=sissy journal page=

=sissy homework=

A special "play" collar that Daddy bought me for our anniversary.
One thing Daddy loves about having a sissywife is that
you don't have to buy a sissy expensive jewelry for birthday & anniversary gifts. Your typical sissy is far more thrilled to be given slave collars, handcuffs, & fuck-me lingerie. Anything that emphasizes & enhances her role as a submissive fucktoy. So shopping isn't a hassle—it's fun for Daddy, too!

Underneath my new collar is my standard neck hardware.
i still vividly remember the night that Daddy snapped
that original slave collar around my neck.
It was one of the most powerful and deeply felt
emotional/physical moments of my entire life.
i practically had a spontaneous orgasm.
Actually, i suspect i had at least a partial spontaneous orgasm,
if there is such a thing.
& i think there is,
cause i'm pretty sure i had one.

=dear diary=

i don't remember the last time i made a cummie. At least a month ago now, i figure. Last night i thought was going to be "the" night…it was after midnight, officially our 4-year wedding anniversary. (It might still be today that i get to make a cummie, as our anniversary is all day today). Daddy was diddling me & had gotten me quite excited. He was doing something new, flicking my clittie with his thumbnail & telling me he was cutting me, making tiny cuts on my clittie. "Can you feel it," he kept asking me. And i could, actually. His nail is sharp & he was doing it very quickly & it felt like he might actually be cutting me. "What do you want sissy," he asked me. "i want you to cut me Daddy." 

He was getting pretty aggressive & his voice took on a special timbre i recognize, gruff & mean & spiteful, like it is when he's really angry & wanting to hurt someone & suddenly it didn't seem like it was all just play. 

Daddy is not ever violent with me but lately he really seems to be getting into our "play." i've had this happen before with sex-partners. It's starts out purely as role-play. But there's something about me that brings out the inner sadist in others. Something about my passivity or willingness to be hurt. Something about my inherent undiluted submissiveness. God knows what it is, exactly. i'm a pure & perfect victim, i guess.  

Daddy had been smoking weed so his inhibitions were lowered & this usually hidden side of him comes out in the open. It is genuinely a little scary because times like these i really don't know where he will stop…or if he will stop…or if i even want him to stop. Things could happen "accidentally." It's scary—and thrilling—because when i get to a certain place i feel like i want to be taken right to the end—and over the edge—to step off into empty air. i don't think i'd put up any more than the minimal struggle, probably involuntary, to stay alive. 

maybe that's what brings out the inner sadist in my lovers…the intoxicating—i guess it must be intoxicating…like alcohol or drugs i'm not susceptible to it...being the pure masochist i am—sense that they have the power of life & death over another person. 

=sissy journal page=

=i am who i am because=

=Daddy says=

Daddy says one of the best ways to keep me in my place is for me to give him a blowjob first thing in the morning & then to keep me half-naked the rest of the day.

Daddy says it's hard for me to have any respect for myself or to take myself seriously when i'm made to walk around the house in high heels & hardly anything else.

Daddy says no one takes a sissy seriously anyway and that when he wants to talk to someone about anything serious he'll find himself an actual real adult.

=never underestimate the power of giving up=

=then there's me=

=sissy journal pages=

=from my sissy journal=

=sissify me, Daddy!=

Oops! i guess you already did! xo

=new shoes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, part 2=

right after giving Daddy his morning blowjob, i slipped my second pair of new shoes on & went downstairs to fix him breakfast. it's such a yummy feeling mincing around the kitchen cooking breakfast in nothing but ridiculously high platform sandals & a skimpy camisole while Daddy ogles
& feels me up. already these shoes were well worth the 23 dollars i paid for them on Amazon!

=Inquiry into a Mirror=

They are better than me. I mean, other people. I mean, other people are better than me 

at being people. They talk just the way people

are supposed to talk.  
One word after another about the weather,
television, what happened
at work, children, someone breaking up with someone, who's not doing well after the initial
round of treatments.   

When they approach you,

they stretch their lips until they disappear and show their teeth and it looks completely natural. Not like a
monkey in a cage. Not like a disintegrating corpse. 
I mean, everyone agrees they are doing it right. 
They say “hello.” 
Then they say  did you hear, 
isn't it a shame, can you believe it.

It’s the way it’s supposed to be. 

I mean, other people are the way people 
are supposed to be. 
It's a mystery to me, that’s what they are. 
How did they learn this complicated thing? 

I mean, this being-people thing? 
They are so much better than me at being people. 
How did it happen? How did they get so far ahead of me? Where did they learn? When? 
They laugh just like they do

on television when someone does something

that isn’t too funny. When something sad happens, 
they open their eyes wide and furrow 
their brows

and show a very deep concern and everyone
knows they're sad about someone's

ovarian cysts or flooded basement. 
I find it difficult. 
I mean, I find it difficult to say anything. 
I stand there, as if stumped. 
When I say “I’m sorry” it sounds like 
someone asking “Would you like some salt?” 
Other people

are better at walking down the street. 
They do it effortlessly. 
They look around themselves 
as if they were seeing things 
that really interested them. 

I have to think “left-right-left-right.” 
I mean, otherwise I'll fall flat on my face 
like my shoelaces were tied. 
When other people see other people
they know, for instance, they do a complex facial yoga
that is beyond me. 
I mean,  if I meet people unexpectedly
I look up like someone's interrupted me 
in the toilet.   
Just in case, I have to write crib notes
 on the inside of my wrists 
exactly where you might cut them. 
I write notes to remember: “Smile. Nod. Hello. 
Take care. How are you?” 

Okay, I’m exaggerating. 
No I’m not. 
Yes I am. 
Still other people are better than me

at being people. 

It comes naturally to them, 
as if they’ve been doing it their whole lives,

as if that’s what they really are. 

I watch their faces closely for signs of tension. 
For cracks. 

When I’m around people I feel like I’m going to blow apart in a thousand pieces. 

Like something awful is going to 

emerge from the fragile egg that I am. 
I jerk around like a marionette. 

But other people. I mean, other people seem so sincere. 
So natural, 
so at ease. Like seals in the water.

How do they do it? When someone shows them a baby picture they go “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!” 
right on cue like it's the first time no matter how many times 
it's been done before. 

I stand there

like someone has presented me a complex problem

involving differential equations. 

Everyone is better than me at being people. I saw a show once about a serial killer. 

He had a thousand friends. Even in jail, other people still couldn’t help liking him. They said, “He was a really nice guy, except for the serial killing thing.” 
Dozens of women sent him marriage proposals.
Dozens!

What I mean is other people can be people 
without any effort at all. It’s like they were born being people. 

What would it be like, I wonder, to be one of these other people? How does one do it? Is it too late, surely it’s already too late, but just imagine it's not. I mean, not too late to become other people. 

Let’s say I could. 

If I could become other people would I scare myself the way other people scare me now?

 Would I even recognize myself and if so would I walk right by me without a word pretending I didn't recognize me because I'm just too damn weird
even for other people? 
Would I glance quickly at my wrist
 and read in the same dull voice
 I have now “Hello? How are you?” 

Would I smile and nod? Would I say “Take care”? Would I  mean it? I mean, would I feel any sympathy for me at all?

If so,
which me would I be when I did?
I mean, of course it's too late,
but what if?
I don't answer. I just stare back.
I mean, it's embarrassing enough
even to have to ask.
I mean, I have nothing written on my wrist,
not so much as a scar.