Saturday, December 15, 2001

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: Impervious

I couldn't help but laugh when they explained why they expected me to put on the panties and bra they laid out in front of me.  "Do you actually believe that you can turn me into a sissy faggot boy just by making me wear panties and a bra?  Don't you realize just how much man you're dealing with here?"

"Just put it on," ordered the mousy little bitch to my right.  

"Ha ha!  This is hilarious!  Or should I say, hysterical!"  I put on the panties, prancing around like a sissy, just to show them how little this affected me.  "Look at this," I said, pointing to my stiffening cock.  "I told you you can't contain this kind of manhood.  I'm bursting out all over!"  She had to help me put on the bra, which had to be stretched to the limit and attached at the last clasp because of my muscular pecs.  "Am I supposed to be humiliated by this?  Ha!  I'll pop out of this get-up like the incredible hulk any second now!"

Such a ludicrous idea!  Somehow, wearing women's underwear is supposed to make me feminine in some way.  My body is far too masculine to be compromised by any kind of clothing.  If anything, wearing panties and bras accentuates my manhood, because it looks downright incongruous on me.  It just shows off my muscles and my - if you'll allow me the boast - rather large dick, which bulges right out of the panties.

Wendy, the mousy little bitch who is supposed to personally coach me into becoming a woman, snickers at me.  How they expected this skinny, flat-chested, homely cunt to teach me anything about womanhood when she clearly knows little about it herself, I'll never understand.  Hell, even Heidi Klum couldn't put the slightest dent in me.  If anything, she'd throw herself at me and beg me to show her what a man I am.

"Your manhood has been compromised already.  It's no joke.  You're already turning into a girl as we speak, even if you don't know it.  Every moment you spend wearing women's clothes contributes to your growing femininity.  You'll be begging for more within a week, I guarantee."

"I'm sure, cupcake.  Just bring it on.  I beg you!"

"You won't be laughing for long.  Just you wait!"

Wendy cracks me up.  That night, after a whole day of her explaining to me how I will gradually learn how to wear things like pantihose and garter belts and bikinis like a proper girl, I fucked her harder than she's ever been fucked before.  And she liked it, too.  We were expressly forbidden from fooling around, but I had to show her who's boss.  She fought like a wildcat at first, but it didn't take long for her to start participating fully.  She did some pretty dirty shit, I don't mind telling you.  Now she stares at me like she can't wait for some more.

When she gives me pantyhose to wear the next day, I'm a little surprised that she is still allowing this charade to continue.  We're in the same huge auditorium as before, and again, some of the other, less confident guys are bellyaching about how they don't want to be girls.  It makes me laugh how these fucking pansies haven't got the balls to put on a pair of pantyhose, just to show these bitches how pointless it is to even attempt this madness.  I slip into them, joking and laughing just as I did before.  I sure don't feel any more feminine.  The full-length mirror they supplied for us still shows a massive hulk of a man, with a big fat cock bulging under his tights.  I'm still buff.  I laugh.

"You like how this looks on me, babe?"  Wendy grins salaciously as she stares at me.  She doesn't look too bad when she's salivating over me.  Not to mention that she, like me, is wearing nothing but a pair of brown pantyhose.  

"Oh, yeah," she says.  "Very pretty."

Of course, she has to say things like that, because the armed guards will shoot us both if they think I'm not co-operating.  I've seen it happen.  They mean business.

"So, there you go.  I'm wearing pantyhose.  What's next?  Bring it on.  I'm not afraid."

"You're not ready to move on yet," she says softly.

"So what?"

"You've got to follow your regimen."

"What, you don't think I can handle more than this?  Ha ha ha!  It's not gonna make the slightest bit of difference, babe, just do your worst."

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I'm not the one who gets to decide."

"Who does?  Them?" I ask, pointing at the armed guards.

"No, silly, the supervisors."

"You mean those really hot bitches walking around checking everybody out?  Man, I'd like to bang one of them!"

Wendy looks hurt.  Stupid bitch!  I've got her right in the palm of my hand! 

"Yes.  Them.  They'll give me the next garment for you to wear when they think you're ready."

"When they think I'm ready, eh?  So obviously, I'm still way too butch for them, eh?  I'll bet they want a piece of me.  They ain't never seen a body like this before, I'll bet."

"I think you look cute in pantyhose.  They probably think you need more practice."

"Right.  This is supposed to make me feminine.  I forgot."

"Don't worry, Charlie darling, they will."  We both burst into belly laughs at this. 

That night, she wore a sexy little nighty to bed, and made sure as Hell that I'd see her in it.  She's turning out to be quite the randy little bitch.  When I came to her, she tore off my pantihose, like she couldn't wait to get to the manly goodness inside.  I bounced her off my cock for four hours, and she still couldn't get enough.  So much for me turning into a woman.

This went on for a good two weeks.  Over that span of time, she became hotter and hotter, to the point where she was no longer the skinny, mousy cunt I first met, but a gorgeous, curvaceous, sex-starved vixen.  Every day, she got a new outfit, and joked about how soon I'd get to wear the same stuff.  The second day, she got to wear some exercise tights.  Then she wore nothing but bathing suits for three or four days.  When she got to wear bikinis, I really started to get hot for her, rather than just fucking her out of spite.  Now she's wearing lingerie every day, and she's moving like a runway model.  Good God, is she ever hot now.

Meanwhile, I get almost nothing to eat.  I feel weak, and I'm wasting away.  As hot as she is, I just can't keep up with her in bed anymore.  I mean, I'm still very manly, and she's totally hot for me, but I need some kind of nourishment to keep me going.  I'm still wearing pantyhose, and I'm wondering when they'll start testing me harder.  They can starve me all they want, I'm still as much a man as ever!  No amount of women's underwear is gonna change that.  Still, I think I'm one of the only men left in the group still wearing pantyhose.

Today, Wendy finally gives me a sports bra and tights.  They're pink, just like the ones she wore on our second day together.  

"Geez, it's about time!" I tell her as she hands them to me.

"What's the matter?" says Wendy, teasingly.  "Have you been looking forward to this?"

"Of course not!  I was just wondering when. . ."

"I told you you couldn't hold out for long!  This is priceless!"

"Fuck you!  I don't want to wear this!"

"Why not?" she purrs.  "It's not going to affect your manhood or anything, is it?"  She slides her incredibly sexy body against me as she says this, and caresses my crotch.

"I told you!  They can throw anything they want at me, and it's not going to matter!  Look at me!  I'm the model of masculinity!  This is nothing to me!"

"Well, you've sure got me fooled."

"Ha!  I'll show you!  Watch me put this on!"

"That's exactly what I mean.  You can't wait!"

"We'll see about that tonight, won't we sugar?"

"We probably will."  

While she would usually have made a comment like that with that sexy glint in her eye, now it seems totally sarcastic.

"You love it when I bone you all night long.  I'm more man than you can handle."

"Seems to me that's just not true anymore.  When's the last time you outlasted me, sugar?"

She's right.  I'm too starved to do much with her anymore.  The last few nights, she came to me.  In fact, last night, she held me down and straddled me while I was still wearing my pantyhose.  I was too weak to throw her off.  

"All right then," I countered.  "I'll prove it to you.  I could wear the sexiest clothes you've got, before your precious supervisors think I'm ready.  And it's not going to have the least effect on me.  I'll fuck the living shit out of you right after.  And there won't be anything you can do about it."

"Oh yeah?  Well I'll bet that's just a ruse to get into my panties - literally - and that you're turning into a sissy just like I told you you would from the very beginning."

"OK, let's bet then."

"What's in it for me?"

"It's a win-win proposition.  When I win - sorry - IF I win, then you get boned by a hardcore piece of man who has proven his incorruptibility.  If you win, then you can go ahead and do your worst to me, and I won't care because I won't be much of a man anymore.  But we both know that's impossible, so look forward to riding my cock, honey."

She grins maliciously and sexily.  "It's a deal."

After that first day in leotards, I noticed that I had lost an awful lot of bulk.  I was now quite slender - not in a feminine way, but still slender.  I strutted around all day proving to her that leotards were nothing to me, and that not even her sexiest outfit could do anything to affect my manhood.  In fact, I got a sense of freedom and power as I proudly showed the world how much I could take.  I could feel my cock harden as I thought about how easily I would win this bet.  I was so tired that night that I couldn't do much to stop her from having her way with me again.  I don't know how many times I came in those tight little shorts, but I felt vindicated by the fact that my ever-powerful semen was soiling these precious feminine garments. 

I spent the next few days wearing different one-piece bathing suits.  They felt so tight against my torso, and so soft.  She had me shaved so that I could feel the smooth skin on my legs rubbing together.  I paraded around, proclaiming my victory, feeling even stronger than I did the first day.  I couldn't wait to try on a bikini - or better yet, lingerie! - and show Wendy just how pointless her efforts were.  Each night, Wendy stormed into my bed and made me come in my bathing suit several times.  I refused to take it off, because it gave me such a rush to so successfully establish my manhood.

After about a week of this, I had to ask her when I could wear a bikini.  I had been thinking about it non-stop for days.  I wanted to move along as quickly as possible with this bet, and show her just how much contempt I have for the whole concept of feminization.  I could just imagine how powerfully sexy I would feel in a string bikini.  So little fabric to contain so much manhood!  I was so confident that I would handle it as easily as I had everything else, that it made me horny to think about it.  I literally shook with anticipation.

"I'm not allowed to let you wear a bikini yet," she explained.  "The supervisors don't think you're ready."

"Yeah, they can tell that their little games aren't working.  Obviously, I'm still far too much a man for them to risk losing with one of their top cards."

"Actually," she grinned, "it's the complete opposite.  They think you're turning too fast.  They want to let you savour every second of your feminization."

"Too fast!" I squealed, putting my hands on my bathing suit clad hips, "How can they possibly think that I'm feminizing at all, much less too fast?"  I could feel my cock start swelling in visceral resistance to the very idea of me becoming feminine.

"Look at you!" Wendy laughed, "you're wearing a girl's bathing suit, and you're begging me for a bikini!  You're a flaming drag queen!  You can't possibly believe that you're not feminizing at least just a little!"

"Ha!  Then why do I have such a massive boner if I'm turning into a girl?"

"Because you love every second of it!"

"As if!"

"The merest suggestion of you becoming more feminine than you already are excites you like nothing else!"

At this moment I became acutely aware of how my pink swimsuit caressed my crotch, and how softly the spandex stretched across my flanks and chest.  I swung my hips at her girlishly and challenged her: "Ok, so why don't you prove it?  We do have a bet, you know."

"I don't need to prove anything.  I've been having my way with you every night since this started.  I can't believe you don't realize that you're practically a girl already."

"I'm not even close!  I'm still more man than you can handle!  You can't even keep your hands off me!"

"That's because," she purred, "making you my little swimsuit model turns me on."

"Right, because I'm so manly in spite of your efforts."

"Okay," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Just get me a bikini, and I'll prove it to you."

"I can't do that.  I told you already."

"I know you can't wait to get your hands on me.  Just think of how much more of my skin will be exposed."

"I'm really not allowed to."

"Does anybody have to know?"

"Well, how are they not going to know when you're strutting around the place like a princess wearing a higher-grade garment than you're supposed to?"

"We can do it at night," I offered, sliding up to her seductively, like she would.  Only in a manly sort of way.

"Well. . ."

"Come on.  You know you want to."

"Yeah.  It would be fun.  I'll lend you one of mine.  But I swear, if you tell anyone about this, I'll fucking kill you!"

That night, as promised, she presented me with her gorgeous light blue spandex bikini.  I was a little bit disappointed that it wasn't a string bikini, but it came a close second.  I hooked my thumbs under my one-piece's bra straps and stripped it off, sticking out my chest a bit, and slid it down my smooth legs.  I immediately snatched the panties out of her hand, and put them on.  I needed no help with the bra, having seen her put them on so many times. 

"Oh my God!" she giggled.  "You're putting it on like an expert!"

I could only grin.  At last, I had fulfilled my goal of proving my manhood in a bikini.  The cool air lightly touching my exposed skin attuned me my outfit.  I gently caressed the shimmering spandex on my hips, which I began to gyrate in sheer sexual triumph.  The rush of victory was even sweeter than I had imagined.  Here I stood -- no, danced -- in a sexy little bikini, my fat cock pulsating beneath the tight little cloth.  I felt myself all over like a stripper, absorbed into my contempt for the feminization program.  Every swing of my hips made me feel that much more free.  I felt waves of sexual energy pulsing through me, more powerful than ever before.  Yes, I was being tested with an incredible amount of femininity, yet I still felt more powerfully sexy than I ever dared imagine possible.

Wendy got up from her bed, wearing her nightgown, and danced with me sensuously.  I shivered with ecstasy when she caressed and snapped my bra strap and pantywaist.  I trembled at the thought of how complete my victory would be if I wore her nightgown.

I came so many times that night that I lost count.  I fell asleep exhausted, still wearing her bikini, and covered in my own semen. 

When morning came, and I had to put on a new one-piece swimsuit, I was reluctant to part with my bikini.  Wendy convinced me that if I wanted more nights like those, I would have to co-operate, or risk getting stuck with a much less lenient coach than her, and never skip levels again.  I looked forward to proving to the entire world just how easily I could put on a bikini, and not become the slightest bit corrupted by it.  I longed for the day when I would wear one in public, and shock everyone with my stunning manhood.  

Unfortunately, the supervisors consistently refused to promote me to bikini class, laughably maintaining that I still seemed to be reveling so much in my one-piece suits that it would be criminal to prevent me from enjoying them for as long as I could.  Most of these pansies who actually were turning into girls only had to wear one-pieces for three months at most.  They were all gallivanting around in club wear, looking practically indistinguishable from their coaches.  Weaklings!  I'll bet they envied the tenacity of my manhood!  More likely, they longed for a good piece of my manhood in the same way as Wendy.

Little did any of them know just how far I was going every night, without feeling the slightest effect.  If anything, my masculinity increased exponentially with every nightly test.  In fact, I had gone at least as far as the biggest pansy of all, who by now was gorgeous like a supermodel, and prettier than even some of the supervisors.  I, too, have worn the sexiest lingerie under little black minidresses; I, too, have sashayed around like a runway model in three-inch heels and fancy evening dresses; I, too, have experienced wearing every conceivable article of women's clothing.  The only difference is that I am still so very much a man -- more than I ever was.  I never once doubted my masculinity, but these nightly tests proved it more convincingly than any number of sexual conquests ever could.

Over the six months since I first wore a bikini, I slowly convinced Wendy to allow me to try just about everything in her wardrobe.  At first, I was obsessed with proving that I could withstand any of her bikinis.  This quickly became almost tiresome in its lack of challenge, much as the one-piece swimsuits had, so I insisted on her testing me with actual underwear.  The endless varieties of women's undergarments provided me with so many countless opportunities to prove myself anew.  Just when I thought I had done it all, I discovered to my great joy a new garment that I had completely forgotten about.  Through all of this, I never failed to triumph with ever-increasing success.  I suspect that I began to wear out Wendy somewhat with my irrepressible manhood.

I could only laugh when, six months after my first illicit forays into bikinis, the supervisors decreed that I was ready for a change.  The very night before, I had snuck out to the dance club with Wendy for the umpteenth time, having chosen my very own wardrobe of a tight red patent leather minidress over a matching lace panty, bra, and garter belt, black fishnet stockings and knee-high boots.  I even put on my own makeup!  I loved to go out like this, and watch all the men ogle me in wonder at how even in this ultra-feminine getup, my manhood wasn't the least bit compromised.  I got such a rush out of taunting them by mocking the girls I danced with, mimicking their every move.  To put on a bikini in public, finally, after so easily conquering the ultimate in feminine clothes at a busy outside dance club, struck me as the most preposterously weak attempt to corrupt me into womanhood -- particularly since bikinis were by now old hat.

Still, I did rather enjoy it.  After all these months of secretly testing my manliness, it felt great to finally get a chance to do it in public.  I got a great kick out of showing up the supervisors.  To go off-campus completely in drag was one thing; wearing a bikini in public is quite another.  All day long I taunted them, hinting at their dismal failure to put the slightest dent in my masculinity, even after more than half a year of wearing nothing but women's clothes.  They could only smile wickedly, knowing how massively I had defeated them.  "We'll see about that," they warned.

When I got back to my room with Wendy, I stripped out of my bikini and slipped into my sexiest nightie.  I was tired from the late carousing of the night before, and only wanted to sleep.  My nightgown, so silky and tight, flaring out at my hips over top of my delicate lace-trimmed matching silk panties, felt so comfortable as it reassured me of my unblemished masculinity.  If this nightie couldn't turn me into a girl, after wearing it to bed at least three times a week for the last four months, then nothing could.  Wendy looked a little bit nervous, clearly shaken by the ease with which I wore a bikini in public all day.  There was so little left for me to do.  I had proven myself masculine under the most severe duress.  The only thing I hadn't done was parade in lingerie publicly.  My forays into the outside world dressed like a club girl had exposed me to even more than the feminization program ever could.  I thought about coming out publicly the next morning in a baby doll and garter belt, against all the rules, just to proclaim my final victory.  Yes, that would prove to them all how indomitable was my manhood!

Just as I finalized my plan, the door burst open.  Sandra, the head supervisor, came storming in, and flicked on the lights.  I yelped as I jumped up in my bed, holding my sheets in front of me.

"Aha!  I knew there was something funny going on!"

Wendy looked at me sheepishly from her bed, a shy little grin tugging at one corner of her mouth.  "Sorry Charlotte," she said.

"Get out of bed!" ordered Sandra.  

Finally the showdown, I thought.  I threw away the sheets, and strode gloriously right up to her.  I did a little pirouette in front of her, and showed off my outfit.  "What do you think of this?" I asked her defiantly.
She stared at me, shocked at my bravery.  "Wendy," she said, chuckling, "you've done a fantastic job with this one!  She doesn't even realize how gorgeous she is, does she?"

"No," giggled Wendy, "she still thinks she's ultra-masculine."

The supervisors and other girls and pansies who had come out of their rooms at the commotion began to titter and laugh at this.

"Don't play your games with me," I said, "you've lost.  Do you know how many times I've come in this nightie?  There's nothing your feminization project can do to even hint at spoiling my manhood."

"Well, that's what we're here to prove," retorted Sandra.

"Go ahead.  I've done it all.  Isn't that right Wendy?  I go clubbing in skank wear.  I sleep in sexy lingerie.  And I still haven't been the least bit affected by it.  I'm more man than you can handle.  I'll bet you're fantasizing about me riding you like a hobby horse right now."

"Oh goodness!  You have no idea what's in store for you now, do you?  Oh my, this is precious!  Come on out of your room!  Let's go to the auditorium!  Let's watch you prove your manhood to us all once and for all!"


With that, we strutted to the main hall, which quickly became packed.  Much to the consternation of the supervisors, I strutted up and down the stage in my nightie, giving everyone a great look at just what they were up against.  They didn't stand a chance!  I would now show everyone that I was incorruptible.  I relished the thought.  What would they make me wear?  Was it not enough that I strutted so confidently in front of them all in probably one of the sexiest garments around?

Suddenly a hush came over the crowd, as Sandra took a microphone and introduced me.

"As you know, this is Charlotte.  Isn't she just gorgeous in her little nightie?" 

The crowd roared its approval.

"But there's a problem!  Somehow, Charlotte imagines that she's still somehow manly!"

Peals of laughter.

"Even better!  She actually thinks -- and I'm not kidding -- that she's proving herself to be the ultimate man by being the most dedicated, most aggressive sissy of you all!"

The crowd is in tears with laughter.  I'm getting terribly upset.

"Charlotte has ben led to believe that she's breaking all the rules by wearing everything she wants in private.  She thinks that she's been proving her manhood all this time, that her being held back in one-pieces for a record six months is somehow testament to her victory!"

At this point, I lunge for the microphone and grab it from Sandra's hands.

"All you bitches," I begin, "are about to find out what a real man is.  I've worn everything you could possibly imagine.  I've gone further than even your garment classes will show you.  And I AM STILL MASCULINE!  Look at how horny I am!  Look at how hard my cock gets when I wear this stuff!  Throw your worst at me!  I'll show you all that nothing you can do to me will stop me from being a man!  As a matter of fact, all that you're doing to me is making me even more manly!  So come on, do your worst, I can't wait to try it on!"
The crowd goes wild, hooting and hollering.  They don't think I can make it either.  Clearly, they know more than I do about what's in store.

"BRING OUT THE BOY!" screams Sandra, bereft or her microphone.  She draws my attention to one side of the stage, where a burly young man comes strutting right for me.

Sandra grabs the mic from my hand.  "Well, Charlotte, are you ready for your ultimate test?  You remember Trevor from the Dance Club, don't you?  Well, he thinks you're cute.  Why don't you show him just how much femininity you can handle?"

I had been tormenting Trevor for as long as I had been going to the Dance Club.  He looked like quite a mack artist, and I could tell by the way he looked at me that he envied my bravery, and wished he could so confidently prove his own manhood.  I danced at him as femininely as I could, just to rub it all in.  Was I going to have to fight him to prove my masculinity?  Was this going to be a beauty contest?  A contest of conquest?
Trevor surprised me by grabbing my waist.  He was fully clothed, and I was still wearing just my nightie.  "Good God, are you ever sexy," he said.  "Let's give these people a show!"

Before I could respond, his lips locked passionately onto mine, and I understood.  At first, I pushed him away, but he was much stronger than me, what with my starvation diet and lack of strength training.  But there was more.  Something about the way he caressed my ass made me realize what kind of contest this was.  I melted into him, and kissed him back.

We necked for a full five minutes.  I trembled when he squeezed my nipples, which had become so much more sensitive since I began hormone therapy six weeks previously.  I had partly forgotten the crowd.  I found myself concentrating on his massive chest, and his throbbing crotch.  They didn't think I would do it, did they?  I was going to give them more than they ever expected.  He let me throw him down onto the bed that they had rolled out behind us, and undid his pants.  I helped him out of them entirely, straddled him, and rubbed my panties against his massive cock as he pulled off my chemise and tweaked both of my nipples.

Inwardly, I laughed, knowing how complete my victory would be.  Surely they expected me to shy away from this last challenge.  What was more feminine than having sex with a man?  I knew that I could fuck and suck Trevor all night if I had to, manly as he is, and my manhood would still be completely intact.  The enthusiasm with which I went down on him and sucked him dry would surely have completely destroyed a lesser man than I.  I bet Trevor would die of shame if anyone knew he sucked cock.  I did it with the greatest joy that I have ever known, because I knew that I had nothing to fear.  The crowd cheered wildly when, Trevor momentarily spent, I got up out of bed, grabbed the microphone, and gargled his semen so that the entire auditorium could see what I had done.  I licked my hands and face clean, made a big show of taking off my panties, and jumped right back into bed.

We did it missionary style first, which was so much fun that I quickly forgot to be dismayed that Trevor didn't mind my having a penis.  I took solace in knowing that having his huge cock in my ass proved me to be the braver.  That knowledge made every stroke that much more pleasurable, and I came two or three times as he rode me.  

We proceeded to try several different positions, each drawing oohs and aaahs from the audience.  I fucked Trevor silly, in the most feminine way imaginable.  This was the ultimate test in femininity.  I had now been tested to the maximum.  I had performed sexual feats that many women have only ever fantasized about.  
When we were done, we slept together, spooned, and I dreamed of how even though I won my bet hands down, tested to the extreme, and even though I had absolutely nothing left to prove, would stick around here forever, just for the chance to prove my manhood every day like I did tonight.

"So," asked Wendy, "explain to me again how sucking cock so enthusiastically makes you in any way masculine?"

"How many times do I have to explain this?" I lisp, exasperated, mocking her most feminine mannerisms almost out of habit.  "The more feminine you try to make me, the more my manhood comes through.  I told you from the start that only a pansy of the highest order would be afraid of wearing girls' undies, because his very conviction that it will somehow taint his manhood will make it happen.  I'm not afraid, so I can take whatever you throw at me, and laugh about how ineffective it is."

"So how come you wear nothing but girls' clothes now?  How come you only have sex with men now?  For that matter, how come men even want to have sex with you if you're not ultra-feminine?"

"Ha!  Isn't it obvious?"

"It sure is!"

"They're clearly so intimidated by my manhood that they'll even submit to being my bitches!"

Wendy bursts into a fit of convulsive laughter.

"What the Hell?  You're just jealous because I haven't fucked you in more than a year.  I wouldn't fuck men if I didn't have to keep proving to you stupid bitches that you can't effeminate me."

"Charlotte, you're such a riot!"

"Oh, shut up."

"Look at you!  You've been on hormones for so long that you've grown perfect 34C boobs!  You've permanently electrolyzed away all your body hair!  You even have a sexy, curvy waist!  And to top it off, you wear designer lingerie full time, and enjoy sucking dicks more than most real women!  Why don't you just accept the fact that you've become a girl in every way but one?"

"Am I going to have to fuck you now to prove my manhood?  Is that what this is about?" I said this coquettishly -- again out of habit -- in a way that would have made any man melt in his shoes.  I've gotten very good at this.

"You probably can't even get it up anymore, what with all the hormones.  Anyway, let's just say I'm not attracted to you.  I like my men a little more masculine than you."

"You know that's not even possible."

Wendy rolls her eyes.  There is simply no way to convince her.  Or at least, the reverse psychology methods aren't going to convince me, either.  "Enough of this nonsense," she says.  "Let's get down to business.
"Surely you've noticed that all of your classmates have by now been through the final surgery to succumb completely to womanhood.  You, in spite of your superstardom, still have that last vestige of your manhood.  The time has come for you to make up your mind.  We've held you back long enough.  Do you want to be a girl?"

My jaw dropped.  "You're offering me surgery?"


"What if I refuse?"

"Then you win.  You get to go back to what you were before."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you give back all your feminine attire, are given back all your male possessions, and walk out that door the same way you walked in it more than two years ago, before the first time you ever tasted womanhood."

"So this is your final test, is it?"

"This is no test.  We know you'll go for surgery.  Everyone does.  There are no exceptions.  Just so you're under no illusions, it's irreversible.  They chop off what's left of your little prick and sculpt it into a totally convincing, fully orgasmic clitoris, vagina, and labia.  Your precious manhood will be gone forever."

She's definitely got me now.  I'm getting horny as she speaks, somehow convinced that I could take this challenge, this final, irrevocable challenge, and feel the most intense surge of manhood I've ever known, in spite of my lacking a penis.  I can already imagine what it must feel like to have a hard cock sliding into my very own pussy, and I tremble at the thought.  I don't think I've ever been so aroused in my entire life.  How can I reconcile this paradox? 

Having a woman's genitalia sounds incredibly appealing as a way to prove once and for all that I am unalterably masculine, that nothing anyone can do can in any way so much as dent my manhood.  But it is permanent -- which makes it all the more appealing.  How could I even imagine that I had proven my manhood if submitting to the ultimate in feminization stood the remotest chance of being reversible? 

Yet I would lose the very thing that makes me a man!  Even though today I tuck and hide it as convincingly as possible to make my crotch look appropriately feminine in lingerie, how can I justify lopping it off entirely?  The prospect of my crotch not only looking feminine, but actually being feminine, fills me with eager anticipation.  Clearly, by agreeing to surgery, I become unambiguously female. I fully abandon my manhood, forever.  

So why am I so giddily eager to go through with it?

Can I have been so completely wrong?  Could it be that every time I became excited about a new femininity challenge, and every time I gloated triumphantly about so easily withstanding it, I in fact celebrated the flowering of my girlhood?  

I remember back now to my eagerness for swimwear.  I never once believed that it could affect me.  Those one-piece suits were so absurdly sexy to me, so incongruous against me.  But those nights when Wendy straddled me to ecstasy as I wore them, I revelled in them.  I felt so incredibly sexy!  Could I have been mistaken about the origins of that feeling?  Could it be that I was overwhelmed not with masculinity, but femininity?  The same feeling burns in me now, imagining how so perfectly female I could look in a one-piece swimsuit if I went through with surgery.

Good Lord!  Could I have mistaken the rush I felt when I gave my first blow job for masculinity?  I actually thought myself more manly for sucking dick!  And taking it in the ass!  Oh, how masculine I felt then!  I was so proud to have a big fat cock sliding in and out of my asshole.  And I love it!  I love when I get fucked by men!  And all for that same feeling of what I called masculinity!  I knew that no man would dare do these things, because it would destroy his manhood.  I was so convinced of my own, that I had no idea that I was succumbing to total, absolute, uninhibited womanhood each and every time I came.

I am so far gone now that having a cunt instead of a dick seems like an overwhelmingly good idea.

But I can't let them win.  I still have that pathetic, shrivelled little stub between my legs.  I can still salvage my manhood.  They told me I can choose to go back.  They won't win.  I will not let them turn me into a girl.
I leap out of my chair and jump onto Wendy.  Or at least I try to, but the 3-inch heel on my sandal breaks, and I crumple pathetically to the floor.

"So you've made up your mind?" she asks, giggling.

"I'm not a girl!"

"No, but we can correct that, don't worry."

"I'm a man," I whimper.

"There, there, Charlotte, it won't be long now."

I am weeping in a fetal position at her feet.

"Get it?  It won't be long now!  Ha ha!"

I pull myself up and stand Wendy up beside me.  She's not laughing anymore.  She looks worried.  I have her hands in mine.  She is absolutely stunning in her little blue minidress, and with her hair up in a messy bun.  But she's not turning me on.  I kiss her on the lips.  Nothing.  I have my arms around her, and I'm caressing her face and neck with kisses.  Nothing.  

"Aw," she says.  "It'll be OK, Charlotte.  Don't you worry."  She pats me on the back as I smother her with kisses, feeling absolutely no arousal.

She lets me push her gently onto the bed, where I pump my pelvis uselessly, listlessly, between her legs.  I am licking my tears off her cheeks, her neck.  I pull up her dress, revealing her fantastic belly, her glorious lace-clad breasts, and her precious, precious undies.  I have learned from a true expert.  She's gorgeous.  But it just doesn't feel right for me to be between her legs.  I just want her to hold me, as she is, and console me. 

"See, Charlotte?  You're one of us, now.  Just wait till you feel what it's like to be for real."

This makes me feel better.  "Does it hurt?" I ask.

"A little bit.  But that's part of the fun."

Thursday, November 15, 2001

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: The Veteran

So many of the other men are protesting against the very idea of compromising their manhood.  The lingerie we are supposed to wear is absolutely gorgeous.  It's just the type of thing I would have bought for my own, private, pleasure.  But this is in public.  They want me to wear it.  I can't resist.  I've never done this in front of anyone before, but I really like where this is going.

As soon as I slide into the panties, a rush of excitement almost makes me faint.  I'm standing between two girls!  I'm willingly putting on the same underwear as they are!  How wonderfully, beautifully, arousingly exciting!  I giggle nervously as I make eye contact with the pretty brunette to my right while putting on the exquisite bra just as easily as she did.

It's always been so difficult for me.  I love girls so desperately.  I worship their shape, their attitude, their softness.  They make me swoon with desire.  But I love them so much that I often feel the need to be like them.  I never feel more intense a sexual rush than when I put on women's underwear and pretend that I'm turning into a girl.  I have kept this secret most vigorously.  Until now.

As I look around, I can tell by their faces that some of the other men are closet pansies just like me, but even now, with their fantasies fulfilling before their eyes, they still refuse to admit it.  I can't conceal my joy, and I'm not even bothering to.  I'm grinning from ear to ear, and fondling my new garments.  They want to turn me into a girl!

The pretty brunette turns out to be Nancy.  "How do you like your new panties?" she asks.

I blush and giggle like a schoolgirl.  "I like them.  A lot."

"They're really pretty on you.  How do you like the idea of becoming a girl?"

"I can't wait!"

Tuesday, October 16, 2001

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: The Rookie

This time, we make sure that it goes slowly, after the initial push

"So," finished Lia, "you understand how this works?"

I nodded.  I am wearing a panty and bra set, off-white, satiny, and lacy.  Lia is a knockout in the same outfit.  She has explained that I will learn to become a girl, just like her.  It is my new ambition to become as feminine as she is - or more, if possible.  We all know that I will be a horrible excuse for a woman for the first little while, but that I will eventually succeed.  We also know that I am not doing this voluntarily, but with a gun to my head.  Lia swears that I will come around in no time at all.

"Clearly, you love my body," she says.  "But in all the wrong ways.  Look at yourself!  You're wearing the same thing as me!  And you put it on yourself.  You're already used to it, aren't you?  Every millisecond you spend in that outfit pushes you further and further over the edge.  Soon it will be a natural thing for you to put on a bra every day.  And you'll like it, too!"

I want to smack the little bitch around, but, again, the guards have their weapons pointed at me.  I'm supposed to be rooming with her, so I'll have my opportunity for revenge.

She comes up close to me, and brushes her tit against my cheek.  She's touching me all over.  "The first lesson," she whispers salaciously into my ear, "is called 'Exploring the Female Body.'  You need to know, in great detail, what it is you need to strive for."  She certainly has all the proper course materials at her disposal.
She takes a step back, and stands before me posing, in her - our - underwear.  "Look at me.  Tell me, what's the first thing you notice?  And don't forget for a second that you're going to look like this, too, you little sissy."

Her hourglass figure is astounding.  She has her right hand on her hip.  Her smooth, fair skin hasn't got a single visible hair.  The curvature from her thigh, up around her hip, into the valley of her waist, and back up suddenly to her wonderfully soft, round breast, drives me wild.  I want to suckle on her gorgeous titties, and slide my hand down to her slender little belly, where her unbridled femininity seems to converge.  I want to hold her ass in my hands as I bounce her off my cock.  I want to lick her all over.  I can't decide what I notice first, as the whole becomes so much more than the sum of her parts.

"Your tits!"  Probably the expected answer.  Such a difficult choice...

"OK," she says.  "Let's look at my tits."

She takes my hands, and cups them around her breasts, over her bra.  She throws back her head luxuriantly, and asks me to smell her cleavage.

I am caressing her now.  I squeeze her nipples through the lace and satin of her brassiere.  I slide my hands to her back and gently pull her towards me, in order to fully obey her command.  A drop of perfume entices me to rub my face between her lovely, soft, round breasts, and breathe deeply.  I reach for the clasp on her back, to get a better look.

Suddenly she pushes me away, her hands on my chest.  I let go, fully aware of the ever-vigilant guards.  "Now stay still, sissy boy," she says, as she squeezes my nipple through my own bra.  I can feel it hardening between her fingers.  "Let me show you a few things."

"Breasts are an obvious feminine feature.  You know about my nipples - hardly a surprise.  You like their firmness, their roundness, their softness.  But there's more to my chest than that.  You proved it yourself."
She raises her left arm over her head, and runs the fingers of her right hand along the bottom of her bra, to her armpit.  "Take a look at this," she says.  "Your hands lingered here.  And now your eyes are, too.  I have delicate lats.  You love the way my bra looks here.  You love the way my breast seems to extend out from this area.  Now look at your armpit, and the way your bra looks."

I do as she says.  I cannot deny the truth of her words.  Nor can I fail to notice how the bra makes me look more feminine, in spite of my musculature.  "See?  Your bra looks pretty on you, too, but you need a lot of work to look like I do."

I put down my arm and stare at her with contempt.

"That's not all," she continues, stretching her shoulder straps with her thumbs.  "Don't you love how these delicate little straps accentuate my equally delicate shoulders?  See how slender my shoulders are?  Now look at yours."

At length, we explore her upper body in great detail: how her cleavage leads up a very flat, solid, but soft chest, to her deliciously slender neck.  How her back fits in with the rest of her body, and how her shoulder blades stick out.  I can't argue with her.  She is very feminine.  

"The point," she concludes, "is that my bra accentuates all of these less obvious features, and that while men focus on the nipples, they rest of the package stands out in its own right."

She slinks in towards me again.  "Now, the fun part," she snickers.

We kiss, deeply and passionately, as she grinds her pelvis into my lap.  She holds onto my panties, and giggles.  

"This is where all the action is," she explains.  "These panties are gorgeously sexy, aren't they, sissy boy?  This time, you tell me what you love about them."

"I love your belly.  I love how everything converges there.  I love the curve in your waist, and how your hips are so round.  It's the hourglass shape."  As I speak, she slides her hands along the exact places I talk about.  "And your ass!  Your fantastic, little round butt!"

"Don't you love the way my underwear - and yours - just caresses all of these parts?  See how it makes my belly look a little round?  Don't you just love the lace trim, how it looks against my skin?  Let's not even talk about my crotch. . ."  She rubs my cock with her hand as she speaks.

"Satin feels good, doesn't it, Rob?  You can't deny it: see how hard you are?"

I am trying hard not to come.  

"Just look how your body is already becoming like mine!  You want my body, but not in any way you ever wanted it before!  Feel how feminine you're becoming, just by wearing panties and a bra?  You can't help yourself anymore, can you?"

I realize that I am helping her rub my crotch, I am feeling my panties against my flesh, I am fondling my panty waist.  And I explode all over my belly, her hand, my hand.  

She laughs as I turn away from her and curl up in a fetal ball.

"See how good it is to be a girl, even if it's just by wearing girls' underwear?  You'll beg me for more!"

As expected, we bunk in the same room.  I am very afraid to go anywhere near Lia, who sleeps peacefully across the room in her own bed.  At least I can be naked now.  But she's wearing a sheer nightgown. 

It's not that I'm afraid of hurting her.  I don't think I can now.  I'm not afraid of the consequences of hurting her.  I'm afraid of her femininity.  I'm afraid of what she could show me in that little nightie of hers.  I'm afraid of the thoughts crossing my mind, the strange, unaccountable, unspeakable desires.  It can't be true!

The next morning, she lays out two outfits for me, which I am to choose from.  There is a pair of control-top pantyhose, and another lingerie outfit, consisting of matching black satin and lace panties, a bustier, and stockings.  I imagine how stunning Lia would look in the black lingerie, what with her white skin and black hair, and instinctively choose the pantyhose.  I can't handle the thought of seeing her like that.

To my dismay, she wears it anyway.

"So," she says.  "You're interested in learning about pantyhose!"

This goes on for several days, each choice becoming more and more difficult.  She lays out two outfits; I choose one, and she wears the other.  I tried desperately to avoid having to wear anything too sexy, but at the same time, I didn't want Lia to look too sexy, either.  At any rate, there was little choice.  I soon learned about leotards, sports bras, and one-piece bathing suits, while Lia wore gorgeous sets of underwear.  I always chose more conservative underwear rather than discover what it feels like to wear bustiers, nighties, and bikinis.  Mostly, I tried to wear anything I had worn before so as not to become corrupted any further.  All the same, each day ended with me frolicking with guilty pleasure in my chosen garment, devouring Lia with my eyes, and explaining to her how each outfit accentuates our feminine features.  

I can no longer allow her to manipulate me like this.  She knows that I will invariably choose the less sexy outfit.  She counts on it so that she can torment me all day long in something fantastically beautiful that I couldn't dare wear myself.  I can't let her do this anymore.  This morning, I turn the tables on her.  I am wearing the red lingerie outfit, including a sheer baby doll and string bikini panties, garter belt, and stockings, while she wears the familiar one-piece bathing suit.  But she doesn't seem shocked in the least by my selection.  In fact, she smiles mischievously.  God help me, but that one-piece swimsuit shows off her figure like nothing else!  What have I done?

This is by far the most outrageously feminine outfit I have ever worn.  I could write a book about how it shows off my ass, my shoulders, my tits, my thighs, my belly, my waist, my hips, my calves, my feet - that is, it would show them off if I were female.  Oh, but how feminine it feels!  I can hardly keep my hands off myself.  Lia looks great in her bathing suit, but my clothes are far more sexy.  I look forward to discussing this with her later.  I want to discuss it now.  All day long I participate with great enthusiasm in my lessons.  

The nightly recap of lessons was even more intense than I had hoped for.  Usually, Lia is the primary model for femininity.  Tonight, it is me.  I come twice before we even start talking about my stockings.  I slide my hands all over myself as if I were fondling a real girl.  

The next morning, I vow to never make that mistake again.  No matter how sexy Lia looks in it, no matter how much she torments me in it, I can't handle wearing the sexier garment myself.  I must choose the more mundane, or risk succumbing completely to this madness.  Yet when she presents me with a leotard and a silk teddy, I must resist a powerful temptation to wear the teddy.  I don't even need to imagine Lia in it; I imagine myself in it, and I want it.  This strengthens my resolve to choose the leotard.  

Now I look at Lia and admire the way her body looks in that teddy.  I want to know how it feels!  I need to know!  That night, I close my eyes and imagine that we've swapped clothes.

My vow lasts only two days.  By the third, I nervously reach for the nightgown rather than the bathing suit.  And I don't regret it at all.  I wonder what else she has in her closet that I haven't tried yet.  Maybe a bikini?  That would be awfully fun!

But it never becomes an option.  I wear the sexy garment all the time now, to the point where my choices are almost even in their femininity.  There is never a bikini.  I have secretly poked around in Lia's closet.  She has several that I'd be overjoyed to wear.  I wait a week, a month, still no bikini.  By now I have learned to shave my body hair, and my feminine manners are improving drastically.  This dramatically improves the sensation of wearing lingerie.  I feel that I am ready.

"Lia," I plead, "when can I try on a bikini?"

"What?  You want to wear a bikini?"

Realizing how this sounds, I falter.  "Well. . ."

"Ha ha!  You're asking me to wear a bikini now!  How the mighty have fallen!"

I sulk.

"You never believed me when I told you you'd be begging for my clothes someday!  Now here we are!"

"OK!  So I want to wear a bikini!  It's not such a big deal!  That doesn't mean anything!"

"It means that you want to be a girl now.  You're coming along quite nicely!  I'm so proud of you!"

"So will you let me?"

"That, my dear Bobbie, will be up to you tomorrow."

I clap my hands with glee, trusting Lia to keep her word.  I know that she has something up her sleeve, but my anticipation gets the better of me.

The next morning, as promised, she sets out my choice of clothes.  On one side is a bikini.  On the other, men's boxers, trousers, and a t-shirt.

"What's this all about," I ask uneasily.

"Today," she explains, "you have a choice: you can leave the feminization programme for good, a free man - yes, man - with appropriate clothing; or you can choose the bikini, and commit fully and voluntarily to completing the programme - meaning that you can't ever turn back again."

My manhood lies on the bed, next to my womanhood.  I remember wanting to kill Lia for doing this to me.  I could grab the boxers and turn my back on femininity forever, to explore it on masculine terms once again.  A spectator.  Back to normal.  I could also put on that skimpy little pink bikini, and strut around like a woman, as I have wanted to for over a month.

"If I choose the pants, how will I forget what's happened here?"

"You probably can't."

"I'll still want to wear the bikini."

"Of course.  But this one is mine.  You'll have to get your own."

What kind of man wants to wear a woman's sexy bikini?  How could I consider myself a man if I longed eternally for women's clothing?  I could easily buy my own bikini, and experiment with it alone.  But I couldn't wear panties and bras on a regular basis anymore.  I'd probably have to give it up.

"What do you mean by committing fully to femininity?  Why couldn't I go back?"

"The hormones would make it quite difficult, for one thing."

"You mean female hormones?"


"And there's no way to reverse those."

"Nope.  They make you impotent.  And you'll grow real breasts.  Among other things."

I'm still wearing the nightgown I got into the habit of sleeping in some weeks ago.  My legs are silken smooth - dynamite in stockings.  My hair has grown long, and I've taken care to style it just like Ally McBeal's.  

I look at the boxers again.  Then the bikini.  The choice is easy.

The bikini is everything I hoped it would be.  I can't wait for my boobs to fill out these cups.

[Ugh.  How about a willing convert of some sort?]

Saturday, September 15, 2001

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization

I thought of something today that never occurred to me before.  The element of coercion always must enter into the equation in a good transformation story, but I've never pushed it to the limit.  I don't think it has ever been a matter of life or death.  I'm imagining my exploration of every possible scenario, and I must admit that I never once thought of the threat of instant death as a factor in aiding the decision.  That's a problem with the long unfinished story above: the motivation is highly suspect.

Another element of fantasy that crossed my mind is the victim's visceral desire to retain at least some vestige of his manhood throughout as a safety net.  He starts off slowly, careful not to expose himself too much to womanhood, always keeping on some article of men's clothing.  However, femininity's hold only strengthens with each experiment, to the point where he's fully feminized except for, say, a masculine wristwatch, or some even more insignificant thing.  He maintains the delusion that this tiny article of clothing keeps him from totally succumbing to womanhood, even as the evidence mounts against his belief.  Eventually, in the throes of passion, he casts aside his last remaining link to masculinity, and the theory is reversed: from that moment on, he cannot bear to be without some article of women's clothing, no matter how insignificant, as a pledge to his newly avowed femininity.

Now, let's combine the stories into my epic.  We have about 120 test subjects, all of whom have answered a short survey.  Half are women, who will act as coaches and control subjects.  All will be forced to become ultra-feminine.  The questions are as follows:

  1. Are you male?
  2. Do you like feminine things (i.e. flowers, lace, panties, silk, etc.)?
  3. Are you aware of your own femininity?
  4. How often do you explore your femininity (choose one of: never, rarely, occasionally, often, always)?
  5. Rate your interest in exploring your femininity in a controlled environment (choose one of: low, moderate, high).

This yields 120 possibilities.  Many are mundane, and need not be explored.  Others are incredibly fascinating.  So here goes:

The test subjects, all 150 of them, are lined up in the gymnasium.  Each is naked.  Each has an armed guard pointing a rifle at him or her.  In front of each is a matching bra and panty set, off-white, silk, lace-trimmed, and very feminine.  Each is instructed to put them on.

"Put on the underwear," blares the voice over the PA, "or die."

Are they really going to shoot me if I don't put on this underwear?  They must be joking.  Some of the others - mostly the women - are putting it on.  I can't move.

"What the fuck is this?" shouts the guy to my left.  "I ain't putting this shit on!  No way!"

A few others join the protest.  I want to, but I'm petrified with fear.

"This is an order.  Put on the underwear, or DIE!" repeats the voice on the PA.  Most of the men remain naked.  We seem to be arranged in alternating genders: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl.  Thus I have a beautiful woman on each side of me.  Both of them giggled as they put on their underwear.  They look incredibly hot in this lingerie, and I can't reconcile the idea of actually putting on the same panties and bra, right in front of them.

"What are you waiting for?" says the one to my right.  "They'll kill you if you don't put it on!"

"You don't seriously expect me to wear that, do you?"  

"Would you rather die than sacrifice your precious manhood for just one second?"  Some of the men are making quite a commotion.  "It's not so bad!  Look at me!  Doesn't this look great on me?"  She's right: she looks fantastic.  

"Um, I hate to tell you, but I'm not built like you."  The shouting intensifies over to my right.

"Oh, come on!  You'll look so cute in that bra!"

Several loud popping noises make everyone cringe, and the room goes silent.  Just a bit to my right, one of the protesting men has been shot in the head.  "This is your last warning.  I will count to three.  Anyone not wearing lingerie when I finish will be shot.  One."

I urgently scramble for the panties and bra.  I am wearing them before the voice says...


"See?  It's not so bad, is it?"


A few more shots ring out.  Only three more men, out of the fifty or so protesters, have fallen to the ground dead.  All the rest are now wearing a very sexy matching panty and bra set, a beautiful woman on each side wearing the exact same thing.

"Ladies!  Welcome to femininity training!  For some of you, this is a new experience.  The vast majority of you have done this before.  Some of you are participating under duress.  At the end of this course, you will all be gorgeous, ultra-feminine, and proud of it!  Remember that at every step of the way, our guards will assist you in your decisions.  You all look so pretty in your new underwear!  I look forward to seeing you all blossom into the sexy women you were all meant to be!

"Those of you who now think of yourselves as men: turn to your right.  The woman you see will be your training partner.  Being more experienced with womanhood, she will guide you through your training.  You have all been carefully matched to maximize both of your learning experiences.  Remember!  The women are also here to train!  You will become ultra-feminine together!

"Those women whose designated partners have been killed will be your instructors.  They, too, have been carefully selected for their role.  They were deliberately matched up with men who would rather die than discover the glory of girlhood.  They are already far, far advanced in the ways of womanhood, and will have much to teach you all.  Treat them with respect.

"Now please take your partner's hand, and begin your first lesson from the book in front of you.  All classes are public, but your personal development may continue in private.


I am dumfounded.  How can I possibly become ultra-feminine?  How did I get myself into this?

"Hey there, cutie pie!" gushes the gorgeous woman to my right.  "Looks like we're partners!"

She is ridiculously curvaceous, slim, and beautiful.  She is unquestionably one of the sexiest, most beautiful women I have ever seen.  She has long blonde hair and emerald green eyes.  Her skin is delicate and smooth.  She looks like she could be a model.  And we are wearing the same panty and bra set.

"What's your name?" she asks.


"So from now on," she giggles, "I guess it's gonna be Bobbie."

I say nothing.

"Oh, come on!  It'll be fun!  You're gonna love being a girl!"

"I can't fucking believe this."


"I was forced to put on lingerie at gunpoint, and you're telling me this is gonna be fun?!?"

"Didn't you want to be here?"


"You mean. . . you don't even want to be a girl?"


"Yeah, right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"For somebody who doesn't want to be a girl, you sure put that bra on like an expert."

"Excuse me?"

"And look at you!  Your boner is practically busting out of those panties!"

I blush with shame.  "I'm talking to a gorgeous woman!  Why else would I have a boner?"
Now she blushes.  "Thank you," she says demurely.  "But that's gonna have to stop if we're to make a girl out of you."

My guard prods me with his rifle.  "Get on with the lesson you two!"

"Alright, let's get on with this," I offer, not wanting to get shot.

The coursebook begins with an introduction to the programme.  We will be introduced to every conceivable type of woman's garment.  We will be required to wear some item of women's clothing at all times.  We will learn how to put on a bra properly, and how to properly care for delicate silks and satins.  We will learn proper feminine mannerisms.  And we will learn proper sexual techniques.  My heart misses a beat as every detail comes to light. 

The first lesson consists of learning how to properly put on a bra.  I must keep on my panties as I practice with the bra.  My partner, whose name is Cindy, is obviously an expert.  It takes me little time to get the hang of it.

"So how did you know how to do that already?" she asks.

"I've seen enough girls getting dressed to have gotten a good idea."

"Seeing and doing are two different things."

"Not in this case."

Now I must prance around in my new underwear, and affirm my desire for womanhood.  Those who fail to comply are threatened with death. 

"I love being a girl," I recite.  "I love being ultra-feminine."

After several repetitions of this, we begin to explore the details of our underwear, and how certain features make it sexy.  This consists of identifying features, and exploring them on both Cindy and me.

"The lace on the waistband gives a delicate appearance to the soft skin of the lower belly."  I practically come all over Cindy's hand as we explore my panties.

The class ends with everyone, including the women, going up on stage and reciting these same affirmations in front of everyone.

"You did great!" says Cindy, after I'm done.  I have to admit, I was very convincing.  I had my hand on my hip, and did a twirl after my affirmation.  Very feminine.


"Do you mean it?"

"I kinda have to, don't I?"

"I can tell.  You meant it."

"I have a gun pointed at my head."

"Admit it: you've done this before."

"Gimme a break."

"Admit it!  You've worn girls' clothes before!"


"I can tell!  And you enjoy it!"

"No way!"

"You might as well tell me.  You're gonna be a girl anyway, so it's not like I'll think any less of you if you admit it."

"Well. . ."

"I knew it!"

"I've done it once or twice.  It's no big deal."

"Which was it?"


"Was it once or was it twice?  Surely you can count up to two."

"It was more than once."

"Was it more than twice?"


"Ooooo, so you're a sissy pantywaist already!  And we've just barely started!  How many times?"

"A few."

"Five?  Ten?  A hundred?  A thousand?  What did you wear?"

"I dunno."

"Come on!  Tell me!"

"I dunno!"

"Is it more times than you can count?"

I blush.  I try not to, but I can't help it.

"Did you like it?"

I must be purple now.  "Kinda."

"Oh my God!  You're an expert!"


"So you just kinda liked it?"

I stop in my tracks. 

"Cindy.  Don't tell anybody.  But I have always loved wearing girls' clothes, and I can't believe that I'm living out my most intense sexual fantasy.  I love my new underwear!  I feel so sexy in it!  It's just so weird wearing it in front of so many people.  I've always done it in private.  Nobody was ever supposed to know.  I never signed up for this.  And now here I am, getting turned into a girl, for real!  I just don't know if I really want to go through with it.  I was perfectly happy being a man with a secret."