Zoey raised a hand, fingers outstretched, and let her palm float for a moment in front of her tiny older brother’s aroused body, until he could practically feel the clammy heat of her soft skin. The boy shuddered, compelled by shame to stay still. Her wrist quaked in reverence, as though about to touch something sacred. Instead, she lowered the thick stalk of her middle finger down against Paul’s chest, then proceeded to deliberately stroke him all the way from sternum to waist. When she reached his erection, the girl didn’t hesitate, and ran her giant finger right over it like a bouncy door stopper. The immature humor of it made her whole body shake, and Zoey proceeded to flick the bulge of her fingertip back and forth over the nub, though Paul twitched for an entirely different reason, which made him sick to his stomach.
“I think that’s enough now,” Tory said, clearing her throat, and grabbed her sister’s wrist in her own fist, before Zoey had the chance to fondle their brother’s junk again. “Aren’t we forgetting something, Z?”
“The fashion show,” Zoey breathed. “I did almost forget!”
The joy of the game was renewed again with the newfound knowledge that Paul would derive sick pleasure from the girly affair. Refocusing, Zoey retracted her fingers away from her tiny sibling’s body, and pushed herself up on her haunches again. An instant later she resumed plucking out every doll garment Paul could wear, while Tory still glowered down at him, basking in the victory.
The elder sister puckered her lips into a jesting duck face. Next, Tory’s finger hoisted up, but rather than engaging in the same creepily titillating contact as Zoey, simply curled her slender digit all the way around Paul’s neck, then balled her hand into a fist, which in turn lodged the boy into an awkward grapple with her knuckles. His grape-sized head prodded out the U-span between the girl’s thumb and forefinger. Predictably, his hard-on was displayed more prominently than ever as Paul was loosely spread-eagle over his sister’s fist like an organic knuckle-duster. Then, ever so gently, the diabolical brunette lifted her hand off the floor, and carried her unfortunate oxygen-deprived brother over the amassing collection of frilly doll costumes.
“C’mon, Mary Ann. Don’t get stage fright,” Tory encouraged, which earned a sporting snicker from Zoey, and a wheezing hack from Paul. She tightened her finger around his neck. “Pick an outfit so we can start the show.”
Soundly defeated, Paul meekly pointed in the direction of a shimmering silver-blue ball gown with a bawdy dome of a train. His logic, impeded though it was by his sister’s choking finger, was that the puffy dress might help conceal his erection. Yes, the cat was already out of the bag; the best he could hope for now was diverting attention away from it.
“I love it!” Zoey gushed. She swiftly scooped up the chosen garment. As her fingers gingerly primped the toy gown for use, she spoke to her brother in an educative tone: “This is Cinderella’s dress, Mary Ann. You know, like the one the fairy godmother gave her?”
“Say, that’s perfect!” Tory said. At last she relented the strength of her forefinger around her powerless sibling, and let him fall into her waiting hand, where she collected him against a cage of her fingers. “Maybe that’s a good way to think of us, Mary Ann. As your fairy godmothers. We’re just here to grant your biggest wishes. And, um, judging by this thing…” For instructive emphasis, Tory nudged her thumbpad hard on Paul’s stiffy. “…your biggest wish EVER is to put this dress on right now and dance around in it for us.”
Belittled, on the verge of tears, and aching with horniness, Paul crawled toward Zoey’s hand, which was waiting palm-up with the dress stretched out to fit. Casting one last glance to his sisters’ gleeful expressions, he entered the glimmering blue tunnel. The dress was still designed for more of a Barbie-sized toy, which made the thing feel more like a parachute Paul was struggling to wear, even in spite of Zoey’s probing fingers kneading him through the fabric. However, upon hearing the snap of Tory’s fingers, the dress cinched just small enough that Paul could manage walking in it, though it was still oversized for his frame, like a mother’s regal garment worn by a copy-cat little girl. There was no questioning whether this fitting was on purpose or not.
“Now go be a princess, Mary Ann, but don’t forget…” Tory said as she magically conjured an elaborate doll-scaled runway stage. “…the spell wears off at midnight. Actually, wait, sorry. It wears off exactly when we say it does. Now, STRUT!”
Paul scrambled up the steps of the stage. Hearing some fruity pop music droning through the speakers of Zoey’s CD player, and noticing the threateningly expectant eyes of his sisters, he started walking. It was trickier than it looked. And it already looked tricky.
Doing his best to imitate a fashion show power-walk, Paul tripped several times on the generous hem of the Cinderella dress. He expected a scolding for this un-modelesque behavior, though Tory and Zoey were laughing too hard at the mistakes to further penalize. Reaching the end, he pivoted and strutted back down the catwalk, sashaying the broad cake-structure of the magic gown from hip to hip. Paul even timed his steps with the music, too afraid of being judged improper and forced to repeat it.
With the first round done, Tory snapped her fingers and the dress grew baggy around Paul’s body, allowing him to hop out. No sooner had he done so, then Zoey already had the next number pre-selected: a poofy-sleeved German bar wench costume. There was no additional fanfare this time as Paul climbed into the next blanket of an outfit, then felt his sister’s magic hugging the thing around his body. That bubbly music reset, and they were off again.
The fashion show went as well as Paul could expect. His giddy tormentors bopped eclectically between styles, from geisha robes to leather cowgirl, then back to a full assortment of animated princess dresses, which forced Paul into gauzy frocks from every shade of the pastel rainbow. He tried counting the outfits, hoping to spy an end to the onslaught, but he had to give this up, as it only made him more depressed when Zoey produced yet another favorite outfit from the box. It was also highly possible that Tory was generating new clothes from thin air and materializing them right in her little sister’s hands, for the sole purpose of extending his humiliation another few precious minutes.
Yet throughout the exhibitionist torture and Twilight Zone-level weirdness, Paul caught himself savoring the feeling of the dresses cradling his body, just like always. Only now, the thrill of almost being discovered was squelched in favor of a harsh reality where both of his gigantic sisters were fully aware and drinking in his every plumed skirt, girlish stride, and swish of a miniature petticoat. Somehow, the sensuous high was even more potent than ever before.
Even in loose-fitting dresses designed to make him look more ridiculous, and which failed to tightly entrap his manhood like he so guiltily craved, he was standing at the sexual precipice. Every step gently brushed his shrunken dick along the coarse fabric. This simple, split-second act served to remind Paul that he was not only in a dress, but a doll dress. That he was not only prancing about in his usual secretly effete fashion, but doing so for the enjoyment of an audience that should never have seen it. And most importantly, that he was not the only person in this room who knew he was aroused by this perverse series of deplorable games.
On outfit number thirty-seven, a simple sky-blue dress with a white apron, Paul could no longer outrun his hunger. He took one step on the catwalk and came in the outfit.
The sheer endorphin-fueled fury of the release staggered him to his knees, and he had to zip his lips tight to hold back a relieved moan. Doing his best to cross his ankles, to help fabricate the idea that maybe he’d just tripped on the dress, Paul lay flat on his face, still jittering in the aftermath of the single best orgasm he’d ever experienced. If only he hadn’t learned to walk so well in a dress, his sisters might have even believed he was just stumbling, rather than crippled by climax. But as it happened…
“Whoooops. I guess you’re gonna have to throw that dress out, Z!” Tory loudly announced. She wrinkled her nose, and delicately yet purposefully reached out to her prone brother. Her thumb and index finger pinched the ample nape of the blue fabric behind his back, and she picked him up off the catwalk. Rising up, her hand held the boy aloft, over both sisters’ heads like a mobile.
“Oh!” Zoey gasped. She squinted up at her shrunken sibling’s limp form dangling over, and reached up with a pinky finger, scraping the cushy pad of her digit across the distinct wet patch in the fabric. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Don’t touch his jizz spot. Geez,” Tory gagged. She flicked her wrist back and forth, bouncing Paul on a nauseous orbit around her hand.
“Well, I just wanted to be sure,” Zoey said, and smirked. “Guess your little penis wasn’t lying, huh, Mary Ann?”
“Believe me, Z, that’s the only part of him that isn’t a pathetic fibber,” Tory declared. Still pinching her toy sibling by the dress, she snapped the fingers of her opposite hand, and in a flash, the dress tightened. Soon it was undersized, much like the trouble Paul got himself into upon falling for Tory’s bait earlier. Though there was no additional fabric for Tory to grip him by any longer, she was content using magic to float him above the carpet while the python-strength doll cloth went tauter than skin-tight to his body. Of course, his recovering erection was on full display again as Tory and Zoey crowded around to observe the suspended little cross-dressing lad stewing in the evidence of his worst-kept secret.
“That really took a lot out of you, didn’t it?” Tory said aloud, though she didn’t seem to expect an answer. She rested her chin lazily on her upturned palm, then gave her finger a twirl, causing the hovering boy to spin around on his axis. He sputtered, unable to fight the motion. “Oops. Don’t get sick and puke, too. Actually, you might as well, since Z’s going to have to destroy that dress like a hazmat, anyway.”
“But I like that one,” Zoey sighed. Ignoring her sister’s earlier warning, she casually grazed her fingertips around Paul’s spinning body, re-directing his trajectory, and furtively testing the dampness over his crotch again with a curious pinky. “I especially like it on P… I mean, Mary Ann! He looks really nice in it. Plus, it’s fitting, you know, cuz of which princess it’s for? Can’t we just use magic to wash out his goo?”
“Trust me, sis, magic has its limits,” Tory laughed. “And no spell would make that thing any less gross for any other doll unlucky enough to wear it. So, maybe that’s just officially his forever.”
“Even though he was supposed to wear his maid costume?”
“Girls, dinner!” Scarlet called from downstairs.