Tuesday, December 01, 1998

Fiction: Discovery and Slow Surrender

The thought had, of course, crossed my mind before. It's not a huge stretch of the imagination. It's a bit of a joke, really. Masculinity is too fragile: the femininity of women's underwear must inevitably corrupt it. Women laugh and chide their men about how cute they would look in a bra. Then the men joke right back, playing along, intending to show how confident they are of their manhood. Both of them, however, fear what would happen if he actually did wear women's underwear. Subconsciously, both know how fragile masculinity is.

It came as a challenge at first. She dared me to put on her panties, and I did. No problem there. It was stupid. I felt ridiculous, but not even embarrassed. They didn't seem to fit quite right. They looked grotesque against my muscular ass and the bulge in front. Not a pretty picture at all. "See?" I said. "Nothing to it."

The trick is in not letting it get into your head.

As I said, this was a pointless exercise in courage. I showed off my machismo, my male fearlessness, by- ironically- wearing women's underwear. Clearly, she looks better in her panties than I do. In fact, she looks better in my underwear than I do. But that's because she's a girl, and I like the way she looks. As far as I could tell then, I passed with flying colours. The seed, however, had been planted.

I had practically forgotten about the incident, until it crept back into my thoughts a few weeks later. My mind drifted into an erotic fantasy as I worked. This happens to everyone. Only it abruptly stopped when I remembered that I wore __'s panties. For some reason, this suddenly brought me intense worry. I had, I imagined, compromised my virility. Thank God I hadn't liked it! I thought to myself.

As the day wore on, I agonized over my blunder. I worried that __ would think me less of a man. I tried to convince myself that I was being foolish. But it didn't work. The thought that there would be consequences to wearing women's underwear consumed me.

Eventually, __ assuaged my fears by fucking me passionately. She even initiated it all. She made me feel desirable as a man again. I forgot about it again for a little while. But it came back to me. Soon I became fascinated with __'s panty drawer. I considered myself fortunate that I hadn't worn a bra, too. Or a garter belt. Or that sexy little nightgown. Any of those would have made me doubt even more my manhood.

I had to prove to myself that I wasn't afraid, that I was still as manly as before. The only way to do that, I rationalized, would be to wear women's underwear again. I might even wear a bra and panties this time, just to prove it all the more forcefully.

I knew all along that I was lying to myself. In truth, I was curious. I wanted to experience __'s undies again.
I waited until I knew I could be alone for a long while, and stole into her dresser for a panty and bra set I had given her one Valentine's day. My heart pounded. My cock stiffened. I touched myself all over, overcome with horniness. I became frightened and took off __'s lingerie and put it back exactly as I had found it in her dresser. Oh my God! I liked it! My heart raced with both excitement and fear. I had compromised my manhood -- but worse, I loved it! I was still excited, but I couldn't bear the thought of wearing those panties again. I couldn't allow myself to capitulate. I had looked over the edge of the cliff, and survived. I couldn't go any closer. But it was so exhilarating! Naked, I came all over myself, fantasizing about the horrible, wonderful consequences of my gender-bending: that I would succumb to wearing all sorts of sexy girlie garments and eventually become a real girl! I never came so hard in all my life. I never felt such shame as when I cleaned it up. This would be the last time. I had momentarily lost my manhood, but now everything was alright as long as I didn't let it happen again.

How could I not agonize over this little discovery? The more I worried about my manhood's erosion, the more I fantasized about its inevitable result. My hands shook with anticipation as I rifled guiltily through __'s dresser for something horrifyingly effeminate to wear. I stumbled upon her one-piece swimsuit, and rapidly became fixated on it. There was no mistaking it for something a man would wear. My knees buckled as I thought of how it would squeeze my waist inwards and give me a gorgeous, feminine, hourglass figure. Still, I couldn't allow myself to feel this, no matter how badly I wanted to. I put it on over my own underwear, clinging desperately to my last shred of manhood. I had to resist. But there I stood, fondling myself, with a woman's bathing suit on me, on top of my underwear. If I don't let it touch my dick, it won't corrupt my manhood, I hoped. It was strange: feeling the spandex all over me except for my mundane, protected penis. It brought me momentarily to my senses. I took off the swimsuit in a pang of guilty sobriety, and put it back where I found it. I sighed with relief. That was close! Imagine how overcome with effeminacy I would have become had I dared to let it touch the essence of my manhood!

The very thought of giving up my manhood gripped me with intense, perverse delight. No sooner had I closed the dresser drawer than I doffed my underwear and wiggled into the same swimsuit, giddily confident about my new-found femininity. I gamboled around like a horny schoolgirl, rubbing myself all over, basking in the ecstasy of my new identity. I was so glad that I had done away with my feeble masculine protection. The realization that I was unprotected from such inescapable femininity filled me with great satisfaction. I came all over __'s bathing suit, relishing my girlhood.

Then, I was ashamed again. I had succumbed, and I wasn't excited about it anymore. I had failed to contain my urges. I secretly berated myself for months after that. __ never found out, because I washed the swimsuit before she came back.

It wasn't long until I caved in again. This was all part of my initiation. I had to renounce my manhood more and more often. Over a long period of time, I tried everything on. I knew that it was wrong, that it was abnormal, that it was dangerous, that it was eroding my manhood. I just didn't care. It was so much fun! Each time, I became possessed with the desire to feel feminine. I longed to feel something beautifully girlish on my body. I unleashed my pent-up womanhood by wrapping my body in lingerie. It was so. . . naughty. No heterosexual man, I reasoned, should ever be so familiar with women's underwear. I discovered things about women's underwear that most men would never be aware of. I no longer feared becoming effeminate: I hoped for it. I wanted to look as good in __'s underwear as she did. I wanted to be a girl.

Sunday, November 01, 1998

It's partly a curiosity, partly a twisted, willful perversion. They get twisted together into something entirely bizarre. I keep coming back to my childhood, wondering where it all began. I fantasized about being turned into a girl since the moment I learned to masturbate. I remember some vague sense that a woman would take me away and I would become a girl under her influence. She would have me rub my hard little dick for her, and I would become one of them. The association isn't quite there, but wearing those tight little stockings for the class play in Kindergarten made it abundantly clear. So now I wear bikinis and panties and garter belts, and I wish for all sorts of other goodies to make me feel more feminine.

It's so obvious: I love to feel feminine! I want to be a girl! It's totally unacceptable, but I don't care! I want to cast off all my manhood and openly embrace womanhood! Wearing women's clothes only enhances the fantasy. It's not a fantasy in itself. It is a means to asserting my femininity. I need to make myself girlish whenever I can, and thinking about it just isn't good enough.

I don't think I've ever touched on this before. It's all about becoming feminine! It's always been there, always front and centre, but I never really took note of it as the goal. I've come close to making the connection, but now I have it!

Sometimes, I think that wearing women's clothes is the goal. Becoming girlish in the process is part of the thrill, no doubt; but I assumed that the lingerie was the objective. If I become feminine as a consequence of wearing girlish things, so be it! I thought that the thrill ended there. I would tolerate, and even welcome, becoming a girl only because it would allow me to dress like one.

It's so much more delicious than that.

I do it because it makes me a girl. The true objective is to become a girl. I mentioned above fantasizing about taking hormones and such. I don't think I ever thought of it as an end in itself. Not consciously, anyway. It was always for the underwear, the skirts, the sexy outfits.

I'm not sure that the distinction is coming across. Maybe I've known about it all along, and only took hold of it now. Maybe I've somehow forgotten about it, and rediscovered it. Difficult to say. Right now I feel convinced that I've discovered something critical.

Let's put it into a fantasy, shall we?

The standard story: One day, I'm minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm captured by women. The battle of the sexes has turned violent. Women want to assimilate all men. Men can't live without women, so we're losing badly. I'm one of the best fighters on the male side. I desperately fear becoming a girl. I'm comfortable and happy being a man.

So now, they've captured me, and they introduce me to their underwear. I'm a goner. I don't want to succumb, but they're so sexy. They torture me by putting me naked in a room filled with nothing but lingerie. I dress up like a girl, under duress, but I get used to it. They reward me for it. I start coming all over myself when I wear their clothes. I tell them that I love their clothes, that they feel so good on my body. I know that it's bad, I know that I really shouldn't be wearing bikinis and lingerie and skirts and nightgowns. But I love it! At every turn, they make me feel like I shouldn't, but I do! I want to try on everything. I want to experience everything as a girl. That's when I realize that I want desperately to be a girl. The clothing is just a fun part of it. It's the womanhood that I really want.

That is the key! It's a sudden discovery that wearing women's clothes is the closest path to being female. I want to be able to reach down my pants, feel silk against my smooth, hairless body, follow a curve down towards my crotch, past a soft mound of coarse hair, and into an even softer fleshy thing with a hard clit up the middle.

It's all about being a girl. Wearing stuff is cool because it allows me to express my girlishness.

Thursday, October 01, 1998

OK, enough of that.

A couple of stories that I read on dragscape show a certain pattern.  Both purport to be true.  One I sort of believe, the other not for a second.  The stories, in fact, are virtually identical:

  1. man marries woman
  2. woman discovers man's secret desire to dress up in her undies
  3. woman brings him shopping, humiliates him by having him try on skirts and lingerie
  4. man throws out all of his male clothing at woman's prompting
  5. man starts taking hormones to become a woman (at woman's prompting)
  6. woman loses all interest in man, and forces him to become her maid
  7. man becomes pretty much a woman from all the hormones, and starts sucking dick
I have to admit that the story turns me on immensely.

I know that I'll never do it, but I've fantasized about taking hormones and becoming a girl.  I'd grow tits, and my waist would shrink a bit, and I'd lose my body hair, and I'd get filled in and soft in all the right places.  I didn't mean it that way, but that, too, I suppose, is part of the charm.

In the scenario above, it's clear that the guy really wants to be a girl.  He could stop the whole thing at any time by just putting his foot down.  He acts like he has no choice, but he really does.  It's part of the thrill, even.  He knows that he can pull out of it, but he doesn't because he knows deep down that he really, really wants to be a girl.

Wednesday, September 02, 1998

Fiction: Chained and Forced to Choose

"So," said the captor to her prisoner. "Have you ever worn women's clothing?"

"Of course not!"

"You've never worn a dress as a practical joke?"


"Your big sister never forced you to play dressup?"

"I don't have a sister."

"You never snuck into your mom's dresser to try on her panties?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

"Aren't we defensive? And you're blushing, too!"

He didn't answer.

"We know all about your little secret, Mister. We know that you wear lingerie for fun. We know that you secretly want to be a girl, just so you can wear pretty little frilly lace undies that boys aren't allowed to wear."


"Oh, I understand. Your fragile little masculine ego won't let you admit it to anyone. But I know that you want to be just like me."

"Am I supposed to be scared?"

"Not really. You're supposed to be excited, though. And I know that you are. Just thinking about wearing a sexy little garter belt turns you on."

"This is a joke."

She moved her face to his, and the scent of her perfume invaded his nostrils. She looked him in the eye, and he couldn't hold her penetrating gaze. Her breast brushed against him as she leaned over his shoulder to smell the back of his head. She stayed there a few moments, breathing heavily. Suddenly, she backed away, breaking the spell.

"Do you think I'm sexy?" she asked. 
She was, indeed, gloriously beautiful. She looked like a supermodel. Plus, she was in her skivvies, revealing her perfectly shaped body in its curvaceous majesty.

"Yes," replied the prisoner.

"Do you want to fuck me?"


"Oh, that's so sweet!" she exclaimed coyly, as she threw her arms around her prisoner's neck, and moulded her body against his. His naked body almost convulsed in ecstasy as she touched him. Unfortunately, he could do nothing, suspended by the chains on his arms and restrained by those on his legs. She backed away seductively as he gasped at this unexpected pleasure.

"You know," she said, "I'm not supposed to fuck my prisoners. So we'll have to make a little deal."

He was speechless. 
"I can't do anything for you unless you do me a little favour first."

"What? Tell me, what must I do!"

"You have to admit that you want to wear women's underwear."

He paused, shocked. "Is that all I have to do to fuck you?"

"Yes. That's all."

"But that's ridiculous! How can I fuck you if I don't feel masculine? How can you want me to be feminine?"

"Fine!" she snapped, and turned sharply away towards the door.

"Wait! Wait!"

She turned, fury distorting her gorgeous face.

He hesitated. He knew that this was a trick. She had him backed into a corner. He desperately wanted to have sex with her, and he knew that she probably wouldn't anyway. Moreover, he knew that she would likely torture him and force him to her will anyway. It was a tough call. "OK, I'll do it."

"You'll do what?" she asked, unable to conceal the glee in her voice. "Say it!"

"I'll wear women's clothes."

"You'll what?"

"I'll wear women's clothes!"

She clapped her hands joyfully and skipped over to him to kiss his nipple. "I knew you'd cave in, you little sissy! I can't wait to see you in a bra! You'll be so cute! You'll be so effiminate that you won't even want to fuck me anymore! Hee hee!"

He couldn't believe what he had gotten himself into. He began to think about his near future, and dreaded its approach. What would she do to him? He couldn't stop thinking about her in her wonderful underwear, and fantasized about all the different things in her dresser that she would force him to wear. He could hardly contain his shame when he realized that the thought of it aroused him in a strange, unwholesome way that aroused him all the more for its perversity.

When the time came, she did not force him to wear something of her choice. Instead, she presented him with many options. He had before him all kinds of underwear, lingerie, swimwear, leotards, garter belts, stockings, chemises, and nightgowns. All were unmistakably feminine. His very proximity to these dainty items brought hormones rushing through his body. He was very nervous. She left the clothes in his cell, and released him to pick out something girlish to wear. 
He picked through the clothes with apprehension, still unable to believe that he would have to wear it. He couldn't picture himself in any of it, but had no trouble imagining his captress.

"Pick something! You're worse than a woman!" she boomed from the microphone. She watched him from the room above, which overlooked his cell. Trembling, he snatched a one-piece swimsuit- the least sexy item he could find. He didn't want to give in too much.

"Put it on!" she screeched from above.

He slipped into the swimsuit, which clung to him like a second skin. The soft fabric and high cut gave him an instant erection, of which he was desperately ashamed. He was quickly chained up again, unable to remove his new garment. All he could do was writhe.

"Do you like it?" she asked when she came down from her perch to see him. She wore a bikini for the occasion, picking it from the selection he chose from and changing into it in front of him.

"What if I don't?" he retorted.

"Oh, I can tell you love it! Look at this bulge!" He reddened in guilty shameful pleasure as she stroked his covered penis. "Do you feel feminine?"

"You promised you'd have sex with me if I wore women's clothes! I wearing it now, so let's do it!"

"Tsk, tsk. Not so fast! You're all chained up there, and you can't exactly do anything about it, can you? Don't worry, I'll fuck you. But not now. For now, I just want to do girlie things with you.

She began to rub up against him. "I want you to feel like a woman. Just imagine what I'd look like wearing that."

She showed him pictures of her wearing exactly what he was wearing. "And just think: you're wearing it now!  You're dressed like a girl. And you seem to like it! Isn't it great to have something caress your body like that?  Don't you just love the delicate material?"

He convulsed with erotic shame. He writhed and struggled, disgusted with himself for becoming feminine. Listening to every word she said, and feeling jolts of exquisitely forbidden pleasure rising from his cock. He struggled to escape from her swimsuit. He felt trapped in it, but relished guiltily every moment of it. "Do you feel feminine?" she asked again.


"Do you like it?"


"I think you've had enough. Let's get that off of you."

"NO!" he screamed. "Don't stop!"

The bathing suit seemed to shape his body into a girlish hourglass. He imagined that his crotch looked just like a girl's, that his chest looked busty. These thoughts sent jolts of intense ecstasy through his body. He had always found it sexy to see empty suimsuits and panties and bras, because it meant that there was probably a naked woman nearby. He felt that knowing the inside of a woman's underwear was incredibly intimate - and arousing. Only this time, he felt the inside of his mistress's bathing suit clinging lewdly to his body. Only women know what that feels like. And now, he does, too. And he felt proud and lucky for it. And feminine.

Tuesday, September 01, 1998

Diary: The Seed Grows

The thought, I am sure, has at least occurred to everybody.

I mean, everybody's heard of transvestites, so they can certainly admit to having imagined a man wearing women's underwear. The first thing I think of is how disgusting and un-feminine they look, no matter how hard they try. It's a short step from there, though, isn't it? Girlfriends will cajole and kid when seeing a transvestite that, "yes, darling, why can't you be more like him?" Or ask straight out if they've ever worn panties. For most men, it's shockingly perverted. They wouldn't dream of forsaking their manhood, or even joke about it, around their girlfriends or wives or mistresses.

But then, that little seed has already been planted. 

Add to that living with a woman: even if she's the mother or sister or some other relative, there's always women's dainties around. What man doesn't get turned on thinking about women's underwear? I've read that men need to see their women in underwear, that it's more appealing to them; they need a signal of femininity. What's more feminine than women's underwear? Not only does it cover the sexiest parts, it accentuates them.
It's difficult for any man to shop for lingerie. That's because there's an uncomfortable stigma about being seen in such a den of girlishness. Who but a girl - or a sissy - would be seen in a place like that? And men know what's pretty, too.

So there's definitely an association.

Secretly, they think about it. They're embarrassed to admit that they're interested in women's underwear - so much so that they can't shop for lingerie without breaking into a cold sweat.

Imagine picking up an article of gorgeous, absolutely female underwear, and being aroused by it. It's so feminine. I have no right to touch it. Merely touching it jeopardizes my manhood. How can I handle being exposed to something so powerfully girlish? I can't: I get so horny that I have to do something about it. Even when I see it on a girl, it drives me crazy. It used to be when I was five or so that girls were icky. A boy could never survive the stigma of hanging around with a girl, or else suffer the humiliation of being called a sissy. The other boys would think that I'm one of them. They would think that I'm secretly a girl. All boys had to resist girls, because we all knew that they were out to assimilate us and make us do all sorts of stupid girl things, and make us wear frilly pansy pink girlie clothes. I'm not surprised if I carry a remnant of that with me even today.
As a matter of fact, there's the idea of the old ball and chain: she'll domesticate you if you commit; she'll turn you into a sissy! You won't be a man anymore, because you can't go bowling or boozing with the guys anymore. Girls are dangerous that way. They want you to be a girl, too.

But men commit all the time. There comes a time when they have to betray the boys, and give in to the girls. The danger exists from day one, when little boys clump together in frightened cliques, berating anyone who dares to show that they feel that same, strange attraction to girls that they each secretly feel individually. They make each other sense that it's powerfully wrong, yet they each feel that they desperately want to. And so the seed is sown.

I know it's wrong, thinks the little boy, but it feels so good when I think of girls. Maybe I am one of them, after all. Imagine: what if my parents are wrong, or what if they've decided to pull some cruel joke on everyone, and I really am a girl, but everybody thinks I'm a boy? That must be it! The girls want me to join their ranks, I can feel it. I am drawn to them. Oh, I would be so free if I could only join them! They would take care of me. They would rub me right here where we're different, and make me like them. Right here they would rub me. Rub me right off. And I would be a girl. Rub me here. Rub me! Oh, rub me! Girl! I'm a girl now! Oh, God, I'm going to turn myself into a girl if I just rub myself! Oh, it feels so good! I want to be a girl! I love feeling like a girl. 

Then it's over and I'm ashamed, and I know that I'm a boy, and that I let everybody down.

Then it starts again. The longings come back. Then I begin to think that girls wear some pretty specific clothes. Boys don't have flowers and frilly lace on their underwear. Girls look so good in their underwear. If I want to be a girl, then I have to wear some of that, don't I? But do I dare? That's the trick, isn't it? I don't want anybody to know, but I want to try it. I start to imagine all sorts of bikinis and bathing suits and stockings and garter belts and panties and bras and teddies. . . I want to wear them all! Just thinking about it makes me feel so good! Imagine how good it must feel to be that sexy! I figure that I've only thought about being a girl so far. I've never actually tried to be one by wearing girls' clothes. Surely doing that will instantly transform me into one, and I'll never be able to regain my manhood. I know it's dangerous. I'm afraid to try.
I try. I don't care that I'll never be a man again. I just want to be a girl now. To Hell with being a boy! It feels so good when I touch women's clothes! I imagine myself wearing only silky women's panties and garter belts and bras from now on. I'm Hell-bent on becoming feminine. I'm only wearing pantyhose on top of my own underwear, but I'm picturing myself in lingerie, bikinis, etc. etc. etc.. Physically, I've barely done anything; mentally, I'm willingly going way too fast. I can't go too fast physically, because I'll never be able to turn back. If I take it slow, I'll be able to work my way up to it, and hang onto my manhood. If I go too fast, I'll be totally transformed overnight, and I'll have a lot of explaining to do. But it's so much more fun to go fast! I want to be girlish NOW!

Before I know it, I'm wearing all the stuff I fantasized about, loving the way it makes me feel so delicate and girlish. And I can't stop.

Saturday, August 15, 1998

Fiction: Affirmation

OK, that didn't work.  Took all the fun right out of it.

For the millionth time, let's get wrapped up in a fantasy:

What's more exciting?  A fantasy about a first-timer, or the uncovering of a regular?  Or the obliteration of shame by affirming femininity?  Really, it all comes down to the affirmation, doesn't it?  No matter what the story, the fun only really starts when the man discovers that he likes being a woman better.  It doesn't even matter how it happens.

It started innocently enough (as it always does in these stories).  It was just a lark, a joke, when I dressed up like a girl the first time.  It was sorta funny, you know.  It was, I suppose a mistake.  I had been wearing bikini underwear for years before I actually noticed the label.  I thought it was sexy and masculine, in the way that it was tight and skimpy.  But the label clearly says, "Women's" on it.  I don't know how I missed it.  I don't know how I could have bought it without knowing what it was.  But there it was, clear as day.  All this time I had been wearing women's underwear.

You can understand how crestfallen I was.  

I had never even imagined wearing women's clothes before.  The thought never crossed my mind.  If it did, I immediately dismissed it as frivolous.  Imagine: a ladies' man like me wearing ladies' underwear.  Absurd!  Yet there I was, for years, doing just that.

What difference does it make, I thought to myself.  It's the intentions that count, isn't it?  I thought they were men's.  I had no intention of wearing women's underwear.  They don't look feminine at all, but I'll admit that they were certainly tight enough to look awfully good on a girl.  So what's the big deal?  Nobody knows but me, anyway.

That's what I thought on the surface.  Underneath, subconsciously, it was a different story.  A little seed had planted itself in my mind, and I didn't even know it.  I suppose it's a mental association thing: the first little thought brought on a whole chain- no, a tree- of others, all derived from that little seed.  Me, wearing women's underwear.  Imagine me wearing sexy lace panties, a bra, and even a garter belt.  I banished those thoughts as soon as they entered my mind.  I was worried.  I vowed to never wear those briefs again.
Of course, it didn't work out that way.  I had to admit that I couldn't stay away from them.  They were comfortable, damnit.  And they made me horny.  They made me think of women wearing lingerie.  How could I resist that thought?  A pure, wholesome, heterosexual male thought.  Except it was different, somehow.  I was fixated on the lingerie.  Now THAT's women's underwear, I thought, as I salivated thinking about it, not this unisex crap I'm wearing.  

I used to drive myself to climax in that underwear.  I'd fantasize about girls and their sexy underthings.  Somehow, the thought that I was wearing girlie underthings too made me hornier.  I felt so subversive.  I knew what I was doing, I thought at the time.  When I was done, I'd feel just awful, like I would have to change out of them.  I felt ashamed, and I didn't understand why.

It became pretty clear soon enough.  I would think about those panties, and think of them in those terms, and get horny.  I got a strange kick out of reading the label before putting them on.  Nobody knows the difference, I thought, except me.  And it struck me: I'm wearing women's underwear, on purpose, and it makes me horny.  

The realization floored me.  This could only damage my masculinity, I thought, and became even more aroused.  This is so wrong, I thought, but it feels so good.  Before I knew it, I was masturbating, imagining myself becoming more and more feminine every time I wore these panties.  While I stroked myself, I didn't care what it did to my manhood.  Girlhood felt so incredibly good that I wanted more and more of it.  I felt so sexy.  Then I came, and came right back to earth.  I was so ashamed, and I threw the panties back into my dresser in self-disgust.

I worried about what was happening to me.  I tried to resist, but I couldn't.  When I got horny, it was because I was thinking of wearing something feminine again.  I didn't limit my imagination to my own panties, though.  I fantasized about wearing silky and lacy lingerie, two-piece bikini bathing suits and tight sexy women's swimsuits.  I was possessed.  Soon I couldn't stop myself from trying.  I had to have more than my panties.  They weren't even real women's underwear.  I decided to get my hands on a one-piece swimsuit, because it wasn't so extreme as a lingerie outfit or a bikini.  I couldn't just dive into something like that.  I wanted to, but I was afraid.  I didn't want to lose control.

I already had, of course.  Still, I took it slowly.  Painfully slowly.  I stole the swimsuit from my sister one day when I visited.  She never suspected.  I snuck into her room and rifled her dresser, stuffing it down my pants when I found it.  When I got home, I couldn't wait to put it on.  But I didn't trust it.  I kept my own manly underwear on to protect me.  I feared that the naked suit on me would be too much of a shock.

Even with my underwear to protect me, it was a phenomenal experience.  It was so snug on my body, and so smooth.  I loved fondling girls in their bathing suits.  I loved how tightly they caressed female bodies.  And now, here I was, wearing one myself.  I didn't dare finish myself at first.  It was just too much.  So I took it off, and hid it in my dresser.  The thought of it tortured me for minutes, until I decided to pull it out again, and finish what I had started.  Only I desperately wanted to feel it against my naked crotch.  I moaned in amazement when I finally had it on.  I couldn't believe what I was doing.  I felt so feminine, and I felt so incredibly good.  Until after I came, that is.

Amazing, isn't it, the way desires can so cloud the mind?  I was so disgusted with myself.  I slinked out of my sister's bathing suit, and wondered how I could ever get it back into her dresser.  There were stains all over it now.  I couldn't dare wash it: it would look awfully conspicuous in then laundromat.  I felt stupid and lecherous and perverted.  This fantasy was wearing away my masculinity.

These misgivings only lasted a short while until I got horny again.  I never did give that swimsuit back.  I wore it as often as I wanted to.  Which was pretty well daily.  I frolicked girlishly in it, imagining that I was trapped in its tight, elastic femininity, and that I couldn't get out of it.  The intense pleasure that I experienced from it was simply the magical process of my body becoming effeminate.  Yes, I wanted desperately to escape from it, because I didn't want to become a girl; yet it felt so wonderful that I wanted even more desperately to wear it forever, or better yet, take it off and wear something even sexier, like a matching lace bra panty and garter belt set, or a bikini swimsuit.  I simultaneously hoped and feared that I would become a girl if I continued.

I became so disgusted with myself that I threw the swimsuit in the garbage, vowing to never wear women's clothes again.  But it didn't work.  My cravings became much worse, because I had no more outlet for them.  So I stole panties from my sister.  Only this time, rather than just stuff them into my pants, I went to the bathroom to put them on under my own underwear.  That way, I would get to try them on at the same time as I concealed them more effectively.

The panties were white and frilly.  They were gorgeous.  The trouble was that I missed a bra.  I needed one to feel the full femininity.  I eventually stole that, too.  I pleasured myself relentlessly in my sister's underwear.  I began to fantasize about buying myself some lingerie.

It had gotten too easy to steal from my sister.  I knew that she had a bikini, so I planned to steal that, too.  I longed for one day and night, because I had never worn one before.  She caught me red-handed, rummaging through her dresser.  I must have been white as a ghost.  She knew exactly what I was doing, knew exactly where her other clothes had vanished.  

"So, you like my underwear, do you?"

I had to deny it.  "What are you talking about?"

"I've caught you red-handed.  Admit it: you want to wear my underwear, you sissy faggot pantywaist!"

She made me take off all my clothes in front of her, and put on her bikini.  Somehow, she read my mind.  I felt ridiculous.

So she took me to the store, and made me buy lingerie for myself, as well as all sorts of women's clothes.  She turned me into a girl.

Diary: Breakup

A__ and I are no more.  She never wanted the panties part of the lingerie I gave her, so it's still in my dresser, along with the stockings.  I have moved my other stuff into the same drawer now.  What the Hell's the difference?  It's all my underwear, isn't it?  I like the idea of having girls' clothes in my underwear drawer.
I have to fantasize about this again.  For weeks, the most intensely gratifyingly sexy deed I could think of involved fucking her, no kinks involved.  But I have to forget that if I want to move on.  So back to lingerie for me!

I've re-read much of this file.  There's a lot in there to turn me on.  I want to fantasize about it again, and get totally girlified once more.  I want to explore the possibilities of my fantasies again, in a systematic way.

Saturday, August 01, 1998

Fiction: Put Yourself In Her Place

"You know, honey," she said petulantly, "I'm sick of you treating me like a sex object. All you ever want me to wear is lingerie. How come you don't have to wear anything like this to turn me on??"

"Because you're a woman."


"Women look great in lingerie."

"Would you wear lingerie if it made you look good? Cause God knows you don't as you are. . ."

"Lingerie's for women. Why would I want to wear women's underwear?"

"What if I thought you looked good in it?"

"I wouldn't feel comfortable in it."

"You think I feel comfortable like this?"

"Why shouldn't you? You look incredible!"

"I feel like a slut. This stuff isn't made for comfort, you know. It's just too revealing. I feel silly."

"Oh, don't feel that way! Won't you wear it just for me?"

"It's just not fair, that's all. I'd like to see how you'd feel if I just sat there in my gitch and watched you parade around in tight silky frilly panties and a garter belt and a bra. . ."

"That's a bit different I think."

"How so?"

"Well, those things are made for women."

"I disagree. They're made for men who want to make women feel silly."

"Gimme a break."

"No, I insist. You wear the lingerie this time. I'm sick of it."

"You must be joking."

"No. I'm dead serious." She took off her bra, and tossed it onto his lap. Then she began unhooking her stockings.

"What, you actually expect me to wear this?"

"Why not? I had to wear it for you!"

"Yeah, but. . ."

"But what?"

"It's a bra."

"No shit."

"Bras are for women."

"No woman would ever actually want to wear a bra. Do you realize how constricting and uncomfortable those things are? Bras are for men. Men like looking at bras. Well, now it's my turn. I want to see you wear it. And I want to see you wear these ridiculous little panties and these stockings and this garter belt, too."

"I can't do that."

"Why not? I thought you liked my lingerie."

"I love it- on you."

"Well, you picked it out, not me. If I have to wear what you want, then you should have to wear what I want you to. And I want you to wear this lingerie outfit."

"All right. Fine." His face was almost purple. It wasn't rage. He looked nervous. I think he was sweating.

"What, are you afraid?"


"Are you scared of what people will think? Nobody has to know. Just me."

"All right, I said. I'll put it on."

And he did.

"Well, then. You look gorgeous!"

"Oh, shut up."

"How do you like it? Do you feel sexy? Or is it uncomfortable?"

"Shut up."

"You have an awfully big boner."

He almost burst with embarrassment. He was speechless.

"Don't try to hide it. I think you look adorable in a bra. If only you shaved your legs, you'd look beautiful."

"I don't see what you'd complain about, you know."

"I'm not complaining."

"I mean when you wear the lingerie."

"Why? Do you like it?"

"It's pretty comfortable."

She snorted. "You like it!"

"It's really not so bad."

"I'm really happy for you."

"It's all smooth and form-fitting."

"I can't believe this. Are you serious?"

"Yes. It's comfy. I like it."

"You actually enjoy wearing my lingerie."

"I suppose."

"You're such a bullshitter. Take it off. You're making fun of me."

"No, I'm serious."

"Enough, already. You've made your point."

"What point?"

"That I shouldn't complain about wearing lingerie."

"I just can't understand why you'd feel uncomfortable. I even feel a little sexy."

"Just take it off and let's get on with it."

"Could it wait a bit?"


"I don't want to take this off. It feels really nice."

"Please stop fucking around. It's not funny anymore."

"No, I'm serious. I'm seriously horny. This is amazing!"

"Alright. Whatever."

"Hey, you wanted me to wear it. But you were right. Lingerie is for men. I always thought women looked so good in their underwear. There's something. . . intimate about women's underwear. It's incredibly sexy. And I feel sexy wearing it."

"You're starting to scare me."

"Can I try on some of your other stuff? Like your bathing suits? Your bikini? A mini-skirt?"

Diary: Missing A__'s Wardrobe

I miss living with A__, and having the opportunity to dress up whenever she slept at her mother's. I desperately want to dress up right now. I want to put on some sweet little white undies and a bra, slip into some stockings, and wear a tight little black minidress on top. And I'd wear cute sexy sandals on my feet, too.

Fiction: Queen of the Brothels, Redux

Now, let's get back to our detective story:

So the kid got conned into wearing women's clothes.  I'm not sure how it happened.  It doesn't even matter I suppose.  They could have forced him.  They could have coerced him.  They could have convinced him.  He could have resisted them.  He could have reluctantly agreed.  He could have been in no position to resist.  He could have even suggested it himself.  But I think they probably took away his clothes when he took up with them, and told him to wear women's clothes or else they turf him.  They limited his choices to either running away naked, unprotected from his creditors, or staying there and dressing like a girl.  He probably values his life, and he chose the latter.  

From there, they slowly trained him to get used to it.  He couldn't run away then, especially then.  He looked ridiculous dressed that way.  Who would help him?  Then they started demanding his money.  They promised him that he could live with them forever, and not have to ever worry about food or money again.  He only had to do as he was told.  Evidently, he did it voluntarily.  Wrote them a big fat cheque with all the money his parents gave him.

From there, it was slow effeminization.  They taught him how to act effeminately.  He learned.  They gave him hormones.  He eagerly measured his bust every morning, waiting for his breasts to grow.  And they had him acting in their pornos, as a she-male.  A chick with a dick.  I've seen him in one or two of them, sucking dicks.  He's not quite girlish, but his tits are pretty damned real.

OK, that's going nowhere.  I can't forget in one of the dragscape stories, how the submissive husband was forced by his wife to become a girl.  He had a fetish for sweaters (of all things), and she had him dress up in one.  Then she had him put on her panties and bra, put a sweater on top, and go shopping for lingerie.  From then on, he wore nothing but women's clothes.  He became a girl for her then.  But she had a master plan.  She wanted to show him off later in public as a girl, with real tits.  She asked him to sign up for hormone replacement.  He was reluctant to go in for such a permanent change, but he did.  And he became a she-male, sucking his wife's boyfriends' dicks.  Voluntarily.  Now that's interesting.

Diary: New Silver Bikini!

Impulsively, I bought another bikini today. I think I struck gold.

I had actually been thinking of it for some time. I looked up a wholesale swimwear shop, hoping to find a good deal. The place was pretty small, near [a bakery we used to frequent], and pretty empty. I pretended to be interested in some flippers, but instead I took the silver bikini. It's a size 9-10, but the cut is very sexy. It's silver and shimmery, with a black plastic trim on the bra. I paid exactly $46 for it. I've been wearing the panties since I got home.

It fits quite nicely. I needed it badly. It's much better than that last one I had, although I wish I hadn't lost it. I wish I had been more careful about all of that stuff. There were some really good things in that bag, but it's gone now. Easy come, easy go. I'll especially miss that satin teddy with my first garter belt and my white fishnet stockings.

I've always been turned on by the idea of wearing women's underwear under my clothes. It's symbolic of how I feel girlish inside. Just as there's girl's undies under my clothes, there's a girl under my skin.

My only regret is having looked at myself. I look just awful in it.

I feel pretty good though.

Tuesday, July 14, 1998

Fantasy: Girlfriends

[This was found in a separate file, entitled simply "Document."]

Some people love to lounge around the house in their underwear.  To them, it's the ultimate in comfort.  Personally, I like to lounge around in someone else's underwear.  

It began innocently enough.  I ran out of clean underwear of my own one day, and as a joke I tried on some of my girlfriend's panties.  We both laughed about it.  Me, of all people, with frilly silky panties on.  It was just so funny: the dainty little panty elastics, the extremely high cut, the little bow in the middle, the silk, the lace embroidery. . . it all looked so funny on my masculine body.  My big dig stuck out at the top like some offensive obelisk.  "You know, there's a matching bra for that," said A__, and she picked it out of her dresser daintily by one skinny strap, and dangled it in front of me.  She had to help me put it on, and that made us laugh even more.  It's one thing to wear ladies panties.  You can get away with it because they almost look like some pretty fruity men's bikini briefs.  But it's quite a different story when you're wearing a bra with them, much less a matching bra.  Then there's no mistaking the fact that you're wearing the most sexy, most intimate, most unmistakably effeminate part of a woman's wardrobe.  It was hillarious.  
Pretty soon, we were spent.  I moved to take A__'s underwear off me, but she stopped me.  "You can't do that!  You have to wear that all day!"


"Well, you don't have any of your own undies, do you?"

"So?  Who says I was going to put on some of my own undies?"

She stared at me, shocked, and we both burst into laughter again.

We both got such a laugh out of it.  She humoured me, as I had just humoured her, and she started digging through her dresser for the sexiest lingerie and swimsuits for me to wear, just for the laughs.  I couldn't back down now.  Besides, it was actually pretty fun.  We were doing something silly, just for laughs, and neither of us felt uncomfortable or ashamed.  I don't even think either of us thought twice about it.  It was a spur of the moment event.  Not too many people would do this kind of thing.  I think most men would be afraid of looking like pansies, and most women would be eternally turned off by the pansy men wearing their clothes.  But not us.  We enjoyed it for what it was.

A__ started piling all sorts of sexy stuff in my arms, all enthusiastic about how funny it would be to see me in a bikini, or a garter belt, or a nightgown.  Pretty soon, I started pointing out some of the lingerie I had bought her.  I don't know, in retrospect, how we kept this going.  Neither of us was entirely serious, yet neither of us would stop taking the joke further.  If either of us expected it to go so far at that moment, we didn't let it show.

After a while, I had all sorts of myterious girlie stuff in my arms.  I didn't even really know how to get into some of it.  Nevertheless, I remembered A__ wearing each and every one of the outfits, and how I drooled all over her when she did.  Each piece she handed me made me imagine her in it, how it would accentuate her most feminine features.  

I was beginning to get nervous, I think.  I had always been curious about her underwear.  Why do I find her so sexy in her underwear--even more so than naked?  There is something so inherently female about women's underwear.  I was even more curious now, considering that I would soon be wearing all of these dainty garments.  I wanted to know how it must feel to wear these things, just as all women do every day.  Imagine being sexy enough to have such beautiful clothes on all the time.  

"You know, I don't think I'm ready to do this," I said.

"What do you mean?  You don't want to wear this stuff anymore?"

Again, I couldn't back down.  "No, I mean, what's the point in dressing like a girl if I don't really look like one?"

"Yeah, let's get some of that hair off of you.  It would just look awful under stockings."

She pulled me into the shower, where she naired my body bald.  "If we're going to make you a girl today," she said, "we might as well go all the way."  Quite quickly, I could see my bald body.  It was as sleek and smooth as hers.  I could picture a garter on one of my thighs.  I could look pretty sexy, too, if I put my mind to it.  And I had so many options waiting for me. . .

As soon as I was dry, I slipped into A__'s bikini.  The sensation of the little skimpy tight and smooth material against my bald skin overwhelmed me.  Something came over me.  Neither A__ nor I found it funny anymore.  I stood there, tall and proud, snapping my bra straps in front of her.  I stared deep into her eyes, and she understood me completely.  This was no longer a game.  This was no longer for cheap laughs.  This had become serious.  It had become a matter of necessity for both of us to turn me into a girl.  I never felt such freedom as when I put that bikini on my hairless body--the same bikini that, when A__ wore it, made me salivate and lust for her as it clung to her delicious curves.  Here I was, putting on something too feminine for many women to feel comfortable wearing, putting it on right in front of the woman to whom it belongs.  I wore it because I was curious.  I wore it because I thought it was pretty, and I wanted it to make me pretty, too.  I felt no hesitation.  At that moment, I needed to know how it feels to be feminine.  I felt no shame.  Only pride.  I knew that I was far from pretty; there was still lots of work to do.  I was proud because I felt so comfortable.  I can imagine how I could have felt ridiculous, or ashamed; but I only felt the excitement of discovery.  

For so many years, I had admired women and their bodies and their sexy underwear.  I had often marvelled at the complexity of their outfits, and at how incredibly beautiful they look.  Panties lying on the floor, a bra dangling from a chair--these had all intrigued me.  I couldn't ever imagine wearing them myself.  They belonged to a world that I could never access without undermining my manhood.  Almost by accident, I dared to explore.  It was just a silly joke!  And now I stood here before A__, snapping my panty waist girlishly, dreaming of wearing all the most girlish things imaginable.

From then on, A__ worked feverishly to make me more girlish.  She did my hair and my nails and my makeup.  I tried on all of the outfits she set aside for me.  I settled on the lingerie outfit I bought her for Christmas: a matching black outfit consisting of a silky bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings.  I remember sweating with nervousness when I bought it.  It turned me on so much, because it was so feminine. And now I couldn't resist wearing it myself.  Then I picked out a tight little mini-dress.  We stuffed my bra a bit, to give me a bit more shape.  I felt so amazing.  I gushed with joy.  I felt so comfortable with A__.  I owed her so much for helping me discover my feminine side.  The word 'girlfriend' took on a whole different meaning.  We were ready to show the world.

We had to buy me some girly shoes.  A__ had nothing that could possibly fit me.  It was amazing that I even fit into her dress.  "You can't come with me, though," she declared.  "You need shoes, and you can't go out wearing anything but girlie shoes dressed like that.  What's your size?"

This was fine with me.  I was a bit apprehensive about going out.  I mean, someone might see me.  I only wanted A__ to see me like this.

She was only gone for half an hour.  She didn't come back with shoes, either.

"Bobbie, this is Ken.  I met him outside the coffee shop."

"Nice to meet you, Ken," I said in my most effeminate voice.  I felt so girlish.  I had worked myself up so much to this, that I blushed at the thoughts crossing my head.  I didn't want to abandon my girlishness.  I was glad that A__ had brought some stranger to see me first.  He seemed oblivious.  "Can I get you a drink?" I offered.


A__ followed me into the kitchen.  "So," she whispered in my ear, "moving in on my territory already, are you?"

"What do you mean?  I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"I'll bet.  You've been a girl for less than a day, and already you want a dick."

I must have blushed.  I felt a wave of horniness as I imagined the consequences of her statement.  The thought had, in fact, crossed my girlish frame of mind.  I was still quite afraid to admit it, even to myself.
"Look, I brought him here because I wanted you to experience every aspect of girlhood.  I thought I might show you a few tricks. . ."

Sure enough, when I brought him his drink, A__ snuggled up to him, and motioned for me to do the same.  She grabbed his crotch and purred, "so, you wanna have a threesome?"  I had never seen her so unabashed before.  She unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock.  She invited me to stroke it.
I had never even dreamed of touching another man's dick.  But this time, I wanted it.  I wanted to squeeze it like it were my own.  

Monday, June 15, 1998

Diary: the Lost Fantasy of Domination

I have written many sordid fantasies in my notebook.  Contrary to practice (and security), I have refrained from tearing them up afterwards.  Another small step towards more freely admitting my fetish.

So here I sit again, at another person's computer, eagerly awaiting my own, so that I can put whatever I want on it.  I have read just about everything interesting on Dragscape.  One was about a dominant bitch who turned her submissive husband into a girl, up to the point where he sucked off her boyfriends to get them hard enough to get into her, looking completely female.  She forced him to start hormone replacement after months of making him wear only women's clothes.  God, that turns me on: gradually becoming female at the whim of a beautiful woman.  And it all starts with the clothes. . .

When I put on something girlish, I imagine myself being molded into a female shape by the shapely contours of my clothes.  Above all, I imagine my dick obliterated into a lovely, soft, curvaceous cunt under those tantalizing silks.  It's what I crave most desperately, coupled with the thought that it's disgusting, that it's unnatural, perverted, treasonous, effeminate.  Yes, I know that wearing this will make me girlish.  But I don't care!  It feels so good!  And why does it feel so good?  Because it makes me feel so feminine!

Take that fantasy about the war of the sexes, in which I, the masculine hero, get captured and embrace my conversion as vehemently as I opposed it.  I fight the women because I am a man, and I don't want to be anything else.  But when they introduce me to femininity, I embrace it even more fanatically than they do.  I know when they first expose me to their clothes that I will indubitably become female sooner or later.  And it feels so good that I anticipate each step, to the point where I actually crave femininity.  

I've somehow forgotten about the whole domination fetish that once possessed me so.  I used to fantasize that some cruel woman forced me to wear her underwear, and that I would become her servant.  Somehow, the innocence of that fantasy is lost.  There is something gone.  I remember my Baroness figurine bending G.I. Joes to her will.  I remember disassembling the figurines and reassembling the men with her body parts, and getting all turned on by it.  They would discover what it feels like to be female, and they would become her slaves, and join Cobra.  A total reversal.

Friday, June 05, 1998

Fiction: I Can't Wear That!

[transcribed from a notebook]

“I can't wear that!”

“Why not?!?”

“I'm not a girl!”

I stared at the panties and bra dangling from my fingers like dead things. What was I doing even holding them? I could hadly reconcile my body and those undies in my mind.

“That's not the point!” she retorted.

“Then what is?”

She stared hard at me, like she couldn't believe that I could seriously ask such a silly question. “Well, you want me to, and always have. That's the point.”

I was dumfounded. How could she believe that I've always wanted to wear women's underwear? Is it even possible? Here in my hand I have the epitome of femininity, and I am supposed to have dreamed of defiling myself with it since childhood? Maybe defile is the wrong word. It's not like there's anything the least bit bad about women's lingerie. In fact, it's one of my favourite things: girls look so beautiful in it. Sometimes I think that they derive their femininity from their clothes. It's amazing how much difference clothes can make to a woman's sex apeal.

“See?” she said. “If you could see the way you're drolling over my undies! You despereately want to wear them.”

Me? Wearing this?  How could I? It's made for girls. I'm not a girl. It's just impossible. To think – that gorgeous girlish silk and satin and lace, stretched tight on my crotch, and across my chest. I can't help but picture what's supposed to go into it: sexy female anatomy. I try to picture myself in it, but all I see is female and sexy and gorgeous. It makes me horny.

“You've fondled me in those undies. You know how soft they are. They fascinate you in their femininity, don't they? Just imagine... imagine them on you.”

I feel so naughty. I know that I shouldn't, but my thoughts turn to fantasies. I picture myself as a girl, wearing these panties, and looking irresistibly girlish. I'm thinking about it. And I'm probably blushing, because it's turning me on.

“You might as well go ahead,” she says. “I know you want to.”

“I just... can't! It's so, so bad...”

“How can you say that? You know you'll like it.”

“I feel like I'm betraying my manhood.”

“It's already too late. Just thinking about it the way you are pretty well condemns you, doesn't it?”

This bit of wisdom turns me on that much more. Sheepishly, I slink into the undies. Instantly, I notice the difference in fit, and texture. So this is what it's like to be a girl.

Thursday, June 04, 1998

Fiction: Discovery and Explanation, Fictionalized

[transcribed from a notebook]

Can there be any turning back? I though, as I once more fondled women's underwear. I have this strange fetish. Sometimes, I can rationalize it, and I don't think it's so strange. Women's clothing, and especially underwear, turns me on to an alarming degree. In fact, it turns me on more than thoughts of sexual intercourse do, when I'm alone. I am obsessed with lingerie and skimpy swimwear. And I can't explain why, but I'll try.

There's something sexy about women's clothes, even when they're not being worn. There's nothing sexier than discarded panties, lying on the floor, or a bra tossed thoughtlessly on the back of a chair. Swimsuits too. They're all irresistible. They maintain the femininity that they are designed to accentuate. Somehow, women's clothes are completely alien, something which no normal heterosexual male is supposed to know anything about. They're taboo for men; perhaps that's part of it. Plus, they're so sexy when worn, that it's impossible to avoid associating them with women's bodies. Even so, I would rather look at a girl in her undies than naked.

Wait, maybe I should rephrase that...

But that's the question at hand, isn't it? I have all this womanly attire here, and I get excited looking at it, knowing that it is hers, touching it, caressing it, examining every beautiful crimp and stitch and elastic. What I meant to say above was that I prefer seeing underwear-clad girls than naked girls. But the ambiguity of the sentence presents a different alternative.

How does this stuff turn me on? It's difficult to grasp, even for me. I imagine all of the feminine thaings that go on in there, and looking at it or touching it makes me feel close to it, close to something feminine. It makes me feel like I'm grasping some ideal of femininity, represented by, encapsulated in, women's underwear.

But now, this new idea.

I have caressed women's underwear, held it against my naked body, imagining that I'm touching an ideal woman. I have jerked myself off against the soft fabrics and lace. Is this the next logical step? One curious thought. And I'm stuck in a dilemma of sorts.

“I would rather look at a girl in her undies...” I wrote. How did I get in her undies? Strangely enough, here they are, right in front of me, giving me a huge boner. The idea started so innocently. I accidentally imagine myself wearing women's clothing – wearing the clothes that turn me on so much. How would it feel to wear lingerie, or a bikini? I am looking at my favourite lingerie right now. How much closer to it can I get without wearing it?

But there's a stunning contradiction: how can I wear it without compromising my own masculinity? By wearing such female clothes – clothes that define girlhood in my mind – wouldn't that make me girlish? Put another way: would I ever want anyone to know that I've worn women's clothes-- never mind for a sexual kick-- and still feel socially comfortable as a man? The thought that any human being could discover this terrifies me.

The screw turns tighter. The idea arouses me more than anything ever has. I want desperately to feel that close to femininity. I am afraid for my manhood on one side, but on the other hand my curiosity and fetish get the better of me. Each side feeds the other. So here is my dilemma: do I risk my manhood for possibly the most intense sexual experience of my life? Or do I resist this temptation, and establish forever my manhood as incorruptible?

What would you do?

Every doubt about maintaining my manhood in spite of dressing up like a girl makes my desire stronger. It's like a dare. I can't back down, or else I'm a coward. Ultimately, I fear that there will be no turning back. Even a split-second wearing a bikini, and I will forever crave more. I will never be able to stop. In other words, I'm afraid of it feeling too good.

The thought obsesses me. Is it worth the risk? My lingerie beckons me, tempts me in its effeminacy. My manhood warns me sternly against even thinking about it further. But I can't stop. Perhaps it's already too late, having simply imagined it. The severity of the consequences itself turns me on: these undies are so effeminate, that merely wearing them will instantly metamorphose me into a girl. Now the fear of consequences has totally merged with my desire: Oh God! I Hope so! I will wear this lingerie; I, a man, a heterosexual man, will willingly put on garments of undeniable effeminacy-- the epitome of womanhood, even-- with the intent to become feminine. I no longer fear that wearing women's underwear will make me effeminate-- I hope for it. My thoughts become so subversive that this realization pushes me even further into desire.

I was right. It was too late from the moment the thought crossed my mind.

Wednesday, June 03, 1998

Fiction: Transformation and Choice

[transcribed from a notebook, many pages earlier, near my class notes from 1998; I remember coming across this while studying, and a girl noticing my writings...]

I guess it doesn't even matter how I got into this mess. An unpredictable and unstoppable chain of events brought me to this place, to this fate. Was it fate? Was it destiny? Did my own free will have nothing to do with my ending up here? Oh, they keep telling me that only those who want to, come here. Nobody gets forced into this. Some may protest vehemently, but it's their own choices, ultimately, that bring them here. Like I said, it doesn't matter.

It came as quite a shock, this radical transformation. I would never have thought it possible if I hadn't experienced it myself. I remember when that wonderful bevy of young women awakened me to allow me to witness it.

Imagine emerging from a druggy haze to see the most beautiful woman on earth shaking you awake. She wore nothing but a lacy red teddy with matching stockings. She looked like a lingerie model. Five more girls, each more beautiful than the next, milled about the room in equally revealing outfits. A__, the sexy one in red who woke me up, cuddled up to me lasciviously, and told me to wake up, or I'd miss all the fun. I couldn't even speak. I couldn't move, either. She was so sexy, so pretty, and I wanted to jump on her right there. But I couldn't.

Somehow, I realized that I was vertical, not lying down. I was chained by the ankles and wrists like a star. And I was buck naked. Drugged as I was, I couldn't understand what was going on. I felt like I was in paradise.

They began their work as soon as A__ gave the signal. All six girls descended on me like buzzards on a corpse. At no time did any one of them ignore me. At lieast one at any time cajoled me and caressed me suggestively. I still couldn't move. They kept me informed at every step.

They started by shaving my chest. They used pink disposable razors and women's shaving gel. They were very delicate. Not the slightest cut. The whole time they fondled me. They saved my legs for last.

When it came time for the legs, they gave me a most sensual treatment. They worked with such care and delicacy that I already began to see my legs the way I saw theirs: hairless, smooth, sleek, and above all, sexy and feminine. The way they handled my legs, the way they caressed them, I thought of supermodels in pantyhose or lady leg shaver commercials.

Finally when they finished rinsing me, and I was as hairless and smooth as, if not more so than, them, they began to dress me. First they wrapped a think lacy garter belt, white, around my waist. Simultaneously, white fishnet stockings went up my legs, slowly, sensually, up to my thigh. Their hands slid against my shaven skin all the way up, reminding me of how effeminate my legs had become. Then they slipped on a satiny white teddy with lacy trim. One at a time, and attached it gingerly over my cock. They rolled in a full length mirror and showed me what I looked like. Except for the bulge in the crotch, the body in the feflection looked entirely female.

Then they slipped me more drugs; and they teased me with their bodies. They each showed me, up close, the sexiest parts of their bodies.

“See these legs?” said one, gorgeously. “Yours will look just like them.” And on it went. I passed out with visions of them, their bodies melding into mine, transforming me into one of them. I protested, I resisted with all my might, but it was no use. A__ herself shook her hips right in front of my face. “See this?” she said, pointing at her panty-clad crotch, “See this wonderful little curvy mound, this smooth, soft, exquisite space – you'll soon have one just like it.” I could feel the stockings slithering up my legs all over again, I could feel the garter belt tightening around my waist, I could feel the teddy slide over my chest, and the panties surround my crotch. I tried desperately to squirm free, but there was nowhere to go, no position to assume that would stop it; I tried to pull it off, but instead found my hands impulsively caressing the delicate fabric. It was on me, all over me, but I continued to squirm and fondle. How could I not fondle? My legs were girls' legs; my chest felt effeminate; my crotch, oh how my crotch burned with ecstasy as I moved my hips, gyrated my hips. It was like making out with a girl, and feeling her body's sensations on top of my own. Part of me still resists, in vain. Another begs for more. I know that I am not a girl, and yet I also know that I have essential items of girlhood on my body. This incongruously divides my will: deep inside, I fear this effeminacy. It means the destruction of my manhod. But on the surface I cannot resist the pleasure. I imagine wearing all sorts of girlish things like bikinis and lingerie and miniskirts. I dream of transforming my crotch into one as heavenly as A__'s.

At length, I emerge from my drug-hazed sleep still chained spread eagled and wearing lingerie. My lust for femininity has faded almost to nothing – but my outfit reminds me of my thoughts, my corrupted perversions of before. I blush with shame and feel a hot rush of horniness simultaneously.

I can forgive my wearing the lingerie. I was forced. But I cannot account for, nor forgive my transsexual fantasy. I can't even understand it. But somehow, just the memory of my drug trip fantasy makes me want to relive it. The stockings still decorate my shaven legs. I still look like a sexy woman. I can feel myself slowly succumbing again to the grips of feminininity, only this time without the drugs. I need only think about my visions of before, and quiver, guiltily, with desire. I am thankful to be alone. Not that it matters. Surely A__ and the girls know how much I enjoyed myself. They put it into my head.

I know I shouldn't but I can't stop. I want to feel myself, but I also hate myself for succumbing again. I Imagine wearing all sorts of other girlish things. The conflict raging in my head. I feverishly consider the possibility of wearing panties and a bra – maybe even, god forbid, a bikini. Perhaps even a one-piece swimsuit. I consider it fearfully, because I'm afraid of how exquisite such effeminate clothes would feel on my body. My fear becomes fantasy, guilty fantasy, and fuels my desire. Soon it becomes desire, as I picture myself slipping into a skimpy little bikini, my masculine conscience fades away.

Suddenly, as I'm lost in fantasy, writhing in my lingerie, the girls enter my cell. They saw me dancing hotly in the lingerie. I'm embarrassed. “What's the matter?” asks A__. “don't you like it?” I can't answer. “We're letting you go. If you don't want to be one of us, we'll understand. We're leaving it up to you.”

I feel the chains slacken, and I'm free. All the girls are looking at me. “So, what'll it be,” coos A__. “Are you with us or not?” She's got her hand on my suddenly girlish hip.

My first instinct is to remove the clothes I'm wearing. I look down at my lingerie-clad body. I unclasp the stockings from my garter belt, and start rolling them down. In shame and disgust. But my legs are so sexy. And they're so pretty in these stockings. I get to my ankle, and I hesitate. I feel up my sensuously girlish thigh. I look at each of the girls in turn. They all seem indifferent. And they're so damned gorgeous in their underwear. They don't seem to ccare either way. I stare at my clothes, how pretty they are. I want to keep these clothes. I look at A__'s crotch, her tits, her legs. I want them all. I picture my body as hers. I fondle the lingerie all over. Soon, I'm masturbating openly. I pull my stockings back up and announce my decision.

“I want to be a girl!”

A__ beamed. She was proud of me. They led me to a storeroom stocked with all kinds of female attire. Here I would pick out some fresh clothes, which would be the first new additions to my wardrobe. I had to choose from panties on outwards. I dressed like a whore, sleecting some dainty bra and panty set, in black, with a garter belt and stockings to match. Then I found a short red minidress that clung to me like a glove. Finally, I picked out some sexy black sandals, with two-inch heels. I had to hitch up my butt like a girl when I walked. I had to parade around like this all day to test my dedication. I put it all on in front of them. I hesitated again. Could I turn back on my decision now? The thought of having a strictly feminine wardrobe, filled with dainty panties and bras, enticed me into continuing. And I did prance around like that all day. I could hardly believe it. There could be no turning back now.

At night, I was to choose a nightgown. I picked one like a dress, a short one. It looked so feminine. There's no mistaking it.

The next day, after picking a new outfit, I was introduced to Joe. He was tall, strong, muscular. I was told that for the next week, I would be Joe's panty slave. I would be his little slut, and I would have to grant him his every wish. If not, they would throw me out on the street, to return only when I'm serious. It wasn't necessary. I felt so girlish. I wanted to rub myself all over his muscular body. I dreamed of him sticking his dick on my girly clothes. I was putty in his hands. His touch made me feel so ... feminine.

Tuesday, June 02, 1998

Fiction: Wherein Nothing Happens

[transcribed from a notebook]

Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she had any idea what the result would be.

She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always wore revealing clothes, but always managed to look very classy nonetheless. There was nothing sleazy about her at all. But she was extremely femininie. She is one of those women who are so beautiful that you have to keep reminding yourself that she is human.

Even her underwear was gorgeous. It pains me now to think of her. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid talking about how wonderful the sex was. Just imagine: getting hot and sweaty with the very epitome of womanhood. She could have just lain there motionless and I would have had an awesome time.

One time after a particularly intimate lovemaking session, she proposed a brief closet swap. I don't know if she had any idea what it would do to me. I held im my hand her gorgeous silk panties. I could only picture how astonishinly sexy she looked in them. It was like holding the very essence of her femininine sexuality in my hand. I was afraid of them. I oculdn't imagine applying that femininity to myself. She giggled at my hesitation. It was a big deal for me.

I could only imagine the consequences of wearing her panties, even for a moment. What if I liked it? Would it compromise my manhood? I contemplated it for days. Logically, it's ludicrous. Nothing can change the physical fact of my masculinity, but there's so much more to it than that. I could imagine it on me now, and it aroused me to no end. Already I knew I was in trouble.

Monday, June 01, 1998

Fiction: Queen of the Brothels

I have a story in mind:

The detective tracks down what happened to a young man who seems to have disappeared.  His rich parents want to know where he is.  The dick finds out that the kid somehow fell in with a female-worshiping cult.  He gave them his life's savings.  This is how it happened:

At the end of high school, he was depressed about still having his virginity.  So he went to the back pages of Now to find himself a whore.  Unfortunately for him, she was one of the minions of the Queen of the brothels.  She conned him into taking her more seriously as a girlfriend, and got him to more or less date her.  

Somehow, she gets him into debt.  He owes lots of money, so he has to resort to desperate measures to give it back.  He meets the Queen, who proposed to him some film work in some pornos she makes.  Sure! He agrees!  He gets to have sex all the time, and his debts get paid.  However, the terms of the deal require him to do some pretty oddball stuff.  

They start him slowly enough.  Then they start asking him to do some homo scenes.  He's a little scared at first, but the Queen threatens him to do as she says, or else he'll be at the mercy of his creditors.  He does as told.

Pretty soon it gets out of hand.  Somehow they get him into crossdressing.  He's all done up like a girl, and they force him to hand over his cash.  They make it sound sweet.  All he has to do is obey, and they'll take care of him forever.  He need not worry about making a living.  He reluctantly agrees, and they gradually turn him into a girl.  Still attracted to his girlfriend, he learns to get dressed from her.  He learns to shave his body.  He wears only women's clothes now.  This works because of the profitability of the sex trade, particularly in the fringes of perversity.  His excitement grows as the hormones they feed him start giving his body the shape of his girlfriend's.  He becomes a she-male porn star.

The detective, of course, goes undercover to find this out.  And he gets girled, too.

Friday, May 01, 1998

Fiction: The Seed

[transcribed from a notebook]

I was 5 years old when my first encounter with non-maternal femininity occurred. I had met Julie at school. Our mothers knew each other, so we were forced into each other's company. You know how it is at that age: it's when we become aware of gender, and associate ourselves to whatever camp we're born with. Julie couldn't stand me because I was a boy. I couldn't stand her because she was a girl. Had nothing to do with anything. Just an us vs. them mentality, making sure you belong with your kind.

There was also curiosity. We had some unsupervised play time and we played doctor. Really it was because I didn't believe that she didn't have a penis. I was sure that everyone did. She had to prove it. Then I had to show her what I meant by 'penis.' There we were, naked, inspecting each other. All of it very innocent.

My mistake was in picking up the wrong underwear. It was too late by the time I noticed. I knew instantly that something was wrong, what with all the frilliness of her panties. “You can't wear that! Those are for girls!” she shouted, and I knew she was right. But it put a seed in my head.

I knew that I had contaminated myself. I had made contact with icky girl stuff. Back then, I wanted absolutely no association with girls. I had to establish my membership in the male gender. There could be no confusion. And here I had worn pinkish frilly girls' panties. I worried that my boyhood was in jeopardy.

Soon enough, I began to think of girls in the normal way. I loved the prettiness of women. I loved the way they looked in their underwear. I began to imagine that I, having worn girls' undies, would be turned into one myself, and that was why I liked looking at women.

I would resist it as much as I could. Everyone kept explaining to me that boys and girls together make babies, and that boys are supposed to like girls. But still I doubted. What if I was slowly turning into a girl? I found myself liking the idea. It was so naughty. I hated myself for it. I tried to resist. But every now and then, I needed to rub my cock while imagining that I was being transformed. I felt such shame when I was done, and vowed never to do it again. I suspected that I only got worse each time.

Julie kept reminding me, too. I made her promise not to tell. I never told her about my fears then.

It was only a matter of time before I started to borrow my mother's pantyhose for my passions. I was tentative at first. I would only touch them. Then I'd put them on over my own underwear. I didn't want to jump right in. Imagine my parents' shock when their son would suddenly appear as a daughter. I tried to resist. As I predicted it got worse. It felt so incredibly good. I knew that I was doomed, a part of me was very happy about it, too. I would renounce my gender for the pleasure this gives me.

Sunday, March 15, 1998

Diary: Bad Things

A__ has referred to having sex, or for that matter, doing anything sexual, as "doing bad things."  Bad, in the sense that she feels like she isn't allowed to do them, that they feel great, but that good girls don't do them.  

I, on the other hand, don't consider these things "bad" in any way, except maybe in that I may be corrupting her by fucking her.  But that's no big deal, really.  It gives me a little bit of a rush, especially when I'm fucking her from behind.  She's so innocent and virginal, except for those times when she's got my dick in her. 
I, on the other hand, have a totally different definition of "doing bad things."  

The similarities, now that I think of it, are remarkable: in a sense, we're both afraid of being feminine.  A__ doesn't wear sexy clothes, because she's afraid of looking slutty, or of attracting too much masculine attention.  When I do bad things, I feel defensive about my femininity, too.  I think we both feel like we're losing virginal innocence when we wear sexy lingerie and miniskirts.  Femininity is somehow dangerous for us.  Understandably more for me.

There is a lot more to it than that.  There's something about femininity that is unquestionably bad for men.  I'm being bad right now.  I'm a very bad boy.  I'm wearing the black satin panties I gave A__ for Christmas.  And one of her white bras (the one that matches these panties isn't here.  Damn!).  My very own garter belt and black stockings.  And a very sexy, short black dress of A__'s.  

It's related somehow to the discovery of sexuality.  I always did hide to masturbate.  Lord knows why.  I suppose it's because every time I masturbated, it was with women's clothes, or at least with women's clothes in mind.  It was a bad thing to do.  Those clothes aren't mine.  I need to fictionalize this.

I'm a young boy.  There's something about girls that's very, very exciting.  They make me feel all funny in my groin.  Even more exciting are their skimpy little outfits.  There's something about the female body that I simply can't understand, something about the shapes and curves that fascinates me, as well as every other heterosexual man.  I often feel an uncontrollable urge to do bad things.  Things that involve girls and my thingie.

I suppose I know, even at this tender age, that I'm a boy, and boys must do boy things, not girl things.  I must assert my identity as a boy at all costs.  Nothing must indicate weakness of any kind.  Girls are icky, and neither I nor my young male friends like them.  They're just so different.

However, there's a little problem.  I can barely even see the contradiction in this most of the time.  My secret urges compel me to wear girls' clothes.  I cannot resist.  At the very least, I imagine it, and yearn for it, while I masturbate.  I know that it's a very bad thing to do.  But I do it all the time anyway.  Because it feels so incredibly good.

It's all so innocent.  Girls are just so pretty.  Something about them.  I can't get them out of my mind.  They're so deliciously delicate, so soft, so curvy.  I start rubbing myself against my besheets, naked, imagining that I'm wearing something outrageously and unequivocally feminine, like a bikini or lingerie.  I feel incredible when I think about wearing women's clothes.  I imagine myself becoming female, or that I will somehow become female if I continue to imagine it, or if I ever actually do wear something feminine.  That only makes me even hotter, and I look forward to becoming a girl, and be pretty and sexy and wear bikinis and silk and lace and dresses and pantyhose. . .

And I get an orgasm.  I'm so young that I don't even necessarily come.  But I realize instantly that I have done something very bad.  I am supposed to establish my masculinity, even at this young age.  But here I am, fantasizing about being a girl, to the point where I want to go beyond just dresses and tresses, and actually wear women's underwear.  I deeply regret my secret crime, and vow to never let such thoughts take hold of me again.  Next time I masturbate, I cannot allow myself to think about becoming a woman.

Of course, it's no use.  There's no way to censor my own thoughts.  I get horny, and I try to think of other things, but I can't help but go back to my bad thoughts of wearing girlish underthings, of becoming a girl.  And always, I finish with shame.  I have been bad.  Again.

Rather than getting better, it gets worse.  I start rolling up my own underwear to make it more effeminate, to try to shape it more like a bikini bottom.  I tie the bottom of an extra-large shirt into a crotch, and pretend that it's a bathing suit.  I'm always so ashamed.  But fantasies and make-believe are one thing.

What once passed off as mere fantasies suddenly becomes much more real.  Once, I only thought of putting on women's clothes, only imagined becoming a girl.  But now, my bad thoughts take me the next logical step further.  I sneak into the laundry basket to borrow my mother's pantyhose.  I curse myself for allowing myself that dangerous escapade, because now I do it more and more often.  

I was so curious.  After so many years of just imagining wearing something girlish, I finally dare to actually try on pantyhose.  I slip it on, over my own underwear, careful not to let that effeminate material actually touch my crotch, at the risk of instantly losing all control, all manhood.  I just want to feel it against my legs.  There is nothing that men wear that can compare to pantyhose.  It's so tight on the leg, so sheer, so soft.  They remind me of women's thighs.  I want to have thighs like that, too.  And I know the risk I'm taking.  I know that if I go ahead with this, I am taking a frightening step closer to becoming a girl.  I do it, because I want to feel like a girl at that point.

Needless to say, I go on to wear pantyhose all the time.  It's incredibly bad.  But what can I do?  I'm powerless.  I think of all the dainty little straps coiling around girlish bodies, and having silky little straps coiling around my body effeminately and turning me into a girl.  I yearn for a bathing suit, for a garter belt, for a bra.  But I don't dare.  Yet.

I'm so very bad.  I start stealing things from a friend's sister.  I finally wear a bikini.  It's fantastic: that tiny stretchy soft tight skimpy little bikini bottom makes me feel more like a girl than I've ever felt before.  I know that it's bad.  But I revel in it.  I crave it.  I want it to last forever.  I want to be a girl so desperately.  I want to experience all female clothing.  I'm completely corrupted, and I know it.  Worse, I love being corrupted.  I know how bad I am, and I want to be the worst I can be.  I am not just curious about wearing lingerie.  I have a pretty good idea of what it will feel like.  I know how wonderful it will feel.  But I can still only dream of it.  I manage a modest collection of female clothing, which I hide under my bed.  I'm ashamed of my bad thoughts, but I cannot help but indulge in them whenever possible.

Last night I dreamed that I was walking around in public when I realized that I was wearing a black mini-dress and blue stockings or pantyhose.  I was totally masculine underneath, and I was quite pleased to be wearing a dress, but I was embarrassed because I was in public, and people could see me.  I passed by my college, afraid that some friends might notice me.  I wanted to hide from them, I wanted to go home and hide.  But I was out in public, for all the world to see, wearing women's clothes.  My legs weren't even shaved, and I could see the hair under the pantihose.  I realized that people were laughing at me, and I was ashamed, but I was also proud and quite pragmatic about the whole thing.  There was no point in my trying to hide, or taking off the clothes I was wearing.  So I might as well try to ignore everybody, and just enjoy my little adventure.  I even remember rubbing my stocking-clad legs together, and reveling in the sensation.  I was sitting down inside a bus on the way home.  

So here I am wearing some of mom's clothes again, because I feel so horny from that dream.  I gotta go now.  And do bad things. . .