Big Sissy

My ass is my best feature. Recently I’ve put on some weight and my ass is even bigger and plumper than ever. Whenever I post ads in the sex personals I always include a pic of my ass perched in the air, with my big balls hanging down. My low-hangers are my second best feature. Someone once told me I had testicles like a basset hound. I didn’t know what he meant. Then I saw an unneutered male waddling along one day on a leash and I understood. If I were a stud instead of a sissy, a top rather than a bottom, I would say my balls were my best feature. Certainly it would not be my smallish penis.

Lately a younger, far trimmer Dom has been coming over. He has dark hair (including on his chest) and a mustache and looks like a cross between a young Burt Reynolds and a porn star. He certainly fucks like one. My Dom likes to chase me around my apartment hitting my bare bottom with a stick. Actually it’s a dowel, a limber one about three-eights in diameter he gets at Home Depot. We keep several in my kitchen closet in case one breaks. As he chases me around the livingroom with the dowel I run with my hands in the air like a “girl” shouting, “I’m a big sissy! I’m a big sissy!”

Actually it goes like this. “I’m a big sissy!” Whack! “Ow! I’m a big sissy!” Whack! “Ow! I’m a big…!” And so on.

One day recently my female neighbor downstairs heard the racket and knocked on my door saying, “Is everything OK in there?” Wearing nothing but bright pink lipstick I was in no condition to answer the door. So my Dom had to pull on his tight-fitting jeans and apologize for the disturbance and allay the woman’s concerns. According to him she went all google-eyed at the sight of his chest hair and sweaty muscles and ended up apologizing to him. When he left the apartment he bragged that he was going to go downstairs and fuck her. I doubt that he ever did. For one thing he’d just emptied his balls in my painted mouth.

Normally, the way it played out (and it was a game), he would corner me in some section of my livingroom or other (I have lots of antiques) and I would fall to the floor, helpless, and after beating me some more with his dowel he would then bend his porn actor’s cock down and fuck me. I would pre-lube myself just for this occasion. Although he has a big one, it’s no problem for me as I have a wide, accommodating hole and am all sorts of roomy inside. In fact, this is a problem for some. I had one guy tell me it was like fucking his wife—who’d apparently born him three children. Another once told me he felt lost inside; he could hardly feel himself. So big cocks are not a problem for me. In fact they’re my speciality. I was even fisted once. Once.

I just had a birthday (I won’t say which one) and a package arrived in the mail (well, Amazon) from my ex-wife. She knows all about me: that I’m gay; that I’m a submissive; that I’m kinky; that I’m sexually active (though she’s always cautioning me to be careful). We stay in touch regularly. She tells me about the latest men in her life and I tell her the same, though sans all the gory details. Gloria knows I really enjoy hearing about who she’s currently fucking and more importantly who she’d like to fuck next. We’re kind of promiscuous mirror-images of each other. Gloria is on the heavy side herself which makes her attractive, as a woman, to a certain type of man. Apparently, according to her, they’re everywhere! Down virtually every grocery store aisle! I always wish her well, as she does me.

Anyway, a package arrived from Gloria a few days before my birthday. I opened it. I knew it was clothing from the weight (or rather the lack thereof) of the box. I could tell it was something yellow even through the leaves of the tissue paper. I held the thing up. I was flabbergasted.

It was a kind of panty. At least that was my initial deduction. It had a telltale crinkly waistband and legholes, in other words. It was bright canary yellow. The underlying material—the panty—was thick satin. Though not the tight-fitting kind. This was no thong or microfiber bikini, that’s the understatement of the decade. The panty, it turned out, came up to one’s belly button and was festooned with row upon row of horizontal white lace, front and back. The legholes were ringed with white lace, too. There was a giant yellow bow center front, drooping just below one’s navel, with a pair of yellow ribbons flanking it on each side. It was the silliest thing I had ever seen. That didn’t stop me from trying it on, however. It was, I gathered, an extra large. It fit me to a tee. I mean, by this, the waist and legholes. For the center portion was as billowy as a sail in wind. There was enough room for another third of me inside! The gift card in the box read:

Honey—

Thought this was the perfect gift for a Big Sissy like you. Sissy panties!

Hope they fit. I gave the lady all your measurements. Their [sic] designed

so you can wear a diaper inside.

Happy Birthday!

Gloria

Standing there in my dubious gift, I had three immediate questions. One, WHAT lady? Two, a diaper?!? Three, since when did my educated ex-wife not know the difference between a contraction (they’re) and a possessive? I went and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. And to my gradually smiling surprise, liked what I saw! They were the perfect attire for a Big Sissy like me. I wore them (and nothing else) the rest of the night. I went to bed in them.

Two days later I met my Dom at the front door wearing my gift. He looked at me like I was crazy. Even crazier than usual.

“What’s this get-up?” he asked.

“Oh. A birthday gift from my wife. It’s my birthday.”

“You’re married?”

“My ex-wife,” I hastened to clarify.

“Well take ‘em off,” he said, stepping inside.

“Really?”

“With all that padding and shit? You won’t feel a thing.”

“No, I know,” I said. “But I thought we could start out with—”

“We?” He wore a look of utter disgust.

“With me running around in them and then I’d take them off, or you’d yank ‘em down, and we’d go back to you whipping my bare ass. Or maybe you do that just before you fuck me.”

“Fuck that. You’re just trying to get out of the pain.”

I was starting to perspire. My Secret antiperspirant just wasn’t getting the job done. “No,” I protested. “I love the pain!”

“What’s all that padding?”

“Padding?”

He was pointing. I was looking down.

“Oh. It’s…there’s a diaper inside. A disposable one.”

“What’re you two years old?”

I almost blurted, truthfully: No. I just turned fifty-two.”

“You see,” I instead started to explain, “they’re called sissy panties but they’re also known as…adult baby panties. I looked it up on the internet.”

“Well take ‘em off, faggot. I’m gonna go get my stick.”

It surprised me that my Dom, Have Dowel Will Travel but sans clothes, already had the makings of a hard-on. In the past he hadn’t gotten one until the latter stages of our little chase-and-whack game. It was only when he reached that essential stage, or phase, that I found a convenient excuse to run down a cul-de-sac of antiques and fall helplessly to the carpet, big ass in the air. “Oh please, Master! Don’t hurt me! Oh please!” Whack! Whack-whack! Whack!

Later that day I took, because I knew Gloria would want one, a mirror pic of me wearing my birthday gift. I emailed it to her. She replied that night.

“Oh how cute!!! Is it big enough for you? Have you put on weight? I can get you others if you want. This lady custom makes [them] for you. Pink, lavendar [sic], baby-blue, green you name it. Is that a diaper underneath? Maybe [two grinning emoticons] we should change your name from Big Sissy to Big Baby!!! Cute, hon! Let me know!”

Let you know WHAT? I wondered. About the name change? About the diaper? (Answer is yes.) About ordering more sissy panties from the mysterious seamstress?

In evasive answer I emailed Gloria back a pic of my pride-and-joy ass in the ruffled panty. And started to tell her, out of partial spite, that sealed inside it was my partner’s load of semen from earlier in the day. Had she gotten laid today? Huh?

Fat chance. For I knew that underneath all Gloria’s good wishes and bonhomie ran a sinister note. She wanted, in the final analysis, to humiliate her ex. Put me in my place. And I was willing to play along—but only as long as it benefitted me. Got me laid consistently, in other words, while Gloria merely strolled the grocery aisles…

Oddly enough another email popped through that evening. It was from my Dom. This was unheard of. I hadn’t received any sort of missive from him, not even a reply to my profuse thanks every time he fucked me, since we first arranged our meet-up. He addressed me as Slut and said:

“Want you to go out in public in your sissy pantie [sic]. Mail box or walk around the [apartment] complex [or] whatever or better yet go down[stairs] to that girl [the woman who google-eyed his hairy chest, presumably] and borrow 2 eggs. Tell her your fiend [sic] from [the] other day was ask[ing] about [her] and want[s] to know if your [sic] available. After [you get home I] want you to put both eggs inside [your panty] and smash them. Send pics. I want to see yolk[s] running down [your] fatass legs. Do it, slut!”

Turns out, thankfully, I didn’t have to go downstairs and expose myself. My neighbor came to me. I answered her knock having discreetly pulled on a very pedestrian terrycloth robe over my egg-yolk yellow sissy panty. The woman was all dolled up. Like me she wore pink lipstick, though hers was a shade more conservative.

“Oh, hi!” she said nervously.

“Yes?”

“Am I bothering you?”

“Not at all.”

The young woman kept peering—trying to—around my large, robed, doorway-blocking body.

“I was wondering…”

I waited. Yes?

“I was wondering,” she repeated in a rush, “if your friend was here. From the other day? What’s his name?”

I didn’t know. Dom? Don?

“Don, I think. I don’t know him very well. He’s my…physical therapist.”

“Oh,” my neighbor blinked. “Are you OK?”

“Getting better. Thanks to him. It’s my back.”

I had allowed my robe, tieless as it were, to slip open. My neighbor looked down.

“Well…that’s good.”

“Very. Would you like to come in?” I was getting a hard on. My neighbor was cute. Sort of. Thin. Nervous. Veiny. The exact opposite of Gloria.

I was imagining my Dom—Don—fucking her in my bed while I looked on from the wings, attired in my baroque sissy panty.

Fortunately I was wearing a concealing diaper.

My neighbor looked up from it. “Oh. No thanks,” she said.

“I was just about to make cocktails,” glancing at my thick, watchless wrist. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I said tritely.

The woman laughed. Nervously. “I don’t drink.”

“Pity.”

“Anyway…next time you see your therapist. Is he coming back?”

“Next week. That you’re interested in him?”

She blushed. Head falling, blue eyes falling even lower than my partly exposed panty. “No. Just that…” She looked up at me. “Is he available do you know?”

“Far as I know. He’s not married at any rate.”

“Would you tell him?”

Tell him what?

“I certainly will.”

“Thanks,” she said, blushing again. She had the peaches-and-cream complexion for it. I was jealous. She turned to go. “Well…”

“I have a question for you.”

“For me?” self-pointing between modest breasts.

“In fact I was just about to come down. In my robe.”

“Yes?” she asked tentatively, warily.

“I’m in a bit of a bind, you see. I’m making this dish…It requires two eggs and I’m all—”

“I don’t eat eggs,” she said definitively. (It was about time.) “I’m a vegan.”

“Oh.” After an awkward pause, my robe quite open now, I decided to say: “You should know.”

“Know?”

“My friend’s a meat-eater.”

“Friend?”

“Therapist.”

“Oh. Well?” with a shrug. “Live and let live.”

“My feelings exactly.”

And with a last glance at the erection she couldn’t see beneath my diapered yellow sissy panty she departed. Hastily down the stairs.

Exactly one week later my naked Dom was chasing me around in said panty with a hard-on—both of us—saying, shouting, “Did you talk to her?”

“Ow! I did!”

“Whud you tell her?”

“Ow! Oh, ow! Ow! That…that you were interested…”

“And what’d she say?”

“Ow!”

“And how come you never sent me any egg pics, you faggot!”

“Ow! Cause…cause she’s a vegan.”

“So?”

“No eggs. Ow! That really, really hurt, OK?”

“Well stick your fat ass up higher. Pull that panty down!”

“I am. I will. Ow! On my ass, please. Not my...Oh, ow! Ow!”

“So eggs?” he asked, as he tossed his dowel aside and bent his equally rigid cock down to my hole.

“Vegans…,” I said, or tried to. I was in tears. “Vegans don’t eat eggs. She told me…”

“Yeah?”

My Dom had just entered me. He went right in, despite his size. His ardor. He started right away. Fucking me. Feet on the floor, knees bent, hands gripping the gilded edge of an antique lamptable for support. He was breathing through his teeth. He’d never hammered me this hard before. He was driving my own knees, panty down around them, into carpet’s plush.

“Vegans…”

“What about ‘em?”

“Vegans…only date other…vegans. I…”

He screamed. My Dom was screaming. He normally orgasmed silently in me but today he screamed bloody murder. The antique lamp on the table bolstering him rattled. I feared for its glass base.

He was ramming it home, nearly at a vertical angle (or lack of angle) and I imagined for the first time that I could feel his seed pulsing, shooting inside me. “Oh!” I cried (instead of “Ow!”). “Oh, Jesus!” And so on. You know, the usual stuff.

Something wet, a glob, landed on my broad middle back. My first thought: cumshot. But that was impossible. His penis, though still in me now, was, still, in me. It was drool: saliva. And it ran off my side, dripping to the rug. Ugh.

My Dom kind of snorted, like a bull.

There was an urgent knock.

He pulled out of me.

“Go answer the door, sissy.”