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.

It has been so long i really hope you are close to a continue of the story thanks

Chapter 200.

The programmes for the October Show were delivered to reception as promised on Friday afternoon.  As soon as Miss Poole heard, she came out of her office and checked through one carefully, to make sure there were no errors.  It was an eight-page booklet, with the Centre logo on the cover over a photograph of one of the top senior dressage horses and rider, Charlotte Macilveney.  Both inside covers and one side of one page were devoted to full-page commercial adverts, including the Centre’s sponsors, whilst each of the remaining five pages was given over to details of the events.  There was a page for the main arena programme, with a timetable for all the senior events, showing, showjumping, dressage, and so in in their various classes, culminating with the dressage final; a page for the gymkhana and junior events, including showjumping, races, show ponies, best rider, best turned out pony and rider; two pages for the timetable of events in the main field, with classes for things like best piebald or skewbald, best lead rein pony, best ridden pony, best veteran, cutest filly or mare, and even a class simply called “think pink”!  The final inside page contained a list of all the stallholders and their locations.  There would be stalls all around the field, and intermittently around the perimeters of the arenas.  The smaller ones would be selling food, drink, and anything horsey, from keyrings, earrings, bangles and stuffed animals to clothing – though there were two large stalls adjacent to the main arena run my major retailers with a full range of clothing, tack and accessories.  (Anything that might spook the horses, like balloons or anything noisy, was strictly forbidden.)  But out of the whole programme, what immediately caught the attention of Evelina and Gabby was the back cover.  Below “Boot Boys at Pitt’s Wood!” in bright shiny red letters like inflated balloons, it featured four small photos: top left, the inner sanctum, top right, Timothy in his superhero outfit, culled from the picture on Miss Poole’s phone, bottom left, one of Bobby in his blue and yellow outfit, courtesy of Clarissa, his face hidden under the peak of his baseball cap, and bottom right
.an indistinct one of MĂ©lisande perched on what appeared to be a diminutive bay pony!
Evelina held it up and looked at Miss Poole enquiringly.
“Ah, yes.  A little teaser.  No-one will understand what that is until after the senior dressage.  And I don’t want anyone to see these until we hand them out tomorrow.  Timothy’s coming in for a training session at one, and I have a little surprise in store for him.  Excellent!  The weather’s going to be good.  I think we should have a really great day.”

Miss Poole had dropped into stable thirteen earlier that day to see how Timothy’s training was progressing.  He had already spent  hours on his knees in front of Jasmin or Ellie or both of them together receiving instruction and slaving away on various types of riding and fashion boots, with mixed results.
“Well girls?  How’s our new recruit doing?”
“Not bad, Miss Poole,” said Jasmin, unenthusiastically.  “He’s learning the techniques, but he still doesn’t comport himself well
”
“His attitude suc-ks,” clarified Ellie.  “I’ve explained to him again and again that he needs to show politeness and subservience.  He understands all right, miss, but I think it’s just that he can’t bring himself to do it.  He’s got this stupid macho thing in his head that men should never defer to women or girls.  It’s really annoying.  Maybe he’ll be better with the customers, but sometimes with us he’s just plain rude.”
Miss Poole frowned.  “I see
  Is that right, Timmy?”
Timothy looked flustered.  “Well, I don’t see why I ‘ave to crawl to them, any of ‘em.  Some of these stable girls are younger than me for one, and I ‘ear that some of the women are, like, old enough to be my muvver.  It seems to me
”
“Don’t say another word.  You clearly don’t understand the meaning of respect.  So, since you are already under contract, I’m going to invoke one of the penalty clauses.”  She looked around,  Her gaze alighted on a dressage whip propped in one corner of the stable.  “Right.  Girls, hold him face-down across that bale, would you?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Oi!  Get yer ‘ands orf me!  I said
”
“And I said, not another word, Master Timmy.  From now on, every word you utter will earn you an extra stroke of the whip.”
Timothy wasn’t weak, but those girls were older and used to manual labour.  They held him firmly while Miss Poole yanked down his shorts and underpants, picked up the whip, and gave him such a stoke that he yelped with pain, and a thin read weal appeared across his white buttocks.
“No – please!”
“That’s two extra, then.”
She administered another twelve well-aimed strokes, which left his bottom criss-crossed with livid red lines, and him sobbing and moaning.  He wanted to plead, but now he was too frightened to do so.  She threw down the whip.
“If you don’t quickly adjust your attitude, my boy, you’ll get another twelve tomorrow.  I do not tolerate misogyny in my staff.  So now you’ll come in tomorrow as well, and practise on some of the other stable girls until I’m satisfied.  Ellie, you’re not involved in any of the events tomorrow, are you?”
“No, miss, but
”
“I know.  I’m sure you’d like to watch.  So I’ll make sure he’s fitted with a collar and chain so he can be tethered up here for some of the time.  And I’m going to appoint you as Boot Boy Supervisor going forward.  You will be in charge of reports, complaints, discipline, and costume rotation.  We can discuss and agree your new duties in due course.  And of course you’ll have a substantial pay supplement.”
“Thank you, miss,” said Ellie, delightedly.  She couldn’t think of anything nicer than being totally in charge of two big, rebellious sissies like Timothy and Bobby.
“And you – have you learnt your lesson, or do I have to
”
Timothy, completely cowed, struggling to wipe the tears from his cheeks and pull up his pants and the same time, looked up at meekly.
“Yes, miss
I’m sorry
I didn’t mean
I promise
I’ll be nice to all the ladies
everyone
I will
”
“Good.  That’s most reassuring.  Make sure you are.  Tomorrow at one, then.  And in the afternoon Cynthia will return with your superhero uniform.  She’s made the few adjustments necessary and is confident it’ll fit you like a glove.  I’m sure you’re happy about that.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Poole.  Fank you.  I can’t wait to, er
put it on again
”
Though oddly the expression on his face didn’t betray quite the same level of enthusiasm


Leighton's knees buckled at what he saw in the corner of the spacious and Feminine living room area. Emily exclaimed, "Oh! You're back, leighton. Now we can start to have some real fun!" Making delicious Feminine Frou Frou with Her five-tiered white Tulle Minidress, Her silver five-inch slingback stilettos click clacked across the marble floor while Her Tulle rustled and swished musically. She towered over Her little (boi)friend(zone). Swishing Her skirts back and forth, Emily then planted a long and lasting kiss directly on leighton's submissive quivering mouth while Her minidress enveloped him. As She slowly and skillfully moved Her tongue inside and around the stunned little man's(?) small mouth, She made certain that Her Pettilayers of stiff white tulle continued to tease him mercilessly. His little soldier was wriggling helplessly in its own Emasculating satin and lace panty pouch. Emily had purposely and skillfully transferred Her Lipstick to poor leighton's mouth. Pulling away, She Femininely feigned "surprise" at leighton's now colored lips. "Oh my! You really look rather sweet in my Lipstick. Pretty...actually." When leighton realized what She had done to his mouth, he indtinctively moved his right hand up towards his face with every intention of removing Her Lipstick...until She firmly grabbed his arm and stopped him. Then She immediately and purposely took Her right index finger and started to blend Her Lipstick more evenly over his shaking lips. Then Dorian, resplendent in Her Authoritarian white wool miniskirted skirt suit, moved quickly to the Feminine bathroom, Her 5-inch heels Femininely click clacking on the white marble surface. In a few seconds, the tall Stunning Blonde had returned and told Emily to hold leighton in place. Standing directly in front of him now, and towering over the little man(?), Dorian reached into the right side pocket of Her white wool miniskirt and removed a tube of Urban Decay "Bad Blood" Red lipstick...

Two more Lichtenstein nudes adorned the walls of the Feminine bathroom. Adorning the white marble Vanity top, a Feminine assortment of Makeup Brushes, all pale Pink and White, Dior Eyeshadow and Blush Palettes and Compacts, Lipsticks, Mascara...all directly and temptingly teasing poor leighton, beckoning his (sissy) infatuations. As leighton slid his trousers back on and over the Emasculatingly Feminizing Ruffled White Lace encrusted double-satin pouch, his aroused little soldier struggled to contain itself. Struggling to pull the zipper of his trousers over the stiff white ruffled French lace, without damaging it, his little soldier's arousal only heightened. Then, startled by a gentle knock on the door amid the swishing and rustling of Emily's Dress, She whispered thru the door, "Don't worry, little man. If you get too excited, I have a backup Panty just for you. It IS a bit frillier.. and it does have a Baby Girly Pink Bow. Do you need my help?" She asked, giggling. "N...n...noooo. I've got it. I...I...I'll........be......out...in a second." "Okay, if you're sure." The sibilant swishing of Her Tulle Skirts and the click clacking of Her Heels were heard as She returned to the spacious and exquisitely Feminine  living room, sharing a laugh with Dorian. Finally securing the zjpper of his pants, the bulge from his Emasculating panty pouch would be shamefully obvious to both of these two Beautiful Women who were in total Feminine control of both bois...and They knew it...