A Maid's Diary

Dear Diary,

Where do I begin? I’ve never been much of a deep thinker, and the idea of keeping a journal never crossed my mind until now. But I’ve got to do something to try to make sense of everything that’s happened to me. Maybe writing it all down will help. My life has turned to shit, and if I don’t find some way to vent, I’m afraid I’ll go crazy and do something drastic.

I guess I should start with the evil bastard who’s the cause of my misery, Mike Jameson. He officially moved in today. The girls are over the moon to have their dad living with them again for the first time since they were babies. Of course, Jennifer is delighted beyond belief. She even told me “thank you” when I refilled her coffee during breakfast, and I can’t remember the last time that happened. My wife hasn’t been very nice to me lately. Neither have the kids.

In addition to being moving-in day for Mike, today was also my first official day as the family maid. Per Mike’s orders, all my male garments were out of the house by the time he pulled up in the U-Haul this morning. My wardrobe now consists solely of itchy housecleaning frocks, poofy, ruffled formal uniforms and feminine outfits for the office. And heels, those gawd-awful heels. I cried when I tossed my clothes in the garbage bin last night because it formally marked the end of my manhood, although for all intents and purposes, that ship sailed months ago.

All I have left now are an expired man-card and a shitty taste in my mouth to go with my sore back and achy feet. I never fathomed how excruciatingly tough it was to stand on fuck-me pumps all day until Mike came along and insisted that I wear dresses and heels while serving him and his family.

His family. It’s his family now. Not mine. That’s a tough turd to swallow.

It was a bitch getting the new man of the house moved in today. I’m sore all over. Of course, I had to do almost everything myself. Mike helped bring in the heavy stuff but the rest was up to me. I made trip after trip to and from the U-Haul while the king chilled with his queen and their princesses. They ignored me as I worked around them, other than calling for the occasional drink refill, and once when Mike yelled at me for making too much noise while dragging a large, unwieldy box through the foyer.

His words are still ringing in my ears: “Fuckin’ sissy, keep quiet — I can’t hear the goddamn TV.”

My frightened apology prompted smirks from my wife and stepdaughters before they all went back to watching their show. Blinking away tears, I absorbed the humiliation and continued lugging Mike’s things into the house as silently as possible.

It’s hard to express how sad I am right now. My soul is completely crushed. As I sit here in my lonely basement quarters writing this, I can’t stop crying. This is the thanks I get for rescuing Jen and her kids from a life of poverty after Mike ran off. I raised Kelsey and Olivia as if they were my own, and provided them with everything they ever wanted. Then, out of the blue, their dad shows up after 15 years and says he wants to be a part of their lives again. The girls embraced him immediately, no questions asked, and in the process they threw me aside like a rotten banana peel, despite all I’d done for them.

Turns out, the motherfucker had his sights set on reentering Jennifer’s life, too. He succeeded — and my beloved bride was only too happy to let it happen. All was forgiven following his bullshit apology and explanation that he’d abandoned Jen and their 1- and 2-year-old daughters because he was “a confused young kid back then who was afraid of responsibility.” The asshole has her brainwashed, and as far as she’s concerned, the father of her children can do no wrong.

It’s downright scary the hold Mike has over my wife, which means he controls me as well. He knows I’m completely pussywhipped, and that I’ll put up with anything to keep Jen from leaving me. So, because he’s a malevolent prick, he manipulates her into being meaner to me than she already was, and she tries to impress him by ramping up the abuse. He does the same thing with the girls, and if they ever had any respect for me, it’s long gone. It’s become a perpetual cycle, with Mike the Ringmaster coordinating the whole show like some demonic puppeteer. When Jen and the girls are cruel to me, he gives them the positive reinforcement and praise they crave.

Through it all, here I am, still putting up with it. Why? What the fuck is wrong with me? How did I let things get so far out of hand? How did I let this man take over my home and turn me into a pathetic, feminized servant? Why am I scared to death that I’ll be kicked to the curb if I don’t bow and scrape humbly enough? Why do I feel like I’m lucky that he’s allowing me to stay in my own home to serve as the family maid?

I have no answers. I wish there was something I could do about what’s happening to me. But Mike has this … power. It’s hard to describe. He has a sort of mystical aura about him, not to mention incredible good looks, and he has a way of making people do his bidding.

Plus, I’m a fucking weakling. That’s all there is to it. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be enduring all this. And, so, here we are.

The more I think about it, I’m starting to believe that Mike had this whole thing planned out from the start. After reconnecting with his daughters, he likely sized me up and reckoned I’d be a pushover. He probably figured he’d be able to worm his way into getting free room and board, while rekindling his romance with Jen and playing the hero to Kelsey and Olivia. If that was indeed his scheme, then he executed it to perfection.

But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough that he took my wife from me and that I acquiesced. It wasn’t enough that I’d agreed to keep supporting them while they openly carried on their affair.

No, Mike isn’t content with simply winning; he wants to constantly rub my nose in the dirt. Humiliate me in unthinkable ways. Degrade me in front of what used to be my family.

That’s the kind of evil piece of shit he is.

It happened incrementally. After my wife’s ex resurfaced last year, he initiated things by taking Kelsey and Olivia out to eat or to the movies a few times a week. Nothing wrong with that. But then, Jen started going along — without inviting me.

I put up with it.

Mike began dropping by our house at all hours without calling first. I put up with it.

Jen and the girls would roll out the red carpet for him, while at the same time treating me with disdain, excluding me from conversations, games and other activities. I put up with it.

Over my objections, Jen gave him a key to the house, and he took to barging in without knocking. I put up with it.

Mike would sit next to my wife on the couch during his visits, often with his hand on her thigh. I put up with it.

As his presence in our household became more ubiquitous, Mike started belittling me in front of my wife and stepdaughters, subtly at first, but increasing in venom. I put up with it.

Jen came to me one night and announced that I’d be paying for a week-long vacation in Hawaii for her, Mike and the girls. I’d be staying behind, she said. I put up with it.

When they returned home well-rested and tanned, Mike and Jen were holding hands. There never was any formal declaration; apparently, they’d reignited their romance while on vacation, and had simply decided not to hide it from me or the girls. I put up with it.

From that point on, the drop was fast and steep.

When I look back, I still can’t believe how quickly everything unraveled. Before Mike, I had a fairly normal life. Sure, I was always a cuckolded, henpecked, “ATM husband” who wasn’t allowed to go out for a beer without being bitched at. But in less than a year I lost everything. In a few days, even my name will be gone; I have to go down to the county building and formally change it to Buffy Jameson. Like Jennifer will do after she divorces me and marries Mike in a few months, I’ll be taking on his surname. So will his daughters.

Olivia came up with “Buffy” during that fateful conversation three nights ago when Mike explained to the girls that I would be serving as their maid after he moved in. He broke the news in steps by first ordering me to come out as transgendered last week. The girls weren’t shocked; they thought it was hilarious. By then, Mike had been belittling me in front of the family for months, and my announcement was received as just the next step in my debasement. When Mike got around to informing Kelsey and Olivia about my new maid’s job, Jen had been debriefed ahead of time, and she sat on the couch sneering while her lover laid out my humiliating future.

Mike told his daughters that he hadn’t yet decided on my “maid name,” and he solicited suggestions. I can’t tell you how utterly mortified I was as I stood before them for the first time in my ridiculous, flouncy maid’s dress, teetering back and forth on heels while they all had a ball deciding what to call me.  After a few suggestions that included “Fifi” and “Gigi,” Olivia threw out “Buffy,” and everyone agreed it was the best one. Buffy it was.

I didn’t get a vote. The name is a fucking embarrassment. I guess that’s the point.

The worst part will be facing everyone at the bank Monday, and getting my desk nameplate changed to “Buffy Jameson.” I already made my Big Announcement last week, telling my coworkers that I was transgendered, and that I’d be dressing as a woman moving forward. A few people gave me funny looks but for the most part everyone was understanding — which made the whole farce even worse, because coming out as trans was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.

It’s all Mike’s doing. He insists there can only be one man in the house.

I never was much of a man to start with as far as Jen and the girls are concerned, even though I met and even exceeded my fatherly responsibilities, unlike some macho dickheads I could mention. When I met Jen, Kelsey was 5 and Oliva was 4, and they lived in a shithole. After the wedding, I moved us all into a nice new house and, thanks to my six-figure salary at the bank, I was able to provide them with a life of relative luxury. In return, they treated me like a dog.

 

Maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. We sometimes did family things together, like going to Disneyland, and I still tagged along with Jen to the girls’ band recitals and soccer games. But from the start of our marriage, Jen has had me completely whipped, and the girls quickly learned I had no authority over them whatsoever. Even before Mike came into the picture, I was never “Dad;” I was “Lester,” and I doubt if I ever initiated a conversation with the girls that didn’t include them rolling their eyes.

Jennifer cheated on me prior to Mike showing up, but I pretended not to notice the smell of cologne on her clothes and the crusty stains on her panties. During one of the rare occasions when she let me fuck her, I acted like I didn’t hear her when she moaned, “oh, yeah, give it to me, Johnny.”

The notion of having sex with my wife seems so foreign now. I can’t even imagine it. That’s yet another vestige of my previous life that’s vanished without so much as a poof. Everything is gone. And so here I sit in the fog of Mike’s spell, bobbing around in the toilet bowl and hoping he doesn’t flush me.

Shit, I don’t even know what else to write. I feel so wrung out. My temples are pounding. My heart is broken. Maybe I should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’m sure everyone’s going to have a lot of work for me to do. I guess I’d better get used to the idea of long, exhausting days.

I’ve got to be honest, though; I do feel better now that I’ve gotten all this off my chest. I’m going to try to keep up a daily diary of my new life as a maid to my former family. It just might keep me sane.

Dear Diary,

I just finished a 17-hour shift and I ache all over. My mind is an absolute jumble. I’m finding out the hard way that being a maid for this sadistic family is painful both inside and out.

My calves are throbbing and I’ve got blisters all over the bottoms of my feet thanks to those damned heels. My face is still sore from Mike’s slap. I can’t get the cackling sound of my stepdaughters’ laughter out of my head. And Jen came up with a cruel new rule that’s going to make my life miserable from now on.

Today was only my second full day on the job and I already feel like it’s getting to be too much.

Fuck, am I wiped out! Sunday may be a day of rest for other people, but not for poor little Buffy. I was kept busy from sunup to sundown, and treated like shit the entire time. This is my new normal, and I keep asking myself how I ended up in this particular ring of hell. Every day it gets worse. They keep adding new things to my plate and inventing ridiculous new rules for me to follow.

My wife’s latest mandate was imposed this evening after she ventured into the kitchen while I was relaxing at the table. I’d been up since 6am and on my feet for more than 13 hours, and since I’d just refilled drinks, and everyone in the family was set, I thought it would be okay if I took a load off for just a few minutes before continuing my chores.

Jen thought otherwise. Her lip curled up when she saw me sitting there.

“Nice and comfortable, are we, Buffy?” She crossed her arms. “You want me to serve you a drink or something?”

I jumped to my feet. “Oh, no, Ma’am … I … I’m sorry, Ma’am. I … I was just taking a quick break.”

“A break, huh?” Her eyes hardened. “We’ll see what Mike says about this.”

I clasped my hands. “Oh, please, Ma’am—”

“Enough, sissy, I don’t want to hear it. Let’s go.” She turned and headed toward the living room. I followed with a quivering lip.

My wife joined her lover on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder. “You won’t believe this shit, baby — I just caught Buffy sitting on his sissy little ass,” she tattled.

“Say, what!?”

“Yep. He was sitting there chilling like he had nothing better to do. Not a care in the world.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Did anyone give you permission to sit while you’re supposed to be working, sissy?”

I gulped. “Um, I … I … I …”

“Did you not start your new job as our maid just yesterday, Buffy?”

“Um, yes, sir, I did. But … please, I didn’t—”

Before I could get another word out, Mike sprung to his feet and unleashed a wicked backhand that sent me tumbling to the carpet with a loud yelp.

The girls ran out of the game room.

“Ooh, what happened?” Olivia asked when she saw me rolling around on the floor.

“Buffy thought he could sit around daydreaming, so your dad slapped the shit out of him,” Jen told her daughters with a sneer.

Olivia guffawed. “OMG, I love it!”

Kelsey shook her head. “What a loser.”

“Stand up, Buffy.” Mike snapped his fingers.

With tears flowing, I managed to climb to my feet.

The master of the house frowned. “You brought that on yourself, Buffy. When you screw up around here, you get punished. Understand?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“I’m not playing around, Buffy. You can expect worse than that if you piss me off. Now, then — what do you have to say for yourself?”

I sniffled. “I … I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”

He held up his hand. “There’s your problem right there, dumbass. Don’t think. Just do what you’re told and you’ll get along fine.”

Jen nodded. “I think there should be a new rule: When the maid’s on the clock, no breaks. No sitting down. Period.”

Olivia giggled. “OMG, can you imagine having to stand up in those shoes all day? Poor little maidbitch.”

Kelsey shrugged. “He’s a loser, who cares?”

Mike plopped back on the couch and pulled my wife in close. “If that’s what you want, babe, then I guess that’s the new rule. You hear that, Buffy? From now on, no sitting down until your workday is done and everyone’s in bed. Got it?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Olivia pointed at me. “Ah-ha, Buffy’s gotta stand all day in high heels. That’s messed up. Does it make you sad, Buffy? You can tell the truth.”

“Um, no, Miss Olivia, I’m happy to do whatever Ma’am wants,” I lied.

Kelsey scoffed. “Bullcrap. Nobody would want to stand up in those things all day long. My feet hurt just thinking about it.”

“Oh, the little sissy will be alright.” Mike chuckled and turned to me. “You can rest when you’re dead, huh, Buffy?”

“Uh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He frowned. “What the hell are you thanking me for?”

I licked my lips. “Um … I don’t know, sir. I just … I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Kelsey looked me up and down. “Buffy’s such a loser, huh, Dad?”

Mike chortled. “I knew that the first time I saw him.” He scowled at me. “Okay, sissy, back to work.”

“Bring me another iced tea first, maidbitch,” Olivia ordered.

I hurried to obey my snobbish 16-year-old stepdaughter.

And then … that was that.

The girls went back to the game room, Jen and Mike restarted their Netflix movie, and my masters probably gave no more thought to the matter. Meanwhile, I’m permanently stuck having to follow this ludicrous, unfair rule, and will work long hours on heels with zero breaks from now on — all because my wife wanted to show off in front of Mike.

Jen’s really starting to scare me. Right after Mike slapped me earlier, I happened to glance up at her from my spot on the floor, and the glazed, lustful look in her eyes hurt more than the backhand itself. Not only was she enjoying my punishment — she was sexually aroused by it. Hypnotized. My wife was always a bitch but this is different. This is flat-out demonic.

The devil’s got ahold of the girls, too. While they were always snooty to me, they’ve become downright abusive. Kelsey must’ve called me a loser more than a dozen times today, while Olivia prefers “maidbitch,” such as when she hollers out, “hey, maidbitch, I need a refill.”

They’re doing it to impress Mike. This is all his fault. His Satanic specter has infiltrated this household and cast a spell over everyone, conjuring up their dark spirits from deep within the ugliest recesses of their souls.

I hate to admit it, but I’ve fallen hopelessly under his power, as well. I keep thinking of Rasputin the Monk, the master manipulator who was able to insinuate himself into the inner circles of Russian royalty by captivating Tsarina Alexandra with his hypnotic personality. It’s the same thing with Mike. By brainwashing Jen and the girls, he’s managed to take over my household.

And I can’t do a damn thing about it. I know Mike is an immoral prick who gets a thrill out of humiliating me, turning my family against me and ruining my life. I realize that I should try to get rid of him by any means necessary. But I can’t say no to the bastard; the very prospect scares me to death. Like Rasputin, Mike cuts an imposing physical figure (in stark contrast to my diminutive, feminine frame), and he’d snap me in two without breaking a sweat.

But the hold he has over me is mostly mental. Psychological. Emotional. And, damn it, spiritual. I’m a lost, broken soul, courtesy of the evil Michael Jameson.

He wormed his way in by exploiting my feelings for Jen. I’m still madly in love with her, despite how mean she is to me. I’ve always been a fool for her, from the first time she waited on my table at the Cracker Barrel. That seems so long ago. I can’t imagine Jen waiting on anyone now, let alone her lowly maid. That’s all I am to her these days. Before Mike came along I was a weak-kneed, henpecked cuckolded husband — but at least I was still a husband.

Now? As far as she’s concerned, I’m a bug on the windshield. Dogshit on her shoe. A joke to be laughed at and made fun of. Someone who’s there to serve. A loser, to use Kelsey’s favorite word. Or, as Olivia would say, a maidbitch.

It’s all Mike’s doing. How I despise that dirty, rotten, manipulative motherfucker.

But I hate myself even more because I’m standing passively by and letting him do this to me.

Well, I guess I should stop whining and try to get some sleep. I’ve got a big day ahead of me tomorrow. Although I told everyone at the bank last week that I’d be dressing as a woman, it’ll be another thing altogether to actually go to work in a dress and heels. I know I’m in for an embarrassing day.

I’d better get used to it.

 

Dear Diary,

Mondays suck. Today was no exception. My first day at the bank in drag was a real drag.

Mike, Jen and the girls were thankfully still asleep when I left for work, so at least I didn’t have to deal with them first thing in the morning. Jennifer, who hasn’t had a job since sinking her hooks into me years ago, almost always sleeps in, while the girls sometimes stay in bed until noon during the summertime or when they’re otherwise not in school. Mike’s an unemployed grifter, so I never took him for an early riser, although he’s only lived here for a few days and I’m still learning his schedule and habits.

I was relieved that the new master of the house wasn’t awake while I got ready because if he had been up he probably would’ve found a reason to fuck with me. Still, I bitterly resented the fact that he was snuggling with my wife, nice and comfy in what used to be my bed while I had to go out and earn money that I wouldn’t be allowed to keep.

What kind of pathetic sap drags his ass off to work every day, only to turn the entire paycheck over to the man who’s fucking his wife?

Me, that’s who. I’m the kind of pathetic sap who does that sorry shit. Mike started confiscating my earnings months ago, after he and Jen came out as a couple when the family returned from Hawaii. Now, I work for free.

Ugh. What a day! I need to unwind and unpack everything that happened.

Other than a few people who greeted me with scowls and smirks, most of my coworkers were overly nice when I tottered into the bank this morning wearing my prim business suit and smart heels. The sugary salutations from people who previously hadn’t noticed me felt patronizing, and only made an embarrassing situation worse.

I’m sure I looked as foolish as I felt sashaying into the bank for the first time as the new me. My hair hasn’t grown out long enough for the kind of perm Jen wants me to get, so for now she told me to just wear a bow in my hair at work. It’s a silly-looking thing, but a hell of a lot better than the absurd ruffled cap that’s required at home, which the irrepressible Olivia says makes me look like “a faggoty-baby-duck.”

Although I wanted to die when I ventured through the bank’s employee entrance this morning, I knew it could’ve been a lot worse. My work clothes are nowhere near as bad as my maid’s outfits. My everyday cleaning frock is an itchy potato sack slave-garment that barely covers my panty line, while the formal uniforms are all lacy, flouncy embarrassments that make me look like a total pansy — which is exactly what Mike had in mind when he instructed me to order my at-home wardrobe from the kinky website he’d chosen. Both my cleaning and formal aprons are girly little things that are embroidered with the word “Buffy” in pink-and-purple cursive.

Luckily, Mike granted me permission to purchase normal female office attire for the bank. I doubt it was to spare my feelings — if the bastard had his way, I’m sure I’d be wearing outlandish outfits to work that would make me even more of a laughingstock. But he probably figures dressing like that would hinder my ability to earn money for him in a corporate setting, so he’s content to just embarrass me by making me live as a transgendered woman with a preposterously sissified name.

When I reported to the office this morning in my sensible navy skirt suit, the bank president Mr. Lawrence greeted me with a smile. “Good morning … er, Buffy. You look nice.”

Mrs. Hetherington, one of the VPs, nodded. “Yes, very nice. Your new desk is right there, Buffy.” She pointed to a spot in the rear of the office. “We ordered you a new nameplate; it should be here in a few days.”

It didn’t escape my attention that my new desk was as far away from the teller windows as possible. When I asked why I’d been moved, Mrs. Hetherington told me there’d been a “reshuffling,” and that several people also had been assigned new desks. I knew damn well it was because my bosses wanted me out of sight, but since I didn’t want to interact with people anyhow, I kept my mouth shut and got started on the workday.

Thankfully, in my job as manager of the bank’s investments division I don’t come in contact with customers, since most of my work involves analyzing the stock market and writing reports, so I was able to keep my head in my computer all day. It felt like heaven sitting on a soft office chair after spending the weekend on my feet, and it was nice not being belittled or smacked around.

Still, I spent my first day as a public sissy wallowing in abject embarrassment. Even though society has become more tolerant of different sexualities, this isn’t MY sexuality; it’s something that was imposed on me by the fiend who’s taken over my life. So, while there were a few nice things about being in the bank and away from the raging inferno that’s become my homestead, it was nonetheless a horrifying experience.

A few minutes before quitting time, an email went out informing the staff that our parking structure would be increasing the fee by a whopping $40 a month. I dreaded telling Mike, who can be quite parsimonious with the money I earn, at least when it comes to things that benefit me. My paychecks are direct-deposited into his bank account, and I use a debit card to cover bills, groceries and other incidentals. Every penny has to be accounted for, and Mike gets pissed whenever I ask for even a few extra dollars, so I knew a $40-per-month increase wasn’t going to sit well with him.

When I got home from work, I immediately changed into my housework frock before breaking the news to Mike about the parking rate hike — and, as expected, my master was not happy.

“Forty bucks a month?” He glared at me from his position on the couch, where he sat next to Jennifer with his feet on the coffee table. “Are you kidding me?”

I cleared my throat and folded my hands in front of my apron. “Um, I know, sir. It’s a lot. I’m sorry. They said their costs have gone up, and they’ll lose money if they don’t raise the price … uh, sir.”

Mike rubbed his chin. “Do you have a contract, or can you opt out of the parking any time you want?”

“Um, I can opt out, sir … but it’s impossible to get a parking spot downtown, sir, and I’m grandfathered in at the structure since I’ve been at the bank so long. It takes years to get a spot in that structure, sir.”

“You think I give a fuck?” Mike glowered at me. “From now on, you’ll park on the street for free and walk your sissy ass downtown. Got it?”

I bowed my head and uttered the required, “yessir.” His edict meant I’d be trekking at least a half-mile each way to and from work through some not-so-great neighborhoods. But that’s my problem. Every day, it seems, someone adds a new item to the growing list of “from now on” decrees I’m forced to follow.

Jennifer snapped her fingers, jolting me out of my pity-party daydream. “What are you standing there for, Buffy? I’m hungry. Hurry up and get dinner started.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Would you like anything in particular, Ma’am?”

Of course, Jen asked Mike what he wanted, and he said he had a craving for pizza. My wife called for the girls, and they thought it sounded like a great idea, so I was told to drive to the local Pizza Shed to pick up a family-sized deluxe with extra cheese and mushrooms.

As I headed toward the basement door, Mike stopped me.

“Where the hell are you going, sissy? Didn’t I just you to go pick up the pizza?”

I played with the hem of my apron. “Um, I was just going downstairs to change, sir.”

“Change? Into what?”

“Into someone who’s not a loser,” Kelsey quipped.

Mike scoffed at his daughter’s joke, then blinked hard at me. “What do you plan on changing into, Buffy?”

“Um … one of the outfits I bought for work, sir.”

My master sneered. “No, sissy, you’ll wear what you got on. Are you ashamed of the dresses I bought you?”

I blushed. “Um, no sir … it’s just that this one’s a little … a little short, sir.”

Olivia giggled. “Aw, poor Buffy. Are you scared people are gonna think you’re a whore?”

Kelsey sniffed. “I guarantee you — nobody’s paying to have sex that loser, I don’t care how short his dress is.”

Mike beamed, clearly proud of his daughters for picking on me. He let me stand there shifting from foot-to-foot for a few seconds before clapping three times.

“Pizza! Let’s go!” he said. “Get your sissy ass in gear.”

To the sound of feminine laughter, I scooped up my car keys and purse before dashing from the house.

I endured more snickers while I stood in line at the Pizza Shed trying to pull down my frock, knowing that everyone behind me could see my pink, ruffled panties. Before I went into the pizza place, I sat in the car debating whether to wrap myself in the blanket I keep in the trunk for emergencies. I came close to removing my apron and maid’s cap, an outlandish headpiece that looks more like a sissified baby bonnet. In the end, though, I decided to square my lacy shoulders and deal with the humiliation.

I got through it just fine. Sure, people were laughing at me, but I made it home in one piece. These days I’ll take any win I can get.

Mike likes me on my knees with my hands clasped behind my back during meals, ready to serve at the snap of a finger but properly in my place, as he put it. It’s an embarrassing position, but at least it gets me off my feet. After bringing home the pizza and setting the table, I knelt on the carpet nearby, listening to the dinnertime conversation. They discussed several topics, including Jennifer and Mike’s upcoming wedding.

“Have you guys decided on an exact date?” Kelsey took a bite and chewed while waiting for an answer from her parents.

Jen smiled. “Your dad was thinking a September wedding might be nice. We were talking about September 9^th. That’s a Saturday.”

“Oh wow, that’s next month,” Kelsey said. “If you’re gonna have a big wedding like you talked about, there’s a lot to do still.”

“I know, sweetie — that’s what the maid’s for.” My wife turned to me. “Buffy, go get something to write on.”

I carried out her instruction posthaste and reassumed my kneeling position, pen and pad at the ready. For the next 20 minutes, everyone ate pizza and barked out things that needed to be purchased and booked. I scribbled furiously, trying not to think of how much work it was going to take to get everything ready for their wedding. Resentment burned my ears when I contemplated running myself ragged so my beloved Jennifer could marry her knight in shining armor.

Mike addressed me, snapping me out of my jealous delirium. “Buffy! When are you going to the county building to get your name changed?”

“Um, I’ve got an appointment for Thursday, sir.”

“Well, while you’re down there, drop off those final divorce papers.”

I sniffled. “Y-yes … yes, sir.”

Jen tilted her head. “Aw, Buffy, you sound sad. Are you sad we’re getting a divorce? Are you sad I don’t want to be married to your pansy little ass anymore?”

Olivia scoffed. “It’s not like he ever was much of a husband. He sure wasn’t a father.”

“A loser is more like it.” Kelsey crinkled her nose at me. “Why’d you ever marry the loser in the first place, Ma?”

“Why do you think?” Jen smirked. “I told you — he makes good money.”

“It sure wasn’t his looks,” Olivia cracked, and everyone laughed.

Thankfully, the family returned their focus to the wedding plans, and I went back to taking notes. I filled up five pages, and can now look forward to planning a wedding, and bachelor and bachelorette parties all by myself. Somehow, I’ll have to squeeze all that into my already heavy schedule.

When everyone was finished spitballing about the upcoming nuptial, Mike sneered down at me from his perch at the head of the table.

“The reception is gonna be your big coming-out party, Buffy. We’re gonna let friends and family know that you’re now a trans woman, and that you’ve decided to stay here with us as our maid.” He chuckled. “It’s gonna be a bitch serving the whole reception by yourself, but I think you’re up to the task. What do you think, sissy?”

“Um … yes, sir.” My quaking voice betrayed my dismay and apprehension at the prospect of so much work.

Olivia glanced at her mother. “Is Buffy invited to the ceremony?”

Jen shrugged. “Why would he be? Do servants come to wedding ceremonies in other families? I mean, unless it’s to serve? He’s just the maid, honey. There’s no reason to invite him.”

“Oh, come on, Ma, you guys need to make Buffy part of the wedding,” the impish Olivia mock-whined.

“Ugh, nobody wants a sissy in their wedding party,” her more serious sister replied.

Olivia’s face lit up. “Make him the ring-bearer.”

 

Everyone rolled over laughing, including Kelsey. But after contemplating it for a second, Mike said, “you know, honey, that actually doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Buffy can wear one of his formal outfits, and we’ll get him a matching little sissy pillow to carry the ring on.”

“But you need a little boy to be the ring-bearer, not a 35-year-old sissy,” Kelsey said.

“Well, he already looks like a faggoty-baby-duck in that cap.” Olivia smirked. “Maybe at the wedding, he can wear a little girl’s dress, too.”

Jen glanced at Mike. “I don’t know, honey. What do you think?”

“Well, I love the idea of having the sissy be the ring-bearer,” Mike said. “I’ll leave what he wears up to you guys.”

Olivia grinned. “Ooh, we’ll come up with something good for you to wear, Buffy, watch and see.”

I gulped. “T-thank you, Miss.”

In response, she lifted her hand high over her head and snapped her fingers.

“More iced tea, maidbitch.” Olivia pointed to her empty glass.

I hopped up from my kneeling position and hustled to obey, with the matter of the wedding plans officially closed.

After dinner, the girls went to play video games while Jen and Mike watched their Netflix series, so I was left alone to finish my chores. One of Mike’s rules is that I have to stay on the clock until everyone in the family has gone to bed, so after the house was clean I stood at attention in the hallway in case anyone needed anything, since I’m not allowed to sit. There were a few “more iced tea, maidbitch” calls, and my wife yelled at me once because her glass had a smudge on it, but the night was otherwise uneventful. Finally, just after midnight, everyone turned in, and I was able to sit down.

I may not have time for long diary entries in the next few weeks, because my schedule is going to be jam-packed if I’m ever going to complete everything on this ridiculously long wedding list. I can only hope that I’ll be so busy I won’t have time to think about how soul-crushing it’s going to be to serve as a ring-bearer while Mike and Jen exchange vows.

Well, with that cheery thought, I’m going to shut it down and hit the sack. Another shitty day awaits me tomorrow.

Dear Diary,

This will be just a short entry, since it’s 4am and I’ve got to get up for work in a few hours. I’ve been filling out wedding invitations all night and I’m about ready to drop.

Before Jen went to bed, she told me to have all 200 invitation cards hand-written and addressed with the envelopes stamped by morning, so I’ve spent the last several hours hunched over my little basement desk carefully using my neatest handwriting. I just finished up a few minutes ago, and stacked the envelopes on the dining room table for Jen’s approval. If the cards pass her inspection, I’ll seal them and mail them off asap.

I cried whole time I was making out those fucking invitations, and ruined a few cards with my tears. Not only does my hand hurt; my heart hurts. I still can’t believe this is happening to me. My marriage, everything — gone.

Anyway, I’m too tired to pontificate. I’m going to bed now. Good night.

Dear Diary,

Another long day. I’m mentally and physically exhausted, and have gotten very little sleep two nights in a row. Everyone in the family keeps dumping shit on me, leaving me with an impossible workload. But I dare not complain. I guess that’s what this journal is for. It gives me a chance to vent. And there’s plenty to vent about.

While I was at the bank today, Jen texted me with a long list of things she wanted me to pick up for the wedding, so after work I ran around to five different stores and didn’t get home until a quarter to 8. As soon as I walked through the front door, Olivia started bitching me out because she was hungry and dinner wasn’t ready. It wasn’t my fault her mom had me running all over town, but I bowed my head, apologized and absorbed my stepdaughter’s tirade while Mike looked on with an approving grin.

When Olivia got tired of yelling at me, I whipped up a batch of shrimp stir-fry, a quick, easy dish everyone enjoys. While the family ate I remained kneeling near the table with my hands clasped behind my back unless called to provide refills. Not much out of the ordinary happened during dinner, meaning the family ignored me until they wanted something, and were cruel and demanding when they did.

Olivia was the first to speak to me, a good 10 minutes after I’d served dinner.

“More iced tea, maidbitch.”

I clambered to my feet and hurried to get her refill before resuming my kneeling position.

Kelsey glared at me. “I could use some salt, loser.”

Biting my lip, I again rose and handed Kelsey the salt-shaker, which was less than a foot from her sister.

“What are you giving it to me for?” She grimaced. “Put it on the food, idiot.”

“S-sorry, Miss,” I croaked and shook a few sprinkles on her stir fry until she nodded like the snooty princess she’s become.

Two seconds after I’d knelt back down, Jen snapped her fingers and pointed to her teacup.

“This is cold, Buffy.”

Nothing more needed to be said. I hopped to my feet and headed toward the table to put the cup in the microwave. As I passed Mike, he grabbed the hem of my dress and pulled me toward him before slapping me hard in the balls. I doubled over, clutching my crotch.

“That’s for nothing.” He smirked. “Just keeping you on your toes, bitch.”

“T-thank you, sir,” I groaned, and then hobbled to the kitchen to warm Jen’s tea to the sound of laughter.

Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary happened tonight. It was just a normal dinnertime scene in the dysfunctional Jameson household.

After everyone ate, Mike sent me to the store to pick up a six pack of craft beer he’d decided on a whim he wanted to try. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to change out of my ridiculously short housedress and apron emblazoned with “Buffy” in flowery letters, not to mention my embarrassing cap that looks like a baby bonnet. I couldn’t look the two store clerks in the eye while I paid for the beer. On my way out, I heard them bust up laughing and one said: “fuckin’ fag.”

I’m starting to get used to this kind of public humiliation. That’s not a good thing. Getting used to it is taking a toll on me.

When I got home, as I was headed to the kitchen to tackle the dishes, Kelsey snapped her fingers. I hurried to the couch.

“Yes, Miss Kelsey?”

“Carmen’s throwing a party Saturday and I’m not sure which dress I’m wearing. So, I don’t know what shoes I’ll need. I want ‘em all shined by the time I get up tomorrow.” She glanced at her father to ensure he was listening before pulling out her 17-year-old claws. “Did you understand that, loser? Or is it too hard to figure out in that little sissy brain of yours?”

“Yes, Miss Kelsey, I understand, Miss.”

“Then why didn’t you answer me?”

“Um, I …”

She turned to Mike. “Dad, can we start slapping this stupid sissy when he acts like an idiot?”

“Ooh, yeah, please, Dad, can we?” Olivia searched her father’s eyes.

Mike leaned back on the sofa, basking in his power over the situation. He drew out the moment, rubbing his chin for several seconds before nodding.

“Sure, girls — go ahead and smack the little bitch if you want to.”

“You hear that?” Kelsey’s eyes twinkled as she crooked her finger at me. “Come here, Buffy. Kneel down right there.”

When I’d assumed the position, she leisurely brought her hand back and held it there.

“You ready, maid?”

I cringed. “Yes, Miss.”

“Ask for it,” Olivia called.

“Um, please, Miss Kelsey, may I—”

THWWWWAPPP!!!

I didn’t get the chance to finish my request because Kelsey’s palm struck me with unexpected force. I managed to hold my kneeling position, while Jen lifted her shoe and planted it on my forehead.

“That’s what you get for being such a spineless little bitch,” my wife said. She kicked me in the head twice before setting her foot down. “Now, apologize to Kelsey for ignoring her when she asked you a question.”

I cleared my throat. “Um, I am so, so sorry, Miss Kelsey. I didn’t mean to—”

Again, my sentence was interrupted, this time from Olivia hocking a loogie in my face, causing me to flinch. The family cracked up.

“Leave that on there,” Jen said with a chuckle. “Now, get the fuck out of here and get this house clean, sissy.”

“And don’t forget my shoes, loser,” Kelsey called.

“Oh, no, Miss Kelsey, of course not. I’ll have them all ready by tomorrow morning, Miss, I promise.”

She waved me away, and I dashed to her room and started lugging her entire shoe collection to the basement. Then, I went back to cleaning the house. Thankfully, nobody bothered me for the rest of the night. I was still cleaning when everyone went to bed, and when I finished, I headed to my basement quarters and spent half the night buffing and polishing all 47 pair of Miss Princess’s shoes.

Fuck, it’s already 3am. I have got to get some sleep. But I really needed to get all that off my chest, and I guess I feel a tiny bit better.

Feeling a tiny bit better is all I can ask for these days.

 

Dear Diary,

It’s been nearly a week since my last entry. The family is running me ragged and there’s been no time to write. Luckily, I finished before midnight tonight, so I finally have a few minutes to myself before I conk out.

This schedule is ridiculous, but that’s the least of my problems. Not only does my workload keep increasing, but I’m being treated worse than ever. Since Mike gave the girls permission to hit me, they’ve become drunk with power, often slapping me for no reason. Especially Olivia. Usually, Kelsey is just bitchy and demanding, and will only hit me if I’ve done something wrong, whereas her impish younger sister invents reasons to punish me, like the other night when she gave me one across the chops at dinner because she said the tater tots on her plate weren’t lined up properly. But I don’t have to even do anything wrong; Olivia will sometimes just slap me out of the blue and say “that’s for nothing,” emulating her father.

While I never had any authority over Kelsey and Olivia even before their real dad moved in and became head of our household, I nonetheless can tell the girls are thrilled to be allowed to slap the shit out of their sissy of a stepfather any time they feel like it.

Mike encourages it. So does Jen. Just last night, when Kelsey complained about a smudge on the heel of one of her shoes, my wife told her, “I’d smack the bitch if I was you.” Kelsey obliged. After her stinging backhand, I stood before the family holding back tears as Olivia pointed at me cackling and Jen called me a pathetic little faggot. Meanwhile, Mike sat back proudly surveying the evil he’s fomented in our home.

I constantly fantasize about running as far away as I can from these terrible people and leaving this madness behind. While I never had what you’d call a loving, supportive family, my situation at home has turned into a nightmare since Mike showed up. Jennifer no longer resembles the woman I married, and Kelsey and Olivia have become like spawns of the devil. More and more, I’m beginning to wonder if that isn’t literally true. It’s as if Satan himself is sleeping in my bed, exerting his dark influence over Jen and the girls, encouraging them to abuse me in the most unthinkable of ways.

My treatment has become so bad, Mike told his daughters the other day that they should keep our household dynamic a secret from everyone but their most trusted friends. Although I will be coming out at the wedding as the family maid, Mike said he doesn’t want people knowing everything that happens in the privacy of our home. That’s probably because folks would alert the authorities if they knew the kind of abuse that goes on in our dysfunctional domicile.

But the police wouldn’t be able to do anything because it’s all consensual. I hate myself for it, but it’s true. I just can’t say no to the prick, even when obeying him means destroying myself.

When I went to the County Center on my lunch hour last week to drop off the divorce papers and formally file to have my name changed, I stood outside the building entrance for several minutes, completely paralyzed. I somehow sensed that if I went through with Mike’s demand and changed my name to Buffy Jameson, the loss of my former self would be more than symbolic; it would mark the literal death of Lester Edwin Bradford — not exactly the manliest man in the world, but at least a man.

Of course, I ended up doing it. I had tears in my eyes, and the clerk asked if I was okay, but I filed the paperwork like a good little sissy bitch. Nobody twisted my arm. Sure, Mike has twisted my mind, but legally speaking I’m acting under my own free will. Everything that happens to me is completely my fault because I could walk away anytime but choose to stay. Why, I don’t know. I’ve racked my brain and agonized over the matter, but I can’t understand this hold Mike has over me. It’s not just me, though. He has that effect on everyone. And he’s turned them all against me, just because the evil sonofabitch thinks it’s funny to ruin my life.

Work has become a welcome escape. By now, everyone at the bank has gotten used to me dressing as a woman, and while it’s still highly embarrassing for me, I’m able to tune it out for the most part. I go straight to my desk in the morning, sit in a nice, soft chair, and try to concentrate on stock trends for 8 hours.

No matter how deeply I dive into the NYSE and NADAQ tables, though, it’s always in the back of my mind that when quitting time comes, a veritable house of horrors awaits me.

In a nutshell, my life really sucks right now. All I can do is go to sleep and hope that when I wake up, this will all have been just a dream.

 

Dear Diary,

Two thugs harassed me after work today while I was walking back to my car. They started following me about a quarter-mile out of downtown. I tried to walk faster but they quickly caught up.

“What’s your hurry, sweet-cheeks?” one of the men asked. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

“I like how your ass looks in that dress,” the other one said.

“Come on, bitch, you know you want it,” the first sleazeball added. “You trannies are all the same.”

“Yeah, you’re all sluts who like guys with big dicks, and we both got huge ones.” The man flashed a crooked-toothed grin. “Wanna see?”

I was scared to death and quickened my pace to a near trot, not an easy task in heels. The two men stayed with me, grabbing my ass and making lewd comments the entire time, until finally, thankfully, I reached my car. The brutes slammed their fists on my hood and screamed obscenities at me as I peeled away.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and gripping the steering wheel proved difficult. During the ride home, I debated whether to tell Mike what had happened. There was no real need for him to know, but he has me so brainwashed I’m scared to keep anything from him.

In the end, I gave in and told my master about my encounter with the two ruffians. Big mistake. He thought the whole thing was hilarious.

“You were probably shaking your ass at them, you sissy whore,” he crowed, and I was glad Jen and the girls weren’t there to witness this latest embarrassment.

Since no one was around to provide an audience, Mike left me alone to tidy up the house. I later found out through his telephone conversation that Jen and the girls were out looking at wedding dresses.

My heart was in the gutter while I cleaned, knowing that Jen and the girls were shopping to find a dress so my wife could look beautiful on her wedding day. I’m trying to put Jen’s pleasure first, and she’s made it clear that she’s thrilled to be marrying “the only man I’ve ever loved.”

But it’s impossible. I just can’t bring myself to be happy for her. The thought of my beautiful, soon-to-be-ex-bride exchanging vows with Mike brings tears to my eyes and makes me want to puke.

As I tidied up a house that is no longer mine, clad in high heels and an outlandishly short slave dress that doesn’t cover my ruffled panties, topped by a faggoty cap and apron, I didn’t think my mood could get any worse.

It got much worse.

I was cleaning the toilet when my master rushed into the bathroom unzipping his pants. “Move, sissy!” he yelled.

As I started to back away, he grabbed my shoulder. “Hang on a sec, don’t go anywhere. Turn around and bend over the toilet with your face up.”

I obeyed, leaning uncomfortably backward so that the rear of my head was inside the bowl. I knew what was coming as he whipped out his dick with a sneer.

“Open wide and say ah,” he said a split-second before the yellow stream started burning my eyes. I opened my mouth, instantly tasting his bitter urine, which overflowed my mouth, running down my forehead and soaking my hair.

“Say ah, goddamn it,” Mike growled.

“Aggggggghhh,” I gargled, choking from his stream of pee, which elicited a chuckle from my tormentor.

It was the longest 60 seconds of my life. When Mike finally finished urinating, he shook the last few drops on my face before zipping back up.

“I just gave you a present, bitch What do you say?”

“T-thank you sir.”

“You’re welcome, now clean yourself up,” he said over his shoulder as he strolled out of the bathroom. “I don’t want my maid smelling like piss.”

Crying my poor little eyes out, I ran to my basement shower and washed that piss right out of my hair. After changing to a new frock, I cleaned the upstairs bathroom where Mike had missed the toilet and made a mess, and then got on with the rest of my housework with my spirits about as low as they’d ever been.

Of course, in the Jameson household things can always get shittier. And they did.

Jen and the girls returned at about 8, and I was surprised to see them accompanied by the Henderson family. Leigh Henderson has been Jen’s best friend for years; her daughters Carmen and Peyton are Kelsey and Olivia’s age, and the four girls are like sisters, having known each other since kindergarten.

Jen proudly introduced her new man to the Hendersons.

“You can trust them,” my wife told Mike. “You know … about Buffy.”

Mike grinned at Leigh and her daughters. “Nice to meet you all. So, you guys know about our little maid?”

“Jen told us some stuff,” a starry-eyed Leigh said, clearly under Mike’s influence only seconds after being introduced to him. Her giggling daughters were similarly entranced.

Mike snapped his fingers. “Sissy! Get over here.”

I rushed to the spot in front of him.

“How long have these beautiful ladies been in our home, Buffy?”

“Um, sir … a few minutes, sir.”

“Then, why don’t they all have cold drinks in their hands? Why don’t I have a beer? Are you not the maid around here?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” I glanced around at the six smirking females who were all enraptured by Mike’s display of power.

Mike shook his head at our guests. “I’m sorry, ladies. We still have a lot of training to do with little Buffy here.”

Jen scowled. “And still the sissy stands there without asking everyone what they want to drink!”

“Ooh, that deserves a slap!” Olivia piped in. She turned to her friends. “Which one of you wants to do the honors?”

“Why not let ‘em both smack the stupid sissy?” Jen suggested.

Everyone thought that was a capital idea.

Carmen went first, and she wasn’t shy about rearing back and slapping the taste out of my mouth. Not to be outdone, her little sister pinched my cheeks with one hand while striking me several times on the nose with the other.

I’ve known the Henderson family since the girls were babies, and because Jen, Kelsey and Olivia had always treated me with disdain, their friends had followed suit. But after falling under Mike’s spell, they were now being outright cruel, and taking great delight in my humiliation. Mike seems to possess the ability to inflame people’s worst instincts and turn them into pure demons.

I scurried to fill drink orders when the Henderson girls were finished slapping me. After everyone was set, Mike showed off in front of company by making me get on all fours to serve as his footstool while he held court.

I remained stock-still, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Carmen says Buffy should be the flower girl instead of the ring-bearer,” Kelsey said. “That’s usually for little boys.”

“I thought about that,” Jen said. “I just don’t know any little boys who could do it, so I figured Buffy could do both.”

“Tommy could do it,” Peyton said, referring to her little brother who lives with his dad. “He’d love to. He was over the other day, and when we told him about your wedding, he kept saying how he wanted to put on a tuxedo and be the ring-bearer because his friend at school was.”

Jen shrugged. “Shit, I don’t care, that solves the problem. What do you think, hon?”

“I think flower girl for Buffy would be more appropriate.” Mike tapped his foot on my back. “Hear that, sissy? Change in plans.”

“Yessir,” I said, trying to remain still.

“You guys can help us find an outfit for Buffy to wear,” Olivia told her friends, who giggled at the prospect.

I knelt there listening to Mike regale everyone with stories about the time he dodged terrorists in Afghanistan, or when he hid from the Russian secret police by burying himself in a Siberian snowbank. It sounded like bullshit to me, although my master has an air of mystery about him, and nobody knows exactly what he did during the 15 years he was out of Jen and the girls’ lives. Nobody asks. He’s always cagy about his past, and Jennifer doesn’t push him for details. For all I know, he could’ve been some kind of spy. Maybe he still is.

By the time the Hendersons left our house, they’d fallen completely under Mike’s spell, just like everyone else. I didn’t like the way Leigh had openly flirted with my master — or how Jen seemed to be egging her on. The girls picked up on it, too, and Carmen teased her divorced mom about having a crush on Mike. Leigh threw it right back at them, insisting that they, too, were smitten by him. Meanwhile, Mike relaxed with his feet on my back, drinking in the open, cringeworthy adulation.

I want to hate Mike. But if I’m being completely honest, I envy the sonofabitch. How I wish I could be more like him.

Instead, I’m … this. A downtrodden pansy.

 

Dear Diary,

Well, add another hardship to the growing list. Tonight, Mike came home with a little box and told me it was a present for me. I knew that didn’t portend anything good, and I was correct. Inside the box was a spiked cock cage.

“Jen says you like to play with your little dick,” Mike told me in front of the whole family. “That stops immediately.”

Red-faced, I opened the box and gasped. The girls giggled.

“Put it on,” Mike said.

I cleared my throat. “Um … you mean right here?”

“No, dumbass, do it in Niagara Falls.” He scoffed. “Yeah, do it right here.”

I lifted my dress, dropped my panties and absorbed the taunts from Kelsey and Olivia.

Olivia pointed at my exposed penis. “Ewwwww, it looks like a worm.”

“Ugh, what a disgusting little loser,” Kelsey added.

“Now you see why I needed Mike,” Jen sniffed.

I actually felt relieved when I clamped the cage onto my dick, because it was no longer exposed. With my head bowed, I handed over the key to Mike and pulled up my panties.

“Say good-bye to cumming,” Mike said, making me blush by talking about sex in front of the girls. Despite all that’s happened, they’re still my stepdaughters, and I feel uncomfortable discussing such topics with them.

Not that Mike gives a shit. The man has no morals whatsoever.

So, now, I can’t even touch my own penis, and I have to ask Mike’s permission to take this fucking contraption off once a week to wash.

It’s damn near impossible to get to sleep wearing this thing, but I need to try. I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow.

Ugh.

 

Dear Diary,

Mike told me that I have to compose a speech to read out loud during the wedding reception. I’ve just finished writing it, and will run it by my master tomorrow for his approval. It’s going to kill me to have to stand up in front of everyone and read this, but because I have no free will when it comes to the man who’s ruining my life, I know I’ll end up making a fool of myself — and lying my ass off in the process. The speech was written to absolve Mike and the family of any blame for how far I’ve fallen, and it makes my horrifying sissy maid lifestyle seem almost idyllic. That’s exactly how Mike wants it.

I’ll copy the speech here for future reference, although it’ll probably be etched into my brain for as long as I live.

“First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for being here tonight to share in this union of two wonderful people. I’m sure a lot of you were shocked at the ceremony when I came out as a five-year-old flower girl, but I’m pansexual, and earlier today, that’s how I identified. As you can see, I’ve changed clothes and now I identify as a grown-up maid. I’ll be your server tonight, because this is my wedding present to Jennifer and Mike — I told them they didn’t have to worry about hiring waitstaff because I’ll take care of it all myself. It’s a small thank-you for everything they’ve done for me. And, believe me, they’ve done a lot. They’ve both been wonderful about supporting my transition to womanhood. After I came out as trans and asked Jen for a divorce, I begged her to let me stay with the family as a woman, so I could be something like a live-in aunt to Kelsey and Olivia, who, by the way, have also been awesome and supportive. I didn’t see the reason why my family should have to break up just so I could live my true self. I’m the one who turned our lives upside down, and surprised them with this lifestyle change, and they didn’t deserve any more instability by having me move out. And frankly, I love my family dearly, and didn’t want to move. Jennifer was kind enough to grant my request and allow me to stay. Then, when Mike came back into the picture, he couldn’t have been more understanding and sympathetic. Not every guy would be so open-minded about this situation, but Mike has been great to Jen, their beautiful daughters and to me. So, now, Mike and Jen are married and restarting their family, and I’m proud to announce that I will be staying on as their maid. This is something I not only want, but consider a great honor. I feel this is the best way I can serve my family moving forward, and Mike, Jen and the girls are all happy with the arrangement. So, I hope you’ll all be happy for us, too, while you eat, drink and be merry — and don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, because it’s my honor to serve. Thank you.”

Every stinking, rotten word of it is a goddamn lie. I come off looking like some pathetic sap who’s begging to hang around, while Mike, Jen and the girls are all the good guys for being so understanding of my transition after I laid my sexual preference on them out of nowhere.

No! It happened the opposite way! Mike foisted this on me! I don’t want this! It’s all Mike’s doing!!

That’s the speech I want to make: “Help! Somebody call the fucking police! An evil man has taken over my home and brainwashed everyone! He made me come out as transgender. He made me change my name! I don’t want to do this! I hate wearing fucking dresses!! I hate being a woman!! I hate doing housework all the time! Help!!!!”

Yeah, right. That’ll never happen. Mike DOES have me brainwashed.

I guess I’m fucked. Oh, well. Good night.

 

Dear Diary,

Okay, now things are getting downright weird — and scary. For all intents and purposes, our house has been converted into The Church of Mike. My master is becoming like one of those cult leaders with an entourage of beautiful girls hanging on his every word as he draws them into his evil web by sheer force of personality. He’s starting to spew some crazy philosophy that sounds like a combination of Charles Manson and Ayn Rand on a methamphetamine jag, and his awestruck acolytes are eating it up. These days, it feels like a goddamn Hare Krishna temple around here. We might as well put a huge Mike Jameson statue on the front lawn.

Leigh and her daughters have been coming over every night, meaning Mike now has six females constantly fawning over him. The smug cocksucker sits there with a shit-eating grin while they all jockey for position trying to curry his favor. Unfortunately, that often means picking on me, because everyone in Mike’s orbit knows the easiest way to his heart is to make my life miserable, although he does a fine job of that all by himself.

Earlier tonight, after the girls finished making wedding plans, Reverend Mike decided to hold a sermon. He started with a ritual sacrifice — me.

I was cleaning the kitchen when Mike called me into the living room where everyone was gathered. As always, I hurried over to my master like a scared, shemale puppy dog, which brought chuckles from the congregation.

“You called, sir?”

“Yeah, Buffy, why don’t you run and grab the cane? I feel like whipping some ass.”

“Uh, er, y-yes, sir.”

With waves of terror clutching at my throat, I rushed to the closet to fetch one of the implements of torture that came in the mail the other day, along with a cattle prod, a humbler, and a host of other items Mike had ordered.

After I handed the cane to my master, he twirled his finger. “Drop ‘em and bend over, sissy.”

With my ears burning red, I shimmied my ruffled panties down, and then assumed the required position, grabbing my ankles and making my bare derriere an inviting target. I hadn’t done anything to deserve punishment, but that didn’t matter. Mike wanted to make a point.

“You see, girls, we need to find weaklings like Buffy, use them, and take our aggressions out on them, because they need it — and we need it, too,” he explained to his enchanted followers while I remained bent-over. “The world is made up of two kinds of people: Givers and takers. We are the takers. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. You’ve been conditioned by society into thinking that’s a bad thing. It’s not. Everyone wishes they could be a taker, but few who are born to it have the courage to fulfill their true destinies. You ladies have been born to it; now, you need to find the strength to do what’s best for you, and that comes from questioning everything you’ve been taught.”

Mike walked around the room as he continued. “What could possibly be wrong with taking what’s rightfully ours? And, if someone willingly gives themselves and their possessions over to us, are these things not rightfully ours? What could be wrong with using a little bitch like Buffy, who is on this earth for no other reason than to be used? This is what he was born to do. Look at him. He likes it. He needs it. He just needed me to bring it out in him.”

My master kicked me in the ass.

“Are you here to be used, Buffy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want to be used?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you an inferior specimen?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“And superior people like us deserve to use and abuse you, right?”

“Um, yes, sir.”

“Do you own anything? Any property?”

“No, sir.”

“Is the money you make yours?”

“No sir.”

“Who owns it?”

“You do, sir.”

“Because I deserve it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because you’re an inferior?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is anyone making you do this?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, why do you do it?”

While upside-down, I glanced around at the six mesmerized females and tried to formulate the answer I knew Mike wanted to hear.

“Um, sir … because you’re superior to me, sir, and I just want to do whatever you want me to do, sir.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, sissy, because right now I feel like whipping your ass. Is that okay with you?”

“Um … yes, sir.”

“Alrighty then. Here we go.”

With that, my master began laying into my poor booty-flesh with the cane, showing no mercy whatsoever. I bawled my eyes out while he merrily slashed one after the other, with the ladies looking on from the edges of their seats, slack-jawed and flushed.

At the exact point where I felt I was about to pass out from the pain, Mike finally finished and tapped the cane against my battered behind. “Okay, Buffy, pull those panties back up.”

“Yeah, nobody wants to see that ugly little pee-pee, even if it is in a cage,” Jennifer quipped, breaking the ladies’ silence and prompting a round of humiliating laughter.

Mike smirked at me. “That was mean, wasn’t it, sissy? You didn’t do anything wrong. Yet, I still tore that ass up. Was that mean of me, Buffy?”

“Um, sir … no sir. I’m … I’m here for whatever you want, sir.”

“Oh.” Mike grinned at his admirers. “Well, in that case, I’ve got a wee little more aggression I need to get out. Just a little more. Come over here. Lean down right here.”

I inched toward the spot where he’d indicated and presented my face for what I knew was coming.

SLLLLLLAAAPPPP!!

My head snapped back. I cried harder as Mike carried on with his lecture.

“See? He just stands there and takes it. When you ladies learn how to start using idiots like this to your full advantage, there’s no limit to how far we can go. These people, these givers, they’re inferior to us. They exist to be used by us. So, I say go ahead and use the little bitches. And don’t do it half-assed, either, because the inferiors, the givers, have also been influenced by society, and if you don’t keep them down, they might start getting ideas that they deserve to be treated better; that they, too, deserve to be takers. Society makes them deny their true selves, just like it does with us. So, let there be no doubt when you confront one of these inferiors. Tear their souls out and get drunk from their misery. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s a symbiotic relationship — making them weaker makes us stronger, and it allows everyone involved to follow their true destinies. I’m going to teach you girls how to manipulate these inferiors to our advantage. We’ll control an army. There’ll be no stopping us.”

They all sat there nodding like zombies while Mike fired up a joint. For several minutes, it was spookily quiet in the room, as if everyone was waiting for their guru to finish his doobie because he hadn’t told them to do otherwise. I stood there motionless, afraid to breathe.

Mike finally called for an ashtray, which I fetched and held while he stubbed out the joint. Then, he addressed Kelsey, Olivia, Carmen and Peyton.

“You girls need to find something to do for a while,” he instructed. “Jen, Leigh, you two come with me.”

My wife and her friend followed Mike into the master bedroom, something they did for the first time a few nights ago. I imagine that’s going to happen a lot from now on. It’s yet another reason to envy Mike — Jen and Leigh are a pair of incredibly sexy MILFS, and he’s the luckiest bastard in the world to have them both at his disposal.

“You guys have fun in there,” Carmen called.

“Yeah, Ma, make us a little sister,” Olivia added.

After the threesome disappeared into their love-nest, I was petrified to find myself alone with the four mean-spirted teens. At first, they ignored me while Carmen and Peyton talked about how sexy they thought Mike was.

“I wish that was me in there,” Carmen said. “Damn, your dad is HOT! I’m in love. I want that man so bad.”

Kelsey chuckled. “You’ll have to wait, girl. Dad says he won’t do anything with you guys until you turn 18. That’s two months for you, and what, a year-and-a-half for you, Peyton?”

“Oh, bullshit, the legal age is 16,” Peyton whined. “I’m almost a year past that. Damn, it, why do we have to wait?”

“You shouldn’t question my dad,” Kelsey said, her expression turning serious.

Olivia nodded. “Yeah, he always knows what’s best. And he says he wants to wait until you’re legally adults.”

“I know.” Carmen sighed and rubbed her legs together. “But, damn it, this is killing me. Buffy! Get your ass over here. I need to let out some frustration.”

With chattering teeth, I skulked toward the young vixen. Having just been whipped and slapped for no reason, I dreaded further punishment, particularly since I’d once again done nothing wrong. But I knew nobody gave a rat’s ass how I felt. Like Mike said, I’m here to be used. The girls have wholeheartedly bought into his twisted philosophy.

I stood in front of Carmen, who pressed her lips to my ear.

“Listen, Buffy, I’m gonna kick you in those little balls of yours. Let’s see if we can rattle that chastity cage, okay?”

“Y-yes, Miss.”

“And you better stay on your feet, you understand?”

“Y-yes, Miss Carmen.”

She took two steps back. “Ready, sissy?”

“Y-yes, Miss.”

“Pull your dress up.”

I obeyed.

WHOOOMPH!

I doubled over and almost lost my balance, but managed to stay upright, although my testicles felt like they were in my throat.

Olivia’s face lit up. “Hey, guys, let’s play a game. We’ll each get a kick, and see who can make him fall down first.”

Kelsey shook her head. “You’re crazy, girl.”

“Shit, that sounds like fun,” Peyton said. “My turn next.”

She locked eyes with me. “Ready?”

“Y-yes, Miss Peyton.”

THHHHHRUUUUPPP!

She caught me square in the gonads and I again bent in half, moaning and groaning and trying to stay on my feet.

“My turn,” Olivia said, yanking me upright and nudging my legs apart.

“If you fall, I’m telling Dad I caught you looking at Peyton’s ass,” she said.

Everyone’s laughter drowned out my reply of “Y-yes, Miss Olivia.”

Without warning, her foot shot into my already-swollen crotch, and I staggered backward until bumping into the wall.

Kelsey stepped up. “Okay, loser, come on over here.”

I limped back into position.

WHHUUUUUUUMMMMPPPPP!!

I threw up in my mouth from the force of the blow and hunched over heaving, but I managed to avoid falling — until Olivia pushed me down.

“Ah-ha, you lose!” She smirked. “You fell on the floor; I’m telling Dad you were checking out Peyton’s ass.”

“Ew, why does it have to be me?” Peyton crinkled up her nose. “The thought of the sissy looking at my ass is fucking gross.”

Thankfully, after a few more insults, the girls lost interest in me. After dismissing me, they again started talking about Mike, while a chorus of moans and groans floated from the bedroom. I busied myself cleaning as far as way from my young tormentors as I could get.

The lovemaking sounds eventually died down, and a few minutes later, Mike, Jan and Leigh emerged wearing satisfied smirks.

“Did Mike give you want you needed in there, Ma?” Peyton giggled.

“You know he did, honey.” Leigh sighed. “Better than that limp-dicked father of yours ever did.”

Olivia tapped Mike’s shoulder. “Hey, Dad, we caught Buffy looking at Peyton’s ass a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, Mike, you should’ve seen him,” Carmen piped in. “The little sissy’s mouth was hanging open and he had his hand in his panties. I think he was trying to play with himself, even though he’s all locked up.”

“I felt totally disrespected,” Peyton said, trying to keep a straight face.

I’m sure Mike knew they were full of shit, but he played along anyway.

“Well, I guess I can’t let that slide, can I? But your moms just wore me out, and I don’t have the strength to punish the sissy right now.” He sneered at me. “Tell you what, Buffy. For disrespecting Peyton like that, you’ll go two nights with no sleep.”

Everyone laughed.

“Ooh, you should make him go without food, too, Dad,” Olivia added.

Mike shrugged. “Sure, thing, honey. No food, either. Got it, sissy?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“What do you say?”

“Um, thank you, sir.”

“Now, apologize to Peyton for disrespecting her.”

“Um, I’m sorry, Miss Peyton, for disrespecting you.”

She stuck out her tongue at me. “Apology not accepted.” She faked a yawn. “When we go home, I’m gonna get a good night’s sleep. Maybe I’ll have a snack first. Hope you have fun starving and staying awake, Buffy. I’ll be thinking about you when I’m laying in my soft bed.”

“Y-yes, Miss Peyton.”

Leigh looked at her watch. “Shit, we probably should get going.” She glanced at Mike. “If that’s all right with you, babe.”

Mike nodded regally. “We’ll see you later. Be good, girls.”

“Bye, Mike,” the sisters tittered like a pair of teenyboppers at a boyband concert.

Shortly after our guests said their good-byes, the Jameson family turned in, and with a sore ass and throbbing nuts, I was able to finish my housework in relative peace, making the Church of Mike nice and clean for his next wicked sermon.

After finishing my chores, I came down here to the basement and walked around in circles smacking myself in the face, trying to stay awake. I took a break so I could write in this diary, but I’m starting to feel drowsy, so I’d better start walking again.

I don’t know how in the world I’m going to make it two more days without sleeping or eating. This is completely unfair. I did nothing wrong.

And yet, as Mike told the girls earlier today, here I am. Still here. Still putting up with it. Maybe his philosophy isn’t so crazy after all. Maybe I was put on this earth to be used and abused like this. If not, why else would I endure it?

I think the real question is, how much more can I take?

 

Dear Diary,

It’s been more than a week since my last entry. The wedding is coming up fast, there’s still a lot of running-around to do, and I’ve been way too busy to write. A lot has happened, though, and now that I finally have a few extra minutes I want to jot some of this stuff down, because things have gotten really fucking bizarre around here.

After listening to Mike hold court every night, his diabolical scheme is becoming frightfully clear. The ladies are being trained to find and exploit more “givers” like me. The immoral piece of shit is planning to use his own wife and daughters, along with the Hendersons, to lure rich “inferiors” into his web. He wants to build a network of wealthy sissy slaves to feed his ego — and bank account.

“You girls are all so beautiful, it should be easy to draw them in once I teach you the ancient arts,” he told his flock during one of his homilies.

Mike has informed the disappointed girls that nobody will be allowed to participate until they are of legal age, meaning Olivia and Peyton will have to wait more than a year. The guru insists that everything must be done according to the letter of the law if his plan is to succeed. He says it’ll take a while anyway before they’re all properly schooled on how to control inferiors.

When the time comes, Mike told his women they’ll concentrate on finding effeminate givers, so that they, too, can be turned into sissies like me.

“When you change their gender, you remove their sense of self,” he explained. “That gives you more power over the inferiors, and they’ll easily become brainless, demoralized little specimens like Buffy here, eager to do anything you want and give you everything they have, with no thought whatsoever of rebelling.”

Leigh asked whether they might troll kinky websites looking for rich, wimpy guys who already were submissive and wanted to be treated like slaves, but Mike said that was a bad idea.

“If they want to do it, that doesn’t serve our purpose; we’d just be fulfilling a sexual fantasy,” he said. “We need to MAKE them do it — and not by force, either, but simply because we convince them to. They’ll come to despise themselves for going along with it. You see, girls, that’s how you truly control someone. When you foster self-hatred, you make a person weaker. And when you make them weaker, it makes us stronger. So, we’ll find soft little guys like Buffy, who are most likely already self-conscious about being small and effeminate. We can use those very fears against them, you see? When they look in the mirror one day and find that their worst nightmare has come to life, and that they did it to themselves, simply because someone told them do … well, that’s someone who is broken. You’ll have taken his very soul, ladies. Once you do that, an inferior will do anything you say, and will put up with anything.”

As always, the six females sat there glassy-eyed, drinking it all in, while I knelt with my hands behind my back, in my required position of surrender, hypnotized like everyone else.

Ugh, I still feel drowsy. I need sleep. This is all too crazy. I’m out for now.

 

Dear Diary,

Mike revealed more of his fucked-up plan tonight. It’s some scary cult shit.

First, he told us there are going to be two weddings on September 9. In the morning, my master will preside over a ceremony in which he will “marry” all six of his devotees, including his daughters, and they’ll officially become The Family. He says once the girls turn 18, they’ll all have sex together. Incest won’t be tolerated, but Mike wants to foster a “free love” environment in this weird commune he’s building, so there’ll be open lesbianism among non-family members, and he’ll have sex with Carmen and Peyton, in addition to Jen and Leigh. He plans to start what he calls a master race of “takers” by siring children with the women of The Family. I see diaper changes in my future.

But Mike insists none of this will happen until everyone is of legal age. The girls aren’t happy about it, but they’d never disobey their leader, so they limited their complaining tonight until after he’d left the room. He’s constantly hammering home the importance of doing things by the book so that the authorities will have no reason to shut his operation down.

That’s why he wants to keep my abuse a secret, and why the wedding and reception will be relatively normal affairs, other than my appearances as flower girl and maid. Nobody is to know how I’m treated at home, Mike says, and during the reception he told the girls to interact with me the way they normally would with waitstaff. He wants to present the picture of a happy homestead, where I’m faithfully serving the family in a role I asked for after coming out as trans/pansexual. In this version of reality, Mike is a benevolent, magnanimous progressive who’s tolerant of my peculiarities.

It’s all part of the overall plan. Tonight, Mike told us his ultimate goal is to build a corporation staffed by brainwashed sissies whose sole purpose in life will be acquiring wealth for The Family. This scheme calls for recruiting not only rich, effeminate inferiors, but those with diverse skillsets to serve this corporation in a variety of ways. He told me when the time comes, I’ll be in charge of investing The Family’s holdings, since that’s my professional bailiwick.

My coming out at the wedding is part of this strategy. Once Mike becomes known as someone who’s open-minded and trans-friendly, nobody will think twice when he starts a company made up of mostly trans people. It’ll appear like he’s just continuing to support that community, and he’ll drink in the accolades for being so tolerant. Nobody will know that he’ll actually be exploiting his unpaid employees, ruining their lives the way he’s ruined mine.

Mike says once things get rolling and the money starts coming in, he’ll expand the company and hire heavily vetted female “takers” as bosses.

“But you are the Original Six, and only you will ever be part of The Family,” he proclaimed to his enraptured disciples. “Any other women brought onboard will be salaried employees of the corporation, to serve as day-to-day supervisors to the inferiors, who will work for free.”

Beaming, Mike addressed his followers:

“We are one, ladies, and nothing can infiltrate our circle. From now on, our mantra will be, ‘Always protect The Family.’ I want you to say it.”

“Always protect The Family,” the ladies intoned.

“Beautiful. Just beautiful. Watch and see, girls — we’re going to build an army of sissies, all working themselves like dogs pro bono to serve The Family,” Mike thundered. “We’ll buy several acres of property and set up barracks where the sissies will live, and they’ll be fed the cheapest gruel available. We’ll have a workforce of free labor at a bare minimum of expense. Since we’ll be going after inferiors who already have money, they will provide the start-up capital for our business. When the time comes, and we’ve recruited enough people, I’ll look at trends and market inequities and decide what kind of business to open. And then … well, then, ladies, our reward will be untold riches!!! We’ll go all the way to the TOP!!!!”

The ladies jumped to their feet and cheered. At the height of the delirium, Mike pulled Jen and Leigh into the bedroom. I excused myself and hurried to the kitchen to clean the oven, praying the girls wouldn’t find occasion to fuck with me. Luckily, they were too busy discussing Mike’s plan, and complaining about having to wait until they were all adults, to take notice of my sissy ass.

After the head of the family finished fucking his two subjects, the Hendersons went home and the Jameson family crashed soon afterward, as has become our routine. When everyone was in bed, I finished cleaning the house, still reeling from Mike’s crazed soliloquy.

What the name of Jim Jones is going on around here? Since Mike moved in and took over, the whole fucking world has gone crazy. His plan is evil. Insane.

It’s enough to give me nightmares.

Good night.

 

Dear Diary,

The divorce became official today. I cried when the paperwork arrived in the mail.

Since it was a foregone conclusion anyway, perhaps it shouldn’t have hit me so hard. But, damn it, I still love Jen despite all that’s happened, and I bawled my sissy little eyes out. Luckily, nobody was around. My masters are always looking for any excuse to make my life miserable, and they surely would’ve seized the opportunity to rub my face in this latest gut-punch.

It was bad enough when I gave the mail to Mike and he ordered me to pour him and Jen glasses of champagne to celebrate the divorce. Somehow, I managed to keep from crying as I knelt there like a sap with a fake smile on my face, watching them toast their new life together.

Later, when the Hendersons came over, Mike started the ladies’ “ancient arts” training. I wasn’t allowed in the room because my master says the rituals and lessons are some big secret that “inferiors” like me aren’t allowed to see. All I know is, when they wrapped up nearly three hours later, all six women were flushed, with a smoldering in their eyes that’s hard to describe.

My wife barely speaks to me anymore, but after tonight’s training session was over and the Hendersons had gone home, she started in on me with a vengeance.

“Do you still love me, Buffy, even though I divorced your sissy ass?”

I glanced at Mike. “Um … I’m … I’m not sure what I should say. Please … I … I don’t want to be disrespectful.”

“Tell the truth, Buffy,” Mike said. “That’s an order.”

“Um … uh, yes, Ma’am. I … I do … still … love you.”

She smirked. “Well, I never loved you. Did you know that, Buffy?”

“I … I don’t know, Ma’am.”

“I married you for your money, you pathetic piece of shit. I never loved you — not for a minute.”

An anguished gurgle escaped my throat.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Buffy. You had to know Ma didn’t marry you for your looks. You’re a girly little fag. Always were.”

That got a chuckle out of everyone.

“She’s right,” Jen said, staring a hole through me with eyes still shadowy from whatever had happened during the training session. “You always were an inferior. I can see that now. I just never took you as far down that road as you needed to go — but you always were a little bitch, just waiting to be used by someone. And I used your faggot little ass, too. I used you for your money. I cheated on you plenty of times. You do know that, right?”

“Um … y-yes, Ma’am.”

“That’s because I never respected you. Never.”

“I never respected the loser, either,” Kelsey chimed in. “I remember when he first started coming around when I was five. He gave me the creeps back then.”

“You see? Even as a young girl, you instinctively sensed that Buffy was an inferior, although you didn’t have a name for it yet,” Mike explained. “Since Buffy, or Lester as he was once known, is a giver, he continued providing for your mother and you girls, even after it became perfectly clear that none of you respected him. He put up with it, so, as takers, you were able to use him to a certain degree. But because society had you brainwashed, and you weren’t aware of the awesome power you held, you never got the most out of him. You simply used him within the parameters that society allowed. Little did you know that you could’ve had a slave at your beck and call 24 hours a day … a slave who would turn over every dime of his paycheck … a slave who would allow you to take out your frustrations on him … who would allow you to beat him, and slap him, and do whatever you want to him, with no repercussions whatsoever.”

“Well, at least we know now, thanks to you, Dad.” Kelsey smiled.

“Yeah, it’s awesome having a slave around,” Olivia echoed.

Mike nodded. “Yes, it is. Once we get the corporation up and running, we’ll see about getting each of you girls your own personal sissies.”

Kelsey and Olivia grinned as their father continued.

“Buffy will be busy making money for the corporation and serving your mom and me, and we don’t want to spread him too thin, especially when there’ll be other inferiors around to help,” he said. “Whatever type of company we end up opening, as members of The Family, you girls will hold important executive-level positions. Your jobs will be easier if you have your own dedicated servants. But that’s still a ways down the road. One step at a time.”

“How many inferiors do you think we’ll need to start up the business, Dad?” Kelsey asked.

“Well, since there are six of you girls, if you can recruit two each, that’ll be 12 sissies working for the corporation, not counting Buffy,” Mike said. “That should be plenty to get us started. I’m thinking if each inferior comes with at least $100,000 in assets, that’ll give us more than $1 million in startup capital to get this venture off the ground. With the sissies turning over all their assets at the beginning, and working for free, the profits will be enormous! We can then start to expand, and grow the company.”

“Why can’t we start now?” Olivia whined.

Mike sighed. “I’ve told you a million times, honey, we need to do this right. You’re not old enough. I’m not sending minors out there to lure men. That would draw the cops in a second, and we’re going to do this 100% legally. Besides, you’re not close to mastering the ancient arts, anyway. You need to learn that, first, sweetie, and there’s a lot you need to know before you’re truly able to control someone’s mind. Let’s concentrate on that for now.”

Jen snapped her fingers and ordered an iced tea. I clambered from my knees and hurried to obey. When I handed over her glass, Jen frowned at me. “Is everything ready for the wedding Saturday, Buffy?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am, I just did the last bit of shopping this afternoon, and now all I have to do is call about the cake the day before.”

“How about Ma’s bachelorette party?” Kelsey asked.

“Everything is all set, Miss. I booked the limo and bottle service at Jo-Jo’s … um, and the cake.”

Jen smirked. “That’s gonna be the show-stopper — a sissy coming out of a cake to do a striptease! My friends are gonna love it!”

Mike chuckled. “Just remember, girls: Not everyone at the bachelorette party will be in the know, so make sure you don’t treat Buffy too harshly in front of non-Family members.”

“Sure, Dad, we’ll treat the little sissy like a real princess,” Olivia kidded.

“And no drinking,” Mike warned his daughters. “That goes for the Henderson girls, too. You can be in the bar but no alcohol. None of you are 21 yet.”

Olivia crossed her arms. “Ugh, why not, Dad? I want to party!”

“Because I said so, damn it,” Mike shot back, his eyes flashing. “Listen, Olivia, I’m not going to keep telling you this. We do everything legally. You understand?”

“Yeah, okay, sorry,” Olivia peeped.

“When you have underage girls drinking in bars, you put The Family at risk,” Mike lectured. “Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, Dad, sorry.” Olivia lowered her eyes.

“It’s okay, honey. Just remember: always protect The Family. Say it, girls.”

“Always protect The Family,” Jen, Kelsey and Olivia repeated.

Satisfied, Mike nodded. “Good,” he said. “We need to be careful. The government is watching.”

The family wound down the conversation and headed for bed, leaving me to my chores. I finished up fairly quickly and came down here to the basement to make this diary entry and try to sort out my thoughts. I haven’t had much luck, though, since my mind is still a jumble. This crazy plan of Mike’s is moving at breakneck speed and all I can do is stand here on the tracks, watching the runaway train as it lurches toward me.

I guess if there’s any good news, it’s that my master decided to stay in the background, and changed his mind about having a bachelor party. So, that’s one less thing I have to worry about. The wedding is Saturday, and the bachelorette shindig is in just two days. Most of the running-around is done, and now it’s just a waiting game.

I just want to get this damned wedding over with. I’m so dreading it.

 

Dear Diary,

After tonight, I have good reason to be even more petrified about my future than I already was. Following tonight’s “ancient arts” training, The Family had a lengthy debate about whether I should be castrated and forced to undergo extensive plastic surgery that includes breast implants and facial reconstruction. I knelt in the living room with my hands behind my back, trying not to cry as they all discussed me like I was some kind of object.

Mike explained that whatever decision they make about my physical appearance will apply to the other sissies once the girls start recruiting inferiors.

“There are good arguments to be made on both sides,” he mused. “On the one hand, if you keep them obviously male, you increase their humiliation factor, which is a benefit to us, because, like I told you, downtrodden people are easier to control. Then again, if you change them completely, and give them implants and the surgery, you’ll cause them to completely lose their sense of selves, which is obviously to our advantage as well. Also, the surgeries will cost money, and that’s a factor. The expense might not be worth it. What do you think, ladies?”

“Frankly, I don’t think little sissies should go around pretending to be female,” Jen said.

“Yeah, they’re not regular trans people,” Leigh agreed. “They’re pathetic little sissies, and the world should know that. If you give them the surgery, they’ll look more like real females, not sissies.”

“Maybe we can find a middle ground,” Kelsey suggested. “Have ‘em get the implants but don’t give ‘em the facial surgery, so everyone will still know they’re sissies.”

“Yeah, I agree — a sissy should look like a sissy, not a woman,” Carmen added.

“Can’t we still cut off their little balls?” Olivia asked, prompting chuckles all ‘round.

When the laughter died down, Mike rubbed his chin. “Maybe you girls are right,” he said. “Maybe some kind of combination would be best. Castration wouldn’t remove their embarrassment at being seen by the world as sissies. And nobody would have a clue, because the sissies will be trained to always smile and act happy about their situation. Just like Buffy here. Are you happy to be our sissy slave, Buffy?”

“Yes, sir,” I lied.

“Would you still be happy to be our slave if we castrated you?”

“Um … yes, sir,” I lied again.

“But if you were to cut off his balls, that would take away from the fun of having him in a chastity cage,” Leigh said. “I like the idea that the little fag wishes he could have sex but knows he can’t. If you remove his sex drive …”

“I get it, Leigh,” Mike interrupted. “That’s a very good point. Keeping them frustrated is a big part of the process.”

“Let’s just cut off one ball, then,” Olivia piped in, triggering more hilarity.

“Or cut off their little pee-pees and leave their balls,” Peyton said. “That way, they’ll still have a sex drive.”

Mike nodded. “All good suggestions, girls. It gives us something to think about moving forward.”

I can’t describe how utterly terrifying it was to kneel there listening to all this. I don’t recognize these people. They’ve all become brainwashed, Satanic monsters.

When the Hendersons finally went home and my masters turned in, I finished my chores consumed by fear.

At least my mind was occupied by tonight’s ghoulish discussion, so I didn’t have time to worry about tomorrow’s bachelorette party. I am NOT looking forward to jumping out of a cake and dancing around like a faggoty poof in front of an entire bar of women.

But that’s what I’ve been told to do, and, damn it, I just can’t say no.

How I wish I could break this spell! In my mind’s eye, I can see what Mike’s doing to me — I simply can’t muster the willpower to stop it.

Fuck. Maybe I should ask them to cut off my head instead of my balls so I won’t have to think anymore.

Good night, diary.

 

Dear Diary,

Ugh, what a night. Jen’s bachelorette party was an over-the-top, raunchy affair, and everyone had a grand old time. Everyone but me, that is.

I’ve taken a few vacation days from the bank so I can get ready for everything that’s happening this week and there still doesn’t seem to be enough time to do it all. Today, I spent the morning and early afternoon cleaning the Hendersons’ house, which is yet another chore that’s been added to my ever-growing list. Leigh’s youngest kid, Tommy, was there. He normally lives with his dad but he had stayed the night because the girls were taking him to get fitted for his tux, since he’ll be the ring-bearer at the wedding Saturday.

Because my master knew the kid would be there, and that his father would be coming to pick him up later, he’d told me to wear one of my bank dresses to clean the Hendersons’ instead of my itchy slave frock that barely covers my ass. Mike doesn’t mind sending me out to the store in that horrifying getup, because he loves nothing more than embarrassing me — but when it comes to acquaintances, he’s taking every precaution to avoid revealing how horribly I’m treated at home. He says if I ever run into someone we know when I’m dressed like that at the store, I’m to tell them that I’m headed to an “adult” party. Mike doesn’t mind if people believe I’m a sissy with a kinky side as long as they don’t think I’m being forced into it.

He wants the world to think I’m a happy, doddy aunt-type who does all the housework, but who is still respected and considered one of the family — sort of like Alice on “The Brady Bunch.” We’ll tell everyone that this is the role I begged for, and that Mike and Jen are doing me a huge favor by accommodating me.

That way, once Mike starts his company and staffs it with sissies, he’ll be considered a hero for his support of the trans community, which he says will be good PR for the corporation and keep the government off his back. Nobody will know that he’ll secretly be making his employees’ lives a living hell. I shudder every time I think of this crazy scheme, because I know Mike can pull it off.

Before they left for the tux shop, Carmen and Peyton gave Tommy and me instructions about what to do during the ceremony, and it felt highly embarrassing standing next to a five-year-old and being lectured by girls nearly half my age about our roles in the wedding. But at least they were nice about it, in keeping with the ruse.

I was still cleaning the Hendersons’ house when they got back from the tuxedo rental place. Shortly afterward, Leigh’s ex-husband, a tall, skinny guy named Larry, came to pick up his kid. There was talk the other day of possibly recruiting Larry as an inferior to serve The Family, since Leigh said he was a wimp and likely an easy target. But Mike quickly put the kibosh on that idea; he says Larry doesn’t have enough money, he’s too tall for the type of tiny, effeminate inferior my master wants to recruit, and because Larry has custody of Tommy, Mike says that would open up a whole set of issues he doesn’t want to bother with.

When Larry stopped by the Hendersons’, he looked at me funny but we didn’t talk during the brief time he was there. I’m used to people being uncomfortable around me, since it’s not hard to tell I’m a guy in a dress.

Leigh and her girls were nice to me the entire time I’d been at their place, although that ended two seconds after Larry left with Tommy. Peyton strode across the room and kicked over the mop bucket, ruining the floor I’d just scrubbed and polished.

“That’s for me having to treat you like you’re not a pathetic little sissy slave,” she snarled. “What do you say?”

“T-thank you, Miss Peyton.”

Luckily, other than that impulsive display of cruelty, the girls left me alone to clean. After the Henderson place was spotless, I headed back home, changed into my housework frock and continued my chores. Everyone was out for most of the afternoon so I was able to get a lot done.

Whenever I’m home alone like that, I obsess over sneaking in a break and sitting down. It’s unfair that I’m never allowed to sit when I’m on the clock, thanks to Jen’s mean-spirited rule. Nobody would be the wiser if I were to take a load off for just a few minutes. As hard as I work, it honestly wouldn’t be too much to ask to be able to sit down once in a while. But, damn it, Mike has me brainwashed, and every time I come close to plopping onto a soft chair, something stops me, and I just can’t bring myself to do it. Then, I’ll get depressed for being such a weakling.

As Mike always preaches, keeping sissies like me demoralized makes us easier to control. And I pretty much stay demoralized. Mike and The Family make sure of that.

Jen and the girls returned home at about 6 and started getting ready for the bachelorette party. After Mike got back from wherever he’d gone, he phoned the Hendersons and told them to come over for some last-minute instructions on how to handle the evening’s festivities.

Leigh and her girls were at our place within minutes, dressed for their night out. Everyone gathered in the living room, and I knelt with my hands behind my back.

Mike addressed Jen and Leigh.

“Listen, I don’t want you two getting drunk and forgetting yourselves with Buffy,” he warned. “You can still have fun without going overboard.”

“I’ll remember, babe,” Jen said.

“Yeah, we’ll treat the little sissy with … ugh, respect.” Leigh made a face, as if the idea of being nice to me was distasteful.

“Don’t worry — we’ve got the whole night all planned out, Dad,” Olivia said. “We’re telling everyone it’s always been Buffy’s fantasy to be a slutty stripper, and that we’re just playing along with his fantasy.”

“Yeah, Buffy’s gonna put on a show.” Peyton smirked. “We’re bringing lots of toys.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t slap him or insult him,” Mike said. “Be careful in front of non-Family members. This is very important. We need to keep up appearances. Always protect The Family. Say it.”

“Always protect The Family,” the ladies droned.

“Wonderful.” Mike smiled. “You girls have fun.”

The limo I’d booked arrived a few minutes later and the ladies were off to Jo-Jo’s Lounge, where I’d arranged bottle service in a private, curtained-off area of the bar. After the women left, I was alone with my master — always a scary proposition.

“You’re going to be treated as an equal by members of The Family tonight, Buffy,” he said. “We need to make sure you don’t get too uppity. Follow me.”

He turned and strolled into the bathroom. I shuffled after him with a pounding heart.

“Take off your dress and lay down in the tub, Buffy,” my master directed.

I knew what was coming. After stripping and lying prone in the bathtub, Mike unzipped his pants and sneered down at me.

“You know the drill, sissy — open up and say ‘ah.’”

“Ahhhgggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhh,” I gurgled under the bitter, yellow drizzle.

My master finished urinating and tucked his dick back in his pants.

“T-thank you, sir,” I remembered to say after swallowing a mouthful of pee.

“No problem, now, lick the tub clean, Buffy,” Mike said. “That ought to keep you busy until it’s time to go to the bar — and serve to remind you that you’re nothing more than a little bitch sissy. Say it: ‘I’m nothing more than a little bitch sissy.’”

“I’m nothing more than a little bitch sissy,” I repeated.

“Good bitch,” he said as he strolled away whistling a happy tune.

If Mike’s goal is to demoralize me so that I’ll be easier to control, he’s succeeded. As I licked up the acerbic yellow puddles, my spirits were about as low as they’ve ever been — and, several hours later my mood still hasn’t lifted. If anything, I feel even shittier about myself than I did earlier. And I’ll probably feel even shittier tomorrow.

When all Mike’s piss had been licked up, I retrieved the Lysol and gave the tub a proper scrubbing. Then, I cleaned myself up and changed into the “stripper outfit” I’d purchased for the occasion — a diaphanous little number bedazzled with red sequins and a G-string that crawled up my ass. When I was ready, I asked my master’s permission to go to Jo-Jo’s.

“Sure thing, sissy.” He smirked. “Break a leg. I better get a good report.”

“Yes, sir,” I said before scurrying away.

The man from the novelty store was waiting for me in the bar’s parking lot with the huge cake. He gave me a few pointers on how to lift the top without breaking it and told me I could use it for an hour before I had to return it to the lot. I climbed inside and crouched in the darkness while he wheeled me into the bar. From my spot inside the giant cake, I could hear the muffled sound of music, and then the mirthful lilt of female voices.

Then, Olivia’s voice came through loud and clear: “Come on out, Buffy!”

I lifted the top of the cake and slithered upward, swaying back and forth to the EDM beat, doing my best to emulate the strippers I’d seen. I felt like a goddamn idiot, but that didn’t stop me from trying my best. The ladies applauded wildly as I stepped out of the cake and started twerking in front of Jen’s face.

“Woo, you go, girl!” my ex-wife shouted, lightly slapping my butt-cheeks in time with the music.

Red-faced, I glanced around at the dozen or so women who’d come to Jen’s bash. In addition to the six members of The Family, I recognized some of the ladies as my ex-wife’s old friends, although a few others weren’t familiar. Women from nearby tables also clapped and shouted while I danced.

After several minutes, Olivia, who had assumed the role of Mistress of Ceremonies, pulled the curtains shut, obscuring the party from the rest of the bar.

“We’re gonna have a private show, but first, Buffy has something to say.” Olivia smiled at me. “Buffy?”

I cleared my throat and recited the short speech I’d been practicing: “This is so exciting. It’s my fantasy come true, you guys. I’ve always wanted to be a slutty stripper.”

“Well, then, here,” Leigh said, pulling a huge dildo out of the bag they’d brought and handing it to me. “Be as slutty as you want to, honey!”

The drunken ladies all cheered while I bent over and fucked myself with the giant implement. While I performed, I made sultry faces, blew kisses at my audience and shook my derriere in their direction, much to everyone’s delight. The fun, trannie sex-kitten role I was playing belied the crushing embarrassment I felt inside, although, spurred by Mike’s omnipresence inside my head, I put everything I had into my act until I was sweating profusely.

When I straightened up to assume a new position, Jen’s old friend Rachel pointed to my crotch. “Ooh, look, she’s wearing one of those chastity cages.”

“I love it,” I lied, continuing to shake my hips and fuck myself with the dildo in time with the music. “My cage makes me feel … secure.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job, Buffy,” Rachel said. “I really like the new you, sweetie.”

“Can she eat pussy?” hollered one of the intoxicated women I didn’t recognize.

“Ooh, yeah, now, THAT sounds like a winner,” another lady in the party echoed.

Jen and Leigh exchanged glances. I could tell what they were thinking — they weren’t sure if Mike would be okay with me performing sex acts on anyone, since that hadn’t been discussed one way or another.

“Hang on a sec, you guys,” Jen said. She walked away fiddling with her phone, and I knew she was calling her fiancé.

A minute later, my ex pulled back the curtain and rejoined us.

She smiled. “Okay, who wants their pussy licked?”

When Peyton raised her hand, Jen shot her a significant glance. “Only adults,” she said. Peyton pouted but immediately kowtowed.

The woman who’d first mentioned cunnilingus raised her hand. “I’ll take a pussy-licking.” She smiled at me. “You up for it, honey?”

I grinned back. “Oh, yeah, baby, I’m always up for some lesbian action.”

At home, nobody ever asks me if I’m up for something, and it felt weird being treated as an equal, albeit a trashy, slutty one who was there as a sex worker.

After spending a good 30 minutes licking the woman’s 30-something pussy, and fighting off erections to avoid the pain of my chastity spikes, I was passed off to Leigh. For years, I’ve lusted after Jen’s sexy bestie, and as I started to worship her lovely vagina, I squealed because my dick kept poking against those damned evil barbs. The music drowned out my yelps, however, and nobody noticed my anguish.

In all, I licked five pussies. By the time I was done, my neck and dick were sore, the ladies were hammered, and they wanted another sex show. So, even though my ass was also sore, I got busy with the dildo again, twisting myself into different positions to the great amusement of my wife’s inebriated friends.

Jen’s old pal Donna threw back her head and yelled “ass-to-mouth!”

As instructed, I pulled the dildo out of my butt and sucked it, smiling the entire time.

“You’re such a dirty little slut, honey,” Donna said. “Just like you always wanted to be, huh?”

I pulled my lips off the dildo with a pop and winked at her. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, sweetheart!”

My sex show lasted nearly an hour, until it was time to take back the cake. I said my good-byes to the party and thanked everyone again for letting me live out my fantasy. The women who didn’t know the truth all smiled and told me how great I’d done, while The Family girls all flashed knowing smirks.

By the time I got back home I was completely exhausted and disheartened. But at least it’s over now. One nightmare out of the way. Now for the wedding in three days.

Ugh. Let’s just get this shit over with.

Dear Diary,

The two weddings are finally over, thank goodness, although I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to recover. I may never recover.

My spirit is completely broken after the hell I just experienced, and my body aches from head to toe — including my asshole, which is in agony from getting my sissy cherry popped by the horse-dicked best man last night. After that life-changing experience, the events of the evening are a blur. That’s a blessing because I wish I could forget the parts I do recall.

It was a long day for everyone. We rose at the crack of dawn for the first ceremony, a disturbing affair that Mike called “The Covenant.” He gathered us in the basement and ordered me to light the candles he’d purchased for the occasion, which were arranged in a circle.

Next, Mike told the six ladies to strip naked, step inside “the ring of fire” and face east. He then instructed them to place their hands on their hearts and repeat “the sacred oath:”

“I pledge allegiance to The Family. I swear my lifelong loyalty to my leader, Michael David Jameson. I will always protect The Family. I will respect the ancient arts my leader teaches me, and I will only share these precious secrets with those who are deemed worthy. When I am properly schooled, I will use my all-seeing vision to take what is mine from those who are inferior to me, with no remorse and no misgivings, and I will use all inferiors in service to The Family. Everything for The Family. Always protect The Family. Always protect The Family. Always protect The Family.”

When that creepy cadence was over, Mike produced a large needle and had the girls prick their fingers to draw blood. He did the same, and then all seven of them touched fingertips, sharing their fluids.

“Let no man tear apart what is now sealed in our very lifeblood,” Mike said. “We shall forevermore be The Family. Now … for the blood sacrifice.”

Everyone turned to me and I nearly shit my panties.

“Come, Buffy.” Mike crooked his finger.

I rose from my knees and tiptoed toward “the leader.”

“Do you accept yourself as an inferior, Buffy?”

“Yes, sir.”

He surprised me by slapping the shit out of me.

“You will call me ‘Master’ from now on.”

“Um, yes, Master.”

He hit me again.

“Are you ready to be sacrificed?”

“Yes, Master.”

A third smack followed.

“Remove your dress and panties.”

I had no idea what was coming and was absolutely petrified, although I obeyed like the mindless zombie I’ve become. When I was naked as ordered, Mike held up the long pin that had been used to prick The Family’s fingers.

“For thousands of years, since the days of the secret high temples of Ur, it’s been a sacred honor for an inferior to share the same needle that was used by his superiors during The Covenant ceremony,” Mike explained. “Just make sure you don’t get him where it the wounds will show when he’s dressed. Here, Jennifer, you go first. Have at him.”

With an evil, vacant smile, she took the pin from Mike and told me to stand in front of her with my hands on my head. Her voice sounded strange, as if she’d been hypnotized. Being naked other than my cock cage, I felt completely vulnerable. When I was in position, Jen started poking me.

“Ow, owwwww, OWWWWW!!!!” I danced in place with each pinprick.

“Stand still, sissy,” Mike warned. “And smile while you’re being so honored.”

I somehow managed to obey him while Jen continued to jab me all over my torso, on my legs, my nipples, and especially my testicles. Had I not been wearing my chastity device my dick surely would’ve been a target as well.

There were little beads of blood everywhere and my face was wet with tears by the time Jen’s cruel appetite was sated. When she handed the pin to Kelsey, I realized with horror that all six women were going to similarly assault me.

That’s exactly what happened, and by the time everyone was finished with the “blood sacrifice,” I was a gory mess and racked with the pain of literally hundreds of pinpricks, although I’d somehow managed to continue grinning throughout the ordeal.

“Lovely,” Mike said, as he surveyed my bleeding flesh with a smile. “What do you say, Buffy?”

“Um, t-thank you?”

SLLLAAAP!!!

“That was the same needle that drew blood from us. Now, you bleed FOR us. Tell us what an honor that is.”

“Uh, it’s a great honor, sir?”

His hand again slashed across my face.

“I told you — call me ‘Master’ from now on.”

“Yes, Master,” I sniffled, rubbing my cheek.

“Say it again. Tell me how honored you are to serve The Family.”

“It’s a great honor to serve The Family, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“Thank the girls, too.”

“Um, thank you for letting me serve you.” Seizing the opportunity to do some brown-nosing, I threw in: “I … I really want to be a good servant for The Family.”

Nobody answered.

Mike clapped twice. “Okay, that was wonderful. We are now as one. Let’s relax a while before we have to get ready for the other wedding. Buffy, how about a nice, big breakfast for everyone?”

“Yes, Master, coming right up, Master.”

“Ew, clean all that nasty blood off first before you start touching our food, you disgusting little sissy,” Kelsey ordered in a tone that told me the eerie spell Mike had cast over everyone during the ceremony had lifted.

“Stay naked, so you don’t bleed through your uniform,” Mike added. “Your wounds will heal in time for the wedding.”

“Yes, Master.”

I’d almost called him ‘sir’ again, and as I rushed toward my basement bathroom to clean up, I sighed with relief that I hadn’t repeated the mistake. I was in enough pain already.

The next few hours were a flurry of activity, which made the clock seem to move faster. That wasn’t a good thing as far as I was concerned, and before I knew it, Mike told everyone to start getting ready for the second wedding.

Behind my back, the girls had plotted which dress I’d be wearing while “identifying” as a five-year-old flower girl. Olivia had claimed it would be bad luck if I saw the dress before the wedding day, but I think she just wanted to shock me when she finally revealed it. If so, her plan worked, because my heart sank when I got a gander at the flouncy, ridiculous outfit. There were ribbons and bows everywhere, and the thought of wearing that faggoty monstrosity in front of 200 people made me want to puke.

I had already been feeling nauseous over the prospect of Jennifer marrying another man, especially the evil motherfucker who stole her heart and mind. For more than a decade, through thick and thin, I had been a faithful, kind husband, even while Jen ran around on me and treated me like dirt. I took care of her daughters without asking for anything in return, other than being allowed to stay married to the woman I loved, and to try to be some semblance of a stepfather to the girls.

All that’s a distant memory now. The divorce is final. The past is gone. All I have left are a depressing present and a future that promises to be even shittier. The worst part is, I brought it all on myself — and not just since Mike entered the picture, either, but throughout my entire joke of a marriage.

Sometimes, Mike’s crazy philosophy makes sense. Maybe he’s right; maybe it’s always been my destiny be a doormat. Why else did I put up with all the shit Jen and her daughters shoveled my way for so many years? Perhaps I am indeed an “inferior” like Mike says, and maybe I should concentrate on being the best inferior I can possibly be, since The Family is going to take me down that road whether I like it or not, and there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.

I was haunted by those kind of morose thoughts all day until it was finally time to leave for the ceremony, and more immediate concerns dominated my headspace. Jen and the girls went in one car, while Mike chauffeured me to the gazebo I’d booked in Riverdale Park. In keeping with my persona as a five-year-old girl, I sat in the backseat.

Mike eyed me through the rear-view mirror. “This is a huge day for The Family. You better not screw this up. You hear me?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Some of Jen’s relatives are going to be shocked when they see you dressed like a flower girl for the first time. Don’t let it faze you; keep a smile on your face at all times.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You got your speech all memorized?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Now, remember, if anyone asks why you’re serving the reception all by yourself, tell them you wanted to do it alone as a wedding gift to us, and that you refused our repeated offers to hire other people to help you. You’re going to be doing a lot of work, Buffy, and I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for your sissy little ass.”

“Um, yes, Master, that’s what I’ll say if anyone asks.”

After Mike nosed the car into the Riverdale Park lot, he looked around to ensure nobody was watching before reaching in his pocket and producing a pair of wicked-looking nipple clamps with what appeared to be razor-sharp teeth.

“Put these on your nipples underneath your dress, Buffy. I want you in pain — but I don’t want you walking around wincing and making faces. Remember, you’re to keep smiling, and acting like this is the greatest day of your life. You understand me?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And don’t take those off until the reception is over and you’ve completely cleaned the hall.”

“Yes, Master.”

I attached the clamps, which were excruciating. As the initial waves of agony rippled through me, I knew I was in for a long night.

Mike sneered. “How do they feel?”

“Um, they hurt real bad, Master.”

“Good.” He reached over the seat and smacked my nipples three times each, causing incredible pain.

“YEEEEOOOWWWWCH!”

“Don’t cry and ruin your makeup, Buffy,” Mike warned as he opened the car door. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re not a happy little sissy, would we?”

“No, Master.”

“No … we wouldn’t want that. Okay, then — I’m off to marry the woman I stole from you. Wait here until you’re called, and think about what a little bitch you are to have allowed all this to happen.”

That was one order I didn’t have difficulty following. With a heavy heart and a nonstop avalanche of bitter self-criticism, I sat in the backseat hating myself for about 20 minutes until Olivia came to get me.

“Here,” she said, handing me a bouquet of flowers. “As soon as you hear the music start to play, you’ll walk down the aisle with Tommy like we talked about. Stay with him, too — don’t get too far ahead.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Trying not to appear as dejected as I felt, I followed my former stepdaughter to a spot under a tree where the bridal party had gathered. Jen looked absolutely stunning in her gown and it was all I could do to avoid crying from the sadness that threatened to consume me. Leigh was lovely as the Maid of Honor, while Kelsey, Olivia, Carmen and Peyton made up the rest of the gorgeous bridal party.

Glancing across the park at the groomsmen, I didn’t recognize any of them, although they carried themselves with an air that made me wonder if they weren’t some of Mike’s fellow proponents of the “ancient arts.” The best man was a huge, bald-headed dude with a pointy goatee and a ring in his left ear.

The string quartet I’d booked struck up an opening piece of chamber music, and with a hammering heart, I followed Tommy through the grass toward the gazebo where the vows would be exchanged. Rows of chairs, almost all of them occupied, were arranged in a semi-circle around the structure. The guests craned their necks as we came into view.

As Mike had predicted, there were shocked expressions in the crowd, along with plenty of smirks, and a few ladies whose faces screamed “oh, how precious!” Despite my complete embarrassment, I kept a fake smile plastered on my face as I carried the basket of flowers to the stand, where Mike and his groomsmen were waiting.

Everyone turned when the Wedding March started, and there seemed to be a collective gasp as the beautiful bride stepped forward. Her smile was so radiant, I couldn’t help being happy for her, while at the same time feeling like the most pathetic, sad-sack loser on the face of the earth.

Somehow, I managed to keep grinning like an enchanted little girl in Fairyland while Mike and Jen promised to love and cherish each other till death did they part. Their vows included a few references to The Family, perhaps as an inside joke, but more likely as a way for Mike to interject his weird cult shit into the proceedings.

After the ceremony, Mike and Jen headed to the reception hall in the limo I’d rented, while Kelsey drove Olivia and me in her car. While in the backseat, I changed out of the poofy flower girl dress and into my maid’s outfit for the reception. This wasn’t the embarrassing formal maid’s getup that I wear while serving The Family at home, but a sensible powder-blue dress with a white apron and flats.

“Dad said people might feel sorry for you if he makes you wear heels, but don’t think you’re getting off easy,” Olivia said before producing a handful of pebbles. “Here — put these in the bottom of each shoe and keep them in there all night.”

“Yes, Miss Olivia.”

“And you better not be limping around for other people to see, either,” Kelsey added.

“I won’t, Miss Kelsey,” I replied, shuddering at how cruel the girls had become since undergoing their father’s brainwashing regimen. They’d always been bitchy to me, but Mike has managed to dredge up something dark and evil. My misery is like blood to this coven of newly minted vampires. They feed off it.

When we got to the hall, I followed the girls inside, with the pebbles already starting to hurt my feet. Guests were arriving, so I checked in with the hall manager, with whom I’d made arrangements a few weeks earlier as part of all the running-around I’d done to get ready for the wedding. The plan was that the hall would provide a bartender, so as not to inconvenience guests who wanted drinks right away, and that the caterer would bring the food — but it would be my job to serve the meal by myself to all the tables, and then fetch drinks for those who didn’t feel like getting up. When I first approached the hall manager about the idea, I could tell by the look on his face that he thought the request was odd, but he accommodated me without comment or hesitation.

Once everyone was settled into their seats, I mustered all my courage and stood at the front of the hall, holding up my hand for silence. When the din died down, I began:

“First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for being here tonight to share in this union of two wonderful people. I’m sure a lot of you were shocked at the ceremony when I came out as a five-year-old flower girl, but I’m pansexual, and earlier today, that’s how I identified. As you can see, I’ve changed clothes and now I identify as a grown-up maid. I’ll be your server tonight, because this is my wedding present to Jennifer and Mike — I told them they didn’t have to worry about hiring waitstaff because I’ll take care of it all myself. It’s a small thank-you for everything they’ve done for me. And, believe me, they’ve done a lot. They’ve both been wonderful about supporting my transition to womanhood. After I came out as trans and asked Jen for a divorce, I begged her to let me stay with the family as a woman, so I could be something like a live-in aunt to Kelsey and Olivia, who, by the way, have also been awesome and supportive. I didn’t see the reason why my family should have to break up just so I could live my true self. I’m the one who turned our lives upside down, and surprised them with this lifestyle change, and they didn’t deserve any more instability by having me move out. And frankly, I love my family dearly, and didn’t want to move. Jennifer was kind enough to grant my request and allow me to stay. Then, when Mike came back into the picture, he couldn’t have been more understanding and sympathetic. Not every guy would be so open-minded about this situation, but Mike has been great to Jen, their beautiful daughters and to me. So, now, Mike and Jen are married and restarting their family, and I’m proud to announce that I will be staying on as their maid. This is something I not only want, but consider a great honor. I feel this is the best way I can serve the family moving forward, and Mike, Jen and the girls are all happy with the arrangement. So, I hope you’ll all be happy for us, too, while you eat, drink and be merry — and don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, because it’s my honor to serve. Thank you.”

When I finished my embarrassing soliloquy, I glanced at Mike, who was beaming like a proud papa. His scary-looking best man leaned in and whispered something to him, and my master nodded.

It wasn’t long before the pebbles in my shoes started hurting like crazy, on top of the biting pain in my nipples, not to mention the soreness from the morning’s pin-pricks. Once again, The Family had ensured that I’d be in kept in a state of abject misery, although outsiders didn’t have a clue because of the lying smile I kept on my face while scurrying around to each table taking pre-dinner drink orders.

At about 6 o’clock, the caterers dropped off the food and split, happy, I’m sure, to be getting paid the full amount for doing half the work. I filled each plate and pushed the cart from table to table as quickly as possible. Mike could have made things a hellova lot easier on me by having a buffet-style dinner — but the whole idea was to make this experience as horrible as possible while forcing me to keep up the ruse that I was the happiest little sissy in the world. I had no idea until I actually went through it how utterly demoralizing it was to have to keep faking that smile while I was in such abject physical and emotional anguish.

As I set a plate in front of Jen’s Aunt Sharon, she shook her head.

“Poor thing, you’re working yourself to death.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I lied. “Jen and Mike kept trying to get people to help me but I really want to do this all by myself. It means a lot to me, so they finally just gave up and just let me do it. I guess I can be stubborn sometimes.”

“Well, it’s awfully sweet of you.” Aunt Sharon smiled. “And it’s nice of them to be so understanding, too. You know … about your … your change.”

“Oh, I know. They’ve all been so wonderful. Especially Mike. I think we’re all going to be happy together from now on.”

After spewing that bit of company-line bullshit, I moved on to the other guests.

Once everyone had been served dinner, it was time to take post-meal drink orders. I was exhausted and in terrible pain, but somehow managed not to show it.

During one pass-by of the bridal table, my master whispered in my ear, “go with Ivan here, and do whatever he says. Don’t worry, he knows everything.”

I glanced at the bald giant and he sneered. “Shall we?”

Shaking from head to toe, I followed the behemoth through the hall and into a side room. He locked the door behind him and then whipped out the most gargantuan dick I’d ever seen — even bigger than Mike’s, which is quite large itself.

“Okay, sissy, get to sucking — and you better put a lot of slobber on it, too, because that’s the only lube you get,” he growled. “I want some booty, and your master tells me you’re a virgin.”

“Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-yes, sir.”

He pointed to his dick. “Better make it wet, then, sissy.”

With waves of shame sloshing through me, I knelt before the man and started giving my first blowjob. His dick was so big I had to stretch my mouth open as far as it would go. I tried to get as much spit on his weapon as possible, afraid to contemplate how much it was going to hurt having him put that thing up my ass.

My fears were well-founded. When he was satisfied with my BJ, he ordered me to get undressed and bend over. Then, with no ceremony whatsoever, he shoved his cock in my poor bunghole and started pumping furiously.

“YEEEEOOOWWWW, PLEEEEASSSEE!” I yelped, only to be slapped on the back of my head.

“Quiet, sissy, people will hear you,” the man grunted.

I bit my lip, closed my eyes and endured the terrible assault, wanting to die.

But I didn’t die. I wasn’t so lucky.

When Ivan the Terrible finally came, he wiped his dick on my butt cheeks and zipped up his pants.

“Go get cleaned up, and then your master wants you to get back to serving right away,” he said before strolling out of the room.

I wanted to cry, but in my head I heard Mike’s voice telling me to act happy, and to avoid running my makeup. So, even though I was all alone and had just been brutally raped, I plastered that ridiculous smile onto my face and skipped off to the ladies room to clean up.

Jen’s cousin Lisa was applying makeup in one of the bathroom mirrors. She smirked when she spotted me.

“I saw you sneak off into that room with the best man,” she said. “Boy, you’re a little slut, aren’t you?”

Thinking on my feet, I replied, “oh, yeah, you know it, girl. Do you blame me, though? Look at that guy — ain’t he hot?”

“Sure is,” Lisa agreed.

“But he might have a girlfriend … so, keep what you saw on the down-low, okay? Just between us girls?”

Lisa smiled and closed her compact. “Don’t worry — I’ll keep it our little secret.”

“Thanks, girlfriend.”

As soon as she left the bathroom, I furiously wiped myself clean and then hurried to Mike to tell him what Jen’s cousin had seen. He seemed a bit concerned when I first reported the encounter, but when I told him how I’d handled it, he actually praised me. I felt a warm glow inside, and was proud for having pleased my master — and then I started cussing at myself for so desperately seeking the favor of the man who’s ruined my life.

The memory of the rest of the evening is a painful, cloudy blur. I know I ran myself ragged serving drinks all night with a bullshit smile and a throbbing anus to go with the rest of my aching body parts, but by the time Jen and Mike took off in the limo for their week-long honeymoon to Barbados, I was so wiped out I could barely keep track of what was happening around me. Somehow, I managed to stay upright while cleaning up the hall after everyone left.

I got home at 3:30 this morning. Thankfully, the girls rented a hotel and aren’t due back until later today, so I was able to get a few hours’ sleep and catch up on my diary.

To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s even worth keeping this journal anymore. I started it in the hopes that it might be a catharsis that would help me get through what’s become a horrible day-to-day existence — but all it really seems to do is remind me how fucked-up things have become.

We’ll see if I want to keep putting myself through this heartache.

 

Dear Diary,

Hello again. I’m back from journaling purgatory with my first entry since right after the Covenant and wedding ceremonies more than two years ago. Following that traumatic Day From Hell, I quit chronicling what was happening to me. I’d started this diary as a way to help deal with all the craziness after Mike moved in, but I found that rehashing everything was only sending me deeper into depression.

I’m picking it up again because the girls have initiated the recruiting process, and I feel so profoundly sorry for the poor slob Kelsey has ensnared as The Family’s first victim, I’m beside myself and don’t know what else to do. I surely can’t voice my feelings to anyone, so writing about them is the only other recourse I can think of, short of pounding my fists on the walls or yanking out my hair.

It’s one thing to have The Family constantly abusing me. I’m used to it. I’ve developed a tolerance for physical pain, and what little pride I had is long gone. I expect every day to be miserable and I’m rarely wrong.

But to see this Ed guy being led down the same dark road … the thought of having to watch an ordinary human morph into the frightened, empty, downtrodden toady that I’ve become … well, it’s just horrid. I wish I could do something to stop this but Mike’s Evil Express has left the depot. When the dust clears, Ed will end up a mindless, obedient sissy, just like me, and that’s got me really bummed out for some reason.

Hell, I don’t even know this guy. I’ve only seen him once, when he dropped Kelsey off after a date. He’s even smaller than me; he can’t be more than 5’5 and probably weighs less than 120lbs. The minute I spotted him, I knew he’d make a perfect sissy for Mike and his clan of demented hellcats.

I have no idea why this is bothering me so much. It’s not like I don’t have my own set of problems. Maybe it’s because I know that a perfectly normal, taxpaying citizen is going to end up a miserable piece of shit like me, and I don’t want to see that happen to anyone, even a stranger. I’d better learn to deal with it somehow, though, because this is only the beginning. Ed is merely the first inferior to be snagged, with many more to come.

Perhaps I should just embrace Mike’s oddball philosophy, and be happy for Ed that he’ll finally be getting a chance to live out his full potential as a servant to his superiors. According to Mike, it’s his destiny, a fate that was written in the stars, or some such horseshit. But I know full well what horrors lie ahead for this poor little bastard. The girls were heartbreakers before they’d mastered the ancient arts; now that they’ve learned how to control people by manipulating their minds while playing on their deepest fears and insecurities, they have the ability to turn any man to mush.

But Mike doesn’t want just any man. Only the right kind of inferior will do, he says. And unfortunately for Ed, he fits the bill perfectly, being a dinky little wimp with a shitload of money in the bank and not a whole lot of self-esteem.

Mike told the girls that he wants inferiors with at least $100,000 in liquid assets, so he said they’d most likely be targeting men who were in their 30s or older. But Ed is actually Kelsey’s age, having turned 19 about six months ago. Mike found out by perusing probate court notices that Ed had inherited a whopping $700,000 from a rich uncle. So, The Leader instructed the girls to follow their target to get his daily routine down, while trolling his social media feeds and gathering intel on his idiosyncrasies, preferences and vices.

When Mike had complied enough information to build a character profile on Ed, he chose Kelsey from his harem of available vamps to reel in this particular big little fish.

On a recent sunny afternoon, Kelsey “bumped into” Ed on the boardwalk near a restaurant he frequented, and she “accidentally” spilled her slushy on his shirt. Using the techniques she’d learned during her father’s mysterious training sessions, Kelsey had the poor kid eating out of her hand within seconds, and before the brief interaction was over they’d exchanged phone numbers, and the unsuspecting bastard walked away thinking it was his lucky day.

He got lucky, all right. Unfortunately for him, the luck The Family brings ain’t the good kind.

By the second date, Ed had offered to buy Kelsey a car. She declined, per her dad’s instructions, which made the simp even more desperate to please. A few dates later, Mike told Kelsey to start really turning on the bitchiness, and after each outing she’d come home and laugh with The Family about all the mean things she’d said and done to her lovestruck victim.

On one date, Kelsey made Ed personally say “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” to more than 50 people who were in line for a concert because she said he’d taken too long at the ticket window asking questions about the seats. Kelsey said everyone in line was laughing at him and calling him a “little pussy,” repeating the put-down she’d loudly used several times while berating him in front of the group.

Another time, Ed had to literally kiss a homeless man’s ass in an alley behind a fancy restaurant after Kelsey told Ed he’d been rude to the waitress during dinner. All Ed had done was ask for a salt-shaker, but Kelsey told him he’d used an “unacceptable” tone of voice. So, outside the eatery after the meal, when a homeless man approached the couple asking for change, Kelsey offered to give him $100 if he accompanied them to the alley “so that my selfish date can apologize properly for being so stuck-up.” When they got to the alley, she told Ed to kneel on the grimy concrete and kiss the man’s smelly ass. Ed did as told. Then, he had to dig in his wallet and give the guy a Benjamin.

The girls all think this stuff is hilarious, and as far as Mike’s concerned, Kelsey is a chip off the old block. He couldn’t be happier with how the recruitment is going, and he continues sifting through probate notices and other public records on the hunt for potential new victims while plotting how to best move forward with the hapless Ed.

It’s now been three weeks since Kelsey first sank her hooks into the kid, and Mike says it’s time to strike. He instructed her to invite Ed to dinner to meet The Family, at which time he’ll undergo his “baptism of fire.” From what I can glean, that’s some kind of radical technique that Mike will be using to push Ed into the same abyss I’m in.

According to my master, I didn’t need to undergo this type of shock treatment because Jen had already pussywhipped me for several years, so he was able to use my undying devotion to her as an entry point to infiltrate my headspace. With fresh infatuation, even situations as all-consuming as what Ed’s experiencing, Mike says there needs to be a more drastic way to get past what he calls the “societal emotional firewall,” which he insists will “deprogram the indoctrination.”

I have no earthly idea what the fuck he’s talking about, and I don’t think the girls do, either. Mike doesn’t tell them everything. I suppose we’ll find out when Ed comes over for dinner Friday night.

Ugh, I’m dreading what that poor kid will go through, even if I’m not sure exactly what’s going to happen. Whatever it is, I just know it’ll be terrible.

 

Dear Diary,

Since the girls all turned 18, when my master is horny like he was last night, our house becomes a sexual playground that makes Sodom and Gomorrah seem like Wednesday Night Bingo in Peoria.

When I got home after a long day at the bank, the orgy was already in full swing. Carmen was sucking Mike’s dick in the living room, while he kicked back watching his two MILFs Jen and Leigh doing a 69 on the carpet nearby. Meanwhile, Kelsey and Olivia were tag-teaming Peyton on the easy chair near the TV set, with the eldest sister sucking their friend’s tits while Olivia ate pussy.

Even though Mike doesn’t brook incest and waited until everyone was of legal age, he’s still a piece of shit for pushing his own daughters to have lesbian sex in front of him and their mother like that. It’s unclear whether he’ll ever allow Kelsey and Olivia to have relationships with men, other than for the purpose of ensnaring inferiors; the girls asked about it and Mike said he’s reluctant to allow anyone else to be intimate with The Family. It would have to be a trusted “fellow traveler,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate, and the girls know better than to pester their dad once he clams up about something.

After I changed into my housecleaning frock I began picking up around the naked revelers. I was ignored for a few minutes before Mike snapped his fingers in my direction.

“Go get the cattle prods, Buffy,” he said with a grin. “I think I want to watch you dance.”

The girls all giggled as I trotted to the basement to retrieve the two terrible implements from the “toy bag.” Mike and his minions often spice up orgies by using various “toys” to humiliate and torture me, and I know the cattle prod dance game well.

When I returned to the living room, Mike smiled at his daughters. “Girls, would you mind doing the honors tonight?”

Olivia wiped Peyton’s juices from her smirking lips. “Sure thing, Dad,” she said before strutting to the stereo and flipping it on. She found a throbbing house beat and then turned to me with an evil glint in her eye.

“Okay, sissy.” She pointed to the carpet in front of her. “Showtime.”

Kelsey held out her hand, and I gave her one of the prods. “Yeah, don’t pass out like you did last time, unless you want a rump roast.”

A chill ran through me at the mention of the terrible punishment that had been invented by the impish Olivia — a handful of ghost peppers shoved up my ass.

“Ooh, we should give him a rump roast anyway,” Olivia said as I handed her the second cattle prod.

Mike stroked Carmen’s hair while she continued blowing him. “Okay, sissy, dance for me.”

I started furiously bumping and grinding to the pounding beat, doing my best to be sexy until Olivia’s first shock hit home and I yelped and hesitated for an instant — which earned me a second zap from Kelsey. I flinched but managed to stay in place and keep dancing. While Mike relaxed and enjoyed Carmen’s blowjob, he seemed to get a kick out of the faces I made each time his daughters would poke me with the cattle prods as I tried desperately to keep dancing for him.

On her way to the bathroom, Peyton decided to get in on the action by stopping and spitting in my face.

“T-thank you, Miss Peyton — OWW!!”

“Keep dancing, loser,” Kelsey growled, sticking me yet again, this time in the nuts.

“OOOOOOOOOOHH!”

I doubled over. Mike chortled.

“Damn, sissy, I think I felt that one from all the way over here. Come on, now, faggot — shake that ass for me.”

I started to obey but Olivia pushed the prod between my butt cheeks and engaged it. I think she was trying to make me pass out.

“YEEEEOWWW, PLEEEEASE!”

“Dance, damn it!” Olivia shocked me three times in succession on the backs of my legs.

Somehow, with tears streaming down my face, I managed to continue bopping back and forth, snapping my fingers and shaking my ass to the thumping four-on-the-floor house beat, putting on a frantic show for my master despite one shockwave after another from the evil siblings who stood on either side of me jabbing me with their electrodes on every part of my body.

As I danced, Jan and Leigh would look up from their 69 every now and then to watch me with wry smiles on their faces. When Peyton returned from the bathroom, she spat in my face a second time before looking to Mike for approval. The smug sonofabitch nodded at her and smiled as he stroked her big sister’s head.

Finally, Mike grabbed Carmen’s hair and started pumping until letting out a groan and writhing back and forth. Through my teardrops, I looked on in jealous anguish, wishing upon a sissy star that I could be allowed to cum like that. It’s been more than a year since I’ve had my cage off for anything but cleaning.

“Buffy’s Dance Show” thankfully ended after Mike had his orgasm, and he had Olivia switch off the music before ordering me to start making dinner.

Olivia held up her finger. “First, go give yourself a rump roast. No reason in particular. I just wanna see you sweat.”

“Don’t forget to wash your hands afterward, loser.” Peyton crinkled her nose. “Nobody wants to eat food after you’ve had your fingers near your nasty sissy ass.”

Everyone smirked as I trudged to the kitchen to retrieve the stash of ghost peppers from the refrigerator, wondering how fellow human beings could possibly be so cruel. I realize the girls weren’t anywhere near this bad before Mike showed up, although I doubt they’ll ever revert to their old selves. I think they’ll forever remain in vampire form, sucking blood from their victims, causing pain and feeding off the resulting anguish.

I spent the rest of the evening in colonic agony, but despite the peppers up my ass I had to finish cleaning the house, and then stand in the hallway awaiting further orders for two hours until everyone went to bed because I’m not allowed to sit down until I’m off the clock. Oliva’s wish came true. She got to see me sweat all night.

Mike’s brainwashing techniques must be ironclad, because otherwise I’d have gotten the fuck out of this hellhole a long time ago.

But I can’t. All I can do is whine about it in this diary, I guess.

After tomorrow, it looks like I’ll have a fellow sissy to commiserate with. If there’s any silver lining to Ed coming over for dinner for his “baptism of fire,” it’s the possibility that at least there’ll be someone else in the world who understands what I’m going through.

But that’s exactly what’s making me so sad about the whole thing. I wouldn’t wish that knowledge on my worst enemy, let alone some unsuspecting 19-year-old with his whole life ahead of him.

Ugh. Good night.

 

Dear Diary,

 

Well, they did it. They broke Ed last night. Broke him down right in front of my eyes. The Family took a normal, functioning human being and turned him into a degraded, self-loathing, mindless zombie like me. That poor kid. I feel so sorry for him but it’s too late. Mike and the girls got inside his head and now he’s done for.

Kelsey’s “new boyfriend” showed up for dinner wearing a tie and a terrified expression. She’d already been toying with her little mouse for weeks, using the skills her father had taught her to turn Ed into a pathetic, desperate-to-please simp. Last night’s dinner was my master’s opportunity to seal the deal and transform Kelsey’s mark into a full-fledged, brainwashed sissy — and, boy, did the evil sonofabitch succeed!

Per the plan they’d worked out beforehand, The Family started the encoding process by playing “good cop/bad cop” — Mike was exceedingly polite to the guest while the ladies dogged him.

“Nice to meet you, young man,” Mike said, shaking Ed’s hand so firmly it made him yelp.

Kelsey smirked. “What’s wrong, Ed? Is my dad too strong for your wimpy little ass?”

“Aw, come on, that’s not right, Kelsey,” Olivia interjected. For a brief second, Ed’s face lit up as he clearly thought Olivia was taking his side — until she added: “It’s no fair comparing Dad to this little twerp. Hell, I bet I could kick his ass.”

Ed blushed. “Um … er … I …”

Mike held up his hand. “Come on, girls, be nice.” He draped his arm around Ed and walked him toward the dining room. “I’ve got to tell you, Eddie: It’s really refreshing to see a young person who knows how to dress. You got class, man. Seriously, I like your style. That tie is awesome. I want one just like it.”

“Er, thank you very much, sir.” Ed gazed up at Mike with a vacant smile and it was clear the poor bastard was already spellbound. My master really knows how to reel people in, that’s for sure. He’s a genius at the “ancient arts” of mental and emotional manipulation, and has trained the girls to become proficient in the hoodoo themselves.

Everyone drifted into the dining room, where I stood at attention donned in the plain, light-blue uniform I’d worn to serve the wedding reception. My master didn’t want to alarm Ed by making me adopt my usual mealtime kneeling position, or by exposing the kid to the ridiculously flouncy formal getup or the slave smock I typically wear at home — the same kind of embarrassing outfits that’ll soon be part of his wardrobe.

It probably wouldn’t have mattered what I was wearing because Ed didn’t seem to notice me as he took his spot at the table between Mike and Kelsey. As I minced around filling plates, I really felt for the kid. He looked like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Dinner was brutal. Shortly after the meal began, Jennifer joined in on the relentless effort to confuse and belittle the poor guest, as she and her daughters followed Mike’s blitzkrieg strategy to the letter.

“So, Ed, what makes you think you’re good enough for my daughter?” Jen sipped her seltzer water.

Ed stared at his plate. “I … I care about her a whole lot, Mrs. Jameson, and I want to take care of her. I really value our relationship.”

Jen scoffed. “What would a little candy-ass like you know about having a relationship with a girl? You’ve probably never had a girlfriend in your life.”

“I … I …” Ed gulped.

Mike sighed. “Come on, you guys, I told you to be nice. Eddie’s my man. You my man, Eddie?”

“Er, yes, sir.”

“Eddie can’t help the way he is. Can you, Eddie?”

“Um, no, sir.”

“Exactly.” Mike dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “He can’t help it if he’s kind of a … you know, a girly little guy. We’re all born how we are. Right, Eddie?”

“Uh … yes, sir.”

“See?” With a reassuring smile, Mike reached over and patted Ed’s wrist. “I mean, as long as YOU understand that you’ll never be the kind of tall, macho guy my daughter usually goes for, everything should be just fine. Right?”

“Um … right.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Mike continued. “The idea is to embrace ourselves as we are. Including our shortcomings. You know?”

Ed nodded. His eyes were becoming glassy as Mike’s hypnotic tone and cadence took hold.

“You are who you are, Ed. And you’re more like a … well, you know, a girly-man,” Mike said. “But you already know that. Right?”

Ed’s head bobbed up and down.

“You have a small, feminine body, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Like a girly-man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, then … who are you, Eddie?” Mike’s stare bore a hole into the kid’s soul. “Tell me.”

“Um … a girly-man?”

Olivia sniffed. “Sissy is more like it.”

“I think that’s more accurate.” Kelsey turned to her victim. “Say ‘I’m a sissy.’ Say it.”

“Um … I’m … I’m a sissy.”

“Louder.”

“I’M A SISSY.”

The females applauded and I could see the kid’s ears turning red as Mike continued his lecture.

“It’s okay to be who you are, Ed. When we deny our true selves, it only leads to sadness and misery. Think about it, Ed: Have you ever been happy in your life? I mean, truly happy?”

“No, sir. Not really.”

“No, you haven’t. But, then, Kelsey came along … and she made it all better … didn’t she?”

“OMG, Mr. Jameson … like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Do you love my daughter, Ed?”

“Oh, yes, sir. More than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Mike nodded. “I can tell. And I appreciate that. Because, you see, Eddie, I need someone I can trust … someone who will protect my daughter … someone who will put her needs above their own. Is that someone you, Ed? Can you be that someone?”

“I doubt it,” Jen jumped in, playing her role to the hilt. “Look at him. He couldn’t protect a church mouse — if anything were to happen, the little pansy would probably run away crying.”

“Oh, no, Ma’am, no.” Ed’s eyes widened. “I would always protect Kelsey.”

“You would?” Jen tugged her earlobe. “You’d actually put her needs before yours?”

“Of course, Mrs. Jameson.”

“Bullshit — prove it,” Jen shot back.

“Oh, Ed doesn’t have to do that.” Mike leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t need to prove yourself, Eddie. I believe in you. I really do. No need to prove anything.”

“It’s okay, sir.” Ed set his jaw. “I’m happy to prove it.”

“Nah, you don’t have to.” Mike sipped his beer. “I’m not worried about it. I already know you’d do anything for Kelsey. There’s no need to prove anything, Eddie, I’m telling you.”

“Please, give me the chance to show you — please. Whatever you guys want me to do, I’ll do it.” Tears starting to form in the kid’s baby blues. “I’d do … anything for Kelsey. I love her so much. Please … let me prove it.”

He broke down sobbing.

Mike glanced around at the girls and I could see them all crack tiny smiles. Their trap had been sprung. They’d maneuvered this poor sucker into begging to be humiliated.

“I can see it means a lot to you to be able to prove your love for my daughter,” Mike said.

“It does, sir.”

“Well, that’s wonderful. And you’ll get your chance. But first, I need to do something. I call it the ‘Mike Test.’”

“The … the Mike Test, sir?”

“Yeah, the Mike Test. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and I truly believe that, Eddie. If you mean my daughter any harm, I’ll be able to tell it just by looking deeply into your eyes. Now, I need you to take both my hands and stare at me without looking away until I tell you to. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t break eye-contact, understand? That’s very important.”

“Yes, sir. I won’t.”

I wanted to grab the kid by the shoulders and scream “RUN AWAY NOW!” but I just stood there like the loser I am and watched Mike take his victim into La-La Land.

The Leader turned his chair to face Ed and leaned forward until their noses almost touched. Then, my master did his thing, clasping the younger man’s hands, locking eyes with him, and then … well, I’m not sure exactly what he did, but by the time he was done staring Ed down, the poor kid’s brain was oatmeal.

“Okay, you’re pure.” Mike sat back and emptied his glass. “Buffy, why don’t you get me another beer, while we see if Ed here can prove his devotion to Kelsey?”

It was jarring to be politely asked to provide a refill like that, as opposed to Mike’s usual flippant “another beer, sissy,” but Ed’s brainwashing process wasn’t complete, and my master needed to keep up the ruse.

 When I got back with the beverage, Ed was standing and unbuttoning his shirt.

“All the way, even your underwear,” Kelsey directed, and I realized while I was in the kitchen fetching Mike’s brew, Ed had been ordered to strip.

“Say ‘yes, Miss Kelsey,’” Jen ordered.

“Yes, Miss Kelsey.”

“Always show respect,” my ex-wife cautioned.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

When he was completely nude, Ed stood in front of everyone covering his genitals.

Kelsey frowned. “Move your hands, sissy.”

When he did, the girls cracked up, bringing more tears to Ed’s eyes while Mike sat there at the head of the table, surveying the humiliating scene with a smug smirk.

Olivia pointed. “OMG, that’s the tiniest dick I’ve ever seen. Kels, please tell me you didn’t let that little thing in you.”

“You kidding me? He never even got to first base.” Kelsey snorted. “He tried to kiss me once and I slapped him.”

A sliver of Ed’s old personality managed to cut through the fog as he clasped his hands in front of him. “Please … I did what you guys said. Can I get dressed now?”

 Jen sniffed. “Any 5^th-grader playing Truth or Dare does that. Stripping naked proves nothing.”

“Then … then what else can I do? Please. I love Kelsey. I can prove it. Anything.”

“Okay, Ed, if you really want to prove your devotion, then here.” Mike reached into his waistband; I flinched when he produced a silver semiautomatic .9mm pistol.

Ed gasped. “Uh, what’s that for, sir?”

“It’s your salvation.” Mike passed the gun to the kid. “Here.”

“W-what do you want me to do?”

Mike stared into his eyes. “Shoot yourself. In the head. Do it. I order you to.”

“Yes, do it, Ed, it’s our destiny together,” Kelsey oozed in a soothing, hypnotic tone similar to her father’s. “Do it for me, Ed. For us. We’ll be joined forever.”

Tears streamed down the poor victim’s face as he slowly lifted the pistol. I could tell he was trying to resist with every fiber of his being, but with movements that seemed programmed, he pressed the barrel against his temple.

Mike smiled. “Any last words?”

“I … I love you, Kelsey! I LOVE YOU!!!!!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger.

Click.

The gun had been loaded with blanks. Overcome by emotion, Ed dropped to the floor as if he’d actually been shot and curled up in the fetal position weeping, with convulsions racking his entire body.

Mike nudged him with the toe of his shoe. “Okay, girls. Congratulations, the Baptism of Fire was a success. He’s ours forever, as long as we keep up the pressure like I taught you.”

Kelsey reached down, grabbed Ed by the hair and lifted him to his feet.

She leaned in close. “You’re a sissy. What are you? Tell me.”

“I’m a sissy,” he intoned.

Out of nowhere, Kelsey slapped the shit out of her young charge. His tears flowed faster but he made no move to protect himself, even when Kelsey hit him twice more.

“He’s ours,” Mike repeated.

“What are we gonna name this one?” Olivia asked.

“I don’t know, girls, why don’t you come up with something?” Mike grinned.

“How about some truth in advertising? We’ll call him ‘Faggot,’” Jen suggested, prompting guffaws.

“Maybe ‘Cissie?’” Kelsey shrugged. “He’s a sissy, so maybe that should just be his name.”

“How about ‘Edith,’ because his name is Ed?” Jen rubbed her chin.

“Ooh, I know.” Olivia smirked. “Since we have a Buffy, let’s make this one a Fluffy.”

Her suggestion was greeted with applause.

Kelsey slapped her new servant in the face once more.

“Your name is Fluffy from now on, loser. Say it: ‘My name is Fluffy and I’m nothing but a worthless sissy loser.’”

“My name is Fluffy and I’m nothing but a worthless sissy loser,” he repeated.

Mike clapped. “Perfect. Welcome to your new life, Fluffy. May you serve The Family forever.”

The sad bastard actually thanked Mike. I wanted to throw up.

Master then sent Fluffy home with orders to meet him at his attorney’s office first thing Monday morning to transfer his inheritance to The Family’s bank account. Mike also directed his subject to make an appointment to formally change his name to Fluffy, although he’ll be allowed to keep his last name, Jankowski. Master says the authorities might get suspicious if all the inferiors he lures change their surnames to Jameson and end up working for the same company. Hearing this made me feel proud that Mike had deemed me a special-enough sissy to share his name, and that the others wouldn’t be so honored — and then, pride turned to disgust as I contemplated that absurdly pathetic thought process.

After Ed left the house, I peeked out the window and saw him sitting in his car sobbing his poor little eyes out. I felt so badly for him. He looked so miserable and full of self-hatred, cursing at himself in the rearview mirror.

I’ve been there. I know the feeling.

Well, that’s one inferior down — two if you count me. How many more? How many more souls will have to be sacrificed? How many lives must be ruined before Mike’s demonic thirst is finally quenched?

I wish I knew. No, actually, on second thought, I don’t want to know.

Right now, I just want to get some sleep and forget about all this crazy shit. Good night, diary.

Dear Diary,

Please forgive the sporadic entries. It’s been more than a year since I last wrote. This journaling has been hot and cold; I’ll get on kicks and chronicle everything for a while, and then go through long periods where I just don’t have the heart to relive my daily pain and humiliation. At any rate, there’s a lot on my mind tonight and I want to jot it all down.

Mike’s Master Plan is moving forward with frightening speed. So far, in addition to me, The Family has recruited 14 inferiors with a total net worth of $4.5 million. The others were all “shocked” into sissy-hood after becoming ensnared by The Family’s six beautiful women, whose skill at the ancient arts enables them to melt hearts at will. Since the baptism of fire template was set last year with the appalling procedure that turned Ed into Fluffy, Mike and the girls have used the same evil routine to convert their unsuspecting, lovesick victims into mindless slaves who are eager to sign over their assets.

As long as we stay downtrodden and demoralized, Mike says the brainwashing will never wear off. He repeatedly reminds his flock that they need to “keep the sissies down” by humiliating and hurting us at every opportunity so that the spell doesn’t dissipate — a welcome task for Mike’s coven of demonic harpies. The girls delight in debasing us. We’re forced to regularly perform sex shows for them in which we do unspeakably disgusting things to each other. We have to mix urine with every meal. We’re constantly being slapped, whipped, kicked, punched and spit on. “Keeping the sissies down” comes easy for the ladies, who have a grand old time doing it.

The hard part, Mike says, is identifying the “right kind of inferior” to go after in the first place. Candidates are required to have loose family ties, at least $100,000 in liquid assets, low self-esteem, and must also meet the diminutive physical requirements. Mike spends hours trolling probate records, newspaper legal notices, court dockets and social media feeds trying to identify new victims.

After The Leader flags someone, he or the girls will dig into their backgrounds and follow them for weeks, learning their habits and preferences — information that’s filed away and later used against the target during the courting process. Mike decides which of his gorgeous acolytes will “bump into” the inferiors based the intel he’s gathered and analyzed beforehand that gives insight into the wimps’ personality traits. From there, as soon as one of these poor bastards gazes into the eyes of any of the Family women, they’re done for.

Once another five inferiors are recruited and baptized, Mike says The Family will relocate to Nevada, where prostitution is legal. The plan is to purchase a large tract of land, where they’ll operate a “chicken ranch” that caters to a niche market — clients who want sex with transgendered hookers who’ll literally do anything they’re told. Mike says he’s researched the market and insists it’s a growth area.

At the rear of the property, out of sight from the chicken ranch, Mike will open a textile mill. He says there’s a need for high-quality, American-made materials, although for decades foreign companies have undercut U.S. textile firms by paying their workers slave wages. Mike says The Family will be able to submit bids even lower than the overseas competitors because he’ll be able to beat their rock-bottom labor costs while avoiding import tariffs.

Each business will be staffed with 10 sissies. Work assignments have already been handed out to a few inferiors — including me, thank goodness — but the rest of the slaves are living in mortal fear that they’ll end up at the textile mill. Mike has explained that the job is will be a fucking nightmare. He plans to make the sissies live and sleep at their workstations 23 hours a day, with one hour where they’ll be allowed to exercise outside. Mill sissies will be fed the bare minimum needed to survive, and allowed to sleep only as long as medically necessary. The rest of their time will be spent at their machines toiling for The Family. Mike says he wants to squeeze the maximum profit out of each mill sissy, working them almost to death — but not quite.

One night while discussing the plan, Olivia suggested: “Why don’t we make the mill sissies wear diapers? That way, they won’t have to waste time taking bathroom breaks.”

Mike thought it was a great idea. He also approved Leigh’s proposal that mill sissies be allowed just one diaper-change per week.

“The little bitches are gonna get some BAD diaper rash,” she chuckled. “But that’ll keep the sissies down while saving The Family money at the same time!”

Those of us who’ll be “house sissies” will have it a little better, although according to what Mike has planned, our lives won’t exactly be all rainbows and lollipops. I’ve been told that I’ll work eight hours a day monitoring the market and coming up with investment strategies for Mike to approve, which is basically what I do at the bank now. At night, I’ll continue in my current role as The Family’s personal maid, but Mike says I’ll also be responsible for turning tricks like the other house sissies.  We’ll be fed the same cheap, disgusting, piss-soaked gruel as the mill drones, but at least Mike says we’ll be provided enough nourishment to keep us from becoming emaciated — not a consideration for the slaves who won’t have to worry about staying attractive for clients.

I think poor Fluffy is headed for the mill. I’m rooting for the little guy, but Kelsey and Olivia seem to have it out for him, and they dog him worse than any of the other sissies — which is saying something, since the sisters treat us all pretty horribly.

About eight months ago, during a Family discussion about The Master Plan, Mike mentioned that chicken ranch clients might enjoy “gum jobs,” and that perhaps he should have a few of the sissies’ teeth pulled for that purpose.

“Teeth get in the way of a good blowjob, and having a couple toothless sissy whores just might be a good marketing tool,” he mused.

Carmen asked: “Why do any of the sissies need teeth?”

Since nobody could provide an answer, it was decided that all of our teeth would be pulled, whether we were going to be house sissies or mill workers.

In order to “keep the sissies down,” Mike instructed the girls to do the dental work with no anesthetic. At the time, there were only eight of us. We all had to line up and watch in horror as, one by one, each poor sissy underwent the agonizing process. The girls made a game of it, ordering us to stay quiet during the procedure, knowing damn well it was impossible. They instructed me to keep score and count how many times each girl made a sissy squeal. I yelped seven times while my teeth were being yanked out, but that wasn’t nearly the most. Poor Fluffy screamed out 21 times, which made him the loser, earning him a terrible ass-whipping when the “tooth game” was over.

Olivia told the rest of us we were also going to be disciplined because Fluffy was “such a little faggoty wimp.”

Our punishment? The evil little bitch made us all gargle salt water, which caused excruciating pain. Mike sat there beaming when his jokester of a daughter came up with that one.

I spent the rest of the night curled up in a ball, crying my eyes out. The next week or two were absolutely miserable for my fellow sissies and me as our swollen mouths slowly healed.

The other seven inferiors who’ve been recruited since then have had their teeth eradicated during their baptism of fire ceremonies, which Mike says is the plan for future inductions as well. He’s contemplating having the sissies pull out their own teeth during the baptisms.

The whole thing is sick. I would say going through all this horror is causing me post-traumatic shock syndrome, but there’s nothing “post” about the shocking trauma I’m experiencing right now. Every day, Mike and the girls sink deeper. Whenever I think there’s no way they can possibly get worse, they push the goalposts further downward toward the gates of hell.

I try to be a mentor to the other sissies in the limited way I’m able to, since I’ve been here the longest, but I can tell they resent me because I’m allowed a few extra privileges as the Family maid. But the other slaves REALLY despise Fluffy because he’s always fucking up and the rest of us get in trouble for it. Making the other sissies pay for Fluffy’s screwups breeds antipathy toward the hapless 19-year-old pansy — which is exactly what The Family wants.

Divide-and-conquer is just one of many strategies they use to control us and “keep the sissies down.” The abuse, mental destabilization and exploitation are never-ending. In order to maintain control, The Family wants us to stay confused, degraded and exhausted, and they have fun thinking up new ways to make that happen.

The other 14 sissies and me have signed all our assets over to Mike, who has a “fellow traveler” working in government to snuff out any red flags that might be raised by the large financial transactions. Six of The Family’s inferiors have continued working their respective jobs, while also taking night gigs, making as much money for Mike as possible before it’s time to sell their property and move to Nevada. For the time being, the sissies who have continued working are allowed to stay in their homes, although Mike had them cut off their utilities to save money.

As another cost-cutting measure, Fluffy and the seven other inferiors who’d inherited their wealth and didn’t hold jobs have already sold their homes, handed Mike the profits, and are currently residing in a shed in the backyard. It’s a small hut that wouldn’t even sleep two people comfortably, but all eight sissies are crammed in there, literally on top of each other. They’re allowed to use a garden hose for showers, and once a day they eat a bowlful of slop that’s been pissed on.

Rather than having the unemployed sissies lying around in the shed all day, Mike has them working fast-food jobs, or he farms them out to area landscapers and other companies that are looking for temporary labor. The transgendered slaves are allowed to wear threadbare female clothing to those jobs, rather than their usual itchy potato-sack frocks. At night, the sissies either work part-time gigs or engage in home moneymaking ventures such as stuffing envelopes or making telemarketing calls. It’s almost an impossible task to work in that tiny shed, but it’s up to the sissies to make it happen. Mike cares only about maximizing profits, so he drives the poor bastards like rented mules, eking out every last drop from their exhausted bodies and minds.

There are advantages to being the Family’s personal sissy. I’m allowed to sleep in my basement room, although I now have to crash on the floor. That was Peyton’s idea, because she said “we don’t want the sissy to get too conceited and think he’s better than the other ones.” The only reason I’m not out in the shed with the other slaves is because The Family wants me at their beck and call 24/7 to fetch drinks in the middle of the night and so forth. On cold winter nights, I’m happy to be at their service rather than shivering outside.

Although being The Family’s personal sissy affords me some perks, one drawback is having to prepare scrumptious meals for my masters while only being allowed to eat that revolting sissy glop. It’s made up of raw oats, vitamins, barley — and, to “keep the sissies down,” each of us has to piss in another slave’s bowl before any food can be eaten. It’s quite a sight during meals, watching demoralized zombies wordlessly pair up behind the shed, trading earthenware bowls and urinating in them before handing them back to each other and gobbling down every soggy drop. Even the inferiors who are allowed to live in their houses must travel to the shed once a day to eat, and to get their daily whippings so that The Family can “keep the sissies down” before sending them away to earn more money.

There’s very little conversation amongst the sissies. Mike says we’re only allowed to talk about things that are necessary to advance Family business, and since all of us are completely brainwashed and compliant, we don’t break Family rules. I can tell by looking at my fellow sissies, though, that they’re every bit as resentful and full of self-loathing inside as I am. Still, we’ve all been instructed to plaster fake smiles on our faces and pretend we enjoy being downtrodden slaves.

During my daily routine, I don’t often come in contact with the other sissies. They generally stay in the shed when they’re not working, and I’m usually serving in the house, although I have to go back there once a day during mealtimes to hopefully get another inferior to piss in my bowl so I can eat. It’s difficult to do without talking, and sometimes when the others are feeling aggrieved because of my higher status, I’m forced to go from sissy to sissy holding my bowl out, pleading with my eyes. There have been nights where I’ve gone hungry because none of my fellow sissies would piss in my bowl. Fluffy usually comes to the rescue, since I’ve taken him under my wing and have peed in his bowl many times when the others wouldn’t do it because they were mad at him for fucking up and causing them extra punishment. But if Fluffy can’t squeeze out any pee and the other sissies are mad at me about something, I’m shit out of luck.

Other than Fluffy and myself, the sissies currently serving The Family are:

** DINKY (formerly Ralph Penn): Dinky is the tiniest of The Family’s sissies, stretching in at a diminutive 5’3. He makes a shitload of money in his law practice, which he continues to run after he out as transgendered following his baptism of fire. Dinky says the announcement has actually helped his business, and he was able to sign over $150,000 to Mike. At night, he earns extra money for The Family by writing legal briefs and doing other paralegal work from home. He’s allowed to stay in his house, although like the other sissies who are afforded that privilege, his utilities have been cut off to save money and he must sleep on the floor. After the move to Nevada, Dinky will work in the chicken ranch, since Mike says clients will enjoy having such a “tiny sissy toy.”

** BOO-BOO (formerly Donald Qualls): Boo-Boo was the owner of a beauty salon he’d inherited from his grandmother before signing the business over to Mike. Between the salon and Boo-Boo’s savings account, Mike netted more than $225,000 from the sissy. Boo-Boo has also been slated for the chicken ranch, and because the girls say he has such a baby face, he’s been turned into an infantile sissy to cater to future clients with that particular fetish. Boo-Boo is only allowed to interact as a baby when he’s on the clock, and is barred from saying anything other than “goo-goo, gaga,” although he’s been granted permission to act and talk normally during the day while he runs the salon, and at night during his shift at McDonald’s. Boo-Boo sold his house and sleeps in the shed.

** PETUNIA (formerly Oscar Kozlowski): Petunia’s most noticeable feature is his long nose. The protruding proboscis is the source of much amusement for the girls, who often make him “nose-fuck” other slaves in the ass during “sissy play time,” which is the name our tormentors gave to the degrading sex shows we’re often ordered to perform. After his baptism of fire, Petunia gave Mike the $200,000 he’d inherited from his parents, before selling his house and moving into the shed. He now works out of the shed six days a week making cold calls for a cellular company. In addition to those 16-hour daily shifts, on Sundays, Petunia works an additional 18 hours cleaning office buildings. Two weeks ago, Petunia learned his unfortunate fate from Carmen, who informed him, “you’re way too goddamn ugly to be a house sissy.”  It shouldn’t have been a surprise, since Petunia is fairly homely, but the crestfallen sissy has been moping around since getting the news that he'll be working in the mill, although he’s careful to keep smiling when our masters are present.

** FIFI (formerly Jack Harper): The owner of JH Wholesalers, Inc. is a successful diamond broker who is in the process of finding a buyer for his firm, so Mike can pocket the profits. When he does, he’ll also sell his house, move into the shed and find ways to earn money for The Family while waiting on the move to Nevada. So far, Fifi has brought a whopping $1.25 million to the table, with more to come after he sells his company. Like many of The Family’s sissies, Fifi earns extra money for Mike by working at McDonald’s every night after his diamond business has closed, and he works double shifts on Sundays. Fifi’s future work status is undetermined, and he’s been kissing major ass lately in hopes he won’t be sent to the mill.

** HILDEGARDE (formerly John Wellington): Hildegarde is older than the other sissies, but the 58-year-old came with an inherited $400,000 estate, so Mike reeled him in. Hildegarde has been told he’ll either be assigned to the chicken ranch as a “pain sissy,” catering to the most sadistic clients, or sent to the mill — “because otherwise, nobody’s gonna want your old, ugly, wrinkled-up ass,” is the way Kelsey put it. Hildegarde sold his mansion, turned the profits over to The Family, and currently resides in the shed, where he spends 10 hours a day hunched over his cheap laptop doing online research for an insurance company, before pulling an additional 8-hour shift on the Burger King drive-through each night.

** FOO-FOO (formerly Charles Randall): At 5’4, Foo-Foo is only a bit taller than Dinky. Unfortunately, unlike Dinky, there’s nothing cute about the bank vice-president, with his squinched-up face and beady little mole eyes, so it’s a foregone conclusion that he’ll be sent to the mill once we relocate to Nevada. He’ll continue living in his house without heat, running water or electricity while working at the bank until the move. After the bank closes each evening, Foo-Foo heads straight to Wendy’s, where he works until 2am. Foo-Foo added $375,000 to Mike’s coffers.

** BUTTERCUP (formerly Dwayne Remington): The son of a clothing heir, Buttercup turned his $200,000 inheritance over to Mike following his baptism of fire. Since he didn’t have a job prior to being recruited, Buttercup was put to work at a landscaping company, where he works 16 hours a day, 7 days a week, and sleeps in the shed. The Family hasn’t decided whether Buttercup will be a house or mill sissy, although his chances were hurt following an incident last week in which he dropped his end of a glass table he was helping me carry into the house, causing it to shatter. Peyton, who was supervising, punished all the sissies for Buttercup’s mishap by withholding food from us for three days.

** TWEETY (formerly Arnold Rutherford): Tweety is one of the best car salesmen in our state, so Mike told him to continue doing that and to stay in his apartment until the move. The “poorest” of all the recruited inferiors, Tweety just squeaked past the $100,000 threshold, but because Mike found out during his research that Tweety restored cars on the side, The Leader decided he’ll put the sissy’s mechanical knowledge to work when machines in the mill need maintenance or repair. Thanks to his skillset, poor Tweety is destined for the dreaded mill.

** ZOEY (formerly Franklyn Delancey): Something about Zoey really pisses Leigh off. Perhaps it’s because she was the one who snagged him after Mike found out that he’d inherited $350,000 from a long-lost uncle. During the courting phase, the sap fell hard for Leigh, who made his life miserable for weeks leading up to his baptism of fire. Since Zoey sold his property and moved into the shed, Leigh has continued going out of her way to be mean to the ruddy-faced sissy. Right now, he’s being punished for not being respectful enough to Leigh, after apparently not answering her question quickly enough. For that infraction, Leigh said until further notice Zoey must keep a huge dildo lodged in his rectum other than being allowed to pull it out for two bathroom breaks daily. That’s a particularly tough punishment because Zoey works at the same landscaping firm as Buttercup 16 hours a day. I overheard Leigh laughing with Jen last week about how hard it must be for the sissy to have to do landscaping work “with a baseball bat stuck up his ass.” While no formal announcement has been made about Zoey’s future work status, it’s a safe bet Leigh will send him to the mill.

** DUCHESS (formerly Steve McCullum): Duchess is a sullen sissy, even more so than the others. He keeps the required fake smile on his face when The Family is around, but it’s easy to see how bummed out he is about his plight. None of us are exactly thrilled with how our lives have turned out, but there’s something about Duchess that makes him seem sadder than everyone else. He’s the only sissy living in the shed who didn’t inherit his money. Duchess had been employed as a supervisor at a utility company, and was saving every dime while living a Spartan lifestyle, renting a one-bedroom apartment and never buying anything he didn’t need. He had saved $200,000 toward a $500,000 goal, at which point he was going to retire from the utility company and open his own restaurant. Those best-laid plans changed after Carmen reeled him in and he underwent his baptism of fire. He originally was going to be allowed to stay in his apartment while continuing his job at the utility, but when he was laid off, he moved into the shed and began working 16 hours a day at McDonald’s. Because he knows his way around electric components, having worked for a utility, Duchess was told he will work at the mill. No wonder he seems so morose all the time.

** BIJOU (formerly Zachery Olson): If any of The Family’s sissies were to ever crack, it would probably be Bijou, who brought his $250,000 life savings to the table after Jen roped him in. Since he’s allowed to stay at home and continue working in his high-paying job as a plant manager for an auto supply company, his lifestyle remains a notch above the sissies who are relegated to the cramped shed. But Bijou walks around like he’s frightened to death, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He’s almost certainly headed for the mill.

** FAWN (formerly Frederick Van Pelt): Fawn is a skinny little thing, which will most likely prevent him from working at the chicken ranch after we move. Like Dinky, Fawn is an attorney, and by the time he was recruited, he’d more than $400,000. He will continue practicing law while doing freelance paralegal work after-hours in his dark, unheated house until it’s time to sell the property and move to Nevada.

** BUBBLES (formerly Nathaniel Harding): Bubbles is by far The Family’s dumbest sissy. By age 25, he’d already blown through half of the inheritance his father had left him by making ridiculously stupid investments. After his baptism of fire, he turned the remaining $200,000 over to Mike before he could piss any more money away, then sold his mansion and moved into the shed. Bubbles had initially gotten a job at McDonald’s but he had trouble counting change, so they let him go. His firing earned him a severe beating and two weeks without food other than vitamin supplements. He now works at the landscaping company.

The Family plans to recruit five more gullible saps. I already feel sorry for them, even though they’ll probably end up resenting my status as the Family maid, just like the other sissies, and sometimes refuse to piss in my bowl so I can eat.

I’m sure it won’t be long before Mike has his 20 inferiors in the fold. Then … it’s westward ho!

With an emphasis on the “ho.” Thank goodness I’ll be one. Anything will be better than being a mill sissy.

Ugh. There’s a lot to digest. I think I should stop thinking about it now and get to bed. Good night, diary.