Fiction: Caught on the Front of the Battle of the Sexes

So many fantasies tonight…

It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh.  I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it.  That’s what I want to look like right now.  I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again.  My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now.  I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart.  Plus I look like Milla Jovovich.  My transformation is complete.

Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?”  She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs.  Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them.  And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.


Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes.  I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front.  Female civilization is destroying manhood.  I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female.  It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes.  I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.  

I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich.  I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front.  I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them.  Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh.  I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual.  I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.

I remember the worst case.  Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out.  He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her.  But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh.  I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had.  For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high.  Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood.  But he started to fade somehow.  He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day.  By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf.  On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore.  She was buck naked.  He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up.  They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning.  They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.

Johnson was the worst case by far.  He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do.  One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit.  He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was.  All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked.  It was her swimsuit.  He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day.  It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.

There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front.  There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes.  I vowed to be the first.

As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs.  If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost.  I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men. 

I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated.  I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely.  Burn it.  Bury it.  Swallow it.  I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops.  If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway.  If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion.  I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill.  So how would I dispose of it?  I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.

Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me.  I stared at it for a long time.  I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish.  How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity?  I pictured it on my thigh again.  I didn’t feel the least bit feminine.  I was sure that I would survive it.

Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea.  My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops.  If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway.  Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform.  I liked the idea of putting it on again.  I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.  

Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it.  I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again.  Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation.  I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser.  I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress.  I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.

I jolted myself back to my senses.  I had to resist!  I could not allow myself to cave in!  I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack.  I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.

We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise.  We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.

I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear.  They were all trained to resist to the death.  I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear.  Milla was there waiting for me.

She stripped off my uniform.  “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg.  I blushed.  

“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes.  I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour.  How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.

I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie.  I desperately needed to get some panties on.  But then I got distracted by the bikinis.  Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss.  Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.  

Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to.  Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had.  If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear.  If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on.  But I had an entire hour!  I could do both!  I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…

Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.  Besides, why would I want the fight to continue?  I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.

When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong.  I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door.  I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before.  The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite.  I was completely effeminate.  Every last one of my men still wore his uniform.  They had all fully resisted.

I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict.  I had betrayed my gender.  They all looked at me with horror.

I laughed with great gusto at them.  “I am a girl now!  Fuck all you men!”

Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.

The girls had plans for me, though.  I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland.  They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside.  The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times.  I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.

I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.