As I’ve mentioned before, ♀ & I have had some scheduling challenges the past few weeks. That’s not a big surprise to either of us, but still, I miss her. She left me an email for when I got up Saturday afternoon, telling me that she’d be home from work just after 6pm and we were meeting a friend of hers and her guy at a new Thai restaurant on the beach. She said she’d already made reservations for 7pm. She also told me she wanted me to wear all male clothes. It had been a long week and there was no one home so it was nice and quiet and I didn’t wake up until just after 3pm. I read her email and wasn’t really bothered about her clothing request. She doesn’t ask for that very often and it’s pretty much been all sissy all the time lately. I had a shower and shaved, put on a load of laundry, did the breakfast dishes (even in man clothes, I’m still her bitch) and went upstairs to get dressed.

The only men’s undies I still have are a couple of pair of silk boxers so I put on the Bugs Bunny ones, lined dress pants (some men’s clothes do feel nice) with a leather belt and a nice shirt. I decided against a tie, but put on some cologne. By this time it was about 5pm and I was starting to get hungry. Dinner was a couple hours away so I had a sandwich and a cola. I played some online backgammon and about 5:45 I decided that it would take her awhile to get ready so I had a beer. At 6:30 she wasn’t home yet so I called her cell. It was turned off. I had another beer. At 7pm, an hour past when she said she’d be home there was still no ♀ and no phone call. Her phone was still turned off. Her friends phone was turned off. I was more worried then annoyed, we let each other know where we are. That’s just common courtesy, right? I opened a third beer just as she pulled into the driveway.

Ok before I go any further, I need to tell you about something that happened a couple of days before she started school. We were in Walmart getting the last of her school supplies and before we left, we went through the ladies clothing department. They had the cutest little skirts on sale. They were short, pleated, plaid with big black belts. They also had plaid Mary Jane style shoes to match. with some knee high white stockings and a white blouse and you’d have the most adorable little school girl outfit for under $50. She insisted that she would never wear a skirt that short, and the only skirt that would have fit me was blue and the only shoes that would have fit were red. I tried to convince her that even if it never got worn out of the house, one of us should have that outfit. But in the end we didn’t get it.

So in she walked an hour late, wearing a little plaid school girl skirt like the one we saw in Walmart and hell yes, it was very short. She was not wearing the matching Mary Janes, but heels. They must have been at least 4′ with thin black straps that wrapped up her stocking clad calves. She almost never wears heels because she claimed that they hurt her feet and hips and the rare time she does, they sure as hell aren’t heels like that. The white blouse she was wearing was tied just below her breasts, exposing the tummy she’s always trying so hard to hide. Her breasts; holy crap, her breasts were huge. The only way she could have that much cleavage showing was if she had my silicone inserts in her bra. Don’t forget she had a breast reduction before she met me. She had her hair in pig-tails and at the top of each one she had a little pink bow. She’s 39 years old for god sake! She was wearing make-up. She almost never does that and when she does, she uses it very sparingly. Not on Saturday. She had it plastered on, thick and nasty and when she sauntered in chewing bubble gum and swinging a little purse she looked like a Tim Burton version of a middle-aged woman trying to look like a slutty school girl. It was, to say the least, disturbing. And that’s coming from a guy who spends a lot of time dressed as a woman, but still shaves his head and not his face.

“You’re late.”

“So.”

“We were supposed to meet Christina at 7.”

“I called her and told her we couldn’t make it.”

“But you couldn’t be bothered to call me?”

“I forgot.”

“Yeah, right. Are we still going out? I haven’t eaten yet.”

“You can go out. I’ve already eaten.”

“I’ve been waiting for an hour. Where did you go for dinner.”

“We went to Earls.”

“We? Who is we?”

“Just a friend.” She flipped one of her pig-tails back and that’s when I saw it; a big fucking hickey on her neck.

Ok, so I need to interject a couple of things here. Even before the start of my sissification, we’d talked about the possibility of including others. Various men and women have been part of role playing and trash talk in our bedroom. Together we’ve had cyber sex with both sexes. We often talk about potential candidates; both people we know and random strangers we happen to see. So far we’ve never done it, but we both agreed on one firm rule: Sexual contact of any kind with anybody else will only be permitted if we both agree to it and if both of us participate. In other words, No Fucking Cheating!!! The other thing you should know is she never cancelled her Classmates.com membership after she met me and recently she joined Facebook.com. In the past month or so guys have been coming out of the woodwork wanting to ‘reconnect’ with her; old boyfriends, guys that only wish they could have been her boyfriend back in the day, married guys, divorced guys, guys who have an ‘understanding’ with their significant other. ♀ had been showing me all the emails and as far as I knew she hadn’t met up with any of them. Our relationship was based on trust and respect so I had no reason to feel threatened or jealous, but let’s face it, I am a sissy and I sometimes worry that I’m not man enough for her.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘just a friend’?” I asked as I reached for her neck.

She slapped my hand away. “I don’t have to tell you anything, you‘re not my father.” And she jutted her chin out like a snotty little kid.

“We had an agreement.”

“What are you going to do about it, sissy?”

“I’ll show you what I’m going to do about it. If you’re going to act like a brat, I’ll treat you like a brat.” And I took my belt off.

“You don’t have the balls”, she sneered.

In one quick movement I grabbed her wrist, sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled her over my knee. I lifted up her skirt and do you know what she had on underneath? About a month ago a friend of ours was in Los Angeles and while she was there, she bought ♀ a leopard print bra and matching crotchless panties from Frederick’s of Hollywood. She hadn’t worn them for me yet, but apparently she’d worn them for some guy who’d been chewing on her neck. It takes a lot to get me angry, but I was riled. I folded the belt in half and I spanked her hard one, two, three times. She didn’t cry out, but on the third crack of the belt on her ass I felt something warm on my lap. I pushed her off and do you know what she’d done??? She’d pissed on me!!! Now, she’s peed on me lots of times in the shower. In fact I’d like her to piss on me even more often then she does, but bloody hell; in the kitchen, on my pants?

“Ah, it looks like the little sissy peed himself.”

“You bitch! Get the fuck out of my sight!”

She turned and meandered towards the stairs and as she went she started getting undressed. As she took off her skirt and panties and blouse and bra and my silicone inserts she just dropped them on the floor. One of my fake boobies fell through the stairs and landed in the kitty litter box. I finished my beer, tried to calm down them followed her upstairs gathering her discarded clothes as I went.

She was in the bathroom when I got there, sitting on the toilet taking her shoes and stockings off. The shower was already running. I reached in and turned it off.

“Get in and sit down,” I told her.

She looked at me hard for a moment then did as I’d instructed. I took off my wet pants and shorts and stood at the edge of the tub facing her. “You think getting pissed on is funny? Let’s see how you like it.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, and started to laugh.

She had every right to laugh. For some reason I can’t pee in front of anyone. In a public washroom, I need to wait for a stall because I can’t go in the urinal if someone else is there. In six years she’s never watched me pee, but I was really angry and my bladder was full of a cola and three beer. I stood at the edge of the tub and I let it rip. I pissed all over her hair and face and breasts; everywhere. She didn’t even try to get out of the way or block the stream. I bet you didn’t know this, but urine makes great make-up remover. It was pouring off her face. You can’t even imagine what a mess she was. Guess where else it was running from? Her neck! The big fucking hickey was running down her neck. This was all just some elaborate ruse she’d thought up.