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Out of Control
By Cassandra Morgan
It should have been the happiest day in the history of happy. The bar
identified itself as a gay bar. It was happy hour. It was March 20, the
International Day of Happiness. We were in Boulder, Colorado, called the
happiest city in America by National Geographic.
And yet, he sat at the bar, his head lowered, his face twisted into
something that suggested he was miserable.
He sat at the oak bar, drinking something dark and ominous. His eyes
were downcast, despite the celebration around him. Balloons floated over
the bar. There was confetti on the floor. Around him, people were
dancing, laughing, singing. And still, his face was a contrast in agony,
as if he was dealing with some sort of horrible news.
I stood in the corner, checking out the mirth, enjoying the freedom
+that Flamingo's offered. Gay people are happy people when we are with
our own kind. All the burden of the lifestyle are unleashed, and the
glitter comes out of our souls. Say what you want, but as a group, we
know how to party.
But this man sat in the din, and he sighed. His shoulders sagged. He ran
his hands through his hair and took a sip of his drink. Cleary, this was
an unhappy man.
You can guess what I was doing in the bar. I'm Rusty Travers. I'm a gay
man, out and proud. I was here to meet someone, to take them home, to
find a moment of warmth at the end of a crazy week at work.
And, around me, there were plenty of prospects. There was a tall man in
a blue suit. There was a black guy in dreads on the dance floor. There
was a guy in a Panama hat. All of them would help me make it through the
night. The guy in the hat intrigued me. He had a nice bottom and a good
smile. I wonder he topped or, praise be, bottomed.
But then I looked again, and the man sat with his head hung. He stared
at his hands. There might have been a tear on his cheek.
There is something in all of us that likes to be the comforter. We pick
up a puppy in the rain. We pat the shoulder of a co-worker who has lost
someone. It is perhaps the most human part of most of us. We want to
provide comfort.
I slid into the seat next to him. His eyes never moved.
"Hey," I said to him. "You ok?"
He looked at me then, his wounded eyes fixed on mine. His lips were
drawn tight. There was a beaten look to him.
"Yeah," he said. "I'll make it." His faced didn't match his optimism.
"You look like the Bengals quarterback," I said. "Poor soul."
"You like football?" he said, a little surprised.
"Yeah, I love football. You think we all sit around and watch figure
skating all the time?" I laughed. "Besides, Tom Brady is hot."
"Sorry," he said. "This is my first time in a gay bar. I'm not trying to
be offensive."
"It's okay, man. We all had to come in for the first time."
He looked at me. He nodded. "I'm guessing you've been here lots of
times."
"Yeah. I've been here enough I could vote."
He laughed softly. "I'll bet you do okay. You're a nice looking guy."
"Thank you. You, too."
"So what's the problem? And... what was your name?"
"I'm Alan," he said. "You?"
"Rusty. Russ, to some people."
"Hi Russ. I'm just ... struggling a little."
"With being gay?"
"Oh, I'm not gay," he said. "I mean, I don't think I'm gay. I've never
been with a man."
I was disappointed. "So why are you here with the beautiful people?"
"It's...it's my wife," he said.
"That'll drive a man into the arms of another man."
He swallowed hard. He nodded.
"Can I tell you something, Russ?" he said. "I don't know why I should,
but I have to tell somebody."
"Tell me. I have a good ear."
He smiled a crooked smile. He shook his head. Then he half-turned toward
me.
"Russ ... I'm wearing panties." He looked at me to see my reaction.
"Alan, half of the men in here are wearing panties. Not just the
transvestites. But men like panties. And jockstraps. It's not a big
thing."
"Are half the men wearing their panties because their wives made them?"
Alan said. "Are they wearing pink, lacy panties? Did half of the men
have to shave their pubic hair? Did half of the men have to dance for
their wives in their panties?"
"Oh." I said. "Probably not. Why does she want you in panties?"
"Because she can. Because she wants me to know she's in charge in this
silly fem-dom relationship of hers. Oh, she says they're pretty, and she
just wants me to be more comfortable, like the drag queens on that TV
show. But I think it's a matter of control. I think she is finding a way
to show she's the boss."
"Are you wearing a bra?" I said.
"God no," he said. "I don't have breasts. Why would I wear a bra?"
I nodded to a cross-dresser across the bar. "That's Sheila," I said.
"She always wears a bra."
"Yeah. But she wants to. I don't want to."
"Alan," I said. "I don't know your wife. It seems to me there are a
dozen reasons she might want you in panties. Some of them might be
because she thinks you want it. So why not see a counselor?
Communication is always the key, Alan."
"I don't think she'd listen to a counselor," Alan said. "You should have
seen the look on her face when I was walking around in panties. Kids
have that look when they get ice cream. Shit. Do you wear panties,
Russ?"
"No," I said. "I wear boxers. But I've had ... liaisons where the men
wore panties. They make a man look good."
"Well, you wouldn't believe how it makes you feel," he said. "Small.
Insignificant. Feminine. It isn't just cloth. It's symbolic. It means
you're the lesser partner in your marriage. She kept talking about my
ass, about the color. She said I would make some guy happy. Russ, I'm
not like that."
"Shit. What else did she say?"
"She said something that scared the hell out of me."
"What?" I said.
"She said I would get used to them."
"Ouch. So, Alan. I have to ask. Why are you here? What brings you to the
Flamingo?"
He looked across the room. The drag queens of the joint were gathered
around the jukebox, picking out a Beyonce song. Single Ladies.
"I wanted to check it out," he said. "I'm afraid she wants me to be one
of them. I'm afraid she wants my dick."
* *
When I thought about it, Alan and I didn't talk that long. Ten minutes,
maybe. He could not get over the fact he was wearing panties, and I
lacked the depth to comfort him.
Alan stood to leave.
"Russ... you're a nice guy. I hope you meet another nice guy. My wife
goes to the gym on Thursday nights. If you want, we can have a drink
next week. Just a drink."
I nodded. "That would be okay, Alan. Contrary to what everyone thinks,
we don't try to sleep with everyone we meet. We have occasional
conversations, too."
He nodded. "I need someone to talk to," he said. "I don't think any of
my friends would understand."
"Don't think of it as a big deal, Alan," I said. "It's just panties. No
one can see them. No one knows they're there."
He sighed. "I know," he said. "They're there. All the time, they're
there."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "It'll be okay, Alan."
He smiled, and he left. And I was left in the glow of the evening at my
favorite bar. The guy with hat was slow-dancing with a sandy-haired guy.
The black guy was gone. The blue suit was gone, too.
I walked up a young man with curly brown hair. Maybe a college student.
He grinned when I approached.
"Do you need a drink?" I said.
"I'm dying for a drink," he said, smiling.
I signaled toward the bartender. I covered the man's hand with mine. He
squeezed mine.
I looked at him and smiled. He lifted my hand and kissed it. He rubbed
my arm.
"I'll give you an hour and a half to stop that," I said.
He grinned. "Dance with me," he said. "I love to dance. It leads to a
lot of other things I love to do."
I took his hand and led him to the dance floor. Other eyes turned our
way, just to check out the score. They probably imagined him kissing
down my stomach and sucking me. Or me pegging him, my cock sliding in
and out of his ass. Or the two of us sixty-inning until dawn.
I took him in my arms.
I was imagining it, too.
* *
When Alan came into the bar the next Thursday, I barely recognized him.
His eyes were dark, and he was wearing a large parka despite it being
the spring of the year.
He recognized me, sitting alone in a booth on the far side of Flamingos.
He nodded, then slid in opposite me.
"Rusty," he said. "How are you tonight?"
"The question is how you are."
"I'm ... I'm off-balance," he said.
"What do you mean?"
He sighed. He pulled off his parka, and there they were, protruding from
his chest. There was no mistake. Those were breasts.
"I'm wearing a bra," he said. "And breast forms."
"Geez, Alan. Those are ... impressive."
"They're C-cups, Russ," he said. "I had to talk her out of Ds."
"How long have you been wearing them?"
"Since Saturday. I'm still in the panties. I have on pantyhose, too. I'm
such a fucking sissy."
"Christ. I think you're right. She's feminizing you. You need to get
help."
"There is no help. Ashley always gets her way. All I can do is hang on."
"Christ, does she want to be a girl?"
"Not a girl. A sissy. She called me that this morning. I can still hear
her. Sissy."
"There are a lot of sissies in the world. But it seems wrong to me if
you don't want it."
"But she keeps saying I do want it, that I'm suppressing my nature. She
says she's always known, and I might as well admit it."
"No truth to what she says?"
"Hell, no," he said. "I've read about women who feminize their husbands.
It's a new kink. I think Ash just likes controlling me as a girl."
"Jesus, Alan."
"The UPS guy called me ma'am this morning. Thirty-one years on this
planet, and now I'm a ma'am."
"You don't have to be. Get help. Call a counselor. Call the cops. Call
someone."
"Ash watches these show. RuPaul and the like. The guys are damned
pretty, Russ. They're so feminine. Is that my future?"
"It doesn't have to be, Alan," I said. "Look, I know about kinks. I've
lived my life as a gay man. But no one is forcing me. They shouldn't
force you, either. Have you thought about a divorce?"
"Shit, Russ. I don't want to divorce her. I love her. I know that sounds
weak, but I'll go along to get along. Can anyone tell?"
"Alan, everyone can tell. You've got boobs, buddy. There is nothing
visual that proclaims womanhood like breasts. To me, that's the image of
being a girl. Having boobs. Look around. Some of the trans women in here
have vaginas, and some don't. But they all have boobs. Fake ones, if
nothing else."
He was quiet for a minute. He glanced down at his chest. There were
tears in his eyes as he looked back up.
"I got tits," he said.
* *
And so it went. The next week, he was wearing makeup, eyeliner and
mascara and foundation and lipstick and nail polish. She looked cute,
for an effeminate guy.
The week after, it was jewelry. A nice women's ring made of jade.
Earrings that dangled. A necklace. An ankle chain. Heavy bracelets.
The week after that, he told me his name was now Allison. She asked me
to please call her that. "Mistress'" Ashley demanded it.
Then it was a long blond wig, worn in a French braid. Often, she said,
her Mistress like her in pigtails with a bit of pink dye.
Every week, this lovely man inched toward womanhood. Every time we met,
there was something else to further the transition. His wife must be
heartless, the kind of woman you read about in books. He was being
dominated, shoved toward being girlish by a demanding wife.
Then there was this. Allison seemed more accepting of her plight as
things went on. He hated it at first. Then he tolerated it. Now, he
seemed to accept it.
But the biggest change came after the wig. His clothing changed. He
started wearing pastels, first hip-hugging trousers, and floral shirts.
His hands would make grand, sweeping gestures, as if she was accepting
her metamorphosis.
Then, one night, he showed up at the bar in a flowing skirt.
"Alan...Allison...you've got to stop this," I told him. "Otherwise,
you're going to be girl before summer is over."
"I am a girl," he said. "We might as well face it. I've surrendered,
Russ. I'm the wife in my house."
"Don't say that," I said. "I just don't understand why you won't stop
it."
He looked downward. "Maybe I'm getting to like it," he said.
"You are not getting to like it. Stop that kind of talk. Let me call the
cops. There has to be a law against this."
"I wouldn't want my wife arrested," Allison said.
"Jesus, Al," I said. "This is twisted. This is wrong."
"Rusty," Allison said. "Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is?"
"No...wait. I've heard of it. I think."
"It's when the hostages start to identify with their captors. They start
to see their way. Maybe I'm like that. Maybe I've given up."
"Let me tell you a story, Al," I said. "When I was in college, I would
sneak away to gay bars. And there were always partners who wanted to
twist you to their preferences. If they liked handcuffs, they wanted to
put you in handcuffs. If they sex in restaurants, they'd push you that
way. But we have to be true to ourselves in sexual matters, Al. We can't
be someone's pet, someone's slave. If you want to wear dresses, fine,
you're my friend. But if you don't, then stop it before it's too late."
"What if it's already too late?"
I shook my head. I looked at Alan...Allison. She was pretty. All things
considered, she was short and feminine. I didn't like girls, not
sexually, but knowing she had a cock made her attractive.
"Alan. I know a policeman. He's ...gay. He's a trans. I want you to talk
to him to see if there is a way out."
"Yeah. That's all I need. A bunch of horny cops with handcuffs."
"Allison. Do other people know?"
"Not everyone. No one knows at work. But my parents know. Ash asked them
over to dinner on Sunday night. I was wearing a black dress. My father
was pissed, but my mother didn't say anything. She told me that she knew
I had worn her clothes when I was a teenager. Russ, I never wore her
clothes.But she swears I did. And Ash told her I was a transsexual in
the middle of transitioning.These days, who am I to argue? The world
sees me as a sissy now. It's a hard place to get back from."
"It'll be hard to go further, too."
"Yes,"Allison smiled. "It's very hard."
* *
When Allison showed up the next week, I was sitting across from Officer
Davie Simms in a booth.
Allison walked it, a little wobbly. I looked down, and she was wearing
black heels. As my eyes went upward, she was talking off her coat.
Underneath, she was wearing a full black-and-white maid's uniform.
"Sorry about the uniform," she said, approaching me. She leaned down and
kissed my cheek. "Mistress says I should wear it all the time. Do you
have a date tonight? Hi. I'm Allison..."
"Allison, this is David Simms. He's the cop I was telling you about."
"Darcie," he said. "And I like your dress."
"This? It's hardly suited for going to bars. But Rusty and I have a
standing date on Thursday nights."
"You don't seem to be forced," Darcie said. "Does she ever, uh, tie you
up?"
"Only if you count my corset, handsome."
I looked at her and shook my head. "So, what's with the maid's outfit?"
"Isn't it pretty?" she said. "It reflects my new station as a domestic,
sweetie. My wife bought me four outfits. I'm supposed to wear them every
day. I suppose I should buy a fifth one, just to take care of the week."
"Sweetie? Since when do you call me sweetie?"
"Since I've realized how sweet you are, Rusty," she said. "Do you mind?"
"No...I guess not."
She smiled and took my hand. She kissed my knuckles. Darcie's eyebrows
lifted.
"Oh, I wish," Allison said. "But sweet pants here is still getting used
to the new me."
"He'll get there," Darcie said. "So you're the maid?"
"Oh, it's more than that. Mistress Ash told me I was in charge of the
house now. The cooking. The laundry. The bed. All of it. I haven't
worked this hard in years. Did you ever scrub a toilet bowl? The stains
are a bitch."
"See, Darcie? It's like I told you. Her wife is brainwashing her. I
think she's hypnotized."
"She's just a girl who has found herself, Rusty. There's no crime here."
"But she didn't want this. Not at first."
"A lot of us take some convincing to wear skirts, Rusty. I fought it,
too. I was dying to wear a dress, but I kept being in denial. Finally,
we become who we are. Trust me. It's hard to win over other cops. I had
to go off the streets to my desk job."
"Exactly," Allison said. "I like my skirts these days. I like my cage. I
like my plug."
"Shit. You've got all of that?"
"Well, who do you think buys them? The cops? The football players. Of
course, the way the Bears play...."
"Why would anyone wear a cage?"
"Silly boy. I wear it because Mistress Ash tells me I should. And I
always do what Mistress says. It's why God made her a Mistress."
"God had nothing to do with the power struggle at your house, Al, That
was you just accepting the shit because you're so damned submissive."
"Yeah? And you're gay."
"That was up to me, damn it."
"I thought you told me it was biological."
"It's not the same thing."
"Isn't it? Mistress says I was born to be a sissy, Rusty. Why are you
fighting it harder than I am? I'd think you'd want to fuck me."
"I remember the look on your face when you came in that first night. You
didn't think you were born to it then. Besides, I like guys.
You're...you're becoming a sissy."
"I'm more man than you'll ever be and more woman than you'll ever have,"
Allison said. "That's from a movie. Het, I still have a pee-pee. You can
kiss it if you want."
"Shit, Allison. Can you really be a sissy this fast?"
Allison wrinkled her nose. "A girl learns," she said.
"Damn it, you're not a girl."
I looked at her. Of course, I could be wrong. wrong.
* *
The next week, Allison was late to the bar.
"I almost didn't come," she said. "I have so much cleaning to do. But I
had to be here for my man."
"Jesus, Al."
"Allison."
"Well, Jesus, Allison," I said.
"Rusty, the plot thickens."
"Oh, hell. What is it now?"
"Mistress Ashley has a boyfriend, Rusty."
"Oh, crap. I knew that would happen."
"Oh it's fine, Rusty. It makes sense. I've been taking this estrogen
pills. Because of that, I can't exactly perform my husbandly duties any
more. Mistress has needs, too. It's terribly exciting, sweetie. He's so
much bigger than I am, and the look on her face when he's screwing her
is beautiful. I could watch them for hours. She's happy, and I'm happy
she is."
"And what happens when they're done. Are you jealous then?"
"Of course not. I'm too busy, I have to get them something to drink,
silly. I have to make snacks. And then I clean them."
"Clean them?"
"I lick the sweet juices out of Mistress Ashley. Hers. His. Theirs. It's
a quite enjoyable chore for me. I quite like the taste."
"Shit. You might as well suck his dick."
"Well, I do that, too. I make believe I'm you when I put it in my
mouth.It's fun. I can see why you like to suck dicks. They're so hard,
and so soft, and they have these little balls underneath. But sometimes
I bite him a little, and he spanks me. Then he pegs me. And he fucks me
even better than he fucks Mistress."
"Allison! I don't need to hear this."
"I told her about you, Rusty. She said we could play with each other if
you. You don't even have to wear a dress. You can be the Master as long
as you realize that she's in charge."
"Allie...I'm gay, okay? I don't need a sissy."
"Of course you do. Down deep, I'm a boy. I have a penis, if that's what
you want. If you want to fuck my butt , you can do that. Or I'll give
you a blowjob."
"Allison. We should just be friends."
"If you say so, Master. But will you at least dance with me?"
I was dazed as she led me to the dance floor. The other patrons at the
bar looked long at me. I was a man's man, and everyone knew it. But now
I was dancing with this rose petal of a partner. It was almost as if I
had switched teams without switching teams, if you know what I mean.
She snuggled into my arms. She looked up and kissed my chin.
"I can't wait to have you in my mouth, Master," she said. "I've grown to
like sucking cocks a lot. We have that in common."
"Uh, I see. Allison, I've never been with a sissy."
She smiled. "Well, we'll ruin you for your boyfriends. Or for anyone
else, Master."
She pulled my head down. This time, she kissed me on the mouth.
"I'm such a bad girl," she said. "You want to spank me?"
I looked at her. Her eyes sparkled, and she was smiling. She seemed like
a different person that the Al I had met a few months ago. She had
embraced being girly.
I leaned down. I kissed her back. Her lips were like cherries. The were
softer than the lips of men I had kissed. Fuller.
I wondered how big her dick was.
* *
Since when had met, it had been Thursdays when Allison and I had gotten
together at the Flamingo. But this time, it was a Saturday, and I stood
on the porch of their home. This was the night I was supposed to meet
Mistress Ashley. I have to tell you, after seeing what she had done to
Allison, I was a little nervous.
I knocked lightly on the door. I heard Allison's voice.
"Coming," she said. "At least, I will be soon."
She opened the door and kissed me. She took the flowers in my hand. He
grabbed my arm and led me inside
"Well, come in in, Sweetie," she said. "Dinner will be ready in a few
minutes."
"It smells great, Allison," I said. "Is your Mistress here? I should say
hello."
"Oh, she'll be back in a few minutes. She's ... running an errand."
"Oh," I said. Then I looked around the living room. There were covers on
the coach and the chair. The room felt empty, as if no one used it.
There was a wedding photo over the mantle, but the glass was broken.
I went into the kitchen. There were two place-settings, two wine
glasses. Something was wrong.
"Allison...where is Mistress Ashley?"
"Oh, she's ... she was called out of town."
"Allison...you said she was running an errand."
"Yes. In Denver. I'm sorry. I should have telephoned you. Ashley's job
takes her away sometimes on short notice, and ... "
"Allison. Where is Ashley? Don't lie to me."
Allison looked confused. "Dinner should be ready!" she exclaimed.
"Allison. Tell me the truth."
And then she was crying, uncontrollably. She slumped to the floor. She
covered her face with her hands.
"Don't hate me, Master," she said. "Mistress Ashley .... she left me,
She ran away."
It took me almost an hour to get the whole story from her,
She and Brandon, her boyfriend, moved to Las Vegas last January.. she
wanted Alan to wear women's clothing, to fall in line to her domination
game. That much was true. When he wouldn't take part, she ran off with
her lover and left him.
I didn't get all the details, but it broke Al. Humbled him. If she
wanted a sissy, he would become one. Then, she would come home.
She was still waiting.
Can you imagine the anguish of the fractured psyche? Can you imagine
sinking deeper into this solitary hell as he imagined what Ashley
demanded? Can you imagine absorbing the stages, one by one, and imaging
she was making him do it.
"Allison, you need to see someone," I said. "You need some help."
"I need Ashley," she said. "And I need you."
I stood there, not quite knowing what to do. Should I call a shrink?
Should I call Ashley? No. She has to know. She I try to take care of
her?
"Master?" Allison said. "Don't you think I'm pretty."
"Uh, Allison, you're gorgeous. But we need to find you someone to talk
to."
"Let's eat first," she said. "I can blow you while you eat. I want to."
She fell to her knees. She unbuckled my pants. She took out my member.
"Allison, sweetheart. You're ... not right. Let's get you fixed, okay?"
"But I want to suck your cock."
"Later. Right now, let's make a few phone calls."
I turned away. She was still sitting on the floor. Now began to cry.
I sighed. She was so beautiful, so fragile. I wanted her, sissy and all,
but not in her current state of mind. But maybe she could get better.
Maybe she could heal. Maybe.
I looked at her mantle over the fireplace.
A broken clock looked back at me.
Copyright (c) 2019 Cassandra Morgan
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