degradedsissy1:Every morning, when you showered, put on your stockings, bra, corset, panties, and
degradedsissy1: Every morning, when you showered, put on your stockings, bra, corset, panties, and frill maids uniform, and meticulously applied your make-up, you always take a few minutes alone in your room to contemplate your life. It wasn’t meant to be this way. You had a good education with a promising career and a position of respect amongst you friends, family and local community. You had an attractive and loving wife. No matter how often thou think about it, you find it unfathomable to comprehend how you ended up like this a menial servant dressed in women’s clothing; an object of public ridicule and another man’s bitch. Yes, there was that innocent first time you tried on your sisters stockings in from the laundry basket. It was only going to be that one time. But it felt so good the sheer friction on your legs; the overwhelming feeling of effeminacy an girliness. Even though you felt imp tense shame and guilt it all felt so good. And then, over time you wanted to know what it felt like to wear a bra, and silky panties and high heels and a skirt; what it felt like to apply makeup and nail polish; what it would feel like to go out in public. It wasn’t a curiosity anymore. It had become an obsession. But an obsession that you rational used as a harmless fetish which you could control. You dated girls; you married thinking you could keep your little secret hidden. But deep down inside, you knew it was an unstoppable Minster that was devouring you. You came to worry that it was taking over your psyche; you personality; your emotions and it would eventually destroy you. You began taking greater risks; building your stash of women’s clothes, shoes and makeup, taking every opportunity of a business trip, or working back late, to dress up in your girlie things. You started going out in public. Even though you weren’t in any way attracted to men, you seemed to revel in the attention of those men who were attracted to transvestites. Ah! That word. You’d always tried to convince yourself you were not one. But, there! Now you’ve said it. You’re a transvestite. A sissy even. But it was just a manageable hobby on the side. Your increasingly frequent business trips and late nights at the office; that locked trunk in the cellar; the fact that you always took two large suitcases on a relatively short business trip - of course this was going to attract your wife’s attention, no matter how much you deluded yourself you were getting away with it. When she eventually confronted you, it was a traumatic experience for both of you. Despite her initial horror, she tried to tolerate it. You seemed somehow relieved that your life of deception was finally over. But she could never really get into it. Despite you agreeing to keep your dressing within limits agreed with her, you kept pushing the boundaries. You mistook her tolerance for acceptance. It reached the point where you would be dressed in women’s clothes at home at all times. The only time she ever saw you in anything resembling a man’s guise, was when you went to work in your suit. Even then, you would be wearing stockings or pantyhose and silky panties - sometimes even a bra - underneath. When you went out with her socially - to family events; to barbecues and parties; to restaurants; to go shopping - you would increasingly take little risks. Risks like not wearing socks to cover your pantyhose covered ankles; girl jeans; Palin women’s shirts and pants that you though would pass as arty or creative; clear nail polish. You deluded yourself that no one would notice. But they did. The humiliation eventually got too much for your wife. Living on your own, you now had the opportunity to dress as you liked all the time. You began being seen around your own town in women’s clothes. Increasingly you friends, neighbours and family - and eventually your work colleagues - came to know. You were the neighbours began referring to you as that sissy - or even that queer - a few doors down the road. They would often pretend no to notice you or cross the street, where previously they’d have stopped to talk to you. You invitations to parties and social gathering almost totally dried up. Family gatherings took place in a very tense atmosphere. At work, your boss had to council you on professional dress and presentation and how colleagues and associates had begun to notice the feminisation of your appearance. Amongst your work colleagues you were increasingly a loner. They would only talk to you when they needed to and even then there was a tension in the air. It should not have surprised you that, despite your obvious professional talents - you were one of those to be let go in the next ‘restructure’. Your situation became known on the professional grapevine. Despite many applications and you excellent qualifications, no one would take you on. Spending more and more time in women’s clothing you took odd, menial jobs - including working as a waitress in a bar frequented by drag queens, transvestites and crossdressers. You received the attentions of so many of the male clients of the bar, who went there to pick-up “girls with a little something extra”. You enjoyed the flirting; you enjoyed them teasing you through your stockings and your panties, but you’d never go home with one. Or so you tried to convince yourself. Deep down, despite the attempts at denial and self-deception, you knew where you were headed. You had never had the strength to withstand this girlie tidal wave in which you were drowning. Resistance was pointless. It was only a matter of time. Before you found yourself on your stockinged knees gagging on a real man’s throbbing shaft. Of course, it was only a matter of weeks before you found yourself with your face pressed into a pillow, as a man brutally pounded deep inside your loins, filling you with his manly fluids. It was excruciatingly painful that first time. You derived no physical pleasure from it. But somehow the feelings of being used like a girl, and even the humiliation of it, were intensely arousing. Now you sit here, dressed in stockings, high heels, a frilly maids uniform, ready to commence your day of mental servility - washing and ironing his shirts; doing his cooking and cleaning; running his errands; serving his meals and refreshments. And when the mood takes him, you meekly make yourself available for his sexual use. Sometimes he gets a kick out of keeping you in chains or in confinement for long periods. He even seems to derive a perverse satisfaction from taking you out in public and humiliating his feminised faggot in the most degrading way. He seems to derive a sadistic excitement from your humiliation; your tears; your whimpering; your degradation; your total defeat and capitulation. Somehow, it seems to have a perversely arousing effect on you. What will he demand today? Who knows? But this is your life now. No career challenges. No opportunity for success and achievement No promising future. You know that every morning, fir the rest of your life will be like this one - dressing in stockings, high heels, panties, bra and maids uniform; painting you fave with makeup, preparing yourself for a day of menial service to a man…. ….and possibly a day of sexual abuse and degradation. This is you have to look forward to. But somehow it feels right. It feels like what you were destined for. -- source link