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One Week To A Sissy Life free porn video
One Week to a Sissy Life
Cassandra Morgan
It was our Sunday afternoon drive. I didn't know it at the time, but I
was headed down a different road in my life.
My wife, Jazz, and I did this every week. We got out of the city, and we
drove, and we talked. We listened to music, and we let pour over us. It
was my favorite day of the week, a day just for us, a day away from the
pressures and the problems.
I crossed the river and headed south. There were lots of rural roads
there, embankments where a soul could see wildlife with the shadows of
the city. A soft rain was falling, but that didn't bother us. If
anything, it cleared the roads.
My name is Rob Castle. My wife is Jasmine, but everyone calls her Jazz.
She's the total package. Brains. Humor. Looks. Body. The only thing
anyone can figure out is that she must be nearsighted to want a short,
skinny guy with scruffy hair.
So we turned onto the backroads in our Jeep, and we bounced over
Northern Kentucky. Tom Petty was on the stereo, and we were both singing
along because, after all, it's Tom Petty. We came to a small lake framed
by trees.
Rain and all, Jazz bounced out of the Jeep and ran to the water's edge.
I walked up more slowly, feeling the drops get into my hair. Jazz picked
up a rock and threw it into the water, it making a splash an impressive
distance away.
"You try," she said.
I threw, and it hit the water two-thirds of the way to her throw. "It
slipped," I said. She laughed, mussed my hair and walked across the
shore.
"Bet your boyfriend could throw it farther," she said.
"Boyfriend?" I said.
"Don't you have a boyfriend, sweetie?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "Of course I don't
have a boyfriend. I'm your husband, dingbat."
"Dingbat? Is that from that old TV show? All in ..."
"...the family," I finished for her.
"You know I'm just teasing you about the boyfriend," she said.
"I should hope so."
"A girl like you needs a man," she said, and laughed again.
"What's into that skull of yours, Jazz? Have you gone bonkers?"
"I was on the computer the other night, Rob," she said. "I found your
stories."
"My stories?" I said.
"Yep. The ones about submissive. The ones where the guys become maids."
?Become maids," I said.
?Would you stop responding with a question," Jazz said. ?This isn't
Jeopardy."
?Jazz...they're just stories. Just little trifles."
?Uh-huh. Now hear me out, Rob. Mario Puzo wrote the Godfather. Because
he had an interest in organized crime. Anna Sewell wrote Black Beauty.
Because she loved horses. Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone with the Wind.
Because she was interested in the fall of confederacy. You can go on and
on. Writers pick about the things that interest them.
?Does being a maid interest you ? Robyn?"
?No," I said quietly. ?They're just stories."
?If you say so, Robyn. But I think differently. So we're going to try
it. A month. Two. Depends on if you're good or not. I've purchased you
some maid's dresses. You're going to be real. You're going to work and
clean and cook for us. You're going to simper. Is that a word? Simper?"
?I won't," I said. ?Please don't make me leave."
?Ah. The grand bluff. Rob, we can knock heads over this. We could get
separated. I'm not going to take your money or expose you to your
friends or tell your mommy. I don't know if we would even get divorced
over this. Time heals all wounds.
?But you want to know why you are going to do this? You're going to do
it because you want to do it. Because you really do have an interest in
the look of it, the feel of it. Rob, I read the stories. They were rich
in detail, the plea of a desperate sissy wanting to get out. If you
don't do this now, you'll never do it. Now, you can try it for a little
while, and we'll talk, and if we agree, you can go back to normal. But
we're doing to do this, Rob. It'll be good for us."
I looked at the ground. I tried to imagine the lace on my body. I tried
to imagine begin submissive to Jazz. I had no way to stay, but I had
nowhere to go.
It all scared me.
Then again, there was that raging hard-on.
* * *
The next morning was Monday. As always, we woke up with 10 minutes of
getting dressed to do and five in which to do it. I wandered through
with a toothbrust, she with a hairbrush. We moved quickly. Mondays were
always like this for us. If we'd just get up earlier...
I grabbed a tie out of my closet. I didn't have to wear one, not to sell
computer software, but it didn't hurt. I thought about a sports coat.
?Don't forget your panties," Jazz said.
I stopped. I looked at her. She shrugged.
?That was the deal, Robyn. Today, just a pair of panties. That's all.
Tomorrow, a bra. Wednesday, pantyhose. And so on. Next Sunday night, you
get to wear your dress."
Jazz had laid down her rules on the way to town last night. She didn't
want me dressed all at once. In her words, I needed to work up to it. So
every day, she was going to add a present. One on Monday, two on Tuesday
and so forth. What was I going to do? Argue so I would be in drag all at
once? Better a slow death.
?Jazz, baby, let's talk about these stories," I said. ?They're ?
trifles. Just a little flight of fancy, erotica for guys who like that
stuff."
?I hear you," she said. ?But why are you the town crier for these wanna-
be sissies. Why are you giving them jack-off material."
?Jazz. They're just stories."
?Stories from your mind, sweetcakes. Sissies live in your brain. You
must want to try the lifestyle. You cannot tell me that you write these
stories without imagining yourself as the protagonist, that you don't
imagine how panties feel, or dresses, or lipstick. It's okay. I don't
mind that you're a sissy. But it's silly for you to keep denying it."
To that end, Jazz had taken a maid's dress, a white-on-white number that
looked as if they had scooped clouds on top of ice cream, and hung it on
the front of the closet door so it was always there, always visible. I
had written a dozen stories about sissidom, but I had never imagined a
dress such as this. It should have come with it's own fairy wand and
tiara.
Jazz tossed me a pair of black panties. I rolled my eyes. She shrugged.
?You gotta start someone, girlfriend," she said. I scowled, then took
off my pants I had just put on. I stepped out of my boxers.
?Jazz, please don't make me," I pleaded. ?It's your call. Okay? You can
make me do this if you want. But I'm begging you. Please don't make me."
?Come on, panty boy. It's time."
And so I tugged them upward. They caught at the knee, and again on the
thigh. They were so soft, so slick, so cool to the touch. I immediately
got stiff. Jazz laughed at that. ?Somebody likes panties," she said.
?Little Lancelot is in the house!"
I pulled my paints up, as if to hide the panties from both of us. This
wasn't right. I wasn't a sissy. Was I?
***
On Tuesday, we actually got up in time to have coffee. For us, that was
a rarity.
?It'll be different when I have my maid," Jazz said. ?Then I've had eggs
Benedict."
I glared at her.
?Aw, does widdle wobbin not wanna get out of bed and make Mistress her
coffee and toast? I thought you sissies lived for that shit. Tell you
what. You serve me coffee, and I'll let you curtsey."
?Funny," I said.
?Oh, I almost forgot. You have two steps to being a woman today. The
first, you need to get all that ugly hair off of you. You can use razors
or a depilatory cream. I'd advice the cream. Less rash, and the cream
doesn't encourage it to grow in thicker. Oh, and you'll find your bra
with your panties on the bed."
Oh my God. Panties can be covered up fairly easily. Who watches you go
the restroom? But a bra has straps. It was going to be a pain in the ass
to wear a sports coach all day long.
I walked into the bedroom. There was beige bra and panties.
I felt like I was sinking fast.
***
For two days, I had felt as if we were doing role play. For all the
talk, for all the threats, it didn't feel real.
But when I stepped into the pantyhose, it felt legit. This was going to
happen. I was going to be Jazz's sissy. Dresses and makeups and heels.
Oh, my.
At least Jazz was going to wait on my other two steps for the day.
Lipstick and eyeliner. She said she would wait until I got home from
work. But cross me, Jazz said, and I'll you wear it to work.
The first day, she had said she wasn't going to expose me to my co-
workers. But now, she was asking as if it would be a matter of time
before my whole office found out. That was a heavy threat. These were my
friends. I didn't want them to know.
I had written this scenario a dozen times. I knew the steps. I slid the
bra across my chest. I had written enough stories to know that it hooked
in front and then spun around to be worn. I pulled on my straps. I
looked at the mirror. I was in a bra with empty cups, panties and hose.
I looked ridiculous.
But still, there was something there. The onset of sissidom, perhaps. I
slipped a couple of socks into the cups and turned sidewise in the
mirror.
?Not yet, you faggot," Jazz said from the doorway. ?No wine ahead of its
time. The tits wait till tomorrow. But I'll make you a deal. You can
wear them today if you wear them to work."
I shook my head. ?I was just seeing," I said. ?I don't want to come out
at my office."
?Aw, they'd like Robyn. She could clean up the office. I'm wondering. DO
you think they'll move you to the custodial department when they find
out? Do you think you'll need more maid's dresses?"
I hung my head. Every time I protested, Jazz seemed to think that was
part of the game, part of my humiliation. This was getting serious.
And we were only three days in.
***
On Thursday, four-item Thursday, I got up quietly, before Jazz was
awake. I slide on my pantyhose. I slid my panties up. I fastened my bra.
She was going to make me anyway. I might as well get a head start.
I checked my face. Yes, there was some excess lipstick and some leftover
eye makeup. I padded to the bathroom to wash them off. I had to be
careful about this.
I sneaked back across the bedroom with the intention of picking out
pants and a sports coat. But when I went there, Jazz was sitting up in
bed, a huge smile on her face.
?Oh, baby. You put on your pretties all by yourself. You are getting
into this!"
?No, I ? "
?Oh, sweetie. IT's going to be a fun day for you. You're getting heels!
And a wig! And fingernail polish. And a good, old fashioned slip! That
one you can wear to work. The rest of them will have to wait till you
get home, unless you would like to wear them to work."
?Jazz, you win. You've taught me a lesson. I shouldn't have kept those
stories from you. I'm sorry. Can we stop this."
?Oh, Robyn, Little Lancelot doesn't want to stop. Look at him there,
staining to touch as much of your panties a penis can touch. I'm a
little worried about him, to tell you the truth. He needs his exercise.
Are you sure you don't have a boyfriend?"
?No, Jazz," I said. ?You know I don't."
?Well, maybe not yet. But you aren't pretty yet.[[
?Jazz, why are you doing this?"
?Why? Well, I'll tell you, Robyn. It started at to prove a point, to
prove that you really did have the leanings you were writing about. But
you know, I like the orchestration. I'll be honest. I like having a
wife. I like seeing my spouse with her tits sticking out and her panties
showing. I'll be honest. I didn't know that I would like this, but I'm
enjoying the hell out of it. I think you should enjoy it, too.
?Now, do we have time for you to make me a cup of decaf? Be a good
little girl and fetch, won't you."
I walked out of the room, but not without glancing at the white dress on
the door.
My future.
* * *
I was up early again on Friday. I snuck into the bathroom, peed, then
looked into the mirror. Again, I had remnants of last night's lipstick
and mascara. Instead of removing them this time, though, I touched them
up. I had two hours until I had to get ready for work. I might as well
be complete.
I brushed out my wig. I wondered how I would look as a redhead. I always
loved redheads.
I snuck across the bedroom. I padded downstairs and started the coffee.
I put two bagels into the toaster. I figured if I could keep Jazz happy,
maybe she would stop all of this.
I looked at my fingernails. I didn't have time to repair them. I took a
cotton ball and dabbed it in remover and started dabbing away. A shame,
I thought. And then I caught myself. Why was it a shame? I wasn't one of
the wimps I wrote about.
The bagels were done. I put them on a tray, along with two cups of
coffee. I went upstairs quietly. I knocked on the door. Why did I knock?
I entered at the invitation by Jazz. I walked over and placed the tray
on her lap. She was grinning as if she had just won the lottery.
?You are such a gorgeous sissy," she said. ?Your makeup is good. Not
perfect, but good. You must be eager for your daily presents. Let's see
what we have here."
She dug into her nightstand. There was breast forms. A corset. A girly
stayed robe. An apron. And a small, delicate bracelet with the name
?Robyn" in script with two small robin figures on either side.
?You can wear the bracket to work," she exclaimed. ?How do you feel
about the corset? No? I don't know. They shape you pretty good, and they
are very feminine. Oh, well. You can put it on this afternoon when you
get home. Oh, sweetie, you are coming along so well. Why don't you just
fucking surrender?"
I'll be honest. I had started to wonder the same thing. Sissidom was
inevitable. Why not relax and enjoy it. The clothing was all so soft,
some erotic. But I think sometimes you fight because it's all you can
do. If I surrendered, I was a girl. I wasn't just some hack who wrote
about guys who wanted to be girls. It was as if everything I had written
was prologue to my own story.
It was time to go. I kicked off my heels, pulled off my wig. I removed
my lipstick and my eye makeup. I pulled my boy clothes on over my
feminine undies.
Were my girls' clothes out of place? Or, anymore, was it my boy clothes.
* * *
It was Saturday. One day to go.
I looked at the dress hanging on the door. I lightly ran my fingers over
it. Okay, as clothing went, it was very pretty.
I padded through the bedroom. I finally had forms to put into my corset.
They felt huge, body-defining. I pullet the laces on my corset as
tightly as one person can do by herself. I slid the panties on. The
hose. I doffed my wig. Replenished my makeup. Put on my robe.
I went downstairs. I felt the bracelet on my wrist. That had gotten some
attention at work. So much so that Janet, another programmer, had
whispered to me that she had seen my bra. Don't worry, she said. And she
grinned.
I whipped eggs and milk together for French Toast. I put on coffee. I
made hash-browns. It was Saturday, after all. Jazz was going to need a
good breakfast.
I walked up the stairs. I knocked at the door. ?You may enter your
Mistress's room," she said regally.
I carried the try inside.
?Robyn, from now on, I only want you to bring breakfast for one," Jazz
said. ?A maid should ear in the kitchen."
Saturday. Six gifts.
Earrings. A necklace. An apron. A gift certificate to a beauty spa. An
ominous green pill. And a gold-plated ? something.
I asked about the green pill. ?Hormones," Jazz said. ?I won't force you
to take them, but if you want to grow boobs, it's here for you. I have a
whole supply. You'll be a stripper in no time. Again, you don't have to
take it if you don't want. But I think, down deep, you do. There is
nothing like tits to define a sissy, to shout to the world that this is
what I am..
I asked about the gold-plated contraption. It was, Jazz said, a male
chastity cage. A cock cage, they called it. She noticed that I was
getting constant erections as I dressed. This would stop that, she said.
This would put my stimulation in her hands.
?No..." I said. This was too much. This was too far. This was ? freedom.
This was ? manhood. Now, Jazz was taking it all away from me. She wanted
to be called mistress. She wanted me in maid's dresses. She wanted ?
what else?
Tears began to flow. I could not fight this. I wasn't strong enough.
I picked up the green pill.
I swallowed it.
* * *
On Sunday morning, Mistress J slept in. I, on the other hand, was
overloaded with chores.
My lipstick. My eyes. My wig. My panties, my house, my corset. My slip,
my heels, my breast forms. My nails, my bracelet, my cock cage. My robe.
I looked at it. They came with a key, I am told. But with me, one was
not needed. I would never dare to oppose Mistress by reaching inside of
it.
I made her an egg-white omelet. Multi-grain toast. A fruit bowl. Coffee.
I took it to her. Like always, I knocked on the door. I was told to
enter. She glanced at the breakfast, shrugged.
?It's the big day, girlfriend," she said.
?Yes, ma'am," I said, looking at the floor.
?Let's look in your goodie bag. Seven-present Sunday, you know. Aren't
you excited."
I glanced at the dress. Damn me, I wanted that damn dress. I looked at
the floor.
?Let's see. We have...a dildo. Oh, you're going to love that, Robyn. You
want to know a secret? I give all of mine names. Sometime, I'll
introduce you to Hercules. What else? A butt plug! That sort of goes
with the dildo. It helps stretch you. What else? Strawberry lube! I
think we have a theme going here. It's Robyn's Butt Sunday! What else?
Okay, this is a key. It's symbolic, of course. You would never be
allowed to lock a door on me. But it's a symbol of your new room! You're
going to be up so early in the mornings that I knew you wouldn't want to
wake me. Oh, this is lovely. A pink nightgown. You'll love that. Oh, and
of course, there is your white dress. You can finally put it on and be
compete."
By now, I was mesmerized. I walked to the dress. I pulled it off of its
hanger. I stepped into it and pulled it over my shoulders.
I loved it. I could lie, and I could act like I was still stubborn and
still had some fight. But I loved this dress. Dammit, I was a sissy.
Mistress had been right all along.
I put it on. Mistress zipped me. I felt beautiful.
?Mistress?" I said.
?Yes, my sissy?"
?I do not wish to complain. But you said seven presents. I only counted
six."
Mistress smiled.
?Your seventh present will be here at noon," she said. ?His name is Clay
Travis. You know him from your work."
?Clay is ? my present." I asked.
?No, don't be silly," Mistress said. ?Clay is bringing your present.
It's called his penis. I think he found it was just your size."
My throat went dry.
Somehow I knew that wouldn't last.
(c) Cassandra Morgan
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