Interview With Destiny free porn video

Interview with Destiny By Cassandra Morgan This was destiny, I kept telling myself. And I was Destiny. At last. All along, it was supposed to end up this way. I never had a chance. People always thought that I was surrounded by rainbows, and now I was going to be. They knew it all the time. I stuck my left toe into my pantyhose and pulled them over my smooth leg. This was nice, almost liquid in texture. I smoothed the hose over my calf. I smiled. I put my right foot in, like the hokey-pokey. I stood and waddled the hose up over my panties. Could I do this? Could I not? After all the comments, after all the desires, was it time for me to finally give in? (Well, of course it was. This would be a very short story otherwise). I looked in the mirror. From the waist down, I looked feminine enough. With my small penis, there wasn't much of a bulge. But you could say I looked feminine on a lot of days. People always thought I looked like a girl. Oh, I fought it. I tried wrestling in high school, because they had weight classes and a 135-pound boy could could compete. I wore my hair in a buzz cut for a lot of years. But nothing helped. I looked girlish. I acted girlish. And so people thought I was a girl. Even my father. Even Adam, my brother. Even Beth, my sister. The town voted, and I was the local fairy. No recounts. I tugged my bra on, hooking it in the front and then spinning it around. I put the breast forms inside. I cupped them, lifted them. What makes a transvestite? What makes a sissy? What places us in whatever category we land? Are we born to it? Or do people suggest that we are so often we start to believe them? Do you date guys because we want to? Or because most of the girls you meet believe you to be gay? I never had an option, I thought. I was too ... gentle. I was too soft- spoken. I was small. And because of that, guys have always chased me. Maybe I should have surrendered sooner. I stepped into my sundress. It was cute. White with blue flowers. I glanced longingly at my maid's dress hanging in the closet, the one that had started all of this. It was pale blue, not the typical black or pink you see in the fetish magazines. I had read the catalogues for years. I knew they came in a thousand colors and cuts. Some of them were sexy Halloween costumes, and some of them were plain working outfits. This one was sort of in the middle. Classy, but not slutty. Pretty, but not sexy. It had been hanging at Bell's, a department store, not a uniform store or a party costume store. Just there, in the women's department. It fascinated me. The whole lifestyle fascinated me. So many people thought I was gay, or a cross-dresser. And I'll admit, I had some leanings. But submissiveness? This was a fit. This was me. I couldn't quite figure it out. I didn't have a reference point to a maid, no childhood domestic for me to emulate. So why did it stimulate me so? Why do some guys like diapers? Why do some guys like to be tied up? Why do some guys like spankings? I went to the nightstand. I picked up a tube of lipstick. I ran it across my lips, then smacked them and pursed my lips into the mirror. The foundation would come later. The eyeshadow. The nail polish. I wanted to look good today. I fussed with my hair. I could use some highlights. Finally, I stepped into my heels. I looked good. I hoped Cynthia would like the way I looked. Look, I'm not going to lie. I had worn girls' clothes before, fumbling with snaps and zippers, spinning until the hem danced against my thighs. But I had never been out, and I had never let anyone see me. Not until today. Destiny was going out, so Destiny was coming out. Cynthia and I had had 100 conversations about it. She had seen my soul, and she had seen it was female. I'd to tell my psychiatrist, so I might as well tell you. I'm Dennis Polk. And today, I start seeing a shrink to deal with this gender confusion that has haunted me my whole life. Cynthia found her for me. A gender specialist named Kim Ryan. As I understand, Dr. Ryan is a transsexual herself. Cynthia wanted to find someone who would understand. Someone who had walked in her own shadows. Cynthia is my best friend. No, she isn't my lover, and no, she isn't my Mistress. People get both of those wrong. It is a sexually permissive society, and people think two friends who are close have to be having sex. Especially those of us who have alternative lifestyles, or those who have had those lifestyles thrust upon us. I took a deep breath. I stepped out of the bedroom. Cynthia was in the kitchen, looking blankly into an empty refrigerator, as if she looked long enough, something would look good to her. She looked around the door as I entered the room. She smiled. Nodded. "See. I told you," she said. "You're beautiful. I could see it. I could always see it." I grinned weakly. I still felt funny about this. When he world spends years making you feel like a sissy, and then you finally give in, it still feels strange. Right, maybe, but strange. I thought about Adam, about Beth, about my father. They all told me for years that I wasn't quite manly enough for the outside. Now I was confirming it. Cynthia reached up and fixed a strand of my hair that was playing games. "This was always you, girl," she said softly. "This is you were meant to be." We had met in college, Cynthia and I. I had flirted my rear off, because she was cute and had a great laugh. But Cynthia was like a lot of girls I chased. They immediately identified me as gay. I could swear to them that I wasn't. But girls looked at me in a sisterly way. Fag hags, I guess you could call them. But Cynthia seemed to sense that I needed a friend. She was loyal, and she was fierce. Even when she had boyfriends, she didn't abandon our friendship. She was there for me. She talked about guys I might like, and girls. She talked about jobs. She talk about life. We talked about clothes. We had been through gallons of wine and ice cream as we sorted through it. In college, she tried to fix me up with a guy. I wasn't ready for that. She tried to fix me up with a girl. I wasn't ready for that. She tried to fix me up with a transexual. I wasn't ready for that, either. Maybe I was scared. But as the days went on, I grew comfortable not having sex. I read. I watched movies. I grew to like my own company. Oh, there were leanings. I wasn't the clean cut kid I would have wanted you to think I was. I read a lot of porn. Lesbian porn which gave way to gay porn which gave way to transexual porn which gave way to bondage porn which gave way to submissive sissy porn. I was like a spectator at a ballgame. I didn't play myself, but the games interested me. Now, I had finally gotten into the game. I stood there in a dress, transfixed at my image. "Cynthia, why did I let you talk me into this?" I pled. "Because it's time, Destiny," she said. "You've put it off long enough. You need to talk to this shrink, and she wants to see you en femme. She wants to help." "How can she help? "Because she's been there, Destiny," Cynthia said in a tired voice of someone who is argued out. "I've told you. Kim Ryan is a highly respected psychiatrist in this town. She used to be Tim Ryan. She's married to Phyllis Lawrence. She's pansexual, and she's trans, and she's a sissy. You should be able to relate to her." "I don't know if I'm any of that," I said. "Then it's time you found out. It's time you talked to someone and turned the light on. You've been afraid of you too long." "What if I'm straight? Would you believe me then?" She giggled. "Yes, Destiny. You're so straight that your slip is showing." I looked down, horrified. "Made you look," she said. *** The offices of Kim Ryan were comfortable, classy. They looked about what you expect. There was a leather couch in the middle, and a large recliner beside it. There was a mahogany desk in the middle. Diplomas and plaques covered the wall. On her desk, there was a photo of two brides posing for the camera, impossibly happy, with a couple of other women around them. I entered slowly, as if I was intruding. For the first time all morning, I felt silly dressed the way I was. "Come in, come in," the woman behind the desk said. She was a pretty woman in a gray dress. She was older, maybe in her 40s. Her makeup was perfect. She reached out her hands and grabbed mine. "I'm Dr. Ryan," she said. "But you can call me Kim. Everyone else does." "Hi, Dr. Ryan...Kim," I said. "I'm Destiny." "Oh, that's a lovely name," she said. "Won't you sit down? Might I get a cup of tea?" "That...that would be nice," I said. She bustled across the room. "So you were recommended by Cynthia? Lovely girl. She took my course last summer when I was a visiting professor at Bethany College. Is she still into music?" "Um...yes. She plays guitar," I said. "Do you play anything?" she asked. "The radio," I said, smiling. "No, ma'am, I don't play." "Well, Destiny, tell me about yourself." "I'm 26, doctor," I said. "Except for my mom dying when I was young, I had a normal enough childhood. A dad. Glenn. My brother Adam. My sister Beth. My mom passed away when I was child." "I'm sorry," she said, sitting back in her chair. "Have you always cross-dressed?" I blushed. "Destiny. I don't care, for goodness' sakes. We're just two people talking, okay? Look, doctors don't talk much about themselves, because this is the patients' time. But just so you know, I'm ... alternative, too." "I heard that you were a transvestite," I said. "Well, that isn't quite right, Destiny. I'm a sissy male. A submissive. I'm married to another sissy male. Along with a third sissy, we serve a Mistress named Anita. So anything you think you have to say that embarrasses you, I can promise that I've been around worse, okay." "You're...you're a sissy?" I said. She smiled. "Does that offend you?" she asked. "Oh, no, ma'am," I said. "I love reading about sissies, imagining being one, imagining the life of a submissive. I think I may have leanings that way. There, I said it." "And why do you think that, Destiny?" "I just ...love the literature, doctor," she said. "I love the idea of it. I've never been submissive. I've never had a Mistress or a Master. But the thought of it fascinates me. I would love to serve. The thought of having someone make my decisions for me is thrilling. I ... I bought a maid's dress. I don't know why. But, you know, I couldn't not buy it. Does that makes sense? "Of course it does, Destiny. Sissies have to start somewhere. We aren't ready made for pickup. Most of us dabble in it a bit first, find a partner who likes control, and then slowly become a submissive, a sissy. But it can work the other way, too." "I'm not a real transvestite," I said softly. "And why do you tell me that, Destiny, as you sit there in your dress and heels? Why is it important to you for me to believe you aren't like me?" I looked at her. I took a minute before answering. "It isn't," I said. "I've just denied it my whole life. Even to myself." "Well, 26 is awful late for self-discovery," she said. "It strains belief. There was never one session with another boy? Never once?" "No, ma'am. I mean, I wanted to. Looking back, I had lots of opportunities. And I wanted to. But I fought it." "We are all ready when we are ready, my dear," she said. "Do you believe in manifest destiny?" I asked. "Sometimes," she said. "In some cases, I believe in free will." "I think I'm a product of manifest destiny," I said. "It's where I found my name. I think this was meant to be all along. I don't think I had a choice." "Don't we all have choices?" "Sure, in the day-to-day part of things. Do we wear heels or flats? Do we eat soup or salad? But I just have always felt like there was something that was meant to be about me. Look, I'm small. I'm ...delicate. I look more feminine than masculine." "Destiny, a lot of boys are feminine," he said. "It's more than that. It's my life. It was laid out like panties on the bed, you know?" "No, perhaps you should tell me." And I did. *** When I was 2, I began, I was a pretty boy. That's what I'm told, anyway. It was before the cancer, and my mother was still alive at that point. She would take me walking in the park, and the other mothers would coo over what a pretty little thing I was. She could not bear to cut my hair. I wonder now if it began back them, if this attraction to things girly began even at that young age. Dolly didn't help. I had picked up one of my sisters dolls, Wetting Willow, I think she was called, and I clung to her everywhere I went. Did you ever watch a kid play with dolls? Dress them? Brush their hair? Make them kiss? Marry them to each other? That was me. I could spend hours playing with dolls. My older brother played ball. My sister climbed trees. I played with dolls. All of my sister's stuff became mine. Her play oven. Her toy vacuum cleaner. Did you ever notice how many girls' toys are about cleaning? Toy iron boards and play makeup. Toy tiaras and jewelry. As I got older, I was into all of that. I would spend hours fixing Beth's hair. I was more of a sister to her than a brother. Maybe that's where the desire to be someone's maid began. There was a sandbox in the park, and the other kids would gather and play. I always played dolls with the girls. The boys played on the swings and the slide. They had fist fights. No one ever told me to play with the girls. But my mother noticed that I seemed happier when I did. She began to dress me in a unisex fashion. Not pinks, but certainly not blues. I was more of, say, a yellow outfit kid. My sister Beth had a Sleeping Beauty gown one year for Halloween. I remember staring at it, wanting to wear it. I have read that some kids begin to play in skirts by three or four. But not me. I liked them. I played in them, rolling in them, feeling them. Yeah, I probably wanted to wear them. But I didn't. I was a boy. Wasn't I? *** Dr. Ryan listened, not interrupting. This is one of the key weapons for a psychiatrist, I knew. Let the patient talk. That's where the secrets are. She shifted and smoothed her skirt. "Do you think that is what forged your identity, Destiny?" she finally said. "I don't know," I said. "Maybe. What do you think?" "I think we're just starting to learn about the brain," she said. "We do know that the human personality is formed early. Perhaps it was your closeness to your mother. Perhaps you wanted to be like her. Perhaps you wanted, somehow, to be her. Perhaps you were born that way. "There are no sure answers, Destiny. Life isn't that cut and dry. The human psyche isn't either. I would say you were exhibiting some signs of who you were, not creating them. If you had played football, you might still be here in front of me in a dress. There are gay people who played on the swings, too. And that's great. I'm a firm believer that an overwhelming majority of gay people are born that way. An extra chromosome, maybe." "That would make sense for me," I said, pulling at my skirt. "Destiny, let me ask you something. Don't be insulted, okay. Be honest. What, to you, is a sissy?' I hesitated. "I guess it's a boy who has a lot of traits of being a girl," I said. "I guess we dress in very frilly outfits, very feminine. Some of us clean and cook and launder. We serve. We are more sexually permissive than most transvestites." Dr. Ryan smiled. "That's only part of it, Destiny," he said. "A great many of us, the subs, often crave humiliation. Some of us more than others. We are mesmerized by exposure. We subjugate ourselves in all ways - that's why we cook and clean. Some of us like being spanked. Some of us like being cuckolded. Some of us like being sexually punished. Does any of this sound familiar?" I blushed. I looked at the floor. "All sissies are not men," Dr. Ryan -- Kim -- said. "And all are not submissive. There are layers. When you say "sissy," I assume you are speaking from the viewpoint of a submissive sissy. But there are are effeminate boys who are saddled with that term, too. It's an important distinction." "I didn't mean to speak for others. I just was talking about me, where I fit in." "I don't mean to lecture, Destiny. It's fine if you are submissive. It's fine if you are not. But understand how many versions of gay and bisexual there are. Masculine men. Masculine women. Feminine men. Feminine women. Gays. Lesbians. Bisexuals. Sadists. Masochists. Fetish prone. Sissies. Submissives. Mistresses. Masters. Tops. Bottoms. Bears. Twinks. Transsexuals. Transgenders. Bulldykes. Lipstick lesbians. Dungeon masters. Diapered adults. Dozens more." "It's...overwhelming," I said. "But I am not afraid." "What's the movie line?" she said, grinning. "You will be. Being a submissive male sissy is hard life, Destiny. It's long hours and no pay and constantly being told what to do. It's giving blow jobs to strangers. It's being peed on. It's scrubbing dishes when Mistress is reading a book. And it's all the damn time. It isn't a game. It's a life." I nodded. I understood. "Here's a question," she said. "What makes you think you are a sissy? Why not gay? Bisexual? Transsexual? You know, you can be a sissy without serving anyone." I had spent hours pondering the question. Why be a mincing queen? Why not just wear dresses? Find a nice guy and a cat? Or a nice girl and a dog. "It's not enough," I said. "I want to kneel. I want control. I'm not whole without it. I've read the warning: if you can avoid this life, do. Because it will make, or it will break you. You want to know the truth? It was all I could do not to wear my maid's dress today." "But you never been with a man. You say today is you first time out dressed. How can you be sure you're a sissy?" I thought for a minute. How do I explain? "Kim, there are people who are born and raised in the desert who long for the sea. There are people who have never been in a plane who yearn to fly. Sometimes, another life calls to you. I know what I am." Kim smiled. "How about humiliation? Are you willing to wear a cock cage?" "I would hope not to," I said. "It doesn't matter what you hope, Destiny. That's my point. It matters what your Mistress says. Or your Master, if you go that way. You may have a harsh one who beats you, who starves you, who marks you with tattoos. You may have your breasts enhanced. You may drink urine. You may be castrated." I winced. I didn't want to be marked. "Essentially, you are agreeing to be sub-human," the doctor said. "You are agreeing for your family, and all of your friends, to know you're a sissy, to laugh and talk about you. More than if you were gay. More than if you were trans. There are Mistresses who will make you give oral sex to men at dinner parties. Mistresses who will cane you because they are in a bad mood. Mistresses who will make you watch while they have sex with other men." "Did ... you do all of this?" She shrugged. "My life is not important to you, Destiny," she said. "There are a thousand ways to be a sissy, a thousand ways the dynamic can work. But to be honest, as a submissive, I have tried most of it. Mistress Anita is not a harsh Mistress. If you meet her, you will like her. It takes some doing to piss her off." "Such as..." Kim paused. Should she tell a client about Miriam? Should she share the one time she really saw Mistress ticked? Why not? Miriam wasn't a client. She could make a point by telling her story. "Miriam was a wanna-be domme," Kim said. "She had controlled her husband, and she began to think of herself as a Mistress. The Divine Miss M, she called herself. She came to our home, and she had every intention of being what Mistress is. What arrogance. She actually thought of herself along those lines. You don't have to take a course for this." "What happened?" "Mistress flexed her muscles," Kim said. "She snapped her fingers, and Miriam was on her knees. Quick as that, she was the alpha. And for the first time any of us can remember, Mistress thought Golden Showers were a good idea. She peed on Miriam every day for a month. And then she sent her home with her husband. She was unwilling to be her Mistress. Mistress has three of us, Phyllis, Flower and me. She said that was enough." "Is her husband a sissy?" "He tried to be, He wore the clothes. But he's mostly straight, He never did like sucking a guy off. It wasn't like with the rest of us, who like it, or who love it. For him, it was real humiliation. I often wonder if he is still sucking guys off and hating himself for it. And hating Miriam." A soft bell went off, a chime, really. It signaled our time was up. "Destiny," she said. "It was so good to get acquainted. I wish we had longer. Next week, I'd love to talk a little more, okay?" She stood and walked me to the door. I tried to imagine her in a maid's dress, on her knees, scrubbing the floor. When I tried, though, the image had my face to it. *** That night, dressed in slacks and flannel shirt, I sat with Cynthia at Callahan's a fern bar on the North side of town. I had done it! I had gone out dressed, and I had talked to another human being about becoming a sissy. I had discussed what would be expected of me as a submissive and the ideas of it thrilled me while scaring me. "So being gay isn't enough for you, sweetie," Cynthia said. "And being a transvestite isn't enough for you. No, you've got to go to the third level of hell. You're a fag times three." I laughed. This was Cynthia. There was no amount of her joking that bothered me. It's that way when you know someone loves you. Cynthia would have clawed someone else to death if they had called me a fag. With her, it was another term of endearment. "I don't know what it is, Cynthia," I said. "It just fascinates me. Love wouldn't be the same unless someone controlled me. Sex wouldn't be the same unless they dominated me. I don't really know how to explain it." "I do. You want a Mistress to order you to suck cock." She smiled. It's funny. Cynthia had always suggested that I would like kissing dick. Lately, I thought about it a lot. It's funny. There was so much fiction where a sissy was forced. Forcing me wouldn't be difficult. Just point. "Where am I going to find such a Mistress," I asked. "The Want-Ads?" she said. "Wanted: Someone to spank my ass while I do the ironing. Must ask me to do windows." I giggled. "Have you considered a fetish bar?" she said. "That's where I would go. I would look in the alternative papers to find an S/M bar, and I would check it out. Did you ask Kim if Mistress Anita was taking applications? "Ha. No room at the inn," I said. "She has three already, and she just rejected two." "Maybe Kim knows someone." "You would think that a well-established sissy would," I said. "Why is it so hard to find someone to hold the key to my cock cage?" Cynthia laughed. She was a healthy girl. She had boyfriends often enough. One girlfriend, if you want to know the truth. She didn't quite understand the submissive nature of her friend, but she didn't have to understand. Many times, Cynthia wished she could have been Destiny's Mistress. Oh, she could be bossy, and she was a born smart-ass. She could handle the spankings, she thought. But it wasn't in her to humiliate. It wasn't in her to control. She could not be all that Destiny needed. The cross-dressing? She could help with that, though. There was a natural femininity to Destiny. It had probably always been there. From what Destiny said, the world had acknowledged it long before she had. *** "I was 6," I was saying. "I didn't think of myself as a sissy." Others did. I sat there, in her blue maid's dress, and told about the day when Beth, who was 9, asked Dennis if he wanted to play. His sister didn't waste a lot of time with him. She was such a tomboy, although she would grow up to be an elegant woman. But she was the person with a frog in her cap. She was the person with dirt under her fingernails. "Let's play dress up," she told me. "I bet I can get you into this skirt." I wanted to. I didn't want her to know i wanted to, though. So I played like i was being stubborn. But Beth held me down, and she pounded my bicep until I couldn't move his arm. She always could push me around. So I put on the skirt, and I felt the way it tickled my knees. I spun around. I felt pretty. I was on the clouds. Until my father walked in. Glenn Polk stared at his son, standing there in a skirt. He didn't know what to say. Should he tell me I looked nice? Should he ignore it? Finally, he turned and walked away. "I'm sorry, Daddy," I pleaded. "I didn't mean to. Beth made me!" Glenn didn't hear. The image was burned into his mind. * * * The mansion was huge and elegant. It looked like one of those houses where the rich kids live in the movies. I got out of the car and gaped at the home. This was where Kim lived, with her wife, with her Mistress, with the other sissy they called Flower. It was perfect. It was elegant. I knocked at the door, using the lion's head door knockers. A pretty young woman - Flower, I guessed - answered the door. She smiled. "You must be Kim's guest," she said. "Won't you come in?" Kim had invited me to dinner. If they were going to work closely together, Kim felt they should be close. And what better chance to see the Sissy dynamic up close? Mistress did not have Kim dress to serve, however. Tonight, she was a hostess. She wore a long silver gown, as graceful as ever. She introduced Phyllis, who wore a blue dress. Flower was in a pink maid's dress. Evidently, she would do the serving. After a long moment, another woman walked in, wearing a pretty white dress. She smiled, then extended her hand. "Destiny!" she said. "It is so good to meet you. Kim has told me all about you. I'm Anita. Welcome to our home." "Hello, Mistress," I said. I didn't know what to do, so I curtseyed. "Please. Call me Anita. Kim tells me you are a novice at this lifestyle. I am sure you will love it." "I hope so, ma'am," I said, looking at the floor. "Well, you are certainly polite enough. That goes a long way with me. If someone is polite, I almost never spank them. Not even if they beg me." I looked at Anita. She was smiling, obviously joking. I offered a crooked grin. "What might Flower get you to drink, my dear?" Anita said. "Just water for now," I said. "Pshaw," said Anita. "Flower, would you get her a glass of Merlot?" And so we sat and made small talk. I talked again of being pre-ordained to be a sissy. Anita asked questions. Much of it had to do with being pegged with a strap-on. Soon, I had talked about my family, and my father, and growing up suspecting I was gay but never daring to try it out. Anita was a marvelous listener. Kim later told me it was one of her greatest strengths as a Mistress. "You really must try it," Anita said. "We are here but for a short time. We must taste everything in the buffet. Perhaps you will not like this or that. No one likes everything. But how will you know if you, say, like handcuffs without wearing them? How will you know if you should wear a mask?" "I feel so ... new," I said. "And to be honest, I haven't found my Mistress. Or my Master." "Well, I might be able to help you there, my dear," Anita said. "I know several of both. I could introduce you around if you would like. From there, it would be up to you." "That would be wonderful," I said. "Destiny, are you certain this is what you want?" Anita said, leaning forward. "Many people, gay, trans, straight, think they want to sub. Then they get in over their heads, and it is too much for them. They do not like fellating another man. Or licking an orifice. Or ironing a shirt when the bars are open and the night is young." "Ma'am, I'm certain I want to try," I said. "It's all I think about. It excites me more than anything. I see Flower over there serving, and I want to take her place. I want to be in her maid's dress. No offense, Flower. But I do." Anita smiled. Flower smiled. "Have you met Mistress Yvette?" Anita asked. *** When I was eight, I was telling Kim, everyone thought of me as something girly. Other kids were starting to learn the slurs. Bullies were starting to pick him out. He rarely kept his own lunch money. He was starting to wear panties daily. They made him feel...nice. I was in the third grade when Leonard Veasey pulled my pants off and threw them in the ditch, leaving me crying, my panties exposed. I would come back from the restroom and other kids had drawn penises on his notebook. Once, there was a box of cereal - Fruit Loops - left on my desk. I was Dennis the Dicklicker, the kid who gargled with sperm. I was small, but Iwasn't that much smaller than the other kids. I was soft, but I wasn't that much softer. I was clean, and my voice was higher pitched than the other kids. But was that a reason to pick on me? One day, Scott Taft said that I was gay and that I should suck his dick. I pointed out that that would make both of us gay. Taft hit me in the stomach. So much for a debate. And so it went. My friends were the girls who skipped rope and played hop-scotch and practiced cheering and two other gay kids. Most of the boys ignored me as if I were beneath their station. My father worried. Adam was in high school and could not take up for me. It was when I was about 11 that the magazines began to show up. They would be on my nightstand. In the bathroom. Under my pillow. They were magazines for gay men, where guys would pose in lurid poses. It wasn't x-rated stuff. It was r, if you hate to rate it. There were cocks shots, but no sucking in the photos. Just men acting if they were about to. But the pictures of the beautiful men tugged at my imagination. It would be years later until I found out that my father left the magazines. Without a wife, he had no idea how to talk to a kid he suspected to be gay about sex. He had done the same thing with Beth when she hit puberty. He had left magazines about her menstrual cycle about the house. Beth had read them all. Now, he was leaving Blue Boy, and Knob, and Boys to Girls for his son. In Glenn's own way, he was trying to guide his son. He had known homosexuals when he was in the Army. There had always been gay guys. Probably back to the revolutionary war. There was one gay, a Private Farmer, who said he wanted to be a woman. Glenn didn't hate any of them. War was tough. He didn't care where a man got his comfort at night. Now, he suspected his kid was one of them. There was a softness to me. A gentleness. I reminded Dad of my mother. If I was going to be gay, that was all right. When I was 12, Dad started leaving dresses hanging in his closet. He left panties and bras on the mound of clothes on the floor. I don't think he ever knew if I wore them. But they were there for me to try if I wanted. That way, I could dress at home and not somewhere where I could be hurt. It wasn't perfect parenting. But it was the best my Dad could do. *** "When I was 14," I was telling the doctor, "the Rainbow had all its colors." I was in high school then, a freshman, the other kids openly called him a fag. When teachers called role, "Dennis Polk," the other kids would chant "...sucks." In these days of political correctness, that would never be tolerated. The teacher's job would be at risk. But in those days, the teacher didn't say a thing. I walked the halls alone. Whenever I carried my books, it was across my chest, like a girl. When I brushed my blond hair out of my eyes, I rolled my wrists. Kids followed me in the hall with an exaggerated mince. If I had gone down on the quarterback in the middle of assembly, no one would suggest I was gayer. I wanted to take drama. I wanted to take typing. But I knew better. I tried to wrestle, and the other boys said I just wanted to have my arms around another boy. I would wear shorts to physical education, and boys would comment about my legs. I learned. You never eat a banana whole. You don't dance where the straights can see you. You don't read poetry. When the world thinks you to be gay, you do nothing to reinforce those beliefs. Late in the school year, Beth told me she had found someone for me. Someone nice, someone sweet. Stacy. You guessed it. Stacy was a boy. He was Beth's age, very effeminate. I was scared to death. Remember, I was the last person to accept my interest in guys. I simply preferred the darkness instead of turning on a light. It was an awkward night. We went to a drive-in movie. Stacy and I sat in the back. I must have made 65 trips to the concession stand. Poor Stacy. I should have at least kissed him. Another lesson: If you have a crush on a boy, you keep it to yourself. * * * The crowd was so heavy at Leathers that Destiny could not move without bumping shoulders into someone else. This was where people went to be someone different, something different. There were Masters and slaves, Mistresses and sissies, cowboys and convicts, Priests and Nuns, soldiers and firemen, jailers and superheroes. Guys held hands with guys, sometimes with more than one guy. Women held hands with women. Men were in diapers. Woman were dressed like pets. I was wearing a black dress. I felt ... normal. I began looking around the dance floor for men and women in leather. This was going to be tricky. There are dozens of people who will claim dominance, but I had read enough to know what a delicate balance it was. I wanted someone stern, but not someone cruel. I wanted discipline, I did not want torture. I wanted a firm hand, not a closed fist. This would have been easier if I had started younger. I wouldn't have been as desperate, as hungry, for this life. Oh, I was a smart cookie. I knew my tastes were...exotic. I knew there were those who would never get why someone wanted to be embarrassed, why someone wanted to do domestic chores. It was the idea of those assignments that thrilled me. It was the control that another would have over me that left me erect at the thought of it. I saw a woman with blue hair and blue lipstick. K smiled. The woman looked away, bored. A human cat curled up around her feet. Not her. A man with a Fu Manchu beard and a bare chest trimmed in leather walked past. He paused, as if contemplating saying something. Then he moved on, too. Not him. "Could you find your sadist already,? " Cynthia said. "I was hoping you would be fucked and force-fed by this time." "Bite me," I said. And we both sniggered. "If I bit you, your prayers would be answered," Cynthia said. "Speaking of biting me, should I get boobs?" I looked at her chest. Her breast forms looked good in the dress. But it drove her crazy not have the same nerve endings of other girls. "Big ones," Cynthia said nodding. "Quadruple Zs." "Be serious." "I like mine," Cynthia said. "I wish they were bigger. If I were you, I'd get at least a C." "That sounds nice. Chemistry or surgery?" "I guess the correct response is chemistry," Cynthia said. "But wouldn't that affect the Gerbil?" "Maybe. But I don't care much about the gerbil." A drink arrived at the table. The waitress pointed to a sweet looking redhead across the bar. She lifted her drink in salute. I did the same. "Fish on the line," Cynthia said. "Reel her in." The woman moved across the way. She approached the two of us. She looked dismissively at Cynthia. Then she leaned on the table and smiled at me. "GG?" she asked, wondering if she was a genetic girl. "Sissy," I said. "Shame. I can usually tell the difference," she said. "I'm Mistress X. Even though you're a tranny, you are here to serve me. You are a fortunate worm. I shall use you and throw you away like toilet tissue." A cloud passed over Cynthia's face. She didn't like this woman. "Mistress Ex?" Cynthia said. "Like an ex-wife?" "No, Mistress X. The letter." "Oh, like the X-men?" Cynthia said. "Professor X? The X-factor? X marks the spot?" She looked at Cynthia as if she were from another world. "You bore me," she muttered. Cynthia laughed out loud. The woman took a step back. "You dare to laugh at Mistress X?" "I dare," Cynthia said. "I will command you," Mistress said. "You ugly slut." "You arrogant self-important cunt," Cynthia said. "You should start out by being nice, not by pretending to be something you only imagine yourself to be. Now go away before I bitch-slap you." I looked on in horror. This was my chance. A Mistress had approached me. I could be been someone's. Mistress X stalked off. Cynthia shook her head. "There was a little Disco Larry to her," Cynthia said. "She was all "All that "you are here to serve me" shit before she said hello. I didn't like her." "I might have," I said. "You'll find someone better," Cynthia said. "Someone who spanks harder. Just you wait." *** "When I was 17, it was the worst it has ever been," I told Kim. "The worst year of my life." It started innocently enough. It was gym class, and I was failing. So I was dressing out, and I was trying to hide. No one wanted me on their kickball team. Dodgeball was a disaster. Softball was horrible. Then, one day while I was waiting for his shower, and I was in his blue shorts and white t-shirt, there was a commotion. It was Seth Connors, the bully. Better to be quiet and try to be invisible when Seth was in full rage. "What are you looking at, fag?" Connors roared. I hadn't been looking at anything but the floor. But Connors kept shouting. "You were looking at my dick, you fag!" he yelled. "You're a pecker- checker! You're a butt-muncher." After a few minutes, the whole class had joined in. Everyone was yelling at me, calling me a homo, calling me queer, chanting "pecker-checker." The thing is, I thought, I may be queer. But not for Seth Connors' ugly ass. But instead of saying anything, I hung my head. And took it. The other incident that marred my senior year was more subtle. I didn't have a lot of friends at Waverly High School. I usually kept to myself. But halfway through the year, a kid transferred into Waverly. Jason Gordon, his name was. A junior. He had brown hair, and good teeth, and great hair. He was friendly, too. He got assigned as my lab partner, and the two of us joked about movies and music for an hour. The next day, too. And the day after that. "What are you doing this weekend?" Jason asked me one day. I didn't have plans. Hell, I never had plans. "Let's go to the movies," Jason said. "There is a 10 o'clock showing of Iron Man. We could be home by 1 a.m. My heart fluttered. This could be like a date. "Sure," I said. "If you want, you could stay over." "Cool," Jason said. "You have video games?" And so it was set. But the next day, Jason wouldn't talk to me. He ignored me when he spoke. He asked to change lab partners. I saw Jason give me a dirty look during chemistry, and the hostility was like fog. After class, I walked up to him. "Have I done something wrong?" I asked. "I hear you're a fag," Jason said. "I heard you blew Kadeem Harrison. I hear you sucked his cock." "That's not true..." "I hear it is. Were you doing to try to suck mine, queer boy? My God, I almost spent the night at your house. I'd have had to beat the shit out of you." Jason walked away. He didn't speak to me the rest of the school year. * * * Mistress Yvette was a tall, regal black woman. Her dark skin glistened in the evening light. She wore a low cut green dress. Her hair was up, her nails were red. With her heels, she was almost 6-1, commanding and graceful, sleek and powerful. A beast of prey. Destiny looked at her, and her eyes watered. She got all tongue-tied. She knocked over her glass of wine. Mistress Yvette grinned. She liked this one. "Mistress," I said hoarsely. "It's so nice to meet you." "Oh, everyone says that at first," Yvette said. "We'll see how nice it is when I have you in shackles." She looked at me. She grinned and laughed. "I'm joking, Destiny. I almost never shackle on the first date." I smiled, too. Anita had set me up with Yvette. Mistress Y, she called herself. Y, because I like you. "So sit. Talk to me. Tell me about you." And so I did. I told her about years of yearning, about a life that pushed me here, about how I had sought out guidance. I talked about bisexuality, but how the world identified me as gay. "Well, we have a couple of things at play here, Destiny," Mistress Y said. "The obvious one is race. Even today, that bothers some people. Are you prepared to be controlled - almost owned - by a black woman?" "Mistress, race doesn't matter to me. You're beautiful. Your skin is beautiful." Mistress Y smiled. "Thank you," she said. "But there is one other possible complication that I like to tell subs right out. Is that permissible?" "You can say whatever you wish to me, Mistress," she said. "I'm transsexual," Mistress Y said. "...You?" "Yes, me. I was born a male. Ivan Dowling. Now, I'm a T-woman. What else do they call it? A she-male? A transvestite? A ladyboy? If I took off my dress, I'm afraid you'd see a penis. Now, for some, I know that's a deal-breaker. Some sissies like penis only when Mistress orders one in. It's okay if you wish to go." I stayed. We talked for hours. She told me about growing up in Miami as the son of a Jamaican immigrant. She talked about playing baseball. In her teens, she gravitated to the fetish bars. She told me about being a sub, then growing into a top, and then a Mistress. She talked about her gift, a penis that still functioned despite the hormones. "Does my penis bother you?" She asked again. "No ma'am," I said. "And my male friends? Does sucking them bother you many of them are black." "No ma'am," I said, imagining it. "And my female friends? Will you be their tongue wench? Even right after sex?" She asked. "I will do as you wish," I said. "And you do not mind?" "Of course not," I said. "But does it matter if I mind? I am yours." She smiled. "Damn right you are," she said. "Perhaps you should start soon on my cock. Is that an obstacle, Destiny?" My breath rushed out of me. I looked into her dark brown eyes. There was a strength there, but there was also a tenderness. "No, Mistress," I whispered. "It's not a big thing." "Oh, Destiny," she said. "Oh, but it is." *** When I was 22, I graduated from college. Or, should I say, I was freed. College had been tough for me. There were the late night phone calls. The ones that cursed me were easy enough to ignore. It was the ones where the callers would talk dirty to me, offering me their cocks, telling me how they were going to fuck my butt that were more difficult. It was funny. I was the most out gay man I knew, and I wasn't a practicing gay man. So I decided I was going to straight. I was engaged, Kim. She was a sweet girl, named Trisha, a little heavy but cute. I like to think of her as my last chance at being normal. She used to stare into me eyes and say that was how our children's eyes would look. I was content. Maybe not happy, but content. Then one night we were eating with Beth and her husband, and Beth had too much wine. She asked Trisha if I ever wore her clothes. I didn't admit that I had, but Trisha was angry for days. She started spending time with an old boyfriend. And they ended up getting married. She said she didn't want a queer. By now, I suspected I might be. Oh, I knew where the bars were. I drove them by them sometimes, lacking the courage to stop. There were guys kissing each other inside. I knew that. There were men dancing. There were women holding hands. There were masters claiming their subs. It was like being outside of a restaurant, and being hungry, and being afraid to eat. Once, after dark, I went into an adult book store. I looked at the different offerings. I loved the magazines with the photos of sissies. Many of them were obviously men dressed in princess dresses. Somehow, I found that erotic. I saw one book "All the Ways Homosexuals Make Love." I bought it. The clerk smirked at me. I blushed. Maybe you don't feel sorry for me. That's not my desire here. It's to make you understand the yearning and the self-denial of my life. Fear is a powerful thing. I pray others do not emulate me. I was afraid of me. I didn't want to be gay. I didn't want be girly. On the other hand, it was all I wanted. There was the day that Adam, old macho Adam, took me to lunch and asked, right out, if I was gay. "It's okay to be gay," he said. "It really is. I know a guy who is gay. I could introduce you. Even if you don't date, he could kind of ... show you around. Take you to the bars. The shops. It's gay day on the river in a couple of weeks. That's a hoot. A gay armada." "No...no, thank you," I said. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm sure," I said. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. It's time you got your blowjob on." *** I was at home, brewing tea, when Cynthia came in the door. She never knocked. She hadn't since college. "I've made a decision," Cynthia said. "And hello to you..." I said. "Yeah, hello, skank," she said. "Do you want to hear my decision? "Sure...I guess," I said. "I'm going to be your Mistress," she said. "Now kneel and lick me." I just stared at her. "You're crazy," I finally said. "You aren't a domme." "I can learn," she said. "I can put you in a cock cage and spank your ass." I laughed. "Don't laugh," she said. "You're my friend, and I love you. I don't have anyone special. And I do have a strap-on." "Stop it," I said. "I love you, too. But this isn't your thing. A million men would miss you." "I could pee on you," she said. "Ewww," I said. "I could put you in diapers." "Ewww," I said. "I could spank you." "Hmm. That sounds fun. Do I get one to grow on?" "You're a lousy sissy. You don't let me have any fun. You don't even make me food." I hugged her. "You are so sweet," I said. "And you're going to make some guy a great wife. But not this guy. You know better, and so do I. If it was meant to be, baby, it would have happened long ago." "So you don't like my handcuffs?" I grinned. "I didn't say that," I said. "You could even embarrass me in front of my boss if you want." She laughed. "Can I do that without being a Mistress?" "Oh, Cynthia. Sometimes you embarrass me by just hanging around." She threw a towel at me. We laughed. * * * It was my third date with Mistress Y. We had decided to go slow. I had taken 26 years to get here, so why not take our time? We walked across Leathers. She held the leash that was attached to my collar. It was pure eroticism, a blatant symbol that I was hers. I had never been happier. She pulled me to her. She kissed me, her full lips devouring mine. I felt my small penis rise. I felt her larger one do the same. People looked at us. We were a couple. Everyone knew that she would sleep with me, that she would claim me. I was ecstatic they knew. I was ready to be somebody's. She sat in a chair. I sat at her feet on the floor. She dropped her hand onto my shoulder. I knew that if I turned my head, her penis would have been right in front of me. Later, I said to myself. Later. And later came. We were in the Hilton in a suite. A gift from Mistress Anita. She laid me on the bed, her virgin girlfriend. She ran her hands over my nightgown and down my sides. She kissed me. When I glanced down - and I did - I could see her cock making a teepee in her nightgown. I kissed down her stomach slowly, methodically. I loved the image of my pale skin against her ebony. And there it was. It was large, and it was cut, and it was black, and the bulb looked like a large mushroom. I kissed it. Then harder. Then it was in my mouth, and her hands were guiding me as I bobbed. This was right. This was perfect. I was meant to have a cock on my tongue. I licked her balls. I kissed her shaft. And I inhaled her dick. She gripped my face harder, just as she exploded. I could not possibly swallow it all. It had taken me a lifetime, but I had gotten here. I belonged to someone. I was her cocksucker, and that pleased me. I turned on the bed, to where my own groin was head high to her. She didn't take me in her mouth, though. She stuck her finger in my ass, then another finger. I gasped. She rolled me over. She ran that massive dick of hers against my butthole, coated it in lube. Already, she was hard again. Are you ready?" She whispered. And then she was inside of me. Just like that, it was all worth it, the taunts and insults and comments. This was what it was like to be a woman, a sissy, a lover. In the days to come, Mistress Y became all things to me. My man. My woman. My Mistress. My controller. She fucked me. She caged me. She bought me implants. She marked me. She worked me. Eventually, doc, she did the most amazing thing. She married me. (C) Cassandra Morgan