Panty Logic

In the center portion of the house... mansion... castle... wherever they all happened to be—Rarity had set up what resembled a miniature boutique. She possessed several trunks lying around, and from many of these she hoisted and unfolded what would soon become Flash Sentry's effeminate imprisonment.

First it started with a camisole. Light-lilac with pink accents, crafted of finely-interwoven silk. The inner portion at the chest was padded—with the shallowest of “cups”—crafted for the sole purpose of cushioning the sissy femboi's nipples... which turned out to be excruciatingly sensitive. Each of the ladies paused in the dress-up to take turns tapping, brushing, and tickling Flash's rosied aerola—leading to no end of squeaking and writhing, which only induced laughter and giggles from the circle of ladies present. Pinkie Pie would have even given Flash's chest a lick, hadn't Applejack and Rainbow Dash yanked the bouncy amazon back at Rarity's request. The camisole was tied gingerly just beneath the bust with a soft silken sash, and only after Flash was finally wearing the light-as-air undergarment did he realize how deliciously it had been scented—with his eternal favorites of lavender and vanilla... plus an innocent yet mischievous puff of baby powder.

Next came stockings—lightly powdered on the inside. The fabric felt smoother than Flash had anticipated, and he visibly shuddered as the milk-white hosiery was rolled up his shapely legs, one after another: an effort that took the gentle administrations of both Sunset Shimmer and Fluttershy to make happen, under the directions of Rarity, of course. For womanly specimens of such looming scale, they managed to do well at intricate femboi-dressing. There was a narrow layer of elastic at the top of each stocking—most likely good to work for just one time use. While Twilight suggested a garter belt, Rarity insisted that nothing be adorned that would obscure the precious Tinkerbell panties. The ladies nodded in agreement, more than a few of them sneaking in stealthy and gentle caresses of Flash's exposed thighs between the embroidery of the stockings and the lace of the underwear.

Then—came the dress. And it was a horrifically sissy nightmare of absolute pink proportion. The sleeves were puffy. The shoulders were puffy. The skirt's hem was puffy. And it was baby pink all over, like a meadow of unicorns and teddy bears had vomited onto the silk gossamer fabrics in between giggling lyrics to an ageless lullaby. “Minidress” wouldn't quite do the thing justice, nor would “lolita gown” deliver the antiquated justice that one might have desired. It was—for lack of a better term—the embodiment of sissidom: stupidly puffy, stupidly short, stupidly infantile, and stupidly stupid. Flash adored it. And his heart raced as he saw—up close—the mixed floral-and-heart designs stitched into the bust along with the skirt fabric. White lace embroidery accented the waist, the end of the puffy sleeves, and—of course—the hem of the skirt. The top of the dress framed Flash's pretty neck with a Peter Pan collar, and he felt like an absolute doll standing there with the skimpy thing barely covering his legs.

“Mommy~~” he heard himself cooing, realizing that he had incidentally triggered himself.

“Yes yes...~” Sunset leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, before patting him on the skirt'd rump. “All in good time, princess.”

As Flash stood there, he felt as if there was... something missing about the dress. The circumference of the skirt was far too wide for its length, and it folded in on itself flaccidly along the sides, the front, and the back. His confusion was abated... however... when the petticoats came.

Pinkie Pie marched in from another room, carrying an enormous torso-enveloping wad of crinoline like a fluffy pastel cloud. Rarity rested a gentle hand on Flash's puffy shoulder, soothing him as Fluttershy and Twilight lifted his skirts. He blushed as he was made to step his stocking'd legs into the first ring of petticoats—pink like freshly melted ice cream. He had barely caught his breath when Pinkie heaved over another pare of petticoats—this time lavender in color. It took some effort, but he stepped into this and the layer was cinched up to envelope the first. His jaw dropped as Pinkie Pie presented a third—light lilac and wispy. Sunset had to reach in and help Pinkie Pie affix it to him. Then, before he could even whimper in protest, a fourth and final layer of petticoats were presented, snow white and bespeckled with silver glitter. It took the effort of four or five amazonian lady friends, but Flash was finally fitted with the outer petals of crinoline.

He stood now like a very pink, very poofy flower... in full bloom. This allowed the skirt to fan out in a full three hundred and sixty degrees without a single crease or wrinkle, making full use of its adorable pink length. Whenever Flash moved, everyone within gunshot could hear it: a swishy rustle like a thousand giggling infants rolling through exposed gift wrap on Christmas morning. If Flash so much as pivoted to the left or the right, the layers of petticoats would dance and swing and take no less than ten anguishing seconds to settle. They were so full and so fluffy that the outer layer—the white tresses—peaked endlessly beyond the hem of the skirt, which accounted for why the silver glitter was applied; to catch the eyes of an observer and lock them on the petti that was constantly peeking out from underneath the poofy-poofy-poofy dress. Which each movement and twirl that Flash made—and the ladies made him perform several—the air grew richer and richer in floral scent, and much to the giggles of his best friends Flash realized that the petticoats had been powdered with perfume just as much as the camisole. With each breath that he took, the air smelled girlier and girlier, and each inhalation was sprinkled with that same playful dash of baby powder, hidden beneath it all, like his poor sissyhood that was currently leaking fresh tears into Tinkerbell's embrace.

Flash thought it was all over. He was dead wrong. Rarity fetched him gloves—long lacy white masterpieces that slithered elegantly past his elbows and ended with playful ivory bows beneath the dress' puffy shoulders. There was also a leash—although Rarity insisted that it was just a “choker.” It was thin, elastic, bubble-gum pink, and edged with playful white lace. Sunset put it on Flash's neck from behind. At first, he thought it might be a tight, constricting fit. As soon as he was wearing it, however, he found he could breathe just as easily. While the choker was clasped in the back of his neck with a mechanism Flash couldn't quite imagine un-fastening on his own, it did little to suffocate or discomfort him. And yet it was present enough that he couldn't help but be aware of it at all times, and when he tilted his head straight up or down—or giggled sharply at a joke Pinkie Pie said—he could feel the unmistakable tickle of the embroidered edges.

Before long, Rarity insisted that they touch-up his face. Sunset Shimmer argued that Flash had a natural beauty that needn't be messed with, but when Rarity insisted that they aim for a “perfect gift for Mommy,” Sunset relented. He was carried into the bedroom where this entire effeminate escapade started. Only Rarity and Sunset followed with him—as if the place was hallowed ground where only a few select souls would be allowed to enter. There, they sat the boi down on a plush chair before the vanity. This took an entire minute of fumbling and messing with his skirt and petticoats before the giggling women finally found a position for him to rest comfortably in the seat.

Flash gazed—more like gawked—at the adorable femme specimen in the mirror. For years, the young man had wondered (more like fantasized) about how he might look if he was a... fairer specimen of his normal self. What he saw in the mirror took that dream and made a paradise out of it. Awkward nights of taking selfies with kinky face apps couldn't even come close to the mind-boggling mixture of adorableness and sexiness he now graced before... himself? There was no beginning or end to the unimaginable transformation he had somehow endured overnight:

Pixie cute blue hair.

A button nose.

Pouting lips.

Immaculate smooth skin and pool-clear blue eyes.

It was too much to take in all at once. Flash felt his thighs squeezing together—creating crinoline percussion in the process—as he tried to stifle the happy sobs of his sissiness against the silk cocoon of those fairy panties. Not only was his member suddenly tiny, it felt a million miles away... separated by a flowery ocean of pink, lace, petticoats, and more petticoats. He never felt so devoid of agency... so loftily enshackled by silk and satin that he couldn't even control the beauty of it all... just as he couldn't control the milkdrop leakage in response to all of this... dream come true-ness.

It had frightened Flash at first. In a lot of ways, it still did. There was no logic to it all—to why he had shrunk and why his old friends had enlarged and who “Mommy” was and where this was all taking him. But... it was starting to no longer remain important to ask. But instead just to hop on that fluffy pink cloud and ride to whatever perfumed destination it was taking him... even if it destroyed Flash... or the stubborn vestiges of himself still left to be crushed under pink and poof and fwoof.

As his mind wandered, so did his eyes—from the bubble gum lipstick being glossed over his lips to the rosy blush being applied to his cheeks to the thin glittery layer of pink now shadowing his eyelids. Flash Sentry looked part harlot, part princess, all sissy. Tinkerbell would soon have to learn how to swim. Stifling a whimper, Flash's pretty eyelashes fluttered—embellished by Rarity's gentle ladylike brushstrokes—and he looked upon his choker. It was then and only then that he realized that someone's name had been embroidered into the front of the article. Flash made out seven characters, although he couldn't read very well backwards.

Before Flash could focus any more on that, Rarity stepped directly in front of him, aiming a perfume bottle at his neck, face, and chest. Spritzing even more girly scents onto Flash felt like a war crime at this point: a bastardly bukkake of the senses. Rarity doused him anyway, and Flash couldn't have reveled in it more—although he did feel like sneezing.

The ladies laughed along with him, and then Sunset used her massive arms to swivel the chair around. She said something with a waggle of her eyebrows, but Flash couldn't hear her over how FLOWER he smelled. When he regained sentience, he noticed her opening a pink box and unraveling even pinker tissue paper. Soon, the woman was brandishing a pair of high heels—laughably steep. Like something a Barbie doll would wear—that Barbie doll being Flash. They resembled Mary Janes, only pink... pinker than pink itself, and their heels were high enough that Flash was certain he'd suffer nosebleeds if he so much as wore them.

And he did—courtesy of Sunset, who slipped them on one at a time, taking precious seconds to lovingly squeeze his stocking'd feet and toes before and after the sizing. When they were finally on, Sunset leaned in to fasten each buckle. Flash felt his ankles and calves locking into place. They could just as well have been very very pretty shackles. Flash looked down—barely peeking past his ocean of petticoats—and he could see his distant face blinking prettily in the shoes' immaculate shine, along with the choker around his neck—and the backwards letters he couldn't even squint to spell. Tinkerbell needed a towel by then.

Then, to punctuate the pretty pretty pretty occasion, Rarity walked out and right back in with a velvety white jewel box. She opened it—and inside was a miniature tiara, gold and pink and embellished with little rubies and spinels. Flash couldn't tell if the jewels were real or not—he didn't care. Once the princessy crown was placed neatly atop his blue pixie head, his eyes watered, and he bore a sniffling smile. Rarity gasped, rushing in with emergency tissues so that his fresh makeup wouldn't run. Flash took deep breaths—each of them punctured with perfume—and somewhere he found a sufficient enough high to ride the moment without breaking into hysterical sobs.

Flash felt Sunset grasp both of his tender hands in her massive palms. Slowly—very slowly—he was hoisted up off the chair and onto his new pretty princess shoes. The world echoed with swishing petticoats, and Flash was barely upright when a sharp bullet of pain screamed up his ankles and into his trembling legs. He let loose a high-pitched cry, teetering back and forth as his body fought for balance atop the pitifully narrow foundation afforded by his stupidly tall heels.

Sunset quietly whispered to him, leaning over and smiling into his pretty, pained face, giving encouragement as well as helping him lean forward... back... left... right... until he found his new center of gravity. It took a herculean effort to get there, considering the ballooning forest of petticoats throwing him off at every teetering whimper. But—after two or three wobbly minutes of depending on Sunset's warm words and tender squeezes—Flash felt that he finally... finally attained the poise he needed to remain upright in those torturous mary janes. It still hurt. Goddess, did it never not hurt. But perhaps that was the point.

At last, Flash was ready to take his first step. So, naturally, the final challenge was thrown his way—like a ball and chain—when Rarity came forward with a long-strapped frilly pink purse that he was forced to hoist around his poofy left shoulder. Flash gulped in trepidation. However, despite the additional article, it felt just as light as his body did before all of the crinoline sissy adornment. Rarity insisted that the purse only contained “a lady's necessities,” and the implications there made Flash's heart throb—among other tiny things.

Soon, with Sunset's hand gripping his right glove, and the pink purse clutched in his left, Flash delicately girl-stepped out of the bedroom, petticoats swimming cyclonically back and forth around his demure figure, kissing the air with glitter and perfume that matched the pretty sparkle of his tiara as he entered the hallway, its light, and beyond.

Rarity—struggling to maintain a rising high-pitched squeal at this point—clapped her delicate hands before her smiling face. She skipped ahead of the “procession,” striking a pose in the living room while gesturing towards the arriving princess. “She's heeeeeere~~” she sang melodically.

And just like that, an invisible spotlight heralded the entrance of the pretty, pretty boi.