Tommy had a secret.
All through his teen years, he knew he had to keep part of himself hidden. Even though he had run with an alternative crowd of skaters and stoners in school, he was convinced that nobody would ever accept this part of him. And he knew for damn sure that his macho father would kick him out into the street if he knew.
And Tommy was a sissy.
The day he found those first images on the web, Tommy knew he wasn't the only one in the world. There on the screen were pages and pages of men - young, old, slim, muscular - all happily showing off in luxurious-looking silk lingerie, stockings, pantyhose, tights... all the things Tommy had dreamed of wearing himself. He even did sometimes, when he could manage to get some privacy at home.
Tommy was short - only 5'6" - and had a slim build, so he was able to wear the tight t-shirts and colorful tights that he loved. Once he was able to drive, he would go hours out of town, to a shopping mall where (he hoped) nobody would recognize him. Then when he got his prizes home, he would carefully hide them away for one of his alone days. Then he'd take them out and indulge in his lonely, guilty pleasure.
After years of dressing and fantasizing in private, Tommy developed favorite scenarios: of being the submissive sissyboy to a hunky Master who would keep him dressed; of being shown off in public while dressed; even of being used and gang-fucked by groups of macho jocks.
And like a lot of young men who know they are different, Tommy chose a college as far from his hometown as he could manage. That fall semester found him in New York City, a place he had always dreamed of visiting. And instead of taking a dorm room, Tommy had sought out a gay roommate referral service. He got lucky on a share with two other young men - one a working actor, the other a grad student at the same university where Tommy was now a freshman. At least he could relax about his gay identity with these two guys. They were friendly, and helpful showing him around his new home. But he still didn't dare reveal his other secret. He was deeply ashamed of his desires, and only indulged them in secret, with his roommates gone and the door to his room locked.
One afternoon, home from class, Tommy had that familiar urge. He called out for his roommates, and got no answer. He stripped and showered, then hurried to his room and retrieved the box under his bed. Inside, carefully folded and bagged, were all Tommy's tights - all colors, from black to shocking pink - as well as the leotards and girlie tees he had been furtively buying since he got to the city.
He selected white tights and a pink leotard, imagining he was a sissy ballerina. He sat down at his computer and found his regular chatrooms. The usual characters were online, pic freaks and "dominant tops" who still lived with their mothers.
Then a new name popped up: Master P. Tommy clicked on the profile and gasped as he read. This Master P was looking for a slim, submissive sissyboy just like Tommy. His pictures showed only his torso and arms, but Tommy liked what he saw: firm and well developed, with some dark hair and a treasure trail down the taut stomach. He IM'd the stranger and hoped for a response.
Master P responded immediately. "What's up, sissy? I'm looking for realtime." Tommy gulped. He had never gone this far, but all the anticipation had finally built up. "Me too, Sir," he typed.
For the next half hour or so, Tommy spilled his guts to Master P about all of his most shameful fantasies. Master P responded patiently and sensitively, with the clear tone of a man who knew how to handle sissies.
And then, finally, the moment of truth. "Pic, faggot?" Tommy had been dreading this. He was petrified of sending his image out in chatrooms like this, but Master P was almost too good to believe. "Yes Sir, please wait," Tommy typed as he turned on his web cam.
Carefully framing his face out of the shot, Tommy clicked off a few snaps of his slim body in the tights and leotard. Then he sent them off to Master P and waited.
What Tommy heard next made his blood freeze. Instead of an instant message alert, there was a knock at the door to his room. Fuck! He raced around the room, fumbling for sweats or jeans and something to wear on top. "Just a second," he called nervously.
His roommate Pete's voice was firm and forceful. "Open up, faggot," he said. "It's Master P."
Tommy froze. Was this the answer to a prayer, or the beginning of a nightmare of humiliation?
Or maybe both?