A Trip to the Cosmetics Boutique (Part 2)

Following our appointment at Merle Norman we walk back to the car. Your features are completely feminized -- arched brows, blushing cheeks, highlighted eyes, your lips full and red and inviting. The contrast with your masculine attire is striking -- do you realize how shameful you look, slave? That's right . . . you should hang your head in embarrassment. Everyone we pass is laughing at you. Just look at the massive wet stain that covers the front of your slacks. You know what it is, don't you? Yes, it is a symbol of your weakness and submission.

But what fun all the girls had with you in the store! It must have been awful to be in the presence of young, attractive women who thought of you only as an object of amusement and derision. You realize, of course, that any hope of sexual interaction with them is nothing more than a dream. They desire the attention of real men, not an effeminate sissy with such little control over his sexual behavior. Your day is still not over, my pet. Evening activities have been planned -- a small dinner party for me and a select group of my friends. It's a semi-formal affair, the two men and four women dressed tastefully and beautifully and, of course, Jennifer. Your attire for the evening is something else entirely -- a formal French Maid's costume, complete with taffeta slips, short flaring skirt, lacy apron, and 4" pumps.

Underneath you must wear a lacy black bra and matching camisole. Of course, you'll also have to wear an exotic black garter belt with frilly straps holding up black stockings . . . the kind with seams up the back. But the best part is this: you are forbidden to wear panties for the evening. That's right, little sissy. Your shameful member cannot be hidden. In fact, I've decided to decorate it with a lovely satin ribbon, in bright pink. The ribbon, which I've tied in a cute little bow, contrasts wonderfully with the black-and-white formality of your maid's uniform, doesn't it, slave? And it draws attention to the pathetic little thing between your legs. No attempt is made to pass you off as a woman --all my guests are fully aware of exactly who and what you are -- a submissive sissy whose purpose is to amuse and entertain. The contrast between their attire and yours is striking-- purposely so. You serve drinks, then dinner, submitting to the roving hands that creep beneath your brief skirt, touching you without hesitation. As you move around the table, the guests, especially the women and one of the men, take perverse pleasure in dropping napkins, spoons, and such at their feet and requiring you to pick them up. Since a good French Maid bends at the waist, with knees locked straight, you expose your bare bottom to cruel, probing looks and fingers. After all, what do they have to fear? You are nothing but a sissy. There is no need to treat you with dignity or respect.

Guess what?! I have planned an after-dinner show for my guests. Though familiar with this lifestyle, they have never really experienced its full extent. They are driven by their curiosity, astounded that a "man" would surrender his mind, body and will in such a manner. Chairs have been arranged in the living room facing a small platform. At my command, you kneel on the platform and, with cheeks flushed, raise your skirt. Your member is publicly exhibited -- it stands at full attention -- not a symbol of your strength or manhood, but a symbol of your weakness and submission. I stand behind you, open your blouse and pull it roughly down over your shoulders. I then pull your bra straps down and delicately reach over your shoulders to grab each of your hardened nipples. I know how excited you get when these most sensitive zones are stimulated. The pulling, pinching and stretching continues until you are at the edge of losing all control. I ask the couples to approach you, forcing you to the floor on your back. Then, as Jennifer lifts her skirts, your arms and legs are pinned as you begin to resist the inevitable. The humiliation you begin to feel must be unbelievable, because Jennifer straddles you to use you as her human
dildo. You try to resist but cannot. She mounts you and begins to move up and down, back and forth; slowly at first, then faster. You can't resist
any further, and release an incredible, almost painful, load into her.

Jennifer, however, isn't finished with you, slave. Not by a long shot. Seeing your shame, she quickly moves forward and straddles your your face. You are forced to service her in the most shameful way, until she reaches her climax at your expense. The mocking laughter of the crowd echoes in your ears. You are aware that, later that night, they will make love as men and women, with thoughts of your submission and degradation exciting them. They will share freely what you are forever denied.

"Thank you, sissy," I praise you. You have done well. I am most pleased with your performance at my little gathering. You and Jennifer have gotten everyone quite hot and bothered, and I'm not too surprised when several of the couples invent some rather imaginative reasons to leave the party. It was a wonderful evening! This particular crowd revels in the debasement of sissies like you. One couple lingers, however. They are an alternative couple, both being women. Christina is a svelte beauty, tall and graceful. Cynthia, on the other hand, is quite voluptuous. Although both lesbians, their appearance belies the stereotype in that they are quite beautiful and feminine. We make small talk, but they can't help but stare at your degraded form in the corner, standing there, hands clasped behind your back submissively. I tell you to turn around and face us, because I want you to see that we're talking about you. You see, slave, I can't have you hiding your face at a time like this . . .it would be rude to my guests. Christina giggles when she notices a little stirring in your loins.

"He enjoys this, doesn't he?" It's a statement of fact, rather than a question.

"Yes," I reply, "I'm afraid he's quite the little slut. And his makeup is a mess." And, of course, I'm right. Jennifer smeared it quite effectively as she was riding your face earlier. And nothing ruins a make over as easily as being forced to suck your own semen from a woman, now, does it?

"Wherever did you find him?" Cynthia asks, licking her lips, "And how did you ever convince him to serve us like this tonight?" I set down my wine and walk over to you in the corner. Reaching between your legs, I toy with you as I answer her. "Well, it's very simple, actually." As I speak to the pair of women, I slowly alternate between raking my nails along your shaft and giving you firm, strong strokes. "He begged to serve me. Didn't you, sissy? In fact, he paid me for the privilege."

Cynthia and Christina move closer, their eyes fixed on the activity between your legs. You're dripping at this point, a long strand of pre-come gently swinging from the tip as you respond to my nails. Cynthia's face is beginning to flush (as it always seems to do when she's excited). She moves directly in front of you, so close that the head of your erect clit brushes against her dress as I continue to manipulate you. She's hiding something in one hand, and you strain to identify what it is. We gradually move away from the corner, allowing Christina access to your rear.

"Bind his wrists, dear," I tell Christina, "I want him unable to resist." Christina does so very quickly, with aplomb. Something tells me she's done this before. At long last, Cynthia reveals the object in her hand. It's a lipstick.

"Yes, little sissy," she says to you, breathlessly, "your makeup really is quite a mess. Allow me to repair it for you." Your eyes fix upon the lipstick tube as Cynthia slowly twists it to reveal the angry, pink color. It's bright pink, sissy, and it's going on your mouth. These women, complete strangers, are in control of you now, and they're going to put this lipstick on you. As her hand approaches your face, slowly, you can't take your eyes off the lipstick, framed as it is by her voluptuous form. As the lipstick barely touches your mouth, you feel Christina working on you from the rear. The sudden sensation of her long, painted nails snaking their way along your crack, you wince slightly. Not much, but enough to throw Cynthia off her mark. The lipstick smears across your cheek.

Cynthia doesn't respond, but continues her handiwork. She simply smiles, a knowing, lustful smile. "Oh, you'll pay for that, little sissy," she
whispers to you, ominously. "You simply must learn to control yourself. And we'll teach you, whether you like it or not. Not now, but later." With that, Cynthia applies the lipstick to your mouth with repeated, heavy strokes. Of course, my manipulations of you have continued unabated. And it seems that Christina has found her mark behind you. Yes, little sissy slave, she's slowly working a finger into your rectum. It probes, it pushes, in and out, seeking your prostate. Her free hand roams your chest, searching for one of those sensitive little nipples of yours. I'm afraid your senses are becoming overloaded, and everyone knows it. In fact, that's the whole point, isn't it? You're a slave, a sissy little slave, and your Mistress and her friends want to watch you mess, again. Well, the last time you shot into Jennifer, and we didn't get to see it, not really. And that's what we want, now. We want to see it arc forcefully, shooting all over Cynthia's dress. Go ahead, little slave. Show us what you can do. Because you know what? Cynthia has asked to purchase you for the rest of the evening. And all day tomorrow. Well, don't you see? First they want a sex slave, then they want a little maidservant to clean their house. And, no doubt, they'll want a sex slave again. How could I possibly refuse?