"Thy gown? Why, ay. Come, tailor, let us see’t.
O mercy, God, what masquing stuff is here?
What’s this? A sleeve? ‘Tis like a demi-cannon.
What, up and down carv’d like an apple-tart?
Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber’s shop.
Why, what a’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this?”
~ The Taming of the Shrew
The prospect of having a lover is making me reflective, Diary. Making me think about who I am and what I've become. I used to be a boy but now it wouldn't even occur to me to put on a pair of pants. Any woman would have several pairs of pants in her wardrobe, but not a sissy. Skirts and dresses exclusively for me. Appearing in public without my makeup, without my hairdo in perfect order? Not a chance. So what does it mean to be turned into a housebroken sissy? What have I allowed to happen?
I finally said it, Diary. I have started dreaming of being a girl, all the way down into my panties. I know there are surgeries that can accomplish this for me. I also know the process is hideously expensive. I've been trying to think of a way to introduce the subject to my wife, but I'm terribly nervous about this. I have reason to believe that she and the ladies of her bridge club like me as I am. A Housebroken sissy whose humiliation can entertain them when they hold their gatherings.
Unless you've been feminized by dominating women, you probably can't imagine how charged with sexual tension the experience can be. Try to imagine being forced to abandon the gender of your birth and to embrace femininity, to learn to be a girl and then learn to love it. Add to this the fact that sissies are commonly denied any form of sexual release for long intervals and you might begin to understand how the body becomes a type of capacitor storing its absolute maximum voltage but ready to discharge it in a millisecond in a white-hot plasma arc louder than a pistol report.
The bridge party that night took an unexpected turn. They used the stocks again to shave me - nothing out of the ordinary so far. Except this time I was able to appreciate how ingenious they were. Two pieces, one for the neck and wrists, one for the ankles. Lightweight, highly portable. Made to be fastened to any bed. Then I was dressed in women's intimate apparel, and taken downstairs and restrained in a chair, exactly as expected. Olivia set my hair in rollers while Agnes applied my makeup. Still following the script. I wouldn't admit it, but I liked this part.
I could hear them arriving, just fashionably late. The ladies of my wife's bridge club. I was upstairs in my bubble bath, lavender-scented this night. I knew exactly what to expect. They would gossip and enjoy a glass of wine and eventually, two or three of them would be selected to come up here and dress me. But first I would be shaved and powdered. And probably milked at least once. Then I would be dressed in lingerie that afforded not a shred of modesty, taken downstairs and secured in a chair to have my hair and makeup done.
I had not seen my sister for a number of years. Sally was the brainy one me, well I wanted to be a dancer.
When it came to college I Skipped thinking I could make it on my own and joined a burlesque troupe. That didn’t last long but having broke away form home and the way I did it, well months rolled by and I just never got back in touch. I would find more work wouldn’t I, sure I would??
At the far end of a dining room, secured to the wall by a chain connected to my steel collar a fine chain connecting my pierced nipples and clit tugs tight.
My tongue and jaw sore, from servicing the female guests, the laughter dies down and has they begin their meal I crumple to the floor. Lonely tears roll down my cheeks as my thoughts turn to how I came to this.
On my hands and knees, naked, wrists and ankles secured in the leather cuffs of the manacles with my back pressed up against the roof of the restrictive confines of the punishment cage I whimper into my gag from the stinging welts on my bottom.
My hair dangles over my face has I gaze at my tits gently wobbling with each breathe then beyond to the tiny bud of a cock and my smooth crotch where my hefty meat and balls once hung.
"What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.”
~ Twelfth Night
“I tried to call you: to tell you not to come. There’s someone outside. He set off the alarms. I was afraid for you, and when I heard you arrive, and then you took forever to open the door... I thought… oh thank goodness you’re both safe. The police will be here soon. Come in and get warm.”
HOW did it ever get this far? I’m actually serving as a hostess at my wife Janet’s bridge party ! A hostess, moreover, dressed as a maid, which is what I became six months ago - my own wife’s personal maid !
Another global struggle was being fought during the century leading up to the Bandwidth Wars. It was a much quieter struggle. It wasn't marked by burning cities and tens of millions of refugees. It didn't leave nightmarish photographs of mountains of mutilated corpses or prisoners being marched to their places of execution. Many around the globe ignored this quiet struggle. They discounted its significance, even joked about it, ridiculed it. But the warriors in this low-key conflict were persistent and devoted.
The Bandwidth Wars lasted nearly two decades. Who knew that with all the resources on planet Earth that were becoming scarce, it would be contention for rule of the electromagnetic spectrum that triggered the cataclysm that nearly brought about a return to the stone age? Not petroleum, not clean air and water, not even food (which was the odds-on favorite of bookmakers worldwide) but a resource that we had already learned to expand almost without limit. But could we agree to share it peacefully? Turn for your answer to the two billion who were butchered during the last 17 years.
Hilda was never unkind. She was never sarcastic, or even ironic. She was only cheerful and friendly, sharing gossip and amusing stories, making me smile and laugh, making me anticipate my visits to her salon chair more than anything else in this strange place. And today was no different. As soon as Mistress Madeline walked away, her tone became gentle and reassuring. "I watch you darling. I watch your reaction to that pretty girl in the mirror. She's who you want to be, who you were meant to be. And what's inside your panties is wrong for that girl, honey.
My entire body began to shake involuntarily at hearing Mistress Madeline's news, but the chair's restraints held me virtually motionless. Moreover, Hilda was putting the finishing touches on my eye makeup, and the eyeliner pencil was, in itself, a powerful incentive to remain calm and still. And before I could begin to utter verbal protests, Mistress Madeline was holding a ball gag in plain view, just above me. "You know better than to start being abusive or ill-mannered, dear. It just upsets everyone when a girl misbehaves. Don't think only of yourself, sugar.
It was certainly no surprise being strapped into the salon chair. This had been the standard procedure since I had been brought here more than six months ago. And for the last three months, I have had regular bi- weekly beauty salon appointments. And I knew the salon chair was articulated, capable of putting me in an upright seated posture or, by pressing a pedal at the base, a reclining posture that had me lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. My beautician, Hilda, liked to use the reclining posture to do my makeup.
Without breaking eye contact she reached behind my head and unbuckled the gag, slowly she pulled the ball from my mouth and I was struck with a sudden awareness of an ache from having my mouth held in one position for so long.
‘now’ she whispered a wry smile on her full red lips, ‘what’s it to be, an earth shattering orgasm or you commit to serve me?’ she asked her voice barley a whisper but her words rang around my head every one hammering home its message,
‘please --- please let me --- let me serve you’ I blurted out hardly able to contain my excitement.
It is hard to believe that half the semester is already over. The days seem to fly by now, they are so filled with things I have so come to enjoy. I LOVE dancing. I can’t even believe how much; I never would have believed it if someone had told me that I would be dancing ballet a few short months ago…
The camera shutter clicked, the only sound I could hear, I moved ever so slightly, as much as my tight bonds would allow, luxuriating in the feel of being so helplessly tied, I had lost all track of time the blindfold preventing me from seeing and the ball gag stopping all but the occasional grunt the repetitive clicking of the camera was my only link with reality.
I walk to the Arts and Music building in complete shock. What had seemed like the perfect solution to begin with once again has me reeling. I guess it is not fully agreed to until I talk to Rosalyn, but I don’t think it would be good for me to tell Professor Finkel ‘no’ after she has gone to this much trouble. My only hope is that Rosalyn will not be agreeable after she meets with me…
My life had been dramatically transformed since that fateful day when Viv caught me wearing her clothes, and I had to accept that there was no going back. I was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. My body had undergone irreversible changes turning me into a shemale. And I hated it! Now Viv had indicated that she and Richard were going to find customers for me, customers who would subject my body to further indignities.
I sniffed back the anguish from JAVERT's accurate assessment of the situation. This was a costume of sorts. I had been masquerading...disguising myself...never fully at ease...never free from the torments...the markings on my body OR the nightmares. EVELYN was me OR I was EVELYN...it didn't really matter. There was no use trying to shed the part of me...that made up 'most' of me. Perhaps, before I went to sissy school...there may have been only half-Evelyn in me.
The next several days are a mix of narcotic sleep, tears, and near absolute depression. I am barely able to pull myself together enough to be civil to Selina and the others that come around. By the time the swelling has gone down enough for me to go back to work, I can barely convince myself to get up and face the day. At first, Selina ignores my funk—striking it up to ‘hormones’. But, as the days go on, she insists that I go back to see Marge.
Horrified! The stinging slap across my face jarred thousands of images in my head. It was like scrolling across a strip of images that I had hoped were long lost---buried deep on an erased hard drive, NEVER to be found again. Instead these images, all of them were moments of degradation and suffering from my days at sissy school, shot through my head in an instant. Each one registered a moment of pain in the nano-second that tabulated the stunned second of silence before I sobbed in reply:
My crotch was now flat with penis helplessly tethered between my legs---SECURED by a PADLOCK! The moment it was done I felt DEFLATED...the wind rushing out of my sails. I was beaten. My body was slumped in defeat as I waited for the form fitting shackles to be snapped onto my body. My forehead even pressed into the wall offering more of my neck up for the collar...that WAS NEXT, right?
Things settle into a sort of routine over the next week. I split my time between the salon and waitressing. Surprisingly, I do really well at making tips. Angie may be the ringleader of trouble at the Zone, but she is also a very good trainer when she wants to be, and she has decided to take me under her wing...