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.
Fiction: I Can't Wear That!
[transcribed from a notebook]
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Fiction: Wherein Nothing Happens
[transcribed from a notebook]
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.
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.
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.
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