Between work, obligations, and being a newly discovered sissy slut, the rest of my first week as a sissy husband was pretty much upside down. Sami . . . I mean Mistress, required that I wear panties, bra, garter and stockings under my business suit everyday to work. She also insisted that I dress in front of her each morning. She seemed to enjoy teasing me about what a "feminine little sissy" I was, and how cute my "little clitty looked in panties." She also got a kick out of slapping my panty-covered bottom and musing out loud about how "fuckable my little sissy ass" was.
My days at work were quite stressful too, not only because of the increased likelihood of detection as a result of wearing a bra, but also because Mistress found it so much fun to call on the phone and tease me. I would answer and without so much as a "Hello," she would whisper, "Tell me, Bitch — are your panties wet?"
I naturally reacted, "Sami, I'm at work."
"I know where you are, Bitch! And unless you want everyone to know what a cock-loving little slut you are, you'll call me by my proper name . . . I'm waiting . . ."
Totally flushed and red, I quietly complied, "I'm sorry Mistress. Please forgive me."
"So, are your fucking panties wet?"
"No, Mistress," I answered softly.
"No, what . . . Bitch?"
Oh my god, she just had to push it. My heart raced at the thought of somebody hearing, but I knew I would continue to comply, regardless of the danger. "No, Mistress, my panties aren’t wet," I whispered.
"Now, that's a good sissy . . . but are you sure your panties are dry?"
"We both know how hard your little clitty gets when you wear panties. Is it hard now sissy?"
"I asked you a question . . ."
"No Mistress," I replied, as I looked around to see who might be near.
"You're starting to piss me off Bitch! You know what kind of answer I want, so stop fucking around!" Sami was losing patience with me, but my work environment in a cubicle was very open to eavesdropping, and she knew it. She kept me continuously caught between fear and arousal.
"I'm sorry Mistress," speaking as quietly as possible. My heart raced as I continued, "No, my clitty isn't hard."
"Now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?"
So went each day that week. Mistress Samantha called every day, often several times. She teased me every time she called and always made me say things that increased my chances of detection. She made me unzip my pants to check for wetness and pull my pants cuffs up to expose my stockings, anything she could think of to tease, disrupt and embarrass me. Her favorite tease was to taunt, "Poor little sissy, sitting at work with nothing to suck on. Does sissy need some cock?" She would make me suck on my finger and tell her how I craved cock.
At the beginning of the week, I was scared to death that somebody was going to find out that I was a panty clad fairy, but as the days went by, I was more scared of how I had totally submitted to the situation. Sure, I was still afraid of being caught, but I didn't even think twice any longer about my wife, now Mistress, knowing what a wannabe cocksucker I was. She knew, so why try to hide it? At any rate, whether I was wet or not when she called, I always was when she hung up.
If those days were arousingly stressful, the evenings that week were nearly unbearable. I was to get home before Mistress each day and be prepared for her arrival. My work clothes were to be shed, my makeup applied, the house straightened, and I was to meet her at the door, fully dressed with a drink in my hand. Fortunately, Mistress worked long days, so this wasn't a terrible problem.
So, I rushed home after work and was quick to get dolled up every day. I had collected a nice wardrobe, and it was actually fun picking out what I'd wear each evening. I had never really had the chance to dress day after day before.
Since I love short, very tight, skirts — that's where I always began. Each day, I pulled my trousers off and replaced them with a clingy skirt that just barely covered the tops of my stockings. I'd then fill my d-cup bra out with heavy silicone breasts and find a matching blouse. Once I slipped my feet into some strappy heels, at least 4 inch, I'd become totally enraptured with my own femininity.
It's hard to explain to anyone who isn't a sissy, just how intoxicating the feel of femininity can be. From the snug encasement of silk stockings on smooth shaven legs, to the sensual sliding of a tight skirt over satin panties on nice round ass, feminine is sexy! The feeling of heavy breasts, the sight of shapely calves in delicate high heels, the soft caress of air blowing under your skirt, the light click of heels on a hardwood floor . . . only another sissy can really appreciate the thrill. And only another sissy knows the arousal of painting your nails, or understands how lipstick makes you want to scream that you're a "horney slut!" If you're a sissy, then you know the shortness of breath that comes from swishing to the mirror and beholding the slut who looks back. Yes, we're a twisted lot, but that's because it takes a sissy to appreciate the divinity of femininity.
Looking like a slut but feeling like a princess, I met Mistress Samantha at the door as ordered each and every day that week. I listened for her car, and when I heard her pull up, I minced across the hardwood, clickity swish, my skirt too tight to move my legs far, and opened the door. Dressed, made up and perfumed, I reached out with her martini, "Your drink Mistress."
I had become her slave overnight, her special sissy slave. I hardly resisted at all anymore. After all, what was the use? There was no more pretending. She was a beautiful, sexy woman, with round firm breasts, long shapely legs, a tiny waist and the best fucking ass on the planet. She was drop dead gorgeous in a sweat suit, and she was my superior. I gladly took my place as a limp wristed submissive, a little candy ass sissy. I was thankful that Mistress had not kicked me out on the street and told everyone what a perverted little sissy faggot I was. I was happy to please her and do her bidding.
Owning a slave was one thing, but Mistress wasn't a masochist, so she brought dinner home with her each night. She would later have me learn some cooking, but it didn’t start that way. That first week, I put things away, did the plating and served Mistress at the dining table. Then I was dismissed to the kitchen and allowed to eat. Of course, I wasn't allowed much time and would be called back into service. More drinks, clear the table, wash, clean up and then to my knees to massage Mistress' feet.
Every evening that week ended with my oral worship of Mistress' divine femininity. A willing slave, I gladly spent the time on my stocking covered knees with my face buried in my wife's wet pussy. She drove me wild with her teases and taunts, always stressing what a perverted little cunt I was, and how I could never satisfy her with my tiny little clitty. But even in that context of pathetic sissified uselessness, I found pride in the fact that I could bring Mistress to multiple orgasms. I was thrilled to listen to her moan and scream, and I reveled in the taste of her juices and the crushing pressure of her legs clamped around my head.
But as the week drew to a close, I had not been allowed another orgasm, in spite of being brought close several times. I knew that I couldn't go on that way for much longer, and I hoped that Mistress would allow my release sometime soon. I hoped, but the truth is that Mistress had totally ignored my stimulation all week and had warned me not to touch myself, forbidding me to cum without her permission.
I did as I was told. I was her sissy bitch, and I served at her disposal. I didn’t question my Mistress.