Graceful Submission
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A Degree Of Submission free porn video
"Here's the deal. I will not do it again until you ask for it. You will
have to prove the degree of your submissiveness by begging for it.
Until I hear you beg, I will not do it again."
Elizabeth and I were driving from Heathrow to Cornwall. Eleven and a
half hours is a long flight and I was happy to be in the passenger's
seat relaxing. But the happiness and contentment didn't stop at the
lack of responsibility. My Mistress, Elizabeth, had requested that I
travel from the West Indies in as much lingerie as I could wear without
compromising my comfort and discovery. This I had gladly done for her,
although the notion that I can refuse her is close to sublime, and I
had even, at her insistence, applied a little mascara to highlight my
eyes. It felt wonderful to be slipping into the role of her girlfriend,
and sissy, Angela. She had named me one night in a throe of passion,
and I was hers. The interminable flight had gone serenely - although I
am sure the gentleman sitting next to me could hardly have avoided
seeing the lumps in my jeans from the clasps on my suspender belt. My
soft breasts might have been a give-away too I think, although I was
wearing my bulky leather jacket to avoid too much display. It is so
very tempting to try and be caught isn't it? What better opportunity? A
stranger on a plane, never to be seen again... And what if you woke
from sleep to find fingers drawn irresistibly to the little metal bumps
high on your thighs? Not this trip for sure.
So there she was - my love, my Mistress, my beautiful adoring and
adored Elizabeth. All smiling and happy and - good grief! Sexy. What
was that blouse supposed to tell me? Tell anyone? And I thought I was
taking the risks. She hugged me and slipped a surreptitious hand in
between us to cup my right breast in her hand. "You like?"
"I like very much sissy, now come with me and let's get you dressed
properly".
The excitement of changing in the ladies at Heathrow into the clothes
she had brought for me was past now that we heading down the M4, though
my heart still thudded at the memory of the man who had clearly been
feasting on my legs. The skirt she had provided was sufficiently short
to attract enough attention for anyone. Let alone a nervous
transvestite out in public. But Elizabeth had smiled, and raised her
delicious eyebrows in that way that only she can, and frowned as if to
say Stop flirting! I wasn't, really I wasn't, but maybe leaning over
from the waist to pick up my handbag was a little... forgetful. But
listen to me, Mistress is a real woman. Her blouse, the blouse she was
wearing, now that got his attention I can tell you. She simply leaned
over to help me, and I was sooo second fiddle. I'd never seen anything
like it. I was momentarily jealous. I really want my own breasts. So
soft and lovely. I want to watch Mistress nuzzling on them. Slipping
the fat brown nipples into her mouth. She hints sometimes that I can
have them, but we're not really sure how. I think she wants them too.
Oh how I want to feel this woman suck on my very own breasts.
But now, here I was starting to get worried and nervous (it seems it's
a permanent condition doesn't it). Mistress has asked me to demonstrate
my submissiveness to her in such a way as to show me to be worthy of
something she desperately wants to give me. The fact that she wants to
give it to me, and that I want to oblige her by receiving it seems
contradictory doesn't it? But part of her love for me is to torment me,
and if this means she will deny herself, she will. She's very
determined like that.
I have always, since I can first remember, even as a slim and guilty
young trannie, longed for someone to have this relationship with. One
just like this. Where I am loved and cared for, and yet tortured by
desires denied. By a woman. By this woman. I realize now that it
couldn't be anyone else. Couldn't ever have been, and never ever will
be anyone else. At this level, at any level, I have found and been
found by my soul mate. How she knew this so many years ago is quite
beyond me... but there are many things we do not question any more. We
just know that we are utterly blessed by serendipity. Belonging to
someone like this might seem alien to most people. It doesn't involve
cruelty - except where it's appropriate of course, and it doesn't
involve the use of a certain word beginning with "h" which denotes
degradation of a human who you love. Although to be honest we both know
that some of the things she does for me - for us - would normally be
defined elsewhere as humiliating. But as long as I am getting pleasure
from it (and oh I do) and as long as she knows that, she is permitted
any latitude with me.
We don't do anything with that goal inside us. That hurting just to
hurt goal. How empty! We just give each other pleasure and shiveriness
where others might not look. And for me, at least, it is simply a
matter of giving myself to someone, who finally, loves me. Giving is
receiving. I receive a hundred fold. And I give my Mistress everything.
Or anything she desires.
So here, gentle reader, is my quandary. I am, or at least I was, or
maybe I had some of the outward appearances of being, a man. A man for
sure who was happier in silk and lace than in plaid shirts and tough
boots. Happier in stilettos and stockings than jeans and Y-Fronts, but
a man never-the-less. Now, in the care of Mistress, I am dissolving
into the woman I have perhaps always longed to be. I am dressed in a
short skirt, I am made up beautifully, I have my own brand new blouse
on, and beneath all this prettiness I have a delicate lace bra which I
bought on her instructions last Christmas. I have pretty undies on, and
a pair of sheer stockings, which I am looking at now. As I suppose are
lorry drivers as they cruise past our car. Mistress likes me to keep
the hem of my skirt at about the level of my stocking tops so that any
interested man can enjoy what her sissy has to offer. There is no doubt
that my legs are my best feature, and at the level of the hem of my
little flouncy skirt, there is a long stretch of thigh revealed for
anyone lucky enough to see it. Or them. I, of course, love it.
She also - I mean apart from simply liking to have me expose myself
like this, and insisting on it - likes to caress my legs. She says to
me that she is not a lesbian. I don't care if she's a Martian. How she
treats me is her domain, and I am here to please her. If she likes to
caress and kiss a man dressed as beautifully as I am, so convincingly
feminine, who am I to worry what she may like. She likes me. And that
is always, and more, than enough.
That said however, I realize that I am now, to all intents and
purposes, a man in Lancaster House only. I am barely even a man in a
dress any more. I am slipping away, and I love it. Sadly, no, not
really, happily, (I am a lucky person indeed) there are appearances to
be maintained. I'd love to be Elizabeth's girlfriend. But again, I am
happy I whatever I am - she loves me. Because she loves me. And that's
really all I need.
So, Mistress has asked a man (!) who is driving to Cornwall with her in
pretty clothes, to show that his declared submissiveness to her - and
entirely in addition to his willingness to beg her - is sufficient to
grant him the luxury of drinking from her sweet cunt as she empties
herself into him. Yes! Extraordinary. She knows (she must - she seems
to know everything about him) that he has, since his first fumblings
into a pair of stolen panties been utterly enchanted and aware of his
sissiness. His submissiveness.
It is true that I have only recently been allowed to live it. That I
have only very gently been lowered into the scalding fire of knowing
another man has been encouraged to touch my love and to kiss her
thighs, and to caress her astonishing body. But she too is new. A
novice (though at times I think I am a babe I need of help!) at
torment. Wary, I think, of doing things that she thinks might actually
hurt me. Lately, though, I say lately, I have detected a movement
within her towards her own sphere. That sphere where I think she is
beginning to know that I adore her without condition, and that all she
has to do is observe a few rules (how strange for a willing sissy to
talk of rules for his Mistress, but this is where so many other
people's misconceptions arise), and there is nothing she can do which
will not increase my love and devotion and adoration for her. I think
she is actually beginning to realize how lucky we are. But I digress (a
very sissy failing).
As I grew, my need for someone to be in charge of me has grown too.
Somehow, I don't know - perhaps it comes with the territory - I
developed a need to be submissive. It is complete now. Utterly. At
first I just read stories by odd men. Clearly by men. Men who were,
equally clearly, deeply unhappy and tortured by things beyond their
ken. Men without purpose living in sad lost worlds where there is no
love. Is this because these pour souls could not give love when they
were lucky enough to find it? I do not know. Maybe they never found it.
They were stories (I now realize) that never conveyed the true wonder
of giving yourself to someone as I have. Well, let's not be too modest,
I realized it then too. They weren't... complete. They made me sad, but
I also realized that perhaps they made other people happy. Just not me.
They lacked that ingredient which Mistress provides for us. She adores
me as I adore her. But, oh but! They showed me by little sentences here
and there, that where there is submissiveness, and where there is
dominance, there does NOT have to be humiliation and cruelty for the
sake of it. And now, here I am with the domina of my life and loved and
tormented and jealous and with my stomach in knots and my heart beating
like a drum and sooo attentive and secure. In a dress, in high heels,
on the motorway to the house of my parents, thinking of ways to try and
show I am so truly submissive that My Mistress will let me drink her
nectar as she pisses into my sissy mouth... I am smiling with my life,
and she is smiling too. I know it.
The journey takes us through Wiltshire where it is sunny. Weakly sunny,
but clear and bright and English. Constable, Salisbury Cathedral,
there's Stonehenge on the right. We've left Hampshire with its ancient
watercress streams shimmering with trout, and we're heading west.
Mistress has made it quite clear that she will use the ladies (I
petulantly think she is cutting off her nose to spite her face but
then, I'm a sissy. I would wouldn't I?) rather than my specially
painted mouth for her relief if I can't demonstrate to her satisfaction
that I deserve her stream of hot urine. She knows that my long
germinating submissiveness has developed to a point where I need it.
Her dominance has recently developed too - to the point where she was
courageous enough to let it out one day - this frightening desire to
piss into me. (And that's what makes her obstinacy so damnably
irritating - the knowledge that she wants it almost more than me). But
she's clever my Mistress. She knows what she's doing. She knows I am
all of a happy turmoil trying wretchedly to think of ways as if there
aren't enough on the table already!!!! To show that I merit the
largesse from between her legs.
We are stopping for a break. Now I am all terrified again. We are
stopped at a pub some where in the wilds of Somerset. It has little
slightly darker corners where her sissy husband to be can hide. Yes! I
know! Mistress wants to marry me. I pinch myself daily to remind me I
am not dreaming - no dream could be as wonderful as this. But later,
for now I have seemingly failed. She asks me to buy her a fruit juice
(she is driving) and I stutter, and obey. Nothing for me. She tells me
I have not exactly measured up to her expectations "Not really darling,
have you?" What can I say? She is right - she's always right, but
that's another story! Actually, she seems distracted, I half turn to
look over my shoulder at what has her attention. "Don't move darling.
I'll tell you when you can look".
She tells me she is bursting and must go to the loo. I ask - I beg! -
to accompany her. But she merely smiles, and uses those eyebrows on me
(now I'm jelly - this is so unfair) and disappears behind me. I am
mindful that I should not look where I am forbidden. I remain desolate,
I have failed. But then, "I'm sorry sweet sissy" (she's back - joy!)
"Here you are - I am so rude, but I was tired from driving - please can
you be a love and get your own straw? I forgot them - bring two if you
wish - my juice is nearly finished". I swish to the bar to fetch the
straws, and see out of the corner of my vision, a man who is looking at
me. Trust me, trannies always know when they are being looked at. I
ignore it. What else is there to do, and anyway, I am thirsty. Mistress
is smiling and stretching her legs and arms - it has been a long drive.
I peel the wrapper off the straws and she passes me my drink. She is
smiling. Her skirt rides up, her blouse leaves no one in any doubt
about her charms. I wonder who is looking from behind me.
The drink, strangely, is very slightly steaming. "Sip it slowly sweet
sissy. Put those lovely kissy ruby lips round the straws and sip your
drink. This is my juice darling sissy. Darling submissive sissy nearly
husband of mine. Sip it slowly sweet heart. I want to watch you. Please
don't try to drink it all down quickly so you can't taste it. I want
you to take little girly sips, and I want you to savour each and every
mouthful, and I want to watch you like you want to watch me. You do
want to watch me don't you darling? Watch me as I sink slowly on to a
proper cock? Allow you to share my most intimate filling moment with a
man? You should pay for that privilege don't you think?"
She has leaned forward and is leaning wide-eyed and beautiful on the
back of her left hand. The fingers hanging loosely towards her right
shoulder. I feel her stockinged knees gently resting against mine.
Gently moving on mine. I know because she showed me as we left the M3
(and joined the A 303 just before Andover) that she is wearing her new
black suspender belt. The one with the eight clasps. The one she wore
to the art exhibition. The one she was wearing when she bought the
picture for our bedroom. The picture that I shall be looking at forever
knowing what happened at the exhibition. Where she wore her new
stockings under the skirt that she wore to show the clasps. Because I
suggested it. Beware the bait sweet sissy, beware the bait. The bait is
nice but the hook will get you... Elizabeth knows the effect of the
casual friction of her nylons on mine. Of her finger nails scratching
lightly on my nylon knees. How much it hurts.
I haven't told you everything have I? I wear a chastity belt. It
constrains me in ways only a devoted Mistress and her sissy can know. I
had suggested it one day - hoping against hope she wouldn't be
offended. Offended? Jesus. She'd bought one within five hours. It was
delivered within three days. I wear it now. When she teases me, when
she reminds me of my situation, when she tells me of her...
dalliances... when I BEG her to tell me, it hurts because I am not
allowed to touch myself. There's many things I am not allowed to do
unless I have earned the right. But when my little coquette hears these
things she strains to grow and I have to suffer the consequences of my
lack of control. Mistress is not cruel and she hates it when I cry, but
it is perfectly alright to use my chastity to cause distress while she
torments me. She knows that I know that mixing my painful and delicious
erection with this tall vapoury glass before me is one way of getting
me to do drink it. As if I wouldn't anyway. She's looking at me all
wide-eyed and sweet. And utterly wicked. "Drink it darling - do drink
it".
I bring my sissy lips closer to the plastic tubes, and now I can smell
her. Her. My Mistress. The heavy sweet strong scent of the woman who
pisses into a glass and brings it to me in a pub lounge and looks at me
and simply expects me to drink it.
I suck the straws. She can see her hot pungent juice slide up and up
and up the long pale plastic tubes. I see her pupils dilate as the
liquid nears my lips. Suddenly it is in my mouth. If she thinks for one
second I shall react with the merest hint of distaste she's going to be
disappointed. I wouldn't spoil her moment for a world of constraint and
an ocean of underwear. I fill my mouth and the lovely salty bitter
pissy brew swirls under my tongue, and around my mouth and slips
towards the front of my throat. I want to keep sucking - I love it.
It's quite extraordinary. I thought I might reject it, gag even, but
it's wonderful. She has told me to take little sips so I can enjoy it
(or not if I don't like it), and to show her my submissiveness. I let
the straws loose from my sexy lips with a kiss, collect a drop with my
little pinky tongue, and slowly raise my face so she can watch it
swallow down my throat. I smile and look her in her eyes. We are
equals. Depraved, exhibitionist, affectionate, submissive, dominant, in
love.
Her eyelids lower and I can see, because I know, that she is enjoying
the tremors of a beginning orgasm. "I never thought you would" as she
opens her eyes and looks at me. It is lust, I am totally at her mercy.
She looks like a wolf, and in her need, her unquenchable desire I see a
chance to turn the tables. "May I drink some more please Mistress? It's
so lovely". I'm so innocent no butter could melt in my mouth. I am as
girly and pretty and coy as I can be. I am flirting and pouting and
fluttering my eyelids and teasing her. I sip, I swallow, I sip I
swallow. It's too delicious.
"My God I want a man right now. I want to be stuffed and pounded and
filled and I want it now". My she-wolf cries almost too loud. "And I
want you watching you little tart. You piss drinking little sissy". I
lower my wicked mouth and take just a teeny little sip and roll it
round my sissy mouth before swallowing it - I feign shock. "Oh!
Mistress, it tastes like piss. You can't have pissed into my drink can
you?"
I look up and she is slowly and deliberately writing something on a
post card. She hands it to me, and tells me to stand up and take it to
the gentleman behind me with the tweed jacket on. And the tie. The dark
green tie. Suddenly, as always, the tables really are turned. "Please
ask him to read it, and to read it to you so you know what to do".
I am shaking with fear. I turn and walk shaking towards him. He is, of
course, very good looking. This must have been who she was flirting
with earlier. Good looking in a mature manly sort of way. Not pretty.
Like me. Not willowy. Not wearing breasts. Not wearing stockings.
"Excuse me sir, my Mi... my friend has asked me to give you this note.
He is reading it. Then he looks at me and looks me up and down. How
could she do this to me? He speaks. "Your friend has asked me if I
would care to join you for a drink, but she has also asked me to ask
you something. D'you mind?" I shake my head. Quite speechless. At least
I thought I was. "She says would you please go to the ladies and get us
a condom from the machine". Now I know what speechless is.
I forget I am a man in a dress. This man thinks he is being picked up.
What do I do? He smiles broadly and turns to you. I am left standing.
Terrified. Without intention I find myself in the ladies. And yes,
there on the wall is a vending machine. Foolishly I think to myself
that I thought they were only found in the gents. Even more
disconcerting I find myself wondering what flavour Mistress would like.
Rough? Smooth? I hurriedly push a pound coin and scurry out. With the
contraband burning a hole in my palm. You are there - thank god. What
silly sissy thoughts rush round - what if you'd gone out and left me?
But it's worse, he's sitting very close, and your body language is all
desire. "Enjoy your drink darling. I'm so glad you like it".
Despite the relative gloom I can see that your skirt has ridden higher
than you normally would allow it in a public place. In fact from my
side of the little table it is clear that if there were no table, your
legs would be leaving little to the imagination. What must he be
thinking? What!? I know what he's thinking - a blind penguin would know
what he's thinking. "Angela sweet heart, this is Martin. Martin meet
Angela." "Enchanted, I'm sure". I splutter as I see your hand touch his
trousers, the furrows like a ploughed field. Corduroy. Brown and well
worn. "Thank you Martin", I gasp.
A little small talk none of it involving me. The.
"Martin, I know this sounds awful, but Angela made a bet. And I've
never been able to resist a bet - especially when I'm feeling a little
tiddly. She bet me, and I'm not joking, she bet me that I couldn't
persuade anyone to let me sit on their lap in public. A complete
stranger. There's a betting woman's honour riding on this Martin. So
what do you say? Will you let me sit on you? Please?"
"It would be churlish to refuse dear Elizabeth. But I hope I won't be
committing poor Angela to a life time of servitude by agreeing?"
Little did he know.
Mistress rose and modestly sat sideways across Martin's manly lap.
Across his manly corduroy trousers. Her skirt was barely decent I was
blushing... Rubbish. I was heating up like a furnace. "Is this what you
wanted darling? For me to sit on a strange man's lap like this? Or did
you mean like this?" And so saying she rose once more, lifted the back
of her skirt and settled like a bird on her roost. Her naked flesh on
the manly corduroy trousers. On the straining manly cock within the
tented manly corduroy trousers. She leaned on both elbows now and
rested her chin on her knuckles. And she started to rock her self on
him. "Did you mean like this Angela? Darling?" Her pretty boyish arse
all pert and presented.
She closed her eyes as a slightly bigger tremor raced through her, and
she groaned. I knew she had no panties on. I wondered if he knew. He
must know, I could see his hands caressing the upper reaches of her
hips. Under her skirt. The manly calloused farmer's hands. On my
fiancee's naked white smooth hips.
"Darling. Angela. Will you ask Martin to fuck me please? Will you ask
him to unzip himself, and put on that condom you're crushing to death,
and put himself into me please? I need to be fucked properly again.
Will you do that for me please sissy? I need to feel a MAN in me. And I
need it now. Please".
And I did.
I peeled open the packet with my teeth, and I handed it to him all
slick and flat and green (I'd chosen green for some reason), and I
handed it to him. I don't think he needed asking. But I had to.
Mistress had asked me to. I watched her face as she slid him all the
way in, in one full movement. I wanted to cry. It was so beautiful. And
as she rocked back and forth and came and came and came, tears of
happiness flowed gently down my cheeks.
Finally - just a few convulsive seconds later.
Mistress opened her eyes. She looked shocked. She whispered. "I've
never done this before. I'll never do it again. I'm not like this. I'm
so sorry. God that was good it was so good with you there right in
front of me".
I know Mistress.
I know the flush of her face. I know when she burbles. I know things.
"Mistress? ... Elizabeth?" We were in our own world. "Darling?"
Mouthing.
"Yes?" barely.
"I love you".
"Thank you". She mouthed thank you to me. Joy again...
I finished my juice. Through the straws. I didn't want to rush
anything.
She smiled. She smiled that wicked Mistress smile
I live.
Mikayla
- 11.08.2021
- 9
- 0
