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Secret Sissy

The secret diary of Queen Fi’s naughty little Sissykins

Mothers and Metaphysics

Another long weekend, another exploration into unexpected realms, and a broadening of the definition of that it means to be owner and owned.

Our foray into the little/caregiver dynamic continues apace. On Friday morning, a slow work-from-home day, I’m woken with treats: First there is a temporary tattoo that reads ‘Sissy’ in lovely joined up script. This is applied to my pelvis, just above her locked property to wonderful effect.

My second treat is that I’m asked how I’d like to spend the day. Feeling lazy, I request a day being a little. We chill together on the couch, where I feed lazily every few hours. In this role, I’m not allowed to use my vape, or drink beer, or watch ‘adult’ TV and we spend the day watching cartoons. The effect is strangely pacifying. I feel quiet, almost shy, and I relish these small restrictions.

At mid-morning, I’m talced and diapered. I love how this soft, restrictive layer provides an extra barrier between her locked property and my wandering hands; the half-shame of secret occasional leaks.

Another treat is in store before lunch: Bath time, with a gorgeous glittery bath bomb that leaves my skin feeling silky soft, just like a real baby. There is more unexpected dissonance between the way I expected to feel being treated this way, and the way it actually feels. I’d always imagined feeling shamed and humiliated at being ‘forced’ into the role of baby. In reality, there’s little forcing or humiliation. The feeling is more akin to being catatonic, quietened…pacified…and extremely content.

Later in the evening, I’m unlocked cleaned and milked. This, too, confounds my expectations. Instead of the clinical, methodical act I expected, I end up writhing in pleasure on the prostate massager, hungry to be filled. Afterwards, I’m left with in that ecstatic, frustrated state of being limp, unable even to get hard, yet feeling on the very brink of impending orgasm.

On Saturday, we go out for drinks. The moment we’re home, I’m ordered to the bathroom to clean up, and told that Miss intends to have my ass. When I enter the bedroom, Miss looks unbelievably divine in a body suit of black lace, riding crop in hand. Her tone is stricter than usual, with a harsh matter-of-fact edge. There could hardly be a greater contrast from yesterday’s maternal fussing and cooing.

She takes me doggy-style, occasionally reaching around to stroke her unlocked property which remains resolutely limp as it often does during anal play. Her love making builds in intensity until I’m being fucked hard to my limits. I feel like a real sissy slut now, and I love it.

We take some gentle mood enhancers, which send us both to a place of playful experimentation and spontaneity. For a while, we play hunter and prey. I cower, trembling with fear as my Miss becomes a primal cat, pinning me to the bed. Softly, she growls and bites, breathing in my awe and fear. Now I’m vulnerable in a way I’ve never been before; feeling that at any moment my Miss could tear at my jugular and devour me whole like the goddess Kali feasting on a mouse.

We play and writhe like this for a while. There are moments when I’m being emptied, my psychic energy drawn from me and into her as we dance through a realm of archetypes.

I think my Miss knows I’m prone to metaphysical thinking after our mood enhancing potions. Something she says lights my imagination: How I am hers for all eternity, in this life and every life thereafter. These lives flash at me briefly: My Miss as Emerald Wasp, and I her insect prey. My Miss as high-born noble Roman and I her gelded slave. Then she is the goddess Kali again, and I am the conquered, the supplicant Lord Shiva lain beneath her feet. In the body-less moments between such lives she harnesses my soul with chains of stars.

We play this way until the early hours. She has me dry hump her. My cock, (her cock) still limp discombobulated from anal play and dissociatives aches wildly to be inside her. In my addled state I somehow manage to don my own cock – a nice thick strapon and we make love.

This, too, is curious. My Miss wants to feel my passion, some animal dominance. I pin her wrists to the bed, burying myself deep inside while I beseech her in a tone somewhere between encouragement and begging to come beneath me. I want this more than anything because I sense that she does too. This strange act of being bidden to be forceful makes me feel strangely even more submissive, since I feel able to give what I sense she needs, as though I am the truest slave of her pleasure.

And so it seems, that none of this is panning out how I’d expected. We shift from archetype to archetype, exploring power in all of its forms and the experience is a far richer one than I’ve ever dreamed possible.

I sense that my Miss is giving some serious thought to the role of chastity in our relationship, since I received some thoughts along those lines by text. In a 5-6 weeks, we are taking a holiday for which I’ll be unlocked so that she may feel my passion for her unadulterated. I’ll remain submissive, but freely able to sate my desire for her – a deep want that’s been carefully cultivated over the past month as one would tend a garden. In the past I might have felt some anxiety about the diluting of my submission, but not so now.

I’m beginning to feel we could frame anything within this dynamic without losing our love, our passion for each other, or the sense of play and exploration that’s making this whole journey so damn delicious.

Nurses and Nursing

It’s been quite a weekend with much to process and I’m bound to miss stuff out. But here goes.

On Saturday evening, I was ordered to ready myself for a medical appointment with Nurse Jessica, my Miss’s kink-clinician altar ego. I was instructed to clean myself thoroughly in preparation and report to the bedroom for a full body and medical inspection.

This cleaning process is something of a headfuck in itself. I douche, then soap my rear and clean my cage as best as I can manage through the steel bars. The process feels very slightly degrading, as though I’m preparing myself as sex-worker would, but the results are pleasing when I imagine presenting my clean and perfectly pink posterior to nurse. I dry off, dress as instructed, then enter the bedroom where Miss is waiting.

My Miss looks exceptionally sexy this evening in her nurse’s uniform donned specially for the occasion – hair pinned up, severe spectacles on. Except this is not my Miss. I’m instructed to use the full moniker, Nurse Jessica, and the inspection begins with a barrage of questions. Nurse Jessica notes down the answers in a little black book, making little derisory remarks that I swat away.

Then it’s on to the examination for a full body inspection, rear first, her hands expertly probing every inch as she continues to quiz me. I’m ordered to turn over and the process is repeated.

After some probing and prodding, she unlocks my cage, making some offhand remark about the unpleasant smell. If I’d managed to deflect previous attempts at humiliation, there was no doing so now. This remark slaps me like a good backhand so that I felt myself redden as she begins to spray the offending area with a cold water atomiser.

It’s difficult to put into words what happened next. She begins deftly, methodically cleaning my cock with a cold wet wipe and I instantly harden. I’m reprimanded for this, too – told in no uncertain terms that it will be reported to Miss. All the while, she is still cleaning away with the wet wipes in a way that’s so formal, non-sexual, that I can hardly catch my breath and I feel I might begin to weep at any moment from the shame and ecstasy of it.

This form of ostensibly non-sexual touching is something I’ve been trying to articulate. It’s so utterly, mindblowingly hot to me that I could write many thousands of words trying to sum up its effect.

I’ll try to list a few as concisely as possible:

It establishes an instant power dynamic reminiscent of of doctor/patient or parent/little in which the sexual element (for me, anyway) feels taboo, or especially naughty and transgressive. That’s hot. It’s also pretty humiliating.

When I’m teased or stroked, there’s always a niggle of anxiety that I’ll spill and undo weeks of pent-up submission. The formal cleaning does away with that, there being never quite enough sustained contact to finish the job.

Finally, it completely reinforces the idea that the relationship is not about me. It’s like Denial Plus – a state of frustrated ecstasy in which I’m resigned to the fact that my own pleasure consists of savouring these scraps of contact and always burning in anguish for something more. Afterwards, safely locked back up, I feel more like a slave (albeit a well-looked-after one!) than I’ve ever felt before in my life.

The next day, we spend a very lovely ordinary day together: Pub lunch, a walk in the park. And yet, it seems this exploration has yet another sublime gift for us.

At home in bed, we’re cuddled together and I ask if I may worship her breasts a while. This is something we’ve done before, often as foreplay or while I pleasure her, but this time is different. She carefully wraps me in the blanket and I take her breast as a baby would and suckle away in blissful content for a long, long time.

The intimacy is sublime. She strokes my hair, occasionally murmuring soft words of encouragement that warm my soul and cause me to snuggle deeper into the quilt and her gorgeous bosom. It’s special in a way that words can’t really convey – and in a way that#’s bowled us both over more than we were prepared for.

Today, Miss confides that she would like to induce lactation and begin a full ANR. Her words: “I want you on me, living off me…” Sent a flurry of butterflies to flight in my stomach and made me tremble with joy.

Everything feels so strange. I wake each morning, aching with desire, inside a pale body I hardly recognise; and feeling like less and less of myself belongs to me. I think of my life ahead: Of being chaste to the point of purity, of directing my mind and body to do Miss’s bidding before my own, and of being devoted to her pleasure. The little thrill I have when she so matter-of-factly directs me to little tasks like tidying bringing water. A word is all it takes. Her word. I love how it gives me such strength to be myself. How happy I am now, in my service, and always shall be.

A Punishment

We spent bank holiday weekend as all Brits do – in the pub. Ours was a special trip out, being the first time I’d properly met my Miss’s mother. I was determined to make a great impression, which meant keeping the drinks flowing and trying to keep pace.

This was a mistake. A combination of sun, strong lager and an empty stomach left me good for nothing by the time we returned home and I ended up soundly snoring by 8.30.

I’ve therefore been asked to write five reasons I should be punished for this, followed by 10 reasons I had a great day. I don’t know if a punishment is on its way, or the entry itself is a punishment. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. Anyway, here are five reasons I ought to be punished for my tipsyness:

  1. I deprived Miss of quality time together
  2. I was incapable of providing the service she has come to expect
  3. Drunkenness is not sissy-like
  4. It’s in my best interest to submit to any behaviour-modifying punishments Miss deems fit
  5. It will reduce the likelihood of repeat behaviour in the future

With that out of the way, here are 10 reasons I had a fabulous day out in spite of my bad behaviour:

  1. I love spending time with Miss
  2. I got to met Miss’s mother
  3. Miss looked fabulous
  4. The sun was shining and the weather was beautiful
  5. I love beer gardens
  6. I ate lovely food
  7. I’m proud to be in public with my beautiful Miss on my arm
  8. I woke up in Miss’s bed with my beautiful Miss beside me
  9. We caught the sun
  10. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend bank holiday

I’ve been asked to purchase a notebook for my Miss in which she can record my future behaviour and designate punishments accordingly. I’d also like to get a proper punishment paddle, since our current one is cheap, overly flexible and without the proper bite needed to be a true deterrent.   

A New Toy

I’m very excited about our new toy: A home security camera that can be controlled remotely. I’ve installed it on the desk, where my Miss can see my full room and see what I’m up to whenever she likes.

And it gets even better: The camera lets her say hello or issue commands, Big Brother-style, through a two-way speaker.

Occasionally, I’ll hear its little motor whirring as she pans to find me. It’s a huge thrill knowing I could be being watched at any point, and a great motivator to stay out of trouble!

Giving up aspects of my privacy in this way is a huge turn on for me. My kinky mind wonders how else I might open up my private moments to Miss, until there is no hidden part of me. I trust my Miss so implicitly, I think I’d give her access to my private thoughts if I could!

The purchase of this little toy got me thinking about openness, communication, and the times when I’ve revealed very personal kinks I’ve never told to anyone. I’ve always been heard with patience, without judgement, and have been indulged. That’s a very beautiful and precious feeling.

Sea Change

I’m a lucky, lucky slave. Thursday evening was our three-month anniversary. I visited Miss and found she’d gone all-out to make sure it was a special occasion. Her hair was a new bombshell blonde set into pretty curls at the end, and she wore a snakeskin-pattern blouse. The overall effect was that I’d accidentally walked into the home of a beautiful film star who’d made a name playing femme fatale roles in film noir: A beauty that made me truly weak at the knees and truly lucky that this stunning goddess would choose me as servant.

But tonight the roles would be reversed, if only for a short time. There was a cold beer waiting in the fridge, good wine to be had, and a lovely meal of braised steak. Later on, in the bedroom, we fed each other chocolate covered strawberries made specially for the occasion.

Some may think it’s odd to be treated so kindly by one’s miss. To me, it was a lovely gesture showing just how much I’m loved and cherished. After our strawberry feast, I was back in my service role, kissing away in ecstasy and bringing my Miss to O with my tongue.

I’ve noticed something of a sea change, too. Until now, I could almost count on being released from chastity during a visit to my Miss. Over time, this has produced a textbook Pavlovian response whenever I visit – a rush of blood, the expectation of imminent release.

However, on my last two visits, I’ve remained locked and Miss has hinted that I shall remain so until I begin performing better with my daily chores. These are simple things like sending regular selfies and cage pictures, keeping my house tidy, and maintaining good wake/sleep times. I don’t yet know for how long I must demonstrate adherence to earn a release, but the threat is certainly an excellent motivator.

I wonder sometimes whether Miss might miss playing with my cock – whether she thinks it unduly cruel to keep her property locked, squished into a tiny cage. For my own part, some 11 days from last release, I’ve noticed several benefits and subtle shifts in mindset.

  1. Heightened submission
  2. Crazy levels of arousal
  3. Shift of focus to her pleasure
  4. Better motivation
  5. Deepened ownership bond

Last night, I was allowed a brief prostate milking. The effect is quite weird – a slight reduction of the physical tension, which melts into a watery, twitch need, without any of the psychological re-setting that comes from a full or partial release.

How I love being in thrall to my Miss in this way!


It’s late. I’m tired after a huge meal and a cold beer when we go into the bedroom. I’d been letting things slip, thinking about myself too much. Lost while exploring a world of joyful experimentation, I allowed the true centre of my world to fall from its right place. The small things: Forgetting gifts, untidiness, my chronic lateness, each adds up to a subtle shift in the dynamic which makes me forget my place as her property.

For this, she puts me over her knee, spanking as he recites the litany of my shortcomings as her servant.

The effect is psyche-transforming, as though her words re-program my subconscious. I ask myself how I could have allowed my servitude to become so shallow and the answer comes as fresh resolve: To work harder. Deepen my servitude. To be better.

Recently, my Miss confided how a previous diary entry on punishment left her feeling uncomfortable – perhaps at the thought of having caused me some angst?

If only she knew how much good it did! If only she knew how I needed these moments when, after the last spank is administered, a great weight is lifted from me and I am filled with fresh resolve and filled up with gratitude renewed purpose.

After our little discipline session, I am allowed to massage her. I begin with her back and shoulders, working slowly to her beautiful peach of an ass, the backs of her legs, her feet. Chaste now for a week or so, I feel my libido living vicariously through this contact. My pleasure is hers.

Now I ask if I may kiss between her legs and am asked to beg for the privilege. I beseech her with kisses, whispering my desire close into her ear, and it strikes me that there is no play acting, no pretence, in my begging. I can’t think of anything else but how much I want to be down there, savouring her sweet smell and kissing hungrily.

Now she inflicts a delicious cruelty, of closing her thighs around my ears, my face so close to her peach that I can feel her heat. I push, desperately trying to bury my face there, but I’m held fast in place by her legs. She laughs sweetly. Then, an almost silent gasp as her fingers begin working away, millimetres from my face. I struggle again, before calmness befalls me. Submission. And the sweet ache of denial.

Finally, I am invited to lie with her. She guides my fingers to her berry; slick with juices, showing me all of the ways she likes to be touched. I feel her desire rising. My own is, too. Finally, she offers me a breast and I latch on like a babe, sucking hungrily as my fingers slip inside. Her orgasm brings a flood, which I clean with my tongue and I feel overcome with gratitude at finally being allowed to kiss that special place. I’m such a lucky slave, I think – and so privileged. It’s real feeling, without theatrics, and one I’ve longed to experience.

Afterwards, we talk. I roll her a joint. Then I have to drive home, glazed with peaceful love.

There is a parting gift in my bag. At home, I slip into the diaper, fasten the tapes tightly around my waist and take a picture as proof. My instructions are to send a video requesting removal when the diaper is filled in the morning.

My video was short – six seconds – and the closest I’ve come to feeling true humiliation in all my years of play.

I hope to see my Miss again tomorrow. I have some tasks set today, of making sure the house is clean, writing this diary and making sure I get work complete.

I yearn to give more of myself, to find hidden corners of my being to offer up as little gifts as a cat might bring votive flowerheads from the garden.
And I am falling. Falling in love. Falling into submission. Deeper into devotion. I am finding religion.

Naked as a Babe

Last week, I finally had the opportunity to get rid of my nasty man-hair. The procedure took nearly an hour locked away in a bathroom and an entire tube of hair remover. I’m pleased with the results though!


A Lovely Weekend

It began with a slap up meal, and a girly trip around Primark, where we picked up a nude waist slimmer, training bra, negligee, shorts, crop top, stockings and other assorted goodies, since every good sissy ought to have a wardrobe.

At home, I did a quick fashion show. Then it was time for bed; for I’d bought some ‘mood enhancing’ chemicals. It stands to reason that my memory is fairly hazy, but I do remember licking my Miss to orgasm over and over; the flood of her juices into my mouth, which I love so much.

Afterwards, wrists secured tightly to the bed, Miss positioned herself between my parted thighs, inserting a gloved finger into my ass for milking, followed by the Aneros. I don’t think I’ve ever been truly milked until now. I have fuzzy memories of watching cum pool at the tip of my cock, followed by an infuriating limpness made all the worse by the feeling of being just on the edge of orgasm – a maddening sensation that stayed with me until sleep in the early hours.

In the morning, another surprise: On stating that I needed to pee, my Miss put me straight into diapers, locking my wrists once again to the bed, and falling soundly asleep. The way she talked and cooed while putting on the diaper with deft skill was a huge turn quickly put an end to my limp suffering.

The urge to pee grew steadily to desperation but my mind wouldn’t allow me to go while lay in bed next to my beautiful Miss. Finally, I wriggled free of the cuffs and finally found myself able to relieve myself while standing up.

Diaper full and sodden, I now found myself in another predicament of being unable to sit without leaking on the furniture, and the embarrassing situation of having to report my accident to Miss.

Thankfully, I wasn’t punished for this, nor for escaping my bonds. Instead, we fucked and I was allowed to cum inside my Miss – my first full orgasm in some time.

Then to a Chinese restaurant for lovely food. I truly can’t think of any better way to spend a weekend.

A Punishment

It’s been some time since I last posted. I must get in the habit of posting regularly while memories and impressions are still fresh in my mind – especially as my memory is so absolutely atrocious. I feel like there’s much to catch up on.

First of all, I received my first proper punishment a week or two ago. I’d been bratting badly and also wilfully misbehaving in order to test the boundaries of our new dynamic.

I was ordered into the bedroom and laid face down on my Miss’s massage table, where I was secured very tightly. Then the paddling began – over and over until my ass turned a deep warm red, all the while being lectured by my Miss. This lecturing was by far the worst aspect of the punishment. By the end, I truly felt sorry for having disappointed my beautiful Miss.

Chastened, I was finally let off the table and into bed, where I was thankfully allowed to snuggle up to Miss and reflect on my behaviour. I felt so utterly reprimanded I could hardly meet her eye and was very quiet for the next hour or so.

I think this is the first time I’ve received a ‘funishment’ rather than a punishment. It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.


I’ve been asked to update my blog. I don’t have a great deal on my mind this week, so I thought I’d set down some fairly random meditations and thoughts.

On Being Drugged

Being stoned gives me a shy sense of introversion and it makes me SUPER horny. So it’s great for sissy play. Just a few tokes makes me feel something akin to a coquettish sex doll and hungry to be filled. It’s no wonder my Miss loves to get me high and see me transformed into her own drugged, discombobulated and very ditzy play thing.

In the past, I’ve used weed to get into some very psychedelic headspaces, as well as experimenting with (usually kinky) self-hypnosis. We’ve talked about perhaps playing with this. I’d love to see where a long session of sensory deprivation might lead when coupled with this wonder aphrodisiac.

On Being Femme

A few weeks ago my Miss waxed my chest. The ordeal was almost unbearable (I’m a hirsute guy) but the result were gratifying indeed – a lovely smooth chest that makes me feel ever-so vulnerable and girly.

Unfortunately, the hairs are beginning to come back through now. Waxing appears to make me prone to ingrown hairs, infected follicles and other assorted nastiness. I really wanted to be hairless from head to toe – as every good sissy should be – but my present state of itchiness makes me wonder whether regular full body waxing could work for me in the long-term.

I’ve also been given a set of daily exercises to complete in pursuit of a more feminine body. Or perhaps simply because it amuses my Miss. In any case, it’s a curious thing how the desire to become more feminine takes hold. to the point where I’m almost desperate to have a sexy, feminine body and wondering what type of clothes might suit me best.

On Being Chaste

A new device arrived last week, after I’d been locked for some time in one that was so poorly fitting as to be a purely psychological deterrent from self-pollution.

In spite of my low hopes for the new device (a Chinese copy of the Rigid Chastity) it appears to be extremely effective. While there’s just enough room to poke one’s finger between the bars, there’s certainly no removing it without the key and the fit is great for an off-the-shelf device. The device’s single disadvantage is poor drainage. My plan is to see how I get on with this and potentially replace it with a Model 5 from Rigid Chastity in exactly the same size.

My life in chastity has been exciting. My Miss teases me often and almost to tears, often taking me just beyond the point of return to a frustrating ruined orgasm. I never know whether this is intentional or not, though I do my best to warn her when this is going to happen.

My last earned me 50 spanks over the knee and lightened the sexual tension just enough to take the edge off my submissiveness for a day or so. My Miss said that ‘sissy wee’ – as she calls them – would earn a lengthy lockup with releases only for cleaning. I don’t think she noticed how hard I got when she said that.