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!"

"Gladly!"

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?"

"Yes."

"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."