Here is a sample from a sissy maid story I like.
The Sissy
He kneels in front of me, the man creature who, naked and trembling, wishes to become a being variously called a sissy – a house maid, sissy maid – or perhaps merely a female slave.
I look down at his head, slightly balding, his body, lumpish and at worst qualifying for inclusion in a pregnancy magazine. At best he will be slim and not too tall, his nipples will protrude excitingly and he will be willing to do whatever I ask.
My demands can be complex, punishing, challenging and, at times ball-busting.
It’s who I am.
I am a Dominatrix – a professional Dominatrix.
One of those odd-ball exclusive women who believe we should get paid for the very special, complex and unusual services we provide for men. There aren’t many Dominatrix – not good ones who respect the client and make sure he has a good time while being knowledgeable enough, experienced enough to keep him safe from the consequences of his fantasies.
Not many women are prepared to dominate men and put them in their rightful place – at our feet. Not that there is any need to make a fuss about this: as kneeling at my feet like John is now, is obviously his proper place.
Women in general of course pay lip-service to the dominance of men. Men make all the most important decisions – and how often does a decision important enough that it requires the input of a man occur? Almost never.
‘Stand up. Turn around slowly.’ I command. I inspect him.
‘Part your legs.’ – he’s obedient so far. I am checking to see if he has indeed managed to shave his entire body. Not an easy thing for a chap, women generally don’t grow hair on their backs or the back of the arms and ass. I’m impressed, he’s done a great job, clean as a whistle.
I smile and pull his ass cheeks apart, there nestles that puckered orifice long neglected which I shall fuck with my dildo, my fingers… whatever I choose - later… it is virginal, innocent but not for long. Not for long. I ignore his moan of longing.
The most obvious thing is his erection. Difficult things to deal with on sissys – a chastity device is called for and usually the one I have on hand is either too small or too large.
His erection isn’t going away and chastity devices won’t fit an erect penis. Well not the ones made for everyday wear. It is now hir ‘sissy clit’ an anomalous organ which acts rather like a temperature gauge. First I choose a tight pair of pink satin panties and hold them for hir to step into. These should keep that tool under wraps for a while.
‘Ooh Mistress.’ She sighs in raptures at the delicious cool satin against hir skin. I pull down the front of the panties and tie a bright pink bow around the cock and testicles. Readjust the panties to a ‘normal’ position. Now a white bra with an insert on the strap to take care of the wide back. Inside the cups I slip soft gel shapes to give hir the feeling of breasts. These all hide hir nipples of course – they are protruding a little under the layers with excitement. A pink satin slip over the bra and then a frilly white petticoat.
She has never worn stockings so I advise hir to sit on the boudoir stool and gather each white stocking in hir hands right down to the toes; place the toes in the tip of the stocking and gradually smooth the silky clinging fabric up hir legs like a movie star from the 40s.
They may be lace-topped stay-up stockings in which case a garter belt is not required… or if they are soft topped stockings a pink garter belt decorated with tiny diamantes will hold them up. Now a pair of high heeled court shoes – white or pink for preference but if our gurl is to be a French Maid then black will do admirably.
Standing, she teeters in shock at the different way hir body feels suspended. Weirdly self-conscious in high heels, gripped tight by bra and stockings, seduced in bulging satin panties and stimulated by the heft of frilly petticoats against newly nude thighs.
Now a white blouse over the underwear – long full sleeves or maybe short school-girl like sleeves and a pink or black skirt rests on top of the petticoat.
For a more formal look perhaps we will put long white elbow gloves on hir; a pink daisy necklace and matching earrings.
Then to cover that nude or semi-nude cranium with a glorious ash blonde wig, full, expensively made so it looks indistinguishable from real woman’s hair. I keep hir from looking into the mirror until after I have finished hir makeup.
Plenty of moisturizer and foundation makes an amazing difference even to beard stubble – our major challenge. Then powder, eye shadow and mascara. Lip liner pressed on firmly. A dash of blusher on chin, cheek bones (if any - or where they would be if there were cheek bones) tip of the nose and centre of forehead. It amazes me that most cross-dressing men – even those who want to be trans-sexuals – never spend even five minutes studying girls and women’s magazines or YouTube lessons where are taught the finer arts of applying, using and wearing makeup and face disguising paints as well as how to get them off, once applied.
I brush the long glorious hair, arrange it, tie in a pink bow. Stand back and Inspect hir… what effect have I achieved here? While the chief differences between men and women – before they open their mouths – are in appearances, when it comes to androgeny and sexual fantasies centred upon males dressing as little girls subtleties are important.
The key question is: does the man who comes to me want to try to pass as a woman? Or does he merely wish to dress as his sexual fantasy dictates and to hell with what the ensemble looks like?
Today the latter is the concern. A little pink and white sissygurl style in all it’s complexity is to be perpetrated upon this man and his body.
Will this outfit satisfy his visual fantasy – or violate it, or surpass it? Will it feel great to him? Or the opposite? Will he freak out, pull the clothes off and run out the door in a panic?
I select a bright soft pink lipstick and train hir to hold hir lips firm and full for the lipstick… soft and creamy it flows on; disguising any masculinity under a layer of delicious rosy pigment. Ah such pleasures revealed with paint and skill!
After the makeup is on I allow my sissy to look at hirself in the full-length mirror.
You are Abbie now, I tell hir softly. What is hir reaction? What does he/she see when this altered image is reflected to hir eyes? A soft smile – a grimace – thoughts like ripples on a pool. Generally at this point the temperature gauge is leaking into the satin panties and requires tying up tightly, punishing with a light spanking or grips.
I request hir to walk about, looking in the mirror, getting used to the heels which she may never have worn before. They cause her cute rounded ass to sway delightfully and I don my strap on cock for her next lesson. She sashays about the room, gaining confidence, waving her arms about. Recalling feminine poses and trying them for size. I gaze at my creation wondering how it is that with a wig and makeup this person looks like one of my aunties, or any of the women at the bingo hall.
I wear a long black skirt with a leather strap-on dildo harness fastened around my hips beneath it. I choose a medium to small cock (not the size of a mere sissy clit – this is a masculine appendage of domination) and insert it through the ring. It protrudes like all good erections distending the front of my skirt. Above it my full breasts make me into an androgynous Goddess of all pleasures.
‘Kneel before me,’ I command.
Obediently sweet little Abbie teeters towards me, smiling tentatively as if suddenly the high heels will morph into a snowboard and hurtle hir down a steep slope. On hir knees she looks up, momentarily a touch of the angelic limns her cheeks and eyes – blue and pretty behind the eyeliner and mascara. Hir lips moue gently as if she realizes this is a special moment, and it is.
‘Lift my skirt.’ – slowly the hem rises in her trembling hands. My legs dressed in black seamed stockings slide into view, my ankle boots accent my smooth skin with their shiny patent leather.
Up my thighs and now the cock flows into view and she knows, yes she knows this is her goal, not my pussy, though she may smell my feminine scent from her position. No. My masculinity is here to teach Abbie how to suck cock.
‘Suck me, pleasure me.’ I command.
