In the way of a warning: There is no category for 'bisexual' here, so I hope the tags help. Although this piece starts with a cross-dressing sissy/femdom scene, a lot of the later parts of the story is MMM, with the female character only turning up at the very end. It's not *forced* bi either.
*****
The woman next to him at the bar lit a cigarette, a long, thin, brown one, and inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the smoke. Everybody here seemed to be joyfully flouting the smoking ban, including the beautiful, golden-haired, pink-shirted boy behind the bar.
He had arrived this afternoon, jet-lagged and tired and as instructed took a taxi to the Rembrandt Plein, the very center of the most picturesque old Amsterdam, and where so many of the bars and clubs flying the rainbow flag were concentrated. He found this place, called Mix Cafe, easily, on the long quay facing the Amstel, full of cheerfully drinking crowd despite it being a Tuesday and fairly early.
There were people all around him, who by their sheer presence here, in this small, brightly lit and shamelessly kitschy bar overlooking the Amstel, with trashy Euro-pop pouring out of the speakers, declared if not their own sexuality then the fact that they were comfortable with men who fuck men, and women fuck women. He could probably score here, if he wished - there were men already here eyeing him, close to hitting on him - and he shivered involuntarily, imagining being taken straight to the bar's toilets, or maybe to its back room, his cock hardening in the silk panties at the very thought.
Neil suspected that directing him to this relaxed Euro-trash place, as un-scary as they went, unlike many other gay bars and clubs that were dotted around the area, was a test for him. She had not forbidden sex of any kind, but he sensed that it wasn't really on the cards.
He looked nervously at his watch. It was almost 8.30 and this was the time he was supposed to wait until.
His phone pinged on the dot of 8.30. "Walk across the Amstel. You have a room booked in the Amsterdam House hotel. Your own name. More there."
Neil got up from his chair and walked out of the bar. It wasn't a long walk to the bridge. The small hotel occupied one of the old town-houses along the river. The woman at the reception, a tall, curly-haired fifty-something, gave him a big smile as he checked in. Her English was excellent, as so many people's here. Just as he was to turn around and walk up the narrow staircase upstairs, she called out to him.
'Mr Hanson? There is a letter for you also,' she handed him a white envelope. 'The lady who booked the room left it,' she added, with what seemed a mischievous smile.
He climbed up to the second floor, resisting the urge to open the letter immediately, there and then.
He didn't know what was in it - he didn't know what was going to happen the next day, the next hour, the next minute. For the moment, his life was completely out of his control.
This submission, this relinquishing of control, larger - more real - then ever before - was incredibly exciting. His mind, free from taking responsibility, free from having to make choices, was left to wander, to luxuriate in the fantasies and shiver at the fear of what was to come.
His body was both relaxed, floating, and at the same time taut, electrified, more alive than he felt for years, maybe ever: a blank canvas to be written upon, a pile of rubble to be raked through and rebuilt into a structure of her choosing.
He opened the door to his room, a smallish, shabby but a comfortable one, with a double bed and old-fashioned furniture, including a round table and two armchairs.
He placed his case in the wardrobe and sat down in one of the chairs. His hands trembled when he opened the envelope. Inside, a page of paper, covered in large, messy script in purple pen. He raised the page to his face. It smelled, faintly, of the scent he learned to associate with her gifts.
'Good evening, fucktoy,
I hope you arrived safely (obviously you had if you are reading this), after an uneventful journey.
I also hope you behaved yourself in the Mix Cafe. I am sure you did.
Please strip, shower and shave now.
Then put your underwear on. I trust the black silk knickers were already in use, as requested, and that you brought the other items with you.
Put on the cami, the garters and of course the stockings. I am sure by now you know very well how.
Lovely.
I know from the photo you sent me that your butt is smoothly waxed and your nails are ready to get pretty too. You will have a visitor around 9pm. She will help you move on with these.
I suppose you should wear a dressing gown during her visit. If you have not brought one, you will find one hanging on the bathroom door.
More anon.'
He walked out of the shower with soft knees, his mind reeling with the expectation and anxiety. He had no idea who the mysterious visitor was supposed to be, and he certainly didn't bring a dressing gown. The prospect of facing anybody in the clothes she requested him to wear was terrifying - much more so than the waxing and manicure had been - after all, normal men did those things, even if it hinted uncomfortably at mockable metro-sexuality.
This was different.
He couldn't stop now, though. With shaking hands he pulled on the panties, his semi-erect cock encased in black silk with the palest pink ruffles.
He unzipped his bag - mercifully unsearched by the customs or the security - and pulled out the red silk cami and the long, lace topped black fishnet stockings she had sent him. The garters were his own online purchase.
He pulled the cami on, the sumptuous feel of the silk satin sending cascading shivers of excitement all over his body. He run his hands over his hips, extending fingers towards the back , where the edge of the chemise skirted his now cleanly waxed ass. It felt smooth, slick, strange and yet natural.
The black silk panties she had sent him weeks ago, now carefully washed after he had luxuriated in their taste and scent so many times, were covering his ass and holding his semi-erect cock in a tight,
electrifying bind.
He sat in one of the chairs and slowly pulled on the stockings. His legs were unshaven, just as she said hers normally were. The stretchy fabric enveloped them comfortably. He fastened the garters quickly - it was easy now after so much practice and adjusted them so the fabric didn't bunch up.
He got up and walked to the mirror fixed onto the side of the wardrobe.
There was something utterly laughable, pathetic even about the view that confronted him: a cross-dressing guy in ill-fitting female underwear, his obvious cock straining against a thin fabric of silk woman's panties. He would keel over in shame if any of the people he knew in what she referred to as RL, the Real Life, could see him like that.
And yet, however humiliating even the idea of it was, it felt utterly right. With every step he took, with every order fulfilled, with every corner she took him around, the walls surrounding his identity were crumbling further, breaking, falling apart to reveal something else, not entirely different from the Neil that lived in the RL, but a more complete version of him.
It felt sexy, naughty, slutty, wanton, deliciously perverted. It felt dirty and yet incredibly good, so much that his whole skin was wired up, burning, glowing hot with raw desire.
He turned away from the mirror and checked the bathroom for the dressing gown. It was a dark, iridescent purple, heavy silk garment of not-quite specified gender. He could imagine it on a sophisticated Viennese or Parisian woman of a certain age, or on a middle-age sleazy playboy type. He put it on, grateful for the coverage of most of his body, and tied the belt tightly around his waist, placing folds of the material so they concealed his burgeoning erection.
The knock on the door startled him, and it was a few seconds before he felt capable of saying 'Enter,' in a shaky voice.
The woman - or a girl rather - that came in was nothing like what he expected. A short, skinny, bouncy twenty-something with a wide smile of a wide mouth and Pippi-Langstrumpf red pigtails, she was carrying a large case which she placed on the table and then looked at him expectantly.
'Hi,' he stammered, because there was little more he could say.
She smiled. 'I'm Ana,' she said. 'Don't worry. Madame told me everything I need to know,' her accent was hard to place - not Dutch, and not a native speaker's one, possibly Middle European or
Scandinavian. That the 'Madame' came out naturally from her mouth, without mockery or a smirk, suggested maybe French, but the look didn't quite fit. Or maybe it was just the pigtails.
She directed him to the desk chair, and threw a hairdresser-type wrap over his shoulders.
'Stay still while I make you pretty,' she giggled.
He inhaled deeply, his body tensing, his cock twitching under the dressing gown.
'It will be a little like TV make up... only a bit more of it,' she explained while she worked on his face. '...but not as much as for the stage,' she continued.
She started with his eyes. He could feel lines drawn, presumably in Kohl, around them, then eye shadow applied, mascara on his lashes and some unclear manipulation on his eyebrows.
'Very nice. Very new-wave,' she mumbled admiring her own work before she moved to his cheeks, just lightly touched, and then his lips. She took more time here, starting with a pencil, or a brush that outlined his mouth with something.
'This is so it doesn't feather,' she explained, though he didn't quite understand what she meant.
