Wednesday, December 29, 1999

Fiction: The Knight of Lingerie

[The knight rode in, gleaming in her armour, atop her white horse, taller than most men, but radiantly beautiful nonetheless.  Her armour was fitted to her feminine form.  She unhorsed many a knight during the tournament.  She took them prisoner, as is her right as victor, and returned to the land of Amazonia.  The men were never heard from again.  Perhaps they hid themselves in their shame for losing to a woman, even though she was formidable in her own right.]

[The woman-knight rides in and collects her prisoners in the name of the Queen of Amazonia.  She sends taunting messages from her Liege, which brings great shame to our kingdom.  But knights are afraid to challenge her.  She is so powerful that they fear losing to her.  It seems shameful merely to dress for battle against her, a woman.]

The king was troubled that none of his knights would take the challenge.  His kingdom became a wasteland, a mockery.  Until the White Knight appeared.

The White Knight meets the Princess of Amazonia in a joust.  They fight long and hard, but he eventually emerges victorious.  As his prize, he gets the Princess of Amazonia's hand, and all of her lands.  They travel together to Amazonia.

When they arrive, they treat him to a hero's welcome.  The Princess has hundreds of pages, all former knights that she has vanquished, at her service, and at the service of the White Knight.  She also has scores of beautiful maidens, who command the pages as they please, but also serve both the Princess and the White Knight.

As is the custom, the Princess bids her servants make the White Knight some clothes.  As they bring him his new garments, he remarks on how they appear unmistakably feminine.  But he cannot refuse them, or else he will dishonour himself.  Therefore he must agree to wear them. 

First, the maidens have him slide into tight, white, silken breeches, with lacy trim, and tie him into a matching harness for his chest.  This harness appears shaped to hold a woman's breasts.  They then girt him with an elegant white belt, made of the finest silk and lace he had ever seen.  From his belt hang ribbons of silk with buttons on the end.  It clinches him tightly around the waist, so tightly as to make him uncomfortable, but the maidens insist that this is the way it is meant to be, and that it suits him perfectly.  They bring him skin-tight silk stockings, pristine white, just like the breeches, chest harness, and belt.  He slides them onto his legs and luxuriates in the sensation.  At last, they present him with a beautiful white robe, which fits him tightly around the waist and chest and arms, but flares out at his legs.  They bring him delicate white leather shoes, with pointed toe and raised heel, which he barely manages to keep his balance in.

He marvels at the sensation that these clothes bring him.  He remarks on how the women of his land would wear exactly such clothing, but that he will willingly suffer wearing it to please his hostess. 

At last, they bring him to the Hall, where all the Amazonian knights and ladies await a great feast celebrating the impending wedding of their Princess.  To his dismay, the men and ladies follow similar fashions to his own people.  The knights gape at him in shock, and the ladies snicker.  The Princess appears beside him, more beautiful and radiant than ever any woman before her, wearing the same clothes.

"Lady," he complains, "You have dishonored me!  I will forever suffer the ridicule of my fellow knights, no matter how valiantly I fight, no matter how many knights and lands I conquer!  You have made me dress like a woman, and parade myself before hundreds of noble lords and ladies.  My dishonour will follow me like my shadow."

The Princess comforts him, reminding him how he seemed to enjoy his clothes earlier, and that he willingly put them on anyway.  Also, he reminded him that her honour lasts in spite of her wearing the same clothes.
The White Knight reddens with shame at this.  He flees to his chamber, to fling off his dress, and put on his armour.  His own clothes are gone, and he cannot go into his armour naked, so he keeps on his stockings, breeches, and chest harness.  He gallops far away from Amazonia, swearing to never return.  The Princess prophesies the contrary.

The White Knight, defending his honour along the way, conquers many more knights, whom he forces to surrender to the Princess of Amazonia and beg her to wear her clothing.  This would absolve him of all shame, because all knights wear women's clothing, not just him.  He arrives home to ridicule, and removes his armour to replace the object of his shame with more masculine attire.  He need not even vow to never wear women's clothing again.

At length, he finds himself longing for the Princess again.  He remembers the shame of wearing her clothing, but also thinks fondly of it for reminding him of his beloved Princess.  He longs so much for it that he has similar undergarments made for himself.  He wears them under his armour, just as he did when he departed Amazonia. 

He jousts another knight, who recognizes him, and chides him about his dishonour.  The other knight can see the white silk under a piece of armour he has knocked off the White Knight.  The enrages the White Knight, who vanquishes his opponent and kills him.  In his shame, he removes his womanly clothes at his first opportunity, vowing to avenge his shame.

But he returns to it, as if by enchantment.  He wears it more and more.  But it only increases his longing for his Princess, because he knows it to be a mere imitation of the genuine article.  He craves more and more the privilege of wearing his Princess's clothing.  He begins to feel more powerfully feminine than before.  He becomes more and more proud of his longing.  He begins to wear his feminine clothes as a badge of honour.  He has armour made for himself like he saw on his beloved princess.  He begins to become more and more like a woman.  His breasts begin to grow, his body hair thins, his voice rises.

At last he returns to her, happy to admit his folly, and agrees to become her equal, her sister in arms.  In a ceremony in front of all the vanquished knights, who have been forced to wear women's clothing, and praying for a saviour, the White Knight proclaims manhood dead, and vows to become a true woman, and rule Amazonia as a woman.

Thursday, December 16, 1999

Fantasy: Technological Feminization

Men are obsessed with the female form.  What's more, we pretend that we can't like delicate, frilly, flowery pretty things, yet we melt at the site of women who have all of these qualities.  In truth, men won't admit to obsessing over feminine things, because that would undermine their own sexuality.  Secretly, though, they can't get enough.  And secretly, they all want to surround themselves with femininity, but they just can't dare.  Women dress the way they do because they know that men like it.  They like it because they want to be feminine too.

Here's a fantasy: technological advances have made possible feminization through clothes. The cosmetics industry has designed garments that help women maintain their femininity far longer and more easily than before.  They have been shown to feminize the butchiest women.  Nobody thought they could be so useful on men. 

Masculinity is extremely fragile, but femininity is irrevocable.

The thigh-high stockings I've been forced to wear will electrolyze my leg hair completely off, permanently, while pumping a healthy dose of hormones into my skin.  Bras and panties concentrate energy on my female erogenous zones, and make it incredibly pleasurable to wear them.  The shoes, of course, form my feet into the perfect shape for 2-inch heels.  A garter belt squeezes my waist in.  I wear skirts and dresses only, because my panties burn up and punish me if they aren't allowed contact with air.  My vocal cords shrink, my body hair falls out, and I start liking boys a lot more.  I figure that I might as well enjoy my impending girlhood, because I can't resist anymore.  It's like a perpetual orgasm.  And I feel so pretty.

Saturday, October 16, 1999

Diary: Formative Years

At what point is it forced?  At what point does it become voluntary?  How and when does he succumb?  Does he do it knowing that he will love it?  Does he do it because he thinks he won't?  Or does he simply get caught up in it, unable to explain it or deny it, unable to understand what is happening to him? 

It's the danger of forbidden knowledge.  We are made to feel ashamed of our sexual urges as children.  We learn to hide our secret desires, feel embarrassed by them.  Interest in women and everything associated with them becomes dangerous.  It's a matter of identity: I'm not a girl, I'm a boy, and I must therefore do boy things; I must make a distinction between the sexes, and make it as rigid as possible.  We struggle all our lives to discover who we are.  We make choices based on what others do and how they appear.  I had to identify with other boys.  Girls identify with each other.  But secretly, we all want to know more about the other camp.  I secretly adore girls, and everything about them fascinates me in ways that I cannot begin to explain.  But I'll never admit to that in public.

So it's forbidden for me to know much about them.  I know how they look clothed, but I'm not allowed to see them naked.  That's far too intimate.  Only girls should see girls naked.  That's why they have segregated washrooms.  What would happen if I did know what they wear under their clothes?  

Now I know.  I know that I know too much.  I have seen girls in their underwear.  In their swimwear.  I know what their clothes look like from the inside.  I have been initiated.  I found out how it feels to wear their clothes.  Their swimwear.  Their underwear.  I know how to put on pantyhose, stockings, panties, a garter belt, a brassiere.  Now that I know, I can never go back.

Sunday, August 22, 1999

Fantasy: Laetitia's Priestess

Laetitia Casta is a goddess.

She exudes femininity in every picture I've ever seen of her.  She has that intangible femaleness that would lure any heterosexual man to his very death.  She models underwear and swimwear.  France has declared her a national icon, the representation of her country.  I would give up everything to just touch her.  Everything.

So by chance I met her.  She is everything in person that she is in photos.  I told her that I would give up everything to just touch her.  So she let me touch her.  

She allowed me to follow her around like a lost puppy.  She wore as much as she does in her photos.  I touched her once, but that was all.  I wanted more, and she knew it.  But she remained adamant.  I was not permitted to touch her again in any way until I gave her everything. 

She tormented me.  She came very close to me, sensuously, and let me smell her skin.  I could not dare touch her.  She teased me as she stripped in front of me and showed me all the underwear she has.  

This went on for days.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I came at the sight of her.  And I was still putty in her hands.  She teased me more and more viciously, still awaiting that I give her everything.  One day she started allowing me to touch her underwear after she discarded it.  I treasured it.  It had been so close to her, had touched her most intimate details.  It was almost her.  There was a part of her in it.  She giggled about this.  She had it all figured out from the beginning.

"Wear it," she said.

I didn't hesitate.  My body shook with anticipation of my cock touching something that she had been in contact with -- much less worn against -- her glorious pussy.  As I slid the panties up to my waist, my knees buckled as I collapsed in the sheer ecstasy of the experience.  At that moment, I understood what she meant to do with me.  And I welcomed it.

She had had me worship her femininity.  Now I had become initiated into her priesthood.  I now abandoned everything I owned to become her disciple.  I cast off all my own possessions, down to my underwear.  From now on, I would strive to become as much like my goddess as possible.  I would wear anything she discarded, and try to become as feminine as her.  She had me model her underwear and swimwear after her, and mark my progress.  

I did as much as I could with that unsightly bulge between my legs.  I grew my own hair, breasts, and lost all my body hair.  My voice changed pitch.  Even as my dick shrank, I anticipated losing it altogether.  I would become a girl just like her, only not natural like her.

At last she got everything when I finally had my penis removed.  As a token of my gift to her, I cooked it and ate it before her.  Finally after all this time, she allowed me to touch her.  I caressed her skin not as a lover but as a sister. 

Thursday, August 05, 1999

Diary: Britney Lookalike

An interesting news story caught my eye this weekend.  It seems that teen pop star Britney Spears had a lookalike contest, the winner of which would get to hang around with her backstage at one of her concerts.  Naturally, all the teeny-boppers in the world who idolize her and want to be just like her.  So did 23-year old Robert Stephens.  He's been practicing all his life to be just like Britney Spears.  He dressed up like her and won the contest hands down.  At the concert, when he claimed his prize, the press mistook him for Britney herself, he looks so much like her, and her publicists went ballistic and threw him out.

What a lucky bastard!

I remember hearing about a guy who idolized Elle MacPherson so much that he became a lookalike of her.  Now that's dedication.  I would love to do that, too.  Britney is incredibly beautiful.  I imagine he went the whole nine yards, meaning that he wasn't wearing anything masculine underneath.  He looks so much like her - and she looks pretty damned feminine - that he must put in hours of practice.  He must even move like her.  That's incredibly cool.  The guy made himself into one of the most beautiful girls on the planet.  What an ambition!  What a fantasy!

Imagine being forced to become a lookalike of a supermodel...

Tuesday, July 20, 1999

Fiction: Getting Interested

I always thought of myself as a good judge of women's looks.  That means that I know what looks good on a woman.  I know what I want to see women wearing.  Now, I can't say that I ever took an active interest in women's fashions, but I know what I like.  Doesn't that sound subversive?  It's as if I can't really be a man if I know anything about women's clothes.  Anyone who knows that much about women's clothes must be effeminate.  It's either too much a female thing for a guy to be preoccupied about, or its likely to rub off on a guy and make him effeminate.

My girl was always very shy, very unwilling to take a chance on something too flashy or revealing.  I liked to shop with her and subtly point out the things I wanted her to wear.  It would have been too strange for me to actively push her to wear something I wanted to see her in.  Like I said, it would appear effeminate of me to take such a keen interest in women's fashions.  My manhood would inevitably come into doubt.  Still, I, and I'm sure most men, know what they want to see.  It made perfect sense to me to have an interest.

As we wandered through the stores, I would picture her in everything, and get inwardly excited at the thought of her wearing certain outfits.  I struggled through the lingerie stores, let me tell you.  I came to appreciate the subtleties of lace and spaghetti straps that show off shoulders, and the softness of silk and satin, how certain shapes set off certain of the more delectable portions of the female anatomy.  Everything was so delicate, accented the delicacy of my woman.  The clothes themselves take on a life of their own, a sexuality of their own.  A nightgown or a brassiere turned me on by itself, exuding a femininity that, combined with my girl's body, would be irresistible.

Naturally, I loved to feel this femininity in my hands, against my body, exploring it and caressing it lovingly.  Every man needs to feel this.  I wanted to surround myself with her, drown in her, submerge myself entirely within her girlhood.  That's what men do.  That's how we get off.  

With that in mind, somehow I got it in my head that by holding her nightie while I slept, it would comfort me, make me closer to her when she wasn't there.  It did.  But I would lose my grip in my sleep, and thereby lose it.  So I had to drape it over myself.  The easiest and most logical way to accomplish that would be to wear it.
Women do this all the time.  Nobody questions their sexuality.

It was such a wonderful substitute.  It made me horny, even.  It was like I was surrounded by womanhood.  I couldn't help but gratify myself in it.  I even brought it into our lovemaking.  After we were done, I would take her nightie and caress it, not letting her have it back.  I told her all about how it made me feel.  She was a little repulsed at first, but she agreed to let me sleep in her nighty every now and then.  She's so lucky: she gets to be surrounded by girl stuff all the time.  I only get these rare moments to slake my thirst.  

I began to truly admire her then.  I envied her.  She could look so incredibly good, she could wear such wonderfully sexy, delicate, beautiful clothing, and feel great about it and herself.  I worshiped her womanhood.  To the point of wanting to emulate her.

She began to dominate in our lovemaking, as I held her in such high esteem.  At first, I would half-jokingly beg her to touch her underwear.  Then she would make me wear it.  At length, it escalated to the point where where she would choose lingerie for ME to wear, and not the other way around.  We frolicked together in her undergarments, celebrating femininity.

Every time I wore her clothes, I dreamed of them shaping me like her.  I wanted to become like her.  I wanted to be a woman, pretty and delicate and sexy.  

Friday, July 02, 1999

Fiction: A First Time

The idea came to me so subtly that I didn't even notice it at first.  I don't even think that I can adequately retrace the path my mind took to get to it.  But I will try.

There are times when I get horny for no good reason.  I just have a general feeling of arousal, brought on by nothing.  It's not a feeling of desire, but an acknowledgment of a potential for it.  Are there not times when you're aroused, but not particularly horny?  This is the opposite: horny, but not yet aroused.  This particular moment, I happened to be looking at a page 3 girl wearing a one-piece swimsuit.  She wasn't even all that pretty, but she looked very nice in that tight little outfit.  It just so happened that my girl at the time had one very similar, if not identical, to it.  And I knew where she kept it.

Seeing the page 3 girl made me think of my girl in her swimsuit, and how I had seen her out of that same swimsuit and made love to her.  I thought of all her delicious curves, and how they stood out so much in that swimsuit.  Unfortunately, I was alone in the apartment, and she wouldn't be back for quite a while, so I couldn't yank her into bed and fuck her on the spot.  I would have liked her to model it for me, too, just because I had it on my mind and felt a little playful.

It would have been strange to ask her, in the middle of the day, to put on a swimsuit so that I could ogle her and bang her.  If she were here, that is.  I don't think she would have quite understood.  I had asked her to wear lingerie before, and a bikini or something for a day at the beach, but not like this.  Every man loves to see his woman wearing something sexy, and I'm no exception.  Somehow, it got into my mind that I had to see at least the swimsuit, even if she weren't in it.  Perhaps the thought went even deeper, and I didn't consciously admit it to myself at that time.  I felt a little kinky about it, and got that much hornier.

I resisted for a few hours, but, like I said, I had that potential, and I couldn't let it go to waste.  I had all day with nothing to do.  Why not indulge in a little fantasy?  I couldn't resist.  So I went straight to her dresser to peek at her swimsuit.

It was easy to find among all her dainty feminine things.  It was so bright and colourful.  It excited me to touch her panties, and especially that swimsuit.  I fondled it a bit and closed the drawer, feeling a bit foolish.  I relished the soft silkiness of the material as I imagined her in it, soft and curvaceous.  What was I doing?  I mustered up some discipline and left it.

I grew restless for the twenty minutes I managed to keep away from her dresser.  I couldn't stop fantasizing about it, about her, about the page 3 girl, about what I would do about it all.  I needed to touch the swimsuit again.  I needed to examine it closely, admire it and picture it on my girl.  Or so I thought to myself.  By then I had started to realize that I didn't even care about my girl at this moment, just her swimsuit.  There is something inherently feminine about women's underwear and swimwear.  Something about the way it accentuates female shapes makes it ultra-feminine.  It's delicate and pretty by itself.  And there's also something forbidden about it.  No man should be so intimate with women's clothing.  It's something so personal, so sexual, so intimate that no-one but the most extraordinary man should be worthy to know it.  And here I came, uninitiated, defiling this altar of womanhood.  I suppose it's overdramatic to put it that way, but that's how I felt.  I was being naughty.  And I was taking a risk of being overpowered by something feminine.

The problem is that I wanted to be overpowered.  That's what sex is all about.  I had already succumbed, even before I stood with the bathing suit dangling in my hand, holding it in front of myself, smelling it, exploring its composition and shape.  It had to be feminine: it was so unlike anything I or any other man had ever worn.  The crotch looked so sensual.  I could imagine what my girl put against it when she wore it.  It was like I was exploring a woman.  I caressed it with my fingers, rubbed my face in it.  I was fixated by it, aroused by it.  It was so tight and stretchy.  I pictured my girl getting into it, and out of it, and gallivanting around in it.  So tight, so girlish!  Then the idea struck me full on, and scared the shit out of me.  I think I must have blushed.

Again, I stuffed it back where I found it and vowed not to think of it again.  I had gotten too naughty, and I was getting far too excited about it.  I had to control myself.  I took a cold shower to take my mind off of it.
Somehow, water doesn't really make one forget about bathing suits.  I was getting dressed when the thought came to me full force again.  I certainly blushed again.  I tried to avoid going back to her dresser, but it was so close to mine.  Water and bathing suits go together quite well, I hear. 

I had managed enough control to put on pants and a shirt, but I not to avoid the swimsuit.  I took it right out of the dresser again, and fondled it some more.  I wanted to see it stretch with the shape of a lithe female body.  I filled the cups with my fists, but they had the wrong shape.  I needed to fill in the butt, the crotch, the waist, the belly, and the shoulders under the straps.  I rubbed it against my chest as I lifted up my shirt.  So soft!  I needed more.  I rubbed it against my crotch, but through my pants.  Not enough!

I flopped onto the bed, stepping out of my pants.  I tore off my shirt.  I sat in only my underwear, the bathing suit beside me.  I rubbed it against my crotch, but still that wasn't enough.  I knew what I had to do, but couldn't dare.  I jerked myself just thinking about it.  I couldn't believe what I was thinking, much less that it aroused me so much.  It was so naughty, not for defiling the feminine altar, but for defiling my own manhood, and willingly.  The thought of betraying my gender this way aroused me enormously.  But I still couldn't go all the way with it.

I finally decided to take the plunge.  My hands trembled as I seized the bathing suit in front of me, and grabbing it by the waist, sure to have the front facing away from me.  I'd seen my girl do it before.  I didn't dare take off my underwear, for fear of what would happen if I went too far too fast.  Something inside me wanted to, not for the rush of risking the consequences, but specifically to suffer them.  

I stepped into the leg holes, and pulled the bathing suit up slowly and sensuously to my crotch.  I yanked it up as high as it would go, but didn't put my arms through the shoulder straps.  It was so tight against my body that I almost creamed right then and there.  And I was still wearing my underwear underneath, to protect me from the femininity.  It was bad enough that I was doing this already, but what if I liked it?  I would surely do it more and more, until I wear it all the time!  And God help me if there wasn't a part of me that screamed YES!  YES!  WEAR IT ALL THE TIME!  I fondled myself like this for a while, overjoyed to finally have a body to fondle under that swimsuit.  I reveled in its tightness, its smoothness, its girlishness.  I wanted to be female at that moment, and I admitted it freely, but guiltily to myself.  I was wearing my girl's swimsuit for the thrill of feeling feminine.

It had to go further.  I had tasted this half-worn swimsuit over my underwear, just fondling the shoulder straps, teasing myself about actually sliding all the way into it.  I was teasing myself about becoming feminine.  I wanted to be a girl now.  I had to experience wearing a woman's swimsuit like only a woman can.  I slid on the straps, just to test my commitment, and kept it on like that for a few minutes.  Even that was exhilarating.  I knew it would be difficult for me to slide the swimsuit off, but I had to to remove my underwear.  I had kept it as a last shred of manhood, the last layer protecting me against becoming completely engulfed in femininity.  Now I flung it off and welcomed girlishness wholeheartedly, recklessly, ecstatically.  I strapped myself in, and swung my hips effeminately.  

I couldn't believe how wonderfully it made me feel!  I had never worn anything that caressed my crotch and my hips quite the way this bathing suit did.  It was so high-cut, so tight, so smooth, so sexy.  I celebrated my new-found womanhood with vigour.  I couldn't help but begin to imagine what it would feel like to try a bikini, a garter belt, panties, a bra, pantihose, skirts, dresses, makeup. . .  Thoughts of lingerie filled my head, and to think that I had such items so close at hand, in my girl's dresser!  This rush was far better than any sex I had ever had.  

I creamed the swimsuit so badly that I panicked.  I didn't know what to do.  If my girl found out, it would be over, and I would be so humiliated.  I felt deep shame.  I had gone way too far.  But it felt so incredibly good!  I vowed, nonetheless, to never do it again.  I washed the swimsuit by hand, and placed it carefully back where it belonged.  The sight of silk and satin in her dresser now had a whole new meaning for me.

Tuesday, June 15, 1999

Diary: Thinking About the Slow Progression

I rediscovered a fantasy buried back there about discovering bit by bit one's ultimate sexual fantasy and slowly succumbing to it until it becomes reality.  How does one discover this?  How can it come about?  It's been with me for as long as I remember.  Can it be discovered later?  The amazing thing is how I always kept coming back to it, over and over.  At this moment, I truly believe that this happened when I wore stockings for a kindergarten pantomime, and associated wearing women's clothing with sexual pleasure.  So here I am now acting out fantasies about wearing bikinis and lingerie, and imagining what it would be like to take hormones.  What fun it would be to be a girl!

Thursday, May 20, 1999

Fantasy: What's In My Pants?

It's all a matter of freedom.

I want to be free to express my femininity, but I can't in public.  I can only indulge in it privately.

What I really want is a beautiful, sexy girl who would actually not mind indulging my occasional transsexual fantasy.  The other day I fantasized about hanging around in bed with a girl, both of us wearing bikinis.  I would worship her body, and she would fondle me all over.  She would make me feel like a girl, like her, and I would play along, and we'd rub together gleefully feminine.  She would, of course, have to take a vow of silence.  I don't even know how I would bring it up.

The moment of acceptance makes any fantasy.  Consider being forced to wear women's underwear.  Either you're overwhelmed by the eroticism of it right away, or you resist but succumb later.  Regardless, you accept and cherish your newly discovered fetish.  You might pretend to hate it, but secretly you adore it, savour every moment of it.  You fantasize about sexier garments.  You want to be a girl, totally and irrevocably.

Another example, in a fantasy:

All day I've been walking around feeling a bit strange.  I don't know what's wrong with me.  I just don't feel comfortable in my own skin.  It almost feels as though a part of me is missing.  At the same time, I feel like I'm about to burst.  It's so weird.  It feels as though my pants don't fit right. 

I feel horny when I think about it too much.  Like now.  Something feels different down there.  It's a horniness I never felt before.  I don't feel my cock stiffening.  Instead I feel warmth.  Heat.  I feel slinky.

I'm alone now in a washroom.  I feel like I need to pee.  I stand up at the urinal, and unzip my fly.  But there's nothing there.  

You would think I'd panic.  But no, instead a gush of excitement rushes through me.  My underwear feels funny.  It's not cottony, but soft, very silky.  With rough edges.  I undo the button at the top of my jeans, and take a look at what I'm wearing.

It's a silky bikini brief with lacy trim, and a cute little bow at the top.  White.  Very pretty.  It cradles my crotch like a hammock.  Somehow, my nether regions have become female.  

I want to panic again, but I'm far too amazed at my new figure.  It looks gorgeous!  I reach for where my dick used to be, and find instead a soft lump of sensitive skin, covered in coarse hair.  Inside is a wet, hot, slimy clit, hard with anticipation.  I can't help but fondle it a few strokes.  I'm a girl!

My reflection in the mirror still looks male.  It looks the same as ever.  But not the crotch.  Somehow, I've turned into a girl.  Somehow, I like it. [Here's the moment of acceptance] I want to strip off my pants and parade around in my new undies, my new identity.  I want to cast off my male clothes and put on a dress, a bra, maybe a miniskirt, stockings, heels, makeup. . . I want to explore this to the hilt, before it reverts back to normal.  I want to feel everything that a woman feels.  I wonder what it feels like to have a dick in there?  My cunt waters at the thought.  Erotic fantasies of sucking and fucking dicks run through my mind, and I don't even try to dismiss them.  

So off I go to buy some lingerie, some swimsuits, dresses, shoes, the whole bit.  This is fucking amazing!  

Monday, May 03, 1999

Fantasy: What If I Like It?

Quick little fantasy:

Please, don't make me wear that, I beg you!  That was made for girls to wear!  I can't wear it!  Yes, it's very pretty and everything. . . Yes I like it.  I'd love to see you wearing it.  You'd be gorgeous and sexy in it.  It's just that I can't.  Don't make me wear it!  Please!  Why do you want me to wear that?  Don't you know what will happen?  What if I like it?  I might never want to wear anything else!

There, are you happy now?  (Oh, but I am!)  Now I'm wearing your silky delicate soft lingerie.  You like it?  Oh, you do, do you?  Don't you wish I'd prance around like a girl in it?  Well, I'm glad you enjoy it.  Because I'm never wearing anything else ever again.

Saturday, April 17, 1999

Diary: I Want To Be Effeminated

I don't know what it is about it, but I need to wear women's underwear.  The desire is overpowering.  I want to be effeminated.  Girls look so good in those outfits, and I just want the privilege of looking that way, too.  I want the tits, I want the soft, hairless skin, I want the delicate curves, I want the round little empty crotch.  I want to be enveloped in lace and silk and flowers and little skinny straps and dainty elastics.

Wednesday, April 07, 1999

Fiction: Forced into a Swimsuit

An image that never escapes me for long (or is it the other way around?):

I can't move my arms or legs.  My feet and hands tingle from the lack of blood circulating into them.  I'm stretched out across the length of the bed, swimming in a pool of blue light from the huge video monitor hanging above me like a mirrored ceiling.  I can feel the air against my naked balls.

The girl climbs onto the bed and straddles me.  She's wearing only a one-piece swimsuit, red and black, high-cut, very sexy.  She has the type of body that would look sexy even in a space suit.  She's blonde and foxy, with a devilish glint in her eye.  My cock stiffens under her smooth, spandex-covered crotch.  I can't gyrate very well, because of the position I'm in.  I wish I could break free of these infernal leather straps so I could grab her and fuck her brains out.  

She lays her body against mine, and whispers milimetres from my face, "Do you like what I wore for you?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"I thought you might," she answers, and rolls off me.  She picks up an identical swimsuit from the floor beside the bed, and dangles it in front of me.  "I've got another one just for you!"

Suddenly, my body goes numb.  I can't move a muscle below my neck.  But I can see everything that she's doing to me.  I watch her unstrap my arms and legs.  I struggle to lift them, but can't even muster a twitch.  She brings my feet together, and gets off the bed.  At the foot of the bed, she slips my feet into the swimsuit, and through the leg holes.  She hops back on the bed, and lifts it snugly into place on my crotch.  Then she puts each arm into its bra strap, and adjusts the tight fit all around.  Finally, she ties me up again.

As suddenly as I lost control of my limbs, I get it back.  And she's lying on top of me again, rubbing our matching crotches together, and snapping the elastics at my hips and the thin straps on my shoulders.  I can't help but stiffen my cock again under her soft, curvaceous, undulating body.  Only this time, I feel the soft smooth material of a swimsuit from the inside.  She touches me in all the right places to make me feel what I'm wearing.  I'm trying not to enjoy this too much, but I desperately need to touch her, to hump her, to fuck her.  She's irresistible.  At the same time, I don't want to enjoy myself like this wearing women's swimwear.  Somehow, my manhood won't allow it, no matter how much I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter.

She slides off me, but continues to rub my cock through the bathing suit.  I continue to writhe with guarded pleasure.  "Wow!" she says, "I didn't think you'd like it this much!  You don't even need me around!"  With that, she withdraws her hand, and rolls off the bed.  My hips gyrate once or twice more without her hand, and I notice that the tightness of the bathing suit compensates almost enough.  "See!  You're doing just fine with your swimsuit."  

The screen flashes above me.  It shows a shapely woman, wearing the same swimsuit, tied up in the same way as me.  She looks familiar, somehow, but I can't quite place it.

"Sexy, isn't she?" says my tormentor.  "Look at her boobs!  Aren't they fabulous?  And her legs are so slim and smooth. . ."  I have to admit, she's quite a knockout.  I size her up and fantasize about myself tormenting her just like I'm being tormented now, by rubbing up against her helpless, supine body, and sampling every inch of her delectable femininity.  She's writhing around erotically on her bed, as though responding to my thoughts.

A feminine hand, not her own, appears at her side.  My tormentor's hand seems to be creeping beside me in exactly the same place.  "Wouldn't you love to tickle her slim little waist?" she asks, just as she pokes me in the waist. Amazingly, the girl on the screen gets poked in exactly the same spot, at exactly the same time.  She convulses sexily away from the tickling hand in total synchronicity with me.  Every move I make, she mirrors. 
"What is going on here?" I ask.  "Who is she?  Why are you doing this?"

My lovely tormentor giggles evilly.  "That's you, silly.  Or at least, that's who you're going to be if you keep wearing women's clothing."

"What do you mean?  You can't turn me into a girl!"

"In all honesty, you'll be turning yourself into a girl.  We're just helping you along."

"Do you really expect me to become female just by wearing women's clothes?"

"Of course!  And you do, too.  You know that the longer you wear that swimsuit, the more feminine you'll become."

"You're crazy!"

"Am I?  If it's so harmless, then why are you struggling?"  

She's right.  I'm pulling at all the straps, shuffling around desperately trying to break free.  The girl on the screen is, too.  And she looks damned hot doing it.

"Don't worry," she chuckles.  "You'll like it."

"No!  I'll never like it!"

"It looks to me that you like it already."  She slides onto the bed and melts onto my side.  Just as she does to the girl on the screen.  "You can have a fine female body, you know," she purrs, as she softly rubs my belly.  "Look at your hips!" she says, running her finger around the elastic at my hip, emphasizing the femininity of the girl on the screen.  "Look at how this bathing suit brings out all your feminine features!  You can't tell me that she's not beautiful.  And who doesn't want to be beautiful?"

I shrink away in revulsion.  The swimsuit clings to my body like a silky glove, from which I cannot escape, its femininity as much a part of me as my own skin.  I can almost feel it assimilating my throbbing dick, squeezing me into an hourglass figure.  My body convulses trying to escape from it, but it squeezes ever tighter.  Maybe she's right.  Maybe I will turn into a girl from wearing this.  Come to think of it, the girl on the screen, whose movements mirror mine so flawlessly, has my face.  And she's incredibly sexy.  I can't take my eyes off of her.  I'm wearing the same bathing suit, and on her it's the most feminine thing I've ever seen.  It clings to her body just as it does to mine, and boy does it accentuate her femininity.  I'm moving my body now just to see hers move.  I'm dancing around like a girl, just to revel in her erotic movements.  

My God, I'm wearing some revealing, sexy, women's clothing, and I'm acting all girlishly, all to please my voyeuristic fantasies.  I'm incredibly horny from looking at her.  And I must admit that the bathing suit feels pretty good around my crotch.  I feel myself blush as I realize that I'm wearing a woman's swimsuit, and I have the biggest hard-on in my life.  I'm acting like a girl, and I like it!  I am becoming feminine, and I'm enjoying it!  These thoughts torment me, and I struggle all the more to escape from my effeminate prison.  But the more I move, the more I notice the swimsuit; the more I notice the swimsuit, the more I notice its femininity; the more I notice its femininity, the more I get horny.  I can't stop moving, because it feels too good.  I don't want to stop.  And even if I stop, I'm still wearing it, still marveling at its femininity.  I can't believe it!  I'm becoming feminine, and I like it!

I don't even care anymore that I'm becoming feminine!  It feels so wonderful!  I can feel my body becoming curvaceous and smooth and delicate, and I love it!  And I love it because I'm becoming female.  The thought of becoming female makes me even hornier.  I want to be a girl now!  My tormentor was right!  I gyrate and dance even more vigorously than before, to amplify the feminizing effects of the swimsuit.  In my excitement, I somehow manage to free my left arm.

Jolted to reality by this sudden shift in mobility, I quickly grasp that this is my chance to escape.  As I turn on my side to reach the strap on my right arm, the cool air chills the sweaty, clinging swimsuit, and draws my attention momentarily back to my fantasies.  I shake off this fleeting thought, and continue to untie my legs.
At last I have a truly good look at what I'm wearing.  I really am wearing a woman's one-piece swimsuit.  It looks horrid on my hirsute masculinity, but the idea of wearing it still arouses me.  I glance up at the screen, and see my feminine self in all her glory, revealing a cleavage worth killing for, sitting in a position that accentuates her gorgeous, sensuous legs and her soft, delicate shoulders.  I take one last look at her before I slide the swimsuit off and roll out of bed.  I can't help but fondle myself a few times before I finally succeed in sliding the shoulder straps off.

I hold a woman's swimsuit in my hand.  I, a man, have worn it.  I enjoyed wearing it.  I blush again at the thought of it.  I can't take my eyes off of it.  It's very sexy, even when no one wears it.  It somehow exudes femininity.  I wore it!  I still can't believe it.  I can see how it could turn me into a girl now.  It's so wonderfully female.  It felt so good to wear it.  My masculinity somehow survived it, too.  I have tested my manhood with the ultimate in femininity, and it emerged unscathed.  I feel a rush of pride and adrenaline just thinking about my brush with girlhood.  

Then again, I was forced to wear it.  And I struggled against it.  I almost lost!  What would have happened if I hadn't broken free?  Or what if I had been wearing a bikini?  Or panties, a bra a garter belt, and stockings?  I would have succumbed for sure.  And the thought excites me: I could still be a girl!  Imagine the effects of wearing girls' undies!  Devastating.  Imagine the feel of silk and satin against my skin. . .

A flush of desire comes over me.  Feverishly, I slip back into the bathing suit.  Damn the consequences!  I want to wear it!  I jump back into bed, and fondle myself to climax, fantasizing about being female.  I imagine myself wearing all sorts of sexy lingerie and bikinis and dresses and skirts and heels.  I picture them shaping my horrible male body into something gorgeously female, worthy of the clothes.  

Saturday, March 20, 1999

Fiction: Beaten Into Shape

A slight change of pace: I'm thinking of all those kung-fu fighting video games in which all the female characters are incalculably gorgeous and wear slinky, revealing clothes.  Now, let's say that I ran into one...

I was never much of a fighter, so Sonya had no trouble with me at all.  She is now my mentor, and she has already taught me much.

Sonya is femininity itself.  Every man who has ever seen her has quivered at beholding such feminine perfection.  She is delicate, and she is very sexy.  She dresses revealingly in battle to distract her opponents.  The fact that she can pound the tar out of anyone on the planet takes nothing away from her shocking girlishness.  I might even say that it accentuates it, because she moves so gracefully, so alluringly when she fights.

I was foolish to attack her.  I spied her from a distance, not knowing who she is, and followed her.  I couldn't resist her beauty.  I wanted to experience it in all its grandeur.  It was dark, and we were nowhere near anyone.  I thought that I could have my way with her, and be done with it, whether she would give in willingly or not.  

She doesn't look strong.  She's not very big.  She is, in fact, quite petite.  No sooner had I tackled her behind a hedge and she threw me off of her and began toying with me.  She was wearing a long, tight skirt and three-inch heels, which I saw repeatedly at very close range.  No one can fight in clothes like that.  She even pretended to be vulnerable.

"Oh my God!  What do you want from me?" she gasped.

"I want your body, chickie.  And I'm gonna have it!"

She shrieked as I lunged at her, but jabbed me in the chin.  Before I knew it, she was kicking me all over the place.  I couldn't get up before she would crack my head with her delicate little fist, or rupture my balls with her soft, porcelain feet.  She had a strange smirk on her face as she slapped me around at will.  Pretty soon, I had nothing left, and I had to beg her, a small, frail-looking, beautiful, gorgeous sex kitten, for mercy. 
She stood above me, hands on her hips.  "Not much of a man, are you?  Can't even stand up to a little girlie like me!"

Flat on the ground, all I could see was her foot.  She picked me up by the scruff of the neck so that I was on my hands and knees.  That's when I got a really good look at her shoes and skirt and her spectacular stocking-clad legs.  

"Kiss my feet," she commanded.  I looked up at her face.  She's beautiful even when she's angry.  But I knew that I had to comply, or else she would kill me.  So I kissed her feet.  

"There, that's more like it.  That's the way to treat a woman."

She abruptly walked away, and I fell back on my face, mortally embarrassed.  I couldn't believe that I had been throughly mauled by a girl, and hadn't even done the least bit of damage to her.  At least no one would ever know.

Or so I thought at that brief moment before she returned, and tossed her shopping bag down in front of me.
"Open it!" she barked.  There were women's clothes in it.  Nothing but women's clothes.  Sonya has fine taste.  I couldn't identify exactly what was in the bag yet, but I had followed her through the mall, so I could guess.

"Take off all your clothes.  Now."  

I looked up at her sheepishly, and she slapped me hard across the face.  "I said, NOW!  Do it!"  So, with my broken bones and blood all over me, I managed to pull out of my clothes.  Sonya didn't help me at all, except for the threats.

"Now, empty the bags onto the ground.  Take a good look at what's inside."

I did as she said, and found lingerie, a mini-dress, and a pair of heels.  Everything seemed to go together nicely.  I guess she had bought an outfit.  Lucky for me that it matched.

"Pick up the panties."  I found the lacy black panties for her.  "Now," she began, giggling, "put them on."
I hesitated, and looked up at her again.  She was serious.  She smacked me in the face again.  "PUT THEM ON!" she screamed.  I did as I was told, and she snickered.  "Aren't you the cute little pantywaist?  Put on the bra, too.  Then the garter belt and the stockings."  With some difficulty, and quite a bit of laughter from Sonya, I did as I was told.

"Do a little pirouette for me!"  I tried, and probably looked ridiculous because I was in such pain from the beating she gave me.  That made her squeal with delight.  I couldn't do anything about it.  "That was awful.  You've got a lot to learn, young lady.  Now put on your dress, and let's go."

She zipped me into this tight little sausage casing, which was so short on me that one could almost see the crotch of her panties.  The skin of my upper thighs was clearly visible.  Then she forced my feet into the heels, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me back to the sidewalk.  Headed back towards town.  "If you even try to run away, I will utterly destroy you," she whispered to me menacingly.  I could barely keep up with her, but I knew that I couldn't hope to escape her wrath if I fell behind or tried to get away.  I had no idea what she wanted to do to me, or where we were going.  All I knew was that I had been beaten up by a girl, and that I now wore her clothes, in public.

We took a nice long walk downtown, on the busiest streets.  We took public transportation.  She put me on public display, dressed like a girl.  Thousands of people stared at me.  We stayed out for hours, in crowded, wide-open spaces where everyone could see me.  She beamed with satisfaction.  I couldn't escape, because I felt so weak, and because I feared for my life.  She even introduced me to some total strangers as her "girlfriend."

At length, we returned to her home.  Under different circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to enter, but this time I felt a bit uncomfortable about it.  She tossed me into an empty room as I was, and locked the door until morning.  I passed out, still wearing everything.

In the morning, she had me lick her feet again.  She wore only a nightie, and I thought I would die from her unimaginable beauty.  "Do you still want my body?" she asked coyly.

"Yes!" I gasped, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events, but all to eager to accept it.  Meanwhile, I still had all this feminine clothing on me, down to my panties and bra.

"Good!  Let's get started!  We have a lot of work to do. . ."  She slapped me across the face, and brought me to my knees again.  I was totally shocked.

"Now, swear to me that you hereby renounce your manhood."


She slapped me again.  "Swear it!"





"Please. . ." I whimpered.

"Swear it!"


"Say it!"

I hesitated for a moment.  She raised her hand to slap me again.

"I renounce my manhood."

"You will now embrace womanhood with all your heart, or die trying."

"I will embrace womanhood, or die trying."

She immediately had me nair my body, and take some pills.  She got me dressed up in the same outfit as the night before, and began my training.

Femininity really sneaks up on you.

Within a few short days, I began to look forward to wearing some new feminine outfit that I had never experienced before.  I got right into it.  I wanted nothing more than to become female.  I wanted to look as sexy as my mistress, wearing the same sexy clothes.  I loved the feel of my hairless skin.  I prayed for my tits to grow out.  I longed for an hourglass figure.  I was like a girl going through puberty, taking pride in all of the changes that I expected to come.  I frolicked in silk and lace, reveling in my new-found femininity.  Sonya found this very amusing.  So did I.

Wednesday, March 10, 1999

Fiction: Becoming a Body Double

Christina opened the door to my padded cell and walked in, wearing nothing but the bikini she wore when I ogled her at Alex's cottage last Summer.  She's a very sexy girl, with long, slim legs, firm but smallish breasts, and a fine, curvaceous figure.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  It had been weeks since I had seen any woman, much less had any sexual gratification.  

"Are we ready to begin?" she asked the two burly guards who watched over me.  They nodded and held me down as she strapped me into a bikini very similar to hers.

"What are you doing to me?" I whimpered.

She laughed as she tied up my bra and began to explain.  "You've surely heard about how my life is in danger?  Well, we need a lookalike to take some of the heat away from me.  We've run out of suitable women to imitate me, and you're the best of the rest."  

Christina is about 8 inches shorter than me, and 50 pounds lighter.

"But I don't look anything like you!"

"You'd be amazed what we can do these days with plastic surgery and makeup. . ."

"But I'm not even a girl!"

"That's the only snag.  And it's the first thing we'll work on.  C'mon, you'd better change your attitude, or you'll never get to be like me!"

With that, the men rubbed me down with some depilatory cream, and made me swallow some pills.  This continued for weeks.  Every day.

At first I resisted.  It took me a long time to get used to it.  Christina was very nice to me though.  She really wanted me to be just like her.  I loved to stare at her body, and I guess that pretty soon, her plan started to make a strange sort of sense to me.

The first few weeks were absolutely demeaning.  I wore all sorts of different female garments.  I got to experience it all: bikinis, one-piece bathing suits, leotards, panties and bras, garter belts, stockings, and all sorts of lingerie.  Every time, Christina would make me examine her body, admire its every curve, and smell it and touch it and feel it.  She didn't have to tell me how gorgeous it is, but she did.  She also told me that I would soon have one just like it, if I was good and co-operated with her.  This would make me horny as a toad, so she would bring in the goons to jerk me off, and fondle me like a girl.  Then when I came she would make me admit that I liked it because I felt like a girl.

Eventually, it became routine: a new set of undies to wear, more exploration of Christina's body, and the infamous rubdown.  By then by body was hairless and getting soft.  My nipples were starting to get sensitive from the hormones they fed me.  I started to look at her with envy rather than lust: I could relate to her underwear, because I wore it too, and I stared longingly at her crotch, admiring its shape not as something to fondle but to emulate.  

Finally, she let me get dressed by myself.  And I didn't hesitate.  I actually looked forward to it.  It dawned on me at last that I was going to be a girl.  I rather liked the idea.  I figured that I might as well enjoy it.  She noticed my enthusiasm, and began stage 2. . . .

Sunday, February 07, 1999

Diary: Planning To Buy a Matching Panty and Bra Set

Valentine's day 1999 is about a week away, and I have a plan.  I'll need to spend a fair amount of money, but it's definitely worth it.  I have never been disappointed in any of my feminine purchases.

It's time to forge ahead a bit.

I saw a full page newspaper ad for Eaton's.  It was a gorgeous sheer panty and bra set.  The panties shown were string bikini panties.  I've never worn anything like that before.  By getting that set, I kill two birds with one stone: I get my first real bra, and I get a string bikini panty.  The thought of it drives me crazy with lust.  But that's far from being all I want.

I would like to get a flimsy little chemise to match the panties.  It would be one of those that end just under the belly button.  When I think of myself wearing that, I see myself as being totally female.  Imagine me, gallivanting around in a slip and panties!  And there's even more. . .

I've been thinking for some time that I need a pretty little nightgown, a silky one with spaghetti straps that's form fitting and that flares out and ends just below the crotch.  I plan to wear it to sleep now and then, whenever I feel like being girlish.  I can even wear the panties with it if I want.

Women's underwear is so cool!

Friday, January 15, 1999

Fiction: How I Tricked My Wife Into Transforming Me Into a Woman

Counterpoint to the story about the woman who gradually surreptitiously transformed her husband into a woman:

Susan had no idea that I had fantasized about wearing her underwear.  I was getting sick and tired of wearing her things behind her back.  I had begun to lose interest in her: wearing her clothes gave me a much more powerful rush than fucking her.  She's very beautiful, don't get me wrong.  I just got caught up in her lingerie, and discovering an exciting new facet of myself.

The trick was to break it to her slowly.  I had to try to convince her that I would make a better girlfriend than husband.  I'm amazed that she stuck with me all this time.  I'm amazed, too, that she fell for it.  I guess we really were meant for each other. . .

It started with the shaving.  I didn't want to move too fast, because I didn't want to scare her away.  I knew that I had her when she suggested to me that a smooth, hairless man is sexy.  I had wanted for a long time to know what it feels like to have smooth legs, and to wear stockings on them.  I pretended to hesitate, but I couldn't wait to do it.

Then she pulled the old laundry trick on me to get me into her panties.  Again, I had to take it slow, and pretend that I didn't want to.  It's not like I hadn't worn them before.  Only now I got to wear them all the time.  I even bought my own eventually.  I felt so free, finally cavorting in women's underwear all day, every day!  Now when we fucked, I secretly pretended we were lesbians.  

I began to notice a strange taste in my breakfast orange juice.  She thinks I didn't know about the hormones.  At first I was shocked and angry.  I thought about confronting her.  I thought that this was going too far already.  The trouble is that the idea of slowly and biologically becoming female aroused me like nothing else.  I had to make a choice: continue along this crazy transsexual route, or end it right here.  

Pretty soon, I was taking sewing lessons, and doing Jazzercize.  I was becoming female.  I noticed my tits growing, and my nipples becoming sensitive.  Susan had no idea that I was right in on her program.  She caught me one day tanning myself in a bikini bottom.  I gave her some cockamammy excuse that I felt more comfortable in it anyway, because of the panties.  Which was true, come to think of it, but to a much greater extent than I let on.  I couldn't wait to cover my budding tits with the matching bras!  

Every step I took made me feel so wonderfully feminine!  I was so happy to wear a frilly, lacy, silky, satiny bra to match with my panties!  And Susan had no idea that I loved it so much.  She hoped that I would, but I was already way ahead of her.

Pretty soon, she let me be a girl, and I've loved every minute of it since.