Tinkydrew

[RibbonBound]

(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.

[RibbonBound]

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.”

[RibbonBound]

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.

[RibbonBound]

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.

[RibbonBound]

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.

[RibbonBound]

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.

[antonia]

Wow! First time author? Brilliant start.