The Soft Dominance Of Mistress Sarah free porn video

The Soft Dominance of Mistress Sarah It started with a hockey jersey, of all things. Heck, Cincinnati doesn't even have a hockey team. Well, they have the Cyclones, but they're minor league; Terry and I have never been to see them. But Terry is a huge fan of the Capitals, and he has a white jersey. "Ovechkin" it says on the back, whoever that is. Anyway, that jersey has become a wishbone in our lives. Terry loves to wear it while he watches the playoffs. And I think it's kind of sexy when a woman wears it and panties. So I've taken to putting it on in the afternoons before Terry gets home from work. If you want to know the truth, it drives him crazy. He'll come home, and he'll sift through his t-shirts, and he'll look to see if it's hanging in the closet, and finally, he'll look up, and I'll be wearing it. I may pose a little with my hips out, if you want know the truth. "Sarah," he says. "That's my hockey jersey." And, every time, I'll say "Hey, you can go into my closet and wear anything you'd like." And he'd walk away muttering to himself. It was a game, you know? Hell, we could have bought another hockey jersey if we wanted. We could have purchased t-shirts and caps and whatever. But this little tug-of-war had become a regular thing. It was blousy on me, far too big, but I thought that made me look hotter. Besides, Terry has the most adorable little pout. "The Caps are playing the Islanders tonight," he would whimper. "Can I wear my hockey jersey tonight?" I would laugh. "I don't know, Terry. It looks better on me," I'd say. "But you don't even like hockey," he'd say. "Of course I do," I would say. "I think this Overton guy is terrific." "Ovechkin," he'd say. "Him, too." "Come on, Sarah," he'd say. "You have your own clothes." "I've told you before," I'd say. "You can wear anything you want of mine." And so we razzed each other. Mind you, it wasn't a serious fight, and it wasn't about family or money or politics. It was just a power grab over this little hockey jersey. An invented contention, if you will. He wasn't that upset, really. He just wanted to argue that, technically, it was his jersey. I wasn't that possessive, really. I just wanted to argue that a girl wearing her husband's shirt wasn't the greatest sin in the world. "Why does it have No. 8 on it?" I asked. "It was his mother's number when she played basketball in Russia," Terry said. "Really?" "Really." "Then it's a woman's number. I should keep it." "But it's mine, num-num," he said. "I keep saying it. You can wear anything of mine you want to wear." At nights, when the hockey game was over and they had made cubes or whatever from the ice, we'd lay in bed. Terry's hands would start to roam, and we'd kiss. I'd keep the jersey on to tease him. "Are you to touching my breasts or Overstreet's?" I'd say. "Yours. And it's Ovechkin." "So you like me wearing the shirt now, huh?" I'd tease. "Jersey. It's a jersey. Or a sweater." I sat up. I scowled. "You have your hands on my girls, and you want to argue about what it's called?" He shrugged. "I like your girls." "Mmmm," I'd say. "You have the most delicious bumps in my jersey," he said. "So you admit that the jersey fits me better?" I said. "Yes....oh, yes." I would rub his chest. I'd grip his penis. I'd tell him to touch me right in the penalty box. "Say it. Say, I want you to wear the jersey forever." "Uhhh.." "Come on, Terry. Say it and you can put your hand inside it." "I want...I want you to wear it." "Forever." "Forever." And then his mouth was on my vagina, and he was doing things that I didn't want a hockey player to do in my crease. He was a gentle lover. We were good together. The next morning, I would pick the jersey up off of the floor and put it back on. I'd go downstairs and we'd coffee before we headed to work. His voice came out of the shower. "Baby, there's a game tonight. Can you wash that jersey?" I laughed. "Yeah, but I may wear it." I couldn't make out what he was saying. I think he said I was rich. Something like that. I smiled. "I said you could wear anything of mine you wanted." And he entered the kitchen wearing my black dress. "How about this?" he said. * Somehow, I kept a straight face. But he didn't have on shoes or makeup, and his legs were hairy, and the hair on his head wasn't very long. He tiptoed across the room, his hands flopping in an exaggerated motion as he moved. "Oh, that's great," I said. "You've just sent the transgender movement back 200 years." "Jealous?" he said, sticking his butt out as he poured himself a coffee. "Absolutely," I said. "You're a knockout. I think you should wear it to work." "Well, I might," he said. "I mean, the panties feel nice." "You have on panties?" I giggled and reached for the hem of his skirt. "What a girl you are!" "Sarah!" he said. "Hands off." "So, Theresa. Is this your debut? Or have you worn girls' clothes before?" He shrugged. "Teenagers play," he said. "I wore Tanya's stuff once or twice as a kid." "Then you should know to shave your legs, hussy," I said. "And you need to put on lipstick." He laughed. "Later," he said. "I'm just getting used to it." "Yeah, you practice," I said. "In a week, you'll be on RuPaul's show." "I'll win," he said. "Yeah, I bet you will," I laughed. It was an amusing morning. I actually thought more of Terry that he would have the nerve to wear a dress into the kitchen to make his point. A lot of men wouldn't. But it was cute and harmless and sexy in a way. It stayed on my mind for most of the day, Terry standing in the morning light in that dress. That evening, Terry had tests to grade, so I got home before him. The devil in my heart, I went to the bedroom and laid out panties and an off-white nightgown. At the last minute, I added a bra. Then I went downstairs and made dinner. Terry camp in after 5. He walked into the kitchen, and he kissed me. "Chicken tonight," I said. "Is that okay." "Sure," he said. Then he went up for his shower. I listened. I didn't hear anything. Then the shower was turned on. Then, a few minutes later, off. A few minutes after that, Terry walked into the kitchen. He was wearing the nightgown, the bra and, I suppose, the panties. He had found a tube of lipstick and had coated his lips. I walked up and kissed him. I could feel his hardness. "You look great," I said. "Get a load of this," he said. He lifted the hem of his nightgown. I shrieked. He had shaved his legs. They were perfect, smooth and slick. I reached down and ran my hands over them. His eyes were glassy, and my breath was shallow. "Call me Theresa," he said. "Yes, my lady," I said. "Is this kind of ... gay?" he asked. "This is kind of sexy," I said, tugging on his hair. I kissed his neck, and he smelled sweet. Perfume. "You're wearing my perfume," I said. "You can wear anything of mine you want," he said. * If we were entering a new highway in our lives, I should admit that we weren't looking for caution signs. Terry kept wearing my clothes, and I loved it. I grew to suspect it was something he had carried over from his teen years, but it didn't matter. Hey, it was a mild kink. It wasn't like he was a woman now. He just liked teasing me back in my own clothing. He did get better at cross-dressing, although that's not what we called it. He learned to fix his makeup. He learned to walk in heels. He got his ears pierced. He made a cute girl. There was a realization that went on as he dressed. This was a part of Terry. Maybe it always had been. But he liked it. It embarrassed him that he enjoyed it so much, but it quickly became a part of him. And, in extension, a part of me. There were three of us in the apartment now, me and Terry and Theresa. And it was nice. There was a pizza joint on the corner. We started going there on occasion, finding safety in the dim light. It was a game. We would hold hands, both of our nails painted. We would swap lipstick when no one was looking. It felt out of bounds. It felt a little naughty, but not a lot. Perhaps I should have known I was being warned, but I didn't slow down. Still, things were bound to escalate. And so it was that on Thursday night, it was my turn to be home late from work. I was miffed and hungry and I needed a drink. But when I opened the door, there she was. Theresa. In a red dress and a long blonde wig. With boobs and painted nails. In heels and full makeup. With earrings and hose, admiring herself in the mirror. "Oh..." I said. Terry -- Theresa -- blushed upon seeing me. "I ... I just wanted to dress," he said. I forced a smile. "It's okay, baby. I've seen you dressed before," I said. "But you always expected it..." "Not in the early days," I said. "Remember when you showed up at breakfast?" But it did feel different. That had been a public moment, and this was a private one. Theresa had never meant for me to see her, and somehow, that made the moment more intimate, more unrehearsed. It was the difference between being in a play and living real life. Theresa was a girl, all right. "I'll change clothes," Theresa said. "Please don't," I said. "I was just startled." "You sure?" "I'm sure." We sat at the table. Theresa had been caught in a dress. She was embarrassed. "Have you been doing this long?" I asked. "Privately, I mean." "A few times," she said, looking down. "Over the last month or so." "You like it, don't you?" "I guess," Theresa said. "It feels like more than that. Maybe it's always been inside me, but when I put on your clothes, it's like electricity is running through me. I feel complete Some husband I turned out to be, huh? I really am a sissy." "Terry, it's just clothes," I said. "I mean it. I'll adjust. I don't care what cut your laundry is. Just so you're mine." Theresa smiled. "Speaking of yours..." "Excuse me?" Theresa shrugged. "Never mind. I was reading some fiction today. I thought about asking you to be my Mistress. All the best girls have them." "Terry, I don't know anything about that lifestyle," I said. "What do I do? Smoke cigars and dress in leather?" "You could be a normal mistress if you want," Theresa said. "I was thinking more like a spirit guide. Help me dress. Teach me about makeup. Yeah, you can be in charge if you want. You can tell me what to do. I'm new at this, too." "Terry...Theresa. We're both lost in the woods here. But if you want, I'll try to help you find your way out. But I'm not going to be a bitch to make you happy, okay? I'm not going to beat you or turn you in a servant girl. But let me do some research, okay? Let me see what I'm supposed to be, and then we'll talk." "That's fair," Theresa said. "Now, can I get you a cup of coffee?" "Um...okay. And maybe a sandwich, wench," I laughed. "And some cheese." Theresa curtsied. And as she scurried off to serve me, I noticed that her ass had a nice little bounce to it. * * Mary Jane and I were having lunch. She had a Cobb Salad. I was having confusion. My husband was a transvestite. A sissy. Well, basically. He had been overwhelmed by the desire for women's clothing. He had no interest in stopping, but I'm not sure he could if he wanted to. He didn't wear dresses to work, but he wore hose and panties. He took care of the house. So here I was, with my old college roommate. I needed to talk to someone. M.J had always been a good listener. "M.J.," I began. "What do you know about mistresses?" "Mistresses? They're bad asses, Sarah. They should have their own motorcycle gang. I'm not talking about Hollywood Mistresses. Those are just mice trying to roar. But you don't want to mess with the real ones. They'll chew you up and spit you out." I nodded. "And sissies? Guys who dress up? What do you know about them?" "Not a lot. Some of them have very nice boyfriends, though, if you know what I'm saying. They have little dicks. They like to clean, of all things. They're meek and submissive, and I think all women should have at least two." I smiled while M.J. laughed at her own joke. "So why are you asking?" M.J. said. "Is Terry a master?" I slowly shook my head,'' "A sissy?" she said, her eyes widening. "Don't tell anybody," I said softly. "Holy shit," she said. "Terry? Your Terry? He's a sissy?" "Well, sissy may be a strong word," I said. "But we've been playing in my clothes, and he's taken a liking to it." "Jesus. When can I see him?" "Never," I said. "I mean, not yet. But as Theresa, he's cute. He has this little turned up nose and his legs are good and his ass ... well, he's got junk in the trunk" "Wow. Theresa, huh? Is he gay?" "No, no," I said. "Our sex life is actually pretty good. If I don't mind messing around with someone in a nightie." M.J. giggled. "So if the sex is good, what's the problem?" "He asked me if I would be his mistress," I said. "God, that is so hot," M.J. said. "So you get to spank him and fuck around on him?" "Come on, M.J.," I said. "You know better than that. I'm not going to hurt him. And I'm certainly not going to commit adultery." "Well, I kind of think you're expected to," she said. "I've read a few stories, and all the women mistreat their husbands. They turn them into full-time maids and they steal their businesses and they make them suck cocks. They give them tits and tattoo on their makeup and fuck their old bosses. It's called "Menu A' in being a mistress. Menu B involves joining the Nazi Party." I laughed. Mary Jane was funny when she joked around. "I need to read some of these stories you talk about," I said. "I don't want Theresa to find some Disney villainess to be her mistress. But I'm not sure I could handle it." "Do you have a keyring?" "Excuse me." "As near as I can tell, that's 90 percent of being a mistress. You keep the lock to their chastity belt, and to their maid's dresses, and to their heels, and to their corsets., and their collars. Their butt plugs and their diaper covers and their penis gags." "It sounds like a dungeon-master," I said. "Yeah, You'll need a key to the dungeon, too." "Wait. So what's that chastity belt thing you mentioned?" "God, you're a Puritan," said she. "It's a do-hickey that goes over his thingie and snaps shut like a jail cell." "Well, that explains it." "Silly. It's a cock cage. You put it inside, and you lock it, and control his orgasms. And he looks at his dick and sweats and wonders if you've forgotten about him. Think of it like John Dillinger putting himself in jail. Click. My dick robbed a liquor store.. "You're lying. Why would any guy ever consent to that?" "Because you're in charge, Sarah," M.J. said. "Because it's better to sip wine that gulp it. It's better to nibble steak than wolf it down. Because when you do unlock him, he's a tiger. He's ready to pounce." I thought about it. "It does sound like fun," I said. "You've heard of Hercules Unchained?" she said. "This will be Terry unchained. Eventually. Tomorrow. Maybe next weekend." "God, you're a bitch," I said. "You ought to be the mistress here." "I should be. Can Terry come over and play?" "Keep your hands off my sissy, Cruella," I said. "Poor Terry," M.J. said. "She's going to end up with a pussy for a mistress." * I read the stories. M.J. was right. The dommes in these stories were heartless. They didn't have much regard for their spouses, and whatever they did have disappeared quickly. They stole, they cheated, they punished. They beat their sissies. Were there women really like this? I'm sure some were; meanness is a part of the human condition. But couldn't you be a strong mistress without being weak of moral character? I thought of the evil characters of our lives: Hitler and Pol Pot and Maleficent and the Sheriff of Locksley and the Wicked Witch and Hannibal Lecter and Joan Crawford and Bonnie Parker and Aileen Wournos and that guy with the wild eyes from Temple of Doom. They were all blended together to comprise the fictional mistress. I found an online mistress, and I sent her a message to see if she could meet with me. I told her of my situation. One thing that I found out to be accurate was the maid's play. Now, maybe it's just me, but that would be the last thing I would turn into a game. Cooking? Ironing? Washing and vacuuming and making the beds and scrubbing toilets? That's my own personal hell. I decided I would much prefer to be the mistresses, sipping wine on the deck, than I would to being the sissy. But Theresa liked all of it. She bought herself her first maid's dress, a black-and-white number with a huge number of petticoats. She had a cute white hat and a skirt apron. And she worked like she was getting paid. (She wasn't.) But she was Cinderella, dancing around the apartment and singing, the happiest little sissy you've ever seen. One day, I got a text from an unknown sender. It was Mistress Diablo, a professional mistress. She agreed to see me as a courtesy (I think she liked the attention), although she would appreciate a donation for her school. She lived in a large, 50s-style house in East Cincinnati. A maid met me at the door and took my coat. She took me into a library, where Ms. Diablo sat behind a grand desk. "I appreciate you're seeing me, um, Mistress Diablo," I said. "It's Annie," she said, grinning. "Mistress Diablo is my working name." I nodded. "Well, as I mentioned in my message, my husband is, well, transgendered. He refers to himself as a sissy." She smiled. "She should know," she said, and I reminded myself to use feminine pronouns. "I don't know what to do about it," I said. "Why should you do anything? It isn't a disease. It's a condition. A nice one, I think. Most sissies are happy creatures." I nodded. "Theresa sure is," I said. "But it's affecting her more and more deeply. And she's asked me to be her mistress. I feel like I should, for her protection, but I don't know anything about it." Annie smiled. "What's to know? You're in charge. You set the rules. And you love her. The writers who write a lot of the fiction forget that part. A lot of times, the sissies write it, and because they don't understand, the mistress seems cruel and non-caring. But most sissies crave caring more than anything, so if they get a reasonable amount, it seems small." I nodded. "And they take lovers?" She shrugged. "Some of us do. Look, it can be a lonely life for a sissy. But it can be lonely for a mistress, too. The sex is good at the start, but it can fade. Some sissies prefer men. Some like to be locked away in chastity. So the mistress can find her bed empty. So why not fill it?" "But the humiliations? The exposure?" "Who is that for, Sarah? A lot of sissies crave humiliation. They want the exposure. Part of their thrill is to have former friends and family see them in their dresses and judge them. Some of them want to be spanked. But that's about them, not their sissies. "Now, I won't tell you that some dommes don't go too far. Of course they do. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. This sissy, this submissive little worm, is underfoot and prancing around. It's a human reaction to put her in her place. But I'll tell you that most of the relationships I've been around work for both parties. It's the shark and the remora, you know? If there were no submissives, there would be no dominants." "But what about the mistresses who give their sissies hormones without their knowledge?" "What about the women who cut off their husband's penises?" Annie responded. "Some people are cruel in all walks of life. But I can't remember the last sissy I met who told me she wanted smaller breasts." "Are sissies gay?" "Some of them. Most of them are straight. A lot are bi. Some don't like sex at all. It's like life. Some are Republicans and some are Democrats. Some like the Yankees and some like the Mets. Some own cats and some own dogs. Sissies and mistresses are as varied as you can imagine." "Do the sissies always dress up?" "Most of them, I've found," Annie said. "Not always in maid's clothes. Cheerleaders are popular. School girls. Wedding dresses. Women super heroes are very big lately. But look around the nightclubs on Saturday night. Men and women wear all sorts of clothes then, too. But one of the defining characteristics of a sissy is his love of women's clothing. It's almost like a sign of sacrificing one's manhood. Or of not measuring up to it." "Terry likes maid's dresses," I said. "I bet she's cute," Annie said. "You should bring her round. Let her meet some of the girls who work for me. Maybe I can put her to work." I smiled. "She'd like that," I said. * On the way home, I bought Theresa some toys. Everything I read, everything I heard, told me that sissies love their playthings. So I bought her a cock cage in a small size. I bought her a butt plug. I bought her a penis gag. I bought myself a strap on dildo. I felt positively wicked buying them. The woman at the cash register acted as if I was buying breakfast cereal. She had seen it before. I went home, and Theresa squealed in approval as she took her goodies out of the bag. It stunned me, but she loved her cage. She couldn't wait for me to clamp it on so their was a bit of metal shining on her body. She inserted her butt plug herself. She attached her penis gag and then began to make my lunch. I giggled. Theresa was so soft, so pliable these days. I imagined her if the false penis in her mouth was real. I pictured a man entering her ass. I smiled. For now, she was mine. There is a downside to a cock cage, however. I had locked Theresa's penis inside, but outside, I was just as alone. By denying her, I was denying myself. It just depended on what side of the bar you were on. And so I started to look at other men. Just a glance at first. But that turned into flirting, and that led to men asking me out, and that led to temptation. Still, I stayed loyal to the memory of Terry. Because of some sense of morality, I refused to have sex. Still, I had vagina drool all day long. Why did I deny myself? I didn't need permission, did I? I was the alpha in the house. There were men for the taking. Besides, this had all been Theresa's doing. I could screw around if I wanted, and if Theresa didn't like it, well, she could lick me and shut up. I read that somewhere: A sissy should always lap up her lover's residue. There was no need to slip around; when a mistresses wanted sex with a real man, well, that was part of the deal. It was up to the sissy to adjust. It was Animal Farm, and some pigs were more equal than others. I could fuck around; she couldn't. I could spank, and she couldn't. I could spit a loogie onto the floor of our bathrooms, and she would be forced to clean it up. This was the power that a mistress had to harness all of the time. Need money? Hers is yours. Need sex? She'll watch while it goes on. Need to vent the frustrations of daily life? She was your spiritual punching bag. Finally, one night I became so stressed that I wrapped my strap-on around my waist . I entered the bedroom, my fake penis jutting out from my body, and I crawled over Theresa. I lifted her legs, and I entered her. I ravaged her, pumping and grinding her for an hour. I was the man in this coupling, and she was the woman opening her legs. It was nice. But it didn't quite scratch my itch. I lay with her afterward, and she was my pet. She was far more female than male these days. I traced her nippled with my nails. Finally, I turned to her. "I want your boobs to be bigger," I said. She grinned. "Finally," she said. "Finally?" "Oh, Mistress. I shouldn't have said anything. But every sissy wants boobies. I've been waiting and hoping you'd get me hormones or implants." "I'm sorry I waited so long," I said. "I thought you'd hate everyone knowing. I was afraid I'd mutilate you." "Ma'am, breasts aren't mutilations. They're enhancements. I can't wait." "We'll see the doctor as soon as we can get in," I said. "We'll talk about our options with her. Tell you what. We'll go the salon and make you pretty before we see the doctor. OK?" Theresa smiled as if the gates to heaven had opened for her. Maybe I should have known she'd be eager. She wasn't going to be a boy anymore. Her breasts were just a logical step To me, however, they were a reminder that I wasn't a real mistress. * "So what's a real mistress?" M.J. asked me. "It's someone who is decisive," I said. "Someone who is sure and worthy of their sissies' loyalties." "Sarah, kids don't judge their parents. Bailiffs don't judge judges. Theresa loves you. She thinks she has it better than any other sissy in in Cincinnati." "She calls it Sissy-natti," I said. M.J. toyed with her wine. "Do you ever spank her?" "I don't," I said. "Do you make her serve while you eat?" "No. I like to eat with her." "Do you make her lick you after your boyfriend comes in you?" "Eww. I don't have a boyfriend." "Well, Sarah, I'd say you're missing half the fun of being in charge. When is the last time you were laid?" "Well, Theresa licks me." "I'm sure she's a fine lesbian," M.J. said. "But I'm talking about, sweating-and-grunting, spoils-of-battle fucking. I'm talking abut penetration and making you yodel." "Not since Theresa became a sissy," I said. "Christ. Has Theresa been laid? By a guy?" "She's not gay," "That's not what I asked," M.J. said. "Sissies play. It's what they do. Theresa has spent every waking hour getting girlier and girlier. Naturally, she's going to want to measure that with a guy. Can you picture it? Her red lips taking some guy's cock." "That would be hot," I agreed. "Well, turn her loose, Sarah. You like to talk about being a good mistress. Then fix her up to give a blowjob." "She wouldn't like that," I said. "Like she didn't want tits?" M.J. said. I shrugged. There was a lot of stress with this mistress stuff. When to push. When to stop. Who to invite over. Who to keep away. What to lock away. What to release. I decided I should talk to Theresa about getting her a guy. But by asking her, was I avoided my responsibility? Wasn't it up to me to decide if Theresa got a cock? I thought about it. Theresa had an old friend named Danny. He was close enough to be a family member. So I invited Theresa's mother and father and sister and brother over for dinner. And I asked Danny to come along. Theresa almost fainted when I told her who I had invited. Not only did she have to prepare a dinner for seven, she was going to wear a dress. Her parents had never seen her in one. But it was my dinner, and I told her that's what I wanted. I was firm. So we had the dinner. Theresa's parents were stunned. They had no clue. Tanya, Terry's sister, had her suspicions. So did Mike. Danny seemed protective of Theresa all night. If someone criticized, he defended. If someone insulted, he was ready for battle. Finally, I caught Theresa in the kitchen. "How is it going?" I asked. "It's...overwhelming," she said. "But mom and dad are taking it better than I would have thought. And Danny is sweet. I'm glad you two got together." I looked at her. "Theresa," I said. "Danny is yours. He's not for me." Her eyes were saucers. She looked toward the living room and back. "But I don't have sex," she said. "Except with you." "Theresa, maybe it's time we re-think that," I said. "You're becoming a woman. A woman needs to see if a man is what she wants. I won't hold it against you. I promise. I've always loved you, but it's time you shopped around." Theresa was crying now. "You're a woman, too," she said "You have needs, too." "I do. And, in time, we'll discuss them. I never thought I would miss a real man...well, a man who who was living as a man ... this much. But we have something special. If anything, we'll just expand our vows." She nodded. "I'm surprised you haven't expanded them already," she said. "Maybe I will," I said. "But we'll talk about that another night. Tonight is for you...and Danny." "I love you." I smiled. "I love you, too. Even if you do have a nicer ass than I do." She laughed. I laughed. This can work, I thought. It doesn't have to be a selfish thing. It doesn't have to be cruel. Two people can love each other, and want the best for each other, even in the world of dommes and subs. I was in charge. I knew that now. I would make the plans for both of us. I would chart a course that would bring us both into port. We were mistress and sissy. We weren't owner and slave or captor and captive or lord and serf. I looked across the room. Danny was talking, and Theresa was beaming. They seemed happy. Danny kissed her, and it made me smile. Me, too. Look, I'm still new at being a Mistress. But I know communication is better than control. I know dialogue is better than discipline. Love beats obedience, and kisses beat spankings, and trust beats slavery. You can be a mistress without being a war criminal. I don't know much. But I know that. And as soon as Theresa is finished blowing Danny, I'd like another cup of coffee. (c) 2019 Cassandra Morgan