A Submissive Sissy

Here you'll find my favorites Sissy & Femdom stories, the best one I've ever read over the net since many years and believe me, that's a lot ! I'm also a wool fetishist, so you may come accross this type of topic around here too... Hope you'll like it !

Sian Seteyan

Woven Dreams

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I was walking down a lonely street, unsure of where I was.

I only know I was answering an ad from Craigslist – an ad that had said “Sweater Girl Retiring – All Outfits up for Grabs.” It was an odd notice to see – but an obsessive personality coupled with a severe sweater fetish will lead to many strange discoveries.

So there I was. I mean I did not really know where I was, but I had an address clutched in my hand. I thought I could find the house, if I just kept looking, but the sun was slowly setting over the little bleak suburb, and the fall chill was turning to a winter night.

#320. #322. #326. I walked two more blocks, finally I found it – 422. #422 Anywhere Street. I went to the door, the thought of the sweater girl ‘retiring’ keeping equal time with the possible treasures that might be inside.

And how would I explain why I – a 30-something guy, with no wedding ring – was buying old sweaters from a stranger I met online? Well, that is a conundrum. A constant conundrum…the ‘present for a cousin’ ploy works, or ‘it’s for my girlfriend.’ An interest in knitting sounds a little strange. No, no my favorite excuse was ‘I am buying these sweaters for resale on the Japanese market.’ Plausible, and it sounded lucrative. A stiff prick may have no conscience, but it is also the mother of invention when it comes to lies.

The doorbell squawked, and the door opened almost instantly. A man stood there, solidly built, bald on top, a trim goatee. He smiled, and said, “Allo mate.” Australian. I found that surprising but why would that have come out in the emails? He ushered me in, talking in his almost-British accent, laughing about the wonders of the internet, the smallness of the world. I tried to make conversation, but something about him made me nervous. Off balance.

“I suppose you would want to see the sweaters then?”

I nodded, tried to swallow. “Yeah.”

He led me down the hallway, a narrow affair, into a kitchen that looked like it had not been used since the fifties. I was aware though that the house was not hot – it was cool, almost chilly. An igloo, frozen in time, amongst all these other ranch houses…

“This is her,” he said, pulling a photo off the refrigerator. He slid the picture towards me, smiling a kind of crooked smile. And there in the picture was a lovely, a lovely sweater, but the model was –

I tried to swallow again. “This looks like a recent picture,” I said, “like it was taken –“

“Oh yeah, we shot those a few days ago.” I stared hard at the picture not wanting to look up. In the photograph was an image from all of my dreams – a model wearing a tight little angora twinset – had to be 80 or 90% angora, white and fluffy. A wide belt held her waist in, and beneath that an angora skirt, pink fuzz trumpeting out below her knees. Her legs were clad in silvery fishnets and her feet sported a pair of white go-go boots. Curly brown hair, a pouting pair of red lips. But here was the kicker: I was pretty sure the woman was not actually a woman. I mean it was hard to tell –

“Did you think she was an old gal, then?” My host’s question snapped me out of it. Out of my bleary-eyed staring – at the sweaters, at the ‘woman.’ I tried to explain:

“Oh, well, your ad said ‘retiring’, so I assumed –“

“Oh, ha, here I thought you were – no, she ain’t retiring in that sense. “ He paused and wiped at his eyes. “She is just moving on.”

He stared at me, his crooked smile tilting the room to one side.

“People just grow apart you know. And that’s how it goes.”

There was an awkward pause. I think I nodded.

“Well, come on then, you probably want to see the sweaters? Am I right? Lovely sweaters, like in that picture there - that is mostly ANN-gora.” He drew that last word out like a fingernail down my spine. Still smiling he took the picture back and turned to the small door next to the fridge. It looked more like a cabinet than a thruway, and the handle on the door had a complicated lock on it. I couldn’t see what he did – he fiddled with the knob – the door opened and he started down a narrow staircase. He flicked at a light switch as he passed, then turned to me – I was hesitating at the top of the stairs, sure that this was a VERY bad idea, following this stranger into his basement – when he said: “Hey maybe you want to meet her?”

For some reason that put me at ease. If she was downstairs, how dangerous could this be? I mean, for some reason I took comfort in the thought that there would be two, no three people down those dark stairs. I followed him then, and had to duck my head slightly. But to be honest, it was probably just the sweaters that were pulling me down – the thought of that angora skirt….

The basement held more surprises. It was not old, not frozen in time, it looked like a modern photo studio. A backdrop was pinned up on one wall, a tripod sat unused. Lights rimmed the area - there was even a flokati rug pushed up onto a little pedestal. I was impressed.

“You’re a photographer,” I said, and he smiled back at me again.

“It’s a hobby.”

He walked quickly back to the corner of the basement, where there was a huge cedar wardrobe. I peered over my shoulder – the rest of the basement was closed off by thin walls with panel doors, for storage I guessed. But here, the treasure awaits I thought, and I think I held my breath as he opened the wardrobe.

My expectations were met, surpassed – I could see the free-standing closet held tons of mohair, and angora, mostly muted colors, a lot of black and white angora, some chunky beige cardigans, and one bright red dress, the hem dripping with fuzziness. I wanted to run my hand along the entire row. But I restrained myself.

“They’re something,” he said, looking almost sad as he surveyed the collection. He reached in and fished out a grey cowlneck sweater that literally shone with fibers, glowed in a halo of furriness. I held my breath. The sleeves were long – too long, but the sweater even looked to be my size.

“This beauty was one of our favorites,” he said, then smiled at the memory.

I remembered then about meeting her – I said, “I thought, I mean, is she here?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, seeming to lost in nostalgia, “She’s around here somewhere. “ He brushed his cheek against the fuzzy cowl neck, then put the sweater back. He turned to me, rubbing his hands.

“So,” he said, “are ya interested then?” I tried to ignore his leer.

“Sure,” I said, I didn’t want to tip my hand. “The whole lot, I mean, that is a lot of sweaters – are they all yours? Or hers?”

“Most we collected together.” He said that with meaning. “Ebay and what not. She came with some.” There was a pause “Do you have a large collection of your own then?”

I hesitated, was that an innocent question? “I have a few – just a few,” I said. More like a few dozen I thought.

“That’s great,” he said, and cocked his bald head to the side, looking at me. “That’s really great.” Another awkward silence. “Great.” Suddenly he snapped back to reality, stopped looking at me. “You want to look at them, feel free – course you can only wear one at a time, right?” He laughed at that, he was talking fast now, but I took it as some sort of Australian humour.

I could not help myself, I ran my hand over the first three, pretended to be professionally interested as I caressed a sleeve. My breath became shallow. It was hard enough – I mean, I thought I might betray my true feelings – so I turned to him and tried to explain my plan: “I am reselling them, “ I said, “in Ja-“

He silenced me with a wave of his hand. “That’s o.k., that’s alright. I don’t need to know that…”

We stood there, in silence, while he rocked on his heels. I looked at him, then back at the sweaters.

Finally he leaned towards me – almost comically, and said, “You want to meet her?”

I said, “Sure.” But my head was screaming, get out, leave now. If I could just buy some of those sweaters. “How much do you think –“

He was already walking away, towards on of the small doors. “How much?” he said, “how much indeed!” He seemed more and more crazy. But I could not leave without some of those sweaters. I had two hundred dollars in cash in my pocket. I wondered if he would part with the whole lot – and I then wondered how I would get them home…home, in my room, where I could try each one on…

He called out to me: “C’mere lad, you will want to see this.” He was standing in the door frame. I walked over and peered in - my mind dropped down through the cracks of my own sanity:

There was girl in there alright – wrapped in latex, and bound – head to toe in a series of belts! On top of that she was locked inside a cage! The entire room was a dungeon – a well-built dungeon with every paddle, hood and cuff mounted along the wall. The floor shone black, and the girl, she was in red latex, a red ball strapped into her mouth – she struggled, moaning into her gag.

The Australian turned to me: “She’s a little upset, about the retirement and all.” He sort of shrugged. “But I caught her chatting with someone else, online, and you know what that means...”

“You’re gonna kill – kill her?”

“Kill her!? Are you kidding?” He started laughing like a maniac. When he finally stopped he was practically crying. “No, no I sold her. To another master. This bloke, he likes his slaves in latex, so I am breaking her in.”

I was stunned – floored – but then he said:

“So , are you gonna strip and try on some of these sweaters, or am I gonna have to force you?” He winked broadly. “I do so enjoy forcing you sweater–girls…”

THAT was when I woke up. In my own bed. In my own room. My heart raced. My cock was hard as a rock.

I have got to stop staying up late, browsing the fetish sites, I thought.