Anonymous - Miss High-heels:the story of a rich but girlish young gentleman under the control of his pretty step-sister and her aunt

"You knew that?" I gasped. I was astounded.

"I guessed it from your ways. It is not unusual in girlish boys. But it's important that I should know how the idea first came into your head."

"Oh, Miss. Priscilla, I can't answer you. It isn't a fair question. I won't answer," I cried out passionately.

"In that case," she said looking at me with a malicious smile as she rose from her chair, "in that case Miss. Satin Slippers must have her pretty face slapped again."

"Oh, no, Miss. Priscilla! I can't endure it. I won't have my face slapped again," I cried, and before she even raised a hand to touch me, I burst into a flood of tears and turned away.

"Stand still, Miss. Satin Slippers," she said fiercely, coming towards me.

"No, no, I won't," I sobbed passionately. I stamped my feet in a rage as much as the chain around my thighs allowed me to do, and then I tried to run away. She seized me at once. My hands were handcuffed, I could do nothing to defend myself.

"How dare you move?" she hissed, her voice frightening me. "Do you think that we dress you up in the finest silk stockings specially woven for you at ten guineas the pair and have your shoes cut and finished and buckled in the most exquisite style with the daintiest heels for you to stamp at us in them?"

At her quiet tones my anger vanished. A fresh flood of tears burst from me remorsefully. "Oh, Miss. Priscilla, I didn't mean to be impertinent to you." I sobbed, and in a fit of penitence, I, the fashionably dressed Miss. Satin Slippers, as she termed me, buried my face in her bosom.

She took me in her arms and patted my white bare shoulders soothingly. "There, there, Denise!" she said gently. "Don't pull at your handcuffs, dear, like that; you can't get them off and you will only spoil your nice gloves. Come dry your eyes."

She dried them with her handkerchief, holding me affectionately in her arms.

"You forgive me, then?" I said imploringly.

She shook her head.

"You must be cured for your own sake, Denise, of these foolish fits of passion. You must recognize the necessity of having your pretty feet punished before your face is slapped."

"Punish my feet?" I exclaimed, a queer thrill of pleasure shooting through me even at that moment, as I looked down at them. "In these shoes and stockings?"

"Yes."

In the corner by the fire, with its back to the wall, stood a chair upholstered in white satin and gold, a solid chair with arms. To it was attached a pair of stocks for the legs. She placed me in the chair, turned back my skirt, and opened the stocks.

"Put your legs in the stocks."

The stocks were made of polished mahogany, the holes lined and padded with satin so that they could hold the legs in a vice and yet not tear the most delicate of silk stockings. I put my legs in the grooves. Miss. Priscilla shut down and locked the upper plank of the stocks and wheeled a big three-sided mirror in front of me. I could see my ankles and feet sticking out from the stocks in their dazzling finery of high heels and diamond buckles and lace. There was not a mark on the new white soles. They were the slippers of a wealthy debutante and I was going to be punished in them. My blood frothed and boiled with erotic anticipation.

Miss. Priscilla kneeled and took my right foot in her hand and, in an instant, piercing shrieks from my lips rang through the room. She bent down my instep until I was sure that the bones must snap. Then she twisted it to the right until I was certain my ankle must break, then again to the left.

"Oh, please, Miss. Priscilla, this is dreadful. It's torture! Oh, oh, my foot! You have lamed me for life."

But she was a doctor. She knew exactly how far she could punish me without breaking bones or spraining sinews. Then she clasped my leg just above the ankle in both hands and sawed her hands different ways, pinching my tender flesh and provoking screams from me. Then she took the slippers delicately off my foot and whipped the bottoms of my feet with a little whalebone rod until I yelled again through a blinding storm of tears. She replaced the slipper and treated the left foot in the same way. She released my legs and said, "Your feet won't forget that lesson very quickly, Denise. Stand up!"

"Oh, my feet are too tender."

She forced me to stand. To touch the ground tortured me.

"Go back to your place. Will you stand quietly while I slap your face?"

"Yes, Miss. Priscilla." I wept but kept my eyes lowered humbly.

She smacked me cruelly again until my cheeks were fiery red, and I thought my sobs would choke me.

"Now we will get back to business, Denise."

She sat down calmly in her chair, and looked at me hard. "When did you first feel that you wanted ladies to dress you as a girl and punish you?"

"When my governess took me over her knee to punish me. I was seven years old. While she slapped me, I was looking down and I saw just below me her feet which were shaped very prettily and shod in elegant buttoned patent leather boots with high heels."

Miss. Priscilla nodded and said, "I thought it would be something like that. You understand now, Denise, why we dressed you in girls' clothes and are subjecting you to discipline. If you loved the mere idea of it, how much more would the real thing appeal to you! How much more easily you could be subdued and held in subjection!"

Yes, the whole terrible plot these two women had concocted to turn me into their willing prisoner was now revealed to me, yet I seemed incapable to resist it. Miss. Priscilla rose, clasped my waist, and caressed my bosom.

"You are not going to give us much trouble, Miss. Satin Slippers."

She took the handcuffs and chain from me.

"Stand in the corner until I am ready for you. Put your face to the wall, your dainty heels together, your hands behind you."

I obeyed. I heard Miss. Priscilla moving the furniture. She led me out of the corner and stood me between two long mirrors. I saw a high stool of solid mahogany. It had a padded seat of black leather, and at the edge of the seat, there were white satin straps to tie down the legs above the knees. In the front of the solid stool, a little bar of steel with a ring at the end of it jutted out for an inch or two just at the place where the ankles would be if anyone were sitting on the stool. It had a flat back padded with white satin, and arms stretching out in the form of a cross rose behind the chair. At the extremities of the arms of the stool, little handcuffs were fixed to hold the arms extended.

"I think your stockings can be drawn tighter up your legs, Denise."

Miss. Priscilla raised my skirt and carefully strained the fragile stockings up over my knees, shortening the suspenders.

"Now mount the stool," she commanded me.

She placed a little gold footstool in front of me, and I climbed onto the stool by means of it. I sat on the stool with my legs dangling. She took away the gilt footstool. She strapped my waist with a leather strap tightly to the back of the stool, and extending my gloved arms one on each side, fixed them with the handcuffs to the cross. I allowed it all timidly.

"You need not be frightened, Denise. I am not going to hurt you."

She fondled my bosom with her gloved hands and kissed me for a long time. I was terribly excited. I waited in an extraordinary suspense. Then she tucked up my skirt in front and underneath me until my white satin garters with the big bows and buckles and the lace frills of my drawers were exposed. She strapped my thighs down together to the edge of the seat just above the garters, so that my knees, showing delicately pink through the filmy sheen of the tightly strained stockings, projected a little beyond the seat, and my feet hung down clear of the little steel bar and ring.

"Can you move them? Try!" Miss. Priscilla mocked me.