Wearing lingerie under my clothes in the plane is uncomfortable. Panties ride into my buttcrack, the lacy bra I've been told to wear feels constricting around my ribcage, and I miss my comfortable boxer briefs. I worry a little about the body scanner, if the TSA agent will see that there is additional fabric bunched up where I used to have boobs, or whether my panties will be visible above my waistband when I lift my arms in the machine. But all goes without incident, and soon I'm on my way.

He picks me up at the airport. As soon as I'm in his car, I feel his arms on me. Squeezing my nipples, cupping my bra as if there were breasts in there. I'm a little chubby so my chest isn't completely flat, and he doesn't fail to comment on that. He makes me take my clothes off in the car, and put on a skirt, feminine t-shirt, and a pair of fuck-me heels in bright red that I brought with me in my backpack. That's all I brought with me, that outfit, my ID, a credit card, $60 in emergency cash, and my phone and charger.

He hands me a blindfold, and I put it on. The rest of the car ride proceeds in silence, until the car comes to a stop. He leads me into what I assume is his home. I hope to goodness nobody can see me, as I look a total mess, stumbling on 3" heels, a day of stubble on my face coupled with a skirt so short that my panties are showing. At least I was far from home, where nobody would recognize me. This was by design, so he could spend the entire weekend humiliating me, and even sharing me with others. We'd agreed that there'd be no photos or videos, and nothing that would mark me permanently or endanger my health. Other than that, I was his until my 5pm flight home on Sunday.

He pushes me down to my knees.

"You were made to serve cock, weren't you, slut?" he growls. "In my home, cocksleeves have no gender, so you'll wear whatever I tell you to wear, you'll respond to whatever pronouns I call you, and you'll do whatever I say, won't you, my little whore?"

I nod, only to be backhanded across the face. "Yes, Daddy!" I yelp, wondering if I'd gotten myself in over my head.

He slapped me again. "Is that how a little sissy faggot talks?" I slipped into a falsetto. "No, Daddy, I'm sorry!"

"That's right," he said. "Don't you dare talk like a man around me. You keep that soft, high tone all weekend. You're not a real man, are you? And I'm not even going to let you pretend."

To be continued... maybe? Or maybe someone will help me turn this story into a reality, and write the rest of the tale with me one weekend.