Priscilla Smotherall slipped her Jimmy Choo heels off her feet, the better to steal along the laminate floor of the landing and softly push the door of her bedroom further open. She knew damn well what her creep of a stepson was doing, and the sounds from the inside of her closet curled her carmined lips into a sneer of disgust. "Oooh! Mmmm! Mmmm! Ohhhhh! Ohhhhhhh!" This was the limit. He'd got himself rising to a crescendo - in her closet! It was time for his perversion to hit the wall.|
In a single sweep of her arm she threw the door open, gathered the full picture at a glance and dragged the mackintoshed creature from the middle of her hanging clothes into a heap of purple satinized rubber on the floor. The pervert had her pencil skirt clutched to his face, lavishing kisses on its shiny black leather from the inside of his deep hood and mackintosh collar, while her over-the-knee leather boots he was wearing slithered with shock across the floor.
"Get - out - of - my - raincoat!" she yelled, ripping the skirt from his kid gloved fingers and attacking the deep belt at his waist.
Clarence Lambkin found himself in an unbearable jam: discovered in her closet by his stepmother - at the very moment his rubberised pleasuring was rising to its peak: thrilling his cock and his whole groin: filling his shaft: glowing with girliness and spurting and squirting from his long, stiffened clitoris. "Ohhhhh! Ohhh myyy Go-o-od! Ohhhhh!" he cried from the depths of his rubber lined hood, doing his best to scramble to his feet but squelching in jism on the inside of his precious mackintosh. "Oh! Priscilla! I'm sorry! I didn't - I mean I can't - Ohhhhhhhhhh!"
"I'm sick and tired of you getting into one of my macks," she cried as she wrenched the belt from its loops and whipped it round his chest to re-buckle it in a sizzle of cire satin, to clamp his arms to his sides. "You're a pig! A slut! Look at you, sliding in a pool of perverted sperm like the sexless pervert that you are!" She was on her feet again to whip the belt from another of her hanging mackintoshes, and another, and in no time she had him belted round his knees and his ankles and was dragging his blubbering shape by the boots to the bedside phone.
"Hello? The Rainwear Perversion Agency? It's Priscilla Smotherall again. I've caught him in my mackintosh for the fifth time this week. Can you come and get the jerk today?"
"Right. We'll send you our best agent. She'll be with you in twenty minutes."
This turned out to be accurate, because by that time the agent was dealing with the criminal as he wriggled on the bedroom floor, by now buttoned into a second mackintosh over the first and having a large child's pacifier secured into his mouth before having both hoods pulled severely up to conceal his shameless blushes from his two tormentors.
"What sort of perversions do you find him performing when you catch him?" she asked, adding more belts to the already mummified figure. The young agent Ursula Van Der Nickering was in a shiny raincoat herself in sky blue rubberized satin, with black leather boots appearing from the deep mackintosh hem.
"Jerking himself off," said Priscilla as she restored order to the clothes in her closet, "or sliding his inflamed prick inside the latex lining of one of my mackintoshes."
"And how do you punish him?"
"Oh that's instantaneous: I turn the mack up from the belt to enclose his head inside it, throw him over a chair, and thrash his defenceless ass with a rolled up rubber apron. He screams his repentance."
"Hmm." Agent Van Der Nickering lifted the dead weight bundle of slippery mackintoshes and threw him with surprising ease over her shoulder. "Corporal punishment is necessary, but you have to include shaming as well." She set off for the landing and led the way downstairs with the hooded head of her whimpering burden sloshing against her shiny blue ass. "These deviant practices must be stopped and thrown into reverse, with helpless submission and deep remorse. He has to suffer sissification and servitude. But first: his public humiliation."
She dumped the wretched stepson on the settee and went to her car, returning in a moment with the instrument of the pervert's punishment: a large version of a child's buggy, with a deep rubber-lined bucket edged round its rim with a childish surround of satinized white plastic. From the dark rubber well she retrieved a bundle of shiny pink rubber, which she shook out into the shape of a round bag that plopped and sizzled in her hands. It threaded over his feet and belted legs, and the astonished Clarence Lambkin found his mackintoshes disappearing unavoidably into its red satin lining.
"Every woman in the shopping mall is going to see you in your buggy bag, my little prick," she said, sitting beside him and sliding him face down across her knee, "only it's just your crimson face they'll see, blushing out your sorry misery, because you'll be totally buttoned up for their amusement."
Clarence spluttered with resistance as she pulled his knee up to his ear and threaded his foot through an elastic cuff at the top of the bag. "Stoppit! What are you doing to me? You can't do this!" he shouted as she secured his other foot the same way, practically doubling him into a ball. "Stop her, Stepmother. For God's sake she can't do this to me!"
Priscilla seized him by a handful of his hair. "Shut - up - you - dick-head!" she cried, raining four or five slaps onto his defenceless cheek.
Her stepson wailed in impotent misery and slithered about in defiance, face down on the knee of the visitor's mackintosh. But to no avail. His bag was fastened securely up his back from feet to neck in eight large, pink, shiny buttons. The neck-band was already secured at his throat, anchoring a rain hood lined with red satin. She lifted his bag in the air and dropped him into the rippling sizzle of the buggy. He moaned with impotence, then wailed with horror as she closed him out of sight by buttoning him up both sides of his face and across the top of his hood.
"Perfect," declared Priscilla, hands on hips, as his muffled pleas for release could scarcely be heard,"and if women want to see him crying with perverted repentance, open his hood to let them laugh in his face."
"Exactly," replied Agent Van Der Nickering. "And furthermore, I suspect Ladies will want to reveal what his feminizing bag is doing to him. They'll enjoy making him pay the price of his sluttish behaviour as they wank him in his perverted sissification."
Poor Clarence Lambkin. He resolved once and for all, as he was wheeled down the path and through the gate, that he would never again climb into his stepmother's closet to bury himself inside her mackintoshes. But on the other hand he was inside two of her raincoats right now, and his cock was bursting with desire. His defenceless pulse quickened at the sound of women's voices, then the worst happened: fingers in leather gloves undid the buttons at the front of his rubberized hood, and grinning women's faces peered in at him before the tears filled his eyes and started flooding down the inside of his rubber buggy bag. And Miss Van Der Nickering wasn't satisfied until she had uncovered enough of his face to show him blushing like a beetroot and wailing like a baby as he begged the Ladies to have pity on him.
Needless to say, they wanted to feel the exposed rubber contour of his mackintosh rubber bag, so that his begging would gradually change into the most embarrassing whimpers of defenceless sexual surrender. "This is what you deserve for your perversions," they would cry. "Sissy humiliation in public - and no mercy!"
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