It turns out that Marv Albert, the NBC sportscaster who was charged with assault and nasty sexual stuff, had tried to force a woman into rough sex. This woman testified that Albert, wearing white panties and a garter belt, tried to force her to suck his dick, but she tore off his hairpiece and ran away.
Man, this transvestism thing is getting popular!
I wrote a fantasy in my notebook the other night. It's a good one. I had to destroy it though. I'm not that brave.
It's a variation on the sorority house idea: I'm invited for some reason to live in a sorority house for a month or two, in the room of a girl who's away. Her dresser and closet are filled with all sorts of sexy lingerie. The usual ambiguity comes to play here: maybe I'm resisting, maybe the thought of wearing it never occurred to me. The girls tease me about it, and hide my clothes, and all that stuff. But I don't bite. When they steal my clothes, I'm happy to run around naked, chasing after them. After all, they're all young and beautiful, and maybe they'll want to fuck around.
But they keep drawing my attention to the contents of her closet and dresser. They have me go through it, looking for an item that supposedly does not belong there. I get to rummage through tonnes of silk and satin and lace, dainty and soft and pretty. The seed is planted.
Eventually, because none of the girls heed any of my sexual advances (as a matter of fact, they all reject them totally) I need some sort of sexual release. I think of the feminine things so near at hand. I long to touch something silky like that. I rummage through it all just to get horny. And I masturbate.
The incidents, of course, escalate: I start sniffing the panties, and touching them, and inevitably, I slip into them, partly out of an intense desire to feel their exquisite texture against my hard dick, partly out of curiosity. I discover femininity. And I don't want to stop.
At first, I do it in the utmost privacy, very careful that in no circumstances will I get caught. I am careful to not put too much on, in case I have to strip it off in a hurry. But my curiosity and my desire get the best of me: I dare to go as far as possible. I wear all sorts of lingerie. I primp in the mirror. I try it all on. I look forward to wearing lingerie every night.
What I don't know is that behind the mirror is a closed circuit video camera. They're watching me for the express purpose of watching me succumb to wearing their clothes.
One night, they all get together and watch, waiting for the perfect moment to burst into my room more quickly than I can react, turn on the light, and tear off the bedsheet, exposing me to all the world as a flaky transvestite.
There I sit in my bed, wearing a garter belt and panties and a bra, trying pathetically to cover myself up with my hands. But it's hopeless. I have nowhere to hide. The girls are all around me, pointing and laughing. Finally, the spokeswoman steps forward.
"I don't remember ___ giving you permission to wear her clothes."
I remain speechless, too embarrassed to talk. The other girls are snapping my bra and garters, and I try to swat away their hands.
"So how do you explain. . . this?" she asks, chuckling.
Again, I have no answer.
"Obviously, you get some kind of kick out of it, don't you? Don't you? Don't want to talk, eh? Well, it doesn't matter." She seductively moves her face close to mine. "You know that we can't let you get away with this, don't you? I mean, you've ruined ___'s underwear with your disgusting little fetish. What do you propose we do with you?"
I still can't answer. I'm mortified.
"One thing's for sure: you're never going to be manly again!"
The girls giggle and cheer as she says this, and they pick me up, and walk me, lingerie and all, down the hall to the bathroom, where they force me to strip naked. Then they tie down my limbs, and lather me with some smelly substance. They then proceed to remove every hair from my body, except my pubic hair, where they leave a bikini line. That being done, they force me back into my lingerie. I can't help but notice how much smoother the stockings feel on my bare legs.
They parade me downstairs to a room I had never seen before. They strap me spread-eagled to a bed, still in my lingerie. Next thing I know, a big burly behemoth of a man appears, naked as a jaybird, and he mounts me between my spread legs. He snaps my panty elastic and my bra strap. He caresses me with his hands. He makes me feel so effeminate. "How do you like that, sexy girl?" he coos. He starts squeezing my nipple, and undulating lasciviously on top of me. I can't help but feel incredibly stimulated. It's so easy to think of myself as a girl, with him on top of me, squeezing my tit. I find myself responding by gyrating my hips, to rub my own dick against his body--or rather to rub panty-clad pseudo-cunt against his hard prick. After I come, I remember that all the girls are watching me. I notice one with a video camera.
The man remains on top of me, cuddling me. I am totally disgusted with myself. I am still strapped in and wearing women's clothes, too. I don't feel the least bit feminine anymore.
"So, I see you rather enjoyed your little romp, hm?"
Again, I remain silent. I try to block her out.
"We're giving you a choice. Either you agree to become a girl, since you so desperately want to be, or you leave this place now. And let me tell you, if you leave now, we'll let the whole world know about your little secret."
I begged her to let me go. I ran off crying. They didn't even let me change. I still wore nothing but lingerie. They gave me men's clothes to put on top, but once outside, I had no opportunity to change. I was female underneath.
For a few days, I tried to return to normal life. But they left little signs everywhere: a pair of panties in my underwear drawer. One of the girls calls to me from across the street, calling me a sissy, a faggot, a drag queen. But worse, somehow I still can't stop. I long to wear the panties they leave me.
Months later, I try dating girls again. But they all suddenly stop returning my calls. I start finding posters of myself in lingerie everywhere. I don't know whether to tear them down or ignore them and try to be nonchalant. I'm confronted everywhere with giggles or strange looks. Everybody knows.
Of course I start over on my own again. I start wearing things that I steal from clotheslines, or buy. I am ashamed of myself. But I can't stop. Some days, I dare to shave myself and others I wear girls' stuff all day. At last, they catch me on one of those days, and strip me in public. I am exposed to the whole world in women's underwear. I crawl back to the sorority house.
They set me up with my own wardrobe, and I get to practice being a girl full-time.
Diary: How I Became Such a Sissy, and How I Hope To Become Even More of One
It started innocently enough. But I fear that the fears of men are well justified. Somehow, masculinity knows what threatens it; it knows its enemy, but is powerless against it.
It's a very distant memory: the annual school pantomime, with every class performing its own number. My entire kindergarten class, for reasons that I cannot recall, dressed up as flowers. We all had to wear white stockings. Or maybe we didn't dress up as flowers. We did definitely have to wear the white stockings. I have no recollection of what it was that we performed. I was, after all, only five years old. But that was the first time. Or at least it was the first time that I remember.
Some fathers object to any suggestion that their young boys wear anything even remotely feminine, be it stockings or dresses or kilts or whatever. They fear that somehow, their boy's mind might be warped, and he might grow up to be effeminate. Perhaps the young boy might become used to wearing feminine clothes and might grow to prefer it. Perhaps the boy might become homosexual. It was like a subversive idea that would cause the downfall of civilization if anyone ever learned of it.
I learned that idea in kindergarten. Those macho, over-protective fathers are quite close to the mark. Perhaps they know something more than they should, too. . .
How long before I actually dared to venture into the dirty laundry for more, I cannot say. But the idea must have lingered long in my head before I did it again. And I knew that it was wrong. I knew that I was seriously jeopardizing my masculinity by "borrowing" a pair of pantihose. That first innocent experience, when I was forced to wear girls' stockings in front of hundreds of people when I was five years old corrupted me forever. It was the first time, the first of countless thousands of times over the years, that I have worn women's clothing.
I must have hardly noticed it at first. But I remember asking my parents if I could sleep with those stockings on that night. I wanted to masturbate in them. But they denied me. I fell asleep that night longing for what they put away in my dresser, where I was afraid to reach for it, for fear of being discovered. I knew that they didn't want me to wear it. And I fear now that they were somewhat alarmed about my request.
I must have longed for pantihose for years before I summoned up the courage to wear some again. I have no idea how long I fantasized about it. I do remember rolling up my underwear to make it more skimpy and feminine. I probably worried about that, too. But it couldn't have been that troublesome: after all, I wasn't actually wearing women's underwear, I was just fantasizing about it.
Worse, I eventually did try on some pantihose. I think I dug for some in the dirty laundry a few tense times, without daring to take any. But eventually I did. I certainly didn't want to become too effeminate: I protected myself against it by keeping on my own underwear. But eventually, I succumbed to the temptation to go into it naked. And I worried afterwards that I had taken my experiments too far. I was afraid that one day, I might actually wear all sorts of effeminate things, like bathing suits and lingerie, because as I pleasured myself, I imagined myself wearing those effeminate underthings, and I hoped that I would one day wear only women's clothing.
I imagined myself being forced to wear things by beautiful women, and I would discover the pleasures they afforded, and aspire to be female. I would go through a hierarchy of femininity, wearing pantihose first, then leotards, then bathing suits, then bikinis, then lingerie. I made this up because I had to come up with some excuse for not having lingerie at hand. I would have jumped right into it if I had had the opportunity. I imagined myself in the middle of a less interesting stage of my feminine development, and cheating by trying on something super-sexy that I was officially not ready for yet. There would have been others like me around me, but they wouldn't be as enthusiastic about their clothing as me. I was crazy for doing it that way, risking my sanity somehow, perhaps risking my sexuality.
So, as the years went on, I tried on all sorts of things, always ashamed after I was done; but I couldn't make myself stop. I always returned to it. And that made it worse and worse: I thought that I could destroy my stolen pantihose and bathing suits and swear to never wear women's clothes again, and I would be cured. I thought that I could restore that part of my masculinity that I had lost by fantasizing about becoming female by renouncing my secret practice. But that only made me want it more. I would go for weeks or months without women's clothing, and curse myself for having gotten rid of it. I still fantasized about it, and it became unbearable. I absolutely needed to wear something feminine. Every time I quit and started again, it reinforced my femininity, and weakened my masculinity. Every time I started again, it proved that I did become effeminate by wearing women's underwear; and being effeminate, I needed to wear some girls' clothing to feel comfortable. I repressed myself so much in that time that it is not hard to imagine why I had such a difficult adolescence. So every time I went back to it, I felt that much more like a girl happy in her comfy, sexy underwear.
Men are correct in thinking that doing something effeminate, in my case wearing women's clothes, makes one irrevocably effeminate. That one little incident with the white stockings in kindergarten, even though I was far too young to have much of a sexual awareness, infected me with the tiniest little bit of girlishness. That tiny little bit has blossomed into a massive, barely controllable desire to be a girl, and to dress like a girl.
Just imagine the scandal! My precious masculinity, defiled by a scanty elasticated swatch of lace and silk! Unprotected against the high-cut crotch-cuddling spandex of a bathing suit! In direct contact with something which should only come into contact with femininity. Just picture it: a macho man wearing little silky panties, a bra, a garter belt, and stockings, acting as much as he can like a girl in heat. A horrible thought! But think of it as yourself, and think of yourself as that sexy slinky supermodel who skips around in her lingerie. It's not just the thought of wearing women's clothing, it's the thought of renouncing masculinity that arouses me. The idea that I could wear women's clothing often enough to actually become a woman drives me into a fit of passion.
I have this picture in my mind of a sexy woman in lingerie dangling some panties in front of me teasingly, enticing me into wearing them. I look at myself, and I'm wearing my own clothes. But the legs sticking out of my shorts are shaven smooth and effeminately sexy. I feel a pang of shame as I look at her, understand her suggestion, and understand that it means that I, a man, have willingly submitted to this process of feminization too many times to count, and that she expects me to do it again; it shames me that she knows that I, a man, wear women's underwear for sexual pleasure; but I get up, coyly, and follow her into the bedroom as she cajoles me by swinging her little panties under my nose; and it shames me that I remove all vestiges of masculinity from my body, and slip into the sexy lingerie she has selected for me to wear. But ultimately, I succumb to the lingerie, forgetting my shame, and abandon myself to wild sexual pleasure, just by being, at least cosmetically, female. Here's more of the fantasy told dramatically:
I sat at my comfy lay-z-boy, watching hockey on TV and drinking beer, when Amy appeared around the corner of the doorway, only her head visible. Her blond hair was up, with a few stray locks dangling around her neck. She purred as she called my name.
I looked right at her, and half expected what was coming. She grinned and slowly raised her arm, revealing it from its concealment behind the wall. She dangled some scanty little silky panties in her hand. "It's time to play," she meowed. She stepped out into the doorway wearing her favourite lingerie outfit: a white bra and panties with a matching garter belt and white stockings.
I could feel my head turn livid with shame as I understood her suggestion. I glanced away from her because I couldn't bear to look at her; but that was no better, as my glance fell to my own legs, silky smooth shaven, sticking out of my shorts. I turned towards her again, and she had come into the room just enough to hold out the panties centimetres from my face. I followed her as she backed away towards the bedroom, cajoling me all the way with the panties in my face. I could smell the delicate perfume in them, they were so close.
I felt self-conscious as I trailed shyly after her. I felt like hiding under the couch. I felt like I was walking up on stage at a massive theatre for the first time, wearing nothing at all, with everyone in the building gawking at me.
We finally reached the bedroom. "Here," she said playfully, handing me the panties. "I thought you'd like to try these on for me." I took them sheepishly in one hand as I pulled off my baggy shorts and underwear in one swipe with the other. I looked at her rummaging in her dresser, her lovely playful tits snug inside her frilly bra, and her legs dainty and lithe in her stockings. She was the sexiest, most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
I inspected the panties more closely. They were silky, with a lace trim, and white. The crotch elastic looked so pretty and delicate, as did the skimpy waistband. I slipped into them quickly, snapping the tight waistband as I reached the top. I rubbed my silky legs together and whipped off my shirt. I stared at my hairless body, wondering at how awkward and male it looked in my sexy little panties. Amy handed me another white bra and a garter belt, which I snapped on happily but nervously. I eagerly anticipated wearing stockings on my bare, shaven legs. I rolled them on luxuriously as Amy watched, approving of my feminine mannerisms.
I preened in the mirror for a few moments, my hair down, my super-hard dick tucked painfully out of view, and admired how gorgeous these clothes made me. Still, my butt looked too hard, and I had no tits, and my frame was too square and heavyset; but I looked pretty, well, pretty nonetheless. Amy opened the closet, and handed me the high-heeled sandals we had bought just for me because I could never fit my gargantuan feet into hers. I was now walking and talking like a girl, loving the feel of the stockings on my legs, and rubbing them effeminately together as I pranced around.
Amy grabbed me suddenly by the waist and threw me onto the bed. We snuggled up together, touching each other's feminine bodies, and talking about girlish things, like how pretty we looked in this or that, and how wonderful it would be to wear such and such a thing. We were girlfriends. We were so close in these moments. She would tease me about how I am enjoying wearing her lingerie, and I would blush demurely. Then we made out, and petted. I wanted to never remove my clothes.
She knew what she was getting herself into when she dangled those panties in front of me. I became wild with passion, feeling every bit the girl I wanted to be. I wrapped my legs around her and rubbed myself all over her belly. I screamed for a penis. I desperately yearned for a dick inside me, and I pretended that she was a man mounting me and fucking me. I totally lost control. And she loved it, because I became so passionate.
When I came at last, all over our pretty undies, I nearly fainted. I rolled Amy off of me, and remembered where I was, and who I was: a man, still a man, strapped in slinky feminine clothing, feeling utterly unable to extract myself. Again, I turned livid with shame, so completely aware that I was wearing a bra, panties, and a garter belt, and how the fabric of each of these items clung to my sweaty body. My body suddenly felt out of place in lingerie; I wanted desperately to get out of my feminine clothing, to run and hide from Amy. But she prevented me from leaving. She hugged me from behind, and would not let me leave. She fell asleep like this, fingering my bra strap and my garters, drawing my attention even more to what I wore; and I myself fell asleep as I was, unwilling to disturb Amy by getting up and taking it all off. That night I slept like a woman.
It's a very distant memory: the annual school pantomime, with every class performing its own number. My entire kindergarten class, for reasons that I cannot recall, dressed up as flowers. We all had to wear white stockings. Or maybe we didn't dress up as flowers. We did definitely have to wear the white stockings. I have no recollection of what it was that we performed. I was, after all, only five years old. But that was the first time. Or at least it was the first time that I remember.
Some fathers object to any suggestion that their young boys wear anything even remotely feminine, be it stockings or dresses or kilts or whatever. They fear that somehow, their boy's mind might be warped, and he might grow up to be effeminate. Perhaps the young boy might become used to wearing feminine clothes and might grow to prefer it. Perhaps the boy might become homosexual. It was like a subversive idea that would cause the downfall of civilization if anyone ever learned of it.
I learned that idea in kindergarten. Those macho, over-protective fathers are quite close to the mark. Perhaps they know something more than they should, too. . .
How long before I actually dared to venture into the dirty laundry for more, I cannot say. But the idea must have lingered long in my head before I did it again. And I knew that it was wrong. I knew that I was seriously jeopardizing my masculinity by "borrowing" a pair of pantihose. That first innocent experience, when I was forced to wear girls' stockings in front of hundreds of people when I was five years old corrupted me forever. It was the first time, the first of countless thousands of times over the years, that I have worn women's clothing.
I must have hardly noticed it at first. But I remember asking my parents if I could sleep with those stockings on that night. I wanted to masturbate in them. But they denied me. I fell asleep that night longing for what they put away in my dresser, where I was afraid to reach for it, for fear of being discovered. I knew that they didn't want me to wear it. And I fear now that they were somewhat alarmed about my request.
I must have longed for pantihose for years before I summoned up the courage to wear some again. I have no idea how long I fantasized about it. I do remember rolling up my underwear to make it more skimpy and feminine. I probably worried about that, too. But it couldn't have been that troublesome: after all, I wasn't actually wearing women's underwear, I was just fantasizing about it.
Worse, I eventually did try on some pantihose. I think I dug for some in the dirty laundry a few tense times, without daring to take any. But eventually I did. I certainly didn't want to become too effeminate: I protected myself against it by keeping on my own underwear. But eventually, I succumbed to the temptation to go into it naked. And I worried afterwards that I had taken my experiments too far. I was afraid that one day, I might actually wear all sorts of effeminate things, like bathing suits and lingerie, because as I pleasured myself, I imagined myself wearing those effeminate underthings, and I hoped that I would one day wear only women's clothing.
I imagined myself being forced to wear things by beautiful women, and I would discover the pleasures they afforded, and aspire to be female. I would go through a hierarchy of femininity, wearing pantihose first, then leotards, then bathing suits, then bikinis, then lingerie. I made this up because I had to come up with some excuse for not having lingerie at hand. I would have jumped right into it if I had had the opportunity. I imagined myself in the middle of a less interesting stage of my feminine development, and cheating by trying on something super-sexy that I was officially not ready for yet. There would have been others like me around me, but they wouldn't be as enthusiastic about their clothing as me. I was crazy for doing it that way, risking my sanity somehow, perhaps risking my sexuality.
So, as the years went on, I tried on all sorts of things, always ashamed after I was done; but I couldn't make myself stop. I always returned to it. And that made it worse and worse: I thought that I could destroy my stolen pantihose and bathing suits and swear to never wear women's clothes again, and I would be cured. I thought that I could restore that part of my masculinity that I had lost by fantasizing about becoming female by renouncing my secret practice. But that only made me want it more. I would go for weeks or months without women's clothing, and curse myself for having gotten rid of it. I still fantasized about it, and it became unbearable. I absolutely needed to wear something feminine. Every time I quit and started again, it reinforced my femininity, and weakened my masculinity. Every time I started again, it proved that I did become effeminate by wearing women's underwear; and being effeminate, I needed to wear some girls' clothing to feel comfortable. I repressed myself so much in that time that it is not hard to imagine why I had such a difficult adolescence. So every time I went back to it, I felt that much more like a girl happy in her comfy, sexy underwear.
Men are correct in thinking that doing something effeminate, in my case wearing women's clothes, makes one irrevocably effeminate. That one little incident with the white stockings in kindergarten, even though I was far too young to have much of a sexual awareness, infected me with the tiniest little bit of girlishness. That tiny little bit has blossomed into a massive, barely controllable desire to be a girl, and to dress like a girl.
Just imagine the scandal! My precious masculinity, defiled by a scanty elasticated swatch of lace and silk! Unprotected against the high-cut crotch-cuddling spandex of a bathing suit! In direct contact with something which should only come into contact with femininity. Just picture it: a macho man wearing little silky panties, a bra, a garter belt, and stockings, acting as much as he can like a girl in heat. A horrible thought! But think of it as yourself, and think of yourself as that sexy slinky supermodel who skips around in her lingerie. It's not just the thought of wearing women's clothing, it's the thought of renouncing masculinity that arouses me. The idea that I could wear women's clothing often enough to actually become a woman drives me into a fit of passion.
I have this picture in my mind of a sexy woman in lingerie dangling some panties in front of me teasingly, enticing me into wearing them. I look at myself, and I'm wearing my own clothes. But the legs sticking out of my shorts are shaven smooth and effeminately sexy. I feel a pang of shame as I look at her, understand her suggestion, and understand that it means that I, a man, have willingly submitted to this process of feminization too many times to count, and that she expects me to do it again; it shames me that she knows that I, a man, wear women's underwear for sexual pleasure; but I get up, coyly, and follow her into the bedroom as she cajoles me by swinging her little panties under my nose; and it shames me that I remove all vestiges of masculinity from my body, and slip into the sexy lingerie she has selected for me to wear. But ultimately, I succumb to the lingerie, forgetting my shame, and abandon myself to wild sexual pleasure, just by being, at least cosmetically, female. Here's more of the fantasy told dramatically:
I sat at my comfy lay-z-boy, watching hockey on TV and drinking beer, when Amy appeared around the corner of the doorway, only her head visible. Her blond hair was up, with a few stray locks dangling around her neck. She purred as she called my name.
I looked right at her, and half expected what was coming. She grinned and slowly raised her arm, revealing it from its concealment behind the wall. She dangled some scanty little silky panties in her hand. "It's time to play," she meowed. She stepped out into the doorway wearing her favourite lingerie outfit: a white bra and panties with a matching garter belt and white stockings.
I could feel my head turn livid with shame as I understood her suggestion. I glanced away from her because I couldn't bear to look at her; but that was no better, as my glance fell to my own legs, silky smooth shaven, sticking out of my shorts. I turned towards her again, and she had come into the room just enough to hold out the panties centimetres from my face. I followed her as she backed away towards the bedroom, cajoling me all the way with the panties in my face. I could smell the delicate perfume in them, they were so close.
I felt self-conscious as I trailed shyly after her. I felt like hiding under the couch. I felt like I was walking up on stage at a massive theatre for the first time, wearing nothing at all, with everyone in the building gawking at me.
We finally reached the bedroom. "Here," she said playfully, handing me the panties. "I thought you'd like to try these on for me." I took them sheepishly in one hand as I pulled off my baggy shorts and underwear in one swipe with the other. I looked at her rummaging in her dresser, her lovely playful tits snug inside her frilly bra, and her legs dainty and lithe in her stockings. She was the sexiest, most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
I inspected the panties more closely. They were silky, with a lace trim, and white. The crotch elastic looked so pretty and delicate, as did the skimpy waistband. I slipped into them quickly, snapping the tight waistband as I reached the top. I rubbed my silky legs together and whipped off my shirt. I stared at my hairless body, wondering at how awkward and male it looked in my sexy little panties. Amy handed me another white bra and a garter belt, which I snapped on happily but nervously. I eagerly anticipated wearing stockings on my bare, shaven legs. I rolled them on luxuriously as Amy watched, approving of my feminine mannerisms.
I preened in the mirror for a few moments, my hair down, my super-hard dick tucked painfully out of view, and admired how gorgeous these clothes made me. Still, my butt looked too hard, and I had no tits, and my frame was too square and heavyset; but I looked pretty, well, pretty nonetheless. Amy opened the closet, and handed me the high-heeled sandals we had bought just for me because I could never fit my gargantuan feet into hers. I was now walking and talking like a girl, loving the feel of the stockings on my legs, and rubbing them effeminately together as I pranced around.
Amy grabbed me suddenly by the waist and threw me onto the bed. We snuggled up together, touching each other's feminine bodies, and talking about girlish things, like how pretty we looked in this or that, and how wonderful it would be to wear such and such a thing. We were girlfriends. We were so close in these moments. She would tease me about how I am enjoying wearing her lingerie, and I would blush demurely. Then we made out, and petted. I wanted to never remove my clothes.
She knew what she was getting herself into when she dangled those panties in front of me. I became wild with passion, feeling every bit the girl I wanted to be. I wrapped my legs around her and rubbed myself all over her belly. I screamed for a penis. I desperately yearned for a dick inside me, and I pretended that she was a man mounting me and fucking me. I totally lost control. And she loved it, because I became so passionate.
When I came at last, all over our pretty undies, I nearly fainted. I rolled Amy off of me, and remembered where I was, and who I was: a man, still a man, strapped in slinky feminine clothing, feeling utterly unable to extract myself. Again, I turned livid with shame, so completely aware that I was wearing a bra, panties, and a garter belt, and how the fabric of each of these items clung to my sweaty body. My body suddenly felt out of place in lingerie; I wanted desperately to get out of my feminine clothing, to run and hide from Amy. But she prevented me from leaving. She hugged me from behind, and would not let me leave. She fell asleep like this, fingering my bra strap and my garters, drawing my attention even more to what I wore; and I myself fell asleep as I was, unwilling to disturb Amy by getting up and taking it all off. That night I slept like a woman.
Diary: Getting Revved Up
So I had a ball with A__'s underwear. I wore her dresses, even. I found out that I love the feel of material flowing around my legs. It feels so sexy, so pretty. That's all old news by now, though.
I just want to turn myself on right now. Just for the Hell of it. Last night I wore my little black panties with my garter belt holding up the stockings I cut out of pantihose (so soft and silky!) and the velvety bra, covered with A__'s dress-like nightgown. It felt quite wonderful. I love the feel of stockings on my legs.
I just want to turn myself on right now. Just for the Hell of it. Last night I wore my little black panties with my garter belt holding up the stockings I cut out of pantihose (so soft and silky!) and the velvety bra, covered with A__'s dress-like nightgown. It felt quite wonderful. I love the feel of stockings on my legs.
Diary: What I did in the Candy Store; Bonus Fantasy: Long-Distance Relationship
So I went there and did it. My god, what an experience! One of the most intense, ever! I tend to have some quite amazing sessions when I write about it first, but there was a little bit of time before my escapade of the day. But boy, did it ever work.
I didn't know quite where to start. I looked for shoes, but found nothing that could even come close to fitting my feet. I was disappointed at first. Then I went to the basement and found another of A__'s bras, and brought it up with me. I put it aside and looked through the closet and dresser again.
The first thing I put on was that little high-cut leotard, which was probably the most high-cut thing I've ever worn. I rubbed myself around a bit before I took control of myself and put it away for future reference. Nice and tight on the crotch, very high up the thigh, but a little old and worn out.
Next I put on that little silky off-white teddy. It was exquisite to rub around in silk. But then I took control of myself again, and went back to the closet. I didn't want to take this one off. I went right for the two dresses. First the short little blue one. I felt incredibly sexy. I rubbed a bit more, perpetually close to coming, and stopped myself again. There was more to do.
I put back the blue dress and slipped into the black and white gown that she wore to my grandparents' 60th anniversary. It's much tighter on me than it is on her. I was totally amazed at how wonderful it feels to have a skirt flowing around my legs. I could barely stand it any longer. I had to continue, but not with that dress on. I didn't want to ruin it.
I got up and took it off. When I returned to the closet, I noticed that the black teddy that I wanted a piece of was hanging behind a corner, out of sight! I immediately stripped out of the lacy teddy and put it on. It was quite wonderful, too. But I had more things to try. I was like a kid in a candy store.
I took it off and I had to try on that bathing suit again. It looked so interesting to me, and the first time I wore it, I wasn't totally in the mood for it. But I was intrigued by the back of it, which is high around the shoulders. I squeezed myself into it, and promptly fell onto the bed again in exctasy. There was no more stopping me. I wanted to try to put on some panties, but I simply could not stop myself this time. It was incredible. I was so horny, and I was so far gone into it that I simply could not contain myself. I came into my hand, an extremely viscous load, and spilled it all over my leg, dropped my dick right onto the bathing suit, and dripped onto the comforter. I made a bit of a mess. But it was so worth it. Probably the best one-piece bathing suit experience ever. It was most likely due to the other things I wore, and to the fact that it is A__'s (I admit that I thought of her much of the time, and thought about how I was feeling where her genitals once touched). That bathing suit will now forever remind me of an incredible sexual experience. I'm doomed.
And to think that I have yet to sample so much of her underwear! I still need to come inside those two teddies, and in her many panties, and in those leotards. . . God, I'm glad that she asked me to go back there again tomorrow to throw out the garbage. I'll be overjoyed to continue my experiments. I want to hang around in her dress, wearing her panties underneath, and maybe some stockings (perhaps my own fishnets, on my own garter belt?).
Just in case, I took her silky off-white teddy with me for tonight. I came already this evening, but I think I won't be able to resist doing it again. I even feel like wearing that velvety underwear she keeps in my drawer.
Anyway, I wanted to record a new fantasy:
My beloved girlie is leaving me for a trip somewhere with her family. I can't go because I need to work. So she goes alone, without me. But she makes sure that I don't feel too lonely.
We make love the night before she leaves. An incredible night of passion, with kinky touching and positions and the whole bit. But as we get dressed, she notices how sad I am about her departure.
"Don't worry, sniffy, you don't have to forget about me."
"I won't."
"I know. But here's a little something to keep you thinking of me." She scooped up her undies and dangled them in front of my face. I playfully swatted them away.
"What's all this about?"
"I don't want you to forget about me while I'm gone," she began again.
"Yes, darling, I'll treasure your dirty underwear," I said with a chuckle, somewhat turned on about keeping such an intimate memento.
"If you ever get really, um, lonely, just put them on."
"Oooh, as if I don't all the time," I kidded, thinking she was putting me on.
"No, seriously."
"Yes, dear. But as much as I would like to, I don't think that I can. They're probably too small. And what would the guys say?"
"Oh, don't worry about that. I'm sure they'll fit you. And nobody ever has to know. It'll be our little secret. Besides," she purred, rubbing her hand on my semi-dormant prick, "you know what part of my body is in constant contact with those, don't you?"
"Well, if you put it that way. . ."
So we fell asleep, and she left in the morning. She left her panties on my dresser, just as a token of her suggestion of the night before.
That evening, I felt so incredibly horny thinking about her, but she wasn't around. I missed her already. But I ignored my urges and went to sleep. This went on for a few days, until it became completely unbearable. Shedding away all my dignity, I decided that I might as well jerk off. I was quite eager to get going, but for some reason, I simply could not feel as good as I would have liked. I thought of our last conversation, and remembered the panties she left me.
I got to thinking about her in those panties, how they caressed her sweet, smelly cunt, that lovable curvaceous little lump of flesh and hair, the locus of my greatest pleasure. I wanted to touch it again. But she wasn't there. All I had were those panties, which hugged her snugly where I love her most. I compulsively snatched the panties off my dresser and sniffed them, and rubbed them on my dick.
It was fantastic. But I needed more. I needed to be in contact with that lovely little middle part that cradles her cunt at all times. I ran my finger along the lovely little lacy trim, and along the silky material, and I nearly swooned. I took her advice and put them on, and thoroughly enjoyed myself remembering her.
She was a bit surprised to find me still wearing them when she returned. I wore them every day since that first day. She giggled when she saw them.
"So I see you took my advice, hm?"
"Yes, and I'm still wearing them to show you how much I missed you."
She was touched, and we fucked each other's brains out immediately.
Her mother was ill, so she had to leave almost every weekend. I relied on the same ritual to remember her, and it served as an adequate replacement. She told me to simply grab whatever panty appealed to me at the moment, and I wore something sexy every day she was gone. She encouraged me to wear anything I wanted, including her bras, bathing suits, and lingerie, because she thought it was so sweet of me to think of her so much, and to be so attached to her things. She is so sentimental.
We became closer through this little ritual. I always felt so much love for her when I felt the divine fulcrum of her panties, my crotch rubbing up against what touches hers. I began to miss her so much even during our daily separation for work that I began to wear her panties every day. She was even more impressed. The ritual had become a daily one. Our sex life grew to a fever pitch.
We had so much fun getting dressed in the morning. I pretty well dumped all my own underwear. I didn't need it anymore. All I needed was hers, and I could think of her all day. We picked out the panties that we would wear each day. I wore her teddies sometimes, when it appealed to me. I even began to wear bras, even though I didn't need any support for my non-existent tits. I almost wished that I did. Our sex life consisted of this day-long ritual: we would dress each other up in similar clothes, careful not to do anything more than tease each other. Then we would think about sex all day, come home, and parade in front of each other in silky lacy girlish glee. The foreplay was the best part: we would cavort around in her underwear until almost the point of climax. I loved feeling close to her by wearing her underwear, and showing off to her how much I enjoyed feeling it on my body.
Our ritual escalated. I started shaving my body to feel more appropriate in her underwear. It looked so barbarous with all that hair sticking out everywhere. She helped me do it, she was so enthusiastic about it. My whole body was shaven clean, and I felt and looked sexier than ever in her panties. For the first time, I wore her stockings on my smooth legs, with her garter belt, and was amazed at how beautiful a girl I had become. So was she. She loved the idea of having me so devoted to her that I would want to be just like her.
There's so much room for psychological detail: showing how I move from man to woman, and how I rationalize and accept my transformation. Talk about how I never saw it coming until it was too late, and then I embraced it. It's lovely, isn't it?
I didn't know quite where to start. I looked for shoes, but found nothing that could even come close to fitting my feet. I was disappointed at first. Then I went to the basement and found another of A__'s bras, and brought it up with me. I put it aside and looked through the closet and dresser again.
The first thing I put on was that little high-cut leotard, which was probably the most high-cut thing I've ever worn. I rubbed myself around a bit before I took control of myself and put it away for future reference. Nice and tight on the crotch, very high up the thigh, but a little old and worn out.
Next I put on that little silky off-white teddy. It was exquisite to rub around in silk. But then I took control of myself again, and went back to the closet. I didn't want to take this one off. I went right for the two dresses. First the short little blue one. I felt incredibly sexy. I rubbed a bit more, perpetually close to coming, and stopped myself again. There was more to do.
I put back the blue dress and slipped into the black and white gown that she wore to my grandparents' 60th anniversary. It's much tighter on me than it is on her. I was totally amazed at how wonderful it feels to have a skirt flowing around my legs. I could barely stand it any longer. I had to continue, but not with that dress on. I didn't want to ruin it.
I got up and took it off. When I returned to the closet, I noticed that the black teddy that I wanted a piece of was hanging behind a corner, out of sight! I immediately stripped out of the lacy teddy and put it on. It was quite wonderful, too. But I had more things to try. I was like a kid in a candy store.
I took it off and I had to try on that bathing suit again. It looked so interesting to me, and the first time I wore it, I wasn't totally in the mood for it. But I was intrigued by the back of it, which is high around the shoulders. I squeezed myself into it, and promptly fell onto the bed again in exctasy. There was no more stopping me. I wanted to try to put on some panties, but I simply could not stop myself this time. It was incredible. I was so horny, and I was so far gone into it that I simply could not contain myself. I came into my hand, an extremely viscous load, and spilled it all over my leg, dropped my dick right onto the bathing suit, and dripped onto the comforter. I made a bit of a mess. But it was so worth it. Probably the best one-piece bathing suit experience ever. It was most likely due to the other things I wore, and to the fact that it is A__'s (I admit that I thought of her much of the time, and thought about how I was feeling where her genitals once touched). That bathing suit will now forever remind me of an incredible sexual experience. I'm doomed.
And to think that I have yet to sample so much of her underwear! I still need to come inside those two teddies, and in her many panties, and in those leotards. . . God, I'm glad that she asked me to go back there again tomorrow to throw out the garbage. I'll be overjoyed to continue my experiments. I want to hang around in her dress, wearing her panties underneath, and maybe some stockings (perhaps my own fishnets, on my own garter belt?).
Just in case, I took her silky off-white teddy with me for tonight. I came already this evening, but I think I won't be able to resist doing it again. I even feel like wearing that velvety underwear she keeps in my drawer.
Anyway, I wanted to record a new fantasy:
My beloved girlie is leaving me for a trip somewhere with her family. I can't go because I need to work. So she goes alone, without me. But she makes sure that I don't feel too lonely.
We make love the night before she leaves. An incredible night of passion, with kinky touching and positions and the whole bit. But as we get dressed, she notices how sad I am about her departure.
"Don't worry, sniffy, you don't have to forget about me."
"I won't."
"I know. But here's a little something to keep you thinking of me." She scooped up her undies and dangled them in front of my face. I playfully swatted them away.
"What's all this about?"
"I don't want you to forget about me while I'm gone," she began again.
"Yes, darling, I'll treasure your dirty underwear," I said with a chuckle, somewhat turned on about keeping such an intimate memento.
"If you ever get really, um, lonely, just put them on."
"Oooh, as if I don't all the time," I kidded, thinking she was putting me on.
"No, seriously."
"Yes, dear. But as much as I would like to, I don't think that I can. They're probably too small. And what would the guys say?"
"Oh, don't worry about that. I'm sure they'll fit you. And nobody ever has to know. It'll be our little secret. Besides," she purred, rubbing her hand on my semi-dormant prick, "you know what part of my body is in constant contact with those, don't you?"
"Well, if you put it that way. . ."
So we fell asleep, and she left in the morning. She left her panties on my dresser, just as a token of her suggestion of the night before.
That evening, I felt so incredibly horny thinking about her, but she wasn't around. I missed her already. But I ignored my urges and went to sleep. This went on for a few days, until it became completely unbearable. Shedding away all my dignity, I decided that I might as well jerk off. I was quite eager to get going, but for some reason, I simply could not feel as good as I would have liked. I thought of our last conversation, and remembered the panties she left me.
I got to thinking about her in those panties, how they caressed her sweet, smelly cunt, that lovable curvaceous little lump of flesh and hair, the locus of my greatest pleasure. I wanted to touch it again. But she wasn't there. All I had were those panties, which hugged her snugly where I love her most. I compulsively snatched the panties off my dresser and sniffed them, and rubbed them on my dick.
It was fantastic. But I needed more. I needed to be in contact with that lovely little middle part that cradles her cunt at all times. I ran my finger along the lovely little lacy trim, and along the silky material, and I nearly swooned. I took her advice and put them on, and thoroughly enjoyed myself remembering her.
She was a bit surprised to find me still wearing them when she returned. I wore them every day since that first day. She giggled when she saw them.
"So I see you took my advice, hm?"
"Yes, and I'm still wearing them to show you how much I missed you."
She was touched, and we fucked each other's brains out immediately.
Her mother was ill, so she had to leave almost every weekend. I relied on the same ritual to remember her, and it served as an adequate replacement. She told me to simply grab whatever panty appealed to me at the moment, and I wore something sexy every day she was gone. She encouraged me to wear anything I wanted, including her bras, bathing suits, and lingerie, because she thought it was so sweet of me to think of her so much, and to be so attached to her things. She is so sentimental.
We became closer through this little ritual. I always felt so much love for her when I felt the divine fulcrum of her panties, my crotch rubbing up against what touches hers. I began to miss her so much even during our daily separation for work that I began to wear her panties every day. She was even more impressed. The ritual had become a daily one. Our sex life grew to a fever pitch.
We had so much fun getting dressed in the morning. I pretty well dumped all my own underwear. I didn't need it anymore. All I needed was hers, and I could think of her all day. We picked out the panties that we would wear each day. I wore her teddies sometimes, when it appealed to me. I even began to wear bras, even though I didn't need any support for my non-existent tits. I almost wished that I did. Our sex life consisted of this day-long ritual: we would dress each other up in similar clothes, careful not to do anything more than tease each other. Then we would think about sex all day, come home, and parade in front of each other in silky lacy girlish glee. The foreplay was the best part: we would cavort around in her underwear until almost the point of climax. I loved feeling close to her by wearing her underwear, and showing off to her how much I enjoyed feeling it on my body.
Our ritual escalated. I started shaving my body to feel more appropriate in her underwear. It looked so barbarous with all that hair sticking out everywhere. She helped me do it, she was so enthusiastic about it. My whole body was shaven clean, and I felt and looked sexier than ever in her panties. For the first time, I wore her stockings on my smooth legs, with her garter belt, and was amazed at how beautiful a girl I had become. So was she. She loved the idea of having me so devoted to her that I would want to be just like her.
There's so much room for psychological detail: showing how I move from man to woman, and how I rationalize and accept my transformation. Talk about how I never saw it coming until it was too late, and then I embraced it. It's lovely, isn't it?
Diary: Candy Store
As it happens, A__ [my girlfriend] has gone away for ten days and left me the keys to her house. I went there as soon as I could to rummage through her dresser and closet, looking for fun things to wear. Among my top priorities were her bikini, which I doubted would be there, and her see-through lace underwear, which she had worn the day before she left.
The panties were there, but the bikini was not.
I was somewhat disappointed in the lack of a bikini, especially hers. Even though I have one of my own. But the see through lace was fantastic! I found so many potentially delightful things in there. I plan to return as soon as I can to explore them even more. I found that bathing suit that she never wears, her little stretchy leotard shorts, another leotard--high cut, and those teddy-shorts of silk and lace. So many options. I went through her panty drawer, too, and found lots of potentially amusing things. I can't wait to get my hands on them again.
I felt like going all the way last night, but I didn't dare, because I was filthy and I smelled like smoke and dirt. I didn't want to contaminate her dainty things. I found a bra in the basement laundry pile, which I put on with the see-through panties. Those panties were so tiny, but so incredibly sexy on me! I am very happy to have worn them. I will try on others of her panties, just for more fun. I want to try on her leotards, her teddy, and one or two of her dresses. I even want to wear some shoes. I want the whole nine yards, probably because it's completely available to me. I only wish I weren't limited by my recuperative abilities. I wish I could just go on and on forever. I might even steal some of her bottom-drawer, less distinctive panties, so that I can wear it whenever I want to.
So I'll be off again, and into her clothes. I might even try on some make-up, for fun. I'll be so effeminate! I just can't wait. . .
The panties were there, but the bikini was not.
I was somewhat disappointed in the lack of a bikini, especially hers. Even though I have one of my own. But the see through lace was fantastic! I found so many potentially delightful things in there. I plan to return as soon as I can to explore them even more. I found that bathing suit that she never wears, her little stretchy leotard shorts, another leotard--high cut, and those teddy-shorts of silk and lace. So many options. I went through her panty drawer, too, and found lots of potentially amusing things. I can't wait to get my hands on them again.
I felt like going all the way last night, but I didn't dare, because I was filthy and I smelled like smoke and dirt. I didn't want to contaminate her dainty things. I found a bra in the basement laundry pile, which I put on with the see-through panties. Those panties were so tiny, but so incredibly sexy on me! I am very happy to have worn them. I will try on others of her panties, just for more fun. I want to try on her leotards, her teddy, and one or two of her dresses. I even want to wear some shoes. I want the whole nine yards, probably because it's completely available to me. I only wish I weren't limited by my recuperative abilities. I wish I could just go on and on forever. I might even steal some of her bottom-drawer, less distinctive panties, so that I can wear it whenever I want to.
So I'll be off again, and into her clothes. I might even try on some make-up, for fun. I'll be so effeminate! I just can't wait. . .
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