A Mistress's Tale free porn video

A Mistress's Tale By Cassandra Morgan Every story needs a villain. Every story needs someone evil, someone heartless, someone to show the comparative humanity in the hero. Someone who needs to seek power, to avoid kindness, to embrace hunger. I am she. I am death. I am darkness. I am destruction. I am the Mistress. And, frankly, you've got me all wrong. I know the stereotypes. I know how cold we are as described by the sissies among you, the quivering masses with the teeny erections covered by the wives' panties. We're the evil women who beat you, who humiliate you, who denigrate you. The Mongols didn't get reputations as bad as ours, did they? We assume our proper place in the order, and we are castigated for it. We lead, and we guide, and the pansies among you whisper our names as if we were the boogey-man. We are portrayed as monsters, as users, as manipulators of this game. Of your game. And it isn't right. After all, goddesses have feelings, too. The truth is is that we lead because you follow. Someone has to herd the sheep. Someone has to steer the ship. You are all too busy scrubbing pots and flouncing around the kitchen to lead. You're want to kneel, to check your makeup and accept your fate. You are the submissives in life. That forces the true pressures onto those of us who remain. So, yes, I make the decisions that guide this household. I set down the rules. I inflict the punishments. I am Mistress Amanda. I am in charge. Oh, I know what goes on behind your mascara. You question me. You dare to analyze me. Not out loud, of course. Your natures would never allow that. You are lapdogs when we are watching. But you think we spank too hard, or we assign too many tasks, or that some of us take another lover to make us forget that the men who married us are happier as girly boys, as tinker belles who would rather polish each other's fingernails than hit a nail with a hammer. What I am saying is that our lot is cast because of the roles you have embraced. The little girls' dresses? The school-girl skirts? The maid's uniforms? You were all into panties long before I showed up to find you something feminine to wear. And when you become betas, you insist that we become alphas. If you sit in the passenger's seat, well, someone has to drive, don't they? Look I like pretty boys. I do. I love to see you mince about on colored dresses, like ribbons blowing in the wind. I love to caress your panties, or to tease you by spanking your bottoms. And so we wear our dark makeup, and we pick the restaurant or the movie or the art gallery as the evening's entertainment. I say what we want for dinner, because God knows, you could never make a decision. I decide if the living room will be painted blue, because no one else will pick a color. I decide if we watch HBO or Netflix, because it is my role. Leadership. was forced among us, all of us. Someone has to pay the bills while you, supposedly a grown man, play with your dolls. You perform fashion shows for each other, your pink skirts and your blue dresses. You swap makeup tips. You gobble your little pills and look into the mirror to measure the growth of your tiny boobies. And I'm the bad guy? I'm the stained soul? Look, I never would have thought about this life-- not for a second -- if James hadn't embraced his nature. I didn't pick it. I am not Eva Braun or Aileen Wournos or Bonnie Parker. Meanness doesn't come naturally to me. But she had so much weakness, it demanded that I be strong. She was indecisive, so I had to be bold. She was a silly girl, so I had to be smart. I am a Mistress because my sissy demanded I be. That's why I follow my heart, as black as it might be. * * I am the powerful one in this relationship. Because of that, people assume it was my decision, as if I looked at James one night and decided he needed lipstick. It wasn't like that. Originally, this was James' idea. We had been married four years -- four decent years, I thought. James wasn't technically a cross-dresser, but even then, I could tell that he had tendencies. On Halloween, he was going to be Wonder Woman. Or Diana Ross. Or Catherine the Great. Something female, every year. It got to be a joke with us. One day, he began to bring home two magazines. Sissy magazines. He would show me a photo of a maid, or a waitress, and he would giggle like it was a big joke. But we both knew better. James was testing to see which way the wind blew. He wanted to know my reaction to seeing guys in dresses. I would try to keep my face passive. I would comment on the clothing, mainly. On how frilly it was. Then, one Saturday, I slept in. When I awoke to the smell of coffee and went downstairs, there James was in a dark blue maid's uniform and a brown pixie wig. He was mopping the floor, and we locked eyes. There was shame to him, but there was something else. A spark of something in his eyes. Fulfillment, perhaps? "I found it on sale," he said, as if that explained everything. "You're wearing ...a maid's dress?" I said. "Why are you wearing a maid's dress?" "I just thought I'd wear it for a giggle," he said. "Do you mind?" Dumbfounded, I shook my head. "You missed a spot in that corner," I said. He smiled, and I could see that he was wearing light lipstick. He went back over the spot I had pointed out. "Anything else, Madam?" he said. "Coffee," I said. He scurried to get me a cup. "I'll change if you want," he said. "No, it's okay," I said, looking him up and down. "You don't have to." He had on brown heels, which was an awful clash with his black uniform. His skirt was too short. But he seemed so damned enthusiastic, as if he had been waiting months -- years -- to wear these clothes in front of me. There was a girlishness to the way he moved. It wasn't forced. It was ... natural. "If you wish, I'll do the laundry next," he said. "So you're the maid now?" I asked. "You're going to be a sissy all day? You going to stick a Tampon up your ass and call yourself Shirley?" "It...it feels right," he said. "I don't want to be a freak. But these clothes feel nice. I've always liked girls' clothes." "Then you should wear them, I suppose." He lowered his eyes. "Madam, I don't wish to offend you. But this way, I'll do all the chores. Or I'll take it all off and we don't have to talk about this anymore." "James....Jamie...I need to think about this. I need to do some online research. I mean, are you a girl now? Do you like boys? Do you want a divorce? Do you want tits? Do you want a vagina?" "No. No divorce," he .... she said. "No vagina. No boys. I only want to serve you, to make your life better. The clothes ... well, I like the clothes. But they aren't the important thing here. The important thing is to ... submit to you. To be your domestic. It's something ... something inside of me. I guess you'd call me a cross-dresser. Is that right?" "Well, you are kind of cute," I said "I'll admit that. I'm stunned to see my husband in a dress, but I guess there are worse things. You could rob banks. You could sell heroin. You could fuck sailors. I mean, you don't fuck sailors, do you?" "No, madam," she said. "I'm just...feminine. I have been since I was a teenager, off and on. Sally's stuff. Madam, it took so much courage for me to dress for you today. I wanted to wear these clothes, but I was afraid. You know? Part of me feels silly." "You call it ourage?" I grinned. My husband is brave enough to wear panties? You are wearing panties, aren't you?" Jamie lowered her head. "Yes, madam," she said. I nodded. "Well, let's think about this new dynamic in our lives. I have to get used to the idea that my husband would rather be a wife. That she would want to go the salon and find a nice dress on the sale rack. She didn't say she didn't want tits. Some women are married to dicks. I guess I'm married to a pussy." My girl blushed. "I'm sorry," she said, softly. A tear fell down her cheek. At the moment, she was a puppy who needed a hug. "I'm sorry, too," I said. "I can't really explain this," she said. "It's a compulsion. I guess it was bound to come out eventually." I sighed. "I guess you were ready to come out, too." * * Let's revisit the scene. I was standing there looking at my husband, at the man I married, and he was wearing a dress. He had on makeup and nail polish. He was wearing heels and a wig. I kept blinking, unable to say anything. "Do you hate me?" Jamie asked. I shook my head. "I don't hate you. But help me understand this, Jamie." "It's...it's inside of me, Mandy. It's growing, this yearning. When I was a kid, I used to wear girls' clothes sometimes. Not a lot, but sometimes. But it's in my head now. I can't turn it loose. So I saw this dress on sale, and without thinking about it, I bought it." "When was this." "Last Christmas." "Jesus, Jamie. That was eight months ago." "It's been in the guest closet. This is only the third time I've worn it." "So are you a transvestite?" "Maybe. I don't know. How many times do you have to wear a dress to qualify." "Is this something you're going to do from now on?" "I don't know, Mandy. I guess it depends on you. I mean, I like it. But I won't do it if. you don't want me to. I haven't thought this out very well, have I?" James wiped a tear away from her face. "I need to think. What does this mean for you? What does it mean for me? Do you really want to be a girl? A domestic?" James sniffled. He had a desperate look in his eyes now. A longing. "You could be the Mistress," James said. "You could be my spiritual guide." "I'm not equipped for that," I said. "Of course you are. You've always been kind of in charge, Mandy. Now you could be a Mistress. " "What? And tell you what chores to do? Tell you if there are more to do? Or what? Do I spank you like the mistresses in the cheap novels? Do I become the man in the house?" "You could do that if you feel you need to." I smiled. "Then get your bubble butt back to work." Jamie smiled. She turned and walked away, her skirt bouncing as she walked. Now, I have never in my life washed a pot and been happy about it. But Jamie seemed to be in heaven. She shooed me to the living room with a fresh cup of coffee, and she attacked our house. When she was done with her chores, the cooking and the cleaning and the scrubbing and the scouring, I looked at Jamie. I had never seen her more fulfilled. She was beaming. "Let's go upstairs," I said. "You need to undress." Her shoulders sagged. She was crestfallen to hear I was taking the dress off of her after she had found the gumption to wear it. We went up to our bedroom. She kicked off her shoes. She took off her wig. She took off her dress. The bra. The panties. Her eyes never left the floor. "Are you upset, Madam?" she asked. "No," I said. "I just wanted to see you dress to see if you're doing it right. You shaved your legs. That's a nice start." "Thank you Madam." "Now the lingerie." She put her panties back on. They were blue with a ruffle. Very girlish. She put her bra on. She reached behind her and fastened it as if she had done it a few times. She grabbed her dress. "Not so fast, Bubble-butt," I said. "You need to put on your corset. That, and a girdle." "But it's hot." "Do you want Mistress to spank?" "No Madam." "Then put on your clothing like a proper sissy. And for God's sake, get some heels that match. Use mine if you must." "Yes Madam." "Jamie, if you want to wear women's clothing, then you wear them every damn day. You wear them if the preacher comes to visit. If the mayor comes to visit. If the president comes to visit. If you have to go to the bank. If you have shop for groceries. If you wish to be a sissy, you will be a sissy from now on. In front of God. In front of everyone." She looked at me. She smiled. "Whatever you say, Madam." "Yes. It is exactly what I say. Otherwise, I'll redden your ass. I'm not a huge spanking fan, but I will do it. I'll do it in front of your mother. Do you understand?" "Yes, Madam." "Look, it'll be hard. You'll get embarrassed. You'll be exposed. There will be times you'll beg me to be a benevolent mistress. There will be times you'll look at me and think 'what a bitch.' But it only works one way. If you feed the dog, the dog doesn't get to bark about the food. Even if it's a cute little poodle." "Am I your poodle, Madam?" I smiled. "I'm going to put you in a dog show, Bubble-butt. You'll win a ribbon. Looks and obedience. That's what's important, puppy." She nodded her head. "I'm your bitch," she said. * * * And so I read voraciously. It was as if I was back in college and cramming for a test. I read the descriptive sites. I read the fiction sites. I even read the sites that sell the paraphernalia that comes with a sissy lifestyle. I learned that most sissies aren't gay by nature. That didn't mean they didn't play when they were instructed to do so, but on their own, most of them wouldn't go into a bar to find a guy. I read about punishment. I read about the streak that sissies have that makes them want to do chores. I read there were sissy infants and teenaged sissies. There was an actress named Sissy Spacek. And I read about the cruelty. You'd think there were roving bands of sissies across America who swept down the streets of every small town and spanked every sissy alive, all the wshile they sat there innocently waiting for their breasts to grow. I know, I know. If people treat you like a monster, eventually, you become a monster. I'm sure that's true for a great many Mistresses. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Isn't that the old saying? A sissy offers you her ass often enough, and eventually, you're going to swat it. Right? She cleans stains off the toilet bowl, and eventually, you expect those damn stains to be gone when you sit down. You learn to trust each other. You learn what to expect. As for Jamie in those first, new steps, she was pretty attentive to her chores. Her personal grooming needed some work -- I thought Pennywise the Clown was doing her eye makeup for a while. I thought she was robbing the train. I kept waiting for her faithful Indian companion to ride up beside her. -- but she did a good job with cleaning. Her cooking was getting better. She did fine with the laundry. I had read about humiliation, and how important it was for Mistress to make sure her sissy receives it. And so, without any meanness intended, I had invited a few neighbors over for a cookout. Jamie, of course, was in a pale yellow maid's dress with black heels. I helped her with her makeup, and I sent her off to answer the door for our guests. I admit it. It was kind of amusing to see everyone at first glance. Leila Jenkins burst out laughing at the sight. Her husband, Danny, called Jamie "a faggot." Celia Underwood thought she was "more adorable than a lady bug." Tom Washington asked if she sucked cock. Not. yet, I said. Randy Oliver, James' best friend since college, couldn't say anything. He just stared with his mouth open. It was if he had seen a banshee. "It's a hard thing to see," I said emphasizing the word "hard." "You guys have known each other, what, six years? Seven? Did you know that she was a Caitlyn? A RuPaul." "I....never knew," Randy said. "I think it's queer that you didn't know," I said. "Get it? Queer?" He kept blinking, as if he was staring into a strong light. Or was a time traveler. Or a vampire. Something unbelievable. "I don't believe it," he said. "Oh, believe it, Randy. That's who she's going to be for a while. That's why tonight's party is so important. We want everyone to feel normal when they see Jamie around the neighborhood, in the grocery story or at the laundry. Every neighborhood has one of those. Well, this time, 'one of those' is my husband. Bubble-butt." "Bubble butt?" "A pet nickname of mine," I said. "So tell me, Randy. If you met her in a bar, would you pick her up? Would you let her suck your cock in the parking lot?" "Um...maybe," he said. "Liar. You'd be bumping her tonsils right now, wouldn't you. But how would you react when you found out she had a dick. Would you hurt her? Or would you marry her?" "I don't know," he said. "Look at her lips, Randy. Look at her boobs. Look at her legs. Don't you want some of that?" "I ... I need to go to the bathroom," he said. "Okay, but jack off quick. We only have two toilets." * * * The next day, we were talking about boobs. About fake ones. About hormonal ones. About implants, silicone and saline. About whether she would prefer to start talking hormone pills are build up to implants. "They're just fatty sacs," I said. "Half the world has them." "They're ... beautiful," he said. "A lot of guys dream about them." I smiled. "So how far into the alphabet do you want to go?" "Excuse me?" "Bs? Cs? Double-ds? Es? How about R squared?" "Um, well, if I got them, I'd want modest ones." "Why? Why not just a big old pair of headlights? Tits you can see coming. A zeppelin drag race." "You're making fun of me," he said. "A little," I said. "Tell me. How big are my boobs?" "Um, Ds?" "They're Bs, nitwit. Just a normal size pair of puppies. They don't have to put out someone's eye. You don't have to be a dairy cow." "Well, the advantage of forms is you can alter sizes," Jamie said. "They're expensive," I said. "Two pair is one too many." "I have some savings," Jamie said. "Okay. Let's go to the sex shop. You can try some on. You can get two pair, one for the front and one for the back for when you slow-dance." "That's funny. Make fun of the sissy." "That's why we have sissies," I said. "Especially beginners like you. Noobs with boobs They'll do until you can grow your own." "We don't have to go," Jamie said. "Of course we do," I said. "Destiny is calling." And so we drove to Flesh and Fantasies, the small store near the airport. It was bigger than you'd think, it was as bright as Target. But instead of bananas, they were selling vibrators. "You can have your boobs and three toys, Bubble Butt," I said. "Choose wisely." Inside, Jamie was like a kid in a toy store. He kept picking up up dildos and testing their weight. I grabbed a vibrating butt plug. He grabbed a pair of C-sized breast forms. He played with the handcuffs for a while. I steered him toward the chastity cages. "These are amazing," I said. "They're in the shape of your penis, but they look so feminine in pink. What do you think?" "I don't want to be locked up." "You think Dillinger wanted to be locked up? On the days when your wee- wee is a ruffian, we need to be able to lock it away. We wouldn't want you to be charged with Assault with a Dead Weapon." So we picked up a cage. For myself, I bought a strap-on dildo and a leather paddle. Mistresses have to entertain themselves, too. "Have you tried the new lockable collection?" the sales woman said. "Lockable collection?" I asked. "Yes. You can get a corset that locks, and a collar, and a mask. You can get a cage and a plug and heels. You can get handcuffs and a maid's uniform and a penis gag. All for $89.99. All of them are lockable. You get a whole key-ring. You can turn this sissy into a Rubik's Cube." I chuckled. "Do you have a set in pink? He wears a men's medium." "Oh, his boyfriend is going to love it." I grinned. "No boyfriend ... yet." Jamie's eyes grew wide. "But," I added. "The day is still young." * * On Thursday night, we went to a Fetish club, Scars and Bruises. There were a lot of bondage disciples there, but there were a few of every stripe of alternative living. Gay men. Gay women. Bi men. Bi women. Trans. Chubby chases. Dwarf-lovers. Everyone. I led Jamie through the crowd, tugging on his pink collar. Hell, he didn't need it. He would stay by my heel until the thunder rolled. But symbolically, it was a nice touch. The eyes that followed us knew my place, and they knew Jamie's. I stopped at the bar and ordered a Scotch. Jamie sat at my feet and asked for nothing. "Nice pet," another domme offered. "She can fetch, too," I said, grinning. "Can she clean?" "She's very good domestically," I said. "You want to sell her? I lost my pet." "She chase a car and disappear?" "Something like that. She chased a car salesman." "Shit happens." "I'm serious. I'm looking to buy." "Not this one. I raised her from a pup." "Yeah, but this way you could raise another one. That's the thrill of this shit, right? Breaking someone, turning them, training them." "I like mine," I said. "She knows how to obey." "Well, you like some disobedience, right? Enough to spank." "I don't spank a lot." "Then you're missing half the fun. My sissy's ass looked like a zebra's." "Not my thing. I just expect my sissy to obey. If not, we talk about it. It works better that way." "She'd hate me. I'd wear her ass out." "Ever wonder why your sissy left you?" She looked at me, as if I were challenging her. "What have you heard?" "I've heard she wanted a nicer Mistress," I said. "Sugar and vinegar." "You're missing the whole fucking point of being in charge. You can't spare the rod." "No, but you use it with discretion. You can't beat your way into being a Mistress." She harrumphed. Then she stood. "Be good," she said. "But I think you're a bigger pussy than your sissy." "And I think you're keeping the Nazi party alive." We parted ways. Jamie looked up and me lovingly. She kissed my shoes. For the moment, that was enough obedience for me. * * I was flipping through one of Jamie's sissy magazines. There was a trans girl on the cover vacuuming. "Should we turn pro, Bubble-butt?" I asked. "Pro?" "I mean, should I become a professional dominatrix? Should you rent yourself out as a maid?" "Um, I don't know. You'd make a lot more money than I would." "Well, what if we make you a hooker? You know. You can sashay down the street while the Volvos whiz past. A guy would roll down his window and. you'd say 'Want to have a party, big boy?" She made a face. "I don't have a lot of dignity," she said. "But I'm not a whore." "But you could make $30 a night. Maybe $35." She glared at me. "And you could whip Rotarians bloody. You'd be very pretty dressed in Spandex." "I would be, wouldn't I? I could make some insurance salesman dress up like a cowgirl while I lassoed him." She giggled. "I'd pay you to domme me." "You'd do it for free." "That's true. You could spank me. I've been a bad, bad girl." "That reminds me. I don't spank you nearly enough. Why don't you pull down your panties?" "Are you serious, Madam?" "Nah, I'm just goofing. I'm still imagining some fat shriner butt- fucking you in the back of his car." "I don't like being butt-fucked." "That's because I'm the only one who has done it, and it was with plastic! Once you get used to it, it'll cross your eyes. It'll make you yodel. It'll turn you into a real sissy." "I thought I was a real sissy." "You're a real mouthy one. Why do I put up with you." "Because you love me? And the butt-fucking thing." "Yeah that. Speaking of your butt, you need a tattoo?" "I do?" "Yep. Maybe a purple flower. Maybe a trans flag. Maybe a picture of RuPaul. Maybe 'Property of Mistress Mandy, Queen of the World." She bowed. I laughed. And then we got into the butt-fucking again. * * "I think we're moving too fast. Too far." Jamie said on the way home. "Let's examine that statement," I said. "It starts with "I think." Are you paid to think?" "No ma'am, but ..." "Are you allowed to think?" "No, but .." "Then would you very kindly shut the fuck up," I said. "I am thinking of deep thoughts over here. My mind is playing chess, and you're trying to figure out checkers. Your mistress will make the decisions. I'm Stephen Hawking. You're the village idiot. Got it?" And there it was. It was the first time I had admitted to being Jamie's superior. But I was, wasn't I? She had made me so. She put me in charge. You can't have someone in charge be challenged, can you? I'll say it again. The point was not to be mean. The point was to give my sissy what she needed. Most of the best Mistresses are that way. We stopped by the uniform store. I bought two more maid's outfits and three pairs of shoes (one of them with a three-inch heel). We stopped by Macy's. I bought makeup and a bracelet. We stopped by Claire's. She had her ears pierced and we bought three sets of earrings. "So how do you feel about your transition, little girl?" I asked. "It's....it's going so fast," Jamie said. "Well, it happens fast. You have years to make up for." "Mistress. Can I be a boy throughout the week? I mean, weekends are fine, but ..." I looked at her. "No, Jamie. You're a sissy now. You embraced it. You ran to it. Everyone who knows you will learn you're a sissy. Everyone. Think about that. You won't hide from anyone. People will say 'There's goes Jamie. She used to be a boy, you know.' " "Please no," Jamie said. "Have you seen your facebook page? I added some photos." "You didn't . You wouldn't." "Ah, but I would. Remember. I'm supposed to humiliate you. Those were your rules. I don't threaten, Jamie. I expose. You wanted to wear a dress. You wanted to wear makeup. Well, now people will know." "But my parents are my Facebook friends." "Well, that increases the possibilities of what they can buy you for Christmas. Maybe jewelry! Maybe a new dress! "That's not funny," "But it is. It's hysterical. You didn't think you were going to live your life in a maid's uniform without them ever knowing, did you?" "I guess not. But, Jesus. A dress?" "You could dress as a secretary, and we could take some new photos. Maybe a cheerleader. Maybe a waitress. Maybe you could be a bride!" "They'll be shocked!" "I bet they won't be. Your mother didn't sound surprised when we talked on the phone this morning." "You told my mother!" "She knew, Bubble-butt. She knew before I knew. She knew when you were in high school, dreaming about being some football player's prom date." "Mistress ... this is just mean." "No, It really isn't. It's freed you for life. It's told everyone who you are, and now you be be what you will be. It's good that you're out." Jamie's mouth was open. "Don't worry, Jamie," I said. "Not everyone will know." He exhaled. "Just those who have the internet." * * Jamie didn't speak to me for two days. I thought the silence was a nice break from his chatter. A mistress's ears can get slap worn out from all the girl talk, you know? But eventually, Jamie couldn't help herself. She was a happy little flower, she was. She loved to talk about fashion and sales and jewelry. She would be in the kitchen for hours, working away as his butt plug hummed. She would sing and dance and mince about. In some stories the sissy is so damned dreary. But in our lives, the sissy was queen of the hop. She was the happiest little girl you could imagine. I hung photos in the spare bedroom, which she had taken to be hers. The photos were of grotesquely built men, all nude, and their sissies. Then there were some simply of the sissies, cleaning, kissing the shoes of their mistresses. Jamie never said a word. She just looked at the photos, then adjusted her erection and went back to work. One evening, while I was sipping wine, I turned to her. "I think we're going to have a few people over this weekend," I said. "Yes, ma'am?" she said. "Yeah, just a few of your old softball team players. You haven't seen them in ages. You guys need to talk about things like the infield fly rule." "Ma'am? I would prefer not to see them when I'm. ... like this." "But you're always going to be like this, Bubble-Butt. You can't afford to lose friends, Missy. Look, they'll adjust." "They'll make fun of me." "Not all of them," I said. "Pardon me?" "Oh, we'll figure out a way to take the edge off, Bubble-Butt. It's time you were a real woman." "Ma'am?" "Say ahhh." "Ma'am?" "Come on. Open your mouth. Stretch your lips. Now imagine a dick headed toward the end zone, all purple and one-eyed." "You know I'm not gay," Jamie said. "Did I ask you? This is for my benefit, not for yours. You say you don't want to suck a cock, and I say that deep down, you do. It'll be fun." "It would be a nightmare," Jamie said. "One person's dreams are another person's nightmare," I said. "I think Freud said that. Or Pee-Wee Herman. One of the two." Jamie looked out the window. "Ma'am...can I resign?" "Resign?" "Yes, ma'am. I don't want to do this, so if I quit as your maid, I won't have to." "You can't quit," I said. "You work for me." "Not as a hooker," Jamie said. "Tell you what," I said. "I'll be fair. I'll give you a choice. How about you get to pick between Randy and, say, Kareem? Black or white? Big or small? Tall or short? You get to decide!" "Mandy. Listen to me. I do not want to have sex with another man." "Another? You think of yourself as a man? Sweetheart, you're so feminine you could join the Girl Scouts without having to sell a cookie. You surrendered the part about being a guy months ago when you started taking the titty pills. You're as much a boy as Scarlett Johansson. Except for that itty-bitty dicklette of yours, you're a female female." She blushed. "Maybe. But I still don't want to have sex with a guy." "Well, I'll let you know when it comes to a vote. You wanted me to be your mistress. Well, I am. And what I say goes, or we'll test Mr. Paddle tonight. You want that?" "No...no madam," she said. "Then I'll send out the invitations. And in the meantime, maybe you should wear your penis gag. you know, to practice. * * On Saturday night, in front of his entire soccer team, Jamie picked Randy over Kareem. I assume it was a close decision. We were all in the living room, and Jamie went to his knees in front our brown leather chair. Randy sat back, and Jamie untucked his jeans, and he began to nuzzle him through his boxers. Now, this is the part where you think I'm a fiend. I get it. Mistress is the big bad, and she's making her poor sissy suck the cum out of a friendly dick. But damn it, it was Jamie who wanted to live like this. It was Jamie who fondled Randy's dick until it was hard. It was Jamie to licked the shaft like it was an ice cream treat. It was Jamie who put Randy's dick inside her mouth and bobbed her head while his teammates watched. She wanted this. She needed this. If she was going to be a complete sissy, it was vital that she have a night like this. And if you don't believe me, consider this: After Randy came, Jamie twisted and blew Kareem too, just to be complete. Hey, I'll admit it. I was a little jealous. Jamie has a very talented tongue, and she loves to leave a sex organ as sparkling as toilet bowl. This was her grand surrender, the one where she stopped worrying about how people would label her, and where she just became a sissy for real. As I watched her at work, I also felt a little pride, a little lust, a little envy. These are the feelings of a mistress as her sissy surrenders. It doesn't get much better. I often wondered why there weren't merit badges for sissies. Maybe I should form a group. You could get a badge for dishes, and for toilets, and for laundry. You could get one for a vacuum cleaner, and a mop, and an ironing board. You could get one for blowjobs, and for being pegged, and for being handcuffed overnight. Your Mistress would have to sign off, of course, but we're an honorable lot. Say this for Jamie. She was a good little scout. She ended up sucking off seven members of her softball team. Six of them were starters. What's the old joke about the guy with four balls? Walk proudly, son. Walk proudly. * * I started to notice bananas. And cucumbers. And carrots. I would walk by a statue, and I would notice its package. Was that cloud shaped like a penis? That building? That cactus? God, I was in a way. It was a fact of our lives. The further we got into this lifestyle, the less Jamie even thought about his cock. It shriveled, and it shrank, and became a very small cocktail wiener. Meanwhile, I was taking longer baths and , If you want to know the truth of it, my coochie was very, very clean. One day, a woman I work with, Miriam, asked if I wanted to join a group of them to see the Chippendales, an exotic male dance review. It was what I needed, or what I should have avoided. But I said that I would go. After work, Jill, Beth and Miriam and I all went. And it was quite fun to hoot and howl the way guys did. Slide them a bill as a tip, and you might even brush up against fleshy. Thank God. I've always liked the male dick, the way it grows and stiffens. It baffled me that Jamie was willing to live without that part of him. Maybe he liked a bird in the hand, if you know what I mean. But I hooted and I hollered and I developed a deep and meaningful relationship with a dancer named Luke. He was very tall standing up, and yes, he was very tall lying down. Miriam paid a $50 fee, and she was taken into a back room where, she said, she blew a dancer named Sven. Jill and Beth were holding hands, so I guess they found their jollies elsewhere. I wanted Luke to fuck me, if you want to know the truth. I wanted him to slide ever centimeter of penis into my vagina and ride me like a rodeo horse. But I didn't go through with it. I'm not sure quite what stopped me. Guilt, maybe. Jamie was home. I couldn't. And so, after midnight, we all headed out. It was 1 o'clock by the time Miriam dropped me off. I staggered, slightly drunk, through the door. And there on the couch was Jamie, waiting for me. "It's about time," she said. "1:18," I said. "No, I didn't ask you the time. I suggested it was late for you to come dragging your ass home." I waved her off. I went to the fridge and grabbed some bottled water. "Do you have anything to say for. yourself?" she said. "Yeah," I said. "I've got one mother. I don't need two." "I can't believe you would come home drunk when I have to work in the morning..." "I can't believe you're such a bitch," I said. "And no one said you had to stay up." "Let me tell you..." "No, sissy. Let me tell you. I'll come home when I'm good and damn ready. I'm the Mistress here. I was out looking at dicks, real dicks, big dicks. The kind of dicks that would make you salivate. So get off my back." "Did you cheat on me?" "Are you asking if I swallowed as many dicks as you did last week? Hell no. I was a good girl. But if I knew you were going to dump a load of shit at my feet, I would have." "You could have called." "I could have done a lot of things. I didn't." "It's not fair..." I grabbed her wrist. "Fuck fair," I said. "Do you need to be spanked?" "I need to be listened to. I ..." I'm not proud of it, but at her incessant whine, I finally lost my temper. I sat in a kitchen chair, and I dragged her over my lap. I swatted her ass with my bare hand. She didn't make a sound. I spanked her harder, and I heard her moan "ouch." I hit her still harder, and again, and again. She was crying, and tears were streaming off of her face. I stood up, and she sprawled on the floor. She looked up at me, amazed. "You...you spanked me." "You deserved it. You're the sissy here. You're not in charge." She slumped to the floor, sobbing heavily. I trudged up the stairs to bed. I felt like hell. It really did hurt me worse than it hurt her. * * * I admit it. I was climbing the freaking walls. I'm a normal girl. I have normal desires. But my husband had turned into my wife. She was good for a nice pegging, if you like that sort of thing (and I did). But Jamie's dick was like a baby; it slept most of the day and it wasn't very effective when it was awake. And so I started looking at Jamie's magazines. I started imagining. Maybe I could find a Mistress of my own. Maybe a Master. Maybe a title- less stud in the back of a bar. Anything that didn't require batteries. Again, I know of the stereotypes, and most of you sneer whenever the Mistress takes a lover. But what the hell can we do? Our men have become women, dickless caricatures of sexless femininity. Men who get off on their own boyfriends while we have none at all. No one values a cheater, or someone who violates their wedding vows. So we are stuck in a middle ground, chastity on one said and faithlessness on the other. "Jamie," I said one day. "I need something." "Whatever, madam," she said. "Jamie, I need a man." She looked crestfallen. She knew that she had slept with men, and she could hardly demand that her wife remain faithful. But one clings to whatever one can. She didn't want me to sleep with someone else. "Please don't, madam. I'll go back to being your husband." "Jamie, I don't think you could, sweetheart. You're a sissy." "I don't have to be." "Jamie. Bubble-butt. Think for a minute. I don't want to be a bitch. But a woman has needs that you can't perform anymore. I don't want to sneak around. I don't want to have you wondering when you clean my underwear if someone else has been there. So I'm asking that we be grown ups here. That we honor each other's needs." Jamie was quiet for a long time. Finally, she nodded. "You make sense," she said. "I guess you always do. It isn't fair of me to sleep with men and ask that you don't. So I'll let you cuckold me. I ask that you do not go to the homes of strange men. You could get hurt. Bring your men here, and I'll behave." "You'd do that for me?" "I love you. I love you enough to acknowledge that another might give you what I cannot. Just don't fall in love with anyone else. Don't leave me." "Never, Bubble-butt." She looked at the floor. "So who's the lucky guy? One of the players from my softball team." "God no." "What's the matter. Aren't my friends good enough for you?" she giggled. "You know Andre Givens? He works in my office?" "He's foreign, isn't he?" "Swiss. I can get a watch or a good piece of cheese." She giggled. "He's a pretty boy. You sure he doesn't wear a dress?" "You never can tell these days," I said. "You fruits are falling off trees." "We fruits?" she said. "I think of you as a Kiwi." "No, I'm shaved," she said. *** Andre came over on a Friday. We had dinner -- a meat loaf, which was better than it sounds --- and we retired to the living room for a drink. Andre sat next to me on the couch, our hips touching. I could smell his cologne. Jamie was flitting about, pouring drinks, fetching appetizers. She was in her element, a sissy serving the world. Talk about stereotypes. Her wrists kept flopping, and she kept blinking. She fawned over us, curtsying and calling Andre "kind sir' and me "grand madam." If they had a vote, I would have put her on the lead float of the Pride Parade. "Has he always been like this?" Andre snickered. "She. No, she was normal enough for years. But a kitten has to meow, you know?" "I suppose. She's very good at what she does." "And isn't that the key to life? Think about it." Eventually, Jamie disappeared, and it was just the two of us with the music softly playing. I knew Jamie was watching from somewhere -- hell, I would have been -- when Andre leaned forward and kissed me. It was sweet and tender and a little wet, and I decided that his tongue had a little ability of its own. He cupped my breast, and I found my hand on his bulge. It was impressive for a Northern European.It wasn't an Alp, but it was nice nevertheless. We were adults. There was no coy byplay, no delaying the inevitable. We both knew why we were here. I stood and took his hand. I led him upstairs. I disappeared to the bathroom, and I slipped on a white negligee. When I emerged, he was lying beneath the covers. Ever gone a summer without ice cream and, finally, tasted it on your tongue? Ever given up chocolate on a diet? Ever gone without coffee in the mornings? That's what like sex was like for me. I had been denied by circumstance, and then I felt Andre's sweet cock fill me up. It was like a cord being plugged in. There was a spark, and there was a current, and the voltage surged through me. He was so stiff, so deliciously erect, and I couldn't get enough of him. I rode him like a fairways ride, up and down and side to side. And when he came, and when I came, it was as if lightning had struck my vagina. I rolled off of him, and I looked down, and Jamie was there, transfixed. I smiled at her and reached out my hand. She took it and squeezed. We were as good as ever. I spread my legs and nodded at him. Wordlessly, he clambered up on the bed, and his head disappeared. He lapped up our combined juices as if they were food. He finished with me, and then he twisted over, and he cleaned Andre. He seemed a little more concerned that Randy's dick was clean, to be honest with you. I leaned over and kissed Andre. My hand rested on Jamie's head. Sometimes, it was good to be the queen. * * There was a meeting of the Mistresses the next week at the local Hyatt. We talked about the issues that came with being dommes, about our sissies, about our lovers, about the lifestyle itself. Dommes are different. I know the literature paints us all with the same brush, but we're individuals. Some of us beat their sissies for every infraction. Some of us feed them pet food. Some of us make them sleep in cases, or tied up, or on the floor. Some of us have lovers to fill the week. Some of us have whips. Some love tattoos. Some sell their sissies, or barter them, or rent them out. To me, being a Mistress means finding your comfort level, your voice, you carriage. I suppose the same is true of being a sissy. It's finding your flavor in a vanilla world. It seems to me that we're the drill instructors in the D/s lifestyle. We have to find what words work with the recruits we have. I looked around the room. Two women were smoking cigars, as if that added validity to their rank. Several others sipped brandy. Two were making out with each other, all tooth and tongue, really going at it. Outside, at the bar, our sissies danced with each other. They held hands, and they compared dresses, and they offered each other makeup tips. Jamie was out there somewhere, talking about how she came to be, and how she came to appreciate blow jobs, and how she eventually told her mother. Life wasn't easy for those girls, either. It's never easy to make another human being happy, especially when she knows that there's a leash attached to her neck. Look, Mistresses can take it. We'll accept your fear if we have your respect. We'll acknowledge your judgment if we have your devotion. In this life, some of us wear lace, and some of us wear leather. Everyone can't be Sleeping Beauty or the Little Mermaid or Anita from 101 Dalmatians. Some of us have to Maleficent or Ursula or Lucretia. From this side of the whip, life is not as easy as you may believe. And if you disagree, well, bend over and count. Copyright, 2019 (c) Cassandra Morgan