Date: Sun, 26 Jun 2011 21:13:36 -0400
From: Sissy Princess Heathyr <sissyprincessheathyr@gmail.com>
Subject: Like Mother, Like Sissy - Chapter 1 (TG)

The following tale of sexual depravity contains adult material.
If you are under the legal age for your area (generally 18 or
21), or object to explicit sex, stop reading NOW.  Otherwise, if
erotic situations and taboo acts turn you on, then please enjoy
yourself.  The characters and situations are, of course,
completely fictitious.

Feel free to post or archive, as long as the story remains intact
and unmodified, and my contact information is attached.
Otherwise, this work should be considered copyright 2011 Sissy
Princess Heathyr.


Like Mother, Like Sissy
A Sissy Princess Sperm Whore Story

by Sissy Princess Heathyr
sissyprincessheathyr@gmail.com



I never knew my dad.

That's not an excuse for what I've become - and that's not to say
I need an excuse - it's just a simple fact that some people find
relevant when trying to examine what I've become.

Anyway, he was killed in a plane crash before I was born.
Technically, he was killed in a plane crash while I was being
born, but he died without knowing that. He'd been overseas at a
business conference when my mom called to tell him she was going
into labor, and had boarded the first plane he could back to
North America. Ironically, it wasn't that long, turbulent, twenty
hour flight that killed him, but the short little jaunt between
New York and home on a twin-engine commuter plane.

I've seen photos of him, of course, and I've even see a poor copy
of a commercial his company did where he walks on camera, shakes
a football player's hand - an enormous black hand, not that has
anything to do with what I've become either - and says, "Hello."

Hello.

That's the only word I've ever heard him speak, and it turns out
that was actually dubbed over by one of the other guys in the
firm, after my dad's death. So, really, I have a few photos, a
bad video, and someone else's voice to account for my memories.

I regret never knowing him, but I don't regret what I've become.

As for my mom, she was a struggling medical student before I was
born. She wasn't studying to be a nurse, but an actual doctor. It
was almost unheard of at the time, but she has always been a
strong, confident, independent woman who knows what she wants -
and is not afraid to go out and get it. She wanted to be a
doctor, and that's what she was going to become. The pregnancy
put a temporary halt to her studies, but she had been determined
to return to school the semester immediately following my birth.

Unfortunately, my dad's death put an end to those plans, but it
also meant she never really had to worry about it. Even as a
junior executive, my father was heavily insured. The company
insured all of its employees, with additional policies on those
who were required to travel for work. I don't know what the
actual dollar value was, at the time, but I know my mom was smart
enough about investing the two payoffs to never have to work
again.

You don't care about any of this, of course, but it's important
that I establish the proper expectations. When I tell people who
I am and what I do, they automatically assume I came from a
broken home and an unhappy home life. They assume I must have
grown up in abject poverty, watching my mom do whatever it took
to put a little stale bread reheated Kraft Dinner on the table.
The imagine all number of daily abuses, and assume that I must
have suffered tragically to explain what I've become.

I want you to know that is so not the case!

Even without a dad, I wouldn't call our home broken. My mom and I
were very close, as much best friends as were family. There was
nothing sexual or inappropriate about our relationship, so get
your mind out of that gutter, but we have always been very honest
and open with each other about sexuality. That, I will admit,
likely has something to do with what I've become, but only in
that it has allowed me to embrace my place in life without fear
or shame or doubt.

As for poverty . . . well, like I said, my dad's insurance
policies left us very well off. In the time it took for a single
stupid goose to fly into the plane's right engine, our house, our
car, and even my dad's boat were all paid off.  That meant my
mom only had to worry about utilities and food, and the
interest from the insurance settlement alone covered that and
more. I wouldn't say we were rich, but we were very comfortable.

I distinctly remember the first time I saw my mom come home with
a man. I was twelve at the time, and finally old enough to stay
home by myself. Of course, I had to keep the doors locked, the
window shades down, and the television on in the living room. My
mom even had the gardener - a mean looking black man who, in
hindsight I still suspect was doing more than just trimming the
bushes -  come over around ten o'clock to move the cars around in
the driveway, and then exit through the back yard. I'm not sure
any crook is really stupid enough to fall for that ploy, but it
seemed genius to me at the time.

Anyway, I should have been in bed, but I decided to stay up late
to watch the late-night talk shows I heard other kids raving
about at school. To be honest, I really didn't see what they
thought was so great, and was actually on my way to bed when they
came in.

My mom was dressed in a gorgeous red cocktail dress, with shiny
red heels and a matching purse. I'd watched her get dressed and
do her makeup before she left, and helped her to pick out the
shoes and purse. Before you start smiling and figuring you
suddenly have me figured out, I wasn't queer or anything like
that. I just enjoyed watching the act of transformation my mom
went through once in a while. She was an attractive woman around
the house, but she was an absolute stunner when she went out.
Even as her son, I could appreciate that.

She'd always been a pale woman, blessed (or cursed, depending on
when you asked her) with freckles all over her body.  Seeing her
come through the door, though, with that black man towering over
her, she looked like such a tiny little ghost. I'd never really
thought of her as short, just normal, but either she was really
short or he was really tall, because she looked like a child as
she turned around and stepped into his arms.

Over the next few years, my mom would bring home a lot of
different men. Some were tall, some were short. Some were skinny
and wiry, others were muscled and bulky. Some dressed like the
teachers at school or the men at the bank, and others dressed
like the kids at school or the punks looking for a purse to
snatch outside the bank.

What they all had in common - that I could see, of course - was
that they were black. The fact that there were all extremely
well-hung and full of cum was something I wouldn't discover for a
few years yet.

It was the summer of my fifteenth birthday when I finally, fully
understood my mom's relationship with these men. We were out
laying by the pool - me out in the sun, her beneath the biggest
patio umbrella you'd ever seen - when I caught a glimpse of
something on her back. Curious, I waited until she rolled over to
pick up her soda, and then leaned in for a look.

It was a tattoo. The very idea of such a thing on my mom's
backside thrilled me. Tattoos were dangerous things, the kind of
things you saw on dangerous people. I'd never known anyone with a
tattoo until then. Her tattoo was a red heart, about four inches
wide at the top, set in the very small of her back. It would have
been hidden by anything other than a bikini bottom, so I couldn't
even guess how long she'd had it. I understood the heart, of
course, but I couldn't make sense of the lettering inside.

` W4BBC' was written inside that heart, in carefully drawn, very
feminine, stylized lettering.

We'd never had any secrets between us, and she'd always welcomed
any questions I might have, so I asked her what it meant. For the
first time in our lives she paused, as if she might not answer. I
was devastated. What could be so horrible that she couldn't even
speak of it to me, her son? I mean, I knew tattoos for dangerous
people, but had she done something wrong? Was she ashamed of the
beautiful artwork that adorned her flesh?

I remember how she looked at me, as if she wanted to tell me, but
was afraid. She looked so excited, but she also looked scared. I
smiled, and started to tell her it was okay if she didn't want to
talk about it, but she shook her head, laughed at herself, and
then invited me to sit on the end of her chair so we could talk.

That was the afternoon that she told me, proudly and openly, that
she was a Whore 4 Big Black Cock. That's precisely how she said
it. Whenever my mom used those words, you heard the capital
letters at the start of each one.

Whore 4 Big Black Cock - that's what the W4BBC stood for, and the
heart around it represented the fact that she loved everything
about being a Whore 4 Big Black Cock. It had all started quite
accidentally, with that first date I witnessed a few years ago
(as it turned out, even she had been afraid of the gardener).
She'd never intended for it to happen, and hadn't gone looking
for it, but that first Black Cock had been so Big, she knew she
could never give it up.

She told me to think of my own cock at its hardest - she'd seen
it very well the night we had `the talk' and probably a few times
after, through my open bedroom door at night - to imagine it
twice as long, and to imagine it as three times as thick. That,
she told me, was only the beginning. She told me to think of my
messiest orgasm - she emptied the garbage and cleaned my sheets,
so she knew what I was capable of - and then imagine each one
making twice the mess, and then imagine having five of them at
once.

That, she assured me, only began to explain her addiction to Big
Black Cock. She loved it, it made her happy, and she was not at
all ashamed to admit that to me.

With what little I knew about sex at the time, that made perfect
sense to me.

It didn't suddenly fill me with a sense of inferiority, or
suddenly crush my masculinity. I didn't feel the least bit
insulted by the comparison to my own cock, and honestly didn't
feel as if there were anything wrong me with. Instead of making
me feel small and weak, the conversation simply informed me that
black men were bigger and better. There was an `average' or
`normal' size somewhere between us, and I knew that I fell pretty
close to that mark - they just exceeded it.

There was no sharing of intimate details, no reminiscing about
past lovers, just a very frank discussion about what she loved
and why. To a neighbor peeking over the fence, we could have been
talking about the weather, the shape of the clouds, or what we
were going to have for dinner that night. When you lived such an
open and honest relationship as we did, conversations like that
really weren't a big deal. It explained the tattoo, helped me to
better appreciate the men she brought home and, most importantly,
confirmed that my mom was a happy woman.

When you're fifteen, living at home, and politely aware that you
have it better than most of your friends, your mom's happiness
really is important.

*******

That's part of where my story starts, but to understand how
quickly and how drastically my life would later change, you also
have to understand other half of my story.

From the moment puberty hit, about a year before the W4BBC tattoo
revelation, I'd been a very happy little sissy cross-dresser.

Now, this might be something you can blame on being raised by a
single mom, but I don't know that our situation had much of an
impact on things. Really, I think I would have developed my
fetish for femininity regardless, even if I'd been raised with a
strong father figure and a few older brothers. It was nothing
that my mom forced on me, but it also was nothing that she
discouraged.

The more opportunities I have to meet with other sissies, the
more I love her for that attitude.

By the time we had that conversation by the pool, I already had a
closet full of feminine attire that was almost as well-stocked as
my closet of masculine attire. It was a closet I only explored
around the house, but I was okay with that. I could spend all day
trying on outfits, feeling the caress of silk and satin across my
skin, and enjoying the delicious thrill of high-heels on my feet.
 I hadn't yet begun experimenting with makeup, but I'd watched my
mom transform herself enough times that I felt pretty
confident I could do it - and do it well - whenever I felt like
it.

Whereas my mom was a bold woman, commanding and strong in reds
and blacks, I was a soft little sissy, submissive and meek in my
pinks and yellows. There was nothing in my closet that couldn't
be considered soft, sweet, cute, or adorable. Dressing started
out an entirely sexual experience, I freely admit, but it soon
became something that I did to relax, de-stress, or just feel
comfortable.

It just felt right . . . it just felt like the real me. It was
nothing I really discussed in detail with my mom - it was enough
that she accepted it - and I certainly never brought it up in
front of my friends at school. In fact, I laughed along with them
whenever a lisping, prancing, gay sissy showed up in a movie,
even as I secretly studied his every word and his every word to
see what fell into my definition of myself.

I laughed, but I also learned . . . with none of my friends the
wiser.

By the time my life changed forever, I was spending my every
moment inside the house dressed as a girl, and had even ventured
out to the mall a few times with mom to go shopping.

*******

Thanks for sticking with me through all of the boring stuff, but
I think it's really important to understand that even the most
seemingly normal, well-adjusted, happy boy can become what I am
today.

In fact, if you're reading this, it might very well be that
you're on your way to joining me. If so, then please accept my
sassiest, silliest, sissiest squeals of congratulatory glee.
There really is nothing better, although I'm glad most boys don't
see it that way.

That just means more for me (or us, if you really are on your way
to joining me)!

It was the night of my eighteenth birthday party that
circumstances conspired to change my life forever. At the time, I
was absolutely devastated that my friends had all backed out of
my weekend birthday celebration - all for good, entirely valid
reasons - but I had tried to soldier on anyways. Unfortunately, a
weekend in a private, well-stocked party pad wasn't nearly as
exciting as it seemed without company there to help me enjoy it.

So, when it became clear on the second night that no latecomers
would be joining me, I headed home to raid my closet. If was
going to be alone and drunk, with access to a well-stocked bar
and pay-per-view television, I was going to get dressed up and
enjoy it.

The first thing I noticed when I got home was the number of cars
parked around our house. Our driveway was full, the front lawn
was covered, and both sides of the street were occupied from the
stop-sign on Park, to the yield sign on Strauss. My mom was
clearly having a party of her own, and the last thing I wanted to
do was intrude. I almost headed straight back to the party pad,
but by that point I'd played through the weekend so many times in
my head that I needed to grab some things from my feminine closet
first.

It gives me chills to think how my life might have been different
if I really had turned around.

Strangely, the main floor of the house was dark. Other than the
kitchen, the lights were out, and there wasn't a soul to be seen.
I figured they were partying out back, so I hurried up the stairs
to my bedroom. When I got to the top of the stairs, I saw the
sliver of light from beneath my mom's door, and heard the noises
coming from the other side. It wasn't that they were loud or
rowdy or anything like that. In fact, as she told me later, the
men themselves were being rather quiet, never talking to one
another, and only whispering to her. As for my mom, she was a
little too occupied to be speaking . . . if you know what I mean.

If you don't, then I really don't know what to say, other than to
hope the surprise is a pleasant one. I know it was for me!

Of course, I knew none of that at the time, but knew well enough
not to disturb her. As open and honest as our relationship was,
our one rule was that closed doors meant privacy. If doors were
open, we were both free to come and go as we pleased. Bedroom,
bathroom, laundry room, den, it didn't matter. Day, night,
morning, afternoon, or evening, it was all the same. Naked or
clothed, alone or with company, an open door was an invitation.

A closed door, however, was a polite sign that we wanted a little
privacy - and we both respected that.

I went down the hall to my room and made sure the door was closed
behind me. If she had a guest in the house, I didn't want him
wandering into my room by mistake, especially while I was getting
my clothes ready. I spent the next half hour in the closet,
pulling clothes out, holding them against one another, keeping
some, and putting the rest back. I had it in my mind that I
wanted two sets of outfits, with a little room to improvise,
depending on my mood.

First, I wanted a cute, sexy, college girl outfit in case I got
drunk enough to leave the party pad. I knew that was a
possibility, and it excited me. For that, I had a few very short
skirts, some tight blouses, knee-high socks, and my eighty-dollar
Victoria's Secret pink panties.

Second, I wanted something slutty and sexy for being alone in the
party pad. For that, I grabbed my second favorite corset (I
needed somebody to lace me into my favorite), two pairs of
fishnets, a garter belt, and my frilliest, laciest, sissiest
panties. After, for relaxing, I grabbed an adorable pink peignoir
set that my mom had just bought me, but I hadn't yet had a chance
to wear.

I had everything packed, then decided I really did have to be
prepared if I was going to go on a drunken stroll around town.
So, I left the overnight bag on my bed, and then made my way down
to the bathroom to borrow some of mom's makeup. Halfway down the
hall, though, her bedroom door opened and two of the tallest
black men I had ever seen in my life walked out.

I'm not sure why I panicked, except that I didn't want to intrude
on my mom's fun. I quickly ducked into the hall closet and
watched through the crack to see if they had noticed me. As they
passed, I got my first close-up look at big black cock . . . and
what a look it was. Obviously, I couldn't measure them, but I'd
put them both at about 9 inches long, and so thick it would take
both hands to masturbate them. More than that, their balls were
absolutely enormous. I swear you could have taken my cock and
balls, balled them up, and stuffed them into either man's sac,
and still have room left over.

I didn't find them particularly attractive or anything, and
certainly didn't feel a sudden urge to jump out and devour them,
if that's where you think I'm going with this. Instead, I simply
admired them, appreciated them for their beauty, much like I'd
appreciate a priceless sculpture at the museum. Yes, they were
big and they were beautiful, and I could certainly understand why
mom was a proud whore for big black cock, but seeing them didn't
suddenly turn me gay.

The moment they disappeared down the stairs, I rushed to the
bathroom, grabbed the makeup I needed, and then headed back to my
room to finish packing. While I was there, I suddenly heard a
group of deep, male voices coming down the hall, accompanied by
mom's giggles of amusement. I couldn't overhear everything they
were saying, but apparently they had dared her to do something
with a drive thru, and she was determined to collect on the dare.
I peeked outside my room and counted at least a dozen black men,
not including the two who had already gone downstairs.

I gave it ten minutes to be sure they were gone, and then emerged
with my overnight bag, ready to head back to the party pad.

That's when I saw the open door that would change my life
forever.

I often wonder what would have happened had somebody closed that
door. Fifteen people - fourteen men plus my mom - had walked
out that door, and not a single one of them thought to close it
behind them. Had they done so, I never would have done what I
did, and what happened never would have happened. The course of
my life would have been significantly altered, and I can't say
that would have been a good thing.

In fact, I can't imagine my life without that open door, and
wouldn't change what I've become for anything.

The open door alone meant nothing to me, but thoughts of makeup
had naturally led to thought of sex toys. Don't ask me why, but
the completion of my feminine appearance demanded, at least in my
imagination, the initiation of my feminine sexuality. I knew my
mom had a large collection of vibrators and dildos, and she
had long since given me permission to play, so long as I cleaned
them up and put them back after.

That's all I was thinking as I walked through that door, but the
thought didn't last for long. Almost immediately, my senses were
assaulted by the aroma of male arousal, the perfume of masculine
musk, and the intoxicating scent of sex. It was so intense, so
overpowering, it literally sent me to my knees. As it washed over
me I felt myself become dizzy. Had I not dropped to my knees, I'm
certain I would have fainted altogether.

What I smelt was the contributions of fourteen hot, sweaty, horny
men . . . and one sexually liberated woman. Beneath the more
pungent scents of sweat and musk was a deeper, more primal scent
that was nutty and tangy and sweetly sour. It was the smell of
cum, and it was overpowering. I felt lost, hypnotized by the
smell. While I hadn't felt any sort of attraction to the two big
black cocks in the hallways, I had a newfound appreciation for
what those cocks could produce.

I left the overnight bag on the floor and slowly approached the
bed. It was an absolute mess. The mattress had been knocked
askew, with the bottom right-hand corner overlapping the box
spring by more than a foot. The fitted sheet had been pulled
loose at all four corners, and the mattress cover was only
hanging on by the top left corner. As I got closer, I could see
that the sheets were wet, so wet that they glistened in the
light. There were two huge wet spots where the light bounced back
like sunshine off a calm lake, and a much larger area
encompassing them that just looked damp. I knew it was cum, but I
had never seen that much cum at one time, in one place, before.

It didn't look real.

I was in a trance as I walked towards the bed. The sight of all
that cum had utterly consumed me. I could see the two pools of
cum, thick enough and slick enough to be my mom's best European
hand crème. They were an off-white color that I'd never seen
before, shot through with faint tinges of yellow. It looked thick
enough to paint with, but smooth enough to lubricate the most
delicate machinery. I could smell it more and more as I crossed
the room, until that smell became an impossible taste in the back
of my throat. I was completely unaware of what was happening
around me. All I knew, all I saw, was those twin puddles of cum.

And then I fell.

Two steps away from the bed, I stepped on something even
slipperier than the cum. Whatever it was, I didn't see it, just
felt it slide out from beneath my feet as I tripped awkwardly
towards the bed. It all happened in slow motion, as if I were
watching it through some voyeur's camera lens, instead of my own
two eyes. I saw the bed coming closer to my face - I was, of
course, falling closer to it - and saw the topmost pool of cum
growing before my eyes. I actually saw a hint of my reflection in
the creamy mirror before a euphoric splat and a well-cushioned
blow took my sight from me.

I had landed, face-first, directly in the pool of cum. I couldn't
have planned it any better or aimed any closer if I had tried.
For the longest moment I just laid there, surrounded by cum, and
feeling it ooze into my every orifice. I had cum in my eyes, up
my nose, in my ears, and in my mouth. It was like being drowned
in a pool of hot glue, except hot glue never tasted so glorious.
Without consciously being aware of what I was doing, I began
kissing and licking and slurping the cum from the bed. I began
slowly rolling my head from one side to the other, coating my
face with even more cum.

It felt so wonderful, so sexual, and so feminine. I can't explain
it, but there was something about the experience that spoke to me
at a subliminal level, awakening the sissy inside me to the
awe-inspiring power of cum.

Finally, needing a breath, I stood up from the bed and turned to
face her dressing table mirror. What stared back at me was a
slender, long haired, pale faced sissy . . . with enough cum on
his face to make him look like a glazed donut. It was a sight
like I had never imagined, but it was absolutely intoxicating. I
felt my cock becoming almost painfully erect in my pants. I
watched the sissy in the mirror, forgetting for a moment that it
was me, wipe a thick dollop of cum from the tip of his nose with
two fingers, and then slowly bring the treasure to his lips. When
his (my) tongue flicked out to taste that dollop, to lick that
finger clean, we both exploded.

The sudden intensity of the orgasm rocked my very soul. It sent
me stumbling backwards, where I tripped, once again, this time
landing in the second, smaller puddle of cum. I was not a
religious boy, and never believed in coincidence, but some force
of fate had chosen that moment to alter my life, and it succeeded
beyond all expectations. Shocked out of my hypnotic stupor, I
rubbed my face all over the bed. I ripped my shirt off, threw it
across the room, and began rubbing my hairless chest in the cum
as well. My nipples were getting hard from all the excitement,
and my cock was already growing again.

Before long, I had the spent cum of more than a dozen big black
cocks all over me, soaking into my pores, and drying upon my
skin. For the longest while I just laid there, stoned on cum, and
felt it slowly drying upon me, tightening my flesh. I imagined
myself being placed in a cocoon of cum, and I knew that if I was
only patient, and allowed the sperm to do it's work, I'd emerge a
perfect sissy butterfly.

That's when I remember what I had come in for in the first place.

I slithered across the bed, further covering myself in cum, and
reached for my mom's dresser. I opened her toy drawer and peered
inside. Although I had come looking for a couple of her smaller
vibrators, my eyes were immediately drawn to the realistic
looking black, rubber dildo. I grabbed it up, amazed by the
weight of it, and confirmed my earlier assumption that it would
take two hands to masturbate one of these monsters.

Never losing contact with all that cum, I slid around on the bed
until my face was buried in the larger pool of cum, with the
smaller one directly in front of me. I pushed the dildo down into
the bed, rolled it around in the cum, and then allowed myself a
moment to admire it's slick, cum-coated, gloriousness before
giving it a lick from balls to cockhead. Somehow taking the cum
directly from the cock, even if it was a fake one, completed the
experience. I giggled and smiled and gasped and cried as I
writhed around on the bed, making mad, passionate, oral love to
my cum-covered dildo.

At some point I stripped out of my clothes and rescued cum-soaked
satin nightie that I had twice slipped on from the floor. I
slipped it on - actually, I struggled my way into it - and cooed
with delight as I felt the heavy, damp weight of it sticking to
my skin. Again, I looked into the mirror, and again I nearly
exploded at the sight. I looked like such a slut, a worthless
whore who didn't even have the decency to get out of her
sperm-saturated clothes before climbing back into her cum-coated
bed.

That's when seven simple words, spoken in a deep, booming
baritone, tipped the balance of my fate.

"Well, now. Aren't you the sissy princess."

Started out of my cum-drenched dreams, I looked up to find one of
my mom's black lovers standing before me. He was fully clothed,
and had apparently showered, but I could see the outline of his
cock straining down his right pant leg. I should have been
horrified, embarrassed to be caught as I was, but hearing him
call me `sissy princess' awakened an ever deeper level of my
sissy self.

"Your mom is going to be staying at my place for the weekend, but
she asked me to stop in and bring her a few things." He chuckled
softly as I just laid there, frozen, with cum all over me and a
black dildo in my mouth. "It's a shame traffic was so bad at this
time of night." I watched, spellbound, as he began undoing his
belt. "Heck, I might even have run into a flat tire and had to
walk clear across town for a spare." He unzipped his pants and
let them drop to the floor.

I could see the immensity of his cock, barely contained by the
elastic leg-bands of his white briefs. I cried out a little bit,
not sure of what was happening, but only too happy to see where
it led.

When he pulled off those briefs, and his rapidly hardening cock
sprang into view, any last shred of doubt within me disappeared.
My hands fell away from the dildo in my mouth, and reached out
for his manhood. As for the dildo, it slipped out, forgotten, and
fell into the sticky mess of the bed. I began crawling towards
him.

Like I said - and I know this is hard to grasp - I hadn't
suddenly become gay or anything like that, but I knew his cock
was responsible for at least some of this delicious cum, and I
was determined to earn some of my own.

"Tell me, white boy, do you want to suck it?" He was playing with
his cock, making it jump and twitch, and laughing as my eyes
followed every movement. "Do you want to feel it pushing past
your tonsils until it's fucking you deep in your throat?"

Slowly, tentatively, I reached out to touch it. Oh my god, it was
hot, and hard, and alive! Suddenly, the dildo I'd been making
such sweet love to seemed like the worst kind of fraud. I never
wanted to touch another one again, much less make the mistake of
thinking it could substitute for the real thing. I lunged
forward, but he slapped me across the face, sending me sprawling
across the bed.

"Ah, ah, ah," he reprimanded me. "Even when she's lost in the
pleasure of black cock in both her holes and both her hands, your
mother never forgets her manners." He squeezed his way down his
cock until a huge drop of pre-cum could be seen glistening at the
tip.

I had to have it!

"Yes!" I dove forward and cried out with my need. "Yes, I do want
to suck it, please!"

He wiped at the pre-cum and held his finger out before my face.
"Do you want this?" he asked me.

I nodded, unwilling take my attention from that glistening
finger. "Please," I whimpered, "I want your cum." I shuddered
with another orgasm. "I want it. I need it. Only let me drink the
cum from your cock, and I will do anything you ask."

"Lick it."

I did just that, caressing his finger with my tongue, and coaxing
the delicious pre-cum into my mouth.

"Suck it."

I took his finger in my mouth and sucked it like a tiny cock.

"Time for the real thing, bitch." With that, he grabbed a hold of
my head, pulled me forward, and slammed his cock into my mouth.
It was so big it choked me. I was gagging and gasping for breath,
but he just held it there, slowly stroking my cum-covered cheeks
and whispering for me to relax, promising that I would adjust.

I'd been so wrapped up in the taste, the smell, and the feel of
cum, I had forgotten those other aromas that had drawn me into
the room. With my mouth inches away from his balls, I once again
smelled the powerful aroma of male musk, of masculine sweat. I
was sweetly sour to my nose and, I realized suddenly, something I
had never smelled before that night.

Never smelled on myself, because I wasn't a real man . . . I was
a sissy, and I belonged on the other end of that smell!

To my amazement - and maybe it was a genetic trait passed on from
my mom - I adjusted pretty quickly. Granted, I had enough cum
coating the inside of my mouth to lubricate a large engine, but
it was something else that stretched my cheeks and relaxed my
jaw. Before long he was gently fucking my face, stroking all ten
inches of big, black cock into my mouth. I still gagged every
time he last two inches forced their way past my lips, but the
feel of his balls bouncing against my chin saved me every time.
That was his cum-sack caressing my face, the magical extension of
his big, black cock that produced the cum I had so quickly, and
so easily become addicted to. I paid close attention to how they
felt, and sucked hard the more I saw them begin to tighten.

It wasn't long before he was ready to cum. "Keep sucking, boy,
and you'll get a nice surprise."

He pulled back so that only the first few inches were in my
mouth, then continued fucking me with quick, short strokes. I
actually felt his cock begin to quiver on my tongue. I felt his
vein begin to tighten against my oral embrace. Anticipating my
first taste of cum from the tap, so to speak, I began sucking
that much harder. When the first explosive jet of black sperm
erupted in my mouth, I was taken completely by surprise. I swear
he came hard enough to bruise the back of my throat with the
force of his ejaculation.

That was perfectly okay, because I was in heaven.

If I had thought stale, spent cum, licked from a soiled mattress
had tasted good, the taste of hot, fresh cum being delivered
directly into my mouth was another level of sensation entirely. I
sucked and swallowed feverishly, draining his cock of it's cum,
and then continuing to suck it long after it was dry and soft
once again. Twice he tried to extract himself from my mouth, but
I wasn't ready to let go. Finally, he slapped me again, reminding
me of my manners.

"Sissy princess and a sperm whore, eh?" He slapped my face a few
times with his cock, before pushing me away. "I guess the apple
doesn't fall far from the tree."

A million different thoughts and feelings were flooding my brain
as I came down from my cum-induced high, but number one among
them all was that this had to happen again. "Please, sir." I
could barely talk though my bruised, cum-coated throat. "Please,
may I enjoy your cum again some time?"

He paused with his briefs on, and his pants halfway up his legs.
"Tell me, sissy princess, have you seen your mother's tattoo?"

I just nodded.

"My advice to you is to get one of your own." He continued
getting dressed. "I could use a little sperm whore like you to
help out with my . . . shall we say, operations . . . but I
demand that my whores demonstration the proper amount of
dedication." He approached the bed and I knew he felt me shudder
against his touch. "Dedication," he repeated, "and pride. I don't
need some sissy hiding in a closet. If you're going to eat with
me, you had better be prepared for people to know it."

It killed me to watch him walk out of that room, but it killed me
even more to follow - leaving behind that wonderland of cum - a
few minutes later.

*******

It cost me six months' allowance - mom was entirely okay with me
advancing myself money, so long as I kept track of what I owed -
but I took care of things that very weekend.

When my mom came stumbling in Monday morning, barely able to walk
straight from the pounding she had taken all weekend, I made sure
I was standing naked at the fridge, with my back to her. At
first, her sudden intake of breath worried me, and made me think
I had done something wrong, but then she rushed forward and
wrapped me in an awkward embrace. She knew well enough to keep
away from the fresh tattoo, but she hugged me as tightly and
warmly as she had ever done before.

Feeling a little shy and uncertain, I looked over my shoulder and
saw the tears in her eyes. "Do you like it?" I asked.

Tattooed across the small of my back, in precisely the same spot
as hers, was a bright pink heart. Sitting over the left side of
the heart, on an angle, was a collection of cum stains that took
on the shape of a crown fit for a princess. Inside the heart were
the letters `SPSW' in a very girly, cartoonish font.

She nodded. "Tell me, sweetie, what does it stand for?"

"It's what he called me when I was done." I told her. "He said I
was a Sissy Princess Sperm Whore and that I had better show my
pride if I ever expected to get fed again."

"How long has this been going on?"

I blushed, afraid she was going to tell me I had rushed into
things, or made a foolish decision on a whim. "Since Friday
night." When she didn't respond, I explained about coming home,
the open door, the sex toys, and finding the bed full of cum.

"Promise me you'll be careful?" She turned me around and pulled
me into a proper hug. "Promise me you'll pick safe partners, and
never risk yourself?" She made me look up into her eyes. "I can
use protection and still enjoy my big black cocks, but if you're
going to be feasting on their cum, you won't have the luxury."

"Your friend . . ." I realized at that moment I didn't even know
his name.

"Darnel" she offered, helpfully.

"Right. Darnel." I was very aware of stepping on her territory,
but I had to ask the question. "Is he safe? Are his friends
safe?" I was suddenly overcome by the fear that she would forbid
me from sharing her man and started to cry. "Can we . . . can we
share him?"

"What?" She tried to look horrified, but I could see the smile
hiding behind that look.

"Not at the same time," I clarified, "but can I feast upon his
sperm when you're not enjoying his cock?"

She reached into her purse. "Darnel wouldn't have it any other
way, sweetie." From out of her purse she pulled a condom that was
so full of cum, it looked liked she'd melted a baseball in it.
"He felt bad about sending you for a tattoo so soon, but he had
the boys put together a take-out package for you."

I saw that condom full of cum and spurted a bit against her
dress. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry!"

She just laughed. "Take your treat, go to your room, close the
door, and enjoy it."

As I skipped down the hall, holding the warm collection of sperm
clutched softly to my chest, I heard her say, "Like mother, like
son. Who would have thought it?"

I paused, thought about it for a moment, and then rushed back
into the kitchen. "Thanks, mom." I kissed her on the cheek and
thought about all the cum that must have laid there a few nights
ago, and possibly even all weekend. When I thought about all the
cum on my own cheek, I giggled an end to the kiss. "But, in this
case," I told her, "I think like mother, like sissy would be more
appropriate."

My mom shook her head and laughed. "I can see you are going to be
completely incorrigible." She slapped me on the ass. "I never
thought I'd be saying this to my son, but go eat your Master's
cum."

I started to back away, but lingered. "You're okay with it?" I
asked her.

She nodded. "It's not the fate I would have chosen for you, but I
couldn't be happier, or more proud."

The feeling, I can assure you, was entirely mutual.


TO BE CONTINUED IN . . . Cum Clean, Leave Full (A Sissy Princess
Sperm Whore Story)
http://sissygurlconfessions.blogspot.com/