Übersetze folgenden Text, übersetze “Stockings” mit “Halterlose” und schreibe ihn in die Ich-Form um:”””Each day you dress in your well cut business suit, a crisp white business shirt, cuff links, an elegant silk tie and well polished mens’ shoes and you go to the office to your job as a middle ranking executive, with aspirations to senior management. 


You try to fit in with all the other male executives, in your demeanour, the way you act and talk - you have the have all of the company buzz words and jargon and excel at your job.  


You try to exude a self-confident aura.


You join in all the coffee break conversations trying to be interested in all the saner things as the rest of your maker colleagues - football, politics, women. 


But all the time you are filled with this intense self-consciousness, because it’s all a facade, a charade, to present yourself as something you are not. 


Under that well-cut mens business suit, you are totally hairless.  


You wear sheer womens’ lacetop stockings sheathed over your smooth legs.


The soft, gentle friction they generate as they bush against the silk lining of your trousers provides a constant reminder that you are not the man you pretend to be. 


No one can see them, but you know at all you’re wearing womens stockings. They don’t let you escape the effeminate creature beneath the male faced.  


Inside your sheer womens’ panties your male “equipment” it locked away inaccessibly and impotently, inside a steel chastity cage.  It has, through years of redundancy, become so small and pathetic that you now wear the smallest size cage available.  


Even though you stopped imagining you yourself as a “man” many years ago, it’s effect just to be a constant symbol and reminder of your emasculation - of your failure to be the man you deluded yourself into believing you could be - while simultaneously denying you any delusion of yourself as a woman.  


Not that any of your work colleagues have ever seen what’s underneath that suit, and you live in constant anxiety that any of them might somehow find out, but it unmistakably screams out “sissy”.  


And, as if it isn’t blatant enough, there is now this tattoo, in a very curly, feminine script, that smells it out in black ink white skin - “Sissy”!


Just in case there would be any doubt.  


You are constantly left wondering whether your male charade is convincing enough. 


You wonder whether any effeminate mannerisms or  things you say might cause them to suspect.  


What happens when you go out with them for after work drinks, a woman hits on you a little aggressively and feels the steel cage in your trousers, or the out line of your stocking tops?


The fantasy of the humiliation is exciting. 


The reality, however, would not be so. 


When you go home at night you strip down to your stockings and panties, dress up in some very feminine lace-trimmed satin lingerie, some stilettos and apply some makeup, lipstick and nail polish, before going to the kitchen to prepare dinner for your man.


You are not his wife, or his “girl”. 


You are his bitch. 


He calls you demeaning names - “sissy”, “loser”, “faggot”.


After dinner, he forces you to your stockinged knees before thrusting his throbbing shaft between your painted lips and down your throat. 


Later you are expected to join him in the bedroom, where he will handcuff your hands behind, before forcing you painted face into a pillow and brutally thrashing you from behind. 


It is not sex.  It is an expression of his power over you and your weakness and surrender to him. 


Drowning in girlie sensations form your stockings and girlie lingerie, wallowing in girlie emotions and thoughts you are already thoroughly emasculated. 


Helplessly handcuffed and used in this way it elevates your emasculation and shame into the stratosphere. 


Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. 


You are not a participant, but an object into which he unloads his semen and purges his sexual tension. 


You are not sexually attracted to him. You are not sexually attracted to men.


Just as it is his power over you, in your weakness, defeat and emasculation that arouses him, for your it is your abject humiliation that arouses you. 


When he has unloaded inside you, he turns his back on you leaves you lying there helpless, impotent in your chastity belt and handcuffed in your stockings and womens underwear, to stew in your shame and effeminacy.


The next morning he will usually pound you again, often before you’ve even fully woken up, to make sure your loins are awash with his semen when you go to work.


After he has finished he will unlock your handcuffs, freeing you to remove your nail polish and makeup, shower and slip into a fresh pair of stockings and girlie panties to wear under you suit to work. 


Somehow, between leaving home and arriving at work, you need somehow manufacture a more masculine air, that ls the womens stockings and panties, and chastity cage you are wearing and the knowledge that you’ve spent the night helplessly handcuffed, brutally thrashed by a man, and that you are awash with his semen.


It’s really only just a matter of time before your guard slips and those telltale signs start undermine your charade.  

