Tonight I received an unexpected Christmas gift.
A__ decided to please me by buying herself some lingerie. She would wear it for me as a turn on. She had already bought me some clothes, and I felt awful that she would spend so much money on me when I couldn't possibly do the same for her, so I told her to not buy me anything big for Christmas, or else I would feel even worse. And I would have, too. But now I feel quite giddy, and incredibly lucky. I wonder how much coincidence went into this (an inevitable coincidence, I would think) and how much, dare I imagine, full knowledge went into it.
The situation is quite fortuitous, and quite bizarrely so. I never expected it, and even, with my last shred of decency, hoped that I wouldn't have to deal with this. But now I have some of A__'s lingerie in my room at her request. I did not steal it. I did not ask for it. She insisted on keeping it here, rather than bringing it home and having to answer her mother's questions. The strangest thing of all was the conversation that went with this strange turn of events.
She presented it to me as a gift. In a way, it's more for me than it is for her. And she hasn't gotten me anything else. So she had to give me something, even if it's meant, in effect for her. So already, it strangely belongs to me in a very concrete way. I peeled off the wrapping paper, and peeked into the box, which I had trouble opening, and she shook the flap at me, and showed me breifly what was inside: a velvety matching panty and bra set. I took it out and giggled. "You want to try it on?" she teased. I wonder how much sincerity was in that question. I easily deflected that insinuation, as joking as it was. She then asked if I could keep it here, under my pillow or something. "I don't see why. What am I going to do with it?" I protested quite diplomatically. She agreed, and put it back into the box. Later she took up her request again, and explained exactly why. I had been kicking myself because I desperately wanted her to leave it here, but decency, pride, and a desire to uphold my innocence had overridden that instinct. This time, there was no reason to refuse, and I rejoiced.
The terrific thing is that I had been looking forward to wearing something tonight. I figured that I wouldn't be messing around with A__ anytime soon, so this was the perfect opportunity to get feminine. And suddenly, this lingerie drops into my lap. Merry Christmas!
A funny note: last night, A__ revealed to me that she once made her little brother wear a dress, because she wanted a sister--an idea intriguing enough by itself. Then she asked, "Didn't you ever put on your mom's dresses when you were young?" as if it were a perfectly normal thing for me to have done. I wonder what she would have said if I had said yes, jokingly of course? Anyway, despite all of this strangeness, which she has never brought up before (it has always been brought up by me as a silly sort of joke, and she expects silliness from me), I don't believe that she has the slightest clue about my secret fantasies. I think I would be able to tell if she did. She wouldn't talk about it like that. Oh well. Who knows? Maybe she wants me to wear her lingerie, and become her little sister. She did after all say something to the effect that if I were her little brother, she would have made me wear dresses, too. I wish.
Fiction: Metamorphosis, and Fantasy Smoragasbord
The other version:
One day, Andy wakes up in his apartment, where he lives alone, and discovers to his horror that his clothes are gone. His closet is filled with skirts, dresses, and blouses; his dresser filled with lingerie. He has no clothes to wear. What can he do? He has to go to work. He calls in sick, and hopes that his hallucinations will disappear when he wakes up the next day.
The next day, nothing changes. He touches the clothes, the panties, the skirts, and gets aroused, because of their sensual feel, the silkiness, the coarseness of lace, the tightness. . . He forgets this, and goes back to sleep.
The next day. Same thing. He decides that he must put some clothes on, or go insane. He starts with the underwear, struggles with it, it being his first time snapping on a bra, and looks at himself in the mirror. He can't stop thinking about what he's wearing. He breaks down in a quivering mass of sexual energy, overcome by his own femininity.
Back to the endless philosphising and quantizing of my experiences as a cross-dressing wanna-be girlie.
What a strange psychological effect it is to wear clothing designed not for my kind of body, but for the kind that turns me on. I love what girls' underwear contains. I want to be like them, badly, when I wear it myself. What an odd sensation, when you think about it. Most men, when they see a beautiful photo of a girl in lingerie want to fuck her. I, on the other hand, want to wear what the girl's wearing. I love the way it accentuates and emphasizes female curves. I love the way the texture matches that of the girl's skin. But why do I want to wear it myself? It just doesn't make sense. I love girls' bodies. Why should I want so badly to feel like one?
It's a complicated question. What do I want when I wear women's clothes? Obviously, I have a desire to quench, a strong, often overpowering desire. Can I ever put my finger on just what that desire is? It's unfathomable, in a way. I'm sure I've touched on it before.
I just spent the last hour reading stuff on the WWW about transvestites and fantasies. One story which wasn't bad, but not quite accurate was about an adolescent who discovers femininity because of late puberty. His stepmother teased him, and he stole her lingerie at his friends' suggestions. He was transformed into a total girl, complete with breast implants and a full wardrobe. He had choice all the way through. He wore panties under his clothes, and hung out with girls. He became his stepmother's daughter in a cheesy happy ending. The other was more shocking. It was about a wimpy little guy whose domineering wife turns him into a maid. She goes so far as to turn him into a fag who succumbs to "feminine pleasure."
Sometimes I want that too. I often fantasize about getting fucked like a girl. I love to wear women's underwear and think that my genitals match the clothes. But I really liked the slow transformation. One problem: it hardly talks about the masturbatory ecstacy of wearing girls' clothing. The cheesy one involved dresses and makeup and stupid things like that. The wimpy guy was forced to shave his body and wear all sorts of female attire, and prance around like a girl at his fiancee's bidding. I kinda liked that one, except for the complete transformation into a faggotty girl and the overlooking of the enjoyment of panties.
I've told many fantasies here. What's the point of telling another? I almost came during some of the choice bits of the wimpy guy story. I have to isolate the key points. Firstly, I am a male to begin with, a complete, virile, heterosexual male without any kind of effeminate or homosexual tendencies. Second, I encounter women's underwear, either by accident or by force, and am amazed to discover how incredibly compelling it is to wear it (but why is this so? That's what I need to worry about!). Third, I start wearing it with increasing frequency, until I wear it only, and I can't stop myself. Fourth, I become a girl, or become a total transvestite.
There are variations on the theme: 2) am I forced to wear the panties, or do I discover them by accident, or do I always have an innate but repressed desire for them? 3) Do I wear it increasingly to become more feminine deliberately, or just for titillation? 4) Do I like boys?
I think I want it all. I want to be the virile male who wears panties by accident, by chance, on a bet, and discovers their potential; who is then slowly converted to wearing them all the time, and enjoying it more and more, even to the point of fucking both girls and boys to incredible pleasure; who becomes female at first for titillation, but gradually succumbs to the point of deliberately wanting to be female, so great is the titillation; and finally, being good buds with a gorgeous girl, fucking both her (in a loving, feminine lesbian way) and boys now and then. My girlfriend and I could rub our sexy female bodies together, she feeling my hard and incongruous dick, while we discuss our escapades with boys.
I always come back to the reluctant start, deliberate finish scenario. I imagine that I discover panties, and hate myself for doing it. But I get a nagging urge in my head to do it again, and this becomes more and more frequent, until it becomes an obsession. Then I wear it all the time, and enjoy it all the time, and it makes me feminine, until the point of my final conversion.
I still like that scenario where I have to slowly develop my femininity. I have to masturbate naked in the feminizing way first, then with pantyhose and nothing else a certain number of times; graduate to leotards and tights; then to bathing suits; then to bikinis; then to panties. In the scenario, I have an infinite number of repetitions to do before I graduate to anything interesting, but I become so enthralled with the idea of wearing bikinis or panties or lingerie that I skip grades, as it were, and endanger myself for the sake of the feminine ecstasy, and am inadvertently transformed into a sexy woman who cavorts with other sexy women.
Variation: war of the sexes scenario. This wearing of women's clothing by slow stages is a male gov't program to dull male senses to women's clothing. The women like to tempt the men with sex, and then capture them and effeminate them and turn them into girlish sex slaves like in the story. The gov't programme prevents this, because men become so accustomed to it that they aren't embarrassed if they are forced to wear girls' clothing; they retain their masculinity and are able to fight back/escape. Women would normally start their men with panties right away; so the government starts slow and works its way up. Those who eventually get through the whole thing are indifferent to women's clothes -- or at least pretend to be. Here I am, in basic training. I slip on the pantihose, but I enjoy it way more than anyone else. The other men can handle it. To them it's a joke. But I get a thundering hard on, and everybody notices. That's why I never pass. They always tell me that I'm never ready to move onto the next level. But they have to keep trying. Meanwhile, I always have a voice in the back of my head tempting me to taste the pleasures of the top levels. I secretly fantasize in my pantyhose. One day I sneak into a pair of leotards and end up in heaven. I vow to skip levels according to my rules. I soon get into bathing suits and bikinis. I am so ecstatic that I can't control myself. I start yearning for femininity. I am a traitor. I soon move into the lingerie, and am so taken by it that I am forever sold on wearing girls' clothes, and becoming female. Others like me overthrow the oppressive male regime, and we all become girls together.
Also, picture this under a female gov't. Men are being trained to be subservient to their women. They are not supposed to enjoy sexually the simple wearing of women's clothing. Or it's an acquired taste that needs to be developed. They do not allow one to skip stages, or else they risk not being subservient. So I start innocently enough, but can't resist cheating. The discover, but only warn me. They don't know the potential of my desire. I quickly move onto higher and higher levels until I am transformed by the panties, become a chick with a dick, and they have to treat me as an equal, and we cavort together like I'm one of the girls, except that we pleasure each other.
I also like the idea (or I once liked it) that I strictly obey the rules, because they let me wear women's clothing so ridiculously often. I really do want to wear 10 000 bikinis, then move on to 1000000 panties and lingerie outfits, before they allow me to become a girl. It's just like school.
I really enjoy the idea of an insidious change of which I am only barely aware until it's too late. I somehow start wearing panties, innocently, at my wife's urging. Say, because I run out of clean underwear one day, and she lends me her butchiest pair for the day. I don't notice anything, but the experience subconsciously stays with me. I am paranoid about getting into an accident or someone noticing in some way. But I forget about it. It starts to happen more often. She absent-mindedly hands me her sexy panties. I put them on. It keeps happening every now and then. I daringly admit to myself that I like the feel of them, the tightness, the silkiness, the high-cuttedness. They aren't all that comfortable, but they have a certain charm. It becomes a ritual. I start telling her I have no underwear, even if I do, and she lends hers to me without a thought. It happens every week. I start noticing that when I wear it, my sex drive increases. I sometimes come in my pants at the merest thought of my beloved in her skivvies. . . like the ones I'm wearing. I feel close to her. I justify it like that. Then it's soon forgotten. Then I start getting more comfortable around her with her underwear on me. It becomes normal. She gives me some of her unwanted panties to fill out my underwear drawer. I gladly accept them. They are mine now. I start buying her more and more lingerie, with the conscious aim of increasing her wardrobe, with my new found sense of women's fashions in undergarments. She starts giving me her old panties, and I wear them instead of my own. It becomes part of my wardrobe. Eventually, I wear only girls' panties. And I find nothing totally wrong with the idea. I am defensive and paranoid about outsiders finding out, but I feel infinitely more comfortable in panties. Fooling around with the wife becomes more intense because of the silk rubbing against the silk. For fun she gets me to wear a bra of hers, that matches her old panties. I do it jokingly. I start doing it everytime I notice that it matches my underwear. I start contemplating the rest of her wardrobe, particularly bathing suits and bikinis and lingerie. I know now that I have a problem. But I can't stop. I don't want to stop. I try to. I try very hard. I wear her old brassieres with my panties regularly, and we horse around, each wearing female underwear. She coyly enjoys her little sissy boy. I coyly enjoy being her little sissy boy. We start playing dressup games. She wants to see what I look like as a girl. She puts makeup on me. At first I'm grotesque. Then I get prepared first, to get the full effect. I start shaving my body to get the full effect. I wear pantihose and stockings and garter belts-- the whole nine yards. Still, outwardly, I am male. But I am becoming more and more female. I can't stop myself. I rarely want to stop myself anymore. When I am with the wife, we are girlfriends. We still horse around. We love the feeling of silk on silk, and of smooth, shaven body on smooth hairless body. I really want to be a girl now. I look at her enviously of her pussy and her tits and her waist. I start taking hormones. I grow tits. I have a female wardrobe now, and we are like girl roommates. The best of friends. My budding titties rub against hers pleasurably. I still rub my dick against her. I love it.
One day, Andy wakes up in his apartment, where he lives alone, and discovers to his horror that his clothes are gone. His closet is filled with skirts, dresses, and blouses; his dresser filled with lingerie. He has no clothes to wear. What can he do? He has to go to work. He calls in sick, and hopes that his hallucinations will disappear when he wakes up the next day.
The next day, nothing changes. He touches the clothes, the panties, the skirts, and gets aroused, because of their sensual feel, the silkiness, the coarseness of lace, the tightness. . . He forgets this, and goes back to sleep.
The next day. Same thing. He decides that he must put some clothes on, or go insane. He starts with the underwear, struggles with it, it being his first time snapping on a bra, and looks at himself in the mirror. He can't stop thinking about what he's wearing. He breaks down in a quivering mass of sexual energy, overcome by his own femininity.
Back to the endless philosphising and quantizing of my experiences as a cross-dressing wanna-be girlie.
What a strange psychological effect it is to wear clothing designed not for my kind of body, but for the kind that turns me on. I love what girls' underwear contains. I want to be like them, badly, when I wear it myself. What an odd sensation, when you think about it. Most men, when they see a beautiful photo of a girl in lingerie want to fuck her. I, on the other hand, want to wear what the girl's wearing. I love the way it accentuates and emphasizes female curves. I love the way the texture matches that of the girl's skin. But why do I want to wear it myself? It just doesn't make sense. I love girls' bodies. Why should I want so badly to feel like one?
It's a complicated question. What do I want when I wear women's clothes? Obviously, I have a desire to quench, a strong, often overpowering desire. Can I ever put my finger on just what that desire is? It's unfathomable, in a way. I'm sure I've touched on it before.
I just spent the last hour reading stuff on the WWW about transvestites and fantasies. One story which wasn't bad, but not quite accurate was about an adolescent who discovers femininity because of late puberty. His stepmother teased him, and he stole her lingerie at his friends' suggestions. He was transformed into a total girl, complete with breast implants and a full wardrobe. He had choice all the way through. He wore panties under his clothes, and hung out with girls. He became his stepmother's daughter in a cheesy happy ending. The other was more shocking. It was about a wimpy little guy whose domineering wife turns him into a maid. She goes so far as to turn him into a fag who succumbs to "feminine pleasure."
Sometimes I want that too. I often fantasize about getting fucked like a girl. I love to wear women's underwear and think that my genitals match the clothes. But I really liked the slow transformation. One problem: it hardly talks about the masturbatory ecstacy of wearing girls' clothing. The cheesy one involved dresses and makeup and stupid things like that. The wimpy guy was forced to shave his body and wear all sorts of female attire, and prance around like a girl at his fiancee's bidding. I kinda liked that one, except for the complete transformation into a faggotty girl and the overlooking of the enjoyment of panties.
I've told many fantasies here. What's the point of telling another? I almost came during some of the choice bits of the wimpy guy story. I have to isolate the key points. Firstly, I am a male to begin with, a complete, virile, heterosexual male without any kind of effeminate or homosexual tendencies. Second, I encounter women's underwear, either by accident or by force, and am amazed to discover how incredibly compelling it is to wear it (but why is this so? That's what I need to worry about!). Third, I start wearing it with increasing frequency, until I wear it only, and I can't stop myself. Fourth, I become a girl, or become a total transvestite.
There are variations on the theme: 2) am I forced to wear the panties, or do I discover them by accident, or do I always have an innate but repressed desire for them? 3) Do I wear it increasingly to become more feminine deliberately, or just for titillation? 4) Do I like boys?
I think I want it all. I want to be the virile male who wears panties by accident, by chance, on a bet, and discovers their potential; who is then slowly converted to wearing them all the time, and enjoying it more and more, even to the point of fucking both girls and boys to incredible pleasure; who becomes female at first for titillation, but gradually succumbs to the point of deliberately wanting to be female, so great is the titillation; and finally, being good buds with a gorgeous girl, fucking both her (in a loving, feminine lesbian way) and boys now and then. My girlfriend and I could rub our sexy female bodies together, she feeling my hard and incongruous dick, while we discuss our escapades with boys.
I always come back to the reluctant start, deliberate finish scenario. I imagine that I discover panties, and hate myself for doing it. But I get a nagging urge in my head to do it again, and this becomes more and more frequent, until it becomes an obsession. Then I wear it all the time, and enjoy it all the time, and it makes me feminine, until the point of my final conversion.
I still like that scenario where I have to slowly develop my femininity. I have to masturbate naked in the feminizing way first, then with pantyhose and nothing else a certain number of times; graduate to leotards and tights; then to bathing suits; then to bikinis; then to panties. In the scenario, I have an infinite number of repetitions to do before I graduate to anything interesting, but I become so enthralled with the idea of wearing bikinis or panties or lingerie that I skip grades, as it were, and endanger myself for the sake of the feminine ecstasy, and am inadvertently transformed into a sexy woman who cavorts with other sexy women.
Variation: war of the sexes scenario. This wearing of women's clothing by slow stages is a male gov't program to dull male senses to women's clothing. The women like to tempt the men with sex, and then capture them and effeminate them and turn them into girlish sex slaves like in the story. The gov't programme prevents this, because men become so accustomed to it that they aren't embarrassed if they are forced to wear girls' clothing; they retain their masculinity and are able to fight back/escape. Women would normally start their men with panties right away; so the government starts slow and works its way up. Those who eventually get through the whole thing are indifferent to women's clothes -- or at least pretend to be. Here I am, in basic training. I slip on the pantihose, but I enjoy it way more than anyone else. The other men can handle it. To them it's a joke. But I get a thundering hard on, and everybody notices. That's why I never pass. They always tell me that I'm never ready to move onto the next level. But they have to keep trying. Meanwhile, I always have a voice in the back of my head tempting me to taste the pleasures of the top levels. I secretly fantasize in my pantyhose. One day I sneak into a pair of leotards and end up in heaven. I vow to skip levels according to my rules. I soon get into bathing suits and bikinis. I am so ecstatic that I can't control myself. I start yearning for femininity. I am a traitor. I soon move into the lingerie, and am so taken by it that I am forever sold on wearing girls' clothes, and becoming female. Others like me overthrow the oppressive male regime, and we all become girls together.
Also, picture this under a female gov't. Men are being trained to be subservient to their women. They are not supposed to enjoy sexually the simple wearing of women's clothing. Or it's an acquired taste that needs to be developed. They do not allow one to skip stages, or else they risk not being subservient. So I start innocently enough, but can't resist cheating. The discover, but only warn me. They don't know the potential of my desire. I quickly move onto higher and higher levels until I am transformed by the panties, become a chick with a dick, and they have to treat me as an equal, and we cavort together like I'm one of the girls, except that we pleasure each other.
I also like the idea (or I once liked it) that I strictly obey the rules, because they let me wear women's clothing so ridiculously often. I really do want to wear 10 000 bikinis, then move on to 1000000 panties and lingerie outfits, before they allow me to become a girl. It's just like school.
I really enjoy the idea of an insidious change of which I am only barely aware until it's too late. I somehow start wearing panties, innocently, at my wife's urging. Say, because I run out of clean underwear one day, and she lends me her butchiest pair for the day. I don't notice anything, but the experience subconsciously stays with me. I am paranoid about getting into an accident or someone noticing in some way. But I forget about it. It starts to happen more often. She absent-mindedly hands me her sexy panties. I put them on. It keeps happening every now and then. I daringly admit to myself that I like the feel of them, the tightness, the silkiness, the high-cuttedness. They aren't all that comfortable, but they have a certain charm. It becomes a ritual. I start telling her I have no underwear, even if I do, and she lends hers to me without a thought. It happens every week. I start noticing that when I wear it, my sex drive increases. I sometimes come in my pants at the merest thought of my beloved in her skivvies. . . like the ones I'm wearing. I feel close to her. I justify it like that. Then it's soon forgotten. Then I start getting more comfortable around her with her underwear on me. It becomes normal. She gives me some of her unwanted panties to fill out my underwear drawer. I gladly accept them. They are mine now. I start buying her more and more lingerie, with the conscious aim of increasing her wardrobe, with my new found sense of women's fashions in undergarments. She starts giving me her old panties, and I wear them instead of my own. It becomes part of my wardrobe. Eventually, I wear only girls' panties. And I find nothing totally wrong with the idea. I am defensive and paranoid about outsiders finding out, but I feel infinitely more comfortable in panties. Fooling around with the wife becomes more intense because of the silk rubbing against the silk. For fun she gets me to wear a bra of hers, that matches her old panties. I do it jokingly. I start doing it everytime I notice that it matches my underwear. I start contemplating the rest of her wardrobe, particularly bathing suits and bikinis and lingerie. I know now that I have a problem. But I can't stop. I don't want to stop. I try to. I try very hard. I wear her old brassieres with my panties regularly, and we horse around, each wearing female underwear. She coyly enjoys her little sissy boy. I coyly enjoy being her little sissy boy. We start playing dressup games. She wants to see what I look like as a girl. She puts makeup on me. At first I'm grotesque. Then I get prepared first, to get the full effect. I start shaving my body to get the full effect. I wear pantihose and stockings and garter belts-- the whole nine yards. Still, outwardly, I am male. But I am becoming more and more female. I can't stop myself. I rarely want to stop myself anymore. When I am with the wife, we are girlfriends. We still horse around. We love the feeling of silk on silk, and of smooth, shaven body on smooth hairless body. I really want to be a girl now. I look at her enviously of her pussy and her tits and her waist. I start taking hormones. I grow tits. I have a female wardrobe now, and we are like girl roommates. The best of friends. My budding titties rub against hers pleasurably. I still rub my dick against her. I love it.
Fiction: Metamorphosis or Who's Putting All These Panties In My Dresser?
Andy woke up, like every other morning, at 7:30, in his apartment where he lives alone. But he prepares to get dressed, and he discovers a pair of women's underwear in his underwear drawer. He has no idea how it got there. It's a very sexy pair of panties: frilly and silky and very feminine. But he can't account for it at all. He's never seen it before in his life. He has no girlfriend. He does his own laundry. How could it have gotten there? He hides it under his regular underwear, in hopes that no one finds it.
Weeks pass. Andy has forgotten about the underwear. He wakes up again, as per his routine, and discovers that his own underwear is missing. It has been replaced with women's underwear. Not one scrap of men's underwear remains. He has no idea what to do. He can't very well go around wearing that. He decides to go without underwear for today, and to buy some later. He takes the panties out of his drawer and throws them in the trash. Then he reconsiders, and stuffs them under his dresser. Out of sight, out of mind.
Weeks pass. Andy can't forget about the underwear. Once was bad enough, but the loss of all his underwear was eerie. He couldn't account for it. It was very strange. But life goes on. He goes to his dresser again, and lo and behold, his underwear is gone again. Only this time, there is nothing to replace it. Angrily, he slams the drawer, and puts his pants on. Again, he buys more underwear that evening to replace the mysteriously disappearing underwear.
A week passes. Andy keeps a wary eye about his apartment. He makes sure that all his doors are locked, all his windows are locked, and checks to make sure that his underwear is still there every night. He opens his dresser drawer, and is shocked to see that his underwear is gone again. He buys more that evening, at a different store, to avoid suspicion, and sets up a video camera to record to survey his dresser all day and all night.
The next day, he wakes up to find his underwear drawer empty again. He feverishly checks his video tape, and finds nothing. He can't afford to keep buying underwear. He puts on his pants, and vows to live underwearless.
A week passes. Andy has a rash around his balls. He needs the underwear to insulate his crotch. He can't walk around without underwear anymore. He has no choice. He pulls the women's panties out from under the dresser (surprised to find them still there), picks the least feminine of the bunch (a difficult choice), and puts them on. To his surprise, they are quite comfortable. He feels silly wearing them, but realizes that nobody has to know. Nobody will know. He shoves the rest of the panties (at least 10 pairs) back under the dresser.
Every day, Andy wears women's underwear. But he realizes that he can't wash them without looking suspicious, because he frequents a laundromat. So he drives across town, and makes sure to go when it's the least busy. He is very discreet about his panties.
Weeks pass. Andy has developed a routine for putting on women's underwear in the morning. His rash is gone. He still keeps them under the dresser. Now he wakes up to discover that he has a brassiere in his dresser, and no undershirts. He picks it up angrily, and stuffs it under the dresser. He pulls out a pair of girl's panties at the same time and puts them on. He wears no undershirt today. Or the next day, or the next. The bra sits under his dresser collecting dust.
A week passes. Andy can't stop thinking about his predicament. And about his panties. He used to sleep with his underwear on, but stopped that practice when his own underwear disappeared. After a short while, he was so comfortable in his panties that he kept them on at night, too.
A few weeks pass. Andy notices that his sexual practices begin to change. He no longer masturbates in the shower, but he rubs his penis against his bedsheets, to his immense pleasure. He does this naked, with the panties in his hands, fantasizing about a girl wearing them.
A week passes. Andy gets hornier and hornier. He starts to realize that taking off his panties to masturbate seems anti-climactic. He keeps them on, and imagines his dream girl wearing them instead of him. He experiences the orgasm of his life. He quickly removes the panties and begins sleeping naked again.
A few days pass. Andy is extremely horny. He needs to masturbate. He can't do it in the shower anymore. He rubs up against his bedsheets imagining that he's wearing his panties. He feels guilty when he's finished, but nonetheless glad to have felt so good.
A few more days pass. Andy feels an overwhelming desire to wear those panties again to masturbate in. He curbs his desire for as long as he can, then he yanks them out from under the dresser, slips into them, and writhes in extraordinary pleasure. He finishes, and stuffs them guiltily back under the dresser.
A month passes. Andy loves to masturbate with his panties. He starts thinking about the effect that they have on him, and it worries him severely. He can't stop himself from doing it. He goes to pull his panties out from under the dresser, and finds the bra instead. he looks at it closely, and begins to tremble. he gets a pair of panties, and puts them on, and the bra. They just so happen to match. He has the orgasm of his life.
A few months pass. Andy loves to wear his panties all the time. He still keeps them under his dresser, and is careful at the laundromat. He starts growing his hair. He feels it looks sexier. It makes him feel better. Some mornings, he feels kinky, and wears a bra to work, as well as the panties. He is certain that no one has noticed yet.
A month passes. Andy transplants his panties and bra to his underwear drawer. The next day, more bras appear in his underwear drawer. His heart jumps, he almost blacks out with anticipation. He welcomes his new brassieres, and wears a different one each day.
A month passes. Andy is content to have women's underwear on under his normal clothes. He wakes up one morning to find a miniskirt in his closet. He wears it that evening, in private, to see what it's like. He likes the feel of it, tight on his body. He likes the way it airs out his crotch. He does not like how it exposes his ugly leg hair. It makes him feel silly. He masturbates in it, and puts it back where he found it.
Several months pass. Andy finds new clothes replacing his old clothes quite often. Shirts become blouses, t-shirts become tight tops, and pants become skirts, and suits become dresses. He can't wear them in public. People start to ask him why he wears the same suit all the time. He begins to shave his body to feel more feminine in his skirts and blouses and sexy tight tops. Even his jeans have been replaced with feminine cuts.
A week passes. Andy discovers that he has not a scrap of male clothing left in his wardrobe. He blushes, and puts on a dress, and goes to work, hoping that no one notices. He comes home unemployed.
The next day, he goes to the local store, wearing tight, form-fitting jeans (women's jeans), a pretty, smooth, skin tight top that accentuates his fake tits, and a pair of women's shoes. He styles his hair androgynously. It is quite long now. He goes to the store to buy some lipstick and eyeliner. He finds a way to take hormones to make his body become more female. He has no choice now but to become female. He does all this with a bit of reluctance, but with nerve-shaking anticipation. He is proud to now walk around the city, dressed entirely as a woman, acting like a woman. And he still has no idea how this happened to him. And he loves every minute of it. He buys lingerie now, and bathing suits, bikinis, shops in women's clothing stores, uses the ladies' room. He grows tits, and a waist, and his voice raises an octave. But he still has a penis. He hates his penis. It is a vestige of his former self which he wishes to eradicate. . . if only it weren't so pleasurable to masturbate with a silky teddy and a garter belt on! But he still loves girls. he still wants girls. He gets a sex change and becomes a perfect lesbian.
Weeks pass. Andy has forgotten about the underwear. He wakes up again, as per his routine, and discovers that his own underwear is missing. It has been replaced with women's underwear. Not one scrap of men's underwear remains. He has no idea what to do. He can't very well go around wearing that. He decides to go without underwear for today, and to buy some later. He takes the panties out of his drawer and throws them in the trash. Then he reconsiders, and stuffs them under his dresser. Out of sight, out of mind.
Weeks pass. Andy can't forget about the underwear. Once was bad enough, but the loss of all his underwear was eerie. He couldn't account for it. It was very strange. But life goes on. He goes to his dresser again, and lo and behold, his underwear is gone again. Only this time, there is nothing to replace it. Angrily, he slams the drawer, and puts his pants on. Again, he buys more underwear that evening to replace the mysteriously disappearing underwear.
A week passes. Andy keeps a wary eye about his apartment. He makes sure that all his doors are locked, all his windows are locked, and checks to make sure that his underwear is still there every night. He opens his dresser drawer, and is shocked to see that his underwear is gone again. He buys more that evening, at a different store, to avoid suspicion, and sets up a video camera to record to survey his dresser all day and all night.
The next day, he wakes up to find his underwear drawer empty again. He feverishly checks his video tape, and finds nothing. He can't afford to keep buying underwear. He puts on his pants, and vows to live underwearless.
A week passes. Andy has a rash around his balls. He needs the underwear to insulate his crotch. He can't walk around without underwear anymore. He has no choice. He pulls the women's panties out from under the dresser (surprised to find them still there), picks the least feminine of the bunch (a difficult choice), and puts them on. To his surprise, they are quite comfortable. He feels silly wearing them, but realizes that nobody has to know. Nobody will know. He shoves the rest of the panties (at least 10 pairs) back under the dresser.
Every day, Andy wears women's underwear. But he realizes that he can't wash them without looking suspicious, because he frequents a laundromat. So he drives across town, and makes sure to go when it's the least busy. He is very discreet about his panties.
Weeks pass. Andy has developed a routine for putting on women's underwear in the morning. His rash is gone. He still keeps them under the dresser. Now he wakes up to discover that he has a brassiere in his dresser, and no undershirts. He picks it up angrily, and stuffs it under the dresser. He pulls out a pair of girl's panties at the same time and puts them on. He wears no undershirt today. Or the next day, or the next. The bra sits under his dresser collecting dust.
A week passes. Andy can't stop thinking about his predicament. And about his panties. He used to sleep with his underwear on, but stopped that practice when his own underwear disappeared. After a short while, he was so comfortable in his panties that he kept them on at night, too.
A few weeks pass. Andy notices that his sexual practices begin to change. He no longer masturbates in the shower, but he rubs his penis against his bedsheets, to his immense pleasure. He does this naked, with the panties in his hands, fantasizing about a girl wearing them.
A week passes. Andy gets hornier and hornier. He starts to realize that taking off his panties to masturbate seems anti-climactic. He keeps them on, and imagines his dream girl wearing them instead of him. He experiences the orgasm of his life. He quickly removes the panties and begins sleeping naked again.
A few days pass. Andy is extremely horny. He needs to masturbate. He can't do it in the shower anymore. He rubs up against his bedsheets imagining that he's wearing his panties. He feels guilty when he's finished, but nonetheless glad to have felt so good.
A few more days pass. Andy feels an overwhelming desire to wear those panties again to masturbate in. He curbs his desire for as long as he can, then he yanks them out from under the dresser, slips into them, and writhes in extraordinary pleasure. He finishes, and stuffs them guiltily back under the dresser.
A month passes. Andy loves to masturbate with his panties. He starts thinking about the effect that they have on him, and it worries him severely. He can't stop himself from doing it. He goes to pull his panties out from under the dresser, and finds the bra instead. he looks at it closely, and begins to tremble. he gets a pair of panties, and puts them on, and the bra. They just so happen to match. He has the orgasm of his life.
A few months pass. Andy loves to wear his panties all the time. He still keeps them under his dresser, and is careful at the laundromat. He starts growing his hair. He feels it looks sexier. It makes him feel better. Some mornings, he feels kinky, and wears a bra to work, as well as the panties. He is certain that no one has noticed yet.
A month passes. Andy transplants his panties and bra to his underwear drawer. The next day, more bras appear in his underwear drawer. His heart jumps, he almost blacks out with anticipation. He welcomes his new brassieres, and wears a different one each day.
A month passes. Andy is content to have women's underwear on under his normal clothes. He wakes up one morning to find a miniskirt in his closet. He wears it that evening, in private, to see what it's like. He likes the feel of it, tight on his body. He likes the way it airs out his crotch. He does not like how it exposes his ugly leg hair. It makes him feel silly. He masturbates in it, and puts it back where he found it.
Several months pass. Andy finds new clothes replacing his old clothes quite often. Shirts become blouses, t-shirts become tight tops, and pants become skirts, and suits become dresses. He can't wear them in public. People start to ask him why he wears the same suit all the time. He begins to shave his body to feel more feminine in his skirts and blouses and sexy tight tops. Even his jeans have been replaced with feminine cuts.
A week passes. Andy discovers that he has not a scrap of male clothing left in his wardrobe. He blushes, and puts on a dress, and goes to work, hoping that no one notices. He comes home unemployed.
The next day, he goes to the local store, wearing tight, form-fitting jeans (women's jeans), a pretty, smooth, skin tight top that accentuates his fake tits, and a pair of women's shoes. He styles his hair androgynously. It is quite long now. He goes to the store to buy some lipstick and eyeliner. He finds a way to take hormones to make his body become more female. He has no choice now but to become female. He does all this with a bit of reluctance, but with nerve-shaking anticipation. He is proud to now walk around the city, dressed entirely as a woman, acting like a woman. And he still has no idea how this happened to him. And he loves every minute of it. He buys lingerie now, and bathing suits, bikinis, shops in women's clothing stores, uses the ladies' room. He grows tits, and a waist, and his voice raises an octave. But he still has a penis. He hates his penis. It is a vestige of his former self which he wishes to eradicate. . . if only it weren't so pleasurable to masturbate with a silky teddy and a garter belt on! But he still loves girls. he still wants girls. He gets a sex change and becomes a perfect lesbian.
Diary: Lesbians
Okay, before I begin, I have to at least mention a newly elaborated fantasy closely related to this. I'm talking about LESBIANS.
Watching TV the other night, I was struck by a conclusion to an avant-garde Canadian comedy called The Newsroom. The hero, a sleazy news director at the CBC, wanted to hire a stupid pretty bimbo to run his errands for him. He gets the perfect one to work for him. She's very pretty, and extremely sexy. The sexual tension between them was quite subtle, but well done. There was also a lesbian, who was way over-qualified. He did not hire her. She threatened to sue. So he eventually hired them both.
In the end, he invited the bimbo out to have lunch, but she denied him. Why? Predictably, because she was in the process of discovering a new aspect of her life, an exciting new aspect. She had developed a sexual relationship with the lesbian. This was so incredibly shocking as to seem distasteful. What a stunning blow. That must be the most painful shock to the male ego imaginable. I was flabergasted.
But I was also acutely aroused. The thought of lesbians making love is incredibly arousing. I can just picture two perfect female bodies, in underwear, coming together coyly, and start shyly touching each other, at first innocently, then quite deliberately, then sensually, then sexually. And I get a thundering erection.
Now, just picture this from my perspective: I'm the one who desires both these exquisite female bodies. I'm the one who wants to fondle them both. I'm the one who wants to see two pairs of tits bouncing off of each other. I'm the one who wants to see two girls' bellies rubbing against each other. I want to be there too. I think I want to be one of the girls. I imagine being in the bimbo's place, exploring a new part of my sexuality, innocently, coyly, and discovering the intense pleasure of pussy. This is closely related to my fantasy of being female. I get the best possible scenario: I become female myself, and I get to have sex with girls, and I get to see two lesbians going at it. Is that what I really long for? I've often come to that exact point in my fantasies. But not always. . .
Anyway, the true reason for my adding to this.
I have thought of a story, after all these years of drivelling my fantasies at night. It's something like the metamorphosis, only the hero becomes a woman. I know I thought of it before, but never so explicitly. It's not exactly the same. It can happen in two ways: suddenly and completely, or slowly and gradually. I can't decide how to start.
Fiction: Genie
One day, as I walked along the beach at sunset, melancholy, depressed about my lack of luck in love, a strange looking bottle caught my eye as it glistened in the fading sunlight. I picked it up, cleaned it with my sweater, and nearly shit myself as a massive djinn billowed out of the bottle.
"You have released me from my prison of a thousand years. I grant you anything you wish for," said the djinn.
Unable to pass up such a wicked deal, I instantly wished for infinite wishes. The djinn was reluctant, but he had to accept. Oh, well. That's his problem.
Amazed with the possibilities, the infinite possibilities, I sat there dumbstruck. Then I wished myself a few trillion dollars, and a harem of beautiful women. That's when my good fortune began.
My women were all ugly. So I wished for new women. I had to give specific details, and I found myself completely unable to sufficiently describe a woman adequately enough so that she would appear to me as perfectly as she had in my imagination. So I began to pick and choose from the real women in the world. I started with the [girl I met at a live music show who models skin care products]. And I added the blonde from music class and the hippie girl from school. I had them all at once. I didn't give a damn what any present girlfriend thought, although I made sure to wish for her eternal happiness with men, out of a sense of combined guilt and respect.
But this grew tiresome. Mostly, the girls just didn't connect as well as I could have hoped. I wished for them to, but it wasn't the same.
Then I got the idea.
"Djinn," I asked, "I wish for my ultimate sexual fantasy to be fulfilled immediately, whatever that may be; and to make sure that there is no mistake, I wish that you might have a perfectly clear idea of exactly what my fantasy is."
Then the djinn replied, "These wishes test the limits of my power. You must choose now whether you want to keep this fantasy as reality or return to an entirely mundane way of life of before. They are your only two choices."
"So, let me get this straight," I said. "I have a choice of either living my ultimate sexual fantasy forever, or returning to my normal life forever. Tough choice."
"Do not choose too quickly. No one fully understands the extent of their fantasies until they truly live them out. . ."
"I choose to live my fantasy forever," I immediately answered, perhaps too rashly. But I think it must have been the best decision I ever made, even though I had my necessary doubts for a long time afterwards.
The djinn laughed and said, "as you wish," and snapped his fingers. He disappeared in a puff of smoke, and I looked forward to being swept away by beautiful maidens who would fuck my ever-potent immortal dick forever until the end of time.
But it didn't happen. I stood on the sidewalk where the thought had struck me to wish for this and waited for things to happen instantly. But nothing came. I began to wonder if the djinn had somehow tricked me.
Just then, an explosion rocked me off my feet. I was knocked out cold. When I woke up, it was in a dark room, all alone.
I felt fine. I was uninjured. But I had to wait for hours for anything to happen.
It was then that I noticed that I was naked, and in a small cell. A huge beast of a man came to my door, unlocked it, and dragged me out. I was powerless, and surrounded by big burly guards. They threw me into a room, where a beautiful woman sat upon a sort of throne, attended by plenty of other beautiful girls, scantily clad. I was made to kneel in front of her. So much for my fantasy, I thought.
"You have been chosen," she announced to me, "to further the causes of women. You will soon be indoctrinated in our ways." She waved a hand, and the room cleared, and we were alone together.
She came off her throne, and sashayed over to me. She was wearing fishnet stockings, a tight little skirt, and a tight little blouse, accentuating her tits, her ass, and her legs. She was blonde. It was the Noxzema girl, the hippie girl, the music girl, all the beautiful girls wrapped up in one. My eyes virtually popped out of my head. "Do you like girls?" she asked. I could only stare in amazement. My dick was flaccid with embarrassment.
"Well, you don't seem to be very excited. But I know that you are. You have to do me a favour. You see, I need some people to help me in my little cause. And you're a prime candidate. I know you like girls. I know you want to fuck me. But I have to change all that. You don't have to understand why. There's nothing you can do about it. You've been chosen. You will do everything I tell you to, not because I tell you to, but because you will desperately need to to fulfill your own petty desires. Any questions?"
I stammered. This was pretty much what I had told all the girls in my harem when I wished for them and got them. Except for having to change anything. I started to get a huge boner.
"Since, you're speechless, let's get started." She shoved her genitals in my face, and let me undress her, bit by bit. I worshipped her every curve, every little feature. We fucked like animals for a long, long time. It was the best sex I had ever had. It is still the best sex I have ever had. I will never forget it. I thought that my existence would hereafter be slavery to this beautiful woman forever. And I could never get out of it. And I feared that my decision had been too hasty. As much as I enjoyed fucking this goddess, I didn't want to be her slave forever. But it was only just beginning.
We did it all. She blew me. I ate her out. We had 69. I tit fucked her. I fucked her up the ass. She fucked me up the ass with a dildo. I dressed up in her clothes. We added one of her girls into the mix. We tossed her and added another man in. I was shocked to discover how far I would go to please us both. For the first time ever, I had a sexual encounter with a man, albeit she was the focus of my attention. I actually sucked him off for her. Throughout the entire time, I must have come a hundred times, and instantly reloaded. It was fantastic.
I was quite surprised when, after she had finished with me, she turfed me, naked as I was, and exhausted from so much incredible gratification, onto the street. I was alone and helpless. I hated her for treating me like that, and vowed to either forget about her, or if I ever saw her again, to kill her. I was completely disillusioned about my djinn.
I went home to my palace, and fucked the girls in my harem as I had before. But they were so very bland compared to the goddess. I thought of her in her little panties and bra as I had my way with my harem girls. The picture jsut wouldn't go away.
I hoped to forget. But I just couldn't get that picture out of my mind. I found myself thinking about those panties. How I had worn them myself, how much fun I had with her. I tried to recreate the experience I had with her with my harem girls.
I had routinely had several at a time, so that was nothing new. And I had sucked every part of their bodies, and had every part of mine sucked in turn by each of them. So I experimented with their panties, too, and restored some of the drama, some of the chemistry. Only the harem girls laughed irreverently, secretly, at my little experiment. They didn't appreciate true femininity. They didn't know how to please me like that goddess did. I continued to do it, and continued to titillate myself, in spite of their derision. I'm sure they like it anyway. I sure as Hell did.
But I couldn't get away from it. The panties were my only link to the goddess. Sure, they weren't hers, but still, the fact that I wore any at all made me think of her. I needed to relive that moment. I desperately needed to wear women's underwear to satisfy myself. It slowly became a necessary staple in my sexual encounters with my harem girls. Soon I couldn't do without them. I would buy new lingerie for them with the view in mind of slipping into it myself after stripping it off of them.
It got to be so bad that I couldn't come without girls' clothes on me. I needed to wear panties to come. It sure was ironic: here I was asserting my manhood with the harem girls by wearing their underwear. Eventually, I stopped touching them, because I could get more satisfacton from just prancing around in their panties and brassieres and teddies and garter belts than by fucking them. I was completely transformed: I thought of the goddess, and of my pleasure in recreating the experience of that fantastic encounter. I stopped having the girls come to me, strip, and give me their clothes; I asked them to bring it to me first. I asked to try things on with them. Of course, this was still always in our private sexual encounters. Nothing was ever said about this outside of the proverbial bedroom. I never ventured out of the bedroom to get women's clothes on. Up to that point, anyway. I just felt the need to wear girls' stuff so strongly that I eventually started stealing into the girls' wardrobes to steal a peek at their panties. And then to touch them. And then to wear them, while they weren't around.
I started wearing girls' panties under my clothes. It made me feel so sexy, so connected to that mysterious goddess. My girls would never miss their panties, considering how much underwear they had to choose from. Still, I was careful never to be caught by them wearing it before they gave it to me. For a while at least. Then I started meeting them, and stripping down to my panties and bra. We were virtually mirror images of each other.
Even that wasn't enough. I still felt too distant from the goddess. I started thinking about how great it felt to be feminine. I realized that the goddess wasn't the center of my sexual thoughts anymore. I was just using her as an excuse to justify my wearing women's underwear. I began to realize that this must be leading up to my ultimate sexual fantasy. It was just too incredibly tantalizing to give up. On a whim, I shaved my legs.
Pretty soon, I was completely femininely attired under my clothes: under my shirt and pants, I had some kind of lingerie covering a hairless body. My hair was long. Being feminine made me feel incredible. I saw less and less of the harem girls. I relished taking off my suit at the end of the day, and finding my femininely attired body underneath. I wore girls' panties all the time.
Now I was thinking that this is the height of my eternal fantasy. But little did I know how much more there was to come.
I didn't expect one day as I went on my daily walk to spot the woman who had introduced me to such unearthly delights. I ran after her, and I accosted her. How I wished I still had the power of wishes, so that I could subjugate her and keep her forever in my harem! But that would not be the case. Instead, I had to go the old fashioned way. I had to talk to her.
She recognized me instantly. She gave me a wink, and we flirted over a cup of coffee. She invited me back to her place, and I accepted.
Once inside, she said, "so, by now, you must have found yourself making choices you never thought possible." I asked her what she meant, knowing full well what she meant, but too guilty to admit it. She stepped towards me, and tore off my shirt, revealing my flowery, lacy bra.
"Ha! I knew it! Well done. Go home. I'm glad to see you're doing what I want."
I was hurt. Again. I couldn't believe that she was turfing me again. I pleaded with her to keep me along, to have another fling just for old times' sake. She laughed, and pushed me to the door.
"But wait," I pleaded. "Can I at least have something to remember you by?"
"I suppose," she answered, and she disappeared into her bedroom. She came back and handed me a bikini. I was enthralled, and looked forward to slipping into it later. Satisfied (amazingly) I left. And did I ever wear that bikini!
But it wasn't enough. I had to have more. I needed to be more feminine. On a whim, I started looking into taking female hormones, to give me tits and a waist, and remove my hair, and change my voice. After a long time of deliberating, I took the plunge. I started turning myself into a girl. After only a few years of constant masturbating in women's clothes, I began to notice significant improvements to my figure. I was looking good. I started wearing skirts and blouses. My harem women were both appalled and amused. My guards and servants were shocked. I was beginning to flaunt my femininity. I wore makeup, pantihose, heels, the whole works. I had made myself into a complete transsexual. All I needed was a cunt, and I would be female. I often wondered at this point if this was my ultimate sexual fantasy. But it wasn't over yet.
To try to feel more feminine, that is, to continue in the way that I thought I had to go to fulfill my fantasy, I started to pick up men. I started having sex with men. They fucked me up my girlish ass, and I sucked their dicks. Those who found out that I was actually still a boy either didn't care, or ran away. I didn't care who knew. But I found that I didn't quite enjoy it. I still longed for femininity. I still wanted to caress tits (not my own) and eat pussy. Pussy was still tops on my mind, and it wouldn't go away. I was stuck.
Then it all came to fruition. As I strutted my girly butt down the street, she made herself visible to me again. She took me back, and told me, "yes, now I can see that you're almost ready." I followed her home again, and she led me into a large chamber. In it were the beautiful servant maidens I had seen before, when I was brought to her naked. Each and every one of them had a dick. They welcomed me to the fold, and I stripped down with them. These were men, too.
Now my fantasy came to its conclusion. I found myself cuddling up to one of the "girls," and admiring her beautiful, lithe girl's body, and rubbing my silken-covered cock against hers. I was rubbing up against the most beautiful women on earth, and they were all men. The feeling of silk on silk, of lace on silk, of satin on lace, etc. etc. etc. gave me the most pleasurable experience since the one with my goddess. Then I understood that I was to attend on her always, just like the rest of the girls.
So my ultimate fantasy had come true: I got to fuck my goddess, and her servant girls, some of whom were actually transsexuals.
Then djinn reappeared to me, and asked me if I ws still happy with my choice. And although I was reduced to a sex object, always fucking, always ready to come, always hard, and immortal, I had to say, YES, I want to be like this forever. So here I am, wearing girls' clothing only, and rubbing up against another girl's dick, while eating out the goddess. Forever.
"You have released me from my prison of a thousand years. I grant you anything you wish for," said the djinn.
Unable to pass up such a wicked deal, I instantly wished for infinite wishes. The djinn was reluctant, but he had to accept. Oh, well. That's his problem.
Amazed with the possibilities, the infinite possibilities, I sat there dumbstruck. Then I wished myself a few trillion dollars, and a harem of beautiful women. That's when my good fortune began.
My women were all ugly. So I wished for new women. I had to give specific details, and I found myself completely unable to sufficiently describe a woman adequately enough so that she would appear to me as perfectly as she had in my imagination. So I began to pick and choose from the real women in the world. I started with the [girl I met at a live music show who models skin care products]. And I added the blonde from music class and the hippie girl from school. I had them all at once. I didn't give a damn what any present girlfriend thought, although I made sure to wish for her eternal happiness with men, out of a sense of combined guilt and respect.
But this grew tiresome. Mostly, the girls just didn't connect as well as I could have hoped. I wished for them to, but it wasn't the same.
Then I got the idea.
"Djinn," I asked, "I wish for my ultimate sexual fantasy to be fulfilled immediately, whatever that may be; and to make sure that there is no mistake, I wish that you might have a perfectly clear idea of exactly what my fantasy is."
Then the djinn replied, "These wishes test the limits of my power. You must choose now whether you want to keep this fantasy as reality or return to an entirely mundane way of life of before. They are your only two choices."
"So, let me get this straight," I said. "I have a choice of either living my ultimate sexual fantasy forever, or returning to my normal life forever. Tough choice."
"Do not choose too quickly. No one fully understands the extent of their fantasies until they truly live them out. . ."
"I choose to live my fantasy forever," I immediately answered, perhaps too rashly. But I think it must have been the best decision I ever made, even though I had my necessary doubts for a long time afterwards.
The djinn laughed and said, "as you wish," and snapped his fingers. He disappeared in a puff of smoke, and I looked forward to being swept away by beautiful maidens who would fuck my ever-potent immortal dick forever until the end of time.
But it didn't happen. I stood on the sidewalk where the thought had struck me to wish for this and waited for things to happen instantly. But nothing came. I began to wonder if the djinn had somehow tricked me.
Just then, an explosion rocked me off my feet. I was knocked out cold. When I woke up, it was in a dark room, all alone.
I felt fine. I was uninjured. But I had to wait for hours for anything to happen.
It was then that I noticed that I was naked, and in a small cell. A huge beast of a man came to my door, unlocked it, and dragged me out. I was powerless, and surrounded by big burly guards. They threw me into a room, where a beautiful woman sat upon a sort of throne, attended by plenty of other beautiful girls, scantily clad. I was made to kneel in front of her. So much for my fantasy, I thought.
"You have been chosen," she announced to me, "to further the causes of women. You will soon be indoctrinated in our ways." She waved a hand, and the room cleared, and we were alone together.
She came off her throne, and sashayed over to me. She was wearing fishnet stockings, a tight little skirt, and a tight little blouse, accentuating her tits, her ass, and her legs. She was blonde. It was the Noxzema girl, the hippie girl, the music girl, all the beautiful girls wrapped up in one. My eyes virtually popped out of my head. "Do you like girls?" she asked. I could only stare in amazement. My dick was flaccid with embarrassment.
"Well, you don't seem to be very excited. But I know that you are. You have to do me a favour. You see, I need some people to help me in my little cause. And you're a prime candidate. I know you like girls. I know you want to fuck me. But I have to change all that. You don't have to understand why. There's nothing you can do about it. You've been chosen. You will do everything I tell you to, not because I tell you to, but because you will desperately need to to fulfill your own petty desires. Any questions?"
I stammered. This was pretty much what I had told all the girls in my harem when I wished for them and got them. Except for having to change anything. I started to get a huge boner.
"Since, you're speechless, let's get started." She shoved her genitals in my face, and let me undress her, bit by bit. I worshipped her every curve, every little feature. We fucked like animals for a long, long time. It was the best sex I had ever had. It is still the best sex I have ever had. I will never forget it. I thought that my existence would hereafter be slavery to this beautiful woman forever. And I could never get out of it. And I feared that my decision had been too hasty. As much as I enjoyed fucking this goddess, I didn't want to be her slave forever. But it was only just beginning.
We did it all. She blew me. I ate her out. We had 69. I tit fucked her. I fucked her up the ass. She fucked me up the ass with a dildo. I dressed up in her clothes. We added one of her girls into the mix. We tossed her and added another man in. I was shocked to discover how far I would go to please us both. For the first time ever, I had a sexual encounter with a man, albeit she was the focus of my attention. I actually sucked him off for her. Throughout the entire time, I must have come a hundred times, and instantly reloaded. It was fantastic.
I was quite surprised when, after she had finished with me, she turfed me, naked as I was, and exhausted from so much incredible gratification, onto the street. I was alone and helpless. I hated her for treating me like that, and vowed to either forget about her, or if I ever saw her again, to kill her. I was completely disillusioned about my djinn.
I went home to my palace, and fucked the girls in my harem as I had before. But they were so very bland compared to the goddess. I thought of her in her little panties and bra as I had my way with my harem girls. The picture jsut wouldn't go away.
I hoped to forget. But I just couldn't get that picture out of my mind. I found myself thinking about those panties. How I had worn them myself, how much fun I had with her. I tried to recreate the experience I had with her with my harem girls.
I had routinely had several at a time, so that was nothing new. And I had sucked every part of their bodies, and had every part of mine sucked in turn by each of them. So I experimented with their panties, too, and restored some of the drama, some of the chemistry. Only the harem girls laughed irreverently, secretly, at my little experiment. They didn't appreciate true femininity. They didn't know how to please me like that goddess did. I continued to do it, and continued to titillate myself, in spite of their derision. I'm sure they like it anyway. I sure as Hell did.
But I couldn't get away from it. The panties were my only link to the goddess. Sure, they weren't hers, but still, the fact that I wore any at all made me think of her. I needed to relive that moment. I desperately needed to wear women's underwear to satisfy myself. It slowly became a necessary staple in my sexual encounters with my harem girls. Soon I couldn't do without them. I would buy new lingerie for them with the view in mind of slipping into it myself after stripping it off of them.
It got to be so bad that I couldn't come without girls' clothes on me. I needed to wear panties to come. It sure was ironic: here I was asserting my manhood with the harem girls by wearing their underwear. Eventually, I stopped touching them, because I could get more satisfacton from just prancing around in their panties and brassieres and teddies and garter belts than by fucking them. I was completely transformed: I thought of the goddess, and of my pleasure in recreating the experience of that fantastic encounter. I stopped having the girls come to me, strip, and give me their clothes; I asked them to bring it to me first. I asked to try things on with them. Of course, this was still always in our private sexual encounters. Nothing was ever said about this outside of the proverbial bedroom. I never ventured out of the bedroom to get women's clothes on. Up to that point, anyway. I just felt the need to wear girls' stuff so strongly that I eventually started stealing into the girls' wardrobes to steal a peek at their panties. And then to touch them. And then to wear them, while they weren't around.
I started wearing girls' panties under my clothes. It made me feel so sexy, so connected to that mysterious goddess. My girls would never miss their panties, considering how much underwear they had to choose from. Still, I was careful never to be caught by them wearing it before they gave it to me. For a while at least. Then I started meeting them, and stripping down to my panties and bra. We were virtually mirror images of each other.
Even that wasn't enough. I still felt too distant from the goddess. I started thinking about how great it felt to be feminine. I realized that the goddess wasn't the center of my sexual thoughts anymore. I was just using her as an excuse to justify my wearing women's underwear. I began to realize that this must be leading up to my ultimate sexual fantasy. It was just too incredibly tantalizing to give up. On a whim, I shaved my legs.
Pretty soon, I was completely femininely attired under my clothes: under my shirt and pants, I had some kind of lingerie covering a hairless body. My hair was long. Being feminine made me feel incredible. I saw less and less of the harem girls. I relished taking off my suit at the end of the day, and finding my femininely attired body underneath. I wore girls' panties all the time.
Now I was thinking that this is the height of my eternal fantasy. But little did I know how much more there was to come.
I didn't expect one day as I went on my daily walk to spot the woman who had introduced me to such unearthly delights. I ran after her, and I accosted her. How I wished I still had the power of wishes, so that I could subjugate her and keep her forever in my harem! But that would not be the case. Instead, I had to go the old fashioned way. I had to talk to her.
She recognized me instantly. She gave me a wink, and we flirted over a cup of coffee. She invited me back to her place, and I accepted.
Once inside, she said, "so, by now, you must have found yourself making choices you never thought possible." I asked her what she meant, knowing full well what she meant, but too guilty to admit it. She stepped towards me, and tore off my shirt, revealing my flowery, lacy bra.
"Ha! I knew it! Well done. Go home. I'm glad to see you're doing what I want."
I was hurt. Again. I couldn't believe that she was turfing me again. I pleaded with her to keep me along, to have another fling just for old times' sake. She laughed, and pushed me to the door.
"But wait," I pleaded. "Can I at least have something to remember you by?"
"I suppose," she answered, and she disappeared into her bedroom. She came back and handed me a bikini. I was enthralled, and looked forward to slipping into it later. Satisfied (amazingly) I left. And did I ever wear that bikini!
But it wasn't enough. I had to have more. I needed to be more feminine. On a whim, I started looking into taking female hormones, to give me tits and a waist, and remove my hair, and change my voice. After a long time of deliberating, I took the plunge. I started turning myself into a girl. After only a few years of constant masturbating in women's clothes, I began to notice significant improvements to my figure. I was looking good. I started wearing skirts and blouses. My harem women were both appalled and amused. My guards and servants were shocked. I was beginning to flaunt my femininity. I wore makeup, pantihose, heels, the whole works. I had made myself into a complete transsexual. All I needed was a cunt, and I would be female. I often wondered at this point if this was my ultimate sexual fantasy. But it wasn't over yet.
To try to feel more feminine, that is, to continue in the way that I thought I had to go to fulfill my fantasy, I started to pick up men. I started having sex with men. They fucked me up my girlish ass, and I sucked their dicks. Those who found out that I was actually still a boy either didn't care, or ran away. I didn't care who knew. But I found that I didn't quite enjoy it. I still longed for femininity. I still wanted to caress tits (not my own) and eat pussy. Pussy was still tops on my mind, and it wouldn't go away. I was stuck.
Then it all came to fruition. As I strutted my girly butt down the street, she made herself visible to me again. She took me back, and told me, "yes, now I can see that you're almost ready." I followed her home again, and she led me into a large chamber. In it were the beautiful servant maidens I had seen before, when I was brought to her naked. Each and every one of them had a dick. They welcomed me to the fold, and I stripped down with them. These were men, too.
Now my fantasy came to its conclusion. I found myself cuddling up to one of the "girls," and admiring her beautiful, lithe girl's body, and rubbing my silken-covered cock against hers. I was rubbing up against the most beautiful women on earth, and they were all men. The feeling of silk on silk, of lace on silk, of satin on lace, etc. etc. etc. gave me the most pleasurable experience since the one with my goddess. Then I understood that I was to attend on her always, just like the rest of the girls.
So my ultimate fantasy had come true: I got to fuck my goddess, and her servant girls, some of whom were actually transsexuals.
Then djinn reappeared to me, and asked me if I ws still happy with my choice. And although I was reduced to a sex object, always fucking, always ready to come, always hard, and immortal, I had to say, YES, I want to be like this forever. So here I am, wearing girls' clothing only, and rubbing up against another girl's dick, while eating out the goddess. Forever.
Fiction: Sci-Fi War of the Sexes
So how many times will I sneak into the computer room late at night, when everyone's asleep, just to glorify my masturbatory fantasies? I must admit that this makes it that much more exciting. It allows me to work out the details of my fantasy before I begin, and work myself to the highest pitch of desire. I never have anything to add. I just have a vague sense of having to elaborate my own deepest fantasy to myself one more time, just to try to get to the very bottom of it. Now, I think that after 50 pages of this, I've come about as close as I'm going to get. It's not even the point anymore. God only knows how many times I've repeated myself. One of these days, I should re-read all of this. It'll take a while, for sure. Oh, well. If only I could write about other things with this much passion. I only hope that no one ever discovers this. . .
I checked out one of [my brother]'s Heavy Metal comics. Cheesy sex-comics, with unbelievable depictions of women. I always want to wear their clothes. I love their outfits. That's what I want to be: a sexy girl in those tawdry comic books. I could picture my own cheesy comic installment. . .
Futuristic city-scape. Tall round buildings, twisted metallic stuff all over, with tubes and wires everywhere. Sexy women in skimpy clothing everywhere. No men to be seen.
Focus on supreme sex-goddess on a throne, in the sexiest clothing you've ever seen. At her feet lie prostrate hundreds of adoring naked men. They are her slaves.
Cockamammie dialogue about the War between the sexes. Reproduction has become obsolete, because women don't go through pregnancies anymore. Fetuses are incubated until birth. Sex's only purpose now is pleasure.
Men, of course, wanted to control all the pleasure. They wanted women to be their private sex toys. But women know better than to want such loveless garbage. After centuries of slavery under men, women in harems and brothels etc begin to find a taste for pussy, too. They discover that they don't even need men for pleasure anymore. So they begin to collaborate secretly, to overthrow men.
Men are at first oblivious to this. But then the hostility becomes unbearable. Women create societies of their own, with their men-children as slaves, a lower class which does all the dirty work. They are filthy and stupid, and only good for cleaning. Not even good for sex anymore, because women all fuck each other now. Men have no place in this system. Until the wars.
Switch to explosions, destruction. A male attack on the female city. Chaos. Action. The men need to recapture the women, because they can't allow themselves to become fags. They desperately need women, their soft round bodies, etc. Can't do without them.
The battle ends. The male ship leaves, having destroyed a significant part of the city. Goddess calls for revenge. The war escalates.
Various scenes show the intrigues in each court. The men know they're in trouble. They rape the women they've captured, and fuck them so much that the women soon die. Some men however keep female hostages, and keep them from other men. They guard them jealously. Women are the most precious possession anywhere. Meanwhile, the men captured by women become mere drones, who have no sex at all.
The women, however, devise a sort of plan. They know how valuable they are to men, so they find a way to destroy masculinity from within. They pretend to be willing to have sex with men, but coax them to wear their underwear. This underwear destroys the men mentally. Gives them into the power of the women.
Thus women are banned in the male world. Women must be destroyed, because they are insidious and dangerous. So men no longer capture women.
But women have discovered their great advantage. They capture men and turn them into their pawns, and return them to manworld as if nothing has happened. These men tear down the male establishment completely.
So naturally, the male champion falls in love with the goddess. She loves him despite the centuries of being a lesbian. Her ultimate goal is to capture the male leader and make him her personal slave. this is only alluded to.
So the battles rage. Male forces dwindle. The decisive battle.
The male champion is captured, and brought to the goddess. The surviving men despair for the loss of their champion, whom they presume dead. But the goddess goes on to capture the rest of the men. As a final embarrassment to her defeated foes, she produces her captive, their former champion.
He emerges onto the stage at her command. He is completely subservient to her. He is wearing his male clothing.
She publicly commands him to do silly things, like kiss her delicate, stockinged feet. She commands him to remove his clothes in front of her as in a strip tease, dancing like a girl. He stands naked in front of her, for all the world to see.
Then she stands up, and tells him to stop. She commands him to sit like a dog. She begins to remove her own clothing. She simply drops it on the ground in front of him. Then she has her other slaves put the two sets of clothing in two piles, and bring her out another skimpy outfit.
In front of the whole world, she asks him to get dressed in whatever clothing he prefers. Whatever he feels more comfortable in. Without hesitation, he slips into her discarded clothing, greedily, lustily, as if he were digging into a meal after a long period of fasting. He prances around like a girlie, happily attired in the goddess's skimpy underwear. The whole horde of men are completely demoralized, and are forever defeated.
The end.
Of course, within this whole comic book story is the matter of choice. The moment when the champion discovers the virtue of wearing girls' underwear. He is given the choice, and he reluctantly discovers why he has feared for so long to act out his secret fantasy of slipping on women's panties. He discovers that doing so is far more sexy and far more satisfying than anything he has ever experienced. He discovers that he loves it so much, that he can't prevent himself from going back to it.
Still, I like the idea of training. Or of a long period of transformation, involving countless guilty forays into femininity. Like me.
Just think. They have to train him to wear it. But they always watch. They are always a part of the process. Unlike me. They enjoy watching him initially refuse to wear what they put in front of him, and slowly give in, not to their coaxing, but to his own irresistible desire. Like mine. He simply can't stop himself from wanting to wear women's underwear. So he wears it, and while he wears it, longs for the next time.
One thing I was intrigued by tonight, before I began to write this drivel, was how in the earliest stages of my experimentation, I was always afraid of direct contact with the feminine garment. Or to be more specific, I always needed some kind of protection on my genitals from actual women's wear. I had to be wearing my underwear underneath the pantihose or bathing suit I dared to slip into. I needed that anchor to my sexuality. I couldn't accept that I was succumbing to abject femininity when I put on some article of women's clothing. meanwhile, I fantasized about it all the time. I used to roll up my underwear to make them more skimpy, and thus more feminine. This was very satisfying for a time.
But slowly, I allowed myself, in my feverish desire, to remove my protection, and expose myself to the consequences of wearing only women's clothing. It was a long process. It sometimes began again when I tried something new. Eventually, probably after the second bathing suit, I leaped into whatever I captured naked and fearless. I wanted to feel as feminine as possible.
But the process was still quite fun. It was most exciting. I remember my first tries with pantihose only vaguely. They were my first concrete experience with women's clothing. At first, I was very careful not to go overboard. But I had such a powerful desire to wear them. All the time. Whenever I was horny, I wanted to wear something, or pretend to wear something. So wearing pantihose was first, not only because I always found it so sexy, but because it was so abundant (as I soon discovered, when I dared to sneak a peek into mom's dresser). What harm could there be if I stole a pair from the hamper for a few minutes, I thought. I used to come into it, too. But I started off protected; of that I am sure.
I don't remember when I began to keep a pair of pantihose under my bed. I don't even know if by then I had begun to experiment with wearing pantihose naked. But boy, was it fun. And shameful. I was very careful about it.
I don't remember when I began to "borrow" the first bathing suit, either. But I do remember wearing it only for a short time at first, returning it guiltily, and then masturbating. And at those times, I wore it protected, I'm sure. The incident I most remember was the discovery of the second bathing suit.
I tried it on, mostly because I had stuffed the first one, which I had stolen, all covered in come, into the sides of my waterbed, where it began to stink horribly. So I needed a new one. I tried this new one on one afternoon, with my underwear on. And I was shocked to discover how wonderfully tight and thick and smooth it seemed to be on my body. I danced around in it, but soon took it off. It was just too intense. But soon thereafter, palpitating with desire, I returned for it, and tried it on naked. It was the most intense experience up to that point of my young life. I was amazed. I was hooked. I loved it.
But I think I already might have owned the first bikini bottom. That one was extraordinarily intense, too.
Anyway, the point is that I had to protect myself from the magical power of the article of women's wear. It's like a firm belief in sympathetic magic: if I wear women's clothing, I will become a woman. The idea appealed to me in a very sexual way, even though I didn't want to admit it.
Now I do readily admit it in private. I'm wearing my lingerie outfit now, and wish I had a bra to go with my panties. Or smaller panties with a matching bra. And a nice little skimpy bikini. That's all I want. One day...
I checked out one of [my brother]'s Heavy Metal comics. Cheesy sex-comics, with unbelievable depictions of women. I always want to wear their clothes. I love their outfits. That's what I want to be: a sexy girl in those tawdry comic books. I could picture my own cheesy comic installment. . .
Futuristic city-scape. Tall round buildings, twisted metallic stuff all over, with tubes and wires everywhere. Sexy women in skimpy clothing everywhere. No men to be seen.
Focus on supreme sex-goddess on a throne, in the sexiest clothing you've ever seen. At her feet lie prostrate hundreds of adoring naked men. They are her slaves.
Cockamammie dialogue about the War between the sexes. Reproduction has become obsolete, because women don't go through pregnancies anymore. Fetuses are incubated until birth. Sex's only purpose now is pleasure.
Men, of course, wanted to control all the pleasure. They wanted women to be their private sex toys. But women know better than to want such loveless garbage. After centuries of slavery under men, women in harems and brothels etc begin to find a taste for pussy, too. They discover that they don't even need men for pleasure anymore. So they begin to collaborate secretly, to overthrow men.
Men are at first oblivious to this. But then the hostility becomes unbearable. Women create societies of their own, with their men-children as slaves, a lower class which does all the dirty work. They are filthy and stupid, and only good for cleaning. Not even good for sex anymore, because women all fuck each other now. Men have no place in this system. Until the wars.
Switch to explosions, destruction. A male attack on the female city. Chaos. Action. The men need to recapture the women, because they can't allow themselves to become fags. They desperately need women, their soft round bodies, etc. Can't do without them.
The battle ends. The male ship leaves, having destroyed a significant part of the city. Goddess calls for revenge. The war escalates.
Various scenes show the intrigues in each court. The men know they're in trouble. They rape the women they've captured, and fuck them so much that the women soon die. Some men however keep female hostages, and keep them from other men. They guard them jealously. Women are the most precious possession anywhere. Meanwhile, the men captured by women become mere drones, who have no sex at all.
The women, however, devise a sort of plan. They know how valuable they are to men, so they find a way to destroy masculinity from within. They pretend to be willing to have sex with men, but coax them to wear their underwear. This underwear destroys the men mentally. Gives them into the power of the women.
Thus women are banned in the male world. Women must be destroyed, because they are insidious and dangerous. So men no longer capture women.
But women have discovered their great advantage. They capture men and turn them into their pawns, and return them to manworld as if nothing has happened. These men tear down the male establishment completely.
So naturally, the male champion falls in love with the goddess. She loves him despite the centuries of being a lesbian. Her ultimate goal is to capture the male leader and make him her personal slave. this is only alluded to.
So the battles rage. Male forces dwindle. The decisive battle.
The male champion is captured, and brought to the goddess. The surviving men despair for the loss of their champion, whom they presume dead. But the goddess goes on to capture the rest of the men. As a final embarrassment to her defeated foes, she produces her captive, their former champion.
He emerges onto the stage at her command. He is completely subservient to her. He is wearing his male clothing.
She publicly commands him to do silly things, like kiss her delicate, stockinged feet. She commands him to remove his clothes in front of her as in a strip tease, dancing like a girl. He stands naked in front of her, for all the world to see.
Then she stands up, and tells him to stop. She commands him to sit like a dog. She begins to remove her own clothing. She simply drops it on the ground in front of him. Then she has her other slaves put the two sets of clothing in two piles, and bring her out another skimpy outfit.
In front of the whole world, she asks him to get dressed in whatever clothing he prefers. Whatever he feels more comfortable in. Without hesitation, he slips into her discarded clothing, greedily, lustily, as if he were digging into a meal after a long period of fasting. He prances around like a girlie, happily attired in the goddess's skimpy underwear. The whole horde of men are completely demoralized, and are forever defeated.
The end.
Of course, within this whole comic book story is the matter of choice. The moment when the champion discovers the virtue of wearing girls' underwear. He is given the choice, and he reluctantly discovers why he has feared for so long to act out his secret fantasy of slipping on women's panties. He discovers that doing so is far more sexy and far more satisfying than anything he has ever experienced. He discovers that he loves it so much, that he can't prevent himself from going back to it.
Still, I like the idea of training. Or of a long period of transformation, involving countless guilty forays into femininity. Like me.
Just think. They have to train him to wear it. But they always watch. They are always a part of the process. Unlike me. They enjoy watching him initially refuse to wear what they put in front of him, and slowly give in, not to their coaxing, but to his own irresistible desire. Like mine. He simply can't stop himself from wanting to wear women's underwear. So he wears it, and while he wears it, longs for the next time.
One thing I was intrigued by tonight, before I began to write this drivel, was how in the earliest stages of my experimentation, I was always afraid of direct contact with the feminine garment. Or to be more specific, I always needed some kind of protection on my genitals from actual women's wear. I had to be wearing my underwear underneath the pantihose or bathing suit I dared to slip into. I needed that anchor to my sexuality. I couldn't accept that I was succumbing to abject femininity when I put on some article of women's clothing. meanwhile, I fantasized about it all the time. I used to roll up my underwear to make them more skimpy, and thus more feminine. This was very satisfying for a time.
But slowly, I allowed myself, in my feverish desire, to remove my protection, and expose myself to the consequences of wearing only women's clothing. It was a long process. It sometimes began again when I tried something new. Eventually, probably after the second bathing suit, I leaped into whatever I captured naked and fearless. I wanted to feel as feminine as possible.
But the process was still quite fun. It was most exciting. I remember my first tries with pantihose only vaguely. They were my first concrete experience with women's clothing. At first, I was very careful not to go overboard. But I had such a powerful desire to wear them. All the time. Whenever I was horny, I wanted to wear something, or pretend to wear something. So wearing pantihose was first, not only because I always found it so sexy, but because it was so abundant (as I soon discovered, when I dared to sneak a peek into mom's dresser). What harm could there be if I stole a pair from the hamper for a few minutes, I thought. I used to come into it, too. But I started off protected; of that I am sure.
I don't remember when I began to keep a pair of pantihose under my bed. I don't even know if by then I had begun to experiment with wearing pantihose naked. But boy, was it fun. And shameful. I was very careful about it.
I don't remember when I began to "borrow" the first bathing suit, either. But I do remember wearing it only for a short time at first, returning it guiltily, and then masturbating. And at those times, I wore it protected, I'm sure. The incident I most remember was the discovery of the second bathing suit.
I tried it on, mostly because I had stuffed the first one, which I had stolen, all covered in come, into the sides of my waterbed, where it began to stink horribly. So I needed a new one. I tried this new one on one afternoon, with my underwear on. And I was shocked to discover how wonderfully tight and thick and smooth it seemed to be on my body. I danced around in it, but soon took it off. It was just too intense. But soon thereafter, palpitating with desire, I returned for it, and tried it on naked. It was the most intense experience up to that point of my young life. I was amazed. I was hooked. I loved it.
But I think I already might have owned the first bikini bottom. That one was extraordinarily intense, too.
Anyway, the point is that I had to protect myself from the magical power of the article of women's wear. It's like a firm belief in sympathetic magic: if I wear women's clothing, I will become a woman. The idea appealed to me in a very sexual way, even though I didn't want to admit it.
Now I do readily admit it in private. I'm wearing my lingerie outfit now, and wish I had a bra to go with my panties. Or smaller panties with a matching bra. And a nice little skimpy bikini. That's all I want. One day...
Diary: Over-Analysis Matrix
I have another little insight to add about my loose structuralisation of transsexual fantasies. It's very simple, but at the same time completely essential. I can't believe I missed it.
There's several paragraphs just outlining the possibilities of my little fantasy up there. There are many things which I didn't even consider at all. I just made assumptions. I could probably write hundreds of pages analysing each possible case. But there is one thing which I somehow managed to overlook: the crucial moment in each of these cases, bar none, is the very first moment when the specimen is exposed to women's underwear. That has to be the key. So let's go through this again, not so much for clarification as for the cheap thrill it gives me:
These, first of all, are the possibilites I had up there:
Firstly, I have never even thought about wearing girls' underwear, much less done it. Therefore, all of the possibilities for reactions are wide open. How does the suggestion register in my mind? Is it appealing, revolting, neither, or both? I could certainly understanding it being both in most cases. Perhaps some would truly find it revolting, although I can't understand why. Perhaps some would find it truly appealing, but, even though I am one of those, I can't understand why. The male ego would always kick in and resist, but there's always that feminine side which just needs to come out. But once the idea has been presented, I can't see anyone really being indifferent. But even so, the very suggestion has changed everything. Before the actual act can even take place, it has to be imagined, or at least considered somehow. Before this moment, the idea had never even occurred to the specimen; therefore, the specimen is already at 2) without even having done anything.
But that last sentence is a fallacy. It is indeed possible that the specimen be completely indifferent to the prospect, and only converted to thinking about it sexually and obsessively after the initial contact with girls' clothing. Look at me: I remember the circumstances of my first brush with femininity. I must have been five years old. It was in Kindergarten, and it was for the annual school show. All of the Kindergarten kids were made to look like flowers. This required all of us, boys included, to wear white tights. So the suggestion of wearing girls' clothes came from outside, somehow. I wonder if it always happens this way. I was still very young, but I had already discovered masturbation, and fixated on girls when I did, although I had no idea why. Anyway, I was there when Mom went to a store and asked if it was okay to buy tights and return them, because I was only going to wear them once. It was, I think, Okay. I was aware that I would be wearing girls' clothes, but I had no huge reaction to it. I just knew that girls wore a certain type of clothes, and boys wore another. The sexual idea had never crossed my mind. When I discovered how it felt to wear those white tights, though, I became converted. I had already learned to be secretive about my masturbating. So I asked Mom and Dad if I could sleep with the tights on, instead of pyjamas. They said no, of course, and put my tights back in my dresser. I lay in bed a long time that night, imagining how wonderful it would feel to wear them again and masturbate. I didn't but I sure wanted to. After that, I don't know when I first dared to "borrow" pantihose, but it had dwelt on my mind ever since that night. And I remember that all the boys in the class wore white tights. We were all dressed like girls. Funny, isn't it?
All that to say that it is possible to feel complete indifference to transvestism until the moment of contact.
So just think of specimen 1, who hasn't ever thought of dressing up in girls' underwear before. The poor sucker would have no idea what he's getting into. If he staunchly refuses, it's because the idea repulses him at first as an insult to his masculinity. If he's indifferent about it, and gets talked into it, it's because he's confident enough in his masculinity to not really care that he's wearing girls' underwear. If he slinks right into it, it can either be because he has rapidly jumped to 2, as the idea greatly and immediately appeals to him, or he does it out of open defiance of expectations of his masculinity, always confident that it will remain unscathed. Or he could do it out of sheer curiosity, just to see what it's like, in which case, he falls more into this latter, or into case 2.
So case 2 has imagined wearing girls' panties before. Even if the thoughts revolted him, he probably thought about it in sexual terms. What would it do to my masculinity, he would think? This is a stage that I can only sort of relate to. I had worn women's clothes first, before I longed for them. This one has never worn them. So he doesn't know what it's like. He can only guess.
So what does he guess? He has none of the experience. He probably would have an innate fear that doing it would instantly compromise his masculinity. That fear, as discussed so many times before, would likely turn to intense curiosity. The only thing I can think of that I can relate to is homosexuality: I have never experienced it, but I have fantasized about it on occasion. The idea of sucking dick, or getting fucked up the ass, often creeps into my femininization sessions. On this level, even, I am ashamed to admit it, ashamed to recognize the possibility. But it turns me on nonetheless. If given the chance, though, I would probably never do it. It doesn't appeal to me enough. Wearing girls' clothes, however, does. So the question is, what would I do in a situation where I could have homosexual sex? In exactly the same terms: a fag has me captured, just like in my other fantasy, and asks me at first to bend over, or to suck his dick. I really think that I would refuse. In which case he would rape me anyway. A part of me wants to say that I would jump at the chance, just out of curiosity. It does appeal to me that way. Who knows? I figure, I might really enjoy it. It might be the ultimate sexual experience of my life. Why not try it? All this, I guess, would go through case 2's mind.
But this raises a few questions about 1 and 2. 1 would be completely new to the experience, and would probably not enjoy it quite as much. But look at the way I felt when I first wore those tights! I didn't want to take them off! 1 would be the same way, I think. It would be so new to him. 2 would probably be shocked to learn that the thing he wanted to do was so wonderful. 3 would have suspected it all along.
Now 4 is a different story altogether. He would be like me a couple of years ago: guilty of his frequent sins. So all of this would be completely irrelevant to him, in a way, because he already has given in to that first moment. That's what this is all about: the first moment. It's a chance to imagine the impact that this stuff could have had on me at various stages. 4 would no doubt have refused to give in. He's ashamed of himself. This would be an exercise in accepting his femininity. 5 would just be an opportunity to accept it publicly. 6 hardly needs any comment. I don't know what that's doing there.
It all rests on the possibilities of a sexual shock. It gets less and less extreme as one goes down the list. That's where the fantasizing lies: in figuring just how shocking it might have been.
That's the incredible thing. I was intensely aroused by pantihose. What if I had started out, my very first time, with some kind of lingerie? As a grown man, yet? Imagine the shock to my sexuality. Delicious, I must say. The lucky sap gets to skip the whole thing and go right to the top of the heap. It would be so incredible that he would completely go insane with pleasure. I would have gone insane with pleasure. Just to think of the big step I imagined with bathing suits! They were so sexy, because they are form fitting and tight and skimpy on the crotch, right where the focus is. And then the big step to bikinis, which are even skimpier, and that much more heavenly for it. And then the not so big step to panties, which are the ultimate, because they are so skimpy, and they are so much the bare essentials. No girl would go without panties. So panties would be by far the ultimate sensation. I can't even imagine a first time in panties. It's just too intense.
But also imagine how incredible it could be for the guy who had thought about the sexual possibilities, and going all the way from the very get-go. Same thing. Oh, I have to go. I feel like wearing a bathing suit tonight. . .
There's several paragraphs just outlining the possibilities of my little fantasy up there. There are many things which I didn't even consider at all. I just made assumptions. I could probably write hundreds of pages analysing each possible case. But there is one thing which I somehow managed to overlook: the crucial moment in each of these cases, bar none, is the very first moment when the specimen is exposed to women's underwear. That has to be the key. So let's go through this again, not so much for clarification as for the cheap thrill it gives me:
These, first of all, are the possibilites I had up there:
- have never even imagined wearing girls' clothes, much less done it.
- have never worn women's clothes, but have guiltily and secretly fantasized about it on occasion.
- have guiltily worn women's clothes on a bet, or as a quick little experiment, but never gone through with the full experience of wearing it for complete sexual gratification
- have guiltily worn women's clothing secretly and ashamedly, for sexual gratification
- have shamelessly worn girls' clothes for sexual fun in secret.
- be a totally unashamed transvestite.
- I furiously refuse all attempts to get me to put them on, cajoling included.
- I at first refuse, but after some cajoling agree to put them on
- I put them on right away, no questions asked.
Firstly, I have never even thought about wearing girls' underwear, much less done it. Therefore, all of the possibilities for reactions are wide open. How does the suggestion register in my mind? Is it appealing, revolting, neither, or both? I could certainly understanding it being both in most cases. Perhaps some would truly find it revolting, although I can't understand why. Perhaps some would find it truly appealing, but, even though I am one of those, I can't understand why. The male ego would always kick in and resist, but there's always that feminine side which just needs to come out. But once the idea has been presented, I can't see anyone really being indifferent. But even so, the very suggestion has changed everything. Before the actual act can even take place, it has to be imagined, or at least considered somehow. Before this moment, the idea had never even occurred to the specimen; therefore, the specimen is already at 2) without even having done anything.
But that last sentence is a fallacy. It is indeed possible that the specimen be completely indifferent to the prospect, and only converted to thinking about it sexually and obsessively after the initial contact with girls' clothing. Look at me: I remember the circumstances of my first brush with femininity. I must have been five years old. It was in Kindergarten, and it was for the annual school show. All of the Kindergarten kids were made to look like flowers. This required all of us, boys included, to wear white tights. So the suggestion of wearing girls' clothes came from outside, somehow. I wonder if it always happens this way. I was still very young, but I had already discovered masturbation, and fixated on girls when I did, although I had no idea why. Anyway, I was there when Mom went to a store and asked if it was okay to buy tights and return them, because I was only going to wear them once. It was, I think, Okay. I was aware that I would be wearing girls' clothes, but I had no huge reaction to it. I just knew that girls wore a certain type of clothes, and boys wore another. The sexual idea had never crossed my mind. When I discovered how it felt to wear those white tights, though, I became converted. I had already learned to be secretive about my masturbating. So I asked Mom and Dad if I could sleep with the tights on, instead of pyjamas. They said no, of course, and put my tights back in my dresser. I lay in bed a long time that night, imagining how wonderful it would feel to wear them again and masturbate. I didn't but I sure wanted to. After that, I don't know when I first dared to "borrow" pantihose, but it had dwelt on my mind ever since that night. And I remember that all the boys in the class wore white tights. We were all dressed like girls. Funny, isn't it?
All that to say that it is possible to feel complete indifference to transvestism until the moment of contact.
So just think of specimen 1, who hasn't ever thought of dressing up in girls' underwear before. The poor sucker would have no idea what he's getting into. If he staunchly refuses, it's because the idea repulses him at first as an insult to his masculinity. If he's indifferent about it, and gets talked into it, it's because he's confident enough in his masculinity to not really care that he's wearing girls' underwear. If he slinks right into it, it can either be because he has rapidly jumped to 2, as the idea greatly and immediately appeals to him, or he does it out of open defiance of expectations of his masculinity, always confident that it will remain unscathed. Or he could do it out of sheer curiosity, just to see what it's like, in which case, he falls more into this latter, or into case 2.
So case 2 has imagined wearing girls' panties before. Even if the thoughts revolted him, he probably thought about it in sexual terms. What would it do to my masculinity, he would think? This is a stage that I can only sort of relate to. I had worn women's clothes first, before I longed for them. This one has never worn them. So he doesn't know what it's like. He can only guess.
So what does he guess? He has none of the experience. He probably would have an innate fear that doing it would instantly compromise his masculinity. That fear, as discussed so many times before, would likely turn to intense curiosity. The only thing I can think of that I can relate to is homosexuality: I have never experienced it, but I have fantasized about it on occasion. The idea of sucking dick, or getting fucked up the ass, often creeps into my femininization sessions. On this level, even, I am ashamed to admit it, ashamed to recognize the possibility. But it turns me on nonetheless. If given the chance, though, I would probably never do it. It doesn't appeal to me enough. Wearing girls' clothes, however, does. So the question is, what would I do in a situation where I could have homosexual sex? In exactly the same terms: a fag has me captured, just like in my other fantasy, and asks me at first to bend over, or to suck his dick. I really think that I would refuse. In which case he would rape me anyway. A part of me wants to say that I would jump at the chance, just out of curiosity. It does appeal to me that way. Who knows? I figure, I might really enjoy it. It might be the ultimate sexual experience of my life. Why not try it? All this, I guess, would go through case 2's mind.
And then there's case 3. This one would have worn girls' clothes before, but never have had the total experience. He would be just like I was after having worn the white tights in Kindergarten: longing for women's clothing, but never daring to do it, for the sheer fear of it. But I'm sure that before I dared to wear girls' clothes again, I fantasized about it, and only about it. I didn't fantasize about fucking at all: I always imagined that I was being captured by the beautiful girls, and taken away to a place where I would have to become like them. I would have to wear their clothes. At first, of course, I would resist, but then I would discover the intense pleasure of it all. So here's case 3, given an opportunity to act out his secret wish. What would he do? This is the ultimate moment, I think. The mindset is exactly like mine was. That first time was quite exquisite, even though I did it protected with my own underwear. I didn't dare go all the way. But that eventually changed. I thought of it as purging myself of my feminine demons. But it only got worse. It only made me want to do it more and more and more, and with less and less protection. So case 3 would most likely be so relieved to fianlly do it, that he would be the most willing participant of all.
But this raises a few questions about 1 and 2. 1 would be completely new to the experience, and would probably not enjoy it quite as much. But look at the way I felt when I first wore those tights! I didn't want to take them off! 1 would be the same way, I think. It would be so new to him. 2 would probably be shocked to learn that the thing he wanted to do was so wonderful. 3 would have suspected it all along.
Now 4 is a different story altogether. He would be like me a couple of years ago: guilty of his frequent sins. So all of this would be completely irrelevant to him, in a way, because he already has given in to that first moment. That's what this is all about: the first moment. It's a chance to imagine the impact that this stuff could have had on me at various stages. 4 would no doubt have refused to give in. He's ashamed of himself. This would be an exercise in accepting his femininity. 5 would just be an opportunity to accept it publicly. 6 hardly needs any comment. I don't know what that's doing there.
It all rests on the possibilities of a sexual shock. It gets less and less extreme as one goes down the list. That's where the fantasizing lies: in figuring just how shocking it might have been.
So here are the three scenarios. I'm finding it very difficult to explain how this can be so incredibly arousing. But it's incredible. I think it goes back to my idea of the potency of women's underwear, and the heirarchy. I used to imagine that I had to pass through certain stages before I could move on to the next. I would have to do pantihose a certain number of times before I could move on to bathing suits (dare I even imagine!)
That's the incredible thing. I was intensely aroused by pantihose. What if I had started out, my very first time, with some kind of lingerie? As a grown man, yet? Imagine the shock to my sexuality. Delicious, I must say. The lucky sap gets to skip the whole thing and go right to the top of the heap. It would be so incredible that he would completely go insane with pleasure. I would have gone insane with pleasure. Just to think of the big step I imagined with bathing suits! They were so sexy, because they are form fitting and tight and skimpy on the crotch, right where the focus is. And then the big step to bikinis, which are even skimpier, and that much more heavenly for it. And then the not so big step to panties, which are the ultimate, because they are so skimpy, and they are so much the bare essentials. No girl would go without panties. So panties would be by far the ultimate sensation. I can't even imagine a first time in panties. It's just too intense.
But also imagine how incredible it could be for the guy who had thought about the sexual possibilities, and going all the way from the very get-go. Same thing. Oh, I have to go. I feel like wearing a bathing suit tonight. . .
Diary: Over-Analysis
It has been several months since my last confession. I have neglected this record of my passion, although I have made many discoveries (sadly, in only a psychological sense) about it.
I read Richard Slotkin's Regeneration Through Violence in August, and learned how American men strive to destroy the wilderness, because they love it. There is a deep-seated psychological need to cannibalise your victims: thus, the American destroys the wilderness because he knows that he must merge with it. Or something like that. His greatest fear, and his greatest desire, are contradictorily, to merge with the wilderness: he fears becoming an Indian, and he needs to become an Indian to conquer the wilderness; to conquer the wilderness, he must become part of it. Does this sound familiar yet?
Slotkin used many examples. I have one of my own.
Here I am, typically male in that I love women and their exquisite bodies as mythical objects which I must worship from afar. Because in my youth, sex was so alien to me, I had to idealize the female body somehow. The real thing is somehow different from the fantasy, in ways that I cannot yet define. This has become embedded in my psyche as an ideal of femininity.
Clearly, because women always wear a particular type of design of underwear, which accentuates their femininity, I have come to associate these articles of clothing with femininity. So when I think of the ideal woman, I think of sexy lingerie or swimsuits or whatever.
Now, because I love women so much (and I do believe that I have iterated this before), I want to become one. I need to take on the attributes of this ideal which I hold so high. So I must somehow attempt to assimilate myself into womanhood. I wear women's clothing, in the cannibalistic hope that wearing their clothes will turn me into one of them. It's like the primitive hunter who eats the bear's heart to gain his courage. I don't have to kill, or eat; but I do have to take something of the female. Indians have been known to wear animal skins, believing that doing so gives them the animal's power. So here I am, wearing women's "skin" to gain the woman's power.
But does that explain the overpowering urge to wear girls' underwear? The entire idea of being captured by girls and being forced to become one of them seems to me extremely similar to the notion of the white captive going Indian, much to his and his people's horror. Look at my fantasies of the past 44 pages, and note how often the captivity myth creeps in there. It's certainly something to think about.
Meanwhile, I continue to struggle with the fact that I am a flaming transvestite. When I read little snippets of the previous entry in this femininity diary, my heart jumped with excitement. I can't help it. The idea of wearing girls' clothes turns me on so much that I my heart leaps when I just think of it. It's so much more appealing than sex. Sadly, in a way, but thankfully in another. I can't imagine a more passionate, more pure way of acheiving all of my sexual desires than effeminating myself. It's sad because I'll never make love as passionately as I transsexualize myself, and it's that much more tantalizing for exactly the same reason: I am a freak of nature, because I have warped myself into this by persistently wearing women's clothes. That means that somehow, in my tantalizingly sick little girlish mind, it's working. I am becoming more feminine as I wear these things. I keep pushing myself, too. I lose a bit of interest, and I force myself sometimes to wear them. Then it all comes right back, in full force, and I feel an incredible undeniable desire to womanize. Like now, I had only the vaguest notion of horniness about this, when I forced myself, to kill time, to put on my lingerie outfit and read and write in this little journal. Now I'm totally enthralled again. And I love it. I am again reminded of the need to acquire more of a wardrobe. I will do it, eventually. I swear it. A bikini first. Then maybe some new panties, white this time, and possibly my own bra. Then I'll need black fishnets and a really nice teddy. And there'll be more. I know it. And I'm glad.
Another thing I thought about is my captivity narrative's possibilities. Imagine every possible scenario of a man like myself (let's just say myself, so that I can savour every moment of this) being captured and faced with wearing women's clothing. There are several possibilities underlying the entire theme to begin with, which deal with my previous experiences as a transvestite. I could either
Then there's the rest, all of which are pretty interesting.
The scenario, by the way is this: I am captured, and stripped down. A girl cajoles me about putting on her panties.
In all five cases, I can react in three ways:
Imagine the first case: I have never experienced girls' clothes before, or even imagined wearing any before, and suddenly, I am exposed to the possibility. I consider it absurd, and react in any of the three ways mentioned above. First, I could humour her, and step into them innocently, because I'm not afraid. Otherwise, I consider it ridiculous, and outright refuse to even humour her. She laughs at me, and asks me if I feel so insecure as a man that I wouldn't be caught dead in women's underwear. I can either give in at this point and put them on to prove to her that I am not afraid of compromising my masculinity. Or I can continue to refuse, for ever. Then she forces me to wear them somehow.
Just imagine the result of this: for 1-3, the experience would be an instant shock. I slip into the panties unknowingly, and instantly surprise myself by popping the most insane boner ever. I discover the secret of femininity, and I can react either with self-loathing or with blind abandon. For 1-1, I am forced into the panties, and to my shame, instantly show my pleasure. She shows me that I am compromising my masculinity, and I can't do anything about it, because I'm being forced. I think I must of necessity become self-loathing in this case. For 1-2, I discover, for the first time, the wonder of girlishness, and am probably ashamed at showing such pleasure. A guilty but willing newcomer to transsexuality.
Now, in the second case, the results must be more positive. 2-1 must grudgingly admit my secret but never acted upon fantasy, and understand its fantastic appeal. 2-2 would be an intense discovery, of the type that I discover unexpectedly what I had been missing by cowardishly refusing to act out my fantasy. 2-3 would be an impulsive experiment, and monumental surprise and acceptance of a new way of dressing, shocked by failing a test of masculinity
3 would be somewhat similar, but a different degree of positivity again. 3-1 would be a stage of self-denial before finally accepting with violent shame that I have always wanted to do this, and have come close to trying, but never acted it out to the end. 3-2 would be a grudging self-denial again, trying to prove to myself that I can wear this without embarrassing myself: I would try gallantly to prove my manhood, not only to myself, but to the girl pushing her panties on me, and fail most ignominously. And I would grudgingly accept my failure. 3-3 would be an impulsive grasp at an opportunity to discover femininity. Or maybe I exaggerate a bit. Certainly, there would be an element of defiance, much as in 3-2.
4 would be close to my own experience. 4-1 Refusing would be a prolongation of the agony of self-denial. The girl would certainly discover my secret, and notice that I look much too comfortable in panties to have never enjoyed them before. She would get me to confess, and surrender to her wardrobe. I would eventually be the happier for it. 4-2 would be much like 3-2, a test of my resolve, but I would be much more certain to lose, and give in to my guilty pleasures, and soon accept my lot. 4-3 would be a complete surrender to girlishness, such as I experienced when I decided to take Mom's flowery purplish swimsuit and to stop denying my femininity. It would be a wholesale acceptance of girlishness, a joyous leap into the freedom of silks and lace.
5 would be interesting. 5-1 would be a curious option, considering the stage of femininity. What would I do? What would make me refuse? A stubborn denial, not to the self, but to the world, that I have a strong craving for the feminine. Once forced, I would instantly give in, and gladly. 5-2 would be more like a game. I would pretend to be masculine, or to care about my masculinity, and then snap them on gleefully and become girlish on the spot. 5-3, of course, would be a complete acceptance of my coming out. A graceful coming out of the closet.
The options that appeal to me most right now are the ones where I either discover for the first time the intense pleasures involved in dressing up in girls' undies, and my subsequent discovery of a new universe and a new sexual identity, or my giving in to secret desires at last, and feeling an incredible relief. At any rate, I just love to think of the psychological implications of any of these choices. I am going to go fantasize about them all now.
Was it last time that I swore to sleep in lingerie or something for an entire night? Well, it seems like a long time. I might not even have sworn it here. At any rate, I tried to do it, and it was impossible. I couldn't sleep, because I was perpetually horny. My penis hurt from overuse. I spewed at least twice, but couldn't even handle another boner after that. I just couldn't do it anymore. So I bailed. I'll try it again someday with something more tame.
I don't think I'll have anything new to report next time, but I know it'll be fun again. It always is when I surrender my masculinity.
I read Richard Slotkin's Regeneration Through Violence in August, and learned how American men strive to destroy the wilderness, because they love it. There is a deep-seated psychological need to cannibalise your victims: thus, the American destroys the wilderness because he knows that he must merge with it. Or something like that. His greatest fear, and his greatest desire, are contradictorily, to merge with the wilderness: he fears becoming an Indian, and he needs to become an Indian to conquer the wilderness; to conquer the wilderness, he must become part of it. Does this sound familiar yet?
Slotkin used many examples. I have one of my own.
Here I am, typically male in that I love women and their exquisite bodies as mythical objects which I must worship from afar. Because in my youth, sex was so alien to me, I had to idealize the female body somehow. The real thing is somehow different from the fantasy, in ways that I cannot yet define. This has become embedded in my psyche as an ideal of femininity.
Clearly, because women always wear a particular type of design of underwear, which accentuates their femininity, I have come to associate these articles of clothing with femininity. So when I think of the ideal woman, I think of sexy lingerie or swimsuits or whatever.
Now, because I love women so much (and I do believe that I have iterated this before), I want to become one. I need to take on the attributes of this ideal which I hold so high. So I must somehow attempt to assimilate myself into womanhood. I wear women's clothing, in the cannibalistic hope that wearing their clothes will turn me into one of them. It's like the primitive hunter who eats the bear's heart to gain his courage. I don't have to kill, or eat; but I do have to take something of the female. Indians have been known to wear animal skins, believing that doing so gives them the animal's power. So here I am, wearing women's "skin" to gain the woman's power.
But does that explain the overpowering urge to wear girls' underwear? The entire idea of being captured by girls and being forced to become one of them seems to me extremely similar to the notion of the white captive going Indian, much to his and his people's horror. Look at my fantasies of the past 44 pages, and note how often the captivity myth creeps in there. It's certainly something to think about.
Meanwhile, I continue to struggle with the fact that I am a flaming transvestite. When I read little snippets of the previous entry in this femininity diary, my heart jumped with excitement. I can't help it. The idea of wearing girls' clothes turns me on so much that I my heart leaps when I just think of it. It's so much more appealing than sex. Sadly, in a way, but thankfully in another. I can't imagine a more passionate, more pure way of acheiving all of my sexual desires than effeminating myself. It's sad because I'll never make love as passionately as I transsexualize myself, and it's that much more tantalizing for exactly the same reason: I am a freak of nature, because I have warped myself into this by persistently wearing women's clothes. That means that somehow, in my tantalizingly sick little girlish mind, it's working. I am becoming more feminine as I wear these things. I keep pushing myself, too. I lose a bit of interest, and I force myself sometimes to wear them. Then it all comes right back, in full force, and I feel an incredible undeniable desire to womanize. Like now, I had only the vaguest notion of horniness about this, when I forced myself, to kill time, to put on my lingerie outfit and read and write in this little journal. Now I'm totally enthralled again. And I love it. I am again reminded of the need to acquire more of a wardrobe. I will do it, eventually. I swear it. A bikini first. Then maybe some new panties, white this time, and possibly my own bra. Then I'll need black fishnets and a really nice teddy. And there'll be more. I know it. And I'm glad.
Another thing I thought about is my captivity narrative's possibilities. Imagine every possible scenario of a man like myself (let's just say myself, so that I can savour every moment of this) being captured and faced with wearing women's clothing. There are several possibilities underlying the entire theme to begin with, which deal with my previous experiences as a transvestite. I could either
- have never even imagined wearing girls' clothes, much less done it.
- have never worn women's clothes, but have guiltily and secretly fantasized about it on occasion.
- have guiltily worn women's clothes on a bet, or as a quick little experiment, but never gone through with the full experience of wearing it for complete sexual gratification
- have guiltily worn women's clothing secretly and ashamedly, for sexual gratification
- have shamelessly worn girls' clothes for sexual fun in secret.
- be a totally unashamed transvestite.
Then there's the rest, all of which are pretty interesting.
The scenario, by the way is this: I am captured, and stripped down. A girl cajoles me about putting on her panties.
In all five cases, I can react in three ways:
- I furiously refuse all attempts to get me to put them on, cajoling included.
- I at first refuse, but after some cajoling agree to put them on
- I put them on right away, no questions asked.
Imagine the first case: I have never experienced girls' clothes before, or even imagined wearing any before, and suddenly, I am exposed to the possibility. I consider it absurd, and react in any of the three ways mentioned above. First, I could humour her, and step into them innocently, because I'm not afraid. Otherwise, I consider it ridiculous, and outright refuse to even humour her. She laughs at me, and asks me if I feel so insecure as a man that I wouldn't be caught dead in women's underwear. I can either give in at this point and put them on to prove to her that I am not afraid of compromising my masculinity. Or I can continue to refuse, for ever. Then she forces me to wear them somehow.
Just imagine the result of this: for 1-3, the experience would be an instant shock. I slip into the panties unknowingly, and instantly surprise myself by popping the most insane boner ever. I discover the secret of femininity, and I can react either with self-loathing or with blind abandon. For 1-1, I am forced into the panties, and to my shame, instantly show my pleasure. She shows me that I am compromising my masculinity, and I can't do anything about it, because I'm being forced. I think I must of necessity become self-loathing in this case. For 1-2, I discover, for the first time, the wonder of girlishness, and am probably ashamed at showing such pleasure. A guilty but willing newcomer to transsexuality.
Now, in the second case, the results must be more positive. 2-1 must grudgingly admit my secret but never acted upon fantasy, and understand its fantastic appeal. 2-2 would be an intense discovery, of the type that I discover unexpectedly what I had been missing by cowardishly refusing to act out my fantasy. 2-3 would be an impulsive experiment, and monumental surprise and acceptance of a new way of dressing, shocked by failing a test of masculinity
3 would be somewhat similar, but a different degree of positivity again. 3-1 would be a stage of self-denial before finally accepting with violent shame that I have always wanted to do this, and have come close to trying, but never acted it out to the end. 3-2 would be a grudging self-denial again, trying to prove to myself that I can wear this without embarrassing myself: I would try gallantly to prove my manhood, not only to myself, but to the girl pushing her panties on me, and fail most ignominously. And I would grudgingly accept my failure. 3-3 would be an impulsive grasp at an opportunity to discover femininity. Or maybe I exaggerate a bit. Certainly, there would be an element of defiance, much as in 3-2.
4 would be close to my own experience. 4-1 Refusing would be a prolongation of the agony of self-denial. The girl would certainly discover my secret, and notice that I look much too comfortable in panties to have never enjoyed them before. She would get me to confess, and surrender to her wardrobe. I would eventually be the happier for it. 4-2 would be much like 3-2, a test of my resolve, but I would be much more certain to lose, and give in to my guilty pleasures, and soon accept my lot. 4-3 would be a complete surrender to girlishness, such as I experienced when I decided to take Mom's flowery purplish swimsuit and to stop denying my femininity. It would be a wholesale acceptance of girlishness, a joyous leap into the freedom of silks and lace.
5 would be interesting. 5-1 would be a curious option, considering the stage of femininity. What would I do? What would make me refuse? A stubborn denial, not to the self, but to the world, that I have a strong craving for the feminine. Once forced, I would instantly give in, and gladly. 5-2 would be more like a game. I would pretend to be masculine, or to care about my masculinity, and then snap them on gleefully and become girlish on the spot. 5-3, of course, would be a complete acceptance of my coming out. A graceful coming out of the closet.
The options that appeal to me most right now are the ones where I either discover for the first time the intense pleasures involved in dressing up in girls' undies, and my subsequent discovery of a new universe and a new sexual identity, or my giving in to secret desires at last, and feeling an incredible relief. At any rate, I just love to think of the psychological implications of any of these choices. I am going to go fantasize about them all now.
Was it last time that I swore to sleep in lingerie or something for an entire night? Well, it seems like a long time. I might not even have sworn it here. At any rate, I tried to do it, and it was impossible. I couldn't sleep, because I was perpetually horny. My penis hurt from overuse. I spewed at least twice, but couldn't even handle another boner after that. I just couldn't do it anymore. So I bailed. I'll try it again someday with something more tame.
I don't think I'll have anything new to report next time, but I know it'll be fun again. It always is when I surrender my masculinity.
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