XVII The Statue
When Sinead heard that Jack was going to be joining Simon at the party, she first of all cleared it with Bella – who was, predictably, ecstatic at the prospect of having two maids waiting on the guests – and immediately after rang Alison.
“We’d better get a move on, then, said Alison. I’ll ring the dressmaker. Could the boys come with me after school Monday?”
“I’m sure that’ll be fine.”
“Okay. I’ll arrange it. What about tomorrow?”
“I’ve spoken to Florence. It’s all fixed. Would eleven be okay? I’ll text you the address.”
“I’ll be there, Sinead. Actually, I could measure Simon then, to save time. I'll bring my stuff.”
Simon was not best pleased to hear that he would be returning to Florence’s the next day. He flatly rejected Sinead’s offer of bringing Jack with him, especially after she’d told him she’d got him a new top. He needed to preserve the illusion that the party dressing-up was a one off. He didn’t want to scare Jack off. He was of course looking forward to the party, but the few lurking doubts his lascivious imagination had been unable to put entirely to rest needed the moral support of a good friend.
They were at Florence’s by ten o’clock. Sinead wanted to get Simon ready before Alison arrived. What a nice surprise that was going to be! They were greeted by Florence’s mum.
“Hello Sinead. Hello Simon. You approve of Florence’s new room, then.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Sinead, as they followed her down the corridor.
“I’m sure it is,” said Florence’s mother, “but since Bill decorated, we’re not allowed in!” She laughed. “Goodness knows what goes on down there!”
Just as well only goodness knows, thought Sinead.
“Florence?” she called. “Sinead and Simon are here.”
“Thanks, mum,” came Florence’s voice from below, followed by her footsteps on the stairs.
Once downstairs, the girls wasted no time. Simon was given his hot pants and top and told to change.
“Can I have some panties?”
“No, sorry, Simmy. They’d spoil the lines of these gorgeous little hot pants. Now hurry up and get ready.”
“Get ready for what?” he responded, sulkily.
“Just get ready.”
When he emerged, Sinead gave him his long lemon socks to put on, and his pink trainers. He stood up, looking very coy.
“You look a treat!” smiled Florence. “Now come with me, and stand on this platform.”
The girls had it all planned out.
“What? Why?”
“Just do as you’re told,” snapped Sinead. “That’s it.”
“Now, stand up straight. Back to the wall. Feet together. Stay like that.” commanded Florence. She fetched something jingly from the desk, and knelt down. She looped the fine steel chain around one ankle, and padlocked it. She threaded it through the staple, and did the same round the other ankle.
“There!” She stood up. “Can you move?”
“No, course not. I can’t even squat down, cos of the wall. How long am I supposed to stand here?”
“As long as we please,” said Sinead. “You should be flattered. You’re now part of the decoration. A lovely little statue everyone can admire. Here, don’t forget this.” And she produced his baseball cap from her bag, and wedged it over his gingery mop.
Simon squirmed in embarrassment, but he could hardly move. He looked down at himself, over the puffy top, over his bare tummy, to the little, shiny, skin-tight hot pants, and the little mound of his flaccid pen-is.
“Oh, you approve, I can see,” said Florence. “Just a moment. We’ll bring over the full-length mirror so you can see yourself properly.”
They placed it directly in front of him, and tilted it until he could see all of himself, increasing his humiliation further.
“You look absolutely beautiful, Simmy!” smirked Sinead. “And we have a surprise for you. In…” she looked at her phone. “In…thirty minutes, Alison is coming to visit.”
“Alison?”
“From the clothes shop. She’s been dying to see you in your hot pants, and at last she will.”
“No! Not like this! Please…”
But the girls only laughed…
Florence went upstairs just before eleven to wait for Alison. She arrived exactly on time.
“Hi Alison.”
“Hi, Florence. Thanks for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome. Follow me. The others are downstairs.”
“I brought my tape. I thought I could at least measure Simon while I’m here. I’ll do his friend later.”
“Good idea. Actually, he’s in the perfect position to be measured. Through here…mind you head.”
Alison found herself on the little balcony. She was surprised at the size of the room.
“Wow…this is amazing! You’re so luck…” She broke off. She’d caught sight of Simon on his pedestal. She couldn’t suppress a burst of laughter. “Simon! You’re wearing your hot pants! Did you put them on especially for me?”
She made her way downstairs.
“Let me give you the tour,” said Florence, and conducted Alison around the room.
“This is the garden mural. We use this for our prettiest models. They look so sweet holding a pansy, against a background of tulips…and this…this is our seaside area. Simon’s already been showing off in here in one of those lovely swimsuits we got from you. We’ll show you all the footage and snaps later on… Here we have the bathroom…now come right down here…this is what we call the cell, also known as Simmy’s bedroom. He’s decorated it with all his favourite posters.” She opened the door.
“I didn’t! It wasn’t me!” shouted Simon. “It was like that already!”
Alison ignored his outburst. “Tut, tut, boys these days…I don’t know…”
“And finally, here is our pretty statue. Simon volunteered. He was desperate to show off his new outfit to you. What do you think?”
“I wasn’t!” cried Simon. He was conscious that the thin stretchy lycra showed everything he had; and though that may have been not much, the shortness of the hot pants necessitated a diagonal orientation of the central element. He therefore attempted to casually to conceal it by clasping his hands in front of him.
“I think you’re very smart, Simon. Yellow and pink really suit you, like most little girls. Not only that, but you’re in the perfect position for me to take your measurements for your maid’s uniform.”
“Would you like a coffee first, Alison? We’ll move the mirror, and we can all sit here in the armchairs and admire the statue while we’re chatting.”
They sat in a semi-circle, with the coffee-table in the middle, facing the new adornment to the room, who blushed and wriggled helplessly, keeping his hands determinedly between his legs.
“Simon…don’t be so shy,” smiled Alison, encouragingly. “Come on, let’s see those hot pants in their full glory. They’re so sweet, after all, and they fit you…so perfectly.”
Simon made no reply, except for a sulky pout.
“Well you’ll have to take your hands away when I measure you.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to measure your body, silly, and I can’t do that with your arms in the way. She put down her coffee cup. “What do you think girls? Shall I do it now?”
“Go ahead,” said Sinead. “We’ll just sit here and watch.”
“Okay.” She took a notebook and pencil and a measuring tape out of her bag, and stood up. “First, your neck…” She threaded the tape round his neck and wrote in her notebook. “You’ll probably have a little choker, I think.”
“Definitely!” said Sinead.
“Chest next. Come on, Simon, lift up your arms please. Come on! No? Right.”
Alison slid her hands under his armpits and began to tickle. Simon squealed and immediately raised his arms.
“All right, all right. Please don’t do that…”
“He’s terribly ticklish,” grinned Sinead. “It can be very useful at times.”
She wrote down his chest measurement, then his waist, then went down to his thigh.
“Why are you measuring his thigh?” asked Florence.
“Garter.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Now…hips… Simon! Keep your hands away, please! I don’t know why you’re being so coy about it. It’s very small, after all…”
Simon tuned a slightly deeper shade of red.
“In fact, I can tell you exactly how small…”
To his infinite chagrin, Alison took her tape and laid it along the little mound of his pen-is.
“Let me see…I make that five centimetres long. Nothing to get worked up about then, is it?”
Simon turned his face to one side as far as it would go, and shut his eyes tight. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“And that’s the only dimension I can tell you, without actually taking it out.”
Simon swivelled his head back and stared at her wide-eyed.
“Don’t worry, none of us wants to see it. But I still have to measure your hips.”
She had to thread the tape behind his bottom, which involved pressing herself close to him for a moment. He felt her breasts against his bare tummy, and was forced to inhale her perfume. Women’s perfume always had a stimulating effect on him, and he felt stirrings underneath the taut, slippery lycra. He took a sharp breath, and bit his lip.
Alison worked the tape down to the widest point of his hips, which coincided with the bulge. She tightened it so that it pressed against the five centimetres, which was now lying to the right at an angle of about forty-five degrees. She appeared to be having a problem reading the tape, or deciding how tight she should hold it. Now it was bisecting the little sausage-shaped mound, compressing the middle. Had it perhaps moved a few degrees closer to the vertical? And was it by any chance…? Yes…a little longer, and a little fatter than before. Holding the tape ends together, she slid it back and forth, feeling the slack. In doing so, it rubbed back and forth against the pen-is, rolling it from side to side. Simon gasped, and looked at her imploringly. But Alison was not going to relinquish her advantage.
“It’s this thing! I can’t get a proper measurement, because this…” – she prodded it with her finger – “this won’t stay still! Look. I’ll show you.”
She slipped off the tape and re-measured its length.
“I told you so! Nine centimetres now! And increasing! How can I work with this?”
She glared at Simon with mock annoyance. Sinead and Florence were in stitches. By this time Sinead had her phone out and was videoing proceedings.
“What am I going to do? Can’t you make it go down again, Simon?”
He was trying. Trying his hardest. But it was no longer under his control. All the attention had had its effect. Even as he fought with his feelings, it attained its fullest dimensions, and stood there, visibly throbbing under the stretched material.
“It’s hopeless!” Alison gave it a gentle squeeze, as if expecting that would somehow help it deflate. It didn’t. Instead, a flow of clear juice issued from its tip and oozed through the shiny fabric.
“Oh, dear! Simon, really! Here…”
She pulled out a tissue and began dabbing at the wet patch. Simon whimpered. He had dropped his hands to his sides, but his little fists were clenched. The more she dabbed, the more juice oozed forth. Simon closed his eyes and sighed. Soon the tissue was just a little slimy ball.
“Goodness! And I thought you were going to look so nice in these hot pants. But now they’re ruined. Sinead? I think you’ll have to keep him in skirts and dresses from now on. If he gets like this at the slightest provocation… I see now why he has those pictures all over his bedroom.”
“I didn’t…”
“Shush, Simon. Now, at least promise me you’ll behave properly when you’re wearing your little maid’s outfit. None of this…naughtiness!”
“But…”
“No buts. Promise.”
“I…ah…promise….I swear. I’ll be good…but please…no more…”
“Don’t worry. I’m done. Here’s a clean tissue – take it and clean yourself up. I need to wipe my hands.”
Simon took the tissue, and Alison resumed her seat.
“Such a naughty boy,” she whispered to Sinead, with a wink.
“Well wipe yourself, Simmy. Go on,” urged Sinead.
“I don’t think…”
“Go on. Look at the state of your lovely hot pants.”
Nervously, Simon applied the tissue to the slimy tip of his erect pen-is. But he was clumsy, and underestimated its sensitivity. The frustrations of the previous night didn’t help, either. With a gasp, followed by a loud cry of “oh, gosh”, he came, pumping wads of c-um through the lycra, which then slid down the vertical member in milky rivulets, and dripped stickily onto his thighs.
His audience, relaxing in their comfortable chairs, looked on with amused interest, till eventually his spasms subsided, and he stood there quite exhausted, helpless and gasping. Florence poured some more coffee, while they watched the little drops of c-um dripping lazily down his legs and onto his socks and shoes.
“If ever a boy needed to be girlified, he does,” remarked Alison.
“To judge by that performance, it’s not going to be easy,” responded Florence.
“No,” said Sinead. “It’s true we may never get the boy out of Simmy – but we’ll get the Simmy into panties, for sure!”
Betty Pearl's Sissy Stories 20.1
Topic: A Grown Boy (Read 21889 times)
