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. . .