You’ve been at class for a couple of weeks now. My spy watches, then reports back to me each evening when you are tucked into your sissy-pink canopy bed, sleeping.
After this particular class, the spy didn’t want to call to tell me what had happened. Instead, she insisted on coming over as soon as I heard your deep breathing, signaling you were asleep.
Her knock at the door was barely audible, but I was waiting for it, so hurried to open it so she didn’t have to knock any louder, risking waking you up.
My spy had barely removed her coat and sat down before spilling the words, their tumbling over each other, not making much sense to me yet since French terms were mixed into her story.
I asked her to slow down, please! She stopped, took a breath, took my hand and began again.
I heard the story of how you boldly entered class today, having lost most of your embarrassment at being a grown man in a girls’ ballet class. You tromped behind the girls as you stepped around the room in a winding line, one behind the other.
After warming up, the teacher wanted to see everyone’s pirouettes, yours still elementary compared to the other girls more practiced ones.
Still, you pushed yourself near the front of the line, the girls very unhappy at your boorish behavior; you were oblivious.
Then IT happened.
You took your first steps, then began twirling ’round. Immediately, the girls started laughing. Not soft giggles, but huge chortles. You, deep in your dancing, didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. The girls, all older teens, began pointing and laughing. Only then did you begin paying attention.
My spy started speaking more softly, her cheeks red with embarrassment.
She stuttered, “H-h-h-errr tights. Her TIGHTS!” was all she could get out.
I asked what the heck was going on with your tights and she turned even more red as she said, “She didn’t have any panties on! We could see… everything!”
I sighed, knowing exactly what they saw. And now you know, too, don’t you.
What the heck were you thinking not putting panties on? And wearing the pair of tights that had shrunk in the dryer to boot? My spy tells me your “appendage,” as tiny as it was, poked out like a short stem from a flower in the garden… with two grapes next to it. What were you trying to do? Show off that… that… dicklet you own? And because the tights were so tight, they had thinned out, nearly sheer, showing that you are also waxed, bringing even more gales of laughter from the other ballerinas.
Apparently you tried to leave the class when the girls could not stop laughing, but the teacher, her large stick in hand, blocked the way and sent you back in with instructions to continue pirouetting across the wooden floor until she told you to stop.
You really disappointed me with your behavior… from being rude to the girls to not wearing panties. When you wake up in the morning, before school, I will be pushing up your dress, pulling down your panties… and giving you a very good spanking until your bottom is nice and red. Perhaps then you will remember to be kind to the other ballet students… and to wear your underthings.
You will remember, right?