I was right. I want to be a girl getting fucked. The idea is to become female, or at least feminine. It's not about becoming mock-feminine, but the real thing. I want to have a cunt, so that I can wear all that women wear, but especially so that I can fuck like a girl. Strangely, it's not that I have homosexual fantasies. I am a girl in my fantasies. I have imagined being a fag before, and sometimes it turns me on; but not like girls do--not nearly to the same extent. No, I want to have a dick in me only to feel like a girl. I'd rather be a lesbian, because girls appeal to me so much more.
A__ [my girlfriend] told me about a man she read about in the Enquirer: he was in love with Elle MacPherson, and in his blind obsession, transformed himself into a look-alike of her. He became a beautiful woman. The thought excites me. It reminded me of the man I once heard about on TV who was so good at looking like a girl that he made it into a James Bond movie as a bikini-clad extra. He has since become a girl. Those stories simply captivate me. Then I think of that story I read about the sorority house. What a fantasy! To have women teach me how to become like them. They would make me take hormones to get a feminine body, and I would practice walking around in women's clothing, and acting like a girl. An irreversible, and tantalizingly slow, transformation.
But here's what I'm really excited about: A__ [my girlfriend] asked me if I could house-sit for her family while they're away on vacation.
Imagine that! I would have access to whatever scraps of clothing she leaves behind for me! I could go to her house after work, or in the evening, and have my own little panty fashion show. I could wear that bathing suit that she never wears. I could wear her lingerie. I could wear her dresses, her skirts, her blouses. . . anything. And I would have no fear of discovery. Total privacy. I only hope that it comes to pass...
Anyway, I was thinking about another aspect of my fantasy, and it led me to thoughts of bikinis and silky undergarments.
There is always that notion of becoming female without really knowing it, having the effeminacy sneak up on me. Wear pantyhose on a dare one time, or whatever, and slowly become hooked for life on dressing up like a girl. The typical scenario, in other words. But here's the twist: it's always private in real life, and it's always public in fantasy. In my fantasies, the girls always force me to wear their panties, or entice me into becoming pretty like them, or whatever; in private, I hide myself to make sure that no one ever finds out what I do. Clearly, it's because I love it so much that I want it to be, in a way, public; I want to celebrate my femininity all out. But I can't without suffering the consequences of eternal shame. In my fantasies, shame is only a momentary accident of my situation; I have to deal with it as I first experience it; or someone is behind the whole thing, tricking me into doing it. I still love the idea: someone leaves her panties around for me to sniff, and takes all of mine away, leaving me no choice; I have to put them on, but I don't want to take them off; I do it more and more; and it's all from her secret machinations; and I eventually become like her, and she reveals her evil plan, of which I am not surprised, but grateful. I fantasize, in short, about my entire development as a trannie being some woman's plan to effeminate me. She always supplied things for me, and induced thoughts of underwear and swimsuits to get me to use them. Until the moment when I'm totally hooked.
I like this idea. What if this were the case? She only needed to plant them once or twice; I did the rest myself. I convinced myself that I could stop, but I knew deep down that the more I did it, the worse it would get. I remember thinking one time, while wearing pantyhose or something, that if I don't stop doing this soon I'll start wearing bikinis. And I remember thinking, deep down, God, I sure hope so. And I soon did, too. At another point, wearing a bikini, I probably thought, one of these days, if I don't stop soon, I'll have my own lingerie, and I'll shave my legs, and be very female. And I eventually did that, too. That's probably why I never could stop for very long: the promise of it getting worse.
My God! I wore a bikini when I was pretty young! And God, what an amazing experience it was! God, how I wish for femininity when I wear women's underwear! I fantasized always about the prospect of having to wear lingerie forever, and become forever more female. That's what I want to do right now.
I can't believe it, but I know that it's true: I have worn lingerie, directly on my body, without anything to protect me from it. And I once thought that I needed protection, or else I would succumb to abject girlishness. I wore my own underwear underneath my pantihose, for fear of it compelling me to go further. If I wear this naked, I thought, I'll want to wear bathing suits and underwear, too. Pantyhose, I thought, isn't so bad. But Lord, I wouldn't dare ever wear a bikini or some panties. I'd be some kind of freakish fag boy or something. I didn't want to want to wear women's clothing. Or so I thought. The thought of wearing it naked made me even hornier, made me want to do it rather than fear the consequences. I think that that was the point. I feared that I would become more feminine, not knowing that I was trying to become more feminine. There was nothing I wanted more. It was a fantasy: if I do wear this naked, then my fantasy might come true. At any rate, I couldn't control myself. I had to wear it naked. I had to find out how it felt. And boy, was I ever right: I did end up wearing much crazier things, like bathing suits, panties, bras, bikinis, lingerie, tights. . . And every minute until I started this long diary I hated what I was becoming. I didn't want to admit that I want to be a girl, that I want to revel in feminine sexuality. Oh, no! I've worn women's underwear! What will happen to me next? Will I want to wear it again? (You bet!) Will I start wearing bikinis, too? (Oh, God I hope so!) Will I start wearing it more and more often? (Oh, if only I could wear it all the time!) Fear actually fed my fantasies. It wasn't even fear: it was desire disguised as fear. Or else I was afraid of my strange desires.
I still have to tell you about my new twist. But after this fantasy that I dreamed up:
I'm a mad scientist, and I capture some young homeless man for my experiment. I want to force him to wear women's clothes, and see if I can transform him into a woman, not against his will, but entirely by it. I would imprison him and leave him only lingerie to wear. I would reward him for wearing it. All of this time, however, I would be doing this in the name of science. I would be getting no pleasure out of it.
Slowly, my victim would become female, but against his will. He would be perpetually angry about it. But he would get used to it, and never go back completely. But my experiment would seem to prove that I cannot change a man psychologically into a woman.
But he would want his revenge. Or, from a different perspective, he would want to express his gratitude. One day, while my guard is down, he would submit me to the same experiment. He would capture me and put me through exactly what I put him through. Only I would prove that it is possible to turn a man into a woman. I would bawl louder than him at first about my plight, knowing what lies in store for me; but eventually I would succumb with all my will to femininity. I would wear everything he gives me, and become a completely effeminated man, and I would love every second of it. I would love to have the freedom to wear only women's clothes, and masturbate all over them all day, every day, in an effort to become female. I would secure a razor and some hormones by which to transform myself. I would make myself his bitch in gratitude. I would love it, too. The End.
Here's the long awaited twist in my fantasies:
I'm the type of guy who cross dresses every now and then for fun. I like it. A lot. But it's my secret. I started it myself. Nobody knows about it. Nobody got me started on it, honestly or not. I am a self-made transvestite girlie wanna-be. And I try to become female in private. And only in private.
Only I get caught. By my girlfriend. She has a few options: she can freak out, walk away and tell everyone about it; she can freak out, and keep quiet about it; she can freak out, and have fun with it. In any case, she knows. And there are fun possibilities.
It's hard to write about; but for some reason, the possibility of getting caught exhilarated me today. Imagine if she finds out, and dumps me, and tells everyone. Then everyone knows what I do. Oh, well, might as well come out of the closet, eh? I'll shave my legs and become a girlie. And I'll like it. Or else she'll try to indulge me, because she likes seeing me get turned on. Yeeeeeee-haw!
It's very hard to describe my exhilaration. But I was very excited by the prospect. I suppose it just reminded me of my stockpile. Or my stockpile reminded me of it. I don't know what it is. I guess it just drives home the fact that I wear women's clothing, and that I have several items of it hidden in my room.
Diary: Wearing Women's Underwear to Pretend to be a Girl
That bikini turned out to be quite the coup d'etat. I absolutely adore it. It's one of the most fantastic experiences ever. But I think it's also partly because of my state of mind.
It's always best when I get myself in the mood by writing things here. I get so turned on by this exercise. I get to discover what turns me on the most. The bikini just happens to be an excellent receptacle for my femininity. Catalyst would be a better word, I think. I just love how tight and small it is, and how I don't really have to be careful about staining it. I just love wearing that pretty bra, too. It wouldn't be anywhere near as fun without it.
It really turns me on to think that this must be what it feels like to dress like a girl. I know because I am dressed like a girl. And I imagine myself turning into a girl. That's how I create my scenarios: I want to drag the moment out as long as possible. I want to make myself go through a tantalizingly long ordeal until I can finally graduate to true femininity. But it's actually getting there, actually becoming a girl that really gets me. The thought that I'm not a girl, but that I am becoming one by wearing women's underthings. No, not becoming, but become.
That's the whole idea, isn't it? Becoming a girl. That's why I wear women's clothing: because it makes me think that I'm becoming a girl. I can imagine it without the actual clothing, too. It's never as fun, but it's true. But I think about getting into something feminine when I do it like that. I imagine myself in little white panties or something, becoming female. When I actually do it, I don't need to imagine: I can touch, and the experience is that much more fulfilling. For a long time I dreamed of owning a one-piece bathing suit. I dreamed that I was in a store or some such place, and that I wanted to steal one, but I could never do it. I dreamed, in other words, that I was a transvestite who wanted sexual gratification from a woman's swimsuit.
So here I am now, eagerly anticipating wearing something girlish tonight. Because I want to feel like a girl. I want to experience girlhood.
It's very weird: I don't know why I do it. Is it the underwear that I like, or is it the femininity? Is it the femininity of the underwear? There's something about wearing it that makes me go wild. Something about abandoning manhood. Now, there's an idea that right now makes me indifferent. It's when I think of myself as effeminate that I become horny.
There's a recurring theme in my scenarios about trying women's clothes on first, and then admitting that it's the most intense sexual experience of my life. Or admitting that I far prefer it to men's clothing. That's the point where it gets really exciting: admitting that I want to be a girl, and that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to wear women's clothing. I think that that's the key: I think of myself wearing women's clothing for its own sake. I don't think of just becoming female. If so, then the clothes wouldn't matter so much, would they? But they are absolutely crucial. I can't imagine myself masturbating about being a naked girl getting fucked. I do imagine myself as a girl in her underwear. The thought of becoming a girl intrigues me; the thought of wearing girls' underwear excites me.
I want to be a girl because that would allow me to wear women's underwear.
It's always in my fantasies that way.
It's all about panties and bras.
I don't know what this means. I think that maybe I rationalize wanting to become a girl because that's what girls do. They wear girls' underwear. I want to do that too. The easiest way out would be becoming a girl. But that's not what it's really about: it's about wearing tight little silky panties.
That's not entirely true, either. I cringe when I see myself wearing girlish undies. But I love feeling it. I love fantasizing about being a girl and getting fucked in the cunt--while wearing her underwear, of course. Strange. What is it, then? Do I want to be a girl, or do I want to wear girls' underwear?
I think I have very little fun when I think of myself solely as a man wearing women's clothes. I have to think of myself as becoming feminine. But I know that I don't want to be solely feminine, either. OK, here's the plan: I will try to imagine myself as a man wearing women's clothes. Then, I will try to imagine myself as a naked woman. I'll see what happens then.
It's always best when I get myself in the mood by writing things here. I get so turned on by this exercise. I get to discover what turns me on the most. The bikini just happens to be an excellent receptacle for my femininity. Catalyst would be a better word, I think. I just love how tight and small it is, and how I don't really have to be careful about staining it. I just love wearing that pretty bra, too. It wouldn't be anywhere near as fun without it.
It really turns me on to think that this must be what it feels like to dress like a girl. I know because I am dressed like a girl. And I imagine myself turning into a girl. That's how I create my scenarios: I want to drag the moment out as long as possible. I want to make myself go through a tantalizingly long ordeal until I can finally graduate to true femininity. But it's actually getting there, actually becoming a girl that really gets me. The thought that I'm not a girl, but that I am becoming one by wearing women's underthings. No, not becoming, but become.
That's the whole idea, isn't it? Becoming a girl. That's why I wear women's clothing: because it makes me think that I'm becoming a girl. I can imagine it without the actual clothing, too. It's never as fun, but it's true. But I think about getting into something feminine when I do it like that. I imagine myself in little white panties or something, becoming female. When I actually do it, I don't need to imagine: I can touch, and the experience is that much more fulfilling. For a long time I dreamed of owning a one-piece bathing suit. I dreamed that I was in a store or some such place, and that I wanted to steal one, but I could never do it. I dreamed, in other words, that I was a transvestite who wanted sexual gratification from a woman's swimsuit.
So here I am now, eagerly anticipating wearing something girlish tonight. Because I want to feel like a girl. I want to experience girlhood.
It's very weird: I don't know why I do it. Is it the underwear that I like, or is it the femininity? Is it the femininity of the underwear? There's something about wearing it that makes me go wild. Something about abandoning manhood. Now, there's an idea that right now makes me indifferent. It's when I think of myself as effeminate that I become horny.
There's a recurring theme in my scenarios about trying women's clothes on first, and then admitting that it's the most intense sexual experience of my life. Or admitting that I far prefer it to men's clothing. That's the point where it gets really exciting: admitting that I want to be a girl, and that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to wear women's clothing. I think that that's the key: I think of myself wearing women's clothing for its own sake. I don't think of just becoming female. If so, then the clothes wouldn't matter so much, would they? But they are absolutely crucial. I can't imagine myself masturbating about being a naked girl getting fucked. I do imagine myself as a girl in her underwear. The thought of becoming a girl intrigues me; the thought of wearing girls' underwear excites me.
I want to be a girl because that would allow me to wear women's underwear.
It's always in my fantasies that way.
It's all about panties and bras.
I don't know what this means. I think that maybe I rationalize wanting to become a girl because that's what girls do. They wear girls' underwear. I want to do that too. The easiest way out would be becoming a girl. But that's not what it's really about: it's about wearing tight little silky panties.
That's not entirely true, either. I cringe when I see myself wearing girlish undies. But I love feeling it. I love fantasizing about being a girl and getting fucked in the cunt--while wearing her underwear, of course. Strange. What is it, then? Do I want to be a girl, or do I want to wear girls' underwear?
I think I have very little fun when I think of myself solely as a man wearing women's clothes. I have to think of myself as becoming feminine. But I know that I don't want to be solely feminine, either. OK, here's the plan: I will try to imagine myself as a man wearing women's clothes. Then, I will try to imagine myself as a naked woman. I'll see what happens then.
Diary: Anticipation of a Bit of Freedom
It's all about feeling like a girl. I'm wearing my bikini now. A__ [my girlfriend] is gone for a week. I wore her bikini panties for a very short time while she was very nearby. I can't wait to wear it for longer...
Anyway, I have discovered once more that the whole thrill is about feeling like a girl, and surrendering to the sensation of femininity whatever the cost. I have to go now.
Anyway, I have discovered once more that the whole thrill is about feeling like a girl, and surrendering to the sensation of femininity whatever the cost. I have to go now.
Diary: More Capitulation
I've been feeling rather girlish lately. Unusually so. I swear that sometimes I catch myself fantasizing a little too much about being a girl.
I think I'm just horny lately, and this stuff just comes out the same way that it always has. I imagined myself the other day walking around in a pretty pair of high heels, and a miniskirt. A woman, striding confidently in her heels, lithe, slim, smooth legs, powerfully and unabashedly powering me forward, my butt hitched in the air in its little panties. I think of myself walking around like a girl. And it excites me.
On a heretical note, I was fantasizing about A__ [my girlfriend] today. Nothing transgendered, unfortunately. I was thinking about her standing naked in front of me, and me caressing her delicious belly and nuzzling into her spongy cunt hairs, lovingly, tenderly, and hornily. I want to get her so horny about it that she wraps her legs around my face and starts really rubbing it in, while standing, as she grabs a wall or something for support. Hmmmmmm. . . .
Anyway, back to my fantasies.
Today, I want to explore the idea of succumbing to the new lifestyle. I don't think I've left anything unexplored in here about that subject. So here we go again, as trite as it may seem.
The idea of resisting, and then accepting, and then embracing the idea and the act of wearing women's underwear interests me. I love to pretend that I don't really want to wear them, that I've never worn them before, but that the experience impresses me, and that after a variable period of time during which I wear them I decide that I'm never wearing anything else.
Just think of the shock of first wearing women's underwear. The shock of experiencing lace and silk and skimpiness all at once, that first time. I imagine the wonder of the initiate. The revulsion, at first, to the very idea. Then the gradual acceptance of it as an irreversible fact: I am wearing them; how vile; but it's too late. So then I decide to take them off. But the seed is in my head. I start to think of what happens to my sexuality when I do that. And I forget every time I fantasize about it thereafter.
In purely fantastic terms, I wear the panties, and tear them off in revulsion. But I can't forget the pleasure of the experience, and I inevitably crawl back for forgiveness. Or I'm nabbed the very first time by the pleasure, and I don't want to relinquish it. I struggle with my desire for a while, and then I give in completely to girlishness. I consider my options, and eventually overwhelmingly opt for women's clothing. I abandon masculinity completely. I refuse to go back to men's clothing. And I want the transformation to be complete.
You know, I would have worn my bikini to sleep last night if only I had some kleenex left. For the first time, I can say that I actually felt like wearing women's clothing to sleep. That first and last time with the lingerie I forced myself. I wanted to continue with the bikini all night. I was still horny, but unable to do much about it.
Maybe tonight.
And maybe actually doing it really signals that I am ready for that total change that I fantasize about: I am about to renounce my manhood, and wear women's clothing exclusively, and become a girl.
I think I'm just horny lately, and this stuff just comes out the same way that it always has. I imagined myself the other day walking around in a pretty pair of high heels, and a miniskirt. A woman, striding confidently in her heels, lithe, slim, smooth legs, powerfully and unabashedly powering me forward, my butt hitched in the air in its little panties. I think of myself walking around like a girl. And it excites me.
On a heretical note, I was fantasizing about A__ [my girlfriend] today. Nothing transgendered, unfortunately. I was thinking about her standing naked in front of me, and me caressing her delicious belly and nuzzling into her spongy cunt hairs, lovingly, tenderly, and hornily. I want to get her so horny about it that she wraps her legs around my face and starts really rubbing it in, while standing, as she grabs a wall or something for support. Hmmmmmm. . . .
Anyway, back to my fantasies.
Today, I want to explore the idea of succumbing to the new lifestyle. I don't think I've left anything unexplored in here about that subject. So here we go again, as trite as it may seem.
The idea of resisting, and then accepting, and then embracing the idea and the act of wearing women's underwear interests me. I love to pretend that I don't really want to wear them, that I've never worn them before, but that the experience impresses me, and that after a variable period of time during which I wear them I decide that I'm never wearing anything else.
Just think of the shock of first wearing women's underwear. The shock of experiencing lace and silk and skimpiness all at once, that first time. I imagine the wonder of the initiate. The revulsion, at first, to the very idea. Then the gradual acceptance of it as an irreversible fact: I am wearing them; how vile; but it's too late. So then I decide to take them off. But the seed is in my head. I start to think of what happens to my sexuality when I do that. And I forget every time I fantasize about it thereafter.
In purely fantastic terms, I wear the panties, and tear them off in revulsion. But I can't forget the pleasure of the experience, and I inevitably crawl back for forgiveness. Or I'm nabbed the very first time by the pleasure, and I don't want to relinquish it. I struggle with my desire for a while, and then I give in completely to girlishness. I consider my options, and eventually overwhelmingly opt for women's clothing. I abandon masculinity completely. I refuse to go back to men's clothing. And I want the transformation to be complete.
You know, I would have worn my bikini to sleep last night if only I had some kleenex left. For the first time, I can say that I actually felt like wearing women's clothing to sleep. That first and last time with the lingerie I forced myself. I wanted to continue with the bikini all night. I was still horny, but unable to do much about it.
Maybe tonight.
And maybe actually doing it really signals that I am ready for that total change that I fantasize about: I am about to renounce my manhood, and wear women's clothing exclusively, and become a girl.
Fantasy Double-Feature: Lingerie Store; and, Captured and Forced
Okay, maybe something a little bit different. I can tell that story over and over again over more than one hundred pages, and never get tired of telling it: the great metamorphosis.
Here's another fantasy: a man innocently goes to buy lingerie for his wife or girlfriend, but he unsuspectingly goes to a special lingerie store. No, not one of those that cater to transvestites. One that creates transvestites. He goes in, and nervously picks out something for his girl, but when he goes to buy it, the clerks goad him into trying it on. C'mon, they say. You have to try it on to be sure that it fits her. Maybe you won't like it once you see it worn. The man cajoles the clerks: why don't YOU try it on for me. I'm sure you'd look a hell of a lot better in it than me. To which she replies, yeah, but this is for your wife. I'm not your wife. That wouldn't be fair to her, now would it? Besides, I don't think your wife would care to wear something that another woman has worn. It's just not sanitary. You, she could stand, because presumably she pretty well shares your groin with you. So it's not so bad on you. Go ahead. Just try it on. There's mirrors in the change rooms.
So the guy tries it on, very reluctantly. Over his underwear, in fact. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. But it's his first taste. He goes downhill from there. He has to try it on again. He buys more and more lingerie for his woman. He tries it on all the time. Without underwear. He comes to crave it, without even knowing it. (there's the trick: how to convey that he's craving without knowing it? How to tell that he's obsessed with not only panties, but wearing panties?) He keeps thinking about how good she'd look in a certain kind of lingerie. He wants to keep returning to the lingerie store just to look at the panties, which turn him on more than his woman. (Easily described: He looks at the fine detail, and how it would feel on skin, and how it would caress the body, but not about how it would accentuate certain parts of his woman's figure.) Eventually, he starts playing with her undies, in his hands, just to feel them, just to look at them. He loves the way they look so feminine, moreso than woman. They are the femininity that he craves. He adores how they feel against his skin. It's only a matter of time before they touch his dick. And from there, it's only a matter of time before he slides into them in a passion of fetish, and rubs himself off in them.
Problem: is that the moment of recognition? Is that when he realizes that he has a problem? I suppose that it must be. How could one not find that problematic? I don't remember exactly what I thought when I first put on pantyhose by myself for masturbatory purposes, but I'm sure that it was scary and made me very ashamed after. That's when we get into the tired story of obsession. I think I want to stay away from that. I've talked enough about it.
How about this: forced effemination. I found an ad once in the back of Now magazine about an 'escort' who specializes in 'forced effemination.' What would that entail? No doubt, payment first. Then she takes you up to her apartment, and ties you up and forces you to wear her undies. But it has to go further than that, although that would be quite fantastic, I think. I would love to have a woman dress me up in her lingerie, and shave my body, and make me up, and then make me prance around before I collapse in a fit of total abandon at her feet, worshiping her and her effortless femininity. Here's something like a story that I never finished reading on the internet:
A guy answers a personal ad for some sexual fantasy. He meets this couple to make sure it's cool. Them for the same reason. He's misled, intentionally. He shows up, and they capture him, and turn him into a girl.
Here's my version: it would be totally involuntary, totally unexpected. I'm walking down the street when I'm captured. I wake up bound and gagged and blindfolded in the trunk of a car. They lug me out of the trunk and toss me in a basement somewhere. I can't escape: they're too strong, or I'm too weak from fighting or from being drugged.
I wake up naked in a dank cellar. Hours later, a scantily clad woman (of course) comes down to see me. I'm chained to the wall, so I can't escape. I'm naked. She tightens the chains, and makes it impossible for me to move. She takes me to another room, where they nair my body, from head to toe. I have no body hair left. I still have head hair. They toss me back in my cell, naked, and leave me there for a long time. They put a choke chain on me. They start commanding me, showing me who's boss. When I disobey, or don't obey fast enough, they tug and cause me great pain. In so doing, they make me put on women's underwear. Just panties and a bra. And they chain me up like that for the rest of the day.
Later, as the days go on, they let me go to the bathroom. But I have to wear women's underwear only. They make me wear spiked heels. They make me walk more effeminately. They put pills in my food, which I must eat or starve. I obey or I die. They make me gesture femininely. They make me act like a complete faggot. Soon they introduce me to garter belts and other items of lingerie. Stockings. I nair or shave my own body. My hair seems much more sparse after a while. And my voice starts getting higher. And my pecs start getting floppier and floppier.
They are turning me into a girl. In fact, they would tell me so from the very beginning. They will turn me into a girl, whether I like it or not. I don't. Not at all. But I have to get used to it. It's that or death. They eventually feel confident enough to remove the choke chain and allow me to prance around effeminately to our mutual pleasure. I still have a dick: I am a chick with a dick. But I want to be a girl. Desperately. So I dress like one, act like one, suck dicks like one, etc. I become completely female, except for one thing: my genital organ. I squeal for dicks. I'm totally metamorphosed. Female.
Let's go back: they start making me wear women's underwear. I feel ashamed and emasculated, especially in my hairless skin. I realize that I really do look feminine, sort of. They move in and start rubbing my flaccid, embarrassed dick. This goes on for quite a while.
They start doing things to make me horny. They get close, and they touch me tenderly, and they fondle me. They make me horny, but I'm wearing women's underwear. They make me rub myself with my panties on. They make fun of me, telling me that I'm a sissy, a girly-boy. That I'll be female in no time. That I can't do anything about it, and that I obviously love it. They make me angry, but I can't help it. They masturbate me. They tease me to make me super horny, and then laugh when I relieve myself in the only way physically possible. (They've chained me to a contraption that I can rub my dick against, and I do, and I can't help it. I need the relief.)
They make me prance around like a woman, so I get used to being feminine. I have to do it consciously at first, but soon it becomes habit. My only sexual outlet is when they let me jump on their machine. And they only allow me to if I act sufficiently feminine. That means different things throughout my development: First, walking like a girl. Then, talking like a girl. Then, gesturing like a girl. Then, doing everything better than I ever had. I come to realize that it's really not such a small price to pay. NO! First, they make me do girlish stuff for food, which isn't yet laced with estrogen. They condition me to be feminine or starve. If I do very well, they allow me to masturbate. Otherwise, they keep me chained up in a way that I can never rub my dick on anything. Just picture myself chained up, hairless, effeminate, in women's lingerie, a matching bra and panties, sweaty, struggling to break free. Lace and silk elastics, so delicate, biting into my flesh tantalizingly. So I become a bit more effeminate. I resist at first, but I have to turn myself around to live. I wear the clothes, I do as they say. They masturbate me themselves, and accentuate my pleasure by making me imagine myself female. And it starts to work, as I am angry to discover. They always push me harder and harder. Eventually, I suck dicks. They let me get fucked, and give me a choice. I choose men, because I want a penis in me. I am totally effeminate. I accept my new existence, and beg them to let me have estrogen, to make me into a girl. But they refuse.
By sheer force of will, my body changes. I grow tits, a waist, keep hair off, etc. I become a girl, by wearing women's underwear.
Here's another fantasy: a man innocently goes to buy lingerie for his wife or girlfriend, but he unsuspectingly goes to a special lingerie store. No, not one of those that cater to transvestites. One that creates transvestites. He goes in, and nervously picks out something for his girl, but when he goes to buy it, the clerks goad him into trying it on. C'mon, they say. You have to try it on to be sure that it fits her. Maybe you won't like it once you see it worn. The man cajoles the clerks: why don't YOU try it on for me. I'm sure you'd look a hell of a lot better in it than me. To which she replies, yeah, but this is for your wife. I'm not your wife. That wouldn't be fair to her, now would it? Besides, I don't think your wife would care to wear something that another woman has worn. It's just not sanitary. You, she could stand, because presumably she pretty well shares your groin with you. So it's not so bad on you. Go ahead. Just try it on. There's mirrors in the change rooms.
So the guy tries it on, very reluctantly. Over his underwear, in fact. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. But it's his first taste. He goes downhill from there. He has to try it on again. He buys more and more lingerie for his woman. He tries it on all the time. Without underwear. He comes to crave it, without even knowing it. (there's the trick: how to convey that he's craving without knowing it? How to tell that he's obsessed with not only panties, but wearing panties?) He keeps thinking about how good she'd look in a certain kind of lingerie. He wants to keep returning to the lingerie store just to look at the panties, which turn him on more than his woman. (Easily described: He looks at the fine detail, and how it would feel on skin, and how it would caress the body, but not about how it would accentuate certain parts of his woman's figure.) Eventually, he starts playing with her undies, in his hands, just to feel them, just to look at them. He loves the way they look so feminine, moreso than woman. They are the femininity that he craves. He adores how they feel against his skin. It's only a matter of time before they touch his dick. And from there, it's only a matter of time before he slides into them in a passion of fetish, and rubs himself off in them.
Problem: is that the moment of recognition? Is that when he realizes that he has a problem? I suppose that it must be. How could one not find that problematic? I don't remember exactly what I thought when I first put on pantyhose by myself for masturbatory purposes, but I'm sure that it was scary and made me very ashamed after. That's when we get into the tired story of obsession. I think I want to stay away from that. I've talked enough about it.
How about this: forced effemination. I found an ad once in the back of Now magazine about an 'escort' who specializes in 'forced effemination.' What would that entail? No doubt, payment first. Then she takes you up to her apartment, and ties you up and forces you to wear her undies. But it has to go further than that, although that would be quite fantastic, I think. I would love to have a woman dress me up in her lingerie, and shave my body, and make me up, and then make me prance around before I collapse in a fit of total abandon at her feet, worshiping her and her effortless femininity. Here's something like a story that I never finished reading on the internet:
A guy answers a personal ad for some sexual fantasy. He meets this couple to make sure it's cool. Them for the same reason. He's misled, intentionally. He shows up, and they capture him, and turn him into a girl.
Here's my version: it would be totally involuntary, totally unexpected. I'm walking down the street when I'm captured. I wake up bound and gagged and blindfolded in the trunk of a car. They lug me out of the trunk and toss me in a basement somewhere. I can't escape: they're too strong, or I'm too weak from fighting or from being drugged.
I wake up naked in a dank cellar. Hours later, a scantily clad woman (of course) comes down to see me. I'm chained to the wall, so I can't escape. I'm naked. She tightens the chains, and makes it impossible for me to move. She takes me to another room, where they nair my body, from head to toe. I have no body hair left. I still have head hair. They toss me back in my cell, naked, and leave me there for a long time. They put a choke chain on me. They start commanding me, showing me who's boss. When I disobey, or don't obey fast enough, they tug and cause me great pain. In so doing, they make me put on women's underwear. Just panties and a bra. And they chain me up like that for the rest of the day.
Later, as the days go on, they let me go to the bathroom. But I have to wear women's underwear only. They make me wear spiked heels. They make me walk more effeminately. They put pills in my food, which I must eat or starve. I obey or I die. They make me gesture femininely. They make me act like a complete faggot. Soon they introduce me to garter belts and other items of lingerie. Stockings. I nair or shave my own body. My hair seems much more sparse after a while. And my voice starts getting higher. And my pecs start getting floppier and floppier.
They are turning me into a girl. In fact, they would tell me so from the very beginning. They will turn me into a girl, whether I like it or not. I don't. Not at all. But I have to get used to it. It's that or death. They eventually feel confident enough to remove the choke chain and allow me to prance around effeminately to our mutual pleasure. I still have a dick: I am a chick with a dick. But I want to be a girl. Desperately. So I dress like one, act like one, suck dicks like one, etc. I become completely female, except for one thing: my genital organ. I squeal for dicks. I'm totally metamorphosed. Female.
Let's go back: they start making me wear women's underwear. I feel ashamed and emasculated, especially in my hairless skin. I realize that I really do look feminine, sort of. They move in and start rubbing my flaccid, embarrassed dick. This goes on for quite a while.
They start doing things to make me horny. They get close, and they touch me tenderly, and they fondle me. They make me horny, but I'm wearing women's underwear. They make me rub myself with my panties on. They make fun of me, telling me that I'm a sissy, a girly-boy. That I'll be female in no time. That I can't do anything about it, and that I obviously love it. They make me angry, but I can't help it. They masturbate me. They tease me to make me super horny, and then laugh when I relieve myself in the only way physically possible. (They've chained me to a contraption that I can rub my dick against, and I do, and I can't help it. I need the relief.)
They make me prance around like a woman, so I get used to being feminine. I have to do it consciously at first, but soon it becomes habit. My only sexual outlet is when they let me jump on their machine. And they only allow me to if I act sufficiently feminine. That means different things throughout my development: First, walking like a girl. Then, talking like a girl. Then, gesturing like a girl. Then, doing everything better than I ever had. I come to realize that it's really not such a small price to pay. NO! First, they make me do girlish stuff for food, which isn't yet laced with estrogen. They condition me to be feminine or starve. If I do very well, they allow me to masturbate. Otherwise, they keep me chained up in a way that I can never rub my dick on anything. Just picture myself chained up, hairless, effeminate, in women's lingerie, a matching bra and panties, sweaty, struggling to break free. Lace and silk elastics, so delicate, biting into my flesh tantalizingly. So I become a bit more effeminate. I resist at first, but I have to turn myself around to live. I wear the clothes, I do as they say. They masturbate me themselves, and accentuate my pleasure by making me imagine myself female. And it starts to work, as I am angry to discover. They always push me harder and harder. Eventually, I suck dicks. They let me get fucked, and give me a choice. I choose men, because I want a penis in me. I am totally effeminate. I accept my new existence, and beg them to let me have estrogen, to make me into a girl. But they refuse.
By sheer force of will, my body changes. I grow tits, a waist, keep hair off, etc. I become a girl, by wearing women's underwear.
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