From sissy nancy berlin.. here her personal blog..
a wonderful introspective tale for our weekly appointment of sunday morning..
not a so explicit sexual story of domination..
but something that took my attention.. because details are always truly important!
From the time i was really young.. i fighted with myself and people i had around me.. trying to be like any other boys..
And it was really hard for me .. to act as a real macho man.. just to hide my truly sissy nature in front of all my friends..
being under cover was a natural defence..
because i always felt to be different.. but i never had the courage to be like i’m..
on the other hand.. one of my hottest fantasy always was to not be able to dissimulate the sissy i have inside..
discovered by a talented man.. able to read between the lines of my perfect simulation..
a man.. dominant, of course… because every sissy hunter is dominant by definition..
with special nose for invisible, involuntary gestures.. (es. to look down.. to move insicure.. feminine forms of my butt)..
i have ever felt.. that i might have be totally surrendered to him.. just because his special gift.. to look inside me..
and this exactly is what i have found in this story.. written in a so perfect soft way..
so.. now forget my dreadful english.. and enjoy the sissy story number 23! ;)
Black Master, white sissy
Every one who saw me at work used to think I was Mr. Clean, Mr. Respectable. I work in advertising and I used to model my appearance on the sort of guys you find between the pages of GQ. Very American, very preppy. I was a nice middle-class boy with a nice expensive haircut and a nice expensive suit. I went to an up market health club to keep my body in peak condition. I’d even dated a nice girl from time to time. So you’d be right in thinking that I was a bit of a closet case. I used to pass a gay bar on my way home from work; in the summer the faggots would spill out over the pavement and ogle me as I jogged past. I wanted nothing to do with them and no way did I feel part of them. Don’t get me wrong – they didn’t bother me and I wouldn’t badmouth them; I just didn’t feel that I could relate to them. So I guess you could say I was an arrogant son of a bitch.
Well, I’ve changed now. Sure as fuck I’ve moved on and you wouldn’t recognise me. And I don’t just mean my appearance though God knows that has changed, too. No I’m talking about the real me, the me inside that was always there but needed a real tough black skinhead master to bring it out.
It’s a giveaway, isn’t it, speaking so contemptuously about ‘faggots’? I thought I was not just Mr. Clean but also Mr. Macho. So perhaps if that bar had been a leather bar, I would have changed sooner. I also used to jog past a building site and I sure slowed down a lot as I went past. A dozen or so workmen were always hanging around, smoking and chatting rather than working, and although some of these were the usual overweight, slack-jeaned type, there were a number of tough young hard-bodied lads as well. Of course, my arrogance meant that I imagined that I acted subtly, that I was able to size up the workmen without them noticing me doing so.
Until one evening, arms working like pistons, breathing heavily, my blond hair flopping sexily over one eye, I heard a voice say, “Here comes the faggot again.” To which another instantly added, “Nah, she’s a sissy.” I flushed red, a mixture of anger and embarrassment, and turned to look at the second speaker as I speeded up a little. Not too much – I didn’t want the creep to think that he had got to me in any way. I had little more than a glimpse of a black street tough, a guy at least four inches shorter than me, hair cropped close to his skull, and a cheeky grin plastered across his face, before I rounded the corner and was gone. I changed my route home from then on.
After that experience, I often found myself studying my face in a mirror for signs not just of of faggotry but effeminacy. I couldn’t see them. I thought I looked pretty hot, of course, but also very masculine. I mean I wasn’t overly hairy but nor was I smooth. But I was haunted by that glimpse of working class rough who felt that I wasn’t the man that he was. He was right and I had a lesson still to learn.
And so the fateful day came when I worked late at the office and was pressed for time and decided to go past the building site for the first time in weeks. It was after seven so I imagined there would be no one there. Almost from f***e of habit I slowed down as I neared it and there he was…sitting on a low wall, smoking a cigarette and watching me approach. I stared resolutely ahead and prepared to sail past him. The next thing the ground was coming racing to meet me as I went sprawling over his outstretched leg.
“Sorry, mate,” said a voice that didn’t sound remotely contrite. I looked up at him standing over me, stretching out a hand to help me up. I was winded and couldn’t say anything for a few seconds. He was clearly enjoying my discomfiture.
“You bastard!” I finally managed to get out, ignoring his hand and standing up. “You did that on purpose!”
“Yeah. I wanted to see what a sissy looked like up close.” I clenched my fist and swung for him. He stepped back and I almost fell over again.
“Hey. No hard feelings, mate. If you want it rough, we don’t have to do it here.” I blinked foolishly at this statement. “C’mon. Just follow me.”
Right. I should have turned and headed in the opposite direction. I should have landed a kick on the fucker and got going. I could have outrun him – he looked fit but my legs were longer. I should have… But I didn’t. What I did do was look furtively over my shoulder to see if anyone had seen this meeting and walk lamely behind him into the abandoned building where he had been working. He locked the door behind me which caused me a few anxious moments. He might have been a psychopath but I don’t suppose psychos kiss which is what he did as soon as we were safe from the outside world. It was a rundown warehouse with lots of smaller rooms leading off a big deserted store room. He unlocked one of the smaller rooms and, taking me by the hand, led me inside. He picked up a six pack of beer from a table and passed one to me. As we both pulled on the tabs he looked at me and said, “Do you trust me?” I thought at first I had misheard him and looked quizzically at him. He repeated what he had said and I thought for a moment before replying that I did. And in fact I did trust him. In spite of him calling me a faggot, I think I sensed that this guy had planned this meeting because he fancied me. Certainly I fancied him – manual labour had given him a body that I worked artificially for, the skinhead haircut accentuated the strong chiselled features of his face, the broad nose and generous lips – and the unexpected turn the evening had taken excited me.
Plus he was black so that nothing could have emphasised the difference between us more effectively. My colouring was pale – he was ebony black, the kind of blackness so intense it begins to look purple.The hint of danger was a turn on too. But, yes, fundamentally I trusted him and told him so.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t go away.” And he left the room. I felt that I had reached the point of no return now in any case and that I didn’t have a clue how I’d get out of the building even if I had wanted to, so I sipped my beer and waited.
I don’t know where he went – presumably to one of the other rooms; I don’t think I wondered what he was up to; but I was genuinely surprised when he returned, dressed in full leather, jacket, jeans and boots, a pair of handcuffs dangling from the left hand side of his belt, and a glint of steel at his chest where his nipples had been pierced catching the light from the naked bulb above my head. Over his shoulder swung a back pack which weighed ominously heavy.
“Trust me,” he said again, looking steadily at me. I stared back as if mesmerised, neither acquiescing nor rejecting and he moved towards me, unfastening the cuffs from his belt. He stopped directly in front of me and looked up at me. Then he said softly but in a tone which allowed no dissent, “Strip.” Hurriedly, I pulled off my singlet and shorts, then hesitated.
“Everything,” he said in the same voice. Off came the socks and trainers and then, with a final slight hesitation, my jockstrap to reveal my cock standing to attention. He turned me round, rather gently as if to reassure me, and fastened the handcuffs on my wrists.
I was trembling slightly. I had not had many gay experiences and usually only when I had d***k a fair bit. Half a can of lager had not relaxed me much now and I was apprehensive. He stroked me gently as if he were calming a nervous colt and kissed me again, his tongue forcing open my mouth and pressing between my teeth. I relaxed into him as he held my face between his hands, now really turned on by the feel and smell of his leathers, and the hardness of his body. I had been kissed twice and already I felt that it was the most exciting sex I had ever experienced! He hadn’t even begun. Pushing me away, more roughly, he pulled open his back pack and rummaged inside it before producing a broad leather dog collar which he buckled around my neck.
“Hang on,” I said anxiously. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
“You like it rough,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. “And you’re lucky, cos so do I.” He fastened a chain to the collar and pulled me after him, back into the large store room. I followed meekly behind him as he led me to one end of the room. Delving into his bag again, he produced a set of leather ankle restraints and bending down he fastened them on me. He then said, “On your knees” and when I obeyed he padlocked the restraints to a couple of heavy rings set in the floor. Had he set them there or had he chosen this place because of them? In any case, the difference in our heights had ceased to matter.
“Right, pretty boy. Now it’s time for a little training. And time you learnt your place. This date’s been a long time coming and I’m gonna make sure you remember it. So, for a start, a few rules. You’re gonna keep your mouth shut until I give you permission to speak and when you do speak you call me Sir. Understand?”
I opened my mouth to protest but the look he gave me was so fierce that the protest stopped on my lips. And the first thing I’m gonna do is make you look like less of a faggot and more like a sissy.” His hand went into the bag again and came out with a set of electric hairdressing shears which he plugged in to the wall.
“Now just keep nice and still, slave, and it’ll be easier for you.” He started on my chest hair. I put up with that as I was reckoning that I could still get away with it at the gym – after all, many guys shaved their chests to show off the definition of their worked-out chests. When he started on my groin, I dared to protest.
“Hey, come on, man. I’ve got to show myself in the changing rooms.” He slapped me across my face and said, “Shut the fuck up, sissy. And you’ll regret not addressing me as ‘Sir’.”
“Please, Sir, please stop, Sir. You can do anything else, Sir but not that.” I should have saved my breath.
“I’ll finish it off with soap and a razor later,” he went on, as if I had not said anything, “but this should teach you your position in life.” I was pretty mad at all this but there was not much I could do and by the time he had finished removing the hair from around my balls and cock (which was still betraying me by sticking up in his face as he worked), I had decided that a few weeks of discretion in the changing room would see me through.
He dropped the clippers and, sticking his hand into his bag, produed a blond, female wig. It was ridiculously effeminate, like something out of Gone with the Wind. Totally prissy sissy in effect.
“No, you bastard, you can’t do that. This is ridiculous!” He grabbed hold of my head and rammed it into his leather encased crotch, silencing my pleas, and planted the wig on my head.
“That’s better. You are looking really girly already. But we have to soften that face a little.”
Makeup! And where on earth had a black stud like this learned to apply women’s makeup? Little did I know at that point that he was doing a lousy job of it and was transforming me into a slutty whore with deep blue eyeshadow, sloppily applied eyeliner and mascara – and the glossiest, most scarlet lipstick you could imagine.
“What do you say, sissy? Let’s hear you.”
Brokenly I replied, “Thank you, Sir.”
“Lick my boots, girl.” Obediently I bent head with the blond ringlets cascading around my face to his dusty boots and started licking the leather. And that effectively ended the first stage of my training.
And that was the easy part. Next out of the bag (and I was beginning to get worried about the contents of that bag) came a set of tit clamps connected by a chain. Had he set them on me when we started I believe I would have moaned and groaned because I was simply not used to such things. It’s amazing what a little humiliation does to the brain. I was in a mental state beyond resisting as the teeth bit into the virgin nipples and little more than a slight intake of breath escaped me. A hit of popper helped too and made me eager for what was to come.
“I’ll build these tits of yours up a bit, sissy, and maybe think about some nice implants and in a month or so I’ll get them pierced so you’ll know that you are owned. You want to be owned, don’t you, sissy?”
“Yes, Sir!” I said, firmly. At that moment I wanted it more than anything I could think of.
“Now, sissy, it’s time to punish you for resisting me. In future, you’ll do what your Master says without question, won’t you?”
“O.K. slave. Now let’s have you on your knees with your arse in the air.” I hurriedly complied. He stuck the popper under my nose and I took a big hit as he continued, “I’m going to beat you now for your disobedience and you are going to count the strokes and thank me for each one. Understand?”
I was a wimp before I met him. I had gone to a liberal school where caning was not allowed so I wasn’t into reliving my school days or anything like that. The first stroke of his belt seemed to me then like the worst pain I’d ever felt but it wasn’t severe. I gasped with shock, nonetheless. And three blows had descended before I remembered that I was supposed to count them.
Or rather he reminded me. He stopped and said, “Right, sissy. We’ll start again. And this time, you’ll count and thank me.”
“Yes, Sir… One, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Waiting for the blow is worse than the blow itself I soon discovered. He did not beat me with a regular rhythm, nor did his belt always land on the same spot. And while I dreaded each blow, and my mind continued to worry about such things as whether my body would be marked or not, I found that the pain was greater. But then I discovered that, if I stopped anticipating where and when the belt would land, and simply accepted what was happening to me, when I reached that point of total submission, it just didn’t hurt. And a voice that didn’t sound like mine began to repeat over and over again like a mantra, “Beat me, Black Master. Beat me, Sir,” between counting and thanking him, of course.
I reached fifty before he dropped the belt. The bag again and I felt him lubing my arse which burned fiercely after the beating. Then his cock was pressing into my sphincter. I was amazed how easily it slipped in and then he was pumping me hard while he whispered in my ear, “Yeah, sissy, you love it, don’t you? You love having a black skinhead Master fucking your sissy pussy. Yeah, feel that cock up your poop chute. That’s your pussy, girl. I’m gonna train you up real good, girl. You’re gonna beg for it, sissy, you’re gonna beg your Master to whip you and fuck you and make you more of a girl than any girl you ever met. You are going dress nice for me, lots of sweet lacy things for my little girl, and you are gonna mince and lisp for me and beg for me and my black bros to use you…”
He came with a roar. I shot seconds later as he collapsed on top of me. Gently he withdrew and knelt in front of me. He raised my head and looked into my eyes which must have been glazed and focussing on something far distant and said, “You did well for a beginner, sissy.” The word seemed full of affection. Then he kissed me again and the kiss sealed it. I was his.
That was only the beginning of my transformation…
I was a romantic despite the cynicism I projected in my job. This tough black skinhead yob had abused me – he had shaved me, humiliated me and yet for the next week what I remembered most was the kiss. Sure, the abuse had touched something in me but until I had met him it was unacknowledged – something hidden deep in the dark places of my psyche where I was unwilling to go rummaging. He had brought them out to the light but I wasn’t ready to confront them yet, to see what place they might have in my life. Kissing was different – that I could relate to, that I felt was something I wanted more of. Especially with him, with my black working class thug and seducer.
I felt that the chemistry between us had been terrific, something exceptional. My head was way up in the clouds for days, dreaming of him, of being kissed again by him. After our impromptu session in the warehouse I just felt that of course he’d want to see me again and soon. I even imagined he’d come with me for a drink – somewhere far from where I lived because I couldn’t let my neighbours and the locals see me with someone so evidently rough and uncouth.
So I was waiting for him to make the invitation as I got dressed after that first meeting; but it didn’t come; he just looked at me insolently – almost with something like a sneer or with contempt. And I still hadn’t finished dressing when he turned on his heel and moved off. I called out after him, ‘Hey, just a minute!’ and he turned and looked at me, still with something that was halfway between amusement and scorn. I didn’t know what to say. He made me feel silly and kind of less of a man than he, and I was flustered. I was struck dumb and all I could do was pull out my wallet and give him my business card. He took it and looked at it as if it was something he had never seen before – maybe he hadn’t – turning it this way and that between his fingers as if he had no idea what this slender piece of card might be or what use it could possibly serve. For an awful moment I thought he was going to throw it away but he did finally slip it into his pocket and without a word walked off. Only then did I realise that I didn’t even know his name.
Getting the makeup off my face took for ever, seeing as I only had cold water and toilet paper to remove it. I wasn’t convinced I had managed it but by now night had been setting in and in the gloaming I was able to pass as I ran home.
Then – nothing. Silence. No phone calls. Part of me was relieved that this didn’t happen – what would I have said to my secretary when she fielded the call? She knew everything about me – or seemed to. She knew exactly what role every caller played in my life whether professionally or socially. But I would have thought of something, would have invented some excuse about a plumber or builder doing work on my fancy flat. But I had no need to invent because there was no call. I got angry – I was absurdly discomfited by having gone through something I saw as deeply intimate and deeply personal and deeply life-changing and that all of this seemed to mean nothing to this bastard. So he sissifies good-looking guys every day of the week? Beats them? Shaves them? Fucks them? Yes, all that and begins and ends with kisses? Deep male kisses, tongues exploring, flavours in mouths kisses? Anger was useless and got me nowhere. He still didn’t call and it didn’t help me forget about him. So I had to do something about this. I wasn’t just going to sit around and mope and feel sorry for myself; because the more I thought about it the more important it seemed – it wasn’t just about the kisses. It was something deeper. I had to explore it more. I just had to.
The one thing I was not taking on board was the feminisation and the way he had called me sissy all the time or girl. In fact, he just didn’t acknowledge any male aspect of me at all. So my mind turned away from this and concentrated solely on how deeply I felt attracted to him.
But what to do? I had stopped my run. I was afraid to do it, afraid of the catcalls and jeers that I had received before. Of course it was obvious what I had to do but pride held me back so it took a few weeks of stupid selfish egoism before I was prepared to accept that that approach was going to lead nowhere and that whether I lost face over this or not, if he told me to fuck off or worse ignored me, I had to go for what I needed, I had to make the run again. Changing into my running gear in the office I felt sick. I felt like abandoning the attempt and settling back to my old life. Three weeks had passed; my hair, had grown back somewhat. So mixed in with the fear of rejection was the fear that he would despise me for having changed the way I had looked. Maybe he would see it as having abandoned the changes he had wrought in me. But despite this surely he would know – just by the fact that I was resuming my old route home – that I needed him, that he had made an impact on me. But still the bigger fear was that I had made no impact on him at all.
So all of this was running crazily through my mind as I started my run home. Now, when I think back over all of this, I wonder at my arrogance – thinking that this guy should hang on after his mates had gone home, night after night, hoping for a glimpse of me. Why should he do this? Because I was such a stud was what I supposed, because I was a catch for him, someone he could never hope to meet otherwise. All that sort of rubbish was perhaps my answer – but you know I never really asked myself this or thought for a moment that he would not be there. Again it comes down to the significance of the initial meeting for me – it just had to be the same for him. It just had to be. So I rounded the corner, my heart in my mouth – and he was there, just as I had seen him on THAT evening, sitting on a low wall, smoking a cigarette, and, best of all, smiling broadly. I suddenly became shy as I slowed to a walk but held out a hand in greeting as I approached. He ignored it, chucked his cigarette away, stood up and entered the building. I followed him.
He didn’t look round but went to the same place as before. Now shut off from the outside world he turned to face me, still smiling. I moved towards him, ready for the embrace, ready to kiss that smoky mouth, to get my tongue inside it, to put my hands around his cropped head and rub my cheek against it. He slapped me, hard, across my face and before I could even cry out, backhanded me another. Then, taking advantage of my complete bewilderment, he punched me hard in the stomach. I doubled over and a hand chop to my neck brought me to my knees. That’s when he started kicking me with his Doc Marten’s. I cried out, as much in astonishment as in pain. I begged him to stop. I wanted to appeal to his better nature but not knowing his name I resorted to the only thing I had ever called him, ‘Sir’. And as soon as I did so, he stopped.
‘At last,’ he said, very calmly. His self-possession surprised me – for someone who seconds before had been kicking the shit out of me and giving every indication of being a vicious lout, he was suddenly very much in control of himself.
‘You really are a fucking useless piece of sissy shit, aren’t you? Did nothing I did to you have an effect on you?’ He ripped off my shorts. ‘a fucking jock strap! you have really disappointed me. I thought that AT THE LEAST you would have worn pretty sissy panties for me. Are you thick or something? Don’t you see I have no interest in some white boy stud? I want you as my sissy bitch, my little pet pansy or not at all. You think I should be bothered with a fucking fashion victim like you? Your idea of fashion has got to change, girl, before I nut in you again.’
I didn’t dare look at him. I just stared at his boots, worried that he’d start in on me with them again. I was curled up into a foetal ball. I could have straightened up but I was afraid to – not because it would have made my body vulnerable again but to conceal the enormous hard-on I was sporting through my jock strap. In fact I was hardly listening to him. I was so taken by surprise both by the unexpectedness of the attack but even more so by the undeniable fact that I was turned on. This guy treating me like shit turned me on.
‘Well?’ he continued. ‘Why should I be bothered with a sissy cunt like you who keeps me hanging around for weeks?’
‘But Sir,’ I protested feebly, ‘you have my work telephone number, you could have phoned me. I don’t even know your name, Sir.’
‘So I am supposed to go running after you? Who is the sissyslave around here, you or me?’
‘I didn’t know I was a slave, Sir,’ I replied.
‘Fucking hell’, he said and laughed. ‘Last time I saw you there was no fucking doubt about it then. Couldn’t get enough abuse, couldn’t get low enough, wanted to worship me, wanted to be changed, wanted to do anything. That right?’
‘OK, fucker, one last chance. You want to be my sissyslave then you come back here, same time, exactly one week from now. Understand?’
‘And remember, I want you as a sissy. I want you to look like a sissy whore.’
He kicked me one last time, on the backside, and left me lying there.
When I looked up, he had gone.
I was disappointed. I had gone through such a build-up in my mind, all that tossing and turning as to what I should do, how I could meet him again, what would happen when we did meet. Look, you have to understand that at that time I was used to getting my own way, having things on my terms.
After a few days I began to recognise that, far from being a disappointment, that second meeting had sharpened my appetite. I actually liked not having control, liked being told what to do. Also the fact that our one sexual meeting had little sex in it brought me face to face with what I had been avoiding. And that was, quite simply, that I also liked being treated like shit, I liked being abused and kicked and slapped around. This was hard for me to come to terms with, you know. It had been there through all my teen years and into my twenties but I wouldn’t confront it, wouldn’t look at it or acknowledge it. Now I had to. The truth was that I was beginning to identify with being a slave to a skinhead both from the physical and the mental points of view.
Then there was his race. The fact that he was black made the abuse more thrilling. The idea of him getting revenge for the way his race had been treated for centuries by whites, the reversal of expected roles – this was definitely part of the attraction.
Then the sissy thing… I had never liked crossdressers, trannies, what ever you wanted to call them. I avoided drag shows and couldn’t understand why these were so popular with both straights and gays. Now I began to consider the idea what my antipathy was based on fear of a similar tendency in my self. It was difficult to unravel my feelings on this as it was so tied up with my need for humiliation. And it was on that level that I dimly began to recognise that I might begin to accept it.
Finally, I also knew for certain that I longed to escape from the boring, mundane, respectable life I was leading. I wanted to say, ‘Fuck you’ to the straight world I lived in. I had conformed too long. This tough, little black skinhead was offering me a way out and I was determined to go for it, no matter what I had to go through.
So the week that followed my second meeting was interminable; but it was useful too because it gave me a chance to come to terms with those things about myself that I had always run away from. And it led to a kind of recklessness to the extent that I was determined to show this cocky bastard that I was taking it seriously, that I did want to be what he wanted me to be.
But mostly I occupied myself with transforming myself. There were a number of problems with that. First and foremost, there was no way I was going to parade through the streets as a sissy. No matter what punishment he was going to inflict on me – and I was sure he would – I would only wear stuff under a tracksuit. Then there was the problem about what to get and where to get it. Time was of the essence so shopping on the internet was out. I did a bit of research about sizes and set off to a department store.
The shame of shopping for women’s lingerie was almost too much for me to bear. Everyone had to know who it was intended for just in term of sizes. There was NO WAY I would try anything on. I just had to hope for the best. Somehow I managed.
I bought… a black lacy bra, black panties, a black lacy garter belt with little straps, a red mini skirt, a black blouse, and red heeled shoes. About a four inch heel. I took them home. I stripped and put them on. I looked in a mirror. I was amazed by what looked back at me. Despite being wig-less and without makeup, I was …sexy. And my cock raised itself to a phenomenal hardness.
So, on the appointed day I took a long slow bath and shaved all my body below the ears. I put on my new outfit except the heels and covered it all with my track suit. And at the appointed time, I set off jauntily, confident, happy. A bit apprehensive because I knew that this cocky black bastard would have something up his sleeve that I couldn’t imagine but somehow I trusted him. Despite the fact that he had kicked me to bruising the last time I saw him I felt I was ready for him, ready and equal for whatever he might throw at me in the way of surprises. Well I was right – he did have a surprise up his sleeve. He was in his usual place, as usual smoking a cigarette, dressed as usual in his Fred Perry shirt, bleachers with white braces, tall DMs with white laces. He looked like a white power thug except for one obvious aspect of his look – the colour of his skin. He said not a word. Again he just flicked the cigarette away, stood up and moved inside, with me following lamely behind him.
We got to our usual place, the door was slightly ajar when, instead of pushing through, he suddenly stepped aside and said with mock courtesy, ‘After you, little lady’. In I went, like a lamb to the slaughter, he following me, so close behind me I could feel his breath on the nape of my neck. As I passed through the door his hands shot up and covered my eyes and mouth, other hands came from nowhere and grabbed me. Of course anyone’s first instinct is to struggle and struggle I did but it was useless – I was pinioned by the arms, the shoulders, the thighs, and the calves. I was immobile. Then the voice came to my ear.
‘Now this can be easy for you or it can be difficult. What is going to happen to you is going to happen to you one way or another. Make no mistake about that. Whether it is a struggle for you is up to you, you sissy cunt. Take it as it comes and it’ll go much more quickly and easily. Do you understand that?’ I nodded.
‘Now I am going to remove my hands from your eyes and mouth and I don’t expect a sound from you. Got that?’ Again I nodded. All the hands that held me were withdrawn, and finally the hand over my eyes drew back and I could see what was going on. I saw six black skinheads and one black girl. Somehow her presence made it worse… The guys were young, tough, hard, trying to look serious but I could see that laughter lay just behind the eyes – they were enjoying this. The one I thought of as my Master moved round to stand directly in front of me.
‘OK,’ he said softly, ‘you decided to come back. That’s good. But it’s the last decision you’ll be making for a while. Got that?’
‘Now you want to be a sissy, don’t you, bitch?’
‘And you want to be a slave, don’t you, cunt?’
‘Well this evening your dreams come true. OK lads, let’s get started – there’s a lot to do.’
There was that bag again, the one that contained God knows what. First out of it was a pair of scissors. One of the blacks – a tall, lean guy with a ferret-like face, no looker that’s for sure but sexy for all that – pulled out a large pair of scissors. I almost shouted out, ‘But I have no hair except on my head and please leave that!’ but hair wasn’t what he had in mind. He caught hold of my expensive designer track suit top and cut it from top to bottom. A roar went up when they saw my flat chest boasting a lacy bra. Any tendency on my part to protest was instantly quelled by the look on my Master’s face. I kept my mouth shut as he continued to cut the pants in their turn, exposing garter belt, panties and stockings. Trainers were pulled off and the laces ritualistically cut. Socks too were chopped and rendered useless – and I was standing in women’s lingerie with a telltale erection.
A chair was pulled out and I was pushed down onto it and the girl took over as makeup artist. At least she seemed to know what she was doing.
I was naive enough to think that the makeup constituted the whole of my transformation but worse was to come. The sight of a needle was enough to bring out a spirit of rebellion in me and I confess I did make a dash for the door – only to be dragged back to the chair kicking and screaming. But as my Master had said, resistance was indeed useless and I saw that I really was powerless in this situation as I was firmly held while both nipples were pierced and rings inserted. Of course I cried out when the needle went through the nipple and I watched the bl**d trickle down my hairless chest and stomach.
Still, you’d think by now that I would have stopped fighting but when I suddenly understood that I was going to have a ring through my septum, a nose ring like a pig or a****l, I couldn’t take it. I screamed and screamed and writhed and twisted and they just let me get on with that until I had exhausted myself and then proceeded quite calmly to ring me. I was broken by now. I accepted it. It’s funny – there comes a point when you do accept that you really can do nothing to change events; everyone has a different breaking point I guess and the nose ring was mine. And then there’s a kind of peace – even the pain seemed to recede, things became dreamlike and drifting and all problems, thoughts of the future, even memories of the past, of what I had so recently been – all, just melted away.
After this, having the word ‘sissy’ tattooed on my upper left shoulder and ‘slave’ on my right was the least of my worries or problems. It was like an out of body experience. I saw the needle, I heard the buzz and hum, I watched bl**d and ink mingle with a kind of bemused detachment, as if it were happening to someone else, not to me at all. So there I was, naked, shaved, pierced, tattooed, made-up, dressed in lingerie. And to tell the truth, in a state of shock. It was all too much, too quick. I felt bewildered and not sure whether I should be laughing or crying – the emotions were all too complex for me. Yes, I was exhilarated because I had come round in my mind to accepting the need for change – I guess I had started on this path because deep down I hated the way I had been living my life. It had been so false. I had lived by other people’s rules, by the rules of the straight world I mixed in; there’s were the values I had subscribed to. A change was due.
But this change was so sudden and so drastic. I mean, I had yet to see myself in a mirror but I could easily imagine that the transformation was of such an order and to such an extent that my mother would have had to look twice – or three times – to recognise me. So when these guys had finished with me, when they stood back to admire their handiwork and I rose to my feet uncertainly, I could see that they were not sure how I would react, how I would behave. Up till now they had been so cocky, so assured and the whole thing had moved like clockwork as if they had rehearsed it. Now that it was done, they were suddenly quiet, almost abashed. I wouldn’t say ashamed – they were too confident in themselves and their identity for that. These cocky lads were looking at me to see how I would react.
I saw this, I noticed it, saw their uncertainty and I knew that I wanted to be one of them, wanted to be part of them, relate to them, accept their values, become one with them. I wanted to become a bitch, a slave, a whore, a sissy, for a gang of black guys. So despite the pain all over my body and in spite of my whirling mind, I smiled. I had to rise above the pain and even then I knew that pain would become so much a part of my life that I would really have to work on processing it.
Part of me resisted pain – that’s a human instinct after all; but part of me embraced it because it was intense, it proved I was feeling and reacting and alive. That I learned – keep hold of that thought and it’ll see you through, and that’s what I mean by processing pain. So the smile wasn’t false for all that I had to start it through an effort of will. And they started to laugh. And suddenly I was in the middle of them, being pushed around, roughed up in a way; but I was beyond feeling the minor pain that came from boots and fists. Now I knew that I was re-born, a new me emerging from all this pain and degradation and humiliation. I had a new identity. And just as a Christian is reborn with baptism so my black Masters baptised me in showers of piss. They formed a circle around me, opened the flies of their jeans and hosed me down and I put out my arms to it and welcomed it, bathed in it. Then my bag was opened and my blouse and mini skirt and heels were produced for me and, still wet with their piss, I put them on.
This is how I would look, this is how I would dress from now on. There was so much yet to come, so much to learn, before I would be a cocksucking sissy whore for black cock, welcoming huge black cocks as they fucked me. I had much to learn and a longer journey to go on. I looked at my black Master and then and only then did I get the deep kiss I had dreamed of from my him as he welcomed me to a new life.
As to my job, my flat, my former friends, how did I deal with that? Well that, my friend, is another story…