Sunday, February 15, 1998

Fiction: War of the Sexes: Mindfucked

Here's an old fantasy, umpteenth attempt:

I've been captured by the women's army.  They've been capturing men for a long time now, and transforming them into girls.  It's a horrible thing.  I have been fighting them with all my being.  I refuse to give in to their mind games, refuse to submit to their humiliation tactics.  I am a man, and I swear to keep my manhood under any circumstances.  I have done very well for myself in the men's army.  My vigor in fighting off feminine forces has earned me a very high position.


Despite my high rank, I'm thrown into a camp with thousands of other men.  Perhaps they don't recognize me.  The men in the camp all seem to be in various stages of transvestism.  Not one of them wears anything even remotely masculine.  Some wear just pantihose and nothing else, and others wear slutty little lingerie outfits.  They all defer to the real women in the camp, who drive them like slaves.  


They lead me into a bunker.  I am stripped naked in front of the camp commander, who tells me that there will be no more masculinity for me.  I will learn to become a girl, whether I like it or not.  I protest, I resist, but the girls all laugh at me.  "Do you think that you can resist?  No man has been able to yet, and you'll succumb sooner or later."


"Never!"


The mistress laughs in my face.  She gets up, and stares me up and down.  I am restrained by two remarkably powerful ladies.  I can't move.  The mistress grabs my dick and says, "I know your type.  All fight, until you get a taste of silk and lace on your cock.  Then you're the most fanatic of all our wanna-bes.  You'll be begging for a garter belt in no time."


"Fuck you, bitch.  I'll never be a woman, and I'll never wear women's clothes!"


She laughs again.  "I'm afraid you really have no choice in the matter.  We know who you are.  You've caused us many problems.  And we have to do something about you."


"You're going to have to kill me, because I'll never do your bidding, no matter how much you torture me!"


"Oh, we're not going to torture you.  If anything, you'll torture yourself."


"Give it a rest."


"We're going to experiment a little with you.  We have no idea if this is going to work.  We figure it should be fun, one way or the other.  Maybe you'll go along at the same pace as the others.  Maybe, as we expect, you'll be a flaming sissy in record time."


"Fuck you.  I'll never be your sissy, bitch!"


"I think you need to get the little tour.  Bring him along."  She motions to the guards, and we go for a little walk.


"This camp, as I'm sure your Intelligence people have told you, specializes in metamorphosis.  The prisoners come in as men, and come out as women.  Here's how we do it."


She stops at a window, through which we watch several naked men chained to a wall.  "These men are new 'recruits,' captured with your bunch.  You might even recognize some comrades there.  They are experiencing the first stages of effeminization."  Women come out and dress them up in pantihose, and nothing more.  "Here they learn the first basic steps of girlishness.  For most, it's their first encounter.  They will learn to enjoy pantyhose first, and then they can graduate to more interesting things."  The women strap the now pantyhose-clad men to machines that rub their effeminated crotches.  Some respond readily, while others resist.  Eventually, they all ejaculate.  


"You see, they learn to associate pleasure with femininity.  It's a simple first step.  They have to wear pantyhose and come in it at least ten times before they can advance to the next level.  And they only need to be forced a few times, believe me.  You saw them: a few look forward to their future in lingerie already.  But they have to learn to be patient."


I hardly believe my eyes.  Some of the men want to get out of their pantyhose, but they're still tied up.  The guards seem to allow some of them free, and they walk around in the pantyhose, seemingly interested in feeling the fabric against their legs.  


She leads me to another window, where I see a horde of men in women's one piece bathing suits.  Only two of them are tied down; the others are all fondling themselves erotically, unrestrained.  "That's what they have to look forward to.  One hundred times in one-piece swimsuits.  As you can see, this is a fairly advanced group, and they're all quite eager to please by now.  


The next group is wearing bikinis.  They all look almost feminine.  They are all hairless, and in the throes of extreme ecstasy.  These men want to be here, they want to wear women's clothes.  "These men are almost ready.  They have to wear bikinis and come one thousand times, before they can go on."


The last window appears to show me several women in lingerie.  But they are all still men.  "This is the crowning achievement.  These men get to wear lingerie.  They are permitted to wear whatever they want, whenever they want.  They must come ten thousand times before they can go on to the final step."


"The final step?  What more can you possibly do to them?"


"Oh, so your intelligence people aren't so intelligent, are they?  You really don't know, do you?"


"No."


"Well, then, that leads me quite nicely to our experiment."  The guards drag me over to a medicine cabinet.  The mistress takes a bottle out and shows me the label.


"Estrogen!" I gasp.


"That's right.  Female hormones, which will give all of these men the features of women, the natural way.  In only a few years, they look just like girls, and we complete the transformation surgically where it really counts."


"What are you going to do to me?" I ask, horrified.


"Well, you've seen our gradual effeminization programme.  We're going to take out the 'gradual' part of it, and effeminate you instantly.  Funny enough, we've never tried it before."


"You can't do that to me!"


"We don't have to do anything to you.  You'll want to do it."


"Never!"


"Believe me, I know."


"How can you make me want to betray my gender?!?"


"You saw all of those men down there, pining to be women, didn't you?"


"Yes."


"They all betrayed their gender pretty readily, don't you think?"


"You're monstrous!  I'll never do it!"


With a snap of her fingers, the guards restrain me again.  "Aren't you interested in our little experiment?  You are, after all, going to be the first guinea pig.  And I'm convinced that you're perfect for it."


"Die, die, die!"


"Oh! You resist even more than we expected!  This will work so well!  Don't you know that the more you resist now, the more you'll crave to be a girl?  You'll be just as fanatical about becoming a woman as you are about remaining a man!"


"Go ahead!  Try me!  I'll resist!  Do your worst, you butchers!  I'm ready for anything!  You've shown me your worst, and I know everything that you can do to me!  There's nothing that will phase me, because I know all your tricks!"


"Well.  So you say.  Ladies, effeminate him!"


I woke up in a bunker with a hundred other men.  We were all naked.  I don't remember anything.  I don't know what they did to me.  I blacked out right when she said that.  They must have knocked me out.  I checked myself out.  Nothing. . . missing.  I wasn't dressed like a girl.  They seemed to have left me intact.  No pain anywhere, even.  Although I did feel a little funny inside.


Some guards came in and strapped the lot of us to the machines that I saw before.  I knew what was coming.  Some of the men had recognized me.  I saw their spirits fall when they recognized that I had been captured.  I was an inspiration to them all.  None of the poor bastards knew what was coming to them.


The ladies put me into the pantyhose.  "Is this the one?"  "Yeah, that's him."  "Oh, boy, this one's in for quite the treat.  I'll keep my eyes on him.  He's sure to be a blast to watch."


The pantyhose felt strange on my legs.  I rubbed my feet together to feel the material.  Somehow, it was soft and sheer, an interesting feeling on my legs.  It finally sank in that I was wearing women's clothing, and I couldn't do anything about it.  I had been restrained so effectively that I couldn't move at all.  I suppose all of the others were, too.  Whatever happened next, I would brace myself for, suspecting that they had done something to me already.


With all of my mental preparation, I was hardly ready for what hit me next.  The machine started moving between my legs.  The pleasure was instantaneous and unbearable.  There were mirrors everywhere, and each of us men could see ourselves very clearly wearing women's pantyhose, and masturbating.  The guards kept telling us what sissies we were, and what pretty legs we had.  We'd be girls like them in no time, they cajoled.  I could imagine myself sexier things, too.  And every time I did imagine that, I felt even more pleasure.  I could picture myself, strapped in the near future to this same machine, only wearing a bikini, and feeling even more pleasure than now, if that were possible.  The very thought of wearing a bikini horrified me, and made me moan.  I mean, here I was, wearing pantyhose, against my will, humiliated in front of hundreds of people, and being forced to enjoy it.  Imagine if I were wearing something even more incriminating, even more horrifyingly feminine, like a bikini?  My crotch burned with the thought of it.  Me, not only dressed like a girl, but masturbating while wearing a bikini!  It was bad enough that this pantihose was unmistakably girlish to begin with.  Here was me, staunch crusader for masculinity, effeminated, soon to be in a bikini.  That thought stayed etched in my head, even as the crotch of the pantihose, where a cunt should be, fondled my prick in ways that it had never felt before.  I could not help but imagine how a bikini would feel, a string bikini, with just barely enough waistband to keep the panties fastened to me, and a bra restraining my chest!  How embarrassingly girlish would I, one of the manliest men around, look and feel in a bikini?!?  I was dancing with the machine now, gyrating my pelvis energetically against it.  Only the machine had stopped long ago.  I now powered it with my vigorous humping.  


But I couldn't stop.  I kept right on rubbing myself on it, feeling incredibly good.  I didn't care anymore that I was making a fool of myself.  I remembered the disgust I felt at the men who jerked themselves vigorously on the machines as I watched during the mistress's tour.  I was worse than any of them.  But still I didn't care.  Not until I came.


Suddenly, I came back to earth.  I was a man wearing women's clothing, covered in my own semen.  I couldn't believe what I had done.  I couldn't account for what came over me.  That bitch of a mistress must have done something to me!  She made me embarrass myself.  I just wanted to tear the pantyhose off of myself in disgust.  I didn't ever want to see anything like them again.  Unfortunately, I knew that I would have to, and soon.  Nine more times.


I got off my machine and took off the pantyhose, as did many of the others.  Some remained strapped in, forbidden from getting out.  Some men kept them on.  They almost cried in shame, having watched me effeminate myself more vigorously than any of them, after having led them into battle against just such torture.  My heart rose suddenly as I thought: I might just as well have kept them on, I'm so much worse off than them.
I tried to resist again the next time, knowing what was coming.  But it was no use.  Again, the pantihose, sticky on my legs, made me think of pretty girls and their underthings, and how I could soon expect to wear them.  I considered myself lucky that they didn't have us wear garter belts, so unmistakably feminine, rather than pantyhose.  And that only made things much worse, as I pictured myself in one, lacy and silky, and tight around my waist, so pretty.  It was probably worse than the first time.  Thoughts of girlishness simply wouldn't go away.  All I could see and think of was myself wearing women's clothes.  I was doomed to wear it eventually, and it kept creeping into my mind.  Me, dressing like a girl.  The way things were going, I had little hope of becoming one of the stubborn resistors.  It looked like I would be the first in my class each time, eagerly anticipating the next step.  If this was how poorly I handled mere pantyhose, how would I react to one hundred one-piece bathing suits?  I would wear it all, and proudly!  The mistress was right: I would succumb just as vehemently as I resisted.


At this moment in my thinking, I realized that my arms were no longer restrained.  I was rubbing my hands all over myself, feeling the silkiness of the pantihose on my legs, trying vainly to imagine what silk panties would feel like.  What had they done to me?  I didn't want to stop!  It felt so incredibly good!  And thoughts of my failure only made it more pleasurable.  Considering how wonderful it felt to wear pantyhose, I came thinking about how much more pleasurable wearing even a one-piece swimsuit would feel.  


My comrades wept when they saw that I needed no help in putting on my pantihose the third time.  They all still resisted, but I had lost miserably, disadvantaged by the mistress's experiment.  Whatever she did to me certainly worked.  It only made me more eager to think that I was so manly, and fought so hard against her, yet now happily effeminated myself before her.  I looked desperately forward to wearing a swimsuit.
By the fifth time in pantihose, I could no longer resist.  I was flaming.  I openly admitted to myself that I wanted to be a girl now, if only to have the privilege of wearing such pretty clothes.  I even went too far, I might say.


This was only my fifth day in the camp, and I desperately wanted to advance in the ranks.  I needed to wear a bikini.  It was well before my time, but I had to do something soon.  I snuck into another, more experienced candidate's room, and 'borrowed' his one-piece swimsuit for the night.  I was cheating.  I didn't even care if I got no credit for it.  I did it for the sheer joy of it.  I became more and more daring.  By the time I graduated to swimsuits, I was well accustomed to them.  I had even worn a bikini once before being officially eligible to wear swimwear of any kind.  It was so exquisite that I wanted more.  I wanted lingerie.  I wanted hormones.  I felt ready.  And that was when I was caught. 


I had somehow managed to steal into the store, and took myself a pretty little lingerie outfit for my personal secret pleasure.  When I returned to my bunk, in a room with hundreds of other men, and got dressed up for a night of incredible wonders that I only began to taste, the mistress turned on all the lights and forced me to show myself, all girlishly bedecked, for all the world to see.  "See how your esteemed leader has turned so readily to womanhood!" she announced.  I felt almost naked.  But I was only in my underwear.  She asked me to come with her, in front of all the men.  I sashayed across the room proudly, and let them all see me.  Yes, I had betrayed them.  But I didn't care.  What would come next was even more extreme.


She propositioned me to infiltrate the men's army and destroy it from within.  I agreed on two conditions: first, that I be allowed to wear whatever I want under my men's clothes, to stay feminine.  "I would have insisted on it!" she replied.  And second, I asked her what she did to me to make me appreciate girlishness so readily.  


"Nothing!" she relplied jubilantly.


"Nothing?!?"


"Nothing!  There was no experiment!  You succumbed all by yourself.  We didn't do anything to you at all.  We knocked you out and tossed you in with the rest of them.  We were just playing mind games with you!"


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