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Punishment for a sissy

Stories of Feminization Authoritarian Punishment for a sissy
punishment for sissy

Do sissies get spanked? They most certainly do. Not necessarily for being naughty, wicked or evil. Often for merely being sissies.

“Honestly, Maria, you look absolutely entrancing in that get up,” Brandy Strong said to the woman reclining on the couch with her booted legs crossed, puffing on a cigarette through one of those long, slim holders.
“Well thank you,” the latter replied, dismissing the intended compliment with an air of indifference, as if she half-expected such comment. “Really, I harness myself in this attire because I find it comfortable, and it helps me assert my cast iron personality. At the same time its unconventional … and you must know that I’m a non-conformist.”

“I’ve known it a long time,” Louise Kane the third member of the group interjected, as she reached toward the cocktail table for a cigarette.

Maria Hand, a jaunty dazzling figure, resplendent in her singular trappings, rose from the couch and walked toward the heavily draped window. She frowned pensively, wrinkling her ordinarily unfurrowed brow, as she smacked the whip she carried into the palm of her left hand.

Then she turned to her guests.

“At any rate, girls,” she said, “we’re not going to turn our weekly visit into a critique on my wardrobe … are we my dears?”

“Of course not,” Brandy and Louise rejoined almost in unison, as their eyes met, then

followed with a knowing wink, as if both were partners to some deep dark secret.
Brandy Strong and Louise Kane had dropped in on their quaint friend for what had become almost a weekly social. They engaged in bits of gossip and sundry chitchat, sipped her brandy, and spent what they often referred to, as an exciting afternoon.

They liked Marla, admired her bizarre habiliment that somehow seemed theatrical, and in a way envied her. They accepted her eccentricities, but were also conscious of the strong, domineering woman with the powerful, amazon-like chassis underneath the tailoring she affected.

Marla’s uniform of the moment was indeed unique. It caused wonder and amazement to the two sidekicks. It also caused them to gape. For besides being merely outré, it had a frightening if not wholly menacing effect. She wore a brief, taut mantlet of glossy midnight black, that extended from the top of her hips to the line of her well developed breasts, enclosing them snugly and creating two mounds of unbelievable symmetry and blooming splendor. Made of supple black leather, the mantlet, more like a corset than a jacket, created a bulge that could be awesome to some guileless swain, if not outright devastating.

And the boots, well … they were an inspiration, a figment of the imagination of some genius of the cobbler’s craft. Long and tapering, they extended to about an inch and one half above the knee, lending emphasis to the whiteness of firm yet lithesome thighs. But what, more than anything else, staggered belief were the extravagant high heels with gilded spurs attached. Baroque and preposterous as they seemed, Marla nevertheless walked majestically, resolutely gripping a riding whip, not a trace of awkwardness in her stride.

Strangely enough a harmonious ensemble of sorts was achieved, and to crown it all was her head of hair, gleaming like polished ebony, flowing over her shoulders like strands of black silken threads that sparkled and glistened and blended agreeably with the short leather skirt, and the pliant fulgent gloves she wore up to her armpits.

“Y’know, Marla there’s a story going around that your son, Sydney was the recipient of some extraordinary disciplinary treatment,” Louise Kane turned her eyes toward Brandy’s as she said this. Again that knowing look.., between them.

“Do you want to tell us about it, or am I stepping on dangerous ground?” she continued.

Maria laughed, but a faint suggestion of cruelty, barely detectable, twisted her lips for a brief moment. She smacked her left hand hard with the whip, then slowly turned to face the other two women.

“Dangerous ground my eye,” she said to them, managing to control the tremors in her voice. “I have nothing to hide from you two … or for that matter from anyone else in this town. If you’re really interested and have the patience to listen I’ll be glad to tell you all about it … well?” “Oh, please do,” pleaded Louise Kane, “Yes … yes …” echoed Brandy Strong.

“Very well then,” Marla said as she strode over to the couch, tossing the whip on the table, then sitting down and crossing her booted legs.

“It all began about five or six weeks ago, I don’t exactly remember the date, but I do know it was on a Friday. My husband, Justin, had taken me out to dinner and we returned home rather early … I would say about seven thirty. He went up to the bedroom to grab a few winks while I sauntered over to the den, intending to wade through the evening newspaper. As I neared the door, the sound of scuffling, accompanied by shrill laughter, struck my ears. I was more than curious now, and even more puzzled. I quickly flung the door open and the sight that met my

eyes nearly floored me.” Mafia paused, seemingly to catch her breath, while the other two hung on rapaciously to her every word.

“W-w-what w-was it?” Brandy Strong stammered, finding the suspense almost unbearable.

“Well … I hardly know how to describe it to you. When I entered the room I saw what I assumed were two very comely young chicks.

Almost immediately I recognized Amy Young, Bridget’s seventeen year old daughter, whom you must admit is a beautiful young lass. The other, for a moment or two at least, seemed an utter stranger. When recognition finally dawned on me, I was more than merely nonplussed, I was downright mad as all blazes … yes, I admit… I saw red! For this bonny little miss underneath the frippery of powder and rouge was of all people.., my own son, Sydney!!”

When the immediate shock of Marla Hand’s revelation wore off and a deathly silence settled over the living room, Marla slowly got up from the couch and suggested brandies and soda.

After pouring the drinks for the three, she returned to the couch. Sipping her drink passively she studied the countenances of the other two women attentively and began again.

“You both look very much surprised,” she stated quite blandly, “but when you hear what I learned from Sydney, you’ll be more than astounded … you’ll be flabbergasted! “As you know … I may digress for a moment, I’ve been a member of The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians. And as you also must know, we are fervent advocates of bringing back the strap into our homes and penal institutions. In other words we believe that a good sound old fashioned spanking for spoiled brats and other incorrigibles, is a noble method for inspiring proper behaviour, and correcting minor faults.

The old saw, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’, holds just as good today, as it did yesterday.
“Well, to get back to Sydney … As I said before, my anger knew no bounds when I realized that this gorgeous bit of femininity was my own son. Yet somehow I managed a measure of self-control, though I couldn’t quite keep the menace out of my voice when I harshly asked, ‘What is the meaning of this, Sydney?’ ‘P-please t-try to understand, mother,’ he whined, as the tears began to melt, ‘these clothes are all a gift from Amy … I have many more in my bedroom closet … also … they are gifts from her … she’s been most generous.’

“I was perplexed. I turned querulously to Amy Young, seeking some sort of answer to all this. But she remained silent. However, I couldn’t help but note the marked degree of sympathy she displayed for my son. I was at my wits’ end. I didn’t seem to know for sure, how to cope with the situation. I was strongly tempted, there and then, to grab Sydney by the ear, march him across the room to the straight backed chair, and put him across my knees and smack his seat for all it was worth. Nevertheless I felt he was entitled to a chance to explain … well … I was prepared to listen.

‘Y’see, mother,’ he began, as he wiped his eyes with a lacy glove that he wore, and tried to compose himself, ‘I’ve been terribly lonely. I have no friends in this town, other than Amy … and … er … some of her friends are also mine. I never cared much for athletic games … baseball … or football … I always found them much too rough … even coarse. I do enjoy housework … but you never allow me. I also love impersonating females … Amy and her friends say I’m quite good … as good or better than the many we’ve watched in the theaters and nightclubs in town.

‘Y’know why I think I’m so proficient at it? I guess it’s because I love the feel of silks and satins … and … this may bewilder you, mother, but I never could quite overcome my unquenchable longing to wear dresses and high heeled shoes. I do genuinely feel much happier wearing feminine clothing than I do male apparel. Don’t ask me to explain why … I simply don’t know.

‘Amy has been kind enough to present me with very attractive lingerie, which I frequently put on, four lovely dresses, and a smart little fur jacket which I simply adore. I hope that when I’m able to get a job, doing housework, I’ll be able to afford an evening gown which I saw in Hobson’s window, which I would like very much to have. I would feel very happy to be able to wear lovely clothes all the time, but up till now, the best I could do is to wear them in secret, here in my room.

‘As you can plainly see, mother, this is a lovely sheath dress I’m wearing, the black fur trim goes all around the edge of the bracelet length sleeves. A black bra, panties, nylons and high-heeled shoes are all part of the ensemble, and notice my blue nail polish and eye shadow to match. My hair I suppose looks simply like a boy’s bob. But I also have a small feather hat that harmonizes beautifully with the whole outfit.
‘I really feel better and am more relaxed when I’m dressed in ladies’ clothing, as I feel I am dressed as I should be.

‘Two weeks ago I went out in this outfit, I had no lipstick and had to go shopping for some.

I went to several places before I could find the shade I wanted. The lady from whom I finally purchased it thought I was a woman until I addressed her.

‘I said that I would like a certain lipstick. She very graciously got it for me, and was kind enough to hold up a mirror for me, as I applied it to my lips. She complimented me by saying I looked very nice, and that she liked the dress I was wearing. She said it was very pretty.

‘What do you think, mother? … is it very pretty?’

“Well, my dears, that did it. I could no longer contain my bitter wrath, I was all fire and fury, ready to explode. That last query of his, triggered all that followed, I’m now quite certain.

“‘Is it very pretty,’ I mimicked him mockingly … I could not hide the utter contempt I felt … I grabbed him by the arm with a high hand, and as I paraded him across the room I blared at him, ‘You miserable popinjay … is that the way I raised youP … I’ll teach you to garb yourself in women’s clothes …’ and I unceremoniously pulled him across my lap after seating myself comfortably in the chair. Luckily for him, there was no hairbrush or a ruler available … but I still had a good right arm. I pulled up the dress he had no right to masquerade in, and I let him have it. ‘This will teach you the right lesson,’ I remarked ominously, as I smacked him where I thought it would do the most good.

‘P–please m–mother, t–try to u-understand, p–please …’ he whimpered … but I was merciless.

“I realized almost immediately afterward, that I hadn’t acted entirely correctly myself. You see, being a member of The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians, I should have known better than to have spanked him in the presence of Amy. It is too humiliating for a young man to have another person, especially one of his own age, to witness his plight and, to top it all, a member of the opposite sex.

“By the time I exacted a promise from Sydney that he would never again behave like a sissy, nor dare to dress himself in feminine clothing, Amy Young, apparently feeling a deep empathy with Sydney, made a dash for the door. With a wailing lament escaping from her lips, and tears streaming down her cheeks, she abashedly made her departure.”


Louise Kane quietly and unobtrusively got up from her chair and walked over to the cabinet that served as a bar. She was a pretty little woman, shy and rather demure. She poured herself a drink, took a small sip, and then almost stealthily tiptoed back to her chair. Now, sitting back contentedly, the glass of brandy in her hand, she felt the time had come for her to make her contribution to what up to now seemed just a dialogue between Maria Hand and Brandy Strong.

“Mafia,” she began, “I never could understand your joining a group of what I consider cruel ill-disposed misfits, crackpots … if you will pardon the expression … I’m talking about that crowd who comprise the membership in that organization of yours, The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians.

“If that’s where you get your ideas on how to handle a problem like your son, Sydney, then all your coaxing will never get me to join up. I know you mean well … I’ve weighed all your arguments, and to be quite frank, there were moments when I began to see things your way, I was often tempted to become a member. I needed a little time … but your manner of disciplining Sydney has destroyed any illusions I may have had. Imagine spanking a young man attired in feminine clothes … and allowing a young lady like Amy to witness his humiliation.

I’m glad at least that you have the backbone to admit you were wrong.

“Granted that Sydney deserved punishment.

But I’m sure a better method … perhaps less painful could have been used.”

Louise Kane stopped to catch her breath.

The words had poured out unconsciously like an endless cascade. Now newly sprouting doubts began to assail her. She looked at Maria and Brandy. They remained silent. Louise took a deep breath and was about to continue, when Maria Hand interrupted.

“Okay then … How would you have handled a similar situation?” the latter asked, not bothering to suppress the biting sarcasm in her voice.

“Well … er …” Louise hesitated, now not quite sure of herself. “I … I would have petticoated him. That is, I would have dressed him in the kind of clothes he seemed to prefer …just to show him how ridiculous his choice was.

I would let him wear panties, and say to him, “Well … you think you’d like to be a girl, okay …
be a girl,” I would then let him put on a bra, a frilly slip and some short frock, that would complete the transformation, then I would get rid of his masculine clothing. I would then jibe and sneer at him, and perhaps call in one of his girl friends and allow her to see him in his new petticoats and all. Word would soon get around, and before very long, his friends would call. He’d soon begin to hate his petticoats, when his friends commenced their laughter and their denunciation. I find it amusing to visualize him sitting with his knees together, trying desperately to hide from sight those frilly panties, of which by now, he is utterly ashamed.

That, my dear, Marla, is the way I would cope with a difficulty like the one you’ve had to face.

As for spanking him … and in the presence of Amy Young … well to me, that smacks of downright cruelty, and for the life of me, I could never sanction it.”

“Poppycock,” was all that Marla Hand could utter by way of comment upon Louise’s excursus, as she reached over for a cigarette that lay in the miniature chest on the low table flanking the sofa.

“I think your attitude is all wrong, Marla …there’s a lot of sense in what Louise has to say,” Brandy Strong obtruded at this point. “I don’t exactly buy what Louise has to sell … but, I do agree that placing Sydney over your knee and spanking his bottom in the presence of Amy … must have been most humiliating … on that score I admit I see eye to eye with her. What I disagree with and that most vigorously … is the substitute method she advocates.”

“Aw … nuts!” was all that Marla could manage.

“Oh, yeah …” this from Louise Kane, “You got any better suggestions?”

Not in the least perturbed by their denigrations, Brandy continued.

“To be perfectly frank, Marla,” she said calmly enough, “and I know you’re not going to like hearing this, but I’m firmly convinced that your son, Sydney, is a sick boy. As a matter of fact, I’m inclined to believe that all sissies are sick people. What I heartily recommend is that you don’t raise his skirts and … spank his posterior, nor permit any outsider to witness such an experience … where a callow young man is permitted to suffer such an outrageous sense of shame.

“On the other hand, Marla Hand … please forgive the pun… I exhort you to see a doctor … a psyshiatrist … now please, don’t snicker … I’m in deadly earnest. The boy needs help … and as I see it, his is a mental problem … not one that you or I can solve that easily.”

Marla was filled with doubts and misgivings, and her reactions weren’t as light as she made them appear when she lightly dismissed Brandy’s counsel with a flippancy, “Aw, baloney.”

On the other hand Louise reacted differently. Brandy’s words seemed to have made a marked impression. For a moment or two she hesitated. Then, framing her sentence very carefully, she uttered quite simply, “Y’know there might be something in what Brandy says.” At that point the doorbell rang … loud and clear.

“That must be my husband, Justin,” Maria said.

The girls didn’t need to be hit over the head, they could take the hint. Without fuss or further ado, they quietly let themselves out through a rear exit, after bidding their gracious hostess an endearing ‘au revoir’.

Sydney Hand was excited. In fact he was intensely elated, something wonderful had just happened. He had just finished talking with Amy Young, and, of all things, she had invited him to attend her sorority affair on the following Friday night. “Come as a girl,” she had pleaded as if pleading was necessary. Without giving it a second thought he jumped at the opportunity, saying, “Certainly, I’ll be delighted to attend …
will there be an initiation of sorts?” “By all means,” came the reply.

Of course there was the matter of a promise Sydney had made to his mother … and the dire consequences that could result from a failure to live up to it. “But,” he assuaged his grating conscience, “she need never know … for that matter no one other than Amy need know, and I certainly can trust Amy. Then again, one has to live dangerously every once in a while.” A general air of excitement prevailed at the sorority house of Phi Alpha Epsilon on Friday mght of March third. Everyone seemed in a dither, especially Amy Young, who kept looking at her watch, then at the door. As the hour drew close to nine o’clock her impatience seemed on the verge of exploding. She got up from the bench and wormed her way through the milling throng of sorority sisters and their friends, till she reached the door that led to a balcony

overlooking the lane that led to the main entrance of the building. Failing to see what she so eagerly hoped for, she returned to the room and, after a bit of pushing and shoving, managed to get back to her seat. A look of utter disappointment appeared on her face. Then it happened.

Glancing up toward the door out of sheer inner necessity or compulsion, she espied that which had been the cause of her many anxious moments.

Striding through the entrance with a queenly grace and regal bearing was what at first seemed an apparition. But then the first shock of disbelief wore off, and the droning of strident voices settled into silence. All eyes turned toward the new arrival, then held their breath.

For here was a creature whose beauty, though it seemed unearthly, was real and vibrant. Whose manner and air was truly patrician. Majestically, with complete aplomb and consummate self assurance, this enchanting ‘Belle Tournure’ looked around, apparently seeking someone special.

Amy Young, blushing and self-conscious but deliriously happy, moved over to make room on her bench for this radiant enchantress headed her way.

“Hello, Amy[” this cynosure … this wonder, said to her, snuggling closely, after sitting down in the rather limited area contrived by Amy.

“Hello, yourself … Sydney.” Amy was quite conscious of all the eyes focussed on them and flushed furiously.

After a short time, however, with the aid of Sydney, who tried gently and with understanding to put her at her ease, she regained her composure.

“How dazzling you look, Sydney”, she ventured to remark, sincerely believing what she said, as she surveyed him from head to foot.

“Truly, you’re the most exquisite mortal in the whole place … if … if I were a male I’d find you absolutely irresistible.”

“Thank you, Amy,” he replied, accepting the compliment lukewarmly. “But as a female?” he queried teasingly. They both laughed. Amy alone being somewhat embarrassed.

“I still find you … er … most alluring,” she managed, not knowing quite how to mask her confusion.
“That gown is simply stunning,” she tried, diverting the course of the conversation. “Who is your couturier?”

“Oh I bought this in Hobson’s. I had my eye on it for a long time. I finally managed to scrape together a few dollars, by babysitting and so on, to buy the thing. I’m awfully glad that you hke it tOO.”
“Like it?” she ejaculated, “I adore it, I wish I could wear it as divinely as you.” She began to study Sydney carefully.

The gown was made of black shimmering satin that hugged the body like a glove, it was so skin tight. It molded the hips and thighs provocatively, firm and tactile, creating an effect like doughy, mollient wax rather than supple, cushiony flesh, having been shaped and formed into voluptuous and seductive symmetry, as if by human hands.

The pouting, bulging bosom was an artifact, needless to say. Yet none would have guessed it.
Of more than ample proportions, it projected nobly and majestically, flaunting its self-conceit like a peacock its feathers. Made of pliant, resilient rubber, constrained in a taut, securely fitting brassiere, seemingly straining to escape its confines, the two orbicular hillocks was certainly a vision of intoxicating loveliness.

For a moment or two Amy was compelled, to hold her breath. It … was impossible for her to hide her admiration. Truly, Sydney was a stunner … a most remarkable … potentially dangerous seductress.

Inadvertently her eyes wandered to Sydney’s legs. Long, slim and tapering, encased in unbelievably extravagant high-heeled pumps of patent leather, and gossamer wisp-like sheer stockings, the sigh of envy they provoked from her lips was irrepressible.

“Sydney,” she gushed, “You’re utterly and fantastically beautiful … I almost wish I were a man.”

“T-sh t-sh,” he muttered reflectively, with a tinge of self pity, “Sometimes I wish I were one too.”


“Sorority sisters and friends of Phi Alpha Epsilon, as you probably know, the activities planned for this evening, include among other things our semi-annual ceremony of initiating new members,” The speaker on the platform paused to let the noisy clatter simmer down.

When quiet reigned, she began again. She was an attractive blond of medium height, with a peaches and cream complexion that went beautifully with her long golden tresses that draped carelessly over her shoulders, and with the gown she wore, made of glittering white satin. Except for a slight lisp when she pronounced her esses, she spoke splendidly, with a delightful lilt to her voice.

“I promise you all,” she apprised her audience, an impish smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes, “an evening of not a few surprises.” She winked at those assembled, and they in turn tittered. “In the meantime, sandwiches and refreshment will be served by our charming and lovely hostesses.” It was exactly ten thirty o’clock when Frances Raft, the radiant blond, who in addition to being their chief spokesman at all such functions, served them as president of the chapter, mounted the platform again.

“Ladies,” she commenced forthrightly, finding it unnecessary this time to ask for quiet, “I promised you a few surprises a short time ago … and … I intend to keep that promise. To begin with … the time has now come to have those young ladies who have been pledged by their friends to line up in the right lane facing me, the ritual of initiation will then be ready to start. I will instruct you further as we proceed.
Now comes our major surprise. I’m sure you all took more than a second look at that dazzling, scintillating puff of dainty femininity, who was so late in arriving … and made such a grand entrance. Well, unbeknown to herself even, she has been pledged by her friend, Amy Young. We will be proud to welcome her into our sorority, provided that she accepts, and if I’m not embarrassing the young lady I will ask her to stand so that I may introduce her to you.

Sydney Hand nudged Amy, who sat beside him, and whispered to her, “Amy Young, how could you?” However his manner betrayed not an inkling of displeasure. On the contrary, he seemed ecstatic. “You could have at least given me some hint … that I was going to be asked to join your sorority,” and he added capriciously, “I would have worn some of mother’s jewels … her pearl necklace for instance, and the matching pair of earrings.”

“W-well, S-Sydney,” Amy jousted with difficulty, “I wasn’t quite sure how you’d take to the idea.” Her face was now a mass of crimson that bordered on magenta, it was not unbecoming.

All further conversation between the two was summarily interrupted by the refined voice of Frances Raft, whose dulcet tones issued forth from the platform with a musical cadence.

“My dears … won’t you please meet and greet … Miss Sydney Hand.”

The hand clapping that followed as Sydney rose from his seat was indeed gratifying, both to him and to Amy. Graciously and with consummate ease, he accepted the plaudits and approbation of the Phi Alpha Epsilon sorority sisters and their guests. Smiling warmly, he nodded to them, and as their acclaim progressed unabated, he placed the palm of his dainty gloved palm to his lips and tossed kisses toward them.

“My very dear sorority sisters,” Frances Raft began anew, once Sydney sat down and order … let alone sanity … had been restored, “you all know that the initiation of new members is closed to outsiders … and to the novices and fledglings of our chapter. I will therefore ask those young ladies who have been pledged, to remain standing in their lane … to follow me when joined by their sponsors, who will act as their escorts. Those others among you who are qualified to participate in the ceremony will proceed to the ‘CHAMBER’ shortly afterward.

The rest of you can entertain yourselves by playing games, listening to music, or in any manner you prefer. Our sorority sister Alice Birch will play the appropriate piece on the piano as we make our formal and orderly departure from this hall.”

“Now, my pretty ones,” Frances Raft commanded, “follow me!” With chin tucked in, shoulders squared away and head held high, each lovely with eyes upon the leader, strutted out of the place to the tune of ‘Grip The Whip Hard’, played with spirit by Alice Birch.

The chamber for initiates was a low ceilinged room measuring about twelve foot long and eight foot wide. The paneling was of knotty pine except for the rear wall, which was papered by a grayish synthetic resembling cinder blocks. On the center, slightly above a raised platform hung a larger than life-size portrait of Frances Raft.

Though there was nothing unusually striking about the room itself, the general motif being a mixture of early American and mid Victorian, what was amazing and eye catching, was the portrait of a most awe-inspiring and perhaps dangerous female.

Hanging there on the wall, masterful and domineering in her strange mode of dress, fire and flame seemed to burst forth from her large deep set eyes. She wore long, tightly laced leather boots that extended inches above the knees, and had high heels that must have been at least five or six inches high. Her torso was narrowly confined in a laced corset, also of leather, that caused the bosom to bulge something arrogantly, and the waist to shrink to such an extent, that breathing properly must indeed have been somewhat of a problem. Her hips jutted out unnaturally, and the white areas of flesh that extended from the hem of the corset to the top of the boots, seemed like something the photographer had added and contrived.
Another thing that added a sinister touch to the overall aura, was the way she gripped the large paddle in her right hand. Though apparently designed for playing table tennis, that was undoubtedly out of the question, for the thing was much too large and would have proved too awkward and cumbersome for such a mild sport. Its real purpose could easily be guessed.

The chamber was now crowded with a fairly large group of smiling, cackling young ladies, flouncing about from one small cluster to another, and with others more sedate, who remained seated in the chairs just in front of the platform. All however wore an expression of eager anticipation. An air of expectancy pervaded the whole place.

Suddenly the hubbub dissolved into quietude. Frances Raft, alive and breathing, flesh and blood, paraded into the room from a side door. Accompanying her were the six lovelies, ravishing and seductive, prepared to face without qualms whatever fate held in store for them.

The girls that occupied the chairs in front of the platform graciously surrendered them to the six new arrivals, while Frances Raft ascended the few stairs that led up to the dais.

“Sisters of Phi Alpha Epsilon,” she began when she was sure she had their undivided attention, “our secret ceremony is about to commence. I’m sure by now you know what each of you have to do. I expect you all to live up to our code and to what Phi Alpha Epsilon expects from you. Don’t fail.” Then she added, and their was a mischievous note in her voice, “The ‘Chastizers’ will follow me.”

Frances Raft came down from the dais, then joined by six others, they departed briskly from the doorway at the furthermost corner of the room.

They were not gone long, however … not more than ten minutes. When they returned, an outsider, not acquainted with the peculiarities or even eccentricities of behaviour at such ceremonies conducted by some sororities, might have gasped.

The ‘costumes’ they now wore were brief and scanty, but nevertheless most alluring. Each was attired most simply in black silk brassiere and matching panties. Their stockings were roiled just above the knees, and they too were of the sheerest silk. And to cap it all, the shoes with outrageously high heels, had a sheen consistent with patent leather. They appeared to cramp the wearer’s feet since obviously the shoes were a size too smail. In all probability they were meant to be worn not for ornamental, nor for functional purposes but to hobble and constrain its user.

Each of the beauties carried in her right hand a wooden paddle of average size, except for Frances Raft, who gripped one twice as long and that much wider, with a gradual taper ing toward the handle. The girls oozed confidence in their prowess, and there was no denying they were ready to get down to serious business.
When calm and a certain tranquility settled over the place, Frances Raft standing now in front of the platform, almost directly in the center, and flanked by three girls on each side, shouted out with her usual aplomb, “Norma Lane will now go and bring us the ropes and gags.”

Immediately a tall winsome brunette stepped forward, nodded to the speaker and then in a manner both proud and stately, strutted out of the room. No sooner had she departed, when again Frances Raft spewed forth a royal command.

“Jean Stang and Betty Masters will go to the gymnasium and wheel in the ‘Wooden Horse’.” The two girls, like their predecessor, acquiesced without the slightest dissent and sallied forth in a manner befitting a queen.
The first to return was Norma Lane, bearing an armful of strong strands of rope and a fistful of colorful handkerchiefs or ‘squares’. No sooner did she lay them down on the platform, when the other two came in pushing a bit of apparatus generally used by gymnasts for exercise of one kind or another, and in the vernacular referred to as a ‘horse’.

The two scantily draped young ladies pushed it over in front of the platform, toward the left sides then together with Norma Lane joined Frances Raft and the other three girls in front of the center. Now again, Frances Raft, flanked by three on each side, faced her audience.

“Now,” she said softly, but in a voice like cold steel, “We are ready for our young fledglings …
our new initiates.” Then turning her head slowly, first to the three flanking her on the left, then to the right, she suddenly let out a blast.

Like a boom from a cannon it thundered.

“See that they’re bound and gagged,” was her imperious command.


SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! resounded the paddle as it reached its mark … silken covered, but a firm yet pliant derriere. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! it re-echoed, as the recipient twisted and squirmed uttering unintelligible ululations, unintelligible because of the gag, a multicolored kerchief stuffed into the mouth.

The ceremony of admittance into the sorority of Phi Alpha Epsilon was really quite simple. It consisted of having those novitiates being placed over a ‘Wooden Horse’, lying on their stomachs, their hands tied tightly behind their backs so that they might not repudiate the previous contract, and a gag crammed into their mouths in order that they might not give voice to their current protest.

Each pledgee was then taken in hand by a previously selected ‘Chastiser’ whose main qualification consisted of being able to skillfully and dexterously manipulate … a paddle. Of course the latter had to abide by certain rules.

For instance she was allowed to raise the skirts of the intended cull and smack the bottom with alacrity, not more than six times. What she was not however permitted to do was remove the panties and smack on the bare behind. The danger was too great of raising welts and wheals … and perhaps even blisters. The final touch was added by the president of the chapter, sorority sister, Frances Raft whose job it was to administer the coup de grace … three smarting whacks on the fanny, while asking that many questions. And since the victim could not possibly reply orally, a mere nod, yes or no, was sufficient.

The first five girls underwent their ‘ordeal by fire’ well enough and, subsequent to the three invigorating whacks, expertly administered by the queen bee of the sorority, Frances Raft, they each duly received as an emolument, a certificate of membership in Phi Alpha Epsilon and a balm for their pains. A soothing salve to make sitting a bit more easy.

Then came the big moment, the climax as it were. The most beauteous and well-favored ‘girl’, Sydney Hand, unanimously selected by Frances Raft and her underlings, because of her radiance and splendor, to be the piece de resistance of the evening, was brought forth by Norma Lane, the same girl who earlier had obtained the ropes and gags. She it was to be … ‘Miss’ Sydney Hand’s ‘Chastizer’.

Pandemonium was almost let loose, as Norma Lane tied Sydney’s wrists, making ‘her’ veritably helpless. Whistles and shouts of “tighter … tighter” burst forth from the ebullient sorority sisters, whose long time membership in Phi Alpha Epsilon earned them the privilege to witness all ceremonies and installations.
Norma Lane then placed the gag in the subjugated one’s mouth, which created a clamor of sorts … a mixture of applause, sprinkled with a few catcalls, and then shoved, rather than led, the helpless puppet toward the ‘Wooden Horse’! When she had ‘her’ in the position she felt was most suitable for the occasion … lying
across the ‘Wooden Horse’ face forward, Norma Lane reached down and lifted the hem of the evening gown and raised it up to the waistline uncovering a pair of pink silk panties, trimmed with lace. The reaction of the membership to this was exactly what one could expect. The hurrahs and whoops were obstreperous enough to wake the dead.

Leaving Sydney in that position for just a brief moment or so, Norma Lane walked over to the platform and picked up a few paddies, with the letters P.A.E. boldly etched across each front, that were lying there. Testing several in her right hand, she finaily settled for one she deemed best.

She returned to where Sydney lay, apparently meek and submissive, on ‘her’ tummy across the ‘Wooden Horse’. After a few practice swings she paused to catch her breath, Then carefully, taking deliberate aim she let go.

‘Swish’ the paddle sang as it sped through the air. ‘Thwack’ as it landed on target. Sydney turned scarlet, but could only gurgle some meaningless sounds.

“Swish … Thwack! … Swish … Thwack!” the remorseless lathe hummed in a primitive rhythm, repeating itself after only fleeting intervals.

Abruptly, it was ail over, except for the final ministration to be executed by the grand mistress herself, she with the over-size paddle.Frances Raft.

Apparently Norma Lane had fittingly performed her duty, for a gleam of approval radiated from the eyes of Frances Raft. The latter walked over to Norma and accepted the paddle from her, barely managing to whisper, “You performed your office very well, Norma … yes, very well indeed,” and as an afterthought added, “I doubt very much if ! can improve upon it …but believe me I’m going to try.”

Frances Raft then walked over to the platform, put down the paddle that had just achieved such marked results, picked up her own inordinately large one, and readied herself for the business at hand. Gripping it intensely, her eyes now narrowed into tiny slits while her mouth subconsciously curled into a cruel and comfortless grimace, manifesting suppressed fury and irascibility.

With an air of supreme and steadfast confidence in herself, sure that she would carry out her chosen task dutifully and well, Frances Raft approached the ‘Wooden Horse’, where Sydney Hand lay on his belly, utterly weak and helpless. She stared down at the silken pink panties, noticing that they were beginning to show signs of wear and tear. That certain areas were more frayed than others, and that strands of pink thread were beginning to uncoil.

Now the moment of truth had arrived. The concluding chapter in this special and singular ceremony was at hand. Frances Raft began by explaining to Sydney the ‘Rules of the Game’.

“Sydney,” she said, “You will be asked three questions by me. If the answers are satisfactory, your ordeal will be over and you’ll hold the high honor of being a member in good standing in the sorority known as Phi Alpha Epsilon. I realize since you have a gag in your mouth that speaking is impossible, therefore a mere nod of the head in either direction will be all that is necessary. Is everything quite clearP” Sydney could barely finish nodding his head in the affirmative when ‘WHACK’ he received a stinging taste of the paddle on his posterior, unleashed like a thunderbolt by Frances Raft, lofty and domineering as a tyrant in her tragicomic high heels. Sydney squirmed and twisted with irrepressible animation, kicking his legs out wildly
and muttering meaningless absurdities.

“Did that sting and smart … my dear young lady?” Frances Raft twittered.

Again the nod of assent from Sydney … but this time furiously.

“W-WHACK” once more the paddle would not be denied, as it played the ‘Song of Discipline’ on Sydney Hand’s rear quarters.

“Now, Miss Sydney Hand … do you assert that you will behave like a proper young lady should in the sisterhood of Phi Alpha Epsilon and abide by our rules and regulations?” Sydney winced as he nodded his reply, knowing now exactly what to expect. He was not disappointed. The third and final cuff exceeded anything that had gone before.

“S-S-SMACK” … the paddle, warmed to its task, seemed to hiss like a serpent. “S-SMACK” its insolent twang reverberated through the room as it landed on silken panties, now threadbare and offering only trifling and immaterial protection.

Sydney rebounded as if he were made of some sort of elastic or rubber. Jolting and jerking, he tossed and turned, jostled and jounced like a parched pea. His grumbling and lamentation falling on deaf ears.
“Remove the gag and untie her,” Frances Raft surprised everyone, by abruptly ordering the ‘chastizer’ nearest to her. Caught off guard for a moment or two, when the meaning of the words became more clear the audience let out a ‘WHOOP’.

“Bravo! Bravo!” they all seemed to shout in unison as the fetters were being removed from Sydney.

“Congratulations,” they uttered as they began milling about him… “congratulations.” Frances Raft who was lost for a while in the contentious throng, finally managed to worm herself close to him.

“Sydney,” she addressed him cordially, “I am truly proud to have you as a sister in our sorority … you are a very beautiful girl and you took your lashing beautifully … I could say you took it like a MAN!”


It was grey and rather gloomy outside with a constant threat of rain. The time was about a quarter past eight o’clock and the date Friday the third of March. Marla Hand, garbed in one of her usual exotic guises, ultra high-heeled shoes, black leather ensemble and carrying the perennial wicked looking whip in her hand, was entertaining her guests.

Ordinarily, Brandy Strong and Louise Kane would drop in on Marla on an afternoon, without any undue ceremony, but rather perfunctorily, always sure of a warm welcome by the latter. Knowing they could count on her hospitality and partake of her generous and ample largesse.

This evening however, they were there at the specific request of Marla, who had called them the previous day and said she’d like to discuss a matter of utmost importance with them, would they come. Since her manner made it sound more like an ultimatum than a request, neither Brandy nor Louise dared refuse.

Marla Hand played the role of hostess extremely well, and upon their arrival she greeted them benevolently and most amicably.

After assisting them in removing their wraps and hanging the two outer coats in the closet, she promptly and very graciously ushered the two ladies into the living room. After seeing that they were both ensconced comfortably, she retired from the room briefly and returned bearing a tray of previously prepared cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.

“My dears,” Marla began, addressing the other two when she felt the proper moment had arrived. “I asked you here this evening because …” Marla hesitated. She seemed to be groping for the right phrase. “I want you girls to join ‘The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians’. Our annual drive for new membership began the early part of this week.”

Having said this, Marla Hand got up from the sofa and standing erect in her high-heeled shoes, looking as ominous and masterful as some strange and alien, overbearing warrior, her hand gripping the whip fiercely, she peered down at the faces of the two girls, studying their reactions.

Brandy Strong was easy enough to read.

There could be no doubt that the young lady was elated at the prospect of joining ‘The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians’. Her eyes sparkled and danced and her lips parted in a felicitous and bewitching smile, displaying large, even, pearly white teeth.

On the other hand Louise Kane remained somewhat of a mystery. If she had any thoughts on the subject, she somehow managed to throw a veil over them. Except for a slight display of nervousness, her face remained a total blank.

When she spoke, it was with a certain degree of hesitation and a look that was all serious and trenchant.
“My very dear, Maria,” she said very slowly and rather deliberately, “you know how very fond I am of you. Alongside Brandy here, I value you as my dearest friend. There is hardly a thing you asked of me, that I wouldn’t do … that is … if it were in my power to do so. But when you suggest that I join a group like ‘The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians’ I’m afraid I must decline.

You must know that I’m strongly opposed to all their aims and methods … that I’m against corporal punishment, regardless of what form or shape it takes … that I’m averse to spanking particularly.., it seems to me some sort of child’s play … I certainly wouldn’t enjoy being a recipient of the paddle or strap on my fanny … by some cocky, arrogant, imperious male … I’m amazed that that there are some who do. But, everyone to his own, I always say … as for me, Marla, in this instance I must say … and I have to use a colloquialism … include me out.” If Marla Hand was in the least perturbed, or if she had any resentment to this repudiation of her obvious intent and purpose of her cabalistic design for Brandy Strong and Louise Kane, she certainly knew how to disguise it. Calmly, but with a certain frostiness in her voice, she said quite simply, “Very well, my dear, Louise” … successfully managing to mask the glint of steel that deviated from her fossilized optics, “I’m sure ‘The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians’ will get along well enough without you.”

It wasn’t until shortly after ten o’clock, tea and croissants having been served, the application blank for membership properly filled out and signed by Brandy Strong, the rain already beating a steady tattoo on the roof tops, that the two young ladies bid a fond good night to their indulgent hostess and made their leisurely and unhurried departure.

It was coming down in torrents now and the end was nowhere in sight. It began to look as if the rain would just about last forever. The wind kept up a constant howl as it battered and beat against the doors and windows of the antiquated taxi cab with relentless velocity. A feeling of uneasiness came over Sydney Hand as he tried desperately to settle back in the rear seat of the cab, and find a comfortable sitting position. He had gallantly enough deposited Amy Young at her doorstep minutes before the cloudburst, and all hell’s fury broke loose, and now was more or less preoccupied with the problem of learning how to sit properly with a smarting, sore and painfully tender backside. He had had no opportunity as yet, to apply the balm presented to him at the conclusion of the grand function for initiates, therefore he sought and hoped for surcease by flouncing and bobbing, .and writhing, till he resembled some Mexican jumping bean. But it was all to no avail. The stinging and chafing persisted.

Another source of worry, almost equally bothersome, was how he was to get into the house without creating a racket or any other undue and especially undesirable incident. It was quite late now … way past midnight, when not even a stray cat was to be seen anywhere about, that he pinned his hopes on a prayer that his folks had already retired for the night.

Leaning forward a bit, Sydney pushed the switch of a small lamp that was attached to the back of the driver’s seat. By its dim light he opened his purse and extracted a lipstick. Then examining himself in the small mirror he applied it to his lips, after that a bit of rouge on both cheeks, a slight adjustment of his wavy blond wig, and he was satisfied. He couldn’t help smiling somewhat vainly at the pulchritudinous visage he saw reflected and his pleasure and delight knew no restraint.

The taxi slowly pulled up to the curb in front of his house. Sydney reached into his pocket, and finding nothing smaller than a twenty-dollar bill, handed it to the driver and smiling sweetly said, “You may keep the change.”

“Thank you, Miss,” the cabbie replied beaming, as Sydney let himself out and made a dash through the rain to the stoop. In two long strides he ascended, and while fumbling for his keys the cab departed.

Inserting the smallest key into the lock he quietly turned and the door slowly opened.

Sydney let himself in on tiptoe, and just as quietly locked the door behind him. Then removing his dainty high-heeled shoes he ascended the staircase in his stockinged feet, his hand leaning on the bannister.

Like a thief in the night Sydney Hand tremulously placed his hand on the knob of the door that opened to his bedroom. His palm was already beginning to sweat. The door was hardly ajar, when the darkness of the room was penetrated by a flash of lightning followed by the peal of thunder. Quickly he darted into the room and as noiselessly as possible bolted the door. Then he switched on the bedroom light … and got the shock of his life!!

There on the bed, burning with brazen and unconcealable wrath, sat his mother with a hairbrush clutched in her hand. Sydney was veritably startled out of his wits. He began to quiver and quake, and felt a weakness settle in his knees. He placed a hand on the top of the bureau to gain some support.

Marla Hand glared at her son, and a paroxysm of anger shook her to the quick.

“Sydney,” she roared, beckoning him to her lap as she after that, wordlessly directed him by pointing the hairbrush. The tears were already forming in Sydney’s eyes, and he even ventured to plead in whimpering tones, “P-please mmother,” knowing how futile and hopeless and wasted were his words.

Marla Hand got him across her lap, raised his gown, and she herself was staggered openeyed by the sight of a pair of pink panties, wilted and all the worse for wear. Frayed and shabby, certain areas would undoubtedly need patchwork before very long. Stern and sullen now, she snarled at her cowering offspring, “So, Sydney you even had to steal my best pair of silken pink panties, didn’t you? … Your father’s Bermuda shorts wouldn’t have been good enough? … well when I get through with you you’ll wish you had them on now … instead of my prized pair of beautiful panties that are a ruined mess.”

Like a flash that seemed spectral the hairbrush descended and reacted against a barrier, in this case the hind quarters of Sydney Hand.

“Ouch!” he let out a screech, in this instant he was free to do so, there being no gag in his mouth. “Ouch! Ouch!” he piped as the hairbrush, aimed good and true, again descended on its quarry. “P-please… -please.., m-mother… I’ll be good… I’ll be good… I p-promise …” Sydney wailed and blubbered, as he kicked and wriggled and shed his mournful tears, and his bottom felt like a furnace.

At last Marla Hand called for a halt to hostilities. Relenting somewhat, she thought the moment had come for an armistice of some sort.

Helping him get off her lap, she lent Sydney her kerchief, with which he dried his eyes. Then she aided him in adjusting the gown, lowering it to a point just above the ankle where it belonged.

“Sydney,” she said to him, retaining a measure of sternness in her manner, “this time when you make me a promise, I want your assurance that you’ll keep it. You’re not to vie for the championship of female impersonators any more. Is that clear? … have I your solemn word?” “Y-yes mother,” Sydney croaked contritely, a frog evidently forming in his throat, “I promise you I’ll never again put on anything that is at all effeminate.”

“Very well then, Sydney, you may come and kiss mother ‘good night’.”

Somewhat abashedly he walked over to Maria and threw his arms around her neck.

Overcome with emotion, he sobbed quietly as he planted a kiss on her cheek.

Before retiring that mght, Sydney Hand applied the lotion that that he had so gallantly earned at the sorority, Phi Alpha Epsilon. His last fervent hope, before sleep settled upon him, was that it wouldn’t take too long for the balm to work its magic and heal the scars so honorably acquired on the field of combat.

How the word of Sydney Hand’s strange escapade spread remained somewhat of a mystery. But spread it did. And its consequences were both far reaching and provocative. It brought smiles, and even guffaws to many a citizen of the township. But it also had its more sober effect. For instance, the ‘Daily Clarion’ on the sixth of April, carried the following item on its second page, at the very bottom of column five:

“Mrs. Louise Kane, long time foe of Spanking, and outspoken opponent of all those who favor corporal punishment, a long time believer in sparing the rod, last night was inducted to membership in ‘The Lyceum of Strict Disciplinarians’.
When asked about her complete about face, she simply replied, “Anyone can change her mind.., who knows… I might do it again.”

 

The End

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