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.  

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