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 !

Articles

The Boutique

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I walked past the window slowly, my heart suddenly beating fast. At the corner I stopped, hesitated, then looked at my watch as if realizing I was late for something. I turned and walked back, to look at the store window again. Slower and slower I went, until I stopped altogether, staring at the clothes on the mannequins. One wore a dark grey mohair skirt. Another a chunky cable turtleneck that came up to the mannequin's chin. A seated mannequin wore an angora poncho. The last wore an incredibly fuzzy turtleneck, black mohair I think, but the turtleneck never ended, it spiraled up over the mannequin's head, ending in a sort of hood, a tube of the softest looking wool. I was dimly aware of the morning commuters passing me as I stood there dumbstruck. I tried to see into the store, but it was still closed. My body felt nervous and light - like it does whenever my fetish takes over. And this store was playing to my sweater fetish in the worst way.

Ever since I was a child I have been affected by sweaters. That doesn't sound so bad, but a sweater fetish on a fall day can be murder. It has become an addiction. And this boutique, what was the name of it, something French, L'Etoile or something like that, was like a junkie finding a heroin store. Except of course I couldn't march into this store, obviously a woman's boutique, and simply start touching the sweaters. I could only stare. Finally, reluctantly, I tore myself away, and walked the rest of the way to my first job interview in a daze.

The day passed uneventfully - I had three interviews, and some looked promising. Life in this new city might turn out to be alright. But inexorably I found myself drawn back to that store window. After walking thirty blocks completely out of my way, I stood in front of the boutique. It was open now and I could see inside. Shelves of soft sweaters invited me in. But what would I say? I was shopping for a girlfriend? My sister? How about I wanted to wear each and every one of these sweaters, myself, I wanted to be a sweatergirl? That would be the most honest response.

Finally I steeled my resolve, swallowed my beating heart, and walked in. I passed the first shelf - piles of sleeveless angora turtlenecks in a dozen soft colors - and was immediately approached by a salesperson. A young woman, Asian, petite, looked at me with hard brown eyes and asked if I needed help. I swallowed hard and said no, I was just looking. I moved faster. I couldn't stay long. I found the mohair skirts and ran my fingers along the hem. Excruciating. They looked thin, almost translucent. I wished I was in one. Another salesperson smiled at me, a blonde woman, round faced and healthy looking. I kept moving. Cranberry colored sweaters lined another wall, made of some synthetic material, they looked like fur. I'm sure there were other clothes, non-sweaters that is - but I didn't even see them. I moved slower hesitating at racks of soft sweater halter tops, a richly patterned poncho, a sheer synthetic top, like spiderwebs woven into clothes. This store was fantastic. And then I found the sweater I had seen in the window, with the tube-like turtleneck, and stood before it in awe. What would that feel like, to wear that sweater, to be surrounded by the dark fuzzy wool. The sleeves were long and ended in ragged furry cuffs. I touched the edges tentatively, trying to appear nonchalant. The price tag hung down, and I looked carefully at the numbers - $195. Could I afford that? Could I stop myself from buying it? I ran my hand up the sleeve - and felt someone's eyes on my back. I pulled my hand back and tried to turn calmly, only to find myself face to face with a woman dressed entirely in these creations. She was older, maybe 45, buxom, with red gold hair and a European face. That was what I thought of - I thought of Paris. I thought of Paris while I stared at her tits, which were tucked into the tightest little angora turtleneck - knit with a bodice across the middle. Over this she wore a sheer mohair cardigan, the same butter color as her angora top. Her skirt was dark brown and probably not really mohair but it had that same fuzzy aura. Dark leather boots peeked out from under her skirt, and I thought for an instant I might faint.

Can I help you? Her accent was French, maybe Swiss. Her eyes shone. Her face was so composed, her bearing so full of confidence. I stammered a reply, that I was just looking, but I needed to buy something for my...for my...

A gift?, she asked. And as I nodded I thought she was smiling at me. She asked me what exactly I might like. She ushered me around the store, showing me this, and that, little things, and curiously none of the sweaters. I was mesmerized by the way her body moved under the various knits. She asked me if I liked this scarf, or that top. But at each question, I shrugged and said I was not sure. I knew I would have to leave soon. I was already feeling hot and embarrassed. She turned finally and put her finger to her lips, Oh, letz zee. She said she had some men’s clothes in the back, would I like to see them?, and without waiting for an answer she glided towards the back of the store. Past the changing rooms, which I tried not to look at, she had a small rack of suits and pants. Nothing extraordinary. But she pulled a suit of the rack, a camel colored suit of wool, and asked me if I liked it. It was a nice suit, and she immediately insisted I try it on. Oh come on, she said, it will not hurt to try zis on. And she led me back to a solitary changing room past the men's rack almost at the back of the store. She said, take your time. And handed me the suit, turning to walk back towards the front. I was sure I would not buy the suit, but I went into the changing room anyway, and sat on the small bench there, trying to catch my breath. She was like a figure from a dream, and in fact she did seem somewhat familiar. I tried to think who she reminded me of. I looked again at the suit, then at the other hook on the wall. A few items remained there, from whomever had used the changing room last. A jersey dress lay on top. A pantsuit. And then I saw it. Two hangers down, the soft aura of fuzz. A sweater...like a taste of cocaine I was up and removing the top hangers. It was a short minidress of pointelle knit angora. Maybe not a 100% angora but it was soft. And white. And fuzzy. I ran my hands along it. I looked around. Dare I? I looked at the suit and started getting undressed. I would try on the suit, I would try on the suit, I repeated over and over again. But I felt myself remove my shirt and then my undershirt and I knew what I was doing. I was stripping down to nothing, I wanted to wear that dress over my naked skin. My heart pounded now with fear, I could hear the murmur of the store, and I knew that I should not do this. But my limbs moved automatically, pulling off my shoes, my socks, my pants. My underpants hit the floor, and I was already taking the dress off of the hanger. It was so smooth, so soft. I worried briefly about stretching it as I eased it down over my head. The smell of it was delightful, like almonds and some sort of perfume. And then it was on my body, pulled down to my thighs. My skinny male frame looked ludicrous probably in this feminine sweater, but it felt terrific. The sleeves were incredibly long and ended at my wrists. And the neck was a soft bunch of wool that hit snugly under my chin. The knit was sheer, and I could see my cock growing hard, despite the fear. Every noise outside the door set my heart racing. What should I do? I was desperate, so eager for release. I wished I had a bra, some tits. Harder still. But I couldn't, not here. I looked around again, running my hands along the dress, along my hips. Was someone laughing in the store? I started to panic, I had to get out of here. And then I saw it, up high, in the rafters. A small security camera, pointed straight at me...

Have you ever been in an auto accident? Do you remember that brief moment of clarity, that soul-sinking realization, as you understand you are about to be hit. That was how I felt. I stared at the camera, and then looked at the floor. I had to get away, the shame burned across my body like a fever. And just as I was lifting the sweater up over my hips - the floor dropped underneath me - I WAS FALLING, falling down through the floor. It seemed so unreal for a second, but then I understood it was real, the floor had dropped like a trapdoor, and I was falling down and I fell ten feet, until I hit something, a net of some kind. It was soft rope woven into a mesh, and as I hit it it gave way, I fell ten more feet, before I was jerked to a stop. The net had closed around me, sealing above me in a drawstring pulled down by my own weight, and now I hung, swinging slowly from side to side, unable to really even move. The room got darker as the trapdoor above me was pulled shut. I hung in darkness, in a net bag, wearing nothing but a sweater dress. I swallowed, tried my voice.

Hello, I said. No one answered. When they came I would be wearing a sweater dress. They had seen me wearing the sweater dress, and now I was trapped here. Hello I called out, and again louder. But I knew that when I did get out of this net bag my troubles would be just beginning....