Sissy Hypno – Summoned to the Sissy Farm
The weird thing about The Sissy Farm is that from the moment I conceived the idea, I never questioned the name or tried to think of another. It was The Sissy Farm from day one.
Looking back now, I think the first reason was a memory connected with my father.
My father was not the classic wife beater. He was bohemian – a musician who founded an influential death metal band at the beginning of this century. After the band broke up he was much in demand as a producer and collaborator, and fortunately for my mother and I, he was often abroad. He bled like a stuck pig when I stabbed him.
Thankfully, I grew up in Switzerland, a country with a long tradition of progressive psychiatry and it was easy for my mother’s lawyer to show that I was defending her, and that my father was a sadist. A quick look at some of his photos in Kerrang magazine displaying the satanic salute of metal fans was enough to persuade the local chief of police. And if it wasn’t, I knew – even at the age of 14 – that all men are pigs and are easy to play, so I looked at him with doe eyes and his little piggy eyes desired me and all was good.
Anyway, I digress… the point is that amongst the various cycles of his addiction to booze and drugs, my father would constantly talk about going to a ‘health farm’. From a young age, therefore, I had the notion that a ‘farm’ was this place where debauched men went to clean up. Of course, being naturally inclined to subversion, I had to flip the idea on its head with my own farm: The Sissy Farm would be a place where men went to be debauched. There would be a ‘clean’ element, however, because the filthy sissies at said farm would come clean and stop fooling themselves that they are men, and start behaving like the cum-guzzling whores they are.
Another reason I called it The Sissy Farm was its association with the mass harvesting of livestock and meat. I imagined lines of sissies in chains, waiting to be milked, and rows of sissies learning to pleasure men with their mouths. The idea fascinated me that instead of doing what I normally do – subjugate and train sissies one by one – I could train them en-masse and not only would this be more economically productive but more efficient because when sissies are herded together they further lose their identity and become even more submissive (if such a thing is possible for that most servile species.) If you doubt this…let’s ask a sissy. What would you prefer? To be alone with your Mistress being spit roasted one on one, or in a line of sissies on all fours, each one being taken by a different Mistress? You see, you favour the latter, don’t you? And now I will tell you why. Day to day, you may be the CEO of some fancy tech company in Silicon Valley or a college professor, but when it comes to your sexuality you are a dumb sissy whore, and like all dumb animals you like to be herded and shepherded and dominated by your owners.
Finally, continuing the analogy with species and livestock, The Sissy Farm is so called because it is a place of animal passion. No, don’t worry, while it might amuse me and my Angels to put you in a pig pen, we won’t. I mean… it’s a place where you experience a biological ecstasy you have never known before. It’s a spectacular site: sometimes, as my Angels get to work in the dungeon, I step back and look at that row of sissies all dressed in their maids’ uniforms, hands and feet manacled to fix them on all fours. Each one is having his anal cherry popped – puffy face red and sweaty and gurning like a pig under a sun lamp. As each sissy achieves prostate orgasm (sissy load spilling out of chastity device) he looks like he’s in intense pain…but he’s not…he’s in a state of animal ecstasy.
Anyway, you get my point: The Sissy Farm is perfectly named.
Now for my second point: in six months’ time you will be summoned to said farm.
Before we go any further, I want to clarify something to the sissy currently reading this page; yes, you…jism-junkie! I want to clarify that what you’re reading is not like the filthy fantasies you consume online. This is real life! The Sissy Farm is in its third year, has been wildly successful, and now you are being summoned to attend – arrival date, six months from now.
And it’s at this point, sissy, that I smile…because I know that while you like the idea of The Sissy Farm, you have no intention of obeying my summons. This really makes me fucking laugh – because what you fail to understand is that you are my property and I’ve ordered you to the farm and you will go.
You may be asking yourself when this contract was made…at what point did the transaction take place in which you became my property…my chattel…my possession? And I will tell you…
You see, unless you’re doing some kind of research into sissy psychology, you are a submissive: the fact you bought this book proves it. However, one thing you may not know as a sissy-cum-whore living in the closet, is that dominants and submissives live according to laws. It’s a bit like wizard’s law and Muggle law in Harry Potter – we have our own law and it states the following…
If a Mistress or master of recognised status comes across a submissive with no master or Mistress, then he/she can claim said sissy for him/herself.
Unless you can prove otherwise, you are a sissy without a Mistress or master, therefore I claim you as my chattel. You now belong to me. You are my slave.
Before I explain what this involves, let me just say that being my property will not disrupt your life. If you are a father or a CEO of the aforementioned tech company or a college professor, you will go on being all those things (in fact, I will make you a better father, CEO or professor, because slaves take the religion of their master and mine is one of constant self-improvement.) So, your life will carry on…but the difference is that you will be my chattel, and that means that if your Mistress summons you…you will come. So when you receive my e-mail telling you there’s a maid’s uniform in The Sissy Farm with your name on it, you will take a week off work…and you will come.
And you know that you will come because this is what you need. You are a sissy and you need to be herded and branded…you need to join my hive and to feed on your queen…you need to be milked, and to milk men with your slut’s mouth…you need to swarm with other sissies and to be uniformed and instructed. You need to be owned.
Curiously, I learned from a young age that certain animals – sissies, for example – need to be owned.
I was 16 and I ran away. My mother had died from a rare form of hepatitis (years of heroin addiction will do that to you) so I was farmed out to a rich, conservative aunt in London, who had an obsession with toy dogs and was constantly accompanied by her Chihuahua. She was like me in every way…except I was young, and that was my crime. To escape her, I stole out of a hotel room in Delhi and caught a train to South East Asia. I left her the following note…
And your little dog, too.
I loved that rhyme, it kept me going all the way through Cambodia and down into Vietnam.
Anyway, I digress… I ended up on the Hinako islands in Indonesia where I spent my days learning Kuntao martial arts. The weird thing is that the most magical part of the experience was not the tropical island or the sea or the surfer boys…but the dogs. The island was full of strays…and I learned something poignant: that a dog without a master is a lost soul. Those strays would wander the island all day, hanging around areas of human population desperate for someone to take them in. What was strange to a free spirit like me was that they actively sought servitude. They wanted to be owned.
In my experience, as a dominant who has broken in and trained over 100 sissies, the sissy is like a lost dog. The sissy may be ferocious and beautiful and capable of all sorts of tricks, but it will never feel complete until it has a Mistress. That is you, and you know it is you.
When you come to me, I will dress you like a streetwalker. I will dress you in thigh high PVC boots that lace all the way to the top. I will dress you in a PVC mini skirt that shows your stockings and the clips of your garter belt. The garter belt will be attached to a slutty, whore’s corset… not a beautiful, tasteful one, but the sort a streetwalker wears. Then I will make you parade yourself like a common street whore and put you on all fours and fuck you like a street whore, and then I’ll get one of my bulls to fuck you like a street whore. And while he toys with your anus and you wriggle about in your manacles, I’m going to go round the front, and in between spanking your face with my strap on, I’m going to crouch down… and I’m going to ask you if you like being my chattel and there’s only two words you’re going to bleat…
So let’s cut the bullshit. We both know what you are: a sissy whore. Now you are my sissy whore, so let’s do a simple exercise to get the ball rolling. I’m going to issue you with my first command. You’re gonna get your phone out and pull up your e-mail and write your Mistress a one-word message to the following address…
Interestingly, this immediately forces us to think about our relationship. We both have to worry about the other sending inappropriate e-mails. For my part I worry about you thinking I’m some kind of titillation online, and that you’ll send me comments that are some pathetic attempt at erotic interaction (which will obviously fail). For your part, you have to worry that maybe I’m trying to sell titillation online and once I have your e-mail address I’ll start sending you nonsense to buy (I find this idea insulting, but as you don’t know me yet I’ll forgive you.)
Wow, so early in our relationship… and already we have complications.
Well, sissy, I think there is one, simple solution: trust.
Trust – after ‘servitude’ – is the most important quality of a dominant-submissive relationship. So, why don’t you just live a little dangerously? Why don’t we trust each other with our email addresses? You trust me never to send you dodgy emails and I’ll trust that you won’t start sending me inappropriate nonsense. Everything clear? Good! So do it…send me that one word which lets me know that I am now your Mistress and you are my supplicant.
That is the word. It is a power word in my hive. Send it to me, sissy…and I will write back…
And it will be done. That’s all I need for you to become my chattel and to enter a life that shines. It will shine of latex and creamy dollops of jism and sparkling maid’s uniforms and gleaming black helmets. But most important of all, you will no longer be that most lost of humans: a sissy without a Mistress.