I had just hit the best homerun of my life. I tore through the bases, not watching the ball as it soared above the head of the outfielder. As I reached third base, the pitcher had gotten the ball. I could risk it all, or play it safe. I decided to go for it. As I sprinted toward home plate, the pitcher threw the ball to the catcher with incredible accuracy. I slid onto the base, just before the ball found its home in the catcher’s mitt. The crowd roared. I had won the tournament for the team. I, Wade Peters, was a hero.
The horrible ringing of the alarm clock woke me from my slumber. My eyes opened to stare into the soft pink ceiling.
The dream ended, and the nightmare begun.
I rolled out of my large pink bed, throwing the stuffed animals I slept with aside as I walked over to the pink dresser in the corner of my room. I opened the top drawer to peruse my collection of panties selecting a ruffled white pair. Next, I pulled a pair of white stockings up my legs, feeling the smooth caress of the silk against my hairless legs. Then, I went into the bathroom to begin my vanity routine. After I had brushed my teeth, I applied multiple skin-softening oils and creams to my face and rubbed my armpits with women’s deodorant. Now I was ready to get started on my makeup. I broke out the makeup kit from the closet behind me and got to work. When I was done, I inspected myself in the mirror. My eyelashes were long and curled, giving a nice feminine look to my brown eyes. My lips were coated in a thick helping of red lipstick. Blush sat lightly on my cheeks, and all of the rough edges of my face had been softened by an extensive use of foundation and bronzer.
I turned my attention to my long black hair, trying to get it into the perfect high feminine ponytail. I patted my ponytail multiple times, checking to see if it had the appropriate girlish bounce and volume. Satisfied, I stepped into the large walk-in closet to get my school uniform. Inside the closet were a plethora of girly dresses and skirts. I selected a blue skirt and a white blouse with long, flowing sleeves and frilled shoulders. I pulled the skirt up around my waist and buttoned up my blouse as I went to grab my next article of clothing. A pink jumper with a male symbol on the back went over the blouse, serving as a stinging reminder to my male status. I grabbed a pink ribbon from the shelf and tied it in a big floppy bow around my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror and primped my outfit to perfection. I slid on a pair of black maryjanes as I took in my helplessly feminine room. The walls and ceiling were all painted in a feminine soft pink. In one corner, a full bed with a pink bedspread was placed. On the bed were multiple fluffy pillows and stuffed animals to reinforce my new prissy status. A fluffy pink carpet rested on the floor, and the large pink dresser against the wall stood as a reminder of my constant femininity. The large mirror on the wall housed a hidden camera that recorded my every action, forcing me to complete my feminine routine every morning or face punishment.
I should probably explain my situation. For the past month, I’ve been attending the Academy for Petulant Males, or the APM. The APM’s existence is completely secret, but it shares a building with a prestigious fashion school, the Alhama School of Fashion and Design, an extremely selective all-girls boarding school. The schools are located on a relatively unknown island off the west coast of America. At the APM, the boys are fully immersed in a sissified lifestyle. They suffer constant punishment and humiliation from both the adults at the school and the female students they share the building with, who are actively encouraged to bully, haze, and torture their male counterparts as much as they like. When I arrived at the APM, I had been sent there by my mother after I was caught smoking with my friends outside of the baseball diamond. She thought that sending me to a correctional school would be the best choice to turn me into a functioning member of society. When I arrived at the school, I was surprised at how grand it looked. The twenty-three boys were taken into a large room, where we were instructed to strip off all of our clothes. This was when I knew something wasn’t right here. We then walked through a door and into an auditorium full of jeering girls, and were forced to march down the row and receive an item from Ms. Tracey, the school’s headmistress. That item was a pair of panties, which we were forced to put on and stand in front of the girls as they hurled insults at us.
Later, we were taken to the school beautician, Mrs. Stork. Mrs. Stork and her team of skilled salon assistants gave every boy a makeover, involving a new feminine hairdo and full makeup, along with the complete removal of all body hair. Us boys were mortified as we were forced to change into our new school uniform. The facilities at the APM are ridiculously nice. A massive costuming warehouse is available, with many custom sissy outfits coming straight from the shadowy S.I.S.S. Institute, ready to force their ridiculous frills and ruffles onto an unsuspecting boy. Normally, the boys’ school uniform is as I described as I prepared myself for the morning, but some weeks Ms. Tracey will announce a costumed theme for the week, with each costume bringing new rules and conditions for us to follow. Stepford week put us all in housewife dresses, fluffy petticoats, and pearl necklaces, addressing each woman we met as ‘ma’am’ and cooking and serving meals to the girls during mealtimes. Baby week was awful nonstop humiliation, the boys being taunted by the girls as they struggled to waddle down the hall while wearing multiple diapers. During every sissy’s weekly disciplinary report, Ms. Sharp, the head of discipline, can decide to modify your outfit for additional humiliation if you’ve been acting up. Additionally, any girl can request to “Sponsor” a sissy and choose his outfit for a week. If you think we would get used to the humiliation, we don’t. The constant changing into new humiliating outfits keeps us from becoming used to one. The school gives weekly tours to visitor groups who walk the halls and laugh at the sissy boys, keeping our shame fresh as our egos are being damaged by the gazes of new tormentors every time.
The school functions on a rigid mark system for discipline. A sissy gets a mark for being out of line or breaking etiquette in any way. This could mean not chewing their food 21 times before swallowing, failing to apply proper makeup and beauty treatments, failing to curtsey before a superior, forgetting elements of their outfit for the week, and so on. At the end of the week, each sissy goes to Ms. Sharp for a disciplinary evaluation. Ms. Sharp reviews both the camera footage of the sissy that week and written “marks” that could be submitted by girls or teachers any time. Very few, and the boy will be allowed to have a “boy day” that week, meaning they can wear male clothing provided to them by the school for that week. Many, and the boy will be put into a special outfit that week, selected by Ms. Sharp to be the most painful and deliciously embarrassing for the boy in question. We will also be given seasonal outfits on certain days. During warm summer days, the boys have the option of dressing like spoiled teen sluts in crop tops and yoga pants. During the winter, I was put in a fur pom-pom shaped hat, mittens, a scarf, and a fur-fringed dress with a multitude of petticoats by a group of girls who demanded I bundle up for the winter. The girls at the school attend normal high school classes; Algebra, English, Art, along with classes about fashion. The sissies, on the other hand, took classes like “Being ladylike 1”, “Ballroom Dancing”, “History of Damsels in Distress”, and so on. I was forced onto the cheerleading team by Ms. Tracey, where we don ridiculously skimpy outfits and perform incredibly humiliating dances with pink pom-poms in our hands. It was hell, and the administration at the APM made sure we always remembered our place as males. They didn’t want to turn us into girls, just the most feminine, humiliated boys we could be.
I walked down the pink hallway. I moved with a measured gait, placing one foot in front of the other and swaying my hips to be in perfect feminine form. As I walked into the building’s extensive cafeteria, I saw many girls and sissies rushing to breakfast. I stepped into the cafeteria to see that a banquet was laid out before me. Eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, stacks of pancakes, all sat on large platters, their delicious aromas wafting through my nostrils, sending me into ecstasy. it was glorious. My mouth started to water as I stared at the massive table with its assortment of delicious food atop it. A voice broke my trance.
“What are you looking at, pansy boy?” A girl sitting at the table said smugly to me. My hands grabbed my skirt and my knee bobbed in a quick curtsey before I walked over to the smaller pink tables in the corner of the room. I sat down on the pink stools, making sure to smooth my skirts and straighten my posture, and looked at what was on the table. A feast of white rice, carrots, celery, cherries, chickpeas, pomegranates and alfalfa stared coldly back at me. The boys at APM were deprived of all meat, only allowed to eat foods, mostly vegetables, with high estrogen content. It was tantalizing to see the girls munching away at their protein-packed breakfast while I shoveled another spoonful of cold rice into my mouth. A hand slammed my back and I recoiled, letting loose a girlish shriek as my plate clattered to the floor.
“Sissy!” Shouted the voice of Ally Bachman. Ally was a girl I had known in middle school who just happened to attend the same academy I now occupied. I remained silent, making sure to chew my food the required 21 times before swallowing.
“Oh Wanda!” Ally yelled again. “We have to have a little chat!” I remained still, taking a slow sip from my glass of soy milk. She placed her hands on my shoulder. “Well, Wanda, you always were a big pansy, weren’t you?” She asked smugly.
“Yes Ally.” I whimpered in a high, whispery voice that all sissies at the PHM were instructed to use. As Ms. Tracey said “A touch of testosterone is a touch too many for your vocal chords!” I sat submissively as Ally paced around me.
“You look hungry, Wanda.” She spoke slowly, as if she were measuring her words to prolong this encounter. “You should eat more”
“I’ve eaten enough, Ally.” I said softly. She placed her hands on her shoulders and began to squeeze.
“I don’t think you have, Wanda. How are we ever going to fatten you up if you’re eating like this?” I began to quake, my weak feminine body failing to resist the pain of her hands clenching my shoulders. Another girl, who I recognized to be Sandra, one of Ally’s best friends, walked over with a large bowl. Sandra went over to the pot of beans and began to scoop multiple helpings into the bowl with a ladle. She placed the bowl in front of me. I knew where this was going.
“You need a little meat on those bones, Wanda.” Sandra said as she pinched my skinny arms. I began to squirm, trying to escape the girls’ grasps.
The bell rang, all of the sissies rose and minced out of the room. I tried to do the same, but Ally and Sandra held me fast.
“Not so fast, Wanda!” Ally spoke in a sing-song tone of voice. “Eat your beans and then you can go.” I shook my head.
“Ally, please let me go!” I pleaded. “I can’t take any more marks this week!”
“Well that’s your own fault, you little sissy.” Sandra sneered. “Now eat up!”
With that, the girls shoved my face into the platter of beans. I couldn’t breathe. I was forced to slurp beans from the bowl in order to breathe while my makeup-caked face was being ruined with bean juices. I wanted to vomit as the cold beans slid down my throat. I heard Ally and Sandra yelling as I made disgusting slurping sounds while trying to gasp for air. Then, I was thrown to the ground and the girls ran off.
I was late for class, and my makeup and clothes were ruined. A ruined outfit would warrant more marks than tardiness, so I rushed back to my room to change. Still out of breath from my drowning in beans, I opened the big pink door to a surprising sight. On my big pink bed sat a large box. I walked over to it and read a note that had been placed on the top.
You’re going to be wearing this outfit until the end of the week due to your multiple slip-ups that already happened this morning. We’ll speak about more drastic costume changes at the end of the week.
I gulped. I sensed this day was about to get a lot worse.