Michael has made it home, and safe. No doubt about it.

I Have A Bad Feeling About This

Michael did not quite fall unconscious, so he was aware of Mrs P sitting beside him and raising him to an upright position. "Michael, are you all right? What were you doing?"

Michael wondered if he could put off answering Mrs P for a moment, while he went and changed his panties. As he had played with the the wand, it had felt like there was a hand around his penis, stroking in sympathy with his efforts. He didn't want to tell her that the results of his and the wands simultaneous orgasm was slowly congealing, and sticking him to his panties. However, from the concern and worry in her voice, he was sure he would not be able to get away without telling that which he did not want to.

"I think I'm all right, Mrs P, just a little tired and emotional. However, it looks like they were expecting me and set a trap." Michael recounted the adventures, suddenly realising how odd it was that he had been so amenable to doing what people told him to do. "Why did I do what they ask? It's not as though I wanted to do it. Did I?" He kept back some of the details about Tiffany and Danielle, feeling that it was too soon and private to talk about, even though he was sure that he would have to ask Mrs P to help him find another sissy dress for Tiffany's party.

"I think the point of this was for them to have some fun, and persuade me to leave them alone. Well, I've learnt my lesson, and apart from cleaning up, it's all over." Michael added to himself, "Well, apart from Tiffany's party, and that glint in Danielle's eye."

"If it is over," Michael thought, "and the dead wand seems to back this up, maybe?" He reached for the cuffs of his gloves, and cautiously pulled. The glove slid down his arm as if there never been anything stopping it. The only impediment was the bow at the wrist. If he pulled the glove any further down, it would crumple the bow, which he knew was a bad idea. A sudden memory of Miranda saying "I'm very strict about uniforms," flashed across his mind. Michael was stumped as to how to remove the glove until he remembered a film, where a lady was doing a striptease, and she removed very similar gloves by pulling on the fingers. Within moments, both gloves were lying in his lap.

His arms showed no sign that they had been enclosed in gloves for several hours, or of how they had been so irremovable. For some reason though, his arms now felt heavy and clumsy.

"Yes, it's all over," said Michael.

"Uhmm, well, aahh," went Mrs P, desperately trying to find something to say. "I think you should have a look at your room. While you were out, some people came, and they ..."

With dread lying heavy on his stomach, Michael slowly rose from the settee, and went upstairs. Michael's room was a standard, if very generously sized, bedsit - bed, desk, and rickety wardrobe. At least it had been.

Everything had been stripped from the room, except for the wallpaper and carpets. His bed had been replaced by a wrought-iron delicacy that had a canopy and curtains. One entire wall was covered in mirrored wardrobes, which meant that there would be nowhere in the room where he would not be able to see himself in one. The final indignity was his desk, which had been replaced by a dressing table with light up mirrors, and a glass top covered in makeup. All in all, it was a room to delight any girl or sissy.

Looking around, the day caught up with Michael, the highs, the lows, the terror of getting caught, and the relief of making it home, and thinking that it was all over, only to find it was only the overture to what looked like a nightmare. He collapsed on the nearest seat, a chaise longue covered in damask, and broke down in tears, great long, sobbing tears.

His landlady sat down beside his, and put her arms around him. He turned his face into her shoulder and let go. She patted him on the shoulder, murmuring tender words. When he carried on crying, she just held him until he shuddered to a stop. When he struggled up, she released him, and gave him a glass of water.

After he had taken a refreshing drink, Michael put the glass down on a side table, picked up a cosmetic mirror and lipstick, and redid his lips. Aghast, he held his hands out in front of him, as is they were traitors. "What am I doing?" he cried. Dropping the makeup, Michael scrubbed the back of his hand over his lips, smearing the lipstick over his face.

Reaching over to the table, he picked up some makeup wipes, cleaned his face and redid the lipstick again. "No, no, Noooooooo!" screamed Michael. "What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING!?!!?!!!? I can't live life constantly wearing lipstick!"

"Michael! Michael!" called Mrs P. When he did not respond, she slapped him across the face. He looked up at her, betrayed. "I have an idea. Listen." Emphasising her words, she continued, "You. Do Not. Need. To. Check. Your. Makeup. Any. More." She then wiped his face clean with another wipe. Michael sat there, staring.

"Right," she said with a sigh. "You said you were doing whatever people told you, and you didn't know why? When I was getting you ready this morning, I told you to always check your makeup and repair your lipstick. It seems that you were paying more attention than I thought."

"I don't know about you, but after all this emotion, I need a drink. Let's get you out of that dress, and then we can talk." Mrs P helped Michael out of his boots and dress, leaving him standing in knee socks and frilly panties. Searching through the wardrobes, all they found was the dress from this morning and two dressing gowns.

"I don't think you'll want the silk one," said Mrs P, and handed him the other one. This did not seem feminine in any way, so Michael had no objections to wrapping himself in its flannel warmth. Mrs P had to suppress a smile. In the oversize dressing gown, he looked like a little girl who was having a bad day, and was wearing her mother's dressing gown for comfort.

Down in the kitchen, she prepared cups of coffee with large dollops of brandy. "Just after you left, some people arrived, and started making changes to your room. One of them took me aside, and said that they knew what we were up to, and that if I didn't cooperate, we'd both end up in jail. I didn't know what to do, so I left them alone."

Mrs P handed Michael a letter. "They also told me to give you this." The letter was impressive. It was written on a thick velum, with a shield logo in the top corner, with the words "Lady DeMorgan Academy for Young Sissies. Liberare interius puella" underneath.

In a firm, yet feminine hand, the letter said.

My dear Michael, or should that be Michelle?

I'm sure you are aware that the penalties for stealing propriety company information are draconian. In your case, I shall be pushing for the full weight of the law to apply, and your stay in prison is likely to be long. Considering the way you have been dressed today, it is also likely to be unpleasant.

However, I am generous to a fault, and tomorrow we will discuss a possible alternative to prison. I am sure a smart sissy like you has an idea as to what that will involve, but I have a few more special experiences for you before you make your decision.

Before you make your decision, I would advise you to carefully consider the effect on your dear landlady of a stay in prison.

Yours, sincerely

Lady DeMorgan

PS. Only you, I and your landlady know what's going on. Everyone else thinks we're playing "Reluctant Sissy", and everything you do will be seen as part of this.

Enclosed with the letter were a number of photos, all of Michael, from the point where he left home, to leaving the office, including a few of him getting changed.

After reading the letter, twice, he passed it over. "What am I going to do?" he said. "They appear to have everything under control."

"Lady DeMorgan is a powerful woman, possibly the most powerful one in the Demi-Monde, but I think she's bluffing. If you refuse to obey her, and it goes to court, I'm sure that they would consider her response to be excessive."

"Possibly, but even if I win, the whole thing is going to be horrible, humiliating and embarrassing. No, I think I'm going to have to do what this Lady DeMorgan wants, at least until we meet tomorrow, and I can try to talk her out of this."

"Possibly, but I think you would have more luck trying to call her bluff."

Thinking back over the letter, Michael realised that he had not understood one part of it. "Mrs P, what's a 'Reluctant Sissy'?"

"Oh, that's a lovely game. It's mainly about pushing a sissy beyond her normal bounds. Either she is reluctant to admit she is a sissy, or there is something she wants to do, but is scared of. So you pretend that there is some reason that she must do it. Sometimes you have to come up with a genuine reason for them to do something that you are sure that they must do, for their own good, but there is never any consequences for failure, unless you over do it and break the sissy-trainer bond."

"Do you think there will be no consequences for me, if I fail?" Mrs P's silence was all the answer he got. Michael barely stifled an enormous yawn. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was barely into the afternoon. "This has been an exhausting morning. I'm going to rest for a while."

Liberare interius puella. This is what you get when you ask Google to translate "To free the inner girl" into some suitably pretentious language.