Allen was sweating profusedly. The fact that another male(?) was captivatedly watching...perhaps expecting Allen to defend his(?) Masculinity with one final desperate attempt to resist these two Beautiful Women determined to humiliate him...well, Allen was just too overwhelmed. Dorian moved closer to Her pretty effeminate little plaything. "~Lipstick~ and, Allison...? Dorian put both of Her hands in Her Skirt pockets. She didn't have to wait long. Ten seconds, maybe fifteen. Daintily taking his thumb and forefingers of both of his(?) hands, spreading out in both directions his(?) exposed layers of white Tulle Pettis as well as the wide white lacy hem of his(?) black satin Pinafore, buttressed by its built-in black Crinoline lining, Allen slowly moved his(?) left foot back, bent his(?) right knee, looked straight down, and spoke three words softly in defeat, "Lipstick and Petticoats, Mistress." The shame and abject humiliation was written all over him. "Good gurl. Look at me, Allison," Dorian ordered, " But hold your curtsy. Because that is what sissies do whenever they are in the presence of Women. Now that we finally have that settled, let's get you ~~Petticoated.~~ Release your curtsy and bring Me your Petticoat. And do not make Me wait. Remove your Petticoat carefully by sliding it over the sissy mannequin's head and if you cannot reach it, you can ask Emily to help since She is taller than you, especially in Her Heels. Now be quick about it but handle your new Petticoat with great care. When you have removed it, cradle it in both of your arms and bring it to Me. It's very expensive and it has one major objective: To completely crush any remaining token male resistance you might harbor and  extinguish any hope you might have of EVER wearing trousers again..."

Allen's frightened little brown eyes pleadingly looked for respite from the Blonde Beauty. None came. Now She was laughing. Pointing the tube of Urban Decay Lipstick at him(?) with Her beautifully manicured right hand while Her other hand was authoritatively in the ~Pocket~ of Her White Wool ~Miniskirt,~ Dorian laughed mockingly at Her pretty little  "administrative assistant." With tears now forming in Allen's eyes, he(?) bravely (naively), in a decidedly (sissyish) voice, barely audible, dared to speak, "Puhleeeeze, Mistress Dorian. Please. Not here. Not now. Please don't. Please." He(?) started to cry. Yes. Cry. So Dorian taunted him(?) more. "Please, Allison? Please?" She asked rhetorically. "Please don't do what?" Crying softly, his(?) dainty fingers instinctively...nervously...fidgeting with his(?) three layers of exposed white Tulle Pettis, could only renew his(?) desperate requests for Dorian's humiliations to mercifully(?) end. "Please don't." Dorian had heard all She was going to hear. ."Enough!!! How dare you disobey me, and in front of our little friend here. Fetch the sissy mannequin, the one that is mocking you...making fun of you! And wearing YOUR ~Petticoat~!" Allen swallowed. Her left hand now on Her hip, Dorian stood Directly over Allen(?), moved Her left hand quickly to open the tube of Urban Decay Lipstick,  opened it quickly, and ordered Allison to stand still..."Like a good little sissy." Coating his(?) lips twice before ordering him(?) to purse them, "Like a Girl," She applied a third coat. Smiling approvingly, Dorian closed the Tube and purposely put it back in the pocket of Her White Wool Miniskirt. "There now! That's my good little gurl. There's nothing I Love better than ~Lipstick and Petticoats~ together... on pretty sissy bois..."

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.

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.

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.