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Sissy Academy, Part 8: The Visiting Mistress

By Aria Wilde · Sissy feminization erotica · 9 min read · part 8 of 13

The front door

You turn round on your knees with the wet cloth still in your hands.

The front door of Wilde Hall is standing open. Nobody came up the drive; you would have heard the gravel. But there is a woman in the hall behind you, inside the house, with one gloved hand still on the bell pull and a small leather travelling case at her feet.

She is tall and silver-haired, in a long grey coat buttoned to the throat and black riding boots polished to mirrors. She must be sixty. She stands as if the house were built around her.

"So you're the new one," she says. "Up."

You get up. Your knees are grey with stone and water, your apron is soaked, and your mouth is still red from last night. She looks at all of it, slowly, the way you looked at the silver yesterday, for smears.

"Curtsey."

You curtsey. She watches the whole thing and says nothing, which is worse than anything she could say.

Then there are bare feet on the great staircase, and Aria comes down in her white robe with her hair loose and the silver key bouncing on its chain, faster than you have ever seen her move. She stops on the bottom step.

And Headmistress Aria Wilde, who has never in your life lowered her eyes to anyone, lowers them.

"Lady Thorne," she says. "You didn't write."

"I never write, darling. It spoils the inspection." Lady Thorne pulls off one glove, finger by finger. "Breakfast, I think. And bring the girl. I want to see what you've done with my methods."

Breakfast

Breakfast is laid in the morning room, because Lady Thorne says the dining room is for people who have earned it. She takes the chair at the head of the table. Aria sits at her right hand, straight-backed, and Miss Vale and Nurse Ivy take the places further down and say nothing at all.

You serve. Coffee, toast, a soft-boiled egg in a silver cup you polished yourself. When you have poured the last cup, Lady Thorne taps the floor beside her chair with the toe of her boot.

"Kneel there. Hands behind you."

You kneel. The parquet is cold. She eats her egg.

"She's pretty," she says to Aria, as if you were a horse. "Soft in the shoulders. Is she obedient, or only frightened?"

"Both, Lady Thorne."

"Good. Frightened is where obedient starts." She sets down her spoon. "Let's see which one is in charge this morning."

Lady Thorne sets one polished boot in front of your face. "Kiss it."

You kiss the toe. The leather is cold and smells of polish and the drive. "Properly," she says, over the rim of her coffee cup, and you open your mouth and lick, slow strokes from the toe up over the laces to the ankle, then down the heel, while she drinks and the staff watch. When the first boot shines wet she gives you the second, and you start again from the toe.

"Bend forward. Cheek on the floor."

You lower your cheek to the cool parquet, hands still behind you. She lifts the back of your short pleated skirt with her teaspoon, the way she might lift the lid of a dish, and lays it over your apron bow. The air is cold on your bare bottom and the pink jewel between your cheeks.

"Pretty," she says, and draws the plug out, slowly, until you feel it stretch you and slip free with a wet pop, then pushes it back in with one firm, grinding twist that makes you gasp against the floor. Out again. In again. She does it the way she ate her egg: without hurry, without interest, until your hips are shaking.

Then her gloved hand slides between your thighs and closes around the little pink cage.

"Does it leak, Aria?"

"Constantly, Lady Thorne."

"Show me." She squeezes and weighs it in her leather palm, rolls it, presses it up against you, milking you through the bars in slow, patient pulls until a thin clear thread drips onto the parquet. You whimper. "Thank me."

"Thank you, Lady Thorne."

"Now clean my floor."

You lick the boards where you have dripped, every drop, while the silver key hangs quiet at Aria's throat and Lady Thorne asks her, conversationally, how often the girl is milked. Lady Thorne wipes her glove on your apron and goes back to her toast.

"Obedient," she says at last. "Mostly. You've been kind to her, Aria."

"Yes, Lady Thorne."

"You were never kind when I had you." Lady Thorne folds her napkin into a perfect square. "After breakfast you'll show me the schoolroom. Both of you. I want to see the lesson you're proudest of."

The schoolroom

The old schoolroom is at the top of the east wing, under the roof, where you have never been allowed. Six wooden desks with lids and inkwells, a blackboard, a tall window full of grey morning light, and on the teacher's desk a cane with a crook handle, dusty, as if it had been waiting years for one particular hand.

Lady Thorne picks it up and blows the dust off it.

"I taught her in a room exactly like this," she says to you. "She cried the first week too. Didn't you, darling?"

Aria doesn't answer. She has come up in a black leather harness under the open robe, and her cheeks are pink, and you realise with a strange hot lurch in your chest that you have never seen her be told what to do.

"Over the desk, Lacey," says Lady Thorne. "And Aria: show me. At my pace, not yours."

Aria steps behind you. Her bare feet make no sound on the worn floorboards, but you hear the creak of the harness and the soft clink of the key on its chain.

She flips your pleated skirt up over the apron bow, draws the jeweled plug out of you and, because Lady Thorne points at it with the cane, drops it into the dry inkwell on the desk beside your face. Cold lube, her fingers, two of them, opening you. Then the blunt pink head of the strap-on pressing, and pressing, and sliding in.

"Slowly," says Lady Thorne, and taps the desk once with the cane. "Slower than that. She should feel every inch of you arrive."

Aria obeys. She sinks into you a fraction at a time until her hips are against your bottom and you are full to the throat, your locked cage squashed against the desk lid.

"Now, Lacey. What is a sissy for? One line each time she moves."

Tap. Aria draws back and fills you again. "A sissy is for service, Lady Thorne."

Tap. "A sissy is for being used."

Tap. Harder now, deeper, the old desk scraping an inch across the floor. "A sissy is soft, and pretty, and locked—" You lose the count, and the cane whistles and lands across the backs of both thighs, a hot white stripe.

"From the beginning."

You start again. Lady Thorne walks round the desk while Aria fucks you, correcting her: "Lower, darling. Hold her by the collar, not the hips. There." Aria's fingers hook into the gold ring and pull your head up, and the new angle drives the pink strap-on straight into your sweet spot with every stroke, and the line you are reciting breaks into a moan. The cane lands again. You start again.

Your cage bumps the desk lid in time, leaking a little shining puddle on the wood. Aria is breathing hard behind you, her cheeks flushed, doing exactly, exactly what she is told, and you have never wanted to please anyone so much in your life.

"Enough," says Lady Thorne, and Aria stops at once, deep inside you, and waits.

Lady Thorne lays the cane across the blackboard ledge and dusts her hands.

"Adequate," she says. "She recites well. You've let her come to like it, which is a mistake, but a pretty one." She looks at Aria for a long moment. "You may take that off, darling. I'll want the girl myself tonight. The blue room."

"Yes, Lady Thorne."

When the door closes behind her, Aria stands very still in the harness. Then she bends over you, pushes the plug back where it belongs, and kisses the back of your neck once, hard, above the collar. She has never done that before.

"Whatever she asks tonight," she whispers, "you do it better than you've ever done anything for me."

The blue room

The blue room is the best guest room in the house, the one with the four-poster and the long mirror and a fire laid in the grate. At ten o'clock you knock exactly three times, wait exactly one breath, and go in.

Lady Thorne is sitting up in bed against a heap of white pillows, her silver hair down over a grey silk nightgown, reading glasses on the end of her nose and a letter in her hand. She doesn't look up.

"Aria tells me you've been in her ear since your first night," she says. "Her voice, every evening, telling you who you are. That's the trouble with voices. They wear smooth." She takes off the glasses and folds them. "Mine doesn't."

She turns back the sheet.

Lady Thorne draws the grey silk up over her hips and opens her thighs on the white sheet. "Here," she says, and when you crawl up the bed she takes you by the gold ring of your collar and pulls your face down between her legs.

She is warm and already wet, and she smells of lavender soap and herself. You kiss her first, softly, the way Aria taught you, and then you lick, long slow strokes from the bottom to the top, until her fingers tighten in the ring.

"Ten," she says. Her voice is low and even, like a clock in another room. "You are empty."

You find her clit with your lips and suck it gently. "Nine. You are soft. Eight. You are a mouth, and a cage, and nothing else." Each number is slower than the last. She does not move her hips at all; she only holds the ring and lets the words go into you one at a time, as if she were laying them on a shelf. "Seven. Every word sinks a little deeper. Six. You don't need to think. Thinking is for the women in this house."

The firelight blurs. Your tongue keeps moving on its own, circling, flicking, pressing flat, and your mind goes quiet and warm and far away. Between your thighs the little pink cage throbs and dribbles on the sheet, and you hardly feel it.

"Five. Four. Deeper. Three."

Her breath catches at last. Her thighs close around your head and she comes slowly and hard against your tongue, one long shudder, her fingers twisted in your collar, holding you there through all of it. And afterwards she does not let go. She keeps talking, softly, the words sliding in where nothing can reach them.

"Two. One. Who do you belong to, Lacey?"

"Yes, Lady Thorne," you hear yourself say. It is the only answer you have left.

"Good girl." She strokes your hair once. "Wake up now, Lacey," she says, and snaps her fingers once.

You blink. The fire has burned down to embers. Your mouth is wet, your cheek is on her thigh, and you cannot remember the last half hour at all, only her voice, and the feeling that something has been moved inside you, like furniture in the night.

Lady Thorne picks up the letter again and puts her glasses back on.

"This came for your headmistress yesterday," she says. "From the Board. Wilde Hall's examinations are due, and the Board has asked me to set them." She smiles for the first time since she arrived, and it is not a kind smile at all. "Exam week begins Monday. Written, oral and practical."

"Yes, Lady Thorne."

"Every girl at this house who fails my examinations comes home with me." She looks at you over the glasses. "And so does her headmistress."