Chrissie

BOOK ONE

"Mrs. Martin"

Part I

My right leg had a mind of its own.

Rebecca frowned. "Why you keep bouncing like that? What's wrong with you?"

"Um, I ... I ... nothing."

"Bullshit, nothing. Something's up; you been acting weird ever since we got back from Paris. What the hell's going on, Chris?"

I balled my fists. Clenched my jaw. Closed my eyes. Drew a breath.

Took the plunge.

"Okay. Okay. It's just ... well, now that we're talking about moving in together, I just think we need to be honest with each other. And I ... well, I haven't told you everything about myself."

"Uh oh. Do I want to hear this?"

I sucked in more air but couldn't exhale.

"What, Chris? What ain't you told me?"

Gulp.

"Um, yeah ... so ... I ... I have this fantasy. Well, it's not really a fantasy; it's more like a ... need. It's a need ... for some reason, and I don't understand why, but I need to have a woman treat me like a slave ... for her to ... um, dress me up in ... in women's clothes and ... and treat me like ... like a ... a sissy. It's weird, I know, but it's something I've wanted since I can remember."

My pulse jackhammered my jugular. The thumping was the only sound until, finally, Rebecca made her chair creak by crossing her legs.

"Chris ... honey, I'm sorry, but that ain't ... I don't ... I don't want that, Chris. I mean, I ain't putting you down if that's your thing, but it ... well, it ain't my thing. At all. I do appreciate you telling me all this before I gave up the lease. Now ... I guess ... well, I guess we can move on ... with no strings or nothing."

My eyes welled. "Are you saying ... are ... are you breaking up with me?"

"Well, I don't see how we can stay together. Do you?" Tears filled her eyes, too. "I'm sorry, but a man dressed like a woman just don't turn me on, Chris. It's bad enough—" She halted mid-sentence and looked at her hands.

"What? It's bad enough what? That I'm 5'6? That I'm shorter than you?"

Rebecca sighed. "Well, I wasn't gonna say it, but if you want to go there, Chris, yeah. I mean, no offense, but I get a little tired of never wearing heels when I dress up because I don't want to tower over my date."

"I-I'm sorry. I told you: I could wear elevator shoes."

"And what? That would make me only an inch taller than you in heels? Besides, that ain't the point, Chris. It ain't about how tall you are; I like masculine men — not guys who wear girl's clothes. And I want to be in a relationship with a man, not someone I treat like a slave. I don't find anything sexy about that at all. No offense, but I just don't."

"I'm ... I'm so sorry."

She exhaled. "Well, I guess this does explain why you're always so helpful. I never met a man who volunteered to clean my apartment like you did. I get it now. That's your thing. You were probably fantasizing about wearing women's clothes while you were cleaning. And me treating you like a slave. Weren't you?"

"I ... uh ..."

"Tell the truth."

"Okay. Yes. I was. I ... I'm sorry."

"Well, Chris, I'm sorry, too. I really am. And, again, I do want to say thank you for telling me all this before we moved in together. I really appreciate that. A lot of guys would've waited and then sprung it on me afterward, hoping to get me to go along. That says a lot about you, Chris, and the kind of person you are. You're sweet. Considerate. That's what attracted me to you in the first place. So, I'm hoping we can still be friends. Okay?"

My head fell to my chest and I started bawling. She placed her hand on my ear.

"Don't be like that, Chris. I'm sad, too. Look, we had some good times together. You took me to some cool places I'd have never been able to afford, and I really appreciate it. Paris was frigging awesome. But ... I don't know, this just wasn't meant to be. Why don't we just walk away on a positive note? Okay?"

I sniffled. "Okay. I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm the one who's ... a pervert."

"Oh, come on, honey. That's not true. Everyone has their thing; it just ain't my thing, that's all. You're not a pervert. You're just ... different."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not the man you need me to be, Rebecca. I really am. I really do love you very much."

"Oh, Chris, you're such a doll. There's love on this end, too, but ... honey, I'm sorry — it just ain't gonna work. It just ain't. Don't take it too hard, Chris, okay? You'll find someone else. We both will. It'll work out somehow. Watch and see."

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The Cubs were trailing the Cardinals, 1-0 with two on and two out in the bottom of the ninth when the phone rang. I saw the name on the caller ID and forgot all about the stupid game.

"'Lo?"

"Hello, Chris? It's Rebecca."

"Rebecca?! Hey, how you been?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Great. OMG, it's so good to hear from you after all this time. Uh, what's ... what's going on?"

"Listen, Chris, can we meet for drinks?

"Of course. Hey, is everything okay?"

"I'm fine. Let's talk about it when we meet, okay?"

"Um, sure. When you want to meet?"

"Tonight's fine if you're free."

"Sure, I'm not doing anything."

"Great. Meet you at O'Hara's at 8."

She hung up.

I couldn't breathe.

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The light filtering through the tavern window gave her hair a sparkle, making it easy to spot her as soon as I walked in the door.

As I approached her booth she stood and had to lean down a bit to hug me. It sent a familiar shiver of shame through my spine.

"You look good." She sat back down.

"Thanks, you're ... beautiful as always."

"Have a seat, Chris."

I scooted into the booth across from her. She smiled.

"So, Chris, you dating anyone?"

"Uh ... no. Not right now. Um ... er, how about you?"

She wiggled the fingers on her left hand, showing off the small diamond on her wedding ring. "I'm married, Chris."

I slumped. "Oh."

She giggled. "Aw, you look so sad. You always was such a little puppy-dog."

I gazed across the table at her, blinking back tears. "I ... I don't understand."

"Well, Chris, I'm just gonna come out and say it: I could use a slave right now. And I thought of you."

Blood rushed to my head and other places. "Uh, I, uh, um ..."

Our conversation was interrupted by the waitress. After we ordered, Rebecca sat forward in the booth.

"As I was saying. I could really use a slave in my life. Especially for cleaning."

"Eeeyah, buh, uh, you, uh, I ... er, you ..." A series of sounds spilled out of my mouth.

Rebecca leaned sideways and peeked under the table, smirking at the little boner that jutted up beneath my pants. "Ha, I know you, Chris. So, I take it you want the job, then?"

"Um, I ... I don't understand, Rebecca."

"What's there to understand? Didn't you tell me you wanted me to treat you like a slave?"

"Well, yeah, but ... but that was a few years ago when we were in a relationship together."

"But you said you didn't want that relationship. You didn't want me treating you like a boyfriend. I'm just going by what you told me, Chris. You said you wanted me to treat you like a slave ... and dress you up in women's clothes. You said it wasn't just a fantasy; it was something you needed. Didn't you say that, Chris? Or am I going crazy? I seem to remember you saying that."

"Well, yeah, I did say that. But ... but, that was when we were still together. You're married now, Rebecca."

"Who cares? I guarantee if I'd have taken you up on your offer three years ago, there's no way I wasn't gonna see other men eventually. I told you back then — guys who dress up in women's clothes don't turn me on. Masculine men turn me on. But I've changed my mind about the slave thing. Having one, I mean."

"But ... but how would that work? If you've got a husband—"

"What, I can't have a husband and a slave at the same time?"

"I ... well, yeah, I suppose. But what would he say?"

"Karl's open-minded; I already talked to him about it, and he don't care if I have a slave, as long as I ain't doing nothing with him. And before you get any ideas, that ain't never gonna happen, Chris. Sex, I mean. I'm in love with Karl."

I licked my lips. "I ... I don't even know what to say, Rebecca. I just ... what changed your mind about this? You said it didn't turn you on, but—"

"It don't turn me on. Karl turns me on. Having a slave ain't about turning me on, Chris. You're looking at this the way you see it. For me, it's about making my life easier. I'm at a point where I'm tired of settling. I want what I want. And right now, I want someone to do my housework, and run errands and stuff. I got to thinking about what you told me the night we broke up, so I called you. If this ain't something you want to do, that's fine. I'm sure I could go on one of them kinky websites and find someone who wants the job."

"Oh, I'm sure you could." I wrung my hands. "Um, is it okay if I think about this for a few days?"

Her lips twisted upward. "Sure, thing — Chrissie."

I gasped. She smirked, knowing how using the feminine version of my name had just destroyed me.

"I'll need an answer by Wednesday," she said.

I melted in the booth. "Um, okay."

The waitress arrived with our drinks and burgers. There wasn't much conversation while we ate. Rebecca took off shortly after.

I picked up the check. Then I went home and didn't sleep for two days.

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Part II

My eyes were pried open. The Deluxe Diet Deep-Frier infomercial wasn't making me drowsy. Crosswords and sudokus didn't do the trick. No matter which side of the pillow I hugged or how many sheep I counted, I couldn't tune out the two syllables whispering in my inner ear:

Chrissie ...

I slipped on my frillies and fumbled with my dick. It wouldn't get hard. This situation was beyond masturbation. There was too much thinking to do with the big head.

Chrissie ...

Nothing made sense. Rebecca was married; why would she reappear in my life all of a sudden? Dollar signs in her eyes? That seemed the obvious guess. But she never was like that. After we'd dated about a month, I'd offered to take care of her financially. I told her she wouldn't have to work; told her she could relax, go to the gym or do whatever she wanted. She refused, even though she didn't make a lot of money as a Best Buy cashier. She said I was moving too fast, and that she didn't want me "taking care" of her. That showed me Rebecca was both beautiful and independent — exactly the kind of woman I'd always wanted.

Alas, when we started talking about possibly moving in together, following what I thought had been a romantic trip to Paris, I laid my sissy slave cards on the table — and she dumped me like a sack of soggy French fries. Although it tore me up, I figured she just wasn't the dominant mistress of my dreams and tried to move on.

It was impossible; Rebecca Anne Strickland was all I could think about. I'd never gotten over her humiliating rejection and hadn't dated anyone since.

What now?

Chrissie ...

I closed my eyes and the little head took over. On the black screen of my shuttered eyelids, an endless loop detailed every nuance of the half-second it took her to utter that frightening, glorious, terrible, empowering, enslaving word:

Chrissie ...

The way her lips had contorted like a smirking snake to form the sibilant "s" sound.

Chrisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssie ...

That glint in her eye after she realized she'd literally just taken my breath away.

Chrisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssie ...

I pulled my hand from my crotch and rubbed my chin. Maybe her husband was behind this. That Karl asshole. Was he pulling the strings? Maybe Rebecca had told him about a rich ex-boyfriend who'd wanted to be treated like a sissy slave, and Karl figured he could exploit me through her. They clearly weren't rolling in the dough, judging from Rebecca's wedding ring.

Was this a setup?

Chrisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssie ...

The little head jumped in. What if it wasn't a scam? What if Rebecca was telling the truth? What if she really did want a slave in her life?

The idea of being Rebecca's sissy slave overwhelmed me. I focused on that the rest of the night. I wasn't able to get to sleep but the big head finally shut up and I jacked off five times.

With saggy eyes, a sticky stomach and a sore pee-pee, I dragged my sorry ass out of the sack at sunrise and prepared for what I knew was going to be a motherfucker of a Monday.

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Tuesday started out even shittier. I called in sick and lay in bed all day with a pounding headache and a throbbing boner.

By then it wasn't a matter of whether I was going to agree to Rebecca's out-of-left-field request — the only question was if I would wait until the next day's deadline to call her or inform her immediately.

The choice was made for me when Rebecca phoned just after 6 that evening.

"Listen, I know I said you could wait until tomorrow but I need to know now, Chrissie. This house is an absolute mess; if you're going to be my slave you need to get over here now and get to cleaning, because I can't stand living in this pigsty another minute. And I don't feel like doing it myself. So, are you gonna do this or not?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Um, yeah."

"'Yeah?' Is that how my slave should talk to me, Chrissie?"

"Um ... Mistress?"

"No, that's weird, I don't like that. You can call me by my married name, Mrs. Martin. Okay?"

"Yes, Mrs. Martin."

"See? That's a good little sissy. Chrissie the sissy. Now, listen, Chrissie the sissy, you need to get over here and get this damn house clean."

"Yes, Mrs. Martin. Um, can I have your address?"

"It's 16242 South Sycamore. Hurry up, now, Chrissie. This is going to be so much fun. My own little slave."

"Y-yes, Mrs. Martin."

"Oh, and Chrissie?"

"Yes, Mrs. Martin?"

"Go ahead and bring whatever little girly outfit you like to wear. Whatever will make you clean better. Okay? Will you be my little maid? Ain't that your big fantasy?"

"Yes, Mrs. Martin."

"Well, it's my fantasy to have a nice, clean house. So, get your little butt on over here."

"Yes, Mrs. Martin. Um ... excuse me, Mrs. Martin?"

"Yes, Chrissie?"

"Is ... is ... he ... will your husband be there?"

"Why wouldn't he? He lives here." She sighed. "Listen, Chris, if this is gonna be a problem—"

"Oh, no, please, Mrs. Martin, please, I'm sorry. I want to serve you. I do. I don't mind if ... if your husband is around, as long as I can serve you, Mrs. Martin. I was just asking. I'm sorry."

"There's my little doll. It's time to hang up now, Chrissie. I need you here."

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North Sycamore was where the nice houses were; the south end of the street was literally on the other side of the railroad tracks, where folks installed bars on the windows of their dilapidated shacks.

I pulled up in front of 16242 South Sycamore. My beautiful Rebecca lived in a shit-hole.

It took every ounce of courage to peel myself out of my car and amble up the walkway. With a trembling sigh, I tapped on the door. It swung open and Rebecca's smile melted my apprehension while adding to it at the same time.

"Why, hello, Chrissie," she said in the same mocking tone I'd played in my head a million times over the past few days.

I stepped inside and was surprised when she leaned down and gave me a light hug and a peck on the cheek.

"Come in and meet Karl."

I followed her into the house, my eyes on her ass but my peripheral vision taking in their messy quarters. Rebecca hadn't been kidding — this dump definitely qualified as a pigsty.

As soon as I spotted Karl a chill shot through my spine. The guy instantly intimidated the shit out of me. He shifted on the sofa and sneered when his wife led me into the living room.

"Baby, meet my new slave, Chrissie. Chrissie the sissy. Chrissie, this is my husband, Karl."

I couldn't look him in the eye. He rose from the couch and towered over me. He must've been at least 6'3, and the contrast between us was palpable, which is why I think he stood up — he wanted to shame me. It worked.

"Hello, Chrissie," he said. "You come to clean our house for us?"

"Y-yes, sir."

He chuckled and sat back down. "Sir, huh? I like it. Becca, this guy just might work out."

"Told you," my ex-girlfriend said as she joined her husband on the couch and melted into his embrace. "He's a little doll."

She then smirked at me. "So, Chrissie, you probably got a million questions."

"Yes, Mrs. Martin, I ... I do."

"Well, now's the time to ask."

I licked my lips. "Well ... um, I was kind of surprised that you called."

"That ain't a question, Chrissie."

"Oh. Sorry. Um, why ... I was just wondering what made you call me after you said this wasn't something you were interested in."

Rebecca snuggled closer to her husband. "I think you misunderstood me, Chrissie. I told you I wasn't interested in treating

my boyfriend

like a slave. I wasn't interested in

my boyfriend

dressing up in women's clothes. I told you: I like masculine men." She squeezed Karl's bicep and smiled at me. "Obviously."

"But ... I ... I don't understand."

"What's there to understand? I didn't want you as my boyfriend after you told me you was a crossdresser. No offense, but that blew it for me. We never did have a real passionate relationship to start with — nothing like what I have with Karl. But lately I been thinking more and more about things, and I remembered what you told me. About wanting to be my slave. And I think I'd like that. Having a slave, that is."

Karl kissed his wife's head. "Ol' girl hates housework. Me too. That's where you come in."

Rebecca flicked a speck of lint off her sleeve. "So, Chrissie, that's pretty much it. There's nothing else really to discuss. You need to start cleaning. The mop, and Pine-Sol and stuff are in the basement. Did you bring something girly to wear?"

I gulped. "Um ... I ... yes, I'm wearing it under my clothes."

She shrugged. "Well, get undressed or whatever you need to do and get started."

"Yes, Mrs. Martin."

After I stood there for a few seconds, she blinked twice. "Well?"

I shed my outerwear and they chuckled at my lacy red teddy and thigh-high stockings.

Rebecca cocked her head. "Are you going to be a good little worker for me all dressed up in your girly clothes, Chrissie the sissy?"

"Y-yes, Mrs. Martin."

"Okay, then. Get to work."

I turned to leave but she stopped me. "Wait. Get me a glass of Diet Coke, first." She glanced at her husband. "You want one, hon?"

"No, but I'll take a beer."

Rebecca snapped her fingers. "Get to it, Chrissie the sissy. And then get this place cleaned."

Karl guffawed and picked up the TV remote. "I think I'm gonna like having a slave around."

Rebecca kissed him. "You know it, babe."

And so, while Rebecca and Karl relaxed on the couch watching television and smoking weed, I busted my ass all evening cleaning their house. I was interrupted three times for drink refills, once to bring potato chips, and once when Rebecca had me get dressed and run outside to fetch a receipt from her car's glovebox.

While I polished the dining room table, I kept peeking at them on the sofa, wishing it could be me holding Rebecca in my arms while some lovestruck pansy did all the housework. She had never sat that way with me; when we'd watched TV together, more often than not I'd be on the floor at her feet — perhaps a subconscious playing-out of my then-secret desires.