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2006-09-21

SissyslavenancyByButchcdI am a totally straight looking guy, not so tall - 173 cms, - with a somewhat stocky build, but lean and lightly muscled from my years of swimming. I guess you could say I have something of a rugby player's build. I am not so young - 47 - but I keep myself in good shape and although gay there is nothing effeminate about me. I state all this to show that I am in no way what could be considered a suitable candidate for being feminised. And I must say nor did I ever fantasise about this. I was always happy in my male body. If anything I resisted the slightest suggestion of femininity in my mind set. At university I had refused to go to a vicars and tarts party because no way was I going to put on women's clothes, even for a laugh. I knew with my body shape that I would look ridiculous and totally unconvincing. I was mocked for this - the idea was after all about making us look ridiculous but I stubbornly refused, denouncing it as 'stupid'. Some of my friends actually looked pretty good as women - but they tended to be slim in build. Now I must confess that, for all my outwardly straight appearance, I harboured some pretty strange fantasies - of being dominated, forced to serve a man and be his slave. And this is something I explored increasingly throughout my 20s. But in truth I was a pretty bad slave - I was manipulative and controlling, albeit doing it from the bottom. I found myriad excuses and devices and strategies and plans to get my own way so that the poor, so-called Master became my enabler, my facilitator. He ended up dancing to my tune.

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  Occasionally I would find a man who would make use of the fact that I was bound and gagged to push me further than I wanted to go. I would always bad mouth him afterwards and accuse him of having forced me into non-consensual acts - and then I would walk out and 'blacklist' him as someone who had overstepped the mark. So I became more and more of a pushy, controlling bottom. But as I got older it became more and more difficult to find play partners - older guys tend to shift to being dominant, more out of necessity than actual desire - but it does mean that they can get their hands on willing young, attractive slave boys. Those Masters who did not mind older slaves tended to get annoyed with my tightly controlled limits so that, one way and another, I was seeing much less action than in the past. I toyed with the idea of becoming a Top myself - but it was simply not in my nature and I had enjoyed so many years of getting my own way as 'slave' that I was unwilling to give it up. Of course I used the internet for wank relief, lying like mad and depicting myself as years younger than I actually was. And of course in the safety of cyberland I could become a slave to the extent that I had never been able to achieve in life. Whips don't hurt on the internet! Nor do brandings, piercings, nipple torture and all the other painful activities that were so much part of my fantasy life but so glaringly empty from my life experience. Then I met Gabriel online. Well he was different from the outset. He had no time for all the trappings of cyber sex - exaggerated respect for the Master, pitching into sex talk at the drop of a hat, or indeed anything that might titillate and excite. Instead he gently probed me as to my experience and I found myself dropping my usual bragging of unexperienced experiences and, little by little, becoming more truthful. I was discovering one of the dangers of the internet - that it can lead to a feeling of intimacy, encouraged by the fact that one is at home, typing information to a stranger that one has not met and that one, usually, never will meet. Nor was this a one-way 'truth' session as he was open to any questions I might have for him.

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   He controlled the conversation, however, and chose when it ended, leaving me with a strange feeling of exhilaration and frustration. In my mind I began to formulate the idea that this was the man who might really break through all my resistance and lead me to a kind of promised land where my fantasies might be realised more fully than they had been in the past - and yet without damaging me, physically or psychologically. I could barely wait for him to be online so that we could continue the chat. I wanted to know more about him because I sensed that here was someone intelligent, sophisticated, someone possibly worthy of the respect that I had always acted for men I privately considered idiots. And so it continued - he would come online most days, around seven in the evening, and we would chat for thirty minutes or so. I found myself becoming increasingly open with him and began to detail my fears, my hopes, my expectations. Then, finally, after some weeks of this, he asked me if I would be willing to meet him - in a public place, one to one, without fetish gear involved, just two guys getting together for a drink or a coffee. Well, this had never happened to me before! If I did ever get to the stage of arranging a meeting it was always done within the confines of a strictly detailed scenario, involving the clothes I was to wear, the time of arrival; there would be the open door, I would enter, stand in the hall and strip and put on whatever I had been detailed to wear or what he had provided. In this way my first sight of the 'Master' had always been 'in role' - for both of us. On those occasions my heart would be beating wildly and my mind already racing with plans to manipulate and find a way out of any situation I found too dangerous. When I thought about it I realised that I had never ever fully trusted someone and that without that, all my efforts at finding my slave nature were doomed. Now here I had an opportunity for a considered assessment. Of course we had exchanged photographs so I knew what he probably looked like - probably because there had been occasions when the photographs were those of the 'Master' taken some years ago. I had been guilty of that myself. Misrepresentation - often really just wishful thinking, that one still looked like the best photos of five years ago - is another common malpractice in internet connections! But during the period of our chats I had become increasingly honest, slowly bringing my pictures up to date.

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   Somehow I trusted that he had done the same. And he had. The man sitting opposite me in the quiet corner of an ordinary bar was indeed the man I had seen in the photographs. Tall, in his fifties and in reasonable shape, hair slightly thinning, going grey, there was no doubt that this was the man I had seen in the photos. But what really impressed me was his manner - calm where I was nervous, and with the quiet confidence of someone who was used to being in control. The most notable feature was his eyes, which were blue and penetrating. Immediately I knew that this man was dominant in a very natural way - there was nothing theatrical about the way he assumed control - of ordering drinks, of taking charge of the conversation. I talked too much - I guess as a way of masking my nervousness though I suppose if anything it drew attention to that. He let me prattle on until I ran out of steam; then looking me in the eye he said, 'You are afraid of giving up control - you want to hang on to it as a protection. And I think you are afraid of that because you are afraid of what you will find deep down within yourself. ' Somehow I felt that this man could read me - that he would know when I was being manipulative, when I wanted things to go my way and only to the extent I allowed. After that, I opened up more, talking of my fear of pain, of releasing the wilder fantasies that were the usual accompaniment for my masturbation sessions. And the upshot of this was that I agreed to go to him - for a weekend and not just a few hours - and soon. Yes, I was still nervous and afraid, more so than with other Masters because I felt that this one could not be fooled, that all my ploys would prove useless with him. This made me vacillate in my decision to meet him.

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   One day I couldn't wait for the appointed day to come, another I would spend time thinking of excuses to postpone. But deep down I knew that I had been given a real opportunity to find out just where fantasy ended for me and reality began. So I presented myself at his house as directed, on time to the second (though he had not insisted on this) and dressed in my usual casual clothes of jeans, t-shirt, trainers. I carried a small bag with basic toiletries - and that was all. He opened the door, also casually dressed and I went in. The next hour was spent putting me at my ease, getting me to relax. I knew he liked fetish gear - I had seen the pictures of him in leather and rubber and, if anything, I was disappointed that he was not wearing something along this line. But I remembered that he had told me that the gear for him was an outer show of inner intentions; that he liked to dominate and control with or without fetish gear. I felt a little cheated all the same, that there were not these outer signs to help prepare me for what lay ahead. Then the time came to start. I removed my clothes, folded them neatly and put them to one side.   Always looking deeply into my eyes, he fastened a leather collar around my neck, attached a chain to it and led me out of the living room, down the corridor and into a room that was bare of furniture but which had various restraints and manacles attached to the walls and a number of pulleys and metal bars hanging from the ceiling. He led me to the centre of the room, lowered a pulley and attached my wrists to restraints hanging from a metal bar. Then he pulled it back up again so that my arms were extended above my head; not uncomfortably so - I was still standing flat on the ground. Then he 'inspected' me, running his hands over my body, feeling the muscles.

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   My cock was standing to attention but this he ignored while he felt the rest of me. Moving behind me, he continued his inspection, then placed a hand over my mouth and gently pulled my head back on to his shoulder. Ordinarily I would have resisted at this point but I found myself folding back into him in a wholly trusting way. 'Good. ' He said and then left the room. Heart pumping, I waited for him to return. Minutes passed, and my arms began to ache a little. My mind kicked in with all sorts of sudden fears - was this the point at which his hitherto gentle manner would drop and I would find myself at the mercy of a psychopath? I squirmed a little but noticed also that my cock was still hard. But then I remembered the security measures he had forced me to take before coming to him - phoning him on his fixed line at a time of my choice to verify the number, his name, address, and his photograph sealed in an envelope on my desk (he had asked me to give it to a friend with the instructions to open it and contact the police if I had returned home and phoned by midnight on Sunday but even I felt that this was going too far and I had not wanted to take any of my friends into this confidence). These memories had the effect of calming me somewhat and then he entered the room, now dressed in a leather uniform - shirt, breeches, tall boots, Sam Browne belt - and appearing very much the masculine figure of so many of my fantasies. He also carried a bag, which he placed on the floor beside him. Unzipping it, he extracted a bit gag. 'Open your mouth,' he said, quietly. I did so and he placed it in my mouth and fastened it behind my head. Then a padded leather blindfold was placed around my eyes, comfortable but excluding all light.

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   I tried to protest a little, swaying back and forth in my restraints but his hand came up to steady me - 'Easy, easy,' he muttered. I felt his breath close to me, steady and regular, and I calmed again. Now his mouth was at my ear and I heard him almost whisper into it, 'Your real problem is your ego and until I strip you of that you will never be a slave. Isn't that true?' I thought about it for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. 'I am going to strip you of that, little by little, but you must relax. Anything I do to you for the present will hurt you in no way. I am not going to beat you or whip you. But I am going to change you, to transform you. It is what you need, more than anything else. OK?' Again I nodded. I felt reassured, safe. Pain had always been a turn-off for me. I relaxed. Now that I could not see my hearing leapt to my defence. Suddenly it was sharper - my mind was still active, trying to imagine what lay ahead of me.

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   I thought of chains being locked on to me, of wearing leather or rubber, and again my cock rose higher. My other senses were heightened too. I seemed to feel his hands on me in a way I had not felt touch before. I sniffed the air to see if I could anticipate what material I might feel against my body - but I recognised nothing. He had moved behind me and I felt something soft encircling my waist and upper body. I racked my brain as to what this could possibly be - and then I felt a tightening. I could hear the sound of something being pulled tighter and tighter around me. I felt straps dangling from the bottom. And then it hit me - it was a corset. He was putting me in a woman's corset. It was then I rebelled, waving back and forth on my restraints, even kicking out, struggling, resisting, trying to shout out behind my gag. What I was saying was, 'Stop this, you bastard! This is not one of my fantasies. We never spoke about anything like this. We never discussed this. This is a complete turn-off for me,' and more along those lines.

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   But I need not have bothered. He could not hear a word I said, nor did he stop in the slightest. He just went on pulling and pulling the damned thing tighter.   Next I felt my arms being pulled higher in the air so that now I was on the tips of my toes. The tightening resumed and I had to stop my inarticulate shouting as I began to gasp for breath. My waist was being pulled in, in and I knew it was smaller, much smaller though I could not see it. Finally he tied it off and I sensed him move away from me. I felt my face redden, not only from the tightness of the corset, but also from the humiliation I felt. I was embarrassed. I was glad I could not see myself. But I did calm down. There was nothing I could do. I tried to rationalise this - maybe it was not what I thought after all but some kind of bondage device - it felt like that - and at the thought of that my cock rose again. I heard him chuckle - but I was soon to be disabused of this notion. Next I felt him in front of me, pushing something on to my feet.

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   Again not leather or rubber, something softer than that - silk! A stocking! A woman's stocking.   I felt it being pulled up my leg and then fastened to the straps that dangled down. The same thing was repeated on the other leg. Yet there was something so sensual about the feel of this on my legs. Again my cock hardened further. My mind was in a whirl. I was definitely being feminised and yet it was turning me on. Back at my feet again he raised one foot and squeezed it into a shoe. As I came to rest again I knew that it was a shoe with an impossibly high heel. I was no longer on tiptoe but resting on a high, spiked heel. The same happened to the other foot and then I felt my arms begin to drop until they were at my side. The relief from the strain was wonderful but again rebellion reared its head as I tried to shake the shoes of and my hands felt for the laces on the corset; but they had been tied behind me and I could not get at them. Still I flailed about, trying to shed the shoes - but a strap had been buckled round my ankle and I could not shake them off. I started crying - I felt so humiliated and helpless - but my cock was still hard. And then I felt him removing the blindfold and I could see that I was tightly bound into a black, satin corset, that my waist had been reduced by at least three inches, that my legs were encased in black silk stocking and my feet felt crippled in the patent leather, black spiked heel shoes.

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   I tottered a little on these heels but managed to remain upright. And then he was in front of me holding a full-length mirror so that I could really see the changes he had effected. This was so recognisably ME, Peter Davison, but changed so much too. My physical form was transformed - my waist looked impossibly narrow and the corset had the effect of pushing my pectorals upwards so that they began to look like burgeoning breasts. But my head and face were unchanged, my hair was in the same masculine cut. More than anything else I felt bewildered. What strange kink was this of his? I was angry and glared at him. I felt he had cheated me. He looked at me, a slight smile playing on his lips. 'Have you ever, in your deepest fantasies, ever seen yourself as a French Maid?' he asked. I shook my head vehemently, again trying to shout behind the gag. He laughed. At that moment I felt I hated him. And he had by no means finished 'transforming' me. To be continued.

 

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