iChat

I'd logged into my iChat when I got up to check my email and had forgotten about it as I got dressed for work, so I was startled when I heard the distinct incoming IM sound.  I was almost ready to leave for work.  Damn, I should remember that.

I walked to the Mac laptop sitting with a dark screen on the desk of my bedroom, touched the track pad, bringing it to life.

"What color panties this morning," the IM from him read.  I felt the overwhelming rush of submission overcome me just seeing his IM, let alone reading his question.  Damn him.  What the fuck kind of question was that to ask me this morning?  I was feeling masculine, today.  Dark grey suit, French blue shirt, power tie.  Total businessman. MAN.  Powerful.  Important.  ESPN was on the television.

Man.

I should lie. It would be easier. Pink. That's all I had to type. Pink.

Fuck him, pink. Type pink. 

Pink. Then, have to run, important meeting.

Just lie. A real man would just lie, no?

Well, no, not really.  A real man would type, "fuck you," and block that person from iChat

That was the point, I knew, of his question.  Letting me know what a real man would do. Seeing what I would do. I could lie, still. Forget pink. White, even, plain, white.

So simple.  "What color panties this morning?"  

"Fuck you." So simple an answer. For a man. 

Fuck...you.

But my masculine morning was rapidly crumbling. Just lie, then.  

He'd never know.  Just lie.

I actually typed the first two letters.  "P…I…"  Then stopped.  Damn him!

I had to go.

 "Boxer shorts," I typed, mostly avoiding the question. Fuck, why did he do this to me? Why did I let him do this to me?

For a minute no response.  I was actually uncomfortable, sitting there, watching the screen. He was logged on. He was typing.

"My question was really, 'what color PANTIES are you wearing this morning?’'"

Damn him, damn him, damn him.  Why was my face reddening?  A sense of shame filled me.  Shame, of all things.

"I'm not wearing panties, this morning," I typed. "I'm wearing white boxer briefs."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Not wearing panties?  Pantyhose under your boxers then?"

I should have lied.  I SHOULD HAVE LIED. I looked at my watch, I had to go, I wanted to go. "No."

"Trouser socks?"

"No, no, nothing…just…just…"  I paused, not sure if I should type it.  "Just men's clothes." 

"Men's clothes," he typed immediately.  "Just men’s clothes? Including men's boxers?"

"Yes, yes," I typed, the sense of exasperation felt in my pounding of the keys.

"Men's boxers?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Men's boxers?" 

"Yes."

"You’re wearing men’s boxer short, that’s what you’re telling me?"

"Yes," I actually gulped as I typed.

"I find that somewhat amusing."

"Why," I asked, without thinking, half looking up to see a play on ESPN.

"Why?  Well, I suppose I always thought men's boxers were for…"

I looked down at the IM alert. Waiting. Waiting. Finally, his last word came across. 

"MEN!"

"Yes," I answered, gulping as I typed.  I wanted to leave.  I still felt it.  Masculine.  I had my dignity.  I wanted to leave, to get to the office, to forget about iChat, about him.

"That implies that you think you're a man?" 

"I…"

He typed again.  "A man?  A man?  You think of yourself as a man?  Is that right?  Does SISSY actually think he's a man today?"

"I…"

But he would not let me answer.  "What's a sissy?  Tell me?" 

"An effeminate man?"

"An effeminate man?  Yes.  I agree.  Effeminate?  Having characteristics of a woman?"

"Er, yes."

"Wearing panties, for instance?  Wouldn't you agree a sissy, an effeminate man, would wear panties?" 

"Yes."

"Would a man wear panties?  You know, a man, like me? A man, a...I have to ask, a real man???”

"No, never!"

"Only an effeminate man?  A sissy?"

"Yes."

"And you're wearing boxer shorts today?  Men's boxer shorts." 

"Yes."

"Men wear boxer shorts, correct?"

"Yes, yes."

"Strong men.  Masculine men.  Real men?"

"Yes."  I gulped.  It was one thing to play this game late at night, in a sexual mood.  It was another to do it in the morning like this.  For real.   

"Are you a real man, is that what you’re implying? That you look, um, 'normal' in boxer shorts? Like a man? Look at yourself. Is that what you're telling me?"

I looked down, could not resist. I did not answer.  I was afraid to answer.  I was afraid of the question, my reply.  I was afraid of what I thought of myself, no matter what I was wearing.

"I asked you if you are a real man?"

"I…I don't know."  I could not get out a yes or a no.  I equivocated. 

"Oh, you don't know?  You mean you might be a real man?  You might be 'qualified' to wear boxer shorts?"

"Maybe."  Sometimes I said things like that to be a brat.  Sometimes I was just scared.  Scared of what I really was.  This was one of those times. 

"What were you wearing yesterday under you suit? Hmmm?"

DAMN HIM!  I wanted to be a man, today!

"Please…I…I should go to work."

"What were you wearing yesterday under your suit?  Answer me!"

"P…panties."

"Panties! You got dressed for work yesterday just like a sissy should, didn't you? Thinking how soft and feminine and pretty you are."

"Yes, yes I did."

"How many men work at your office??"

"I don’t know. Twenty, maybe."

"And how many do you think wore panties yesterday?  Ten, fifteen?'

"I…I don't know."

"NONE!  None wore panties, little boy.  MEN DON"T WEAR PANTIES.  Do you think I wear panties?" 

"No..no."

"Who wears panties to work?"

"Women."  I quickly typed the answer, again looking at the clock.  Fuck I wanted to go!

This was like chess.  The king (the queen) chased around the board, slowly cornered, slowly trapped. 

"Are you a woman?  Do you have a vagina?  Do you have breasts?"

"No, of course not!"

"Does a man wear panties to work? Answer me!"

"No!"

"What did you wear to work, yesterday?"

"Lilac...lilac satin panties, please, I have to go.”

"Do men wear panties to work?"

"NO!"

"Are you a woman?"

"NO!"

"What did you wear to work?"

"Panties!"

He was closing in on me, forcing me, torturing me.   

"You wore panties to work.  Are you a man?"

"No."

"What are you, then?  Tell me?  You're not a woman.  You wore panties to work!  What are you?"

Trap sprung.  

“Please...” I did not want to say it. I did not want to type it. I was in a hurry, I wanted to be...to be a man today, I did not want to play his game.

“What. Are. You?”

"A sissy."

"You're a panty wearing sissy.  So tell me…" 

I waited for it.

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU WEARING BOXER SHORTS?"    

"I…I don't know," I lied.  I knew perfectly well.  Some days I wanted to be a man.  I wanted to fit in with the manly men at work.  I wanted to forget the longing I had.  I wanted to deny what I felt as a sissy, the looks I gave men, the hunger, the desire. 

He would not let me.

"Are you trying to pretend you're a man?  Is that it?  You want, even for a day, to feel what a man feels, don't you?  To know how a man thinks?"

"Yes, oh yes!"

"Listen, and I say this in all seriousness…a sissy can NEVER know what it's like to be a man…that's why a SISSY IS A SISSY.   

"I…I know."

"Do you have a dildo in your room, sissy?

He knew perfectly well I did.  "Yes."

"Yes, you told me many times you do.  Flesh colored, I believe.  Eight inches.  Thick.  Veins.  Balls.  Very life like?  A man's cock, if you will?" 

"Yes."

"Looks just like you, doesn't it," he mocked me.

"No!"

"When is the last time that dildo…that, er…COCK was in your mouth?  Hmmm, sissy?"

"A…a few days ago."

"Practicing cock sucking, were you?" 

No answer from me.

"In panties, no?"

"yes…blushing…"  And I was.

"You wonder what it's like to be a man, I know?  The problem is, you're not a man.  I don’t say that critically, I don’t say that to be mean, but you’re not a man. You're a sissy."

"I…I know."

"Well, let me be clear, then.  A cock sucking, panty wearing sissy is NEVER to wear boxer shorts.  Ever. EVER! You should wear a dress to work, it's bad enough you wear trousers."

"I…I understand."

"You do?  Do you really?"

"I think so."

"You do?  What are you wearing right now?" 

Now I did blush.  "Boxer shorts."

"Now…not in ten minutes…not later today, sissy, now, this instant, you are to get out of those.  Now."

"Yes…yes, Sir."  Submission.  He'd won.  He'd broken me down.  Sissy.  I wanted to be a man.  But I was a sissy. 

"What do sissies wear?"

"Panties."

"Panties.  Stockings.  A garter belt.  That's what you ARE TO WEAR EVERY DAY, SISSY! Every day. Every day.”

"Yes...yes, Sir.”

"Sissies make themselves LOOK PRETTY FOR MEN.  Sissies never, ever pretend they are men!" 

“Yes, yes,” I typed, head down, ashamed, truly ashamed.

"Now, sissy.  Get dressed properly.  Now.  Not just panties. Lingerie. A garter belt. Stockings. And I don’t care how much you hate it or how you have to hide it, but a bra, too. A matching set. And sissy, today, during the day, when you walk, when you feel the tug of your garter strap, when you cross your legs and see your nylon covered ankles , when you sit to pee, every second, sissy, remember, remember…YOU ARE A SISSY!" 

And he signed off.  Just like that.  I was a sissy.  A panty wearing sissy.

And I dressed. Well, I undressed, first. I took off my clothes, every piece, took off the boxer shorts.

And then I dressed, as I should have before. Satin, feminine, nylon, woman.

I dressed.

I shed my masculinity. I was a sissy.