You've Got She Mail

“You’ve got she-mail!”

by Kimmie Holland & Meeah d/Z

Well, my darling little pansy,  by now it must be obvious even to a pathetic fairy like you what you’ve become. I can only imagine your humiliation when it first dawned on you what a complete faggot you now are--worse than a faggot, actually: an effeminate, limp-wristed swish no self-respecting gay man could ever respect. Never mind a  woman! Even you, air-head that you’ve become, must realize the hopelessness of your ever being desired by a woman, no matter how desperate she might be. 

Baby, you are now little more than a  tissue, a flimsy pink tissue that a real man uses to mop up the cum off his hairy chest after he masturbates. I wonder how many men have already used you exactly like that? Quite a few, I’d imagine, judging from the last time I saw you--a mere bit of fluff you were in those pink tights and tutu. My god, what a laugh Scott and I got seeing you in that drag ballet. It was all the funnier seeing how serious you were, how hard you were trying. Did they ever tell you it was supposed to be a comedy? Did you really think you were the Swan Princess?

I’m laughing my ass off as I write this! Christ, how gullible you are! No wonder it was so easy to fool around on you behind your back. And almost as easy to fool around on you right under your nose! It was fun to manipulate you, to make you dance to my tune, no matter how twisted, but I have to admit, though it was a ton of fun, it sure wasn’t much of a challenge.

^ ^ ^

Sissy read the first part of the email several times before the full import of it began to sink in.  True no one would ever have considered him one of the savviest people in the world, but surely he’d once been able to determine whether or not someone were out-and-out calling him a fool. Hadn’t he?

Lately, he seemed to have so much trouble determining anything for certain. It was as if a soft pink fog had crept over his brain obscuring even the simplest things, making an insoluble enigma out of anything more complicated than what color to polish his nails, or what heels to wear with what mini-skirt.

Now, sitting there in his pink chiffon babydoll, reading Emma’s email, the first communication she’d had with him since the divorce, sissy found himself getting the all-too-familiar combination of headache and nausea that he seemed to suffer any time he tried to think what he’d come to regard as “big-people-thoughts.” The cure was straightforward and effective enough: don’t think “big-people-thoughts.”

Sissy always felt much better when he dropped such complicated thoughts and turned his attention back to his appearance. His clothes, his makeup, his hair--these were things he understood and thinking about them made him feel good. So he thought about them almost constantly.

But once every so often someone who knew sissy from back when would try to force him to remember what he supposedly had once been.  They could hardly believe what had happened to him: that this wide-eyed, eager-to-please, absent-minded little blonde sexpot had once been a reasonably successful engineer.

An engineer? Sissy could hardly bend his mind around the concept of what an engineer was, not even when someone took the time to explain it to him. Sissy’s mom was one of those who tried the hardest to explain. She had a harder time than most accepting sissy for what he’d become and tried to remind him of what he’d once been. It was useless. Sissy would have liked to please her mom (yes, “her.“ It’s just impossible to continue using the masculine pronoun for this creature) but sissy couldn’t make sense of what she told him. She tried to understand but in the end sissy only became hopelessly confused. Then her head started to ache and her tummy felt sick and sisy got terribly afraid. In the end, sissy always burst into tears. Sissy’s mother persisted until the time that sissy got so upset she wet herself. Shocked and disgusted, staring aghast at the wet patch spreading across the crotch of her  feminized son’s romper as he bawled like a three-year-old,  she quietly collected her things and left sissy’s tiny flat without a word. Sissy had neither seen nor heard from her mother since.

That not even her own mom wanted anything to do with her anymore made sissy sad; but, luckily, she knew what to do when she was sad. She picked up her Hello Kitty doll, which was never far away, just in case she found herself feeling a little blue. A sissy should never feel blue! A sissy should only feel pink! Sissy’s Hello Kitty doll always made him feel pink, especially when he reached into Kitty’s little denim jumper pocket and found one of the special lollipops Daddy left him.

Sissy unwrapped the lollipop and delicately licked all round it with her little pierced pink tongue. Yum, it was so sweet. He hugged his Hello Kitty doll close and sucked on his special pink lollipop. Sissy was feeling better--pinker--already! She was already forgetting Emma’s cruel email.

Emma?

Emma...who?

^ ^ ^

Emma, your former wife, you silly goose.

If there is still a corner of your fried and frizzled brain that can still produce a coherent thought, you’re probably asking yourself why this bitch of an ex of yours is torturing you like this.  You’re probably saying to yourself, Wasn’t it enough that I turned you into the helplessly tush-wagging, cockwashing, pantywaist that you’ve become?

Actually, you probably aren’t asking yourself anything of the sort. You’re probably asking yourself which panties make your ass more fuckable. But let’s pretend you’re still capable of thinking of something other than where you’re next load of semen is coming from, shall we?

Well, there are two answers to the question of why I‘m still torturing you. The first is, quite simply, that I enjoy it. I get off on it, baby. It’s a power-trip. I guess you could say that I’m a sadist. Look it up if you’ve forgotten what that means. Or better yet, ask your Daddy what the word means. He’s one, too. That’s what you call him, isn’t it? Your Daddy? Good grief, you are so fucking pitiful!

Anyway, once Paul gave me that first taste of power over you, I became addicted. You might say I’m a sadoholic; and, unfortunately for you, sweetie, I haven’t the least intention of quitting.

As I said, there is a second reason I’m writing to you. And, believe it or not, the joy I get in torturing you notwithstanding, it’s a somewhat more “noble” one. The doctor tells us that it’s better for your mental equillibrium if  you understand what happened to you, even if it’s on a subconscious level. In other words, you might be too stupid and scatterbrained to remember the past in any specific way, but somewhere in that dandelion poof you call a head, a continuum of some tenuous sort exists between what you were and what you are now. The doctor says it’s important that you make that connection in order not to have a total breakdown.  A gibbering wreck is not sexy, darling, and in case you haven’t guessed, you’re sole purpose in the world from here on out is to be sexy.

Quite frankly,  Scott and  I don’t really give a shit if you end up sitting in a dirty nappy in a mental ward playing with your painted toes for the rest of your miserable days, but Paul—your Daddy—does and that you be delivered to him in possession of some semblance of your faculties was part of the deal.

Yes, a deal, baby. We sold you to your Daddy. In a manner of speaking, of course.

^ ^ ^

Sissy was crying; in fact, he was crying before he even knew he was crying. Something was sad; he wasn’t exactly sure what, something that had something to do with the email he was reading. Something about what this woman had written--Emma, that was her name. She said she’d once been his wife.

Sissy felt the big tears rolling over his smooth, round cheeks.  He dabbed carefully at his eyes with a tissue. Gosh, he was going to ruin his makeup if he kept this up. 

And Daddy would be home soon!

He couldn’t let Daddy see him mussed up! Just the thought of Daddy and his big strong arms and his scratchy beard and his big deep voice made sissy feel tons better. Soon Daddy would be home and sissy wouldn’t feel so small and lost and alone.  Daddy would tell him what to do and sissy wouldn’t have to worry. He wouldn’t have to feel anxious anymore.

Sissy would know exactly what to do. Because Daddy would tell him. And being told exactly what to do was a good feeling!

At that very moment, as if on cue, Daddy came through the front door after a day at the office and saw his pretty little sissy sitting in front of the computer, crying her pretty eyes out.

^ ^ ^

“What’s the matter baby? Why the tears, angel? Did something upset my little pansy-wansy?”

Daddy spoke to sissy in a very deliberate sort of baby-talk, part sympathy and part mockery--a combination that pushed all of sissy’s buttons, feeding her dual need for coddling and cruelty, tenderness and humiliation. Of course, Daddy knew what sissy needed and he also knew exactly what was troubling sissy; after all, he and sissy’s ex-wife had planned sissy’s descent with meticulous precision. He knew that sissy was scheduled to read Emma’s email today; hell, he’d even helped to write it.

Paul was a good Daddy. He knew what his sissy needed almost as thoroughly as he knew what he needed. Sometimes, for both their sakes, it was necessary to be harsh in order to be happy. He made a gesture indicating the monitor glowing on the desk behind his pansy.

“Was it what you’re looking at on the computer, baby? Is that what’s gotten you so upset?”

Sissy, in the sheer excitement of seeing her Daddy, had all but forgotten the email. How precious! It would have been easy for Paul to have permanently distracted the silly priss but, as a good Daddy, he knew that wouldn’t be the best thing for his sissy…or for him. He needed Sissy to know exactly what had happened to her, even if that knowledge remained no more than a shadowy intimation floating around somewhere in that bit of insubstantial pink fluff she called her “brain.”

“Here, get up a moment,” Paul said. “Let Daddy sit down. You can sit on his lap.”

All smiles now, sissy wiggled provocatively out of the chair, all but squealing with anticipation as Daddy sat down, and patted his lap. She climbed eagerly into his lap. What did Sissy weigh now…110, 115, certainly not much more…Paul thought with pleasure, feeling himself growing aroused at how weak and vulnerable his precious pansy princess had become. He pushed aside the filmy panties covering Sissy’s soft little ass and popped his thick thumb into the tight hole, all hot and wet, that offered itself up to his penetration. Sissy let out a long contented sigh and laid her pretty head on Daddy’s broad shoulder.

“There now. Isn’t that better, sissy?”

“Yeth Daddy.”

Paul smiled. He loved it when Sissy’s conditioning showed evidence of penetrating even her unconscious speech patterns. That lisp was just sissilicious.

“Put your thumb in your mouth, precious. That’s it.  Now you feel better, don’t you?”

Sissy looked up at Daddy with big adoring eyes. She nodded enthusiastically. Her blonde curls danced all around her painted face as she smiled up at her Master and purred with contenment.

“Of course it feels better.  Daddy always knows best. Don’t you ever forget it sissy.”

“I won’t daddy,” sissy simpered around the thumb she was still sucking. “I promith.”

And it did feel better. There was no doubt about it.  Settled on Daddy’s lap, secure in his big arms, Daddy’s thick thumb lodged deep inside her pussyass, Sissy felt an immediate calm descend over her entire being. There was no place else in the world where she would rather be. Here, she was safe; here, nothing could hurt her.  On Daddy’s lap is where she belonged. Inside her sexy stiletto sandals, her little painted toes scrunched up in the sheer sensual appreciation of the ultra-yumminess of it all.

Paul reached around sissy to the keyboard, peering into the computer screen. “So this is what’s gotten you so upset, is it? A mean email from that meanie Emma?” Sissy murmured her assent into Paul’s shoulder. She’d started softly crying again; Paul could feel the pansy’s warm tears thorugh his dress shirt.

“It’s okay baby. Cry it out. It’s just a story, that’s all. Just another fairy tale and you know that fairy tales always end happily ever after. Would you like me to read it to you?”

Sissy nodded, once, twice, very quickly.  Very quietly, the faggot whispered, “Yeth pleeth…”

^ ^ ^

It was a simple story and easy enough to understand, even for a fluffy-headed bimbo like sissy…provided Paul spoke slowly and plainly enough, which he did, making sure that sissy understood every word, letting the story sink deep into his unconscious, like the post-hypnotic suggestion it partly was.

Of course, the part where Emma told him what a failure he’d been as a husband could not have come as any news to sissy--certainly not at this point! Nor could it have been a surprise for sissy to hear that his ex considered him a failure as a man. Emma was merciless in her total deconstruction of sissy’s “mock manhood,” but none of her relentless attacks, no matter how cruel, amounted to anything that sissy hadn’t already known, hadn’t heard before, even if it did hurt sissy to hear it again, even now,  to hear how much disgust and contempt he inspired in the woman who, truth be told, sissy still loved.

It wasn’t the recounting of her long string of infidelities that upset sissy either. Sissy had know about these as well. There came a point in their disintegrating marriage that Emma stopped being even marginally discrete or respectful of sissy’s feelings in this regard; instead, she carelessly flaunted her promiscuousness right under the poor pansy’s nose, eventually bringing her men to the house even when sissy was home. Sometimes, or so it seemed to the humiliated sissy, Emma brought lovers around to fuck especially when sissy was home, as if to rub it in, as if to highlight the fact that sissy was too passive, too weak, too unmanly to put a stop to it.

Many were the time when sissy would have to sleep on the couch while Emma fucked the man of the night in their bedroom. Many were the time when sissy found himself fixing coffee for all three of them the next morning…and, sometimes, if he requested it, a hearty he-man breakfast for Emma’s lover.

Emma stopped sleeping around, only when she found the man she never hesitated to all “the love of her life” and “the best fuck I ever had.” That would be her new and current husband,  Scott.

No, as brutal as Emma had been in her email, what had upset sissy so much was what followed. Paul could see from where sissy had scrolled down which part he’d been reading. The part where Emma and her new hubby had sold sissy to Daddy.

Yes…sold.

It was a little surreal to talk about selling a person in this day and age--in America, anyway--but that is what, in effect, had happened to sissy. She’d been sold to Daddy.

Sissy was having a hard time understanding--and accepting--this part of the story, but it was important that she did and Paul was going to make certain for sissy’s own good that she did; after all, what were Daddys for?

So Paul spelled it out for sissy simple as a-b-c. How, as an HIV-positive gay man with a penchant for ultra-femme trannyfags, Paul had spotted in sissy the raw material to create for himself the perfect pansy fucktoy. With a little snip & tuck, a bit of behavior modification, and the deep-level hypnotic intervention that Paul was so deft at practicing in his research as a CIA-funded shrink, it wasn’t hard at all to bring out the Sissy in sissy. And, judiciously spicing the psychological fomula with some old-fashioned “torture”  of the physical variety, Paul had molded for himself the slavegurl of his kinkiest dreams.

“So there you have it, sissy,” Daddy said. “As the saying goes, ‘now you know the rest of the story.’ Any  questions?”

“No daddy,” sissy simpered coquettishly.

Paul pushed sissy back on his lap and stared into the pansy’s wide-eyed, almost childish face, made that much more childish by the thumb she was still sucking, would continue to suck, until Paul pulled it out of her mouth and replaced it with the eight hard inches of his hot cock.  He searched his sissy’s face for the least sign of resistance, the slightest trace of rebellion, the most nascent trace of resentment…and found--nothing. Nothing but calm acceptance.

Nothing but devotion to Daddy.  Nothing but…dare one use the word…love?

“Good,” Paul said. “Cause I’m not in the mood for questions. I’m starving. I’m in the mood for dinner. And, afterwards, dessert: namely, your scrumptious little body under the sheets. Now go scamper off to the kitchen while I wash up.”

Giggling, sissy slid off Daddy’s lap and did as she was told. Sissy loved doing as she was told. It’s not exaggeration to say doing as she was told was all that was left of her life.

^ ^ ^

Sissy stood naturally at attention beside Daddy’s chair at the dining room table, which she had naturally set, albeit elegantly, for one: that one, of course, being the only one who mattered, namely: Daddy. She stood close by just in case Daddy should want something she hadn’t already anticipated, although she always tried very hard to anticipate all of Daddy’s needs. She was ready, for instance, to drop to her knees at a moment’s notice and orally please Daddy if he indicated, by the slightest gesture, that was what he wanted.

Sissy stood, as she was trained to stand, as it felt natural, when in Daddy’s presence, to always stand, with her arms bent at the elbow, her wrists turned outward, her painted fingers curled slightly towards her open palms, as if she were suspended forever in the moment just before mincing off to do something or other for Daddy…a moment in which she was, technically speaking, always suspended, that is, she wasn’t actually engaged in doing something for Daddy.

There was, of course, nothing unusual in all this. Sissy was a slave, after all. And this is how it always is for slaves.

Sissy’s head was slightly bowed, her eyes downcast, fixed on the ten perfectly painted toes lined up in a perfect row in the stiletto sandals she wore, her ankles pressed tightly together, as if they were bound. They had been bound, routinely, for a long time, to teach her to stand in exactly this way. And, to mince, when it came time for her to move, as if she still wore shackles.

Just imagine: she stood like this while Daddy ate the meal she prepared--and what a meal it was.

The candles sputtered, Daddy’s knife and fork clatterered on the good china, and he murmured his approval as he thoughtfully chewed another tasty mouthful. Sissy felt two long tears wet her made-up cheeks. 

She had been required to find the perfect recipe, to shop for the ingredients, to prepare and cook the meal. It had been difficult, more than a little surreal, but this, watching Daddy eat what had once been her…yes, her so-called manhood!… was the hardest part of all. Sissy really had no idea why she agreed to sign the papers authorizing the orchiectomy; it had seemed the right thing to do at the time; it still seemed the right thing to do, didn’t it? Yes, yes, Daddy was happy, Daddy was pleased, Daddy was enjoying the meal that sissy had provided and that was all that mattered!

“Excellent,” Daddy declared, when he had finished, sopping up the last piece in the gravy and popping it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed thoughtfully, savoring that last piece; then he dabbed his mouth with the artfully folded cloth napkin. “Absolutely superb. A once in a lifetime meal, alas…”  and then he belched expansively in appreciation. He laughed when he saw sissy’s tears.  He pushed his chair away from the table. “Come here, pussycat. Let me give you a taste…”

And sissy minced over to where Daddy sat and climbed up onto his lap.  Daddy covered sissy’s mouth with his--it was a long, slow, insinuating kiss and on Daddy’s probing tongue sissy tasted, for a moment and then no more, the fleeting and then entirely forgotten flavor of his life as a man.

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