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Sissy Academy, Part 9: Exam Week

By Aria Wilde · Sissy feminization erotica · 9 min read · part 9 of 14

The written paper

Exam week begins Monday. At eight o'clock exactly you climb to the old schoolroom under the roof in your full uniform, plug seated, cage locked, and find a single desk set in the middle of the floor with the other five pushed back against the walls.

On the desk: a bottle of black ink, a steel-nibbed pen, and an examination paper folded once.

Lady Thorne sits at the teacher's desk with her reading glasses on and the cane laid across the blotter. Aria stands at the window with her back to the room. She wears a plain grey dress buttoned to the throat, the silver key outside it on its chain.

"Your headmistress is invigilating," says Lady Thorne. "She may not speak to you, look at you or help you. If she does, you both fail. You have two hours. Begin."

You unfold the paper.

Question 1. Write your name, and the name you had before.

You write Lacey. The pen hovers over the second line for a long time. Then you leave it blank, because you can't remember, and that frightens you more than the cane.

Question 4. Who holds the key, and why?

Question 7. Describe, in no fewer than two hundred words, what you are for.

Question 12. What do you want?

You answer every question in your best round hand, and the only sound in the room is the nib scratching and, once, Aria's breath catching at the window when you write the answer to question four.

At ten o'clock Lady Thorne collects the paper and marks it in front of you in red pencil. Tick. Tick. Tick. At question twelve she stops.

You had written: To please Aria.

She draws one neat line through it and writes underneath, in a sharp grey hand: Incomplete.

"Every woman in this house," she says, without looking up. "Not one. You'll learn the difference by Wednesday, or you'll learn it at mine."

The oral

Wednesday's examination is held in the drawing room, and the examiners are already seated when you come in.

Miss Vale on the green chaise. Nurse Ivy in the wing chair by the fire. Madame Celeste, back from the city for the week, in the window seat with her long legs crossed. Lady Thorne stands by the clock with a silver stopwatch in her palm and a marking card in the other hand. Aria sits apart, on a hard chair by the door, hands folded in her lap.

"The oral examination," says Lady Thorne, "is exactly what it sounds like. Three examiners. Each of them marks you out of ten. You go when I click, and you stop when she's finished, not before." She looks at you over her glasses. "Kneel."

Lady Thorne clicks the stopwatch, and you crawl to the green chaise.

Miss Vale has hiked her black skirt to her waist and opened her thighs, and she takes your collar by the gold ring and pulls your face straight into her. She is already wet. You lick her slowly from bottom to top, the way she likes it, long flat strokes, then close your lips around her clit and suck. "Slower," she says, and tugs the ring, and you slow. Her thighs tighten around your ears. She comes with a sharp breath and one hard grind against your mouth, and lets go of you as if you were a napkin. "Eight," she says to the room.

Click. You crawl to the wing chair.

Nurse Ivy keeps her white stockings on. She hooks one leg over the arm of the chair, spreads herself open with two fingers and says, "Tongue out, sweetheart, and keep it there." You do, and she rides it, grinding her pussy up and down your flat tongue, using your face, while the toe of her shoe finds the little pink cage between your knees and presses it flat against you. She rocks the shoe in time with her hips. The cage throbs and leaks onto the carpet. When she comes she laughs, breathless, and wipes her heel on your stocking. "Ten. She's a lovely little mouth."

Click. The window seat.

Madame Celeste uncrosses her long legs and lies back on the cushions. "The marble," she says. "Exactly as I taught you." You push your tongue deep inside her and keep your nose pressed on her clit, fucking her with your tongue in slow, deep strokes, breathing through her, your chin soaked and your jaw aching. She holds your head in both hands and comes hard on your face, thighs shaking, gasping in French. Your cage dribbles steadily through the bars. You thank her. You thank all three of them, hoarse, your mouth sticky to the nose.

Lady Thorne clicks the stopwatch for the last time and writes a number on her card.

"Twenty-nine," she says. "Out of thirty. Celeste docked you a mark for looking at the door."

You hadn't known you were looking. You look at the carpet now. Aria, on her hard chair, has not moved at all, but her knuckles are white in her lap.

"Friday," says Lady Thorne, "is the practical. Get some sleep, Lacey. You'll need your legs."

The practical

The practical is held in the ballroom, which has not been opened since you came. The parquet has been waxed until it shines like water, and in the middle of it stands a single straight-backed dining chair with no arms, facing the long gilt mirror on the far wall.

Madame Celeste is sitting on it in a black leather harness and black silk stockings and nothing else. The strap-on rising from the harness is the largest you have ever seen at Wilde Hall: long, thick and glossy black, already shining with lube.

Lady Thorne sets a heavy leather-bound book on your head.

"Deportment, obedience and capacity," she says. "All at once. The book stays on. Your hands stay behind your back. You will keep your eyes on the mirror and tell it what you are, the way you wrote it on Monday. If the book falls, we begin again. If you stop talking, we begin again. Celeste."

"With pleasure," says Madame Celeste, and pats her thigh.

Lady Thorne draws the jeweled plug out of you with two gloved fingers and sets it on the windowsill.

"Down," she says. "Facing the mirror. No hands."

You step backwards between Madame Celeste's knees, hands clasped behind you, the book heavy on your crown, and bend your legs. The blunt black head finds your hole and stops there. Madame Celeste holds the base steady and lets you do it yourself. You sink an inch, and the stretch is enormous, a slow burning fullness that pries you open around the thick shaft. Another inch. Your thighs shake. The book tilts and you freeze until it settles. Another, and another, until you are sitting on her lap with all of it buried inside you, filled so deep you can feel it under your navel.

"One," says Lady Thorne. "Up. Two. Down."

You ride. Up until only the head is left inside you, down until her harness presses your bottom, at the pace she counts, while you tell the mirror what you are. "A sissy is for service. A sissy is for being used. A sissy is soft and pretty and locked." In the glass your mouth hangs open and red, your bare nipples are tight above the corset, and the little pink cage bounces against your thighs with every stroke, swinging long clear threads onto the waxed parquet.

Madame Celeste grips your hips and begins to thrust up to meet you, hard and deep, pinching your nipples, slapping the insides of your thighs until they glow. "Faster, Lady Thorne?" "Faster." The count quickens. The strap-on drives against your sweet spot on every downstroke and your cage leaks and leaks, locked and useless. The book wobbles. You hold your neck stiff, your eyes on the mirror, the words coming out of you in gasps.

At the edge of the room, Aria watches in her grey dress and does not move.

The book is still on your head when Lady Thorne finally says, "Stop."

Madame Celeste lifts you off by the hips, slowly, and sets you on your shaking feet. The book stays on. Lady Thorne takes it from your head herself and tucks it under her arm.

"Pass," she says. Just that. Then she turns to the edge of the room. "Aria. My study. Now."

Through the study door you hear Lady Thorne's voice, low and even, going on and on, and Aria answering only Yes, Lady Thorne.

When Aria comes out her eyes are dry and her mouth is very red, and she walks past you without a word.

The trance paper

The last paper is set on Saturday night, and it isn't written anywhere.

Lady Thorne has had the blue room's fire built high and the long mirror turned to face the bed. Nurse Ivy is waiting beside it with a tray of gloves and a bottle of lube. Aria sits in the armchair by the hearth in her grey dress, as she was told to.

"The Board," says Lady Thorne, "is not interested in what a girl says when she's awake. Anyone can learn the answers. I want to know what's underneath." She pats the white sheet. "Lie back, Lacey. Look at me. Ivy will make you leak. I will tell you when."

Lady Thorne sits on the edge of the bed beside your head and hooks one finger through the gold ring of your collar.

"Ten," she says, low and even. "Your legs are heavy. Nine. Your arms are heavy. Eight. Every word goes down, and you go down with it."

The fire blurs. The ceiling blurs. Between your spread knees Nurse Ivy snaps on a fresh glove, pours lube over two fingers and slides them into you without a word, deep, curling them up until they find the soft swollen spot inside and press. You moan. "Seven," says Lady Thorne. "Six. You don't need to think. Five." Nurse Ivy strokes, slow and firm, milking you from inside, and her other hand closes around the little pink cage and squeezes the bars. By "one" there is nothing left in your head but the voice and the fingers.

"Leak," says Lady Thorne.

You do. It simply happens, a warm clear trickle from the tip of the cage onto your belly, and you whimper.

"Stop."

You stop. You don't know how. Nurse Ivy keeps rubbing, harder now, three slow strokes, four, and you hold it, trembling, your thighs shaking against her wrists, the cage swollen and aching in her fist. "Yes, Lady Thorne," you hear yourself say. "Yes, Lady Thorne."

"Leak."

It pours out of you. Long clear threads run from the bars down across your belly and onto the white sheet while Nurse Ivy milks you without mercy, fingers deep, palm squeezing, and you beg and thank and beg, and the cage holds, locked and tight, and nothing comes of it but more. "Lovely," says Nurse Ivy softly. "She's emptying."

"Stop." You stop. "Leak." You leak. Again, and again, until you are only a body that obeys a voice. In the armchair by the fire, Aria sits very still.

"Last question," Lady Thorne murmurs. "Who do you belong to, Lacey?"

The answer comes up out of you before you know it is there, from somewhere under the counting and the fire and Nurse Ivy's patient fingers.

"Aria," you say.

The room goes very still. In the armchair Aria makes a small sound, and covers her mouth.

Lady Thorne looks down at you for a long time. Then she snaps her fingers, and the room comes back: the heat of the fire, the wet sheet, your own red face in the mirror.

"Well," she says. "That's honest, at least."

"Results," she says. "The girl passes. Written, oral, practical: all passed. The trance paper she answered truthfully, which is all I ever ask." She turns to the fire. "The headmistress fails."

Aria stands up. "Lady Thorne—"

"You've made her yours, darling, and only yours. That isn't training." Lady Thorne caps her pen. "Graduation is next Saturday night. The Board will attend. At Wilde Hall the graduate is presented in white and at the end of the ceremony her key is presented too."

She holds out her open hand to Aria, palm up, and waits.

"To her new keyholder," says Lady Thorne.

And Aria's fingers go slowly to the silver chain around her throat.