The Visable Writer
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The Writer free porn video
The Writer
By Cassandra Morgan
In the glow of the computer, all things were possible.
He could kiss her. He could spin and slam the door in her face. He could
put on her skirt and dance a square dance. She could slap him. She could
sleep with his brother. She could sleep with his sister. All things.
I tickled the keyboard, and the imagined lives of my characters bend to
my will. I am a writer of adult fiction. I decide whether a man is gay or
a woman is a cat or everyone goes to sleep in handcuffs. I write to amuse
myself, and to excite myself, and through research, to educate myself.
I am a writer, Luke Jenson, the Lord of the laptop.
These days, I write soft porn, if you want to be honest about it. I write
domination stories. I write lesbian romances. I write age-play and pet-
play and role-play. Mix it up. Give different audiences a crotch thrill.
I wrote the one about the old sadist in Seattle. I wrote the one about
the sissy in Cincinnati. I wrote the one about a gay couple in Key West.
Maybe you've read them.
My wife, Karen, is my sounding board. She will be reading, then she will
turn to me and say "How about lesbians on a cruise?" Or "How about
threesomes in a college ?" Sometimes, I'll sound out the story to her.
The wife who wants to cuckold her husband. The man who wears a dress to
church. The priest with panties on.
Tonight, I am writing a sissy story.
I love sissy stories. They are fairly finite, but they leave a lot of
room for character development. Oh, the guy must eventually surrender his
will, either through coercion or impulse. He will end up in panties,
whether he is instructed to or invited. He will be humiliated at some
point, because, hell, he's a sissy. At some point, he may suck a cock.
Because of all the things that a man can do to be submissive, isn't that
the most striking? What strips a man's manhood away more thoroughly than
sperm on the chin?
"Who's the protagonist this time?" Karen wonders?
"I think I'm going to make him a dancer," I said. "Eventually, he
becomes the valet for the prima ballerina. And then one of her backup
dancers."
Karen wrinkled her nose. "Well, that gets rid of the body hair problem. I
think those guys all use hair removal anyway."
"Those that need it."
She nodded. "You could make them figure skaters. And he has to take the
female part when she hurts herself."
"No good. You have to register for the big meets months in advance."
"Singers? Maids?"
I thought for a minute. "Anything where he ends up in a maid's dress is
good. Maids are hot."
"How about a guy who becomes a bridesmaid?"
"I love those stories, but they've been done so much. Always fun when a
boy puts on a flowing gown, though. Maybe we could make him the bride,
forced to marry a football player."
"Sounds delicious. So what's our story?"
"I don't know. A guy works his way through Europe in drag, maybe. The
costume party is always reliable. Halloween."
"Ech. No Halloween. All the amateurs write Halloween stories".
"You know, I'm this close to an idea. This close! But ...."
"You know what the great writers do?"
"Yeah. They write."
"They dress the part. Guys who write baseball stories carry a bat around
with them. I've seen them. Guys who write war stories wear a helmet. They
have some sort of affectation. You could do the same thing."
"You want me to cross-dress?"
"Hell, wearing a pair of panties isn't cross-dressing, bubbles. You
aren't going the full Caitlyn, you know? Just a bit to regain
inspiration."
"It sounds silly, baby."
"Oh, just try it, you baby. Hey, maybe you can work on an adult baby
story next and wear diapers."
"Waah," I said, joking.
"So you'll do it?"
I sighed. Nodded.
"This is how Cinderella started," I said. "She was a boy whose step-
mother put her in a maid's dress."
"There's your imagination. Just keep thinking like that. Tomorrow, we'll
have fun, okay."
"You think?"
"I do."
This was silly. This was scary.
And, yes, this was a little bit exciting.
* * *
I'm an open-minded guy. I'm liberal. I read about transexuals - these
days, who can help it - and I do not judge.
So the idea of wearing a pair of panties to write it didn't really
intimidate me. Hell, men's briefs come in so many colors and textures
that they're kind of halfway there anyway.
Hey, a lot of men like dresses. When I write a story about a guy in a
dress, I get a great deal of response. There are readers who project into
the lead role quickly and easily.
Still, it was a jolt when I got out of the shower the next morning, and
Karen was shaking a pair of panties at me. She was grinning.
"Okay, creator," she said. "It's time to be one of your creations. Are
you man enough to be a sissy?"
The panties were pink. Why did she have to get pink ones? "They look
little," I said.
"Well, they're mine. Give me time to go to the mall, and I'll fix you
up."
"It's okay," I said. "I'm just going to do this for a few hours, right?
I have zero inclination toward this."
"Either that, or you're repressing. Like in one of your stories. We'll
see how you like it. How long you'll stay."
I sighed. I stepped into the panties. I pulled them up slowly.
"Well?"
"They're okay, I guess."
"Okay? You have a boner, sissy boy. Don't lie to me."
"Well, it's morning. You know what they say about morning wood."
"I wonder: Do Olympic swimmers have morning wood? I mean, they're in the
pool so early, it's seems like they would have shrinkage."
"Hmm. Maybe there's a story there. Swimmers already shave their bodies."
"See. You're thinking already. They must be magic panties."
"Ha-ha."
Karen reached out and stroked my butt. "They feel nice on you," she
said. "A lot less stiff than those silly old boxers. I think I'm going to
like having a wife."
I frowned at her. I made a cup of coffee. Instant. Yucky. I sat down at
the computer. I typed out "It was a dark and stormy night" for practice.
Karen looked over my shoulder.
"An idea?" she said. "Yeah," I said. "Woodstock is the sub. Snoopy is
the master."
She swatted me on the arm. "Perv. Don't be messing with my comic
strips."
"Mr. Crab and Patrick?" I asked.
She swatted me again, a little harder. "Now type, pansy," she grinned.
"Or I'll spank you."
So I started to noodle. Gay cowboys. Was that too much like 'Brokeback
Mountain'? How about a cowboy who gets into pony-play because he loves
his horse so much? Maybe. How about a a gay soldier who dresses like an
Afghan woman? A straight figure skater surrounded by gay skaters? I
didn't even hear Karen leave.
When she returned, I was into the outline of a possible story. A tennis
player on the male circuit wants to be a female player, but the tennis
association fights her. Like the real story of Renee Richards. Slowly,
her story emerges. She likes pain. She becomes the bitch of the No. 1
women's player in the world. I called in "Love and Doubles."
"Hey, Luke," called out Karen. "I got your panties."
Panties? Oh, yeah. The ones I had on were so comfortable, I forgot I was
wearing them. I had been so busy writing ... hey, that was the point,
right. To see if I was comfortable?
I walked into the bedroom, and Karen was spreading quite a few pairs of
bikini cuts across the bed. A scarlet pair. A black pair. Off-white.
Blue. Purple. All with matching bras. And what seemed to be a dress.
"Did we go overboard?" I said.
"Well, the bras and panties were in sets. The bras weren't that much
more, and I figured if the panties worked, why not? And I bought the
maid's dress at a consignment shop. It was practically free. You can wear
what you want. This isn't one of your stories where the bitch of a wife
bullies the simpering husband to dress. You can simper whether you're in
a dress or not."
"You sure you aren't just trying to be my Mistress?" I said.
She laughed. "That could be a kink. I'd have to buy a vibrator, though. I
haven't had one since college."
"You had one in college?"
"I did. I called it 'Brad Pitt.' We were very much in love."
I laughed. "Turns out, my bride is kinkier than I am."
She tossed a black bra to me. "I could say the same thing about my
bride."
I don't know why, but I automatically slid into it, fastened it, then
turned the bra around. I put my arms through the holes and adjusted my
skin.
"Oh, nice. You need some filler, though. Tissues or panties? We're all
out of breast forms."
"Tissues?" I said.
A moment later, I had boobs. They felt odd, jutting out from my chest.
And the bra wasn't nearly as smooth as the panties. It was a little
stiff. But the back strap felt nice.
So I stood there in a bra and panties in front of my wife. I felt silly.
But I also felt ... erotic. Naughty. They were cool and slick against my
skin, like they were hugging me as much as hanging from me. I kind of
liked it.
"What do you think?" I asked her.
"Oh, baby. You look hot."
"I do? I feel like I'm in a play."
"Well, in Act 2, you may get laid. I swear, baby, it is so erotic to see
my man dressed like this. Would you put on the dress? Please?"
"Oh, come on."
"I mean it. For all that kinky shit you write, you don't ever play games
with me. You're all fucking talk."
So I picked up the black maid's dress and looked at it. It had a white
apron sewn in. It was slit up the side, open at the collar. Soft. I
stepped into it and pulled it up. Karen pulled the zipper up. It felt
nice, too, like someone's arms were around me. I half-twirled and felt my
skirt sway.
"Oh, wow," Karen said.
"I'm a girl," I said.
"You're a boy-girl. We have to get some makeup on you."
"I have to write," I said.
"Later. For now, you're my sissy. Come on, play along, Luke. Please."
I looked at her. Exhaled. "Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Oooh, I like that. Now, will you do something for me? Make me a cup of
coffee? Real coffee, maid. Not that instant shit."
I sauntered to the kitchen, laying it on thick. My hands dangled from my
wrists, and I tried to sway my ass as I walked. I was a silly creature,
of course. I had no heels and no wig and no hose. No self-respecting
sissy - is there such a thing? - would leave her bedroom without a wig or
heels. But Karen was into it, giving instructions here and there, trying
to pull the sissy out of the guy.
I made her coffee. I cut her a piece of cake, too. For some reason, it
seemed I should be doing more for her to fit the stereotype. She sat at
the table and ate while I started to wash the dishes.
"My God, Luke," she said. "You were born to be a sissy. Not just write
about it. I mean it. You are perfect."
"Yeah? How many sissies named 'Luke' do you know."
"Luka, then. No, wait. Lucy. You can be Lucy when you're in a dress."
"I thought this was just for the afternoon," I said.
"Please, Lucy. Stay with me. Be my maid for a little while."
"We'll see," I said. But this didn't feel as if it would pass soon.
Karen loved this. I had never seen her respond to a kink I had suggested
or written about like this, not bondage, not pet play, not Bigs and
Littles. She liked me in a dress.
And I wasn't sure how to write my way out.
* * *
I am a writer. I study things. I analyze them. I contrast and compare.
It's what I do.
And so I stand in front of the mirror in my bra and panties. Karen was
out shopping.
I turned to the side and looked at the jut of my breast forms. The bra
was a little scratchy around the cups. I imagine they had softer ones,
but that wasn't the thing. The thing was the...foreign nature of it. Guys
didn't wear these. Hose are socks, and panties were tighty-whiteys, and I
know guys on TV wear light makeup. But a bra is for those with breasts.
I dressed, and I analyzed each piece of clothing.
The panties? They were smooth, soft, more form-fitting than my male
underwear. Hose are longer than socks, of course, and they hug our legs
tighter. And they tear like tissue paper.
The dress? I considered it as I put on my white maid's dress. The hem
tickled my leg, and the skirt swirled when I turned. That was nice. And
the way the bodice hugged my midsection - the way a corset did when Karen
had me in one - was comforting.
The makeup was hard to get used to, checking my lipstick, making sure it
was fresh. My foundation. My perfume.
I would complain about what a bother it was, but my erection kind of
argued the point.
Did certain boys feel this delight when they slid their sister's dress,
or their mom's, over their bodies. Was it worth the risk, the thrill, of
getting caught? Was it worth the electricity of pretending they were
female for a few stolen moments?
Standing there, I felt sympathy for my sisters. I never had those risks.
Until now, when I feared the door opening, every time. These were my
girly days, my days of danger. Might Karen bring home my friends, my
family, my co-workers? Might she post photos on my Facebook page for all
to see?
She laughed when she told me she might, when she invited me to write
about the desperation I felt. Maybe that was my story. A writer who finds
himself in dresses fears exposure. Would I write that? Would I read it?
I did not put my wig on. Instead, I wrapped it into tiny pigtails that
barely stuck above my head. I affixed the ribbons, pink and purple, that
Karen had bought for me. God, I looked like a sissy! Karen would be
delighted.
There was noise at the door. I sighed. I bit my lip, and I braced my
soul. Who would it be.
I opened the door slowly. Karen stood there with two large men. I glanced
down at the floor.
What could I say? "I thought I heard you, Mistress. Would you like some
wine?"
"Wine would be good, Lucy. More wine for me and my bodyguards. Jeffrey
and Allen. They're protecting me from muggers!"
I spun and walked to the kitchen, aware of how short my skirt was, aware
that Allen's eyes noticed, too.
"Luuuuuu-ceeeeee," Mistress slurred. She had been drinking. "Oh, Luuuuu-
ceeeee." I brought the wine on a serving tray, three glasses filled with
the red liquid. Mistress took her glass.
"Shhhh, Luuuu-ceeeeee," she said. "Don't worry. I didn' t tell them that
you're my sissy husband. They don't even suspect that you're a faggot."
I blushed quickly. "Mistress!" I whispered. "You just told them."
"Well, you're a fucking sissy. So what's the big deal if they know? I
think everyone should know."
Ashamed, I spun and went into the kitchen, fighting off my tears. Tears!
Like I really was a sissy.
"Why are you upset?" Karen said, following me into the kitchen. "I
brought one home for you! If I'm going to get fresh dick, it's only fair
that you get fresh dick, too."
"Mistress! I don't want dick. I'm a man. I'm not gay!"
"Well, spank my ass and call me Shirley," she said. "I know you aren't
gay. But you're submissive, and if I want you to submit, you'll open your
mouth like you're at the dentist. Got it, Lucy? This sub shit isn't all
about washing the fucking dishes, baby. You knew that when you asked me
if you could be a girl."
"Mistress, I never asked! You asked."
"Your eyes asked me, bitch-boy," she said. "You wanted this from the
start. You kept dropping hints. Sissy this and Mistress that and blah-
blah-blah."
"Then let's stop it now, okay," I said. "I can take off the dress, and
the guys can go home, and I can write."
"Fuck that. I asked these men here, and they're going to get a blow job
from you, or a blow job from me. You decide."
I bit my bottom lip. I looked at Karen pleadingly.
"I'll be your bitch, Karen. I'll be your sissy, but don't make me do
this. You don't want a husband who sucks dick, do you?"
Her voice was venomous. "I want a husband who will do what I want him to
do. Who will wear what I want him to wear. And who will suck what I want
him to suck. You are my submissive, Lucy. What I say goes. This is the
only conversation of this type we will ever have."
The resistance in me died then. I surrendered. I was done. I had no more
fight left in me. If it was inevitable that I suck a dick, then I might
as well do it. Otherwise, our marriage was ruined. I knew that. I could
not refuse her and have us go on from here."
We walked back into the living room.
"You two didn't start without us, did you? I promised you a blow job. Go
ahead, Lucy. Shouldn't you be on your knees?"
I dropped down in front of them, the tears silently falling down my face.
I rubbed his cock through his pants, then unbuckled his belt. I tugged
them down to his knees.
And there it was, kind of short but fat. An insurance salesman's dick. I
took a breath. And I leaned in, puckering. My tongue quivered.
"Stop it!"
I looked up, and it was Mistress. "It's okay, Lucy. I told you. The
important thing was the submission. You were willing to suck a cock for
me. That's enough...this time. Next time, you not be as lucky. Deal?"
I nodded. I stood up. I felt like a condemned man who got a last-second
stay of execution.
"Now sit over there in the lounger."
I sat.
"Hey!" Allen was pissed. "You promised me a blow job."
Karen looked at me, the glint still in her eyes.
"And you'll get one," she said. "From me. While fag boy here watches.
I'll blow both of you."
What? I couldn't allow that.
"Mistress ... no. If you want, I'll do it."
"Now, Lucy. You begged off. So you sit there and watch while I bring both
of this boys off with my mouth. I'm doing this because you won't. The
guilt is all on you. So when it hurts, or when I gag, I want you to think
it's your pain I'm bearing. When these guys blow their wads into my face,
it should have been into yours. Pussy!"
Then she turned, and she took Allen in her mouth, and she grabbed ahold
of Jeffery, squeezing him as she sucked his partner.
I watched through tears, through the shame that I was not man enough to
walk away, and not sissy enough to do my job. It should have been me. I
didn't deserve my dress, my breasts, my lipstick. I was a fraud. I was a
counterfeit sissy, not good enough even for submission.
Karen was finished with Allen now. She looked at me, smirking. She kissed
Jeffery's cock, then proceeded to suck him off.
At no point did I feel jealousy. That was an emotion I no longer
deserved. What I felt was shame.
In all the world, what's lower than a sissy?
Me.
* * *
"Karen?"
She glared at me.
"Mistress?"
"That's better. But I may punish you if it happens again."
I flinched. "Mistress, I think this has gotten out of hand. I was just
supposed to wear a dress for a few hours. It's been a week and a half."
"So you want to stop?"
"I think we should."
"Lucy, have you seen your Facebook page lately?"
"No. Why?"
She giggled. "I put the loveliest picture I could find of you
curtsying," she said. "You look more gay than an Elton John concert."
"You didn't? How could you do that?"
She folded her arms and watched as I rushed to the laptop and called up
Facebook. My profile picture was as a maid. There were several shots on
my profile. The one she talked about. One of me scrubbing the toilet. One
of me bending over and glancing back at the photographer. She had shot
all of these as a hoot that very first night.
I could just imagine Ted looking this up. Or Jerald. Or Mr. Oswalt. My
God, the whole world will know!
"I can't believe you did this," I said to her.
"Lucy, do you still think this is about you? It never has been. This
isn't the story of a writer who tried on a dress because his wife
suggests it. This is the story of a dominating wife who pushes her
husband into being her sissy. Every story has two viewpoints, Precious.
You taught me that. You're a faggot cocksucker in a dress. The only
inspiration here is mine."
My eyes grew wide. This was Karen? She seemed taller, more powerful now,
than she had throughout our marriage. Now, it was her marriage. She was
taking control.
"I've thrown your male clothes out, pussy," she said. "You're a sissy.
Face it. Get used to it. All your friends know. Your family knows. I've
told most of them you're bi-sexual and not to be alarmed if you have guys
over."
"But I never..."
"But I have you on my cellphone begging me to let you suck Allen's cock,
remember? Crying like a fucking little girl because I was sucking it
instead. Now accept it. Repeat after me: "I am Lucy."
"I'm Lucy."
"I'm a sissy."
"A sissy."
"I wear dresses and suck cocks."
"Karen..."
"Say it!"
"I wear dresses and suck...cocks."
"Please Mistress, can I wash the dishes?"
"Can I wash the dishes?"
"Will you put me in a cock cage?"
"Can I wear a cage?"
Mistress Karen broken into laughter and clapped her hands together.
"Oh, fairy-boy," she said. "This is going to be so good for you, for us!
I was meant to be a Mistress. You had no choice but to be my sissy. Oh,
you'll still write. The world needs soft porn. But you'll do it in a
dress, every day between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. The rest of the time, you are
mine. To cook. To clean. You launder. You serve at parties."
I looked at myself in the mirror. It was true, wasn't it? I suppose it
was. I was a sissy. How else would it have been so easy for her to get
me into her kinds of clothes? I was inches away from fellatio. And that
wasn't much of a push either.
I felt something change in me. It was the feeling of acceptance. I would
turn control over to her. I would ... serve her.
"Mistress?" I said, standing a little taller.
"Yes, Lucy?"
"Mistress, can I have titties for Christmas?"
She smiled. A victor's smile. A Mistress's smile.
"Does sissy want tittles?" she said. "I was going to get you a butt
plug, but that may have to wait for your birthday. Would you like that,
Lucy? Or would you like the real thing this time? Do you want an angry
cock sliding into your asshole?"
A light came on.
"Mistress!" I said. "That's it! We call it "The Christmas Present." And
it will involve a sissy picking out her present during the holidays, and
then getting butt-fucked by Santa! I love it."
Mistress nodded. "And God bless us every one."
* * *
Epilogue
I am a writer
I hunt and peck, typing carefully because of my long fingernails. Still,
my publisher reads every word. I weave a story like lace, interwoven,
layers stacked like a skirt over a petticoat over panties over a cage.
All of them are about us, sissies who have found a better way through
control.
I can make a sissy clean, or I can make her cook, or I can make her suck
the largest cocks you can imagine. I can make her pay attention to her
lips, or her hair, or the swelling flesh of her breasts.
Once, long ago, I wrote about many kinks, bondage and lesbians and
diapers. Silly me! What did I know of such things? This, I know. I can
tell you all about a sissy who has blossomed. I am a sissy writer, and
the meanings in both words are true.
But this is not my story.
This is hers.
(c) 2015 by Cassandra Morgan
Nanette
- 25.06.2022
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