Monday, December 11, 1995

Fiction: Aphroditian Penalty, First Person

(Okay, I blew it.  I needed dialogue and stuff. . .)

I was shocked and horrified when they stripped me naked, quite roughly, and the vast audience laughed at me.  The women who accosted me were beautiful, cheerful, and scantily clad.  One of them came to me, rubbed up against me, and asked me, "do you think I'm pretty?"  I could only answer in the affirmative, as she rubbed my naked cock.  "Do you like what I'm wearing?" she asked.  Again, I nodded.  Her silky soft knee slammed into my balls as she screamed, "then wear it, scumbag."  From the floor, I looked up at her standing tall and defiantly above me, accusingly, for a minute or so, and laughing as I squirmed.  She removed her clothes, right above my head.  Her naked crotch loomed above like a black cloud, and she tossed her undergarments on me.

I didn't know what to do with them.  I was lifted up to my feet, and commanded once more to put on the clothes.  I refused, and was kicked in the balls again.  "You said you like what I'm wearing," she reminded me,  "so wear it."  Again, I refused, and this time, I was restrained by the other women, who slipped it onto me as one held my nuts in her hands, threatening to squeeze if I so much as blinked.  So suddenly, I found myself wearing a silken teddy, a garter belt, and fishnet stockings.  My masculine hair stuck out absurdly all over the place.

Everybody in the audience laughed at me loudly, and taunted me.  My masculinity was being severely attacked.  Here I was, the former stud of the century, wearing lingerie in public. I blushed with shame.  How cruelly they treated me for only being human.

This went on for days, until I finally learned to put on the lingerie as soon as it was offered to me.  When I did that, my female tormentors pretended to laugh, but actually told me that I looked good.  I truly believe that they were in earnest.  My spirits sank even deeper when they said that, but also, I fear, a glimmer of hope.  At least, I thought, these girls think I look good.  Maybe I can turn this to my advantage.  After all, they said it encouragingly, not tauntingly.  I thought that the pretty brunette whose lingerie I had worn the first day seemed, unbelievably, considering the circumstances, to throw too-long glances at me.  It appeared to me that she liked me.

As the days went on, she made her affection known to me.  She came into my cell at night, when she was guarding, and made out with me.  She never took off my lingerie, but she rubbed me up a bit.  I couldn't jerk off, because I was chained to a wall.  I truly appreciated her generosity.  This was my way out of here, I thought.

Soon, we contrived that, to show my affection, I would daily pick her lingerie to wear as my torment.  I couldn't refuse, because I felt turned on by the idea that I was in contact with something that had touched her exquisite pussy, her delicious tits.  So I always took hers.  She rewarded me for that quite well, I must admit.  But still, I did it only for her.  I had no choice but to wear lingerie, and so I had to show her my gratitude.  When I would break out of there, I would take her with me, and resume my status as a big time stud.  How little the boys outside suspected that I was getting some here in prison.

I looked forward to her coming to me at night.  She had been fucking me there on my wall.  The situation became routine: I would wear her lingerie as public ridicule, and sacrifice my public masculinity for her, while she would allow me to be as manly as I would alone with her at night.  I started to prance around during the day in her panties, realizing what it would bring me.  I didn't care anymore for the public ridicule.  As long as I got laid at night, I was happy.

But she started to lose interest.  She gradually stopped coming.  She wasn't so slinky with me anymore.  One night when she came, I asked her what the problem was.

"Oh, nothing.  Or. . . Oh, I just have to tell you.  I'm afraid that I can't believe you anymore.  All you want from me is sex.  That's the only reason you wear my lingerie, and not one of the other girls'."
I protested vehemently, but she was adamant.

"The only way I'll believe you is if you start acting more feminine in public.  I want you to completely throw away your masculinity in public.  You always have to be defiant, but that's not good enough anymore.  I'm letting you get away with your crime by coming here to fuck you at night.  Prove to me that you love me, and I'll start coming for you again."

She left, and I was left to contemplate.  Of course, she was definitely worth it.  I could think of no conceivable way to escape, so I had to finish my sentence.  So I figured that I might as well make it pleasureable.  It was certainly better to give up a bit of masculinity in public for some really good sex in private, than to remain defiant, and get no sexual gratification at all.

I struggled for a few weeks.  I could tell that she wasn't impressed with my feeble attempts at femininity.  I longed for her so.  But at least I got to wear her lingerie.  She was throwing it at me angrily now.  I was so pathetic in my efforts.  God I wanted her.  But I cracked my head wondering what I could do to please her.  Obviously, the underwear and the prancing around like a faggot weren't enough for her.  What could I do?  How could I become more feminine?

Finally, it struck me.  I should model myself (my public self, that is) after her.  She is, after all, the most perfect specimen of femininity that I had ever encountered -- and that's saying a lot, considering how many women I've encountered.  The next day, I shaved my legs, my arms, my chest -- my entire body, except for my growing hair and my pubes.  I wanted to look more like her.  She showed me that she approved, but still she didn't come.  I began to emulate her, and I even practised in my time alone.  I had to show her that I still loved her, so I tried to BE her.  It certainly had an effect.  She came to see me eventually, and passionately made out with me.  That's when I realized that I had been had.

She came in as usual, wearing a new outfit each time, that I would wear the next day.  She would slink over and kiss me, and rub up on my still femininely-clad body, and I would long for her to remove so that we could fuck.  But I had become so accustomed to wearing her clothes, and her not coming to see me, that I began to take my sole pleasure from wearing her clothes.  When she came in that night, I was very aroused by her.  But this time, I didn't want her to take off my lingerie.  I wanted to wear it throughout.  But I let her take it off, and put up with fucking anyway.

This went on for a while, until I finally said something.  As she reached for my straps, I whispered femininely, as she had done to me so many times, "please, let me keep this on."  She giggled, and left the straps alone, and we necked so passionately that I nearly fainted.  I couldn't believe the pleasure I was experiencing.  
That was the moment when I cracked.  Before, I had been humouring her by wearing what she told me to, but it had become an event in itself.  My public chastisement became all the more acute now, because I knew that I had indeed been emasculated.  I was shaven, wearing lingerie, and acting like a girl before them.  I didn't even realize the extent to which I had been turned into a transsexual.  The realization was sudden, but crushing -- while at the same time extraordinarily arousing.  I felt my shame well up around me, and I felt incredibly horny.  I knew that they were right.  And I was ashamed.  I knew that they were right.  And I was secretly very, very happy.  And that's the horror of it all: not that I had been forced to wear lingerie and shave my legs, but that I did it voluntarily, that I actually liked -- no, loved -- it.  So only after that epiphany could I keep my lingerie on and truly appreciate femininity by necking with the beauty who had been my mentoress.  The pleasure was no longer in her, but in myself.  I was suddenly more attracted to men.  But I enjoyed rubbing up against her, my best friend, for whom I have so much affection.  It wasn't sexual anymore, but a sisterly display of affection.  Soon thereafter, she showed me how to fuck like a girl. . .

(Now that's more like it!)

Sunday, December 10, 1995

Fiction: The Aphroditian Penalty for Adultery

The women of the Aphroditian colony, since the 20th Century, have become more and more assertive.  Once, they would have calmly submitted to their husbands' wishes, even to the extent of beatings and humiliation.  But the Aphroditian women have effectively asserted their equal, if not superior, place in Phroditian society in the past few generations.  I witnessed myself an incident of relative rarity among their community, and certainly absurd by the standards of our culture.

My kind hostess often invited me to witness the execution of justice in her country, and I gladly accepted.  Mostly, the Aphroditians administer justice exactly as we do here.  But for one particular crime, the law differs.  In cases of serial adultery, men are tried through the regular system, but the punishment, codified by law, certainly passes for cruel and unusual punishment by our standards.  But the rate of such incidents is so low that convictions on such charges have become virtually non-existent.  The convict in this case, a Mr. A, stifled his tears as the sentence was passed down. 

I was floored when I heard the sentence, and did all I could in that stern court to contain my laughter.  It seemed to me that the punishment was absolutely ridiculous, and even somewhat light considering the weight this society places on the offense.  But when I saw justice being carried out, I realized that this was cruelly effective, in the most shocking, most grotesque way.

The punishment is completely public.  All waking moments of the long sentence are broadcast on television (for it is a very visual torment: the punishment comes from the fact that it is being witnessed), and the highlights replayed in a two-hour special, which the vast majority of people truly enjoy watching, even, though it surprises me, the men.  The convict is made to suffer the constant ridicule of the public, by having a constant audience.  These punishments become a public feast for the citizens.

Essentially, the punishment consists of this: the convict is made to strip naked, or else this is forcibly done, by scantily clad women, no less.  Then, his clothes are destroyed before his eyes, and his victim reads the crime for which he was sentenced, and orders him to don women's under-clothing.  If he refuses, again, he is subdued and forced into it by scantily clad women.  This usually consists of  ornate and beautiful lingerie, taken directly from one of the women tormenters.  Then the men and women all around him laugh at him, and scorn him.  This poor A. had cruel insults thrown at him from the entire populace.  When his victim feels that he has been sufficiently mocked, she approaches him and tells him, "you have treated women poorly.  Now you shall learn what it is to be a woman, for believing that you were being masculine in your adultery."  The women all laugh in unison, because the poor man, burly and hairy, wears the underwear of a woman.  A. cringed and fought as his sentence was being carried out.  He looked so pathetic in his emasculated state, yet still male.  He defiantly resisted his punishment.  The men then laughed at him as the women had, laughing at his effeminacy.  In this way, the convict is made to feel ashamed of his having been emasculated like this.  Normally, I have been told, this has little effect on the first day; but this punishment goes on for days, weeks, months, until the convict is reduced to tears of shame.  This is assisted by incessant teasing by beautiful women, who taunt him, and slink about in the same skimpy clothing that he wears.

These women flirt with him, and tease him, and arouse him, but they never allow him to release his sexual energy.  They tie up his hands so that he cannot masturbate in any way.  They rub up against him sensually, but slink away, laughing at him for wearing their clothes.  They torture him like this constantly.  They change his lingerie every day, to let him get a taste for feminine clothing.  They declare him a woman, and when they finally release him (only when they know that his will is broken), to run free in his monitored cell, they give him only a choice of women's underwear to wear.  The convict has two choices: accept the clothing, or go about naked.  If he chooses the latter, the women disappear, and a male is sent in to sodomize him.  All of this is done publicly -- A. was thus anally raped for more than a week.  The sodomizer taunts him, too, by calling him his "bitch" and his "whore."  Thereby, he comes to wear the clothing eventually of his own volition, either to avoid the sodomy, or to accept his now feminine role.  I watched horrified as A. wept slipping on a garter belt.  When the man begins to wear his lingerie voluntarily (with or without misgivings), he is given a safety razor with which to shave his body hair.  He must pay special attention to the legs.  In this way, he makes his body look as feminine as it can without having the more drastic features of women.  The women encourage him to enjoy his femininity, by allowing him to hump them, as long as he wears the lingerie, and doesn't take control.  If he does not respond, or if he misbehaves, they send in men, instead.  Thereby, he comes to appreciate wearing women's underwear, by associating it with sexual pleasure.  In all events, he is rewarded for being feminine.

Eventually, the convict becomes by all appearances a woman.  He begins to accept his femininity, and openly aspires to it.  He takes female hormones, which form his body as a woman's: suddenly, the man has breasts, a thin waist, wide hips, a smooth, soft body, long hair -- but still has a penis.  He is thus made to perform acts of prostitution as a public service for a period of ten years, at the end of which he is operated upon and fully effeminated.

Diary: Aftermath

Even after revelling for too short a time last night, I felt like going right back into it.  I rubbed it all over myself, and discovered that the garter belt is the most incredibly arousing thing I've ever worn, without a doubt.  Never has anything made me feel so feminine.  It's hard to explain, really.  I have worn so many things, but the garter belt, which doesn't even cover my horrible penis actually made my night.  I had feared about my lingerie not feeling all that great, but I think that the garter belt did it all for me.  When I felt it, I could have sworn that I was female.  It felt soooo sexy, I can't even describe it.  The lace stretched on my hips, the thin, soft line holding up my stockings, the tight grip it had on my waist. . .  Oh, I wanted it to last forever!  When I was done, I felt so completely fulfilled that I didn't know what to do.  It felt natural to snap off the garter, careful not to get my goo all over it.  I cleaned up for a good while.  The strange sensation of owning -- of wearing -- such dainty things. . .  I even awoke in the middle of my sleep, horny as ever, desperately wanting to do it again, but not daring to make any more noise and commotion by rousing to get it agoin.  So I just thought about my purchase and jerked myself back to sleep, my absurd member throbbing with relieved pain. 


Today I read The Studhorse Man, and was perpetually aroused by its endless scenes of sex, animal or human.  I wonder if it was the book that did it, or my anticipation of repeating last night's delights again tonight, and again tomorrow, again and again. . .  I have thought of an interesting story describing the psychology behind the experience.

Saturday, December 09, 1995

Diary: Taking the Plunge

It is important to date this section, because something of grave importance has happened in the past few days.  Finally, I have taken a huge plunge, and done something outrageously bold.  In fact, I have done two outrageously bold things, quite suddenly.  I can't even remember what set me off in the first place.  I just suddenly felt like I needed to womanize a bit more.

I suppose it comes from the culmination of several factors all at once.  Firstly, I have severed my friendship with S__.  My long, hopeless crush on her, which had dragged on for more than a year, finally ended about a week and a half ago.  Since then, I have felt contemptuous about any relationship with any woman.  I have come to feel so bitter about women that I can't fantasize about them without getting too angry at S__ to continue.  Also, the winter has come.  That means more clothes, and a pretext for covering my body at all times.  And finally, the semester has ended, and I have more free time.  But you still don't know what I've done, do you?

It's quite insane, actually.  I have gone quite overboard, this time.  I suppose on Thursday, after all my tests and stuff had ended, I needed a release of tension.  Since I couldn't fantasize and moap about S__, or any other woman, I concentrated on my inner woman.  I frolicked joyfully in my stolen panties, and felt only temporarily satisfied.  I resolved, rather impulsively, to go one step futher the next time, since it will be easy to get away with.  My plan came upon a glitch on Friday, when i learned that Dad was staying home.  But I waited for him to leave, and I shaved my left leg.

It was a long, arduous process.  I was hesitant at first, but finally, I decided to say, Fuck It, and did as much as I could.  I was so beautifully awkward: I started with my electric razor, over the sink.  That got messy and contorting, so I got an extension cord, and shaved in the bathtub.  I sweated like a pig for about forty minutes, and didn't get to finish the job.  But most of it is gone, cleanly enough.  When I rub downwards, it's baby smooth.  It feels so different.  Then it occurred to me to use the safety razor.  That helped a lot.  It finished the job, pretty much, on my left leg.  I immediately tried on my crude stockings, and discovered that they stick more to a feminine, smooth leg like my left one had become, than to a hairy leg like my right one.  I was determined to shave it, too, but I had just run out of time.  I had lots of fun with that contraption, and very quickly.  I felt so fulfilled, but ready to go at it yet again.  But I had no time, and little privacy, so I desisted, after making a bit of a mess on my comforter in my spontaneous, uncontrollable glee.

I think I had decided at some point while I shaved that the true test of this would be some lingerie, particularly some fishnet stockings.  I had never worn any, I don't think.  And I wanted to get some thigh-highs to really enjoy the moment.  And it wouldn't be worth it, I reasoned, without a nice silky teddy.  So I swore that I would finally take the plunge and buy some.  I thought that I would go to the place near [the rehearsal studio], after work.  I only had to avoid R__, and other people, and I would get away with it, I thought.

But I had forgotten in my enthusiasm that I got off work at only 16:15 at the earliest.  I feared that the place would close before I got there.  But I was determined.  I had to do it.  It was ill-conceived in my head, as all good impulsive plans should be.  I would pretend to buy something for my girlfriend.  If anyone asked, it would be S__.  I didn't know what else to think.  I had to get size Small, too, so that the fit would be nice and tight.  So all day I thought about it, about how I would come home, take a shower right away, and rather than cleaning myself, I would shave my right leg.

By the time my shift ended, it was 16:30.  I was running late.  I wheeled out of there in the snow, a bit nervous.  The traffic was awful.  I could hardly believe what I was doing.  I had to remind myself before I left that I had a plan.  So I drove over to R__'s.  I had trouble finding the place at first, but now I know where it is.  Unfortunately, it was closed.  But I had to have something by the end of the day, otherwise, it would simply not be worth my having shaven my leg.  So I found a phone booth, looked up "LINGERIE" in the Yellow Pages, but discovered that all those listed were out of the way.  The closest was in [big fancy] Mall, which I decided against, because it would be too expensive, and far too crowded.  I didn't want to lose my cool.  So I decided to go to [cut-rate somewhat cheesy lingerie shop].  I had passed by there many times on the bus.

So there I went, unsure what my follow up plan would be.  I got there, and discovered to my delight that it was open.  But I was nervous as Hell.  I sat there still for a moment, in the car, breathing in deep to decide whether or not I wanted to go through with it or not, after all.  I got out of the car, and strode confidently, but humbly, to the store.  In I went.

I went straight to the counter, and told the clerk that I was looking for something for my girlfriend for Christmas.  With my confidence, and with it being a pretty normal situation, she totally bought it.  She showed me a bustier, and told me where to look.  I browsed around for a while.  The selection was rather small, for what I wanted.  I only found one nice white teddy.  The bustiers all came with matching see-thru G-strings, which I did not want.  I had found a slightly tacky store, which I was afraid of.  But what choice did I have?  After a bit of head scratching, I picked out a satiny teddy with a lacy pattern, but without garters, and asked the clerk if there were anything of the kind with garters attached.  No, she answered, but it would look good with a garter belt.  She showed me two kinds, and I took a lacy one rather than a satiny one.  It looked very pretty.  Then I asked for fishnet stockings.  The whole thing cost me $75.88.  I had planned on spending no more than $60.00.  So I shelled out the cash, and made off with the lingerie.  When I got to the car, I took it out of the box, and stuffed it into my gym-bag's side pocket.  I planned to ditch the box, but I managed to conceal it, instead.  I can use it for Christmas gifts.  So I felt very strange, having lingerie in my gym-bag, and went to buy a winter coat [at another store, obviously], and went home.

I finally got into the shower, and shaved as much as I could, which wasn't very much, maybe half, of my right leg.  I learned the magic of lather.  Then, when I had cleaned up, I proceeded to get all dressed up.  I felt really cool bringing only that as underwear into the bathroom.  I felt subduedly feminine.  Then I put on the garter belt and the teddy, adjusted the teddy, stepped into the stockings, snapped them on, and put my clothes on over it all.  So as I type this, I'm wearing a woman's lingerie outfit.  Unfortunately, it's not all I hoped.  The teddy is wedgieing me viciously (I'll have to readjust) and isn't tight-fitting enough.  The fishnets aren't soft, but they are weird feeling.  I will certainly like them.  I love the garter belt like I would love a bra: it's very pretty, and very feminine; but it doesn't touch any errogenous zone.  But I will learn to enjoy this.  The teddy's material is very soft, and I will enjoy having my horrible male organ in there, struggling to be free as I rub some girlishness into it.  And that very idea turns me on so goddamned much.  My Goddess, I'm wearing lingerie, and it's all mine!  And it's white, and silky, and lacy. . . And I can use the garter belt with my panties. . . And I love the whole thing!  I love effeminating myself.  My legs are shaven underneath the fishnets.  This is probably going to be a very rare event indeed.  I just hope the leg hair grows back before [my ski trip in early January].  Or so I say.  I hope the rest of my leg hair falls out, along with all of my excessive body hair, and I grow tits, hips, get a waist, have my voice go up a few octaves, all while I rub away my penis and turn it into a cunt, slowly, pleasurably, and agonizingly, horribly, exquisitely adore every minute of it!  Ah, the deconstruction of masculinity is so incredibly fun.  I should be so afraid of becoming female, and I am, and that's why I'm doing this.  I want to become female, because I know that society wants me to be afraid of it, wants me to disdain femininity in myself; but I also know that when I wear girls' clothes, I admit defeat.  I admit that I am not worth being male.  I fall to my knees in shame, not only because I am effeminated, but because I LOVE the fact that I'm effeminating.  That's the key: it's bad enough to wear lingerie when you know that it's the most unpardonably feminine thing to do; it's passing the point of no return (or so you hope/fear) to actually enjoy it.  What if I do turn into a girl?  Wouldn't that be frightening?  Wouldn't that be most wonderful?  Ah, I can't take it anymore!  I must go and accept my femininity.  Goddessdamnit, I've even shaven my legs!


Friday, December 01, 1995

Diary: Deconstructing Transvestism

Having been far too immersed in literary criticism lately, I have come to realize exactly (or close to it at least) what this strange desire for transvestism is.  Naturally, I have had few desperate urges for it, ever since I stole that bathing suit, which, I am glad to report, I am now wearing, much to my delight.

I must have discussed somewhere in this vast journal of drag that I want to imagine myself as the best possible person, and since I hold females in such high regard, I want to regard myself, at times, as female.  The gratification is paramount when I can completely transform myself into a woman while I masturbate.  So I wear girls' clothes while I masturbate, and relish in imagining myself as being worthy of wearing them.  Deep down, I know that I'm not, because I'm hairy, brutish, and my big cumbersome dick demands to be titillated.  There's irony in that.

Essentially, I have concluded that transvestism deconstructs gender roles.  I am a man, and publicly, I must display my masculinity, consciously and unconsciously; but privately, I long to be a woman, and display my femininity, physically and spiritually.  The gender roles are so strong that to make sense of them, one must understand their opposition.  Being a man, I must strive to understand what role I must play; and to understand it, I must slip on the little silkies and lace and become a woman, to find out what I should not be.  So as I play around with panties and swimsuits, I am hovering around that line between masculinity and femininity: my physical body remains male, but mentally, I not only become female, but I revel in femininity.  From a physical standpoint, I am male, but from a mental standpoint, I am female.  That may be inaccurate, but hey, it's supposed to be.  I can't capture it in words.  That's the main idea behind deconstruction anyway.
  
Sadly, this takes all the fun out of it.  Maybe that's why I've sort of lost interest.  But I always come back, even when I don't intend to.  I find myself fantasizing aabout S__ a lot lately, and I start masturbating about having sex with her.  But it doesn't feel quite so good.  It takes a long time to finish, for one thing, but that's actually good in a way.  But it's not as titillating, not as fulfilling.  I find myself succumbing to thoughts of wearing an anonyous, faceless woman's lingerie, and finish myself gloriously.  I want to go now, and thoroughly enjoy my swimsuit.  I want it to last forever.  I want to be at least part girl forever.  I want to go on to the other side, not permanently long for it from this distance.  All I can do is try, by turning myself feminine, but I know that it won't work.  Femininity calls, must go. . .

Monday, November 20, 1995

Diary: Swimsuit Raid

I took it anyway last time we were there.  I'm glad, too.  But I seem to have lost interest for a while.  I'm close to S__, now.  But that's irrelevant to this work.

A__, who works on a phone sex line, tells me that men fantasizing about wearing women's underwear is very widespread.  I always thought so.  It's just that no one will admit it.  But damnit, we still love to indulge in it, don't we?  We just love to feel feminine.  Do I ever.  I really need lingerie, badly.  The bathing suit didn't titillate me all that much.  But I own it, now, so I am glad.  I just need panties, teddies, stockings, a g string.  That's what I want.


Wednesday, November 01, 1995

Diary: Pictures and Text, Oh My! [this was 1995 -- ed.]

I finally figured out how to incorporate pictures into text.  So here is what I want:


[broken image]

You see those panties?  I want something like that, although I can barely tell what I'm looking at.  There's a problem with this, and that is why this picture is fucked up.  I will look into getting those panties.  I want a closer look, though. . . 



Here is the teddy I want:



God is that ever beautiful!  I fugured out a way to get the picture to look better, but it's not quite up to par yet.  The colours are quite fucked up.  But man, do I ever want to wear that Teddiette!  And I will, too.  I swear it.
Tonight, I had a chance to get my very own bathing suit.  It was hanging in R__'s bathroom.  It was nice.  It had a crossing back, and a sort of coarse material.  I would have been in heaven had I taken it, but I thought it too risky, and I left it there.  I lost my chance: even if it's still there on Saturday, it would be very suspicious if it disappeared.  I doubt if R__ would have noticed its absence if I had taken it tonight.

Sunday, October 01, 1995

Diary: Femininity Lessons

Here's something: I remember B__ asking me a couple of times if I had ever worn a brassiere, and she said that I'd look so cute in a bra.  Imagine if I had indulged her.  Aw, Hell, who cares.  I would certainly regret it now.
Anyway, I want to talk about that feeling I get when I "womanize".  I want to become female.  I imagine myself as female; but that's not all.  There has to be a woman present, an archetypal woman, a model for what I wish to become.  And it doesn't end there.  I have to completely abandon myself to the femininity.  I have to gradually give in to the extreme pleasure overtaking me, by admitting that the pleasure comes from, and is a product of femininity, and of my admitting that I love femininity.  Or rather, I gradually come to admit that my own femininity is overpoweringly pleasurable, and that I aspire to cultivate it to the extent where I am a woman completely.  That's it, I think.

But then, there's this new discovery that the most intense experience possible is to cavort with another woman/women in a sort of fashion show, or a femininity lesson, of which I am the humble pupil.  She teaches me to be a girl, yet remain a man by having only a penis left, and I start to make out with her as we both wear some sexy outfits.  I'll just hang out with her, and do girlish things, aside from making out with her.  No, I'll just make out with her, and be a girl like her, with her.  I'll want her to touch me sensuously on my clean shaven thighs, and my shrunken waist, and my nipples.  All I want is femininity.  That's why men fantasize about lesbians: because they want to be women; they want to be the perfect sexual being, and that can only be conceived of as a woman, and they want to consume the ultimate sexual being, which is still female.  Therefore, he fantasizes about two women making love.  That's perfect.  Only I want to be one of the beautiful women.  God, I need lingerie.  I'll hook it up soon, I promise.


Saturday, September 02, 1995

Diary: the Perfect Woman

There it is.  I want to be completely effeminated.  Here's how it will happen: 

I will meet a supremely beautiful girl, the girl of my dreams.  I will fall in love with her completely.  She will love me too, but not as fully, and I will know this, and wonder why.  Then she will begin, as we become more familiar sexually, to have me wear her clothes.  She will enjoy making me feminine.  I will admit my fantasies about becoming feminine.  She will indulge me, have me effeminate myself by wearing her panties and skirts and dresses and bras.  We will share lingerie and swimsuits in private.  I will, with her fervent approval, begin to shave my body and take estrogen pills to have my body fat distribute itself femininely.  I will thereby grow tits and have my stomach shrink, and my thighs fatten.  I will take on a feminine personality.  And I will dress up like her, and we will thereby make love constantly, with me always longing to become feminine like her, and yet always long to touch her and enjoy her exquisitely perfect female body.

It will all begin, actually, with that vacation that I have planned, when I will isolate myself where no one will see me, where no one will know exactly where I am, and I will effeminate myself as I do now, in private, only more so.  I will, in that time, shave my body, and wear only women's clothes, including (especially) underwear.  Somehow, I will have the audacity to call a woman over, a whore, I guess, who will agree to do anything, no matter how weird.  I will ask her to bring all sorts of sexy lingerie, and pretty clothes, and I will have a dressing up session with her, and it will climax in us both wearing something very sexy, and me making out with her passionately and dry humping her, while she is still wearing her underwear.  That would be the ultimate sexual experience, especially if the woman is beautiful and passionately enthusiastic about it.  She has to like the fantasy, and exploit me with her feminine power, and love me.  That's the ultimate fantasy, no doubt.  She would ultimately become the girl I described above.  Or something like that.

Friday, September 01, 1995

Fiction: Feminazi

The feminazi movement began innocently enough.  As early as the nineteen fifties, women were liberating themselves from the oppressive yoke of a patriarchal society.  They burned their brassieres in protest against constraining clothing.  They began to work outside the home, to earn a living independently of men.  They began to become self-sufficient.  Gradually, however, the movement gained so much ground that in the Nineties, women were socially as important as men, especially to the younger generations.  Women had come to a dead end in the road to equality: equality itself.

Here was the great rift between the feminists of the time.  Many women felt that the movement was being hijacked by lesbians, who seemed to want to androgynize society entirely, and prevent women from being women.  These Lesbianists were usually very masculine, and the more feminine elements felt pushed out of their natural functions as women.  The True Feminists wanted to remain women, remain feminine; the lesbianists seemed to counter that impulse.  The argument was that women are "feminine" only by the standards of men; they only become sexy in the eyes of men, thereby becoming their sex toys, and nothing more.  Such an attitude on the part of men could only set the movement back, and the Lesbianists believed that only by denying men the sexual aspects of women would they gain equality.  A truly equal society would have to be androgynous, to avoid sexual inbalance.  

But the True women knew that being women meant being attractive to men, and at the same time being superior to them.  They believed that they could use their sexual potency as an advantage over men.  These women, still heterosexual, had to account for their sex drive.  To the Lesbianists, this was blasphemy.
At around the same time, the fashion industry began to sexualize women to an astonishing degree.  Women wore tight, mostly revealing clothing, while men wore baggy, unflattering clothes and nondescript suits.  Women's bodies were being showcased, while men's bodies were being covered up.  This was the first covert push.  Even the Lesbianists had to appreciate this.

Men were certainly happy at this time.  They could see all they would want, and women still had no idea what lurked beneath the baggy rags of men.  Men slobbered all over women like lost puppies.  
Behind the scenes, the two groups of women, who had, naturally, cornered the fashion industry, had planned it this way.  Men were, in a way, subservient to their sexy women.  But they still regarded women as sex objects, and besides that held most of the power.  But women were creeping in slowly.  The Lesbianists and True Women realized that their visions of a female dominated society were identical, in that men would be as women were in the middle ages: slaves to their powerful spouses.  Only the women wanted to crush men even more brutally.  The Lesbianists, at least, envisaged a society where men would be used only for breeding purposes.  But the common dream of a feminine paradise was impossible with the opposition of the True Women.  

The Lesbianists placed a mole within the True Women's ranks, one who could speak and entice like only a select few have ever been able to.  She was able to charm the ranks of True Women to the point where she had repeated affairs with virtually all of the higher ranking members.  She transformed them all into closet lesbians with her charming and irresistible sex appeal.  Now, even the Ture Women were beginning to see that they could acheive better sexual experiences with other women than with men.  They were all eventually exposed to one another, and had a lesbian orgy to celebrate.  But they were a much larger and much more influential group than the left-leaning fringe group which opposed them.  They would accept a peaceful agreement with the Lesbianists only if women were not only allowed, but encouraged, and even forced, to be as feminine as possible.  Even women enjoy a sexy girl more than a fat semi-masculine cow.  The whole idea of their ultra-feminism was that men are only huge hairy violent brutes, and that soft, smooth, beautiful, delicate women are better off by themselves.  They slowly began to assimilate all women to their ways, by either charming heterosexual women into their beds and converting them, or else raping them and forcing them to accept their ways.  They were very clandestine, and very successful.  They operated with absolute secrecy.  No one ever dared to disclose to an untrusted woman, and certainly not any man, the true agenda of Women.  They had no need for preventive measures, because the converted were so unanimously and fanatically devoted to the cause.

By the time most women were converted, men began to notice that they were losing their grip on women.  Women were becoming openly homosexual, and thumbed their noses at their former lovers.  Men began to complain.  Some raped and beat women to get their sexual pleasures, but they were all severely punished, usually by castration, as according to the new laws passed at the bidding of Women.  Men were fearful of the consequences, because more often than not, during a rape investigation, any and all suspects of any connection to the injured lady were punished.  These incidents were rare indeed.  

Other men began to campaign for changes to the way things are done.  They were willing to give up political power in order to obtain sex.  In large measure, men refused this, but Women made huge advances politically in this time.  The fashion industry, however, had been recognized as a part of men's problems.  It seemed that women became so sexily clad that they could no longer resist each other, and that men were so painfully ugly in their clothes that they became ignored by women.  Documents have shown that the movement by men to change fashion to make them sexier, and more appealing to women, was planted by Female agents.  Men began, despite the fashion industry, to wear tighter, more revealing clothing.  Some enterprising males fashioned their own apparel to retain masculinity; but most of the men were forced to wear certain androgynous clothes, which had been designed for women.  men began to wear halter tops, and tight bicycle shorts.  They showed lots of flesh, and tight fitting garments were popular.  Women did begin to notice them again, but only as perversions of their new sexualities.  men would have to become much more feminine to attract women.  

At last, the campaign for men to wear women's clothing was in full force, and it proved to be the undoing of men in the end.  Women no longer had any interest in men, except as breeding tools.  Desperate men resorted to sex changes, or at least dressing in drag for sex.  They were indeed slaves to women in this way.  They went to great lengths to become as feminine as possible.  They shaved their bodies, grew their hair, and took estrogen pills.  Women had by now managed to gain all of the political power, because even men now regarded each other as useless unless they could get a woman to have sex with them; and the only way to do that was to become as feminine as possible. Society as a whole began to view femininity as the noblest ideal, and men strove to become like women.  Men began to wear skirts and blouses and makeup to acheive their ends.  Ironically, it was all out of machismo that they forsook masculinity.  They became women to be regarded as manly.  

Eventually, that entire plan fell apart on them, when they realized what was happening.  At least thirty percent of all men in the western world became transsexual.  Men in high places began to look more and more like women, and were eventually replaced by them.  In a short period of time, women had managed to seize control of government and establish a benign dictatorship.  Politics was no longer useful.  Women were absolute rulers of the West.  Men, by constitutional law, had to obey the Women at all times.  Men had in large part granted Women these powers.  Men were forced into slavery to women: each woman was allowed to have one slave man to do the dirty work for her.  Soon thereafter, masculinity was outlawed outright.  Men could exist, but they had to be feminine.  Independent men were outlaws.  

Men had given up alll of their property, and so had to beg the women for lodging, food, and clothing.  They were kept enthralled by feminine clothing.  Mostly, they were made to pick out a feminine outfit, or the mistress would choose one for them, and they would revel in their artificial femininity by wearing lingerie.  Many women would engage in psychological torture by forcing the men to dress up with them, and they would proceed to embrace, and the men would swoon and come all over themselves in this ultimate experience.  They were being transformed into women by women, who alone knew about womanhood.  The dream of a man was to become a girl in every way but genitally, and then breed with his mistress, whereupon he would be allowed (after successful fertilization) a full sex change.  He would at last become a woman. He would, of course, be a lesbian, and unable to reproduce, so he remained a slave to his mistress, but he ranked higher in the social order than anyone with a penis. 

Foreign governments were soon taken in as well, through the charm and propaganda of the women.  Women everywhere began to rule.  And now we have this glorious matriarchal system, where Women are the highest possible form of existence.

Wednesday, August 02, 1995

Diary: Correction

A correction to the above post: all I want is to wear their clothes and fantasize about wearing their clothes while they watch, and make me become one of them in every way.

Tuesday, August 01, 1995

Diary: Mail-Order

I'm on the verge of ordering lingerie through the internet.  All I need to work out is the money, where I should have it delivered so that nobody knows about it, and exactly which items I should choose.
I've settled on this teddy, which is white, and buttons up in front.  Very sexy.  It has garters, to which I will attach white fishnet stockings.  I will also order a bra, little white panties, a garter belt, and black fishnet stockings.  That's where my problem is: which outfit sould I get?  One is items which all match, with which I have to order my little white panties.  The other is a hodgepodge of items, which I'm not sure will match, but which are all good on their own.  I think I want the matching set, even though it will be hard to hide, and more expensive, and a bit flashy, to the point where it's even a bit tacky.  But the teddy and fishnets are a certainty.  I want that ASAP.  It's all just a few keystrokes away. . .

Sometimes I worry that I'm going too far with this.  I will be spending over one hundred dollars on things to masturbate with.  It's rather outrageous of me, but hey, what can I say?  I live in a world of fantasy because I can't work up any interest in casual sex.  All I want is to fantasize about wearing their clothes.  Or rather, all I want is to wear their clothes, and fantasize about them.  Ooh, that teddy makes me sweat. . .  And I'll probably own it before Christmas.  I'll probably never stop wearing it. . .

Saturday, July 01, 1995

Diary: Womanizing

Today, I thought of a nifty little pun: they say that a man who fucks lots of women is a womanizer.  I think that the word applies more closely to myself.  After all, I try to become a woman, and therefore, everytime I try, I "womanize" for a while.  Well, it's off to womanizing, now!  How I love being a girl-wanna-be.  That's the thrill, once again: admitting a desire to abandon masculinity in favour of femininity.  That's what it is.  It's so goddamned strong. . .

Thursday, June 01, 1995

Diary: Mail-Order Lingerie

I have begun seriously inquiring into mail-order lingerie.  Really.  With my access to the internet via the school computers, I have browsed text files to find the lingerie sites.  Some offer mail order, others do not.  I was VERY interested in a French Maid Uniform, but I can't see any images.  I inquired further into that particular item, and discovered that they don't deliver to Canada anyway.  Another place doesn't mail to PO boxes.  However, I have found a way, I think, to view some images, and perhaps I can choose some of those items, and wear them in the future.  It's all a matter of my seeing what I want and ordering it, covertly.  I wish I had a JPG viewer.  Then, I could really know what it is I'm getting into.  I want to wear lingerie so badly.  Or more specifically, I want to own a woman's wardrobe.

I went shopping for clothes today, and I couldn't help be be drawn strongly towards ladies' swimsuits and lingerie.  I want it so badly.  I fantasized in the changeroom about trying on women's clothes instead.  I imagined hiding in the store at night, and when everyone is gone, try things on for fun, at my leisure.  I would be a kid in a candy store.  I'd visit the swimwear, women's apparel lingerie, cosmetics, and have a BLAST!!!  My heart pounds to think of it.

I should make a list of what I want to get:

* little satin panties
* little silk panties
* little lace panties
* (various combinations of the above, and many, each with a matching bra, and in various colours, especially white and black)
* my own one-piece swimsuit, very tight and high-cut on the thighs, but no thongs
* a string bikini, with triangle top
* a sexy silky, lacy, satiny smooth one piece lingerie thing
* a garter belt
* fishnet stockings
* silk stockings
* regular stockings
* control top pantihose
* regular pantihose
* a tight miniskirt
* a summer dress
* a tight minidress
* a French maid's uniform

I would love to just have a dresser FULL of women's clothes.  Exclusively women's clothes.  I would enjoy playing dress up all the time, and wear all the things I want at my convenience.  God, this is so cool.  It's somehow so gratifying to dress up like a girl.  I always go back to it.  It's always on my mind.  One of these days, I'll go all out.  I swear it.

I came across a web site for transvestites.  There was a text file about dressing guilt free that was very accurate.  It said that many men love to wear women's clothes because they love women so much that they want to emulate them, and that they often feel guilty when they do it.  It advised doing it in private, to avoid embarrassment.  It said that many men, because of their guilt, like to imagine being forced into it, to absolve themselves of guilt in their fantasies.  It even said that dressing up is at least as gratifying as intercourse (I get aroused thinking that it's MORE gratifying).  But there was one innacuracy: it didn't fully explain my psychology when I do it.  It seemed to say that men just want to feel the sexy soft silks against their bodies, and that they get turned on by it;  but the psychology behind it is much stronger than that.  For me, the thrill is in doing something naughty, for one thing, doing something that men are by no stretch of the imagination supposed to do; also, the thrill is in thinking of becoming a woman, whether she forces you or not.  The greatest thing is imagining that I'm becoming a girl, and that I am ecstatic about it.  Yes, that's it: imagining that, despite the mental barriers that I as a man have against displaying femininity, the feeling is so strong that I admit to wanting to become female.  It's the most taboo thing possible, to become a girl, in every way.  Just look how many of my fantasies become homoerotic, just because an integral part of female sexuality is loving dicks.  The thrill is not simply in being in contact with silk, otherwise men would get the same thrill out of wearing their own silk boxers.  No, the thrill is in putting on something designed for women, and women only, to make them look sexy, and being thrilled by it despite social taboos.  The thrill comes in realizing that you are thrilled about becoming (in your fantasies, at least) feminine.  I feel so sexy when I wear girls' clothes.  I usually imagine a girl to look up to, a girl that I want to look like, in having an hourglass shape, tits, hips, a pleasant looking fleshy flat spot between the legs.  I imagine being in that girl's skin, being that girl, that ultimate sexual object.  

It's weird sometimes how it happens.  I can be dead tired, and I'll be rolling around in bed, and get one of those incurable hardons which demand attention.  My fantasies demand girl's panties.  They are so incoherent in my half-sleep that they are nothing but symbolic.  The idea that something can be designed for women rarely coagulates: it's too complicated for the circumstances.  I blindly concentrate on some abstract idea of femininity, a thing that I worship because of the pleasure that it gives me through my dick, and somehow translate that into an idea which I can recognie even in these moments as pervertedly arousing: that I can abandon my masculinity and join the abstract idol of femininity.  The only way to do that is to wear her clothing.  That's the way I perceive it when I'm in such a state.  Sometimes, I fail to finish, out of fatigue, or insufficient desire.  Other times, I can't help but finish too soon, and the boner remains, and I need to do it again, but I'm still satisfied slightly.  

Another interesting factor is the absolute irreconciliability of my two sexual urges.  I always have the urge to fuck women, especially when in contact with real women.  When I'm alone, I inevitably think of my own femininity instead, and exploit it.  But when I'm with a girl, the last thing on my mind is wearing her clothes, or living a fantasy of her forcing me to become a girl too.  I just want to fuck her.  Even when I think of fucking when I'm alone, I can't usually turn to thoughts of effeminating myself.  When I do, I end up either fluctuating between them and accomplishing nothing, or choosing one over the other.  Probably 99% of the time, or more, it's got to be effeminacy.  It's just so much more thrilling.  When I have chosen effeminacy, I can never turn back.  It overpowers me.  Obviously, I'm not always successful at reaching my climax, but the other option becomes unattractive.  The opposite usually holds true as well, except that the idea that she would ask me in mid-fuck to wear her clothes usually creeps in and slows me down.  The rush of the climax is totally different, too.  I feel ultimately unsatisfied, most of the time, when I effeminate, probably because I know that I can never become a girl, and that really, the ultimate objective is to just masturbate forever and ever wearing girls' clothes, because that way I would never stop effeminating, which would make me a girl, I suppose.  But when I imagine fucking, I reach a climax, and I'm finished, and I've acheived everything that I fantasized about.  I keep promising to wear the little black satin lacy panties to sleep, but I always choke after I masturbate with them.  Not tonight.  I must do it tonight, just because I want to be that much more of a girly.

Monday, May 01, 1995

Diary: Wretched Excess

With all of my latest experimenting, I think that I am becoming too used to wearing women's clothes.  The thrill is no longer the same.  I routinely jerk around in Mom's swimsuit.  The pleasure is the same, but the thrill is gone.  It's hardly a big deal anymore.  In a way, it's scary, and in another way, and for the same reasons, it's at the same time encouraging and arousing.

Just think: I've worn women's clothes so much lately that it seems natural to me.  On an impulse, a few weeks ago, I went to work with my little black panties and my pantihose under my uniform.  what a weird thrill.  I considered meeting a real drag queen, and seeing what more I could do, see how much I could learn.  But that's too homosexual.  When I came home, I decided to try something new: I cut the legs off my pantihose and turned it into a G-string type of outfit.  Just the control top part, as a sort of underwear, was unbearably arousing.  I sewed on these straps to hold up my stockings, and now I have a strange contraption that's like a garter belt with built-in panties and permanently attached stockings.  It's very tight, very thin, and I hike it up as far as it can go.  What a blast.  It was probably one of the best experiences ever.  Almost as good as the first bathing suit experience with no clothes on, almost as good as the return to the bathing suit, when I resolved to accept my innate femininity.  Only it was a cheap thrill, because the whole time I knew that it wasn't anything actually made for women.  It was just a homemade sexual device.  I still wear it, though, but I dream of owning the real thing sometime soon.

Not long ago, I put my panties on underneath, and then put on my torn up ass revealing jean shorts, and my tight little DRI tanktop, with socks in it to look like tits.  I felt so good as a woman.  I preened in front of the mirror, and I really looked feminine, except for my having no waist.  That's what I long for: a waist and real tits.  Someday, I'll go all out.  I swear it.  Soon.  I look forward to owning my own swimsuit, bikini, bra, panties, stockings, G-string, and lingerie outfits.  Someday, I'll shave myself smooth and preen about with all of them, and have lots of fun.  Oh, God, how that would turn me on!  Smooth legs, silky stockings, and lacy, satiny, silky feminine undies, a bra to match, long, luxurious hair, and my face all made up, rings hanging from my ears. . .  Paradise, to be a girl.  I would be the perfect person.

But that's all a dream.  I can never be female, I can never have the truly feminine characteristics.  I can never be a true woman.  But I can try, and enjoy trying as much as possible.

Saturday, April 01, 1995

Diary: Panties and Hose at Work

Now I'm tired of these pointless homoerotic fantasies.  The only appeal that they have is their kinkiness, which doesn't altogether do all that much for me.  When I slithered into bed after writing that, I could only think of fucking the beautiful girls of my fantasies, not of wearing their panties.  Go figure.  I even thought for a while that I was losing interest in transsexuality.  But, as I'm wearing my black panties right now, I know it isn't so.

Last friday, I wore these panties and some pantihose to work.  For over none hours, I wore girls' clothes under my work clothes.  I walked all the way to the gay part of town to pick up my water bottle from another location, all the while wondering how many people in that area were transsexual like me, and musing about whether it would be fun to mess around with one who could teach me a few things.  But of course, they just don't appeal to me.  They're not women, after all.  Only a real woman can turn me on, can teach me how to be like her.  Only real girls titillate me.  Fags still disgust me, although I sometimes wonder about my own sexuality.  Would I really engage in some kind of homosexuality if I ever got to be completely in drag?  I doubt it.  I have a perpetual instinct on the lookout for girls.  Unfortunately, I don't think that I can adequately enjoy women and transsexuality at the same time.  It's a shame, too.  They should go hand in hand.


Instead, I sit around fantasizing about women's clothing all the time, imagining what I could do if I ever got my hands on all sorts of women's apparel to satisfy myself.  Am I a woman trapped inside a man's body?  Or am I a lesbian trapped iside a man's body?  Or am I just one who worships femininity so much that he must strive to acheive it?  What diffeence does it make?  Femininity is a totally impossible objective.  I saw a man in drag a couple of weeks ago at Booth 5, and he looked like a man.  He was wearing a tight little miniskirt and had beautifully shaven legs, but he was just too big to be a girl, and he couldn't carry himself femininely.  He had nothing like breasts, just a shaven chest showing where cleavage should have been.  It was a pitiful sight.  And I remember a segment on Unsolved Mysteries in which a transsexual businessman had swindled people.  He eventually got a sex change, and when they captured him, he had the build of a man: a ruddy, fattish face, a beer belly and girth, but he had long hair and saggy tits.  He was female, but age had brought out all the male features.  I wonder if he had neglected to take his estrogen.  If he didn't, does that mean that he was always doomed to look masculine, even after his momentous decision?  Or was it just laziness?  Had he put as much work into it as RuPaul, would he have managed to look feminine?  But it would take work, and he was caught unaware, unprepared.  He couldn't make himself up.  I guess it takes work to maintain femininity with which one was not gifted at birth.  It's impossible for me to become as feminine as real girls.  They rule.  I would have to have my bones shrunk, learn to walk and talk and carry myself anew, as if I had never learned before.  Those things are impossible to achieve.  Bummer.  I would love to just be a woman for a day, or be able to change my sex at will.  I could be a woman whenever I feel like it, in every aspect.  Wouldn't that be something.  But meanwhile, I become more and more accustomed to wearing women's clothes, and enjoy it thoroughly, although warily.  I might become a total drag queen if I'm not careful; but that's strangely appealing.  I want to, but I know that I shouldn't.  It is, I suppose, evil in a way, because I know that it's not acceptable behaviour, but I continue anyway, to my utmost satisfaction.  Well, so be it!  I enjoy it so bloody much.

I read Kafka's Metamorphosis today.  I was thinking of how interesting it would be to rewrite it, or to write a similar story, in which the central character becomes a woman.  I have always been strangely allured by the idea of metamorphosis, into really anything.  It's just sexy somehow to think that one could become something completely unrelated to one's nature, or at least be altered into something different, be it grotesque or beautiful.  I was fascinated by a certain album cover, on which a man's eyes had been transplanted from his head to his hands.  Truly fascinating.  There was also a music video in the 80's which had a man following some mysterious force, and being transformed into something like DaVinci's Vitruvian Man.  The idea of becomeing something else is very appealing.  Especially of becoming a girl.  How I would love to know what it's like to be a girl.  I read of a man who had had his sex changed, and regretted it because of social oppression.  He arranged to have flesh removed from his leg and formed into a new penis so that he could be a man again.  That's revoltingly absurd.  Why would one want to abandon femininity?  Sure, it's abused, but think of the rewards!  Ultimate beauty!  Smoothness, sleekness, delicacy. . . perfection!

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a beautiful woman. . .

Wednesday, March 01, 1995

Fiction: Commies, Redux

No, that's not quite right.


. . . the girls derided me after I came so quickly, and chained me back up.  They began to laugh at me as I hung there.  They began to put makeup on my face, and shave my body, and say that I might as well be a girl, I'm so useless with them.

They pushed the joke even further by occasionally touching my prick and watching me come just as quickly again.  They said I was sexier this way.  I was ashamed, but they knew that, and forced me to wear their clothes.  they always masturbated me when they did this.  When I grew back my body hair, they treated me like shit, like an imposter of manhood.  I might as well be a girl, they said, and dressed me up again.  It came to the point where I was so nervous about growing back my body hair, and in short, appearing more masculine, that I couldn't come anymore at all when I was masculine.  Only when they seemed to enjoy me more , that is, when shaven, made up, and wearing their dainty little lacy and silky lingerie that I could come.  


The reality of this perplexed and shamed me at first, but I grew accustomed.  I begged to be shaven and effeminated constantly.  They complied, thinking this to be quite phenomenal.  They responded very positively to me when I was feminine.  I began to perceive this, and begged to wear their clothing.  They complied and fucked me.  Eventually, the Officer asked me if I felt that I had changed at all since my capture, if I repented for fighting on the wrong side.


"I'll never repent!  Under my system, I always had the freedom to do what I want!  Here your dissidents are chained and tortured."  I said this with a girlish air, trying to be feminine to impress the girls.

"Oh?  Would you return then, to your homeland, as you are, and forsake your new way of life?  Don't answer now.  We will release you tomorrow, and you can do as you wish."

I hesitated.  I looked at myself, and realized that I was becoming a transsexual.  I was wearing women's clothes and enjoying it.  Enjoying it tremendously.  It was, as a matter of fact, the most thrilling sexual experience that I had ever had.  But I had to escape.  I was, after all, free!


When they unbound me, I began to set out for home.  They had supplied me with my old uniform, but I felt unnatural in it, especially the gitch.  So I bought some girl's stuff, and put it on for my return.  I felt so much better in girl's panties, a bra, some nice stockings, a miniskirt and makeup.  I also preferred the perfume and jewelry.  But I realized that I still seemed masculine.  The people here didn't care.  I got no double takes or weird looks.  I even saw some other transsexuals.  It was normal here.  I returned to the officer's, to meet with the girls again.  I threw myself at their feet, begging for their forgiveness.  I would stay with them for ever, so that they could show me the ways of femininity.  I aspired to be a girl now, after all of their incredible praise and adulation for my femininity.  They agreed.


Since then, I have begun to take estrogen, and other hormones which will make me grow tits, and shrink my waist, and distribute my body fat accordingly.  But I refuse to ever have a sex change.  I need my penis.  I have become the girls sex slave:  they turned out to be lesbians, and they love fucking girls.  But they also want to feel something hard in their cunts.  That's where I come in.  I look and act and feel like a girl, except for my dick.  I love being transsexual.  Even the Officer finds me beautiful now.  Just yesterday, I seduced him. . .


Fiction: Captured by Commies!

The Communists brought me into their CO's office in chains.  I had managed to avoid being wounded, and he seemed impressed at my bulk and machismo.

"My, a healthy ladies' man, no doubt?"


I refused to answer.


"Leave him here with me.  I certainly have some use for him."


The soldiers left and I was alone with the Officer, chained to the ceiling by my hands and to the floor by my feet.  He looked me up and down with disgust, and spat upon my uniform.  "So, you think of yourself as the devout Capitalist soldier, eh?  I shall endeavor to change your mind, my friend, before I release you to your kind.  But first, you must tell me everything that you know."


"I am Sergeant Andrew T. Manley of the 101st Airborne Division.  My serial Number is AY345-9833-098-001."


"But of course.  I suppose that you know nothing else, hmm?"  I remained silent, defiantly.  "I have ways of making you talk, Sargeant.  I do not want to resort to barbarism.  Please, to make things easier for the both of us. . . talk!"


Still, I kept my mouth shut, and stewed with anger.


"Well, if it must be so, then you have only yourself to blame."


He tightened the chains, and I was stretched out completely.  He pressed a button on his desk, and two beautiful women emerged, dressed in scanty little mini-skirts.  They tore off my clothes at the Officer's command.  They both giggled.  I hadn't seen a woman in weeks.  I popped an instant woody.  "What is so funny, girls?  So you find him attractive?"  They nodded yes.  "Then you can play with him later.  First, we shall have some fun of our own."


The three proceeded to engage in the most incredible menage a trois I had ever seen.  I was so horny that I could hardly handle it.  They all looked at me and laughed at me, for missing out.  


This went on every day, in fact, and I just stayed there chained.  The girls fed me only the tiniest bits of food, enough to keep me alive, and always cuddled me a bit, makeing me even hornier.  This went on for so long that I can't even imagine how many days it was.  I must have lost most of my bulk, because I almost escaped from my bonds one time, being so much skinnier.


One day, he looked at my erect cock, and asked me if I wanted sex.  By now I answered him when he asked such things, because he had me in his power.  I answered in the affirmative.  He let me fuck the girls.  I was overjoyed, but as soon as my dick touched their heavenly bodies, I came.  Back into the chains I went, totally unfulfilled.  For the next aeon, he teased me much as he did before, by having the girls touch me sensuously, but never letting me release.  I was going nuts for sex, for their sex.


One day, he brought in another soldier.  He was totally obedient to his CO, and, upon command, sucked my dick in front of the Officer and the girls.  I was disgusted, and he sucked on and on and on, until I came, just for the release.  He swallowed.  The girls laughed at me, and called me a homosexual.  From then on, they perpetually derided me.  They were now violent with me when they fed me.  That made me want them even more, to prove my manhood.  But the cocksucker kept coming back, first in a week, then six days, then five, then four, and eventually daily.  I became used to him, and closed my eyes thinking of the girls as he blew me.  I enjoyed it so much, and I always convinced myself that the girls were behind it.  I fantasized about them only.  At first.


Then I began to realize that they were infernal bitches, and looked forward to my usual blowjob by the male soldier.  To my horror, I began to fantasize about him.  I grew to accept his sucking me, though, and the fact that I enjoyed it.  But it took a long time.


Soon later, the Officer untied me, and allowed me to have sex.  He gave me a choice: the girls, or the man.  To prove my masculinity to the stupid sluts, I fucked them.  But they were unresponsive, as if I were unable to titillate them at all.  I couldn't even come, the event was so horribly humbling.  I went back to my chains, mortified.  I would get them.  The officer allowed this weekly, and each time I took the girls, and each time, they humiliated me.  Finally, I gave up, and went to the guy.  He started by sucking my dick, and then fondled it, and snuggled up to me, and I reluctantly reciprocated.  I fucked him up the ass with shame, came for the first time in ages, and went back to my chains.  I could no longer come with the girls, but the guy was being quite responsive.  I began to enjoy it, and fervently.  Eventually, the girls were simply no longer an option.  I had to fuck the guy.  I would suck him and fuck him and thoroughly enjoy it.


One day, he demanded to fuck me.  I complied reluctantly, but soon it became a mutual thing: I would fuck him, and he would fuck me.  I was now a total fag.


But the girls started to act funny.  They were even more violent to me, and they seemed to saddle up to him all the time, as if they could seduce him.  I was jealous!


He fucked them right in front of me, and I was outraged.  I struggled to tear free of my bonds to kill the sluts, but it was useless.  He was totally satisfied, more than I had ever seen him.


When I was allowed to fuck him, he refused at first, saying that the girls were so much better, that they would let him do the fucking and really enjoy it, and not want to stick anything in his ass.  Furthermore, he revealed to me that he preferred pussy.  I was outraged, but I couldn't do without him.  So I promised to let him fuck me, and that I would try to be more feminine.


Thereafter, I asked the Officer if he could arrange to have my legs shaved, and the rest of my body too.  My hair had already grown quite long.  He complied.  The girls shaved me, laughing derisively at me, reminding me of what a man I used to be.  I resented being called a man.  I beseeched them to show me how to be feminine.  They did.  I began to wear their clothes.


This was the ultimate in femininity.  I was totally in drag, and I came all over myself when I could.  I seduced him as a girl, and he was again very warm to me.  The Officer supplied me with estrogen, and I grew tits and developed a waist.  I was a transsexual.  And I liked it.  But they never let me get a sex change.  I remain this way to this day, free in their system, ever grateful for their turning me into something better: a girl.


Wednesday, January 04, 1995

Diary: Fantasizing About a Week-Long Retreat

I am dreaming up concrete plans for a week's retreat in seclusion to explore the depths of my affinity for femininity.  One day, I suppose, when I have some money saved up, I'll rent a place in the country, isolated, perhaps in the winter, where I can be alone and no one will disturb me.  I'll take it for at least a week, and make sure that no one knows where I am, or what it is I am doing.

I will either have accumulated over time a whole assortment of panties and bras and lingerie, or I'll buy it all on the way up, and an assortment of makeup, including lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow, and perhaps even rouge and nail polish.  My hair will be long and thick.  I'll bring a razor, or bottles of Nair, and remove all of my unsightly man hair, from my arms, my legs, my chest, my face, my back, my ass, my bikini line.  I'll be shaven smooth to the skin, like a girl, for a little while at least.  Then I'll shower, and abandon my male clothes.  I'll slip into the sexy lacy little panties awaiting me outside, and slowly relish getting all dressed up.  I'll pull on the silk stockings, hook them up to my garter belt, and parade around for a little while like a girl.  I'll spray a bit of perfume on myself, and make up my face.  Then I'll put on whatever sexy skirt and blouse or dress or whatever suits me best, and be a girl for the rest of the week.  I'll walk, talk, eat like a girl.  I'll sit like a girl, pee like a girl, think like a girl.  I'll admire myself in the mirror, because I want to see how beautifully feminine I have become.  I'll just stick around the place, not to leave, and masturbate about a hundred times, always careful not to soil my clothes.  No, better yet, I'll torture myself by waiting until night before I allow myself to do it, and do it until I am totally satisfied.  I'll wash up and go to bed in a silky nighty, without panties or anything.  I'll wake up in the morning and repeat everything, until I either get sick of it or vow to change my sex for real.  And I'll have to model bikinis and swimsuits and lingerie often.  If I feel really kinky, I'll shove a dildo up my ass when I masturbate.  


If I feel very successful, I'll venture out of my seclusion, at first unseen, but soon in public, as a woman.  As I gain confidence, I'll pick up guys and fuck them, or let them fuck me.  But I doubt that I'll get that much into it.  If I find that I'm feeling that feminine, I'll force myself to prefer male bodies.  Most likely, I will simply wear the clothes and feverishly anticipate my eventual release. 


The more I think of it, the more I would like to do this soon.  I want to discover my long-repressed sexuality.  This desire is extraordinarily powerful.  But I think that my desire to fuck women is more powerful, only rarer, and simply because it is social.  When I see people, I always want to fuck the pretty women.  Always.  Or rather, I want to worship them by falling in love with them and showering them with gifts and affection.  My fantasy, though, is much more personal, more pervading, more commanding.  I perpetually think of it when I'm home.  When I'm out, and I pass by lingerie stores, I think whimsically about owning certain items.  I have lately been accused on e-mail of being a woman.  I wasn't thinking about it at the time, but the comment made me want to answer sarcastically -- but honestly -- that I was busy dressing up in girl's underwear to care about what he said, or something like that.  I was almost flattered that he would call me a woman.  What a compliment, to be associated with perfection!


How perfect the female body is.  I recently cut out a Page 3 Girl, the prettiest, sexiest one I've seen in ages.  Somehow, she exudes femininity.  She wears a blue checkered sort of bra, probably from a bikini, and jean shorts up to her belly button, with the top button subtly, but erotically undone.  Underneath the shorts is probably a matching bottom.  She is photographed on her left side, and her right arm is raised, her hand pushing through her brown hair.  A few strands of hair sensuously rest upon her bare shoulder.  She leans on a stone wall, and shows off her hourglass shape by curving with her waist.  Her ribs protrude the slightest bit above her firm, curvaceously flat belly.  Her pretty face has an air of sensuous indifference, of basking in the glow of her own, self-conscious femininity, as if she is slightly bored of being so perfect, and resents that she is an object of desire for lowly men, despite her obvious, but malicious relish for her own beauty.  She knows that she is beautiful, and hates men for finding her so, but uses her natural gift of femininity to lure her lustful but brutishly lowly admirers into her trap, to be taken advantage of.


Notice that I always associate women with manipulation.  Genetically, they are.  They are made, apparently, to attract our gifts of protection and money and security.  When we can't provide it any longer, they dump us.  Our sex, which is the most important thing in them to us, is useless to them.  Our sex is just a toy, a pastime to them.  They only pretend to enjoy it, because it makes us think that we are worth something to them besides our money and power.  Oh, well.  They simply rule.