1 comments/ 19578 views/ 4 favorites The Sissy Race By: rikkitampa2014 It all began so innocently. The woman in front of me in the grocery store express check-out lane dropped a quarter. I bent over to retrieve it, the quarter rolled further than I expected meaning I had to bend over even further in pursuit. As I did so I became vaguely aware of my shirttail rising up. The woman thanked me, I in turn paid for my ground sirloin and sixpack of imported beer and headed out the automatic doors. End of story. Not...quite. Just as I reached the black asphalt of the parking lot a male voice called out from behind. "Excuse me! Sir? Excuse me!" I looked around. Was he talking to me? He was. He was rushing toward me, hand extended. Had I forgotten my credit card? As he came toward me I became vaguely aware that it was the man who'd been behind me in the check-out lane. He was in his fifties, balding, remaining hair cropped close, tall, lanky. I detected a German accent. "Sir?" He reached out and grasped the elbow of my free left arm. Rather firmly. And presumptuously I might add. Was he undercover store security? Did he think I'd left without paying? I'd just paid my bill right in front of him! "Oh!" he exhaled, somewhat breathlessly. "Thank you." (For what?) "Let's walk, shall we?" he said, guiding me forward. (Who is this guy!) "I couldn't help noticing...," he began, then paused to glance left and right as if out of concern for our privacy. He pressed even closer to me, and lowered his accented voice. "I couldn't help notice just now, back there in the check-out line, that you were"-another left-right glance-"wearing women's panties." I tried to break free of his grasp. I wanted to run. Oh my god! I thought. "No. No, I...You..." "Oh yes," he countered. He smiled, reassuringly. "Yes, they were unmistakable. Lace waistband. Coral-pink in color. Very pretty, very sexy. Especially on a man," his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. I was still trying to free my elbow from his vise-grip. "No, really. Really. Really, it's none of your...business." "Of course it isn't. I was just remarking on it-one panty-wearer to another. Yes, I too indulge in our little secret. I see you're not wearing a wedding band. So I assume the panties are your own, and not your wife's? Or daughter's? Speaking for myself...," and at this point the stranger raised his bag hand to scratch his clean-shaven chin, and unless I was mistaken the bag contained a boxed tube of K-Y jelly. "Speaking for myself I tend to wear, well, borrow, my daughter's panties. Not to worry," he added, "she's an adult. In fact she's about your age. She even encourages it-my panty-wearing. It fits right in with her creed as a radical feminist. Women should wear the pants in the family, so to speak. Men should wear the panties. I share her beliefs. Women ARE the superior gender. They should be in control. My daughter lives with me, by the way. She's unmarried. Hates...well, I won't say she hates men. All men. She doesn't hate me for instance. But finding a man who fits in with her world-view, well..." We were in the way of a car attempting to park. He still had hold of my elbow. He pulled me to one side. "But I'm getting somewhat off topic," he said, again flashing that reassuring smile. "As a panty-wearer have you never wanted a confidant with whom you can discuss your, shall we say, habit? Our habit. I know I have. I have my daughter but...it's just not the same." He glanced down at the bag in my right hand. "What say you we go to my house now and discuss our little hobby. We'll pop open a couple of those delicious Czech pilsners you just purchased. Excellent taste in beer, by the way. Ah, the little Czechs..." I tried to pull free again. "No. I can't. Really. I-" "It's after work. No wife at home. No obligations...Come spend an hour with me, a half-hour even. We'll talk, we'll drink, we'll discuss things. What do you say? Is this your little car? Cute." We'd come to a stop behind my off-white Prius. "And here I am right next to you," he said, pointing out his late-model silver Mercedes. German accent, German car, I thought. "You see? It's providence. Impossible to resist." "I'm sorry," I said. "I appreciate the offer but I really can't. I-" "You can sit out on my deck wearing nothing but your pretty panties and we can drink beer and watch the sunset. You can tell me about yourself. It's very secluded, by the way. I live five minutes from here. You can follow me. One hour. If you're unhappy," he shrugged, finally letting go of my arm, "you can leave. It's a free country." He laughed. "Until my daughter takes charge, that is!" He was playing me. Pushing my buttons like I was a trumpet. The clincher was this last bit-and I knew he knew it. The part about undressing down to my lace panties and sitting out on his deck watching the sun go down. His argument had switched from "let's share our secrets, just the two of us," to an appeal to the exhibitionist in me. And he knew-he deduced-I was an exhibitionist. Why else would I be wearing pink lace panties out in public? "Sure," I sighed. What the hell. Since my wife left me I'd had countless Craigslist guys over to my house for one form of sex or another. And I almost always "dressed" for them. What could the harm be in going to some rich fellow pantywaist's house for a beer? The next thing I remember is regaining consciousness in a chair. Or a chair-like contraption. That's not quite true. As I settled my slender body, wearing nothing but lace panties, onto the cushioned deck chair, my host insisted on pouring my bottle of Urquell into a glass for me. It was then that he must've slipped the mickey in... I awoke with a dim headache, blurry vision and the awareness that I was seated in a chair of some sort. I was in a small white room. The room was cold. I was alone. I was naked. More: My mouth was taped over. Something covered the top of my head. Cloth? I wasn't just in a chair, I was bolted to it. A strap crossed my chest below the nipples. Straps held my biceps, such as they were, and my wrists in place. My thighs were strapped to the chair and my ankles were strapped to the chair's legs. The chair had a hollow seat through which my ass protruded. It made me think of Daniel Craig in Casino Royale. Ouch! Aside from my head, I was completely immobilized. Oh Jesus, I thought. I'm a dead man. Someone on a gay beach I occasionally frequented, to show my girly body off more than anything, had once cautioned me: Never accept a boatride from a stranger. The unspoken other half of the proposition being: once out on the water, and alone, you're helpless. I suddenly wanted to add to that: Never accept an offer from a guy in a grocery store check-out line. But the chair, the straps, the hollow seat, the duct tape...all this was nothing compared to my next discovery. Inserted into my semi-flaccid penis was a clear glass tube about half an inch in diameter. The tube terminated, about an inch from the tip of my rosy glans, in a vial. Both vial and tube contained white liquid-semen-MY semen! My sperm was slowly oozing through a tube into a glass vial, which appeared to screw onto the tube's end. Jesus! Next thing I became aware of was the constant vibration in my rectum. Vibration is not the right word. It was more like a rolling sensation. A constant turning. Like a cam in an engine. The "cam" in my ass was the engine-the pump-producing the semen oozing out the tube into the vial. I'm being milked! Fuck! The door opened and the man from the grocery store-the German-entered. He was wearing, not panties, but a starched white lab coat. "Ah, you're awake." He consulted his watch. "Yes, yes, right on schedule. The drug usually wears off by now. You've also been injected with a mild sexual stimulant, to keep your penis from going completely soft. So you may experience a mild headache, light flashes..." He laughed. "I sound like one of those commercials on the TV!" He walked around to the right side of the chair contraption. "How do you feel otherwise? Hunh?" He brought his hand toward my face and I flinched. "Be uncooperative and I'll put you in a neck brace. Relax..." He lifted my right eyelid. Then my left. "Dilated. Normal. You're good. And you'll be pleased to know that you've already contributed two vials of semen to my daughter's cause. This," he pointed, "will be the third. She's already injected the other two and, well, all this could not come at a better time: she's ovulating at the moment. Perfect. "As for the device," he continued, indicating my body in the chair, "how do you like it? It's of my own design. I call it a 'prostate pump' although 'semen pump' or 'milk pump' would work just as well. The sensation you feel in your rectum-it's not all that deep, only about four inches-is my device continually massaging your prostate. Which in turn milks the semen out and up through your urethra, through the tube and into the vial. "Ingenious, yes? "Please nod when I ask you a question. Otherwise I'll have to increase the prostate stimulation. Which in moderation is fine but, beyond that, can be quite, quite painful. Oh, I forgot. An electrode stimulator has been inserted through the scrotum into your prostate. And did I mention the vitamin shot? So far I'm very pleased with your production. It's Friday evening, about nine p.m. You'll be here through about this time on Sunday. Our goal during that period is for you to produce something on the order of two dozen vials of semen toward my daughter's pregnancy. Some will be used now, the rest will be frozen and saved for later, future pregnancies. "Let us just hope that your cum produces a boy. If not, well," he shrugged, "there's a pill for that now, isn't there?" He walked around the chair I was immobilized in with his hands behind his back, and bent slightly forward. "You're undoubtedly wondering what this is all about. Yes? And when I say 'yes,' nod. Good boy." Nevertheless he cuffed my head, a glancing blow. "Simple. My daughter Gretel has reached a point where she desires to have children. It's her last chance, as she sees it. Having intercourse with men, whom she despises for the most part, is out of the question. And having intercourse with me, for breeding purposes that is, will not work either, for obvious reasons. Going the lesbian route-my daughter is not strictly lesbian by the way-which is to say artificial insemination, will not work for her for the simple reason that the trait she desires-male submission-is not, needless to say, on the checklist for sperm donors. We are both-my daughter and I-of the belief that almost all behavioral traits in humans, many of which are erroneously attributed to psychology-a sham if ever there was one-are in fact genetically predetermined. This includes, in your case, the simple fact that you like to wear women's panties. That this is a symbol of your desire to be the stereotypical female-the submissive one. We believe, quite simply, this is in your genes. And so, we-she-seeks a man who is hard-wired in this way. To father a child with her. Anonymously of course. In absentia, so to speak. A male child who will grow up to be, like you, a pantywaist. Submissive and eager to please his master, his mistress I should say: his wife. His Dom. And so I'm standing in the grocery store one day, always on the look-out... "It is as if God had ordained it. Not that we believe in god. At any rate, you are what you are and now you're here, and you will help my daughter conceive. A pussy. A pantywaist. A sissy. A man who not only can be controlled by a woman, but who DESIRES to be controlled. You. Your son. Or sons," he added prophetically. As I listened, my head still in a fog, I could not help but think: I am under the control of a lunatic. Two lunatics! He was pacing the floor, hands behind his back. "And so my daughter's dream of breeding-if only other women would join in!-a race of...The Sissy Race we call it. And you, YOU, are its pioneer!" He bent over, inspected the vial and returned a moment later wearing surgical gloves. Elevating my half-hard penis, he unscrewed the vial and quickly replaced it with another, empty one. "Another load for my beautiful daughter!" he proclaimed. I was hoping he would gracefully exit at this point but, no, he turned back. "By the way, in case you're thinking, upon your release, if we DO release you, of going public with what's going on here...Many pictures have been taken of you over the past three hours. All of them compromising. And I know from your wallet your name and address-don't worry, I didn't take your money, that's NOT what this is about. And if you were ever to try to expose us, all anyone would have to do is Google your name and...voila, there you are. Sex pervert. So, as the Englishman [Welsh actually] Dylan Thomas liked to say...'Go gently into that good night.'" He gave the vial a shake. "My daughter is waiting!" I suppose I fell asleep. I was still under the influence of the drug. I awoke, again, to the sensation of something being done to my head. "There. Perfect. Your sissy crown." The plump, rather mannish-looking German daughter was standing over me, her considerable cleavage in my face. And I now understood what was on my head: my panties. The panties her father had seen in the grocery store. My coral-colored, lace-banded Olga size 7's. She slapped my face. "Prick!" She ripped the duct tape off my mouth. The pain was like a scream I did not dare to emit. She slapped me again, hard. "I hate you! You intend to be the father of my child? Better be!" Another slap. It knocked the saliva from my cheek. "I wanted to cut your balls off, after we're done with you, but daddy said no. Too dangerous." She slapped my right cheek with her open hand and my left with the back of the hand. "What do you say?" I was breathing hard. "What do YOU say? Prick!" She struck me again. "Answer me!" "I..." "Look at you! Your cock's getting hard! You like it, don't you?" Another pair of slaps. "Yes. Yes ma'am. I'm...sorry." "You prick!" She bared her veiny left breast and held it-squeezed it-out for me. "Suck it! You're my husband. Suck it like you're the baby-boy you are. Baby-hubby for his wife. Tit-sucker. You're...pathetic!" I was still recovering from the tape being ripped from my face. The slaps. But I took her nipple into my mouth... "Suck it, you little baby," she said. "I'm going to conceive a child-a boy-and you're never even going to know about it. Then I'll conceive another, and another-with your sperm-and the feminist revolution will be born!" She slapped my face. "You're nothing," she said. "Some wiggly seeds inside of me. Daddy will take care of you. He'll-" She slapped me so hard I wrenched my neck. I loved it. She took a paper cup down from the cabinet, squatted, peed in it and brought it to my parched lips. "Drink it," she said. "Yes ma'am." I knew I was headed for oblivion. Again. Her spiked pee was...salty, delicious. Nighty-night... I awoke in the passenger's seat of my car. I would soon discover the keys had been left in the ignition. The car was parked behind some kind of deserted strip center in a business park. A lake, or large pond, was off to the right. Moonlight glittered off of it. Beautiful. I drifted into unconsciousness again... When I awoke the second time, the scene unchanged, I had a vague headache. But this time the mental cobwebs cleared quickly. I had a hard-on in my pants. Incredible. Drugs, I thought. Not that I felt like doing anything about it... Undoubtedly the father had driven me to this secluded spot while the daughter followed in the Mercedes. Or vice versa. The clock on the dash said 10:15. But what day was it? I checked my pants in a mild panic. Wallet in place. I found my cell phone in the plastic tray between the seats. It still had juice. And it said it was Sunday. Crazy but my first thought was: Gotta call in sick in the morning. I needed fresh air. Got out on weak sailor's legs and stood at lake's edge. Nearly toppled over. Sat down on a curb. Breathed hard for a moment until the nausea passed. I hadn't eaten in days and my only nourishment, apparently, had been the occasional cup of warm daughter's urine. I drove home. Staggered to the bathroom. They'd dressed me sans socks and underpants. The panties, the start of this whole nightmare, I discovered stuffed in my left pants pocket. Ironic, I thought at the moment. Though what was ironic about it I can't say. My pale body bore bruise marks from all the leather straps that had entrapped me for some 50 hours. My chest, skinny biceps, wrists, upper thighs and ankles were bruised varying shades of black and purple. Nice, I thought, vainly. No trips to the nude beach anytime soon... But the worst was my disfigured penis. A half-inch glass tube had been inserted in my urethra for the past two days. Now the outer half of my penis was distorted and the urethra still dilated. I could stick my middle finger down it if I wanted. Which I didn't. It stung-though curiously my ass-my rectum-didn't hurt. I felt the ghost of something that had been inside it but there was no pain, exactly. It was like having been fucked. The sensation, hard to describe. I wondered if the "muscle memory" in my sex organ would eventually revert to normal shape, and width. Or would my penis be deformed for life? And what, I wondered, again irrationally, would my family doctor think? I got in the shower and turned the water up hot, as if to scald the nightmare away. I pissed over the drain. The pain was excruciating. Blood came out. But the stream quickly cleared. It would take a few days before I was able to piss normally again. Which is to say not like I was passing a kidney stone. Or a serrated knife blade. I hadn't eaten in over two days. I felt empty but not hungry, however. And sexually, I felt as if every ounce-every drop-had been drained out of me. Which, coincidentally, it had. But such is the breeding imperative in humans-mammals-that I would be back to normal in a few days. Meaning...hard-on, jack-off, Craigslist. The life of a lonely, pathetic pantywaist. Fuck food. Fuck sex. I needed a drink. Went to the kitchen and found a lone bottle of Urquell in the fridge. Bad memories. "Little fucking Czechs," I remembered the German saying, in the grocery store parking lot. Nevertheless I popped it open and drank, greedily. Dizzily. Some nine-and-a-half months later I received a card, via snail-mail. Of all things it bore an international postmark: Argentina. I do not speak fluent Spanish but I know enough to know it said, in a sparkly, scripty font: "Congratulations, Dad! You're the father of a beautiful boy!" Except that "un" had been crossed out and "dos" substituted, by hand. Curiously, "Hijo" was left singular. Inside the folder card, which was blank, was a folded sheet of laser paper. The language: German. The font: Helvetica. I ran it through Google translate, which produced the following: "Dear Sir/Madam: "Although you are a pantywaist, you'll be pleased to know your sperm is quite manly. We have most recently given birth to beautiful twin boys-hopefully which will share your Sissy Gene and help populate the world with submissive men. Let the revolution begin! Shortly thereafter we will be ovulating again and it will be time upon time to conceive with another helping of your sperm, which awaits in the freezer container. We are currently soliciting other Dominators to share in your copious sperm production and create our Utopia vision of a female-dominated world. You are the originator! Congratulations! "In another nine months let us hope another card will be finding your way to notify you of our success! Be weak! Be a sissy! Be proud! The revolution intrudes!" Hunh? The Sissy Race I read the translation over and over. Probably a hundred times, trying to glean information other than the obvious from it. Two things jumped out at me: One was the "we." Who wrote this? The father? The daughter? The Queen of England? It was as if father and daughter were one entity. One sick composite being. The facilitator-man in a grocery store check-out line-the other the breeder-the daughter-the woman whose demented intent was to create a race of Sissy Men. Two, the realization: I'm a father! Holy fucking shit! Light up a cigar!...