Shame
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Where Everybody Knows Your Shame free porn video
Where Everybody Knows Your Shame
By Cassandra Morgan
The lights are brighter. The beer is colder. The faces are friendlier.
That's why we seek out a new nightclub.
Maybe it's closer. Maybe it's cheaper. Maybe they sell hope in a bottle.
And so we seek new watering holes, because we believe they have new new
energy. We want new. We want different. We want fun.
When you get down to it, bars are pretty much the same. The dance floors
are identical. The booths look similar. But every now and then, there is
a nice new wrinkle, maybe a new way of serving chicken fingers and cold
beer.
And so Monica and I had wound up here like all the other gawkers. No big
news there. Friday night was our night to go out and people watch, to
measure our weirdness against everyone else's. We tried to show up early,
before the big rush, so we could get a table without spending half of the
night waiting in line.
Hello. My name Sam Royal. I'm a 29-year-old guy. Monica is 31, but she
can pass for eight years younger. And, because of our initials, we
noticed the name of the bar.
M&S.
It was only later we found out it meant Mistress's' and Sissy's.
Oh, it was just a bar gimmick. There are bars where women wear kilts, or
men wear armour, or both genders dress like old Hollywood actors. Dress
the waitstaff in weird clothes, and give the customers a chuckle, and it
works. This one? Half the tables had women in dark leather and carrying
small whips. The other half had men in pink dresses with high heels. Get
it? Mistresses and Sissies.
It was a hoot. If you sat at a pink table, the sissy approached the table
and shyly said "May I serve you?" If you sat at a black table, the
mistress approached and said "You'll have a hamburger and diet coke. And
you'll like it!"
Meanwhile, there was music based on the double-entendre. "King of Pain,"
and "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" and "Spank Me, Baby."
Monica and I were like farmers seeing the big city. We could not help but
look at the images around us. The hostess looked at us, sneered.
"Mistress or sissy?" she asked.
"Sissy," Monica said.
She looked up and down at me and frowned. "Figures," she said and showed
us to our table. A waitress with a blonde wig came up to us. She put a
Guinness, black and dark, down in front of Monica. She put a frothy pink
drink with an umbrella and fruit down in front of me.
"Try the bull's cock," she said to me. "It's very filling."
She walked away, and Monica almost fell out of the booth laughing. She
looked down the menu. "Look," she said. "Bull's cock. A large bratwurst
covered in mayo. We'll slide it into your bun if you want. Perfect to eat
or to blow." She giggled.
"So I'm the sissy?" I said. "That's insulting."
"Well, which one of us would you pick out to the sissy?" Monica said.
"You're short. You're thin. You're kinda pretty. I guess I'm just manlier
than you."
"Very funny."
"Ah, lighten up, Samantha," she said. "Is it your time of the month?"
I scowled. I looked at the TV over the pink bar. Steel Magnolias was
playing. Across the way, over the black bar, it was Scarface. They had
spared no effort in trying to fit their stereotypes. Below them, the
bartender was a sissy. In front of her were long beer pulleys in the
shape of penises. When she pulled it, white foam spurted out the top.
There were beer nuts in the shape of, well, nuts. Hilarious.
"I like her dress," I said to Monica, pointing out a sissy waitress.
"It's very pretty."
She looked at me, as if she understood a joke I didn't get.
"I wonder how they hire," I said. "Do sissies file applications in pink
ink?"
Monica looked at me. "Hon, have you ever been a waitress? I mean, a
waiter?"
"No, not really," I said. "I worked at McDonald's in high school. But
that isn't like waiting tables."
"I bet you'd be good at it," Monica said. "You're friendly, you're funny.
You have an attention for detail. With your ass, you could make a
fortune!"
I laughed. "I don't think I would fit into the uniform."
Monica shrugged. "I bet they have one in your size. You should ask. You'd
be the cutest sissy in the room."
"Ha, ha," I said. But inside me, something clicked. Maybe a nudge of
something long dormant?
I wondered what the future of the bar was. Would real people who were
into dominance and submission show up here, or would it be just for the
curious? Hey, real mistresses need a place to go to blow off steam, too.
I looked around. Very inventive. There were shackles on the wall. There
were three restrooms: Men, women, and sissies. There were rubber paddles
for sale. There was a booth that sold t-shirts, black ones that said "I
had an ass at S&Ms." Pink ones with a phallic symbol that said "Guess
What I Had for Lunch at S&Ms."
The waitress took our orders. I wanted chicken nuggets. Here, they called
them "Ladyfingers." Monica wanted a BLT. Here, it was subtitled "Bacon,
lettuce and testosterone."
"I've got one," Monica said, leaning forward. "A sissy goes into a bar
and asks for 12 martinis. She drinks them all one by one. The bartender
looks at her and says 'You celebrating something?' The sissy looks up and
says 'My first blowjob.' The bartender says 'Well, that's great. Let me
buy you one to celebrate.' And the sissy says 'Nah, if 12 won't get rid
of the taste, then 13 won't, either.'"
Everyone laughed. What is it about hearing a joke that makes you want to
tell one. So we sat around and got silly. Margie, our waitress, told
another. And Kelly, a Mistress who was serving a nearby table.
Monica finally looked at me. She shrugged her coat off.
"I like it here, Sam," she said. "How about you?"
"It's a little over the top," I said.
"Well, a sissy would think so," she said.
"Monica, can you stop with all the sissy jokes. I'm not a sissy."
"Aren't you?" she said.
"What do you mean by that?" I said, an edge creeping into my voice.
She shrugged. "Honestly? Sam, you aren't the most macho guy, okay? I
wouldn't have said anything, but you're kind of little. More of a
cheerleader than a football player, you know? I could see you in a
skirt."
"Hey!"
"No offense," she said. "What's the big deal? Rock stars wear skirts.
Actors wear skirts. Caitlyn Jenner wears skirts."
"She's a transexual," I said.
"Guy's gotta start somewhere."
"Monica,why are you being like this?"
She shifted. A man sitting by himself in a black booth lifted his glass
to her. She lifted hers in response, as if I weren't there.
"Just bored, I guess," she said. "But hear me out. If you take the taboo
out of being a sissy, the insecurity and the hate and the gossip,
wouldn't you objectively say you're kind of girly? Hell, nothing wrong
with it. You work in computers. You don't have to lift that barge and
tote that bale, you know?"
I looked at her for a long time. "Go on," I said.
"Well, if you take all of the negative connotations out of it, then you
fit the type. There's no shame. Unless you want to be ashamed, that is.
You'd be a good sissy. You already cook. You clean."
"I do that to help you," I said. But I wondered, too. Was there part of
me that was attracted to this life? I admit it. I found the waitresses
attractive. I could probably work up a good fantasy. But not with the
cooking and cleaning. I did that to help out. Didn't it?
"Uh-huh," she said. "I'll be honest. I think you're a little like that
fruit Mary Anne."
"Who?"
"Your friend Mary Anne. The one you play golf with."
"You mean Marion?" I said. And then it hit me. "Mary Anne?"
"There are changes underway," she said, shrugging.
"What changes?"
"Let's just say that Addy got tired of Marion's fooling around," she
said. "So she changed him. It took months. But that affair you had with
him really pissed us both off.
"Affair? What are you talking about?"
"You didn't think I knew? You were sucking his dick, and you didn't think
I'd notice?"
"Monica! I don't do that! Marion doesn't do that! We aren't gay!"
"Sweetie, I've had panties missing from my drawer. And my dresses have
been moved. It's okay. I've know you were a sissy in college when you
were a fucking cheerleader. Men aren't cheerleaders unless they're gay.
Tell me. Are you a top or a bottom?
"Monica, I love you, but you're nuts. I have never had a gay affair in my
life."
"Honey, when sissies do each other favors, it isn't gay. It's a gay act
performed by a non-gay man. By a girly-boy. That's the point. Come on,
you can admit it. I'm not mad. Hell, I've heard it's very hot to see your
husband suck a dick, to see cum all over her sissy face."
"No, Monica," I sad angrily. "That never happened. I have never cheated
on you with a man or a woman." I thought about Marion. He was taller than
me, heavier than me. There was nothing girly about Marion, if you want to
know the truth. The thought of him in panties was shocking to me. The
thought of him having gay sex was inconceivable. Wasn't it? I wondered
how he looked. I wondered if he was pretty. Stop that. Push that thought
out of your head.
"I know, dammit," she said. "You have to admit that you sucked his dick.
Tell me."
"I never..."
We were still arguing when a waitress brought us our drinks. If you
looked at her face you would never guess she was a boy. Her cheeks were
slightly puffy, like a young girl's. There was no Adam's Apple. Her
breasts seemed to be her own.
She looked at Monica, then she looked at me. She winked.
"Hey, hun," she said. "It's Terri, remember? Why aren't you dressed
tonight?"
Monica looked at me like this was a vital piece of cruicial evidence in
a trial, not a ditzy waitress making a mistake. I blushed. "I .. don't
dress," she said.
"You sure?" She frowned and looked closer into my face. "I would have
sworn you were this Sissy from across the state line. You sure you
weren't in here wearing a gray maid's dress. A big black guy was with
you. You were going to go to heaven with that one."
"It wasn't me," I said.
"Okay, okay. If you say it wasn't you, it wasn't you." She looked at
Monica and grinned. She put her fist in front of her face and pantomined
a blow job, her tongue prodding at her cheek as she did. "
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Oh, come on Samantha," Monica said. "Tell us about your bbc. The darker
the meat...
"...The sweeter the juice," Terri finished.
They cackled together, old buddies sharing a laugh. I seethed at them
both. I had never been with a man. Not ever. Had I thought about it?
Sure. Doesn't everyone from time to time. Given the movies, given the
time in our culture, isn't it to be expected. But I never even thought
about it in the front lobe of my brain. Terri had me confused with
someone else.
"Monica," I said meekly. "Please stop. Don't you still love me?"
"Of course I still love you, silly," Monica said. "Even if you have been
sucking Mary Anne's dick. Is it a big dick? Can you take it all?"
For just a second, I wondered, too. But that was gay. A man didn't think
like that.
"There you go again, confusing things," Monica went on. "But I can love
you whether you're wearing a tie or a bra, socks or hose, boxers or
panties. I just think both of us need to be true to our nature. I can see
you working here, in your high heels, flouncing your ass through the
room. Can't you? Maybe even crawling into a booth and sucking a guy's
cock while he watches the game on TV."
I frowned at her. But my eyes were drawn to a nearby sissy. She was
leaning over the table with her ass sticking out into the air. A customer
was leering at her, and she seemed to be enjoying it. Her lips were
pursed, and hands were on his arm.
"She's going to get a big tip," Monica said. "Maybe the tip of his dick."
She laughed again. Despite our argument, she seemed to having a fine
time. She would see a Mistress, and her jaw would slacken in
unadulterated admiration. She would see a sissy, and she would find
something about her that would make her giggle. She clearly was into the
dynamic, the strength and the reliance, the give and the take. If you
forgot the fact she had just accused me of sucking my friend's cock, it
would have been a grand time.
I looked around the room at the other customers. There were men - and one
woman - with their heads bowed in acceptance. There were women - and a
couple of men - who seemed to look at the sissies as gazelles while they
were the lions. And, there were a few who were just passing through,
looking at the scene, not quite grasping what they were seeing.
"Samantha?" Monica used the feminine name she had stuck me with.
"Samantha? I think it's time we went to the Sissy Room, don't you ?"
"Huh?"
She smiled. "The Sissy Restroom. You can change clothes in there if you
want, Samantha," she said. "You can put on makeup."
"C-clothes?" I said.
"Samantha, you can buy a maid's uniform at the souvenir stand. Just like
the t-shirts. Don't you think it's time you stopped the game? You aren't
a man. You've never been a man. You have the sisal of a sissy, and we
both know it. Don't you want to wear a maid's dress home?"
"No," I whispered.
"Your eyes say yes," she said.
She stood. She reached out her hand toward me. I took a breath. After a
long pause, I took it. I bowed my head. My shoulder slumped.
She led me across the room. I could feel the eyes on me, as if they could
see my soul as it lay exposed. Was I this weak? Wasn't I going to fight
any harder than this for my manhood?
She walked to the middle restroom, then held the door open for me. I
walked in. It was a lavish room, with dressing rooms against the far
wall, toilets against the near one. Monica backed me up the wall and
kissed me, gently tracing my nipples with her fingernails.
"I'll be back, girly" she said. "I have to go and buy your dress. I'm
afraid they just have pink here, but we can get some other colors
tomorrow. I like the black ones, and the white ones are simply divine. A
good thing about them is that if you spill a little sperm on them, it
doesn't show up."
She disappeared, and I was alone with my goosebumps. Was I really going
to do this? I was standing here, about to be feminized. If I let this
happen, every would find out. Friends. Family. Co-workers. I thought
about the derision, the scorn, the laughter. This wasn't happenstance.
Monica must have planned all of this, the restaurant, the evening. All of
it.
And then she was back, with a new pink dress on a hanger, shimmering
against the restroom lights. She reached into her purse and brought out
panties and a bra.
"Now, tomorrow, sweetheart, we will need to shave," she said. "But I
think for the first night, we can make do. I don't have any breast forms,
so we'll use tissue for tonight, okay? Now go on. Get dressed. I can't
wait to see your sissy self."
There was no consciousness to my movements. It was as if someone else was
moving my arms, my legs, as I tugged the panties up my body, the elastic
clinging to me, claiming me. The bra felt funny at first, especially with
tissue paper stuffing the cups. The pink maid's dress was a little tight,
embracing my sides, tickling my legs with the hem. I looked into the
mirror, and except for my hair - long for a man, short for a woman - I
could have been one of the servers here.
Monica came to me armed with a lipstick in her hands. She smoothed it
over my lips. She brought out her eye-liner and mascara. She tugged at my
slightly longish hair til she managed two small, tight pigtails.
And it was done.
I did not have heels or hose, and she would have to get around to
painting my nails. But I stood there in defeat, another conquered sissy
on the trail of tears. I looked at her pleadingly, but there was no
softness in her eyes. She wanted me this way for her purposes. And for
mine.
"Feel it, girl," she said. "Feel the satin on your dick. And the elastic
around your chest. Feel the dress on your torso. Do you ever want to take
them off."
"No," I whispered.
"You don't have to, sissy."
"I don't have to," I repeated.
She smiled. And took out a dark burgundy nail polish and slowly stroked
it on my fingertips. I looked on, transfixed.
"Tomorrow will be a great day, Samantha," she said. "Your first as a
sissy. You'll have new dresses, and new panties. Soon, we'll talk to
doctors about your hormones. Nothing like a sissy tittie. Hah."
I still felt uneasy. "Monica, why are really you doing this? You know I
didn't have an affair."
Her eyes flashed. "You want to know why? Because I can. Because I want
to. Because I need to. I've had some counseling about it, Samantha. Does
that surprise you? I've been diagnosed as 'extremely assertive." I think
that means I'm the domme who's going to stripe your ass, cookie. You
know, the doctor says that my nature was the reason I married a wimp like
you to start with, a little man with a tiny dick. Even then, part of me
knew that I was going to perfume you."
"But wouldn't home be a better place for this? Not in public where
everyone can see me wearing this fucking dress?"
"A public place is perfect, sweet Samantha. You want to be seen, and I
want you to be seen. I want you to walk out of this room and into this
lifestyle. A pathetic little fag sissy. Are you hard? Are you about to
squirt in your little panties? Of course you are! Because you're a sissy.
You can't wait to slip out of this Sissy Room to blow a guy tonight, can
you? Between shifts, I mean."
"Shifts?"
"That's right, Samantha. Didn't I tell you? Here at M&S, they have a new
idea about the help. Here, you have to work your way out. Once you put on
the sissy clothes - or the Mistress clothes, if you're a Mistress - you
go to work. Waiting tables. Minding the grill. Washing the dishes. Think
about it, Samantha. A bar kitchen is a clotheswearing heaven for a sissy.
It has so much of what you want. Cooking. Cleaning. Sucking. So you'll
finish up tonight, and then in the morning you'll start your day chores."
I looked at her. The walls closed in. All the roads were closed, and all
the leaves were canceled. I was standing there in a dress. A dress! There
wasn't a way out of this that I could see. Sure, I could leave Monica.
But here I was, dressed like this, and the video tape was rolling.
Then there was this:
I guess I liked it.
Okay, okay. I shouldn't admit it, I know. I should fight the dress, the
makeup, the whole damn lifestyle. I should pull against every thread of
satin on my body. But as I looked in the mirror at my image, there was a
dawning of acceptance. The cotton candy colors seemed to match my soul. I
could keep kicking, or I could embrace it. I brushed the front of my
dress. My penis certainly liked it. My flat nipples were on fire. There
was an itch deep in my butt; I was afraid of what it might take to
scratch it..
Damn it, it felt right. The dress felt great, and the underwear was like
angels stroking your body. Even with tissues, I liked the outline of
breasts on my chest. And Monica was right. When she mentioned men, I was
so sexually excited I wanted to touch myself. If I had had these thoughts
before, I had repressed them. But the weight of a man's cock suddenly
interested me. The feel. The taste.
My God. Was I gay? Bisexual? Sissy? This had happened so quickly, new
desires flooding over me. Who knows how long it takes to become a sissy?
For some, it can take months. For others could be the flipping of a
switch. Maybe Monica was right. Maybe she recognized the surrender in me.
Maybe I should simply embrace it.
I walked out of the Sissy Room, and there, lining the entrance, were the
other workers of the M&S bar. They applauded me as I walked out. I
curtsied. I waved. I blew a kiss.
I was going with the flow now. Oh, I wasn't the sissy I would become, but
if I had enough sass, enough attitude, I could get by. I picked up an
order pad and simpered across the room. The customers were looking at me
now, and some of them were laughing and some of them seemed aroused. They
were pointing at me. They were talking about me.
I walked to a pink table where a man with big shoulders sat. He looked up
at me and smiled.
"May I serve you, sir?" I asked. "I would recommend the blow job."
"Oh, so it's happy hour?" he flirted. "How late do you guys go."
"Sweetheart," I said, putting my hand on his arm. "Some of us go all
night long."
Turns out, I was a flirt. I liked attention. I liked guys staring at my
ass. I felt complete, at last. I felt perfect. A few hours ago, I had
walked in the front door, the master of my fate, the plotter of my own
course. Now? Now I was the hired help. I twirled and felt the dress on my
legs. But that was good enough.
I looked at the clock. Four hours till closing time, but I didn't need to
leave. I was already home.
(c) 2015 by Cassandra Morgan
Clover
- 13.12.2022
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