Sex Zombies

by stephi
I don’t know why I went, to this day.

Things had gone so well and yet, for some reason I didn’t understand, I just had to roam.
My home business had grown and prospered and I was leading the life I’d only fantasized about. My Wife, my Mistress had nurtured my submission and—although she’d insisted I go off hormones before our marriage, so as to be able to serve her physical needs—my femininity. She regularly bought for me new clothes, unexpected presents usually of a slutty nature, and insisted from time to time that I dress for her.

I would get up at 3:00 each morning, dress in the costume she’d selected for my, then work until 5:00 at which time I served her tea in bed and serviced her in whatever way she desired. After she was ready, I’d throw on male clothes over my feminine finery, drive her to the train, return home, put on a skirt or dress of my choosing, make myself up, and resume work.

Before picking her up in the evening, I’d clean the house then resume a male role in case she wanted to go out to eat.

Our emotions, needs and desires played off one another and my life was blissfully complete. I could live as male or female, as needed, fulfilling the mutually exclusive desires each role demanded.

Her only proviso: she demanded complete faithfulness, physically and emotionally. I was not so much as to think about being with someone else.

I’d worked all weekend. She’d been with me but, having a doctor’s appointment on Monday, chose not to engage in Her normal morning delight. Maybe that was it. Maybe I was just horny. Maybe it was just my monthly hormone cycle. But for some reason, concentration on work was impossible. Actually, we hadn’t had sex for several days…I wasn’t sure why.

Returning from the train station, I’d stepped into the shower only to find stubble covering my breasts. Drawing a bath instead, I’d added scented bubble bath. Luxuriating in the embrace of the soothing warm water in combination with the razor soon left me smooth, soft, and sweet smelling.

Stepping out and patting myself dry, I admired myself in the mirror: the naturally small-boned frame, the narrow waist, the long, smooth legs: but especially I admired the results of my two years on Premarin—the smooth contours and feminine shape of my arms and the extended nipples of my swollen breasts.

Snapping my bra behind my back, I gently pulled up the cups, gently pulling the tender flesh of my breasts up with my fingers, letting them settle into the underwired platform cups so as to make them most prominent. Carefully shoving my feminized testicles up into my abdomen, I tucked my penis back between my ass cheeks, holding my thighs together to keep it from freeing itself, and pulled my pink silk panties up, pulling them tight to hold everything in place.

The mirror reflected the image of a smooth, slightly broad shouldered female. Outlined against the film-thin panties, the excess skin of my now-empty scrotum formed the outline of a swollen labria. I gazed in the mirror, enraptured, Narcissus-like, at the image looking back. I reached for the halter-top summer dress my Mistress had bought for me. Though it was mid-winter, the condo was warm and it would be comfortable. Besides, the scoop-top showed off my rounded breasts quite well.

Then, suddenly, something—I don’t know what—seemed to take control. I was tired of spending everyday, alone, working. I desired contact with people. But I couldn’t go out dressed—not during the daytime when my neighbors would see me. For some reason, I was so proud of my feminized form, I just wanted to share it.

I opened the dresser drawer where my small collection of male underwear resided and removed a tight-fitting long-sleeved cold-weather T-shirt and pulled it on. My breasts, straining against the taut fabric, were clearly visible. I tugged on a pair of high-waisted red latex briefs over my panties, their tightness ensuring that everything that was in would stay in.

Donning a thin, red flannel shirt, I pulled on a pair of tight blue jeans and slipped on a pair of deck shoes. I had know idea where I was going (or so I tried to convince myself) but drove directly there anyway: an all-day gay bar in Chicago’s southwest ‘burbs.

Hurrying across the cold parking lot, my breasts bounced slightly, stimulating them and me. Covered by the T and the flannel shirt, I could easily conceal or reveal their presence just by the way I sat. But of course, I wouldn’t reveal them. My Mistress wouldn’t permit that. I was just going in for a drink, then back home to work.

Right.

I was beside myself with anxiety. What if someone realized I had tits? What if someone realized I was a sissy? Why had I ever come here?

But wait; this is a gay bar, right? Why should I be uncomfortable.

Mercifully dark inside, I was able to go to a dark and abandoned side of the rectangular, center-island bar. The ‘tender, a big guy with a beard and leather vest, approached. "Whacha’ want, sweetie?"

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sissy robyn

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