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!)