The Most Feminine Panties    by Prim Women of the Domma Miranda Transformation Society are very familiar with the buzz of excited females of a certain age. They enjoy it just twice a week because had it been available to them every day they might soon start to tire of their sport, and they didn't want to risk that. They established Tuesdays and Saturdays for their pleasures, from 10am to 1pm, with all afternoon to enjoy their playtime with the unfortunate male of the day.
That hum and frisson of expectation rippled and sang through the gendering hall today, where fifty-five lady members chatted and giggled in their rows of seats forming a semi-circle half-surrounding the de-maling platform. The air was thick with their expensive perfumes and the conditioners of their coiffures, while the satin and taffeta of their costumes all but drowned out their giggles and laughter as they swivelled to greet one adored fellow sister after another. At 9.55 precisely, Frau Ziggenheimer rang her bell and stood beside the heavy lace curtains of the holding cubicle. Its occupant was about to be revealed, like a lamb being introduced wide-eyed with fright into the waiting den of lionesses. She wore a satin mother-of-the-bride suit in silver dupionne edged and collared in dazzling white, with a tall brimmed hat to match and white satin gloves. The diamante brooches on her hat and bosom matched her high heeled court shoes, while her fingers, interlaced at her chin in an attitude of prayer, held the gilded cord of the drape.
"Sisters of Domma Miranda," she said in the electric silence, "I never like keeping you waiting for those first spasms of pleasure between your elegant legs, so without further delay I reveal to you - Daniel Gradesley aged 19 and a half.
The curtain dropped to one side and the object of their pleasure for the day was revealed between his two nurses: five foot ten, brown haired, slender if not thin, and completely naked. Not entirely naked, in fact, because he was dressed in white stockings held tightly with narrow white suspenders that pulled on a simple belt at his waist edged all round with a neat trim of lace. Over them, above each knee, two belts of brown leather connected his legs with two or three small silver links. A little sleigh bell tinkled from the chain, almost without him moving, while two similar bells dangled from his penis, fastened by a little white ribbon tied under his knob and lying downwards with shame in front of fifty glamorously dressed women. Another little bell lay ready to tinkle under each of his tits which were somehow enlarged into nipples half an inch long and tipped with crimson lip gloss. His face was soft and pink, although a growing tinge of red coloured his cheeks as his eyes tried to come to terms with the horror of what he saw on all sides: women's faces devouring him in breathless silence, biting their scarlet lips, jaws dropping with panting desire, gloved fingers rising to powdered cheeks in a swell of disbelief.
He was so young, they all thought. So helpless, so delicate and so naked for them to dress and emasculate. His nurses moved him forward with the click-clack of his pink heels and up the two steps onto the dais,
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Women of the Domma Miranda Transformation Society are very familiar with the buzz of excited females of a certain age. They enjoy it just twice a week because had it been available to them every day they might soon start to tire of their sport, and they didn't want to risk that. They established Tuesdays and Saturdays for their pleasures, from 10am to 1pm, with all afternoon to enjoy their playtime with the unfortunate male of the day.