It is time for the March Sissy Sweetie Contest, and the convention room of The Circle of Superior Women buzzes with female laughter and the clink of champagne glasses. It is a gorgeous experience, seeing how submissive and pathetic everyone's males are, and as with every month, more than three dozen women have their sons, husbands, brothers, etc. in the prettiest and most childish frocks, so that everyone can watch the sissies surrender to their silk, lace and ruffles.

Unlike the excitement of the women, the wretched sissies ache with shame and embarrassment. The catwalk sequence hangs over them like a coming nightmare, when every woman's eyes in the hall will be on them with grins and sneers of contempt at their pathetic weakness. No wonder most sissies burst into tears with the anguish of it all. Then comes the voting, with squeals of mockery from the audience, as each sissy is voted in or out of the next round, all based on how sexless the poor males are.

But before all this, of course, comes the sissy-dressing, where Circle members roam from one tearful male to another in the busy hall, and help to dress them in their suspender belts and stockings, then cup their developing breasts into their brassieres, and finally fuss and fasten them into their dresses.

There are always one or two sissies who try to pass it all off as if they want to be put through the wringer by a dozen women. Polly Gordon is one of these. He worked out, while lying in his cot the night before, that if he showed plenty of spirit and a confident toss of the head on the catwalk, his girlish walk and polished hand gestures would bring him first prize as the supremely effeminate sissy.

He swanks and minces in his ultra short contest dress, which his Grandma spent a month making for him, with not just one, but two, picture collars in ivory silk crepe edged round with frills that make it so wide and girlish. She has his cute little ass in powder blue satin, bursting into panty frills above dark stockings and high heeled Mary-Jaynes. How could any females, even those as heartless and callous as the Superior Women, not fall in love with his sweetness? Melissa Candyfloss, on the other hand, can't stand up straight, he is feeling so effeminate at the top of his legs.

The women stand closely around him in his candy-pink satin mini dress, its sunshine collar stiffened with its back bow, framing his girlish hair-burst and blushing face. They feed him a bottle of Fem-Sip to calm him into a single mood: panty-worship. Then he is led helplessly onto the catwalk, and left, trying to balance in his effeminacy, dreaming of panties with emotions coursing through his heart and his head, his legs and his glowing private parts.

"Sissy contestant Number Six," announces Madame Corselet. The audience warms into spontaneous appreciation of such a picture of unsexed sweetness.

"Tell us your name, sissykins?" asks Madame, bringing the applause to an end.

"My name ith Melitha - and I am NOT a sissy!"

"To be honest," goes on Madame Corselet, consulting her programme, "I see that your name is Melissa Rufflepanties, isn't that right?"

Melissa hangs his chin into his soft pink collar, which only serves to gather it around his cheeks in glossy satin. "Yeth Mith." His admission brings his hands clutching to his cheeks with embarrassment, unfortunately gathering his collar completely round him, so that he disappears inside it, the white ruffle trims meeting down the front of his face.

The Superior Women burst out with laughter and not a few cries of pleasure as they see how de-sexed he is. Melissa tries hard to fight back, holding open the front edges of his collar. "My wife says I will only be dressed up if I show I am girly!" His jaw juts forward with resistance, and ladies on all sides watch with delight to see what his expressions will do next. "Is that so, dear?" says Madame. "You have a lovely sissy collar, sweetie. Just arrange it nicely for us so that we can look at you in your darling dress and pettis."

Melissa does as he is told, rocking gently from one high heeled bootee to the other as he spends about a minute spreading his collar, getting the two sides evenly matched and plucking at the two sides of his huge bow at the back to support it softly in slipper satin. When he thinks he has his dress collar looking pretty again, he lifts the quiff of his hair with two fingertips so that he can see the ladies, all of whom are intent on every movement he makes. He cringes under their lipstick grins.

"Melissa, why are you pressing your knees together?" asks Madame. He becomes aware of his squirming. "Is it to prevent your little bit from giving you away - with a little squirt of sissy juice?"

Her words bring a squeak of denial, but they fill his stiffened member with a glow of femininity. The watching ladies produce a swell of girlishness in him, and he reaches up to the sides of his sunshine collar. He just wants to hold the pretty frills round the edge in a lovely shape to frame his face. He pulls them a little forward, to luxuriate in the smooth pink satin around his cheeks.

He can't resist looking down at the point in his panty frills. Mmm, he wants to arrange those frills neatly over it for the ladies, and he does so with both hands, catching the very edges of his ruffles in his fingertips, so nicely, so daintily. His panties feel so pretty in front of the women. Ohhhh, he has to squeeze his legs even harder, lifting his heels off the runway, stooping a little from his waist so that his satin collar slides forward half covering his face, then slithers right down, almost touching the pink dress buttons that hang in front of his face.

The ladies gasp and moan, not wanting to interrupt his display of sexlessness. "Ohhhhh, look at him," they say. "His girlishness is taking control. Look at the way his dress collar is hiding his blushes. And his panties - they're so pointed - so pretty in ruffles of pink satin."

Their words are too much for Melissa. He straightens himself a little, his knees still sliding together in their stockings, and quickly opens his dress collar, so that his fingers can catch the very outside edges of his panties, at the widest, most girlish, part of his hips. He holds them out to the side as he dips at the knees in a sweet curtsey. And again, down and up, feeling so girlish that he must curtsey again and again as the ache in his panty gusset grows and grows until it rises too far, out of control of his weakened sex, and reaches all its effeminate fulfilment right in front of his audience.

The hall dissolves into tumultuous applause, loving his total surrender, during which Madame Corselet declares that Melissa has passed into the second round. The scene is witnessed, of course, by Polly Gordon. "Hmph," he snorts. "I could have done that - if my dress had had a sunshine collar supported by a mega-bow - all in rose pink satin."