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Sissy Academy, Part 6: The Uniform Inspection

By Aria Wilde · Sissy feminization erotica · 10 min read · part 6 of 11

After hours

For one wild second you think it is the other key.

This is not the little silver one. It is long and brass and old, and when Aria holds it up to the firelight you see that it has hung on the same chain all along, hidden behind the first. The little silver one is still there at her throat. It stays there.

"Disappointed?" she asks.

You shake your head too fast. She laughs.

"Liar. Come."

She leads you out of the drawing room and up the main stairs, past the dormitory, to the far end of the east wing, where there is a door you were told on your first day never to touch. The brass key turns in it with a sound like a held breath let go.

Inside is a small room papered in pale pink. A narrow white bed. A dressing table with a round mirror and a row of lipsticks. And a second door, standing half open, through which you can see a much larger bed, black silk sheets, and the headmistress's slippers on a white fur rug.

"Your room adjoins mine," Aria says. "When I call, you come. When I don't call, you wait. You'll find you can hear everything through that door, and I'll find I can hear everything through it too." She sits down on the end of her own bed, still in the black silk dress, and kicks off one shoe. "After-hours girls wear their uniform from the inside out. Fetch the velvet box from the dressing table."

Aria opens the velvet box. Inside, on white satin, lies a pink jeweled steel plug, its facets catching the firelight like a drop of trapped wine. She pats her lap. You lie face down across it, your bare bottom raised over the black silk, your locked cage pressed against her thigh, and she takes her time. Two slick fingers circle your hole, slowly, until your hips twitch, then slide inside and spread you while she hums to herself. "Breathe out," she murmurs, and presses the cool steel against you. It stretches you wide at the widest point, wider, and then it pops inside and seats itself, and the jewel sits snug between your cheeks. She twists it. She taps the gem with one red nail, tap, tap, and every tap rings deep inside you until you moan into the silk and squirm on her knee. "Look at you," she whispers, feeling the warm wet seep from your cage onto her dress. "Leaking for me already, and you'll never be allowed a real orgasm."

She lets you slide down onto the white fur rug. You kneel again, then drop to your forearms, and she offers you her bare foot. You kiss it. You kiss each toe one by one and suck them slowly into your red-smeared mouth, then work your lips up over her ankle and along the sheer stocking on her calf, while she sets the sole of her other foot against your locked cage. The warm arch presses the pink bars flat against you and begins to rub, slow and patient, back and forth, until the clear drops you can't stop come dribbling through the cage onto the fur. "This is what after hours means," she says, her voice thick with satisfaction. "You live next door to me, and you drip on my rug, and you say thank you."

"Thank you," you whisper against her toes. The cage stays locked, the little silver key hanging at her throat, and the jewel shifts inside you every time you rock forward to kiss her. Aria lifts her foot away from your cage and studies the wet mark on her sole.

"Lick," she says.

You lick it clean.

"Bed," she says, and points through the door to the narrow white one. "Uniform inspection is at seven. Don't be late, and don't be wrong."

You lie awake a long time with the jewel pressing inside you, listening to her breathe through the half-open door.

The uniform

The uniform is laid out on the dressing table when you wake, though you did not hear anyone come in.

Madame Celeste made it; you can tell by the stitching. A black satin corset that laces up the back and stops just under your nipples so they stay bare. A white garter belt. White stockings with a black seam running straight up the back of each leg. A pleated black skirt so short it is less a skirt than a suggestion. White patent heels with tiny gold locks on the ankle straps. And a collar of soft pink leather with a gold ring at the front and a tag engraved with one word: LACEY.

There is a card in Aria's handwriting. Seams straight. Lips red. Hands behind your back. Every morning, for the rest of term.

Dressing takes you forty minutes. You lace the corset yourself, reaching behind you, until your breath comes high and shallow. The seams will not lie straight. You paint your lips three times. When you finally buckle the collar and look in the round mirror, a stranger looks back: a tiny waist, a bare chest, a red mouth, and a skirt that does nothing at all to hide the little pink cage beneath it.

She is very pretty. She is also going to be late.

Inspection

They are waiting in the front hall at the foot of the great staircase, in a line: Nurse Ivy with her clipboard, Madame Celeste with a tape measure around her neck, Miss Vale with her crop, and at the end of the line, in a chair carried in for the purpose, Aria, with her coffee.

"Two minutes late," says Miss Vale.

"Stand on the mark, Lacey," says Aria.

There is a little brass star set into the marble floor. You stand on it. Hands behind your back. Chin up. Heels together. The jewel shifts inside you as you settle, and your face goes hot, and every woman in the hall watches it go hot.

Madame Celeste goes first. She walks around you twice without touching you, then measures your waist and announces it to the room. Then she kneels, which you have never once seen her do, and runs her thumb up the back of your left leg along the seam, and stops at the top.

"Crooked," she says. "Half a centimetre."

"Nurse," says Aria. "Your turn."

Nurse Ivy snaps on a glove.

She steps behind you without hurry, and the rubber of her glove creaks as she flexes her fingers. "Bend, please. Over the post."

You bend. The newel post at the foot of the great staircase is carved oak, cool and polished, and it presses into your belly just below the edge of the corset while your bare nipples hang in the chill of the hall. Nurse Ivy flips the short pleated skirt up over your back with one finger. The white stockings, the garter straps, the jewel winking between your cheeks: everything is on display, and the whole line of women leans in a little to see it.

"Plug first," she says. She takes the jewel between finger and thumb and draws it out slowly, very slowly, so that your hole stretches around the widest part and clings to it and finally lets it go with a soft wet sound. Somebody in the line laughs. She looks, tilting her head. "Lovely. She's opened up nicely overnight." She pushes the plug back in just as slowly, until it seats itself again and your toes curl inside your heels, and then she draws it out once more and sets it on the post beside your cheek. Two gloved fingers slide into you in its place, deep, curling, pressing on the spot that makes your legs shake, and she holds them there until a whimper escapes you. "Responsive," she notes. "Good tone. Still tight enough to be useful."

The crop taps the back of your bare thigh. "Still," says Miss Vale. You hold still.

Nurse Ivy works the plug back into you, then reaches between your legs from behind and cups the little pink cage in her palm. She tests the lock with her thumb: closed. She squeezes the bars gently, then weighs everything in her hand as if she were weighing fruit at a market. "Swollen," she announces to the room. "Very full. And leaking." She lets the cage swing free, and everyone watches a long clear thread stretch from the tip and fall onto the white marble. The crop taps again, the other thigh, because you have started to tremble. Nurse Ivy peels off her glove and writes something long on the clipboard.

"Posture," says Miss Vale, and does not wait to be invited. The crop touches your knees, your bottom, your chin, and every touch corrects something you did not know was wrong.

"Acceptable," she says.

"So." Aria sets her cup down on its saucer. "One crooked seam." She looks along the line. "It's your seam, Celeste. Your correction."

Madame Celeste smooths the front of her long grey skirt with both hands, very slowly, and something in the hall goes still.

"On your back, Lacey," she says. "On the mark."

You lie down on your back on the cold marble, right on the brass star. The short black skirt rucks up around your waist. The corset holds you stiff and straight, the pink collar tight under your chin, and the little locked cage lies exposed on your belly for anyone who wants to look. The plug presses deep inside you against the stone.

Madame Celeste gathers her long grey skirt in both hands and steps over you, one heel on each side of your head. For a moment you see her from below, the grey stockings, the bare pale thighs above them. Then she lowers herself, and the wool falls over your face like a curtain, and the hall is gone. There is only darkness and warmth and the scent of her, and her full weight settling on your mouth.

"Tongue out," she says from somewhere above. "Flat. Now slowly."

You lick her slowly. She is already wet, and she tastes faintly of soap and salt. She moves her hips half an inch forward, then back, so that your tongue finds exactly the place she wants it to find. "There. Stay there. Again." Her instructions come clipped and exact, the way she gives measurements in the fitting room: slower, firmer, there, no, there. She decides when you breathe. She lifts a fraction, lets you gasp one mouthful of air under the wool, and sits down again.

Outside the darkness, Miss Vale's crop lands across your bare thighs. "One," she says. Then a pause, and another stripe. "Two." You moan into Celeste, and she rewards the moan by grinding down in small, controlled circles. "Six. Seven." Your cage throbs and dribbles onto your belly, and the plug shifts inside you every time your hips jerk.

"Deeper," says Celeste. "Suck. Yes." Her thighs begin to tighten around your head, slowly, steadily, until you can hear nothing but your own heartbeat. She comes the way she does everything: quietly, precisely, barely a sound, one long shiver and a small sharp breath, her wetness spreading across your lips and chin. "Ten," says Miss Vale. Madame Celeste rises, shakes out her skirt, and the hall comes back in a rush of light.

Dismissed

You lie on the marble and breathe.

Madame Celeste kneels a second time, takes your left stocking at the ankle and, with two precise tugs, straightens the seam. "There," she says. "Now it's right."

"Up," says Aria.

You get up. It takes two tries. Your thighs are striped pink, your face is wet and shining, and the staff look at you the way they look at a room that has finally been cleaned properly.

Aria crosses the hall with her cup in one hand. With the other she hooks one finger through the gold ring on your collar and draws you close, close enough to smell her coffee and her perfume.

"Passed," she says. "Barely. Tomorrow you'll be early."

"Yes, Headmistress."

"Tomorrow you'll also be working." She lets go of the ring and holds out her hand, and Nurse Ivy places something in it: a small white apron, starched and frilled, with a pocket at the front. Aria ties it around your waist herself, over the pleated skirt, and pulls the bow tight enough to make you gasp.

"Mrs Hart, who keeps this house, has gone to her sister's for a week," she says. "Somebody has to polish the silver, bring the staff their tea, and come when they ring, for whatever they ring for."

She slips a folded card into the apron pocket.

"Your duties. Read them in your room. All of them. Especially the last line."

You don't wait. Halfway up the great staircase you take the card out and unfold it, and your eyes go straight to the bottom of the list, where someone has added a line in Miss Vale's sharp, slanting hand:

Midnight. The laundry room. Come exactly as you are.