Doing Things Properly

This is a continuation of the 'Doing Things Properly' Story. It depicts an intense Femdom / sissy relationship with strong descriptions of severe discipline and punishment. If this is not something you enjoy, or understand, I suggest you don't read on. For those who enjoy such works, please consider rating this story favourably.

Doing Things Properly: Part Three

I was concentrating on carefully washing the crystal wine glasses in preparation for a dinner Mistress was hosting tomorrow night for her three sisters and their partners when I heard her enter the kitchen. I pulled my hands out of the sink, dried my gloves on the towel beside me and turned to face her, lowering my eyes, giving her a curtsey and quietly saying 'Ma'am' as I did so.

'Sissy-philomena, bring me a coffee with a piece of the chocolate cake from last night.'

'Yes Ma'am.' I turned and started to move towards the coffee machine.

'Stop!' I froze.

She moved in closer to me. 'Is that what I think it is!?'

Huh? I swallowed nervously.

'Your third button. It's undone.'

Oh! I had no idea.

She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me around.

I muttered an apology.

'No excuses. You should know that by now.'

She stepped forward and put her arms around and behind me, doing the uniform button back up, her face barely six inches from mine, and while I knew not to gaze at her face, I could feel her eyes boring into mine, her perfume enveloping me with its delicate, soft musky hint.

I felt a strong stirring in my pecker but of course the small, tight cage enveloping it kept it from growing any further. The sleeves of her rich burgundy angora cardigan brushed both my cheeks, an accident no doubt, but it seemed to have an echo of a tender, soft embrace, even if it was an illusion. My pecker tweaked again.

'I thought by now you'd have addressed your slovenly dress habits.'

My pecker stopped its pathetic attempt at throbbing. A complete illusion, of course.

'I know Ma'am. I didn't realise it and ...'

'Shoosh!'

'One more peep from you and it'll be a mouth washing as well as a visit to Aunty Swoosh.'

Aunty Swoosh. Not good. Aunty Swoosh came to visit for serious 'standard' infractions. Like the other two uniform issues I'd had this past month. It wasn't as if I 'd behaved badly, rather I was just a little 'dishevelled,' so to speak. But I dared not say anything...by now I knew her mouth soapings were to be feared.

She stepped back from me. 'Now, explain to me why that button was undone. A proper explanation.'

I was now into my fourth month with Mistress, having successfully completed my three-month trial. To say those months were tough, demanding and rigorous would be a gross understatement as every element of my behaviour and thinking was reshaped according to her needs and requirements.

And now that I was granted 'permanency' with her, Mistress had upped the intensity of her discipline regime. In her words, 'it's in order to rid you of any final vestiges of male-centric ego and self-centredness.' My body ached with the force and relentlessness of her discipline but by now I was too far committed to abandon the path I'd chosen. She told me that she expected to have me behaving perfectly by the end of the next three-month period. And woe betide me if I wasn't.

I took a deep breathe...putting aside whatever I wanted to say to justify myself...keeping my gaze lowered...

'I..' another breathe...'I...was not paying enough attention to my dress while you were out of the house, Ma'am.'

'Exactly. Excellent, some self-awareness...and so we come to the core of the matter. Do you think it's acceptable to be slovenly dressed?'

'Absolutely not, Ma'am, not at any time, Ma'am.'

'That's right. What is it a sign of, sissy-philomena?'

'Disrespect towards you, Ma'am.'

'Good. Then you clearly understand the need for me to remind you not to be disrespectful AND not to be slovenly dressed. At any time, whether I'm around you or otherwise.'

I took a deep breath...'Yes Ma'am. I'm sorry for my sloppy dress and showing disrespect towards you.'

'What if that button had been open in front of my guests last Saturday night? Or when my sisters are here on Friday? Do you think they'd be impressed?'

I swallowed awkwardly, answering quietly. 'No Ma'am, definitely not.'

'Do you think it would reflect well on me, hmm?'

'Oh, no, absolutely not, Ma'am. I'd be mortified. For your sake.'

'You'd be mortified!'

I blushed.

'So, you understand my point, hmm, sissy-philomena?'

'Yes Ma'am, completely'.

'Well then, it's 18 strokes of Aunty Swoosh. It is the third time I've caught you dressing sloppily in barely a month. That's simply not acceptable.'

Eighteen strokes. I visibly cringed -- I'd received 12 strokes just before she left the house that morning for her monthly visit to her hairdresser. And that on top of the 48 yesterday, the 32 on Tuesday and the 60 on both Monday and Sunday. My bottom was sore, very sore, and I knew another 18 strokes on top would be hard to take, setting my bottom on fire once more, pulsating pain through the day and onto tomorrow. I took a quick glance at her face. 'Please Ma'am, couldn't I...'

Her eyes opened widely, and her nostrils flared. I closed my mouth.

'How dare you answer back!' She shook her head. 'And raising your eyes to mine!

How rude!'

Oh dear...

'Well, so be it, you leave me with no choice then. Gloves off and follow me.' I had to bite my lip to stop from pleading again. 'Yes Ma'am', I said half trembling as I quickly pulled off the rubber gloves and tried to catch up with her as she strode down the hall towards the bathroom, her boot heels echoing loudly on the floorboards.

She stopped at the door and swept her hand forward for me to enter first. 'Time for a thorough flush of that insolent mouth of yours.' I shuffled in beside the sink. 'And then you can visit Aunty Swoosh. But it will be another 12 strokes after that little outburst and another 12 for your wayward gaze.'

'Yes Ma'am', I squeaked. 42 strokes...oh...

I had lost count of how many times my mouth had been washed out these past months, the standard punishment whenever I spoke out of turn. Her rule was simple: I was not to say anything, unless asked.

I dreaded to think what soapy concoction she would use on me this time. In just four months I'd had several demonstrations: sometimes it was a toothbrush rubbed on a wet bar of soap, at other times a squirt onto my tongue with liquid soap, other times a wet and frothy bar of soap popped into my mouth for varying lengths of time, sometimes a lathered bar dropped into a glass of water that I then had to drink from for the rest of the day until the bar had dissolved, even a soap-saturated cloth placed in my mouth, which I couldn't remove for hours. Whatever way it happened I knew its utter wretchedness...and every time, I'd swear to myself that this time would be the last time I spoke out of turn.

She opened a draw and removed one of her 'special' bars of soap from its paper wrapping and turned the tap on, holding the cake under it. She lifted her gaze to the mirror in front of the basin, her striking blue eyes catching mine looking at her. I was only ever permitted to look at her face through a mirror, but the sheer intensity of the moment caught me out and I dropped my gaze, embarrassed and blushing. She shook her head slowly from side-to-side. 'You really are a glutton for punishment, sissy-philomena.'

I watched nervously as she turned the bar over, kneading it with her long, slender, pale fingers, the red nail-polish standing out vividly against the yellowish tones of the cake as she encouraged more lathering...and even more lathering. The entire bar was quickly covered in an inch or two of bubbly foam. A lathering job then...I sighed...

The tap was turned off.

'At attention, head tilted back, eyes open, mouth wide open, tongue out.'

I obeyed and she took hold of my tongue, the sickly scented mass entering my mouth. She proceeded to rub the bar over my tongue and under it, on the inside of my cheeks and lips, on the roof of my mouth and then across my teeth. The taste was nothing short of disgusting.

'Stay in position. Mouth kept open.'

She removed the soap and lathered it again, just as much as last time. She placed it on my tongue. 'Bite down hard and start sucking.' As I did so the overpowering sickly scent entered my nose and throat. I gagged a little and then swallowed, the awful taste making its way down my oesophagus, down towards my gut. I knew more of that disgusting wash was to come, filling my belly with a putrid gaseous odour.

'You can keep that in your mouth while Aunty Swoosh pays you a visit.' Not good. Last time I had a bar of soap in my mouth while being caned, it dropped out onto the floor. Mistress was not impressed, and neither was I after the additional strokes and additional soaping I received, followed by a week of intense soaping before bedtime each night.

'Follow me.' We made our way to the Discipline Room and as we did so I took in her lithe long form, her statuesque height, the short, sharp, blunt and angled bob accentuating her long, freshly shaved nape and neck, the chisel-toed boots, black-leather trousers and burgundy turtleneck and cardigan, everything about her oozing quiet style, certitude and authority. Except I knew it was only quiet when I did what I was trained to do, and properly. We entered the room.

Arrayed on the walls were all sorts of implements and by now, I knew them all intimately. Each had a name, names I now knew all too well. And Aunty Swoosh was not one I ever enjoyed meeting. But then, none of her 'friends' were particularly 'nice', it's just Aunty Swoosh was particularly tough.

She pointed. 'On the spot and over.' Sometimes I was tied down on the caning bench but not today. I moved across the room and took up my stance on the round yellow dot painted on the polished wooden floorboards. I bent over, lifting the petticoat and back hem of my uniform dress as I had been trained to do, pulling them up and across my bent back. I placed my legs together and dropped both arms to the floor and turned my hands to face inwards in line with my arms, fingers together and pointing to the floor. As I had been trained to do. I swallowed despite the horrid taste in my mouth.

She moved across to the wall and I heard her remove Aunty Swoosh from 'her' hook, then swoosh it backwards and forwards several times.

'Aunty Swoosh is feeling the need to express herself forcefully today, sissy-philomena. Very forcefully. So you learn to be a better sissy for me.'

I couldn't answer but I nodded my head a little in acknowledgment of her statement.

'You'd better not pop that soap out now.' I nodded furiously in agreement to her.

'I'm not feeling particularly merciful today. Pop it out and you could well end up with a month of nightly bedtime soapings. And six strokes on top, each beddy-byes.' I nodded again.

'So, obviously you can't thank me after each stroke in the usual way so instead I want you to lift your head back up and swallow three times to show your gratitude for Aunty Swoosh's endeavours at helping you become a better sissy. Is that clear, sissy-philomena?' I nodded. 'And don't let the hem of your skirt drop back down while lifting your head up. Or else.'

I took a deep breathe, having a very good idea of 'what else' might entail. I nodded my understanding to her.

'Very good.'

Mistress moved behind me, adjusted my skirt and petticoat higher and took hold of the hem of my thick woollen grey tights and the lacy hem of my plain white panties and pulled both slowly down, over my cheeks, leaving them about 9 inches below the top of my thighs. She stepped back and took up position to my left.

'First stroke sissy-philomena.'

The cane crashed into my rear, the force pushing me forward slightly. I let out a little cry. And then I lifted my head up enough so she could see my neck and I swallowed once, then again and then again, each time wanting to gag.

'Good. Perhaps after this visit from Aunty Swoosh you'll remember to maintain your dress, regardless of my presence or not.'

Three strokes roared down in quick succession. I lifted my head up and swallowed three times then lowered my head. 'That was three strokes so nine swallows all up. You owe me another six more swallows, sissy-philomena.' I obeyed. 'And we'll start the count of the strokes again since you forgot to follow instructions and swallow three times after each stroke.'

Oh god...but I nodded my head slightly to acknowledge her words.

Another two strokes in rapid succession arrived, both landing across the top of my thighs, the intense pain and force making me yelp loudly as the soap flew from my mouth.

'Oh dear, oh dear...not good sissy-philomena, not good. For you, that is.'

I somehow managed to peep out a torturous 'Yes Ma'am, sorry Ma'am' through the bubbly froth.

'Disobedience and a lack of focus...mmm, it leaves me with no choice but to be even tougher with you, sissy-philomena. As you know I need to be...and it is, after all, what you expect from me.'

I did indeed. 'Yes Ma'am.' I stayed bent over and a tear ran down my face.

'I'm sure there'll be plenty more where that one came from before this little session passes.'

'Yes Ma'am' I said, my voice breaking up and quivering.

'I think it best that I strap you down for the rest of your caning. Which is now doubled. Pick up the soap and pop it back in. You do not want to spit it out again, trust me.'

'Yes Ma'am' I said through watery eyes. I moved gingerly over to the soap, being careful not to let my hem drop, put the wretched bar back in my mouth and made my way carefully over to the padded bench.

'After your extended meeting with Aunty Swoosh you'll go to your room where you'll write me an essay, a two-thousand-word essay on proper deportment for sissy-maids. Then to bed with nothing for dinner except that frothy bar sucked all inside you. That should help you remember how to present your uniform in future, sissy-philomena.'

I nodded my head in acknowledgment. She strapped my legs and arms in place and lowered my head over the front of the bench, placed a thick leather collar around my neck and secured it in place with a length of chain attached either side to the front legs of the device.

Mistress moved behind me, swooshing the cane slowly back and forwards in her right hand. She moved to the left of my rear.

'I think Aunty Swoosh will need to be even harsher now, sissy-philomena. For your own good of course, so you'll not make the same mistake again.'

I muffled that I understood and nodded my head as best I could.

'Oh, by the way, since you can't move your head or neck much, you don't have to swallow for me after each stroke.'

I had been stressing about how I was going to do that. Phew...small mercies.

'Instead, you can mumble through your soap a simple "Thank You Ma'am" after each stroke!'

She laughed.

'First stroke!'

I closed my eyes as I heard Aunty Swoosh move through the air...