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.

Tuesday, January 03, 1995

Fiction: Coerced into Slavery

I fucked her sensuously, but she seemed bored.  She made me stop.  I was right into it, so it took some time.  

"Rob," she said, "We have to try something new.  I'm sick of just fucking like this."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Well. . . I have always had this fantasy. . ." she purred.  I was newly aroused.

"What is it?"

"Well. . . I don't think you'd like it.  No man would do it. . ."

"You'd be surprised at what a man will do.  What is it?  Don't be afraid.  Don't be ashamed."

"No," she resolved, "I just can't tell you outright.  You have to guess."

"Very well," I answered, always enjoying her delicious coyness, and her sexy mind games.  "Is it anal sex?"

"No, no!"

"Tit fucking?"


"Shit?  Piss?"

She shook her head, biting her lip.

"Another man?  Another woman?  Domination?"

She vigorously shook her head.  I was at a loss.  "C'mon, tell me," I implored, "I don't know."

She writhed around seductively in acute embarrassment, and beckoned me to bring my head closer, so that she could whisper in my ear.

"Rob," she whispered breathlessly, licking my ear and caressing it with her lips, "If I ask you to do something, will you promise to do it?"

I looked at her supiciously.  "Depends what."

She caressed me and rubbed herself onto me.  "Won't you do it?  For me?"

With such an incentive, I was hornier than I ever thought possible.  "Sure," I said huskily, as I caressed her and kissed her neck.

"Um. . . could you pick up my panties off the floor?  And my bra?"

I obeyed, thinking that she would put them back on and striptease me again.  She was about to order me to do something, but she hesitated, preferring to whisper it salaciously in my ear:  "Now, put them on."

I was surprised.  How could such a thing turn her on?  Not thinking twice of it, I put them on.  She passionately rubbed herself all over me, and had the most intense orgasm.  I came, too, by her randiness and rubbing.

The next night, as we started going hot and heavy again, she urged me to wear her clothes again.  Again, I complied, not thinking twice of it.  This became more and more frequent as the days went on.  Eventually, she would merely snap the elastic of her panties, and I would immediately remove them from her and put them on myself directly.  Sex is sex, I thought, so I continued.  I also began to doubt my manhood, because I noticed (and she as well) that I was now aroused as soon as she even hinted at my wearing her clothes.

I began to look forward to it as much as she did.  We had fantastic sex this way, and I rarely penetrated her.  I began to associate the clothes with good sex.  I felt masculine, despite my trappings.  Eventually, she seemed to lose interest in this game.  She again resorted to the same tactics that got me into her clothes to begin with, and urged me to act more feminine.  I did this comically at first, to humour her.  I liked this better than penetration.  I began to enjoy it even more.  I shamefully, however, began to admit to myself that it was indeed better to be in a feminine state of mind.  I had to feel as feminine as the sex goddess before me to feel fulfilled.

Eventually, she tired of this again.  She began to give me the choice of whether I wanted to do it my way or hers.  When I did it her way, I enjoyed myself so much more, so I more frequently did it.  I felt so good being feminine.  Soon, I began to request it, and she would grudgingly give me leave.

I wore her panties all the time now at home, and became sexually and psychologically enslaved to her.  I begged her to let me worship her by letting me rub my feminized body onto her perfect model of womanhood.  She allowed me, but became bored.  She let me become her personal servant.  I never left the house anymore.  I lived to serve my goddess of sex.  I was well rewarded.  How I loved the feel of silk or lace on my monstrously ugly prick when I imagined being a girl.  But she betrayed me.

She started bringing home other men.  She fucked them, and made me watch clandestinely.  I hated it.  But they were not allowed to worship her like I was.  So I laughed.  Once, she brought home a homosexual to watch me worship.  He found it quite compelling.  He asked her if I were homosexual, and she answered, "Of course he is!  Do you think he could be so feminine without being gay?"

"I don't believe it.  If he is, then let him blow me."

I hadn't realized the extent of her power.  I kneeled down before him and sucked his glorious prick dry until I exploded with ecstasy.  I had longed for a dick.  I didn't even know it.  I felt so much more feminine, and I began to enjoy the company of men.  They would fuck me all over, and I would love it.  I was a total female, except for my shape.

She then contrived to have me take Gyna's mixture each time I sucked dick, and fucked like a girl.  I would smear it on their dicks, suck them dry, and swallow it with their loads.  It tasted great.  Sure enough, within time, my dick shrivelled up and became a cunt; I grew tits and my waist shrank.  My body hair fell out.  I became a girl, physically as well as mentally.  I fucked some men for a long time thereafter, enjoying it thoroughly, although I became bored.

Then she came to me, hornier than ever, and told me her truest fantasy.  "Rob, I am a lesbian, and I love you.  I want to fuck you."  It took some time for me to become accustomed to pussy, but she slowly converted me again.  Ever since, we have been lesbian lovers.  I love pussy  even more than I did when I was a man, because now I can truly appreciate what it is to have one, and to feel a pretty girl licking it clean.

Monday, January 02, 1995

Fiction: Enslaved and Forced to Become a Woman

The woman wouldn't let me go.  I was threatened with death.  She would really shoot me if I tried to bolt.  So I stayed.  She made me strip.  I was naked in front of her, and I felt embarrassed.  She laughed at the size of my penis.  I was forced to stand there and let her make fun of me.  She wouldn't touch me.  I had to be her slave.  I did everything for her.  At first I was truculent, but she beat me with a billy club.  When I was truly insubordinate, she would shove it up my ass.

I served as her naked slave for weeks.  I slept naked on the floor at the foot of her bed, chained to a bedpost.  I couldn't climb onto the bed and kill her, because the chain was too short.  If I misbehaved she would torture me.  Never did she let me become sexually satisfied.  She placed a cup on my penis that prevented it from being touched.  How I longed for relief!  She skimped around all day in her lingerie to torture my brain.

About two years later, two years of perpetual shame, she told me that she would allow me to wear clothing.  She would throw me into a room and allow me to choose any garment that I want, and wear it for as long as I pleased.  I was allowed to pick a wardrobe.

She threw me in, and the air was cold.  She turned on the lights, and I discovered that I was in a lingerie shop.  There was nothing in any way masculine in the room.  The only clothing was women's underwear.  I had no choice but to grab some girls' underwear for warmth.  I draped silk on my body, and it immediately warmed me.  But not as much as I wished.  She made it colder in the room, and no matter what amount of clothing I piled onto me, I  could not warm up.  She told me to try something on.  I refused.  I would not be forced to be a transvestite!  She relented and permitted me to serve her for another year.

On that anniversary, she allowed me to re-enter the lingerie closet and pick a wardrobe again.  But I was accustomed to nakedness.  She still did not allow me any sexual pleasure, and oh, how she aroused me.  She would tease me. . .  I again refused.  

She seemed to warm up to me more, out of familiarity.  She told me about how to be a woman, and expected me to do as she did.  I had to, or would die.  She was so pleasant about it, that I actually enjoyed acting like her, my exalted goddess.

When she threw me into the lingerie store that year, I again felt apprehensive.  But she now refused to let me leave without anything on.  To humour her, I put on the most unflattering lingerie that I could find.  I came as soon as it touched my cock.  I was disgusted.

She threw me back in, and forced me to take another.  Again, I repeated the action.

The next time, she made me try on something else, and let me wear it for much longer.  It felt so warm on my body.  I liked it.  I began to experiment with other clothes, halfheartedly, because she was never satisfied with what I took.  I became a lingerie model for her.  I tried to act as femininely as possible, and the more I was feminine, the more she appreciated it.  I began to plot what I would wear, to make it the most revealing possible.  I began to enjoy wearing the sexiest clothes. . .  She loved to see me that way.  I began to truly love acting like a woman.  I noticed that my penis was shrinking each time I acted femininely.  At first I was alarmed, but the pleasure was such that I could no resist.  I continued, heedless.  I started engaging in homosexual sex.  My breasts began to grow, and my hips.  My waist and genitalia continued to shrink.  I began to look like a girl.  My body hair fell out.  One day, my dick was gone, swallowed into a hole of flesh forming on my crotch.  I had a cunt.  At last, I became female.  I could truly fuck like a girl!  I am now a woman.  I treat my own slave in much the same way.

Sunday, January 01, 1995

Fiction: Everybody Else is Doing it

I noticed that many of my co-workers were disappearing, and being replaced with women.  At first, I attributed this to affirmative action/employment equity run amock, but I soon realized that even in public, women outnumbered men.  I wasn't that I noticed only women in my perpetual sexual fantasizing, but there were actually more women everywhere.  Their numbers seemed to increase by the day.  I was soon surrounded by women, many of them quite beautiful.  They were tall, strapping, the type who would be fun to have dominate you.  They had an air of power which I find strangely attractive.  Unfortunately, I never had any nerve.

Eventually, I began to feel both like a sex object in the office, and strangely, I felt oppressed.  I was being bossed around and given the most menial tasks.  These new women were really tough to work with.  They flirted with me and came on to me.  Many were very aggressive.  I had to draw the line.  A few of them I fucked, not necessarily because it pleased me, but because I felt threatened.  One girl actually forced herself upon me, and I had no way of defending myself.  One could say that it was rape.  I tried to avoid women for a while, but they were all over me.  I couldn't escape.

One girl I fucked told me how good it felt to fianlly have a dick inside her.  She was actually a virgin!  She told me how hard it was becoming to find a man nowadays, but not in the sense that they normally tell you, like "I'm so glad I have finally found a man who can really satisfy me," or "Gee, a man I can trust," etc.  No, in this case, she just wanted to get laid, and mentioned it quite frankly.  She was simply glad to have gotten laid, and I just happened to be the prick who did it.  Oddly, it was true:  men were so difficult to find;  even my buddies no longer returned my calls.  I called on Andy personally, but some woman told me that he went on a trip to "discover his true self."  And he didn't even tell me.

The great shock of epiphany came at last when I tried to pick up this really hot looking damsel on the subway who was wearing this short little mini skirt and a tight see-through blouse.  I could see her little white panties creeping into her crotch.  I sat next to her, and dropped a line.  She turned around suavely, took off her shades.  Staring back at me was Andy, but with gorgeous long hair, and a very pretty, feminine frown.  She said: "sorry, Rob.  It just wouldn't be right."  She got up and sat elsewhere.

It was Andy, but not Andy;  I could swear, by some manner in which she walked, talked, the fact that she knew my name, that it was Andy in drag.  But she was so. . . feminine.  Just moments before, I imagined sticking my head up her skirt and. . .  But it was Andy.  Devoured by curiosity, I pursued her, and came on even harder, even though my heart wasn't in it any more.  I just had to be sure that she wasn't Andy in drag.  I asked her things, alluded to things, that only Andy would know.  She seemed uncomfortable.  Finally, I asked her outright.

"Yes, Rob, it's me, Andrea.  You used to call me Andy.  I am now a girl.  Is that a problem?"

I was quite taken aback by this.  "Prove it."

"You grew up on the East side, and you have a birthmark on your left shoulder blade.  You used to play basketball in high school.  You used to hide a stack of dirty magazines under your dresser when you were a boy.  Your--"

"Holy shit!  It really is you!  How. . . why. . ?"

"I can't explain here.  You'd have to talk to me in private sometime.  You know that you're quite sexy, don't you, now that I can see you from this perspective."  Andy rubbed my thigh with his--hers, I mean--and gave me a woody.  Creeped out, I bolted out the door, as the train had conveniently just stopped.

Imagine!  Andy, the guy I roomed with!  We had shared in so many sexist pranks and had fucked so many chicks!  Women were our life!  And now, he becomes a chick!  I couldn't dare find out if he was really as female as he claimed to be.

Weeks later, I found out the truth.  A girl picked me up, and I went to her place to fuck her.  Easy sex like that became habitual.  I was getting picked up every time I left the house.  When I got there, I was thrown onto the bed, stripped down viciously, and fucked.  Brutally.  I loved it.  But when she reached orgasm, she began to cry.  Always the sensitive type, I comforted her.

"There, there," I said, smoothly.

"You don't understand," she sobbed.  "I didn't mean to be so rough.  I always wanted to have a man caress me gently and make love to me tenderly, without any violence.  But I. . . I lose control, and I hurt him, and get all wild.  Why can't I ever control myself, and really get laid?  I'm not a man anymore!  Why must I still act like one?"

I froze.  My heart sank.  I left her there crying and put on my clothes. 

"What's wrong?  Where are you going?"

"Uh. . . I gotta go.  I've got an appointment. . ." I stammered.

"Please don't leave me."

"I really must go."

"Please?  I need you."

"Well, uh. . . no, I really have to get going."

"I need you.  I want you to understand.  Or else I'll kill you," she said, as she reached into her dresser, still lying on the bed, and pulled out a gun.

"All right, if you put it that way, I'll stay."

She made me remove my clothes again.  Then she told me how she had had a sex change, by some new technique, and how much more confident she felt.  But she needed sex so badly, and there are so few men left.  It's such a great technique, she said.  She needs me to fuck her constantly, or else she'll die.  So she fucked me again, and again, and again.  I was brutalized each time.  When she fell asleep, I grabbed her gun, blew her head off, and ran away.

When I got home, two female cops were waiting for me.  They hauled me into my house, fucked me, and threw me naked into the squad car, to hoots and hollers from the many female neighbours.

In the station, they threw me into a cell, and had some other bitch come in and interrogate me.  I was still naked. 

"So why did you kill that girl?  You wanna go to prison?  Huh?  I have a mind to kick your ass, you little punk."

I cowered in fear at this serious threat.  "She was going to kill me.  She was going berserk because I was leaving and she pulled the gun on me.  I wrestled it away from her and it went off by accident, and--"
"BULLSHIT!" she screamed, and boxed me across the head.  "She was going to keep you all to herself, eh?  Not gonna happen!"  She bent over and whispered salaciously in my ear: "I've got you now, sugar.  All to myself.  I can keep you here in this prison for a long time, and nobody can touch you except me.  And oh, am I gonna touch you."  She grabbed my dick, and started stroking it.  Then she threw me down on the ground and fucked me.

When she was done, the door swung open, and a man entered the room.  "Burns!  Get the fuck out of here!  Quit fucking my prisoners, or I'll have you put up on charges."  Burns muttered and left without a word.

"So you're the white slave who shot his mistress, eh?  Chicks must be mad about you."

"Yeah.  They can't keep their cunts off of me."

"Well you'd better get out of here.  You're one of the last holdouts we have, and you've got to survive.  Otherwise, the whole human race will disappear."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you noticed all the women around?  Are you blind?  Haven't yo wondered where all your friends went?  Well, your buddies have probably all fucked you by now, and you haven't even noticed!  Everybody's signing up for Guina's operation nowadays.  Everybody wants to be a girl.  You and I are a dying breed.  I'll tell you now to resist as long as you can, or else you're in for it.  You don't want to be a girl, do you?"

Just as I was about to vehemently affirm my masculinity, I considered how much power women had now, and for a split second I doubted.  "Hell, no!"

"Then get out of here, and go into our retreat.  They won't bother you there.  Your cock'll need a rest, I think."

He was right.  The bite marks were beginning to add up.  Days later, I was in a camp with a dozen other men, and I was greeted warmly.  Not a woman in sight.

As I pondered the situation, I noticed that I began to crave sex again.  I masturbated constantly.  I was always thinking of my perfect woman.  I began to wish that I had something to remember women by.  A piece of jewelry, handwriting, clothing, anything!  Then I doscovered the warehouse.  It had tonnes of female clothing in it, of every type.  One time, I stole in there and jerked off looking at a dress.  Gradually, I moved onto better things, like panties and swimsuits.  Then I had to touch them.  Then, I had to rub myself off with them.  Then I did the unthinkable.  I wore them over my clothes.  I was in drag.  Slowly, as I succumbed more and more often to this wicked temptation, I began to realize that women's clothing gave me a more satisfying orgasm than women themselves.  I began to wear girls' clothing naked.  Then I began to act more feminine in them, to heighten the effect.  I grew my hair during this time.  I sometimes dared to venture back to the camp with girls' clothes on underneath.  I loved it so much, but I was so ashamed!  The kinkiness of it was unbearable.  I went back all the time.  Eventually, I was dressed like a girl more often than not.  I wondered what the other men would think.  Finally, I decided to take a plunge.  I dressed up completely like a girl once, and sachayed into the cmp.  The men were sex-starved, and they ran me down and tried to fuck me.  When they removed my panties, they stopped in shocked silence.  Then they turned me over and took turns reaming me up the ass.  I was so ashamed.  I enjoyed having a dick inside me!

They left me there alone, and I went back to the warehouse.  Every night thereafter, I went back and had sex with the men.  They knew it was me, the transvestite, but they didn't care.  Neither did I.  Or rather, I did care, enormously, because I loved the taste of come in my mouth, and the fucking, and the being female!  I was their whore for a few months before they suddenly refused to have me anymore.  I went back home, as a woman.

I masturbated constantly with my clothes.  I threw out my old wardrobe and replaced it with lingerie and other girls' stuff.  I went totally feminine.  My penis seemed to shrivel up after each homosexual experience, but I didn't mind.  It eventually disappeared into a fold appearing at my crotch.  At the same time, my hips grew, and my tits grew.  My body hair fell out.  I was becoming a real girl.  When I looked at the panties' labels once, I understood, and laughed gaily.  They were made by Gyna Inc., the people who develloped the sex change.  Everybody wants to be perfect.  It just so happens that femininity is perfection!  

Diary: Science Says It's Possible!

How nice it is to think that my recent problems with women can be solved by admitting that I am a woman trapped inside a man's body.  My overwhelming desire to wear clothes designed to make girls extremely appealing, it arouses me to think kinkily, and is an obvious sign that my sexuality is innately feminine.  To rephrase, I wear women's underwear because I want to be a girl.  How compelling to think that I can just abandon my masculinity and become a girl by tossing off my male inhibitions and becoming a full-time transvestite.  I would feel so much more attractive and powerful, and even more so when I finally get my breast implants, and eventually get a sex change.

I have learned many interesting things today while perusing an OMNI magazine.  I have discovered that genitals are somehow interchangeable.  I had read before of a certain breed of tiger that its females, after giving birth, become virtual males: their clitorises enlarge and protrude, becoming penises.  Similarly, in men of all species, the penis is simply a lump of flesh sticking out of what would normally develop as a vagina.  It's all a matter of hormones.  And gonads.  There are rare cases of people who have testes or ovaries, but who become, by some defect, the opposite sex at birth, or even at puberty!

Now, here I am, wearing, on the outside, men's clothes, but underneath a pair of pantihose which my mother discarded and the black lacy panties which I stole from a friend's sister.  How strange!  How cool it would be if it were possible to switch sex spontaneously. . .

Here is an interesting excerpt from an interview with Roger Gorski, an american biologist:

OMNI:  . . .What is the TFM [testicular feminizing male]?
GORSKI:  Here you have the genetic male whose testes, although undescended, still produce normal amounts of testosterone.  But the TFM has genetically lost the androgen receptor all over the body--including the brain.  This genetic male cannot respond to testosterone.  So what is the phenotype [external characteristics] of this individual?  Female!  Female external sex organs, breasts, body fat distribution.  The internal sex organs, however, are not female.  Early in fetal life the testes produce another hormone, Muellerian duct inhibiting factor [MIF], that suppresses development of such female organs as the uterus and Fallopian tubes.  MIF is not a steroid and doesn't need the androgen receptor to operate.  Apparently MIF is normally secreted in the TFM, because those who function sexually  as women often have to go to a clinician because intercourse is painful.  That's because the deepest part of the vagina devellops from the Muellerian duct, which both sexes possess in early embryonic life and which is suppressed by MIF.

The human male testes also normally secrete small amounts of estrogen.  Because the TFM can't respond to testosterone during the prenatal period of sex differentiation, he develops as a female.  And at puberty, when these testes become active, he responds to the increased quantity of estrogen, developing breasts and becoming sexually active as a female.  These individuals rarely know they are male.  They're born looking like girls, are treated by parents and peers as girls, and so act like girls.  They are both phenotypically and psychosexually female  (132).
Stein, Douglas.  "Interview: Roger Gorski."  Omni Magazine Oct. 1990: 70+. 

Just imagine the possibilities, even in fiction!  I could alter that steamy little tale above a bit and include actual science!  How wonderful!