Thursday, January 16, 1997

Diary: Deep Thoughts About Why

Now, for the third consecutive night, I feel the need to explain myself.  Tonight I have a one-piece swimsuit on under my regular clothes.  I have a little secret.  I'm like a girl in that on the inmost layer, on the layer that really counts, much more than any other, I am a girl.  If I wore a skirt or a dress and pantihose and heels, but retained my own underwear, in a way I would maintain my masculinity.  But no, I wear female inner layers.  Because psychologically, I am a girl inside, and a boy outside.  The only thing that keeps me heterosexual is my love for femininity.

Of course that's bullshit.  I'm not really like that.  It's the fantasy talking.  In reality, I find it kinky to wear women's underwear underneath my regular clothes.  Nobody's the wiser.  And I get my thrill.  What woman wears a bathing suit under her clothes unless she's on her way to the beach?  Psychologically, I'm totally heterosexual.  If anything, my wearing of women's clothes comes from my heterosexual lust for femininity.  I love women and their bodies so much that I want to be one.

But I don't know if that's quite right.  In one of those cheesy stories I read on the internet, the late bloomer discovers women's underwear, and becomes almost a fashion consultant, he knows his panties so well.  It's absurd.  And to top it off, he is gay, and becomes a girl at the end.  I don't wear panties because I think they're pretty, although that has a lot to do with it.  I wear panties because they make me feel sexy.  I wear panties because I associate them with femininity.  I have worn ugly underwear, and gotten a huge thrill out of it because it belongs on a female body.  I used to wear nothing but pantihose.  I was afraid to go any further, but content that they were feminine enough.  Of course, I couldn't help but experiment with more hard-core things, but I started with pantihose.

It's interesting that I did, actually.  It was the first thing I ever wore.  I was too young to get the idea that it was wrong for me to want to wear them, but I did think of them sexually.  I knew since I was three how to masturbate.  And it always had something to do with girls.  When I wore the pantihose in kindergarten for that school pantomime, I knew that boys weren't supposed to wear it.  All of us knew.  But we had no choice.  I liked the feeling of wearing them.  I felt good in them.  So nice and snug and soft.  But I didn't touch them again after that for years.

Then when I began to fantasize about girls, and masturbate more frequently, without female clothing, of course, I began to imagine being dominated.  And eventually about being forced to wear their clothing.  I suppose that I remembered something from my past, and I wanted to repeat it.  I can't recall at all the first time I stole some pantihose.  Not at all.  I must have taken it when no one was looking from the dirty clothes hamper.  I know that I did.  I might not even have dared to wear it right away, but I'm quite sure that I must have wanted to.  I was interested only in pantihose at that point, I think.  It was like a female skin to put on my legs.  And groin.  I can't recall if I stayed away from underwear and bathing suits because they were too intense, or if I didn't really think about them at all.  A difficult situation, to not be certain how it started.  I must have fantasized about bathing suits, because to me they were the sexiest thing on earth.  But I didn't touch them.  I only touched pantihose, and enjoyed it tremendously, even at first when I didn't even remove my own underwear first.

It's starting to come back to me, I think.  I used to roll up my own underwear and make it sexy, like a bikini or lingerie.  So I certainly did think of underwear.  I must have fantasized about it, even before I dared to steal pantyhose.  I must have noticed that pulling up my underwear made me feel good, and that when I thought dirty things, I thought of being dominated and forced into panties.  I must have consciously tried to fashion a sort of female panty out of my own panties.  I used to have a shirt that was too large for me, and I stretched it down past my crotch and pinned it together there, and fantasized about it being a bathing suit.  Yes, this must have been long before I ever wore anything female.  So I fantasized about it all.

So one day, I must have screwed up the courage to steal pantihose.  I must have figured that I could get away with it easily, that it's abundant enough that no one would ever notice if it were missing.  And that's how it started.  Pantihose.  I know for a fact that I yearned for it as much as I now yearn for panties and lingerie.  I know that I sweated as I stole it.  And I know that it was one of the most fantastic experiences of my young life to that point.  I still can't figure out if I stole pantihose because I wanted pantihose, or because I didn't dare go further than that on the first try.  I must have wanted panties.  I probably didn't bother because of my mom's ugly panties.  Or I was intimidated by their being in contact with an unknown quantity: the cunt.  I was afraid of it, and thought it was gross.

So that's how I started.  And I probably constructed this heirarchy of wearing only pantihose first, about a hundred times, before going on to bathing suits or leotards, and so on, because I was afraid of going too far too soon.  I was afraid that it would make me a pervert for women's clothing forever, and to such an incurable degree that I would wear it all the time.  That was a real fear.  The fantasy, of course, insisted that this was a great idea.  But I couldn't let my fantasies get the better of me that early in the game.  It truly worried me that I would become some kind of freak, that my desires would get out of control.  And, of course, they did.  And I couldn't stop myself from experimenting further, and more often, with various articles of women's clothing.
I suppose I was right.  I wonder what would have become of my fetish for women's clothing if I had held fast to my morals and refused to wear any clothing again, because it was just too weird.  Would I ever have shaken it?  I'll never know.  Right now, I'm glad I didn't stick to it.  I'm glad I did become a faggotty transvestite as I feared.  I could only control the degree of my sinning, but not the sinning itself.  I could contain myself from wearing a bathing suit too often, but not from wearing something, or at least fantasizing about it, quite often.

So here I am in a female bathing suit, liking it.  That's what I came here for.  Not to describe my transformation into this effeminate wanna-be, but to describe what the appeal is.  I don't think I've ever quite hit on it.  I always go right to the psychological stuff, and skip the aesthetic appeal.

That's the problem with these accounts.  It's always a matter of succumbing to the temptation, but without ever explaining what is so tempting about it.  So why would I want to wear women's clothing when the women force me to?  Why would I enjoy it?  Why would I suddenly decide that this isn't so bad, it's quite good, when I so strongly resist the idea to begin with?  It's not just a betrayal, it's an aesthetic choice.  That's it!  That's what's wrong with my stories.  I must take it for granted, the appeal.  I always "suddenly realize" and turn the leaf into a raving trannie.  

It's so simple.  The desire to be feminine lies at the centre of it, and I think I might have either overblown that desire, or over-emphasized the fact that I am a man, and that I am not allowed to desire femininity.  I have made too much of the gender dynamic.  I have not made enough of the choice involved.  I should stop delaying this and get right down to it.

It was always shame in those stories when the girls first saw me in my female underwear.  They shouldn't force me, though.  That's where I went wrong.  I should have begged them for their panties as soon as I was in their power.  Sure the discovery is fine, really fine, but I never put my finger on what it is.  It was always the simple discovery that it felt exquisite to wear panties.  But why, at last, why, did I ever wear those panties?  Often, in some stories, I decide to try them on just on a whim, without the slightest clue about their appeal.  The discovery always came with wearing them repeatedly.  But it's much more than that.  It's an innate desire, before ever trying them on.  The story on the internet about the guy disguising himself as a woman, except for the underwear, to live with girls, who suddenly discovers that he likes being a girl when forced by necessity to wear the clothes, misses the point: he should have wanted secretly to do it for a long time.  He should have been hanging on to his jockeys just for show.  It would have occurred to him for sure to try on panties, and go all the way for once, just because that's how it must be if he is ever to discover the pleasure.  The little late bloomer who discovers his stepmother's panties as sexual toys does get the point.  It's all about associating the panties with sex, and then with associating sex with the panties.  No, check that.  It's all about how the boy conceptualizes the appeal of women, or how women appeal to him.  The great story about Kim gradually becoming accustomed to wearing women's underwear is extremely appealing, despite its missing the point.  All it does is fulfill the ultimate fantasy of discovery: that of being forced and gradually understanding the importance of wearing women's clothing.  He never gets a sexual thrill out of wearing lingerie.  He does it because he is told to, and becomes female because he is told to.  He never tries to do it all on his own.

This is the trick: girls are appealing.  Why are they appealing?  They have curves.  They have soft, clear, hairless skin.  They have long, slender limbs.  The curves, however, define their sex appeal.  If a girl has disproportionate tits, or ass, or waist, she is not considered beautiful.  She could be pretty, but if she lacks the proper proportion, she is not sexy.  Think of C__, M__s ex-girlfriend.  She was gorgeous, but never appealed to me sexually, because she had the waist of a man.  She lacked the crucial ratio of hips-to-waist.  I forget what it is.  70%?  I don't know.  Something like that.  Anyway, the facial features count, too, but it's the body that really defines sex appeal.  Demi Moore's tits are too small for her to be very sexy.  And tits don't even appeal to me as much as waist, legs, hips, and ass.

That's the key.  I stared for so long at those lingerie adds I downloaded.  Why?  Because the lingerie accentuates the women's incredibly fine features.  They had absolutely perfect bodies.  The lingerie made their bodies even more perfect.  My attraction to the women was almost entirely determined (relative to other pictures of them) by what they wore in that particular photo.  Good lingerie or swimwear accentuates the very parts that make women sexy: the crotch, by hugging it snugly and overtly, and by making the legs high-cut to make it stick out even more.  The higher the cut, the sexier the underwear.  Decoration also helps, such as lace, and soft silks, and ribbons and flowers that make it seem even more feminine.  The belly, then, is next.  It's right above the crotch, and it's beautifully curved.  A thin band around the waist, a thin, delicate band around the waist is best.  It shows off more skin, and more leg, and more belly.  And it accentuates the waist, either by resting in that gorgeous soft curve, or by resting below it and showing clearly how small the waist is.  Then there's the thighs: look how garter belts girt the wonderful waist, and the garters themselves hang down halfway to the thigh.  The thigh is connected to the crotch.  Then the tits.  The breasts and shoulders are decorated with lace and silk, too, that pushes up the tits, in a delicate band.  I love bras.  I love the tightness of them, the smoothness and silkiness of them.  I love the tightness of them.  Loose lingerie sucks.  It has much less appeal.  The bra that sticks to the sides, and makes it look like silk, is the best.

But I'm still not getting at the heart of the matter.  That's what makes a girl beautiful.  Her body.  But the clothes make her even sexier than if she were naked.  It's a fact, and if it weren't true, they wouldn't need to sell lingerie.  The trick is understanding that the underwear is sexy, too.  The trick is in admiring the female body, and feeling, like Keats suggests, a negative capability, or an ability to get out of one's own thoughts and into those of another.  The trick is in admiring how the lingerie caresses the ideal female body, as it is so often displayed in sexy pictures, movies, drawings, and even in reality, and while musing over the appeal of such a figure, fleshing the figure out in fantasy.  How must it feel to touch that body, how must it feel to touch the panties?  Then the great leap of imagination: How must it feel to be that body, and to be touched?  That's the first leap.  Then the rest is too easy.  That first leap itself is easy enough.  One imagines that touching a female body brings as much pleasure to the body being touched as the body touching, or else there would be no point at all to seduction.  One wants to seduce with pleasure, not anything else.  The fantasy reflects this desire for pleasure in the object of desire as well as one's own.  Men's egos live and die on men's abilities to satisfy women.  That is the key.  When one begins to wonder how the idealized female in lingerie physically feels, then there is nothing stopping rampant transvesticism.

Think about the next connection.  I know she's sexy.  I know she looks sexy.  I wonder what it would feel like for me to touch her.  I wonder what kind of pleasure she would feel if I touched her.  I wonder what she feels like, alone there, anticipating sex.  I wonder how what it feels like in those wicked panties.  That's when the association begins.  At that point, I am horny already.  Then I begin to think about how that beautiful body must feel in its trappings.  I begin to think about how I would love to caress those gentle curves, and put myself in the place of the underwear, which does caress those gentle curves.  I want to be the underwear.  Then I think about the underwear.  I want to feel what she feels.  I'm horny, and I want those curves.  I want them on my body, too.  I want to know how she physically feels, to have that silk around her crotch, that tight panty hugging her waist, that delicate lace all over her.  I want to feel those panties on my body.  I want to be her.  She looks so hot, so sexy, I want to wear what she's wearing.  I want to know what she knows.  I want to know how to please her, and for that I need to know what she knows, and for that I need to be her.  I need to wear what she wears.

I'm not sure if that's quite right.  It doesn't seem to be.  It's not it, either.  I've over-intellectualized it again.  I must get to the bottom of it, not rationalize it.

When I see a picture of a sexy girl in her lingerie or in her swimsuit or bikini, I drool over her body.  I love her body.  I look at her crotch, and her belly, and I want to look like her.  I want that crotch, in my pants.  It's irrational.  It defies rationalization.  I just want to have her body, not in the normal sense, but in the sense that I want to be just like her physically.  I want to feel that skimpy little outfit, the thin, delicate elastic around my waist, the tightness in the slim and soft crotch, the tightness around the breast.  I want to be female, like her.  I make her the object of my desire, but I also make her my idol.  I model myself on her.  I associate sensual pleasure with her body, with what she wears.  I want to feel her pleasure, too.  No, I'm rationalizing again.  I just want to feel her clothes on my body, my female body.  I always imagine that I am female when I wear women's clothes.  I want to feel female.  That's the bottom line.  I consciously want to feel like a girl.  Like a sexy girl.  I have this picture in my mind right now of a girl wearing a bathing suit under her jeans, and taking off her jeans to reveal what she has on underneath.  That's part of the thrill in the fact that I'm in that exact position right now.  I'm fantasizing that I am that girl, that I have the same stuff inside those jeans as she does.  I dream of the jeans hugging her waist, or rather, just dangling against that extreme aesthetic nadir of her soft waist.  I want to be soft and curvaceous, too.  I want my body shaven and hairless, too.  I want tits hanging off my chest, too.  I want all of those things.  And somehow, the clothing allows me to take on those characteristics.  I can become female when I wear that clothing, that under-clothing, because that's how women feel all the time.  They always wear this kind of clothing.  But that's not right, either.  It's simply in the picture of the girl.  I'm having such trouble getting it.

It's not turning me on, either.  I don't feel as horny as when I fantasize about the Kim story.  Not nearly.  It's something else.  It's being able to say, "I'm a girl, now."  That's what I'm saying now, as a matter of fact.  I'm a girl now, and I can prove it.  Look at my underwear.  Look at what I'm wearing.  That makes me a girl, doesn't it?


The clothes make the girl.  That must be it.  It's the clothes.  It's as if a woman's body is shaped by the clothes she wears.  Think about it: how could she ever develop such a fine waist if her underwear didn't cut so high?  Or how could she get such a fine crotch if her panties didn't hug it so delicately, yet so firmly?  The delicateness of her panties makes her body become delicate.  She is hairless because of the lace trim on her bra.  She has breasts because flesh has filled out the cups in her bra.  How could she have developed such long, smooth, slender, curvaceous legs without pantihose to sculpt them?  I want to be a girl, too.  And that's why I wear women's clothing.  I want to develop my body just like girls have.

But I have just returned to the question that remains unanswered.  Why do I want to be a woman in the first place?

It's because I want to wear that underwear.  

But why do I want to wear women's underwear?

It's because I want to be a woman.

It's circular.  But it can't be.  There must be some reason, some association.  I feel that I am close to it, too.  It must have something to do with the ideal female body.  It is, after all, an ideal.  A very powerful one, too.  Why shouldn't I worship it to the point of wanting to emulate it?

But that's not quite it, is it?  Or am I denying it for some reason?  I worship women, therefore I want to be a woman.  I believe at some deep subconscious level that I can become a woman by wearing women's underwear.  I want to become a woman, therefore I wear women's underwear.  But there's something missing.  I'm grasping two horns of a dilemma here.  Which is it?  What comes first?  It must be the desire to be a woman.  I can't come up with an alternative.  Except that it doesn't gel with my desire to wear women's underwear.  

I associate lingerie with women and sex.  Or rather, I make sexual associations between lingerie and women.  But why want to be a woman at all?  Just to wear her underwear?


It's because, as I explained above, I love the female body.  I want to feel what she feels.  I want to know what it feels like to be a woman.  That's why I want to be a woman.  Because I want to please women, I suppose.  No, that's not quite it.  It's much more selfish than that.  It's all aesthetic: I want to feel like a woman, because she is the ultimate aesthetic experience.  Why shouldn't I want to be as beautiful as she is?  It's not beyond my grasp, is it?  I can't desire to be a sunny meadow in the spring.  But that's not as aesthetically pleasing, is it.  Here it is: I find all sorts of things aesthetically pleasing, and I want to be all of them.  I love cats, and I dream of being a cat.  I love hockey, and dream of being a hockey player.  I love good music, and I dream of expressing the same kind of good music; I want to be that music, I want to feel like that music must feel.  I like the feel of Tool's record art, as well as music.  I want to be inside their art, inside their expression, to re-express it.  Thus, I want to be woman, too.  Only she far outweighs any mere art in her appeal.  Her appeal is all sexual, when I think about it.  It's all related to sex.  I want to experience her, sexually.  The only way I can truly experience this feminine ideal is by becoming feminine myself.  Fucking wouldn't do it.  It would just complete the picture in my mind of the ideal female fulfilling her function.  No, I want to feel what her function is.  I want to get inside her like I would a piece of music, get to know how she works, how each line fits in with the next.  I want to know her from the inside; that's where the pleasure of performing a piece of music comes.  I need to reproduce the experience of the musical piece as best I can.  I need to reproduce the experience of the female as best I can.

Is that it?  Maybe.  It's such a quick leap of ideas.  One second I'm admiring the aesthetic qualities of woman, the next I'm living them.  It makes plenty of sense.  It's a hands-on view of art.  I need to be able to place myself in the work of art to truly experience it.  I need to reproduce it in some way.  I get a kick out of listening to Pearl Jam catch a groove, or to Beethoven's 5th, and I need to re-create that kick on my own terms, as accurately as possible.  Likewise, I see a film, or read a book that really tickles my fancy, and I want to produce something just like it.  I want to copy.  So when I see an idealized woman, in picture or in fantasy, I want to re-produce her on my own terms, too, and that involves becoming her.  That involves re-creating that intense sexual thrill of seeing her, and feeling a rush of testosterone and adrenaline, but nothing more.  I re-create that thrill by imagining myself as her, by wearing her clothes.  I play a female role, and it recalls for me the thrill of seeing her; plus I get the added thrill of the aesthetic pleasure of wearing tight, silky clothes.  Much of the kick I get out of wearing women's clothes comes from the knowledge that it's women's clothes, not just the way they feel on my body.  It just so happens that women's clothes feel fantastic on my body, as well as re-create the aesthetic thrill of watching sexy females in skimpy clothing.  That's why I wear women's clothes, and that's why I want to be a girl: because I want to experience the fullest thrill of seeing a beautiful, scantily clad woman.

I just fondled myself through my bathing suit, and realized that it must be more.  I think I know what it is too.  
I felt a self-consciousness of my masculinity being corrupted by the bathing suit.  And that has nothing at all to do with what I just described.  Or does it?  Perhaps the thrill of knowing that I am immersing myself so much in the aesthetic of girl makes it more intense.  But it should bring me back to earth, no?  Instead, it makes me that much hornier.  The thrill is in purging my masculinity for femininity.  I don't belong in a girl's bathing suit, and the knowledge that I am now in a girl's bathing suit makes me horny.

A possible solution might be that wearing women's clothing becomes an aesthetic experience all its own.  It follows its own logic.  It's playacting, imagining that my fantasy of transformation is coming true.  That must be it: knowing that I am not a girl makes me want to be a girl that much more.  No, that's wrong.  I desperately want to be a girl already.  Wearing the clothing brings me closer to being female.  It's what I described earlier: a betrayal of masculinity.  I know that I shouldn't be doing it, but I don't care.  Forbidden fruit tastes better.

Why can't I get this?  It's baffling.  Let's think about those stories.  Kim turns me on because he's becoming female slowly but surely, gradually, without even knowing it, just by wearing women's clothes and getting used to it.  He becomes female without noticing it.  He wears his wife's clothes and doesn't see anything wrong about it.  Eventually, he becomes a girl, fucking men.  That's extremely arousing, that he wears strictly female underwear, all the time, and that he will never wear anything else again.  He has become female, just by wearing women's clothes, just by force of habit.  It doesn't matter that he doesn't feel a thrill in wearing it.  It suffices that he wears it, and that he's not supposed to, socially speaking.  It's perfect because he gains acceptance as a woman among women.  I love the part where the secretary plays with his bra strap, and makes him self-conscious of his clothing.  He knows he's not socially determined to wear it, but he wears it anyway.  He is conscious of his femininity.  He has these moments of noticing, and they're the best parts.  He knows that he's becoming female, but he does nothing to stop it.  That's the great part of it.  The one about the late bloomer works when the kid starts hanging with the girls, and they get to make him into a girl.  It doesn't matter to me all that much when he sees his stepmom undressing, and hardly matters when he tries things on.  He goes too far, for some reason.  He gets a thrill out of wearing women's clothes, but he must be too true to life in some way.  He does knowingly become female, but it's not nearly as sexy.  It's not insidious enough, somehow.  What's wrong with it?  I don't know at all.  I suppose it's that he is not forced into subtle discovery or habit like Kim is.  I give up.  For now. . .

Wednesday, January 15, 1997

Diary: Choice, Discovery, and the Fragility of Manhood

I thought this was pretty good before.  I guess I'm just not in the mood right now.  Or maybe I need to elaborate on something here.

It's a matter of discovery and of choice.  It's a matter of breaking down the barriers between the genders.  It's a matter of accepting a difficult but undeniable truth.  How can any man not feel the appeal of wearing women's underwear?  It's just so easy.  All you have to do is slip it on, and then you'll understand that your fears, which you had always suspected might be unfounded, are based in a social need to rigidly define the male gender.  But if you put on panties and a bra, you will understand that your masculinity is indeed in doubt.  You will understand that your masculinity is very fragile, and that you have just foolishly damaged it by foolishly asserting it.  I'm a big strong brave man.  I'm comfortable in my sexuality.  Nothing can shake my manhood.  Here, I'll prove it to you: I'll wear these frilly little panties.  Watch as they disintegrate at the merest contact with my humungous balls.  But it's a different story.  They sustain whatever your balls can dish out.  It's your balls that wither, as you realize subconsciously that the panties fit much better than your own underwear.  The panties caress your genitals gently, with soft but powerful silks.  Even your big powerful penis looks pretty and dainty adorned with lace and ribbons and bows and flowers.  And the panties are nice and snug.  It's at that moment that you realize that you've made a mistake; or maybe you don't realize it.  Maybe you store that information away subconsciously, so that it gnaws at your mind until you realize that you need more.  Until you realize that you want to feel those snug and soft little panties on your big manly balls again.  It's a big test of your testes, you think; I'm so comfortable in my sexuality that I can comfortably wear panties, and not worry at all about their effect on me.  I'll wear them whenever I feel like it, because I'm man enough to dress like a woman.  You find yourself doing it all the time now.  You feel much more comfortable in women's panties.  You feel sexy, but not in the same way as you were once used to.  You feel delicate, and soft, and very, very hot.  You feel like you can conquer the world, but not with muscle or bravado; you feel that you can shake your sexy little butt in any man's face, and get him to lick your feet.  You feel like looking at yourself, and you want to see a girl in your place.  You feel feminine, and you like it.  You don't know what it is, but you definitely like it.  And you start rubbing your prick up and down, and come all over yourself and all over your girlish panties.  Then you feel shame.  Gone is your feeling of bravado, of confidence.  Now you feel like a dirty dishrag.  Now you feel like you've done something wrong.  You peel off the panties with guilt.  You can't understand what came over you.  You can't understand why you just lost control.  You hide the evidence.  You vow never to touch panties again.  You deny to yourself that they have affected your sexuality.  It was an isolated incident of perversion, and you'll never let it happen to you again.

Then later, when you've recharged, maybe days later, maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe years, you remember wearing women's underwear.  And you become aroused.  And you deny it to yourself.  And every mention of women's underwear, any sighting, any contact you make with women's underwear makes you sweat and shake and desire.  You don't want what's in the panties anymore.  You do want it, but not as much as you want the panties themselves.  You want to be in the panties yourself, literally.  And you succumb.  You find some somehow.  You steal them.  You "borrow" them from your wife, your mother, your girlfriend, your sister.  And you enjoy being inside them.  You enjoy that feeling of abject femininity.  And you recognize it as such.  You know that you want to be like a girl when you wear those panties.  You no longer have any desire to prove your manhood by wearing panties.  You consciously assert your womanhood instead.  You repeat the process of pleasure, climax, and shame, and denial, and abstinence for a long, long time.  You continually return to it, compulsively.  Like a drug addict.  Your scenarios always involve the voluntary surrender of your masculinity.  Of course, your scenarios always involve force; you would never agree to surrender your masculinity without the threat of force, or without being under some irresistible influence, or without being out of your mind.  But the pleasure comes from your willingness to succumb to femininity.  You might resist at first, both in your fantasies and in real life, but you eventually give in, and feel the most incredible sexual thrills of your entire life.  Think about how your fantasies mirror your real life: in reality, you resist at all costs returning to your secret passion.  You don't want to think about it.  You don't want to do it anymore.  It's too dirty, it's too strange, it's too perverted.  A million things tell you not to do it.  It's morally wrong, somehow.  It's not right.  You're not a woman, you're a man, and you should dress accordingly; and if you don't dress accordingly, you shouldn't enjoy it.  But an irrisistible force keeps controlling your actions.  You resist as much as you can the temptation to sneak into a woman's dresser and pick a choice piece of lingerie.  Your whole body shakes as you tiptoe over to it.  Your hands shake and your brow sweats as you rummage through that Edenic drawer where the panties are, and select your treat.  Those, you imagine, must be the effects of your will trying to fight back against an external force controlling your mind.  But you sneak out of there, panties stuffed discreetly into your pants, and you stash them in your room, for later.  Or you go to the bathroom, and immediately try them on.  And keep them on until it's time to pleasure yourself.  And then you allow yourself the pleasure.  Then you finish, feel shame, and plan the safe return of the panties to their place of origin, vowing to never succumb again.  Your fantasies have the same theme of resistance and inevitable surrender into guilty bliss.  You imagine being captured by beautiful, scantily clad women, who have you under their power.  They admire your masculinity.  You are the paragon of maleness.  But they will not allow you to remain so.  They want to destroy masculinity, which you represent.  They force you or trick you into slipping on their lingerie and masturbating in front of them.  You know that showing pleasure for this would be the ultimate in shame, but at the same time the ultimate in pleasure.  You try as hard as you can to humble the Amazon women.  But you are seduced.  You can't help but feel the pleasure, and you know what you are surrendering.  The surrender is the best part.  You acknowledge that they are your masters when you allow yourself to feel the pleasure.  And do you ever feel the pleasure.  You collapse at their feet, licking them clean because of the sheer intensity of the experience.  You are enslaved to them, and you willingly discard any male clothing you might have in favour of the lingerie they give you.  You succumb fully, completely.  You know that you can never turn back, that your masculinity is gone forever.  And you celebrate.  Without shame, and without guilt, you celebrate your rejection of masculinity in favour of femininity.  But you suddenly climax, and your masculinity returns, just as it shrinks.  You are ashamed of your betrayal of your sexuality.  Your fantasy is over.  But look at the affinities: you feel an irresistible force that makes you act against your will; you are placed in a position where you have an opportunity to betray your allies, all the men in the world, for the pleasure of femininity; you betray them, and become forever female, and you would repeat that choice every single time.  There are three levels here: fantasy, reality, and subconscious.  In fantasy, you are imagining it in the terms described above: you are forced into a choice to become female, at the cost of all manhood, and choose femininity.  In reality, your sexual desires force you to make a choice between manhood and femininity, represented by the panties, the inmost layer of women's clothing and identity (only girls wear things like that); you decide to betray male social mores and distinctions of gender, which tell you that only girls wear that, and say, so be it, I will be a girl then.  Subconsciously, you are forced to give in to your sexual needs, as represented by females, as represented by, of all things, their underwear; you surrender your sexual identity in order to fulfill your sexual needs.  In each scenario, you take great relish in becoming feminine, until it's all over and you realize what you've done.  In the fantasy, you've betrayed all men to your fate, because they all looked up to you; your fall into girlhood spells the fall of manhood forever, and all men will now aspire to womanhood like you; you have tainted all manhood, even destroyed it.  In reality, you have betrayed your sexuality: no one will respect you if he or she knows that you like to dress like a girl; you have thus betrayed your identity, and your own received ideal about masculinity; you have tainted your own manhood, even destroyed it.  In the subconscious, you have betrayed decorum, or social good, for your own selfish needs; you have tainted your image in society, even destroyed it.  But there eventually comes a turning point, when all of this changes slightly, for better or for worse I cannot say.  Now I assert my betrayal proudly.  How has this happened?  It's all in the subconscious.  Years and years of constant effeminizing has perhaps determined the course of my identity; or perhaps my initial fears are so justified that I should be frightened.  But instead, I am impishly overjoyed that my initial fears were so justified.  The fantasies are pretty much the same.  The reality and the subconscious are different.  Still, I fantasize of being captured by amazon women, who force me to wear their clothes; but now I succumb immediately, and become one of them sooner.  I suppose I did even then, though.  The fantasies are exactly the same.  I fail the test of loyalty.  But there is one slight difference: I feel no more loyalty.  I have not betrayed all men; I have saved them from manhood.  I have enlightened them.  I have shown them that femininity is stronger than masculinity, and that they might as well give up now, and understand.  In reality, I secretly keep women's clothes in my closet, which I use at my own discretion.  They are stolen and bought.  They are mine now.  Strictly mine.  I feel no urge to throw them away in disgust as a firm denial of my passion, as I have done foolishly so many times in the past.  Now I guard my femininity fiercely.  In reality, I don't need to steal anymore.  I have what I need.  I don't have any resistance.  I willingly effeminate myself, and feel not a whit of shame afterwards.  Sometimes I feel regret that it could not last any longer.  In reality, I no longer feel ashamed for betraying my sexuality; I feel that I am affirming my sexuality as a wanna-be female.  I think of myself as a girl when I dress up, and sometimes even when I'm not doing it.  There is no more shame to be felt, because I am not betraying anything.  To Hell with masculinity.  I was never really male to begin with.  I was a double agent.  The change comes on the subconscious level of identity: there may once have been a strong need to combat my sexual needs, but now I gladly give them free rein.  They are in control.  Like the girls in the fantasy.  I have completely given myself over to them by wearing their clothes so many times.  My masculinity is not totally gone, but it's almost gone.  I still look like a man, but I want to be a woman.  I have made that first transition into femininity.  The fear, I realize, was justified.  Wearing women's clothing did make me less masculine.  It did make me want to become female.  And that was part of the thrill of it to begin with: testing my masculinity against those fears of losing it.  I have played with fire so much that I have become what I feared I would become.  I resisted coming back to the girl's dresser because I knew that it would make me more female.  And it did.  Look at me.  I wear women's underwear, and I feel no shame about it.  I wear it often.  I feared that returning again and again would only make it worse.  Only be resisting could I ever shake femininity.  But I was never man enough.  The point of no return was that very first time.  That was it.  There was no serious resisting.  So I say to all men: you're right; if you wear women's clothing, even if you don't do it deliberately, you will forever compromise your manhood.  It doesn't matter if no one ever saw you.  You know you did it, and you'll never forget it.  And sooner or later, you'll do it again.  And you'll do again after that.  And then you won't be able to stop, and you'll be wearing it all the time, and you won't be a man anymore at all.  My advice to you is this: sneak into your wife's, or your mother's, or your sister's, or your girlfriend's dresser.  Pick out the prettiest, sexiest panties you can find.  And when you're all alone, and have lots of time to yourself, slip them on.  Oh, you'll hate me for the next ten or fifteen years, until you finally accept that you're a sissy, and that you're proud of it, and you'll want to thank me.  But you won't do it.  You're chicken.  You're not a man if you don't do it, and you're not a man if you do do it.  You can't win.  You'll lose eventually, and you'll like it.  A lot.  

Right now, I'm wondering if there's maybe a third stage to this.  I hope there is sometimes.  It would take another giant shift in identity, which I often think I would love to make.  Right now I'm a closet girl.  I never go all the way, and I can't.  But I would love to.  I would love to shave off all my body hair (purge it entirely, forever) grow breasts, shrink my waist, and dress completely like a woman.  Be a woman for at least a week or so.  Change my wardrobe permanently to female clothing.  The first stage is that of denial.  The second stage is that of acceptance, but to a limit.  The third stage is that of full blown immersion.  The fourth is physical girlhood.  I'm in the second stage.  I could have been close to the third at one time, but I'm not sure.  I would have gone up north, alone, and anonymously, and been a girl for a while, until my body hair grew back.  I would have worn only women's underwear, nightwear, and skirts and blouses and makeup all day.  I would have lived like a girl, and enjoyed it thoroughly day and night for at least a week.  It really appeals to me to dump this existence and become a girl.  But at this stage, it won't happen.  I'm content with a heterosexual relationship and a good diversionary dressup in between sex.  The ultimate would be to have my girlfriend find out and accept, and nurture my femininity.  She would be my tutor.  And I would be her girlfriend and boyfriend at the same time.  But that won't happen.  It happens to some people, but I don't really think I want it to happen.  I'm not ready for that.  I'm content being a secret girl.

Tuesday, January 14, 1997

Diary: My Velvety Undies; and, a Prison Fantasy

That fuzzy lingerie was quite enjoyable.  It's just my size.  It's a little too full, both for my taste and hers.  It covers too much up.  But it's quite fun to wear.  I couldn't stop thinking about it for a few days after I wore it.  Especially that first time.  I came once, and I just had to continue.  I had to get some more.  I came again.  Then later that night, I had to jerk myself again, but I didn't bother to put it on, although it was at the centre of my thoughts the whole time.  I regretted not wearing it.  But I had to be careful: it was collecting little bits of white fluff from my fuzzy bedsheets.  I rubbed as much off as I could, but I figured in the end that my task was hopeless, and that she probably wouldn't even notice.  Nevertheless, I forbade myself from wearing it again until she wore it first.  And she did.  And she didn't notice.  Although she did tell me that I'm not allowed to wear it.

That, of course, only makes me want to wear it more.  I wore it again last night, and thoroughly enjoyed myself.  It had been a while since I had done anything.  I had been dry since Sunday, I think.  So it was a welcome relief.  And I've been thinking of those panties all day.  I want to do it again tonight.  And as a matter of fact, I will.  I'll be wearing them a hell of a lot more than A__.  Isn't that just great?

I was quite impressed with the way those panties caress the crotch, in a way that men's underwear just doesn't.  I can feel a strange sort of erotic tugging at my balls and along the line up to my hips.  It makes me feel so sexy, so girlish.  So BAD.  And that's a good thing.  A very good thing indeed.

It's amazing how often I come back to this.  I find myself coming back here time after time, affirming for myself why I find so much pleasure in wearing undergarments designed for members of the opposite sex.  Is there really anything inherently sexy about the underwear itself?  Intuitively, no; it's what's supposed to go into it that's sexy.  But somehow, I can't help but break into a sweat when I look at women's underwear.  It's so incredibly sexy, so naughty.  I look at silky, lace-trimmed panties and I can't help but be turned on.  There doesn't even have to be anything inside them.  Just the panties are enough.  This raises an intriguing question, to which I will now attempt to find the answer: is it the panties themselves that turn me on, or their association with things feminine?

Let me see.  There is a clear connection with the femininity of panties.  I wouldn't care for them at all if there weren't.  But the question is whether the femininity comes from the fact that girls wear them, or is it inherent in them?  In that case, the panties are a source of femininity, because some panties are sexier than others.  I would much rather wear a skimpy pair of lacy, stringy panties than both the big massive ones that mom wears and even the undeniably sexy fuzzy red panties in my drawer.  So there is something to the panties themselves.  Women, however, don't draw their femininity from the panties, although they do accentuate feminine features.  A girl would be about as sexy with them as without them.  Although I must admit that I prefer seeing A__ in her underwear than naked.  She is smashing naked, but in underwear, she's somehow sexier.  I suppose that has as much to do with my underwear fetish as it does with their accentuation of her features.

So I suppose I must conclude that the panties themselves turn me on, because they are, strangely enough, inherently feminine.  But why are they inherently feminine?  I suppose it must be because they are shaped in a way that makes a woman look fantastic.  But that's mostly psychological.  Why associate lace or silk with women, and not men?  It seems rather arbitrary.  But in my mind, there is nothing arbitrary about it.  It's not just the silk, or the softness, or the lace, but the overall shape of the panties that counts.  You know when you look at it that it's designed for a girl's body.  It's not just the crotch, either.  Something about the trim usually means sexiness, too.  The fuzzy panties have no lace, no silk (except for something soft on the inside) but are still sexy enough.  The shape has everything to do with it.  A bikini panty is incredibly, exquisitely sexy, too, and it has no lace, no silk, just a high cutting shape.  I still have a craving for a bikini, but that's usually overridden these days by a powerful need for varieties of underwear.  I still want to wear A__'s regular panties, which are by no means spectacular.  They just look so fun.  It must be psychological.  The shape alone can't possibly account for it all.  But in a way, I guess it does.  Silkiness and lace are just an added bonus.

Another question is this: why, if I am turned on by the underwear, do I absolutely need to wear it?  It just wouldn't be pleasurable if I didn't slip into it.  Sometimes, the most intense moment of my pleasure comes when I imagine that when I am done, I can slip into my girlie underwear and go to sleep, as if that's my normal undergarment.  It's incredibly enticing, incredibly erotic.  The whole fetish for underwear is connected to an overpowering desire for femininity.  I want to discard my masculinity, which all men hold so dear, in favour of femininity and women's underwear.  I want to laugh in the face of all the men who would disown me if I ever showed the slightest trace of girlishness, as I wontonly shake off my manliness and gamboll freely with the girls, in their clothes.  I want to abdicate my heavy responsibilities as a man and take on the playful female spirit of sexual abandon.  I want to make myself pretty, and sleek, and lithe, and curvy, in revolt to masculine norms.  I just want to escape that fragile male facade and embrace the freedom of being female.  Girls don't have rules against wearing certain types of clothes.  Girls don't have rules against doing things that men do.  Girls can be as feminine as they please.  Men can't be feminine at all.  Mind you, girls can't really get away with being masculine, but they get away with it far more easily and far more often than men get away with being feminine.  It doesn't really have anything to do with it.  

I still have so much trouble putting my finger on it.  Femininity arouses me to the utmost degree, yet I have transferred that arousal somehow away from particular women to a symbol of their femininity in their underwear.  From an intense heterosexual urge, I have extracted an overpowering urge to be feminine.  Something about the perversity of it arouses me even more.  Something about the sheer taboo of it makes me want to do it that much more, makes me enjoy it that much more.  The fact that I should feel shame, and that I have felt shame, for doing it, makes it so arousing.  I should be ashamed of myself, because I wear women's clothes.  But so what?  What does that mean?  If anybody asked me, that's how I would defend myself.  So what if I wear women's underwear for pleasure?  What does that entail?  Am I somehow less masculine now?  Years of doing it hasn't changed me into a woman or a homosexual has it?  Was I any more sexy a year ago than I am now?  Your not knowing that I secretly wear women's underwear didn't make me seem girlish, did it?  Of course not.  I'm not girlish.  But secretly, I would think about how I wished each time that it did make me feminine, how I wished each time to throw away my manhood forever and never look back.  The idea of wearing women's underwear permanently has often enticed me.  Always enticed me.  I know that my arguments are hollow, because every argument I use to defend myself has an easy answer.  YES, you are less masculine.  YES, it has changed you into a sort of pervert.  Normal people don't do that.  Normal people wear their own underwear.  It's weird and it makes me uncomfortable to think that you dress like a girl in private.  What other perverted thoughts do you think?

But that's part of the dream, isn't it?  I dream of being forced into women's underwear, and finally succumbing to the pleasure of it, and finally becoming feminine, and ultimately female.  I have no choice but to accept how pleasurable it is, or I will go insane.  The way I see it, I know something that everybody, including women, knows: wearing sexy women's lingerie is incredibly arousing and gratifying.  Women know it, and they wear it, because it makes them feel sexy and attractive.  Men know it because they see women wearing it, and becoming sexy and attractive.  But what they don't know, or rather what they are afraid to admit, is that even men would feel sexy and attractive--exactly as women do-- when they wear it.  Men would feel sexy and feminine by wearing women's panties.  And that's what they fear.  They just know that they would love wearing their sweetheart's underwear.  And that's exactly why they don't do it.  It could become habit-forming.  They might start wearing it every day, and eventually become transsexuals.  That's what they're afraid of.  Women are afraid of it, too, because they don't want more girlfriends, they want men to be masculine; they fear that their men will want to become women.  Funny thing is that all of these fears are not only completely justified, but perfectly true.  Most men will probably never put on women's underwear, because they don't want to have to deal with suddenly wanting to repeat the experience compulsively.  They don't want it to make them girlish.  They think that wearing lingerie just once will make them turn into complete sissies, who'll keep coming back for more.  The beauty of it is that they're absolutely right.  Just look at me: I can't stop.  I always want more.  And this has been going on for almost twenty years now, since I was five years old.

The difference is that I'm not afraid anymore.  Now I'm only marginally afraid that anyone finds out.  The fear has withered away because I've become desensitized to wearing women's clothes now, and it's almost routine.  But I would never want anyone to find out.  That would be disastrous.  But I want to keep doing it forever.  

Again, a cheesy scenario:  I am captured by a bunch of girls.  They are playful and sexy and beautiful.  They think it's great to have a man with them.  They have no respect for me, though, because I am the enemy.  They strip me naked and make me wear their clothes and makeup.  They turn me into their mannequin.  And they laugh at me.  But I can't help but enjoy it.  And they take notice.  And they torture me, and force me to come all over myself as I wear their outfits, particularly their lingerie and bathing suits and sexy stuff.  Naturally, I only model their sexy stuff.  They keep tempting me and mocking me, for years, but I hope for a rescue.  Finally, I can't take it anymore, and I succumb.  Before, I never let myself come.  But now, I let myself go.  I accept the pleasure.  I don't prevent myself a release anymore, and I start coming all over the place, and really enjoying it.  No.

They capture me and start dressing me up.  I don't react.  I just feel humiliation.  I am shamed.  I, a big powerful man, am dressed in pretty little silks and flowery laces and bows.  I secretly, even to myself, feel the pleasure of a hard-on in my crotch, but I resist it at all costs.  It just feels so soft, and so tight.  It's the girls, I tell myself.  They're causing this.  But I know in my heart that it's the clothes I'm wearing, tight on my pecker, and soft and pretty, that make me horny.  They notice, and rub me down until I come inside the clothes.  I am completely ashamed, as they make fun of me in girly clothes, apparently enjoying myself.  they do this again and again to me, and I am always ashamed.  I desperately try to stop them from pleasuring me, but I can't help but feel pleasure.  By the second or  third time, they stop, and they don't do it anymore.  I long for the pleasure, but I can't ask them.  I am a prisoner, and I don't have rights.  But they have me in their playroom.  This is where they prance around in their underwear, modelling stuff for themselves, for each other, because girls like to do that type of thing.  Their clothes are everywhere.  Tempting me.  They leave me alone there every night with their lingerie all around me.  I am going insane, so I put some on, and masturbate in it, completely revelling in the pleasure.

Of course, they don't notice.  They have apparently lost interest in me.  They don't make me wear their clothes anymore.  They don't do much to me anymore, just keep me there to watch and drool.  Nobody knows where I am.  They think I'm dead, they tell me.  I'm not going anywhere.  About a week has passed, and I have only begun sneaking into their panties.  They forced me only on the first day.  They keep me naked, and shake their butts and tits in my face.  They love to bug me.  But they think they're torturing me.  I secretly have my fun when I come all over their lingerie at night.  

I am always careful that they don't notice.  I don't want them to know that I am having fun, or they will take that fun away from me.

One morning, not long after I have gotten into a nighttime routine of prancing around in their underclothes, they wheel in a TV, and they draw my attention to it.  They make me watch videos of myself.  At night.  Poking around their clothes.  Putting some on.  Strutting around the room like one of them.  Dropping to the ground in a mass of sexual pleasure, rubbing myself all over their clothes.  Coming.  I turn my head in embarrassment as they stare at me with sly grins.  They know about my pleasure.  I'm not so upset that they know that I was pleasuring myself, but that they know how I was pleasuring myself.  I want to vomit.  I must be purple with shame. 

One of the girls comes prancing over to me, and hands me a matching set of panty and bra.  It's white, skimpy, and very sexy.  It's brand new.  "This ought to look soooo good on you. . ." she bubbles.  The other girls giggle.  They coax me to put it on.  "We're not doing anything until you put that on," they tell me.  "We'll take all of our stuff out of here if you don't do as we say, and you'll be left with nothing."

I look at the underwear in my hands.  It's so sexy.  I am trembling in both dread and anticipation.  I look at the underwear, and at the girls, and back at the underwear.  I don't know what to do.  Should I forsake my masculinity right here and now, or hold out, and maintain it as powerfully as I can?  As if she could read my mind, the one who gave me the underwear says, "We know you love to wear girls's stuff.  You have very little masculinity to cling to anymore.  You are beyond salvation now.  You're one of us."

I burst into tears of rage, frustration, and shame, and wring the underwear in my hands.  It feels so soft, so silky.  It's so delicate, so. . . feminine.  I look at them again.  I am about to throw the lingerie across the room, but I can't.  I don't want to let go.  I know that I am caught.  I can't go back.  It would be murder for me to give up on my new found pleasure now.  But what if I can shake it?  What if I can save that last shred of maleness?  I look at the lingerie again.  Then I look at the girl who gave it to me.  Amy is her name.
"Will you at least look at it?" she implores.  She is standing right in front of me.  She's wearing nothing but a matching set of purple lace.  She's very sexy.  Very pretty.  Her long, slender legs are beautifully shaven.  Her titties look so happy in their tight little garment.  The other girls are all standing together in a huddle, playing together.  They casually touch each other's legs, arms, hair.  I  subconsciously stretch out the bra in front of me and look at it.  It's silk and lace.  A strong silk.  The panties are very high cut, I notice, as I stretch them out, too.  A frilly little elastic forms the waistband that holds together the silk pouch with the lace trim.  Impulsively, I slip into the panties, shaking all over, almost tripping as I step into the second leg hole.  The girls encourage me.  "Atta girl.  That's the way."  Amy helps me put my bra on.  She has a huge grin on her face, and I sheepishly smile back to her.  "You look beautiful," she says, as she takes me by the hand and flits with me in tow to the others.  

"Girls," she says, "we have a new girlfriend.  This is Bobbie.  She's new at this, so we have to show her how we do things here."  The other girls all introduced themselves, and sized me up as if I were one of them.  They were very friendly.  I was going nuts with anticipation.  I was so horny. 

"First, we have to let Bobbie get comfortable.  Shall we?"  The girls surrounded me, and started rubbing up against me.  They weren't sexual or erotic about it.  Just friendly.  I was in absolute heaven.  They avoided my cock, my absurd cock that stuck half out of the panties, but which felt so good in there.  The girls made me feel so feminine.  They stroked me like I would a girlfriend, with attention to my tits, butt, thighs, belly.  After several minutes of this, they stop.

"Now Bobbie," says Amy, "we're not all that convinced that you want to be one of us.  Show us how much you appreciate your new clothes, and we'll be happy.  Go on, just like you did at night."

I sheepishly dropped to my knees, and then to the ground, and rubbed myself silly, although quite self-consciously, and uncomfortably.  It was my first time in front of them, and I felt a little uncomfortable.  I was having doubts.

"I know you're having your doubts.  But trust me.  Just follow your heart."

I couldn't help myself but feel tremendously proud at that moment, and I abandoned the last vestiges of my maleness.  It felt so good, and I didn't want it to stop.  But I came, and I felt ashamed again.  

Here I was, wearing a matching panty and bra, with come all over me, in front of six beautiful girls in their underwear.  I felt ridiculous, and a shame to my gender.  I blushed, and I wept.  Hard.  The girls cheered as I masturbated.  I was so ashamed.  I rolled off my panties, and the girls were silent.  I was sobbing.  "I can't go on with this.  It isn't right," I bawled.

Amy frowned and took away my panties.  Well, then, I guess we'll have to take back our lingerie.  Let's go girls.  They packed up all their things, and left me there naked and crying.

Every night, I longed for the underwear.  But I chastised myself for being so weak.  I couldn't stop thinking about it.  I longed for them to play with me again, and I never ceased lamenting my sorry state.  They only visited me rarely now.

But one night, Amy snuck into my cell and awakened me.  She shushed me, and gave me the same underwear I had worn before.  "Take this.  I know you want another chance.  It's not too late."  And she left me there with the underwear.  I was shaking again.  I could hardly control myself.  I put them on, and shook my booty all night in it.  But I was still ashamed. . .

* * *

To make a long story short, I eventually realized that the pleasures of femininity were far greater than my noble upholding of my masculinity.  I stopped making myself feel guilty about wearing that exquisite underwear, knowing that I could never be the man that I was.  Uncomfortably, I accepted my plight as a transsexual, and began to enjoy myself.  The girls took me into their group again, and I was one of them.  They showed me how to become female.  I learned to shave my body, and to walk and talk like them.  I was no longer a prisoner.

Then one day, the girls let me see a visitors.  A group of men from where I came from had found me.  Apparently, they had known that I was captured, not killed, and that the enemy had me.  They were negotiating for my release.  My former enemy told them that I was here by choice, and that I wouldn't leave.  They insisted on seeing me.  

They were appalled.  They recognized me, despite the breast implants, and the effeminated body.  I still had a penis.  The men couldn't keep their eyes off me, even though the real girls were all also in their underwear as usual.  they giggled in the background.

I told them that I wanted to stay, that I was comfortable here.  They were trying to force me to return.  I apparently had no choice.  So I went.  It was a long voyage home.

In short, they made me discard my new clothes, and gave me yucky men's clothes.  But at night, I snuck into each man's cabin, and showed him the way.  I fucked them all.  And they loved it.  They thought I was a ship's maid or something.  I managed to get some panties back, and I fucked them all.  This way I convinced their leader to turn back, that all the sex they wanted would wait for them on shore.  All of those gallivanting beauties were theirs.  They turned back.  Now they're all prisoners.  And they're all learning my lesson: that girls rule.