At home

Not terribly interesting - just me dressed and playing with myself ;)

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.

Some favourite cd art

Vintage erotica!

 

Latex fetish sissy

I have always been open to explore, always searching for the essence of myself! But here is something I have yet to achieve...

More pictures

 

 

 

Some pictures over the years.

From being a guy in lingerie to mincing sissy - part 1.

The Road to becoming a sissy, part two

I have written about a time spent fooling myself that I was a macho man who simply liked to wear lingerie – and after all this is evidently not uncommon in the heterosexual male. It has been suggested that such men are so in love with the feminine that they want to take it into themselves. I carefully avoided such analysis when it came to myself – I just knew that I got an erotic charge from dressing like this.

So I would set time aside and put on the few things I owned – first the corset – I loved and still do love corsets, not only for the way they transform the figure but because they are a kind of bondage device! The feeling of the corset tightening around me is still one of my greatest pleasures. Then a brassiere – no breast forms. Stockings – black, fitted to the suspenders of the corset. High heels – 6 inch stilettos in which I would totter for the time it took me to masturbate and cum. This usually happened in about five minutes.

And the first thing I would think as immediately I started struggling with the laces of the corset was always, ‘What a ridiculous thing to do. What an idiot I am. How stupid and ridiculous I look’ And there would be a kind of sense of shame and guilt and a resolve not to do it again.

In my first full blog post, I wrote about meeting a straight man who dressed me totally for the first time in my life. I was interested in what he was up to but… he had a number of traits which I did not share. He was working on being extremely 'convincing'; although married (his wife knew nothing, he assured me) he had a desire to appear as a real woman - hence his love of breast forms, make-up, despite his lack of skill, and he even had an artificial pussy. All of these he was keen that I should try. He had considerable guilt about his tendencies and tastes and finding someone who would go along with them and share them seemed to lessen his anxiety about himself as a pervert. By this stage of my life I was pretty happy with being a pervert in a number of other ways - of which more soon - but dressing was something that I had repressed for so many years that I am sure I, too, had 'issues' to deal with.

One of the things he insisted on was that I must have a female name - this was important, he assured me, and would help me relax into the clothes. I still had a problem about relaxing into the clothes and was reluctant to commit to this - or indeed to wearing the breast forms, wig or pussy. I wanted to be a bloke in women's clothes. I could not think of a woman's name that I could feel happy with - he it was who came up with the name Xena, after the eponymous heroine of a popular television programme. He argued that I was so macho that only a name with Amazonian associations would be appropriate. So with him I became Xena.

He also had BDSM interests... With these I was more familiar, having been involved in the leather fetish world from my early 20s. I think this was another example of me trying to present myself very much as a macho male; wearing leather and uniforms projected a stereotypical masculinity. I was particularly happy with BDSM in this context because I could allow the dressing to happen so long as I connoted it with the idea of being forced. Hence my interest in 'forced feminisation' which of course is not forced at all but something I now eagerly rush towards, not shy away from. Still the complexities of the human psyche are such that the IDEA of being forced to wear the clothes of a woman is still a huge turn-on.

I still have a couple of photos from those early sessions, some ten years ago. In front of me as I write, I have a picture of me in full, ghastly make-up, bound to a St. Andrew's cross.

Looking back, I see now that I was something of a selfish prick - I used his clothes and gear and essentially gave him nothing in return. After a number of sessions, we drifted apart. There was no sex involved and I would have liked that, though not with him en femme; the idea of 'lesbian sex' - sex with a man who was also crossdressing - had no appeal for me.

I wanted to have sex with a man. I had always had sex with men – but little by little I began to see that I wanted to have sex with a man with me dressed fully as a woman.

The road to becoming a sissy.

I am a gay man, generally very masculine in appearance, not your stereotypical fag or pansy, who after years of crossdressing has come to realise that I am not a transvestite as such but rather a sissy. Now it is clear to me that while all sissies are crossdressers not all crossdressers are sissies. Rather than attempt a hard and fast definition here and now as to what constitutes a sissy I am pretty sure that this will emerge in the course of this blog over the coming year.

I say I am a masculine gay man and, indeed, for the most part that is true - but my masculinity is assumed, I feel, and has been developed over many years to hide me from my sissy self. For, truth to tell, I was very definitely a sissy boy. The prepubescent me was 'sensitive', disliked boys' sports, and had a liking for girls' playground games. Given a choice between a football and a doll (though I was never asked to make this choice) I would have plumped for the doll. Of course I was innocent and naive and had no idea that I was proclaiming myself to the world as a sissy. A degree of self-knowledge came with the onset of puberty.

In addition to an evident attraction to boys - always older than me, more young adults than boys - I started dipping into my mother's wardrobe and trying on her clothes. They felt so much more sensuous than boys' clothes. I particularly loved a pink girdle which, with stockings and my mother's pink wedding dress, became my favourite outfit. However, though these dressing sessions would culminate in a fierce orgasm, I was always left feeling so ashamed and guilty that they were not by any means common occurences.

Also, of course, I was now a teenager and my peers were by no means so accepting of my perceived sensitivity and bookishness as they had been just a few years before. Now the name calling began... girlyboy, nancyboy, sissy, pansy. The sports master at my all boys' school was also prone to using any and all of these names to produce results on the sports field.

I resolved to end all this by 'butching up'. I became much tougher, I courted girls, I forced myself to take an interest in sports, I became a pretty damned good rugby player. And the name calling stopped. I had learned to pass as a man in a world that clearly hated the feminine if it showed itself in any way in a masculine context.

Inside my mind I was not so convinced. As my teenage years passed I waited for my homosexual feelings to disappear - I hoped that this was a phase I would grow out of. They did not and I hid from them. By the time I went to university I had abandoned all crossdressing activities, weaned myself away from allowing them to come into my mind. My secret life seemed secure even if I was not at all secure in my own mind.

However, I started behaving in a more natural way when I went to university. In the first place it was mixed, male and female, and I discovered that I was really happy in the company of women. I do remember one of my friends telling me that her brother was rather effeminate and was inclined to 'swish' a little - she saw it as an endearing, lovable trait. She added that no one could ever possibly say the same about me. I was alarmed - I thought she was being ironic and was intimating that I, to, was swishy. But no - she was serious. To her I was in no way effeminate. Some years later when I came out as gay to my friends, I reminded her of this conversation and she said that no, she had in no way been ironic, that I came across as super-macho. This was in the 1970s when there was still a tendency to equate homosexuality with effeminacy. The irony, in fact, was that her brother, despite his pansy manner, was straight through and through, whereas I, the butch rugby player, felt inside that I was a total sissy who would not accept it.

And for the next twenty years or so I kept up my masculine act. You could say it became second nature to me and did not feel like an act.

I had a terrible contempt for the effeminate homosexual - I accused them of leading people to think that all gay men are effeminate. I particularly hated drag queens, or the stereotypical poufs that cropped up on television. Warning - be very careful of what you decry; it is usually a sure sign that you fear the same thing in yourself.

And yet... deep down I had never forgotten that I had been sexually excited by women's clothes and as I came to terms more and more with who I felt I was I began to think that maybe I should investigate this again.

So I met a nice straight guy on the internet and after a lengthy correspondence finally acted on his offer to borrow some of his things. I met him on a number of occasions and loved everything I tried. I was particularly attracted to the corset - the feeling was incredible and I loved the way it transformed me. I added black stockings, high heels, a bra with breast forms; he had a go at applying make-up (his skills were rudimentary to say the least); silk panties went on - instantly turning me into a panty fetishist; a classic little black dress went on; and the whole ensemble was finished off with a black wi

It was a startling sight that met my eyes when I looked in a mirror - I was grotesque! The make-up was really bad! And yet... I loved it. I loved the transformation, I loved the difference in the way I was forced to walk as a result of the heels and the corset.

I was hooked - but this was only the beginning of my journey to sissydom.