sissyslave


This is a BDSM story – male on male, later male on sissy – with some f***ed feminisation.
Sorry it takes so long to get to the fem part! Part two will represent the pay off.

Sissyslave

By NancyBerlin

Martin is, or rather, used to be, a totally straight looking guy, not so tall – 173cm – with a
somewhat stocky build, but lean and lightly muscled from his years of
swimming. You could say he had something of a rugby player's
build. He was not so young – 47 – but he kept himself in good shape and
although gay there was nothing effeminate about him. All in all he was in no way
what could be considered a suitable candidate for being feminised.

Nor did he ever fantasise about this. He was always happy in
his male body. If anything he resisted the slightest suggestion of
femininity in his mind set. At university he had refused to go to a vicars
and tarts party because no way was he going to put on women's clothes,
even for a laugh. He knew with his body shape that he would look ridiculous
and totally unconvincing. He was mocked for this – the idea was after all
about making everyone look ridiculous but he stubbornly refused, denouncing it
as 'stupid'. 

Some of his friends actually looked pretty good as women –
but they tended to be slim in build.
Martin’s fantasies, however, were of another kind altogether. He may have seemed
a very conventional man but for all his outwardly straight appearance, he
harboured some pretty strange fantasies – of being dominated, f***ed to
serve a man and be his slave. And this is something he explored
increasingly throughout his 20s. But in truth he was a pretty bad slave – he
was manipulative and controlling, albeit doing it from the bottom. He
found myriad excuses and devices and strategies and plans to get his own
way so that the poor, so-called Master became his enabler, he facilitator.
Most ended up dancing to his tune.

Occasionally he would find a man who would make use of the fact that he was
bound and gagged to push him further than he wanted to go. He would always
bad mouth him afterwards and accuse him of having f***ed him into non-
consensual acts – and then he would walk out and 'blacklist' the poor guy as
someone who had overstepped the mark. 

So he became more and more of a pushy, controlling bottom.
But as he got older it became more and more difficult to find play
partners – older guys tend to shift to being dominant, more out of
necessity than actual desire – but it does mean that they can get their
hands on willing young, attractive slave boys. Those Masters who did not
mind older slaves tended to get annoyed with Martin’s tightly controlled limits
so that, one way and another, he was seeing much less action than in the
past.

He toyed with the idea of becoming a Top himself -but it was simply not in
his nature and he had enjoyed so many years of getting his own way as
'slave' that he was unwilling to give it up. 

Of course he used the internet for wank relief, lying like mad and depicting himself as y
ears younger than he actually was. And of course in the safety of cyberland, he could
become a slave to the extent that he had never been able to achieve in
life. Whips don't hurt on the internet! Nor do brandings, piercings,
nipple torture and all the other painful activities that were so much
part of his fantasy life but so glaringly empty from his life experience.

Then he met Tom online. Well he was different from the outset. He had
no time for all the trappings of cyber sex – exaggerated respect for the
Master, pitching into sex talk at the drop of a hat, or indeed anything
that might titillate and excite. Instead he gently probed Martin as to his
experience. And Martin found himself dropping his usual bragging of unexperienced
experiences and, little by little, becoming more truthful. He was
discovering one of the dangers of the internet – that it can lead to a
feeling of intimacy, encouraged by the fact that one is at home, typing
information to a stranger that one has not met and that one, usually,
never will meet. 

Nor was this a one-way 'truth' session as Tom was open to
any questions Martin might have for him. Tom controlled the conversation,
however, and chose when it ended, leaving Martin with a strange feeling of
exhilaration and frustration.
In his mind he began to formulate the idea that this was the man who might
really break through all his resistance and lead him to a kind of promised
land where his fantasies might be realised more fully than they had been
in the past -and yet without damaging him, physically or psychologically.
He could barely wait for Tom to be online so that he could continue the
chat. He wanted to know more about Tom because he sensed that here was
someone intelligent, sophisticated, someone possibly worthy of the
respect that he had always acted for men he privately considered idiots.
And so it continued – Tom would come online most days, around seven in the
evening, and they would chat for thirty minutes or so. Martin found himself
becoming increasingly open with him and began to detail his fears, his
hopes, his expectations. 

Then, finally, after some weeks of this, Tom asked
him if he would be willing to meet – in a public place, one to one,
without fetish gear involved, just two guys getting together for a drink
or a coffee.

Well, this had never happened to Martin before! If he did ever get to the
stage of arranging a meeting it was always done within the confines of a
strictly detailed scenario, involving the clothes he was to wear, the time
of arrival; there would be the open door, he would enter, stand in the
hall and strip and put on whatever he had been detailed to wear or what he
had provided. In this way his first sight of the 'Master' had always been
'in role'.
On those occasions his heart would be beating wildly and his mind already
racing with plans to manipulate and find a way out of any situation he
found too dangerous. 

When he thought about it he realised that he had never
ever fully trusted someone and that without that, all his efforts at
finding his slave nature were doomed. Now here he had an opportunity for a
considered assessment.
Of course they had exchanged photographs so he knew what Tom probably looked
like – probably because there had been occasions when the photographs
were those of the 'Master' taken some years ago. He had been guilty of
that himself. Misrepresentation – often really just wishful thinking, that
one still looked like the best photos of five years ago – is another
common malpractice in internet connections! But during the period of their
chats Martin had become increasingly honest, slowly bringing his pictures up to
date. Somehow he trusted that Tom had done the same.
And he had. 

The man sitting opposite him in the quiet corner of an
ordinary bar was indeed the man he had seen in the photographs. Tall, in
his fifties and in reasonable shape, hair slightly thinning, going grey,
there was no doubt that this was the man he had seen in the photos. But
what really impressed Martin was his manner – calm where Martin was nervous, and
with the quiet confidence of someone who was used to being in control.
The most notable feature was his eyes, which were blue and penetrating.
Immediately Martin knew that this man was dominant in a very natural way –
there was nothing theatrical about the way he assumed control – of
ordering drinks, of taking charge of the conversation.
Martin talked too much, as a way of masking his nervousness though if anything it
drew attention to that. Tom let him prattle on until
he ran out of steam; then looking him in the eye he said, 'You are afraid
of giving up control – you want to hang on to it as a protection. And I
think you are afraid of that because you are afraid of what you will find
deep down within yourself.' 

Somehow Martin felt that this man could read him – that he would know when Martin
was being manipulative, when he wanted things to go his way and only to the
extent he allowed. After that, Martin opened up more, talking of his fear of
pain, of releasing the wilder fantasies that were the usual accompaniment
for his masturbation sessions. And the upshot of this was that he agreed to
go to him – for a weekend and not just a few hours – and soon.
Yes, he was still nervous and afraid, more so than with other Masters
because he felt that this one could not be fooled, that all his ploys would
prove useless with him. This made him vacillate in his decision to meet
him. One day he couldn't wait for the appointed day to come, another he
would spend time thinking of excuses to postpone. But deep down he knew
that he had been given a real opportunity to find out just where fantasy
ended for him and reality began.

So he presented himself at Tom’s house as directed, on time to the second
(though he had not insisted on this) and dressed in his usual casual
clothes of jeans, t-shirt, trainers. 

He carried a small bag with basic toiletries – and that was all. Tom opened the door,
also casually dressed and Martin, with his heart beating crazily, went in. The next hour
was spent putting him at his ease, getting him to relax. Martin knew Tom liked
fetish gear – he had seen the pictures of him in leather and rubber and,
if anything, he was disappointed that he was not wearing something along
this line. But he remembered that Tom had told him that the gear for him was
an outer show of inner intentions; that he liked to dominate and control
with or without fetish gear. Martin felt a little cheated all the same, that
there were not these outer signs to help prepare him for what lay ahead.
Then the time came to start. 
Martin removed his clothes, folded them neatly and put them to one side.
Always looking deeply into his eyes, Tom fastened a leather collar around
his neck, attached a chain to it and led him out of the living room, down
the corridor and into a room that was bare of furniture but which had
various restraints and manacles attached to the walls and a number of
pulleys and metal bars hanging from the ceiling.
He led him to the centre of the room, lowered a pulley and attached his
wrists to restraints hanging from a metal bar. Then he pulled it back up
again so that Martin’s arms were extended above his head; not uncomfortably so –
he was still standing flat on the ground. Then Tom 'inspected' him, running
his hands over his body, feeling the muscles. Martin’s cock was standing to
attention but this he ignored while he felt the rest of him. 

Moving behind him, Tom continued his inspection, then placed a hand over his mouth and
gently pulled his head back on to his shoulder. Ordinarily Martin would have
resisted at this point but he found himself folding back into him in a
wholly trusting way.

'Good,' Tom said and then left the room.

Heart pumping, Martin waited for him to return. Minutes passed, and his arms
began to ache a little. His mind kicked in with all sorts of sudden fears
– was this the point at which Tom’s hitherto gentle manner would drop and Martin
would find himself at the mercy of a psychopath? He squirmed a little but
noticed also that his cock was still hard. But then he remembered the
security measures Tom had f***ed him to take before coming to him – phoning
him on his fixed line at a time of his choice to verify the number, his
name, address, and his photograph sealed in an envelope on his desk. He
had asked Martin to give it to a friend with the instructions to open it and
contact the police if Martin had not returned home and phoned by midnight on
Sunday. Even Martin felt that this was going too far and he had not, in any case, wanted
to take any of his friends into this confidence).
These memories had the effect of calming him somewhat and then Tom entered
the room, now dressed in a leather uniform – shirt, breeches, tall boots,
Sam Browne belt – and appearing very much the masculine figure of so many
of Martin’s fantasies. He also carried a bag, which he placed on the floor
beside him. Unzipping it, he extracted a bit gag.

'Open your mouth,' he said, quietly. Martin did so and he placed it in his
mouth and fastened it behind his head. Then a padded leather blindfold was
placed around his eyes, comfortable but excluding all light. Martin tried to
protest a little, swaying back and forth in his restraints but Tom’s hand
came up to steady him – 'Easy, easy,' he muttered. Martin felt his breath close
to him, steady and regular, and he calmed again.
Now Tom’s mouth was at his ear and Martin heard him almost whisper into it,
'Your real problem is your ego and until I strip you of that you will never be
a slave. Isn't that true?' Martin thought about it for a few seconds, then
slowly nodded.

'I am going to strip you of that, little by little, but you must relax.
Anything I do to you for the present will hurt you in no way. I am not
going to beat you or whip you. But I am going to change you, to transform
you. It is what you need, more than anything else. OK?'
Again Martin nodded. He felt reassured, safe. Pain had always been a turn-off
for him. He relaxed.

Now that he could not see, his hearing leapt to his defence. Suddenly it was
sharper – his mind was still active, trying to imagine what lay ahead of
him. He thought of chains being locked on to him, of wearing leather or
rubber, and again his cock rose higher. 

His other senses were heightened too. He seemed to feel Tom’s hands on him in a way
he had not felt touch before. He sniffed the air to see if he could
anticipate what material he might feel against his body – but he recognised
nothing. 

Tom had moved behind me and Martin felt something soft encircling his
waist and upper body. He racked his brain as to what this could possibly be
– and then he felt a tightening. He could hear the sound of something being
pulled tighter and tighter around him. He felt straps dangling from the
bottom. And then it hit him – it was a corset! Tom was putting him in a
woman's corset. It was then Martin rebelled, waving back and forth on his
restraints, even kicking out, struggling, resisting, trying to shout out
behind his gag. What he was saying was, 'Stop this, you bastard! This is
not one of my fantasies. We never spoke about anything like this. We
never discussed this. This is a complete turn-off for me,' and more along
those lines. But he need not have bothered. Tom could not hear a word he
said, nor did he stop in the slightest. He just went on pulling and
pulling the damned thing tighter. Next Martin felt his arms being pulled
higher in the air so that now he was on the tips of his toes. The
tightening resumed and he had to stop his inarticulate shouting as he began
to gasp for breath. His waist was being pulled in, in and Martin knew it was
smaller, much smaller though I could not see it. Finally Tom tied it off
and Martin sensed him move away from him.

He felt his face redden, not only from the tightness of the corset, but
also from the humiliation he felt. He was embarrassed. He was glad he could
not see himself. But he did calm down. There was nothing he could do. He
tried to rationalise this – maybe it was not what he thought it was after all but
some kind of bondage device – it felt like that – and at the thought of
that his cock rose again. He heard Tom chuckle – but he was soon to be
disabused of this notion.

Next Martin felt him in front of him, pushing something on to his feet. Again
not leather or rubber, something softer than that – silk! A stocking! A
woman's stocking. He felt it being pulled up his leg and then fastened to
the straps that dangled down. The same thing was repeated on the other
leg. Yet there was something so sensual about the feel of this on his
legs. Again his cock hardened further. His mind was in a whirl. He was
definitely being feminised and yet it was turning him on.
Back at his feet again, Tom raised one foot and squeezed it into a shoe. As
Martin came to rest again he knew that it was a shoe with an impossibly high
heel. He was no longer on tiptoe but resting on a high, spiked heel. The
same happened to the other foot and then he felt his arms begin to drop
until they were at his side. The relief from the strain was wonderful but
again rebellion reared its head as he tried to shake the shoes off and his
hands felt for the laces on the corset; but they had been tied behind him
and he could not get at them. 

Still he flailed about, trying to shed the shoes – but a strap had been buckled round
his ankle and he could not shake them off.

He started crying – he felt so humiliated and helpless – but his cock was
still hard. And then he felt Tom removing the blindfold and he could see
that he was tightly bound into a black, satin corset, that his waist had
been reduced by at least three inches, that his legs were encased in black
silk stockings and his feet felt crippled in the patent leather, black
spiked heel shoes. He tottered a little on these heels but managed to
remain upright. 

And then Tom was in front of him holding a full-length mirror so that Martin
could really see the changes he had effected. This was so recognisably
Martin Davison, but changed so much too. His physical form was
transformed – his waist looked impossibly narrow and the corset had the
effect of pushing his pectorals upwards so that they began to look like
burgeoning breasts. But his head and face were unchanged, his hair was in
the same masculine cut. More than anything else he felt bewildered. What
strange kink was this of his? Martin was angry and glared at him. He felt he
had been cheated.

Tom looked at him, a slight smile playing on his lips.
'Have you ever, in your deepest fantasies, seen yourself as a French
Maid?' he asked. Martin shook his head vehemently, again trying to shout behind the gag.
Tom laughed. At that moment Martin felt a sudden hatred for this man.

And Tom had by no means finished 'transforming' him.