Black Master, white sissy part 2 SeXStoRY

Black Master, white sissy 2 ny Nancyberlin I was a romantic despite the cynicism I projected in my job. This tough black skinhead yob had abused me - he had shaved me, humiliated me and yet for the next week what I remembered most was the kiss. Sure, the abuse had touched something in me but until I had met him it was unacknowledged - something hidden deep in the dark places of my psyche where I was unwilling to go rummaging. He had brought them out to the light but I wasn't ready to confront them yet, to see what place they might have in my life. Kissing was different - that I could relate to, that I felt was something I wanted more of. Especially with him, with my black working class thug and seducer. I felt that the chemistry between us had been terrific, something exceptional. My head was way up in the clouds for days, dreaming of him, of being kissed again by him. After our impromptu session in the warehouse I just felt that of course he'd want to see me again and soon. I even imagined he'd come with me for a drink - somewhere far from where I lived because I couldn't let my neighbours and the locals see me with someone so evidently rough and uncouth. So I was waiting for him to make the invitation as I got dressed after that first meeting; but it didn't come; he just looked at me insolently - almost with something like a sneer or with contempt. And I still hadn't finished dressing when he turned on his heel and moved off. I called out after him, 'Hey, just a minute!' and he turned and looked at me, still with something that was halfway between amusement and scorn. I didn't know what to say. He made me feel silly and kind of less of a man than he, and I was flustered. I was struck dumb and all I could do was pull out my wallet and give him my business card. He took it and looked at it as if it was something he had never seen before - maybe he hadn't - turning it this way and that between his fingers as if he had no idea what this slender piece of card might be or what use it could possibly serve. For an awful moment I thought he was going to throw it away but he did finally slip it into his pocket and without a word walked off. Only then did I realise that I didn't even know his name. Getting the makeup off my face took for ever, seeing as I only had cold water and toilet paper to remove it. I wasn’t convinced I had managed it but by now night had been setting in and in the gloaming I was able to pass as I ran home. Then - nothing. Silence. No phone calls. Part of me was relieved that this didn't happen - what would I have said to my secretary when she fielded the call? She knew everything about me - or seemed to. She knew exactly what role every caller played in my life whether professionally or socially. But I would have thought of something, would have invented some excuse about a plumber or builder doing work on my fancy flat. But I had no need to invent because there was no call. I got angry - I was absurdly discomfited by having gone through something I saw as deeply intimate and deeply personal and deeply life-changing and that all of this seemed to mean nothing to this bastard. So he sissifies good-looking guys every day of the week? Beats them? Shaves them? Fucks them? Yes, all that and begins and ends with kisses? Deep male kisses, tongues exploring, flavours in mouths kisses? Anger was useless and got me nowhere. He still didn't call and it didn't help me forget about him. So I had to do something about this. I wasn't just going to sit around and mope and feel sorry for myself; because the more I thought about it the more important it seemed - it wasn't just about the kisses. It was something deeper. I had to explore it more. I just had to. The one thing I was not taking on board was the feminisation and the way he had called me sissy all the time or girl. In fact, he just didn’t acknowledge any male aspect of me at all. So my mind turned away from this and concentrated solely on how deeply I felt attracted to him. But what to do? I had stopped my run. I was afraid to do it, afraid of the catcalls and jeers that I had received before. Of course it was obvious what I had to do but pride held me back so it took a few weeks of stupid selfish egoism before I was prepared to accept that that approach was going to lead nowhere and that whether I lost face over this or not, if he told me to fuck off or worse ignored me, I had to go for what I needed, I had to make the run again. Changing into my running gear in the office I felt sick. I felt like abandoning the attempt and settling back to my old life. Three weeks had passed; my hair, had grown back somewhat. So mixed in with the fear of rejection was the fear that he would despise me for having changed the way I had looked. Maybe he would see it as having abandoned the changes he had wrought in me. But despite this surely he would know - just by the fact that I was resuming my old route home - that I needed him, that he had made an impact on me. But still the bigger fear was that I had made no impact on him at all. So all of this was running crazily through my mind as I started my run home. Now, when I think back over all of this, I wonder at my arrogance - thinking that this guy should hang on after his mates had gone home, night after night, hoping for a glimpse of me. Why should he do this? Because I was such a stud was what I supposed, because I was a catch for him, someone he could never hope to meet otherwise. All that sort of rubbish was perhaps my answer - but you know I never really asked myself this or thought for a moment that he would not be there. Again it comes down to the significance of the initial meeting for me - it just had to be the same for him. It just had to be. So I rounded the corner, my heart in my mouth - and he was there, just as I had seen him on THAT evening, sitting on a low wall, smoking a cigarette, and, best of all, smiling broadly. I suddenly became shy as I slowed to a walk but held out a hand in greeting as I approached. He ignored it, chucked his cigarette away, stood up and entered the building. I followed him. He didn't look round but went to the same place as before. Now shut off from the outside world he turned to face me, still smiling. I moved towards him, ready for the embrace, ready to kiss that smoky mouth, to get my tongue inside it, to put my hands around his cropped head and rub my cheek against it. He slapped me, hard, across my face and before I could even cry out, backhanded me another. Then, taking advantage of my complete bewilderment, he punched me hard in the stomach. I doubled over and a hand chop to my neck brought me to my knees. That's when he started kicking me with his Doc Marten's. I cried out, as much in astonishment as in pain. I begged him to stop. I wanted to appeal to his better nature but not knowing his name I resorted to the only thing I had ever called him, 'Sir'. And as soon as I did so, he stopped. 'At last,' he said, very calmly. His self-possession surprised me - for someone who seconds before had been kicking the shit out of me and giving every indication of being a vicious lout, he was suddenly very much in control of himself. 'You really are a fucking useless piece of sissy shit, aren't you? Did nothing I did to you have an effect on you?’ He ripped off my shorts. ‘a fucking jock strap! you have really disappointed me. I thought that AT THE LEAST you would have worn pretty sissy panties for me. Are you thick or something? Don’t you see I have no interest in some white boy stud? I want you as my sissy bitch, my little pet pansy or not at all. You think I should be bothered with a fucking fashion victim like you? Your idea of fashion has got to change, girl, before I nut in you again.’ I didn't dare look at him. I just stared at his boots, worried that he'd start in on me with them again. I was curled up into a foetal ball. I could have straightened up but I was afraid to - not because it would have made my body vulnerable again but to conceal the enormous hard-on I was sporting through my jock strap. In fact I was hardly listening to him. I was so taken by surprise both by the unexpectedness of the attack but even more so by the undeniable fact that I was turned on. This guy treating me like shit turned me on. 'Well?' he continued. 'Why should I be bothered with a sissy cunt like you who keeps me hanging around for weeks?' 'But Sir,' I protested feebly, 'you have my work telephone number, you could have phoned me. I don't even know your name, Sir.' 'So I am supposed to go running after you? Who is the sissyslave around here, you or me?' 'I didn't know I was a slave, Sir,' I replied. 'Fucking hell', he said and laughed. 'Last time I saw you there was no fucking doubt about it then. Couldn't get enough abuse, couldn't get low enough, wanted to worship me, wanted to be changed, wanted to do anything. That right?' 'Yes, Sir.' 'OK, fucker, one last chance. You want to be my sissyslave then you come back here, same time, exactly one week from now. Understand?’ ‘Yes, Sir.’ ‘And remember, I want you as a sissy. I want you to look like a sissy whore.’ He kicked me one last time, on the backside, and left me lying there. When I looked up, he had gone. I was disappointed. I had gone through such a build-up in my mind, all that tossing and turning as to what I should do, how I could meet him again, what would happen when we did meet. Look, you have to understand that at that time I was used to getting my own way, having things on my terms. After a few days I began to recognise that, far from being a disappointment, that second meeting had sharpened my appetite. I actually liked not having control, liked being told what to do. Also the fact that our one sexual meeting had little sex in it brought me face to face with what I had been avoiding. And that was, quite simply, that I also liked being treated like shit, I liked being abused and kicked and slapped around. This was hard for me to come to terms with, you know. It had been there through all my teen years and into my twenties but I wouldn't confront it, wouldn't look at it or acknowledge it. Now I had to. The truth was that I was beginning to identify with being a slave to a skinhead both from the physical and the mental points of view. Then there was his race. The fact that he was black made the abuse more thrilling. The idea of him getting revenge for the way his race had been treated for centuries by whites, the reversal of expected roles - this was definitely part of the attraction. Then the sissy thing... I had never liked crossdressers, trannies, what ever you wanted to call them. I avoided drag shows and couldn’t understand why these were so popular with both straights and gays. Now I began to consider the idea what my antipathy was based on fear of a similar tendency in my self. It was difficult to unravel my feelings on this as it was so tied up with my need for humiliation. And it was on that level that I dimly began to recognise that I might begin to accept it. Finally, I also knew for certain that I longed to escape from the boring, mundane, respectable life I was leading. I wanted to say, 'Fuck you' to the straight world I lived in. I had conformed too long. This tough, little black skinhead was offering me a way out and I was determined to go for it, no matter what I had to go through. So the week that followed my second meeting was interminable; but it was useful too because it gave me a chance to come to terms with those things about myself that I had always run away from. And it led to a kind of recklessness to the extent that I was determined to show this cocky bastard that I was taking it seriously, that I did want to be what he wanted me to be. But mostly I occupied myself with transforming myself. There were a number of problems with that. First and foremost, there was no way I was going to parade through the streets as a sissy. No matter what punishment he was going to inflict on me - and I was sure he would - I would only wear stuff under a tracksuit. Then there was the problem about what to get and where to get it. Time was of the essence so shopping on the internet was out. I did a bit of research about sizes and set off to a department store. The shame of shopping for women’s lingerie was almost too much for me to bear. Everyone had to know who it was intended for just in term of sizes. There was NO WAY I would try anything on. I just had to hope for the best. Somehow I managed. I bought... a black lacy bra, black panties, a black lacy garter belt with little straps, a red mini skirt, a black blouse, and red heeled shoes. About a four inch heel. I took them home. I stripped and put them on. I looked in a mirror. I was amazed by what looked back at me. Despite being wig-less and without makeup, I was ...sexy. And my cock raised itself to a phenomenal hardness. So, on the appointed day I took a long slow bath and shaved all my body below the ears. I put on my new outfit except the heels and covered it all with my track suit. And at the appointed time, I set off jauntily, confident, happy. A bit apprehensive because I knew that this cocky black bastard would have something up his sleeve that I couldn't imagine but somehow I trusted him. Despite the fact that he had kicked me to bruising the last time I saw him I felt I was ready for him, ready and equal for whatever he might throw at me in the way of surprises. Well I was right - he did have a surprise up his sleeve. He was in his usual place, as usual smoking a cigarette, dressed as usual in his Fred Perry shirt, bleachers with white braces, tall DMs with white laces. He looked like a white power thug except for one obvious aspect of his look - the colour of his skin. He said not a word. Again he just flicked the cigarette away, stood up and moved inside, with me following lamely behind him. We got to our usual place, the door was slightly ajar when, instead of pushing through, he suddenly stepped aside and said with mock courtesy, 'After you, little lady'. In I went, like a lamb to the slaughter, he following me, so close behind me I could feel his breath on the nape of my neck. As I passed through the door his hands shot up and covered my eyes and mouth, other hands came from nowhere and grabbed me. Of course anyone's first instinct is to struggle and struggle I did but it was useless - I was pinioned by the arms, the shoulders, the thighs, and the calves. I was immobile. Then the voice came to my ear. 'Now this can be easy for you or it can be difficult. What is going to happen to you is going to happen to you one way or another. Make no mistake about that. Whether it is a struggle for you is up to you, you sissy cunt. Take it as it comes and it'll go much more quickly and easily. Do you understand that?' I nodded. 'Now I am going to remove my hands from your eyes and mouth and I don't expect a sound from you. Got that?' Again I nodded. All the hands that held me were withdrawn, and finally the hand over my eyes drew back and I could see what was going on. I saw six black skinheads and one black girl. Somehow her presence made it worse... The guys were young, tough, hard, trying to look serious but I could see that laughter lay just behind the eyes - they were enjoying this. The one I thought of as my Master moved round to stand directly in front of me. 'OK,' he said softly, 'you decided to come back. That's good. But it's the last decision you'll be making for a while. Got that?' 'Yes, Sir.' 'Louder.' 'Yes, SIR!' 'Now you want to be a sissy, don't you, bitch?' 'Yes, SIR!' 'And you want to be a slave, don't you, cunt?' 'Yes, SIR!' 'Well this evening your dreams come true. OK lads, let's get started - there's a lot to do.' There was that bag again, the one that contained God knows what. First out of it was a pair of scissors. One of the blacks - a tall, lean guy with a ferret-like face, no looker that's for sure but sexy for all that - pulled out a large pair of scissors. I almost shouted out, 'But I have no hair except on my head and please leave that!' but hair wasn't what he had in mind. He caught hold of my expensive designer track suit top and cut it from top to bottom. A roar went up when they saw my flat chest boasting a lacy bra. Any tendency on my part to protest was instantly quelled by the look on my Master's face. I kept my mouth shut as he continued to cut the pants in their turn, exposing garter belt, panties and stockings. Trainers were pulled off and the laces ritualistically cut. Socks too were chopped and rendered useless - and I was standing in women’s lingerie with a telltale erection. A chair was pulled out and I was pushed down onto it and the girl took over as makeup artist. At least she seemed to know what she was doing. I was naive enough to think that the makeup constituted the whole of my transformation but worse was to come. The sight of a needle was enough to bring out a spirit of rebellion in me and I confess I did make a dash for the door - only to be dragged back to the chair kicking and screaming. But as my Master had said, resistance was indeed useless and I saw that I really was powerless in this situation as I was firmly held while both nipples were pierced and rings inserted. Of course I cried out when the needle went through the nipple and I watched the bl**d trickle down my hairless chest and stomach. Still, you'd think by now that I would have stopped fighting but when I suddenly understood that I was going to have a ring through my septum, a nose ring like a pig or a****l, I couldn't take it. I screamed and screamed and writhed and twisted and they just let me get on with that until I had exhausted myself and then proceeded quite calmly to ring me. I was broken by now. I accepted it. It's funny - there comes a point when you do accept that you really can do nothing to change events; everyone has a different breaking point I guess and the nose ring was mine. And then there's a kind of peace - even the pain seemed to recede, things became dreamlike and drifting and all problems, thoughts of the future, even memories of the past, of what I had so recently been - all, just melted away. After this, having the word 'sissy' tattooed on my upper left shoulder and ‘slave’ on my right was the least of my worries or problems. It was like an out of body experience. I saw the needle, I heard the buzz and hum, I watched bl**d and ink mingle with a kind of bemused detachment, as if it were happening to someone else, not to me at all. So there I was, naked, shaved, pierced, tattooed, made-up, dressed in lingerie. And to tell the truth, in a state of shock. It was all too much, too quick. I felt bewildered and not sure whether I should be laughing or crying - the emotions were all too complex for me. Yes, I was exhilarated because I had come round in my mind to accepting the need for change - I guess I had started on this path because deep down I hated the way I had been living my life. It had been so false. I had lived by other people's rules, by the rules of the straight world I mixed in; there's were the values I had subscribed to. A change was due. But this change was so sudden and so drastic. I mean, I had yet to see myself in a mirror but I could easily imagine that the transformation was of such an order and to such an extent that my mother would have had to look twice - or three times - to recognise me. So when these guys had finished with me, when they stood back to admire their handiwork and I rose to my feet uncertainly, I could see that they were not sure how I would react, how I would behave. Up till now they had been so cocky, so assured and the whole thing had moved like clockwork as if they had rehearsed it. Now that it was done, they were suddenly quiet, almost abashed. I wouldn't say ashamed - they were too confident in themselves and their identity for that. These cocky lads were looking at me to see how I would react. I saw this, I noticed it, saw their uncertainty and I knew that I wanted to be one of them, wanted to be part of them, relate to them, accept their values, become one with them. I wanted to become a bitch, a slave, a whore, a sissy, for a gang of black guys. So despite the pain all over my body and in spite of my whirling mind, I smiled. I had to rise above the pain and even then I knew that pain would become so much a part of my life that I would really have to work on processing it. Part of me resisted pain - that's a human instinct after all; but part of me embraced it because it was intense, it proved I was feeling and reacting and alive. That I learned - keep hold of that thought and it'll see you through, and that's what I mean by processing pain. So the smile wasn't false for all that I had to start it through an effort of will. And they started to laugh. And suddenly I was in the middle of them, being pushed around, roughed up in a way; but I was beyond feeling the minor pain that came from boots and fists. Now I knew that I was re-born, a new me emerging from all this pain and degradation and humiliation. I had a new identity. And just as a Christian is reborn with baptism so my black Masters baptised me in showers of piss. They formed a circle around me, opened the flies of their jeans and hosed me down and I put out my arms to it and welcomed it, bathed in it. Then my bag was opened and my blouse and mini skirt and heels were produced for me and, still wet with their piss, I put them on. This is how I would look, this is how I would dress from now on. There was so much yet to come, so much to learn, before I would be a cocksucking sissy whore for black cock, welcoming huge black cocks as they fucked me. I had much to learn and a longer journey to go on. I looked at my black Master and then and only then did I get the deep kiss I had dreamed of from my him as he welcomed me to a new life. As to my job, my flat, my former friends, how did I deal with that? Well that, my friend, is another story...