...to catch on to what is going on inside this skin."  So wrote Bruce Cockburn.  

I'm a passenger in this process.  Something inside is stirring, awakening, and feeling its increasing power.  

I awoke this morning.  Saturday.  My Wife was downstairs making coffee.  My first thought was, "I'm a sissy faggot."  I sat up in bed, pulled on a pair of black stay-ups and slipped on my favourite pumps.  I walked about upstairs in an efemminate fog for a few minutes before I could muster the will to change into man-duds and descend the stairs.

Two hours later, She had gone out to a meeting, and I was in a black dress, tan stockings, silk panties, bra and heels.  That's how I dress around the house.  She knows.  No, it's not a decision.  I just can't do otherwise anymore.  Somehow, without my noticing, the feeling of helplessness has become an erotic stimulant to feeling more submissive and helpless.  The need to be a mind-fucked, sissified, transvestite fag is overwhelming and delicious; a relentless, frictionless slide into ever deeper submission.

When She is home, I mainly lie on the couch, kissing Her feet.  Sometimes I'm dressed, sometimes covertly and sometimes overtly.  Often I'm not. My Wife shows little interest in being actively dominant, but nevertheless she is accepting and completely open-minded to my sexuality...whatever it is.  In fact, the way that She often just goes about Her business while I totter about in a Pink Fog of arousal is powerful erotic humiliation.  I lie at Her feet, muttering, "submit, obey" and calling myself a sissy faggot cock sucker.  She only response is to smile and rub Her stocking feet on my face.  I melt.

She plans to watch curling again this afternoon.  For my part, I plan to be deeply and powerfully stoned, crossdressed and devoted to worship of Her feet. 

This is my life.   I am a sissy faggot transvestite mind-fucked hypno-slave.