sissy – Page 8 – Contemplating the divine

Three wishes for Sissy Jemima

One afternoon, Sissy Jemima was – as usual – on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. It was a thrice-daily task, because Mistress reasoned that it was a lot easier simply to have her sissy clean the floor than to waste too much time carefully wiping her feet. Just at the point when she was about half-way finished, there was a flash and a crack and she looked up to see a flustered, middle-aged lady floating in the air before her. Jemima – assuming this was one of Mistress’s friends and thinking nothing of the levitation except relief that her nice wet floor would not be sullied – bowed her head low and murmured a respectful greeting.

“No need to bow, James” the apparition said. “I’m your fairy godmother!”

Jemima wondered who she was speaking to. Then she remembered.

“Erm, it’s Jemima these days, Ma’am. Hasn’t been James for a very long time.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “And I’m Fairy Godmother, not ‘Ma’am’”

“Yes, Fairy Godmother” Jemima replied dutifully, happy that she was being given clear instructions.

“And I’m here to grant magical wishes!” the Fairy Godmother continued, brightly. “I was supposed to appear on your twenty-first birthday but… well, it’s been a bit busy, and anyway, better late than never, and here I am!”

“You get three wishes – your heart’s desire, anything you want!”

She looked around, then down at the figure in the pink maid’s dress outfit beneath her hovering feet. She noticed the short chain connecting the ankles. Using her fairy senses she could discern too the tightly-laced corset, as well as the steel tube nestling between whip-marked thighs beneath her god-sissy’s skirt. Looking around, she saw a piece of paper attached to the fridge door, with a table headed “Sissy Jemima’s chores.” It was a long list.

“You know…in case there’s anything in your life you’d like to change?” she suggested.

Sissy Jemima looked up. “Can I give my wishes to Mistress?”, she asked, eagerly.

“What? No – non-transferable” the Fairy Godmother replied, slightly taken aback.

“Oh…” the sissy said, looking worried. “Oh dear. Can I at least ask Mistress what I should choose?”

“Certainly not” the Fairy Godmother replied, more firmly. “You need to decide now – and time has stopped for your wife Sarah and everything in the world except you and me, here and now.”

Sissy Jemima glanced up at the clock and saw its second hand wasn’t moving. So there was no danger of her chore being finished late, which was a relief. Still, she felt a surge of panic at the thought of having to make a decision – three decisions! And she wasn’t even allowed to ask Mistress. It had been a long time since she had made any decisions… she still vaguely recalled the big decision to sign the agreement with Mistress Sarah, but after that everything in her life had been fairly clear and straightforward, albeit not always easy.

“I wish that Mistress can have three wishes – a hundred wishes!” she ventured, but the Fairy Godmother shook her head.

“Doesn’t work like that – just wishes for yourself. You know: like Cinderella.”

The Fairy Godmother instantly regretted mentioning Cinderella, as she feared this simpering thing that James had become might wish to be swept off in a coach to dance with a handsome prince. Princes of any sort were in short supply in 21st-century London and the only one who could be described as even slightly handsome was already married and had renounced his position and decamped to Canada.

But Sissy Jemima was thinking along different lines. “Could I… do you think I might have a new scrubbing brush?” she asked, shyly.

“Really? Just that? Do you want… I don’t know, a magic scrubbing brush, maybe, that does the floor by itself? I can do that.”

Sissy Jemima shook her head. “Just the same as this one” she replied, indicating the battered and bleached wooden implement she had been using. “But new. See: the bristles are all bent.”

“Not that I’m complaining!” she added quickly. “I’m very lucky that Mistress lets me use this wonderful brush.”

The Fairy Godmother sighed, then waved her wand in the tiniest imaginable circle in the air. Shifting patterns of green and purple swirled in the air around the brush for a moment, then vanished. A brand-new wooden scrubbing brush, bristles standing tall and ready for use, lay before them on the half-cleaned floor.

“Thank you Ma’am” said Sissy Jemima automatically. “I mean, Fairy Godmother”.

There was silence for a moment, as both contemplated the new brush. Sissy Jemima began to feel uneasy.

“It’s very different, isn’t it” she remarked. “I hadn’t realised quite how much the bristles had bent. And it’s a different colour too – darker and varnished.”

“Exactly the same type of brush”, the Fairy Godmother replied. “£4.99 from any hardware shop… even cheaper at Tesco’s. Supernatural power to reshape the universe to your desires was in your hands, and you chose a new scrubbing brush. Can you try to be a little more ambitious with the remaining wishes? Riches, fame, love…?”

But Sissy Jemima wasn’t listening to her. She was staring at the brand-new brush with increasing disquiet.

“What if she notices?” she murmured. “I mean, she might not, but what if she does? And I hadn’t told her. Perhaps I ought to tell her? But then she’d be cross… I’m not allowed to ask for things.”

She shifted uneasily on her aching knees, feeling the cane marks on her bottom and thighs from last Friday’s ‘reminder’.

“I shouldn’t have done that” she whispered, sadly. “I’m a bad, wicked sissy, ungrateful for the lovely brush Mistress gave me.”

“Oh get on with it.” the Fairy Godmother sighed. “Second wish – come on. The readers will be wondering whether this story’s worth persisting with.”

Jemima had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Could I – have the old brush back?” she asked, eagerly.

“Really?” the Fairy Godmother replied, raising an eyebrow. “You really want to have spent two of your three wishes that way?”

The sissy nodded vigorously. “Then I wouldn’t have done anything Mistress might not like, would I? Because I’d still have the same brush she gave me… so I wouldn’t have been a bad sissy at all!”

“Well…” she went on. “I suppose I would still have had the bad thoughts. But she might never find out about that.”

“Oh for god’s sake” the Fairy Godmother muttered, twiddled her wand back around in the opposite direction, and the rough unvarnished wood of the old brush lay before them once more.

“Third wish” she said, thinking she would never again object to over-extravagant wishes, or those that sought to reshape the fundamentals of the universe. “Come on. Something you really want. Something that would make you happy – you’re supposed to live happily ever after, you know? This is your one chance – don’t waste it.”

Jemima shut her eyes tight and thought and thought. This wasn’t something she was used to and it gave her a bit of a headache. But just at the point when the Fairy Godmother was about to start making suggestions, she opened them again and looked up again, beaming with pleasure.

“I have it!” she said, and explained what she wanted.

“Are you sure?” the Fairy Godmother replied doubtfully. “Just that?”

“Oh yes” Sissy Jemima sighed. “That would make me happier than anything in the world.”

“Very well” the Fairy Godmother replied. “At least it’s not another fucking brush. Here we go.”

And she raised her wand.

*******************************************************************

In case you were wondering what Mistress Sarah looks like: she looks like this.

Two hours later, Sissy Jemima was standing slightly to the right of the back of her Mistress’s armchair, feet neatly together, her hands clasped before her. Mistress Sarah reached out for the cup of tea at the table to her right and took a sip.

There was a pause, during which Sissy Jemima hoped that her thudding heart was not audible.

“Very good, sissy!” Mistress Sarah remarked, with some surprise. “You actually managed not to stew the tea for once – and you haven’t made it too strong or too weak either.”

She took another sip.

“And just about the right amount of milk, too.” she added. “Now if only you could make every cup like that, sissy.”

“Perhaps I will, from now on Mistress.” Jemima replied, her voice quavering slightly as her heart tried to burst with unaccustomed pride.

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” her Mistress said, not sounding too optimistic. “But well done for this one, sissy. Footstool!”

So Sissy Jemima got down on all fours and crawled in front of her, to receive the welcome weight of her Mistress’s legs across her pink-clad back. She smiled a secret smile to herself, as Mistress continued to sip the tea with satisfaction.

And she lived happily – except, obviously, during weekly ‘reminders’, additional punishments and the occasional visits by Mistress Sarah’s sister – ever after.

THE END

Mistress Sarah’s sister – pictured here on the left – likes tea, too. Sissy Jemima hoped that it would help mellow her attitude towards lazy, incompetent sissies a bit, but it turns out she doesn’t like tea that much.

Addendum

This is not a picture of Sissy Jemima. This is Sissy Peggy and unlike Sissy Jemima, Sissy Peggy used her wishes unwisely. In particular, she used one wish to get the frilliest, froo-froo-est maid’s dress ever – but neglected to use another wish to ensure Mistress did not react badly when she came home and saw her sissy husband wearing this monstrosity.

Well-ordered

You’ll find her arguments compelling, I guarantee it.

I know that some subs who are subject to strict speech rules rather resent them, but personally I really can’t complain.

That Clause 17(b) is a tricky one, particularly as it is written in an obscure regional dialect of Czech. But it’s very useful.

And if you want something to take your mind off the pain, try letting yourself be overwhelmed by the frustration of a lifetime in chastity. See – it’s a kind of virtuous circle.

Or higher. Whatever.

And I’ll be (your sharp intake of breath)

Mistress Lennox, of course… and that beardy bloke called Dave.

‘Ideas’ in the same sense that Pinterest sends me emails suggesting I check out ‘ideas’ about boots, corsets or traditional girls’ school uniforms. And chickens, oddly enough.

Those vanilla passengers can be rather tiresome. Fortunately one encounters fewer of them, these days.

I have a limited skill set, unfortunately. And I’m rubbish at it.

Don’t worry – lots of bridegrooms feel a bit nervous on the big day. None of the guests are likely to realise how well-founded your fears actually are.

It’s an arguable case, legally, or at least it would be were anyone in a position to argue about it. Which they won’t be, obviously.

Strict unethical standards

Sometimes, for brief periods when I am asleep or locked away in a cupboard.

God save the Queen. And her subjects, who might need some divine intervention, in the decades of her reign.

What sort of fish? Sustainably-sourced, I hope.

I did know at one point. Maybe I forgot… it’s all such a long time ago.

Sometimes I wish English retained the distinction between familiar and formal modes of address. I could try asking my domme to call me ‘thou’ but it just wouldn’t be the same.*

This is the very lovely and French Ibicella. She speaks English but, really, why would you want her to?

* Occasionally people ask me what my pronouns are. To my embarrassment, I am forced to admit that I am not allowed any.

Tender moments

I am in their loyalty programme. I get to pay more when I book flights, as I accumulate points they demand ever more expensive gifts and on board I am treated with extra contempt.

I expect you’ll want to evaluate this proposition quite carefully. I mean, that’s a lot of money to lend someone you barely know, just on the strength of… on the strength of… sorry, what were we talking about?

I can multi-task! I can flounce and simper, both at the same time.

As story-writers say, don’t tell: show.

Oh, I don’t know. There are advantages. For one thing, it’s not one of those wildly unrealistic fetishes that’s completely divorced from real life. For example, I am actually a lazy, worthless and sexually unattractive male, deserving the contempt the women I know barely bother to conceal. So I can live the dream, so to speak.

Unforced feminisation

My SO looked a bit worried when I asked her to ‘feminise’ me. She gently explained that no matter how hard I tried, I’d never make a convincing woman. Even if I were to try to mimic feminine behaviour such as intelligence, competence, courage and leadership, I simply could not get away with it. So obviously she was immensely relieved when I explained that all I meant was that I wanted to be dressed in a frilly pink dress and ordered to flounce around with a pout on my excessively made-up face. I was soon happily across her lap having my naughty little knickered bottom spanked and shrieking like a little girl, so that was all right.

I don’t think I’d want to be a real woman anyway. Too much responsibility. And not enough chores.

Don’t you just hate it when you’re sent off to play with other sissies? They can be so self-centred and immature. I’d rather just flounce about in front of Mistress, showing off my frillies. Perhaps I should try having a tantrum about it.

She looks lovely in it. And you’ll look lovely ironing it, too.

Actually, quite a lot of things taste a bit shoey to me right now, but that’s because for obvious health reasons I’m wearing the mask she made me most of the time, so it’s if the world were made of stinky socks. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing…

Don’t worry about looking foolish when you’re doing the little dance. Most of the passers-by probably won’t know what the moves and actions are supposed to be anyway. I’m sure they’ll find it amusing, though, and that’s the most important thing.

Rather like me, this gentleman makes an unconvincing woman, exhibiting as he does stereotypical male behaviour such as whining, laziness and cowardliness. Fortunately, Her Maj has ways of dealing with those.

Love and punishment

Corner time, thankfully, is one of those activities that is largely unaffected by the lockdown. In fact, lockdown is a little like corner time for the entire country, if you think about it (and I have lots of thinking time: several hours most days).

There’s no place for this kind of bigotry in the modern world.

Enjoy the view while it’s still unencumbered with tears.

Erm… “because it was a menial occupation that made insufficient use of her prodigious gifts”?

The angelic, diabolic and generally perfect Mistress Eleise, of course, beneath whose notice I have had the privilege on several occasions to crawl in person. I have never tried her on ‘dumb blonde’ jokes, though… perhaps some more adventurous ‘reader’ could give that a go and let us all know how it works out, if still able to type after the experience.

He does agree. Several times, every day. As often as she wants, in fact.

And finally a bit of found femdom. I can’t believe I’ve not encountered* this before. Nor was I aware that the lovely Alice, of Serena and Alice fame, has a twin sister. Content warning (1) for those who do not enjoy scenes of brutal torture: contains brutal torture. Content warning (2) for those who do: contains only 1 minute and 45 seconds of it.

Warning 3: the Youtube clip does not appear to be available to viewers located in certain countries. Gee, if only there were a way to reroute your Internet access through a server in a different country from your own.

* Yes, as a matter of fact I did consider using the lame “come across” joke again. What of it?

Head under heels

That’s the way I fell in love, many years and almost as many orgasms ago…

It’s important to fight back against the stereotypes. Wear the t-shirt, use the hashtag, carry the pliers.

Well, it’s more romantic than stealing them from clotheslines.

It’s best not to think about it too much. Thinking generally isn’t a sissy maid’s strong point anyway.

I’ve never really understood knitwear fetishism, although enforced knitting as an alternative to line-writing has its attractions.

Thank goodness for that. Lots of vanilla escorts wouldn’t have been so in tune with your needs, you know, might have just gone ahead and given you a blow job anyway. She’s obviously very special.

Clean sweep

A few weeks ago, I published ‘Advice to a novice domme‘ in which, among many other wise and practical ideas, I humbly suggested that dommes should not “assign actual housework tasks to ‘sissy maids’ because they’ll fuck them up and might actually damage your stuff. All they want to do is mince around with a feather duster and then get spanked, anyway”.

It occurs to me that several sissy maids might be offended, hurt and humiliated by this suggestion. That’s absolutely fine, of course, no one cares about a few sulky sissies. I’m sure your mistress can wipe that frown off your face, with a few well-aimed slaps from her palm. And for those who have a humiliation kink, perhaps you should even send me some session fees as compensation, hmm sissy?

But if there are still any sissies out there stamping their little feet, balling their fists together and having squeaky tantrums, here is some actual proof (all images certified collected at random from the Internet, so I think we can agree their accuracy is unquestionable) that you’re all completely useless.

Proud to present: cleaning sissies, on the job

A little dishwashing mop, sissy? For that task? Only… I don’t see any dishes there, do you? Oh – and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mop quite so pristine…. I’d have thought that if you’ve been working hard using it, it would have been a little discoloured by now? That lady behind you looks quite cross, doesn’t she? But then maybe that’s what you’re hoping for.

Good idea sissy. Nothing worse than a dusty TV-cabinet. Let’s fluff that dust up so it settles somewhere else.

Dusting the floor, sissy? OK, well, whatever.

Not a shoe brush. And you’re out of uniform, sissy, you bad girl.

Also not a shoe brush. So not a shoe brush. What is that thing? Also, sissy, the technique seems to involve your domme standing on one (high-heeled) foot, holding her other foot off the ground, while you flick at the shoe with… with that. She’s going to be almost as uncomfortable as you are. Well: until she decides to make you more uncomfortable still, I suppose.

Uh-huh. Might take quite a while to get the whole house done. Still… I expect you’re paying by the hour, so that’s not her problem.

I don’t even want to think about what’s going on here, but I suspect it’s not conducive to really effective cleaning.

That’s right, sissy. Mistress is going to be very pleased with you when she looks out through the sparkly clean, erm… lower half of each of her ground floor windows. Dommes never use the top halves of windows; it’s a well-known fact.

What is it with sissy maids and feather dusters?

So… let me make sure I understand. You’ve got the brush from a dustpan and brush set and you’re placing a few bristles from it against the floor? Right. And this is intended to accomplish what, exactly? I mean in cleaning terms, rather than sexual gratification, obviously.

Oh good: another feather duster. And… what are you planning to clean with that, sissy? The floor? That mat? I don’t think so. Not ‘cleaning’ cleaning.

…and just for avoidance of doubt: if actually instructed to use an inappropriate cleaning implement, then you’d better bend your head down and get on it it, hadn’t you, hmm? That pert little mouth is for scouring and sponging the kitchen floor, not for answering back, girl! And don’t you forget it.

Now: for any sissy maid still offended… Just stop crying, girl, you’re just smudging your make-up and making yourself look even more ridiculous than usual, OK? Don’t worry: no one’s going to take your feather duster away. Or your frillies. Goodness: what a fuss!

Now and then we wonder who the real men are

Oh yes, a proper little sissy, that one. Has been for years. Hard to imagine him not in his frillies or
little maid’s dress, to be honest.

You want to know if he’s ever been out in public dressed that way? Funny how many visitors want to
know that…

Well… he has, from time to time. But that’s not the most humiliating public
display he’s experienced – is it sissy? Oh, sure, it would be embarassing to appear in public in a little girl’s dress, but the very worst public humiliation he has
experienced was a time when he went out pretending to be a normal man. Because it’s so ridiculous an idea! Simply ridiculous, isn’t it, sissy? That’s right, it is. And so are you, aren’t you?

I said: aren’t you ridiculous, sissy?

That’s better.

I’ll tell you the story.
It was when our ‘relationship’ had just started and it was still a
rather playful, sexual thing, not the 24/7 servitude it is now. Maybe he could
see the direction things were taking, I don’t know, but I found that more and
more often he was asking whether we could just have an evening out ‘as normal
people’. A guy and his girlfriend, not a
sissy-maid and mistress. After all,
despite all the games, he was a man, he would say.

Why not? So we went on a ‘date’.
On went a smart jacket and tie… frilly knickers below them, admittedly, and a
remote-controlled shock device below those, but he looked ‘normal’ enough on the
surface – a bit dweeby, maybe – and out we went, to a trendy bar.

He was nervous about the zapper, but I told him it was just
a mind-game (oh how naïve he was about my intentions towards him back then) and
I was true to my word and zapped not once, no matter how tempted. We had been in the bar for about half an hour
and he was beginning to relax, when I made my move.

“Look at those two at the bar” I remarked, smiling. “Don’t they look lovely?” And I nodded towards two young women laughing
and joking together. They were indeed
rather glamorous. I imagined they were
having a couple of drinks together before going on to meet their dates – they certainly
looked dolled up for someone and I was not getting a lesbian vibe from them.

Sissy looked rather alarmed and started wittering about how
they were not as lovely as me, but I shushed him and told him it was fine: I
just meant they looked good, that was all.
“It’s OK for you to find other women sexy, you know” I smiled. “After
all, I do have the key – and not just to your heart.” He laughed too – more out
of nervousness than the feeble pun, I expect, and admitted that the two ladies
were indeed attractive.

These are not actually the two ladies from the story. But the vibe is similar and so is the barman’s beard, which was just like that.

“Right” I said, quietly.
“Off you go, then.”

“Erm… off I go? Go where?”

I nodded towards the attractive pair. “Go chat them up. That’s what real men do. See if you can get off with one of them. Give them your best pick-up lines.”

“But I… I…”

I took the remote for his ball-shocker out of my bag and very
deliberately clicked it up to 16 out of 20, holding it so he could see. His previous record was 14 and he had nearly
screamed the house down.

“We’ll start at 16.” I said.
“And we’ll go up to 20. The
battery’s fully charged.” I picked the
remote up and rested my thumb on the button.

“Or…” I said, indicating the two at the bar with the remote
itself. He looked desperately around.

I yawned. “You can
show me your pulling skills, or you can scream.
Five, four, three…”

He shot to his feet and barrelled over to the two ladies,
knocking violently against a stool as he went. The disturbance made them both look up, and one smiled in a puzzled, friendly
way.

What sissy used for chat-up lines, I shall never know. I doubt the two young ladies do either, because
he was stuttering and shaking with embarrassment as he tried to engage them in
conversation, so I doubt he made much sense even close up. Almost immediately, it became clear that it
was not going well. The friendly puzzled
smile faded, and she spoke quietly but firmly to him, while her companion just
pursed her lips in disapproval and called the barman for another drink. Obviously, he had not “pulled” (I’ll confess now
that I had no Plan B for what to do if he had… but it had not seemed very
likely).

With a palpable sigh of relief, he turned away from them, towards
me and started coming back. I met his
eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head and then gestured back towards
the bar. He knew what I meant. Real men don’t give up that easily, sissy. Be
forceful. Keep at it.

He looked horrified so I gently slid my thumb across the
button again, and as if by magic he turned back, to play the real man once
more. His face was white – almost greenish.
His attempts to appear masculine were not helped by the fact that his sweating had
made translucent spots on his shirt, so the shadow of the bra underneath was
very visible, although I don’t know if either of the two ladies noticed. Again, he spoke to them and this time there
was the reaction I’d hoped for.

No – not a face-slap!
He’d have enjoyed a face-slap, but that was never going to happen, not
in the vanilla world, only in BDSM sessions and in movies. No: the one who hadn’t
spoken to him so far just lost it, basically.
She stood up, in his face (slightly taller, in her high heels) and told
him what she thought of creeps like him.
She spoke loudly and angrily – not quite shouting, but everyone in the
bar could hear her give my poor sissy a piece of her mind about how she was
sick of being unable to sit in a bar and have a quiet drink with her friend
without sad little bastards like him coming up and ogling them and trying on
his lame pick-up lines…. She went on for a while. It looked rather cathartic. I smiled myself and quietly left the place,
as a couple of other people went up to the bar to help.

Only in movies, I’m afraid. And femdom sessions. And femdom movies, for that matter.

I hadn’t abandoned him.
I had just sidled into a nearby doorway to see what happened. Don’t
worry: he wasn’t beaten up or anything – they just marched him out of the bar
and shouted quite a bit more. Poor sissy. He does not deal well with conflict. Perhaps that is why he has allowed himself to
be sucked into his present lifestyle – there is no possibility of conflict in
his life now, just obedience.

He was still shaking when we got home. He took off his ridiculous male outer clothes
with revulsion and popped on a maid’s outfit to serve me a drink. I allowed him to calm down, kneeling at my
feet, for quite a while before making sure the lesson had sunk in.

“Any time you feel you want to behave like a real man again,
sissy…” I started, but he shook his head violently. A shame.
I was going to suggest going to a football match and getting into a
fight with the other side’s supporters.
Or paying some streetwalker several decades past her prime for an
encounter in a bleak concrete lay-by smelling of piss and diesel fumes (I don’t
think he’d even need his tube locked on: I have several times forced him to
tell me honest accounts of his fumbling attempts at sexual liaisons in early
adulthood and I can confidently predict that in that circumstance, little peter
would not be rising to the occasion). Real
man stuff.

If he ever asks again, I have
quite a few things he might try.

But somehow, he never has.

Isn’t that better, sissy? Much more your thing.