15 February 2015

Humiliated Sissy Husband

By: Rikki

"Now I want you to just sit in here quietly, in the closet and look at my high heels while I'm having sex with that well hung young man that's coming over. He will be arriving shortly."

"Tonya please listen, I don't want you having sex with other men anymore," he said in a whining voice.

"Now Max dear, honey, sweetie we are not going to go through this everytime I need to have sex with another man. It's you I am in love with and you know that. You are such a sweet sissy, and sissies dress like pretty little girls and masturbate. Maybe I will help you masturbate later, but I need a real man for some hard pounding sex today."

"I could do that for you if you would just give me another chance," he said with a desperate tone.

Tonya laughed and took his hand.

"Honey, you're wearing a petticoat and little girl's dress, and a very pretty dress I might add, lots of bows, ruffles and frilly lace. So pretty," she said as she fluffed the ruffles on his shoulders with her fingers. "Your toenails are painted all different colors the way you like them, and I wouldn't have it any other way," she said giving him a knowing smile.

"I'm not a sissy. I don't want to be dressed like this Tonya," he pleaded with her.

"But this look is very appropriate for a male like you honey, but not for a real man. It's who you are, and I understand that. You will understand it too in time," she said now pulling him into the large walk in closet.

"It's not who I am Tonya. It's who you are saying I am. I'm not a sissy."

"Max, you have a very small penis and, well frankly it has no need to be in my pussy, or any other woman's pussy for that matter. And besides an erection just doesn't look right with you all dolled up, unless you are looking in a mirror getting turned on and masturbating about how pretty you look. Then it is the perfect size."

Tonya's dresses were seperated on the clothes bar, and a chair was waiting there for Max to sit in.

"I am a man Tonya. I can prove myself to you again," he said watching her get straps together to strap him in the chair. "Don't do this to me."

"You are not a man Max. You lost the right to be a man when you slept with that slut Ginger. You are a whimpering sissy now and I am very understanding of what you are and I know what you need, so sit down so I can get you ready," she said pushing into the chair.

"I don't like the idea of you having sex with other men Tonya. I'm your husband," he said as his ankles were secured to the chair legs.

"Max, I was very supportive of you yesterday when you were giving that nice young plumber a handjob. I even took you to the nail salon so your fingernails would be long, and painted a nice bright red so they would look nice wrapped around that young man's erect penis."

"Tonya!"

"Max, I gave you privacy with him, I wasn't jealous and I understood you felt the need to express your sissy desires with another man and he was kind enough to allow you to handle his manhood for a little while and give him some satisfaction at the same time."

"Tonya, you made me give that man a handjob. I didn't want to do that."

"That's enough of that for now. We will not argue about your sex life right now. My sex life amd my needs are the topic of today."

She strapped his waist to the chair and then his wrist behind his back.

Max sat there in a very bright pink little girl's party dress with white petticoats. His legs were bare and clean shaven. He wore sheer white knee socks that had very elaborate detailed lace designs running up the sides and turned over just under his knees, making sure both knees were fully exposed. His feet were in 5" open toed patent leather pink pumps, and the sheer socks allowed the fact his toenails were painted different colors to show through.

Max was fully made up like a woman of the night with red lipstick and even false eyelashes for his wife's special evening, but his hair was in curly pigtails tied with pink ribbons formed into bows with long streamers like a little girl.

"There now, comfy?" she asked.

Max looked up at her.

"I have to get dressed for my date honey. So you just stay here and I'll be back in as soon as I put on something a little more seductive and sexy for my fucking," she said closing the closet door.

It was dark in the closet except for the little bit of light that came from beneath the door. It seemed a long time before she reappeared.

Tonya opened the door and entered the closet with Max.

"Now first thing first," she said holding up a pair of her panties. "Open wide honey. Day old panties," she said putting the panties up to his mouth.

Max did as she requested opening his mouth wide and she stuffed her worn panties fully in his mouth.

She held his chin up and looked at him.

"There you go sweetie. I don't let just any man eat my panties, especially after I've worn them all day, only you," she said pulling a piece of duct tape off the roll and holding it up to his mouth.

Max cast his eyes down in shame as she taped the panties in his mouth, then the door bell rang.

"Oh there he is now," she said jumping to her feet excited.

"Ummpphhh," Max grunted shaking his head, his curly pigtails bouncing as he did. He was now feeling totally degraded by her excitement that another man was here to have sex with her.

"Ok Max. You stay real quiet and I'll give you a nice hard bare bottom paddling tonight before I put you to bed," she said kissing him on the cheek. "Would you like that?" she asked smiling.

Max looked at her shaking his head no.

She she pinched both of his cheeks and shook his head side to side.

"We'll see," she giving him a love tap with the palm of her hand on the cheek that was rather hard.

Tonja stood and opened her robe for Max revealing a sexy black and lavender waist wasp with black fishnet stockings hooked to the garters. Her breast fully exposed and her nipples erect. She stepped into a pair of 5" black spike heels.

"How do I look sweetie," she said showing herself off with a sexy pose rolling one of her nipples between her fingers trying to make it even firmer. "Do you think he will fuck me harder if I wear red pumps?" she asked watching the helpless man trying to show his disapproval.

"See you in a couple of hours Max. I'm getting fucked today," she said excitedly as she closed the door and then he heard the key turn and he was locked in the closet.

"Right this way," Max heard Tonja say to the young man.

It was quiet for awhile, and Max sat quietly bound in the chair in the dark closet while his wife was entertaining another man in their own bed.

Max's imagination ran wild thinking of what might be happening just outside the closet where he was sitting tied to a chair.

Just low talking and some gigg;ing hrom Tonja was all he heard, but Max could hear the heavy breathing. The kissing and the gasping of air that Tonja made. This went on for ten minutes then it got quiet again.

"You are so big," Tonja said with passion as she stroked him with her hand and kissed him passionately on the lips.

"I'm all yours for the evening babe," he said enjoying her
manipulations.

"I need to suck your dick," she said almost in a panic. "Do you mind?" She gave him another hard kiss and held his head in her hands.

"Sure, Help yourself."

"Cum in my mouth if you want!" she stated then she quickly moved to between his legs and took him in.

"Oh yeah baby. Suck it," Max heard the guy gasp taking a deep breath. Max's wife was giving this man a headjob while Max was forced to sit in the closet dressed like a silly little girl hearing everything as it happened.

There was an audible choking sound, along with moans of pleasure. Then it was silent.

"Let me lick the rest of that up for you," Tonja said softly.

It was quiet again for awhile. Some soft talk and kisses. Max hung his head in shame. He didn't know how long it was but something got his attention.

It wasn't much longer before the headboard was banging against the wall and Tonja was screaming out her satisfaction.

"Oh my god!" she screamed as the headboard hit harder and harder. "OH YES............YES..............YESSSSSS!!!!"

Max couldn't see his wife as she was screaming out in ecstacy, on her back holding her legs up high with her hands while the young man enjoyed himself in her sex starved pussy.

Then there was that final scream followed by moans of complete bliss and satisfaction.

"That was wonderful," she said. "It really feels good having a real man with a big cock fucking me like this," she said gasping for air.

"My pleasure," the man said smiling at her blunt talk.

"Here let me get that for you," she said gently removing his condom.

They continued holding each other and eventually the sex began again, this time more intense and louder than before.

Poor Max sat bound in the closet dressed lik a girl listening to his wife's loud screams of sexual pleasure. Tears ran down his face. She wouldn't have sex with him since his indiscretion with another woman. He was a sissy now and no threat to other women's desires. He didn't want to be a sissy, but she insisted he be one and made him live his life accordingly.

It was several hours before the closet door finally opened. Max looked up with his tear stained face and running makeup. Tonja stood in the door for a moment with the look of a satisfied woman and somewhat exhausted.

"Oh Max, he was so good. I had several mind blowing orgasm riding his big cock," she said rubbing her crotch seductively. She pulled the tape from his mouth then pulled the panties out of his mouth.

"Tonja, why do you have to do this to me?" he said sobbing softly.

Tonja's hair was still a mess from her little romp in the sack.

"Oh Max sweetie, you know how much I love you," she said sitting on his lap facing him. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Now hush all this crying."

"Let me be your man again Tonja," he whispered.

"No honey. You can't, you're my sissy and you need to act like one." She lifted his chin and smiled. "Look what I saved for you baby," she said holding up three used condoms of semen from her little encounter.

"What?"

"Com'on Max open your mouth wide for me," she said holding one of them up to his lips. "My sissy boy needs to drink some semen."

"NO!!! Damn it Tonja stop this," he yelled shaking his head back and forth.

"Oh don't be such a baby Max," she said pulling his hair now and holding his head back under her arm and painfully squeezing his cheeks.

"Open up like a little birdie," she said pleasantly as she struggled to hold him still.

"No," he said pressing his lips tight together.

"Hold still damn it, " she said as her frustration showed.

There was a struggle for ten minutes as Tonja attempted to empty the contents from the condoms of the man she had just had sex with into Max's mouth.

"NO!" he yelled almost exhausted from the struggle.

"You're drinking the semen Max," she said struggling with him try to hold hos head still and open his mouth. "This is what sissies do and you are a sissy, so be still."

Max fought back until she grabbed one of his balls and rolled it in her fingers firmly.

"OUUCCHH!" he yelled as his body tensed form her grip "Please Tonya," he whimpered.

"You want some nice warm semen don't you," she said seductively then kissing his cheek while picking up the used condom again.

Through the door there was the audible squeal of desperation and then the soft sobbing mummbles of resignation while she gently rolled his testicle in her fingers and picked up another condom.

Tonja finally finished. She closed the closet door to give Max a chance to settle down and regain his composure while she went to take a nice hot shower. The teary sissy man sat alone with his thoughts in the well lit closet dressed like a little girl in pigtails with pretty bows and ribbons. His head hung down, his chin almost on his padded chest. Three empty condoms lay on the floor next to the chair he was tied to. A foul taste lingered in his mouth. Tonja was finished...................for now.

Best Friend's Birthday Party



By: Rosie



"Come on, time to get ready," Alice says and it's like I already know what she's on about. I follow her to the bedroom and the fact that she has already laid out the clothes she wants me to wear doesn't really surprise me. "Are you sure?" I ask weakly, but I know in advance it won't do me any good. Her mind is set, and that's all that it matters. I can tell without looking she's going to dress me in her clothes, again. "It's your best friend's birthday party," she says. "Don't you think you should put on something nice?" Personally, I think that the pants and shirt I have on are nice enough, but my opinion doesn't really hold much weight, so I take them off and hang them back in my closet. Then I take off my undershirt and vest. Buck naked and under her watchful eye, I turn to the heap of clothes she has laid out on the bed. I put on a pair of black lacy panties and a matching black bra, which I fill up with silicone breast forms. Next is a pair of black pantyhose and black satin and lace teddies, over which I put on a black silk blouse with short, puffy sleeves. Alice helps me into my dress - it's a red satin creation with an opera top and full, knee length skirt. The ensemble is completed by a pair of black pumps with a four inch heel. By the time Alice gets my makeup done, and my below-the-shoulder length black hair styled to her taste, I have to admit that I do look rather nice. Still, I can't fight the urge to speak. "Don't you think it's a little over the top?" I ask her. "It's not even five o'clock." "It's Terry's birthday," she says, "you should look your best." This makes sense, I guess, but why isn't she all dressed up herself? Not that she isn't looking nice in her long wide legged pants and white sleeveless blouse, but that's how she usually dresses. I can't shake the feeling as if she's just taking me to the party, rather going to the party with me. When we get to Terry's place, the rest of the gang is already there. All the apprehensions I had about entering the house dressed as I am disappeared when Andrew greeted us at the door. He was wearing a blouse similar to mine, except that it was white, and a red silk knee length A- line skirt that I remembered seeing his girlfriend wear last week. His hair has been apparently lightened yet again and now he's a platinum blonde. John was already in the living room, listlessly flipping though a stack of magazines under Terry's coffee table. Like myself, he too was wearing his dress over a blouse, except in his case the blouse is off-white, with long, billowing open-cuffed sleeves, and the dress is a simple knee length, spaghetti strap thing, made of cocoa colored silk with lots of white lace just below the hem, and around the waist. Andrew and I walk over to the living room, while Alice joins Claire and Stephanie, Andrew's and John's girlfriend around the kitchen table. Like Alice, Claire is in her ordinary day wear, black trousers and a dark purple turtleneck. Only Stephanie is wearing a black sleeveless silk blouse with a black and white printed A-line skirt, but then again, Stephanie has always been prone to dressing nicely, for any occasion. I'm sitting down in the living room, my knees kept nicely together and the skirt of my dress is spread around me on Terry's couch. John is on the other end of the couch, still browsing though the magazines and Andrew is on the sofa, nervously fidgeting and trying to cover his knees with the hem of his skirt. None of us speaks, though not from embarrassment. It's not as if this is the first time we've seen each other in women's clothes. But this time, this is no costume party. We haven't lost any bets to our girlfriends, nor are we taking up any of their dares. It's not Mardi-gras nor Halloween. What this should have been is four guys sitting around a case of cold beer and boxes of hot pizza. Instead, Terry, dressed in a silver pleated halter top dress, and a pair of black, high heeled strappy sandals, brings in a tray of little sandwiches and a pot of tea. Still, we take them hastily of the platter as it gives us something to do. Something to occupy ourselves with, rather than pondering why our girlfriends have made us wear dresses and skirts this time. Before the sandwiches are gone, Ellen comes into the living room. Ellen is Terry's girlfriend and for some reason, I'm glad to see that at least she has dressed up to the occasion, although she does looked a little intimidating in her severe gray silk blouse and tight, knee length blue skirt. "Girls," she says, addressing her circle of friends. "Boys." She turns to us, drawing a stiffened giggle from the girls. "It's time for Terry's birthday present," she says. An awkward look passes among us. After repeatedly trying to get our girlfriends lo let us have some money to buy our friend a present, and failing each time, we resigned to our fate and explained to Terry that we wouldn't be getting him anything this year as our girlfriends have a too tight grip over our finances. But we didn't expect them to upstage us like that. "Us girls bought on the behalf of Terry's friends," she continued, "I hope that you boys don't mind, but we were worried you wouldn't be able to keep a secret." A new wave of giggles from around the kitchen table. I should have known - they may have chosen the present, but it's us that are paying for it, even if we don't get to see our own money anymore. "Terry, darling," she turned to him, "Your present is waiting for you in the bedroom." Without a word, Terry scurries upstairs, Ellen joins the girls around the kitchen table and we're again left to ourselves. None of us speaks until the sandwiches are gone. "You think they'll let us go out later?" John asks, breaking the silence with a rather soft, almost girlish voice. "I doubt it," I reply, noticing that I hardly sound any more masculine than him. Andrew puts down his teacup, then picks up his handbag, takes out his compact and repairs his lipstick. "Even if they do," he says, dabbing his lips with a tissue, "Do you think they'll let us change back?" As if on a cue, both John and me reach for our own handbags and repair our lipstick. I also touch up my mascara. Andrew's words are resounding in my head. Not so much the words themselves, but the unusually high pitched voice he said them in. He must have been practicing. After a while, though, I find myself occupied with the idea of us four, dressed as we are, sitting in our usual bar. I have to stiffen a giggle. "We have no money, anyway," I say. Andrew shrugs and arranges his red coral necklace. "What do you thing we're getting him, anyway?" John asks. "I don't know, but it's sure taking him a long time to find it," Andrew replies. Just at that time, Ellen comes from the kitchen. "Boys?" she says, "Why don't you come over to the lobby and take a look at Terry's present?" We see Terry at the top of the stairs, now wearing an exquisite evening gown. It's made of peach-colored silk and he's wearing a matching stole around his shoulders, bared by the strapless top of his dress. The skirt of his dress very full and it flares out even as he makes his way down the staircase - he must be wearing a petticoat underneath. His blonde hair, which he wore swept back before, now tumbles around his face in a mass of tiny curls. His makeup is much heavier than before, too, and I can't help but notice that although Ellen was downstairs the whole time, it is immaculate. The girls clap excitedly and we have no choice but to join in the applause. One by one we stop wondering what Terry's present is when we realize that he is in fact wearing it. Have we really bought Terry an evening gown? The obvious question is how much did this set us back? Somehow, I get the feeling that we didn't buy just the gown, but his shoes and lingerie too. It must have been hellishly expensive and even divided between the three of us, it still must be a lot. But then the more striking implication creeps into my brain. Terry now actually owns a dress. Unlike the rest of us, who are dressed in the clothes of our girlfriends, Terry's evening gown is his own. The squeals we emit when he thanks us for his present sound like squeals of excitement, but they are more likely squeals of fright. Two months after we have first worn our girlfriends' dresses for a costume party, we are completely at their mercies. We have no money of our own. Other than our jobs, we have no time to spend away from them. They dress us in their clothes on a whim, and looking at Terry, we know that each of us will, sooner or later, join him in the ownership of women's clothes. Looking at Terry, it is clear to us that our days as men are numbered. Is this why are squeals are so loud and so heartfelt? Then again, it is an exceptionally pretty dress.

Airtime



By: Rosie


The opening credits roll by and my mother appears on the screen. She's wearing a shiny, lime green jacket. "Is that satin?" I whisper to my father, not wanting to drown the sound of the television. The seams on it are very stiff, making it look almost as if the shoulders are padded, and although the neckline is quite high, her breast are accentuated by darts that run all the way down until they disappear in a black patent leather waist. Below the waist, the jacket flares out in an almost obscenely large peplum. The matching skirt, by contrast, is almost boring. It simply runs down in a straight line until it ends just below her knees. The camera zooms in, accentuating the details of the fabric. "Yes, it's definitely satin," I say in disbelief, and my father raises the volume. The camera also accentuates the details of my mother's face. Despite the masterful touch of the makeup artist, the teeth of time have left their traces. The skin on her neck is no longer taut, there are tiny wrinkles around her eyes, and the lines around her mouth make her cheeks stand out like pouches. She looks strict and severe, even with her blonde hair framing her face and ornamenting the shiny green shoulder. Yet somehow, she radiates an air of warmth. And her outfit with the almost embarrassingly effete peplum, and bright green shininess, does not so much clash with the look of the dignified lady as much as adds to the warmness she projects on the screen. "It's not satin," my father whispers in response. "Brushed cotton, more likely." For a split second, my eyes meet his. Then, we turn back to the screen, shaking our heads in disbelief that so much unwarranted kindness is radiated by the same woman who rules our lives with an iron fist. Ever since she has begun her broadcasting career, my mother's contracts have always specified that the clothes she wears on camera become her private property. During her years as a newscaster, she'd bring home the clothes that would get phased out of rotation every once in a while. Ever since she started hosting her own show, she has brought home the full outfit each time. In a way, that was to be expected. As a newscaster, the majority of her clothes were mix and match items that could make up different outfits. With her new show, her clothes soon became much more flamboyant, much more noticeable, so that she simply couldn't dress twice in the same clothes. And while they had less use in the daytime than the inconspicuous business-like clothes from her newscaster days, she certainly had no reason to leave them in the network's wardrobe. My mother has taken good care of her body, but still, the time goes only forward, and she certainly didn't want the same outfits worn on camera, in different shows, by other, younger, sleeker, taller or bustier women. There is another reason why my mother insists on bringing home her clothes, however, which is why my father and I are so interested in them. It is because we know that one of us will be wearing them tomorrow, when we attend the weekly tea party of her social club. Usually, that honor used to be bestowed upon my father whose closet is where my mother's clothes have been ending up since her newscaster days, but since four months ago, it is an even chance that I will have to put them on. Ever since I can remember, my mother has been making my father put on her clothes. While it was clear that he didn't really enjoy it, and that it caused him a great deal of embarrassment, he pretended that he was going along with it on his own volition, rather than risking a confrontation with my mother. From time to time, he did try to talk his way out of it, but he always backed down before his pleads could develop in a serious argument with my mother. Instead, he'd puff theatrically, "Oh, all right", as if to say the thing he puts up with for the woman he loves, and then he'd emerge from their bedroom minutes later, dressed from the skin up in my mother's clothes. "Just a bit of fun," he'd say, although there was probably nothing fun about cleaning the house in a tight dress and high heeled shoes. Looking back, I guess he was avoiding an open confrontation with my mother because he knew that she'd have her way in the end. Eventually, my mother managed to force him to rebel against her. The breaking point came when my mother brought home a ball gown had worn at an awards ceremony and told him to wear it for his birthday party. As outrageous as her demand was, my father's resistance was an even bigger surprise to everybody. This had infuriated my mother so much that she staged an impromptu, but nonetheless formal feat-of-strength, with both of my grandmothers as referees. Not wanting to fight, my father hid in their bedroom. My mother was adamant - when he came out she'd fight him whether he fought back or not. The only way she'd leave him alone was if he came out wearing the gown. After a brief intervention by my two grandmothers, my father put on the gown and formally accepted that from then on, he would wear what my mother wanted, when she wanted and where she wanted. On the screen, my mother walks across the studio to welcome her first guest. From the side, the tailored jacket nicely accentuates her slim figure. The same slim figure that has caused my father so much grief. Unlike her, my father's metabolism is much more prone to putting on weight, and she does get more exercise than him. To make sure he continues to fit in her clothes, she has him keep a very strict diet. "Isn't that great? I can eat just about anything and not gain a single ounce," she'd often tease him, wolfing down steaks, potatoes and deserts while my father nibbled on a salad. He keeps his hope alive that with age, she'll eventually start gaining weight which will allow him to eat a bit more as well, but so far, she has managed to keep her figure. She walks across the studio coquettishly, the flared hem of her jacket dancing under the bright lights with her every step. Is it my imagination, or does she does that on purpose? Is she taunting us with the overly feminine detail of her outfit that tomorrow will serve to even deepen the embarrassment of one of us? Unlike my father, I was allowed to live as a boy, and, except for the dresses I had to wear to frankly not very frequent formal visits of my maternal grandmother, I was free to wear whatever I wanted. Yet I never felt quite free and my father's fate was a constant reminder that kept me in line, well into my early adulthood. It wasn't until college when I moved away from home that I gained independence from my mother. Sadly, that only lasted one semester. When she learned about my failing grades, it was decided that I'd stay home until she was convinced that I had the determination to finish college. Three days later, I was having tea at my mother's club while the other members couldn't agree which one of us was more embarrassed - my father, who for the first time in years had to wear a dress he'd worn before, or me, wearing my mother's on-screen outfit that should be rightfully belong to my father. It is during the first commercial break that we allow ourselves to take our eyes away from the screen. My father gets up and paces nervously around the living room. He is wearing the dress my mother wore last week, a knee length, straight skirted creation made of mocha-colored sating, with a black lace overlay that just about covers his breasts, and leaves the dress above them bare. He has pulled his hair in a tight bun at the back of his head, just like my mother wore last week. His breasts, which I can't help but to admire how they push forward the bodice of his dress, are part hormones, part implants. Mine are silicone breast forms that feel both alien and disturbingly natural bouncing around in my bra. I keep looking at my father and I simply can't help but to wonder how it must feel like, to have them under your skin, a part of your body. How does it feel like when you don't have to worry about buttoning your blouse all the way up, or to wear a low-cut top. But then I look down at my own and I can't help but to admire the dance of the light, reflecting from the bright red satin of my dress with every breath I take. The commercials are over and the screen again fills up with that sleek, shiny lime green fabric. "Are you sure it's not satin?" I ask my father, but he just shushes me into silence. "I sure hope it's satin," I mutter for the last time until the end of the show.

Mother Drives Me to Work, Again



By: Rosie


The atmosphere in the car is so tense and oppressive I literally feel a choking grip on my throat but at the same time, all over my body I'm feeling light and airy. Of course I'm wishing I was wearing a suit, just like any other day, jacket, tie, shirt and pants, but that would feel so much stuffier. Hot. Uncomfortable. I'm looking forward and a bit to the right hand side but never at my mother. If I'm looking at all, mostly I keep my eyes closed. It's been a long night and an early morning so even without the suit, I'm dozing off in the heat. As another blast of warm air from the heating vent flows by my face, I can picture myself deliberating whether I should ask my mother to turn the heating down, at least for a notch, or maybe just loosen up my tie and unbutton my collar. I know that mother likes to keep warm as she drives so instead of asking her, I instinctively reach up to my neck which abruptly brings me back to reality. There is no tie to loosen, no collar to unbutton, there is no fabric around my neck at all, just a single strand of pearls. The only fabric that touches my neck is the gauzy chiffon of my sleeve which reminds me that I am not wearing a suit at all, but a light, airy dress, with a neckline that reaches just below my collarbone and gauzy, billowing sleeves that end with two inches wide strips of black satin, wrapped tightly around my wrists. The whole dress is made of black chiffon with a red, green and orange polka dot print, over a black, sleeveless silk shell. Even though the knee length skirt is not tight at all, I can't get too comfortable because I have to take care that the hem doesn't ride over my stocking tops. It's not too bad, but I'd still rather wear my suit. I knew that I would never be safe, but after more than a year of undisturbed living, I suppose I had let my guards down. I could go on about how I'd always know that it was going to happen any day but the truth is, when I answered the door yesterday evening, I couldn't be any more surprised to see my mother. She dropped her suitcase smack in the middle of my living room and I dragged it to my bedroom. Rifling through it, I recognized some of my old clothes, as well as a lot of new ones. I was going to spend enough time getting ready anyway, so I decided to stick to what I already knew. I fished out the bag with the cosmetics and went to the bathroom. We'd been through the same routine so many times now that lately, we hardly say a word. "At least you haven't put on any weight," were the first words she said to me, an hour after first coming in, when I stood before her, now dressed in a pale yellow, full skirted evening gown with a matching bolero jacket and silver sandals with four inch stiletto heels. I didn't speak much either. I had already admitted my defeat by shaving my legs, putting on white satin lingerie, the dress, shoes and makeup. All I wanted to do now was to go back home, but I knew that nothing I could say would convince my mother to change the routine. I could resign from my job by simply phoning the office, but that wouldn't please her at all. The following morning, just like every time thus far, she would make sure I was dressed up properly. Sometimes I'd wear a dress, sometimes a blouse and skirt, sometimes she'd even let me choose myself which clothes I would wear for the humiliation that awaited me, though she always insisted I wear very high heels. She would drive me to work herself and, if necessary, use force to make me enter my office to be laughed at until I was told to pick up my things and never to return. Although I've been through that ordeal many times now, it never gets any easier. Though the experience does allow me to switch on the autopilot in my mind and become merely a spectator of my humiliation. This time, it's not that hard to get to the office without attracting attention. It's a small office, in a big building. A lot of people pass by every day and no one pays any attention to just another dressed up girl, fumbling through her handbag to find her pass card, then giving up and just swiping the handbag over the scanner. We are all strangers here and even though I've been here for more than a year, I don't recognize any of the four people riding in the elevator with me. It's still early and I'm happy to see that the lights in our offices are still unlit, except for those in the boss's office. At least this time there won't be a big scene. I hesitate for a second but then hurry to Mrs. Henderson's office, afraid that if I'm too slow other people will come in. Let's get this over with, I say to myself and knock on the door. I can see my mother's car from the window in our office. Just like every time so far, she's waiting for me to leave the building, tears of shame tracing black streaks of mascara down my cheeks. She is persistent, I'll give her that. I can't say for sure, because I haven't kept my eyes on her all the time. I was called to Mrs. Henderson's office again, after everyone had come in, and she made a brief announcement that I would henceforth be working as a girl. Still, that couldn't have taken more than twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour, if I count talking to Jennifer afterwards. Other than that, for what I've seen she hasn't left the car and it's almost lunchtime before she gives up and drives away. Once the surprise settles down, I'm starting to worry. It's almost closing time and I still haven't heard from mother. I wonder if I should call her to pick me up until I realize she might have already left. A wave of relief flushes over me until I remember that I don't know if she took the spare key to my apartment. No doubt she was angry when she left. Who knows what she would do. I just hope she's left me the suitcase.