So today, my wife had an outing, and she wouldn't be back until tomorrow morning. When she told me about it, I got very excited for all the fun things I could wear while she's gone. I'm insatiable when I have time to myself.
Since I had gotten ample warning, I had been making plans all week to get myself something special. I looked around on Victoria's Secret, Fredrick's, and so on, and was just overwhelmed by my options. But that's a lot harder than it seems: I have to somehow acquire my girlie goods, and I can't really mail order any of it, because it won't get here in time. I have to shop in person.
This took a first aborted trip to a Nordstrom Rack store, where I was horribly disappointed in myself for not really spending the time to really look, for fear of being seen fondling women's clothes. My real problem was that I didn't know what I wanted.
So I thought about it. I needed to get something I've never had. I've tried on just about everything under the sun. I've been fantasizing about a monokini for a while, but I've already got too many swimsuits. So I decided to get a corset and some knee-high fuck-me boots.
Since the wife left early in the morning, this gave me the opportunity to actually wear panties all day long. I put them on, and never looked back. I wore my own over top, to avoid detection. Then, after a long day's work, I went to Fredricks and DSW and got the requisite items. I've been wearing them ever since, and I love them! I've been fantasizing all night about how they're turning me into a real girl, and how lovely it would be if I could wear stuff like this all the time.
It'll be a long, wonderfully erotic night...
Fantasy: Caught and Tested
Surfing around, I've found advice board postings where people ask what to do about their teenage son who they caught wearing lingerie or something. One suggestion that seems common is to buy him something similar so he doesn't have to steal from his sister or mom, and see what happens. The rationale is that he'll get what he wants, and be satisfied with experimenting with it.
So, what if...?
Man, I wish. So when my mother found my stash (which consisted of her bathing suit and leotard and tights) she could have gotten this advice. She would have given me her bathing suit that I had stolen, and which had really gotten me most interested in wearing girl clothes. Or she would have bought me a new one. I would have been utterly mortified, even though she would have given it to me secretly. But I would totally have worn it.
Now, with a signal that it's ok, I'd have become curious about other things. I was already fantasizing about bikinis and lingerie. I would have sheepishly asked for a bikini eventually. She would initially refuse, but she'd feel bad, and give in, and buy me something modest. I'd have been disappointed slightly, but hey, it's still a girlie bikini!
I'd wear that one a lot, then ask for a skimpier bikini. This time, I show her a specific one. She gets it for me, and asks if I want to wear underwear, too, full time, if I want to be a girl. I of course refuse, clinging to my maleness. I think about it while wanking in my new string bikini, and regret my answer.
After a while of feeding these fantasies, I would admit that I'd love to wear panties. So now we'd go together to get panties. Mostly modest ones, cuz she'd try to discourage me. But I'd push the limit as much as I dare. I'd now be wearing panties all the time, and be very confused about what this means as far as my own sexuality. Given how much I love it, I'd surely conclude that yes, I'm a girl in a boy's body, and come out as such. Now all of a sudden, I'm in therapy, and wearing skirts and dresses.
Given how permissive therapists can be about this stuff, they'd encourage me to drop all attachment to my maleness, and embrace my feminine urges. I'd start hormone therapy, and grow boobs and get all girlified. I'd be wanking almost constantly now.
Eventually, I'd get the surgery, and become a girl. Luckily, I started in puberty, before it was too late, so I look passable.
So, what if...?
Man, I wish. So when my mother found my stash (which consisted of her bathing suit and leotard and tights) she could have gotten this advice. She would have given me her bathing suit that I had stolen, and which had really gotten me most interested in wearing girl clothes. Or she would have bought me a new one. I would have been utterly mortified, even though she would have given it to me secretly. But I would totally have worn it.
Now, with a signal that it's ok, I'd have become curious about other things. I was already fantasizing about bikinis and lingerie. I would have sheepishly asked for a bikini eventually. She would initially refuse, but she'd feel bad, and give in, and buy me something modest. I'd have been disappointed slightly, but hey, it's still a girlie bikini!
I'd wear that one a lot, then ask for a skimpier bikini. This time, I show her a specific one. She gets it for me, and asks if I want to wear underwear, too, full time, if I want to be a girl. I of course refuse, clinging to my maleness. I think about it while wanking in my new string bikini, and regret my answer.
After a while of feeding these fantasies, I would admit that I'd love to wear panties. So now we'd go together to get panties. Mostly modest ones, cuz she'd try to discourage me. But I'd push the limit as much as I dare. I'd now be wearing panties all the time, and be very confused about what this means as far as my own sexuality. Given how much I love it, I'd surely conclude that yes, I'm a girl in a boy's body, and come out as such. Now all of a sudden, I'm in therapy, and wearing skirts and dresses.
Given how permissive therapists can be about this stuff, they'd encourage me to drop all attachment to my maleness, and embrace my feminine urges. I'd start hormone therapy, and grow boobs and get all girlified. I'd be wanking almost constantly now.
Eventually, I'd get the surgery, and become a girl. Luckily, I started in puberty, before it was too late, so I look passable.
Fiction: Forbidden Knowledge
When I was a boy, I learned to think of everything to do with women to be forbidden. I feared it, as did all of my peers. It was improper for boys to ever see girls' underwear. There were very strict social norms against boys having anything at all to do with feminine things. This makes sense: as a child, you're still trying to form a sense of identity, and gender is one of the most immediately comprehensible aspects of it. It's like a lifebuoy that we cling to, to assure us of who we are.
So imagine what it must have been like to have to wear girls' tights for a school play, so our kindergarten teacher could have us all dressed like flowers. Now, suddenly, it was ok for boys to wear girl clothes. But deep down, I knew that it was subversive. It was even comical, but not so embarrassing since all the boys had to do it.
I, for one, had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wanted more. It planted a seed in my head which in a few years' time, when puberty started to hit, would grow like a weed.
It is forbidden for men to wear women's clothes. Those who do are cast out of polite company. It's simply unacceptable, deviant, and perverse. But why?
First, it was pantyhose. They seemed innocent enough, since I had already effectively worn some in kindergarten. But this time, it was more serious. I wanted to. And when I did, it felt so good. I learned about how it feels to have sheer nylons on my legs. This knowledge is forbidden to boys and men.
From there, my thirst for knowledge only expanded. I knew full well that it was perverse, and at that young age, at the beginning of puberty, sexual matters are secret; so I did this entirely out of sight. Nobody would ever know. I felt guilty about it, too. But I always wanted more. Then I fantasized about wearing other forbidden things. There was far more forbidden knowledge to be learned, and I needed to gain some experience in order to fully appreciate it. I developed an elaborate fantasy about how I'd have to wear pantyhose hundreds of times before I would be permitted to wear leotards, and those thousands of times before I could wear a bathing suit, and so on. This was partly a way to rationalize that I did not have access to these things, and would have to leave it to some distant, unimaginable future.
Soon enough, I did try on a leotard. But before that even happened, I borrowed my mother's swimsuit. Now I was in trouble. There was no turning back, and I knew it. I was deeply ashamed, but that didn't stop my intense cravings. I would look at pictures of sexy girls, and imagine wearing their bikinis. Now I was actually stealing things from people, and keeping it hidden in my room. Just about every day, I would masturbate in something girlie. Meanwhile, I was slowly becoming a man.
By now, my desire for lingerie was overpowering, yet it remained always out of my reach. Eventually, I did steal some panties, and wore them often. I was gaining lots of knowledge and experience. I could put on a bikini in the dark under my bedsheets. But it was seldom good enough.
I was so confused. Sometimes, I would wonder if I were actually a girl, and whether my parents and doctors had made some terrible mistake and made me a boy. But I knew this wasn't so. At the same time, I was shyly obsessed with images of girls in lingerie and swimwear. I fantasized all the time that they would force me to become like them.
By early adulthood, I had been with girls, and secretly worn their underwear. I started buying myself things, like lingerie and swimwear. I had accumulated quite a collection. I had learned more and more, to the point where I had become a sort of expert in feminine undergarments. I fantasized about ordering lingerie online. I made laundry lists for myself.
One girlfriend actually bought herself some lingerie and left it in my room, since she was afraid of what her mother would think. I wore it at least 10 times more than she did. When she and her family went away on vacation, and I was given the responsibility to water their plants, I took the opportunity to try on just about everything she owned. No man should know so much about women's clothes. Especially not what it feels like to wear them.
Relationships with women lasted long, but not forever. I would start feeling guilty about wearing their underthings while their backs were turned. I found myself focusing on my fantasies instead of finding new girlfriends. Wearing lingerie and swimwear was so satisfying that I hardly needed any fulfillment from any woman. I moved into my own place, and played with my outfits in secret, alone, just about every night.
I developed fantasies of becoming a girl. I wrote all sorts of them down. I read other people's fantasies, too. I learned a lot about men who want to become women. I bought a bustier, and a patent leather halter mini-dress. I owned about 5 swimsuits.
I moved away to a different city, and began to spend lots of my extra cash on women's clothes. I became obsessed with shoes. I had decided that I knew enough about wearing girls' clothes that I could wear only them when I was home alone. I would sleep in nightgowns. I would wear skirts and corsets and stockings and pumps while cooking dinner, watching TV, or vacuuming. My little French Maid's outfit was particularly fun for doing chores. This is when I felt ultra-feminine. I still wanted more.
I started wearing only women's underwear, all the time. I wore them to work under my boy clothes. In winter, I would wear a bra, which nobody could see because of my thick outer layers. I threw away all my boy underwear in a moment of passion.
Soon I started keeping my legs shaven. Then my chest. It made the girl clothes feel so much sexier.
Then I found out about a certain questionable drinking establishment where men were encouraged to dress like women. They provided change rooms and lockers, so you could travel there as a man, and conceal your true colours from the outside world. Now I saw how much more I had to learn. Some of my fellow patrons were gorgeous. I was terribly manly looking. I had some competition.
As I improved my womanly looks, I learned to spurn the advances of men. For God's sake, I'm not gay! Sure, I fantasized often and guiltily about furthering my forbidden knowledge, but apparently I wasn't ready yet. I longed for the taste of cock, which only women know. Everything I learned about women made me want to know more. But after years of happily pushing the limits, I had finally found a new and significant barrier.
People knew now that I was a transvestite. I stopped caring. I would wear androgynous clothes to work. Sometimes I'd have a bit of makeup on. It was difficult for a while, but I got used to it. I hardly needed my male wardrobe anymore.
Determined to learn my lesson, I practiced with some dildoes. I had misgivings about putting them in my ass at first, because most women don't do that, but I figured I'd hardly be feminine if I couldn't have a penis inside me.
Around this time, as I whimsically looked into how I could get a sex change, I discovered that some doctors make a distinction among transsexuals: those who genuinely are women trapped in men's bodies, and men who love to make themselves feminine. The distinction is remarkably clear. The former have always been outwardly feminine, and have no trouble pretending to be girls. The latter are actually very masculine, typically engineers, policemen, soldiers, or other masculine professions, and struggle to come off as women. Furthermore, the former want to be women so they can have sex with straight men. They are thoroughly homosexual. The latter are interested in women only, although they fantasize about sex with men, there is never any emotional connection. These doctors further posit that the latter should never be allowed to have sex changes, because they really are men through and through.
Recognizing myself as being firmly in the latter camp, I began to doubt my fetishes for stockings and panties and corsets and swimsuits and fellatio. But I couldn't prevent them. I envied those who were allowed to become girls.
Unable to resist, I finally sucked my first cock at my favourite bar. It was a terrible fiasco, as these first attempts always were. After almost vomiting at the end of it, semen all over my face and skirt, I vowed never to do it again, and stayed away for weeks. But in retrospect, I became aroused at the thought that I had sucked dick, like a girl. I had gained another piece of forbidden knowledge. It comforted me to think that this practically made me a girl now.
They say that practice makes perfect, and I began to meet with a certain man to improve my technique. I think I became quite skilled. It was almost too easy to have him teach me how to take a cock in the ass. By now I wanted to be as gay as possible, because it made me feel so feminine. When he pounded my ass and came inside it, I could only think of how feminine I was.
Now I became serious. I had sexy piercings on my belly button, my nipple, and my tongue. I was ready to learn the final forbidden lesson: what it feels like to have a penis in my own vagina. The thought excited me to no end. I was nervous when I made the first appointment. Lucky for me, the doctor didn't believe in this hogwash about autogynophiles. I would begin to live as a girl full-time, without exceptions, and take hormones after a year. A year after that, I would have the surgery and have a small piece of my small intestine cut out and my sensitive parts attached to it, to make it look and feel like a pussy.
It was hard to come out to my family, but eventually, they accepted it. Work was sensitive, but at least they were prepared for it. It felt good to be dressed like a girl all the time. I had a few sexual adventures, too. I was overjoyed to start taking the hormones, until taking so many pills became a drag. I had waited so long to fill in my brassieres, and finally, it was happening.
My mind began to change. I was much more emotional. I thought about stopping, but I persevered. After all these years of gaining feminine knowledge forbidden to men, I was finally really beginning to feel like a girl.
I still knew, though, that I was an autogynophile. Deep down I knew that I am fundamentally attracted to women, not men. Yet the thought of my own vagina was far too tempting. I needed this last bit of forbidden knowledge.
At last, the surgery was done, and I became a woman. It was months of visits and bandages and stitches and ointments before I could use my new body. In spite of decades of preparation and longing, nothing could adequately prepare me for the reality of it. I was aroused by the knowledge that I now had a pussy, but at first I couldn't even touch it. My arousal felt so strangely displaced. It hurt at first, terribly, because of the surgery around such sensitive parts. But eventually, it healed, and I learned to find my clitoris. It felt like somone had exposed the head of my penis to a nuclear blast. Later, I discovered that deep inside my new vagina are the nerves that were once on the shaft of my penis. It took days of desperate experimentation, but I eventually discovered a truly feminine orgasm.
This drastic reconfiguration of my cock, which had foolishly led itself to its own demise, was incredibly disturbing. I cursed myself for mutilating my most precious body part. I wanted to fuck girls with my dick again. I realized that I could never do it again. I cried a lot those days.
Armed with my new girlhood, and desperate to truly experience it, I trolled my old haunts for some action. But none of my old boyfriends were interested anymore. They were gay men, and fucking girls -- even formerly male ones -- did not at all appeal to them. It took many depressing months of trying before I finally got one. He was ugly and disgusting, but I needed to feel a penis inside me. I hardly even took notice of him as he fucked me. All I could think of was how incredibly sexy and feminine I felt and looked. Now it was simply a matter of trying different positions. Somehow, it was still never enough. It dawned on me that I must be a lesbian.
At last I knew the price of my forbidden knowledge. In the end, I am a man, no matter what my crotch looks like. I am insatiably attracted to women. I betrayed my gender, my identity, for a sympathetic fantasy about the object of my desire. I was punished the moment I learned my first lesson when I was a young boy. I was cursed with an insatiable desire to know everything that was forbidden to me from the beginning. I should have been humiliated enough to stop long ago, at many different stages. But instead I took it to this irreversible end.
And just the very thought of it makes me unfathomably horny.
So imagine what it must have been like to have to wear girls' tights for a school play, so our kindergarten teacher could have us all dressed like flowers. Now, suddenly, it was ok for boys to wear girl clothes. But deep down, I knew that it was subversive. It was even comical, but not so embarrassing since all the boys had to do it.
I, for one, had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wanted more. It planted a seed in my head which in a few years' time, when puberty started to hit, would grow like a weed.
It is forbidden for men to wear women's clothes. Those who do are cast out of polite company. It's simply unacceptable, deviant, and perverse. But why?
First, it was pantyhose. They seemed innocent enough, since I had already effectively worn some in kindergarten. But this time, it was more serious. I wanted to. And when I did, it felt so good. I learned about how it feels to have sheer nylons on my legs. This knowledge is forbidden to boys and men.
From there, my thirst for knowledge only expanded. I knew full well that it was perverse, and at that young age, at the beginning of puberty, sexual matters are secret; so I did this entirely out of sight. Nobody would ever know. I felt guilty about it, too. But I always wanted more. Then I fantasized about wearing other forbidden things. There was far more forbidden knowledge to be learned, and I needed to gain some experience in order to fully appreciate it. I developed an elaborate fantasy about how I'd have to wear pantyhose hundreds of times before I would be permitted to wear leotards, and those thousands of times before I could wear a bathing suit, and so on. This was partly a way to rationalize that I did not have access to these things, and would have to leave it to some distant, unimaginable future.
Soon enough, I did try on a leotard. But before that even happened, I borrowed my mother's swimsuit. Now I was in trouble. There was no turning back, and I knew it. I was deeply ashamed, but that didn't stop my intense cravings. I would look at pictures of sexy girls, and imagine wearing their bikinis. Now I was actually stealing things from people, and keeping it hidden in my room. Just about every day, I would masturbate in something girlie. Meanwhile, I was slowly becoming a man.
By now, my desire for lingerie was overpowering, yet it remained always out of my reach. Eventually, I did steal some panties, and wore them often. I was gaining lots of knowledge and experience. I could put on a bikini in the dark under my bedsheets. But it was seldom good enough.
I was so confused. Sometimes, I would wonder if I were actually a girl, and whether my parents and doctors had made some terrible mistake and made me a boy. But I knew this wasn't so. At the same time, I was shyly obsessed with images of girls in lingerie and swimwear. I fantasized all the time that they would force me to become like them.
By early adulthood, I had been with girls, and secretly worn their underwear. I started buying myself things, like lingerie and swimwear. I had accumulated quite a collection. I had learned more and more, to the point where I had become a sort of expert in feminine undergarments. I fantasized about ordering lingerie online. I made laundry lists for myself.
One girlfriend actually bought herself some lingerie and left it in my room, since she was afraid of what her mother would think. I wore it at least 10 times more than she did. When she and her family went away on vacation, and I was given the responsibility to water their plants, I took the opportunity to try on just about everything she owned. No man should know so much about women's clothes. Especially not what it feels like to wear them.
Relationships with women lasted long, but not forever. I would start feeling guilty about wearing their underthings while their backs were turned. I found myself focusing on my fantasies instead of finding new girlfriends. Wearing lingerie and swimwear was so satisfying that I hardly needed any fulfillment from any woman. I moved into my own place, and played with my outfits in secret, alone, just about every night.
I developed fantasies of becoming a girl. I wrote all sorts of them down. I read other people's fantasies, too. I learned a lot about men who want to become women. I bought a bustier, and a patent leather halter mini-dress. I owned about 5 swimsuits.
I moved away to a different city, and began to spend lots of my extra cash on women's clothes. I became obsessed with shoes. I had decided that I knew enough about wearing girls' clothes that I could wear only them when I was home alone. I would sleep in nightgowns. I would wear skirts and corsets and stockings and pumps while cooking dinner, watching TV, or vacuuming. My little French Maid's outfit was particularly fun for doing chores. This is when I felt ultra-feminine. I still wanted more.
I started wearing only women's underwear, all the time. I wore them to work under my boy clothes. In winter, I would wear a bra, which nobody could see because of my thick outer layers. I threw away all my boy underwear in a moment of passion.
Soon I started keeping my legs shaven. Then my chest. It made the girl clothes feel so much sexier.
Then I found out about a certain questionable drinking establishment where men were encouraged to dress like women. They provided change rooms and lockers, so you could travel there as a man, and conceal your true colours from the outside world. Now I saw how much more I had to learn. Some of my fellow patrons were gorgeous. I was terribly manly looking. I had some competition.
As I improved my womanly looks, I learned to spurn the advances of men. For God's sake, I'm not gay! Sure, I fantasized often and guiltily about furthering my forbidden knowledge, but apparently I wasn't ready yet. I longed for the taste of cock, which only women know. Everything I learned about women made me want to know more. But after years of happily pushing the limits, I had finally found a new and significant barrier.
People knew now that I was a transvestite. I stopped caring. I would wear androgynous clothes to work. Sometimes I'd have a bit of makeup on. It was difficult for a while, but I got used to it. I hardly needed my male wardrobe anymore.
Determined to learn my lesson, I practiced with some dildoes. I had misgivings about putting them in my ass at first, because most women don't do that, but I figured I'd hardly be feminine if I couldn't have a penis inside me.
Around this time, as I whimsically looked into how I could get a sex change, I discovered that some doctors make a distinction among transsexuals: those who genuinely are women trapped in men's bodies, and men who love to make themselves feminine. The distinction is remarkably clear. The former have always been outwardly feminine, and have no trouble pretending to be girls. The latter are actually very masculine, typically engineers, policemen, soldiers, or other masculine professions, and struggle to come off as women. Furthermore, the former want to be women so they can have sex with straight men. They are thoroughly homosexual. The latter are interested in women only, although they fantasize about sex with men, there is never any emotional connection. These doctors further posit that the latter should never be allowed to have sex changes, because they really are men through and through.
Recognizing myself as being firmly in the latter camp, I began to doubt my fetishes for stockings and panties and corsets and swimsuits and fellatio. But I couldn't prevent them. I envied those who were allowed to become girls.
Unable to resist, I finally sucked my first cock at my favourite bar. It was a terrible fiasco, as these first attempts always were. After almost vomiting at the end of it, semen all over my face and skirt, I vowed never to do it again, and stayed away for weeks. But in retrospect, I became aroused at the thought that I had sucked dick, like a girl. I had gained another piece of forbidden knowledge. It comforted me to think that this practically made me a girl now.
They say that practice makes perfect, and I began to meet with a certain man to improve my technique. I think I became quite skilled. It was almost too easy to have him teach me how to take a cock in the ass. By now I wanted to be as gay as possible, because it made me feel so feminine. When he pounded my ass and came inside it, I could only think of how feminine I was.
Now I became serious. I had sexy piercings on my belly button, my nipple, and my tongue. I was ready to learn the final forbidden lesson: what it feels like to have a penis in my own vagina. The thought excited me to no end. I was nervous when I made the first appointment. Lucky for me, the doctor didn't believe in this hogwash about autogynophiles. I would begin to live as a girl full-time, without exceptions, and take hormones after a year. A year after that, I would have the surgery and have a small piece of my small intestine cut out and my sensitive parts attached to it, to make it look and feel like a pussy.
It was hard to come out to my family, but eventually, they accepted it. Work was sensitive, but at least they were prepared for it. It felt good to be dressed like a girl all the time. I had a few sexual adventures, too. I was overjoyed to start taking the hormones, until taking so many pills became a drag. I had waited so long to fill in my brassieres, and finally, it was happening.
My mind began to change. I was much more emotional. I thought about stopping, but I persevered. After all these years of gaining feminine knowledge forbidden to men, I was finally really beginning to feel like a girl.
I still knew, though, that I was an autogynophile. Deep down I knew that I am fundamentally attracted to women, not men. Yet the thought of my own vagina was far too tempting. I needed this last bit of forbidden knowledge.
At last, the surgery was done, and I became a woman. It was months of visits and bandages and stitches and ointments before I could use my new body. In spite of decades of preparation and longing, nothing could adequately prepare me for the reality of it. I was aroused by the knowledge that I now had a pussy, but at first I couldn't even touch it. My arousal felt so strangely displaced. It hurt at first, terribly, because of the surgery around such sensitive parts. But eventually, it healed, and I learned to find my clitoris. It felt like somone had exposed the head of my penis to a nuclear blast. Later, I discovered that deep inside my new vagina are the nerves that were once on the shaft of my penis. It took days of desperate experimentation, but I eventually discovered a truly feminine orgasm.
This drastic reconfiguration of my cock, which had foolishly led itself to its own demise, was incredibly disturbing. I cursed myself for mutilating my most precious body part. I wanted to fuck girls with my dick again. I realized that I could never do it again. I cried a lot those days.
Armed with my new girlhood, and desperate to truly experience it, I trolled my old haunts for some action. But none of my old boyfriends were interested anymore. They were gay men, and fucking girls -- even formerly male ones -- did not at all appeal to them. It took many depressing months of trying before I finally got one. He was ugly and disgusting, but I needed to feel a penis inside me. I hardly even took notice of him as he fucked me. All I could think of was how incredibly sexy and feminine I felt and looked. Now it was simply a matter of trying different positions. Somehow, it was still never enough. It dawned on me that I must be a lesbian.
At last I knew the price of my forbidden knowledge. In the end, I am a man, no matter what my crotch looks like. I am insatiably attracted to women. I betrayed my gender, my identity, for a sympathetic fantasy about the object of my desire. I was punished the moment I learned my first lesson when I was a young boy. I was cursed with an insatiable desire to know everything that was forbidden to me from the beginning. I should have been humiliated enough to stop long ago, at many different stages. But instead I took it to this irreversible end.
And just the very thought of it makes me unfathomably horny.
Fiction: Fast and Furious
I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when suddenly, at a street corner, a white van screeches to the curb in front of me, opens its doors, and I get pushed in. No sooner do I land on the floor of the van does the door slam behind me and we speed away, screeching tires again, as a velvet bag goes over my head.
I hear women's voices all around me. "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball. We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.
Now, I have no idea who Marcia is. I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her. In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped. I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.
"John, don't be such a snivelling coward. Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"
"But I'm not John! I swear! You've got to believe me! Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"
"Do you take us for fools? We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished. Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"
After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building. I have no clue where I am.
They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down. To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.
They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie. I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear. Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.
Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me. I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.
They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching. For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."
Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it. Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.
They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face. There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move. I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes. At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool. Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.
At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat. They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool. It's agony. I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it. As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue. Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.
Finally, they let me go. I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes. They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself. I am now utterly feminized. If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman. My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.
"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.
"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."
"I'm NOT JOHN!" I scream, terrified and furious.
"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."
All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.
"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."
I am speechless.
"And just so you know, there's no turning back now. We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass. Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are. We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day. From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot. Understand?"
Horrified, I nod my head. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.
"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."
I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back. I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet. I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra. My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.
As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her. The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me. The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.
Before I can even speak, she screams at me. I haven't even looked at her yet. I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.
"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag! I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up! You're worthless! WORTHLESS! And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you! I thought you would have known better!"
"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.
"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."
A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him. He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face. He slaps my cheek with it. I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.
I try not to notice the taste too much. I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way. I am so feminized! I am sucking cock! My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks. This is so unbelievably dirty! I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get. I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy. I'm more feminine than many women!
I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet. I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth. Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass. Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist. One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties. A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening. I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.
I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass. I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth. Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw. The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.
Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth. I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face. I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.
"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne. "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."
Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.
Instead, I see shock. I shake free of my reverie and understand why.
"You're not John. Who is this? Tyra, who is this man?"
"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"
"No, that's not what I mean. This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"
"What!?!"
"Who are you? Why didn't you resist?"
"But I did resist!" I protest. "I pleaded with them to check my ID. I told them I'm not John. But they did all this anyway!"
"Are you gay or something? Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"
"I didn't think I had a choice!"
"Oh my God! What have we done!"
With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room. Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing. I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.
"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake. Please come with me."
Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again. She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.
"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here! And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"
"You've got to be kidding me! I look like a fucking bimbo! How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me! You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"
"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."
"You made me do gay things! And you gave me hormones! What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"
"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy. You've got only yourself to blame. Now get out!"
Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie. I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.
I hear women's voices all around me. "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball. We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.
Now, I have no idea who Marcia is. I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her. In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped. I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.
"John, don't be such a snivelling coward. Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"
"But I'm not John! I swear! You've got to believe me! Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"
"Do you take us for fools? We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished. Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"
After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building. I have no clue where I am.
They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down. To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.
They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie. I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear. Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.
Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me. I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.
They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching. For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."
Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it. Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.
They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face. There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move. I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes. At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool. Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.
At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat. They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool. It's agony. I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it. As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue. Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.
Finally, they let me go. I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes. They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself. I am now utterly feminized. If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman. My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.
"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.
"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."
"I'm NOT JOHN!" I scream, terrified and furious.
"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."
All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.
"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."
I am speechless.
"And just so you know, there's no turning back now. We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass. Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are. We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day. From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot. Understand?"
Horrified, I nod my head. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.
"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."
I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back. I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet. I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra. My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.
As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her. The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me. The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.
Before I can even speak, she screams at me. I haven't even looked at her yet. I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.
"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag! I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up! You're worthless! WORTHLESS! And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you! I thought you would have known better!"
"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.
"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."
A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him. He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face. He slaps my cheek with it. I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.
I try not to notice the taste too much. I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way. I am so feminized! I am sucking cock! My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks. This is so unbelievably dirty! I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get. I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy. I'm more feminine than many women!
I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet. I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth. Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass. Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist. One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties. A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening. I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.
I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass. I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth. Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw. The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.
Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth. I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face. I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.
"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne. "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."
Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.
Instead, I see shock. I shake free of my reverie and understand why.
"You're not John. Who is this? Tyra, who is this man?"
"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"
"No, that's not what I mean. This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"
"What!?!"
"Who are you? Why didn't you resist?"
"But I did resist!" I protest. "I pleaded with them to check my ID. I told them I'm not John. But they did all this anyway!"
"Are you gay or something? Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"
"I didn't think I had a choice!"
"Oh my God! What have we done!"
With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room. Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing. I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.
"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake. Please come with me."
Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again. She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.
"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here! And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"
"You've got to be kidding me! I look like a fucking bimbo! How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me! You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"
"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."
"You made me do gay things! And you gave me hormones! What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"
"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy. You've got only yourself to blame. Now get out!"
Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie. I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.
Fantasy: My First Fantasy
This is what I used to fantasize about when I was a boy:
Women are determined to catch men, and turn them into girls for their amusement. Men catch on and learn to resist. They catch me, and start turning me. They start me off with pantyhose. I know that my only hope is to have some layer to protect me, so I put the pantyhose on over my own underwear. But the girliness seeps through somehow anyway, and I'm tainted. The women catch on, and force me to do it without protection. I try to cling to something masculine: first, a t-shirt, then maybe a watch or a ring -- anything at all. But at last, I am left completely without protection.
(In reality, that's exactly how I progressed. I didn't dare wear anything else, because it was too feminine; even this was dangerously girlie, and I risked becoming feminized each time I wore it.)
The problem is temptation: a small, weak part of me wants to give in to the girls, because it feels so good. But I must continue to resist. Without the protection, I feel utterly helpless, and I fear the next stage: leotards!
(once again, I had to move forward slowly. I couldn't just wear a swimsuit without protection, because it's far more feminine. At first, I tried it on with my underwear on, but I wanted more. I couldn't dare, so I dreamed up this fantasy of leotards, which were in fashion at the time. I did this by wearing a swimsuit over pantyhose. Eventually, I found a real leotard, but only after it was much too late.)
The women force me to wear pantyhose ten times before I get leotards. Halfway through it my fear turns to curiosity. By the end, it's fantasy. When at last the first ultra-feminine shock of leotards hits me, my fear returns. It's too much! What have I done! I must resist! I can't give in to this girliness, or else all is lost! But they will force me to wear leotards 100 times before I am worthy of wearing a one-piece swimsuit. The thought horrifies and excites me at the same time.
I ease into the transition, because the leotard tights are similar to pantyhose, but with the added terror of the bodysuit, with its high leg cuts. Bathing suits, of course, look just like the leotard without the tights.
(I probably gave in almost immediately to the swimsuit. I was still very apprehensive about it for a long time, and only wore it when I was desperately overcome.)
Sooner than I realize, I finish my 100-leotard initiation. I am given a fairly modest one-piece swimsuit. I must wear 1000 of these before I can touch a bikini. I nervously put it on, wishing I had some protection again. The sensation is so intensely feminine that I come almost immediately. I am blown away. I know now that I am utterly feminized in my heart, and only my body remains. I love the idea of wearing 1000 one-piece swimsuits, but I can't wait to put on a bikini.
(I now have discovered a less modest swimsuit, and after a few lame attempts in my own underwear, furtively, nervously, afraid of being caught, I dare to do it completely unprotected. The sensation utterly destroys my inhibitions. I am overwhelmed by its femininity, and I know now that there's no point in pretending to protect myself. I am beyond protection now.)
The 1000 swimsuit trial drives me insane with desire for a bikini. I desperately want a bikini! But the women won't let me have one. At some point, I manage to sneak into their storeroom, and secretly put one on outside of their schedule. I know that they schedule it this way to properly prepare us for womanhood, and that breaking with the schedule puts me at risk of becoming too feminine, but I don't care!
(I don't have access to any bikinis. I must rationalize my lack of one by pretending that I have to go through an ordeal before I am worthy. But my fantasies won't be restrained. I fantasize about lingerie, too, even though it's practically inconceivable to me to ever get any.)
I make a habit of sneaking to the store after wearing a one-piece all day. I am now trying on bikinis, teddies, garter belts, stockings, and everything I can get my hands on. Nobody needs to know! By the time I get to bikinis legitimately, the women are surprised at how easily I handle it, and how easily I put it on. They suspect, but I don't care! I'm supposed to wear 10,000 bikinis before I can wear any kind of panties, but I've already done that, so what do they know?
(I stole bikini bottoms from someone's dresser. I couldn't dare with the bra, because I was both afraid of getting caught, and convinced myself that the bra wouldn't do anything for me. It's not like I really wanted to be that girlish, after all, I told myself. It was just another defense mechanism, even this late in the game. Eventually, I stole another bikini, but with the bra this time. I could hardly just go with the panties anymore, because now I craved the fully feminine outfit.)
The women, it turns out, have known all along about my secret escapades. In fact, they secretly encouraged it. The schedule is fake, and is made to test my desire, and push it over the edge. We laugh about it as I put on an bustier, panties, stockings, and shoes, and go merrily along being girlie.
(At this point in the fantasy, I come all over myself, and suffer terrible guilt and shame.)
Women are determined to catch men, and turn them into girls for their amusement. Men catch on and learn to resist. They catch me, and start turning me. They start me off with pantyhose. I know that my only hope is to have some layer to protect me, so I put the pantyhose on over my own underwear. But the girliness seeps through somehow anyway, and I'm tainted. The women catch on, and force me to do it without protection. I try to cling to something masculine: first, a t-shirt, then maybe a watch or a ring -- anything at all. But at last, I am left completely without protection.
(In reality, that's exactly how I progressed. I didn't dare wear anything else, because it was too feminine; even this was dangerously girlie, and I risked becoming feminized each time I wore it.)
The problem is temptation: a small, weak part of me wants to give in to the girls, because it feels so good. But I must continue to resist. Without the protection, I feel utterly helpless, and I fear the next stage: leotards!
(once again, I had to move forward slowly. I couldn't just wear a swimsuit without protection, because it's far more feminine. At first, I tried it on with my underwear on, but I wanted more. I couldn't dare, so I dreamed up this fantasy of leotards, which were in fashion at the time. I did this by wearing a swimsuit over pantyhose. Eventually, I found a real leotard, but only after it was much too late.)
The women force me to wear pantyhose ten times before I get leotards. Halfway through it my fear turns to curiosity. By the end, it's fantasy. When at last the first ultra-feminine shock of leotards hits me, my fear returns. It's too much! What have I done! I must resist! I can't give in to this girliness, or else all is lost! But they will force me to wear leotards 100 times before I am worthy of wearing a one-piece swimsuit. The thought horrifies and excites me at the same time.
I ease into the transition, because the leotard tights are similar to pantyhose, but with the added terror of the bodysuit, with its high leg cuts. Bathing suits, of course, look just like the leotard without the tights.
(I probably gave in almost immediately to the swimsuit. I was still very apprehensive about it for a long time, and only wore it when I was desperately overcome.)
Sooner than I realize, I finish my 100-leotard initiation. I am given a fairly modest one-piece swimsuit. I must wear 1000 of these before I can touch a bikini. I nervously put it on, wishing I had some protection again. The sensation is so intensely feminine that I come almost immediately. I am blown away. I know now that I am utterly feminized in my heart, and only my body remains. I love the idea of wearing 1000 one-piece swimsuits, but I can't wait to put on a bikini.
(I now have discovered a less modest swimsuit, and after a few lame attempts in my own underwear, furtively, nervously, afraid of being caught, I dare to do it completely unprotected. The sensation utterly destroys my inhibitions. I am overwhelmed by its femininity, and I know now that there's no point in pretending to protect myself. I am beyond protection now.)
The 1000 swimsuit trial drives me insane with desire for a bikini. I desperately want a bikini! But the women won't let me have one. At some point, I manage to sneak into their storeroom, and secretly put one on outside of their schedule. I know that they schedule it this way to properly prepare us for womanhood, and that breaking with the schedule puts me at risk of becoming too feminine, but I don't care!
(I don't have access to any bikinis. I must rationalize my lack of one by pretending that I have to go through an ordeal before I am worthy. But my fantasies won't be restrained. I fantasize about lingerie, too, even though it's practically inconceivable to me to ever get any.)
I make a habit of sneaking to the store after wearing a one-piece all day. I am now trying on bikinis, teddies, garter belts, stockings, and everything I can get my hands on. Nobody needs to know! By the time I get to bikinis legitimately, the women are surprised at how easily I handle it, and how easily I put it on. They suspect, but I don't care! I'm supposed to wear 10,000 bikinis before I can wear any kind of panties, but I've already done that, so what do they know?
(I stole bikini bottoms from someone's dresser. I couldn't dare with the bra, because I was both afraid of getting caught, and convinced myself that the bra wouldn't do anything for me. It's not like I really wanted to be that girlish, after all, I told myself. It was just another defense mechanism, even this late in the game. Eventually, I stole another bikini, but with the bra this time. I could hardly just go with the panties anymore, because now I craved the fully feminine outfit.)
The women, it turns out, have known all along about my secret escapades. In fact, they secretly encouraged it. The schedule is fake, and is made to test my desire, and push it over the edge. We laugh about it as I put on an bustier, panties, stockings, and shoes, and go merrily along being girlie.
(At this point in the fantasy, I come all over myself, and suffer terrible guilt and shame.)
I can't be trusted
My wife had a friend over today. While I went to work, they hung out around town, and spent some time sunbathing by the pool. Now they're out to dinner. Her friend left her bag in our place, and I'm all alone with some time to kill.
Of course I'm going to wear her bikini and sundress! And only I will ever know about it.
Of course I'm going to wear her bikini and sundress! And only I will ever know about it.
A Dream
I dreamed last night that my wife and I had a big soiree to attend. So I went to a mall to buy myself something to wear, but I was obsessed with buying girlie stuff. Back at home, getting ready, I put on black panties and black tights. My wife wasn't totally unhappy about it. I was going to wear a short, tight skirt, but she had me put on some pants instead and out we went.
The party is a blur of old high school acquaintances and evening wear. Of course, at some point I think I ended up without my pants, exposing my tights, but it was taken as perfectly normal.
When it was time to go home, we had to return my pants to the store for some reason. The owner was furious about having to deal with a tranny like me, and kicked us out of his store. Then he followed us with a gun, me happily without my pants again. I wasn't afraid of him at all. He kept missing, until finally I fought him, and woke up.
What was interesting about this was that my wife, who in reality has no clue about my secret, knew about and tolerated it, as long as it remained private. How I wish that were true, but I'm far too chicken to ever tell her.
The party is a blur of old high school acquaintances and evening wear. Of course, at some point I think I ended up without my pants, exposing my tights, but it was taken as perfectly normal.
When it was time to go home, we had to return my pants to the store for some reason. The owner was furious about having to deal with a tranny like me, and kicked us out of his store. Then he followed us with a gun, me happily without my pants again. I wasn't afraid of him at all. He kept missing, until finally I fought him, and woke up.
What was interesting about this was that my wife, who in reality has no clue about my secret, knew about and tolerated it, as long as it remained private. How I wish that were true, but I'm far too chicken to ever tell her.
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