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.
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