My right leg had a mind of its own.
Rebecca frowned. “Why you keep bouncing like that? What’s wrong with you?”
“Um, I … nothing.”
“Bullshit, nothing. Something’s up; you been acting weird ever since we got back from Paris. What the hell’s going on, Chris?”
I balled my fists. Clenched my jaw. Closed my eyes. Drew a breath.
Took the plunge.
“Okay. Okay. It’s just … well, now that we’re talking about moving in together, I just think we need to be honest with each other. And I … well, I haven’t told you everything about myself.”
“Uh oh. Do I want to hear this?”
I sucked in more air but couldn’t exhale.
“What, Chris? What ain’t you told me?”
Gulp.
“Um, yeah, so, I-I have this fantasy. Well, it’s not really a fantasy; it’s more like a need. It’s a need for some reason, and I don’t understand why, but I need to have a woman treat me like a slave; for her to, um, dress me up in women’s clothes and treat me like … um, a sissy. It’s weird, I know, but it’s something I’ve wanted since I can remember.”
My pulse jackhammered my jugular. The thumping was the only sound until, finally, Rebecca made her chair creak by crossing her legs.
“Chris, honey, I’m sorry, but that ain’t … I don’t want that, Chris. I mean, I ain’t putting you down if that’s your thing, but it ain’t my thing. At all. I do appreciate you telling me all this before I gave up the lease. Now, I guess … well, I guess we can move on with no strings or nothing.”
My eyes welled. “Are … are you breaking up with me?”
“Well, I don’t see how we can stay together. Do you?” Tears filled her eyes, too. “I’m sorry, but a man dressed like a woman just don’t turn me on, Chris. It’s bad enough—” She halted mid-sentence and looked at her hands.
“What? It’s bad enough what? That I’m five-foot-six? That I’m shorter than you?”
Rebecca sighed. “Well, I wasn’t gonna say it, but if you want to go there, Chris, yeah. I mean, no offense, but I get a little tired of never wearing heels when I dress up because I don’t want to tower over my date.”
“I-I’m sorry. I told you: I could wear elevator shoes.”
“And what? That would make me only an inch taller than you in heels? Besides, that ain’t the point, Chris. It ain’t about how tall you are; I like masculine men — not guys who wear girl’s clothes. And I want to be in a relationship with a man, not someone I treat like a slave. I don’t find anything sexy about that at all. No offense, but I just don’t.”
“I’m … I’m so sorry.”
She exhaled. “Well, I guess this does explain why you’re always so helpful. I never met a man who volunteered to clean my apartment like you did. I get it now. That’s your thing. You were probably fantasizing about wearing women’s clothes while you were cleaning. And me treating you like a slave. Weren’t you?”
“I … uh …”
“Tell the truth.”
“Okay. Yes. I was. I … I’m sorry.”
“Well, Chris, I’m sorry, too. I really am. And, again, I do want to say thank you for telling me all this before we moved in together. I really appreciate that. A lot of guys would’ve waited and then sprung it on me afterward, hoping to get me to go along. That says a lot about you, Chris, and the kind of person you are. You’re sweet. Considerate. That’s what attracted me to you in the first place. So, I’m hoping we can still be friends. Okay?”
My head fell to my chest and I started bawling. She placed her hand on my ear.
“Don’t be like that, Chris. I’m sad, too. Look, we had some good times together. You took me to some cool places I’d have never been able to afford, and I really appreciate it. Paris was frigging awesome. But … I don’t know, this just wasn’t meant to be. Why don’t we just walk away on a positive note? Okay?”
I sniffled. “Okay. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m the one who’s … a pervert.”
“Oh, come on, honey. That’s not true. Everyone has their thing; it just ain’t my thing, that’s all. You’re not a pervert. You’re just … different.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m not the man you need me to be, Rebecca. I really am. I really do love you very much.”
“Oh, Chris, you’re such a doll. There’s love on this end, too, but … honey, I’m sorry — it just ain’t gonna work. It just ain’t. Don’t take it too hard, Chris, okay? You’ll find someone else. We both will. It’ll work out somehow. Watch and see.”
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
The Cubs were trailing the Cardinals, one to nothing with two on and two out in the bottom of the ninth when the phone rang. I saw the name on the caller ID and forgot all about the stupid game.
“‘Lo?”
“Hello, Chris? It’s Rebecca.”
“Rebecca?! Hey, how you been?”
“I’m fine. You?”
“Great. OMG, it’s so good to hear from you after all this time. Uh, what’s … what’s going on?”
“Listen, Chris, can we meet for drinks?
“Of course. Hey, is everything okay?”
“I’m fine. Let’s talk about it when we meet, okay?”
“Um, sure. When you want to meet?”
“Tonight’s fine if you’re free.”
“Sure, I’m not doing anything.”
“Great. Meet you at O’Hara’s at eight.”
She hung up.
I couldn’t breathe.
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
The light filtering through the tavern window gave her hair a sparkle, making it easy to spot her as soon as I walked in the door.
As I approached her booth she stood and had to lean down a bit to hug me. It sent a familiar shiver of shame through my spine.
“You look good.” She sat back down.
“Thanks, you’re … beautiful as always.”
“Have a seat, Chris.”
I scooted into the booth across from her. She smiled.
“So, Chris, you dating anyone?”
“Uh, no. Not right now. Um, how about you?”
She wiggled the fingers on her left hand, showing off the small diamond on her wedding ring. “I’m married, Chris.”
I slumped. “Oh.”
She giggled. “Aw, you look so sad. You always was such a little puppy-dog.”
I gazed across the table at her, blinking back tears. “I … I don’t understand.”
“Well, Chris, I’m just gonna come out and say it: I could use a slave right now. And I thought of you.”
Blood rushed to my head and other places. “Uh, I, uh, um …”
Our conversation was interrupted by the waitress. After we ordered, Rebecca sat forward in the booth.
“As I was saying. I could really use a slave in my life. Especially for cleaning.”
“Eeeyah, buh, uh, you, uh, I er, you …” A series of sounds spilled out of my mouth.
Rebecca leaned sideways and peeked under the table, smirking at the little boner that jutted up beneath my pants. “Ha, I know you, Chris. So, I take it you want the job, then?”
“Um, I … I don’t understand, Rebecca.”
“What’s there to understand? Didn’t you tell me you wanted me to treat you like a slave?”
“Well, yeah, but … but that was a few years ago when we were in a relationship together.”
“But you said you didn’t want that relationship. You didn’t want me treating you like a boyfriend. I’m just going by what you told me, Chris. You said you wanted me to treat you like a slave … and dress you up in women’s clothes. You said it wasn’t just a fantasy; it was something you needed. Didn’t you say that, Chris? Or am I going crazy? I seem to remember you saying that.”
“Well, yeah, I did say that. But … but, that was when we were still together. You’re married now, Rebecca.”
“Who cares? I guarantee if I’d have taken you up on your offer three years ago, there’s no way I wasn’t gonna see other men eventually. I told you back then — guys who dress up in women’s clothes don’t turn me on. Masculine men turn me on. But I’ve changed my mind about the slave thing. Having one, I mean.”
“But … but how would that work? If you’ve got a husband—”
“What, I can’t have a husband and a slave at the same time?”
“I … well, yeah, I suppose. But what would he say?”
“Karl’s open-minded; I already talked to him about it, and he don’t care if I have a slave, as long as I ain’t doing nothing with him. And before you get any ideas, that ain’t never gonna happen, Chris. Sex, I mean. I’m in love with Karl.”
I licked my lips. “I … I don’t even know what to say, Rebecca. What changed your mind? You said it didn’t turn you on, but—”
“It don’t turn me on. Karl turns me on. Having a slave ain’t about turning me on, Chris. You’re looking at this the way you see it. For me, it’s about making my life easier. I’m at a point where I’m tired of settling. I want what I want. And right now, I want someone to do my housework, and run errands and stuff. I got to thinking about what you told me the night we broke up, so I called you. If this ain’t something you want to do, that’s fine. I’m sure I could go on one of them kinky websites and find someone who wants the job.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could.” I wrung my hands. “Um, is it okay if I think about this for a few days?”
Her lips twisted upward. “Sure, thing — Chrissie.”
I gasped. She smirked, knowing how using the feminine version of my name had just destroyed me.
“I’ll need an answer by Wednesday,” she said.
I melted in the booth. “Um, okay.”
The waitress arrived with our drinks and burgers. There wasn’t much conversation while we ate. Rebecca took off shortly after.
I picked up the check. Then I went home and didn’t sleep for two days.
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
My eyes were pried open. The Deluxe Diet Deep-Frier infomercial wasn’t making me drowsy. Crosswords and sudokus didn’t do the trick. No matter which side of the pillow I hugged or how many sheep I counted, I couldn’t tune out the two syllables whispering in my inner ear:
Chrissie …
I slipped on my frillies and fumbled with my dick. It wouldn’t get hard. This situation was beyond masturbation. There was too much thinking to do with the big head.
Chrissie …
Nothing made sense. Rebecca was married; why would she reappear in my life all of a sudden? Dollar signs in her eyes? That seemed the obvious guess. But she never was like that. After we’d dated about a month, I’d offered to take care of her financially. I told her she wouldn’t have to work; told her she could relax, go to the gym or do whatever she wanted. She refused, even though she didn’t make a lot of money as a Best Buy cashier. She said I was moving too fast, and that she didn’t want me “taking care” of her. That showed me Rebecca was both beautiful and independent — exactly the kind of woman I’d always wanted.
Alas, when we started talking about possibly moving in together, following what I thought had been a romantic trip to Paris, I laid my sissy slave cards on the table — and she dumped me like a sack of soggy French fries. Although it tore me up, I figured she just wasn’t the dominant mistress of my dreams and tried to move on.
It was impossible; Rebecca Anne Strickland was all I could think about. I’d never gotten over her humiliating rejection and hadn’t dated anyone since.
What now?
Chrissie …
I closed my eyes and the little head took over. On the black screen of my shuttered eyelids, an endless loop detailed every nuance of the half-second it took her to utter that frightening, glorious, terrible, empowering, enslaving word:
Chrissie …
The way her lips had contorted like a smirking snake to form the sibilant “s” sound.
Chrisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssie …
That glint in her eye after she realized she’d literally just taken my breath away.
Chrisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssie …
I pulled my hand from my crotch and rubbed my chin. Maybe her husband was behind this. That Karl asshole. Was he pulling the strings? Maybe Rebecca had told him about a rich ex-boyfriend who’d wanted to be treated like a sissy slave, and Karl figured he could exploit me through her. They clearly weren’t rolling in the dough, judging from Rebecca’s wedding ring.
Was this a setup?
Chrisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssie …
The little head jumped in. What if it wasn’t a scam? What if Rebecca was telling the truth? What if she really did want a slave in her life?
The idea of being Rebecca’s sissy slave overwhelmed me. I focused on that the rest of the night. I wasn’t able to get to sleep but the big head finally shut up and I jacked off five times.
With saggy eyes, a sticky stomach and a sore pee-pee, I dragged my sorry ass out of the sack at sunrise and prepared for what I knew was going to be a motherfucker of a Monday.
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
Tuesday started out even shittier. I called in sick and lay in bed all day with a pounding headache and a throbbing boner.
By then it wasn’t a matter of whether I was going to agree to Rebecca’s out-of-left-field request — the only question was if I would wait until the next day’s deadline to call her or inform her immediately.
The choice was made for me when Rebecca phoned just after six that evening.
“Listen, I know I said you could wait until tomorrow but I need to know now, Chrissie. This house is an absolute mess; if you’re going to be my slave you need to get over here now and get to cleaning, because I can’t stand living in this pigsty another minute. And I don’t feel like doing it myself. So, are you gonna do this or not?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Um, yeah.”
“’Yeah?’ Is that how my slave should talk to me, Chrissie?”
“Um … Mistress?”
“No, that’s weird, I don’t like that. You can call me by my married name, Mrs. Martin. Okay?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“See? That’s a good little sissy. Chrissie the sissy. Now, listen, Chrissie the sissy, you need to get over here and get this damn house clean.”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin. Um, can I have your address?”
“It’s Sixteen Two Forty-Two South Sycamore. Hurry up, now, Chrissie. This is going to be so much fun. My own little slave.”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“Oh, and Chrissie?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin?”
“Go ahead and bring whatever little girly outfit you like to wear. Whatever will make you clean better. Okay? Will you be my little maid? Ain’t that your big fantasy?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“Well, it’s my fantasy to have a nice, clean house. So, get your little butt on over here.”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin. Um, excuse me, Mrs. Martin?”
“Yes, Chrissie?”
“Is … will your husband be there?”
“Why wouldn’t he? He lives here.” She sighed. “Listen, Chris, if this is gonna be a problem—”
“Oh, no, please, Mrs. Martin, please, I’m sorry. I want to serve you. I do. I don’t mind if your husband is around, as long as I can serve you, Mrs. Martin. I was just asking. I’m sorry.”
“There’s my little doll. It’s time to hang up now, Chrissie. I need you here.”
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
North Sycamore was where the nice houses were; the south end of the street was literally on the other side of the railroad tracks, where folks installed bars on the windows of their dilapidated shacks.
I pulled up in front of Sixteen Two Forty-Two South Sycamore. My beautiful Rebecca lived in a shit-hole.
It took every ounce of courage to peel myself out of my car and amble up the walkway. With a trembling sigh, I tapped on the door. It swung open and Rebecca’s smile melted my apprehension while adding to it at the same time.
“Why, hello, Chrissie,” she said in the same mocking tone I’d played in my head a million times over the past few days.
I stepped inside and was surprised when she leaned down and gave me a light hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Come in and meet Karl.”
I followed her into the house, my eyes on her ass but my peripheral vision taking in their messy quarters. Rebecca hadn’t been kidding — this dump definitely qualified as a pigsty.
As soon as I spotted Karl a chill shot through my spine. The guy instantly intimidated the shit out of me. He shifted on the sofa and sneered when his wife led me into the living room.
“Baby, meet my new slave, Chrissie. Chrissie the sissy. Chrissie, this is my husband, Karl.”
I couldn’t look him in the eye. He rose from the couch and towered over me. He must’ve been at least six-foot-three, and the contrast between us was palpable, which is why I think he stood up — he wanted to shame me. It worked.
“Hello, Chrissie,” he said. “You come to clean our house for us?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
He chuckled and sat back down. “Sir, huh? I like it. Becca, this guy just might work out.”
“Told you,” my ex-girlfriend said as she joined her husband on the couch and melted into his embrace. “He’s a little doll.”
She then smirked at me. “So, Chrissie, you probably got a million questions.”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin, I … I do.”
“Well, now’s the time to ask.”
I licked my lips. “Well, um, I was kind of surprised that you called.”
“That ain’t a question, Chrissie.”
“Oh. Sorry. Um, why … I was just wondering what made you call me after you said this wasn’t something you were interested in.”
Rebecca snuggled closer to her husband. “I think you misunderstood me, Chrissie. I told you I wasn’t interested in treating my boyfriend like a slave. I wasn’t interested in my boyfriend dressing up in women’s clothes. I told you: I like masculine men.” She squeezed Karl’s bicep and smiled at me. “Obviously.”
“But … I-I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand? I didn’t want you as my boyfriend after you told me you was a crossdresser. No offense, but that blew it for me. We never did have a real passionate relationship to start with — nothing like what I have with Karl. But lately I been thinking more and more about things, and I remembered what you told me. About wanting to be my slave. And I think I’d like that. Having a slave, that is.”
Karl kissed his wife’s head. “Ol’ girl hates housework. Me too. That’s where you come in.”
Rebecca flicked a speck of lint off her sleeve. “So, Chrissie, that’s pretty much it. There’s nothing else really to discuss. You need to start cleaning. The mop, and Pine-Sol and stuff are in the basement. Did you bring something girly to wear?”
I gulped. “Um … yes, I’m wearing it under my clothes.”
She shrugged. “Well, get undressed or whatever you need to do and get started.”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin.”
After I stood there for a few seconds, she blinked twice. “Well?”
I shed my outerwear and they chuckled at my lacy red teddy and thigh-high stockings.
Rebecca cocked her head. “Are you going to be a good little worker for me all dressed up in your girly clothes, Chrissie the sissy?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“Okay, then. Get to work.”
I turned to leave but she stopped me. “Wait. Get me a glass of Diet Coke, first.” She glanced at her husband. “You want one, hon?”
“No, but I’ll take a beer.”
Rebecca snapped her fingers. “Get to it, Chrissie the sissy. And then get this place cleaned.”
Karl guffawed and picked up the TV remote. “I think I’m gonna like having a slave around.”
Rebecca kissed him. “You know it, babe.”
And so, while Rebecca and Karl relaxed on the couch watching television and smoking weed, I busted my ass all evening cleaning their house. I was interrupted three times for drink refills, once to bring potato chips, and once when Rebecca had me get dressed and run outside to fetch a receipt from her car’s glovebox.
While I polished the dining room table, I kept peeking at them on the sofa, wishing it could be me holding Rebecca in my arms while some lovestruck pansy did all the housework. She had never sat that way with me; when we’d watched TV together, more often than not I’d be on the floor at her feet — perhaps a subconscious playing-out of my then-secret desires.
At about eleven o’clock, as I was scrubbing out the oven, Rebecca called me into the living room.
“We’re going to bed, Chrissie, so you can call it a night and go home,” she said. “This is a decent start, but there’s a whooooooooolllle lot more cleaning to do. You’re working tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“You still get off around five or six?”
“Most nights, yes, Mrs. Martin. Depending on what happens with the market.”
“Okay, then report back here as soon as you get off work. I guess you can wear your sissy cleaning clothes underneath your suit. That’ll make for an interesting day, huh?”
“I … I guess, so, Mrs. Martin.”
“Well, then we’ll see you tomorrow, Chrissie. The house looks good. You’re such a little doll. My little house-cleaning sissy doll.”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin. Thank you, Mrs. Martin.”
“You should probably thank Karl, too, Chrissie.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No problem, pansy,” he said.
Rebecca giggled. “Good night, Chrissie. See you tomorrow.”
\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\///\\\//
I don’t know how I managed to hold the steering wheel steady on the drive home from my first evening of service to Rebecca and her husband. My hands shook like crazy. I had a hard time breathing. I felt like pissing my panties.
What a night!
When I returned to my condo, I took a long, hot shower, and for the first time that evening felt the pain radiating throughout my body. I’d worked my ass off for hours without a break, and wasn’t in the best of shape to start with. But I’d only been thinking of one throbbing body part as I minced around in my girly underthings cleaning Rebecca and Karl’s hovel while they relaxed on the couch watching TV and getting high. My aching back, legs and shoulders had never crossed my mind until I got home.
After my shower, I lay back in bed and replayed the incredible evening in my mind.
… the way Rebecca had called for drink refills: “Chrissie. More soda.” Such a princess. She clearly took to having a servant.
… the embarrassment at being chided by Karl in front of a smirking Rebecca. “Hey, sissy, from now on when you bring me a beer, can you not step in front of the goddamn TV?”
… the jealously I felt seeing Karl relaxed on the couch with the woman who’d dumped me because she didn’t want to be with an effeminate crossdresser.
… the incredible erotic feeling I derived from that jealousy.
Once again, I stayed up all night masturbating. I had phoned in sick the previous day, so when the alarm went off, I had to get up and drag my ass in to work, as much as I wanted to crawl back under the covers.
Under my suit, I wore a lacy white teddy and panties, and between that and a lack of sleep I had a difficult time focusing on my clients’ investments. At around ten a.m. a major coffee-dump started calling my name from deep within my bowels, but I clinched my butt-cheeks and held it in, fearful if I sat on one of the lavatory toilets, someone in the next stall might see my feminine underwear.
At lunch, I duckwalked out of the office to the corner coffee shop, which had a small bathroom with a single toilet. There was an “Out of Order” sign on the door but I brushed past the waitress, slipped into the john, plopped on the toilet and released the magma. It took a huge bundle of TP to get myself properly clean, and because the toilet wouldn’t flush, I had to leave the whole soupy mess floating there.
“Sorry,” I peeped as I rushed past the frowning waitress. I figured I’d probably need to find somewhere else to get coffee for the foreseeable future, but in my mind it had been worth it.
When the market finally closed, I could barely contain myself as I locked up my desk and drove back to the shitty part of town for my second day of servitude, one hand on the steering wheel, the other inside my panties.
Rebecca answered my knock with a smile. “Chrissie! So, I guess Karl and me didn’t scare you off last night.”
“Um, of course not, Mrs. Martin. I … I’m very happy to be serving you. It’s all I thought about all day.”
“Aw, ain’t that sweet?” She leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Why don’t you go ahead and get started?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“Did you wear your girly stuff under your suit like I told you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin.”
She giggled. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you, Chrissie?”
I lowered my eyes and gulped. “Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“That makes me really happy, Chrissie. It really does. I think it’s sweet that you want to give of yourself like that. Now, I’ve got a whole list of stuff that’s gonna take a few days to get done at least, and then Karl has some stuff he wants done, too. So go ahead and get undressed and do your little sissy housecleaning thing.”
The way she flicked her fingertips when referencing my “little sissy housecleaning thing” embarrassed me beyond belief, because it showed how breezily she dismissed this fetish of mine, something that for me had been a matter of grave contemplation and self-reflection since long before puberty. To her, the whole thing was a joke, something to smirk at with her husband while getting free maid service. And ruminating on that fact as I finished cleaning out the oven made my panty-covered dick throb.
I spent another night busting my ass while Rebecca and her husband relaxed, smoked weed and watched television. It was a scenario I’d jacked off to hundreds of times, but the pain radiating throughout my aching body was real, as were the feelings of resentment at how I was allowing myself to be exploited — and then, being a wimpy sissy, those feelings of resentment turned into horniness, which propelled me to scrub a little harder and polish with a little more fervor, despite my exhaustion.
The evening news was signing off when I was called into the living room.
“That’s it for tonight, Chrissie,” Rebecca said. “But I think Karl has something he wants you to do. He’s in the bathroom; he’ll be out in a minute.” She yawned. “Go ahead and get dressed.”
As I was donning my suit, Karl strode out of the bathroom, yawning himself.
“Listen, Chrissie, my brother’s loaning me his expansion plug wrench and I need it at the shop tomorrow. So, I want you to run over to his place and pick it up. He said it’s under a bench behind his shed. Bring it back here and put it inside the back screen door; I’ll leave it unlocked, but make sure to lock it back up when you’re done.”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“I’ll text you his address.” Karl fumbled with his phone for a second before I got his message.
“Um, sir, is this a mistake? He lives in Carysville. Uh, that’s a three-hour drive. I … I wouldn’t get back until almost six in the morning.”
“Sounds like your problem, Chrissie, not mine,” Karl said.
Rebecca pouted. “Aw, poor Chrissie. You look like you’re gonna cry.”
“Um, uh, ah, I’m sorry, it’s just that I haven’t gotten any sleep the past few days.”
Karl pulled his wife into his embrace and smirked. “Yeah, it must suck being a slave, huh?”
I let loose a long sigh of frustration and exhaustion.
Rebecca frowned. “Listen, Chrissie, what do you think it means to be someone’s slave? Karl wants the wrench here when he wakes up in the morning; I’m sorry if that means you don’t get any sleep, but oh, well. That’s what being a slave is, Chrissie. It ain’t about what’s easy for you. It’s about what we want. Understand?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“Aw, poor thing.” She turned to her husband and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and she smiled at me.
“Tell you what, Chrissie. If you’re a good little sissy, and go get my husband’s tool for him, I’ll let you kiss my pussy. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
I hyperventilated. “Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
Karl chuckled. “The poor sissy’s gonna have a heart attack, Becca.”
Rebecca wiggled out of her jeans. “Only through the panties,” she warned. “And just once.”
I knelt before her. She stood with her legs slightly spread and pulled her panties up tight from the waistband.
“Nice kiss,” she ordered. “Go ahead.”
I leaned forward, breathing in her scent, and pecked my lips to her cameltoe.
“See?” She smiled down on me and patted my head. “Now, wasn’t that nice, baba?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“Okay, then.” She rejoined her husband on the couch. “See you tomorrow, Chrissie.”
“Make sure you lock that screen door when you’re done,” Karl said.
“Yes, sir.”
I had no problem staying awake for the entire six-hour round-trip drive, and after dropping off Karl’s wrench and getting back to my condo, I didn’t even bother trying to sneak in an hour or two of sleep. I was way too wired to crash as I contemplated my status as a real-life slave — something I’d always dreamed about but was now finding to be a major pain in the ass in real life.
Rebecca and Karl weren’t playing a game. Even though my ex had been nice about it, neither she nor her husband gave a shit about me, my feelings, how tired I was — nothing. My job was to do what they wanted, period, even if it meant driving halfway across the state for a stupid tool. Talk about being exploited. My ex-girlfriend and her husband were taking advantage of my fetish, and they’d probably laughed about what a sap I was as soon as I walked out the door.
And, of course, as I lay in bed recalling the evening’s events, those feelings of resentment turned into horniness, which propelled me to fap a little harder and polish the knob with a little more fervor, despite my exhaustion.
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I got very little sleep during my first week of serving the Martins but I never woke up from the dream.
Night after night after leaving the brokerage firm I’d make a beeline to Sixteen Two Forty-Two South Sycamore, where Rebecca and Karl kept me busy scrubbing every inch of their house dressed in my “little sissy thingies.” Other than giving me orders, my new masters pretty much ignored me while I cleaned. They’d send me home at eleven or so, and I’d jack off all night before crawling out of bed the next morning, trudging to work and repeating the process.
Saturday and Sunday were spent scrubbing and organizing their abomination of a garage, with very little interaction with either Rebecca or Karl, since they were gone all day Saturday and spent a chilly Sunday morning and afternoon holed up in their house without once coming out to check on me. On top of that, they said they didn’t want the neighbors seeing a sissy going in and out of their garage, so other than my underthings I wore male clothes. I may have been dressed like a man, but as I made trip after trip lugging armfuls of junk to the curb, I had to admit that no real man would allow himself to be so ruthlessly exploited.
By sunset Sunday, the once-sorrowful garage was shipshape and spic and span. My condition was considerably worse; in addition to being drop-dead exhausted, I was feeling pretty resentful, having killed myself for two long days without anyone even bothering to talk to me.
Rebecca picked up on my mood immediately when she answered my knock at the backdoor.
“The … the garage is all done, Mrs. Martin.”
She stuck out her bottom lip. “Aw, Chrissie, you look so sad. Are you sad because you didn’t get to wear your little sissy thingies while you cleaned? I guess it ain’t the same, huh?”
“I …” My eyes watered. “I-I don’t know, Mrs. Martin. It’s just …”
“Just what, sweetie?”
“It’s just … well, I haven’t even seen you for two whole days.” I broke down and started sobbing.
Rebecca held her hand to her mouth and giggled. “Aw, poor Chrissie. You got such a crush on me. Don’t you?”
“I … I …”
“It’s okay, baba. Tell the truth. You got a crush on me?”
“Uh … y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
“You think about me a lot, baba?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martin. I-I never stopped thinking about you, even … even after we broke up.”
“Yeah? While we was broke up, did you touch yourself thinking about being my sissy slave?”
I couldn’t find my voice.
“Did you? Tell me,” she demanded.
I lowered my eyes. “Yes, Mrs. Martin,” I whispered.
“Did you ever pretend to be my slave when you were with any of your other dates?”
“Um, I didn’t date anyone else, Mrs. Martin.”
Rebecca cocked her head. “Really? Not one date?”
“N-no. I-I just …” More tears prevented further explanation.
“Aw, poor yoooouuuuuu. You really do have a crush on me, don’t you?” She leaned down and kissed my forehead. “It’s so cute. I’m not sure what my husband would think. But cute.”
“I … I …”
She waved her hand. “Oh, it’s alright if my little sissy has a crush on me. Just don’t get carried away, Chrissie, because Karl don’t play.”
“I won’t, Mrs. Martin. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Hang on, let me go get him; he wants to see the garage.”
I stood on the back porch for a few minutes until Rebecca returned with her husband in tow. My bottom lip quivered but my chest swelled as I led them to the garage.
“Oh, wow,” both of them said simultaneously when I opened the door, causing me to beam even brighter. Karl was clearly impressed that I’d polished every tool, dusted the rafters and even wiped the bottoms of the workbench and other surfaces.
“Nice job, sissy,” he said when the tour was over.
“And he did it dressed like a man, which is hard for him,” Rebecca added, her condescending tone causing my ears to redden with shame.
“Yeah, I guess being dressed like a sissy is all part of it, huh?”
I blinked. “Um, I … I don’t know, sir. It was okay cleaning in men’s clothes, sir, although I-I prefer—”
“You prefer being dressed like a sissy,” Rebecca smirked. “That’s because you are a sissy, Chrissie, and sissies like being dressed like sissies.”
“Try saying that five times fast,” Karl quipped and the couple shared a laugh while I stood there feeling like a fool.
Finally, the man of the house clapped his hands. “Well, you done good, sissy. I say that deserves a reward. Would you like to kiss Becca’s butt once?”
Rebecca giggled. “Ooh, you’re so mean, Karl.”
“What? That’s not mean. I’m doing the sissy a favor. Ain’t I, sissy?”
I gulped. “Um … yes, sir. T-thank you, sir.”
He shrugged. “No problem. Hard work deserves extra rewards, I always say.”
With a shiver, I ventured a look at Rebecca.
She scoffed. “Well, come on over here if you want to.”
As I scooted across the garage, Karl wagged his finger. “Through the jeans, Chrissie. You’d have to really do something special ‘fore I’d let you kiss my baby’s bare booty.”
Rebecca punched her husband’s arm. “Oh, you are SO MEAN.” She puckered at me. “Don’t listen to him, Chrissie.”
I knelt a few feet from the haughty couple. Rebecca turned around, grabbed her husband’s shoulders for support and thrust her jean-covered butt toward me.
She issued the order in a singsong voice: “Okaaaaay, Chrissiiieeeee, you worked so haaaaaard, come get your priiiiiize.”
I leaned toward her ass, panting like an aging, asthmatic Airedale in August, causing Karl to chortle.
“Damn, sissy, calm down,” he said. “It’s just an ass in blue jeans.”
“Hey, I resent that!” Rebecca shook her rump left to right, inches from my face. “Chrissie thinks my butt is real special. Even if it is covered up in blue jeans. Don’t you, baba?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Martin.”
She giggled. “Go ahead, Chrissie. A nice little kiss.”
Sobbing, I pecked my lips against her butt.
“See?” She tittered. “What do you say, Chrissie?”
“T-thank you, Mrs. Martin.”
“Thank Karl, too, Chrissie. It was his idea.”
“T-Thank you, sir.”
Karl yawned. “You’re welcome, Chrissie. You got your little treat — now, get the fuck out of here.”
Rebecca guffawed. “Oh, you are so mean to Chrissie.” She turned to me and pouted. “I’m sorry my husband is such a meanie. Thank you for working so hard for us, Chrissie. The garage looks great. You’re such a sweetie. You really are. We’ll see you later, okay?”
I managed to squeak out a good-bye before scurrying away.
Monday morning followed a familiar pattern, with me rolling out of bed with bloodshot eyes and a bloodshot penis, jumping in the shower, dragging my sorry, sissy ass to work and squirming all day against the lace beneath my suit.
Just before the markets closed, I got a text from Rebecca:
“the garage looks grate the house is find dont come tonite will let u know when u can come over again”
It was the worst possible news. I drove home and spent yet another sleepless night, although instead of beating my meat I lay in bed clutching my pillow, panicked that Rebecca and her husband might be tiring of my sissy service.
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Tuesday was blues-day. The market took a shit and the NYSE and NASDAQ joined me in the toilet.
Through bleary eyes, I ignored the tumbling stock tables and stared at my cell phone, writhing in my chair, bothered by my uncomfortable underthings. I’d again donned frillies beneath my suit hoping that Rebecca might summon me to clean after work, but her text never came, and by the close of trading all I had were diminished portfolios and a sore ass from panties crawling up my crack.
Wednesday was worse. The Dow rebounded but I sank further into the red with still no word from my beloved Rebecca. I felt like a fool for yet again wearing women’s underwear and stockings, shifting in my seat all day, afraid to use the bathroom lest anyone see my girlies, only to spend another sad, lonely night at home pining for the woman who’d dumped me for a taller, more masculine man — a genuine hunk, not a five-foot-six crossdressing sissy.
Thursday? I thought I was going to die. Just before the market closed, I composed a text:
“Is there anything I can do for you tonight, Mrs. Martin?”
After rereading the message, I tweaked it:
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Martin. Is there anything I can do for you?”
I scanned the text again and made a crucial fix:
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Martin. Is there anything I can do for you or Mr. Martin?”
Wallowing in shame and anxiety, I sat at my desk trying to conjure the nerve to send a text message begging my ex-girlfriend and her husband to exploit me.
In the end, I didn’t push send. I drove home and cried instead.
All night, I cursed myself for having confessed my sissy tendencies to Rebecca while we were dating. Would we have still been together if I’d kept my mouth shut? We’d been talking about moving in together, although I’d been doing most of the talking. She was so beautiful and out of my league, I figured I’d lose her if I didn’t get some kind of commitment, so I tried to entice her by inviting her to move out of her crappy one-room apartment and into my luxury condo, rent-free. But my money had never impressed Rebecca.
Neither had my prowess in bed; she seemed bored whenever I’d hump her like a dinky rabbit before filling my condom in two minutes or less. She was so sexy I couldn’t help my quick orgasms. She was too nice to say anything, but I only had to catch her watching TV so many times while I was pounding away with my four-incher to realize she wasn’t into it. She preferred having me lick her, and most of our sex life consisted of me worshiping her pussy with the lights out.
As I lay in bed trying to recall every contour of Princess Rebecca’s sacred vagina, I got a perverse sexual thrill knowing that it was now off-limits to me — and then I’d think about the pig who had complete access to her body, and my horniness would turn to sadness and I’d start sobbing again.
After I got up and showered Friday morning, in a flash of defiance I actually wiggled into a pair of Fruit of the Looms before donning my suit. I figured if Rebecca didn’t want me to serve her, then, goddamn it, why should I spend all day at work feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable wearing lacy underthings?
I made it as far as the bedroom door; then, with a defeated, lovesick sigh, I turned around and changed into a pink teddy with matching panties and stockings.
When my phone beeped just after lunch, I shrieked, prompting a nearby broker to ask if I was okay.
“I’m fine,” I said, scanning the text message with a grin:
“need you to go shoping get 4 steaks case of budwiser n 5th of jack and chips regular and bbq 2 bags of doritoes bring rite after work”
After catching my breath and pondering several potential replies, I went with: “Will do, Mrs. Martin. I’ll leave as soon as work is over. Thank you.”
I wanted to type so much more. I wanted to bare my soul and thank her for the opportunity to lay eyes once again on her unbridled beauty … to gaze once again upon the consecrated derriere against which my lowly, effeminate lips had recently been so honored to peck … I wanted to tell her that I’d never stopped loving her … never stopped thinking about her … that she’d shattered my sissy heart when she dumped me — and that I would literally do anything to avoid losing her a second time.
Hunched over my desk at work, I must’ve re-read her grammatically incorrect text message a thousand times as I muddled through a whirlwind day of rollercoasting tech stocks. After the final bell, I hustled to the store and purchased the best cuts of steak available along with all the other items on Rebecca’s list. She and Karl clearly were prepping for some kind of weekend party, and I briefly considered buying two cases of beer and two-fifths of Jack Daniels to impress my princess. In the end, though, I decided to follow her orders to the letter.
With a mixture of delight and trepidation, I arrived on South Sycamore Street and noticed a strange hooptie in the driveway. As I made my way up the front walk carrying the grocery bags on wobbly legs, Karl bellowed from behind the house: “Back here.”
I lugged the groceries to the backyard, where Karl, Rebecca and another couple their age sat on lawn chairs near a portable BBQ cooker. The unknown man had a tray in his lap and was rolling a joint.
“There’s my lil’ baba,” Rebecca slurred when I came into sight, and I could tell she’d already been drinking.
I was unsure what to do as I stood there with my arms full of grocery bags, shifting from foot to foot in front of the two reclining, smirking couples.
Karl let me squirm for a few seconds before finally nodding toward a table near the grill. “Set that shit over there.”
I obeyed and then again teetered before the foursome.
Karl grinned. “Okay, that’s all. You can go.”
When I didn’t move — because I was numbed by grief and embarrassment — he pointed toward the street. “Go. Get the fuck out of here.”
The girls giggled and the other guy leered. Tears formed in my eyes.
Rebecca tilted her head and pouted. “Aw, poor baba, I’m sorry he’s so mean to you all the time. I keep telling him to stop, but he’s just a big asshole, ain’t he?”
Karl blew his wife a kiss. “Yeah, I know I’m an asshole — but at least I’m your asshole, honey!”
Rebecca crinkled her nose at her husband before turning back to me. “Never mind what Mr. Asshole says. Thank you for buying all that for us. You’re such a little doll. I really do appreciate it. Now, we’re gonna hang out for a while, so we’ll see you later, okay?”
“Um … okay. Uh … t-thanks.” I almost called her “Mrs. Martin,” but decided to spare myself further shame.
Before turning to go, I stole one last glance; my Rebecca looked so utterly beautiful in the setting sun’s glow, it made my heart ache.
The last thing I heard as I plodded out of the backyard was the other woman snicker and say, “damn, you weren’t kidding, were you? Your own little bitch.”
They all laughed. Including my Rebecca.
I bawled in bed all night.
By Saturday morning there were no more tears left to cry. I stayed glued to my mattress, unable to get up even to pee.
Then, just after ten, my phone dinged and gloom turned to glee:
“house needs clean come now”
