Submissive Sissy Husbands

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Submissive Sissy Husbands
Chapters


One Husband's Humiliation





The Sequel



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 !
Losing my job devastated me. All my life I'd learned that the man must support his family. Any man who can't be the breadwinner is not a man; he's a loser - beneath contempt. Being a stock broker only made this worse. I was used to pushing around lots of money, of being in total control over people's lives. Now I'd lost control of my own. I could push anyone around: a multi-national company, a millionaire client, my wife. For weeks, I woke up every morning wishing I could just crawl into a hole and die. I really hated myself. Even though my wife Stephie tried to help, she only made my feelings worse. Every time I saw Stephie, I saw my failure reflected in her soft eyes. I wanted to run, to scream. . . to cry. I hadn't cried since I was a damn kid! Stephie tried to help, but her efforts only made things worse. The first week she left me to my shame. The second week she tried to cheer me up, but she just couldn't understand what I was going through. She'd say: "That's ok honey, I'll earn enough for both of us." "Just relax dear, I'll support us." and so on. She just couldn't understand that I wasn't worried about money, I had plenty of money in the bank. I needed my job to prove that I was the man. Her words cut into me like a rusty dagger. For weeks she fired off these encouragements at me in rapid succession. The humiliation stung so much that my self-respect began to die. I became quiet and passive. All my sulking and passivity slowly led me to a state where I began to do what Stephie said without question. I no longer believed I had the right to speak my mind or to demand anything of my own. This was a total turn around from the way our marriage had been. In the past I was clearly in charge. This felt like Stephie'd made me submissive to her. Imagine that, I felt powerless against my little wife. (Actually, at 5' 5" she's not much smaller than my 5' 6 & 1/2". I guess being physically small made my need to dominate others even stronger.) I felt neutered. The third week, her comments seemed even more emasculating. "Don't worry honey, I'll take care of you." "Don't worry yourself about providing for us, I'll take care of that." "I've got things under control darling." And at times, whenever I stalled in some task she'd given me, she would offer to help in the most humiliating manner: "do you need me to help you with that honey?" "If you need my help with that, just say so darling." I once decked my boss for trying to condescend to me in this way. But I couldn't strike Stephie. My inability to stop her only emphasized my powerlessness. Stephie's comments always sent a warm, soft feeling of helplessness down my spine. I could feel myself physically weaken as she spoke. The more she spoke, the less my will to resist. At first, her words made me angry and I wanted to lash out. It took everything I had not to tell her to stuff it. I struggled to convince myself that I needed to just accept what she said without fighting back or getting angry. I worked hard to train myself to remain passive. As time passed though, I became accustomed to her words. Gradually I stopped resisting. I still felt the sting of humiliation, but it no longer angered me. In the fifth or sixth week, Stephie's tone changed again. I guess she'd had enough of my moping. One day after getting home from work, while still in her smart suit and low heeled shoes, Stephie started on me. "Listen Paul, I think it's time you stopped moping around the house. You may not be able to find a job outside the house, but that doesn't mean you can't work. There are lots of things that need to be done around here and I don't have the time to do them, with my job and all." I looked at Stephie. I knew she was right, but I didn't like her tone. I couldn't understand why she didn't just ask me, why did she need to remind me of her job and my uselessness? "What did you have in mind dear?" I asked in the soft tone I'd adopted lately. "I prepared a list. These are your new duties." "My duties?" I felt my face contort in shock. Who was she to tell me my "duties"? "Be quiet!" I was stunned. For the first time in my life, Stephie had just given me an order. In the past I would have told her where she could cram it, but surprisingly I couldn't now. I don't know exactly why, but being passive for so many weeks had sapped my will to stand up for myself. I stood there in stunned silence as she continued. "I'm not going to put up with this anymore. You can't find a damn job so you're as good as useless." That stung. I felt my spine tingle and what little resolve I'd found break. "You're going to start helping out around the house. I earn the money, I'm the breadwinner. You aren't. That means I call the tune and you dance." I could feel a horrified, confused look creep across my face. Stephie watched my face as she reached down and removed her shoes, one at a time. "Face it Paula, as long as I'm the 'man' of the house, you're going to be the woman." "What . . ." "Shut up, don't ever interrupt me again. Now take this list and start working. I expect you to complete the items on this list everyday. Do you understand me!" Stephie handed me her shoes. They were still damp and warm. "You can begin by polishing these. Then get the rest from the bedroom and polish those too. Then start with the rest of the list." Stephie turned her back to me and headed for the bedroom. I scanned the list, it was long. "But dear, how will I find time to interview if I have to spend all my time dusting, cooking, and shopping?" "That's your problem. Besides, you haven't gotten one interview since you lost your job. Now get to work and don't say another word to me. You've made me angry." Stephie closed the bedroom door behind her.
For the next few weeks, I did all the housework. I cooked, cleaned and did laundry. I ironed. I shopped for food and cut the grass. I did my best, but that never seemed to be good enough for Stephie. The first week I could do nothing right. No matter how hard I cleaned, Stephie came home and found more dirt or identified something I'd missed at the store. Stephie always inspected my work the moment she got home, even before she removed her work clothes. The humiliation I'd felt before was nothing compared to what I felt watching Stephie walk around the house in her chic business suits and her pumps inspecting my work with me following her around, standing at attention in each room as she inspected. I felt like some sort of maid. As I'd predicted, this work took up so much of my time that I literally didn't have any time to interview - not that many people wanted to interview me. I figured though, that I would free up some time soon because I was getting more efficient at doing my duties. Unfortunately, as I improved, Stephie added more. For example, "doing laundry" soon meant more than just separating colors from whites and ramming them into the washer. Now I found myself hand-washing her underwear and nylons. I also learned to repair rips and replace buttons. My part of the laundry, by the way, was becoming smaller and smaller as I began to wear out my clothes. Unfortunately, I wasn't getting any. We didn't have much money because we'd agreed not to invade our savings - I had the key, but the money was in her safe deposit box. Since Stephie's paycheck didn't go too far, Stephie refused to buy me new clothing; she spent our entire clothing budget on her work clothes. This caused me a lot of grief. Working with all the household chemicals was taking a toll on my clothes. One by one my shirts and pants were becoming stained and ruined. Soon I was reduced to wearing old tee shirts and shorts. I needed to learn to sew just to keep what I had. I asked her for money and when she refused I begged her to get some money from the box. I even gave her the key and told her she could control that money too, if she'd just buy me some new pants and shirts. Stephie took the key and then just laughed at my predicament. "It's not my fault you're careless. Soon you're going to run out of clothes. Then what will you wear? Are you planning on going naked around the house? I won't allow that." Stephie looked down at me, she stood taller than I in her three inch heels. She'd begun to wear those lately, I think just to emphasize her superiority over me. I don't think she'd ever worn three inch heels in the entire time I knew her until now. It made me feel very small and weak having to look up to her. I could tell she liked that because she often wore her heels around the house now, even after the nightly inspections. I can't imagine many women would lounge around the house in three inch high heels unless they had a reason. "We're going to have to buy new clothes." I'd thought about bringing this topic up ever day for a few weeks now, but I didn't have the nerve. Besides running out of work clothes, I wanted to go out with some friends, but I no longer owned the clothes to do that. I hoped to bring the conversation around to a point where I could mention that. Stephie wasn't going to let me. "No. We can't afford it." "But what will I do?" "Well I'll tell you Paula," she'd started calling me "Paula" lately when ever we fought; she said my whining reminded her of a woman. "You're not going to like this at all. Since you don't see anyone working at home, you're going to start wearing my hand-me-downs." My jaw dropped to my knees. "I guess I can bare the thought of you in drag around the house, but don't go visiting any neighbors - I don't want them knowing the humiliations I endure being married to you." "I what?! I can't. . ." "Shut up Paula." I froze obediently. A month ago I would have told her to go stuff herself, but for whatever reason I couldn't say a thing. I guess I just realized that she really had me over a barrel. For months now I couldn't find a job. I no longer earned a dollar and each day I didn't, it became harder and harder for me to find a job. Stephie controlled all of our finances, so I couldn't get a single dollar without her permission. I guess she also had a point: why bother replacing my clothes when I didn't need them? No one ever saw me except her. Besides, I didn't have to wear her most feminine clothes. I figured I'd just wear her jeans, maybe her shorts, and a few tee shirts. Nothing too bad about that. I guess those were the reasons I meekly accepted her will. Maybe I wanted to punish myself for my failings as a man. I don't know. Whatever the reasons though, I remained mute. Stephie acted as if the matter were settled. She continued her walk around the house checking my work. I meekly followed her from room to room as she examined my work. Her every look nearly shamed me to tears. I knew she'd find a lot wrong today. Whenever we argued, she always found lots wrong with my work. She was going to keep me working all through the evening correcting all my "mistakes." Don't get me wrong by the way. I know I said "fought" and "argued" but we really didn't fight these days. It was more a matter of her getting angry and me doing what she ordered. In a sick/funny sort of way, this is exactly the opposite of how it used to be. Whenever we argued in the past, I merely raised my voice and Stephie did as she was told. Of course, unlike her, I was only acting in both of our best interests. Stephie seems to be acting more or less without thinking about my feelings.
The next day I wore Stephie's clothes for the first time. Stephie "allowed" me to wear a pair of very tight pastel orange shorts. They looked like hot pants on me! I felt really gay. Underneath I wore panties. Things got worse. "I won't have you ruining my clothes the way you ruined your own. From now on, when you work around the house, you will wear an apron. There are two in the hall closet." I didn't even try to fight her. What did it matter after all? I wore panties, hot pants and I painted my nails. It seemed kind of pointless to resist the apron. Besides, if I ruined the shorts, a skirt was definitely next! The next morning I saw the apron for the first time. I don't think Stephie could have found a more feminine apron if she'd asked a designer to help her. This thing had lace and frills and a flowery pattern and everything. I laughed nervously to myself when I tied on the apron. With my bare legs sticking out below the apron, the effect was the same as me wearing a frilly white dress.
A few days after our "argument" about my diminishing clothing stock, Stephanie came home with a proposition. Actually, it was more of a statement than a proposition, but she presented it to me as an option. "I've found a way to save a lot of money. Right now I'm spending almost $100 a week going to the beauty salon to have my hair and nails done. If you learn how to do my hair and nails, then I don't need to go there anymore and we can save that money. If there's any left after our bills, I'll buy you some new clothes. How does that sound honey?" I was happy about the idea of ditching the sissy pants, but man, would the guys at the bar laugh at me if they ever found out I did my wife's hair and nails! "I don't know, that doesn't sound like something a man would learn." "Not something a man would do?! Would a man make his wife support him?!" That hurt. I ran from the room crying. That's right, crying! With all the stress on me, and the constant feeling of guilt wearing down my will, I'd become much more emotionally sensitive these days. Whenever Stephanie criticized my cooking or cleaning, it really hurt my feelings. I can't really explain it, but it hurt that I tried my best and she didn't care. Of course, Stephanie helped me feel submissive. All day every day I performed humiliating tasks for her benefit. I always cleaned her underwear and nylons. I always hung up her clothes. Once a week I cleaned and polished her shoe collection. And so on. These duties always reminded me who was the boss. And as if that were not enough, when Stephanie came home, she continued her inspections; making me stand at attention in my sissy shorts and outgrown tee shirts while she inspected my work, towering over me in her high heels and business suits. She'd also told me not to call her "Stephie" anymore; from now on I was to call her "Stephanie." She began to call me Paula much more regularly.
As I lay crying on the bed, Stephanie came in. "There's no use crying about it Paula, the matter is settled. Honestly, you've become such a sissy! Now wipe your eyes, get my make up kit and meet me in the kitchen." I did as she told me. The rest of the night, Stephanie showed me how to do her nails. She began the training by working on my nails. As my nails became fire engine red one by one, she taught me about colors and cuticles and base coats and other things I never knew, or wanted to know, about. Soon my fingers dried and she moved on to my toes. When those too became bright red, she made me put what I'd learned into practice on her fingers. I learned quickly, but not quickly enough. I made two mistakes and would pay for each. "I see you need a lot more practice. You're lucky that I have time tonight to let you correct these mistakes. On work nights, I won't have that time. From now on, I want you to practice on your own nails twice a day." Stephanie laid out the thirty-three different nail colors in her kit. "You will start in the morning by removing the color from the prior night. Then you will replace that color with a new color. When they've dried, I want you to use the Polaroid to take a picture of your work - fingers and toes. Then, in the afternoon, you will replace that color with a new color as well. Take a Polaroid of that one as well. You must go through each color once before repeating a color. When I come home, I will inspect your nails and collect the Polaroids. Then, after dinner, you can fix my nails for the next day."
The next day I did as she asked. It felt strange when I first saw my fingers bright red, but it felt even stranger as I made each of my finger tips silver. When everything had dried, I took the Polaroids and then started on my chores. I had to work extra hard to finish in time to repaint my nails before Stephanie got home. Stephanie was good for her word, she collected the Polaroids and inspected my fingers and toes with a magnifying glass. After that, she inspected the house and then we ate dinner. In the evening she made me redo her nails. We repeated these events every day. Soon they became normal. At first I hated the idea of painting my nails. I felt humiliated and embarrassed. But after awhile, it just seemed like one more duty. It even became relaxing because I could just sit and watch TV or read my sports magazines as I worked. Soon it even seemed natural to have "Rose", "Honey" or "Mauve" finger tips as I flipped through the Super Bowl preview pages. (I swore I'd never tell anyone, but I actually began to like painting my nails!) Of course, I always removed the polish from my fingers before I went shopping.
One night I mistakenly told Stephanie that I didn't mind painting my nails because it gave me my only chance to relax during the day. In and of itself, this was no mistake. The mistake came when I told her that I used that time to watch Sport Center or the national news. The next day, as I sat down with my nail kit, I flipped on the TV to discover that Stephanie had locked out all the channels but the fashion channel and the Women's channel. When she came home that night, I wanted to complain bitterly, but I didn't have the time. I guess she knew my complaint was coming so she kept me too busy to bring it up. She literally didn't allow me a free minute to complain! From the moment she got home, she rode me like a dog. Nothing I'd done during the day was right. In fact, so much was wrong that she made me skip dinner so that I would have enough time to finish all the rest of my duties. She also took that moment to tell me that I'd been gaining weight and that I was going on a diet. "Working through dinner tonight will be good for you." "Should I still serve you dinner?" "No. I'll order a pizza." And she did. Out of spite, Stephanie let the pizza boy in while she got change out of her purse. This gave him the full view of me as I worked. I wore my sissy shorts, a dress like apron, and long red nails. The flab on my chest even bounced a bit when I walked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him staring at me. Then he began to laugh. On his way out, he said, "Good night ladies." When he left, I stormed over to Stephanie. "I don't apprecia. . ." "How dare you! Be quiet!" My resolved vanished. My strength melted. My will collapsed. I went from angry husband to quavering jello- like submissive. I cringed, waiting for the verdict on my outburst. Stephanie's justice was always swift and vicious. "I will not take that from you Paula! Get back to work. And don't you ever, and I mean ever, speak unless you are spoken too again. If you do, I'll make you greet the pizza boy in a dress and give him a big kiss. Do you understand me sissy?!" "Yes ma'am." I scurried back to the living room to finish my dusting, relieved that the punishment was so light. It was difficult to tell where I'd left off with the dusting since I'd done a perfect job in the morning, but I wasn't going to take any chances. I started over. As I worked, I still shook with fear and choked back tears. Soon I was near the end of my list, with only the kitchen floor left. It looked like I would still have some free time. I knew Stephanie was not in a good mood, but I had regained my resolve. I was determined to bring up the
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