A tiny black skirt hugs her tight rump; black garters set off her milky

thighs; seamed stockings veil her long legs like smoke. Her sheer silk

blouse is buttoned demurely to her throat, but her rosy nipples are

stiff beneath it; her hair is pulled back primly, but her lips are lush and

blood red. If heaven had a librarian, this is what she would look like.

Had I spotted this creature in a bar, I would gladly have bought her

champagne all night for just a single glance from the sultry eyes

behind those black eyeglasses. But I am not in a bar; I am in a faux

schoolroom in a professional house of domination I have never visited

before, wearing voluminous pink panties festooned with ribbons and

bows, with rows of ruffles across their sagging seat. And just in case

that doesn't make me look quite foolish enough, I have a towering

conical cap on my head that reads DUNCE in block letters.

And "dunce" is a gentle term for what I feel like as I write on the

blackboard, the chalk screeching in my fumbling fingers. My mistress

has written my assignment across the top: 10 THINGS SISSIES DO.

I can feel my face reddening as I scratch words out across the board:

SISSIES WEAR PANTIES, I have written, and SISSIES WEAR PINK. I am

just finishing SISSIES WEAR GIRLS' CLOTHES when Mistress pinches my

earlobe painfully.

"What does it say up there, shithead?" she asks, and slaps me hard

across the face. "The assignment isn't what sissies wear. It's what

sissies do."

"I'm sorry, Mistress." I raise the chalk and write SISSIES again, but the

scent of her hair stupefies me, her beauty blurs my vision. All I can

think of is how near she is and how I long to touch her. Glancing down

anxiously, I note that my panties are poking out in front, and an

embarrassing stain is soaking through the shiny satin.

Mistress sighs. "I guess some people just have to learn the hard way."

She seizes my earlobe again and hauls me to the old-fashioned

teacher's desk next to the chalkboard. "Bend across, naughty girl," she

orders. "Get that little fanny up nice and high."

I lie across the desk and grasp its far edge. My grip on it tightens as I

see her reach past the paddles, wooden-backed hairbrushes and

yardstick hanging from a rack on the wall for a thin, wicked-looking

cane. My heart hammers against the hard wood. I have been spanked,

paddled, even flogged, but never caned. 

She slashes the cane through the air experimentally and leers as I

flinch. Then she steps behind me, tugs my panties to my knees and

caresses my bare buttocks tenderly.

In spite of my terror, my cock stiffens against the desk. "Now," she

says, withdrawing her soft hand. "Let's see just how big a sissy you

really are."

I hear the swish of the cane a split-second before the lightning strikes.

The pain is a searing shockwave that starts just below each of my

asscheeks and leaps instantly to every point of my body -- my toes, my

fingertips, each hair on my head. Despite my manly determination to

remain still, I gasp. I try to ride the wave of pain, let it flow out of me,

but before it can even register it fully, comprehend it in all its electric

agony, the second stroke comes.

All my breath goes out of me and I clutch the desk for dear life. This

time the cane has struck higher, slicing straight across the middle of

both cheeks. My right leg rises, as if trying to kick the pain away of me,

but the pain just keeps coming, deluging me, drowning me. I shimmy

my ass, trying to shake it away, but it's no use; I can taste the pain,

and the sound I make as I try to spit it out is like the pitiful sob of a lost

child.

In response I hear my mistress snicker: "Now THIS is what sissies do." I

shiver as a fingertip touches my ass and delicately traces the welt I can

already feel rising there. "Sissies squirm and snivel like little girls.

When things get a little tough, they break down and cry, boo hoo hoo.

Are you going to cry for me, little faggot?"

"I'm not --" I protest, and that's when the third stroke tears into me. It

lands neatly between the first two, harder than either of them, and

obliterates my last shred of dignity. "Gahhh!" I hear myself cry as my

head flies up, knocking off the dunce cap. "Shit!"

Mistress seizes a fistful of my hair. "Oh, now that won't do," she hisses

in my ear. "Sissies don't curse like nasty boys. We're going to have to

do something about that."

She crosses to the far side of the desk and opens a drawer. I am so

relieved to see her lay the cane down on the desk that I don't even

care that she has taken out a pair of handcuffs, a collar and leash, and

a strap with a large ring in its center.

Sashaying back behind me, she snaps the cuffs snugly on my wrists

and pulls me upright by my hair. "Here's something for that nasty

mouth," she says, shoving the ring into it.

My teeth come down on leather, but I can feel metal underneath: a

ring gag. She buckles it tightly at the back of my neck, and now I can't

close my mouth; I can only goggle at her as she fastens the broad

leather collar uncomfortably tight around my throat and clips the

leash to the ring in front.

Drawing the leash across her shoulder, she gives me a smirk and turns

toward the door of the schoolroom. "Come, Missy. We're going for a

little walk."

She leads me out the door. My still-lowered panties promptly slide to

my ankles, reducing my gait to a mincing shuffle as we proceed past

other doors. My ass still feels like it has three strands of barbed wire

wrapped across it, but the sight of Mistress's magnificent rump slowly

undulating as she leads me lazily down the hall is so alluring that my

erection is back bigger than ever, bobbling absurdly as I stumble

wretchedly behind her.

A door to the right is ajar, and through it I can see an obese man in an

abbreviated French maid outfit bound to a St. Andrews cross, a red

ball-gag strapped in this mouth. A mistress in a leather corset and

thigh high boots is tugging at his nipple clamps.

My mistress pauses and grins at her. "Having fun? I am."

The mistress in leather looks out at me and laughs. "Oh my God. This I

have to see." She puts her lips to the fat man's ear. "Don't go away,"

she tells him in the singsong voice of a mommy cajoling a 2-year-old to

eat their strained carrots.

The fat slave groans as she carelessly lets the weights attached to his

nipple clamps drop from her hand and slinks to the door like a

supermodel down a runway. Now I recognize her; from a distance she

had tossed me a lewd glance when I first worked up the nerve to come

in off the street and request this session. In fact, I had asked for her,

but was told she was already booked.

Ooze drips from my erection as I see what I have missed; a sleek, sly-

eyed minx sheathed in shiny leather, with a spectacular figure that the

corset only accentuates. For the first time in my life I am standing

between two perfect 10s, and I am less than zero, a negative number.

"What is this, Take a Sissy to Work Day?" the leather mistress asks

mine, deviltry dancing in her eyes. "Where are all the real men

today?"

"Not here," my mistress assures her. "This one you barely touch and

he screams like a little bitch. Don't you, girly boy?"

She seizes my balls and squeezes. Through the ring gag I emit a squeal

that sounds like it's coming from some kind of vermin caught in a trap.

The leather mistress chortles. "I see what you mean. Shame, really.

When he first came in he actually looked kind of cute. I was even

thinking he might be the kind of guy I'd do a switch session with, be on

the bottom for a change." Her eyes twinkle as they appraise my aching

cock. "He's not even badly hung."

She comes heartbreakingly close to me and tickles the underside of

my cock ever so gently with a black-lacquered fingernail. "Too bad,"

she sighs, gazing into my eyes as I gawk at her helplessly, open jaws

aching. "We might have had some funÉ if you weren't such a sissy

faggot." And with that she clears her throat and spits straight through

the ring gag into my mouth.

The two women hoot with laughter, shoving each other in glee as her

spittle slides down my throat. Their delight only makes them more

beautiful; I almost feel proud for having brought them such joy. My

mistress whispers in the other's ear like a schoolgirl with a secret, and

the leather minx laughs even harder, nodding emphatically over her

shoulder as she reenters the room with the St. Andrew's cross.

The door shuts behind her, and it's only seconds before I hear a smack

and a muffled shriek behind it. My Mistress jerks my leash for my

attention. "Ooh, does that sound scary, sissy pants? Well, it's a stroll in

the park compared to what I have planned for you. Let's go."

She drags me through a doorway across the hall. I am anticipating

medieval instruments of torment, so I am surprised to find myself in

an ordinary bathroom facing a sink beneath a large mirror. In it I see

stockings and lacy lingerie draped about, and every available shelf and

surface crowded with cosmetics, combs, brushes, shampoos, creams,

soaps and feminine hygiene products. I have entered the private

province of women, where they are free to be just as slovenly as men.

Beneath the lip of the sink hang none-too-fresh-looking hand towels

and washcloths. My Mistress threads my leash through the towel rack

and pulls, forcing me to bend down awkwardly over the sink, then

winds it through several times.

Raising my eyes to the mirror, I look into the face of a fool with

startled eyes and a wide black ring wedged in his mouth. I clench my

buttocks, certain I am about to be spanked, probably with a

convenient hairbrush. So I am puzzled when my mistress loosens my

gag so that it dangles around my neck and starts water running in the

sink.

Taking a washcloth from the rack I am tethered to, she soaks it under

the running tap and starts rubbing it vigorously with a yellow bar of

soap. The light dawns. "Oh no. Please, ma'am--"

She pinches my nose firmly and holds the soapy washcloth to my lips.

"Open."

"Please--" I repeat through gritted teeth.

"Open wide and say 'ah,' you little pantywaist. Are you going to make

me fetch the cane?"

Shuddering, I open my lips. Mistress thrusts the washcloth deep in my

mouth and starts kneading my tongue with it. Relentless, she jabs the

cloth into every corner of my mouth, coating my palate with it,

scouring every tooth.

I splutter and gag as caustic foam fills my mouth. "Mmm, isn't that

yummy, panty boy?" my Mistress jeers. "Want some more? Well,

you're going to get it." Pulling the washcloth out, she commands:

"Stick that tongue out. All the way, wimp."

Miserably I hold out my tongue, which in the mirror I can see has gone

from pink to a bilious ocher. Mistress rubs the bar of soap directly on

it. Lather comes up and I feel tears welling in my eyes as I struggle not

to withdraw my tongue. Not only is the taste horrible, but the soap

has a pebbly texture; there's some kind of abrasive in it.

And now Mistress is pistoning the bar straight in and out of my mouth.

"Suck it, bitch. Pretend it's a nice juicy cock."

Suppressing my desperate need to retch, I slobber and slurp

obediently. Finally Mistress relents, and my vision clears enough for

me to see cascades of yellow froth running out my mouth. "Please

may I rinse--" is all I manage to get out before the ring is strapped back

between my teeth.

Mistress untethers my leash and pulls me upright by my hair. "Now we

have to make you nice and pretty," she says cheerfully. Choosing a

lipstick from a nearby shelf, she paints a thick O in lurid red over my

gaping lips. She applies the lipstick to my nipples and writes across my

chest with it. In the mirror I read the large letters backwards: SLUT.

Mistress pulls my panties back up to my waist, smoothing the satin

and primping the bows and ruffles with such elaborate care that my

erection returns and resumes trying to jab a hole through them.

"There, don't you look pretty?" she declares.

I don't; in the mirror I look like a tranny clown out of some obscene

nightmare. But there's no time to admire myself; my leash is taut and

Mistress is hauling me out the door.

It's a lot easier to walk now without the panties hobbling my ankles,

but I almost wish they were still there to slow me down. My fondest

wish is that I'll get to return to the classroom, put my nice dunce cap

back on and finish my lesson; I think I could get an A plus now. But we

seem to be headed somewhere else, and the prospect fills me with

dread and excitement.

Sure enough, Mistress leads me straight back to the leather minx's

chamber and opens the door. Inside are enough torture devices to

revive the Spanish Inquisition, but the only one I'm noticing is the St.

Andrew's cross to which the fat man in the maid outfit is bound.

The leather mistress has tucked his little skirt and apron up, the better

to target his exposed genitals with the flogger she's wielding. He

squeals and writhes as she strikes with pitiless accuracy. I feel for him;

my own balls are still throbbing from my own mistress's death grip.

The leather mistress stops beating her victim long enough to smirk in

his face. "Look, we have visitors! See, I told you if you were a good

little piggy I'd have a special treat for you, and here she is: your new

girlfriend! Isn't she cute?" She flicks the flogger across his genitals

again. "Isn't she?"

The fat man's eyes meet mine for the first time, and a current of

tangled emotions flows between us in a flash: disgust and desire,

sympathy and shame. Hastily he nods, sweat pouring down his face to

mingle with the drool escaping his gag: "Eff, Miffweff."

My own mistress shoves me to the floor in front of him. "On your

knees, slut. Time to learn there's more to being a sissy than dressing

up in Mommy's panties."

She winds the free end of my leash adroitly around the base of the fat

man's scrotum, forcing my face to within just a few inches of his

bulging purple balls. Beneath his sagging belly his little wiener dangles

before my nose, and his man musk fills my nostrils. He is

uncircumcised.

The leather minx hands her flogger to my mistress with a grin. Her

hand freed, she reaches down to fondle the fat man expertly, and in

no time a Cyclops eye emerges to stare me in the face.

Hypnotized, I am caught off-guard when the flogger lands painfully

across the seat of my panties. "Get busy, whore," my mistress

commands. "You said you wanted to rinse out your mouth. Well,

here's your chance."

"And don't forget to swallow every drop like a good little cocksucker,"

the leather minx adds in her singsong mommy voice.

And so my lesson is complete; at last I truly know what sissies do.

Leaning forward, I proffer my soap-slimed tongue through the ring

gag, as if for some unholy Eucharist.