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Saragirl’s Sissy Confession

Teresa asked me to confess my hottest fantasy, the hottest fantasy of my dirty, sissy mind. I have several, of course, I have quite the active mind, some are kind of vanilla (relatively so, I mean, S/M is kind of vanilla, right?)

Strap on sex...that's a hot fantasy...but the hottest?

Bride, French Maid. Hot, yes, but hottest?

Because I’m thinking not just “hottest” but naughty, even taboo. And I’m not just thinking fantasy, but something that I’d toe the line about turning into reality...almost.

What is my hottest fantasy, then?

I want to submit to a man.

Wait, that’s not so hot, is it?

Maybe not, but there’s a twist, a small, subtle twist that, if it happened, would drive me wild day after day after day.

The twist? I want to submit to a man I know.

Again, not that hot...but wait, there’s more...

Here goes...and this is the part that makes it difficult to bring to reality, but all the more exciting to me.

Most of my vanilla male friends have no idea that I’m a sissy. I may not be the most masculine guy in the world, but to them, I’m still a guy.

They do not know about Sara. None of them.

I need her help, Emily, my girlfriend. I want her to quietly, carefully, sound some guys I know out. Find out which friend, co-worker, client, neighbor, might be a little on the kinky side. Find out which guy that knows me might have a little, hidden thing about crossdressers.

I want her to then approach him, again carefully, and find out if he wants to act out a little fantasy that involves a crossdresser submitting to him for an afternoon.

If he wants to have the use of a pretty sissy to do with as he pleases.

And if he does if that pretty sissy is me.

And then it gets kinky.

See, I want her to arrange this, but with one small thing...I don’t want to know who he is.

Do you get it yet?

I want to be dressed as feminine as I’ve ever been. I want him stunned when she leads me into the room, blindfolded, in lingerie, stockings, heels, led by the leash clipped to my collar. I want him to see me for the first time as I really am, not as a man, I want him to see me as a sissy.

I assume he will have been a bit nervous, getting involved in this scene, but seeing me, feminized, his sexual desire will control.

“He’s looking at you,” Sara, Emily will say softly, “seeing you for the first time, I imagine.”

“Do you like,” she asks the unnamed man.

“He’s nodding, Sara.”

“Now, you remember the terms? Sara is yours this afternoon, to do with as you like. That means you can fuck her, you can spank her, you can push her onto your knees and make you suck her. You can do anything you like, anything you told me about, anything you fantasized about, with two limitations.”

He grunted. I thought it was just a game Emily was playing until he grunted. I knew then he was real, that this man obviously staring at me was real, a man, SOMEONE I KNEW.

“You may not permanently harm her, obviously.”

“You may not reveal your identity...the blindfold stays on, no talking above a whisper.”

“Agreed?”

“Hmmmm,” he moans in agreement.

This is what I want. A man I know, yet unknown, to fuck me.

For over the next few hours, as I suck him, as he fucks me, I will think over and over and over that he now knows me and my secret, but I do not know him.

On my knees, taking his cock into my mouth, knowing not which friend he is, it will be like I’m sucking the cock of every man I know.

When I’m bent over, his cock buried inside me, cumming inside me, I know I will, from now on, look at every man I know and have to wonder.

Are you the man that fucked me?

I’ll be fucked by one man, yet fucked by all.

That’s my hottest fantasy, to submit to a man I know, forced to wonder for the rest of my days, which man was it.

Knowing that every friend of mine, every co-worker, every neighbor, I’ll look at with a hint of submission, a hint of feminine, a question, a wonder, the knowledge, that he’s the man that fucked me.

I’m emasculated enough, after this, even further.

Every man I know will now be the man that fucked me.

Every lunch, every drink, every masculine thing I do with any guy, will have hovering over it, the knowledge that one of those men knows I’m a sissy, one of those men knows he fucked me, one of those men may as well be all men.

I’ll never know which man.

But he will.

And every man I see, I’ll remember, in the back of my mind, that he may have been the man that fucked me.

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