I've only known Emma a few weeks now, but I'm so pleased with the start she has made. From her initial contact we got along, and after briefly hearing some of her desires, fantasies and limits I decided to trust my instincts and offer a position of year long servitude (you can read all about my Membership here).
I decided early days to push her a little to see what she might be capable of. Throw her in at the deep end, as it were. I'm sure we'll have many occasions of smaller fun throughout our time together, as well as sharing experiences like these.
Over to Emma, who has sent this lengthy, entertaining read through, highlights being shopping for her hosiery, visiting an adult store, a security check while wearing her bra, and her very first (but not only) bra fitting.....
Mistress Brianna asked me to write about our first week together starting with what made me reach out to her specifically. That question has a simple answer – her blog. More accurately the words that I read and how they were strung together to paint a picture in my head that I found irresistible. To understand that we need to make a trip to the long ago, a time that no longer exists.
I am kinky. I’m certain that all the readers of Mistress Brianna’s blog can say the same. Why would you read something that didn’t appeal in some manner, right? When I was sixteen, I stumbled upon a book filled with kinky stories. I remember The Story of O was in the book as well as other stories whose names I cannot recall. I just remember that within the pages of that green hard-covered book there was a world I had not realized existed. Prior to that I had borrowed my father’s dirty magazines which were surprisingly vanilla compared to what was inked on those magical pages. I repeatedly read the book from cover to cover, devouring what I found within.
And then I started to experiment, based on the stories I read. I wore panties to my Boy Scout meetings....
And where did these panties come from, Emma? Sneaking into the rooms of your sisters....Your mother's dirty laundry....So much to share. Lol.
....They were red and soft and made of satin and silk, and I loved them. Wearing them to a group that taught boys to be men seemed decadent, delightful, dirty, and delicious. It was during that time that I learned I like panties. Even the dirty pictures I liked the most kept the women in their panties, the soft, delicate fabric hiding the juicy bits, making those bits somehow more tantalizing.
I tied myself up because there were stories about that. I ran around the fenced-in back yard naked long after the city went to bed. Why? Because there was a story about that, too. Some things I liked. Others, not-so-much. None of it was wrong. How could it be if someone else received pleasure from it? I was just finding out who I was sexually. That book did not create my sexual self. It revealed it just far sooner than might have happened without that green covered catalyst.
To this day stories and the written word is my preferred vehicle for pornography. I still like pictures and videos, but it is the story sites that draw me to them daily. Words are sexy. I learned to write, putting words to page, and submitting those stories to the internet by writing porn. I have stories posted today that I’d wager a few readers of this blog have read. Some of what I’ve written align perfectly with what I’ve penned.
So, it was the words Mistress Brianna wrote that caused me to reach out to her. There were a couple of passages that really got to me, one of which I quoted when I reached out. Another will stay with me, because no good could come of it. Ultimately it was her words.
My last girlfriend and I lived a FLR lifestyle. I am kinky. I have already mentioned that. Another truth that will surprise no one reading this entry is that I am submissive, too. Shocked? Didn’t think so. After my last girlfriend moved out, I was content to live alone, concentrating on amassing money for a retirement that is still decades away, instead of dating or getting married again. But you can’t put toothpaste back in the tube any more than you can deny who you are especially to yourself. I’m submissive and sometimes I need to feel submissive.
I’ve mentioned a few kinks already. Recently I discovered a new one. Line writing. Why does it push my buttons? I don’t know. It just does. I don’t think we get to choose who we are; I think we just are, and we live with ourselves hopefully happy with who we find ourselves to be. Discovering this new kink was something I had to pursue. And I did chase it and played with it and learned that I liked it quite a bit. So, I searched for an outlet for this new kink.
That’s what brought me to Mistress Brianna. A search to feel submissive, something I’ve missed for a while, whilst tracking down a fetish that had been unknown a year ago and the words on her blog that triggered that part of my brain that tickled other parts a little bit further south. A trifecta that prompted an email greeting and the beginning of something that has me aroused, frightened, awed and enraptured.
The first time we chatted was a brief getting-to-know-you. She asked me my limits and the like. I explained my living situation and how things had to be kept out of the front yard. It’s not like I could be tasked with wearing a two-piece bikini in the front yard for hours at a time to etch tan line on my skin when there are kids running around my subdivision. No, I needed to play indoors. And that was fine. Everything did. She gave me a few standing rules. I like rules. I grew up in a military family and I had rules. I knew what was expected of me.
The first risky task she gave me was simple in its wording but terribly difficult to accomplish. At least for me. This is all new and, in that freshness, there is a monstrous fear. Socks were no longer allowed – one of my new rules. It was stockings for me, but I had to buy them in person. How was I going to do that? If just thinking about it made my throat tighten, how was I actually going to do it?
Driving home from work one day, wearing the only stockings I owned prior to my introduction to Mistress Brianna, I steeled myself up. Near the house there is an old shopping complex. It was more than old. It had been torn down and rebuilt twice and it still looked like it needed a fresh coat of paint ten minutes after the old coat dried. There was an store selling sneakers and sporting goods, a store hawking gaudy jewelry, and an anchor store, one of those big chains that were popular in the eighties and are just hanging on by name recognition alone. The kind you drive by and think to yourself, “I didn’t know they were still around.”
I went into the store. It was dingy in both mood and lighting. There were perhaps a dozen customers shopping and an equal number of employees looking disinterested. I made my way past the men’s section to the corner where there were the most shoppers. An elderly employee with white hair and a scowl wriggled her nose at me, forcing me to walk past her and the small wall holding the package of stocking that I’d come to buy. I paced past her, cursed myself, turned around and milled about the wall of stockings. I picked up a few packages, trying to find what I was looking for. But what I needed wasn’t there. They did not have stockings. They had pantyhose in beige and white and navy and jet. Who knew jet was a color? I thought it was a plane. What the did not have was stockings. My first stop, the one that had taken all my willpower just to enter, turned out to be a bust. I cursed my luck then left the store, feeling that cursed luck change just a little as there was only one register open and about ten people were in line waiting for their purchases to be run through the till. Standing there, on display, with my hands full of stockings would have been horrible.
I left the store both frustrated and relieved. The trip had been for nothing. I still needed my stockings, but I had not had to stand there next to single-mothers, matronly older women, and one teenaged girl looking at the store like she was standing in a pile of dog excrement.
I sat in my car wondering where to go next when I had an epiphany. Less than a mile away I had my answer in the form of a local store selling adult products, stripper clothes, CBD oils, and a plethora of lingerie designed for waifs not heavy-set housewives.
I entered the store. There were two employees working two different check-out counters. A thin woman with black hair was browsing a rack of tiny swimsuits. In the back, through a narrow door, back where the sex toys resided were two men, shopping alone. To my left an elderly gentlemen stood at a wall of adult DVD’s. I had a laugh at that. Did they not have the internet? To my right I saw tiny outfits on racks and on the far wall I spotted the section containing stripper shoes, body stockings and thigh highs.
I was embarrassed as I looked around. Not for being there. That was easy. It was my purchase that made it difficult. Everyone there, the two men in the back, the old man without the internet, the two women ringing up the purchases, and the young black couple buying lube at the check-out counter, learning the difference between water and silicon-based lubricants. They would all see my handful of stockings and know they were for me, and I had not even picked them out yet. It was as if they could read my mind which was crazy, especially since my mind was tripping over itself like a kid just learning how to ice skate.
I moved to the right to the wall of stockings. They had black and white, and I chose both. They were all stay up which was a misnomer at best because I have found, at least with the girth of my thighs, that they have a habit of unfurling, rolling lower and lower until the form a ridge just above my knee. I think that’s why the invented the garter belt, to hold the stockings in place and prevent they from rolling down.
I stood in line, joking at the tip jar that read next to the register as the young black couple finished buying their bottle of lube.
I made my purchase, thankful to leave the store with my newfound purchase hidden within a black plastic bag. It wasn’t until I was back in my car that I remembered it was okay to breathe. I had been in the store no more than ten minutes and in that time, I had aged at least a year. It had been difficult, yet most of that difficulty had resided in my head and nowhere else. I’d never be able to do anything that hard again. Or so I thought until a few days later.
But I’ll get there.
A few days later I had a play to attend. I’d bought the tickets months ago. Mistress Brianna had given me some new rules to follow. One of those rules that when I wasn’t at work, I was to be wearing a bra. She was kind enough to remind me that the play was not a work function. The implication was clear. I would be wearing a bra to my play. Being home alone dressed in panties and a bra is one thing. Wearing a bra beneath my clothing out and about was something else especially since I would be in public. During the show it wouldn’t be too bad; the lights would be dimmed. The hard part, the part that had me trembling was the combination of two thoughts. One, I only own one bra that I’d purchased online years ago, a lovely blue and black lacy thing with a thick metal underwire. The second thought, the one that made my throat tighten, was that to enter the venue you must pass through a metal detector.
Google “do underwires set off metal detectors” and you’ll understand my consternation. I read about the sensitivity settings and how they were set to detect metal but usually not so sensitive that you’d have to remove your shoes or your belt. That sensitivity was used at airports. It was why you had to remove your belt and shoes to take a flight. It would be okay. It had to be okay.
The night of the show I put on my bra. I was already wearing a pair of black lacy panties and my stockings – another rule – I’m a panty wearer exclusively now. Over my bra I put on a t-shirt and over that my dress shirt. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, turning from side to side to see if you could see my bra. I figured if I couldn’t see it, then nobody else would either. I left for the show satisfied that my secret was safe. And it was a secret. I do not want to share what I’m doing with anyone. I’m not into humiliation so I did my best to avoid it.
I made it to the venue and sat in my car until five minutes before the show started. I was still worried about the metal detector though I took some solace in the sensitivity setting I’d read all about. It would be set low, I thought. It had to be. I’d been to dozens of shows and had never seen a woman pulled aside because the metal detector blared as she went through. Surely, in all the performances I’ve attended at least one woman wore an underwire bra? It defied logic otherwise. I’d be okay.
I was not okay.
I stepped though the metal detector, my arms held aloft holding my keys and my cellphone as directed. The machine blared and dozens of red lights lining both sides of the detector began to flash. I had set it off. It was later that I understood why. At the time I was looking at the policeman to my left, the old black man directing me through with the detached detector in his hand, “let me check you,” he said, or at least that’s what I think he said. He could have said anything else, and I couldn’t really tell you what.
There were dozens of people looking at me. I had been signaled. I’d been pulled out of line. That wasn’t good in primary school and it was equally bad now, decades later, as the old man waved the wand over my belt, causing the tool in his hand to beep. He wanded my hip, the wallet in my back pocket making the detector blare again.
By now I was holding my keys and my cell phone up to my chest, having lowered them when the metal detector had first blared. He ran the wand at my nipples, where the underwire was hidden beneath my shirt, t-shirt and blushing face. The machine beeped again, but he was satisfied and let me through. The machine had beeped when he had expected. Through it all I could think of nothing more than to flee, to race back to my car and drive away, leaving my seat empty thought the play. I thought I was going to vomit. My stomach was a knot, the dinner I had eaten an hour earlier sat heavily in my stomach and my throat.
The machine had beeped, not because I was wearing a bra with an underwire and not because I was wearing a belt. It beeped because I was wearing both. Individually I would have been fine. I always wore a belt when I attended the plays. Women the world over wore bras with underwires. I wore both that night and that caused the machine to go off. I never saw how red my face got, but I felt how hot the night had suddenly become so knew I was crimson.
The rest of the night went off without incident though it took me more than half the first act to finally calm down enough to enjoy the show.
It was the very next day when I did something that still causes me to shake my head in disbelief.
Mistress Brianna had asked in our conversations what my bra size was. I gave her the number I thought it was based solely upon the size of my suit jacket, a suit I had purchased years earlier. She followed that up with another question. Had I ever had a bra fitting? The thought had never crossed my mind. Why would it? Though I did write about one once in one of my stories, so I knew what they were just not what they were - if you get my meaning.
So, what did I do? I called a local specialty bra shop and asked if they did bra fittings for men. The owner was exceptionally accommodating, and I made plans to head right over. Before I could leave, she called back to schedule an appointment two days later prior to the store opening. I readily agreed. Anything to minimize the number of eyes that witnessed what I was unbelievably about to do.
Two days later I arrived about thirty minutes early at the narrow strip of shops anchored by a large grocery store. Dozens of people were milling about, going in to buy their groceries or a dozen donuts from the bakery buried in the back of the grocery store. The sky overhead was clear and blue; why couldn’t it be gloomy so that it would be easier to hide? I sat in my car, parked so that I could see through the window, waiting for the lights to come on.
When they did, I got out of the car. I had sat there for about twenty minutes waiting, taking one sip of water after another because my mouth was so dry. My hands were shaking like an unbalanced washing machine. The knot in my throat seemed to extend upward to the top of my head which was aching and lower to my stomach which felt tight, like I had some Indian curry that wasn’t sitting exactly right. I cursed myself as I walked towards the store.
There was a small pinkish purple box containing a free newspaper in front of the bra shop. I opened the box and grabbed a newspaper then knocked on the door. I turned around, facing the street with the newspaper open in my hands. Any observers would see me reading a paper, not shopping for a bra. I looked normal, or I hope I did, I just didn’t feel normal. I wasn’t sure when I’d ever feel normal again.
I heard the door behind me. With it, I folded the newspaper, put it back in its box for the next person and turned towards the shop. The owner was an elderly woman with white hair, glasses on a chain around her neck and a huge bruise on her left wrist the color of an overripe aubergine. She introduced herself and even now I cannot remember her name. I wasn’t in a place to engage my brain; I was too busy trying to swallow the embarrassment I felt. I was a guy. Going for a bra fitting. In person. It was insane. I was insane. I think it was Mary. Well, pretty sure.
I felt better once I was in the store with the door locked behind me. The store was clean and warm. Bras of every color imaginable hung on the walls stacked ten or twelve deep, with the smaller bras in front working towards the wall where the bigger bras rested. The till was on the right before a small hallway lined with four little rooms. Mary took me into the first room and had me take off my shirt.
I did.
The room was small with a hook on my right holding a pink robe. Hanging next to the door was a small white board holding a single black marker. There was a mirror behind me, opposite the door. Another hook hung on the wall opposite the robe. I hung my shirt on the wall, taking my phone from its pocket. When I went to take a picture of the room Mary asked me not to, so I put my phone in my shirt pocket where it sat until I left thirty minutes later.
Mary was kind, asking me what kind of bras I liked. I think I said feminine, like that was an answer. What could be more feminine than female undergarments? She nodded, so it was answer enough. She made the two measurements I expected, across my chest and across my nipples. She made additional measurements, coming from my sternum to my spine around first my left-hand side and then my right. My left boob is bigger. She wrote the numbers on the whiteboard with the little black marker. As expected, I was an “A” cup though my band size was larger than I expected. I’m guessing it’s time for a new suit, too.
With the measuring done, I reached for my shirt.
“You have to try some on, first,” Mary said.
I had not expected that. Mary left the room and came back with a bra. It was a light color, half orange and half beige, like that of the circus peanut candies you see at Halloween. And it was big. When you’re a big guy you try on big bras. The straps were not delicate, little spaghetti-thin things. They were the width of my thumb or perhaps a bit wider. The band was even thicker, about as wide as my palm. She held the bra open, allowing me to feed my arms through the straps. Mary walked behind me and attached the hooks. I was wearing a bra. In public. In front of someone else. I don’t think I was smiling. I’m not even sure I was breathing.
Mary tugged on the straps, setting the length. Moving in front of me she reached into the cup to “grab the girls,” she said, the paused, “or guys.”
“Girls is fine,” I said. I’d heard them called that before, too. She was accommodating me well enough; she didn’t have to change how she talked. She turned me towards the mirror so I could see where the bra sat on my back, running her finger along the band. I nodded, “okay.”
“How does that feel?”
I was uncomfortable and scared and embarrassed, and she wanted to know that? It took me a moment to understand her question. It wasn’t how I was feeling but how the bra fit. I raised my arms, twisted about, and nodded, “fit’s fine.” I did not know if it felt fine. It felt like I was a man, wearing a bra, in public, in front of another person, without it being hidden by another else, like layers. Lots of layers. It felt like I needed to flee. Instead, I said, “yeah, it feels good.”
“Do you like the style?”
I said I did, and she gushed about it.
“Let’s see what else we have.”
Mary left the room and I put my shirt on long enough to follower her, buttoning only one button to keep the shirt closed. She led me further from the huge open windows at the front of the store to a room that held even more bras. I showed her the ones I liked, though the ones I really liked were not for the likes of me. Based on the walls of bras in that store, big men wear big bras, not tiny, lacy things.
Mary found one of the styles I liked and when I returned to my fitting room, I tried it on, too. It was pink with tiny pink roses stenciled in the cups. I stood stoically as she adjusted the straps, tugging on the band to settle me in place. She left then and returned a moment later with a pair of small, beige cones that fit into a little pocket sewn into the cups. Those cones – called push up pads – really filled out the cups. When I looked down all I saw were the bulging pink swell of my bra. And it was my bra. I left the store with it fifteen minutes later.
One last humiliation came when I heard the door chime. Mary had met me before the store opened, but her other employees began trickling in then. I was introduced to Solange, a middle-aged woman of Latin heritage. She said hello. I choked out a greeting in return.
Mary had me remove my bra. She had me try one more, but it was just too plain. I’m a girly guy, I guess. I had admitted to preferring my undergarments to be feminine. “Okay,” Mary said, letting me get dressed again. She left while I put my shirt back on and returned a moment later with her catalogue. In my size she had very few samples, but she had a book of bras she could order.
Solange rang me up and, in the end, I left the store with that one pink bra, a trio of the push up pads and six more bras on order. Mary promised to call when my bras were ready. I’ll have to go back to pick them up, but that humiliation is set for another day.
I thanked Mary and Solange and as I was leaving, I heard the back door chime again. Another woman came in, older than Solange, though younger than Mary. I do not know her name. Three separate women had witnessed my shame; two of them – Mary and Solange – saw me in my new bra. The third saw me leave with my bra in my hand in a small, white plastic bag.
I left the store, thankful to be out of there. I sat in my car, my bra next to me, gulping a bottle of water. My mouth had been so dry in the store. How many words had I spoken? I doubt it was very many. I was still shaking, and I could feel the stockings I was wearing bunching at my knees. It had been a lot, almost too much and already I was dreading my return. I’d have to get there as soon as they opened. I’m not sure I could handle going when the store is full of other customers.
No, I’m not to sure of that at all.
I am. Lol. I'm sure it's predictable, but when your bras are ready I might set a time for you to collect. Or a poll. Yes. I'll start that just now. Lolol.
I'm always fascinated by how we come to be who we are, the experiences that shape us; and as we evolve, the roots and foundations of who we are. For some it might be childhood events that stick with us; others a glimpse of something adult we are not quite prepared to see....For Emma, her precious book that led her into so many delightful and wicked situations and practices.
And then this....I don’t think we get to choose who we are; I think we just are, and we live with ourselves hopefully happy with who we find ourselves to be.....We are who we are....
Think about that. Fairly regularly I find myself chatting with girls who struggle and question, who try to solve the puzzle of why they love certain things. If you are not hurting anyone, why hurt yourself with such conflict? Simply be....Enjoy life and enjoy who you are.
We've done a few more things as well as the ground rules and these experiences. I'm sure Emma might share more one day, but for now you might enjoy knowing I've chosen a wonderfully retro looking maid's uniform for her chores which is on order.....
.......and she also had the pleasure of completing her first set of lines when she presented rather sloppily for a check-in.
But overall we're off to a good start and I'm looking forward to seeing what the year might bring.
Mistress Brianna xx