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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.
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, standing near-naked in the centre of the Domma Miranda Venge Ladies, his lower lip, as every woman could see, trembling with a very lonely panic. The hostess smiled to his face and spoke to him.
"Welcome, my dear, to our large but intimate gathering for Dom Ladies' Day. You are the most important person amongst us on this occasion, because of the deep pleasure you are going to bring to each and every lady you can see. It is the tradition of our great patroness, Domma Miranda, to make one male after another suffer to make up for the inconstancy of her former pig of a husband. Every three days the Society holds the customary choosing of a suitable male. As you know, dear friends," said Frau Ziggenheimer addressing her audience, "we like our newly sissified males to be very different as we play with them from what they were to start off with." She allowed her fingertips to catch the jingle bell beneath one of his tits and give it one tinkle, followed by the other. "Take our little pretty-boy here, for example. At college, where he was known as Dan the Man, he was a star in every respect. Not only was he captain of the football team, his athletic power saw him pitting himself against the strongest men in the county in the Iron Man competitions, where he excelled in power sport and hard man action more suitable for the marines. Not many young men would pick a fight with Dan, and consequently just about all the girls would swoon if he graced them with a look in their direction. But Dan had to be changed, didn't he darling?" she turned back to him and this time her fingers found the pair of little bells dangling beneath his sorry-looking penis. "When the Domma Miranda Ladies got hold of him he had to become 'Fauntleroy'." A giggle ran through the ladies on all sides. "In fact it's Fifi Fauntleroy, isn't it pet?" The giggle became a laugh as their hostess expanded on his preparations.
Her victim's brow squeezed into a frown of misery. A sportsman? Almost a marine? Heaven help him: he had been rendered a pale shadow of manhood, a wimp, a femmy little doll. The realisation crushed him like a ton of women's dresses pressing him flat into total weakness and impotence.
"Fauntleroy has been sissified using little girly dresses and petticoats, haven't you sweetie? Today Ladies, he is going to surrender to our panties for us, because - well why, Fauntleroy? I want you to tell me." She turned a look of genuine enquiry into his face.
Their captive's face was trying hard not to crumple into tears. "I - I don't know, ma'am."
"Because you want the Ladies to make you more feminine, don't you?"
His face hung low, and Frau Ziggenheimer's fingers tinkled at his tits again. "Y-Yes, ma'am."
"It's what your weeks of preparation at the Domma Miranda Hospital were all about, wasn't it, pet? And what's the best way to make Sissy Fauntleroy more feminine? Mmm?"
He thought, and shook his head. "I - I don't know, ma'am."
The hostess chuckled. "Hmm, I think you do, darling. Why, it's by dressing him in the most feminine panties, sweetiekins." Her fingers barely held his cock, but the tiniest of female contacts, it seemed, made his erection start to stiffen. "Your penis loves that, Fauntleroy. Or is it a penis? It's very small." His knee bells jingled as he tried to squeeze and wriggle one knee against the other under the intense gaze and sniggering giggles of so many women.
"Is it a penis, darling, or a clitoris? Hmm?" His wriggles extended to shudders of his bare shoulders as her fingers lifted his cock from under its helmet and brought a long jingle-jangle from his sissy-bell. "It's a clitoris isn't it?"
This time his voice was a crying voice. "Y-Yes, ma'am, it's a - clitoris" and his anguish brought the word out far more loudly as if he wanted to tell everyone, including the gasping and giggling ladies on the back row. But he went on, stammering in a tiny voice which the women listened to while holding their breaths, helplessly responding to the medications and conditioning of his Domma Miranda treatment. "I want to become a girl for you. I'm such a sissy. My male sex has all gone." The hostess took out her lipstick, in a purplish shade of rose pink gloss, rolled it to a convenient height and sweetened the whole helmet of his cock into a shiny knob of femininity.
As soon as her lipstick withdrew, one of his nurses, a well-built blond in her thirties, reached round him from the side, turned his face to hers, and smothered his mouth in deep kissing, holding his head to prevent escape from her relentless lips and slavering him with wet, sliding, open-mouthed kisses. The effect was instant, to the delight of the Ladies, as his erection stiffened before their eyes. The slither and sizzle of dress materials spread round the room as a roomful of skirts were discreetly undone at the waist, enough for a hand to slip inside. After perhaps two to three minutes of intense kissing, his other nurse took over. She was in her thirties too but dark, a Latino beauty, and her lips amply smothered his as she kissed him with deepest passion for every bit as long. When she released him, Fauntleroy's clitoris was at its fullest height and shape, ready for him to be dressed.
They dressed him in a bra of white satin and lace, flat chested but neatly shaped, followed by a white organza petticoat with a hint of pink running through the finely fluted material. It finished all round him with a border of dainty lace fit for a two- or three-year-old.
His dress dropped over his head in tiers of silk in cornflower blue. It had pink puffed sleeves at the shoulders extending into full sleeves of white lace cuffed in candy pink silk, and a wide white collar like all little girls like their dresses to have. The wretched boy broke down as they shifted and settled his dress over his petticoat, then fastened it down his back and did his sash into a bow for him. His girly dress was short enough to leave his clitoris open for the Ladies to watch and enjoy.
"Now all we need is panties," declared Frau Ziggenheimer, clapping her hands with delight at his dainty and delicate appearance. "But sweetie," and a look of horror came over her face: "we haven't got any panties for you." Her eyes were wide  as she ranged over the ladies in dismay, before her chin lifted and a new reassurance swelled her bust with decision. "I guess we'll have to dress your clitoris in our own panties - as long as they are feminine enough."
A forest of hands shot into the air. "Me - me - me!" cried one. "He can wear mine!" cried another. "Let me dress him in my own lovely panties, they're really cute!" came a third, and Fifi Fauntleroy soon had a lady on either side of him holding her panties or still slipping them down her stockings and off her feet ready to dress that darling little clittie of his. It only remained for the hostess to unlock his knees and remove his leather cuffs, and his clitoris was at the mercy of his audience.
"My sweet little darling, my name is Lady Boothsdale," said the first of his voluntary dressers, a plus sized matron in a satin suit of burgundy and cream. "I think you are so girly already, but I want you to wear my panties in oyster pink satin. Look, darling, they're covered in gossamer silk." The panties came into sight and she stooped to pick them up and open them for him to step into. They had loose legs in a French knicker style and swept silently up his legs to the tops of his stockings where she paused and held the elastic waist wide for him to see them from the inside. His jaw sagged and quivered, longing to be encased, wanting to be feminized, and his cock stood stiffly to attention with the fullest respect.
"Let my panties bless your clitoris," said Lady Boothsdale, "with all my feminine charms, sissy boy," and she brought them slowly, unavoidably upwards, over his cock, sealing him into them at his waist. Her fingers arranged them for him, plucking the panty into shape here and there from the side, smoothing her fingers attentively up the gusset to caress the little person within. He would have slumped to the floor in a waft of dress and petticoat had his nurses not held his sleeves at his elbows and under his armpits as his knees sank and his legs buckled first one way then the other as her fingers fussed and fondled the shape of his cock.
"F-F-Feminine p-panties!" he wailed, gasping for breath and moaning out loud. His moans were met and returned by gurgles of intent pleasure from his audience, every one of whom had a forearm inside her skirt with fingers very pleasantly at work. The first matron's place was taken by a younger woman who announced herself as Hermione Winstanley, with black shoulder length hair and a dress of crisp mandarin taffeta, from the ample skirts of which she drew a decorative pair of panties in powder blue satin with tiny rosebuds spaced along the leg elastics, looking so, so feminine.
"Darling I want you to beg for them," she teased, holding them in front of his gasping crimson face.
"Oh please," he begged, so deeply that every woman knew how much he wanted them, "Please dress me in your panties, Madame."
"Sure honey - I think they're feminine enough for a sissy pouffe like you." She slid them softly up his white stockings, lifted the waist over his erection, and fitted them affectionately into place. "Isn't that feminine?" she said as her fingers shaped his contours inside the front of the silky gusset. "Your clitoris must feel very feminine indeed, just like mine does at this very moment."
She was followed by Miss Cheryl Starr, still in her twenties and with her hair tied back off her face. "Fifi pet," she cooed, her pointed nose only an inch from his, "I am wearing my panties close up between my legs, caressing my feminine purse, but now I want them at the top of your legs to feminise your private little places for the Ladies."
"Oh yes please, yes please," he mewled, barely able to speak as his sex ached unbearably inside two pairs of panties already, "I want your panties to make me more and more feminine." His word died away with emotion as his need for helpless crying overwhelmed him and he sobbed and sobbed as his nurses held him up facing his audience.
"That's right Fauntleroy," declared Frau Ziggenheimer from behind Miss Starr. "The Ladies want to see you crying. This is just the sort of humiliation that brings them panting to the Dominant Ladies' Day."
The panties slipped off Miss Starr's high heels and over Fauntleroy's, shining in white satin trimmed with lovely pink frills at each leg with lace inserts and little ribbon bows at the outsides of the elastics. As she slid them higher his penis revealed its full stiffness, pointing his pale blue satin panties upwards and forwards as his eager clitoris awaited their approach.
But it was too much. Too much femininity for him to withstand. Impossible for him to hold back his desire to be a girl. Miss Starr left her panties clasping his stockings in order to grasp his other panties at the waist, to lift them clear and lower them to his thighs, for everyone to see the surrender of his penis, throbbing and jerking, starting to spout, losing control and squirting wreaths of jism up into the air and across the floor towards the sitting ladies.
His total feminization was greeted by many hands round the hall, rubbing in rhythm inside those open skirts as ladies' fingertips worked their pleasure over the sacred, pussy places and grew damper and more fragrant inside the silken gussets of their feminine panties. It was the start of another blissful day for the Ladies of the Domma Miranda Transformation Society.
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