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Story - Sissyslave, Part One

This is a BDSM story with some forced feminisation. Sorry it takes so long to get to the fem part. But Part Two will represent the payoff!

Sissyslave

By sissynancy

Martin is, or rather, used to be, a totally straight looking guy, not so tall - 173cm - with a somewhat stocky build, but lean and lightly muscled from his years of swimming. You could say he had something of a rugby player's build. He was not so young - 47 - but he kept himself in good shape and although gay there was nothing effeminate about him. All in all he was in no way what could be considered a suitable candidate for being feminised.

Nor did he ever fantasise about this. He was always happy in his male body. If anything he resisted the slightest suggestion of femininity in his mind set. At university he had refused to go to a vicars and tarts party because no way was he going to put on women's clothes, even for a laugh. He knew with his body shape that he would look ridiculous and totally unconvincing. He was mocked for this - the idea was after all about making everyone look ridiculous but he stubbornly refused, denouncing it as 'stupid'.

Some of his friends actually looked pretty good as women - but they tended to be slim in build. Martin’s fantasies, however, were of another kind altogether. He may have seemed a very conventional man but for all his outwardly straight appearance, he harboured some pretty strange fantasies - of being dominated, forced to serve a man and be his slave. And this is something he explored increasingly throughout his 20s. But in truth he was a pretty bad slave - he was manipulative and controlling, albeit doing it from the bottom. He found myriad excuses and devices and strategies and plans to get his own way so that the poor, so-called Master became his enabler, he facilitator. Most ended up dancing to his tune.

Occasionally he would find a man who would make use of the fact that he was bound and gagged to push him further than he wanted to go. He would always bad mouth him afterwards and accuse him of having forced him into non- consensual acts - and then he would walk out and 'blacklist' the poor guy as someone who had overstepped the mark.

So he became more and more of a pushy, controlling bottom.

But as he got older it became more and more difficult to find play partners - older guys tend to shift to being dominant, more out of necessity than actual desire - but it does mean that they can get their hands on willing young, attractive slave boys. Those Masters who did not mind older slaves tended to get annoyed with Martin’s tightly controlled limits so that, one way and another, he was seeing much less action than in the past.

He toyed with the idea of becoming a Top himself -but it was simply not in his nature and he had enjoyed so many years of getting his own way a 'slave' that he was unwilling to give it up. 

Of course he used the internet for wank relief, lying like mad and depicting himself as years younger than he actually was. And of course in the safety of cyberland, he could become a slave to the extent that he had never been able to achieve in life. Whips don't hurt on the internet! Nor do brandings,  piercings,nipple torture and all the other painful activities that were so much part of his fantasy life but so glaringly empty from his life experience.

 Then he met Tom online. Well he was different from the outset. He had no time for all the trappings of cyber sex - exaggerated respect for the Master, pitching into sex talk at the drop of a hat, or indeed anything that might titillate and excite. Instead he gently probed Martin as to his experience. And Martin found himself dropping his usual bragging of unexperienced experiences and, little by little, becoming more truthful. He was discovering one of the dangers of the internet - that it can lead to a feeling of intimacy, encouraged by the fact that one is at home, typing information to a stranger that one has not met and that one, usually, never will meet. 

Nor was this a one-way 'truth' session as Tom was open to any questions Martin might have for him. Tom controlled the conversation, however, and chose when it ended, leaving Martin with a strange feeling of exhilaration and frustration.

 In his mind he began to formulate the idea that this was the man who might really break through all his resistance and lead him to a kind of promised land where his fantasies might be realised more fully than they had been in the past -and yet without damaging him, physically or psychologically. He could barely wait for Tom to be online so that he could continue the chat. He wanted to know more about Tom because he sensed that here was someone intelligent, sophisticated, someone possibly worthy of the respect that he had always acted for men he privately considered idiots.

 And so it continued - Tom would come online most days, around seven in the evening, and they would chat for thirty minutes or so. Martin found himself becoming increasingly open with him and began to detail his fears, his hopes, his expectations. 

Then, finally, after some weeks of this, Tom asked him if he would be willing to meet  - in a public place, one to one, without fetish gear involved, just two guys getting together for a drink or a coffee.

  Well, this had never happened to Martin before! If he did ever get to the stage of arranging a meeting it was always done within the confines of a strictly detailed scenario, involving the clothes he was to wear, the time of arrival; there would be the open door, he would enter, stand in the hall and strip and put on whatever he had been detailed to wear or what he had provided. In this way his first sight of the 'Master' had always been 'in role'. On those occasions his heart would be beating wildly and his mind already racing with plans to manipulate and find a way out of any situation he found too dangerous. 

When he thought about it he realised that he had never ever fully trusted someone and that without that, all his efforts at finding his slave nature were doomed. Now here he had an opportunity for a
 considered assessment. Of course they had exchanged photographs so he knew what Tom probably looked like - probably because there had been occasions when the photographs were those of the 'Master' taken some years ago. He had been guilty of that himself. Misrepresentation - often really just wishful thinking, that one still looked like the best photos of five years ago - is another common malpractice in internet connections! But during the period of their chats Martin had become increasingly honest, slowly bringing his pictures up to date. Somehow he trusted that Tom had done the same.

And he had.

The man sitting opposite him in the quiet corner of an ordinary bar was indeed the man he had seen in the photographs. Tall, in his fifties and in reasonable shape, hair slightly thinning, going grey, there was no doubt that this was the man he had seen in the photos. But what really impressed Martin was his manner - calm where Martin was nervous, and with the quiet confidence of someone who was used to being in control. The most notable feature was his eyes, which were blue and penetrating. Immediately Martin knew that this man was dominant in a very natural way - there was nothing theatrical about the way he assumed control - of ordering drinks, of taking charge of the conversation.

  Martin talked too much, as a way of masking his nervousness though if anything it drew attention to that. Tom let him prattle on until he ran out of steam; then looking him in the eye he said, 'You are afraid of giving up control - you want to hang on to it as a protection. And I think you are afraid of that because you are afraid of what you will find deep down within yourself.' Somehow Martin felt that this man could read him - that he would know when Martin was being manipulative, when he wanted things to go his way and only to the extent he allowed. After that, Martin opened up more, talking of his fear of pain, of releasing the wilder fantasies that were the usual accompaniment for his masturbation sessions. And the upshot of this was that he agreed to go to him - for a weekend and not just a few hours - and soon.

 Yes, he was still nervous and afraid, more so than with other Masters because he felt that this one could not be fooled, that all his ploys would prove useless with him. This made him vacillate in his decision to meet him. One day he couldn't wait for the appointed day to come, another he would spend time thinking of excuses to postpone. But deep down he knew that he had been given a real opportunity to find out just where fantasy ended for him and reality began.

So he presented himself at Tom’s house as directed, on time to the second though he had not insisted on this) and dressed in his usual casual clothes of jeans, t-shirt, trainers. He carried a small bag with basic
 toiletries - and that was all. Tom opened the door, also casually dressed and Martin, with his heart beating crazily, went in. The next hour was spent putting him at his ease, getting him to relax. Martin knew Tom liked fetish gear - he had seen the pictures of him in leather and rubber and, if anything, he was disappointed that he was not wearing something along this line. But he remembered that Tom had told him that the gear for him was an outer show of inner intentions; that he liked to dominate and control with or without fetish gear. Martin felt a little cheated all the same, that there were not these outer signs to help prepare him for what lay ahead.

 Then the time came to start. Martin removed his clothes, folded them neatly and put them to one side. Always looking deeply into his eyes, Tom fastened a leather collar around his neck, attached a chain to it and led him out of the living room, down the corridor and into a room that was bare of furniture but which had various restraints and manacles attached to the walls and a number of pulleys and metal bars hanging from the ceiling.

 He led him to the centre of the room, lowered a pulley and attached his wrists to restraints hanging from a metal bar. Then he pulled it back up again so that Martin’s arms were extended above his head; not uncomfortably so - he was still standing flat on the ground. Then Tom 'inspected' him, running his hands over his body, feeling the muscles. Martin’s cock was standing to attention but this he ignored while he felt the rest of him. 

Moving behind him, Tom continued his inspection, then placed a hand over his mouth and gently pulled his head back on to his shoulder. Ordinarily Martin would have resisted at this point but he found himself folding back into him in a wholly trusting way.

'Good,' Tom said and then left the room.

 Heart pumping, Martin waited for him to return. Minutes passed, and his arms began to ache a little. His mind kicked in with all sorts of sudden fears - was this the point at which Tom’s hitherto gentle manner would drop and Martin would find himself at the mercy of a psychopath? He squirmed a little but noticed also that his cock was still hard. But then he remembered the security measures Tom had forced him to take before coming to him - phoning him on his fixed line at a time of his choice to verify the number, his
 name, address, and his photograph sealed in an envelope on his desk. He had asked Martin to give it to a friend with the instructions to open it and contact the police if Martin had not returned home and phoned by midnight on Sunday. Even Martin felt that this was going too far and he had not, in any case, wanted
 to take any of his friends into this confidence.

 These memories had the effect of calming him somewhat and then Tom entered the room, now dressed in a leather uniform - shirt, breeches, tall boots, Sam Browne belt - and appearing very much the masculine figure of so many of Martin’s fantasies. He also carried a bag, which he placed on the floor
beside him. Unzipping it, he extracted a bit gag.
 
'Open your mouth,' he said, quietly. Martin did so and he placed it in his mouth and fastened it behind his head. Then a padded leather blindfold was placed around his eyes, comfortable but excluding all light. Martin tried to protest a little, swaying back and forth in his restraints but Tom’s hand came up to steady him - 'Easy, easy,' he muttered. Martin felt his breath close to him, steady and regular, and he calmed again.

 Now Tom’s mouth was at his ear and Martin heard him almost whisper into it, 'Your real problem is your ego and until I strip you of that you will never be a slave. Isn't that true?' Martin thought about it for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.

 'I am going to strip you of that, little by little, but you must relax. Anything I do to you for the present will hurt you in no way. I am not going to beat you or whip you. But I am going to change you, to transform you. It is what you need, more than anything else. OK?'
 
Again Martin nodded. He felt reassured, safe. Pain had always been a turn-off for him. He relaxed.
 
Now that he could not see, his hearing leapt to his defence. Suddenly it was sharper - his mind was still active, trying to imagine what lay ahead of him. He thought of chains being locked on to him, of wearing leather or rubber, and again his cock rose higher.
 
His other senses were heightened too. He seemed to feel Tom’s hands on him in a way he had not felt touch before. He sniffed the air to see if he could anticipate what material he might feel against his body - but he recognised nothing. 

Tom had moved behind me and Martin felt something soft encircling his waist and upper body. He racked his brain as to what this could possibly be - and then he felt a tightening. He could hear the sound of something being pulled tighter and tighter around him. He felt straps dangling from the bottom. And then it hit him - it was a corset! Tom was putting him in a woman's corset. It was then Martin rebelled, waving back and forth on his restraints, even kicking out, struggling, resisting, trying to shout out behind his gag. What he was saying was, 'Stop this, you bastard! This is not one of my fantasies. We never spoke about anything like this. We never discussed this. This is a complete turn-off for me,' and more along those lines. But he need not have bothered. Tom could not hear a word he said, nor did he stop in the slightest. He just went on pulling and pulling the damned thing tighter.  Next Martin felt his arms being pulled higher in the air so that now he was on the tips of his toes. The tightening resumed and he had to stop his inarticulate shouting as he began to gasp for breath. His waist was being pulled in, in and Martin knew it was smaller, much smaller though he could not see it. Finally Tom tied it off and Martin sensed him move away from him.

He felt his face redden, not only from the tightness of the corset, but also from the humiliation he felt. He was embarrassed. He was glad he could not see himself. But he did calm down. There was nothing he could do. He tried to rationalise this - maybe it was not what he thought it was after all but some kind of bondage device - it felt like that - and at the thought of that his cock rose again. He heard Tom chuckle - but he was soon to be disabused of this notion.

 Next Martin felt him in front of him, pushing something on to his feet. Again not leather or rubber, something softer than that - silk! A stocking! A woman's stocking.  He felt it being pulled up his leg and then fastened to the straps that dangled down. The same thing was repeated on the other leg. Yet there was something so sensual about the feel of this on his legs. Again his cock hardened further. His mind was in a whirl. He was definitely being feminised and yet it was turning him on.
 
Back at his feet again, Tom raised one foot and squeezed it into a shoe. As Martin came to rest again he knew that it was a shoe with an impossibly high heel. He was no longer on tiptoe but resting on a high, spiked heel. The same happened to the other foot and then he felt his arms begin to drop until they were at his side. The relief from the strain was wonderful but again rebellion reared its head as he tried to shake the shoes off and his hands felt for the laces on the corset; but they had been tied behind him and he could not get at them. 

Still he flailed about, trying to shed the shoes - but a strap had been buckled round his ankle and he could not shake them off. He started crying - he felt so humiliated and helpless - but his cock was still hard. And then he felt Tom removing the blindfold and he could see that he was tightly bound into a black, satin corset, that his waist had been reduced by at least three inches, that his legs were encased in black silk stockings and his feet felt crippled in the patent leather, black spiked heel shoes. He tottered a little on these heels but managed to remain upright.

 And then Tom was in front of him holding a full-length mirror so that Martin could really see the changes he had effected. This was so recognisably Martin Davison, but changed so much too. His physical form was transformed - his waist looked impossibly narrow and the corset had the effect of pushing his pectorals upwards so that they began to look like burgeoning breasts. But his head and face were unchanged, his hair was in the same masculine cut. More than anything else he felt bewildered. What strange kink was this of his? Martin was angry and glared at him. He felt he had been cheated.

Tom looked at him, a slight smile playing on his lips.

 'Have you ever, in your deepest fantasies, seen yourself as a French Maid?' he asked. Martin shook his head vehemently, again trying to shout behind the gag.

Tom laughed. At that moment Martin felt a sudden hatred for this man.

And Tom had by no means finished 'transforming' him.

End of Part One

Celebrity crossdressers

Tantalising headline!

Click on it to be taken to the article and pictures... and be disappointed by the reality.  They are all crossdressing for roles they are playing or music videos.

Except Jim Carrey...

and

Alex Reid!

Keeping up appearances

Should this...

ever be seen as this?

I ask because a man whom I have connected with online and chatted to on a number of occasions is soon passing through Berlin. He will be here for only one night and has a number of engagements but he would like to meet me, nonetheless. For all sorts of reasons, I would be unable to see him while dressed as Nancy. He does not mind as we have made a good 'mental' connection and is quite happy to see me as I am - male.

It is a question I have faced a number of times before. When I think about it I realise that only two people have seen me both as Nancy and as a man. They were both crossdressers themselves. I find that easier to go with. Otherwise every 'admirer' I have been with has only seen me as Nancy and this is a situation I am keen to maintain for the most part.

I feel I am essentially ME both as Nancy and as a man - though undoubtedly my behaviour changes when I am Nancy. Could I meet him dressed as a man but projecting more of the sissy side of myself? Or would this be confusing?!

Does anyone have any thoughts on this?

A meeting

Yesterday I met up with a cross-dresser - English - who lives in Berlin.

It was interesting and sexy but also confusing for me!

Usually, when I dress and meet, I meet with a guy, an admirer of t girls. Then I know what I must do! I set out to seduce him, to exploit femininity with a difference... Most of the admirers I meet are straight guys so I set myself the task of offering more than their wives might offer. Being a biological man, I believe I understand men and their needs, or at least I have some insight into their minds. These men tend to love all the retro fashions that modern women have abandoned. A lot of women's clothing from the 1950s, for example - but also clearly going back centuries in one form or another, especially lingerie - is restrictive and cumbersome, revolving around corsets, suspender belts, seamed stockings. This type of clothing is something that attracts a lot of t girls and their admirers. Personally, I love the whole ritual of dressing and the fumbling with suspenders, making sure seams are straight, trying to get the corset as tight as it will possibly go...

So I try to present ultra femininity to these guys, to address their sexual fantasies of what a woman should be. Of course there are a huge amount of variants within this - some guys like a t girl to have huge boobs, others prefer no false boobs at all. But generally, when I meet a guy who is an admirer of t girls, I get a 'handle' on him pretty soon.

Yesterday, the problem was that I was meeting a cd, and someone who was fundamentally the same person when he dressed as he was before. I think it is good to retain a sense of self, no matter what one does and even though I love to be extravagantly sissy, in little girl dresses etc, I believe that I am not acting but rather tapping into another version of myself. That pink pansy is still me. However, when I dress, my mind changes and from that my physical behaviour.

Had my new friend 'changed' his mentality as well as his clothes... well I think that it might have been interesting as a lesbian scenario.  But he stayed the same and so then did I - feeling inhibited about becoming more femme though that was my goal. We were two blokes in women's clothes, getting it on.

Well, actually, this was a first for me! So, an experience and a good one.

We talked about some of these issues - actually, it was great just to talk so openly about wants and feelings and  attitudes as a t girl.

And the sex we had was fine. I just need to get my head around some gender issues and where exactly I am coming from.

My dom's request

My Dom wants me to post pictures of me sucking his cock. So I do so with great pleasure. Plus another picture of his graffiti on me.

Another vintage drawing

This one is my favourite. I used to know who the artist is - but now have no record of his name.

Some favourite cd art

Vintage erotica!

 

Sexy Berlin

Berlin in the 1920s and early 1930s was the sexiest and kinkiest city in Europe. That is still true today!

Here are some pictures of the t girl scene from that period.

Sissies on the internet

I have noticed that most depictions of sissies on the internet are generally of genetic females. Or there are a lot of she-males displaying both huge cocks and huge breasts. Generally the only depictions of sissies who are crossdressed are the homepages of sissies like me.

Am I the only sissy who enjoys images like these?

And does anyone know of a source on the internet for more pictures like these?

There used to be a site called Lingeriebears where masculine men in lingerie posted pictures (99% of them faceless!) I was a member of that in my pre-sissy phase but it disappeared about a year ago. Evidently it catered for a different aspect of crossdressing so the need for material like this is there - but where does one find it???

Berlin Wall

20 years since it came down... and it seems like ten! Today is a day of celebration here with a lot of free concerts, fireworks and special events. I am heading out, as usual with full lingerie under my male clothes. Horrible compromise but I am just not that bold... yet!

Sissies and Humiliation

For a lot of people, these two go together like a horse and carriage - but I am not so sure.

Many sissies do find being a sissy to be humiliating. Look, in particular, at the cartoons of Prissy's Sissies or the blog of Humiliated Transvestite (http://htransvestite.blogger.com) This last has unfortunately not been updated since January, 2007. It makes for great reading and is often very funny. It is difficult to know to what extent it is intended to be an accurate portrayal of her feelings as she seems so torn by her sissy nature, albeit she voices this in a very sardonic way. Is the self-hatred true or assumed?

Forced feminization is perhaps the most obvious type of humiliation - though I suspect that no one is ever actually forced. But it remains a compelling fantasy for me as much as for others. In my fantasy life I enjoy the idea of being forced into deeper and deeper feminization, of every vestige of masculinity being removed. But the reality is that I love to lose this!

Other sissies rejoice in their sissiness and I am one of those. Of course I also crossdress and I am trying hard with regard to what I wear and how I do my makeup to see how 'passable' I can be. But this is only because I have found that not so many guys like an out and out sissy. I am fortunate to have found one, the guy who brought me out as a sissy. He only ever refers to me as sissy, rarely using my name, and he loves to write to me or talk to me as his 'sissy fairy' or 'little pansy'. And I know he does this not to belittle  me or humiliate me but as realistic terms of affection!

He encourages me to delight in being a sissy, prefers me to wear pink and use pink lipstick and eye shadow; he also loves to write 'sissy' on my body. Any other male sissy lovers around?

Sex poll

I am interested to discover the sexual preferences of sissies, cds, tvs, tgs. My vague impression is that most sissies are generally 'straight' and prefer women partners...

New purchases

I love retro lingerie...

Sissy Maid Story, Part Three

Chapter 3

After she had scoured all the dishes, given the kitchen a thorough cleaning and finished waxing the floors, sissy was set about the house to do a thorough vacuuming and dusting while Master did some work upstairs. Quietly and demurely, she scampered about in her maid’s uniform with a pink feather duster she herself had bought, holding it between her thumb and two forefingers as she dusted the place up and down.

”Don’t forget the blinds, sissy!” Master yelled down, as he set about hammering or drilling or some other manly art that was far beyond the capabilities of what this sissy could do, at least without chipping a nail or putting a run in her silk stockings. As she did the windows, she wondered if any passersby could see her, but then realized with a start that it was probably a bit too late to preserve any dignity now.

By the time she had finished her work and had the place sparkling, it was approaching early evening. This meant it was time to set the dinner table. Carefully she laid out the place setting, complete with white linen tablecloth, silverware, a napkin in a ring, lit candles, the works. It was a lavish affair straight out of an old movie, with the exception that the table was only set for one. After seating her Master and curtseying, she brought out a simple but elegant pasta dish that she had prepared herself. During dinner, she was required to stand to the side, refilling Master’s water glass whenever it was below three quarters full, and his wine glass if he wanted, which he signaled by tapping once on the glass with a spoon. When it was finished, Master signified his approval.

”Not bad for a first effort, sissy, but I believe in time you will learn to do even better, becoming a real gourmet cook as well as a maid. Of course I know you were limited in the ingredients you could use, but you’ll rectify that when you go shopping.”

Sissy felt her knees go weak at this thought.

”Oh don’t worry, you can have the food delivered for now, of course. We don’t want you to take any time away from your housework. If you’re lucky, I may even entrust you with the responsibility of signing for the delivery. How does that sound, sissy?”

 “Sir, very good Sir,” she swallowed

”Good. Now clean up.”

Sissy curtseyed as the Master got up and left, then removed the silverware, plates, and the tablecloth, all of which were to be washed. Once she finished with this, she was allowed to have dinner herself: a small salad with cucumbers, shredded carrots, sprouts for protein, 4 croutons, and no dressing. In spite of the meagerness of her supper she was by now starving and relished each bite as if it were a porterhouse steak.

After she had finished cleaning up, Master summoned from the living room. She minced out and curtseyed deeply.

“Fetch me a drink, sissy.”-

“Sir, yes Sir.”

She curtseyed again and disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying a silver tray. She set it down beside him. From a small tumbler, she reached in with a pair of silver tongs and withdrew several ice cubes, dropping them in the glass. Then she began to open the can of Coke. She could feel his amusement as she struggled with the tab while wearing the long, maroon, square-tipped press-on nails which she had been ordered to put on. Finally she popped it open and poured it in, handing it to her Master.

”Thank you, sissy. How are your feet, sissy?”

“Sir, a bit sore, Sir.”

“Why don’t you kneel for a bit,” he said, pointing down at his feet. “After all, we don’t want achy feet do we?”

“Sir, no Sir,” she replied, kneeling at his feet.

”Take off my shoes,” he commanded. She began to untie his laces, but he stopped her.

 “Always kiss my shoes before you touch them. Got that sissy?” She replied instinctively, by leaning forward to plant a kiss on the toe of each shoe.

”Very good, sissy.”

She then untied his shoes and removed them one by one, placing them to the side. Then the socks, which she was folded neatly and put to the side as well.

“I’m going to allow you to rub my feet sissy. Aren’t you honored?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”In fact, I think you should always ask to rub my feet after dinner, or whenever I return home. Doesn’t that sound like something a good little maid should do?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Well?”

“Sir, may I please rub your feet Sir?”

“You may.”

Sissy proceeded to give a long, sensuous foot massage. He lay back as she rubbed and kneaded his feet on her knees. About five minutes or relaxation, he seemed to think of something and sat up for a second. Reaching down, he picked up one of his socks. Unfolding it, he put it to sissy’s lips. Confused, she puckered up to kiss it, but instead he began stuffing it into her mouth with his finger. Her eyes went wide as she tasted his toe jam and foot sweat, but continued rubbing as he sat back again, satisfied and smiling. After over an hour of this, he removed the sock.

”Stand up, sissy. I think it is time for both of us to get ready for bed. I’m taking it easy on you tonight, but you’ve got a big day ahead tomorrow.”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

Master had removed her bedroom and bathroom doors, now allowing her to be seen at all times. She was permitted to remove her uniform, sleeping in full lingerie with a flimsy, see through, ruffled babydoll nightgown. Beside her bed was an electric bell, which she would answer if Master were to need anything during the night. After turning down the Master’s bed, fluffing his pillow, and making sure Master had everything he needed, she was allowed to lock the front door, turn out all the downstairs lights, and go to bed. She tossed and turned for a bit, not used to her new sleepwear, but within fifteen minutes she was sleeping like a little girl after a full day of play, dreaming that this might happen to her...

Sissy Maid Story, Part Two

Chapter 2

The Master was speaking. The sissy stood before him in the foyer in full French maid’s regalia, keeping her back straight, attempting not to sway too much in her high heels.  Her palms were sweating and there seemed to be a nearly deafening silent buzzing sensation in her ears. From somewhere in the distance, she almost felt she could hear a jilted ex-girlfriend’s vaguely hysterical laughter aimed at her. Trying to put the thought out of her mind, she concentrated on the instructions now being delivered to her.

“I expect you have given yourself a feminine name which you assume is your identity. If you have done so then I have no desire to know it. To me you are simply ‘sissy’. That is your name and your title and your essence as far as I am concerned.”

“Sir, yes, I understand, Sir.”

”You are here for two things - to take care of the house, and to please me. Often, they will be one and the same. Often you will be called on to please me sexually. You will do this without any thought of your own pleasure. You will live here, but since you so graciously decided to accept my generous offer of working here for free, you are also an employee. As such, you will be expected to follow certain rules and prescribed behaviors as set out by your employer, in order to remind you constantly of your position here. Is that understood, sissy?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”As such, the first rule is that you will never speak unless spoken to, unless you have a question regarding pleasing me. Is that clear, sissy?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”If you must use the bathroom, if I am here, you must first ask me for permission. And of course, you will always go the way a proper sissy should. Do you know what that is, sissy?”

“Sir, I think so, Sir.”

”And what is that?”

“Sir, sitting down, Sir?”

“Very good, sissy. Every time I enter a room, or you enter a room where I am, or I dismiss you from a room, you will perform a deep, gracious curtsey for me.  When you are standing or kneeling at attention, in other words, awaiting my orders, your hands will always be kept crossed over your apron. Is that understood, sissy?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she replied. After a brief pause, she quickly and ditzily crossed her hands in the manner described.

”Your walk is already very feminine. That is good. Have you practiced this walk before, sissy?” There was a slight silence as the sissy looked at the ground.

”Sissy?” he raised his voice slightly.

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Very good. But just to make sure you remember exactly who you are, when you walk, assuming they are not performing a task for me, I want your arms to be up always, and your wrists to hang limply down, fingers pointing towards the floor. I’ll bet you can do that, can’t you, sissy?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

“Do it.”

She raised her arms to her sides.

”Do it walking, sissy bitch.”

Taking a deep breath at the sting of the words, she gathered herself and began walking towards the opposite wall her arms held up, hands dangling like a skipping little girl or a flamboyantly gay man. She turned on her heels and strode back to her Master in the same manner.

”Good sissy. Now, here’s the tricky part. Whenever I say ‘Mince, sissy,”’ I want you to walk with your hands down, below your apron, fingers pointed outward. When I say ‘Prance, sissy,” I want your arms back up like they were before. Quickly and silently. Is that clear, sissy?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

“Are you sure, sissy?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she repeated.

”Good. Why don’t you give it a try. You do want to try it don’t you?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Let’s go. Mince, sissy.”

Keeping her arms down straight at her sides, she began the same walk again, only this time with her arms straight down, fingers pointed outward, in a manner befitting some sort of walking Barbie doll.

”Prance, sissy.”

As she got to the end, she suddenly lifted her arms up. Turning, she held them up as her hands flopped from side to side.

”Mince, sissy.”

Back down went the hands, the arms swinging stiffly back and forth.

”Prance, sissy.”

Again with the dangling wrists.

After a few passes, the Master ordered the sissy to stop, barely concealing his mirth at this game. She came to a halt before him, her bosom now appearing to heave under her bodice in deep gasping breaths.

”Very good sissy. I want you to understand perfectly clearly. From now on, you are to do everything as told. If I order you to lisp, you will lisp. If I order you to speak in a French accent, you will do so.  If I have to lift a finger I do not want to lift, or utter an instruction I do not want to have to utter, you will have failed, and therefore be punished, or cast out the door as dressed. You don’t want either of those to happen now do you, sissy?”

”Sir, no Sir.”

“One more thing, sissy. You are to be a sissy at all times. If I catch the slightest glimpse of masculine behaviour in the way you walk or talk or behave, then you will be punished severely. Remember you are a sissy, a pansy, a fairy, a faggot and you must show this at all times. A sissy is not a woman so you will not act like a woman but as a sissy. That is why you prance and mince; that is why you wear clothes that no woman would wear. That is why you will have to adapt to walking in those ridiculously high heels for the entire day. Do you understand, sissy?’

“Yes, sir. I do understand, Sir,” she said, pitching her voice higher than usual.

”Good. Since you will be adopting the role of the woman of the house, I think it is only appropriate that you have a tour, don’t you?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Prance, sissy.”

Turning his back, he headed toward the stairs. With wrists limp and heels clacking behind to keep up, she followed him up the stairs. He went to the room where she had changed.

”This is your room, where you will sleep and dress. You may repair to it only at night, or when I say you may. Is this clear, sissy?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”I will be making some minor modifications to it later, but you needn’t be concerned about that. Let’s keep going. Mince, sissy.”

Lowering her arms to the straightened position, she followed along.

”Here is the Master bedroom. You will not enter hear except to make my bed in the morning, or when I call you. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Prance sissy,” he snapped, turning again to show her the guest bedroom. While there was no one staying there, she would still be expected to dust and vacuum each day, freshening the sheets once a week, hospital corners on the sheets always. (Mince, sissy.) This applied to all rooms of the house, the dusting and vacuuming. He showed her to the laundry room, where she would be doing all his laundry, “Except my underwear, which you will personally wash by hand, and your own clothes which will are far too fine and delicate to go through the washing machine.”

(Prance, sissy) “Sir, yes Sir.”

After showing her all the relevant areas of the house and giving her instructions on opening and closing the blinds, the lights, the garbage (mince sissy), etc., the tour concluded in the kitchen. (Heel sissy.)

”Finally, one of the most important rooms in the house for you sissy. Here, you will be cooking all of my meals, and cooking them well. But I’m certain that with the right incentives you will learn to become a very adequate, if not a gourmet chef in no time at all. Except tonight, since we got a late start, and you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow. I will order food and you can fix yourself a salad. At any rate, you will keep the place immaculate, the dishes dry and sparkling, and the floors waxed and shined every day so I can see my reflection. I’m afraid I’ve let the place go of late, but that doesn’t matter now. In fact, it won’t matter ever again, will it, sissy?”

”Sir, no Sir.”

”You do know how to wax a floor so I can see my reflection in it, don’t you, sissy?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

He stood there watching her.

”Well what are you waiting for?” he said, enjoying her mouth suddenly drop open in realization.

”Get to it!”

”Sir, yes Sir!” she replied, scurrying off to the cupboard to retrieve her cleaning supplies.

Sissy Maid Story, Part One

A friend sent me this story a few months ago. I don't know who the author is and I took the liberty of re-working it and editing it. Should the original author either want applause or the story's removal, please contact me.

Most sissy stories are about a sissy submitting to a dominant woman and I do get a charge out of such stories and have a big collection! But it is a nice twist (for me at least) to have a sissy submitting to a dominant male.

I plan to post a blog on that subject sometime soon...

In the meantime, if anyone has pictures that they believe would illustrate this story, please get in touch.

Chapter 1

It was a sunny, summer’s day as he walked up the front path to the unknown house, pulling a rolling suitcase behind him. It was really too warm to be wearing a turtleneck sweater, but bearing in mind what was under it, he really knew he did not have a choice. His heart was beating furiously, he was sweating, his palms were moist and his mouth was getting drier by the second. He had never done anything like this before. Well, he had come this far. No turning back now, he told himself, fatalistically, swallowing hard. At least, see what happens, give it a go. It’s an exercise in building character. Yes, that’s it, life experience, he told himself. He swallowed hard as he walked up to the door, all too aware that this was the last time he would walk in such a manner. A huge change to his life lay on the other side of that door.

He had an image in his mind of himself as he was now, as the man he was about to leave behind. Nothing exceptional, dressed conservatively but with an inner life that had dominated and tormented him for so long…

He forced the image out of his mind as he reached up to touch the doorbell now in front of him. He hesitated for one last second then rang the bell. He could hear it ringing on the other side of the door but far away as if in a dream. His heart beat harder and faster than ever as time seemed to slow down. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. He stood there. Three minutes passed, at least. Maybe it wasn’t going to happen, maybe it had been called off, maybe… His heart leapt again as he suddenly heard steps making their way to the door. The handle turned, slowly, loudly, and the door swung open.

”Yes?” said the man on the other side.

The visitor had a glimpse of a handsome face with a sardonic smile on it before he lowered his eyes to the man’s chest and managed to utter the phrase he had been instructed to speak.

“Good afternoon Sir. I’m here to clean the house”

The man opened the door and stood aside.

Taking one last swallow, the guest entered, walking into the foyer as his host closed the door, shutting out the outside world with a soft but final sound of wood and rubber.

”Put your bag down and stand there,” he ordered, forgoing the pleasantries in a way that set the tone immediately.  The guest stood on the spot as ordered.

”Well...?

The guest stood there, hesitantly.

”Off with those clothes.”

The guest took a gulp before his final dive in, and reached for the bottom of the pullover but he was stopped by the man saying, ”Uh, excuse me.”

The guest stared back. .

”Do you have something to say?”

A wave of shame washed over him. He was still in male clothes after all. He was still a man, an equal, at least up to this point, wasn’t he?

”Sir...he mumbled defeatedly, looking down again, “Yes Sir.”

Recognizing the profound and wonderful difficulty this probably took to say, the Master let the mumble slide and smirked again. The guest put his hands back down. He grabbed the pullover and raised it above his head and off. Then the shirt, then  pants, then the shoes, (he had been told not to wear socks) as he stripped down for the first time for another man. Finally he stood there before the Master in a full set of women’s lingerie contrasting with his white skin. Black satin panties. Black push-up bra. Long black nylons attached to a black satin garter belt, with a little pink rose on the front. And a black choker around his neck which his turtleneck once covered. There he stood in shame and mortification, as the sissy he knew he was and had always been. The Master was now smiling, pleased with what he saw.

”Very nice.”

The sissy stood there, completely on display, knees trembling from nerves and the

novelty of it all.

”You are a real sissy, aren’t you?”

”Sir,” he whispered, “yes Sir.”

”Nice bra. Where’d you get it?

”Sir, it was my ex-girlfriend’s, Sir.”

There was a silence as the Master smiled, albeit bemused.

”You stole it from her?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Where’d you get the garter belt?”

”Sir,  a department store, Sir.”

”You went in there and bought it yourself?”

“Sir, yes Sir.”

”Pretending it was for your girlfriend.”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”But it wasn’t for your girlfriend was it?”

”Sir, no Sir.”

Another pause.

”Are you glad you’re here, sissy?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Are you nervous?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”But you’re ready to be my maid.”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Say it,” he said, now warmed up. “All of it.”

The sissy, while reeling from the humiliation, aware of the chill of the air conditioning against his skin, was nevertheless falling into the rhythm of the questioning. He spoke up a bit, his voice echoing in the foyer.

”Sir, I’m ready to be your maid, sir”

”Say it again.”

”Sir, I’m ready to be your maid, sir”

”Ask me for it.”

A pause.

”Sir, may I please be your maid, Sir?”

”What’s that?”

He swallowed again.

”Sir, may I please be your maid, Sir?”

There was a brief silence as the Master smiled, satisfied.

”Sissy, I want you to go upstairs. Up there you’ll find your room, on the

right. Take your bag, and leave your clothes here. Go put on what’s on the

hanger, the accessories on the night table, everything you see laid out.”

He paused, waiting.

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Then put on your makeup and wig. You will do a good job on your makeup

won’t you?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Go ahead, sissy,” he ordered, with an air of doing him a favour.

”Sir, yes Sir,” replied the sissy, as he turned and marched up the staircase in his black lingerie.

At the top, he stopped in front of the first door. Turning the knob and pushing, he saw what he both dreaded and expected inside the plain guest bedroom: a classic, black French maid’s dress displayed on a hanger, its lines forming the shape of a demure but shapely woman even as it hung there empty. While the uniform was classic, it was far from ordinary, made with customized quality and an exaggerated femininity rarely seen outside the movies, or at least movie parodies. Short flared skirt, dramatic puffed

sleeves, and white lace trimming every conceivable edge. He went and took it off the hanger. Unzipping it, he put it on the floor and stepped in, pulling it up and zipping it. It fit snugly, and intentionally so. The short skirt flared out in all directions, the square collar was edged in flounces of lace. He couldn’t help but turn a bit and watch the skirt billow. Turning to the dresser, he saw a pile of lace and ornaments, and a strange black item. He realized what it was and the dress was off again as, for the first time, he worked himself into a tight, black corset.

He had difficulty in tightening it but with each pull on the strings behind his back he felt his excitement; his shape was changing and he felt like he was becoming a new person. When it was finally on and the strings tied round, he felt that  his waist was compressed by nearly four inches which forced him to take short, quick breaths. Once the dress was back on, it was accessory time. In what would have made a great movie montage sequence, he put one thing on after another in a flurry of white lace and ribbons.  When this was completed, he went to the vanity and unzipped his bag. Two more items he found beside the dresser....

Twent-five minutes later, a sissy maid emerged from the room. Taking small uncertain steps in her six inch black patent heels with straps encircling each ankle, she carefully stepped out to start her slow descent down the curving staircase. This was it, her coming out party, a sort of perverse debutante ball, one with neither the high society dignity or the inevitable rich-girl-marries-and-never-has-to-work-again happy ending. The Master, hearing the stairs creak, came out to observe the spectacle unfold. Now she was descending, with smoky, heavily made up eyes, lashes lacquered in coat after coat of mascara, thick foundation and powder giving the illusion of a smooth, porcelain like complexion, and lips drawn and painted into a scarlet bow. Gold clip hoop earrings dangled against her rose tinged cheeks with each step. Down below, her dress was now accentuated with the lacy, frilly white satin apron tied into a big bow at the rear and complemented by a pair of three-inch wide lace cuffs on each wrist. Her skirt now stood out nearly horizontally below her waist, buoyed by yards of short ruffled petticoats. Her chin was tickled slightly by a white lace choker collar with a black bow. A delicate lace headband fanned out ridiculously, perched almost proudly atop her wig. A lacey white leg garter with a small black bow constantly revealed itself on her left leg as her skirt bounced exuberantly with each step. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she reached the bottom.

”Come here,” ordered the Master, pointing to a position just in front of him

The sissy spoke even more softly now, simply unable to comprehend how this

all had happened.

”Sir, yes Sir.”

She clacked over the hard floor in her heels, taking very small steps and one foot placed directly in front of the other in what she hoped was a new and feminine gait, to the spot in front of her Master. If there was ever any doubt who was in charge before, a simple snapshot of the moment would have made it clear even to a caveman what the dynamic was now.

She stood in front of the Master for a full minute as the Master examined her. Finally he spoke.

“The corset will eventually be much tighter but not bad for a first attempt.”

“Sir, thank you, Sir”, she replied.

”Tell me, sissy, do you like this outfit?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Tell me.”

”Sir, I like my outfit, Sir.”

”Then thank me for allowing you to pay for it.”

”Sir, thank you for allowing me to pay for the outfit, Sir.”

”Tell me how much you like wearing this.”

“Sir, I like wearing this more than anything else I’ve ever worn, Sir.”

”I want you to walk over to the mirror. Tell me what you see.” He pointed to a mirror on the wall. The sissy clacked over and stood in front of it, gazing at her image. If there was a trace of maleness left, it was not evident in his reflection.

”I see a highly effeminate, sissified, pansy French maid.”

”Excuse me?”

She paused for a moment, then remembered. “Sir, I see, a highly effeminate, sissified, pansy French maid, Sir.”

”Does she appear to be obedient and submissive?

“Sir, yes Sir.”

“Say the whole thing.”

“Sir, she appears to be an effeminate, highly obedient and submissive, sissified, pansy French maid, Sir.”

“Turn around. Twirl. Keep looking at yourself.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” she said, twirling around, then whipping her head around to see herself again, now sinking down into the essence of her femininity.

”Again.”

She sank lower in her mind.

”Let your wrists hang limp. Again.”

Lower.

”Now curtsey”. She hit rock bottom.

Sliding one foot behind the other, she grasped the edges of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger. She spread them apart and bent down, bowing in the mirror. Then came up.

“Now, sissy, I can tell you that you may now love the way you look, love the uniform that you are wearing – but you will come to curse it, and wish for something more practical. But you have chosen this uniform as your working clothes, have you not?”

“Sir, yes, I chose this uniform as my working clothes, Sir.”

“I fear you did not think this through, sissy. But I gave you the choice, you made it, and now you must live with it, even when your legs ache from wearing those heels all day, even when you are on your knees scrubbing floors and still have to maintain a perfect uniform.”

The sissy’s chest heaved in her corset as the implication of what the Master said sank in. Already the heels were hurting her, as was the corset – she felt its bite.

”Come here.”

She clacked over in her pointed heels once again and stopped before him.

”Sissy, are you ready to take on your designated role now?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”To accept your destiny and give up your masculinity completely?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”To do anything and everything I say no matter how trivial or degrading, or risk being put out of the house exactly as you are now?”

”Sir, yes Sir.”

”Are you ready for your instructions?”

She stood there, swaying in her heels, swimming helplessly in her satin and lace uniform. Their roles were as black and white as the confection she now paraded in before him.

”Sir,” she replied, “yes Sir.”