The walk of shame of the sissy

Written by , on 2016-03-24, genre trans

As you struggle to mince in your strappy high heels down the busy street, each step a cascading rustle of nylons on petticoats, limp wrists trembling in humiliation and your cheeks burning red but barely visible under your makeup as some group of giggling teen girls, barely able to contain themselves, puts you on Instagram (#omg #wtf #sissy!).
You try increasing your pace to hurry away from them but only succeed in adding a stumble to your step that causes your bubble butt, short fussy dress and jeweled butt plug to bounce even more, which further ring the tiny bells sewn strategically around your hemline, drawing even more attention to the ridiculous sight you present.
A bobby pin falls loose and a pink curl falls into your eyes. Despite the small crowd of tourists that stand around to snap your picture you stop, grabbing another pin from your purse to fix the stray. Then out comes the mini bottle of hairspray. The crisis averted, you're on your way again when a teenager skating by makes a nasty remark that cuts to your core. As you never know when I will text and require an immediate selfie proving that your makeup is appropriately garish BUT still done to over- perfection, you flap a hand in front of your face, fanning your eyes to dry the tears that begin to form so that you don't ruin your mascara.
...The mascara you bought at Sephora, along with the rest of your makeup, that you had to ask the smirking salesgirl to apply for you. She shook her head, suppressing giggles under professional decorum as, your girly voice faltering, you ask her to really slather it on because that's "how your boyfriend likes it."
It's the same expression the girl at the nail salon had while she applied the bright pink color you requested to your long acrylic nail extensions while the other patrons in sweats and jeans laughed behind their magazines.
Back in the present, you're in this state of self-pity and sissy confusion when you almost bump into a couple. She is a beautiful, sharply dressed woman in comfortable ballet flats, about your age, her tastefully made up face twisted in revulsion as she slowly looks you up and down, lingering over every overdone and ridiculous detail. The handsome, masculine guy on her arm shares her expression, but thanks to your training you immediately notice the growing bulge in his tailored suitpants. You subconsciously salivate and bite your painted lips to stop a lustful moan from emanating. Your head submissively downcast, you glance up to see them quicken their pace around you, loathing melting into amusement as she hugs his bulky arm tighter, thankful to be with a Real Man.
He looks familiar somehow- maybe you worked together at the office once, long ago? Or maybe you're just reminded of who you used to be- someone that had Privilege and Power, who could have had a pretty girlfriend and a successful career like him. Watching a pair of girls walk by you who share a glance together and simultaneously burst out laughing, power is certainly a distant memory.
How could you DO this to YOURSELF? What have you DONE?
And then instantly every fiber of your being glows white hot and you hate every moment of it, every little sensation; The ridiculous ultra-feminine mannerisms that have become second nature. The strain on your arched feet, the tight corset limiting you to shallow breaths, the weight of your prissy, colored, dated hairstyle, the breeze tickling your exposed thighs, and the tight, short, frilly and LOUD dress that no real girl would ever be caught dead in.
You've shackled your body in the instruments that real men have used to subdue women throughout history.
Some buried, genetic masculine pride tries to boil its way to the surface to save the hopeless sissy it's attached to. In mortified shame, suddenly hyper aware of your appearance you quickly mince into a quiet side street, hyperventilating in the restricting corset as it all comes crashing down on you; the total and utter humiliation that you USED to be respected. You USED to be able to walk down the street and make eye contact with a pretty girl who might smile back, not laugh in your face or scoff in disgust.
You need to tear it all off! You ineffectually grab at your dress's tiny pearl buttons, pull at the lace and ribbon embellishments, but your long nails and frantic movements make the slippery material slide through your clumsy fingers. You moan in agony and stamp your dainty shoes in sissy frustration, which causes the slender heel to slip on a crack in the pavement. You lose your balance and stumble awkwardly to your knees, your other heel catching a loop of lace on the back of your skirt, preventing you from readily getting back up. You almost break down sobbing as you rock back and struggle to untangle yourself, hampered by your ludicrous nails and fully laced corset, the rustle of petticoats, bells and jewelry almost deafening.
NO! This CAN'T be real, this CAN'T be your life!
You suddenly fold over at the waist in pain, clutching your stomach. And then you're reminded that of all the things you hate, of all the daily embarrassments and degradation you suffer through, you're especially ashamed of just how damned HARD it makes you. All throughout your hissy fit tantrum, your sissy clit has been straining in your tiny, tight metal cock cage- a constant reminder that your fetishes and perversions were your downfall. If only you were born NORMAL, right?
And with out so much as a touch, that thought alone causes months worth of sissy juice to flood your frilly silk panties while you groan in pain, your whole body spasming with spurt after spurt. There's no pleasure, but there's just the smallest relief of pressure. After the gushing finally stops your breathing slows, and with trembling hands, your training takes over. Finally untangled you straighten to your knees, and with one hand holding up your hem, pinkies out of course, the other reaches down, scooping the gooey cream from your panties to bring hesitantly but deliberately to your lips.
You do NOT ''eat cum''. You savor it, slowly teasing it with your tongue from each finger. In between nibbles and sucks, forcing a tear soaked smile, you repeat the ''cleaning'' mantra you learned back when you were allowed the occasional orgasm- ''I am a silly semen sipping sissy. My seed is worthless and must be kept away from real women. The only place my cum deserves to go is into my own mouth.'' You have to repeat it quite a few times before you've swallowed every nasty tiny, dainty sip. Even after all this time, the taste of yourself that you're f***ed to consume still disgusts you, and you struggle not to gag while appearing to truly love it, because you never know when I might be watching. Any bit of masculine pride you may have had left dissolves with your spunk.
With it mostly all back inside you where it belongs, the last bit of slime gets patted on to your puffy lips to savor, so you're reminded of what you are every time you purse your lips in nervous submission- a hopeless little sissy cum guzzler.
And then you realize, of course, no "normal", REAL man would have turned himself into such a pathetic caricature of femininity. You can't change who you are, and unlike the rest of the world, you're not hiding what you really are. You shakily climb to your feet, straightening your dress and ribbons before pulling the compact from your little purse to powder your nose and fix your face. In the reflection, you catch a glance of the person in the second story window who has been recording your entire prissy meltdown and clean up ritual.
Your cheeks burn anew, but despite the previous emission, you feel a stirring in your cage. Sighing the dejected sigh of a sissy that has reluctantly accepted herself, you strut back towards the main street, shoulders back, wrists limp and above the waist. You can already hear laughter from somewhere in the crowd while you struggle to keep your head high, though your gaze drops nervously to your painted toes. Still utterly humiliated, but with the realization you're exactly where you belong, through your tears your brightly colored, cum smeared lips manages to stretch into a small, shy smile.

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