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, 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.