"I sat down in the chair next to me with tears streaming down my face."I'm not a sissy," I said, "Mom... dad ....please say you are joking." It's not ... joke Bobbie," my father said.I looked up and said, "What?" they never call me Bobby.My father said, "We will be calling you Bobbie from now on, that's withan 'ie' not a 'y'." You will be no longer be considered a male at all. You are a sissy, andyou will be called 'her' or 'she'". My mother said.My father said, "It's all in the Sissy Pledge that. If she had a problem with alcohol, the tabloids would have told the world about it by now. We talked of many things while we waited for our food. She was a well read woman which I appreciated. We had a great many things in common…a love of history, of fine wines, of travel and of great literature. By the time our food arrived, I felt we were becoming great friends. Her cheeks were becoming flushed, I was not sure if it was from the alcohol or the company. Certainly the room was not overly. It doesn’t really matter though. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. I glare at her. The fresh blood dripping down her neck widens my smile.“Bitch!” Thankfully, the muzzle doesn’t prevent speech.A hand clamps on my snout, holding my jaws shut, preventing further speech. Only when I try to twist away do I realize just how completely helpless I am. I’m still in bed, but now my feet are cuffed together, and attached to the foot of the bed. My arms are handcuffed behind my back. The collar,. .. Our first fuck was, admittedly, all too brief. She slid her panties off underneath her skirt, sat down across me and I sunk balls deep into her dripping little pussy like it was an perfect ripe summer peach. It was, up to that point, the greatest sexual experience of my life, and I came, sputtering and gasping, after a few hearty pumps... She goes to the bathroom and cleans herself off, comes back sheepish but with an impish little grin. She does have her shirt, bra, and assumedly panties.