The White Sissy Slave Society: A Gift of Me

by meeah soo

 

"I don't know why Jared insists on this sweetie, but he does. Men can be so unreasonable sometimes."

The way Wendy stressed the word "men" made it obvious that she didn't consider herself to be in the company of one. And how could I expect her to? Here I was, her husband of three years, dressed in a push-up white corset, matching slingshot panties, and plastic high-heeled sandals. I was wearing white fishnet stockings held up by a pink garter belt. My lips and toes were painted coral pink and my hair, cut short, was bleached and spiked with gel. I glanced at my fingernails, painted to match my toes, of course, and blew on them. Six tiny silver hoops lined each of my ears and a tiny rhinestone stud graced my left nostril.

It was true: I was not a "man" in any acceptable sense of the term anymore. I was suddenly conscious of the dildo stuffed inside my bottom, as if I could really ever forget it. I was required to wear it virtually all the time now, either the dildo or the butt-plug, and along with the high-heels, I was sure the constant penetration had permanently altered the way I walked. But I couldn't be certain. I was never permitted to go unplugged and barefoot at the same time. Flat shoes, of course, or any kind of footwear in which I could conceivably stride faster than a halting, exaggeratedly feminine mince, were never allowed.

But still…I was Wendy's husband, wasn't I?

Well, I was allowed to continue living with her anyway. True, I had my room upstairs in the converted attic, which I suspect was really the servant's quarters, and technically you could say that I did everything a maid would do: laundry, dishes, vacuuming and dusting, grocery shopping, cook—but I preferred to think of myself as a house-husband. After Wendy had gotten that promotion and we didn't need two incomes anymore….

Okay, so I can't have sex with her either. I guess she could have objected when Jared said that, and I was really hurt at first, but she's right, men can be so unreasonable. But it doesn't make any difference anymore. I mean, it's not like I can even use my penis for penetration anymore after the injections and the pills and the electro-aversion treatment. I remember how satisfied Jared was when that seedy doctor in the odd clinic they took me to announced that I was effectively "neutered." I remember talk about non-existent sperm count, insufficient seminal fluid, lack of ejaculatory and erectile function. "This inferior will never reproduce," the doctor said. It's odd how I remember that because I don't remember much of anything else; it was a confusing time: I believe I might have been drugged. I do remember, however, that the doctor kept looking at me in a strange, excited way, and asking Jared again and again if he were sure he didn't want me "altered" altogether. "It'll be a quick couple of cuts," the doctor assured Jared, "snipety-snip and that useless little nubbin is gone forever."

Jared had declined the offer and at first I thought he was being merciful, sparing my original sex-parts like that, and maybe allowing me someday to earn back my former position. Not until hardly a week later, when he took me to the piercing studio, did I realized his real plans. The rings now piercing my foreskin and the double bar and studs in my glans are a constant reminder of what I used to be—and my present impotently subservient one. My tongue is double-pierced as well, my eyebrow, too, and, of course, my nipples and belly button. It's traumatic at first—I guess—but you get used to it. The piercings are very feminine and subtle, though, and sometimes guests joke that I'd never make it through an airport metal detector.

Of course, that's not much of a concern: I very seldom get to leave the house except for chores. I suppose, in some respects, I'm kind of a captive here. I mean, where can I go the way I am now?

Oral sex would not be impossible: and, indeed, even in my deconstructed state as a man, I'm sure I could satisfy Wendy with my tongue, especially now that it's double-pierced. When I run the little studs over Jared's dark shaft, or tease him just behind the large purplish head during a long, protracted blow, it really seems to excite him. Sometimes I have to be careful not to overdo it, though, and make him accidentally cum in my mouth if he wants to fuck Wendy that particular night. But in spite of my oral talents, Jared forbids any sexual contact whatsoever between my wife and me, outside, of the briefest and chaste kisses on holidays like Easter, or Kwanza, or our birthdays. The closest I've come to sex with Wendy since Jared took us over has been to guide his huge black cock with my painted fingers into my wife's smoothly shaved pussy. But that was a while ago, when Jared was still driving home the point of who was boss…he hardly needs to do that anymore.

"It's almost nine," Wendy says, "he'll be here soon."

I shake myself from my mini-reverie. Wendy sounds a little nervous, and if she's nervous that I know I have double-reason to be.

Jared treats her well if she behaves; it's just that sometimes it's hard to please him no matter what you do. I don't really like to think too much about what happens when Jared gets angry. He's much tougher with me, obviously, than he is with Wendy. She's his bitch, after all, and I'm, well, I'm not sure what I am: his cocksucker, his sissygirl, his pussyass.

Tonight, though, it seems like I'm going to take a step downward—and I hadn't even thought that possible.

"Put your hands behind your back, Meeah," Wendy says. I do as she says, naturally. What else can I do? I feel the leather cuffs close around my wrists, and then the lead that attaches to the ring at the back of the collar around my throat. Having my arms bound back like this, along with the sissy sandals, I know will make it that much more difficult to walk. Once I heard Jared talking about having me "permanently hobbled," and I'd guessed that he meant surgically altered so that I couldn't walk very well anymore. But whoever he was talking to about it pointed out that I'd inevitably end up being less helpful around the house and that made Jared reconsider.

Well, at least for the time being.

Next, Wendy has me open my mouth wide and fits the rubber o-ring device inside. I'm not sure what it is exactly: some kind of sexual aid that Jared brought back from one of his trips to South Africa. He said that the new black leadership use it in the mouths of all their white domestic sissy sex slaves. It fits over my teeth so that I can't accidentally scrape his superior flesh while I'm giving him a blow job and yet still allows me enough mobility with my lips and tongue to please him. I hate it, though, because it forces my mouth into such a degrading and silly look: like one of those rubber sex dolls. Wendy says it makes me look cute and I'm sure she's just trying to make me feel good but I still love to hear her say that. But I look "cute" as what? Certainly not a man she considers her lover, her protector, her husband…and when I think of this I get sad all over again. She stands in front of me now redoing my lipstick: a glossy, pearlescent pink.

"And for goodness sake don't cry," she says, seeing the tears welling in my eyes. "You'll smudge your makeup and there's no time to re-do it."

I have a feeling she'll get blamed if my makeup is smudged and I don't want that to happen to her. With my mouth pried open, I can't tell her I'll try not to cry. With the wrists cuffed to my neck, I can't even nod. So I just try to blink my wide eyes.

We make it, sort of, just in time. Wendy, looking so beautiful in a white sheath dress, heels, and updo is standing by the open door as Jared comes up the walk with his business associate. Normally, it's my job to open the door and greet visitors, taking their coats and offering them a drink or whatever, but I have a different role tonight. I kneel quietly in the corner by the fireplace as Jared kisses my wife and introduces the tall, distinguished-looking black man in the expensively tailored suit. I am not supposed to be looking, and I keep my eyes lowered, but I sneak peeks from under my long, mascaraed lashes. He's a big man, just like Jared, with sharply defined features, and a strong smile.

I feel a familiar little shudder pass through me: no, I won't call it pleasure, I won't! But it's the same feeling I get when I feel Jared's big strong black hands on my slender white hips and the tip of his massive cock pushing against my defenseless pussy-hole--the submissive thrill of knowing that there's nothing I can do to stop what's about to happen, that it's all out of my control. And that he will fuck me, shoving his thick dark cock in and out of my passive ass, until he fills me with jet after jet of his seed…

After a while, Jared calls me over and once again I have to shake the images from my head. They've been sitting in the living room sipping cocktails and talking about business for I don't know how long. I don't really know what they are talking about. It's true I used to work where Jared and Wendy work—we all used to work there with Jared as our boss—but it's been so long now and so much has happened, that it almost seems as if they are speaking a foreign language. Now, in spite of myself, my thoughts are preoccupied with sexual fantasies not just about Jared, but his distinguised and powerful looking guest. It's clear to me that I'm going to be made to service him: a long, slow cocksucking, a fucking up the ass, and whatever else he desires, it wouldn't be the first time.

I rise to my feet as gracefully as I can with my hands bound behind my back, shod in big plastic sissy heels, my knees sore from so long kneeling. I walk over to Jared and his friend and politely curtsey. I keep my eyes downcast on the floor just in front of the tips of their shoes, as I've been taught. I don't have to say a word because of the o-ring, but I have to keep swallowing to keep from drooling. It's hard to do that without making noise, but, believe me, after a few times over Jared's lap, you learn. I feel the distinguished-looking man looking me over. I still blush, even though I'm used to being openly appraised by now.

"Nice," the man says, in his accented, but impeccable English. He tells me to turn around and to do it slowly. "Good ass. Pretty face and feet. Very feminine body. Fine tits. You weren't exaggerating. This is a topnotch white sissy."

Only later did it occur to me that my first reaction to the compliment was a sense of pride and accomplishment—and utter joy! I was so happy to be deemed a good sissy by this handsome, powerful black man…and also because it reflected well on Jared, my wife's lover. Oh god, what had I become? No wonder I wasn't allowed to make love to Wendy anymore. How could I? Why would she even want me? I wasn't strong enough to keep her and so she'd been taken from me. It was only right. I was a sissy. I felt myself blushing even deeper, which caused the man to chuckle, and he lifted my chin up with a long dark finger. I kept my eyes down as he examined my face, tracing my painted lips: I felt my knees growing weak.

"Is she submissive?" he asked, and I could feel he was still looking at me.

"Ultra-submissive," Jared says. "I had virtually no problems at all with her training and conversion. Right from the start she instinctively took to her role. I don't think it was ever a problem for her to understand her natural subservience, both as a white, and a sissy."

"Excellent…excellent…it happens sometimes, just like that…"

"You'll do me a great honor if you'll keep her for the duration of your stay."

I tried to show no emotion as Jared said these words. I knew, of course, they were coming, but to hear them still stung. The distinguished black man, Mr. Nyombugo, demurred at first, but I knew this was just a matter of courtesy. After Jared politely "pressured" him to accept his gift, and after a few more pro forma refusals of such a generous offer, it was agreed that I would accompany Mr. Nyombugo back to his hotel, and that I would stay there with him for the duration of his week-long stay, servicing him sexually and otherwise, as a good white sissy serves any black master to whom she's offered.

The evening proceeded normally after that; well, as normally as you can expect when a half-naked sissy knees in the corner as she waits patiently to be taken away, presented as a sexual gift to a complete stranger, by his wife's black lover. Wendy played hostess that night and I guess that was part of the point, too: to show how this once proud, independent white woman was now completely subservient to a black man who commanded total and unquestioning obedience. A year ago Jared had given her a promotion at the office, and he'd eventually demoted me to the status of a maid, and now we were both dependent on him for everything. As I followed my new master to the door, I snuck a last glimpse of Wendy, but she refused to look at me at all. Instead her face was calm, composed, and perfect: the flawless society hostess smiling pleasantly at Mr. Nyombugo and thanking him for his visit. It gave me a little pang of jealousy to know how much she really savored her new role as Jared's woman.

It was a warm evening and my half-naked status didn't raise an eyebrow in the upscale black community where Jared lived. Very nearly everyone on the block had a white sissymaid like me. I saw many of them in the supermarket shopping for dinner or at the laundry picking up their master's suits all the time.

The irony of my fate didn't escape me: the power and wealth Jared had amassed from his nonprofit civil rights organization had taken everything from me: my job, my home, my wife…and now my freedom. I slid into the back seat of Mr. Nyumbugo's silver Lexus and he watched my long slim legs, held modestly together, as I swung them into the car, and licked his strong teeth ever so subtly. I felt that familiar tingle again.

There was no use denying it, or what I had become. I wasn't a house-husband or a maid or even a man anymore. I was a slave now, a white sissy sex slave, and nothing up to this point in my life had ever felt more right. As the car pulled away from the house, and I saw Wendy one last time on the porch with Jared's arm possessively around her waist, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

  

  

  

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