliberate, the sting sharp enough to make me cry out again, my voice raw. My bottom was burning now, a steady, red-hot ache that pulsed with each heartbeat. “Five,” she said, her voice steady but laced with that eerie excitement. “For dropping your wand in the yard, for being careless with your fairy magic.” She paused, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face with her free hand, her touch gentle but possessive, as if she were soothing a prized doll. The contrast between her tenderness and the paddle’s sting made my head spin, my tears flowing freely.
The final spank landed with a resounding crack, and I sobbed openly, my body shaking against the rocking horse, the straps holding me in place. The pain was a bright, throbbing heat, my bottom a vivid red that I could feel without seeing, the sting lingering like a warning. “Six,” Margaret said, her voice softening fully now, almost reverent. “For yelling about your diapers, rejecting the love I’m giving you.” She set the paddle down on the changing table with a soft thud, her movements deliberate, and turned to me, her eyes gleaming with a mix of triumph and adoration. “There, my darling Tinkydrew. All cleansed now.”
I’m sobbing now, my bottom throbbing, feeling like it’s on fire, the pain radiating through me. “Please, Aunt Margaret,” I plead, my voice thick with tears, “I’ll be good, I promise! No more fighting, I’m your Tinkydrew!” The words spill out, desperate, my pride crumbling under the pain and fear.
Margaret sets the paddle down, her expression softening as she kneels beside me, her hands gentle now as she unbuckles the straps. “There, there, my darling,” she says, her voice warm again, soothing. “You did so well, Tinkydrew. You’re already becoming my perfect little sissy girl.” She lifts me off the rocking horse, my legs shaky, and carries me back to the changing table, laying me gently on the plush, quilted pad.
She retrieves a bottle of lotion from a basket beneath the table, its scent matching the lavender-rose of the bath. “This will help, my sweet,” she says, squeezing a generous amount into her hands and rubbing it gently over my stinging bottom. The lotion is cool, soothing the fire, and I wince at first but then relax, the relief overwhelming. “Thank you, Aunt Margaret,” I say, my voice trembling, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Thank you so much, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I promise.” I’m terrified of another spanking, my gratitude spilling over despite the humiliation.
She smiles, her eyes glinting with satisfaction, and reaches for one of the enormous diapers. “Let’s get you ready, Tinkydrew,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. I don’t protest this time, lying still as she lifts my legs, sliding the thick, ruffled diaper under me. The fabric is soft, padded, the glittering tiaras and embroidered wands sparkling as she fastens it around my waist, the massive bow at the back crinkling. The words “Princess Tinkydrew” gleam across the front, branding me yet again, and the diaper’s bulk forces my legs apart, making me feel even more infantile. She powders me lightly, the scent sweet and cloying, and secures the diaper with tabs that click softly, locking it in place over the chastity belt. And then she reaches over and grabs the sleep sack.
Before thinking, I open my mouth to protest. it’s still early, far too early for bed—but I quickly cut myself off as I realize what I'm doing. Margaret smiles, anticipating what I was about to say. “Oh, Tinkydrew, you were so fussy earlier, weren’t you? Yelling and throwing a tantrum. It’s clear you need your rest.” She moves to the wardrobe, where she stows the old sleepsack and pulls out another one. This one is pale pink with embroidered unicorns and ruffled lace. I squirm, my bottom still stinging despite the lotion, and try again. “But I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” I say, my voice small, “I’m hungry.”
She laughs, a bright, tinkling sound, and pats my cheek. “Don’t you worry, my darling. I’ve got just the thing.” She disappears briefly, returning with a large bottle that appears to be filled with warm milk, its nipple oversized and gleaming white. Before I can argue, she lifts me into her lap, cradling me like a toddler, and presses the nipple of the bottle to my lips. My face burns with shame, but I’m starving, and the milk smells mildly sweet, comforting. I take a hesitant sip, then another. I'm not sure what kind of milk it is, I've only ever had milk from a cow but this seems different. Goat milk maybe? It has an earthy flavor and it's thick yet with a smooth, slippery texture. The thick, warm liquid is soon filling my empty stomach and I'm full before the bottle is half empty. It’s humiliating, being fed like a baby, my diaper crinkling, the chastity belt pressing against me, but a quick glance at Margaret tells me I don't dare stop before it's finished. I drink deeply, each suc-kle a reminder of how far I’ve fallen.
When the bottle is empty, Margaret carries me to the canopy bed, sliding me into the sleepsack with practiced ease. The ruffled fabric hugs my body, the internal slots trapping my arms and legs, and she tightens the laces at the back, making it snug, unyielding. My bottom still burns, the lotion only dulling the pain, and the diaper’s bulk makes me feel even more helpless. She tucks the ruffled bedspread around me, the fabric crinkling, and brushes a hand over my damp curls. “Sleep well, my perfect Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice soft but intense, her eyes glinting with that feverish excitement. "I've made a mistake, and I'm so sorry that things have gone wrong. But tomorrow, we will rectify it. We'll do things the way we should've from the beginning."
The chandelier dims as she flicks the switch, and I hear the click of the heart-shaped lock as she closes the door. I’m trapped, the sleepsack holding me fast, the barred windows and locked door sealing me in. My bottom throbs, a dull ache beneath the diaper, and the lavender-rose scent clings to my skin. With nothing to do, unable to even roll over, my eyelids grow heavy. The exhaustion of the day—my defiance, the spanking, the diaper, the bottle—pulls me under, and despite the burning shame, I drift into a fitful sleep, Margaret’s fairy-tale castle closing in around me.
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That's the end of the first part of Tinkydrew's story. I will say I've outlined the story out to around part 50... But real life things required my attention so I think I should break it up for now so chapters 1-11 are 'Tinkydrew'. I'll take a little break before getting into Tinkydrew 2 as Aunt Margaret takes Tinkydrew in a different direction.
Thank you everyone for your warm reception and your wonderful comments. I love all the feedback! Some of you have suggested story directions that I already have planned... And one or two suggestions were so good that I have to add them to the story.
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Incredible work and its just the beginning. Showing the aunt as a dangerous deranged soul makes you feel for his peril. And the rocking horse made like that makes me worry about other contraptions she has. Cant wait for the direction you will take this, take care and luck thanks.
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Also i hope there will be more scary dolls
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That's a few theories confirmed! A very exciting development for that silly Tinkydrew who actually thought he'd get to be a boy again. Take as much time as you need. We'll be here eagerly waiting further developments. I hope Tinkydrew will get to be a fairy princess again before too long, but obviously he's got to review the fundamentals first.
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Such a great story so far!
I’m hoping there will be attachments to the rocking horse, so that it becomes your equivalent to Bobby's 'armless stool'.
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Poor Andrew, losing his mother and now subjected to living with and being abused by his deranged aunt. The story is detailed and creative with scenarios, but poor child made to suffer. I certainly hope that if this continues it'll have him eventually getting away from her and ending up in a place he deserves with true love and care. or at least getting away from her.