‘Buttons done up all the way to the top sissy-chrissy.’
‘Yes Mistress.’
I do each of the small pearly opaque white buttons up on the deep purple mohair cardigan I’m wearing, desperately hoping I won’t be dressed in it when Mistress and I venture into town soon.
She points to the small pink wooden children’s chair in the corner of my room — straight away I go over and sit on it. It’s always awkward sitting on such a tiny chair but I dare not complain. There’s a large mirror in front of me and I see her smile, her eyes twinkling rather mischievously.
She’s wearing black 3-inch heeled, chisel-toed boots, tight-fitting tailored black pants and a high-neck, burgundy, ribbed turtleneck, an outfit she knows must be playing with my mind.
‘I’ll be back to fetch you soon.’ She turns and just before she walks out of the room, stops and looks back.
‘I’ve seen a lovely fluffy cardigan through the window of the Oxfam shop. Yellow, pastel yellow, with bunnies all over it.’ I blushed. She laughed, turned, and closed the door behind her.
I look at my reflection, knowing there’s no way the purple cardigan can be mistaken for anything but a feminine one, what with the flecked patterning, its colour, the buttons on the left side, its puffy shoulders and sleeves and the incredible fluffiness of the garment. It’s tight with the buttons done up and the woolly fibres scratch annoyingly at my neck. But I’m not allowed to scratch or complain about that or the uncomfortable tightness.
You see I have a fetish for wool, or more specifically, feminine woolly garb — cardigans, sweaters, knitted dresses, scarves, gloves, mitts, hats, tights, you name it, if it’s wool and looks femme, I’m hooked. On me, and on any woman.
I’m addicted to the look, the feel, the – dare I say it – humiliation, of wearing fluffy feminine outfits and items. I told Mistress of this during the very first days of our relationship.
Over the course of the next few weeks she asked lots of questions, got me to write about it too, we went shopping together -online and on the High Streets- and spent plenty of time discussing every possible angle of this obsession.
And then Mistress announced that my ‘weakness’ for feminine woolly clothing was obviously ‘chronic’, so she may as well remind me of it ‘every moment of every day, one way or another.’
My face beamed when I heard those words. I’d had these intense desires since I was a wee boy, growing stronger as the years passed — here, now, I’d finally met my one true, Woolly Muse. I swooned. Nowadays, I might think a little more carefully before grinning back at her with such obvious glee.
Mistress knows I’m an addict, that I’ll now do anything I can to experience life fully wrapped in my fetishist ‘needs.’ And so she uses my woolly ‘weakness’ against me. Sometimes it’s simply for her own amusement but mostly she uses it to train me towards deeper submission and obedience.
With wool as her primary tool, she shapes me, making me into an effeminate ‘fluffy’ sissy in every way imaginable. I had no idea I was such a sissy. I knew I was a cross-dresser, a sexually submissive one at that, but I never realised what a sissy I truly am until Mistress illuminated matters for me.
I now wear plenty of femme woolly şanlıurfa seks hikayeleri items every day, without fail, something I never thought possible once. But I have no say in how Mistress uses my fetish – I never get to choose what outfits I wear, or when. And while Mistress often likes to wear sweaters and cardigans as a means of tormenting me, I have zero say in what soft outfits she wears, if any.
As for any sexual element, I’m kept in strict chastity, and never allowed to directly touch my clitty without permission. Mistress has modified my tight chastity cage to include a sheath of fitted scratchy raw wool inside the device. It drives me mad, a constant reminder of my predicament and where my fetish has led me to.
For hygienic reasons the sheath must be changed every day, Mistress always using the opportunity to mock or torment my little clitty in some way.
Just last week she donned lovely, soft angora gloves and started rubbing my clitty, which rose to its full five inches within a minute. Mistress stopped her rubbing, walked into the kitchen and returned with several pulped hot chillies in a mortar bowl. I looked on in horror as she began rubbing the chilli paste all over my stiff clitty, angora gloves and all.
I was a blubbering mess in just two minutes, with orders not to spurt ‘or else’ (what could be worse!). The rubbing – and tears – continued for a good five minutes and then on went the sheath and on went the cage.
And all because the day before I’d commented that the sheath was a little too tight and scratchy after they went on. The next few hours with my clitty on fire were sheer agony as I went about performing my household chores.
When I am allowed a rare release it’s always in the most humiliating fashion and involves having to ‘make love’ to my ‘girlfriend’, which happens to be a blow-up plastic doll that I must dress in a very soft pink angora twinset. Both were presented to me on my birthday last year, a few months after Mistress and I got together.
I have exactly two minutes to cum, not a second more, with Mistress counting down the time in fifteen second blocks. Once I spurt, I must clean the mess up with my tongue, Mistress inspecting my efforts afterwards to check ‘my girlfriend’ is sufficiently clean. It’s nothing for me to be cleaning ‘her’ for up to an hour, moving about in all sorts of contorted ways as I strive to make sure I do a thorough job — Mistress does not want to be disappointed.
If I fail to cum in the allotted time, then my clitty is severely punished for what Mistress considers ‘ungrateful behaviour towards your lovely girlfriend.’ I then face an extended period in chastity.
Last time I failed to cum within the allotted time I had to don the fluffy twinset and was then given 25 strokes of her fearsome dragon cane. Then it was off to my room to write a 1000-word essay on the topic of ‘Why I love my pink fluffy girlfriend so much.’
Mistress thought that essay lacked passion, so another 25 strokes followed, this time with her Loopy-Johnny. And then it was back to the desk to write a 5000-word response to ‘A fluffy pink girlfriend is a sissy’s best friend – Discuss.’ The cardigan remained on and buttoned to the top.
Yes, her punishments are hard, relentless. A fortnight ago I had to endure the dreaded ‘Punishment Sweater’ treatment. And all because I’d made a quip about not wanting to wear a particularly scratchy turtleneck sweater outside that day.
I spent the following weekend locked inside my room, working at the desk writing the line, ‘A sissy with a wool fetish must never complain about wearing a sweater’ 1,000 times. Undertaken while wearing the Punishment Sweater and matching long knitted pants, the heater turned up to 30′, the blinds drawn, the room airless.
That sweater weighs several kilograms, fits tightly and is incredibly itchy; there’s no way I can remove it as Mistress always fits a heavy, tight posture collar under the huge high turtleneck and affixes tight cuffs over the ends of each sleeve.
For extra effect, sometimes she’ll have me wear thick woolly mittens while I write out the lines or complete some essay. Usually a thick, heavy belt goes around my mid-riff, done up tightly too.
Nothing comes off until I’ve completed whatever task she has set as punishment. It’s not unusual for me to lose 5 kilograms by the end of the punishment, the sweater and pants completely saturated with sweat.
To make matters worse, I’m never allowed to scratch myself or adjust the fit of the sweater or pants in any way, shape or form during the punishment – and she has positioned a camera in the room so she can check on me at any time.
Yes, the Punishment Sweater is horrendous, but it’s nowhere near as awful as when Mistress announces I need a ‘good firm dose of strict nursery discipline.’ It’s so degrading, so utterly humiliating, one I deeply fear whenever she decides to implement it.
I’ll be dressed head-to-toe in knitted baby items like booties, bonnets, mitts, fluffy cardigans and matinee jackets, knitted nappy covers and the like. And these disciplinary sessions never, ever, run for less than for 24-hours — on occasion I’ve even had to endure a week’s worth of this hell.
Whatever the length, the entire time I’m expected to behave just as a baby or toddler does, in every way imaginable. Every way, no exceptions. And if I fail to ‘act my age’, the consequences are always ghastly, if not painful.
And bedtimes…well, she had said I’d be reminded of my ‘weakness’ every moment of every day. All going well – that is I’m not being punished or undergoing some form of disciplinary treatment – then I’m usually in a lovely soft, woollen onesie complete with a fitted hood, my eyes the only feature not enveloped in wool.
But if Mistress decides, then night-time can take on its own special tormenting hues. Like having to don a scratchy woollen outfit combined with immobilising bondage. Or being wrapped in multiple woollen blankets — as well as a scratchy onesie. Or having to wear several sweaters and knitted pants to the point where I can barely move…and then finding the heating turned up as an added ordeal.
My room reflects the fetish too, every element carefully crafted and designed by Mistress to taunt me, to throw my fluffy love back at me. It’s painted in ‘sissy’ pink-white candy-stripe hues.
I have two open-framed hangers for my clothes, one for the various uniforms, dresses, pinafores and petticoats I wear, the other with at least forty cardigans and sweaters hanging there, an ordeal and delight all wrapped up together.
On every wall are pictures of women old and young wearing cardigans and sweaters. I have a bookcase with scores of knitting patterns arrayed there alongside two dozen knitting books and several knitting magazines, the only ‘reading material’ allowed in my room. The patterns and books all come from the 1950s through to the 1980s and feature designs and patterns for babies, children, girls and women.
On two shelves are a collection of dolls that Mistress has purchased from local charity shops (with me usually in tow). Every one of them is dressed in a knitted outfit; I’ve had to give them all a name and write them each a detailed biography.
Mistress has also found two plush lambs, one in blue, the other in white; these must be placed neatly on my knitted pillowcases every morning after I make the bed. (I’ve had to christen them but I’m too embarrassed to say what their names are here).
On top of the dresser sits a small television, a knitted cover over it for when it’s not in use. Flopsy, a big plush white rabbit (Mistress named it) is perched to its left.
Mistress doesn’t allow me to watch anything she hasn’t approved — when told to, I’ll watch sissy training videos as well as knitting blogs and sometimes a movie or show where plenty of knitwear is being worn. But watching a movie is rarely as ‘pleasurable’ as it sounds as I usually must sit a test or write an essay on some woolly aspect afterwards.
Essays and stories feature in other ways. At least every couple of weeks I’ll be told to fetch one of the dolls or knitting books or patterns and then I’ll have to write an essay about a particular outfit or feature such as the buttons on a fluffy yellow cardigan or write a story about one or other fluffy picture or design.
Mistress is a knitter – of course, she’s made me take up knitting too. I’ve been at it for the past 12 months though she finds my pace far too slow and my efforts supremely disappointing.
She announced last month that when winter starts – it’s autumn now – knitting will be the sole relief from my domestic duties until such time as my knitting reaches the standards she expects.
‘I’ll soon have you knitting properly.’ Of that I have little doubt.
‘We’ll start with lovely fluffy new outfits for all your dollies, made with love and care by sissy-chrissy.’ I blushed when she said that.
Today, as I said, we are going into town. I gaze at myself in the mirror, feeling a mix of longing at the fluffy purple cardigan I wear and quiet terror at the thought that I may soon be wearing it for all the world to see.
As I’ve been trained to do, I sit on the teeny chair with my legs closed, feet together, hands on my thighs, making little fists, my posture upright, head up, shoulders back, eyes straight-ahead.
The rest of the outfit is bad enough…tight-fitting soft, pink-coloured shorts that hide nothing (including the bulge of my chastity cage, I might add), lace-trimmed, long white socks and brown Mary-jane shoes. With my high-fringed, short-back-and-sides haircut, there’s no mistaking me for a female.
I really don’t want to have to wear this cardigan and this outfit through town, where everybody’s going to see what a sissy I truly am. But the cardigan…oh…it looks so…so pretty, so feminine…so lovely…so soft…gorgeously fluffy…oh…!!!