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.

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