Sissy Mission 5

Stacked Sissy
By Cheryl Alison

Everyone in the hardware store was staring at me. The
checkout lady at the front of the store stared when I
walked in. The mother and her teenage daughter stared. The
guy in the back at the engine shop stared as I walked by.

As I approached the section where they had gas grills set
up for display, a woman who was forty-something with
striking grey hair coiffed in a bob approached me. "Can I
help you, ahh... uh..." She kind of trailed off at the
point where normally one would say ma'am or sir.

You see, I had large breasts. And although the potential
for large breasts exists in humans and there are many
examples, there are few examples on men. Mistress had
charged me (her sissy husband) with my latest mission: to
buy a gas grill while endowed with large breasts. I was
wearing jean shorts with my legs shaved, tennis shoes, and
a white T-shirt. My breasts were courtesy of Mistress:
expensive forms that were applied to the chest with
adhesive. Their realism was stunning, down to the detail of
the nipples. Sometimes when Mistress transforms me into her
sissy, I am nearly passable. This time, I was not. I had to
suffer the embarrassment of large breasts, braless under a
t-shirt, while the only other vestiges of femininity were
my shaved legs and a light pink lipstick. Otherwise,
Mistress had made me keep a small amount of stubble and my
hair styled in masculine fashion. I was obviously a
sissified male with large breasts.

My hardware store helper was standing, a tad stunned,
waiting for me to take the next step in communication. "I'm
here to buy a gas grill." She looked relieved, and took the
opportunity to focus on the request, rather than the
breasts, although her eyes would always seem to end up on
my chest if she looked at me.

"Well, we have several models. Will you be cooking for a
lot of people?"

"Yes, we entertain from time to time. We cook a lot of
breasts. How much is the red one on the end?"

Her reply was less than immediate, due to my comment about
breasts, I'm sure. It was a line Mistress had encouraged me
to use. However, she overcame her shock at my deadpan
comment and replied, "That one is two seventy nine. It's
been a good model for us. We haven't heard of any problems
with them yet. Would you like me to get Dan to load it for
you?"

"Yes, I think that's the one I will go with," I replied.
She yelled at Dan to bring one up to the front while I
moved with her to the checkout.

She rang up the sale, I paid, and then we waited in an
uncomfortable silence for Dan to bring the grill. I could
tell she wanted to ask about my unique endowment, but
couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

Dan finally brought the grill up, and stumbled mightily as
his eyes drifted over my chest. Once he picked himself back
up, he mumbled something about where my car was and I told
him. I said goodbye to the still-confused sales lady and
led Dan to the car. I opened the hatch and he struggled to
place the box inside. It became caught on the lip of the
hatchback, so I moved behind him to help pull the corner of
the box past. As I did, my large breasts brushed his back
and he jumped. Already nervous about just what or who I
was, I'm sure it was a traumatic experience and his
expression was priceless as he turned around.

"Sorry, these get in the way sometimes," I said, holding
them up from underneath, one in each hand. He didn't say a
word and walked back into the store, shaking his head.

Upon returning home with the grill, Mistress asked the
usual question: "Sissy mission accomplished?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, and related the story to her.

"Good sissy. Now put on your pink satin toolbelt and put
that grill together. The girls are coming over in a few
hours and you're the entertainment. You get to be a one-
sissy wet T-shirt contest."

Mistress never leaves a mission uncomplicated.

Later that evening, I writhed in humiliation as my wife and
her two best friends turned the hose on me as my breasts
flopped around, showing through my white t-shirt. All I
could do is circle the clothesline pole in a bizarre
imitation of a maypole dance, since my arms were tied
behind me around the pole. As a reward for putting up with
a higher-than-average level of humiliation, however, each
woman removed her panties and used them to rub me dry; a
sensual experience that I thought would end the evening.

Then I saw the proverbial glint in Mistress's eye. With her
crooked, cruel little grin, which I cannot resist, she
said, "Missy looks thirsty. Let's give her a drink."

Holding my chin in her strong fingers, she tipped my head
back and wrung out her panties into my mouth. As she held
my head, her friends joined in, giggling.

Sissy mission accomplished? At least for the evening.

"You know, a beer garden with a serving wench might be fun
for Superbowl Sunday," piped up one of the gals.

"Good idea," said Mistress. I fell on the ground with the
last pair of panties stuffed in my mouth, mumbling
incoherently. "I think Missy likes it, too."