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.
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