Of course, not all of my
sissy outings were as smooth sailing as my trip to Victoria’s Secret. My adulthood had more than a few weird scares
wherein I may or may not have accidentally outed myself as a sissy to a third
party. This became a concern the longer I lived by myself as, I mentioned
in a previous post, it creates an environment more conducive to expanding the
boundaries of a person’s behavior, rather than reining them in. As such,
I had begun to push my own boundaries farther and farther out as time went
on. Panties became complete cross-dressing. Cross-dressing led to
humiliation. Humiliation led to bondage. Bondage led to
chastity. Chastity led to anal play, etc., etc., etc.
Whatever fetish I was
indulging would eventually normalize, leading me to search for the next great
frontier. Whenever I had a girlfriend, the fear of getting caught became
the thrill of possibly getting
caught, which eventually led to the hope
of getting caught. Thoughts would often become actions which would
occasionally put me in high stakes situations which left me at legitimate risk
of becoming exposed. One such occasion occurred relatively early-on in my
post-college life. I was just starting to step out of my
sissy-safe-circle and really began to push limits of what I had grown used to
in my private space.
I’d been dressing under
my clothes for quite a while. By this point, I had progressed from merely
panties to black stockings and a garter-belt. It was fall at the time so
my shoes and pants covered my legs and feet; no one would know that I was
walking around as a sissy-in-hiding feeling the tug of her garters as she
strolled around like a secret girly slut. Sometimes, when I was
feeling really daring, I would forego a belt, so my pants
would sit on my hips leaving the possibility of the waist sliding down just
enough to expose the top of my garter-belt or maybe the waistband of my
panties.
One particular day, I
decided to go the full nine-yards: hot-pink hi-cut panties with a thick lacy
waistband underneath my black stockings and garter-belt. Not only had I decided
to forego the belt, but I also decided to wear a shirt that was a size too
small. The idea was that, if I raised my arms too high, my midriff would expose
itself just enough to leave the possibility of exposing what I was wearing
underneath. I was off of work this particular day (it was the first day
of my vacation), but I had a few errands to run before my vacation officially
started. These errands included going to the post office to halt delivery
of my mail.
I arrived around 11:00
am or so, trying to beat the lunch rush, and was relieved to see that there
were only two or three people ahead of me in line. I would be in and out,
and off to my vacation spot! I stood quietly and thoughtfully, imagining how
I was going to spend my well-earned time off when…
“I thought you would
have left by now,” said a very familiar lady.
I turned around to see
my boss, a tall blonde woman in her late 40’s. She had the look of a
woman who had been a studious book-nerd in college, and aged pretty well.
Her sharp demeanor was off-putting to a lot of people, because she was
brilliant and refused to dumb herself down, expecting others to rise to her expectations.
This often led to a high turnover in her department, but those who made it
through were forged by goddamn fire!
We got along well
because I was competent at my job and never wasted her time with excuses.
We chatted, but I’m sure
I was obviously uncomfortable the whole time. After all, if making eye
contact with a cashier was difficult, how uncomfortable was it to actually
speak to someone I knew…someone I respected…someone I saw everyday. My
panties and garters seemed to irritate my skin as we spoke, a new
hypersensitivity borne of the crushing reality of just how real this damned
situation was. I was fucking sissied-out wearing the outfit with the highest
exposure quotient! My every word
seemed like a surreal exercise in public speaking, as I had to concentrate on
every last thing I said in order to keep from stuttering like a panty-clad
moron.
I think I covered well,
or at least well enough to where she didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. Eventually, the line moved forward, and I
realized that I still needed to fill out my Halt-Mail Form. I pulled out
my pen and immediately dropped it on the floor.
I don’t know how long I
stared at my pen, lying on the floor, taunting me with what should have been a
simple task. All I knew was that my boss was standing directly behind me
in line, and I was wearing a goddamn Victoria’s Secret catalogue underneath my
pants…my idiot “shirt too small” that would ride-up over my beltless pants the
moment I reached for anything. How in the hell was I going to bend over
and pick the pen up without being outed to my fucking boss?!
I had to do something. It wouldn’t exactly scream “normal” if I left the
pen on the ground, would it? I couldn’t walk over it, turn around to face
my boss, and then bend over to pick it up. Even if that
did conceal my sissy-shame, it would make me look like a crazy person—a crazy
person in front of a person who I needed to impress if I wanted to move up in
the department.
Right about the time I thought
about how much I needed to have this woman on my side, I got blindsided by
another: Did I have panty-lines?!
By the time I had
decided on how to proceed, I’m pretty sure I had overthought to the point of
forgetting how I would normally bend over to pick up a pen. Hopefully I
didn’t stare for too long before deciding on my course of action: bending at
the knees all the way to the ground. As I reached over, I felt my shirt
hike-up, but I couldn’t feel where it stopped. It could have stopped at
the waistline, or it could have lifted to my lower back—I honestly couldn’t
tell. I retrieved my pen, slowly extending my knees as I stood, and
looked directly into my boss’s eyes. You know, like normal people do,
right?
By this point, my mind
had gone into overdrive. When I looked in her eyes, I couldn’t tell if
she was giving me a look, or if I was imagining it. Was she
smirking? Did she almost say something, or did she clear her
throat? Was she waiting for me to say something? If you were to ask
me, I would guess I held this stare for roughly 15 minutes. I felt
frozen, like a cornered animal too scared to think (did she just raise an
eyebrow?).
The person in front of
me in line broke my reverie as he was called up to the counter. I snapped
to, and spun on my heel to finish filling out my card, feeling hot under the
collar (again!).
I imagine I handled that
particular moment about as well as a person who had never spoken to a fellow
human being before would have.
I finished filling out
my card, and decided to do whatever it took to keep from turning back to speak
with my boss. There was one person in line, and obviously they would be
finished in just a minute or two, so I could move on and spare myself the
embarrassment of looking her in the eye.
Obviously, there was a
stirring in my loins at the anxiety I was feeling. This made me doubly
determined to stay facing away. The last thing I needed in this situation
was an uncomfortable erection in front of my boss. The more flush I became,
the more my situation came into focus: I was in public, wearing hot-pink
sissy-panties, dressed like I wanted to get caught. What the hell did I
expect to happen?!
The more I try to steer
my thoughts away from these thoughts, the more I failed at doing so. The more
I failed at doing so, the more aroused I became.
She cleared her
throat—her powerful, womanly voice cutting through me…did she know? Was
there a part of me that wanted her to know? What would happen if she saw
my panties? Who would she tell? If
she only saw my panty-lines, could I explain them away? Would I make it worse, if I did so?
I breathed deep, trying
to keep my erection to a minimum.
What the hell was taking
this guy so long?!
I tried to keep my
frustration in check as I absolutely did not want to
accidentally instigate conversation, again. So long as I faced forward, I
could go back to the office and play the whole thing off as an awkward
encounter in public. If I was drawn back into conversation, I could very
slip from “casually awkward” to “guy that probably has several doll heads in
his basement, plus he wears panties” in just a few minutes.
Painfully, thankfully,
the man in front of me finished his business and I strode to the counter,
Halt-Mail order card in-hand, awkward erection hopefully unnoticeable. I
handed the card over, the cashier filled out some paperwork and I was out the
door. Easy peasy.
On the way out, I
managed to catch my boss’s eye, to which she gave a smirking nod. That
face stayed with me through my entire drive home. I had no idea what it
meant. Did she see? Did she know? Was it all in my
head? These three thoughts spun in my head for the entire drive home;
these thoughts and one other:
I was so rock-solid hard
that my cock-head was rubbing against the front of my panties with every tiny
inconsistency in the road, causing the drive back to be frustratingly
sensual. No small part of me wanted to cum in the car. I fought the
urge, as I realized I had other tenants to potentially walk by on my way in,
and the last thing I needed to was to explain why I had a big wet-spot on the
front of my pants.
Some 15 minutes later and I was parked and running up the stairs
to my front door. I practically slammed the door open, I was planning on tearing
off my shirt and pants (an probably quickly donning a pair of black pumps) to shamelessly
masturbating in front of my mirror with my hot-pink panties and my black
stockings and garter-belt, but I needed to perform an experiment. I strode over to the mirror and squatted
down.
Panty-lines.
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