It is a feeling that follows a sissy around all of its life.
From the moment of its first, ‘innocent’ experiments with stockings and panties and high heels, through its first nervous, trembling steps into public in women’s clothing; from its first climax into a pair of pantyhose, thro ugh the first time another man pushes his organ between your painted lips, to that first soul-destroying time your lie facedown in tears as a man gushes his manly juices into to your loins - the shame is always there.
Even now, 6 years after you moved in with a man to be his live-in sissy, the shame is still there.
You’ve been wearing women’s clothes exclusively now, for 10 years.
The neighbours have seen you go down the street and at the local mall in your pantyhose, high-heels and mini-skirt. They’ve seen you hang out the washing and take out the trash in your frilly pink maids uniform and lace-top stockings.
Your family and former friends know and have seen the pathetic, limp-wristed, emasculated little fairy you have become.
Even at work, where you try to present some unconvincing, half-hearted image of masculinity - the know they’re women’s slacks and women’s loafers you’re wearing; the darts and the general cut of your plain business shirt ensure no one is deluded that into thinking it’s a men’s shirt; the 40 denier pantyhose encasing your exposed ankles could not be mistaken for men’s socks in anyone’s imagination.
And of course then there are the arched eyebrows; the long, manicured, clear polished nails; the outline of your lace-trimmed silk chemise, that is sometimes visible under your shirt, and the unmistakably feminine fragrance of your ‘aftershave’.
You’re not kidding anyone.
You know it.
They now it.
You are tolerated because you are good at your job and your employer prides himself on being an equal opportunity employer.
But the shame is there. Every moment of every day. As normal as the others try to behave in your presence, you are always aware of the effort they are having to make to treat you ‘normally’.
You are aware of the stares and whispers they think you don’t notice.
You’ve been working there for years - five days a week. But the shame is still there -every minute of every day.
Even now, as you stand I front if the man you’ve served for 6 years, the shame is still there.
You’ve washed and ironed his clothes; you’ve cooked his meals; done his cleaning and his errands; you’ve served his friends and guests;you’ve crawled, abjectly, on your knees before him in shackles and hoods and other degrading apparel and devices.
As you stand before him in high-heels; white stockings with diminutive little bows on them; a frilly pink sissy dress with ruffle petticoats and lacy pink gloves; ultra feminine pink high heels; your face panted effeminately - even though you have stood before him like this most nights over the eight years, you are still a roused by the girlie feel of what you are wear, but also the intense, ever present, red-faced shame.
As you feel the remnants of your earlier delusions of manhood stir, impotently in their permanent steel chastity prison you realise that the shame has become a source of arousal in itself, over the years.
Despite having done this so many times before, you stand there meekly submissive, red-faced with shame.
You know that very shortly you will be on your stockinged knees, as he forces his throbbing manhood between your lips. You know that, after that you will be on face-down on the floor, your hands cuffed behind you, as he brutally pumps his juices into your body, like he has done almost every night for eight years.
You know you will, as always be left lying there, probably in tears, filled with a feeling of total emasculation, worthlessness, self-loathing and degradation.
You know also that it will fill you with an intense arousal that you know can never be satisfied, as the only climaxes you have experienced in years are those he has inside you.
It maybe routine, by now, but the shame never goes away.
It never abates.
You’ve learned to live with it, but it doesn’t go away.