The walk of shame of the sissy

And then you realize, of course, no “normal”, REAL man would have turned himself into such a pathetic caricature of femininity. You can’t change who you are, and unlike the rest of the world, you’re not hiding what you really are. You shakily climb to your feet, straightening your dress and ribbons before pulling the compact from your little purse to powder your nose and fix your face. In the reflection, you catch a glance of the person in the second story window who has been recording your entire prissy meltdown and clean up ritual.

Your cheeks burn anew, but despite the previous emission, you feel a stirring in your cage. Sighing the dejected sigh of a sissy that has reluctantly accepted herself, you strut back towards the main street, shoulders back, wrists limp and above the waist. You can already hear laughter from somewhere in the crowd while you struggle to keep your head high, though your gaze drops nervously to your painted toes. Still utterly humiliated, but with the realization you’re exactly where you belong, through your tears your brightly colored, cum smeared lips manages to stretch into a small, shy smile.