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.  

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.