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I am an abdl and considering myself more as a sissy.  I can’t really express myself in this way even though in a brief 24x7 (they are cheap)   open for conversation and talks. From SW Ontario Canada 

I am an abdl and considering myself more as a sissy.  I can’t really express myself in this way even though in a brief 24x7 (they are cheap)   open for conversation and talks. From SW Ontario Canada 

117. Aftershock The latch closed with a tinny click, but it seemed to fill the world in such a quiet house. If Isadora made an effort, she could hear Victor’s footsteps slowly moving away on the gravel outside. She glanced around the lounge. There were glasses on every surface; different glasses for different beverages, more than she would have expected for a gathering of three men that had quickly become two. Her own tumbler was there as well; a plastic tumbler sitting on an end table, and beside it a sippy cup still half full of juice. A few months ago she would have been terrified to drink from something like that in front of her husband’s friends, but now she’d barely offered any resistance. She didn’t even remember who had suggested it. She should probably start clearing the glasses away. That would be the useful thing to do, but the thought arrived as if it came from a great distance, and it wasn’t until she heard the handle on the lounge door moving that she actually started to move. She was aware that she should be doing things, and that there were things she needed to tell Brock, but the knowledge seemed to be so far away. Like she was hearing instructions on the TV in the next room, and unless she paid attention they could just float over her. Somewhere down inside, Isadora felt numb. Had someone drugged her again? She couldn’t be sure, and she found that she didn’t care. “You don’t need to apologise again,” Brock said, and there was no judgement in her voice. Isadora closed her mouth, and poked at the thoughts those words had led to, the simplest possible layer of analysis, until she found a way to respond. “I wasn’t going to,” she lied. He turned from the door, and she watched him like a stranger across the street. Someone who was there, maybe interesting, but not her business. He looked at her for a moment. Not the way he looked at Victor, or at Lorenzo, or even the way he had looked at her in the past. Every gaze seemed to have an objective, be conveying information as much as it was taking in. Every time he looked at someone, he was telling them with his eyes how he wanted them to read his mood. This one was quieter, and seemed genuinely contemplative. “How are you feeling?” “Fine,” she responded automatically. “Tired, maybe?” She picked up one of the glasses from the coffee table and noticed that it had left a faint ring of moisture on the coaster. She wondered for a moment whether it would dry on its own, or whether she would need to find something to clean it up. But the thought didn’t connect to another one, didn’t lead to any kind of action. She was dimly aware that normally the thoughts would have come a lot quicker, and she would have been forced to draw one conclusion after another until she found one that meant something, but there was almost no pressure now. “It’s been a strange afternoon,” she said eventually, realising that she didn’t want to feel this emptiness any longer. She needed to reach for an answer, for something she could actually react to. “It has,” Brock answered. “Maybe the strangeness is catching up with you. We can talk about it, if you want. Or you can tell me what you were so excited about. Or we can relax, and save it for morning.” She didn’t answer, because she wasn’t entirely sure what there was to answer. He was right; there was something catching up with her, she could feel it at the edges, but the edges were the problem. There didn’t seem to be a centre to it. If she’d ever thought about a meeting like what she’d just been through, with her partner spanking her in front of his friends and then talking down to her like a servant, she would have expected to feel embarrassment, maybe, or relief, or some belated rush of indignation and excitement after the afternoon’s events. Instead there was just this faint muffled quality to everything, like the room had been upholstered. “I’m aware I’m behaving oddly,” she said finally. “I can't fully account for it.” “You don't need to,” Brock answered, and then hesitated for a moment. “You can just accept it, if that’s easier.” “I know I don't need to think. But I want to.” She finally looked at him properly. “I mean… I think I should want to. I’m not usually like this.” “Like your body is moving on autopilot?” he guessed. “Sad for no real reason, or knowing you should be feeling something but there’s nothing there?” “Kind of empty,” she said, and nodded. “Did you do something?” “It’s called sub drop,” he said. “All the excitement you were feeling before, a part of that is hormones. And the spanking too, even if it doesn’t hurt that much, and I really hope it wasn’t too much for you, it still releases all these chemicals into your bloodstream, to help your body heal. It can be kind of a shock when all those hormones run out. Numbness, or anxiety, are common experiences.” The words were already flowing back into her mind, from one of her pre-field psychology modules. Third semester, taught by the professor who’d never taken his hat off. It had been a dry two-hour lecture on stress response cycles and autonomic recovery, which she’d filed away in her memory with the intention of better understanding how human brains worked. The class had found it faintly amusing in the abstract, and that’s all they’d talked about. Significant neurochemical depletion following sustained adrenaline load, presenting as emotional flatness, reduced affect, atypical decision-making. Somehow, in all that analysis, she had never thought it would apply to her. She was analytical, the kind of scientist who understood hormonal responses rather than being subject to them. But now she thought about it, she was seeing almost a textbook case in her own behaviour. She knew what it was now; it was just the adrenaline rush from the afternoon wearing off. So she should be okay, but knowing what caused it somehow didn’t take away the emptiness. She looked at him. “We had a lecture about it.” “I thought you might have.” “It seemed fairly theoretical at the time.” She sat down again, not because she had decided to so much as because the sofa was there and her body had apparently made its own arrangements. “I knew it was a real thing. I knew people could react to it quite intensely. I didn’t expect it to feel quite so much like someone had turned everything down. And, well… I guess I kind of assumed it would never happen to me. Like the statistician who knows his own measurements will be accurate because he’s studied observer bias, right? When you hear about people reacting irrationally because of hormones, or drugs, or whatever, you always assume you’re different. Brock sat down opposite her, on the armchair that had become his bed. Close enough that she didn’t have to make an effort to hold a conversation, far enough to give her room. “It passes,” he said. “And while it's happening, nothing you feel is especially reliable data. Which is why aftercare matters. A chance to relax, and to know you’re safe. You need to know that I’m not going to draw any conclusions about your feelings this evening. About what any of it meant, or didn't mean. It’s all just hormones.” She considered that. It should have been a relief. She thought it probably was a relief; it was just arriving at a slight delay, like everything else tonight. And the slow realisation that the hugs earlier, apparently so full of warmth, had probably been the best way to shield her from a more intense drop, as well as being what Victor would expect to see. “That’s very professional of you,” she said. It came out more wry than she'd intended, which was perhaps a sign that some cynical part of her brain was starting to come back online. “We’re professionals,” he said. “We do these things, even if they don’t always match up with our own desires. And we help each other. I want to be sure you’re okay.” “Thank you,” she whispered, trying not to let her mind get all caught up on the ‘we’ in her current state. Could that be a first step towards him accepting her contribution? A few moments passed, before she spoke again: “I wanted to help. I found the address. The… the place in Chinatown I was looking for, you know the one?” She felt proud of herself, because even while her body and brain were threatening to betray her, she’d still remembered that there was a possibility of surveillance here, so she didn’t want to mention sensitive information outside the nursery. “That’s good,” Brock said. “I knew you’d get there. But maybe you’re not ready to ask me all the big questions yet? Would you rather talk, or relax?” To Isadora, that seemed like one of the biggest questions of all. “Both,” she answered. “I want to show you… but… maybe I wouldn’t be able to. If you’re really going to bring me up to speed on everything, I need to be focused for that. So… have you got any more you need to do today? I can try to relax. Or if you’re home, we could watch a movie or something?” “We can relax,” Brock said. “I do want to know what you’ve found, although… from later discoveries, I suspect it won’t be as helpful as it might have been. So, what kind of movie suits you best? I’ll get some of the softer cushions from the nursery, while you’re probably in a little pain. And I’ll make whatever you want for dinner.” Isadora found that she didn’t feel like fighting today. The familiar urge to push back told her she needed to say that she was fine, that she didn't need the concession. But those thoughts were just lurking somewhere at the back of her mind, unable to penetrate the haze around her thoughts. Something about the evening had left her with less appetite for the performative competence. “Thank you,” she said. A tiny part of her mind wondered if giving her the choice might be a form of apology for striking her, even if it had been the easiest way to maintain their cover. Whether Brock could feel guilty because he’d actually enjoyed it. Or if he thought that giving her some choices might help her to get over this hormonal thing, or give a sense of satisfaction so she’d be less inclined to argue with him about the big things going forward. There were too many options there, and she was just too tired to reach for any of them and see how real it felt. “I don’t even know what we’ve got in the fridge, so I don’t know what I’d pick. Unless…” “Something you’re embarrassed to ask?” he said. “Human psychology is a bizarre and complex thing, you know? If something feels like it would make you feel better, that’s your choice. I told you, I won’t judge you tonight.” “Could I have…” Isadora still hesitated. But when she reminded herself that she’d been bent over his knee for a spanking little more than an hour before, her hesitation almost seemed absurd. “Can we go into the nursery for dinner? I think we’ve got those… dinosaur things made out of turkey and fish. And the frozen mini pizzas where there’s so much sauce you can use them like a dip. Like… Like when we first met, before the wedding.” “Of course we can, sweetie,” Brock said, and there was only openness and generosity in his smile. He quickly helped her up, although she was almost sure she didn’t need it, and guided her through to the lounge. There she could sprawl out on the floor with cushions, pillows, and stuffies piled underneath her and all around. Her bottom wasn’t on the couch now, which she imagined would be a little more comfortable, though it didn’t seem to make much difference. She squirmed, feeling warmth and comfort starting to return to her heart, and then realised that Brock was talking again. “Would you like to be little again this evening? So you can relax like a child, like when I first stayed at your place?” “Please,” she said, and gave a nod. “Age-appropriate entertainment. If that’s okay. I just… I can’t think now, so I don’t want to try. I’d only disappoint myself. And if you want to… I mean… If you want me to be a bit smaller, if you’re more comfortable with that, I wouldn’t mind. You can tell me what to wear, or say those words, if you really want to. Like…” “Would you like to be a baby?” he asked, and none of the gentleness in his voice was diminished. “Not really,” she answered, doing her best to actually be honest. “Not tonight, I’m happy with the kind of child-mode Stella. But if you want to, well… I wouldn’t mind. I mean, I put off doing the child thing so I could learn to be adult-me again. But I think I don’t need to. I’m grown-up enough to admit that sometimes I enjoy some time as a little one. And I don’t want to fight that side of me anymore. It helps me to relax when I’m feeling stressed. And maybe that’s why I made mistakes earlier. I was on edge, wanted to argue about everything. Being small could make it easier. Whether that’s watching cartoons and eating dinosaurs, or… anything else you can make me do. I want you to know I don’t mind.” “If you want big-girl cartoons, that’s what we shall have,” he said confidently. “I just want you to know that I’m not going to force you. Tonight is about whatever feels right for you at the moment. If you want nuggets and Deer Detective, that’s what you get.” He stroked her hair, and it felt like the most comforting gesture ever. Isadora let herself smile, and sink into the familiar bliss of letting go of her worries. On the screen, a cartoon deer turned sideways to get his antlers through a doorway, and quickly started to hold her attention as she imagined not being able to see through the paper-thin mystery. Somehow she didn’t even notice when Brock disappeared to the kitchen, until he returned with the exact dinner she had asked for. The nuggets were arranged on different sections of a big plate, with a vibrant red pizza in the middle. Her juice was in a sippy cup again, to guard against spillage on the nursery floor, and there was nothing more for her to think about. She thanked him happily, which she accepted. When she started to apologise again, and he told her there was no need. When she got pizza sauce on her face or on the nursery floor, Brock was quick to clean it away. And in a break between episodes of the cartoon, she told him again that he could use the trigger words if he wanted to. “I think I realised something,” she said, the words still feeling a little distant so they weren’t so hard to say. And she didn’t need to second-guess herself, because anything that came out wrong could so easily be dismissed as her hormones talking. “When you spanked me, it didn’t feel… It wasn’t as bad as I would have thought. And maybe, I don’t know, maybe that’s me realising that all this little stuff suits me more than I realised. Lying down like this, watching TV like a little kid, isn’t just an escape from the stress of work. It’s a part of who I am, and I’m not going to deny it anymore. So if Victor wants to organise the playdate you talked about, I don’t mind. You can treat me like Bernard wants to treat Stella, so long as you keep me up-to-date on the clues in between. And you can use the trigger phrase when you want to, if it’s still working.” “Thank you,” he said, and stroked her hair again, like a loving Daddy. He didn’t say the magic words. Maybe he thought it would be better for her to be free of them. Maybe, after such an intense day, he thought she might not be in a fit state to decide what she wanted. Maybe that really didn’t appeal to him, and all her suspicions about his preferences had been completely missing the mark. Whatever the reason, it felt like caring. But some time during the episode, before she drifted off into a deep sleep, she found that the care was all she needed now.

There's more than any one single "true" way of doing "sissy" and doesn't have to be all frills. The main thing is to learning to love being you however that comes out.

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