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Sissy Story by slave G

Sweet Sissy Dreams

I imagine, standing in a beautifully arranged room, prettily decorated in pinks and white, with soft
hued lighting. I have just showered, and am standing, naked but for a soft satin pink dressing gown
that covers my modesty and some fluffy satin pink mules on my feet.

The two ladies, both in their twenties and breathtakingly lovely, guide me to the dressing table,
where the gown is removed. My hairless body exposed, one of them picks up a small box. Opening
it, she removes a chrome chastity device, that is slowly and teasingly slipped onto me. First as my
balls sit through the ring, then as the connecting hood slides over my limp shaft, and meets the ring.
Her manicured nails the object of my fascination as she takes a small combination padlock, orders
me to look away and I hear the five numbers clicking and turning as my penis is locked up.

The girls smile, exchange knowing glances as this isn’t the first time they’ve done this, nor will it be
the last. How else could a sissy be but chaste? A small satin bag covers my newly locked cock, the
pink cord is pulled and knotted and the little bag contains my now useless cock, fit only for toilet use.

I sit down at the dressing table and the second lady begins applying make-up to my face. Concealer,
foundation, powder, blusher, pink lipstick, false eyelashes, mascara liberally applied. A blonde wig,
with loose curls, is put on me, then brushed and shaped to suit my face. The naked girl staring out
from the mirror has me begin to leave the male side well behind.

Next, I am fitted into some underwear; a pink bra, with matching suspender belt and panties,
shapewear is added to pull my middle in. White stockings sheath my legs. The tug on the suspender
belt a reminder of the very feminine clothing I am wearing. Breastforms are added, good quality,
of the kind given to ladies who’ve had a mastectomy and my bra is tightened to hold them nicely
in place. I’m a 40E all off a sudden. A very flouncy petticoat is added, it’s a short one and sits up
around my waist. In soft pink, I know that I’m going to look like a powder-puff of frills and satin. A
sissy princess.

The girls look and check me over, smile, and flick my hair. A 50s style pink polka dot dress is brought
out for me to put on. It’s pulled over me, and down, over my now more girly figure and sits high up
on me, my breasts pushing the soft fabric out, the peter pan collar, puffed sleeves and lace edged
trim accentuating the highly effeminate style of the dress.

The petticoat pushes the hem of the dress up, the frills and lace are a delight to wear, my stockinged
legs feel light and the stockings cling tightly to my legs. The final touches are added; pink lace top
ankle socks, pale pink heels, a soft angora cream cardigan, necklace, pearl-drop earrings…the image
is complete.

I look in the mirror at the person standing there. There’s a thrill mixed up with incomprehension.
It’s me, but not me, it’s someone else who’s been reaching out for years, decades and for whom will
only ever really exist, in my mind’s eye anyway, trapped out of body, in a mirror.

The eroticism of the moment isn’t lost. These are clothes that I find sexy on a woman, so it falls that
they feel nice on me. I stir in my cage, but the chrome blocks any possibility of arousal – rightly so.

The moment is heightened by the two women there who are watching me, pulling things into line,
keeping my shape. Stroking my legs and cooing over me.

Later, I was allowed to walk around the house, go into the garden. I was encouraged to adopt a
more feminine style of walking, swaying my hips a little, my hands at right angles to my hips. I could
feel my breasts move and sway as I walked. The sensation was incredible. Every part of me felt
the difference in the clothing and makeup I wore; it touched through to my core and was deeply
fetishistic. I didn’t just like looking like this, I needed to look like this.

My sissy mannerisms became much more pronounced, my walking a little more exaggerated, I
carried a tiny pink handbag in my right hand. Too small for me to put my hand through, I carried it
between my thumb, forefinger and middle finger, high up so my my hand hung limply with this bag

at just below my shoulder height. The girls loved this and laughed heartily at my expense. My face
was red with embarrassment and mixed in with a heightening arousal. The humiliation at being
dressed like this (but not real humiliation, it was very much a wanted humiliation – to be seen in this
clothing, to be seen as I am), somewhere between being a man and a woman.

The sensations of the clothing however are deeply sexual and highly erotic. Materials rub against
the skin, soft, light brushes of temptation. The look is one thing, the sissy style another, but the
need to rub overrides it all. Unfortunately, my cage prevented any manner of self-pleasure and
rightly so. I didn’t need to orgasm, but at other times, this would be a problem and I’d have to learn
to like it!

Overall, dressed up to the nines, as I want to be, and very much the sissy. I stepped forward,
feeling the skirt swish and swirl, my sissy status was here to stay. Not the type of thing I would
publicly admit to, but sometimes we owe it to ourselves to recognise latent needs that deserve to
be brought out, not necessarily in the open, but if only to ourselves and to accept ourselves, sissy or
otherwise, as we are, happy in our own skin.

I am called to attend the kitchen and assist in preparing the evening meal; I step lightly, happy and
comfortable in my new role, from the amber glow of the sunset into the basking warmth of the