Sunday, December 28, 2003

Fantasy: Converted

You've seen all sorts of pictures.  You've spent countless hours busily downloading them.  You stare for hours at them in various men's magazines.  You know exactly what you like: shapely girls in bikini-style panties, shiny like metal, or like glistening skin; round, pendulous boobs, restrained in sheer black lace; long, lustrous legs lovingly covered in fishnet stockings, starting at mid-thigh and ending at open-toed heels; waves of long, tousled hair tumbling upon slender, bare shoulders; I could go on.  Just imagine if you could ever touch something so exquisitely feminine.  What would you do?  Where would you start?

I'll tell you what would happen if you found yourself with one of these fantasy girls from your precious pictures.  Just think: she's posing, just for you, in the same outfit as in the photo.  You forget, but she's used to better men pawing all over her.  You'd try to put your hand on her waist first.  Maybe touch her thigh.  You're overwhelmed by her inhuman femininity.  She lets you get so far, but then gently pushes your hand away with a girlish giggle.  And you try again.  You're reaching for her panties.  She slaps your hand away.  "My clothes stay on… for now," she says.

She can tell how desperate you are for a piece of her.  That's why she's not giving you anything.  Just letting you look, and maybe allowing you a little feel here and there to keep your hopes up.  You'd do anything right now if she allowed you to simply caress her waist, her knee, her shoulder, or anything at all, with your hand.  But she won't let you.

Some men might resort to violence in such a situation.  Rush over and grab her.  What can she do?  Pick her up, throw her onto the bed, and rip off all her clothes.  But you would never dream of doing such a thing to one so perfectly, divinely feminine.  You are worshipping at the altar of femininity.  You dare not defile it.  You dare not contravene her will.

She struts around the room.  You are hers.  You want to be hers.  You relish every moment that she tortures you.  You drink up her every gorgeous curve, and clamour for more.  And she's hardly let you touch her yet!  Better still, she hasn't taken anything off!  The anticipation is killing you.  You need to touch her just like you need your next furtive breath.

Now she approaches you.  She lets you caress her hips.  She kisses you.  You can smell not just her perfume, but the scent of her naked skin.  The faint odour nearly knocks you unconscious.  You mould your body against hers and keep your eyes open as your tongue meets hers.  She closes her eyes.  You fondle the waistband of her panties, but she takes her arms from around your neck and moves your hand away, grinning.  "Not yet."

She places your hands back on her hips, and turns around.  She lets you admire her waist, her hips, and her butt before she slowly leans back against you, rubbing her beautiful, round buttock against your dick.  She gyrates her hips back and forth, and sends you into a fit of ecstasy.  One hand fondles her hip, her butt, her thigh, and back up as she moves; the other her other hip, her waist, her breast and back down. 

She is amazing.  You reach for her panty waist and start pulling down, but she stops you.  She turns around and playfully shakes a finger at you.  "You're bad!" she admonishes.  But now she continues her little dance while facing you.  She moves forward against you for a brief moment, and your member touches her sanctum sanctotum against both your clothes.  But she slowly dances away.

"You need to get naked," she says.  You immediately obey.  You stand naked in front of the avatar of the Goddess, who still wears her scanty little outfit.  She looks at your throbbing erection and says, "I know what you want.  You want this."  She gestures at her body, knowing it to be worth more to you than everything on Earth.  "But I need to know," she says, "just how far you'll go to have it."

"I'll do anything," you answer, meaning it.

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything!"

You know you've just sold your soul to the devil.  But you don't care.  It's worth it.

She sashays back to you with a demonic grin.  "Well, then," she says, huskily, "Let's begin."

She grabs your cock and whispers into your ear, "I know what your deepest fantasy is, even if you don't."  She sits you down on the bed and straddles you.  You can feel the roughness of her fishnet stockings on your sides – then, the excruciating softness of her panty-clad pussy against your dick.  You grab her by the ass and hump away greedily.  She pushes you down and gyrates obligingly.  

"Do you love me?" she asks.

"Of course I do!" you reply, humping her madly as she sits on top of you.

"Do you worship me?"

"Yes!"

"You'll do anything I ask?"

"Yes!"

"Then STOP!  NOW!" she screams.  And you stop – not because she said so but because of the shrillness of her ear-piercing command.

She gets up from on top of you.  "Good.  Very good," she says.  "I'm almost convinced."

She sits you back up, and drags you to the middle of the bed.  She lies on her back, and drags you back on top of her.  She kicks off her shoes.  She grabs you by the ass and makes you come all over her belly.  And she's not even naked!

"That was a bit premature, wasn't it?  But you're ready for more, aren't you?"

And you are.  You desperately want to fuck her now. 

"Here, lick this off.  I don't want this mess all over me."

And you do.  You don't even hesitate.  You're lapping up your own semen from her belly and the front of her panties, because you just want to taste her skin.  Her belly is so infused with girlishness that you'd eat anything off of it just to put your lips to it. 

Before you know it, she's had you remove her panties, and you're licking her glorious pussy.  Her perfect, slender, fishnet-clad legs are on your shoulders.  After she comes, she doesn't let you stop.  She takes off her bra, then pulls you up to her by the hair.  She lets you fumble around a bit before she guides your stiff cock into her dripping wet cunt. 

My God!  Do you ever love it!  She's bucking like a bronco, and you're struggling to keep up.  You grab her nipples, her ass, her clit, her hair, her thigh, her waist, her shoulder, and all you can think is: girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl girl girl girl GIRL!  You want to come a million times.  You never want to take her hands off of her.  You want to explore her forever.  You want to flip her around so you can admire her from every angle.  She lets you.

"I know what you're thinking," she says as you fuck her pretty brains out.  You've come at least fifteen times by now, and you're only getting hornier.  "You can't get enough of me, can you?"

"No!" you pant, "I can't!"

"You want to touch me forever, don't you?  You don't ever want to let go of my girlie bits, do you?"

"Yes!  No I don't!"

"Well I hate to break it to you, but I'm done for tonight."

"Please!  I need more!"  You continue to fuck her frantically, clutching her tighter so she can't move away.  But she's not trying; she's still meeting your every stroke with her own enthusiastic rhythm.

"I know.  I have a solution for you."

"What's that?"

"What better way to eternally explore the female body than by becoming a girl?"

"What do you mean?!?" you cry, as your heart begins to pound with dread and excitement, your pelvis desperately keeping time.

"Think about it: if you were a girl…"

You're fucking her really hard now, but her voice is mesmerizing.

"You'd get to look at girl thighs…"

You moan as you look at her thighs, still clad in those ultra-sexy stockings.

"…Girl boobs…"

You realize that she's been fondling your nipple ever since you moved her hand there five minutes ago.

"…Girl waist…"

You prop yourself up on your hands, pounding harder still, and picture the slenderness of her waist on your own body, and just below that…

"…Girl ass…"

The picture is vivid in your mind.  Oh…

"…Girl pussy…"

My…

"…Girl everything…"

GODDESS!

"…all the time!"

Your body convulses violently.  You feel like you're having a heart attack.  The pain in your crotch is excruciating.

"You'd get to touch girl non-stop for the rest of your life!"

Your skin tingles all over your body.  You expect to withdraw from her and gape in horror at your own moist, tender pussy where your mighty penis once stood.  This orgasm intensifies tenfold and reverberates throughout your entire body with this epiphany.

"And just think…"

You are shaking yourself loose from her, even as your climax continues, as you picture your now curvaceous body trembling as femininely as hers.

"You'll even get to use your pussy!"

"No!" you scream, at the top of your lungs, shrilly, like a woman, as you realize that you crave a huge, erect penis inside your cunt, even more desperately than you wanted your own penis inside hers. 

"That's right!  You get to fuck like a girl, too!"

What you thought was your climax a moment ago pales in comparison to the unbearable pleasure emanating from your crotch, and drowning your entire body.  In your mind, you are her.  You picture yourself as her from the very beginning, teasing, sashaying, dancing, and especially fucking.  You long to taste another man's semen in your mouth.  You deeply regret not having savoured your own when you ate it off of her belly. 

"You'll even get to wear garter belts, stockings, lace, bikinis…"

Ali Landry
Your transformation is complete.  You laugh huskily and girlishly as you contemplate the excitement of picking out your new wardrobe.  Your body quivers whenever you imagine yourself in some pair of white lace panties you saw Heidi Klum wearing in a Victoria's Secret catalogue; or a brightly coloured string bikini like the one Ali Landry wore in that picture you used to salivate over; or the very outfit that she seduced you with what seems now like centuries ago.  "Yes!" you whisper, "fishnets!"

Then, an hour later, you come down at last, when you suddenly realize that you are covered in semen, and that your hand is fondling your softening penis. 

You have not become a girl, as you had hoped.

"So what do you say?  Sound like a good idea?"

She's been sitting in a chair across the room, waiting for you to come back to Earth.  You can't remember if this was some weird dream, or if she really did fuck you, and convince you to betray your own gender forever and become female.  She is naked, and still terrifyingly beautiful.  "What do you mean?" you sputter, shaking the cobwebs from your wet dream.

"You know exactly what I mean.  Get dressed."

You are confused.  Your first instinct is to reach for your pants, but the idea fills you with some inexplicable dread.  You drop your pants back on the floor, perplexed.

"Is something wrong," she asks, pointedly.

"I… I have no clothes," you answer uncertainly.

"What about those pants, silly?"  She plays coy.  You glance at her, and take in that gorgeous smile of hers, and how sexy her butt is, and how you long for it once more.

"I can't wear those," you answer confidently.  "Can I borrow something of yours?"

"Like what?" she replies, taken aback.

"Well, can we start with some underwear?" you retort.  You don't feel like playing games anymore.

"I don't have any men's underwear, silly.  You can't wear mine."

You start to wonder if you're losing your mind.  You figure that she must be testing you.

"Can I please?"

"What?"

"Please, can I wear your underwear?"

"You can't wear women's underwear.  You're a man.  Put on your pants."

"I don't want to be a man.  I want to be a girl."  You blush as you say it.  "I want to be a girl, and I want to wear girlie clothes."

"Are you fucking serious?  After the night we had last night?  This isn't funny."

"I am serious.  Don't mess with my head.  You convinced me last night that the best way for me to love you is to become you.  Don't pretend it didn't happen."

"Come on, now," she says.  "You're starting to scare me."

You start to feel horribly embarrassed.  Is this some kind of sick joke?

"OK, I know you're kidding," she says.  "But sure, have it your way.  You can put on the outfit I had on last night.  Come on, put it on!"

You pick the panties up off the floor, and slowly, gracefully, slip them on.  You already feel sleek and curvy.  You can picture your pussy again.  You've never worn panties before – only in your imagination.  Now you feel the luxurious satin tightly against your hips and especially your crotch.  You like it, an awful lot.

Encouraged, you find the bra on the other side of the bed.  She follows your every movement like a hawk.  You wrap it around your waist, its back on your belly, and tie it; then you turn it the right way as you put your arms through the straps and bring it up to your pathetically small boobs.  You love the way it feels tight around your chest, and how unforgettably feminine it feels to bare your waist between matching satin undergarments.

"You're really going to do this, aren't you?"

You take your time rolling on the stockings.  You lament the fact that you have so much unsightly body hair to get rid of.  You almost want to stop and shave your legs now, but you just can't resist the feeling of enveloping your legs in girlishness.

She tosses you the dress as she sees you strapping on the shoes.  They are far too small, but you can't bear to wear anything else.  You thank her and slip into the little sausage casing she wore last night at the club.  You feel marvelously empowered.

"So, are you ready to go out?" she asks.  She put on some jeans and a t-shirt while you were busy with your precious stockings.

"Well, I'd have liked to shave my legs, but this will have to do for now.  Thank you so much for the clothes!  I feel wonderful!"

And you go out onto the street, dressed like a girl. 

No sooner do you go out the door than she drags you back in and says, "OK, you've passed the first test.  Now go shave your body, and I'll have a surprise for you when you're done.

And you go into the shower and shave off all your body hair.  You're very excited about your new look.  You imagine that maybe she'll bring back some more clothes for you.  You get out and put on her clothes again.  She arrives just in time with a man.

"Here's your second test.  If you really want to be a girl, you'll enjoy this."

And you do.  You enjoy it even more than you ever enjoyed fucking any girl.  He really makes you feel like a girl.  At first, you're coy about sucking his cock, but the way his hands fondle your sleek lingerie-clad body turns you on so much that you can't help but encourage him.  You lament not having a pussy, but settle for him fucking your ass.  It feels so feminine to have a penis inside you that you come with every third stroke.  And after he comes deep inside you, you don't hesitate to revive his erection with some more fellatio.  The whole time you imagine that he really is fucking your pussy.

After he's done with you, you help him fuck her.  You get him hard, and guide his dick into her pussy.  You live vicariously through her for a while.  She lets him do things that she never let you do to her.  He even fucks her in the ass, and you feel a tinge of jealousy – not of him, but of her. 

Finally, you relax with a cocktail of feminizing hormones, and put on the most outrageously girlish lingerie in her closet, well on your way to becoming a she-male sissy faggot chick-with-a-dick.

Sunday, June 15, 2003

Diary: New Girlfriend, New Wardrobe to Pilfer

Wouldn’t you know it: as soon as I move, I get a girlfriend.  No more time or opportunity for exploring this fantasy.  Or is there...

She’s got these gorgeous lace panties.  I tried them on once when she had them hanging of the curtain rod in the shower.  My God were they ever nice!  Then I got hooked.  I think I need some for myself.  And she has such wickedly sexy shoes.  One morning she had to drive her brothers to school, and I took that opportunity to put them on.  Finally!  I have succeeded in wearing girl shoes!  Open-toed heels, they were!  I put them on with the pink panties, and started to have a pretty good time.  But I was scared, so I put them all away.


Now she’s on a business trip, and she left me with a bit of laundry.  No super-special pink lace panties, but still, I have panties, a short camisole, and shorts to play with.  I’m tempted to go to Victoria’s Secret to get me some clearance priced panties and bras, but what will I do with them?  Isn’t it worth the investment anyway?  I could get my own sexy underwear, and have a damn good time with it.


Friday, April 04, 2003

Diary: Shoes, and the Prospect of Living Alone

Against my will, a bunch of crazy ideas came to my head today.  First, I remembered that I do this only when I fail with women.  My only recourse is to make myself a woman.  Second, I realized that I need some sexy sandals.  I’ve never really worn women’s shoes.  I’m tantalized by sandals and heels now.  They’re so ridiculously feminine.  Utterly, unmistakably for girls.  How humiliating, how deliciously, beautifully effeminating it would be to wear some, and walk around a bit in them.  Then it occurred to me that once I move out, I can mail order anything I want.  Anything at all.  Including pretty girlish shoes.  I wouldn’t have to worry about hiding anything.  I could stock up to my girlish heart’s content.  And finally, I got the idea to take pictures of myself in women’s clothes.  Make a visual record of my debauchery.  How incriminating.  How utterly humiliating.  I’ll look horrible, but it will be incontrovertible proof that I am a flaming pantywaist, and that I love it.  I imagine that I’ll make a little story out of it: the boy who is forced at first to wear these things, but who slowly gets used to them, and finally grows to adore making himself girlish.  How I wish I had shoes now!  There’s a picture of Katie Price that has me particularly horny.  It’s all about her shoes, somehow.  Anyway, off I go!



Monday, March 03, 2003

Diary: If You Can't Beat 'Em...

I think I only do this when I’m lonely.  I feel bad about myself, so I give up and turn myself into a girl.  It’s a symptom of a more general lack of self-confidence.  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

As always, I’m talking about utter feminine abandon.  Not even a tiny shred of masculinity remains.  More feminine than a real woman.  


It’s always the mental part that intrigues me.  So many aspects of it turn me on.  I like the idea of deception, of being tricked into becoming a girl; or rather, being tricked or forced into making that initial discovery, which makes everything else inevitable.  There must be a conscious decision to fully embrace femininity, and do it so gladly that masculinity becomes embarrassing.  There must be a moment when a man decides, after pondering for a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade, that he likes the idea of turning into a girl, and pursues it as fully as he can for at least as long as he can keep from coming.  While the deception might lead to the birth of the idea, it is this moment of abandon that makes it so exciting.


The hero must realize, no matter how briefly, that yes, it would be very sexy to put on women’s underwear, because it will surely and irrevocably corrupt his manhood and turn him into a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous girl.  
He must realize that he wants, at that moment, nothing more than to become absolutely female, even if it means casting aside his masculinity forever.

That’s the one flaw in so many of the stories I’ve read.  Our man becomes a woman by treachery and deceit.  Or by force.  Or by hypnosis.  Even though it’s exciting, the real beauty of the idea is that of wanting to.  I certainly don’t need any hypnosis to want to turn myself into a girl.  Why should my hero?


All it takes is the seed of the idea for my man to start that steady ascent to womanhood.  Once it crosses his mind, it consumes him, and he becomes female.  


Friday, February 21, 2003

Fantasy: Teen Transformation

Wow, has it ever been a long time.  I got distracted thinking I could be in love with a girl.  Somehow the urge didn’t strike me at all for almost 2 months.  But now, I am heavily in its throes.  I have discovered teens.  They are so young and innocent and lithe.  They’re so sexy, especially when they wear heels, because they are just getting used to their sexual potency.  They still look awkward.  But they’re so incredibly feminine and hot.  That is my fantasy now: to be one of these awakening hotties.  I want to experience that same discovery, the same way.  I want to turn into a teenaged girl.

I had a story once about a woman who seduces a teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, just for fun.  It reminds me of my own sexual awakening.  I wasn’t very hairy when I started turning myself into a girl.  I dreamed of wearing bikinis.  Hell, I actually did wear bikinis.  I imagined it turning me irrevocably into a girl.  I worried that it would actually work.  I prayed that it would actually work.


I just put on my silver bikini.  I am alone at home for a week.  I can lounge around the house in girlwear the whole time.  


The whole idea is happy capitulation.  I’m not much of a man, so I might as well work on my womanhood.


The idea of turning a teenaged boy into a girl: it’s not too late, there’s still hope.  Puberty hasn’t fully set in yet, so maybe he’s still salvageable.  He starts off resisting.  He’s encouraged to model like jandmstars.com, with a gaggle of lovely but slightly older teenaged girls.  He’s only 13 or 14.  They take away all his clothes, and send him to the same wardrobe as the girls.  He must either remain naked, or put on something sexy and feminine.  He is surrounded by girls who have no qualms about stripping down and getting dressed all sexy in front of him.  They laugh and cajole him for being naked, and encourage him to join in the fun.  They’ll show him how to be comfortable.  He’s horribly embarrassed, very afraid of girls.  These are all 16 to 19 and stunningly gorgeous.  He’s afraid to stand up to them.  He’s skinny and lithe too.  His body could go either way yet.  


He’s afraid of even touching the girls’ clothes.  They’re far too sexy.  He’s never seen girlwear so intimate, so close.  The clothes themselves are fascinating and innately sexy.  The girls make every effort to show him all the prettiest things: bras and panties and garter belts and miniskirts and halter tops and stockings and heels and dresses.  He knows he can’t remain naked.  He hides himself with his hands.  There are no corners, no furniture to hide behind.  It’s like a nightmare to him.  But it’s very very real.


Eventually, when many of the girls are out of the room being photographed stripping and pouting and being beautiful, the few who remain in the changeroom with him goad him into at least touching a bikini, to get a feel for it.  He’s very interested, and unable to hide his interest.  He’s still trying to hide his nakedness.  He’s nervous about holding it in his hand.  “Does this make me gay,” he wonders?  I have to admit it’s very pretty, and very sexy.  I’d love to see it on each of these girls.  It would be so gay for me to wear it, even though they’re practically forcing me to.


Finally, he succumbs, mostly to hide his nakedness, but also fully aware that he’s being gay, and that his manhood risks being terribly compromised.  He puts on only the panties of a bikini, thinking that these in particular are the most boyish he’s seen, and that they won’t appear particularly feminine.  But they feel so different from his old jockeys.  They’re soft and smooth and tight and high-cut and elastic, like nothing he’s ever worn before.  The girls applaud with glee when he slides them up his hips.  “You look so cute and girlish now!” they squeal.  He turns livid with shame, but keeps them on.  At least now he isn’t showing them his tiny little prick that they so ruthlessly made fun of.


He refuses to put on the matching bra.  


Eventually, they all get to see him.  They all make comments about him coming to his senses and becoming one of the girls.  They congratulate him and compliment him on his little black bikini panties, but question him about why he’s running around topless.  Still, he steadfastly refuses to wear the bra.


Then his turn comes up for shooting.  The photographer angrily asks him where his top is, and complains that he could get in trouble for taking nude photos of teenaged girls.  Our boy protests that he’s not a girl, and the photographer compromises.  He insists that he cover his nipples on all the shots, and mostly concentrates on his backside.  As humiliating as it was to put on bikini panties in front of girls, posing like one for model photos was infinitely worse.  He was terrible at posing.  The poor photographer was getting terribly frustrated with him.  “If you’re gonna pretend to be a girl, at least move like one!  Come on, swing those hips!  Pout!  Show me what you’ve got!”


After the shoot, humiliated and broken, having given in and posed like a girl in bikini panties, our boy returns to the dressing room.  The girls all give him tips on how to be sexy like them, and how to pose and be pretty.  
They’re all getting dressed to go home, and they ask him why he’s not.  He says he has no clothes, and they tell him to pick something from the wardrobe.  There is nothing but ultra-feminine girlwear to choose from, and he wisely, prudently, declines.  He remains in the changeroom to sleep all night, afraid to go out.  He keeps his bikini panties on, just in case.  He cries all night, terribly upset about how gay this makes him.  


The next day, the girls insist on him trying on something else.  Another bikini, at least, because they can’t allow him to wear the same thing on consecutive days.  Since he feels dirty, he reluctantly agrees.  He again tries to choose something at least a little bit boyish.  He sticks to solid colours and low-cut leg, but everything is so unquestionably feminine that he ends up in no better position than the day before.  The shoot goes much the same way.  He cries a lot.

That night he explores the wardrobe in great detail.  He tries to identify anything at all that he could wear and not give up his gender completely.  He fails utterly.  Instead he spends more time ogling the sexy outfits and masturbating about how pretty they are.


The next day, he chooses yet another boyish panty.  He’s running out of options.  He’s getting along pretty well with the girls.  They feel for him, but are clearly trying to get him to give up his manhood.  He lets them talk him into putting on the matching bra this time.  He feels better for it, because the girls are very proud of him.  He knows he’s taken a huge step in the wrong direction, but he is happier for it.  He poses with enthusiasm.


Over the next few days, he becomes expert in putting on brassieres.  He still sticks to bikinis, because he doesn’t want to be too adventurous.  He knows that he’s getting used to wearing bikinis, and it frightens him.  He feels sexy when he poses.  It shows in the photos.


Now he becomes aware that he wants to try on sexier, more feminine clothes.  He gets horny thinking about wearing a bikini with a floral print on it.  He suppresses the idea with shame.  He thinks he must continue to resist, but knows that he can’t continue to fight when he’s modeling a different swimsuit every day.  Most importantly, he doesn’t want any of the girls knowing that he’s getting used to it.  He steadfastly believes that his ordeal will soon end, and he will be back wearing his own boy clothes in no time.  


At night, he begins trying on everything he can think of.  He can’t help it.  It’s so incredibly gay of him, but he loves it.  He realizes that every second he spends wearing a bikini makes him gayer and gayer.  But it feels so cool.  He does this secretly for weeks.  He allows himself to wear more an more feminine bikinis during the day, when people are around.  They can tell that he’s giving in, but he won’t admit it.  He sometimes reverts to boyshorts when overcome by shame at his nightly explorations.  He still cries at night.


Then he gets caught.  Nobody is angry.  They are happy and proud.  He is humiliated.  They showed up an hour earlier, because of the shift to standard time, which he was unaware of cloistered in the women’s change room for so long.  They catch him in a cute and sexy little minidress, over top of a matching lingerie outfit and heels.  They make him wear it all day.  Busted.


From then on, they become much more insistent about what he models.  Lingerie, swimwear, club wear.  He is always reluctant, insisting that it was a mistake.  But he looks better and better as a girl.  He knows it, too.  And he blushes when he becomes aware of it.  He likes it.


At last, he has a heart-to-heart with the prettiest of the models, on whom he’s developed a crush.  She convinces him to admit that he’s incredibly flaming gay, that he adores dressing up like her and her friends, and that he desperately wants to be a girl.  “It’s not too late, you know.  At your age, you can start taking hormones and you’ll hit puberty just like we did – that is, as a girl.  By the time you’re our age, you’ll have your own boobs, all natural, and your waist will be perfectly proportional.  You’ll look so killer in all these outfits!”


“But I’ll have to commit myself to being gay.  I don’t want to be gay!  I can’t just give up my manhood!”  He blushes at the thought of it, because it excites him enormously.


She offers him his clothes, and a chance to leave as he came: a teenaged boy.  


“Can I take a couple of panties with me, at least?  Nobody has to know that I’m wearing them.”


“Will you wear girls’ panties all the time?” she asks, pointedly.


He smiles coyly and blushes.  “Why not?”


“Wouldn’t you rather just go all the way, and wear all girl clothes all the time?”


“I’m still a boy.”


“Not anymore.”


He thinks about it for 48 hours, and decides to return to his boyhood.  The girls refuse to let him take any souvenirs.  He must leave dressed completely as a boy.


He finds himself looking at girls differently.  He wants to wear their clothes.  It drives him mad that he has no panties, no bikinis, no dresses, no stockings, no heels.  After a couple of weeks, he can take no more.  He spends some of his modeling income on some lingerie.  He makes a fool of himself in a lingerie store buying it.  Who ever heard of a 14-year-old boy buying lingerie for his girlfriend?  He wears it that night and every other day, but wants more.  He similarly buys swimwear, and wears it in secret.  He gets more underwear, too.  He proudly wears it as often as he can, as proof to himself that he can get away with it.


As much as he tries to hide his femininity, it somehow exudes from him.  Other boys call him a faggot, and question his manhood.  He blushes when they accuse him, lending them more ammunition.  He can’t fight back knowing that he’s wearing lace under his jeans.  How gay of me, he thinks.  He finds himself attracted to boys.  


He begins to notice signs of puberty.  He’s getting hairier, ever so slightly.  It clashes horribly with his underwear.  He longs to wear a skirt again, and to make up his face.  


Finally, after a few weeks of this, he snaps.  He goes to the mall as a boy, and goes shopping.  He doesn’t care who sees him.  He buys a pretty little outfit at Le Chateau, and happily explains that it’s not for his girlfriend, it’s for himself.  He can’t wait to put it on, so he wears it home.  He feels so girlish in it that he actually looks like a girl.  He shops around and buys himself an entire wardrobe of girl clothes.

The very next day, he returns to the modeling agency to get his job back.  He becomes one of the girls like never before.  He begins his hormone treatment and watches over the months as his body becomes more and more femininely proportioned.  

By the time he’s 18, he is a girl.  He’s been effeminating for four years.  His birthday present is surgery.  He then helps take on another young teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, too, just like one of the original pretty models did for him.