TEST: to check if you are ready for your first assignement you must watch the first two minutes of this video.
If your mouth starts watering at that juicy thick cock and you feel jealousy as she unzips his bulging flies then this assignment is perfect for you. Remember: no fiddling with your sissy clit is allowed. Any fiddling will mean you are kicked off this assignement.
…you have been selected to carry out this assignmenet. Your mistress has found you work as a secretary. You’ll be meeting your (strict) boss within the hour. But which style would best choose your personality?
Now it’s time for this week’s true story about the first sissy who completed this assignment.
A successful lawyer comes home to find her unemployed boyfriend masturbating to sissy porn. She devizes a brutal 3 part punishment.
1. He is chastised and made to work as her maid in the morning.
2. He is feminized and sent to work as a transgender secretary in the afternoon.
3. He is mercilessly cuckolded at night and must clean up her lover’s cum.
1. Caught in the act.
It’s common in most stories for the moral to come at the end of the tale, but just in case you’re pressed for time I’ll give it to you now: it’s called the no exceptions rule.
The no exceptions rule is that when home alone, a naughty sissy should always lock the front door from inside, just in case his spouse or girlfriend comes home unexpectedly and catches him doing naughty things. And here’s the important part: no exceptions. It doesn’t matter if she’s at work, or her mother’s, or she passed away last Friday in a tragic accident… you lock the door no matter what. That way, while she may get suspicious you left your keys in the door, you’ve got time to cease whatever naughty thing you’re doing and think up an excuse.
Just like all sissies, I knew the main body of the rule – lock your door from the inside – but unfortunately, I’d never heard of the no exceptions part, and that was my fatal error: an exception. My girlfriend called me from the airport and as far as I was concerned that was as good as on the plane, so I didn’t lock the door. I then went to a secret hiding place and took out the instruments of my pleasure: a satin chemise and a black, veiny dildo.
Even when I lock the door, I rarely do what I did that afternoon: hooked my laptop up to our enormous widescreen in the lounge. Beaming out sissy porn across an eighty-five-inch screen doesn’t sit well with me but as she was on her way to a legal conference in Newcastle, I could allow myself an exception. I put on the satin nightie, hooked up my laptop and started watching a movie in which a sissy maid is forced to suck a well hung stud. Cleverly wedging the dildo between two cushions I adopted the canine position, but quickly went from canine to equestrian as I started riding said dildo like it was the charge of the light brigade – which is an appropriate analogy as I was riding to my doom.
That was one thirty PM.
At one thirty-five I moved the sofa because doggy position meant I was facing straight ahead with the television on my right. I was getting a crick. What happened next is a little hazy because the trauma seems to have caused some kind of memory blackout, but I do remember those immortal words: “yes mistress, I’m a little sissy cock sucker.”
Why did I even say that? Why did I have to repeat what was said in the movie? It was a symptom of my descent into porn addiction that I had taken to mouthing things out loud. This time, however, was different…
…I had an audience.
The next thing I remember was a flash. A camera flash. I looked towards its source and there my girlfriend was with her phone in hand, standing in the doorway with a flight bag at her feet. And there I was – on all fours, riding an 8-inch black dildo with eighty-five inches of sissy porn in front of me, wearing a satin chemise.
The fact she took a photo is an excellent way to introduce you to my girlfriend, Elle Mesen. She was a smart, 28-year-old corporate lawyer whose ruthlessness in defence of clients was gaining her notoriety and respect at her firm. Well accustomed to people disputing the facts, she had the habit of photographing anything controversial – restaurant bills, accidents, damaged goods, anything and everything. In this case, it was absolutely typical of her – no matter how shocked she was – to immediately get it on camera. Now it was on camera, she got down to the business of being shocked.
“What the fuck?” she screamed.
I froze on the outside while exploding on the inside. I then bucked and the dildo slipped out as I reached for the remote control. Unfortunately, my shaking hands couldn’t operate it and I accidentally turned the volume up, allowing the dominatrix’s voice to fill the room and inform us she would be ‘riding sissy ass all the way to the OK Corral.’
That was when Elle sprang into action. She leapt over and grabbed the control, pushing me back on the sofa. “No, don’t switch it off,” she ordered. “I want to see the filth you watch while I’m at work.”
At five foot ten, Elle was taller than me and probably stronger. Although she was beautiful and feminine, she was a fitness fanatic and liked to keep her muscles toned. That’s why, when she grabbed the remote control and pushed me onto the sofa, I lost my footing and fell back onto the cushions. I then tried to remove the nightie but she turned round and glared at me.
“Don’t even think about it!” Elle had the stare of a master sculptor: she could turn living beings into stone. Half Swiss and half French, you knew that the Swiss part was definitely German because her eyes were aqua blue and she was a natural blonde. The Aryan symmetry of her features was offset by her French ancestors – who had bestowed on her luscious, full lips and high cheekbones.
Sitting there obediently, I knew there was no point in arguing or apologizing, so I cast my eyes downwards as the protagonist on screen got a face full of cum and was pronounced a ‘cumslut’. Thankfully it ended, and she switched the TV off just before Cuckold Heaven – Husband Hell started on my playlist. Elle stared at the blank screen as if the movie was still playing. Only last night we’d sat on the same sofa, watching a rerun of Back to the Future. What I would have given for a DeLorean to take me back in time twenty minutes! Although usually adept at excuses, I was utterly stumped. No words formed in my mind.
Elle, on the other hand, was forming plenty of words.
“Do you know what the worst thing is? I mean…can you conceive what it’s like…” She reached over and lifted up the pink satin nightie, “…to have a boyfriend with a micropenis? Can you imagine what it’s like to forego the pleasure of a real cock because you love your boyfriend…and then find out that he isn’t really into you. He’s some kind of pervert?”
As she let go of the satin, it fell back on top of my deflated member. It wasn’t a micropenis, something I knew for sure because I’d already investigated the topic. A micropenis is a medical phenomenon and all I had was an extremely small willy. Unaroused it was approximately an inch, while erect – on a good day – three inches. If it had some girth it would have been better for womankind, but it was equally lacking in width as it was in length. One ex-girlfriend described it as ‘a baby carrot.’ The terrifying thing is that Elle had never mentioned it before so I figured she wasn’t into penetration. Apparently, though, she was!
But that was Elle all over. If you were on her team she loved you and was incredibly loyal. If you got on the wrong side of her, though, God help you.
God help me.
“Four years of my life! A boyfriend with a little skinny body and a tiny cock and all because I thought he was mine…that he worshipped me…that he never even fantasized about other women…let alone…this, this, this…filth. Now I know why you’re so girlie; people commented on it before but I just dismissed it.” She paused for a moment and stated thinking, perhaps imagining what her friends would say when they found out her boyfriend was a…she wouldn’t even know the word for it. It was probably this realization that made her explode.
“Go to your room. I need to think!”
“My room,” I mumbled, as to the best of my knowledge I didn’t have a room. It was ‘our room’.
“Yes, your room,” she bellowed. “The small one…next to mine. You don’t think you’ll ever be sharing my bed again, do you? Now go, and if you even think about disobeying me then you better get ready for that photo to go viral by bedtime – hashtag loser ex-boyfriend.”